**********************

Boromir possessed the hearing, the eyesight, the senses of a Man, and he walked, a Man, not silent through the wood. Not silent, but close to it. His hearing not that of an Elf, but keen nonetheless, sharpened through long years of training, learning how to listen with every fiber of his being, to compensate for the lack of that which he would never possess. His eyesight sharp, clear, reliable from many battles fought and won, many pitched battles, enemies gliding in along his periphery. His eyes, his ears responding, for that response was his survival, and the instinct to survive can perform near miracles on a Man.

So he tread quiet through the dark wood, listening, and heard that which he should not have heard, that which suggested, perhaps, carelessness. Perhaps complacency. The rustling would have registered on most as merely a breeze. Merely a breath of the wind, a sigh among understanding foliage. To a Man of Gondor, a warrior steeled and hardened and trusting of his own skills, it was anything but merely a breeze. He turned to it and knew that which it was,
for it must have heard the change in his course, in his pace, and had halted. He knew it was Legolas, and quickened his step.

Legolas drew up, stopped. He had not been particularly worried about Boromir; despite his faith in the Man's abilities, he had not considered that his near-silent passage would be detected, nor, if it were, that it would be interpreted correctly. But he heard Boromir stop; he heard Boromir turn toward his position and begin moving again, with greater haste, and he knew he had been caught. An itch made itself known, a persistent almost-pain in the well of his chest. Like bone knitting around a break, it scratched and worried at him, growing with each approaching step of the Man.

Guilt, he realized. He was beyond the camp's safety, beyond his companions' keep, and beyond Gandalf and Aragorn's orders. He was breaking - had broken already - a promise. And he was about to be confronted by one of his fellows, confronted with his own crime. Aye, it was guilt.

There he stood, indeed, bright even in the darkness. Near luminescence, a radiant soul lingering among the trees. Boromir stepped to face him, nodding briefly, and waited for Legolas to speak. He was curious just what the Elf would say to this.

"Boromir," Legolas greeted, straining his voice into a measure of casual ease and hoping the words would not flutter out, trembling, like moths dizzy and excited before a flame. The guilt swelled now in his breast, constricted his heart, beat staccato against his ribs. It was the slow spreading throb of a bruise, blood wandering from its confines, pooling beneath the skin. But he could not speak of the guilt, could not permit Boromir to see it or hear it, lest it
be confirmed. It could not be confirmed, for Boromir might yet know nothing, assume incorrectly that Legolas was simply heeding nature's call or seeking the tranquility of trees old as memory itself, beneath stars more ancient still. Boromir might yet not know, and Legolas would not tell him.

Boromir eyed Legolas, studied the careful composure and the cool gaze. He studied the air of casual innocence and read its intent, and knew what had been. What would have been, had he not listened with every fiber of his being and stepped forth quick enough to intercept this young soul. Legolas had not been scheduled for watch this night; the rest would have risen with morning's light and discovered him gone. Far too late, then. Far too late. "Legolas," he asked quietly, but without curiosity, "what is your reason for being out here, far from camp?"

"Perhaps...I merely seek the peace of this wood." Nay - it was not right, not right. Legolas swallowed hard, knew the guilt showed.

Boromir could not leave such a transparent evasion uncontested. "Do you speak the truth, Legolas?" he asked, his voice still quiet, still measured and even.

Legolas sighed. This was over. "Nay, Boromir," he admitted. "I am not out seeking solitude this night."

"Why, then?"

He knew - that much was apparent. Boromir knew, yet he had asked? Legolas met his gaze, confused, and quickly realized. The Man wanted him to confess, to allocate before him, giving his transgressions form and sound and voice. He sought the forest floor with his eyes, sighed again, and acknowledged that Boromir had reason enough to compel him in this. "I was out here to pursue my plan, my investigation of the Orcs in this region. I was off to locate a band of them, with intent to trail them and gain information that might help us." The confession stung, and he felt an unfamiliar burn behind his eyes. "I would guess that you know all this already," he breathed.

"Indeed I do," Boromir confirmed, his voice that same even measured breadth, his gaze unwavering. Legolas was stubborn, to be sure, whim and wisdom in equal parts, vying for control. He was impetuous at times, and tonight that had won out, had drawn him out from the camp and the Fellowship, out into the wild of these woods, out beyond the limits of Gandalf's clear command. He was impetuous, but he was also perceptive and honorable. He knew that he had committed a grave misdeed and that weighed on him, a physical burden on seemingly delicate shoulders, in bright eyes that now looked to the earth instead of to another's gaze. Boromir sighed, knowing what needed to be done for this young one but regretting its necessity still,
and then he moved. His grip light but firm around a slender arm, he turned Legolas sideways to him, held him in place with one hand while bringing the other across his bottom, hard. He gave him five quick, solid swats before releasing him and motioning back in the camp's direction. "Now be off to your bed, Legolas," he commanded, "or I shall perhaps see the need to repeat this lesson."

Legolas nodded, releasing his lower lip from between his teeth, raising his gaze to meet Boromir's. The Man was eyeing him not unkindly, not harshly. "I shall return, as you bid me." He stepped away, toward the camp, toward his sleeping fellows and the confines of authority, then drew up short, listening.

"Legolas? What is it?" Boromir spoke in a quick low whisper, acknowledging the finer hearing of an Elf; his eyes roved the forest and his hand settled on his sword, ready.

He had heard something, to be sure. A snuffling, shuffling disturbance that rippled through the wood. Foreign, dark. And it was only a heartbeat later that he smelled it too, the fetid unnatural scent of Orc. Boromir could neither hear nor smell it, could only look to him and ask, waiting. Ai, though - they were not far, and they were numerous. Growing more distant, moving away to allow quiet back into the wood. Legolas felt the resurgence of that desire in him. That desire to be forth, deeper in their midst that he might learn something to help the Fellowship. The danger of these Orcs was not to be trifled with, not to be abided and ignored, as Gandalf and Aragorn would have him do. His plan had been the wisest, the most prudent course of action. Beside him, the Man was waiting for an answer. The Orcs were gone, no threat now. "Nay, Boromir," he said smoothly. "I hear nothing."

