The people smiled, warriors saluted, and children squealed in delight as he passed, and Legolas couldn't remember a time in which he had been happier. He was at peace with Amareth, had gained a great aunt in Marhen who was fast becoming a rock in his life. He had another brother, Rinion, and a beautiful, wise sister in Maeneth; there was also the promise of a friendship with Llyniel, whose father had finally sent word of his consent that very same morning.

There was only one thing left for him to do now. Seek the tree of his birth and learn what he may, for if there were indeed, more answers to be had, only there would he find them. Once he had seen it done, he would return to the fortress and speak with his father at last, close the wound that had stood open since he had been old enough to have conscience of himself. It would mark the end of the mystery that his life had been, complete his story, give to him a past he had never had, and had always feared.

He had escaped Narosén, Amareth and Marhen, and had taken himself to the river to bathe, for he had wanted just a few moments to himself, to think and to centre himself. His stomach churned at the thought of the day's events - and the evening that would follow for it would be full of pomp and protocol. It was not that he did not understand it, but he had always imagined himself on the observing end of it, for Legolas was a warrior, not a prince.

And yet with today's ceremony, he realised he would, paradoxically, become freer than he had been these past few weeks. He would be Warlord, and, after a brief visit into the deep forest, he would return to his duties under the guidance of Captain Duronel. Five years - it would lend him five years of relative calm in which to learn and prepare and after that... well, time would tell, he mused, for to see past that moment was nigh on impossible for him.

His mind sharpened, back in the present once more and he watched as giggling young ladies waved at him and then laughed and ran, their innocence bringing a smile to his face for the first time that morning. Children and young lads climbed the trees, hanging all manner of decorations upon their branches, and not one seemed to have been left without a coloured glass lantern which would later give them soft light in which to dance and to kiss.

They too, poked their heads around the thick tree limbs and smiled at him as he passed. They did it for him, for their families and their people, for their warriors - they felt important once more, proud of who they were and Legolas quickened his step for who was he to deny them this moment?

His self-indulgent thoughts disappeared as quickly as they had invaded him. This was his duty, to bring the forest together - he would not let them down - he would not let himself down. He would do as Lainion and Handir has asked of him. He would shine - for them.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

The fortress was akin to a beehive, buzzing with tempered excitement and frenetic activity. Elves scurried here and there, carrying boxes and bags, chests and scrolls, and even now, the Great Hall was still being decked for the occasion. Standards hung from the vaulted ceilings, the noble houses of the Sindar represented proudly upon thick velvet and golden inlay, relics of the elder days when heroes still existed, when the people still believed in them.

Only sturdy, wooden doors separated the Great Hall from the Great Plateau that jutted out majestically, high above the Evergreen Wood, hidden treasure of Thranduil's realm. Those doors stood wide open now, for the first time in many centuries for the king had ordered that their secret be shielded no more, for such beauty, he had said, should never been hidden away.

Upon the rocky outcrop, Lanterns had been placed around the perimeter, and the trees that grew there had been adorned in the Silvan fashion, with ribbons and flowers, stones and feathers, and below them, nestled between the roots, there were plush cushions where guests could sit more informally and still hear the music from within; indeed it was here that the party would, predictably, come to its end - just as predictable as the fact that once the celebration had finished at the fortress, it would continue back at the Silvan camp - of that, there could be no doubt in anyone's mind, least of all in Thranduil's. He still remembered the parties he had once been at liberty to enjoy, with Lassiel's arm in his - when spite and power had not yet stepped between them and ruined it all.

"Good morning, my King," called Aradan, coming to stand at Thranduil's shoulder, his eyes following his friends' as they gazed upon the flags.

"It looks magnificent," mused the Chief Councillor, proud memories dancing in his eyes. "Long has it been since we allowed ourselves to remember the past...." he said softly and Thranduil turned to look at his friend.

"Not the past, Aradan. Tonight, everything will change - past will become present, and the present will become our future - there is something in the air - something light and good..."

Aradan frowned. "You wax philosophical this morning..."

"Perhaps," agreed Thranduil. "Perhaps it is just me, my own hopes for what is to come of all this."

"Perhaps," murmured Aradan, but the king saw his hesitation and there was no need for further comment and so he smiled and continued his slow walk through the caverns, Aradan at his side.

