The Sylvanus Read online

  Legolas walked between Tirion and Lainion at the rear. They had been walking for a week now, and with every step they took, the forest became darker, less green, and a strange blight seemed to affect some of the trees. Sunlight still managed to filter through the high boughs but it was strained, and the light on the forest floor was so dark it was as if they walked in perpetual twilight, their uniforms no longer green and brown but black and grey.

  "Evil is not just the twisted face of an orc, or the dark machinations of some obscure maia - it is a poison that penetrates the body and arrests your mind, your soul. Your task as a warrior in the south, will be to control your body and block the poison, protect yourself against it so that you may protect others.

  Tirion glanced at their young charge from the corner of his eye. He listened intently as he always did, the faint bruise of a nasty blow he had taken some days ago when he had slipped on a patch of spider resin and fallen hard. The boy had been indignant, claiming he had never fallen from a tree, and Lainion had had to explain to him that here, not all trees were willing to host elves in their boughs. Legolas had been horrified and since then, had bombarded them with incessant questions as to why that would be.

  "How does a warrior do that?" asked Legolas. "How does he control it, guard himself from it?"

  "Not all of them can. I have known many excellent warriors who cannot serve in the south. After but months they return to the city and the healing wards, their minds in turmoil and their souls darkened. It takes them months to regain their spirit and serve once more. Our commanders do not recruit any warrior for these areas, they recruit only those who are stronger of mind and will."

  "Can one train to endure it? I mean, if you succumb at first, can you learn to block it?"

  "Yes. In fact, that is the way of it. Everyone suffers at first, until you learn to pinpoint its effects - that is when you can block it. Don't go in there thinking you can guard yourself from the start Legolas. That will not happen."

  "So what will I feel? How will it affect me?" he asked, fidgeting now with his weapons belt.

  "Headache, increased heart rate, a burning sensation in the eyes, a weight upon the chest - these are the universal symptoms. Others report nausea, shortness of breath, panic attacks…"

  Tirion watched him again, his wide eyes staring straight ahead, his adam's apple bobbing visibly. The poor boy was nervous - they all were at this point in their training, but somehow Tirion had almost thought Legolas would be impervious to it - he was not, and that was a comforting thought somehow.

  He had spoken to Lainion about the strange events of their skirmish with orcs and they had both agreed to keep a close eye on the boy. They needed more information on the nature of his - gift - if that was, indeed what it was. Once they were better informed, they could find a way to help him with it.

  "Legolas," called Lainion from his other side. "Your hair has escaped again. See to it that you secure it from your face before our next confrontation."

  A lovely blush blossomed on his bruised face and then he turned to the Avari. "I confess I do not know what to do…"

  Lainion's eyebrows rose, but then Tirion saw an idea dawn on his face.

  "I have an idea - a little - exotic, but it could work. We Avari have hair of a different texture to that of the Silvan and Sindar. Our braids are thicker and more secure for denser hair such as yours. I could show you when we make camp later."

  Legolas smiled. "I will be a sight! A Sinda-Silvan with an Avarin hairstyle!"

  "Popular with your lovers, boy!" jested the lieutenant in a rare show of emotion and Legolas chuckled, as Angion and Faunion snorted behind them, sharing the conversation with their companions behind. By twilight, as they set up their camp, all of them had one eye on the most unlikely spectacle that played out before the fire. Lainion, their mercurial Avarin lieutenant, was braiding Legolas' hair in a way none of them had ever seen.

  The boy's hair was extraordinarily long and thick, with tones of light gold and silver that gave it a texture few elves could boast. Thick braids had been worked from front to back, from his hairline and then down his back, sitting atop the straight, unbraided hair beneath, both layers falling almost to the small of his back and when they had finished and he turned, the troop hooted and cheered, cat calls echoing around them. Legolas blushed and stood, bowing theatrically first to Lainion, and then to his audience.

  "How do I look?!" he shouted merrily, no hint of his earlier anxiety.

