A/N: I have just returned from a long absence of fanfiction, so I hope that you will all bear with me.
This story takes place some years before the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and I have taken the liberty to create some of my own characters; I promise that it will get better as each chapter goes on.
As for the disclaimer...is that even nessecary?
Anyway, I hope that you read the whole chapter, and I truly appreciate it if you reviewed to let me know what you think--I'll definately accept criticism--constructive criticism.
Sorry for the ramble; please read and enjoy! ; )
ROGUE
Chapter One: The Pursuit
The trees rushed past them in a blur, but it mattered not. Their long hair blew wildly behind them.
Their three stallions, one black, one brown, and the other white, ran swiftly and tirelessly, just like their high-spirited riders.
The white horse was far ahead of the black and brown ones, though, and the blond rider, soon seeing his prey, drew his bow and an arrow out of his quiver.
His horse did not lose its speed despite the fact that his hands were no longer on the reins; the stag ahead of him slinked in and out of view, but the rider kept his eyes on the creature. He and his fellow hunters had not had a scrap of luck in these woods which two of them truly called home, but on this last day of hunting, they had spotted a white stag and had pursued it for approximately three hours, and yet it had remained quite elusive, simply darting in and out of view--but these riders were relentless.
Thinking that he had a clear shot, the rider on the white horse fired his arrow; it narrowly missed the stag, hitting a tree instead—but it was enough to scare the stag, which gave it a new burst of energy.
It loped behind some trees and out of sight. The rider tried to pursue, but no longer saw it; he resignedly put his bow away and dismounted, finally allowing his minor fatigue to catch up with him.
The other two riders also gained ground until they too slowed their horses and dismounted beside the lone rider.
"You almost had him, Legolas," the man said with a grin; he ran a hand through his black hair that was now stringy with sweat, and looked to the arrow deeply imbedded in the tree, "You were very close," he said, nodding to the tree to accentuate his point.
Legolas accepted the compliment with sincere appreciation. "I suppose there is no harm in letting the stag run free this day," he said with a smile.
The third rider was not as jolly as Legolas and the man who was beside him. The third rider was Fingolfin—Prince Fingolfin, the eldest of King Thranduil's children.
Legolas noted the stoical prince, "Both of you also rode relentlessly," Legolas said, aiming the comment at his brother.
Fingolfin did not respond; he merely turned back to his black stallion and tended to it.
The man simply shrugged; he had never known Prince Fingolfin's attitude to be any different than what it was like today, but he clearly noticed that Legolas appeared to be disturbed.
"Do not worry, Legolas—he must just have something on his mind," the man assured hopefully.
Legolas shook his head, he knew better. "It's not that, Estel—you know it as well as I," the Prince said seriously. All mirth was gone from his voice and eyes now.
"Let us set out for camp once more," Estel said, loudly enough for Fingolfin to hear.
Legolas nodded in agreement, "The sun is setting, and we should journey for father's palace this night."
Fingolfin straightened his horse's saddle and turned to face them. "The woods are not safe, we will return tomorrow," he said coldly. Fingolfin was by no means an ugly elf, but his stoical—even sometimes cold—behavior made him unpleasant to be around at times.
He did not want to come on this hunt, but Thranduil had somewhat ordered him too.
Instead, he would have preferred to train with his weapons, either alone or with a soldier. To some, Fingolfin was considered the best wielder of weaponry in Mirkwood, or even Rivendell. Every year, annual contests were held to test a fighter's prowess. Fingolfin had won fifteen years in a row. None could defeat him.
Legolas nodded, "Very well, your reasoning makes perfect sense, my brother."
Fingolfin merely scowled and mounted his horse, not giving Legolas and Estel much time to follow him.
o-o-o-At Camp-o-o-o
It didn't take long for them to get the fire going, and they all made sure to keep it well stoked.
Fingolfin opted for the first watch, and Legolas was to take the second while Estel took the third.
While Estel fell into a deep and much-needed sleep, Legolas allowed himself to fall into that mystical trance that the elves called sleep. His eventful day had caught up to him and his entire body was wracked with aches and pains of the previous days' hunting as well.
His vision gradually became a blur, he could no longer see the camp fire, nor could he even make out his brother's shadow as he tended to it.
Legolas tried to move, but found that his limbs would not respond to his command; he tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't even open. He could barely breathe, and even then his breaths came in short and labored gasps.
Fingolfin was too absorbed in his own thoughts to even hear his brother's gasps. The handsome elf rested his slender chin in one of his hands as his mind ran over various serious matters.
Legolas' vision began to right itself and he could gradually make out someone.
He saw a young elfling boy, with blond hair that was the same hue as his own. He could only see the back of the child, so he had no way of making out his face, but judging by his size, Legolas would have been surprised if he was six years of age.
They were outside, that much Legolas knew, they were walking among the trees in a forest that was very familiar to Legolas, the forest that he called home.
The moon shined in the sky, though the forest prevented much of that light from coming into the wood; Legolas wished that he had a lantern, but he had no way of getting one; the child continued ahead, seemingly oblivious to Legolas.
Legolas decided that the Elven child was not aware of his presence and he did not like to entertain the thought of startling the little one.
It seemed that he had no control over his speech whatsoever, for the words flowed freely from his mouth.
"Hello," he called softly to the child. "Are you lost?"
The boy stood still, suddenly unwilling to move.
"I won't harm you," Legolas said calmly.
Still, the child made no move.
Legolas slowly and cautiously advanced. "Why are you wandering alone in the wood? Where is your father?"
Legolas thought he detected a sniffle, but one could not be certain, and then came the very quiet reply. "I have no father; my father is dead."
Legolas could find no words to say this time, though, and they were choked even further in his throat when the elfling turned around with blood staining his white tunic and little white breeches.
A large lump formed in Legolas' throat as he surveyed the child's face which looked so strikingly familiar to him, so familiar…
"Legolas!"
The called jolted him from his trance and he sat up in a cold sweat, his entrancing blue eyes darted around before he allowed them to focus on the speaker; it was Fingolfin.
"Surely you are not too tired to undertake your watching duty," the elf said, almost scolded.
Legolas blinked again for good measure, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Fingolfin extended his arm to help Legolas up and the elf gratefully accepted it. The older elf suddenly scrutinized his brother—something was wrong.
"Are you alright, Legolas?" Fingolfin asked, some measure of sincere concern shining through.
Even though Legolas knew that he would never likely get such compassion from his brother again, a part of him could not bear to say anything about that dream or vision; whatever it was, it disturbed the Prince of Mirkwood greatly, so greatly that he had to keep it concealed.
He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, trying to sound convincing.
Fingolfin guessed differently, but let it go at that.
As Legolas took up watch, his mind was not clear, not in the least, for he could not forget that child.
He could not forget that face.