Legolas:

Arod is a horse after my own heart. He reminds me of my Nimroch, from so long ago. She was as white and fair, as spirited and nimble; it does my heart good to be on horseback again. I have missed having such a companion.

My other companions are not so agreeable at the moment.

Aragorn has spoken little since we left Eomer.

He has been more distant, since the events of Parth Galen. I know he blames himself—it does not surprise me that he thinks to shoulder all the responsibility when very little of it is actually to do with him at all.

I cannot help him if I do not know what he is thinking.

It has been a comfort to have someone who shares my language on this journey. Gandalf did, of course, and Boromir some as well—though they did not choose to use it with me or among themselves. Frodo knew far more than he let on but Aragorn was the only one who willingly spoke it with me. The times he sent me ahead to scout, when he would quietly encourage me to distract the Hobbits, the moments he confided his concerns to me when the others were occupied.

To speak to me of Arwen.

But he has been more reticent since even before the Orc attack. In Lothlorien it was plain to see how deeply Gandalf's loss affected him—even those who knew the Wizard little were shattered by it.

It crushed my spirit and brought the doubts to my mind.

I have faced deadly foes. The foul creatures that occupy my home are fierce and lethal-their aura overwhelms one's spirit. Dol Guldur is a place of dread and darkness. But I, who have fought a thousand battles under the leaves of the Greenwood, have faced the nameless dread that lurks in the shadows of my forest, have slain Orcs beyond number—I was incapable of doing anything of use when faced with the Balrog of Morgoth.

It is a shame I will carry for the rest of my life.

It is unspoken among us, that terror that paralyzed us all. I cannot think to face Glorfindel again, after my cowardice.

But I will have to face my father.

My father, who confronted the horrors of the War of Wrath first-hand, lived through the dreadful massacre of our people at Dagorlad, who has watched his kingdom encroached upon year by year by the hideous darkness that chokes the very life from his realm—what will I say to my father?

I cannot think of that now.

Aragorn rides silently beside us, eyes fixed on the trail. He does not want to miss any hint of Merry and Pippin's passage that we may find along this foul Orc path.

That is why he has been halting us in the night. Finding Pippin's brooch has shaken him. It brought hope to all our hearts but it put a fear in Aragorn's—the thought that we might have missed it if it had been nighttime overwhelms him.

I have tried to be patient but it frustrates me. He knows I see in the dark, knows just how well I do. I would not have missed that turnoff- nor would I have missed the brooch—even if pale starlight was all that was lighting our path.

Our slow pace has weighed on me. I am certain I could have reached the Orcs before now, had I been alone. But even I am not foolish enough to think I could confront a large band of Uruks by myself.

I would have slain a fair number with my bow, before I even reached them, but a knife-fight in close quarters would have likely been the end of me. And likely of the Hobbits too.

But more than that—I could not have left Aragorn and Gimli.

They have grown dear to me, for all their prickly exteriors and odd ways. Aragorn made the choice to follow the young Hobbits rather than Frodo. Gimli and I chose to follow him and I will not do otherwise now.

Aragorn has been our leader, since Gandalf's fall, and in many ways long before that. He may not have chosen to think of himself as such, while Gandalf was alive, but time and time again he made decisions for our Company that allowed us to get this far. There is a thoughtfulness to him, a steadiness, a quiet strength of will. He may not match my skill with a bow but his swordwork, stamina, tracking skills, and stealth are more suited to an Elda than a Man.

I trust him.

It pains me to see him close himself off. We all are grieving, in our own way. The breaking of our Fellowship was violent and unexpected. But he carries the blame too heavily. He has not been himself since then.

I did not expect him to declare himself so openly to the Rider. It is not like him. There was such melancholy in his expression just before he pulled Anduril from the scabbard. Ai,I know how it is to have others doubt you on sight. I have had that and not only from Dwarves and Men.

But it is different for him. He has lived his life with the burden of a heavy destiny and perforce a secretive demeanor.

It is what has kept him alive.

I have not told him of my vision, of the white flame like a crown upon his brow—it would be all I could think about now, if Gimli were not being so troublesome.

