The mountains were south of them now, and they had joined the woodland path, entering at last the new-founded borders of Thranduil's Realm.

The site of old Galadhremmen Lasgalen was by now far behind them, a full day's ride, but even then Legolas wondered if deliberately seeking it out had been the wisest way to prepare himself for what he expected to meet now.  Depression had settled heavily upon him, threatening to stir again that unnamed anxiety.  Gimli sat silently behind him, seeming to understand his need for solitude.  Few words had passed between them over the last day, and the last hour had been unbroken by speech, the only sound the tramp of Arod through the brush.

At every turn, Legolas was braced to see the ruin that had been wrought by the war.  He still had no right idea what to expect, for the heralds had been unwilling to speak of it.  That in itself worried him.  It was not often that Thranduil's Elves shrank from reality.  Every new scar on a tree, every unjustly felled limb and branch was a cruel tease, playing upon his fears while still denying him the whole truth.

They followed the northeast path now.  The signs of the passing of an enemy host gradually became all the more apparent, trees needlessly pitted and scored, great messes of trampled brush not even the new growth of another summer had been able to hide. 

Gradually the sun began to filter more strongly through the branches above, letting down more light into the shadows as the foliage overhead thinned.

“Finally,” Gimli murmured to himself, grateful to see the oppressive atmosphere lighten.

But this new light conjured no such welcome thoughts to Legolas' mind.  It should not have been so.  Why were the soft shadows dispersed?  What had become of the trees that had sheltered this place?

Arod pushed his way through the last barrier of new summer growth, a merciful shield of green that had veiled from their eyes the horror that lay beyond.

Legolas had imagined the worst, but still he was not prepared to behold it.  His breath hitched in his throat, and he felt his stomach twist.  He must have tightened his grasp on Arod's mane, for the horse halted abruptly there in the open.  The sun shone down unhindered, awful in its incongruity.  It was no longer a glow but a glare, hard on their eyes and illuminating in pitiless clarity the utter ruin of Mirkwood.

There were no trees now, not for a long bleak way.  Arod hesitantly resumed his pace as he was bidden, grey puffs of sun-baked dust stirring underfoot.  Trees that had once been alive, albeit dark and brooding, were now naught but blackened skeletons of charcoal.  Hideous in their stark contrast to the blue of the sky and the dead grey of the ash, they seemed caught in the last moment of despairing agony, those that yet stood left to lean at drunken angles.  Summer had put forth new and tentative shoots, but it could not disguise the rape of the wood as the orcs had wrought it.  Mirkwood had been cleansed, but brutally. 

From that point on it was a weary, miserable march.  They seemed lost in a waste of dust and dead trees, every now and then the monotony broken by the scorched bones of some unfortunate beast overtaken by the running flames.  It was a scene out of Mordor itself, the flame-blasted hell that rejoiced in ruin and reveled in death, that had in one breath of malice withered all that had been green and good in a blazing inferno.  It made it all the worse to remember that this was not Mordor.

This was his home.

The Ring had threatened this.  Again he remembered the guttural voice, turned to him when even Mithrandir slept, mocking his refusal with bitter laughter, no less vivid though it was unmade.  What do you expect to find when you return? War, death, and destruction!  And Fire, more terrible than has ever been seen by living man!  You will allow it?

You will allow it?

Arod carried them faithfully along what hints of the path remained, independently it seemed, for Legolas was blind.  He had forgotten Arod, forgotten Gimli, forgotten all but the miserable arid wasteland that surrounded them.  Their Lórien cloaks were turned a pale grey in the stirred dust, thin clouds of lifeless dust that lent an unpleasantly dry and chalky taste to the air.  A nameless guilt gnawed at him, one he was helpless to refuse or deny, though he knew it to be groundless.

At last they drew near a belt of standing trees, scorched but clinging still to some vestige of life until they healed their wounds as best they could.  Legolas was roused from his stupor by a sudden prod in the back.  Gimli cleared his throat insistently, and looking forward through Arod's pricked ears Legolas saw a figure clad in dark robes of brown walking amid the crippled trees, the sun throwing her last rays upon him as the clouds grew ever nearer.  In one dim moment he recognized the hooded wanderer who had turned to greet them, eyes of deep woodland brown glinting keenly.