  For the next half an hour, the warriors fooled around, swaying their hips and 'ooing' and 'aaring', linking each other's arms and skipping - and Legolas was always in the middle of it, laughing and flicking at their hair in return.

  Lainion and Turion watched from their nascent campfire and smiled.

  "He is an extraordinary boy, Lainion. I wish the best for him…."

  "I know," said Lainion, turning to face his captain and friend. "I told you back at the barracks, Turion. There is something about him that inspires loyalty, 'tis why I am here and you - you left your beloved training fields to teach him. I know you feel it too…"

  Turion held his friend's gaze for a moment. Something important was happening, and they two would have a part in it. It was almost as if they had been appointed this task - by who Turion could not say and yet he felt it, in the deepest recesses of his mind he knew neither of them had ever had the slightest choice in the matter. And then, he thought, that even if he had, he would still have chosen this path. The boy had wormed his way beneath his skin, into his heart, had worked a strange magic that had captivated him from the very start.

  They raised their mugs and clinked them together, before sipping on the hot tea, enjoying the entertainment for tonight, the forest was at peace, at least for today.

  The next morning, the patrol kitted out in their heaviest gear and set out stealthily through the thickening, darkening forest, towards the South and the dreaded Mirkwood. Before they reached it though, they were to stop off at a nearby village where they were to gain information on the enemy's movements and establish whether or not its inhabitants needed help in the way of provisions or manpower. Being so close to the encroaching cloak of darkness, these Silvan foresters held great insight into how the enemy moved.

  It would be the first time in weeks that the patrol would come into contact with civilians, and the thought was a good one, for there would be hot food and comfortable beds. There may even be a day of rest in which they could bathe, wash their clothing and care more extensively for their weapons.

  Legolas' hair was a success, for he was able to gather up the thick top braids and tie them at his crown with a leather string. It was perfect and Lainion had joked that it pulled at his eyes, making him look Avarin.

  Turion confessed to being absurdly confused, for Lainion had never joked. He was severe and curt, enigmatic yet fierce, frightening even, yet when he was around the Silvan he transformed. He decided he liked the contrast.

  After two days, the western patrol emerged from the dense trees and into a glade, where some sunlight still managed to filter through the high boughs. They had been smelling the wood smoke for many hours now, and, the predominantly silvan troop had reminisced of their own homes, so similar to the village they now entered.

  Legolas lifted his head and relished the timid warmth on his face, smiling before opening his eyes and looking around the settlement.

  The silvan foresters looked on as the warriors walked single file towards a large wooden construction Tirion had surely imagined would be their community hall. As a Silvan settlement, there would be a village leader and a spirit herder. There would also be a master forester; these three figures were the leaders of their people and their starting point would be to find them.

  Legolas felt a pang of nostalgia, for although much darker and enclosed, this village brought to mind his own forest home. He understood this society, these people. They were the very reason he had chosen to do what he now did and of a sudden he could not wait to take
his vows and be counted amongst the king's warriors as an equal rather than a novice.

  Children scampered around the warriors as they marched by, brushing their hands over worked leather and wooden cloaks, and when one of the more daring imps reached for a sword scabbard or a quiver, they were batted away with a good natured scowl. The children giggled and squealed until their mothers scolded them and ushered them away with apologetic, and sometimes flirtatious smiles.

  And none received more of these inviting smiles than Hwindohtar, who blushed at the attention, much to the glee of his companions, who shoved him and flicked at his hair, their mocking as incessant as it was light-hearted.

  Soon, they arrived at the large hall, where two tall elves stood waiting. Turion stepped forward and placed his fist over his heart.

  "Well met. I am Captain Turion of the Western Patrol. We have come to ensure your safety and assess your defences."

  "Well met, Captain. I am Lorthil, leader of these people, and this is Narsorén, our Spirit Herder. Be you welcome brothers."

