Rhovan Cuil Erin Tawar Sir  [Wild Life on the Forest River]

Dawn in the forest, realized through a quiet and watchful sense of expectation that somewhere on the invisible horizon Anor was rising again amid the passing remains of Isil's dark and starlit domain.  Crimson were the low clouds huddled against the rim of the world, unseen under the canopy of the Greenwood, gathered as though to shield the shadows bound beneath its boughs.

A few beams of golden glory filtered down through the frosted and fractious air, insufficient to dry up the wisping mists arising from the earth, yet even this miniscule encouragement coaxed a sluggish response from the trees and the life they sheltered.  The beeches' reactions were grudging and terse, brittley shifting branches garbed in chestnut-colored foliage, longing to return to the seasonal slumber that announced the demise of summer in the northlands.  A red autumn broke upon the forest and claimed its brief ascendancy.

The stillness of the chilly air enhanced the distinction of individual diurnal voices breaching the silence left by the more muted sounds of the night creatures now secreted away in dens and perches and snug burrows.  With nesting over and chicks fledged, the exodus of the migrating species depleted the avian population of the woods. Gone was the spring-borne urgency of clamoring for the attentions of a mate and warning off potential rivals.  The accompanying disharmonic morning chorus now yielded to the specific leider of the year-round residents.

Sparrows, flitting and pipping through the small growth of shrubs and brambles, chirruped individual notes at their telltale pitch and frequency, allowing little glimpses of stripes in brown and gold and black as they gathered sustenance.  The somber call of mourning doves drifted through the branches, the shadow-tinted birds unseen within the leaves.  Determined rustling as four-toed grouse bustled through the leafy debris of the forest floor, going in clutches of ten or twelve, gave the impression of purposeful caution as first year chicks were herded along.  Bobwhites and Whip-or-wills vied with each other for the most amusingly quizzical call, and a cardinal sent out but half its signature song as though expecting an answering throat to complete the stanza. A rapid scraping of bark on branch was the only response as a quoll slipped with fervent speed through the beeches, blatantly disregarding stealth for agile retreat from predation.

The trees creaked with disapproval, groaning like the bones of weary old men, under the passing weight of a sleek, black boa that leisurely pursued the hapless marsupial.  A yellow reptilian tongue tasted the air, noting the place where its meal had left the trees, and the sinuous serpent slothfully uncoiled itself and slipped down to the ground.  It was surprisingly rapid upon the land and secured its morning morsel with little effort, languorously returning to the canopy to digest it.  The disturbance had momentarily overruled the waking forest fauna's prattle but quickly the small voices took up their dominance of the air streams again.

Higher in the canopy, a wedge-tailed eagle ducked and pivoted its head, appraising the boa carefully.  Deciding that its size was too great for a single attack yet would surely provide well for the needs of the flock, it resolved to return with reinforcements later.  It was too early for such effort and the boa was clearly settling down for the day.

The slightest lifting of the air ruffled the collar of feathers about regal bird's neck, and in a gesture of awakening common to most life it stretched, raising its noble head skyward and extending its mighty wings.  With a final shake it settled, and the breathless air carried two feathers down to rest, caught upon the minutely splintered texture of the bark upon a lower branch.  The peculiarly soft sound of the raptor sharpening its beak against the smooth-barked trunk sent vibrations down through the tree and finally, reluctantly, Legolas awakened.

First upon his eyes and mind crystallized the image of the feathers trapped just above his head drifting slightly, not from wind stirring but from the movements of the bird from which they had just disengaged.  As he watched them, one finally loosed itself from the gentle grasp of the ancient beech and floated, swaying and twisting as though progressing down some unperceived stairway in the intangible air, and came to rest in the palm he upstretched to receive it.  His gaze traveled to the eagle, staring calmly down upon him.

"An le," [For you] the message was clear in the bright gleaming eye regarding him, and he smiled.

"An le," echoed the tree and released the second feather into his hands.