“Hail, Prince Thranduilion!” said Radagast, bowing low beside his oaken staff, a courtesy that Legolas in his dazed grief of heart neglected to return as he dismounted.  “The wood has been the bleaker without you.”

Gimli slid to the ground behind them, landing with a great cloud of ashen dust.

“And who is this?” the wizard inquired with new interest on his weathered but pleasant face, half hidden behind his long beard.

“He is my companion, Gimli son of Glóin of Erebor,” Legolas said at last, returning to himself.  “We journeyed far together from Rivendell in Mithrandir's company.”

“Ah, yes,” Radagast mused thoughtfully.  “Mithrandir's Fellowship.  I had heard of such.  For the sake of King Oropherion I rejoice that you return whole and hale, for it is no small thing to challenge the Enemy in his own land.  But what sort of friendship is this?”

“I care not for feuds, Master Radagast,” Legolas said firmly.  “To reopen old wounds will profit nothing.”

“I agree,” said the wizard, a vigor about him that belied his apparent age, “but Aran Thranduil may yet have words of his own to be heard.  He remembers.”

“Yes, he does,” Legolas affirmed.  “But those who violated Menegroth were punished long ago.  He should have no quarrel with Gimli.” 

“Should have?”  Radagast arched his brows.  “Bold words, my prince.  But as for Thranduil himself, I must say that he remains an enigma to me.  It seems I never know what he will do or why, but as his offspring I trust you know him well enough.”  Muted thunder rolled from the ominous clouds above, casting their shadow over the ravaged landscape.  “But come, it would honor me to receive you tonight.  I have now for myself a modest dwelling here in this stretch of the woods, far from Rhosgobel, but pleasant enough.  Come, come; any longer and soon we and all we carry will be very wet.”

He turned and whistled keenly, and at the call his own mount emerged from the trees.  Legolas leapt astride Arod again, swinging Gimli up behind him in a artful maneuver they had almost mastered by this time.  They rode with Radagast into the surviving portions of the forest, deep in shadow now at the approach of the storm.  The evening wind had picked up, rustling through the leaves in voiceless warning, sending all woodland life scurrying for cover.  The scent of impending rain was on the air, a refreshing scent that Legolas welcomed, for the ride through the fire valley had worn heavily upon him.  He would need some sleep tonight.

Even with Radagast's haste, they did not escape the first few sheets of rain.  But still they gained the cave before they were soaked.  Following the wizard's lead, Legolas spurred Arod in behind him, where they all dismounted in the echoing dark.  Radagast gave his own horse a slap on the flank, sending him farther back as he endeavored to kindle a fire.  Working quickly with a supply of dry tinder, he had soon encouraged a modest blaze from which he lit also the few torches he had ensconced along the walls.  Meanwhile, Legolas had lifted Gimli down from his perch without so much as asking his pardon, but the Dwarf did not object.

“There,” Radagast said contentedly as the lights banished much of the shadow, making the unrefined cave seem a bit more welcoming.  Modest was indeed the word for it, with very little in the way of furnishings, but enough to be reasonably comfortable.  He pulled off his cloak and shook it out, sparkling droplets flying far and wide.  “You may send your good horse back to join Barandir,” he instructed.  “He will want for nothing there.”

With the horses settled, they set about providing for themselves.  The meal was one of the rough bread and dried fruit sort.  It was plainly less than Gimli desired, though he made no comment, and Legolas was not proud enough to turn up his nose.  What remained of the Galadhrim's waybread was saved for the remainder of their ride.

Gimli excused himself early to bed, leaving Legolas alone with the Radagast.  The rain poured down in dark torrents outside while the Elf and the Wizard regarded one another across the fire.

Radagast smiled, an endearing expression that brought out the laugh-lines about his eyes.  “Rain to make the new forest grow,” he said simply, perhaps trying to inspire a glint of hope in those jaded eyes opposite him.  Still, to Legolas the dreary downpour only reflected his own mood.  

"What brings you so far from Rhosgobel, Master Ithron?" he asked instead.  "I assume you have told the King that your haunts have changed."

"I have," Radagast assured him.  "Indeed, your father was quite willing to receive me after the war.  I am here to see the wood return."

