Lors, runner of the fourth border guard, knowledgeable in the healing arts and once impromptu healer to the twin sons of Elrond Peredhil, had been hurrying towards the palace for three days. Thankful he had not been further south, he knew he still had three days travel ahead of him and paced his mount. Pausing upon reaching a tributary of the Great River to allow his mare to drink, Lors froze as he heard a second set of hoof-beats coming towards him. Shaking off the surprise he moved into the foliage to see who approached. A man, he realised as he came into sight. Was it not a man that the stranger on the western borders was looking for? He dropped out of the tree and into the man's path.

Cúdîn pranced a little as the elf dropped unexpectedly into his path, but Aragorn's soft hands soothed him.

"I make my way towards the borders as commanded, what is your purpose here?"

"I know nothing of the commands you are given, man. Only that there is a stranger on the western border desperate for any information regarding the recent events at the palace. Especially of a man and two elves of Rivendell." Shock rang in Aragorn's eyes.

"You must take me to him!"

"I cannot. I have orders of my own. But I will direct you."

o

o

The interring of each of the young elves took place separately, with only family and close friends present. For the Prince of Mirkwood, however, the trees filled with the people of Mirkwood. All kept their distance, only close enough to hear the ceremony, and not interfere with the proceedings. Elves wept, and soldier's faces were grim. Elladan and Elrohir sat beside each other in the grass at the base of a huge and ancient Elm tree. Three more ancient Elms stood around them, and a fifth stood nearby, a younger tree, this one, less weary of its age. These trees were obviously imported, the only elms for miles around all in a cluster, so close that as they grew their furthest branches and deepest roots were interwoven. These were the trees of the royal family of Mirkwood. Oropher, and Thranduil's only daughter, fallen in the Battle of the last alliance. His wife and son soon after through grief. Four trees still strong after millennia of growth, the elven form buried in their roots still supporting their life. Ardëa, her own tree barely three hundred years old, yet older than all of the pines around - who had grown and aged and failed before being replaced by their offspring. The graves of the elves - encased in no wooden box, trapped in no tomb - served to nurture new life as they returned to the ground.

In clothes green and tan, the twin elves sat, with leaves on their brows. For today, they were family.

A hole was dug in silence and Legolas brought out on a wooden bier covered with a white cloth. With great care Thranduil moved from where he had stood at the twin's side, and approached his son for the last time. He lay five elm seeds, one in the hollow of his throat, one over each eye, one over the hands that lay folded together at his waist and one over his heart. Only one elm tree would grow, and this would dictate which virtue he took most strongly into Mandos' Halls, should he be chosen to be born into Middle Earth once more. Thranduil had little hope of that though, and simply took comfort in the reassuring familiarity of the ceremony. Four guards took hold of the corners of the white sheet and, lifting in unison, bore his body to its waiting grave.

Elladan and Elrohir watched with dry eyes and drawn faces, their entire being focused on the slim form disappearing from sight. When the soil was shifted to cover his body, they looked away.

The entire process had taken place in silence, and now a soft breeze brought a susurrus of noise to the trees. As though joining it, the words were barely whispered at first. A thousand elven voices whispering words that all hoped never to have to speak again. Above it all, lifting, guiding, the King's voice rose to the canopy. Elladan and Elrond did not know what words they spoke in the older tongue, the tongue of an elven race whose conception was with the trees, the forest. It almost seemed as though the voice of the forest - so long silent - joined the King in bidding farewell to his last heir.

o

o

"My lord Elrond. The relief in Aragorn's voice was palpable as he bowed to the Lord of Imladris. "You have need to come to the City immediately. There is no time for…" He was inturrupted as a great wave of noise engulfed the forest. Uncertain, Aragorn looked to Elrond to find a look of terrible sadness upon his face. "No…" He whispered, dreading that he was too late. The word was lost in the cries of the forest. The elves heard more than just noise in that rush of tree-music. He watched as two of their guards collapsed together in tears of mourning, praying for the song to stop, dreading what it might mean. Elrond had his eyes closed when the trees quieted again, his face drawn.

"The funeral of the Prince." He sighed as he opened his eyes. "May his tree grow strong, and his soul be well rested in Mandos' Halls. May Mandos' grant his return to us, if this is his path." Gathering himself, he mounted quickly. "Come. There is no time." Gesturing to his guard, well prepared for the anticipated advance, Elrond mounted and spurred his horse forward. The Mirkwood guards, their heads still bowed, allowed them to pass.

o

The journey that had taken the fleetest Mirkwood runner six days to complete became three as the horses were driven desperately forward. No words were spoken - none were needed. The situation was dire, and that was all that could be said. Nights became nothing more than a time when they slowed to a walk to avoid trips or stumbles, no more time could be spared. When one of the horses dropped dead from exhaustion, the five guard were left behind with two horses as Elrond and Glorfindel continued on with four in hope that changing mounts regularly would allow them to conserve a little of the other's strength.

Desperate, Elrond prayed as he rode onwards.

"Let them live…"