His soul warmed in the joy of the gifts and he examined the feathers carefully, using gentle fingertips to realign the teeth of the individual fronds and make the barred and spotted pattern whole again.  One he would use to adorn his new bow, the other he would work into his hair in grateful acknowledgement of this kinship the Greenwood offered him. He was no longer a resident within a Thranduil's community within the forest; rather he was indigenous to the forest itself.  This was a profound difference he only realized in this moment.  His heart seemed to swell as the burden of banishment lifted; he belonged, more completely and to something somehow so much more substantial than his former citizenship among the Wood Elves.

He breathed in deeply the scent of winter, acrid and tangy, that tinged the autumn air.  Rising to his feet in an elegantly fluid motion that took him all the way up onto his toes, he mimicked the eagle's stretch, extending his arms out and tipping his head up as he squeezed shut his eyes.  Still smiling and holding the feathers, he balanced there, listening to the voices of the morning.  Searching for the gabbling chuckle of the little spring-fed brook hidden from his eyes, he found it and noted the sounds of animals refreshing themselves in and around it.  He exhaled and came down onto his heels, satisfied that no large predators were about, and shivered slightly.  Winter was hurrying this year, or he seemed to be feeling the cold more now, or perhaps both.  He shook his head and carefully put the feathers into has pack, then rubbed his arms with his palms to warm them.

Reaching down to his small collection of belongings, he lifted up a leather fur-lined short tunic and slipped the soft garment over his bare skin.  The hairs tingled with remembered life of the wolf from which it had been taken some eight winters ago and the distant energy wrapped itself warmly around him.   He donned also a great cloak of the same fur over his simple attire of soft quoll-skin leggings and the tunic.

Hefting his pack, his small bow and quiver, and his hunting knife to his back, Legolas began gliding through the trees towards the singing brook where he would wash himself and fill his water skin for the day.  At the edge of the small spring-generated bog he paused, intently listening to the calling of the frogs in the reeds.  He found them to be the most alert of sentinels with regards to anything involving water, and he had come to recognize the various signals they used to communicate danger.  They seemed only to be complaining about the lack of bugs and the approach of the Dark Days when they would go into the mud to sleep, and Legolas relaxed.

He stripped off his garments in the branches and left behind all but his knife as he dropped silently to the squishy ground.  Not a single droplet of water left the pond's surface as he slid into the cold waist-deep liquid, catching his breath a little at the sudden jolt the temperature change gave to his body.  He waded over to the lip of the small depression where the water tumbled gently over into the sandy shallow bed of the stream.  Carefully laying the knife on a flat stone on the bank, he tossed up a handhold of water into his eyes to chase away the last remnants of sleep.  Bathing quickly, he completed the daily toilet by dunking his head completely under the small cascade, thoroughly wetting his hair and massaging away any evidence of leaf or twig that might have found its way there since the previous morn.

That done, he exited the water and quickly grabbing his knife fled back up to the branches and wrapped the wolf-pelt cloak around him, fur side to skin, to chase away the renewed chill.  With a sigh he began to tend his hair, absentmindedly fingering small sections and rolling them between his palms, from his scalp to the very tips.  He did this until all of his hair was more or less neatly controlled in a thick series of twisted locks that fell to his shoulders.  This would be the twelfth winter of his exile, and his hair had grown quickly.  Too proud to cut it back yet needing some way to confine it, this had been the only method he could think of.  He had to admit, this style, if so such a raggy and matted head of locks could be called, was certainly faster and easier to manage than the intricate braids of his warrior's rank.  Dressed again in the soft and warm leather garments, he prepared for his daily routine, his solitary morning patrol.

He frowned, distracted as he thought about this day.  A dozen years was a short amount of time to elf kind, yet he had become acutely aware of each moon's passing since the critical day he had lost his identity and been encumbered with this other, shameful one.  'Egol, edledhron, ar noss-dagnir,' [Forsaken one, exiled elf, and kin-slayer] he thought bitterly, and remembered the battle again.  A falling stone, a misspent arrow, and four lives lost.

