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Prologue

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It is an unknowable thing to be an archer.

To be a murderer in all sense of the word, yet retain some definition of truth and purpose.

For to be an archer is not as it is to wield a sword in battle. It is one of choice; notching an arrow onto a string and deciding that—today, in this moment—someone shall die. Looking beyond the curve of the bow at some creature and bestowing upon it the touch of death. A final judgment that cannot be second-guessed. Unlike when one swings a sword with intent to kill but at the last moment relents, one must not waver in their faith with the loose of the arrow's fletch.

Yet, to be an archer is a distant, detached thing.

One need not peer close into the face of those whom they slay.

One need not taste the fear in the air or hear the desperate cries to live.

To be an archer requires a tender and balanced heart—one not given to war, but one that knows when it must fight, so that when they wage their wars and shed their blood, they do so with a sense that it is right.

ȹȹȹȹȹ

Ferns and grasses tangled about the youth's legs, as if to hold him back and hinder him as he ran.

His heart had become heavy as a stone, despite the bright forest surrounding him, for he had killed a man.

The birdsong sounded as accusation in his ears.

He wanted to run until he could not longer stand; to pant for breath and refuse himself drink when his tongue parched and his body begged his thirst be met.

Murderer.

I have killed a man.

I have sinned.

Murderer.

His boots soaked through as he attempted to leap a river but fell short and landed in eddying water high to his calves. He reached forward, grasped a bough, and pulled himself aright to plunge onward; ever-deeper into Sherwood Forest.

Tears streaked his face and blurred his vision.

He stumbled over roots and bracken.

His fingers grew scrapped and bloodied from climbing up a rocky ravine. A gash on his forehead told of where he had struck a rock along the riverbed after his misjudged leap.

Suddenly, as he ran between two thin oaken saplings, he stumbled and fell from a height headlong.

The uneasy sensation as if he had crossed over a threshold and entered into an unfamiliar thane's hall ran through him. For a moment, the young archer lay where he had fallen, every ache and bruise sending a tremor through his body as they became fully known. With a moan, pressing a bloody, dirt-stained palm against his green tunic, he pushed himself to rise on unsteady feet.

As he stood in the stillness of the forest, the sensation of having entered into a holy place descended upon him.

His breathing quickened with unease.

Murderer.

Thief of another man's life not within thy right to take.

Sinner.

Outlaw.

The word rang in his head with tremendous accusation and relentless judgment; echoes in his conscious of the words the King's Foresters had cried as he fled.

A breeze whispered through the trees.

Distantly, undergrowth and leaves snapped and crackled, the warning of a large party approaching. Surely the Foresters had mounted their steeds to chase after him in revenge of their fallen companion.

The youth moaned softly in pain as he reached up to his quiver. He brought forth in haste his bow and a white-feathered arrow. His hands trembled, but he had come too far to return. If it came to it, he would preserve his life, worthless as it had become in the eyes of God after his unpardonable sin.

He stepped backward, gasping when his head touched the trunk of a tree.

He glanced to his right and his left. The tree behind him grew solely in this place before many large boulders. But his attention was taken from his surroundings when several horsemen burst through the forest foliage, hounds – wolves – trailing behind.

He gasped again, but it was more a parched cry of terror as he gazed with tear-filled eyes at the strange beings before him. His yellow hair matted and bloodied from his run; fingers curved tightly around the yew-wood of his bow as he stood his ground before the party that had found him.

They were not the King's Foresters.

A raven-haired man with regal bearing came through the ranks of terrible beast-soldiers, mounted on a tall black stallion. He gazed across the gap between them with kind eyes—forgiving eyes; as if he knew what had been done and understood in some unfathomable way. They were so brown and clear they brought to memory a stag's eyes the youth had peered into after finding the creature caught in a hunter's snare.

"Who are you, son of Adam, and why have you run away into my woods?" The pale man's voice rang out kind and deep. It reminded the youth of his father, who had gone with King Richard to Jerusalem.

How could he even attempt to kill such a man?

A man his father might have conversed with.

A man far more righteous than himself . . . a murderer.

He parted his lips, intending to speak in his defense, but only a cry of sorrow rose to his lips.

A shudder of exhaustion tore through his body, and the darkness rose up to embrace him.

Murderer, do not worsen thy sin.

A soldier stepped forward from among the king's men, spear posed.

The dark-eyed king lifted a hand, staying the death blow. "He is lost, and tired—and something presses heavily upon his heart. Bring him to me, I shall take him to my house," the king declared in a voice of command, yet with quiet gentleness.

