Ram en' knelt upon the grass, his hands resting delicately on his powerful thighs. Idhrenohtar sat cross-legged, the palms of his hands over his knee caps and Legolas, Legolas sat against a large old oak with his eyes closed and his mind absent, for he thought on the events of the previous eve, when he had taken his vows and finally become a novice warrior.

It had been surprisingly solemn, except for the celebration that had spontaneously developed afterwards in the Eastern glade amongst the twenty new novices. Even now they were nursing their queasy stomachs and thumping heads. But Legolas' headache was not enough to cloud his memory.

Why he had cast a glance at the group of onlooking parents, sweethearts and siblings as he took his vow he could not explain, for there was no one there for him; no father, no mother, no aunt or siblings. And yet he had spotted the face of a young, Sindarin lord in fine robes who stood towards the back. His hair was of dark gold and his skin white and smooth with eyes the color of the sea. But it was not their colour that had caught Legolas' attention. It was the vague similarity in their features, that and the way the lord looked upon him. Perhaps he too, was surprised and there was no wonder, for Legolas' features were regarded as unique and although this, enigmatic lord did not have his own, admittedly strange green eyes, his face was familiar all the same.

He had shaken himself mentally, turning to rejoin his fellow novices, smiling at them as he moved to stand beside them, but try as he might he had not been able to resist one last glance at the crowd, only to find him gone.

Well he was half Sindarin himself, and was, only now, coming into contact with more elves of that race. He was physically more alike to them and that thought was refreshing, for his features had always been a cause for comment and yet now, in spite of his unique eyes, Legolas actually fit better with the Sindar than he did with the Silvan, at least in this one thing. He was not sure he liked that thought and he wondered if, perhaps, he would be allowed to wear his leather bracelets. He mentally snorted at himself for the childish idea but his left hand moved up to touch the braided leather around his right wrist, the band Amareth had given him upon his coming of age.

"Legolas."

"Um?" he responded distractedly.

"Briefing is in half an hour."

Opening his eyes, he levelled them with his two friends, his heart beginning to thump a little too fast, for the briefing would reveal their assignments, and they would finally know whether they would be together – or separated for the first time since they had knowledge of the world.

He quelled his fluttering stomach and hardened his features, but not quite skilfully enough to hide the transformation from his friends.

"The time is come then," said Legolas.

"Aye," answered Idhrenohtar slowly. "Our time together may be short, my friends, for there are only twenty of us, and seven quadrants to cover in the forest."

"The Company will be disbanded then, broken err it truly begins," said Ram en' Ondo forlornly, a sad smile stretching his lips. He visibly started though, when he saw Legolas' face move into his own line of sight.

"Never that, brother," said Legolas vigorously. "The Company can never be disbanded for it is a bond of love and respect; that cannot be changed, nobody can change that, Ram en'. If we are indeed separated, The Company will continue to learn and evolve and when the time comes, when we are all three competent, seasoned warriors, we shall come together once more and be great," he stressed, his eyes alight with the conviction that his words were true. "You will see.... When I am able, I will find you and we shall ride together – for our King and our forest, for our people," he smiled as his eyes fixed first upon Ram en' and then on Idhrenohtar.

"You truly are a leader of elves, Legolas. I have always known this and I tell you truly now, whatever I achieve in the years to come, you – will be my Captain," he almost whispered, his eyes bright with the emotion that pulsed through his veins.

"And mine," said Ram en'. "It is our destiny," he smiled, glancing at Idhreno to confirm he was not alone in this. "We choose you, and I swear all I do now, will be to make myself worthy of riding with you, Hwindohtar."

A lone tear rolled down Legolas' smooth cheek, his eyes round and his mouth slack.

"I do not deserve such fine words, brothers. I have yet to prove my mettle in battle ... I am..."

"Nay – say not useless words, Legolas. There is nothing to prove, only to learn. You do not realise your potential yet, but I, we, we do. From the outside, things become clearer sometimes Legolas. I see your skill as a fighter, your heart as a protector, I see your intelligence as a military strategist, and I see your senses, stronger than any other I have seen. Go forth and learn, and come back to us the leader you were born to be."

He could hold back no longer. With all the bitterness of his loneliness forgotten, he rose and took his friends into his arms, holding on to their tunics as if his life depended on it. He had no words to express the gratitude he felt, no way to vocalise the joy he felt for their confidence in him and for the first time he believed, he truly believed that he could fulfil his chosen destiny.

Later that day, the scene would play over and over in his mind, for they were indeed to be separated. Ram en' and Idhreno would be together in the Eastern quadrant, but Legolas would ride with Captain Turion and Lieutenant Lainion to the West. 