Boromir eyed Legolas appraisingly, measured his words against the unspoken language of his countenance, his stance, the tilt of his regal head. And he decided that the words matched the movements, and was satisfied. Releasing his sword, he nodded to the Elf. "Well, then," he said, relaxing, "you will be off to seek your sleep now."

"Aye." Legolas turned from him, silent and thinking. He paced back to the camp, back into the quiet of his fellows, and stretched himself out on his cloak. A slight burn in his backside reminded him of the immediate risk he would face repeating this endeavor; if Boromir caught him again, he would surely not be released after five slaps. Surely not. But such risk had to be weighed, measured against the good of his mission. And when it was, there was no equivocation
needed, no consideration other than the need to be more cautious, more careful next time.

He could not be caught again.

****************

The wood rose, dipped, flowed silent and deep about him, and Legolas could almost believe that it had never been tainted, that it had never felt the scraping claws or smelled the decaying stench of Orc. He flowed through it, catching its rhythms, its lines, and skating forth upon them. He was Elf, and in the wood he felt more at home than in any house, any camp.

Boromir was still back there, still circling the perimeter in silent devotion to their lives. He had not heard the second escape. Legolas felt a pull within him. More guilt, straining at his breast. But his lie to the Man, his betrayal of that trust could not be the focus now. It could not be his focus while there were Orcs to pursue.

Gliding through the foliage, he used his birthright to guide him. The senses of the Elven race, surpassing that of Men, of Hobbits and Dwarves and even Wizards. Legolas was well equipped to track those foul creatures; he had been learning to do it through countless millennia before his birth, learning in the twisted helical code of his people, learning in the training of his forbears. Learning, in his mother's womb. In his father's arms. ~A little higher, ion. Sight the target - you can see it, though none but an Elf could. See it.~

He slipped forth, ease and confidence balanced against that cautious tingle that comes with the hunt. He sighted the target, there ahead. Orcs. This was what he could do, the worthwhile culmination of ages, and he would do it for his Fellowship, for those eight who owned his heart.

******************************************************************

Boromir knew. He knew, but silently and unaware, and so he paced the perimeter as he had done, and idly pondered his own unease. There was no threat looming that he could detect, no reason to suspend his breath and listen, to make himself motionless and wait. Yet he did so, every so often, and wondered at its validity and then did it again regardless.

The camp approached, eight sleeping companions whose lives rested now in the truth of his sight, of his hearing. Boromir slipped past, eyes scanning the prone forms out of habit more than conscious choice, and realized then the basis of his vague fears. Nay. Legolas could not have risen again from his bed, slipped forth unheeding of the dangers and the commands. Legolas could not have sentenced his comrades to the hell they would live, hearts grieving into exhaustion and then still more, tears slipping out, unbidden, as they grew frantic in their worry. Nay, Legolas could not have chosen to do such, and yet his place lay forlorn, missing him.

******************************************************************

They led him on, further on still. He was as their shadow on the ground, the gentle breeze that lilted after them, seeking to cleanse the everything, the all that they had touched. He was careful, so careful, and yet he was bold and slipped closer to them as the night bloomed and waned.

The Orcs had caves. Legolas observed them slinking to and fro at the cave mouths, and wondered if perhaps those black pits into Middle Earth were connected. If so, the Orcs would have their
perfect means of travel, deep within the ground, and their perfect means to surprise the unwary, rising out of the earth herself. They were black and foul creations, those Orcs. Well that an Elf was near to watch them and glean useful facts. When the cave he studied fell silent and empty, all the Orcs shuffled off in their directions, Legolas took his opportunity and moved in. He hated caves.

But this was necessary.

******************************************************************

He should have delivered far more than five swats. Far more, and not through the protection of leggings. Damn. He should have lingered and watched the Elf, caught him in his second foolish
venture, and dealt with him right then. He itched for the chance to do it all again, to erase these last hours and set it right.

"Boromir, will you stop pacing so? You're setting us all on edge." Aragorn's calm words and measured tone were belied by the fists he balled at his sides; the Ranger was well and truly on edge, and no comrade's fidgeting journey about the camp edge could create or dispel that. Aragorn wanted to move at once after Legolas, but such a venture would not be as easy as tracking Orc or Uruk-hai - an Elf, especially one in stealth's keeping, would leave nary a trail. And it was dark, and the track already cold. Nay - morning would have to be upon them for the search. The worry gnawed at his bones, set his jaw to an itching tension, but there was nothing to be done nigh. So he sighed and turned to Boromir, and insisted the other Man not be so obviously tense himself.

"My apologies, Aragorn," Boromir replied, and the diplomacy in his voice surprised even him. He had wanted to snarl, had felt the angry retort rising in his breast only to be washed from him: there was no reason for snapping at his Fellows. There was no reason for anger toward any but the one over whom they all now fretted. "I am afraid that I hold myself in part to blame for this," he admitted, speaking to no one in particular.

Gandalf rose from the fireside. "Nonsense, Boromir." His voice resonated, hung with warm authority in the chill night. "Legolas chose to ignore our orders and your subsequent warning. He chose to do this, and you could not have stopped him."

"I could have whacked him a good deal harder," the Man grumbled, catching Aragorn's sudden grin from the corner of his eye.

"Never mind worrying about that, my friend," Aragorn chuckled. The smile shied away from his eyes, where darkness had found a new home and now seemed intent on making a permanent stand. "When we find our absent Elf - and we will find him - you can have at him first, if you wish."

"That is very charitable, Aragorn. I thank you."

"You are most welcome."