"I dare say it could benefit much from your attentions," Legolas said, almost smiling again.  They of Mirkwood had not been told the origins of the Istari, more properly the Ithryn in Sindarin circles, but Thranduil had long guessed it.  He who had lived under the reign of a Maia would not easily mistake one, though these came in different guises.  Radagast had confirmed his suspicions with time, for he was habitually more affable than Mithrandir, and answered inquiries with less cunning.  Thranduil nonetheless appreciated Mithrandir's underlying severity and had never dared press him beyond the limits of prudence.  As for Curunir, or rather Saruman, Thranduil had met him seldom and loved him even less.  At least Radagast did not smoke, and for that he was more welcome in their halls.

"It has already,” Radagast affirmed.  “If my designs go not amiss, the green shall have returned to the fire valley before the next decade has gone."  He paused, glancing back to the elf-prince, probing his heart as well as he might.  "I know your pain, Legolas," he said at last.  "It was mine when this year began, when the ash had scarcely cooled.  There was no green then.  The leaves were all fallen from the autumn, great enclaves of the forest reduced to naught but a woodland fit for ghosts.  But I have seen the green return.  These wounds will heal."

Still, Legolas felt that somehow he had not yet fully accepted the ruin wrought, that he clung still to what he had no power to hold, and had naught but a handful of cinders for his efforts.  ‘The hurts of Sauron run deep,’ Glorfindel had said, ‘and only a greater hurt can begin to heal them.’  It did hurt.  The waste of it all was maddening.

Radagast seemed to understand this, and his bearing became more profound.  "The Power who rules this vast realm of Eä shall never demand the impossible of you, Legolas," he said.  "He does, however, require the difficult.  Not a leaf falls without His knowledge, and do not think He does not know what has befallen the greenwood.  How much more of value in His eyes then are you, one of His Firstborn?  This is appointed your sacrifice, your burden to bear.  After all you have endured already, do not prove yourself unequal His confidence."

The next day they were well on their way again with Radagast's blessing.  Legolas found it something of a comfort to know someone was attending Greenwood's wounds.  The reason the Elves themselves had not was soon apparent.  There was simply too much to attend.

The rain had been welcomed by the forest, but it also made riding a chore, for the road had become a trail of mud.  It was not so bad as it would have been with more traffic upon it, but as it was Arod was stained up to the hocks before midday.  No horse enjoys tramping through a mire and Arod was no exception, jittery all that day as the ground continued to slide beneath him.  

It did not help that the wood eventually thinned again before them, heralding more of what they had seen yesterday.  Burnt and blackened trees lay strewn about like twigs upon the ground, awash in a sea of wet ash.  It smelled not old and dry today, but rather musty and sordid, like a mildew-ridden cellar.  Like a morgue.

If they had spoken, they would have agreed that it was the most wretched time they had spent since Moria.  But neither dared to say anything, for fear of trying the tenuous patience between them.  Besides that, they were both deep in their own wells of self-pity, with no wish yet to hear about the woes of the other.

It was unquestionably the longest day yet of their ride together.  One burnt out valley led to another, now and again ameliorated by belts of living forest that had miraculously survived, but these forlorn groves were not enough to lighten the mood, and seemed to end all too soon into still more barren destruction.  Ash, charcoal, and bones became the monotonous cadence.  And all was mud.

As they drew ever nearer their destination Legolas began to notice an unsettling regularity to the gentle mounds by the roadside.  He knew graves when he saw them.  Simple and unmarked, Greenwood’s warriors were now returned to her.  He made no mention of it, but he felt somehow that Gimli knew.

The sun by that time had become unseasonably warm, the mud thickening as it dried, making matters worse even while it was a turn for the better.

It was when the afternoon sun had begun to dip into evening that Legolas saw the marker.  Now, when his heart was screaming for answers, it would have been impossible for him to pass by without first knowing what it would tell him.  He dropped from Arod’s back and tramped his way through the mire toward the trees of the thickening wood that stood at the side, where there was posted a rueful litany of names painted upon wide planks of new wood.  There he saw that it bore Thranduil’s device at the head, above the epitaph “Valiant Warriors, Faithful Servants.”