"And what of Llyniel?" smiled the king, "is she fretting over her attire?"

"Llyniel? No! It is my wife who has become nigh on impossible, Thranduil - you have no idea!" he said, his voice now louder, his irritation making the king laugh harder.

"Oh precious," he said, but then he sobered. "Have we been so remiss, Aradan? Have we truly pushed them so far? They seem so very - needy - as if they scream at us to listen, to behold what we have carelessly ignored for too long."

"Perhaps," said the Councillor. "I just hope they do not take unkindly to all our Sindarin pomp, that they do not feel we are competing with their moment, their celebration."

"Why do you say that?"

"It is what some say, Thranduil. That we should just allow them to simply be Silvan - to respect their moment of glory, enjoy it if we can."

"And what do the others say?" he asked.

"That this is a celebration for us all, for the realm, not just for the races that constitute it."

The king smiled. "Then there are still some of us wise enough to see it for what it is."

"Yes. Let us trust that peace will prevail, that no one overstep their boundaries, and that this rift between us does not inadvertently widen."

The king nodded, and then spotted Elladan who was walking towards them.

"My king," bowed Elladan formally.

"Elrondion. What brings you to the fortress" he asked.

"I am searching for Lord Glorfindel, but I also bring this, from Lord Legolas, for your daughter, Lord Aradan," he said with a smile.

"Ah - she was right..." muttered Aradan, taking a hand to his head.

"What was that?" asked Thranduil with an innocent smile on his face.

"Miren, my wife," he began. "She swore that Lord Legolas would gift her daughter with a Silvan Crown. She says all good, Silvan lads would do no less."

Elladan held back his bubbling laughter, trying to imagine his friend as a 'good Silvan lad.'

"Lord Elladan?" asked the King ironically, but before he could answer, Maeneth and Rinion appeared and the Noldo froze where he stood, his eyes latching onto the princess' light blue eyes. He wanted to look away for he would surely be called to account, but he could not and panic clambered at the edges of his mind.

"Rinion, Maeneth," greeted the king, while Aradan bowed but Elladan simply stood, and he stared, and Rinion's nostril's flared in irritation. The prince seemed to be on the verge of berating him, but his mouth snapped shut for he had surely realised by now, that it was not only Elladan who stared; Maeneth held that wise grey gaze with her own, frosty blue eyes.

Rinion tried once more to get his mouth working, managing an 'o' shape but again, he closed it and frowned, his eyes slipping pleadingly to those of his father, who's left eyebrow was acutely arched.

"Lord Elladan, please meet Princess Maeneth," said Aradan, fighting a knowing smile and only just managing it.

"Eh, ah, my Lady," stuttered Elladan, bowing low and then rising slowly, watching as she curtseyed elegantly and then smiled. A warm, fuzzy feeling encased his chest and he was lost again, only faintly registering her deep, soft voice.

"I am a very good friend of your sister, Lady Arwen," she said.

"Arwen - ah yes-," said Elladan with a frown. He was making an ass of himself he knew, but he could not get his body to cooperate with his mind - he was babbling and he needed to get away lest she take him for an utter fool.

"Forgive me, my Lords, but I have an appointment with Lord Glorfindel. Princess Maeneth, I will see you at the celebrations this evening?" he asked.

"Of course, my Lord. Perhaps we will speak later then," she said, and whether it was his imagination he could not say, but was there, perhaps, an invitation in that tone? he wondered...

With a bow, he ripped himself away, his mind churning and the cogs of his mind whirling into action. Oh he would speak with her - and more if it was to be had - if only he could get his clumsy feet around that dance the Silvans had been trying to teach him. Well, at least the Sindarin dances were similar to the Noldorin ones- he could, perhaps, gain some points for himself there...

With a wicked smile, he left in search of Glorfindel.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

The seamstress stood back, and then walked around him, tugging here and there at the blue-green silk of the stunning skirt until the fall was perfect, long at the back, shorter at the front. She reached for the leather overlay, opening the buckle and passing one half to Marhen and then bringing the pieces together at the front and fastening the ornate clasp around his corded abdomen. Flaps of highly decorated brown leather fell over his powerful thighs to the front and back, the silver craftsmanship swirling around the edges, flaring as orange light hit it, bringing the forest pattern alive, as if it moved of its on accord.