******************************************************************

The cave yawned, gathering darkness inside, but Legolas hesitated only a heartbeat before slipping in himself. Whatever these Orcs were doing, it seemed to be keeping them occupied, and ravaging the surrounding forest as well. Trees had been felled in the vicinity of the cave, towering monarchs beaten to the very earth from which they had grown, their knotted corpses cut and dragged into the caves. The ground bore marks of this abomination, this silent unacknowledged massacre. Unacknowledged no longer, though. He edged deeper into the black, left the cave itself behind and entered a tunnel that dove, not steep but still determined, into the earth. The smell of Orc was heavy.

Ahead he could hear guttural muttered speech, the language of those beasts, and his heart fluttered as a moth too close to the flame. Or a flame caught suddenly, unprepared, in the breeze. Slowing his footfalls, slowing his breathing, willing his heart not to pound audible and betray him, he continued, and the rabble-sound grew louder.

There. The tunnel widened, surrendered itself before the advance of space. Walls found they could not trust each other and sought distance between them; the floor dropped steeply while the ceiling, aghast, canted up and away. An underground cavern, enormous. Staggering. And crawling, literally, with darkness. Torches lined walls that might have been hewn, might have been rent by nature's forces instead. And within the orange grain of light there moved Orcs. Orcs carrying armloads, wheeling cartloads of wood. Orcs stoking fires. Orcs scuttling, bent, from one task to the next. So many Orcs that one Elf, shadowed in an access tunnel's black embrace, could only shudder and stare, helpless as driftwood before a tidal wave.

***********************************

Light was experienced. It moved endless through Middle Earth and presumably through all the lands beyond. It cycled forth, shrieked itself into being, then, exhausted and bored with its climes, slunk away to touch other shores. It was a veteran of the battle between day and night, and for half of all time could call itself winner, and write the story as it would. Yes, it was experienced.

But that experience did not make light bold. Indeed, it advanced at first trembling, fainthearted over the land. It jumped at shadows, balked before dark spaces, and only when it had gathered sufficient strength did it move surely about. So it was that the Fellowship saw first light, dawn anxious but hesitant still, and made final preparations to launch their search.

The search for their absent Elf.

~Ai, Legolas. ~ Aragorn was the one to pace now. He stepped lightly around the camp's edge, awaiting day. His gaze lingered on each companion in turn, noted the strain in fatigue-lined faces, eyes burning from lack of sleep. None could sleep - nay. Not when one of them wandered from their midst, from their keep, and into a world teeming with Orcs. Not when that one was an Elf, a prize those Orcs would ruthlessly and determinedly seek. ~Why have you done this, Mellon nin? Why? ~ But he supposed the `why' did not matter as much as what would have to be done about it all when they finally recovered their wandering one. His jaw ached from the night's tension, but he stilled fingers that wanted to scratch at it one more time. The skin was becoming raw from his attentions. Ai, that Elf. They would find him. They would find him, and he would be safe, and then they would deal with this so that he nevernevernever gave a thought to wandering again.

Boromir crossed his arms once more, leaning back under the shelter of a pine that had lived, probably, even longer than their Elf. He watched Aragorn pacing the camp perimeter and read the Ranger's seething tension, the fears that could not be allowed to wander free lest they cripple him. He watched Aragorn suck in a shuddering breath, will those fears down into a place that he could ignore, behind a mental door that he could lock and leave. He looked at the Hobbits, huddled together near a poor fire, worry clouding their eyes, stealing away with their innocence. They would not be able to search with the warriors, would be sentenced to wait, Gandalf at their side, for word. He could see on Gandalf's lined face the same worries and fears, held in careful check. And he damned their wandering one. When they found Legolas, Boromir would do that which he should have done in the first place. He would make certain the lesson was strong, heeded and remembered. That this was never permitted to happen again. He nodded to himself and strode forth from the tree. Light was coming, and the search was nigh.

"Do you think he'll be found, Merry?" Pippin's large eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Not grief, not yet, but the sustaining of tension, the stress of waiting that had to find its release somewhere. He sat, knees to chest, arms wrapped protectively about himself, and waited still more. Why had Legolas been so determined to go? Why, if it meant putting them all through this? It wasn't right. It was not right. He could feel anger suffusing through him, leaching into his each thought, and knew that he was angry at the Elf alone. Legolas had to be alright, though. He had to be, for anything else existed outside the realm of possibility. But there was nary a thing a Hobbit could do to safeguard an Elf now. Listening to the silence that carried Merry's reply, Pippin wondered why he had even disturbed that silence with useless words.

Merry started to shrug, started to lift his shoulders in that customary `I don't know.' He started, then stopped himself, abruptly horrified at the casualness of the gesture. ~Legolas is alone out there, alone among those hideous Orcs. Will he be fine? ~ Shrug. ~Legolas could be wounded already, could have been taken by the Orcs and right now be at their mercy. Do you think they'll kill him quickly, or make him suffer? ~ Shrug. `I don't know.' He forced it down, that horrifically blithe movement, and peered into the fire with an intensity that would surely drive Pippin back into silence. Back into the hallowed silence they must keep, they must cherish and hold until Legolas was returned, unharmed, into their midst. A Hobbit knew not of such things, but Merry was certain of it. As long as they were faithful, as long as they held silent and still and stared at the fire as though it could unravel every mystery of Middle Earth, their absent Elf would be alright. Legolas would come back to them, and the only worry left would be the consequences of his leaving. Merry knew how Strider would deal with a Hobbit who ran away like that; he wondered if the same fate might loom for an Elf, and in silence he believed that indeed it should.

Sam stoked the listless fire, in truth not caring whether or not its life continued. His thoughts wandered from camp, from the worthless trivialities of fire and food and too little sleep, out to where another walked. To where another must still walk, for if he did not walk then he must lie, perhaps bound, perhaps bleeding. Perhaps.... No. No. Casting his gaze into a net over the surrounding forest, he sought to capture the Elf and reel him back into their keeping. He wondered at how far the net would need be cast before it caught Legolas, wondered if Elven pride would set him struggling against it or if he was simply too tired now, too tired and set upon to care. He would have to care, about this. About this worry and fear and eternity of waiting, poking tiredly at a tired flame. If he did not already care (he must care, for he is sensitive and perceptive and noble and he loves all of us), then he would need be made to care, for that would be his only hope to learn. Strider or Gandalf or Boromir or even Gimli would have to make him see his error, his folly in leaving. In leaving the safety of their Fellowship, his own importance forgotten under enthusiasm's roil. In leaving the rest of them sentenced to...this.

