A/N: Dear reader – Though I am a lifelong lover of Tolkien's world, I am not an expert. I have also taken some liberties, which I hope you will forgive. I have invented the author of this journal, Eren, and many other things for entertainment's sake. Thank you for reading, and I hope you can find enjoyment in my interpretation of these crazy elves.

THE ELVENKING'S SCRIBE

Correspondence to Mr. B. Surrey

Academiae Hall, Old Minas Tirith, Gondor

Dear Cousin,

Last week as myself and my brother were plowing a new field just south of the Green Woods, we found some records encased in a box buried in the side of a hill. Most were broken beyond comprehension, but this one seems to be mostly intact. It's written in the old elvish language I can't read, so I assumed you'd be able to do something better with it. It looks like it should be in a museum. What do you think? Let me know if it's of use.

Warm Regards,

T. Brown

Wiltshire, Green Woods, Rhovanion

-ooOOoo-

Entry One:

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Eren and I am the scribe of Thranduil, Elvenking of the Greenwood, or Mirkwood, or even the Dark Wood some might call it, the one or the other or the third, depending on what this wood might do to you. But that isn't a satisfactory introduction; allow me to revise.

My name is Eren, and it is pronounced with a tapped "r", not a hard "r" like the Northron men would have it mangled. The skies know my sister has had it bad enough with mispronunciations. Indeed I have a sister, but let me start again.

My name is Eren, and I am a daughter of Elrond of Rivendell, half-elven, which makes me three-quarters elven if one believes that everything is so cut and dry. It was in Rivendell and by my father that I was trained and learned the manners, skills, and eloquence with which I was to navigate my life. It was also there that my tutors discovered I had a unique ability with scribing, in fact I possess the ability to write dictation far faster than any other elf in Rivendell. Perhaps I am also able to do so more beautifully than any other elf, but one would have to ask after my skills elsewhere, for I desire not to cross over into boasting.

At this, the reader might ask: how did I, someone who hailed from such a beautiful, peaceful land, and not being an elf of low birth, come to be the scribe to the Elvenking who reigned over the most cursed forest in the East? If I hadn't lived it I wouldn't have believed it, but in the following account I will try to describe the course of events which led to my fate.

Misfortune began one morning when my father emerged from a meeting with Celeborn of Lothlorien possessing new ideas of the sort which makes an elf think things which he had previously not considered. I should have known when he came into the room wherein Arwen and I were peacefully breakfasting that something was on the cusp of change; he had that look about him, the one in which one's layers don't seem to all line up, wherein one is caught in between settling on this or that, and in which one's previous notions might have been brought into questionable bas-relief, rife for sanding away.

"Eren," he said, his pronunciation always perfect, which I appreciated.

"Good morning, Father," said Arwen, ever perfect, which I didn't appreciate as much.

"Yes, Father?" I inquired.

He came and sat with us, which was not usual.

"I've just come from a meeting with Celeborn," he said, as if in a spirit of confidence for some reason, though we already knew it.

"Oh, how is Lothlorien?" asked Arwen.

"Have you?" I asked, prodding for more, attempting to bypass Arwen's tiresome query.

"Indeed," replied my father, also bypassing Arwen. "There is a particular… situation… happening in the Greenwood."

"You mean besides the mad Sindarin king of the Sylvan nation?" I asked.

"He's not mad," was my father's immediate, perhaps knee-jerk, response.

"Isn't he?" I asked, consciously failing to hide my doubt.

"Eccentric, perhaps," he went on, ceding a bit. "But I've been assured he's lucid. At the very least, I believe him to be lucid."

I glanced at Arwen, who looked like she very much wanted to avoid discussing the possibility of an elf out of his mind.

"Yes, and what is the 'situation in the Greenwood' of which you speak?" I queried politely.

"He…," began my father, who, in a moment of unlike-himself-ness, seemed rather hesitant to go on. "He seems to be in need of a scribe."

I very badly wanted to laugh, but I didn't, of course.

"And that is a 'situation'?" I asked.

My father tapped the tips of his fingers on the table, as if there was more he was trying to get out. I decided to wait for it. He glanced at me, and then he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers together and made that face. Oh, that face, that face… it always meant awful things.