Gimli is squirming behind me once again, his grip alternately clutching painfully at my waist or pulling at my belt. It would take more than his fidgeting to put me off balance but it makes it more of a challenge for Arod to maintain pace with his antics.

"How fare you, Gimli?" I ask it out of politeness but I am growing weary of his grumbles. Arod will keep him safe, I have told him that any number of times already. It is but a few hours since we left Eomer yet Gimli still squawks at every shift in the terrain. It is tiresome.

I shudder at the thought of Eomer suggesting Gimli take his own steed. What was that Man thinking to even make such an offer?

Gimli grunts in answer, making me sigh in earnest. This will be a weary way if I cannot get him to settle. I turn in the saddle to look at him and he grabs at me instantly, fingers digging into more than just my clothing, making me wince as he pinches my skin.

Arod does not falter, even though I am now squirming too. "Gimli," I say again. "Have a care. You need not clutch at me so tightly. Arod has a steady gait. He will not falter." It is more or less exactly what I have been saying for the last hour.

Did Bilbo not mention ponies? I am sure the old Hobbit said just that, when recounting his grand adventure with the Dwarves. Surely Gimli has had some experience—this is not all that different.

"You know nothing of this horse, Legolas, to say so with such confidence!" Gimli retorts. "He knows you not and I have little faith he will not balk at such a burden as we make!"

"He will not balk," I am losing patience. I focus on the words, so they come out slow and measured. It will not do to rile Gimli further but I cannot help but ask the question that lingers in my mind. "Have you not ridden ponies, Gimli? I am sure Bilbo spoke of it, when he was regaling us with stories from when he traveled with your company."

I have said the wrong thing for his response is all ire. He has not spoken to me thus since before Lothlorien.

"I was not on that quest! I was left at home, to brood on my youth and inexperience, while others traveled the road I sought! Ponies!" There is indignation in his voice as he continues. "No, there were no ponies for me. I was sent in a wagon to Erebor, like a child!"

Deep breath. Count to ten. "I am sorry if I have offended. I had heard the story from Bilbo and assumed."

Somehow the fight goes out of him at my words. He slumps against my back. "'Tis not your fault for asking, lad," Gimli says, his voice subdued. "My father deemed me too young to join Thorin's company and my mother put me in charge of the wagon with our goods when we made the trek to finally join him."

He is silent for a few moments. His next words are even softer, but I can catch them, even with the wind. "I have held it against him all these years."

I do not have an answer to that. Not a good one, at any rate.

It seems there is no need to respond, for he keeps on speaking. "I had not yet come of age," Gimli says gruffly. He squirms again, twisting against my back before he speaks once more. "I'm not using that as an excuse now, mind you."

He is still troubled by this.

"Understood," I say and then find myself continuing, my voice as gentle as it was with Arod but a few hours ago. "We do not send warriors out if they are not of age. It is only partly based on their maturity."

I remember how it vexed me, to know I had bested Father's most skilled archers, yet he still would not let me join a patrol due to my youth. "But it is mostly for the safety of the patrol," I continue. "It is hard enough when new recruits join. We try to send them to Laketown or on easier scouting missions at first."

It is odd to be having a conversation on the military logistics of the Greenwood with a Dwarf but I press on.

"It is best to have them do so. The veteran warriors can too easily become distracted by the newcomers, when the situation is dangerous. They feel a duty to protect them and they are not working as a seamless unit at first. It can lead to unnecessary casualties." I tilt my head back to look at Gimli. "I assume that is why you did not accompany them. It may not have been your father's decision but the commander's need to have experienced and veteran comrades with him."

"Fili and Kili were not experienced veterans." The muttered words are bitter.

Those are names I know. "But were they of age?" I ask.

A grunted "Yes," comes from behind me.

"And they were still casualties," I say gently. "I know your father did not want that fate for you."

He is silent for a time and the squirming lessens.

Until the terrain shifts again and Gimli nearly chokes me when he grips my tunic.

"Sorry," he mutters when he hears me cough and his grip lessens just enough for me to breathe freely again.

"Arod will not let you come to harm, Gimli." I have lost count of how many times I have said this now. "Trust me on this."

"You cannot know that!" he repeats, just as he has every other time.

I close my eyes and count again.