His cousins were silent. Sam was silent. The silence hung tangible, breathed with a silent enduring life of its own, resisted attempts to kill it. It was strong, yet seemingly delicate. It did not shout, but whispered in silent soothing rhythms. It did not race, but wandered unhurried and eternally patient. It knew its place, where it belonged, and it belonged in this camp. Frodo pondered it, lost himself in it, and silently compared its humble strengths to those of an Elf, an Elf still young, still fluttering with the impetuous exuberance of a youth already passed for the Hobbit. Legolas was beyond them now, but probably not beyond this same silence, and one worried soul sought its currents, sought its rhythms that he might stretch a thought out along them and touch one too far away to be touched by anything else. He stretched out, floated, his mind lagging too far behind, surging forth then and overshooting, runners of different speeds reaching for each other.... He sought that enigma of connection and knew such must be no more than sheer instinct for an Elf; he pursued even an uneasy ephemeral joining. Even a heartbeat linked to that great river flowing, unseen, beneath all conscious thought, that he might be able to speak through it and tell their wandering one to return. And he sighed, eyes closed, and knew himself to be not Elf but Hobbit, and simply cast out a silent prayer that Legolas be back with them, and safe. No matter how anger they would all hold upon his return, no matter how much worry and strain might surge in the consequences Legolas would face, his return was paramount. He had to return.

The handle was smooth, familiar as his own skin, and Gimli by turns caressed and wrung it. His axe understood - like him, it longed to be forth, chasing down a wayward Elf. It despised the wait, the cautious clinging wait before a hunt could begin. Dwarves were of action, and their tools as well. Legolas would learn this after he was safely seen home. He would learn exactly what action a Dwarf could take in response to sheer wanton foolishness! Aye, they were less than the best of friends, he and Legolas. Less than the easiest of companions, but they were rapidly gaining ground on such a place, putting to rest their respective races' hurts and resentments, growing more comfortable with each other by the day. And Gimli was seeing in those blue eyes, in that fair countenance not an enemy - no longer an enemy - but a bright young soul that stirred in him ancient fundamental instinct, instinct half- remembered but possessed by all peoples, surely by all peoples. That instinct which draws the most callous of warriors up short at hearing wind that keens with a lost child's voice, that sets him, unbidden and unaware, to searching. Instinct to protect, to shelter and teach and love. In that, they were at once less than and more, at once not yet arrived and unequivocally there. Now it was all threatened by poor judgement - all the strained words and uneasy silences and slow steps along the road from enemy to friend. From friend to family. All of it cast into peril as surely as the Elf had cast himself into peril. Gimli wrung the smooth wood, hefted its comfortable weight. He would be forth soon, and his axe as well. And when they found that wandering young one, when they halted his rash journeys and saw him back to safety, after they assured themselves that he was, again (how many times could there be an `again' before there was none?) unharmed, then Dwarf and Wizard and Ranger and Warrior of Gondor would take just action. Never again, Elf. Never again.

Gandalf knew his powers were great. He knew his wisdom and experience were formidable, grown - built - from the slow reaching ages. He knew, and yet he felt a powerlessness in contemplating Legolas now. The Elf existed outside that which he could sense and manipulate; his questions hung, unanswered, like smoke curling from his pipe. Was Legolas alright? Was he still free? If so, where? Where? The wood loomed about them, circumspect. Reticent. Its secrets would not be offered freely, for it trusted them not as it trusted an Elf. It would surely seek to shelter that Elf, shelter that bright wandering soul, but its own great powers lingered deep under that which Men and others viewed as truth, as the reality of the earth. Its powers skated along the trembling elemental resonances of a greater truth, a greater reality, and they could not reach easy into this world. It could indeed do little more than observe and wait, and send forth its wishes of peace. What more could a Wizard do, then, lingering in camp and planning a search? That Elf. That wilful, proud wandering Elf. Gandalf let his anger surge briefly before willing it down once more. This was the time for cool planning, consideration. When Legolas was again in their midst...then would come the time for anger.


"We shall move anon." Gandalf had traced out the world - their small immediate world - in dark earth which had, mere hours before, offered them comfort and rest. Their camp was the centre of this universe; curving lines flung out from it to mark rivers, hills, a galaxy of trees. Somewhere in there, a lone Elf.

Boromir nodded briskly at the map, studying it further although his appointed search area was clear in mind. His gaze traced as Gandalf's stick had traced, flowed over the imperfections, around pebbles that might have been stars in a night sky. The sky overhead was lightening. They would move anon. But he itched, in the depths of his belly, in the spaces between flesh and bone, to move immediately, to cast out the map with its calm planning and be forth. Legolas was out there, alone. He needed to be found. And when they found him...when they found him.... "When I find him...." The others glanced at him in knowing, for they felt the same itching need.

"He shall be safe," Aragorn confirmed. "Indeed."

"But for how long?"

"Boromir?"

"How many times is this, Aragorn?"

The Ranger blinked, pondered for a beat before realization dawned. More fleet than the world's dawn it grew, lighting his nighted eyes. "Too many times," he admitted. "I have told him -"

"As have I," Gandalf injected.

"Aye, you have." Aragorn shook his head. "We have toldhim more times than I can count, more times than I can remember."

Boromir grunted agreement. "When I find that Elf, I will make sure the lesson remains." A tilt of his head acknowledged Aragorn. "You did say that I could have first chance to `discuss' with him the risks of running off."

"Aye, that I did. And I intend to have a discussion of my own with Legolas, as well."

Gimli stepped forward, shoulders squared. "You two realize that you are not the only ones who have been upset by the Elf's choices, and thus not the only ones with a desire in this, do you not?"