The same silk that had been used for his skirt was now wrapped around his chest, almost as if it were a bandage, binding one shoulder and his chest, down to the waist, where it was wrapped twice, and then tied at the side, the silk falling almost to the ground.

It was Marhen who stepped back now, fiddling with the fabric, pulling at the puckers while the seamstress arranged the tie, and Narosén remained completely engrossed in his braiding.

Next, Legolas stepped into the boots that were held out before him, and then pulled on the tops, his foot slipping easily yet snuggly into the exquisitely worked leather. They reached past the top of his skirt, just as Narosén had said they would, and this, together with the fact that the fabric fit tightly over his muscled thighs, he finally relaxed - there would be no mishaps, even with his dancing.

"Would you sit please, Legolas," asked Narosén. It was time to weave the last braids, the Avarin ones, and then arrange them in the way he had seen them in his dream.

Taking hold of a thick lock of hair, he began to twist and work, and then waxed the ending, before moving on to the next, and the next, until they were done and hanging loosely around his head.

"Narosén," asked Legolas softly. "Are my braids to be left down like this?" he asked. I could poke an eye out should I dance a hornpipe, perhaps even strangle myself ..."

"Some, the first two layers will be loose, but the third and fourth layers must be arranged - I still have much work to do, Legolas," said the Spirit Herder. His voice sounded distant and his eyes were somewhat unfocussed as he worked, and Legolas suspected he was in a state of semi-mediation, or whatever the Spirit Herders called it.

Cold metal on his right arm told him Marhen placed a Master warrior bracelet there, and then another, and then the warm hug of leather encased a forearm and he looked down, onto the most exquisite vambraces he had ever seen.

And still, Narosén braided...

And so, Legolas allowed his mind to wander and it did - to the one thing that still worried him about this celebration. If this was to mark the beginning of unity, he needed to make them see that only by accepting the Sindar, could the Silvan people regain their status in the Greenwood - he needed to make them see that tonight was not about flag-waving and chauvinism, but about love and brotherhood. He would need to find a moment in which to speak to them all, he realised, and although the thought sent a pang of anxiety through him, he could see no other way.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

Afternoon turned to early evening, and Amareth's tent was surrounded by elves decked in their finest attire. Bright colours of shimmering material, open necked tunics and shiny boots, loose hair and crowns of woodland flowers - these were the civilians, the good people of the Greenwood.

Further away, the musicians stood in their black leggings and tunics, hair tightly braided away from their faces, and in their hands were their beloved instruments; violins and violas, bases and lyres, flutes and whistles, bells and of course, the mighty woodland drums.

The dancers too, stood in muted conversation as they passed between the elves, handing out metallic studs they would use to perform some of the dances, and even the warriors, their uniforms clean and bright, stuck them into the heels and tips of their military boots.

Elladan frowned as he watched them, turning to Rhrawthir for an explanation.

"When they step upon the stone and wood of the fortress, they will make a commanding sound..."

"And?" asked Elladan, still completely oblivious to his meaning, Glamohtar leaning in to hear what Fierce Face had to say about it.

"You will see, Rafno - here," he said, offering studs to him and Melven and showing them where to place them.

Obediently they stuck them in, and then looked back at Rhawthir suspiciously, before sharing an apprehensive glance at his Noldorin brother.

More and more elves were gathering around the tent now, for the sun was disappearing below the horizon and their own, Silvan ceremony would soon begin.

**A sudden hush fell over them, for Golloron, the Spirit Herder had appeared and the elves stepped back to make a path for him. Rhrawthir, Lindohtar, Ram en' Ondo and Idhrenohtar bowed in awe as he passed, while the Sinda Koron en' Naur and the Noldor Rafnohtar and Glamohtar stared open-mouthed at the transformed mystic.

He floated past them as a blind man would, his staff thudding upon the loamy ground until he disappeared into the tent and conversation slowly began once more.

It did not last long though, for the mighty blast of two Woodland horns bellowed into the dusk. Deep, rumbling tones played the same note slowly, over and over - it was not music, it was a signal almost, and a violent shudder ran down Elladan's spine.

The tent opened and Amareth and Marhen stepped out. They looked beautiful, mused the Noldo, for their dresses were simple yet perfectly elegant and their hair had been left loose to play about their waists. Atop their heads were crowns of woodland flowers that twisted and twirled and fell lower in some places than in others, hugging their lovely faces with the bounties of the forest. They were works of art and Elladan found himself fascinated by them.