"And ponies are not the same as horses, Legolas!" Gimli says into my silence.

"I know that, Gimli. But not all ponies are as sensible and stalwart as our Bill was." I sigh. We truly had not given poor Bill a good chance at all, leaving him by the doors of Moria.

Which reminds me. "Gimli, you had no issue riding Bill down the snowy trail at Caradhras and that was far more treacherous terrain than what we now face."

"I was not as high off the ground with Bill and the baggage was far steadier than you!" he retorts.

I cannot help but laugh and to my satisfaction he laughs with me. Somehow, I will make this stubborn Dwarf a skilled rider. I have no other option.

The sun is low in the sky and the forest close at hand when we finally find the Orcs.

The glade still smokes from the burning and the air is acrid and heavy in my lungs. The Orc carcasses are burned to ash but their weapons lie near, piled high, a grimacing goblin head impaled upon a stake set in front of the hoard.

Aragorn drops to the ground and leads his horse to an earthen mound nearby; this must be where the fallen Riders have been buried. We leave the horses there and search the glade. The field of battle is a mass of mired footprints and hoof marks, trampled grass and blood-slicked turf. I find no traces of our Hobbits before night falls.

Gimli shadows me, desolation etched into his features. "We can do no more this night. I fear the Orc pyre has mingled Hobbit bones in it. I wish it were not so. It will be hard news for Frodo and Bilbo to hear. I wish now we had heeded Elrond's warning and sent them back to the Shire."

"Gandalf wanted them to come," I say, frowning down at him.

His eyes meet mine. "And Gandalf was the first lost to us."

Aragorn cuts in, his voice harsh from the bitter air. "None can foretell their end. I will not give up hope. I will stay and see what morning's light brings forth."

Our words are few after this. I do not have the heart to speak. I need to get away from this foul air and so I drift closer to the dim forest, choosing finally a solitary chestnut tree. It is old and broad and will shelter us for the night.

The air is chill and Gimli shivers. "Let us light a fire, Aragorn. I am weary and chilled to the bone. If there are any Orcs, let them come. They can feel the bite of my axe but at least I will finally be warm."

"It may draw the Hobbits to us, if they linger somewhere in these shadows," I add. I get to my feet to gather wood.

"The light may draw any manner of creatures," Aragorn says. "For we are near to Saruman's lands now. We are at the very edge of Fangorn forest and I would not touch that wood, no matter how cold the night gets—to do so is to court great peril, I have heard."

"The Riders felled many a tree, to burn the Orcs so readily," Gimli retorts.

"And then they rode away, not into the forest. Our path will likely take us into the depths of Fangorn itself. I would not cut any living wood."

"There is much to glean from around us," Gimli says to Aragorn placatingly. He directs his next words to me. "Sit, lad. I have need to stretch my aching legs after that ride today. I will gather wood and tend to the fire."

I nod at him but I am distracted. The wood is just beyond the shadows of our tree and even my eyes cannot pierce its depths in this gloom. There is something there that draws me, sounds just beyond my hearing. Something familiar yet not quite right.

I miss my home.

Lothlorien was soothing after our harrowing passage through the Mines of Moria. I was with Elven folk again, speaking my language, eating familiar food, hearing familiar voices and songs. I was among the trees again, trees that lived and breathed and spoke in their own voices.

But this place . . . this place reminds me of home far more than Lothlorien ever did. It holds that mixture of living and sorrow that the Greenwood radiates. But there is something more, something I cannot delineate. Something I wish I could speak of to my father.

I miss him too.

I have tried not to think of him overmuch. We have never been parted for this long. My longest patrols were weeks at most and I have been away from my home for many months now.

The letter I sent him before we set out has gone perforce unanswered. Perhaps a missive awaits me in Rivendell—with orders to return home with haste, with reprimands for taking this chance with the Fellowship, with fervent warnings and advice from the one who has always strived to keep me safe.

It is the first momentous decision in my long life that I have not discussed with him.

Our fire dwindles as the moon rises. Gimli fusses about the watch, demanding that he and Aragorn take their rightful turns and I finally relent because in truth I am tired. I will not sleep long but it would be good to rest and not perforce be watchful, as I have been these many nights.

