Approximately 750 (S.A.) the Greenwood:

Walking the forest paths of Eryn Galen was as familiar as it was painful for Thranduil, though he had never been to this forest before. Indeed, he had never been so far east before. Yet, with the beech trees towering overhead, the soft crackle of forest detritus beneath his boots, and the soothing lilt of Elven voices all around him, he could almost imagine he was back home in Doriath.

Fire - fire burning everywhere - the streets stained red - he cannot breathe for the smoke - Mother, where is she? - his Father is pulling him away from the chaos - swords clang, metal on metal - battlecries rent the air - Doriath! For Doriath! - The King has fallen! - red hair gleaming, a one-handed warrior -

He gasped quietly, shaking his head to clear it of the nightmarish images. He was not in Doriath, he was in Eryn Galen, and he was safe, safe, safe. Gritting his teeth, he willed his hands to stop shaking; he could not afford to fall to pieces, his father was counting on him to be strong, to help lead the shattered remnant of their people.

"Are these wood-elves ever going to appear?" An Elf to Thranduil's right sniped, as their exhausted group reached a tall hill that had carved a bald niche out of the otherwise lush forest. Privately, Thranduil couldn't help but agree; the Sindar elves had arrived in Eryn Galen some days before, yet not even a hair of the forest's residents had been spotted by their scouts. Were they so removed from the world that they would not even greet their travel-weary kin?

"Hush, Lamaen," Oropher snapped from the front. "The Laegrim will appear when they are ready, not before. Remember, we are on their land, seeking sanctuary, not the other way around. If they are cautious of us, then they must have good reason."

Shame flickered across Lamaen's face, as well as a grimace at the harsh reminder of what they themselves were fleeing. Though they had heard no news of Elf slaying Elf this far east, the brutal kinslaying at Doriath was all too fresh in their minds.

"We shall camp here tonight," Oropher announced to the group as a whole; a weary bedraggled entourage Elves, all that would flee with them from Doriath, those who had lived through their long journey eastward. Thranduil couldn't help but avoid the eyes of his fellows as they turned to Oropher and himself seeking guidance. There was too much despair casting shadows in once-bright eyes, too much pain still fresh there, settled in the dents in their once-bright armour, woven into strands of clothes hastily patched on the journey east, and carved into the gauntness of their cheeks from too long spent on rations.

There were relieved sighs all round from the ground as they spread out in a now-familiar routine. Packs thudded to the ground and bedrolls unravelled, meagre portions of food were doled out, and slowly the Sindar began to relax.

Oropher and Thranduil set up their own bedrolls slightly apart from the group, as has become their habit through months of long journeying. Ever since the people had chosen Oropher to guide them east to safety, they had been treating him differently, with a deference they had not shown him beforehand - distant kin of the Lord Thingol he might be, in Doriath he had been a minor lord at best. Consequently, this meant as his son, Thranduil was stuck between the two; once he would have felt free to walk among them, soothe their worries and ease their anxieties, now he felt held apart, no longer truly one of them. He wanted to help his people without abandoning his father and to help his father without neglecting their people!

"Do you think they will come, adar?" Thranduil kept his voice low, though none were close enough but Oropher to hear. Oropher glanced over at him, a sharp warning in his steel grey eyes.

"I have faith they will," he answered just as softly. "They will not abandon us here."

Thranduil nodded and sighed. His father was being...overly optimistic in his opinion. That had always been his father's gift, a strong sense of faith and optimism. Somehow, it had always seemed to work out for him. If he was wrong this time though, if the Laegrim did not appear, then they would either have to remain in Eryn Galen and establish themselves without the permission of their kin, or else move on and look for sanctuary elsewhere. Both options could lead to disaster for what remained of the Sindar elves.

"I shall fetch us firewood then, adar."

Oropher nodded dismissively, already lost in thought, surveying the rest of their group. He did that a lot lately, and it grated on Thranduil's nerves. He should not feel like this, he chastised himself as he walked away. His father was under a lot of stress, and had lost much in such a short period of time, it was only natural that he had pulled away. And yet...Thranduil missed the days when he and his father had been close, and had shared their thoughts freely with one another.

He stepped lightly once more into the shade of the trees, revelling in the familiar scent and sounds of the forest. This was a good place, untainted by darkness. A place where the Sindar could live away from the world-shaking machinations of the Noldor and the terrible deeds their arrival had brought down on Arda. A home where they could live simply, like the Elves of old.