But all thoughts of woodland crowns fled him when Legolas appeared before the tent.

Elladan's eyes bulged of their own accord and his mouth hung open and he could only assume he looked as stunned and stupid as those around him, for his eyes sought but could not focus, they saw but did not translate into words and he found himself incapable of reaction.

The horns continued to blare out their call, for beckon they did and Elladan's eyes roved over Legolas, out of control for his attire was simply - alien, like nothing he had ever seen. There was an ancient feel to it, like the Noldor of the First Age, but the slit up the front of his skirts, and the bare right arm and shoulder spoke of things purely Silvan, he thought, acutely arcane; the boots, the vambraces and bracelets that adorned his entire right arm and the Eternal Circle, painted forever upon his very skin. Yet it was his hair that was beyond his ability to describe...

It was completely braided, and yet the differences in thickness and design lent a rich, deep texture to it. Lainion's Avarin braids had been reworked and he knew that would have been Legolas' doing - he would never allow them to be removed. Yet instead of sitting high upon his head in a pony tale as they usually did, they had been weaved together until they formed what Elladan could only describe as a crown.

Stones of blue, green, white and ambar served to seal some of his braids, resting now around his silk-clad waist, where a large, severely curved dagger sat inside his sash. He looked dangerous and feral, yet so soft - and utterly beautiful and Elladan's heart melted in pride and honour. He could never leave this elf, would ever serve at his side, wherever that service took him - he would see to it, for in spite of his own, high birth - nothing seemed as important as the service that now bound Elladan to Legolas' side.

With Erthoron and Lorthil at the fore, followed by Amareth and Marhen, and then Legolas himself and finally Narosén and Golloron, they slowly made their way to the trees and the sentinel where the short ceremony would take place, and as they passed, the Silvan people followed, small lanterns in their hands as they began to softly sing, the delicate lights flickering in the falling dusk, illuminating their hopeful faces. The horns still blared their single note and the night was crisp and still, and Elladan thought he had never seen such a magical sight. He was suddenly glad as the Company joined him and together, they followed in solemn silence.

Standing now before the tree, the people gathered around and watched as Legolas moved forward, and then knelt before the sentinel, his arms lax at his sides.

"Legolas," exclaimed Erthoron in his powerful voice, so that all could hear the oath that would now be taken. "Legolas son of Thranduil the Sinda and Lassiel the Silvan, born in Lland Galadh, Lord, Lieutenant. The Silvan people charge you with their protection by naming you Warlord. Do you accept this great honour, as the trees and our people are witness?"

"I do," said Legolas, just loud enough to be heard by most.

"From this day forth, you are our Warlord, until the day of your death or departure from these shores. May Yavanna bless you," he said with a soft smile, before slipping a ring onto his right index finger. It was done, and just as the Silvan leader turned to lead the entourage away from the tree and to the fortress, he hesitated, looking back at Legolas who remained kneeling upon the ground. Nobody had moved and his brow furrowed as he stepped closer, eyes searching for what it was that held him there.

"Legolas?" he asked quietly.

Legolas slowly stood, and then turned to face Erthoron, his face completely blank, head tilted slightly upwards as if he listened. The Silvan leader stared, and then stepped back, for the Warlord's body shone so intensely he seemed alight from within, and his eyes, transparent and yet so very green - he was an elf and yet like none he had ever seen.

Elladan saw it too, but he did not startle for he had seen Legolas at his most frightening. This was a softer manifestation of his power, easier to understand and yet oh so enticing to look upon. Glancing at Narosén, the Spirit Herder smiled, his own head tilted to the heavens, and those in the crowd that had a modicum of skill also listened. There was a symphony on the air it seemed and Elladan suddenly wished he could here it, understand what it was that brought such joy to these, endearing people.

"It is time," came the sudden, unexpected words of the Warlord and the people gathered round once more, lanterns flickering softly, a thousand eyes shining in anticipation of what he would say.

"It is time to come together, brothers, sisters," he said, his eyes back from the heavens and on them all as he spoke with a confidence Elladan had never seen in him before. "It is time to close the gap that should never have existed, one only a few saw fit to open, and keep open purposefully for their own gain. It is not the Silvan way, it is not the Sindarin way," he emphasised, and Elladan's heart sank as he saw the doubt on their faces...perhaps Legolas was wrong, perhaps this was not the time, he mused.