This was the Edinor Ned Baudh [Anniversary Day of the Judgement] and the twelfth year held extra significance as a marker: one sixth of the sentence had past, apparently without any resolution for the lost warriors.  He really had had no idea what to expect or what was expected of him.  No one had bothered to suggest exactly what the Tess Leithadin [Tasks of Release] were or how he was to know if he was successful in completing them.

He distinctly remembered that the families had to make a formal declaration to the Council of Elders when they knew their loved one had entered Mandos' Halls.  Legolas realised this knowledge would come to them in their dreamscapes, where this final communication between the lost ones and their kin would be heard, or rather felt.  However, he was somewhat at a loss as to how he would learn of it, or if the families would even make such a declaration to the Council if they did know.

It had occurred to him that they probably would much prefer it if he simply died in the attempt to complete these tasks, and then they would not need to be troubled about any of it any longer.

The first few years of internal exile had been horrible.  Whenever he had been required to return to the city to work alongside Fearfaron; the elves had steadfastly refused to acknowledge him in any way, averting their gazes and changing direction to avoid crossing his path.  He had thought this was a good thing at first, for he had feared to face their insults and slurs.  As time passed, he found the ostracism far worse; it was as though he was something so horrible that his people could not even bear to admit to his existence.   Fearfaron was visibly pained by every word and look he had to extend to Legolas, and usually dismissed him before even a full day's labor was done.

Of course, this may also have been due to the fact that Legolas was hopelessly uncoordinated when it came to the working of wood with tools.  Many were the careworn and frustrated sighs the talon-builder breathed as he was forced to redo nearly every part of a given construction he assigned to the archer.  Finally, he relegated Legolas to fetching and carrying and only the most basic of shaping with hand tools.  He had been able to teach the former warrior how to select usable pieces from among the fallen limbs, logs, and branches within the vast forest and considered that an achievement.  He now only required Legolas to submit himself for duty on a monthly basis, having told the fallen warrior he considered it more important for him to work on the completion of the task for his son's release.

Each day Legolas spent in the city also meant a night enduring the torment of Ailinyéro and his chastisement.  He shuddered, considering how this, too, had evolved over the elapsed time.  Ailinyéro's preferred method of punishment was scourging; specifically watching Legolas do the scourging himself while Ailinyéro shouted all manner of foul curses and insults.  If Legolas didnot put enough effort into the self-inflicted whippings, Ailinyéro would smear a handful of coarse salt into the fresh lashes on the elf's back and sides.  Sometimes, he did so no matter how hard Legolas applied the five-tongued whip.

After a few months, the elf had begun pleasuring himself as he watched, and Legolas had vomited at this sick fascination with inflicting pain.  That had elicited a severe beating with a piece of chain, and the episodes had become progressively more grotesque thereafter.  He shivered again, realizing he would not be able to forgo entering into the city on this day, and dreaded to think what his tormenter had planned for him that night.

Legolas mentally shook himself to dispel the disturbing images and reached into his pack, drawing out the feathers he had just received. Carefully he threaded one into a slim side-lock near his face so that it fell to the line of his jaw and lightly brushed against him there.  The second he inserted into the leather binding at the top of his bow, attaching it to a strip of leather he loosened and retied so that the feather fluttered freely as he moved the bow, resettling it over his shoulder.

The gifts of Tawar [Great Forest] and Thôr [Eagle] were not lightly granted and he reclaimed the new definition bestowed upon him with a warm surge of pride.  Around his bizarre schedule of humiliation he had formulated a plan for completing the Tess Leithadin. Now, the importance of what he was doing was deepened by the addition of a new sense of responsibility.