"I do," Aragorn conceded. "We have all paid a cost for Legolas' lack of judgement. We have all suffered nights beset by worry, and we surely all feel the need to see him aware of that. But you would acknowledge, Master Dwarf, that there are those with more claim here, this day."

Gimli only grunted, his head flung up. He wrung the handle of his axe and was anxious to be forth.

Gandalf tapped the ash from his pipe. "Need I remind anyone that it was my direct command which Legolas dismissed?"

Boromir eyed the Wizard. "Perhaps we should all have a turn at him," he muttered, loud enough for Gimli to nod approvingly, for Aragorn's brow to furrow in surprised consideration. Encouraged, he continued: "It would certainly teach him well."

"I don't believe that's a good idea."

The new voice, low yet sure in its position, made them all turn. Frodo sat where he had, by the dying fire. He looked back at the warriors, steady confidence in his gaze.

"Frodo?" Gandalf questioned. "Do you have something to offer?"

The Hobbit nodded, rose. "You behave as though you doubt Legolas' ability to see the wrong in his own actions, when you know that he is sensitive and mindful of what is right, as well as of the feelings of others. You all know Legolas. We all know Legolas."

"Frodo," Aragorn countered, his voice sombre, "I can see your concern for him, but we have all seen how Legolas repeats his errors. He does a thing ill-advised, and seems genuinely repentant afterward and while being punished, yet then he takes another action similar enough that he must have known it forbidden. He does not seem able to see the wrong then."

Frodo smiled gently, almost indulgently. "Then perhaps you would consider that if punishing him severely does not seem to work, simply punishing him more might be pointless?" He raised a placating hand at the protests now mounting before him, raised his voice just enough to be heard over other voices now raised. "I do not suggest you suspend discipline. Not at all, for I would agree with you that he needs it. However...." His dark eyes sought out each of the Fellowship in turn. "...however, I believe we might try another tactic as well. Something that might just hold more meaning for Legolas than a simple trip over someone's knee."

******************************************************************

The caves scattered themselves like open sores, Orcs infecting them, running forth in brackish streams. And around each opening that would have called itself concealed, lurking as most did behind shrubbery's skirts, behind ignorant rocks, the forest recoiled. Trees died there, screaming their soundless agonies and taking what little consolation they could in the survival of their fellows, further from the black pits defiling Middle Earth's skin. The ground shuddered under clawed feet, under the fall of each mighty monarch, and it wept dusty tears against the fallen and wished for better times.

Legolas picked his way through territory now hostile, firmly under enemy control. He had left his silent horrific vigil at the cavern's edge, crept up through the tunnel into the small cave that released him to a world he could ache for but no longer trust, and he had wanted from that instant only to return to camp. To relay that which he had witnessed. But he needed to be careful. He needed to be vigilant still, for the caves were strung out seemingly at random, and the Orcs were about even in the growing day.

His mind wandered, but not far. Not far enough to distract him from the immediacies of his situation. Nose telling him no Orcs were close enough to scent an Elf, since an Elf could not scent them. Eyes probing shadowed copses, moving over rocks, trusting the nose but presenting their own evidence anyway. Ears straining their range outward, ever outward, confirming the story that nose and eyes knew to be true. He was anxious to be home, back in the keeping of his fellows.

Gandalf's command edged along a mental periphery, and Legolas felt momentary guilt. He respected Gandalf greatly, had known him through millennia as a true and trusted friend, and it stung him to think that his old friend might now be angry with him. He had defied a direct command, and the venerable Wizard might feel as though his wise counsel were heedlessly cast aside, judged worthless by a young Elf who knew better. Aye, he might be angry about that, indeed.

But there was the benefit of information to consider. Legolas could tell his Fellowship that which, just last day, none had known. He could warn them adequately this time of the dangers that flowed in vile waves through the wood. And Gandalf would surely see the wisdom in that information, and relax any indignation risen in him. His own guilt assuaged somewhat, Legolas decided he would not be reckless in quickening his pace, and did so.

****************************************************************

"Remember, all - we will meet tonight, in the hills, whether or not you have found Legolas. We will then plan further search, if need be." Gandalf nodded to the Hobbits, with whom he would travel the day, emerge from the wood and pursue with haste those distant hills. The four warriors would remain among sheltering trees, among the deep quiet ancient spaces, and seek their Elf. Those warriors now nodded themselves, curtly, in acknowledgement.

"Safe journey, friends," Aragorn said, turned to leave the earthy bare place of their camp, and drew up short. There, before him as a holy image, stood Legolas.

Gandalf and the Hobbits rushed forward; the Fellowship clustering around its Elf, checking him for injury, assuring itself that he was real and whole. The air buzzed with questions, which Legolas attempted to answer in turn.

"Please, everyone," he said, eagerness tinting his voice. "I must tell you of what I found last night." He waited a moment for quiet before continuing. "The Orcs here possess greater numbers than we have seen, greater than we have even imagined, I would guess." Seeing the troubled darkening of eyes, the furrowing of brows, he nodded and drew a deep breath. "They have a weapons factory, deep underground in a cavern. I saw it myself."

"You journeyed into a cavern filled with Orcs?" Aragorn's voice strained, the tension of his last hours trembling along its normally resonant tone. What had Legolas been thinking?

But Legolas only confirmed the question with a quick nod. "I saw the Orcs dragging trees into one of the caves they are using, and I needed to see that which they did. This area is full of caves, you should know, and they might all be connected within the earth."

"This wood is dangerous, then." Gandalf turned back toward the journey he had set. "We must travel to the hills and seek shelter there, as planned."

The others followed wordlessly.

****************************************************************

Night, shamed from hours of exile, had been plotting a return, gathering allies and strength. Now it advanced, overrunning light's thin perimeter guard, striking shadows into the territory of Day. It spread then, thick and determined; it flowed in its own ease, and knew victory was nigh, and rejoiced under the coming stars.

They had reached the safety of the distant hills, climbed as tired children into a parent's lap, thoughts of sleep not yet resolved, but growing. They climbed among the cool sightless rocks and found a place of some shelter, some measure of windlessness, and there they made camp once more.

