The Company (reminder for you all)

Hwindohtar / Hwindo - The Whirling Warrior - Legolas - The Silvan

Dimaethor / Dima - The Silent Warrior - Lainion -

Idhrenohtar / Idhreno - The Wise Warrior

Ram en Ondo / Ram en - Wall of Stone

Lindohtar / Lindo - The Bard Warrior - Carodel

Rhrawthir - Fierce Face - Galdithion

Rafnohtar / Rafno - The Winged Warrior - Elladan

Glamohtar / Glamo - The Screaming Warrior - Melven

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Legolas stood alone inside Nestaron's office. The door was open and beyond it, was utter silence, even though he felt the presence of many souls. His mind was still reeling, the face of his father floating before his mind's eye, the deep bass voice still echoing in his ears. He had met the king, had shouted at him, had smiled at him, had conversed almost normally with him. It sounded absurd, he realised and he almost laughed aloud.

It had not gone as he had expected it to, for although the anger had been there, so too had other, deeper emotions, the ones laying beneath the anger, the ones that caused it and that Legolas did not want to bring to the fore. It had been all he could do to control them yet even so, they had threatened to spill over. It was some consolation though, that the king, too, had found himself overwhelmed at first, and he undoubtedly had many more years of experience and wisdom.

Melven came to stand before him and Legolas' mind sharpened once more, first on the grey eyes of the Noldorin warrior, and then on his own weapons the Noldo carried with him.

"Are you alright?" he asked in concern albeit his face remained rigid and unmoving.

Legolas smiled sparingly, and then spoke so softly that Melven would later wonder if he spoke to himself.

"Yes. It starts now... the real work starts here, now," he muttered, unaware of just how prophetic his words would turn out to be.

Melven frowned, not quite understanding his meaning but nodded all the same, and then moved behind Hwindohtar to guard his back for the walk back to the fortress.

Dorhinen entered then and approached Legolas for the first time, and if Melven was good at masking his emotions, this Sinda was even more so, yet his eyes told a different story, one Legolas could not quite understand. There was recognition there behind the cool grey, but Legolas was sure he had never met this elf.

"Hadorion," was all the Sinda said with a curt nod at his comrade, before turning and leading the way out of the room and into the Healing Halls and behind him, Legolas, his face no longer hidden, free of the cloak that had masked his identity. It no longer served any purpose for the time had come to show the Greenwood who the Silvan was.

Healers and patients alike stood watching, transfixed almost, only grudgingly opening a path for the three elves as they passed, waiting until the last possible moment to do so; everyone wanted to look upon the elf in their midst for it was surely him, they whispered. Indeed the murmurs around them were mostly expressions of shock and poorly stifled gasps of utter disbelief.

Soon they were outside, walking away from Danir and Llyniel who had been their allies. They watched him leave from afar in sorrow and respect, and Nestaron, Master Healer, watched him in skepticism and fascination.

Their boots clicked over the stone courtyard, and Lieutenant Galadan saw him from afar, remembering their desperate flight to Imladris and the extraordinary events that he would never forget. The warriors too, looked on for this was The Silvan, they said; this was the young warrior who was a Master Archer, and the Sindarin warriors sneered at them; foolish wood-elves, they smirked, so eager to find a hero for themselves, even in one so lowly, so inexperienced, so sure of his own skill.

A small group of Sindarin warriors surged forward through the almost silent crowd, catching Dorhinen's eyes, but before he could warn Melven, the Noldo was already shouting, "down!"

Legolas ducked and shielded his face with his forearm. Whatever it had been had missed him but seconds later, something impacted with his raised hand. Another object hurtled towards him, but Dorhinen grabbed Legolas and spun him round, taking the stone in his own forehead.

Dorhinen and Melven drew their blades simultaneously, Sindarin and Noldorin steel shrieking its terrible warning to any that would come close enough to taste their bite. They opened their arms and danced around Legolas protectively, their eyes searching the crowds for the slightest of suspicious movements, but Legolas held out his good hand, silently bidding them to ease down, for Legolas' eyes were now trained on the perpetrator and his friends.

