Author's Preface: Welcome, all! Here is the beginning of a very winding tale. For those that found the summary a bit lacking, here's a taste of what's to come. In these chapters and beyond, there will be new faces, old friends, fellowship, sorrow, Orc-killing, ale, friendly gypsies, mountains, giant armored wolves, more ale, evil plots, women with swords, a creepy cult, horses, angry Elves, spooky caves, a prostitute, and unlikely romances. Do any or all of these interest you? Then read on! Mind the first chapter; it's a little heavy. However, the load lightens the farther you read! Cheers, friends!


Chapter One:

Upon the Rot of Dead Evils


From the peaceful, sun-bright West, a company of three had come to drive back the dregs of a long decided war. Cloaked in green and the silence of skill, they eyed the mouths of dank caves run thick with mud.

It was in there, they knew, that dark things skulked; dark, heavy things with black eyes and slick, yellow teeth. Things with breath that turned the air putrid and whose hides reeked of malice and blood. These were miserable creatures, long-suffering in their hateful nature. With leaden steps, they lurked among the shadows, feet squelching against the suck and pull of the boggy ground. Forever craving the taste of flesh, they preyed upon the unwitting with wicked blades of ill-tempered iron. Well and truly, these beasts were the bane of the East, the last of Sauron's disbanded orcs.

Legolas lay still amidst the marsh-weeds, the wetness of the earth slowly soaking his clothes. With his fair, far-seeing eyes, he watched the last drippings of Sauron's Orc hoards stir among the foot-rocks of Mordor's barren wastes. Even from such a distance, they seemed restless and bitter. Foul as they were, they swilled cheap drink and fought each other needlessly, the duels always ending in death and cannibalism. The stench of roasting Orc meat hung on the air. Legolas wrinkled his nose, glancing to his companions. To his left lay Gimli, son of Gloin, and to his right lay Arathel, daughter of the King of Gondor.

Their mission this day was a simple one: to continue the work of years gone by, cleansing from Middle Earth the evils that had not perished with the fall of the Dark Lord some twenty years ago. In truth, not much had changed since those dark days. Despite Sauron's end, Middle Earth still felt the presence of shadows, and Legolas felt it his duty to remain in the service of the light until every corner of the land was free from darkness. Much as during the time of the Fellowship, Legolas journeyed and fought with the bravest and best of friends. Gimli still swung his axe as if the wears of time had passed him over, and despite his having settled into a quiet rule befitting of his age, Aragorn, King of all Men, had provided Legolas a fine companion in his daughter. Arathel was now nearly twenty and already a feared name among Orcs and Men alike. Though she did not have the light of immortality, her elven blood showed nonetheless in her skills, bearing, and lightly tapered ears. Her beauty was unquestionable, but more impressive still was her wisdom and her gift for both healing ills and inflicting them. Truly, she was the melding of two great lines. Lying with her and Gimli among the reeds, Legolas could not think of any who could offer better company.

Beside him, the son of Gloin snorted in frustration.

"How long would you have us wait, laddie?" came the question, gruff and impatient, "We been layin' here for a good long time, and ain't nothin' that's changed."

Legolas felt a smile come to his lips.

"Are you so eager for a rematch that you've become this impatient, Gimli?"

The Dwarf huffed.

"What need have I for a rematch when I so clearly won the last round, eh, elfling? I should think that you'd be the one impatient for a chance to regain your princely honor!"

"Whatever barbs you set to your words, Master Dwarf, I will always have one truth to comfort me."

"Eh? And what's that?"

Legolas looked at his friend with a glimmer in his pale eyes.

"You will always be short."

For a moment Gimli said nothing, only glared into the Elf's pale face. Then a great smile split his ruddy beard.

"Aye!" he chuckled, "we Dwarves are short and our women hairy, and don't you soon forget it!"

"No sooner than I'll forget that Elves are haughty and fuss greatly about being clean," said Legolas, reaching to take his bow from his back. "But you are right," he continued, "We have waited long enough. Night is here and the darkness is in our favor."

With a sure hand, he put an arrow to the string and drew back until the fletching brushed his cheek. He narrowed his eyes.

"Arathel?"

"Aye."

Legolas looked to the side to see the young Lady of Gondor rear back from the swamp grass, bow nocked and drawn back in a hard arc. Her gaze tracked the lumbering of a particularly large Orc who had strayed slightly from the camp.

"I have him," she murmured, almost as if to the arrow near her shoulder.

Legolas nodded.

"I will take the left," he said, "Aim for their throats. These Orcs are of a larger sort. Their skulls are often hard."

"Perhaps for your arrows, but not for my axe!" growled Gimli, his stout hands twisting around the handle of said weapon, "Let them come. I will cleave their ugly heads in two."