Legolas set his pack to the dusty ground, made preparations to set first watch. Day was in full retreat, the shadows ravenous. He watched as Sam built a fire, began assembling a rough meal. And he wondered idly at the lack of any mention, any mention of his leaving. He eyed Boromir, Gandalf, Aragorn by turns; he searched their faces for any sign of displeasure with him. They were all tense, all. They were all tired. But he could not see anger - or, if it existed, could not isolate and identify it among the fatigue and the strain and the common desire to be home, each truly home among his kind instead of out to sleep another night on foreign earth, under foreign sky.

They ate as Day raised its white flag, vowing eternal revenge while darkness escorted it from the land. There were no Orcs near.

Sharpening his arrows, after, his back to cold stone and his thoughts flung outward with his senses, Legolas paid little mind to the rest when they, as though caught by some unspoken rippling agreement, slowly moved to seat themselves around the fire. It would be a chill night, the stars high and thin. There were still no Orcs, though, and for that blessing Legolas embraced even this cold lifeless scape. The wood had been ebony velvet and silk, deep and soft and ancient, and had resonated along his own lines; but the wood had been also infested, infected with Orc. It was lost to him. He paid little mind to the rest as they settled about the fire, and was mildly surprised when Aragorn called to him.

"Yes, Aragorn?"

"Come. Sit with us, please."

"I am to set watch. And I am not cold, thank you," Legolas hurried to reassure. "I will be fine here."

Aragorn was undeterred, patient. "I know you will. But you have said yourself there is no Orc presence you can detect in this area. And we must have a conversation." He held out his hand in gentle summons. "Come."

Raising one eyebrow in silent question, Legolas uncrossed his legs and moved to the fireside, to the open space in their circle, and seated himself as they. He looked to Aragorn in confusion, drawing reassurance from the Ranger's gentle gaze, from his patient half- smile.

"Legolas." It was Gandalf who spoke, drawing Legolas' attention. The Wizard wore a deep sombre air which mingled with fatigue to make him look old. Older. He was tired, and wanted sleep, but there were matters of importance to be settled first. "We had a sleepless night, last night. Do you know why?"

Guilt surged again, sharp, and Legolas frowned as he nodded. His gaze wanted to seek the fire, the cold stone, but he held it along the Wizard's own. "Aye," he acknowledged softly. "It was because of my leaving. I was not-"

"Legolas," Gandalf interrupted, "I did not ask you any question but the one." He took in the flicker of sudden hurt in the Elf's eyes and sighed inwardly. "My friend," he continued, more gently, "I did not mean to be short with you. But there is much to say, and I would ask you to respond only to what you might be asked, and nothing more. Can you do that?"

"Aye." Legolas felt confusion shift within him, become unease, bewilderment. Did Gandalf order him not to speak? The question rose, but he was suddenly hesitant to ask it, suddenly gripped by the sense that he needed to hold his tongue, wait for more information. He sought Aragorn's eyes again, and was met with an understanding nod.

"Good." Gandalf lit his pipe, choosing his next words. His next words had rung within his ears much of the day, had hammered themselves against his ribs and edited themselves for content and then decided themselves unworthy and fallen silent, to be replaced by other next words. Endless choices. The day done, those choices remained, and the Wizard knew his task was to choose with care. This was too important to do anything but. "We had a sleepless night, indeed, because you left us, Legolas. You left our security and struck out alone to pursue Orcs." He eyed the Elf, measured the serious attention he saw in him, and was pleased. "You had been told not to consider such an action, and yet you did more than consider it - you committed it in the dark of night, with no word to us. Boromir returned to the camp shortly after catching you, and he was the one to notice you gone and alert us. From that moment forth, we were - I was - plagued by worry. I first thought myself mainly angered over your disobedience, but it was not mere defiance of an order that brought me such turmoil. It was fear, Legolas. I knew not where you were, or how you were, and I was afraid for you. I spent the night thus, sitting and smoking this pipe, asking unanswerable questions." Gandalf paused, the rush of words more exhausted than not, and pondered a moment. "I do care that you disobeyed an order, Legolas," he continued then. "That matters to me, for this journey matters to all of Middle Earth, and its success depends on our ability to trust each other. But what matters just as much - what mattered more last night - was the fear and worry I felt for you, and the anger that you would condemn me to such."

Legolas stared at Gandalf, continued to stare even after the Wizard had lowered his own gaze to their fire. A cold stunned silence settled within him. He could think of nothing to say, nothing even if he were permitted to speak, and he sensed that he was not. Gandalf's words clawed at him, heavy and recriminating even in their mild tones, stung like a slap to the face. He stared at the Wizard, his tired old friend, and felt the first prick of tears behind his eyes, and wondered at what was yet to come.

Boromir cleared his throat, sudden in the quiet, and saw Legolas startle. He caught the Elf's gaze and held it. "When I caught you in the wood...actually, before I caught you - when I heard a quiet stirring and first realized it was you - I could hardly contain my steps. I knew you had heard me and thought that you would run in pursuit of your investigation." He heard himself sneering over the last word, willed the useless sarcasm down. This was not the time. "I hurried to catch you, praying that I would find you there among the trees, and I was relieved when I did. But that relief was short-lived, was it not? Back on my walk, I was filled with a vague unease. I could not identify it - you, after all, would not have lied to me about your intent. You would not have crept once more out of camp after I bid you remain. It did not even occur to me that you would, and yet the unease gripped me and I felt the need to reassure myself of my companions' continued welfare. When I regained camp, I realized that you had lied to me indeed. I stood there at the perimeter, just inside the tree line, and I strained my hearing, desperate for some evidence of your travel. But I heard nothing. Nothing save the night wood. So I had to enter camp and rouse our fellows and inform them of your departure. I had to go weighted with the sense that I did not stop you, that should you die, you would do so because I failed. And I had to spend the eternity of a night with this knowledge that not even Gandalf's wise counsel could dispel." He sighed, knowing he had said it all, all that which had plagued him, and yet wanting to say still more. He studied Legolas, who looked now near stricken, as though the words were slowly drowning him. His own anger toward the Elf was gone, burned off like a morning mist under the sun; he had no desire to see such pain and guilt as now shimmered in those bright eyes.