"Oh… no," I said, lacking eloquence.

"Eren," he said, addressing me more formally, as if that would make it any better. "There is no scribe more skilled than you."

"Yes, but there are plenty of scribes skilled enough," I objected.

"I want you there to … keep an eye on the king," he said, still utterly calm, and still making that face.

"That forest is full of spiders," I resisted.

"He's an isolationist, Eren, but Lothlorien and Rivendell need to know what happens in the Greenwood. There are troublesome forces which we suspect to be at work, yet we cannot know without his cooperation. As his scribe you will know everything, everything that happens in the kingdom."

"Are you aware of how big those spiders are?" I asked, grasping for excuses.

"And due to your undeniable skill," he went on, ignoring my protests, "he will not deny you, despite who you are."

I will admit to feeling a flash of indignation.

"What issue could he possibly have with who I am?" I asked.

"You're my daughter," he replied.

"Which is exactly why he should feel honored to have me as his scribe."

"What one expects is generally not what one receives from the king of the Greenwood elves," said my father, looking cryptic.

"And you insist he is not mad," I replied, sullen.

"Not any madder than any other elf who has lived for thousands of years within and without the turmoil of wars," said my father, something sad in his eyes.

"So because of my skill, I am to be cursed to dwell in Mirkwood?" I asked.

"Temporarily," said my father. "And is it such a curse?"

He had such a way of turning things around with a few words, my father. Was it such a curse? Absolutely. Yes. Awful. However, he made me see the tiny, miniscule sliver of a silver-lining: it probably wouldn't be boring.

"How long," I parlayed.

"Not long," he said, though we were elves, and whatever did that mean, anyway?

"Four months," I said.

"I can't make any promises," he said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because," he said, seeming pained and hesitant to continue. He did go on, but vaguely: "There's something happening at Dol Guldur."

"I dislike that name," said Arwen, displeased with the turn of conversation, and she stood. "Eren, I'll meet you later to walk in the north woods."

My father and I both watched Arwen go.

"Cannot Lothlorien keep well enough eye on Dol Guldur?" I replied.

"There is no one closer to the darkness that seeps through Rhovanion than King Thranduil," said my father.

"And you would send your daughter into that darkness?" I asked.

"I would only send one of my daughters into that darkness," he replied.

I leaned back in my chair.

"The first would wilt at the trial," he said, meaning Arwen, I knew, "but the second I know to be stronger than that."

It was a high compliment my father gave me, and perhaps it was enough to take part of the sting out of the prospect of leaving my comfortable surroundings in Rivendell. There was the added benefit of how very interesting the idea of travelling to this secret place was, since I knew very little of Mirkwood, and to be frank, it was a mystery to most.

"Fine," I agreed. "I will send you letters that are completely banal, and then I will send the letters with the real, useful information addressed to Arwen."

"Yes?" said my father.

"Figure out how to intercept them," I said. "We wouldn't want Arwen confused."

"I can manage," he replied.

"I also want mother's emerald circlet," I said.

"Done," he said.

"Then we are in agreement," I said, rising from my chair. "When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow," he said.

Tomorrow!

"Who is the mad elf, Thranduil or yourself, father?"

"I would be cautious about tossing around the elf-king's name without his honorific, Eren."

It was as if he didn't even notice I'd asked him if he was mad.

"One cannot be so mindful when one has just learned that one is leaving for the dread wastelands in one day," I replied.

"The Greenwood is not a dread wasteland!"

This was true, and I sighed.

"I suppose it isn't," I said, ceding the point. "But this had better be worth it, father."

"Of course it will be," he replied.

"I will trust your assurance," I said.

My father smiled at me, but that smile held many things that didn't assure me at all.

-ooOOoo—

I must admit that as I watched the dark tree line of Mirkwood grow larger and larger I experienced larger and larger amounts of growing dread. I felt as if I was losing something and gaining something at the same time, but I knew not what either could be. And there the forest sat, silent, waiting, static, stoic, dark. I wondered why I should willingly enter whilst I still possessed my sanity, but yet there I was, doing so once the trees loomed above.