I make a show of agreeing, not letting him see how easily I acquiesce. Rolling my eyes as we draw lots, huffing when I see it is he who has drawn the first watch, peering about warily as I arrange my blanket on the grass below the branches of the tree.

He has grown dear to me, this grumpy Dwarf.

When the grief of Gandalf's death weighed us down our Fellowship grew quiet and withdrawn. We each mourned him in our own fashion but Gimli's way was of solitude and silence, much like my own. I had wished for Father then, for the solid comfort of his arms, the steady presence of him, the words he could always find to soothe my spirit.

I had seen in Gimli's sorrow an echo of my own and somehow Father's words come to me: a burden shared is always lighter. Words said to me many a time, when I would stew and stomp and let my temper flare at others. It was how Father would persuade me to speak of what troubled me.

Those were the very words that came to me when I approached Gimli, to ask him to walk with me and share my path, that night in Galadriel's realm; surprising myself almost as much as I astonished him.

But walk with me he did and we have not been the same since then.

He is a puzzle, this Dwarf. Like an onion, Gimli has layers and I have only managed to peel back a few. Each one reveals unexpected depths.

I watch him now, as he paces back and forth, rubbing his arms for warmth and grumbling under his breath. He knows that I can hear him and so he mumbles imprecations at Elves that won't rest or eat properly. I snort and he turns to glare at me.

"Will you not settle down, you flighty thing?" he says.

"How can I when you are stomping and muttering like that," I say. "You are keeping me awake with all your chatter. How do you manage to keep watch when you are the one making such a racket?"

"Insolent sprite," he mumbles but the grin he gives me belies his words.

I trust him to watch over us so I lean back against the tree and let rest come to me.

I should never have gone to sleep. It has been a night of frustration to us all. Our nocturnal visitor was likely Saruman himself. Of our horses there is still no sign. We wait for enough daylight to comb through the ravaged wreckage the Riders have left behind.

Daylight gifts us clues that Merry and Pippin have survived Eomer's raid. Evidence that leads us directly into Fangorn forest.

Aragorn breaks the silence. "My thought is that the forest appeared more hospitable to them than the carnage here. We must go into Fangorn, if we are to have any chance of finding them."

Gimli's groan is in opposition to the stirring of my heart. There is something that calls to me in this forest. There are voices in the trees that I cannot quite catch, a scent that is unfamiliar yet intriguing. It draws me to it and I for one voice no objection to taking our search into Fangorn itself.

Footprints in the mud of the Entwash confirm Aragorn's suspicions. Our hobbits have found shelter in these woods. We are now deeper in, the sunlight dimmed to a greenish tint, the canopy of trees above us blotting out the sky.

Gimli twitches his shoulders as he walks, his knuckles white as he grips his axe, eyes darting all around him suspiciously.

I respect his wariness but do not feel it in myself. This forest is old, old and gnarled and guarded. But I do not feel the malice that lurks in the southern reaches of my Greenwood. There is a watchful stillness here, as if the forest is holding its very breath at our encroachment.

I rest my hand against the nearest trunk and close my eyes. I had indulged in communion with the mallorns in Lothlorien, their green and gold entities soothing my soul. This bears no likeness to that sensation but neither is it the dark, brooding malice that overwhelms me in the twisted glades near Dol Guldur.

There is a hint, a vein of wrongness here, a discordant note among the music of the trees. But it is not sustained—I cannot follow it. It bears more grief than hatred.

There is anger in it as well.

I take a deep breath and the air is musty, mushrooms and damp the most strident scents. Green. Green overshadowed by gray. The sorrow here is palpable.

I am more curious than afraid.

"It does not feel evil," I say, lifting my hand from the trunk. There is gray dust clinging to my fingertips. "But there is watchfulness, grief and resentment in this wood."

"We have done nothing to anger it," Gimli asserts.

"It is not directed at us. But it is all around. Can you not feel it?" I ask.

"It feels stuffy. As if I cannot catch my breath," Gimli says. "Old and dusty. The sunlight filters through more readily than in your wood, Legolas, but still it feels dimmer and greyer. And oppressive. It weighs on me."

His voice sounds odd and when I look at him closely I can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. His grip tightens further on his axe and his eyes dart around us, anxiety tensing in his every movement.