The prick became a burn, heralded coming tears, and Legolas hung his head. He had not considered that Boromir might be hurt by his leaving; anger had seemed the biggest risk from that Man. Anger and resentment that he had not heeded his word. To hear, instead, the spinning of a tale of unease and concern and failure...it was too much. It was too much. He felt the urge, sudden and sharp, to kneel before them, the Wizard and the Warrior, and beg their forgiveness; he found, instead, that his limbs had grown as heavy as his gaze, as heavy as the shame that welled, the first taste of salt in his throat. He stared at the ground, knowing not what to do, what he was expected to do beyond listen. When a new voice took up, soft and measured where it normally jumped and giggled and danced, he closed his eyes and willed himself not to hear.

"Legolas?" Pippin said again and, receiving no response from the Elf, looked to Gandalf. But from the Wizard he received only an encouraging smile, and so he tried again. "Legolas, will you lift your head? You like you're about to fall forward into the fire. Please. I've been thinking on this all the day, and I need to say it." He heard Legolas sigh, quiet and shaky, saw him finally stir, finally lift his head. The gaze was slower, as though rooted to the earth, but Pippin waited and understood, for he had felt himself the shame of having wronged another, the shame of having to face and look upon and hear of that wrong. He waited until Legolas had lifted not only his head but his eyes as well, looking to him with the same sombre attention and respect he had shown the others. That was better. "Legolas, I'm not so sure of what to say as Gandalf and Boromir were. You didn't ignore any order of mine; you didn't tell me you would stay and then leave anyway." He frowned to himself, sought the lines that had repeated themselves, each demanding an audience, since that moment the Elf had returned. "I guess, though, you did. Tell me one thing and then do another, that is. I trusted you to be there in the morning, as you should have been. I trusted you to be wise and careful, but you weren't. I kept wanting to talk about it, to Merry or Frodo or Sam, or really to anyone, but everyone was so quiet. Nobody wanted to talk. It was as though we were holding our breaths, and as long as we did that, we could tell ourselves that you would be alright and would come back." He had allowed the words their rein; now he halted suddenly, noticing a silver tear that traced its way down Legolas' cheek, and he felt so sad. He had never wanted to make Legolas cry! He wanted to go to him, to hug him and wipe the tear away, but Gandalf read his intent and stilled him with a gentle shake of the head. No, he could not go to him. This was what they needed to do.

The tear was cool, unhurried as it escaped, wandered down to cheekbone, hesitated before moving on. It reached smooth jaw line, wondered briefly at the future, then edged further down still, tracing its cool sad path down the curved plane of throat. Legolas focussed on it, his world for the moment no larger than its shimmering surface. Within it there existed simplicity, sorrowful but easily understood; without there existed chaos, words that gathered and plagued him, gentle words that spoke not of readily acceptable anger but of worry and grief and that which he had not stopped to consider. He did not want to hear from the next, did not want to hear and yet knew he would be made to. He would have to. He wanted to dissolve himself in tears, flow into the dusty lifeless ground and sentence himself to eternity there, for he surely deserved such. He wanted to escape this, as much as and indeed more than he had ever wanted to escape a palm to his backside. But he was here, a part of the circle, and those who owned his heart were speaking to him. And they deserved that he listen, and try to understand.

Merry shifted, unintentionally drawing attention - the next say - to himself, and he was at once reluctant and grateful. He echoed Pippin's distress over Legolas, wanted to move to him with words of comfort and open arms, not sit here and make him cry yet more. But he had agreed to this, had agreed in part because it allowed him a role in his friend's lesson, in that which might one day keep Legolas safe. Legolas had kept him and the others safe often enough; now was his time to repay that. And he knew that this would not grow easier, would not grow happier or less painful over time. Three of them spoken, and Legolas looked lost and childlike, breath so quietly hitching in his throat, eyes puddled underneath with lavender. "I'm sorry," he began, and felt the rest look to him, puzzled. But it was what he needed to say. It was a good place to begin.

******************************************************************

Yes. Merry edged forward, his uncertainty melting as frost under a spring sun. A good start. "I'm sorry, Legolas," he said, again. "I've been sorry ever since you left, and I don't think I even knew why. But I know now." He rested his forearms on his knees, leaned his weight there as if settling himself, settling himself into the truth - the simple pain-filled truth - of it. He held Legolas' gaze as if seeking, from his position across the circle, to pull the Elf closer through will alone. And he continued, his voice low, quiet in the flickering fireshine. "I'm sorry because you spend so much time taking care of us. You spend so much time being the one who keeps us safe, and I know you can see and hear and smell more than the rest of us, and you can run faster and go on less food and less sleep, and you can do all these things. You ARE all these things to us and for us, because you can be. And that's good, I guess. But it's also bad, because after you've spent all that time taking care of other people, you seem to forget to take care of yourself. You act like you have to risk your life for us or you aren't living up to what's expected. When you hare off after something, you always seem to be doing it so we'll be safe, so we'll be protected. So I'm sorry that you think getting hurt or killed is what you're supposed to do for us - for me." He lowered his gaze then, seeing desolate pain blacken in the Elf's eyes. "I'm sorry you've forgotten that you matter, too." He was finished, spent from the unburdening, from the hard blunt truth of it all, and he wanted only to sleep. He dared not look at Legolas any more and when Pippin, at his side, slid closer and leaned against him in silent friendship, he closed his eyes and leaned back.