Swiftly he climbed up into the high canopy, swaying with the sylvan swells as he looked out from his perch over the green sea.   The Tasks, he considered, could be more than a way to find a clean death for himself, as Malthen had counseled all those years ago.  Somewhere, within the dozen idhrinn [years] past, he had become more interested in the Greenwood and its life, and more disgusted with the growing darkness and boldness of the foul and evil things that blanketed and smothered the vibrancy of its natural splendor.

In his old life he had fought, as had all the warriors, for the defense of the Woodland Realm, for his people, and for his father, leaving Tawar to fend for itself.  The neglect showed.  How had Tawar become merely the background over which his life was painted, rather than the masterpiece upon which his small existence was as a tiny brush-stroke?  Tawar had been here so long, far longer than any of the eldalie had lived. Surely, Yavanna herself had planted them here and, thinking this, he was overwhelmed with the sense of what the trees had borne witness to over the Ages.

For the first time, Legolas felt a sense of affiliation with the elusive Vala who seemed so distant, watching coldly as the lands suffered under the black will of the one never named. The next instant the link dissolved to be replaced with anger.  How could she abandon Tawar so easily? Legolas decided he would stand against the Darkness infecting the Greenwood and threatening all that depended on it.  His life would be about more than completing a sentence.  If he was to die completing these Tasks, then let it be for more than the three lost warriors or his own redemption. He welcomed his new name and title: Tirn-en-Tawar.  [The Watcher of the Great Wood]

With a smile, rare even in his previous role as prince, he descended again into the sturdier arms of the beeches, the highway of the elves, and moved noiselessly towards his first chore of the day.  Having had no real notion of exactly what might constitute a Task of Release, he had opted for the obvious: to kill as many orcs as possible, decimate the spiders' lairs, and hunt down the ravaging packs of wargs.  He had quickly realized the futility of one elf undertaking to achieve such goals.  After all, how many of the creatures could he hope to kill?  Even if he were able to kill every one of them in the Greenwood a fresh supply was ready at hand from the dark tower of Dol Guldur or from the Misty Mountains.  Thus, he had to result to subterfuge, fire, and a large network of traps, for which he set himself as the bait.

For orcs, this was simple enough and not even too dangerous, he soon found to his surprise.  It had taken a great deal of time, but he had dug a series of deep pits at various locations near the forest's borders and the thin strip of wasteland separating it from the mountains to the west.  Even before he had finished this stage he had drawn the attention of several small bands of curious orcs.  Perhaps it was the totality of his isolation that heightened his senses, or made him more attuned to the warnings of the living extensions of Tawar, great and small.  Perhaps both were true.  In any case, he found he always knew when they were nearing his position.  Leaping up into the trees long before they came upon him and shooting them down as they inspected his work was truly almost effortless.

Of greater note, he had attracted the attention of the King's border patrols as well.  Often he was aware of their presence, watching him from a distance but never approaching.  He knew from signs the next day that they had inspected his efforts.  He decided they were silently and covertly assisting him, not in the construction of the pits but in concentrating their vigilance in his vicinity to lessen the chances of orcs attacking him unhindered.  He finally determined they did this because they had accepted his plans as a part of the Tasks, and had found a way to assist within the boundaries of the Law.  They were warriors and wanted to know their brothers in arms were no longer Wandering.

Once completed, he had lined the sides and bottom of each pit with sharpened and fire-hardened pikes of wood. Later, after a few successful runs through the traps, he had replaced those with the knives and scimitars of the vile creatures he killed.  Carefully he had woven over the openings a web of slender branches and over this replaced the turf and leafy litter of the forest floor.  While the effect would never deceive an elf, the limited powers of observation of an orc were more than fooled.

It was not hard to entice the despicable vermin to give chase, all he had to do was show himself briefly and take off just above them through the branches.  They could never resist the temptation of one lone elf in the trees, and thundered wildly and blindly wherever he led them. His speed had turned out to be a deficit to this particular sport, and he had to slow his pace so as not to lose them.