"They erred, aye, that cannot be doubted. But so is it true that they voted for the return of the Warlord - they see the error of their ways, brothers. Are we, then, to do the same as they did? Turn our backs on our Sindarin warriors? Scorn their culture, discard their ways and their customs? I tell you now I will not," he said, his voice strong and rebellious. The doubt was still there, but it was joined now, by curiosity...

"This is what I will do, brothers, and I wonder - if you will be by my side? I will treat them as I would my own, value them on the only scale I know, that of the truth, and if I should not be treated with the same deference - then I will remedy it, for we will remain silent no more. This is our time to reclaim our culture, our position in this forest - to live in equality together with the Avari, and the Sindar. I will not look down upon them, yet neither will I be looked down on. Will you then, be by my side in this?" he asked.

"Aye!" they said together and Legolas smiled. "Then let us invite them - invite them to the Silvan side - to see us, understand us, value us - and in return, we shall do the same for them. Only in our regard for them, will we close this rift, brothers - embrace them in harmony - show them that together, we are strong, invincible. Together we cannot be swayed, that without us - they are lost!"

"Aye!!" they shouted louder now and Elladan's heart began to rise from the pit it had fallen into just moments before. Perhaps it had been the time...

"Then we march in pride! Musicians! Dancers! Poets and Bards! Get you to the fortress and we will follow - paint for our Sindarin cousins the colours of our world, make them feel the joy and honour in each note you play, each phrase you sing - open your arms to them and bring them - to the Silvan side!!!" he shouted.

"Aye!!!!" they roared and Elladan laughed as his soul lifted and sent tears to his eyes. He cared not though, for they all wore looks of such hope and excitement - it was akin to the moment of battle, a great leader infusing his warriors with the courage they would need to kill and be killed. It was time, the perfect time.

Turning to The Company, he reflected the smile on their own faces, especially those of Idhrenohtar and Ram en' Ondo who had known Legolas all his life, had surely known he would one day be great, just as Elladan had known it soon after they had met in Imladris.

And so the artists bounded away before the main entourage, laughing and talking excitedly as the people followed them, their lanterns swinging before them as they sang softly, their shimmering, shiny clothing sending sparks of colourful light into the darkening night.

Legolas smiled, lifting his head again as if to listen, and Narosén did likewise as they walked, slower than the rest, towards the fortress.

"What do they say?" asked Rhrawthir, his eyes wide as he looked upon his friend, his Warlord.

"They - sing, Rhrawthir, a song so sweet and yet so strong. They speak of the past, of the future, they whisper their love for our people, their promise of aid to our warriors," he said softly, his eyes still upon the boughs. They challenge the enemy too," he said, his eyes falling on the members of the Company, "for they are not peaceful creatures when their world is threatened - like elves, they fight and they kill to protect their own."

"You can hear - all that?" asked Glamohtar, his perfectly braided hair shining blue under the moonlight.

"I can hear all that - and more..." he whispered in awe, his mind only half present it seemed for his eyes were still alight, although pleasantly so, the trees were still with him even now.

"Had you planned to say all that, Legolas?" asked Elladan, genuinely curious at the seemingly improvised speech he had given.

Legolas turned to his friend and studied him for a moment before answering. "I had planned to voice my concerns regarding the dangers of offending the Sindar, of tempering that instinctive desire to reap vengeance upon them for the years of disdain. I had not quite planned it to come out that way though, no. The moment took me..." he said, as if he did not understand it himself.

"Then you have succeeded, Legolas," said Idhrenohtar. "Your words are wise - the only way for this to work is to show them they are important to us."

"Yes," replied the Warlord, his eyes slipping to Koron en' Naur who strode before them, the standard of the Sindar flapping softly in the breeze. Beside him, Dorwen of the Avari with their own distinctive, and then Lorthil, with the banner of the Silvan people. Legolas, along with the Company, would be the last of them to enter the Great Hall, indeed even now, as they approached the main doors, the musicians and dancers would already be taking their places...

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

Thranduil stood upon the Great Plateau, the secret forest of the Evergreen Wood sprawling into the darkening horizon before him. Silvan horns blared their siren in the distance and he knew they approached, that soon he would need to return to his place in the Great Hall and welcome the Silvan people and their new Warlord - his son, the son he had still not made peace with.