"We will drop as many as we can, then you can lead the charge with your . . . cleaving."

Legolas eyed an Orc squatting near the mouth of a cave and took aim.

"Now?" breathed Arathel.

"Now."

With a thrum of taut string, the archers let loose their arrows. There was a faint whistle on the air, then two Orcs dropped soundlessly in the distance.

"Again," said Legolas. He and Arathel began to fire at will upon the bewildered orcs. Another six hit the dirt before one squealed and pointed out into the marshes.

"Here they come!" said Gimli, raising himself from the ground and squaring his stance. He held his axe at the ready.

On the rocky banks of the marshes, more than a score of frenzied Orcs gathered with their weapons waving and their crooked jaws set asunder by hateful screams. A few in front were shoved out into the swamp water. Squealing, they began to pick their way towards the small band of warriors. There were several loud splashes as more Elvish arrows found their mark.

"There are many," said Arathel. Her voice was flat and without fear.

Legolas nodded.

"There's more coming from inside the caves."

"I will charge them with Gimli. You are surest with a bow. Give us cover."

Legolas nodded once more. Reaching back into his quiver, he took two arrows between his fingers and set them to his bow. Beside him, Arathel stood and drew her steel. The rapier in her hand shone blue and deadly against the glow of Orcish fires. It was of Elvish make, Legolas himself having contributed to its design and forging. Wielding it, the Lady of Gondor was a force to be reckoned with.

With a cool anger in her eyes, Arathel addressed her Dwarvish companion.

"Let us send them into flame," she said.

Gimli grinned.

"Aye, lassie."

With Legolas firing off arrows between them, the two raised their voices into thundering battle cries, readied their weapons, and charged.


"Final tally: ten dead Orcs!" laughed Gimli. He dislodged his axe from an Orc's head and wiped its brain matter on the grass.

Legolas paused in his work of gathering arrows. He smirked, "It seems you lost, then, to my eleven."

"And you to my twelve," said Arathel. The Lady of Gondor was reclining on the ground, a blade of swamp grass between her teeth. Legolas raised his eyebrows at her and she returned the look. "Don't look so shocked, good Elf," she said, "With the teacher I've had, you should expect no less."

Legolas inclined his head with a slow, appreciative smile. For many years—indeed, nearly since her birth—Arathel had been under his guardianship and tutelage. It was a charge with which Aragorn of Gondor trusted his Elvish friend implicitly. As king, Aragorn was a busy man with many children, and though his heart ached with love for each of them, his station spread his time thin. Noting the instant liking that his daughter and best friend had taken to each other merely days after she was born, he saw no reason that the two should not inherit the bonds of fellowship. Twenty years to the present, those bonds were as strong as ever. Legolas and Arathel were as close as blood kin.

Presently, the Elven warrior swung his bow onto his back and sank down to rest on his heels. He folded his arms across his knees and looked between his two companions. Gimli was packing his pipe for a smoke, humming and chuckling, oblivious in his triumph. Arathel was not so content with their victory. She stared steadily back at her friend and mentor, her senses keen to his quiet thinking.

"Something troubles you," she said at last.

Legolas nodded.

"This place is decayed," he said, eyes moving over the lands around them, "The Wilds here grow upon the rot of dead evils. The trees are stunted and sickly from all the anguish in the soil." He tilted his head as if to listen. "They speak of shadows . . . of a long darkness cast by foreign shapes. From the North."

"Ah, there he is, speaking riddles with plants!" Gimli cried laughing. He blew smoke from between his hairy lips, "Rest your mind, laddie. The foothills of Mordor have long been a dark, sad place. What you're hearing are the voices of trees bitter from lack of light, nothing more."

"Still, there is no use risking it," Arathel said with some finality. She stood and shook leaves from her cloak. "We should make for the West. There's a small township near Mirkwood where we can find a meal and warm beds."

"Oh, ho! And some mead, no doubt!" Gimli cheered. He put up his pipe and rose with eagerness. "What are we waiting for, then?"

Legolas smiled at the Dwarf and his seemingly boundless affection smoke and drink. He teased his friend, telling him that such vices would send him to an early grave.

"Oh, nonsense! Besides, pipeweed and stout ale are what make this life worth living!"

Gimli's good cheer proved infectious as Arathel began to laugh, swinging an arm around the Dwarf's shoulders as the small company of three struck out for Mirkwood. Legolas smiled along with them, though the expression quickly faded. Hanging back behind his companions, the Elf again tilted his head. The trees were still whispering their ominous little warnings, saying things that set a chill to his mind. With alarm, Legolas paused mid-stride and looked back across the marshes. Seeing nothing, he frowned and turned back to follow his friends, unable to shake the eerie feeling that they were all being watched.


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Much love,

~Dances-With-Cacti