Above them, drawn by the sudden silence below, Thranduil strode to the window of his office, watching the strangely still crowds with a deep frown on his face, and then spotting the hair of his son. He could not hear what transpired but it was painfully obvious that a volatile situation was playing out and so he watched in unsettled silence as the scene played out silently before him.

'If anyone thought the danger was not real,' mused the king, 'I am sure they have just changed their minds.' They were divided so clearly - it had become a tribal thing, he realised. This was no longer about individual beliefs but about clans. Surely now, only a miracle could pull the Greenwood back together again...

Slowly, Legolas walked towards the now wide-eyed Sinda who nevertheless stood his ground, in spite of the tall, powerful blond warrior that was approaching him, his face set in a frown of anger, eyes glinting dangerously in the mid-morning sun.

Soon, they stood before each other and Legolas spoke, loud enough for the closest elves to hear him perfectly.

"That hurt," he said sarcastically, tipping his head to one side, eyes boring into the brilliant blue eyes of the seething Sinda who slowly, seemed to be cooling off.

"It was meant to..." he answered with a hiss, but almost before he had finished, Legolas cut him off.

"Why."

"Why what?" asked the Sinda with a sneer.

"Why would a warrior attack a fellow warrior?" asked Legolas, his eyes slanting as he waited for a reply.

Melven and Dorhinen shared a frantic glance with each other, but held their defensive stances behind their charge.

"Warrior?" sneered the Sinda. "You are a child playing war games, you do not deserve to serve in our king's army."

"Yet I do. So tell me, why would a warrior attack his comrade? Why is colour important to you? What has the colour of my hair or the hue of my eyes have to do with my service to my king and our people?"

"It is not colour - it's your bastard blood."

There was a gasp from the crowds, but Legolas was already speaking.

"On the battlefield, we all bleed red, warrior, we all serve our king," he said and then moved closer still, so that there was no distance between them at all.

"I would die to protect your brother, your sister. I would die so that your father or mother could live. I would give my life for yours - thus is the way of the true warrior, be he a bastard, high-born or a peasant. It is this," he shouted as his hand fisted over the Sinda's heart, "this that you should look to for your judgement. Look to the heart and what it holds and your judgements will never be false," he said finally, his eyes lingering on the warrior before him.

The crowds were now silent, and further behind, Lieutenant Galadan smiled, and before any could react, a mighty cheer went up amongst the Silvans, and even some of the Sinda warriors wore soft smiles.

Legolas swivelled on his heels and then fell back in line with Melven and Dorhinen who did not sheathe their swords until they had reached the main door and the click of boots turned to a thud as they marched upon the oppulent carpets and rugs of the king's halls.

Narrowed Sindarin blue and grey eyes beheld the Silvan bastard for the first time, the shame of their nation, spawn of a lowly woman with no name or renown, and the Silvan lords, few that they were, watched him in interest and practiced restrain.

Legolas' hand was bruised and scraped, and Dorhinen's head trickled blood where the stone had hit him squarely on one side of his forehead but they could not stop, not until they had delivered their charge to his assigned quarters, and even then they would not move from his door, not until The Company arrived and so, breathless and tattered, the three strode past Thranduil's entire court, through a roiling sea of thoughts and feelings; so many pre-conceived ideas, a myriad of expletives, of compliments and insults that could surely not be reconciled and yet in one thing they all agreed; this child of Thranduil, bedraggled though he was, boasted a beauty that was not common. His eyes were too bright, his aura too strong, his hair too thick and long and his face, was too beautiful to describe. He was Oropher and yet he was not - for beautiful though the ancient king had been - this one was beyond the comprehensible.

As Legolas finally walked through the door that Dorhinen held open for him, it seemed that short walk had lasted an age. It was as though he had marched those final steps out of one life, and into another, one there was no turning back from and the thought brought sadness with it.