Maeneth had brought them together with her simple presence, and Rinion had finally opened the door to his half brother, as Handir had done long before. But it was between him and his son now, the unspoken things, the intimate things that kept them apart, in spite of their timid approaches. They had not spoken of her, of Legolas' mother, the elf that should have been his queen ...

He knew Legolas intended to travel to the deep forest, in search of answers and he wondered what it was he thought he would find. Why did he not simply ask his father - ask him what she had been like for that was surely what he wanted to know. But no, Legolas had a hidden agenda, he was sure of it.

"Father," came the tentative voice of Handir.

Turning, Thranduil smiled at his second child as he shone under the light of the moon. His deep blue tunic fell perfectly down to his shins and his jewelled belt hung low on his waist. A simple headpiece marked him as his son, as did his lovely face. A perfect prince, Legolas' first brother and he was proud, because this, measured elf of balanced mind and sturdy heart had brought his youngest son out of anonymity, had helped him to greatness, had returned to Thranduil a part of that soul he had loved so fiercely, and missed so much it had nearly cost him his family, his kingdom. Sweet Handir, sweet Lassiel ...

He closed the gap between them and placed his hand over his son's cheek, looking intently into Handir's questioning eyes.

"I am proud of you, my Prince, my son, for to have come to this day - would not have been possible without you."

Handir stared back at his father, for he surely had not expected his father to speak of that now, when the Silvans were on the point of entering the Great Hall.

"It was Turion, father, and then Lainion and Aradan. Without them, I could not have brought him to you."

"No," murmured the king, "but it was your heart, Handir, your acceptance of him that kept his mind open to the possibility - that he could have a family - that we could be reunited.

"And if that is true then I am glad - for I too, am proud of my father, my King."

Handir smiled a strong, determined smile and Thranduil mirrored it.

"Then come, let us greet these Silvan sprites and their new Warlord," said the king, clapping Handir upon the shoulder and returning to the High Table, where Rinion sat talking quietly with Maeneth, and Aradan smiled as Llyniel fretted with her lovely dress and Miren, his wife, fussed with the Silvan Crown that Legolas had gifted her with.

Further down, sat the Permanent Council and their husbands and wives, but with the notable exception of Barathon, who was under strict house arrest, pending the king's decision. As for Draugole, he had not been seen at public events since the Baudh Gwaith incident.

On a nearby table sat many of the Inner Circle; Captains of the Greenwood - Turion, Dunorel, Thoron, and of course Commander General Celegon and General Huron, their wives and lovers at their sides.

Other tables hosted important members of their society. Scholars, Lore Masters, the Master Healer Nestaron, artists and visiting diplomats from Lorien, together with Haldir, the Marchwarden, whose eyes would stray to Maeneth every now and then, a thoughtful gleam in his eye.

One, entire side of the Hall was occupied by the musicians and singers who even now, organised their music and tuned their fiddles and lyres, and upon the Great Plateau, were hundreds of others who milled around, glasses in hand, waiting for the moment in which the Silvan dignitaries would join them.

There was electricity in the air, expectation, excitement, yet there was also apprehension, for who was to say what would become of this. Indeed it was the councillors, the statesmen, who argued amongst themselves - was this a simple exercise of Silvan supremacy - payback for what they considered years of injustice? While they agreed that things had escaped their control, that there had indeed, been injustice, they did not want it rubbed in their faces, for not all of them had participated in the discrimination. And so they sat, and they discussed, even now as the first wine was served and a soft flute began to play a slow, forest melody.

Aradan looked across at the musicians, a Silvan conductor at the fore who waved his arms softly this way and that, as if he could impress the emotion of the music on the flutist that weaved the tune, that slowly but surely began to rise in volume, until a single violin joined him, and then two, and before long, a slow, heavy base moved the music to a different level - still slow, yet powerful, poised, as if slowly building to a crescendo.

Silvan dancers filed through the door, creating a corridor that led directly to the high table. Some broke away, dancing to the slow tune as they threw flower petals in the air and smiled at all who watched. Aradan chuckled when a handful of rose petals fell over Llyniel and she looked up in surprise for the dancer seemed to know who she was.