  The entire patrol bowed to the two Silvan leaders as they were led inside and ushered to the long tables that ran almost the entire length of the hall. It would be used for meetings and festivities, for politics and parties, for spiritual events and entertainment. These buildings were the heart of any Silvan village. Today, however, women were placing food and bread upon the tables, filling cups with fresh water, and occasionally smiling up at the warriors as they went about their duties.

  "Will you sit, warriors, and share a meal with us?" said Lorthil, gesturing to the tables. The warriors' eyes had gone round and their stomachs rumbled loudly, the promise of food at a table making their mouths water.

  "We would be honoured, Lorthil," said Turion as he turned and nodded to the warriors, the hint of a smirk on his otherwise rigid features.

  A Sinda warrior reached for the bread, but Faunion's hand shot out to stop him, bidding him wait. Sure enough, a soft voice lifted against the silence.

  "Mother, we thank you for the bounties of the forest. May we take sustenance from them, and replenish these lands, nurture your creation and praise thy name, Kementari."

  Muted conversation broke out as the warriors ate and the leaders spoke of their plans for the day. Legolas had one ear on his companions, and the other on Turion and his procedure, tucking away all his words and nuances. He may, one day, find himself in this very situation, as a Captain, he reminded himself.

  "Tell us of the enemy, Lorthil. What of them?"

  "We lost three elves in the fields a week past now. It was not a coordinated attack but a pack of scavengers. However, the darkness is pressing in- we can all feel it - there is something coming this way but we are unable to identify the root of it."

  Turion scowled as he turned to the Spirit Herder. "What say your omens, Narosén?" he asked respectfully. The captain was Sinda, but he was well-versed in the culture and rites of the Silvan.

  "They speak of many things of late," he said softly so that only Turion and Lainion could hear. "They speak of a blight, a dark wave of festering evil - something approaches, gnaws at the forest for the trees whisper…"

  "What do they say?" asked Turion.

  "We know only that they fight their own battle, captain, on a plane we cannot perceive. But the more sensitive of our folk speak of resistance, a desperate fight our woodland sentinels seem to have taken up…"

  "It sounds dire," said Lainion. As an Avari himself, he understood these people's superstitions, believed some of them even.

  "Yes, but there are whispers of something else - it may be of no import, but they speak of - of an awakening…"

  "What sort of awakening?" asked Turion, a strange tingling turning his skin suddenly too sensitive.

  "We know not, Captain. Only that - we are, as yet, unsure as to how to interpret it."

  Turion simply nodded, but Lainion glanced for a moment at Legolas, watching as the boy ate, seemingly oblivious and he wondered…

  They had slept well, upon pallets of leaves and blankets, soft and warm, their bellies full and their minds filled with memories of home. Legolas indeed, had awoken to the sound of his own mouth working as if he ate - the aromas of spring pea soup almost perceptible upon his salivating taste buds.

  Now, after a refreshing bath in the nearby river, Legolas lounged back against a tree, listening to his companions talk quietly of mothers and fathers, of sweethearts and lovers, of nut cakes and venison pie. For Legolas it was Amareth's pea soup, and a dreamy smile was back on his face.

  He had watched Turion at breakfast as he spoke with the village leaders, had asked after their defences, the recent attacks, ascertaining the general mood of these foresters, even with the Spirit Herder, a controversial figure at the best of times, for not all the Sindar respected their ways.

  Rising slowly, he murmured to his companions, "I am going for a walk," to which Angion replied, "stay within the perimiter, Hwindo."

  Legolas nodded and strolled away, walking slowly as his mind worked.

  He thought of his performance as a novice, of what he had learned, of the thing that haunted him now - the strange malady that had taken him not so long ago. He thought of Turion and Lainion, of their lessons and guidance, and he thought of Amareth, of Idhrenohtar and Ram en Ondo whom he missed.

  He stopped of a sudden, his inner musings abruptly ending as his eyes focussed sharply at what stood before him, for there stood a mighty oak, its size and beauty taking Legolas' breath as his eyes took in the magnificent specimen.