"Are you alright?"

"I am fine, Dorhinen, just - annoyed," he said with a flurry of his good hand.

"You should not have confronted him, my Lord. Your life was in danger," he said plainly, boldly.

Legolas turned and came to stand before him, his eyes glancing over the rapidly forming bruise on his head.

"That is why I did - why I should have confronted him. See to that," he said, pointing at Dorhinen's head and then turning away.

"I need a uniform," he said absently. "I cannot traipse around in this flimsy clothing," he said, eying his bruised hand. Had he worn his vambraces this would not have happened.

"I can arrange that, my Lord. 'Tis better you be ready should anything untoward happen. There is more danger than we had initially expected."

It was the longest sentence that Dorhinen had strung together since he had met him and Legolas was strangely heartened by it. For some reason, that skirmish had riled him, enough to shake his growing anxiety at the arrival of Dimaethor, dead or alive he did not know.

"I would be alone for a while, Dorhinen, Glamohtar," he said more softly now.

"Of course, my Lord," said one, while the other nodded curtly.

"And Dorhinen - thank you."

The Sinda stopped for a moment, and then left in silence and Legolas watched him, before sighing and shedding his cloak. Walking to the open balcony that stretched the entire length of one wall, he looked out over the back of the fortress and for a moment his breath was lost as his eyes tried to register what it was that swept before him. He gasped as he came closer, because for the first time he beheld, in all its natural beauty, the Evergreen Wood, hidden domain of Thranduil's Realm.

All thoughts of conflict fled his mind as he finally, truly gazed upon it. This was no childish daydream, no illustration in a school book. The vast expanse of trees and lakes and snow-capped mountains was real, and his mind was suddenly alive with colour, texture and aromas, teaming now with whispers as yet inaudible, unfathomable - he closed his eyes and willed it to stop for somehow he knew, that if he opened his mind to it, he would be lost, swallowed - engulfed in a sea of thoughts that were not his own.

'This is the pride of our people,' he said to himself. 'Never to be spoken of lest it be placed upon a map. This is what we fight for, this is our true home, Yavanna's greatness upon Arda,' he said, and then realised that he had given voice to those thoughts, as if it had been a prayer, a statement of what it was that had only today began. His work as Yavanna's Protege started here, now, and with a slow blink of an eye, he finally accepted his destiny, finally put aside his own suffering and self-pity. From this day forward, his life was dedicated to the people, to the forests of Arda, and to this end he would prepare himself, to the very limits of his own capabilities.

Later, while Legolas rested, Dorhinen watched Melven from the other side of the door they guarded, a long, calculating stare that soon had Melven frowning.

"What is it, Dorhinen?"

"You are Hadorion..."

"Yes," he said, his frown deepening.

"I knew your father. I was there the day a mighty Noldorin warrior fell..."

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Aradan strode into Thranduil's office, stopping in the middle of the large room. His head was full of the events down at the courtyard, events he himself had not witnessed. The rushed comments and whispers had reached him though and his keen mind was reeling at the implications.

His eyes were afire with excitement, yet it was not only his own news but the king's first meeting with Legolas, and Aradan had no idea as to how that meeting had gone.

His eyes bored into the king's back as the monarch looked out over the Evergreen Wood.

"Is it true? What they say, is it true?" he asked in mounting excitement.

But there was no answer, and Aradan's heart thudded uncomfortably. It had not gone well, he deduced.

"Thranduil..."

Nothing.

"By the Valar if I have to go to that room and present myself to him then..."

"Peace," came the steady voice from the window and Aradan jumped.

Thranduil slowly turned and once he was fully facing the advisor, Aradan's heart soared to the very heavens for there stood the king, the king he remembered from a millennia ago, the one that had inspired him, lit in him a fierce loyalty that would never be tainted. There, was the Sindarin king Thranduil Oropherion; his light was back, his mind in the present once more, his heart - was back and Aradan's eyes filled with the tears he had not shed in all those years of darkness.