Yet what struck the councillor more than anything else, was the utter joy upon their faces - there was a light in their eyes, and Aradan had no doubts as to what it was - it was hope -

Turning to the king, he saw his friend's kingly mask, the one that gave nothing away, but as Thranduil's eyes flickered towards his own he saw it - he saw curiosity.

Of a sudden, the numerous fiddlers and flutists stood as the music changed tempo. Rich bases accompanied the strings and for the first time, the mighty beat of the woodland drums made more than one respectable Sinda jump in his seat.

The dancers stamped their feet in time to the drums, the sound of their metallic studs echoing around the hall, as if they were an army, marching before the enemy, and Aradan's skin prickled, a shiver running the entire length of his spine.

The Silvan conductor jumped and swayed and pointed and shook his hands as the music gained in speed and drama, as Silvan lords and ladies began to appear, walking slowly between the dancers, smiling and nodding and then moving to their respective tables but not sitting, and slowly, the Sindar followed suit. The moment was upon them and as the fiddles and flutes began a frantic battle, the base drums not far behind, all heads turned to the door.

The standard of the Avari came into view, Doren striding slowly and proudly as he tilted it forwards for all to see. There were timid cheers from the few Avarin elves present and then, Lorthil did likewise with the Silvan banner. This time the cheer was a mighty one, yet the last standard, was that of the Sindarin people and those that still had not stood, did so now, their faces reflecting the surprise they felt, for surely the Warlord would march under the Silvan banner - but no, he had chosen the Sindarin flag and the cheer that followed would never be forgotten, for the message was clear, and Aradan beamed proudly - he had been right.

And so, as the Silvans stomped their feet to the dramatic music and the banners flew high, the Sindar began to smile and to relax - this was a forest celebration, one that knew no race nor colour - only those that dwelled and fought under the boughs of the mighty Greenwood.

The Silvan Warlord appeared at the door, flanked by those closest to him - his warriors of The Company, and cries of shock rippled through the crowds, from the doors and straight to the king's table. Thranduil stood abruptly, eyes riveted on the door and the guards, thinking perhaps something had happened. Indeed Aradan too was on his feet and before long, the entire Hall stood, craning their necks to get a better view of what it was that had shocked them so. Only the musicians continued their music, fast and fierce as the dancers slammed their feet upon the stone floor and Aradan's heart seemed to beat in time with them.

It was only when the three flags passed them, their bearers standing to one side, and the figure of the Warlord finally came into view, that they understood what the disturbance had been. It had been him - Legolas...

As the elf walked towards his awaiting king, the entire hall watched him - every nuance, every detail - the way he moved and the clothes he wore - and the crown of pale blond hair that had been woven around his head in a way no one had ever seen before. A crownless prince, a crowned Warlord.

Thranduil's eyes danced over him, but they would always return to his eyes, for they were alight and it was strange - there was magic at work, and the king was aware of it, as too, were Mithrandir and Glorfindel, for they stepped forward in trepidation. But where the general was shocked at his adopted son's appearance, Mithrandir stood in awe and deep understanding.

"Welcome, Warlord," said Thranduil, his eyes still trying to settle on his son and not on the details of his attire.

"Thank you, my King."

Turning, Legolas bowed to Rinion, Handir and then Maeneth. Glorfindel bowed and Legolas returned it, just as formally, and then clasped his friend's metal-clad forearms with his hands, his strange eyes speaking silent thanks and eternal respect. The Noldo smiled back proudly, nodding his understanding and then stepping back.

Mithrandir bowed his head as Legolas passed, and Legolas did likewise, knowing that of them all, the wizard understood what was with him - knew the trees still spoke and sung for his eyes told that story, the energy shining behind them would not be lost on the Maia.

The music had reached its height and when if finally finished and the stomping warriors stilled their feet, a cheer went up amongst the Sindar and Silvan alike. The tension had gone, the air cleared. They were no longer worried or concerned but pleasantly surprised at the deference the Silvan people had shown the Sindar - acceptance was almost complete, it seemed.

Approaching Llyniel a little further down at the high table, Legolas first nodded at Lord Aradan, and then at Lady Miren, who stared wide-eyed at him, making him smile boyishly. Standing now before Llyniel, his eyes roved over the lovely crown that Marhen had prepared for her, and then her blue eyes, and the elegant purple dress she wore. Placing a hand over his heart he smiled as he spoke.

