Laer o Faen

Sui Rhoss Vin i Vorn

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

Fae, sui rhoss vin i vorn, egor i charthad o ngilith am dhû ú ithil.

Sensing movement beneath the great branch on which she crouched, hidden in the folds of shadow between trunk and overhanging limb, Nieniriathlim froze, hardly daring to allow the breath from her body, without due consideration to silence.

Such also was the manner in which she slowly, like the march of an Age, drew the dark grey cloak tighter around her slender frame, careful to ensure that the hood fully covered her fall of silver-blonde hair.

How many days had she crouch in such a place, ever watchful, ever quiet – merging as one with the darkened branches of the overhanging trees – and never yet afforded such a clear view of the comings and goings from out of the Elvenking's Halls as this. As if by some awakening, the Elves of Woodland Realm, her estranged kin, were suddenly conjured to life in urgent execution of some unknown purpose.

Many there were, back and forth beneath the shelter of her hiding place. Some armed and armoured – Elite Guard who were among those brave warriors that guarded against the grown and ever growing Dark beneath the twisted bowers of the woodland. Mirkwood, they called it now, and had since ever she had been born, but once it claimed another name, one that set a lighter burden upon the hearts and minds of Elves such as her. She knew this... she felt this.

Golden-green light dappled the silver-white neck and mane of the horse she rode as the canopy above thinned to allow the sculpted and carved domes of the woodland settlement to reach to the air above. The wood's warmth breathed its welcome at her coming, as his mind touched hers.

'Welcome home, my soul.'

Nieniriathlim gasped softly as the sight flashed atop the truth of that which she now looked down upon; as the words whispered into her mind as though true spoken to her, and at her gasp pressed herself closer to the trunk of the tree, holding tightly, squeezing her eyes shut tightly almost as if waiting for the voice that would call her down; demand explanation.

She had outstayed her welcome.

** ** **

He dismounted as soon as he reached the thinning of the trees, sending the horse in with the forward patrol, and remaining with the rear-guard as they came in on foot.

Take care of your soldiers, always.

His father had instilled the discipline in him, and it was a lesson that he had learned quickly and was always true to follow, even as the king himself had done in sending him ahead with half of the patrol... the other lesson served by what the Elvenking had done.

Look to your people.

As he passed beneath one of the many overhanging branches, Legolas paused mid step. He cocked his head. Had there been a sound? A breath from the trees? He raised a hand, tempted to draw back his hood that he might better hear if some intruder – perhaps some agent of the Enemy – by some foul deed, misdirected their search and had beaten them back, spilling danger within the midst of his people when defence would be slower to answer. He stayed his hand, for doing so would mark him as a target, as Sindar amid the Sylvan Elves of the Woodland Realm. Instead he listened harder also reaching out with other senses, and neither hearing, nor feeling anything further, he turned to the herald who came out to meet the incoming guard.

"My prince?"

Legolas shook his head.

"Recall all outlying patrols," he ordered instead, "and strengthen the Border Guard. Prepare to close the gates."