"You're back," he whispered in reverence as he slowly approached the smiling monarch. One hand reached out and he slowly, hesitantly, placed a palm over the beautiful cheek, feeling one single tear as it rolled down his own face for the skin he touched was warm and pink, not cold and grey, and the blue eyes were no longer blank, empty shells, but sparkled with life renewed.

"Tis a miracle," he whispered and then smiled delicately.

"Tis not a miracle, Aradan. Tis hope rekindled."

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The sky had turned to dark blue, yet the Golden Sun blazed with an intensity that would have blinded any stupid enough to look upon it with the naked eye.

Golden hair slapped against exquisite armour, dirtied and torn, and brilliant blue eyes sparkled and glinted with steely resolve.

Ornate boots of leather and golden filigree resounded over stone, carpet and then stone once more, and the burgundy cloak of fine velvet swirled agitatedly around the powerful frame, lapping at strong, booted calves.

There was an urgency in his stride; worry, a deep anxiety lending him a fierceness that sent any passing elf off his path in a flurry of robes and startled eyes. Even the guards that sought to stop him could not, watching him instead, as he passed for he was known; he was the blazing sun at night, the beloved brother of Oropher had returned. He would not be stopped for none would dare to try.

Gripping the handle, he opened the door, the wood banging against the stone wall and waking the sleeping elf upon the bed.

Barely acknowledging the dark elf standing quietly in a corner, he walked slower now, watching as Legolas rose sluggishly from his bed, his face telling Glorfndel he had been deeply asleep. One arm rested in a sling but he was well and suddenly, the tension left him sagging. He was well, and although injured, he had found a way to keep safe.

Legolas walked towards him, his eyes an open book as they fixed on Glorfindel's. So many emotions, swirling behind those eyes, mused Glorfindel, and none of them controlled but left to fly free and reek havoc. He watched as Legolas breathed in deeply, no longer the brave young warrior he had come to love but the vulnerable child that wished only to feel the strength of a father's arms.

Glorfindel would never forget that embrace, for they had all but crashed into each other's arms, the force of it almost aggressive, until Glorfindel felt as one hand fisted the back of his tunic, as if the elf it belonged to were hanging from a precipice, desperate to anchor himself to something solid.

His own arms tightened protectively, possessively. No words were spoken, but everything was said nonetheless. I am here, none will harm you, for I am Glorfindel, and you are my child.

His hands came up to capture the blond elf's head between his palms, drawing back from him to look once more upon the singular face.

"Come," was all he said, soft yet urgent. "There is much to tell but for now," he said, a gentle warning behind his eyes, "we must accompany Dimaethor in his trance, Legolas, for he may not live to see the new day..."

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Mithrandir stood in a shadowed corner, watching as the drama unfolded, one he could no longer participate in, for he had already done all he could.

A flurry of activity surrounded the stone table upon which the dark warrior lay, with Nestaron in the midst of it, barking his orders until his face turned and caught one of the newly arrived warriors.

"Elrond?" came the disbelieving question.

"Elrondion, Elladan," came the answer, which was promptly followed by soft gasps from the younger healers behind them. But Elladan paid them no mind, for his eyes were fixed on Dimaethor, on the deathly pale face and closed eyes, the rapidly moving chest and the blood that had soaked through the bandages.

"The arrow to the side was poisoned with the usual, but it has compromised his liver - the shaft remained inside him for too long, Nestaron. His condition is critical. We administered antidote yesterday, and again this morning, but there has been no change in his condition," he hurriedly reported.

"Handir lives," said Nestaron, "and I know the arrow was not extracted for the day it took your companion to get here," he said as he began to work together with Elladan to reveal the wound, but this is different - the poison will have affected his other organs by now.

Nestaron's hands paused for a moment as he inspected the wound. "He may not live to see the dawn, Elrondion..."