This proved to be the most dangerous aspect of the undertaking, for the need to let them keep him in their sites meant he was also within range of their arrows.  Usually their aim was wide of the mark, but he had occasionally been hit.  Once he had nearly been knocked from the trees to join them in the traps by the force of the arrow blow.  At such times he had abandoned the kill and climbed high into the canopy to make good his escape.

For the most part, however, the orcs fell victim either to the pits themselves or his deadly aim as he picked them off efficiently from above.  Those few that attempted to retreat, seeing their comrades fall, he chased and shot down quickly.  Few ever escaped to tell the tale to the others that came to replace them.  Slowly he had been able to drive them further and further to the south, until now none came north of the elf path.  Yet he felt no advance had truly been made against them, and he had only succeeded in concentrating them in a different area.

Wargs could not be trapped thus, not could he hunt them alone.  They had neither fear of nor blood lust for elves, unless driven by Orc handlers, and would merely avoid him if they learned of his presence.  Their goals were more basic, seeking to hunt for sustenance, and always went in packs.  For these he had to be content to lie in wait at watering holes and shoot them from the safety of the trees.

As with the Orcs, he despaired of any way to make a significant impact on their numbers.  He could not get to them in their dens and destroy the young ones; these locations were too carefully hidden and guarded well.  The hunting parties that issued forth in the night were small, ten at the most, yet more than one elf could kill; no matter how fast he could draw and shoot.  They fled into the shadows at the first hit, separating to confuse his pursuit.  He never got an entire pack on the hunt, and never got close to a den.  The wargs multiplied in nearly inverse proportion to the numbers he killed.

The spiders were a much more difficult affair.  He took far greater risks with them, for they worked in concord and with a greater and more malevolent intelligence than the orcs or even the wargs.  They were immune to traps, being masters of constructing them, and were as at home in the heights as was he.  They could feel him coming through the miniscule vibrations his hands and feet made as he passed through the canopy, and more than once had to fight his way desperately out of their webs and ambushes.  He had summoned all of his intellect trying to devise some way to attack them with more than one or two arrows at a time, for even his speed was insufficient to elude them if he remained long enough to take more than two shots.

A summer thunderstorm had finally given him the answer.  A gleaming streak of lightening had struck a tree infested with spiders' nests and in an instant the sticky ropes had blazed away in a pungent flare of golden heat.  He watched in sorrow as the tree died from the shock of the lightening, not from fire for the flames had not neither time nor enough heat to survive the downpour.

He commenced to fire his arrows into the webs and nests alight with flame.  It was a trick he could only use in the spring, when the trees were wet with rising sap and rains came daily in the afternoon.  He had learned to concentrate on the egg sacs, and to heat the tips of his arrows to white rather than shoot them aflame.  To do this he had to carry a small brazier and bellows with him, which was cumbersome in the branches.  However, the method prevented igniting the whole tree containing the nests and having lost two he was determined never to cause another such casualty.

The first time he had set alight the egg sacks in a large nest of seven adults, the beasts had hunted him for three weeks in rage.  All of those he had killed but two and thereafter he never slept in the same tree twice.

The spiders recognized him as their bane and were always watching and feeling the trees for his approach.  He had learned to recognize their nasty snapping and clicking calls and they had one devoted just to him, and he was smugly pleased.  He was sure the name they had for him was particularly disgusting.  Despite the greater challenge involved, he had seen far greater success than with the orcs and wargs.  By eliminating the egg sacs he removed the replacements before they could be born, and steadily the numbers of arachnids began to diminish.

Legolas slowed his advance and listened carefully as he neared the border along the wilderland near the Old Ford.  He had recently come to a decision concerning the Tasks.  After long and deliberate consideration, he had concluded that clearing the beasts from the northern borders of the Woodland Realm was a Task, and he had accomplished it alone, in accordance with the sentence.  Maintaining the new status quo, however, was beyond his ability if he was to drive the creatures any further and get on with the other Tasks.  He would need help, and had determined to make contact with Beorn, if possible, and ask his assistance.

