To Live Again: The Road to War {Lord of the Rings Fanfiction}|

2. Poison

The night air is deathly still and uncharacteristically cold for this time of year. The quietness is unnerving, because I have become accustomed to the natural and ever-changing sounds of the woods. Their absence makes me uneasy, the lack of life make me suspicious; and on this outer eastern fringe I feel very much disconnected from what I know as home. This is not normal, something has taken root in my beloved sanctuary and it spreads it's ill will through the forest like poison through a vein.

I slip off Sirdal's back, and quietly stroke the neck of the now still horse. He is usually an energetic and unpredictable beast, but in this strange environment he is passive and cautious. It is not often Thranduil would trust me to control Sirdal, but this mission requires speed and stealth, so there was no other horse in the stables he would entrust my safety to. I will admit, it has been a struggle to keep up with this animal's powerful movements and untouchable swiftness, but I have managed thus far, unscathed. Although I am greatly fatigued, I almost feel drowsy in this suffocating yet chilling atmosphere. Sirdal, sensing this, plods quietly by my side, allowing me to lean against his shoulder as we make our way gently through the woods.

I have went against orders, as I tend to, and declined to take rest at the hastily made camp tonight. Mostly because I cannot find peace, every time I close my eyes, I am plagued with nonsensical nightmares. The reason I am overtired and overstressed, is that I could be experiencing the ill effect of the poisoned wood, which I have definitely concluded is the most logical explanation, for when we came closer to the outlying homes of the ordinary civilians, there was a rise in the number of ill. As predicted all were quite young- for elves -with still sensitive and developing faes. These victims have all explored the area of wood that we have now arrived at, thus seconding my argument. This illness was not a poison or a contagion; it was brought about by the wood itself. Our home is hurting us, but not out of it's own will.

I am now more determined than ever to find the source and snuff it out before it can really take hold. It is too soon, Greenwood will not fall into darkness, not for as long as I can withhold it. Although I doubt I have the ability to do that, I am not gifted in elven lore or ability. Yes, I have quite the stubborn little spirit, that has fought very hard to stay alive more than once. I understand how it works in relation to healing, my very strong light reaches into the darkest of places, according to Calanon, but to heal the woods... well, that is a different story! For that, I feel I need assistance, and I can only hope some is received.

As we venture further into thickly blanketed portions of wood, I note how the moss grows thicker, choking the trees shielding them from any source of light. Limbs droop and lean lethargically into one another, like a great weight is laid upon them. Nothing blooms and nothing stirs under the gloomy silence, this is not natural for the wood at all. I halt Sirdal and lean down to inspect a rotting mass of what were once glorious lush ferns. The leaves practically melt to sludge in my hands, and with a disgusted sigh, I drop the dead foliage. The ground is sodden and cold, no warmth emanates from this dying world. I try to listen to the voices of the trees, but when I do I clamp my hands over my ears and shake my head violently. They are screaming in agony, long wailing lamentations and cries of protest at the very presence of my too bright fae. I am hurting them by being here, and I never stopped to consider this? Suddenly, a plan of restoration seems like a childish notion. Why did I think we could do this? If it was that easy, then Greenwood would have never fallen into darkness, the elves could have stopped it just by existing! Ugh, what was I thinking?

"Negativity did not win any wars Clara!"

The voice makes me snap my head up and I immediately come into standing. I draw my bow and notch an arrow out of instinct to protect myself. The voice chuckles playfully and my keen eyes dart around the expanse of wood effortlessly. I catalogue the environment into what may pose a threat and what is deemed as safe. Mercifully, no other threat is found except a glimmering golden light in the oppressive gloom.