ties of blood [legolas]

[nimithil]

The patrols grew more dangerous by the month now, as the shadows which fell long and black across the wood drew closer to the great gates of the Elvenking's halls. The whispering of the trees grew more menacing of late, and the elves of Greenwood shied in fear from the land which had, so short a time ago, been the brightest light of their lives. But who could blame the Greenwood for its slowly growing hostility, even to the people who had tended it? The trees had been abandoned, and inhabited by new creatures: creatures born of the dark depths of Arda: Spiders of Ungoliant and the Orcs of Melkor. Yet the elves of Eryn Lasgalen had not forsaken their home. Some fought out of love for the land, and others simply at the whim of Thranduil Oropherion – but fight they did.

And of those who fought still, the sons of the Elvenking were the foremost: trained in combat from youth, and taught command as was right for their line, the three sons bore rank of power within the Guard of Greenwood, according to their age. But some of them would not have it be so, were the choice their own.

Nimithil, son of Thranduil, son of Oropher, stood alone, beyond the boundaries of his father's land. He was exhausted – and it read on his face: the shadowed eyes, and the hopelessness in the line of his lips. He was not his father's son: this battle? He could not fight it. The forests were dead, and his father's mad fight for control over a land already tainted beyond belief seemed hopeless to the middle son. Only that day the patrol he had led towards Dol Guldor had run into ambush – the forces of Sauron swarming from the trees. And Nim? Nim had fought, as best he could, and those who ambushed his scouts had fallen like flies. It was victory. But, it was victory at a cost.

The elven prince was tired of fighting a lost battle – and risking the lives of his people. Today had been carnage, almost claiming the lives of two of his more youthful soldiers. These woods were no longer worth the war Thranduil waged. Surely the art of the elves could be turned with more worth to healing? To fixing the holes torn by Sauron's shadows... and yet, his dedication to his father saw the young prince fighting day in, and day out, for a lost cause. And now he stood, tormented as ever, in the forest, searching for some glimpse of the stars in the tangled overgrowth of the Greenwood. He could not return to the Elvenking's halls tonight: not with his thoughts so troubled, and with his arm, broken and mangled as it was. He would not be seen as weak before his father – not when he already failed to earn the elf's acceptance. No, he would bide his time, and enter the Elfhome of Mirkwood only once he could wear the stern, flawless stature his father demanded.

[legolas]

It hadn't taken long at all for the grim atmosphere of the forests to travel through the cities of Mirkwood. Even in the most prosperous parts of the realm, the most festive halls of the Elvenking, there was still a somber shadow that dwelled about the minds and spirits of the elves. Most were concerned, humbled, willing to stand their ground but at the same time, not blind to the hopelessness of their cause. Some were addled greater than others -a certain ruler in example, who refused to give up control that wasn't even there regardless of its consequences; others were others were less bothered, move on, save what we can- Legolas knew his brother Nimithil fell better into that category. Himself, personally, he rested in the middle, with the iron willed resolve of his father and the compassion of his brother, and a brand of hope that they could save both his people and his homeland that was all his own.

The patrol had returned. The next one had been sent out. An hour had passed. And yet, there was still no sign of Thranduil's second son. Legolas had been the first one to begin asking about the young prince, first to a few in the royal halls who knew nothing of his whereabouts and then to the elves had accompanied him, who expected that he should have returned long before as he traveled with them back and looked 'in well enough shape'. Of course, that was all Legolas needed to hear to have him leaving the grounds in search of his brother, quite irritated with the other elves. He was not, exactly, concerned that some harm may have befallen the prince. He was, instead, quite accustomed to this 'reflective' behavior, and was more worried about what could happen to him, out of his own, and what would happen, were they to be called somewhere and Nimithil not present. Though it was of little concern to him he knew his brother did not like disappointing.

Legolas knew it not wise to ask the trees in assistance finding his brother and so he relied on his own senses and tracking ability, and knowledge of were it another time and place, where the middle prince would have most enjoyed being. He gave little recognization but a frown when he noted that he was going well past Mirkwood's traditional boundaries and deep into the wood. As was not unusual for him, this helpful antic had quite the ability to turn to into disaster (he'd prepared for nothing, simply jut walked), and there was not the time or place for that, refreshing and willing as it would have been for the two to find each other in the thick of trouble, and end up walking home a mess, but laughing about it.

Finally, he caught glimpse of the familiar blond figure. He allowed himself a few steps closer, alerting his brother to his presence what he hoped was gently. "This isn't the place to be wandering. You told me that."he noted. There was no chastising in the tone, just a bit of humor and concern. "You didn't come back with the others. We were...worried."He would only pretend he thought he had the right to speak for those other than himself. He looked over the older elf, trying to gauge a reading on whether or not he was okay, and in what ways. This crusade was costing more than bodies and more than land. There was a sadness in Nim's eyes and a melancholy that even Legolas' light spirit could not ignore and he hated it. There was little else he could say. His eyes lingered over his brother's arm. "You're injured." he frowned, examining it further. He sighed, but it was not grave, at least. Again, he tried to lighten the hanging shadows with a small smile. "You can't do that, Nim. My healing skills aren't half of what yours are."