I wasn't alone, however. I had my guards and other attendants to help with the whole process, since I was moving residences, after all. At least it was supposed to be only temporary.

Everyone grew silent once we entered the wood because we had to. No one knew what to say. The forest seemed to wait, but for what it was impossible to tell. It seemed sad, it seemed strong, it seemed patient, it seemed maligned, proud, sick, eternal, but we didn't know what secrets it held and it wasn't going to tell us. It was kind of unfair, really.

I felt the sickness most of all, though. It stuck to the forest like a parasite, and it was as if the forest desired to shake it off once and for all, but it didn't know how. Were we supposed to know how? I certainly didn't know how. The feeling struck us all dumb, and that's how we remained as we ventured deep into its sickly shadows. I heard not a single bird or stirring creature along the entire path, and it felt wholly unnatural.

Was this the place I was to live? The claustrophobia of such a fate began to press in on me. Maybe I didn't make the best of decisions on certain days.

Eventually I couldn't take the pressing silence any longer and I broke it, like a shard of glass.

"How far until we reach the kingdom?" I asked my nearest guard. He seemed relieved to hear my voice, as if tightness had been released by the normalcy of small talk.

"It shouldn't be far," he replied, though vague.

The vagueness of his response prompted me to look up at the interlocking branches of the thick trees above us. It was as dark as twilight within the forest, and the narrowing of the path forced us to pare down to single-file. Now and again I was reminded of the legendary Mirkwood spiders by a web-laden branch. I wondered if we would see one, and then I dreaded that we might see one.

"How in the world does the king of Mirkwood manage to get supplies to his kingdom on such a narrow road?" I demanded of the gloom, irritated by the narrowness of the way.

"I cannot begin to surmise," stated my guard.

"It makes no sense," I said, admittedly grumpy and inwardly questioning the sanity of King Thranduil again. My inward sanity questioning was cut short, however, by the aggressive arrival of the largest, most horrible spider I'd ever seen.

The way it arrived was almost as horrible as the arrival itself. It slid down in front of us on the path, a slow, smooth descent, on a strand of its own spidersilk, seeming so calm, so in control, and so sharply, predatorially focused on us that we all were unable to move at first, so great was our disbelief that such a thing could exist, right there, right then.

The moment of calm was over quickly as everything sprung into action at once: the spider pounced towards the guard in front of me, the guard drew his sword, his horse began to rear, my horse tried to turn me around and in the fray I spied another spider prowling in the trees just ten paces away. How many were there? Were we surrounded? In the cacophony of metal, voices, and those horrible noises monstrous spiders make, I'll admit to a moment of feeling impending mortality, and perhaps also sublime regret that I'd agreed to this venture in a fit of bad judgment.

As luck would have it, I didn't die that day. The spider I was watching through the trees was felled by a thick, sturdy arrow right between it's eyes, well, some of its eyes, and I heaved a sigh of relief. At least somebody was competent in this forest.

It was all over as quickly as it had begun. It took perhaps half of a minute for every single spider around us to be rendered incredibly dead. I couldn't find too much fault with my guards, really, they simply weren't equipped to deal with large, ferocious spiders, but I was grateful to whomever it was who had gotten rid of them. It took another minute or so for that whomever to reveal themselves.

A young-ish looking elf woman with long reddish hair and holding a bow stepped into the path, and nudged the dead spider afore us with her boot. Near her arrived another young-ish looking elf, male, with sindar-blond hair, also observing the dead spider and holding a bow.

"I got four," he said to the russet elf woman, a shadow of a smile on his face.

The woman glanced at him and sheathed her bow on her back.

"Five," she said.

He blinked and I watched as dismay, then respect, then determination crossed his features. What was this, a competition? We'd been nearly spidered to death, and these two seemed to be playing a game. At that moment I paused and realized, after some addition, that it all added up to nine spiders. We had been in more trouble than we'd thought.

The blond elf seemed to acknowledge us at last and, with a salute of respect, asked, "Is everyone unharmed?"

I glanced back to make sure everyone was, in fact, unharmed, and then said, "We appear to be fine. Thank you, for…," but I stopped because I just couldn't help myself changing tack: "Were there really nine spiders?"