  "'Tis awe inspiring, is it not?" asked Narosén who had appeared at Legolas' shoulder silently, making the boy flinch.

  "It is… majestic," whispered the novice, his mouth barely moving, his eyes fixed on the massive expanse of its branches and leaves, his eyes alight in wonder.

  Narosén, however, was watching the young warrior carefully, his own, honey-coloured eyes anchored firmly on the strange green irises of the Sindar boy.

  Legolas scowled, ripping his eyes momentarily from the tree to the strange spirit herder beside him.

  "I am Silvan," was all he said.

  "You do not look Silvan," came the all too familiar retort which always managed to exasperate him. Calming his irritation, he explained as briefly as he could so that he would be left once more to admire the tree before him.

  "I am both, Sir, but my heart lies in the forest, with my people."

  "A Silvan at heart then, if not of blood."

  "Of blood too, Narosén," said Legolas somewhat curtly.

  "I do not mean to offend, only to comprehend, warrior. I - I have been observing you for some time now. You are restless and in your wandering you have come here, to this tree - why?" asked Narosén softly.

  "I did not come to the tree, Narosén, I simply came across it."

  "That is a matter of perspective, I suppose," he said with a smile. "Come, join me?" he asked as he held up a skin with what Legolas could only hope was wine. He was not on duty and would be permitted to drink, in moderation of course.

  "Legolas gave Narosén a tight smile and nodded, following him under the boughs of the oak until they sat near its base.

  Legolas accepted the skin with both hands and a nod, before taking a long draught, savouring the rich, woody aroma that warmed his chest, before handing it back and watching as his companion drank.

  "Why do you watch me?" asked Legolas in genuine curiosity.

  "I am not sure, eh, what should I call you?" asked Narosén with a frown.

  "I have many names," said Legolas with a smile. "Hwindohtar, the Silvan, Legolas… you may choose," he said with a smile as he drank once more.

  "The Silvan?" came the surprised question.

  "Yes, I know - I do not look Silvan. My father was a Sinda and my mother a Silvan. I have inherited his face but her eyes. It is more a question of the soul, Narosén. I feel Silvan, they are my people, the ones I wish to protect…" he finished, his eyes turning inwards with his own thoughts.

>   "Then Silvan you are, of that there can be no doubt. I knew from the way you admired our sentinel," he said lightly, but his eyes betrayed him, for there was a heaviness in them, a deep, almost hungry expression in them.

  The next day, Legolas did not awake as he had done the previous day, with the delicious memory of Amareth's pea soup, but to the urgent, barked orders of Lainion.

  "UP! Kit out now! There is fire to the South. We move in five minutes! The lieutenant's urgent words echoed around the glade as the villagers made for the main hall, their faces white and tight with worry. There were many inside the forest who had not yet emerged and no one, as yet, knew the reach or direction of the flames.

  Tirion spoke urgently with the village leader Lorthil as he pulled his gloves on, and then turned and trotted back to the patrol who were now strapping on their weapons and cloaks.

  "This is what we know. There is fire to the South, and the breeze is pushing it westwards, towards the forester's outpost. There is a river not far from here. I need water pumped this way through their irrigation pipes, so that Lorthil can oversea the villagers and take preventive measures while the rest of us travel to the source and douse the flames if we can. Legolas, Faunion, you are in charge of ensuring these people get the water they need to protect themselves should the flames reach them, the rest of you, move out!"

  Legolas frowned deeply, feelings of inadequacy assailing him once more, turning only briefly as Lainion's heavy hand rested on his shoulder for a split second before he ran off behind the captain. Turning with Faunion, both elves ran towards the river, Legolas' mind heavy with grim thoughts. Tirion was either protecting him, or was still unsure of his worth. There was a third option too, one Legolas had wanted to consider, but it had pushed its way to the fore and would not be ignored. What if Tirion thought him an invalid, cursed with some strange illness that rendered him useless to his patrol? What did it take? he wondered, to be accepted as an equal? To prove his metal?