Elladan's heavy gaze turned to meet Nestaron's hard blue eyes. There was grief there, dread, and a growing sense of acceptance. There was every chance that Dimaethor, the Silent Warrior, Avarin rider of The Company, would perish this night, this he had already known, as had Mithrandir, yet the rest of The Company had still to accept that more than likely outcome, indeed by the time they arrived, perhaps tomorrow, it may already be too late.

Movement behind him turned his face and for a moment, his heavy grey eyes lightened and a sad smile graced his face - Legolas.

"You made it," he said, but the Silvan did not answer, for his eyes were fixed on Dimaethor upon the table before them.

"Tell me there is a chance, Rafno.... tell me I have not left him to die upon the battle field..."

Elladan held his gaze, the weight returning to his own....

"You left him?" asked Nestaron, addressing Legolas for the first time.

It was not Legolas to answer but Glorfindel, who stood behind him. "To save your prince, healer," he said curtly.

Nestaron said nothing though he did flinch, before turning back to the wounded warrior, under the warning glare of Glorfindel, who seemed to have decided he did not like this Sinda at all.

Legolas walked backwards until he was shoulder to shoulder with Mithrandir. One wrinkled hand came to rest on his unbandaged shoulder, squeezing in silent empathy as they both watched the healers work. After two long hours, Dima was resting in a bed, Nestaron and Elladan at his side.

Elladan conversed quietly with him, discussing herbs and other remedies that may slow the poison that had extended throughout Dimaethor's body. The question now was not about an antidote, for that had already been administered and no longer had any effect - it was about finding something that would cleanse the blood and fight the infection that would, eventually, claim Lainion's life.

"Tell me there is some hope, Elladan," asked Legolas quietly from the corner, his face falling when Rafnohtar said nothing and then looked to the floor. Nestaron, however, was not so benevolent.

"Had you simply taken out the arrow, he would have every chance of recovery - this is the result of your foolishness, child."

Legolas stared wide-eyed at the Master Healer, yet no words would come to him and it was suddenly too much for him. Turning on his heels, he walked away, brushing past Glorfiindel and then into the corridor beyond. His eyes were wide and desperate, his gaze fixed to the ground before him as he walked, and in his flight, he did not see the figure that walked in the opposite direction until he was almost upon him.

Pulling up sharply he startled, for before him was the face of an elf that could never pass by unnoticed. Silver hair and frosty eyes stared back at him harshly, imperiously, and then the ice cold eyes narrowed and glinted, the jaw tightened and the elf pushed past his shoulder, unnecessarily jostling his bandaged arm and walking away, into the room where Handir rested.

There could be no doubt in Legolas' mind. That - had been his brother Rinion.

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In a room nearby, Handir lay back upon a pile of crisp, white pillows, his light blond hair fanned out around him, now clean and freshly brushed. His chest was wrapped in bandages, but his face was no longer white and drawn, and slowly, the purple circles under his lovely blue eyes were receding.

Rinion stood in full battle gear at the bedside, his own lighter, silvery hair catching the blaze of the candles.

"Rinion," breathed Handir softly, and the mercurial Crown Prince of Greenwood stepped closer, looking down sternly at his younger brother.

"Fool..." was all he said, before sitting and crossing his legs at the ankles.

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Outside it was dark and quiet and the relative peace served to calm his mounting despair, one that had been fuelled by Nestaron's harsh judgement.

It was true, there was no denying it, if he had but pulled that arrow free, Dima may not be sitting on the threshold of Mandos' domain now - true he may have torn the liver and killed him there and then, but still he would have had a chance with Elladan there.

And yet Legolas clearly remembered how it had happened. There had been no way he could have left Handir upon the ground once more to help Lainion. It would have meant almost certain death for one or the other and Legolas had made his choice - it had been the right one and guilt had no part to play in his mind now. It was anger, frustration, and the threat of living without the elf that had meant so much to him. An elf that had guided him from novice warrior to Protege - he had seen it all, had followed him, even though he himself was a lieutenant. He had laughed and joked, guided and helped him, he had braided his hair....