The russet elf glanced at the blond elf.

"Unfortunately," said the blond elf. "And I'm sorry we had to be introduced under these circumstances, but my name is Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood."

Well then, the royalty in Mirkwood was certainly very hands on. Though this was all I could think, I didn't voice my thoughts.

"Prince Legolas," I said in greeting. "I am Lady Eren of Rivendell."

"We were expecting you," he said. "This is Tauriel, the Captain of the King's guard."

Tauriel bowed formally, displaying none of the informal casualness she'd just shown with the prince.

"Please forgive the inconvenience of the spiders, Lady Eren," said Tauriel, and I almost laughed. Inconvenience. "Follow us, if you will."

At that, the prince and the captain drew their bows again and began walking down the path. After gingerly guiding our skittish horses around the dead spider in the middle of the path, we followed them.

"So," I ventured. "Are the spiders a … common problem here?"

"All too common," said Legolas grimly.

That wasn't really the answer I'd wished to hear.

"We try to keep them at bay," said Tauriel. "But they tend to come in spurts. Your party happened to come along at an unfortunate time."

"It's luck, then, is it?" I asked. "Whether one will be accosted by spiders?"

"They tend to be drawn to those unaccustomed to their methods," said Legolas. "Such as a party of elves from Rivendell."

"Easy prey," added Tauriel.

I can speak for the entirety of my party when I say we all felt indignant at being labeled 'easy prey', however there might have been something to what the prince said since, with he and the captain as our wardens, not a single spider came near for the rest of the trip. It made me wonder just how much intelligence those spiders possessed, to be able to determine our naiveté on sight.

At last we arrived at the gates to the king's halls, which was a trio of gated, peaked-arch openings in the side of what appeared to be a hill gnarled by massive, twisting trees. So thick was the forest that I couldn't tell how tall the hill might be or whether it was a mountain. All I could tell was that it went up, and trees obscured all definitive evidence of anything more.

King Thranduil lived underground for some inane reason, but I'd already been prepared for this strange piece of the puzzle, at least.

We Rivendell elves dismounted and other elves took our horses to stables I assumed, or maybe to more holes in the ground that they simply called 'stables'. I knew not what to expect with these silvani.

"Do you need to refresh yourselves before meeting the king?" Legolas asked me as another elf held open the gates for us.

I glanced back at my Rivendell elves. They looked so harangued. Must have been the spiders.

"Please," I said. "Allow my party to rest, but I will be fine to meet with King Thranduil now."

"Very well," said Legolas, and he led us on.

The halls were in caves. Caves were a thing I never had spent any time in, nor were they a thing I had ever wanted to spend any time in. Now that I was in some caves, however, I found they weren't terrible. At least, these caves weren't.

The halls were deep and vacuous, extending up to heights often beyond sight, and the thick, twisting roots of the surface trees bent 'round the curves of the caves like the ribs of resting sea monsters, organic, flowing, and there was something vaguely harmonious about it. It wasn't poorly done. Pale, amber light filtered through the natural shapes of growth and the solemn depths of the underground, making everything warm and faintly golden.

In an airy nook were several of those peak-arched doorways which Legolas indicated were for the elves who had come with me. After assuring them all I would be fine, I left with the elf prince to find the king.

"You've come to be the royal scribe, then?" ventured Legolas, clearly small-talking.

"Indeed," I said. "Royal scribe." Repeating the title made it sound even more silly that I was doing this, when it was so clearly beneath my station. Legolas was polite enough not to ask why, but I'm sure he was thinking it.

"I've heard you're quite good," he said.

"I suppose," I said modestly.

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked.

"Very much," I replied.

"I see," he said. "My father may provide you with some interesting work."

"Oh?" I asked politely, though I already knew anything having to do with King Thranduil would be, at the least, 'interesting work'.

"The sorts of things that tend to happen in the Mirkwood are generally not normal," he replied.

"But what is 'normal'?" I mused.

Legolas laughed, and it was a light, airy thing, fresh like a burst of sun through treetops. It made me smile in return.