Turion himself had given him his assignment, had seen the disappointment in his eyes and had but smiled and sent him off to prepare. He had dragged his feet back to the barracks where his friends waited. They shared no words though, for they had said them all that morning and so, with heavy hearts and pensive minds, they set about their final preparations for in two days, they would ride out for the first time, as novice warriors of the Greenwood.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

Turion watched the novice from afar as he performed his strange exercises, the ones the boy had invented for himself. It was beautiful to watch and the captain found himself mesmerised by the slow perfection of the movements, the power behind every lunge, every arc of the long sword and swipe of the shorter one in his other hand.

Round and round he moved, his blades in slow but continuous movement, slicing and arcing, jabbing and swivelling in his hands, pointing one way and then the other as his body moved to accommodate them – strange, he realised. It was normally the other way round; the body moved and the blade accompanied but in this style the blade – the weapon was the vehicle and the body adapted to whatever movements were necessary.

Turion cocked his head to the side, assessing the virtues of the concept, watching the clever moves as they were performed at perhaps only a fourth of the speed with which he would need to do so in battle. It strengthened the muscles, he realised, perfected the move. The boy was good – he was very good.

Movement to his left alerted him to Lainion's presence beside him but he did not turn to look.

"I have read of the warriors of Gondolin that they trained in a similar manner – it is so foreign to our own methods and yet there is much merit in what he does," said Lainion, his own slanted eyes now anchored on the novice as he swivelled upon his heels and then flipped backwards.

"Yes, it is in the War Tomes, book II I believe. I have read it."

Lainion smiled at his friend and soon to be captain. "How did he take the news?" he asked.

"His face was an open book, Lainion. He looked so young then, faced with his impending separation with his friends. They have always been together, they are his only family and he is still so young."

"Strange, is it not, for to look upon him now, there is nothing boyish or innocent in his movements. He is strangely – threatening and yet, paradoxically – vulnerable."

Turion turned his surprised eyes to his friend. "Yes," he said in disbelief, "yes that is exactly it, Lainion. We have much work to do. We must teach him war craft, we must harden his mind, and we must lead him to closure where his family is concerned; prepare him for the truth he must soon hear, from us."

"And I will see it done," said Lainion. "We, will see it done. He will make a good captain."

"Lainion," answered Turion a little too quickly, now looking squarely at his lieutenant. "If I am right and we train him well, he will be more than a Captain, my friend," he said carefully, waiting for his friend's reaction before continuing. "There is something about him – something I cannot put into words – except this. The boy inspires loyalty – my loyalty..." he whispered, the shadow of incomprehension lurking beneath Turion's stern features and, as he continued to watch Lainion, he saw his friend's surprise. And how could he not be surprised, mused the captain. Legolas was still a child, a child in the body of a strong warrior. He was a beautiful face that spoke of intelligence, a zest for life, an empathy so strong it emanated from him and wrapped those around him in a mantle of optimism and service. How could this Silvan child inspire the loyalty of a warrior such as Turion? One who had seen many battles, much hardship, one who had ridden the southern reaches – felt the toxin of darkness brush against his soul?

But Turion and Lainion were not the only observers that morning, for Ram en' Ondo and Idhrenohtar watched the scene from further afield, their faces showing the quiet acceptance of their pending separation.

"They will take him away from us, won't they?" asked the Wall of Stone, the surety in his voice lending it a melancholic note.

Idhrenohtar turned to him, his face set in his own conviction.

"Yes. I have always known they would..."

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

"You are quiet this morning, brother. Has that Silvan representative riled your Sindarin blood," said Rinion blithely as he lounged upon the ample seating before the hearth of their family room.

"No," replied Handir distractedly, and when he offered no further information, Rinion turned to face him.

"Well?"

A deep sigh preceded Handir's words.

"I am busy, Rinion."

"You have not but a moment to share in brotherly conversation?"

"Since when do you, indulge in brotherly conversation Rinion? What is it you want?" asked Handir with a flick of his wrist.

"I see I will have to change tactics," said Rinion with a snort, before sitting up and leaning forward. "What did that forest dweller want? You spoke to him privately after the council..."

"Good morning..." came the strong voice of the king as he slid into the room and moved to pour himself a glass of wine.

Both brothers stood and bowed, before sitting once more, Handir's eyes trained on those of the crown prince.

"He is concerned Rinion, 'tis all. The crops are compromised by the continuous orc incursions. They fear that by the time our warriors arrive that all will be lost. He seeks assurances."

"What assurance does he think we can give him? We have lost a third of the Western quadrant in but two seasons. Does he think more meat for the orcish scimitar is easy to come by?" he scoffed.

Handir's look of disgust was seconded by a hardening of the king's features.

"Rinion, I do not believe that is what he thinks. What I believe he truly seeks is the knowledge that here, in the heart of the city, the Silvan villagers are esteemed by the Sindar well enough to feel for their plight. He seeks to observe, to understand, to know that all that can possibly be done is being done. He wishes to assure his anxious people that the Sindar are protecting them as best they can."

The king listened silently and Rinion, Rinion huffed once more.