He took a few minutes to unwind, breathing in the clean woodland air and admiring the soft glow of the sunset through the verdant leaves as he gathered fallen sticks for firewood. Although it was still summer here, the season was winding to a close, and already some of the leaves were beginning to change colour. Thranduil had always enjoyed autumn; the vibrant reds and oranges and yellows that blazed trails through the forest canopies, eating fresh blackberries and nuts, celebrating the autumn festivals...

Thranduil let out a soft growl, dashing at the treacherous tears that threatened to spill down his face. There would be no autumn festivals this year, he would never be able to tease his cousins about their growing elflings...never again. Doriath was a hollow ruin, his cousins were dead. Their elflings were dead. All dead.

A choking burning pain festered in his chest, swelling in response to the memories that haunted his thoughts. He hated how soft and familiar it was, hated how much it reminded him of home, hated how much it reminded him of everything they'd once had and lost.

Those sons of Fëanor. Those Noldor.

Throwing aside his bundle of sticks, Thranduil began to run. He moved blindly through the trees, faster and faster, as if he could outpace his whirling angry thoughts, unaware of anything except the primal need to run, to move, to do something other than be trapped in his thoughts. How had it come to this? How had his proud people been brought so low, reduced to begging for scraps, left looking to him and his father for salvation? He would not, could not, let them down now!

One moment, he was weaving through the trees, swift and sure-footed as a young stag, the next he was flying, falling, tumbling through the air to crash hard against the mossy floor. Stunned, he lay there for a moment, grass and moss tangled up in his hair and smeared across his face, and then he began to laugh. A harsh, bitter, broken laugh that welled up from the pain in his chest, an ugly noise that did not belong in a beautiful land. The proud Thranduil, brought low by a tree root!

Thank the Rodyn no one had been around to see that.

With a despondent sigh, he heaved himself upright, armour clinking and muscles protesting, and then froze, ensnared as a bright merry laugh pierced the air. He was not alone.

A few feet away, peeking around the bole of a tree, a young elf-woman stood, one hand raised to her mouth as if to stifle her mirth. A blush crept onto his face and he fought the waves of embarrassment flooding through him, as moonstruck as the mortal Beren stumbling across the beautiful Luthien Tinuviel. But this elleth was no nightingale, no dark beauty of the twilight woods. She was clad in simple green and brown leathers, with a quiver of arrows slung low at her hip, and a bow in her other hand. Her hair was brown, like chestnuts and her eyes gleamed in the fading light.

Thranduil hastily brushed the leaves from his hair, praying fervently that there were no grass stains on his face. The elleth took a half step forward, but then, almost as if shy, she stopped, watching him carefully. Her gaze turned wary as it raked across his armour, lingering briefly on his sword at his belt.

Slowly, Thranduil put up his hands, fingers splayed wide. "Hello. I mean you no harm," he called softly to her.

Her bright eyes snapped up to meet his, but with no recognition. Thranduil would have slapped himself, if he could. Of course she did not speak Sindarin, any more than the Laegrim had when Denethor had led them west. Perhaps Quenya? What had the Laegrim spoken? He wasn't sure, he hadn't had much to do with them.

Thinking quickly, he placed a hand on his chest, and pushed back his tangled hair to display his pointed ears. "Thranduil." He tapped his chest again. "My name is Thranduil."

Understanding blossomed across her face, and she placed her hand over her heart in return. "Sídhiel."

"Sídhiel?" He repeated, smiling. "Your name is Sídhiel?"

She nodded, and burst into a rapid chatter that was entirely lost to him. At his thoroughly blank look, she burst into another peal of delighted laughter, slinging her bow across her back. She fired another rapid sentence at him, her head tilted slightly in puzzlement. A question? He had no idea what she had asked, never mind how to answer.

She frowned, obviously as frustrated as he was, and began to pace, back and forth, grumbling to herself in her own tongue. She was certainly charming, even if he couldn't understand her.

They both seemed equally shocked when another voice answered her in the same language, and another young elleth dropped from a nearby tree. Did the Laegrim live in the trees? How many were watching them even now? He fought the urge to scan the boughs for more watchers, but his instincts screamed at him not to take his eyes off the newcomer. Her appearance was similar to that of Sídhiel's, but her body language was far less welcoming, and she did not approach him. This one, though she bore no weapon, was more dangerous than she seemed.

