It is only now, after four days in this wood, that Aragorn has realised how still it is. Yes, the trees continue their impatient dance but he has not seen squirrel or deer nor heard bird or insect.

When he had first awoken from his unplanned slumber, there was a startling moment of panic that Legolas may have done something. But he had been fine, as fine as he could be, curled in with his face hidden against his knees.

Aragorn had set about building a fire and managed to convince the elf to drink a little warm water sweetened with honey. The entire time, Legolas had spoken a ceaseless, haunting prose of pain, yearning, and the relief of darkness.

The thrill of hearing his friend speak faded quickly as the agony stitched into the words caused him to reconsider, maybe silence was the kinder option.

Seeing tears well in such sad eyes, Aragorn opened his arms and pulled the elf in. Pale skin shivered with cold against his chest and the man found himself amused, somehow, amidst all his distress.

Legolas had always been more tactile than others of his kin but seeking such intimate comfort as this was beyond even what he would accept.

Perhaps, he desired the comfort of touch after so long without. Or perhaps, it was a tether, keeping the elf's ship moored to eastern shores.

Either way the man was more than willing to offer, anything he could do to lessen the stone of remorse sinking in his stomach. Anything that might make these circumstances even the smallest bit more bearable.

Now, through the ever-growing darkness comes a melody, echoing steadily. But one would be hard-pressed to find a bird who calls in such a way for it is lambëaewen - the tongue of birds - an ancient lyrical language used by the birdwardens of Laurelindórenan, and one that his twin brothers had taught him.

Brother, call. Help come. Brother, call. Help come. It repeats over and over.

Relief rushing in his chest, he frees his hand from under Legolas, who murmurs more nonsense at the disruption, before clasping it with his other.

I am here. I am here. I am here, he calls back, losing count of just how many times he does. Each one is borne from the depths of his heart, out of his anguish, out of his fear, and out of his hope.

Leaping out from the trees breaks two elves, daggers in their hands instinctively. The distress that had been surging through his veins finally gives way and he lets out a broken cry, "Elladan, Elrohir!"

The twins' joy of seeing their brother again is quickly replaced by alarm at his posture. Legolas' head is resting on Aragorn's shoulder, breathing warmth against the man's neck. He has given no recognition to the others, having not moved a hair in quite some minutes.

"We heard your cry! What has happened to him?" Elrohir asks, peeling eyelids back, testing pulse points, and checking for wounds. All things the ranger had been doing every hour to no avail.

"I do not know, we entered the woods four days ago and not a halfday in, Legolas collapsed."

"Did he eat something? Drink something?"

"Nay, we ate and drank the same. He was not out of my sight in the town as there was some hostility from the people. We have been walking since and to my knowledge, he has not sustained injury; certainly not any that could be so grave as this."

"What have been his symptoms?"

"For most of the days and nights, he has been like this - insensate to everything with brief moments of clarity but those have become increasingly rare. I have tried to coax water and athelas through his lips with regularity but that cannot sustain him forever. His delirium is restless, he whispers about trees and screams, saying they are so loud he would rather face a life of silence than bear it a single moment more."

Elladan and Elrohir pale in the dying light. Their eyes go wide and it fills Aragorn with a new kind of dread - one he did not know he had capacity for. "It is the elmscream."

"The what?"

"We must get him out of here at once. There cannot be any hesitation."

Another sharp whistle pierces the air and two horses come trotting into the copse. Elrohir, the stronger of the twins, pulls Legolas up onto his. The unconscious elf whimpers and Elrohir murmurs something low into his ear. Elladan helps secure their packs and vaults up behind Estel.

The woodedge appears swiftly - they had been so close to it, so damn close - as the cacophony of rustling leaves and thundering branches grows and grows. Legolas convulses violently and Elrohir is forced to tighten his arms to prevent the elf from falling to the ground. Elladan and Aragorn both call his name intermixed with desperate elvish calls to be still, to hang on, to live.

The moment the horses are free of the canopy, the trees go perfectly silent.

And Legolas' heart skips once, twice, thrice, in his chest.