"As my king wishes," the faun bowed and handed his weapon to another soldier, walking forward over the grass and leaves. He picked the boy up, bringing him to the king.

Another soldier retrieved the youth's bow and removed his quiver.

The king held the unconscious boy in his arms as if he were a child, not a man of seventeen summers, and urged his stallion homeward.

Pausing before vanishing into the foliage, he looked to several of his men. "Our royal sister rides still in my woods. Listen well for whence her horn blows, for it surely shall." Giving such an issue, he turned his mount and was gone, two guards at the rear.

ȹȹȹȹȹ

He gazed at the forest.

Eryn Galen was radiant in her restoration, and his father the king looked no longer grave as he once had; his eyes shone brighter with starlight, and a less-rare smile graced his solemn countenance now.

Middle Earth was safe again—though the Elven Prince did not know for how long.

He turned from the balcony and back into the stronghold of his father's people. It was a secure place, but now that peace had been restored and a vast number of spiders slain—and every day more falling beneath the arrows and blades of the Elves—there was little need for such security.

But Thranduil would keep it, as was his want.

It was better for him to reside in his halls of stone than live as others did. A life long-lived in one manner would be greatly difficult to reverse, but the Elven Prince did not mind.

A smile came to his lips as he walked down a cool corridor, searching out his father to speak with him about the banquet. But as the Prince walked past an open doorway leading out into the forest, he thought he heard his father's voice, and so turned aside into the Forest of Green Leaves.

As he thought of Mirkwood's new title, a fond light came into his grey eyes.

He would not quickly forget the welcome he had been given upon his return home. Thranduil had come down from his stronghold to the border-edge of the vast forest to greet him.

He had not clad himself in robes of dark cloth or bare branches for a crown as he once did before the war against Sauron. The last of the Elven kings had instead dressed in white and gold, as he had not done since the Prince had been young—When his mother yet lived and his world had seemed less cruel. For a crown there were green leaves and budding branches.

Thranduil embraced him, and welcomed him as he had not before. His eyes brighter than the stars they reflected, Thranduil declared that no more would the forest be known as Mirkwood. Instead it would be called after Prince Legolas, for his son had returned safe home.

Thus the vast wood became known as Eryn Galen, and Legolas could not look upon it without bringing to remembrance his father's face, and how greatly Thranduil loved him.

Legolas stood still after walking out into the forest.

He no longer heard his father's voice. The sound of the wind through the trees reminded him more of the distant echo of waves upon the shore than swift air over green leaves. He recalled to mind what the Lady of Light had warned him of.

Then the winds died, and he returned to his former matter. The Elven archer gazed out into the trees surrounding him, listening as leaves fell to the forest floor and hinds moved through the grass, young at their sides.

Thranduil's voice did not meet his keen ears.

He turned back as he had come.

Legolas stilled, fear striking for but an instant before he quelled it.

In the silence of the forest he heard his breathing and each rustle of his garments as the wind pressed against him softly, like the caress of a loving hand. He knew no longer these trees, nor could he hear them speak in his thoughts.

This was not Eryn Galen.

Without thought his fingers tightened about the bow and the strap of the quiver he'd taken hold of before leaving the stronghold of his father. Thought Eryn Galen was at peace, Legolas found he could not yet step into it without his familiar weapon in hand. Though this bow and quiver were not his own, gratefulness washed over him for having taken them in hand.

Magic murmured through the green leaves surrounding him, and he turned on his heel when the sound of a horse's strong hooves stamping into the loamy forest earth reached his ears.

He spun to face the newcomer.

Horse and rider leapt a great fallen tree and were before him.

The rider reined in her mount, and her fairness moved him deeply as her head lifted to look across the distance at him.

She was as the sung beauty of Lúthien. Her raven hair fell rippling down her back and over the hindquarters of her dark stallion; her face pale but colored with life. Her eyes gleamed bright as if the very stars of the heavens shone in them; so clear and blue they were.

Swiftly she drew up a white bow that had lain balanced across her saddle. She strung an arrow fletched with scarlet feathers onto the golden string and directed the silver head upon him.

In answer he took up his own bow, let fall the quiver against his back as he pulled from it an arrow, and faced her in an archer's stance, drawing back against the bowstring.

Around them the wind blew once more, stirring his pale golden hair about his shoulders and blowing her ebon locks against her cheek.