Gimli is afraid.

It is not something I have seen in him, but for those brief moments as we strove to escape Moria. But there is nothing that dreadful here.

"It is not resentful against us, Gimli," I say again. "I do not think the wood quite knows what to make of us," I say slowly, turning around and looking up. The stillness is absolute—not a breath of air stirs the leaves, no trill of birdsong reaches our ears. A watchful wariness.

My words do not comfort him.

"You feel it watching us too, Legolas," Gimli whispers, as he twists and turns in agitation.

"It is a venerable forest, Gimli," Aragorn says, his voice smooth and soothing. "There are bound to be unseen creatures here that watch us from the trees. As long as we mean them no harm I am sure they will not harm us."

His words do not have the desired effect. Gimli shakes his axe in distress. "I do not like being watched," he rumbles. The wood seems to close in on us at his words, the stifling stillness making even me take in a breath.

The trees seem closer to us, although how that has come to be I do not know. And then I catch sight of Gimli's axe, slicing the air as he turns back and forth in agitation.

His axe. Of course.

"Put down your axe, Gimli," I whisper, sidling closer to him.

He glares at me in answer. I place my hand on his shoulder and bend to speak in his ear. "Your axe, Gimli. It makes the trees nervous to see such a weapon here."

His shocked expression and the alacrity with which he lowers his weapon might have made me laugh once upon a time. But he is so distraught that I would never consider doing so.

I squeeze his shoulder. "The only use for that axe is the hewing of orc necks," I say, pitching my voice to carry. My companions gape at me as if I have gone mad. "Many Orcs have felt the bite of our weapons—axe and sword and knives. And many will in time again." I scowl at them both. Can they not see what I am doing?

It is brighter now, the press of the trees less onerous around us. Gimli takes a deep breath, filling his lungs as if he has been holding his breath. Perhaps he has been.

The air stirs slightly, leaves rustling above our heads. I grip Gimli's shoulder again and give him a little shake. "It's alright," I say.

He releases the death grip on his axe and lowers it. Aragorn lets out a sharp breath of his own and his hand moves away from the scabbard at his side.

Despite Aragorn's previously appeasing words it seems that Gimli is not the only one affected by the heaviness that surrounds us. It is not as dire and dangerous as they believe—this wood has been harmed, deeply harmed. But its menace is not directed at us; the vigilance most certainly is.

I must convey that to them. The wood remains wary and watchful but much less so now that Gimli has restrained his axe.

"This place is old. So very old." I cannot help but laugh now, as the tension drains away from me. This place makes me feel as if I were an elfling again, exploring the great trees of the Greenwood with my father, feeling their might and strength around me. I feel small and young and lighter than I have in days. "This place is full of memories," I say. "Such a weight of memory that I feel young again, as I have not since I began my travels with you children." I press my hand against the bark of another tree. "I would be glad to tarry here, if we came in happier times."

"Trust a Wood Elf to find kinship with a moldy, old forest," Gimli snorts. "But you comfort me with your words and your joy, Legolas. I dread this wood but your fearlessness relieves me. I will follow where you lead but keep your knives and bow at hand."

"I will take your word on this, Legolas. You comprehend what we cannot, when it comes to these trees." Aragorn says. "Come then, the hobbits' trail leads this way."

We move further in. My skin tingles as I open myself up to the Song. It is faint but steady, deep and green, sorrow and regret weaving through the melody with slender threads of molten red fury bursting through. Echoes of its greatness filter in, a memory of when it covered vast swathes of land, when it grew and spread and flourished. Even though the trees are aged there is a hum of energy here, of growth and vitality that seems incongruous with their appearance.

I must know more of this.

This is what is missing in the Greenwood. This vitality, this thrumming undercurrent of energy. This forest is fighting back at what afflicts it. It is not bowing under the assault—it thrives despite it and I must know how it does this.

I need to find its source.

But not now.

I have fallen behind my companions. Aragorn turns back to look at me, one eyebrow raised in question. "Are you done communing with the trees, Legolas?" he asks. The roguish glint in his eyes gives me joy.

Our hobbits are alive and Aragorn has found his hope again.