'Go north. Find the Dúnedain. There is a young Ranger amongst them, you should meet him. His father Arathorn was a good man. His son might grow to be a great one.'
With no other goal to pursue, and desperately in need of a purpose Legolas had taken his father's advice and headed northwards. However, he took his time on the road, taking in the world that had only seen depicted in their histories and books, new lands and people, strange to someone who had rarely ventured beyond Mirkwood and its neighbouring lands. And he had soaked it up, the new experiences, the new people he met and the strange languages he encountered, even if his hand was never far from his weapons.
What had happened in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain was never far from his mind, especially in the first few days and weeks of his journey, and he knew that it would be a long time before he forgot. If he ever did. So much had changed during that battle, and since. What had seemed like a simple act of disobedience when he had chosen to ignore the order to return home, choosing Tauriel and the world beyond their borders, over his father, had changed him. Had changed everything, and he wasn't sure that he would ever be able to return to Mirkwood beyond brief, fleeting visits. It didn't feel like home anymore, even though there had been a time when he had wandered beneath those trees and walked the shadowy paths, believing that he would never want to be anywhere else.
It was something else that had been taken from him.
Another thing lost to the battle that had ravaged his people and the lands around them, and while Mirkwood itself remained, unchanging and would no doubt continue to do so now that his father had abandoned his quest for the jewels of their people, Legolas couldn't do the same. He needed to keep moving, but the knowledge that Mirkwood remained and would endure was enough to soothe some of the aching in his spirit.
Mirkwood endured.
His father remained…
His father.
Legolas had expected Thranduil to fight his decision to leave, had known that his words would hurt him, and he had seen it in his father's sharp gaze, the desire to hold him close, chain him down and keep him by his side. He wasn't sure which of them had been more surprised when despite the words hovering unspoken between them, his father had given Legolas something he had long since given up any hope of receiving. His approval. Certainly, it had been restrained, masked, hidden in a gift that almost more precious. Your mother loved you…' His father had loved his mother more than anything in this world, and he would walk under the trees, singing laments to stars even now, and Legolas knew that there were times when Thranduil would look at him, and wish, that he was her. So, to hear those words, to see the glitter of emotion in the sharp eyes, the subtlest of wavers in his voice, had been more than he had ever expected, and those words had warmed him, whenever the loneliness of the room grew too much.
Your mother loved you.
I love you.
In between those thoughts and reminiscing about Mirkwood and the path that had led him here, Legolas found him spending much of his time wondering just what manner of man he was searching for. He had heard of the Dúnedain, all who wandered in the wilds, whether elf, man or wizard had, and his learning had gone deeper than that, the fall of Númenorand the fact that noble line had been reduced to men that lived in the wild, was well documented in their library. It was a lesson he had been taught, an abject example of the foolishness of men and how easy they were to lead astray, and yet…
There had been respect in Thranduil's voice.
He hadn't been able to place the emotion at the time, but in retrospect, he had been startled to realise that not had only his father known this Arathorn but he had respected him. And he had seemed to respect the son too, although Legolas felt that it was more than that, curious as to what this man who might in 'time be greater' would be like. What kind of man could earn his father's respect? What kind of man would exist in the wilds, part of a nomadic people and yet be destined for greatness?
Strider.
What kind of name was that? There was clearly something in his real name though, an answer to his other questions perhaps, as he could think of no other reason why his father would have spoken in riddles were it not important.
The north was wilder than Legolas could ever have imagined, and remote, and days passed as he pressed further northwards with no sign of life beyond birds heading south above his head. Perhaps they were heading for the Lonely Mountain, and the lands that had opened up in the wake of Smaug's death, and he sent his tidings with them.
He knew enough about the Dúnedain to know that they were constantly on the move, but he there were days when the bitter wind cut through his light clothing and the driving rain forced him to seek shelter that he found it hard to imagine anyone living in this place. It was on those days that he missed Mirkwood with an intensity that surprised him, remembering how there had been places where the canopy had been so thick that even driving rain like this barely touched the forest floor, and how the trees had always come to life after a rainstorm, the ancient voices speaking of their pleasure. There was no pleasure to be found in these empty, winter-clad lands and there were days when he dreamt of venturing south once more, perhaps to visit kin in Rivendell or Lothlórien, but he never gave in to the temptation, his father's words and the respect he'd heard in them driving him onwards.
As did curiosity.
In the end, it was the Dúnedain who found him. Legolas had paused to make camp for the night in the scant remains of what must once have been a watchtower, taking shelter beneath the single remaining wall and huddling against him. He might have risked a fire were it not for the strange voices, an eerie sound that he hadn't heard since the battle for the Lonely mountain.
Wargs…and their riders.
In the shadow of the old Kings, he readied his weapons, testing the edge of his blades and the string of his bow, hands steady despite the shiver that had run down his back at the sound. He had the advantage of the high ground, but as more howls rose in the distance, he knew that they had the advantage of numbers, and while the dark would have aided him against a human foe, he knew their sight was as good as his under the starlight.