"I'd say if we had to set a standard for normalcy, that your home would be a good bar-set," he said.

"Oh, Rivendell is the standard for normalcy, is it?" I asked, amused.

"It's so normal in Rivendell," he said.

"I should say it seems that way to me, since it is to what I am accustomed," I said.

"And it seems that way to me, also, even though I am not accustomed to it," he replied.

"Perhaps there is some merit to your judgment," I said. "We've never had a single giant spider in Rivendell, not once."

"I've always thought the level of normalcy in a place is exactly opposite to the number of giant spiders that reside there," said Legolas.

"Ah, numerical analysis, I do like your thought process, Prince Legolas," I said, smiling.

"I shall confide in you that I love numbers," he replied.

I was certain at that point that I would like the prince quite a lot during my stay in Mirkwood.

We arrived at a set of beautifully carved pale wood doors which, immediately upon our arrival, were opened by two armored, silent guards. The cave within was vacuous, so much so that the amber light became distantly diffused with sea-green, and the deep, thick roots of ancient trees wove where they would and a pale wooden path was built around it towards a pale throne that looked as if it had been crafted of a cacophony of trees, bones, and antlers.

"Well," said Legolas' small voice in the large space. "Here we are."

He sounded hesitant, and I wondered why as we walked towards the distant throne. The light was different in here; a stray ray of sun made it through the amber haze and purple shadow and struck the edge of the throne, blooming it white, and there upon the throne, as I drew near, sat the brooding elf-king of Mirkwood. He was, perhaps, the single most haughty-looking elf I had ever laid eyes upon, and I had seen many elves. His hair was blond, I suppose, but in the ray of light it looked white to me, clearly Sindar. His posture spoke volumes about his method of rule. I knew at once from the way he lounged and the way his leg was crossed over the other, he was daring everyone to challenge him. His pale eyes spoke as if he might be waiting for it, waiting for the challenge, for I could see that in the crushing of challengers did the elven king gain pleasure. I surmised his other pleasure would be in the absolute rule of his kingdom, and perhaps in picking out lavish robes in the morning. Indeed, I took him immediately to be a controlling, vain sort. I knew then that I must execute caution in all my dealings with this elf.

Also, I became quite sure he was probably, at least partially, insane.

As we grew close, he rose with grace and control, too much control.

"Legolas," he said, his voice smooth, again with more control than seemed normal, as if he overcompensated for something beneath the surface. "Who have you brought?"

"Lady Eren of Rivendell has arrived, Father," said Legolas. "Your new royal scribe."

I did the normal thing and curtsied for the king, in the normal way, but I did find myself wondering if normal would pass as abnormal in this place.

"Your majesty," I said, normally.

He gazed upon me for a moment, as if working to discern the purpose of my existence.

"A royal scribe," he said, stepping down from his elevated position to regard me even more closely. He was tall, unusually so, and despite knowing he was using his height to his advantage, I still found myself fighting back the feeling of being intimidated. "How unusual that the daughter of Elrond should want to fill such a lowly position of her own free will."

I wondered if he'd already figured me out before I'd even been able to say more than three words.

"What better way to further hone my skill than to serve as scribe to the elven king?" I said, digging into my own excuses.

"Have you no masters to learn from in Rivendell?" he asked, almost amused by my proposed method.

"I do," I said, and he tried to intimidate me with his gaze, but I held it, knowing should I falter he would win, at least a little bit. "But I have nothing left to learn from any of them."

He raised an eyebrow at that, glanced over me, and then suddenly the pressure released; he drew back and the interrogation was over for now. He turned aside at once and I felt dismissed.

"Very well," he said. "Legolas, turn her over to the court master and let her begin her work. We shall see if she is as good as she claims in time."

"Yes, Father," said Legolas, and the prince turned to me, an interesting expression in his eyes. Was it relief?

As the carved wooden doors to the king's hall closed behind us, the prince didn't even try to hide his relief. I had to inquire.

"Prince Legolas, were you worried about something?" I asked.

Legolas cleared his throat delicately.

"Of course not," he said, and he gave me a small smile reminiscent of green leaves illuminated by the glow of sunshine.

He was lying.

-ooOOoo-