He knew that the shape-shifter would not encroach on Thranduil's Realm in the capacity of a guardian or defender, but he would not, he hoped, be reluctant to make contact with the border patrols and pass along information.  Likewise he would be willing to speak with the woodsmen in the central forest.  Legolas had carefully made a map of all the trap locations and hoped that the patrol and the woodsmen would have the foresight to spend the effort needed to keep them up and utilize them effectively.  He also had detailed instructions for the elven guard on igniting the spiders' lairs.  This activity he would trust to no Man, and was certain that Beorn would give this information only to Thranduil's folk, cognisant of the grave danger Tawar would be under if not handled properly.

Hesitating in the shadowy protection of the forest, the fallen archer gazed out over moor and mead.  The exact location of Beorn's enclave could not be seen, hidden in a bowl surrounded by a small growth of pencil pines.  The meadow was bright and sunbeams lit the multiple colors of brown and gold adorning seeded grasses and shrubs heavily burdened with berries in crimson and purple.  Legolas was uncomfortable this close to the open plains; little had he ventured without the cover of the trees and never alone on foot.  The last time he had left Tawar had been a horrendous experience to say the least.  It would be a blessing indeed to have one of Thranduil's horses for this part of the journey.

No sooner had the thought appeared than he became aware of movement far out on the plains; a party of Men, riders on horse, breached the horizon moving in the direction of the shape-shifter's domain.  He sighed, it would not do to conduct his business among outsiders, and he had never had dealings with humans directly.  About to turn away, a familiar silhouette caught his eye and as he watched the figure moved off from the group, turning his horse towards the forest and his position.  He decided to wait for a bit in the eaves of the trees.

The sun had passed its zenith by the time the lone ride had drawn nearer to the Greenwood.

"Mithrandir," he voiced quietly from his seat midway up the myrtle tree a scant few hundred yards into the body of the forest proper.

The wizard stopped, not really startled so much as uncertain where to look to return the greeting, for Legolas was fully obscured within the foliage.  He was scanning the trees carefully in the general direction of the sound when a small laugh guided him better and he finally caught sight of the former prince.  The old wizard's eyes widened just slightly as he observed the altered appearance of the sylvan elf.  Legolas looked fey and dangerous.

"What business do you have in the Woodland Realm that calls you from your traveling companions?" the elf continued.

"It seemed a good day to come by and see how Mirkwood fares in these times," the reply came with a turn of the lips more reminiscent of a frown than anything else.  "Will you not come down and spare me a strained neck?"  Legolas did climb lower so that he was only slightly above the rider's eye level, but remained in the trees peering into the Istar's care-worn face.

"Mirkwood!  That is a horrible name to say here right in the Greenwood!  Tawar hates the naming the Men use!" the Wood Elf's tone was indignant.

Gandalf raised his brows slightly at the unusual reference to the forest.  Tawar was not a term even the oldest descendants of the Green Elves of Ossiriand would still use as a formal title for the forest.

"It is sadly a more accurate word these days, Legolas, whether it suits the forest to hear it or not!"  The elf did not respond and looked away, absently patting the bark of the trunk at his back, almost, thought Gandalf, the way one might caress the neck of a nervous horse to calm it.  "You must admit the woods are filled with more creatures of evil and shadow than even ten years ago," he continued.  Still Legolas did not respond and Gandalf realized he had suddenly tensed and was listening no longer to his words.

"We should move deeper into the woods now, the patrol approaches," the elf finally said and began to climb through the branches rapidly.

"Wait!  I should like to have the guard to guide me in, if you do not mind!"

"Well I should not and I do mind!  If you are here to see Thranduil, then go with the guard!"  Legolas called back and did not slow down.

Gandalf sighed and hurried after the retreating elf, not certain how the immortal had known he was not in the wood on official business.  He finally caught up where Legolas waited for him and as the horse drew near the elf jumped lithely down onto its back behind the wizard.