"You look - different," he smiled mischievously and she smiled back at him.

"You mean without those healer robes you met me in?"

"Yes - I never realised..." he trailed off, his eyes momentarily dropping to her cleavage, and then suddenly checking himself.

Llyniel resisted the urge to chuckle. "You look wonderful, my Lord," she said huskily and Legolas was surprised to see her pupils suddenly dilate, making him wonder what the night would bring.

Bowing once more, and with a simple, "until later," he took his place at the table and then turned to Elladan, who was greeting the dignitaries. His friend was nervous, realised Legolas as he settled himself, and then resisted the urge to snort at himself. Legolas himself could feel a thousand eyes upon him, watching his every move - it made him feel stilted. Yet he soon realised that this was not the reason for his friend's state of anxiety - it was Maeneth...

With a minute frown, he watched more closely. He had not been mistaken for the grey eyes would swivel to the princess and then promptly look away when he thought she may catch him. Lindohtar had been right - he was besotted - with his sister no less. An apprehensive glance at the Crown Prince confirmed it, for the icy blue eyes bore fiery holes into Elladan's eyes - but his friend seemed blissfully oblivious to it.

Quieter, softer music began as the servants began to bring the food, and what a singular feast the Sindar had prepared. All the traditional Silvan foods had been served and presented so beautifully it wrought a smile from Erthoron and Narosén, who looked to the king in silent question.

"This is your evening, my Silvan friends. This is our way of honouring your culture."

"It is most thoughtful, my king," he exclaimed as he watched the platters as they were set down upon the decorated tables. Pheasant and quail, boar and venison, vegetable creams and spicy roots, the smells of thyme and rosemary lingering enticingly. This was, indeed, Silvan fare, and Legolas wished he could just dip his fingers into it and take it to his mouth, for now that the worst was over, he found he was starving.

A servant poured wine into his goblet, but tasting it would have to wait, for the king would make a brief speech now, and only then would he be free to eat and drink - that if he was left to his own devises, which he was sure he would not be.

The king stood, and then cast his steady eyes around the Great Hall and to the Plateau beyond, waiting until all had seen him and stilled their conversations.

"My Ladies, Lords, warriors and visiting dignitaries, welcome to Greenwood the Great, land of the Sindar, Silvan and Avarin people..."

Cheers went up and although it was not protocol, their high spirits could not be quelled.

"Tonight, we welcome the Silvan Warlord, and we wish him success in his new venture,"

He was interrupted as more cheers echoed through the hall and Thranduil waited for them to die down before continuing.

"It is our heartfelt wish," he emphasised, his eyes glinting, "that with this investiture, a new era will begin. An era of brotherhood, where equality and justice prevails, in which unity will vanquish our common foe and the greatness of past times will become our present once more. It is - our heartfelt desire - that from today, the wishes of the few may never again prevail over the dreams of the people; that power and spite may never again be allowed to stain our honour, ruin our hearts, taint our souls with darkness. Today, we are three, fascinating cultures but one people - no one better than the other - all of them the better for the presence of the other. So come - and celebrate - show the world that the Sindar, the Silvan and the Avari are inseparable, invincible!"

A roar of pure passion shattered the silence of the Greenwood and the king smiled, wide and genuine, and then he sat and watched as those closest to him looked at him as they once had, before everything had changed.

Music began once more and wine began to flow, the soft clink of cutlery as food was served, and soft conversation began, in spite of the powerful undercurrents of excitement and anticipation, for the night had only just begun.

Legolas observed Llyniel discreetly as he ate, and Elladan did likewise with Maeneth. Rinion watched them both and the king and Glorfindel smirked into their goblets. Yet Legolas' eyes still shone softly, the glow of his aura still unnaturally bright. The trees still sang and spoke, and amidst the quiet chaos, a single discordant note, although distant, continued to call out to him.

'Be at peace, Thranduil...'

Frowning as he listened, he tried to concentrate upon the soft whisper.

'I free you ...'

He turned his head away from the conversation, feeling Narosén's eyes upon him but he could not break the connection lest he lose it, yet try as he might, he knew that if he continued, he would not be able to control it and so he mentally shook himself.

A hand upon his ornate vambrace - Narosén, his concerned gaze falling on him in silent question.

"A voice from the distance - from the other side..." he whispered and Narosén's eyes glistened in curiosity.