And so they continued. So Legolas remained, head up, eyes locked with each of his companions in turn. He swallowed the tears, pushed the shudders down into himself, willed composure to stay, not to forsake him yet that he be able to remain in the ritual, for that was the least they all deserved. He listened as Gimli spoke with rough honest emotion about Dwarves and their need to act, their sense of helplessness when one for whom they cared was at stake; and he knew that he had hurt a friend and been unaware of it. He listened as Frodo spoke of being only a Hobbit - not an Elf, not able to reach out to trees and rivers and stars as an Elf could - and yet still trying to reach him with his thoughts. He listened as Sam spoke with simple earnest force, telling of concern and fear. The words settled in him, filled him and weighed down his heart, and grief loomed for him under the listening stars. Each quiet monologue was a blow, and he ached as though it would never cease.

And then there was only Aragorn, studying him. Exhausted, dreading one more sad disappointed word, Legolas turned still and calmly met the Ranger's gaze, and was surprised to see a gentle smile directed back at him.

"Mellon nin, everyone has said that which I needed to say, and they have said it well. We love you. There is naught else I can tell you now that will open our feelings to you more than has already been done. So I shall not try. But we do yet need to talk." He fell silent, focus shifting to his pipe.

Legolas nodded. His thoughts wheeled, driven as leaves in an autumn wind. Was he to speak now? Aragorn's expression gave him nothing, and so he waited.

Aragorn lit the pipe, drew on it before looking back to Legolas. "I know that you have experienced much this evening," he said slowly. "I read your exhaustion plainly in your face; I read sorrow and regret and guilt in your eyes, and I know that it must weigh on you. I hope that you realize none of us spoke tonight in an attempt to bring you pain."

Legolas nodded again, silent.

"Good. Because our intent was to explain, to show you the effects your actions have on us. And to release our own tensions, to talk about that which has plagued us since we discovered you gone." The Ranger tapped ash from his pipe bowl, watched it float lazily into the fire and disappear among its own. He studied Legolas, studied the bleak dull glint of eyes typically dancing with light, studied the curve of shoulders that usually planed out proud and straight, and he wondered if what he had next to say would really be a blessing to his young friend. "Legolas," he continued, "I forgive you."

~Nay.~ Nay. Aragorn had not just said those words. Legolas stared at the Ranger, his steadiness given way finally to rising shivers. He felt the world cant steeply under him. Nay - Aragorn could not have forgiven him, not after all that. Not after hearing, as he, all the sadness and disappointment caused to his fellows. Not after hearing how Boromir had felt a failure for not stopping him from leaving. Not after hearing how Merry had blamed himself, his need for safety and protection from threat.

Not after hearing Frodo call himself `only a Hobbit,' and mean it.

Nay - Aragorn had no right to forgive all that and more. No right. There had been no justice; there had been no penance. Legolas could only stare at the Man now, bewilderment stark in his eyes.

Not a blessing. He met the Elf's stunned gaze and knew it had been anything but, and nodded inwardly. Legolas had listened, had truly heard them all, and knew as well as he that this was yet unfinished. He nodded again then, outwardly. "Speak if you have aught to say, Mellon nin."

"I...." The voice was strange, dusty as their ground now from silence, dissonant as harp strings stressed and broken. The voice was strange, but it was his now, and he pushed forth with it. "I do not know if...if...I can forgive myself," he breathed. "Nay - that is not what I meant to say.... I cannot forgive myself. I cannot, Estel."

Aragorn moved then from his place in the circle, broke rank with they who watched still, and moved to Legolas. "I am not surprised, Mellon nin," he said, taking the Elf's pale slender hands in his own roughened ones. "I am not surprised that you bear the pain of guilt for this, because you are of sound spirit and you know right. We have told you all I can. Now you need to speak to us. Do you feel that punishment is fitting for this? If you say nay, then nay it shall be, and you shall still be forgiven by all of your companions. We have discussed this, and it shall be so. But I fear that you will not be able to forgive yourself, should you choose that path. If you say aye, know that I cannot be lenient with you. I shall have to deal with you accordingly, with a severity equal to your crimes. You must decide."

Legolas looked to Aragorn, as he had looked to him upon first settling in the circle, and met that same abiding patience. That same understanding and acceptance and love. "Aye," he whispered, the word slipping unbidden from him, unbidden yet rejoiced in, for it would lead him to absolution. It would lead him back to those who owned his heart.

Aragorn nodded again and rose, still holding Legolas' hands. He led him across the camp to a low shelf of dusty rock, and there he seated himself. When he pulled Legolas down over his lap it was with a gentleness that belied the pain to come, and when he spoke his words were fluid and quiet and kind. "You harbour such shame and guilt, Mellon nin. This will not be easy, but I wish you to know one thing: every time you feel my palm, another rift will be mended. And when we are done, then all will be repaired and you can forgive yourself." He lifted Legolas' tunic and lowered his leggings, then wrapped one arm securely around his slight waist and brought the other hand down, hard.

Legolas cried from the first. Pippin had been afraid to speak - that bright innocent soul had flinched away from words and waited in frightened silence. Aragorn's hand was heavy, unhurried. Sam had sat in equal silence, poking at a dying fire because he could think of naught else to do. The pain blossomed, deepened. Gimli had wrung the handle of his axe, aching to be out in brave action. He was limp, sobbing, and Aragorn continued still. Gandalf had felt himself helpless, afraid. The hand fell again and again, any world without pain in it long forgotten. Merry had taken blame on his small shoulders, had apologized over and over. Aragorn held him tighter about the waist and brought his hand down harder, and he heard his own sobs rise to near screams. Frodo had believed himself small and useless to help. Still it lasted, eternity wrung out and circled in again on itself. Boromir had paced the forest trusting him trusting him trusting him to do as he had promised. He heard no more, slipped into hysteria's blindness, his last rational thought of Aragorn pacing, pacing the camp as the Ranger would have done. Pacing eternally and not telling him of it because the others had already said it all -

It was over, and he was only vaguely aware of arms holding him, of a cloak over him to keep him warm while he cried it all out. He came only vaguely aware of soothing words whispered in his ear, of kisses planted on his damp brow. He clung to the words, the solid chest against which he lay, and knew only that it was over...and that he was loved.

The End.