Grey starlit eyes gazed back into blue.

Legolas heard the beating of his heart as he stood still, wondering into what land he had come.

ȹȹȹȹȹ

The Queen smiled as her hands and her voice urged her mount forward through the forest of her brother. She had come away from Cair Paravel to recover from the subtle friction of court life. It became tiring, listening to the gossip of the Telmarine ambassador's wife, and to stand subject to inquires as to her dealings. When her royal brother had offered she come spend the spring at his forest residence, she had been unable to refuse. It was a chance for peace of mind.

Edmund understood her; he knew this need for peace and rest, and welcomed it in others. Thus she was here, astride this young black stallion her brother's wife called Kloudrunner.

The Narnian Queen determined to put the young horse through his paces and test his endurance. She would need a strong mount when she went to her Southern Islands in the autumn—one that could withstand the journey and still have heart left over from the voyage to traverse the rocky shores and bear the humid climate.

Her fingers wove into the young stallion's long dark mane as they leapt a small bourn.

Once more on even footing, she urged him onward.

His lungs heaved like bellows, and she could hear his breathing over the wind whistling past her ears.

His hoof-beats echoed in her head and for a moment she closed her eyes, dark lashes fluttering against pale skin. The pace at which they moved brought a flush to her cheeks, and her raven curls were combed out into glistening ripples.

The Queen opened her eyes in time to see a fallen tree loom before them.

Her grey stallion, housed now in her brother's stables, was a talented jumper. She loved the jumpers, though her younger sister and older brother did not. But like Edmund, she shared a love for the long-legged destriers who could race into war as well as leap over obstacles.

Bending over the young horse's supple neck, her face in his mane, she gave him rein to jump, and he did with ease; leaping the tree with length to spare. She smiled in pleasure as she looked up.

What she saw there before her caused her pleasure to dissipate like morning mist.

She drew Kloudrunner up with a sharp and startled hand.

She did not know this man.

He appeared alone, and looked at first glance like a Narnian courtier or Archen lord. His clothes were tasteful, as if he had come from a banquet, yet they were practical, as Peter dressed; less like Edmund—for her youngest brother seemed to be an adept swordsman and warrior no matter his attire. The stranger's hair was long and pale and golden; like the yellow-white silk she ordered for her sister's birthday gown.

She dropped Kloudrunner's reins and pulled up her bow with haste from where it had been secured to her saddle.

The young horse stepped forward restlessly, then stilled beneath her as she drew back on her string, siting along the arrow's shaft at the foreign man standing among her brother's trees.

She exhaled against the scarlet feathers near her cheek, and the wind brushing by made her feel chilled instead of refreshed.

The pale stranger drew up his own bow with deft swiftness—it was a longbow; as beautiful and carven over with vines and flowers as her own. The fletching on his arrow was made from white goose-feathers instead of costlier plumage, like those of a peacock. A contrast to his fine clothing, for it was only ever the peasants or outlaws who used goose feathers on their shafts.

Her heart beat swiftly in her chest, and she heard her blood pound in her ears. She wondered who would be first to loose their arrow.

Who would come out alive and who dead once their bowstrings were no longer taut beneath their fingertips.


A/N:

An edit of an edit of an edit that I wrote, lol. In the original fanfic, Katniss featured. Unfortunately I've never read her books (and only had mild interest in her films) so I decided that I couldn't possibly do her enough justice to warrant attempting to write her character. So she was cut. Now this is only a crossover with Legolas Greenleaf, Robin of Locksley (Robin Hood), and Susan Pevensie/all of Narnia. I'll try to be as true to Legolas' character as I can! Hopefully I can get him right.

Some of the things I did because this is fanfiction and I rolled with the dice of writer creativity. For instance: I made Legolas' eyes grey instead of blue, and I went with the blond hair of the films. Another creative license I took was making Robin's father Earl of Huntingdon gone off to the Holy Lands while Robin is just a boy at home who committed a crime because of a hot temper and insulted pride. If you're new to my writing, I'll tell you now that I've embellished the Narnia universe because it's fun and I like detailing worlds. I'm sorry if that displeases any readers.

Theme elements of the story: finding forgiveness and accepting destiny. (Along with a healthy dose of star-crossed romance, hehe.)

Also, as a small side-note, I will probably take a long while to add additional chapters to this fic. Sorry, I know, I'm horrible. *winces*

Love this opening, have problems with it, think something could be written better? Tell me in the review box below!

WH