"Óleth," Sídhiel said, gesturing to the newcomer. "Óleth, Thranduil." She gestured back at him, clearly attempting to break the sudden tension that hung in the air, thick as winter fog over the moors.

Óleth said nothing in return , refusing even to look at him. Instead, she drew Sídhiel away, speaking fast and low, occasionally jabbing a finger in his direction, at the trees, and every so often, jabbing at Sídhiel.

The two were clearly well acquainted, Thranduil noted, watching carefully for any sign this Óleth might turn on him. There was a definite similarity to their faces and builds; sisters perhaps? Or close cousins? Whatever their relation, it was obviously that Óleth was the elder from the way she was badgering Sídhiel. And certainly, they were no backwater country fools, as the rumours had claimed. There was a fierce intelligence to them, and Sídhiel's bow was no crude carving. They were wild, perhaps, but not uncivilised or without merits of their own.

After a few minutes of one-sided debate, Sídhiel simply shrugged and clapped Óleth's shoulder, finally speaking in return. She did not seem annoyed in the slightest, indeed, she looked almost amused. Whatever it was she said to Óleth was enough to end the argument, even if it wasn't enough to make Óleth stop glowering at him.

Sídhiel turned back to him, her smile just as bright as before, and said something to him, slow and careful, pointing at the darkening sky, then at him, and then back at the way he'd come. The message was clear: It was getting dark, he should return to his people.

He nodded to show his understanding. How could he ask her to meet him again, that he wanted to see her again?

She smiled mischievously at him, again speaking slowly as she pointed at herself, then at him, and then placed a hand above her eyes, shading them, as if scouting for something.

"You will look for me?" He asked, repeating her actions to clarify. He certainly hoped so. She repeated herself once more, nodding. Behind her, Óleth rolled her eyes and snapped something in irritation.

Sídhiel gave an exasperated huff and then waved at Thranduil in a deliberately cheerful manner before disappearing up into the tree branches with Óleth. Thranduil watched her spring away, fluid and graceful, and could hardly believe his luck.

Perhaps this forest had something worth staying for in it after all.

He made his way slowly back to camp, forgetting all about the firewood, his mind tangled up in replaying each moment of his interactions with the wood-elves, smiling all the way.

An hour later, as he finally found his way back to camp, he found it very much changed from the somber mood he had left it in. His father, it seemed, had hardly noticed his absence, and certainly did not care that he had not returned with any firewood. Instead, he too was smiling, as were many of the other Sindar as they shared around baskets of food, laughing with delight. Mixed in with his own people were many strange Elves, clad in greens and brown, chattering in an unfamiliar tongue.

"Thranduil!" Oropher called to him, looking less stressed than Thranduil had seen him in months - the shadows had lifted from his eyes at last. "I told you the Laegrim would not abandon us."

"But...how?" Thranduil blinked, wide eyed, looking around at the unexpected arrivals and their many gifts. "How did they know?"

Lamaen stepped out of the crowd, overhearing, a sardonic smirk on his face. "Apparently, we have you to thank for that." Thranduil frowned at him.

"Me? I did nothing."

"The Silvans, that is what they call themselves, said one of their own found you wandering the forest looking half-starved," Lamaen teased. "They sent people with food, feeling sorry for us."

"And how would you know that?" Had the other ellon been spying on him?

Lamaen gave an easy shrug. "I used to live among the Laegrim near Doriath. I speak their language with passable fluency. These Silvans...their language is quite similar, though the years have changed it some. Lord Oropher has asked myself and a few others to act as translators. These Laegrim, it seems, do not have a single city or permanent settlement of any kind. They live in camps, clans, that they call lumornoss. It is little wonder we could not find them until now, they are masters of woodcraft." He looked suitably smug, a preening peacock fanning himself with his plumage. Thranduil stepped forward, opening his mouth to snap a reply.

"We have been fortunate," Oropher interjected smoothly, sensing his son's rising defensive temper. "Things would have been far more difficult if we had to stumble along without a way to speak to each other. And indeed, if you had not gone off and found them, my son, it seems they would not have known we were here at all."

Oropher's proud smile and affectionate shoulder clasp sparked a warm feeling deep in Thranduil's chest, dismissing his irritation at Lamaen's bragging. He had helped after all, even if it had been inadvertent. And more importantly, his people were being cared for, fed by the generousity of the Silvan elves. Perhaps now, they would have some good fortune.

And perhaps, he would be able to get to know Sídhiel a little better, too.