"They seek favour in return for the successful harvest of our crops. They seek to pressure us with the threat of a harsh winter.

"Rinion," said Handir, raising his voice for the first time as he stood and approached his brother.

"You are overly skeptical, Rinion. You asked me what Erthoron wanted because you do not possess that information. Are you now to tell me you in fact know his motives for seeking private council with me? Why so keen to criticise?"

"Because you are overly naïve, brother. You do not see how he tries to manipulate you into sending more troops sooner, more supplies, more boons – he plays on your inexperience and you see it not."

Handir held the ice-cold eyes of his brother, his own blue eyes fixed and confident. "You confuse naivety with objectivity, brother. 'Tis not always necessary to have an immediate opinion – sometimes one must wait and observe – you would do good to try for you speak of our citizens, be they Sindar or Silvan; do not presume the worst possible scenario but more importantly, brother, do not show them you presume the worst – possible – scenario."

The king raised an eyebrow, his keen eyes moving from Handir to Rinion.

"Clever words, councillor. And that is all they are. Keen is your mind but you are still so young, have never seen battle and likely never will. You cannot see the sacrifice of our warriors, all you see are the demands of the foresters and the political implications. You do not understand what it costs to protect those villages, those crops," he said as he moved closer to his brother.

"Heed your own words, brother. Be objective and consider at least, the possibility that you are being played."

"I never discarded it, Rinion; I said only that you cannot presume that is, indeed, the case. I certainly will not."

They stared levelly at each other for a moment, before Rinion nodded and moved away, nodding at his father before leaving the room.

"I fear Rinion moves ever closer to Lord Bandorion and our cousin Barathon," he said, almost as if he spoke to himself. "With every day that passes I sense a growing – disdain – towards the Silvans. It is misplaced, unfounded, and dangerous."

"Handir," said the King, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room, his voice although soft, was loud enough to draw Handir's attention and pull him out of his inner musings.

"Father."

"Watch him. Anchor him if you can. This rift must not be allowed to grow for the Silvans already feel they are treated as inferiors by the Sindar majority here in the city."

"And they would be right," said Handir.

"Yes," said the king carefully. "Alas that is a growing reality, but what we forget is that out there," he pointed to the Evergreen Wood, "out there, they are the majority – and we cannot live without the forest, Handir. If the Silvans revolt, we may have civil war on our hands."

Handir listened to his father with growing concern, for although they were of like mind on this point, Handir had not realised just how volatile the situation was.

"You think it a possibility?" he asked.

"Yes, yes I do. If this slow but persistent skepticism persists, Handir, if those Sindar barons are allowed to continue with their subtle poisoning, sooner or later, with the right guidance, the Silvans will turn on us."

Handir's eyes were wide, his avid mind a whirlwind of information.

"I will do all I can, father, but our uncle's influence at council is considerable, this you know."

"I do, but we have Aradan, Handir – and we have you," he smiled most uncharacteristically and for a moment, Handir felt grateful for his father's words.

Smiling tightly, he nodded, and then turned to leave, but his father's words stopped him in his tracks.

"Handir."

"Father?"

"You did well..."

It took a moment for Handir to process the words of praise, but instead of enjoying the moment, the words simply confused him. Why could he not simply apply his own theory and take them at face value, that his father had taken a step towards him, had reached out to him, instead of wondering now, what it was his father wanted?

He spent the rest of that day pondering the question, for his father was an enigma to Handir. If he had, indeed, reached out in his own, mercurial way, then Handir would take his hand and try at least, to understand him, understand why he had done – whatever it was he had done. He realised then, that the mystery and the scandal, the gossip and the hearsay surrounding the departure of their mother was the product of ignorance. He had not the information necessary to understand, and if he could not understand, why had he judged his father negatively? Was that not what his own brother, Rinion, had done with the Silvans? An attitude Handir had reprimanded him for?

He was a fool, still unable to be consequent with his own words. Rinion was right in that at least, he had much to learn. The question was, could he approach his father and discern the truth from him? Could he draw him out and hear the tale from his own lips, give himself closure – for good or for bad?

There was no saying, only a decision to be taken. Would he try, or would he desist? But then – had that choice not been taken away from him just yesterday? Had Lainion not shattered any hope of a status quo in which the royal family would continue to live its life of non-communiation, of veiled contempt and reproach? He knew he was right, for the finer hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he drew a deep breath.

He had no choice. He must seek a way to draw out the truth and to make his own, founded judgement, end this unhealthy stalemate in which they all simply tolerated each other. He had a brother, one that was oblivious to his roots, one that, sooner or later, would learn of them. He could not begin to imagine the shock of it, and the consequences it could bring.

He visibly shivered, feeling his own conviction bolstered. Handir was no coward, even though he was not a warrior. He would do this, the question was, could he do it in time, before everything spiralled out of control?

END OF PART ONE