A Peculiar Fellowship

Part Eleven

A/N: Tada! Please let me know what you would like to see happen next, and feel free to discuss any theories you have! I would love to hear them!

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All around them, the forest creaked and groaned. The wind which whispered through the branches of the trees spoke of dark things, in a tongue that could not be understood. Darkness assailed therein, hiding the four hunters from any semblance of daylight's touch, and the very air around them cloyed thick and heavy in their lungs.

Gimli swiped at some dark, viscous substance splattered across the low-hanging leaves of some nearby foliage and brought it to his tongue. Dwarves always did investigate with their more tactile senses.

Just as quickly as he tasted it, it passed his lips once more as he spat in disdain.

"Orc blood."

Legolas and Laradel followed Aragorn over a small stream, little more than a crevice in the earth, as the ranger tracked the path of their two Hobbit friends.

Moments later, Aragorn paused, crouching low to more closely examine the earth.

"These are strange tracks," he murmured. When he did not immediately offer some explanation to the others, they began to search for signs of their own, to give him some time to ponder over what he had found.

Laradel surveyed the immediate area, searching for movement amongst the dark trees. She searched deep within herself, hoping to tap into those Elvish senses which Aragorn always called upon Legolas to use in scouting ahead for them.

What slight movements could her keen ears hear? What out of place shadows might her eyes detect?

"The air is so close in here," Gimli remarked.

Laradel did not disagree. The heaviness of the forest crept into her lungs, not so badly as that of Mirkwood, perhaps, but she could tell that Fangorn was similarly ancient, if not more so. The air of Mirkwood brought with it magic and illusion, and a lost sense of self, to those who were not naturally inclined to its power. The air of Fangorn concealed beneath it a sharp bite of... malice.

"This forest is old," said Legolas. "Very old... Full of memory... and anger."

His words ought to have unsettled Laradel, and yet she found that they did not. All Dwarvish sensibility would say that any forest that had the capacity to remember bore ill news indeed. But perhaps some Elvishness had begun to shine through in her at last.

At that very moment, a deep groan echoed through the woods, like the creaking of the ancient oak gates of a fortress. It rose in volume as a breeze picked up in the branches overhead.

"The trees are speaking to each other," Legolas said, setting an odd feeling in Laradel's bones.

"Gimli!" Aragorn whispered sharply, drawing Laradel's attention to her friend at last.

He held his ax high, as if readying to wield it.

"Lower your ax," Aragorn ordered.

The moment he did, the voices of the trees calmed.

"They have feelings, my friend," said Legolas.

Laradel found herself intrigued by the notion. She knew of course that all Elves cared for nature in some way: celebrating the stars, hunting with kindness and respect, and other such appreciations. Wood Elves, of course, cared deeply for the forests where they made their homes, but Laradel had never had the time to learn the intricacies of their customs, having been occupied with learning all that she ought to already have known at her age.