It was as he had feared.  Among the hundreds represented, there were many names that conjured familiar faces to his mind, some he had known from childhood, others he had seen reared from their earliest years.  The world blurred for a moment before his eyes as the list went on, and soon he was crouched upon his heels, glancing over the foot of it where it was concluded with a brief prayer to the Valar to guard and guide each faer on his journey to the Halls of Waiting, and that in his father’s own hand.  There was a poignant air of surrender about it that struck him heavily, a dull pain of loss obscuring all else, of one slowly twisting a knife through his heart, intent upon carving his consent out of him if it would not be given freely.  At that moment he finally let go the unconscious denial he had clung to over the past days, accepting the woes of war for what they were, but now it seemed he had no tears left for them.  They would come later.

A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder.

“A rather impermanent memorial, don’t you think?” Gimli observed, breaking the silence between them.

“Does it matter?” Legolas asked.  His voice was still a trifle bitter, but he did not shrug away.  “In time it shall return to dust and be forgotten, even as they.  When we have gone, these names will mean nothing to anyone.”

That night was a quiet one in camp.  The stars shone brightly, but neither looked to them.  The trees grew dark and thick around them now, and Gimli found that somehow comforting after the forsaken wastes they had endured.  It was not of stonework, but at least it was not exposed.

He lay on his cloak, trying to sleep.  But the ground was still a bit wet, and there was no end to rocks and roots.  There was no fire.

Legolas sat up by himself, silent and impassive, his face unreadable.  Gimli knew he had much to cope with, and so did not bother him.  But still, with his companion lost in thought like that, he felt awfully alone.  He did not presume to understand the depths of the elvish mind, else he would have endeavored to offer him some condolence.  But he feared to only make things worse by trying.

He shifted discontentedly where he lay.  It seemed not all was right, but this he dismissed as naught but the tension that had plagued them both for the past days.  He glanced aside at Legolas.  The Elf sat so still he might as well have been dead, resting his chin on his knee, his eyes dull and unseeing.  It was enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

There came a rustle in the woods that was really no more than a whisper, but one that unsettlingly suggested the passing of fur over leaves.  Gimli tensed in the ensuing silence, but still Legolas did not seem to sense anything amiss.  Had he imagined it?

He heard the muffled snap of a twig, unnaturally loud in the stillness.  He caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows, and he sat bolt upright only to see the monstrous wolf surge toward him in silent roar, fangs bared.

Time seemed to slow, though it all passed within a single moment.  Legolas moved.  But he did not take up his bow, nor draw blade.  Instead he lunged forward and cuffed the beast across the snout, upsetting its attack so it trampled over Gimli but left him unharmed.

“Arhuan!” he snapped in high indignation.  “Forbear!”

Still somewhat dazed, Gimli saw the wolf shrink beneath Legolas’ reprimand, the great bushy tail tucked for shame as it begged his pardon.  “He is yours?” he managed to ask, as he regained his breath.

“He is my father’s,” Legolas corrected, passively fondling the elegant head bowed before him, his hands almost lost in a sea of white and silver fur.  “I ask you to forgive his audacity.  They are sent to guard against the trespassing of foes in our domain, but were once trained with better manners than that.”

The rest of the night was thankfully uneventful.  Gimli feared he would find it even more difficult to sleep with that great beast so near, but Legolas sat up with the wolfhound, stroking the velvet ears, seeming to find ineffable comfort simply in that one piece of home.

That was all well and good, but Gimli was glad he had a hold on him.

The next morning, Legolas stirred them all before the dawn.  It seemed he was anxious to leave this part of their journey behind them, to meet again familiar faces that yet lived.  The wolfhound slunk about the campsite, glancing furtively at the Dwarf, thinking him still an enemy, and rightly perplexed by his master’s objections.

Mahal, that was a big dog.  A single paw would have fit the breadth of his palm.

Before they mounted, Legolas took time enough to give the hound a firm Sindarin admonition, of which Gimli distinguished only a few words, and which he guessed amounted to “you shall not harass the Nogoth.”  And it seemed even that Arhuan listened.

Very well, so Legolas could reprove his dogs well enough.  But still Gimli wondered if he would not be put to more trouble to win the same forbearance from his own kin.