It was suddenly too much and his eyes filled with tears he tried desperately to still. His hand raised to his twisted locks, fingers tangling into the weaves...

Legolas...

Turning to face the newcomer, he saw Danir standing over him, looking down upon him with a sad smile upon his lips.

"May I join you?"

Legolas simply nodded but said nothing for his throat was all but closed.

"You are close to him," said the Silvan healer, the blue eyes latching onto the damaged hand and beginning his inspection of it.

"Close, yes. We all are, Danir. But you are right. To me he is special..." answered Legolas distantly.

After a while, Danir spoke once more as he unravelled a roll of bandage and began to wrap his hand. "Nestaron is a good healer, Legolas, but he is rash in his judgement sometimes, and with you he has been cruel even. I heard his words, as we all did and although I do not presume to know you, I believe there was a reason why you did not draw that arrow..."

"Yes," came the sorrowful voice, whispered and hoarse. "I struggled with Handir to mount our horse, the corpses of orcs and spiders and goblins piled high around us for Dima and I struck up a mighty count," he smiled as he remembered their fierce battle. "Handir bled so much, Danir, his body so lax and his breathing so shallow. Arrows rained down upon us and it was all I could do to get us out of there before I myself was shot. I knew they were poisoned for I pulled that one out lest I not make the ride back to the fortress, and I knew that by leaving Dimaethor there I may be condemning him to sure death. But there was no alternative - there was and still is no doubt in my mind, that my decision was correct."

Danir remained silent for a while before he spoke once more, his head turning to observe the chiselled profile of Hwindohtar.

"And as a healer I tell you that you did save our Prince's life. You did not draw that arrow and that was well for although it had not hit anything vital, he would have bled to death. I am glad you feel no guilt for the decision you made for it was a good one. Nestaron will come to see that."

The silence was back, longer this time, before Legolas spoke again.

"Will he die, Danir?" asked the Silvan wistfully.

"Yes - I believe he will. I do not think he will smile at the sun tomorrow," he said softly, one hand reaching out to softly squeeze his thigh and then the healer rose and silently walked away, briefly catching the intense eyes of Glorfindel who stood in the shadows nearby.

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Elladan sat reading, his grey eyes raking the pages before him, his mind furiously searching for anything he may add to the antidote to speed the process, cleanse the infected blood and give Dimaethor a chance to survive.

He knew the odds, they were slim to none, but he could not stand by idly and watch the glorious Avarin warrior slip away and so he had commissioned Nestaron's office, and taken all the books he needed from the shelves that covered the walls, and then had firmly closed the door, allowing no one to disturb his urgent study and by the Valar he would not stop until he had something, anything that could give them hope.

Hours later, while Legolas sat together with Mithrandir and Glorfiindel in the small garden behind the Halls of Healing, Dorhinen and Melven standing in the shadows behind, Elladan furiously scribbled the ingredients he would add to the mixture. He had found nothing conclusive but right now, he would try anything.

Running for the door, he called for the nearest healer he could find, a young Sindarin elf with a lovely face that looked upon him with starry eyes.

"Run, healer. Find these things for me - bring me everything you can find," he said urgently, watching as she nodded and flew away.

It was not a remedy but a desperate last attempt. He was Elrond's son, there was little hope and he knew it, and he also knew better than to give in, not while his patient still breathed.

Soon enough, he was cutting herbs and roots, grinding dried ingredients and then adding them in quantities he then registered in his book. He suddenly felt stupid, for there was nothing in this concoction that would bring Lainion back - it was not a cure and he knew it - it was a simple exercise so that he could tell himself, when the inevitable happened, that he had done all he could.

It was time to go back to the Silent Warrior and face what he knew was inevitable, and so with heavy steps, he made his way to the bed and administered a dose of his strange tonic, watching sadly as The Company's lieutenant, slowly faded away. He could only hope that when the time came for the Dimaethor to be silent forever, that his passage would be gentle.