"Let loose the reins, Mithrandir; he knows where to go," the elf said and only smiled when Gandalf looked skeptically back over his shoulder.  He complied, however, and indeed the horse did not hesitate on its path, which to the wizard's eyes seemed not to exist at all.

They progressed this way in silence and Gandalf was uncomfortably aware of the intense scrutiny the elf was giving him from behind.  The feral Elda's hands rested lightly on his waist and he seemed to be reading Gandalf's mood from this contact.  The wizard shifted slightly.

"You are concerned to be with me?" the elf asked finally, but without rancor. 

"I admit your personality is more intense than my memory informed me," Gandalf shrugged as he spoke.  "You seem much changed."

"Well, you hardly knew me before, Mithrandir, so how can you judge that?" the elf asked with amusement and just a hint of sorrow in his words.  "And since the last time you saw me I was half-dead I suppose any change must be an improvement!"

"True.  However, you comprehend my meaning, and that is not it," said Gandalf sternly.

The horse had moved into a small clearing where a clear, shallow stream crossed the small opening in the canopy and immediately dropped its head to the lush rarity of thick emerald blades. The afternoon sun glinted brightly on the tumbling water and green mossy banks and Legolas jumped down onto the springy terrain.

He sat next to the water and glanced back, waiting for the wizard to join him.  He did not want to discuss any of these changes the wizard spoke of and had no intention of bringing up the Judgement.  The significance of Mithrandir showing up on this exact day was not lost on his reasoning and he waited.

Gandalf dismounted and removed his saddlebag, then loosened the girth on the saddle and fondly slapped the animal's neck before joining the elf by the brook.  With a weary grunt he folded himself onto the ground and dug his pipe out of his pack.  As he filled and lit it, puffing briskly to set the flame, he critically surveyed Legolas again, taking in the roughly made garments and the uniquely twisted locks complete with a magnificent eagle's feather.  The wizard instinctively reached out to touch it and the elf drew back quickly in alarm, then stilled and flushed at revealing his nervousness.  Gandalf dropped his hand and decided not to comment, concentrating a few moments on blowing smoke rings, a trick that often distracted those who might find him intimidating.  He waited until the elf's countenance resumed its normal hue before reinitiating the conversation.

"The changes in the forest, Legolas, this is something serious.  I have heard reports from the woodsmen and from the beornings that the creatures are on the move, becoming concentrated in the central part of the Greenwood.  You are pushing them from the north, and their masters drive them relentlessly from the south.  The woodsmen are caught in the middle," he finally stated.

Legolas could not help but show his astonishment.  He did not think anyone was aware of what he was doing except for a few of the elves in the border patrols.

"I did not know this!  That is, everyone suspects that orcs are using Dol Guldur as some sort of fortress, but I was not certain they were anything but alone there.  Who are these masters you speak of?" he spoke not of his own part in the situation and Gandalf of course noticed.

"It is difficult to be sure," he continued slowly and sent an appraising glance into the young elf's eyes.  Seemingly satisfied, he shook his head a little and puffed a few times.  "The consensus seems to be that they are Wraiths, servants of the Dark One, or even that foul emanation himself!" he continued.  "There has been much debate as late but little progress towards a solution to this threat."

Legolas sucked in his breath on hearing this.  Mithrandir's tone transmitted his disapproval of the lack of action these deliberations had produced, and Legolas could only guess this was business of the White Council. That the wizard would choose to mention any of it to him was unexpected.

"It is sometimes useful to have the ear of an objective party, one unlikely to converse of such confidences among peers," the words sounded and felt as if in answer to the elf's thoughts and Legolas laughed brusquely.

"Yes, and finding an objective listener with no peers to communicate with is even better!"  He responded with just a soft edge of bitterness and a wry smile.  "I would know what your counsel would be on dealing with such an enemy.  I am committed to the protection of Tawar; this news is unacceptable to me!"

"Wraiths are not of a substantial nature to slay with sword or bow; they cannot maintain a solid physical form as the Dark One can" Gandalf began, nodding thoughtfully in concurrence with the vehemence in the warrior's words.  "And they are protected from the effects of my own spells, as far as I have been able to determine."

Legolas brows rose in amazement at this admission, but he said nothing and the wizard continued.

"They command through terror and wield a black power through their link to their Dark Master.  I am convinced they are behind the rapid increase in both the numbers of orcs and the more consolidated attacks they make.  Their bands and hordes strike with a greater finesse regarding vulnerable locations than the creatures themselves have ever had before," his words were not encouraging and Legolas felt his dismay.

"I do not understand; what are these Wraiths, exactly, and how is this link with the Dark One achieved?" the elf queried.  Again Gandalf sent him that appraising look before answering.

"It is not wise to discuss this so openly; even here so deep in the forest I cannot be certain my movements are unknown, for we are on the very doorstep of Dol Guldur," he said.  "However, I cannot hope to make any further progress without some clandestine assistance.  To be successful, you will need to be as well informed as I can make you."

These words drew a startled utterance from Legolas' lips, but the wizard help up his hand and continued.

"The Wraiths are enslaved by the Dark One, and you should know at least of the Witch King of Angmar, though it is not he but others from among his eight companions.  Once these were Men, but exist now only in the power of the Shadow, between death and life.  Lured by their lust for power, they accepted the offer of rings of power from their subtle Master in the last Age.  As long as the rings bind them, they cannot be struck down by weapon or wizardry."

"You speak of Nazgul," Legolas whispered; at last he understood what he would be dealing with. "For as such are they known here.  How can we hope to make any mark against such foul abominations?  What is it you think I can do?"

Gandalf smiled; pleased his assessment of the elf proved true; he had accepted his recruitment without hesitation once the shock had worn off.

"I am not exactly certain; I was hoping you might have some ideas of your own," he replied.

The elf straightened up to gaze at his companion incredulously.  Ideas of my own?  If the wizard has none, how am I to find a solution?   He shook his head, staring into the sun-speckled flow of the stream as he considered it.  Un-beings! He shuddered slightly.  Bound by Rings of Power, untouchable under the protection of the barrier between the Shadows and the Light.  He looked back at Gandalf and shook his head.

"How can I answer you?  I am only a Wood Elf, Mithrandir; I would rid Tawar of this unwholesome disease, but know not how to combat such things," he finally replied in discouragement. 

The wizard was not displeased, however, and only smiled.

"I did not say you would have these ideas immediately!  Your rather ingenious methods have proved effective thus far.  You have a knack for careful assessment and keen observation, and your unnatural solitude has forced some clever inspiration and inventiveness. These qualities I would have you bring to bear upon the source of the troubles you seek to dispel." he countered, and rose with a groan as he unbent his stiff knees.

"The light goes quickly now, and I intend to make use of my usual quarters in Thranduil's halls.  Will you guide me there?  I have no earthly idea where you have let my horse bring me," he said.

Legolas rose as well.  With Gandalf's words, he remembered the original chore embarked upon in the morning, and reached into his pack for the documents he had prepared.

"Of course. I am required to be in the city before tinnu [dusk] today," he replied.  "And if I might claim a favor in return, these are maps and instructions concerning those 'ingenious methods' you alluded to," he held out the parcel to the wizard.  "I had planned to ask Beorn to get this information to the patrols and to the woodsmen, but perhaps you would be able to do so more quickly, as you are already here," he concluded and Gandalf nodded, accepting the documents without comment.

Legolas turned and spoke for the horse to come; standing back as Gandalf tightened the girth of the saddle again before mounting up.  The wizard held out a hand to the elf that grasped it and sprang lightly behind him again, speaking softly to the horse of their destination as he did so.  The Istar did not bother to take up the reins, trusting his companion's rapport with the animal to steer them most efficiently on their course.

TBC

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