It didn't take long for them to catch his scent, no doubt used to seeking out the most elusive prey in this wilderness, and Legolas whispered a prayer to, before creeping to the front of the Watchtower and peering down the incline, an arrow already notched to his bow as he waited.
They appeared as grey shapes in the night, ghostly, in the mist that had started to rise from the frost-covered ground, starlight glinting off the odd piece of uncovered metal and reflecting in glowing eyes that were focused on his hiding spot. There was hunger in the Wargs cries as they howled and yipped, one that spoke of a long winter and he tensed, as their cries were joined by the shouts of their riders, the sound of their foul tongue transporting him back to another time, and his grip tightened on his bow. They knew he was here, calling to him mockingly, challenging him, both in their own tongue and common and his lip curled. However, it didn't distract him from the way they were inching forward, trying to gain ground on him, and the first Warg had barely set foot on the base of the hill when he loosed his arrow, another in place and following suit before the first had hit, the pained yelp telling him both had hit his target.
He fired another, highly aware that he didn't have enough arrows to take them all out and that as they recovered from the shock of their prey attacking first, they would regroup and use their numbers to overwhelm him. Still, he had taken out another three riders and another Warg before they recovered, but the clatter of heavy crossbow bolts hitting rock around him forced him to take cover, giving them room to gain ground on him, and he slid one of his knives from his sheath, bracing himself for the fight to come.
The clink of armour on the other side of the wall had him tensing, reading to leap out, when there was an alarm cry from the pack and loud orcish curses that had him peering around the wall to see what was happening, eyes widening as he spied dark shapes materialising from the darkness.
They were utterly silent, stealing out of the night and encircling the Warg pack before they could react, cold steel bright flashing briefly as it caught the starlight before they descended on the Warg pack with deadly efficiently. Each was clearly skilled with the blade, at no disadvantage even though they were fighting on foot against mounted foes and it was clear that they had fought together before, weaving in and out of each other's path with deadly grace. But there was one who stood out above the others. There was a wildness to his movements, something that Legolas would have called recklessness had he not seen the man turn blades aside with perfect timing, almost elf-like in his grace.
It was almost tempting to remain where he was and watch.
Almost. Instead, he slipped from the protection of the watchtower, descending on the Warg pack from behind as distracted by the newcomers they had forgotten about their original prey. He loosed another volley of arrows as he slid down the frozen glass, using his bow to flick a spear to the side as one of the riders swung around to face the newest threat. Twisting he sent both weapons flying out of reach, knife already in his hand and the Orc met a swift end as he swung himself up and over the back of the Warg, part skin and sinew with a flash of the blade, drawing the second one as he rolled clear.
He joined the deadly dance as though he had always been part of it, and the men, for they were men he could see now, made room for him although he caught more than one sidewards look.
Between them, the Warg pack was caught, and it felt like the battle had barely begun before it was ending. The final Warg attempting to flee into the night, only to be felled by the man that Legolas had been watching earlier, falling with an echoing cry that tailed off into the silence that fell in the wake of the fight. Legolas cleaned his blades against the icy grass before slipping them back into their sheaths, sensing they wouldn't be needed here, before slowly straightening and glancing around at his companions. Now that they were still, he could see that they were dressed as rangers, armour battered but functional, clothes bearing the signs of years of repairs, but weapons well-tended as they gathered, watching him with wary eyes and hands that lingered on their weapons.
The soft lilt of a greeting in Elvish had him looking around in surprise, to see a ragged, dark-haired man stepping forward, lowering the hood of the grey cloaks they all wore to reveal keen eyes that missed nothing as they travelled over Legolas and stern features that softened slightly as he commented in common. "It is rare to find an Elf up here in the north." Rare, but not unheard of, Legolas realised, and he knew that he had found who he sought, wondering yet again what it was about this man that drew Elven kind to him and how he had come to know their tongue, although that was a question for later, because the other men were still wary.
"I came seeking the Dúnedain," Legolas replied, eyes drifting over the group, noting any potential points of escape although he doubted that it would be needed, as several hands had slipped from weapons at his words, and his lips quirked upwards. "And it would appear that I have found them."
"Indeed." The man murmured, slowly lowering his blade, keen eyes fixed on him, and Legolas felt as though the man saw more than he should. "But that wasn't all that you sought, was it." It wasn't a question Legolas realised, a calm certainty underlying those words.
"No," Legolas replied anyway, seeing no point in lying, especially as he sensed that this man, despite the ragged appearance was the one he sought. There was power here, authority although understated and just standing before him, and seeing how the other rangers watched him, he could begin to understand why this man had earned his father's respect. And how he might come to earn his. "I was told to seek out a man called Strider." The man's gaze sharpened, but it was the only reaction he gave, voice as steady and calm as ever as he asked.
"And who seeks him?"
"Legolas Greenleaf…"
"Son of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood," the man finished for him, a small, but warm smile tugging at his lips at the surprise on Legolas's face. "I have passed through Mirkwood many times, and dined in its halls although we have never met." He sheathed his weapon, before stepping forward, reaching out and clasping Legolas on the arm. "Come, Legolas Greenleaf, since you have come this far to meet Strider." There was amusement, wryly directed at himself at the nickname. "You might as well come and share a meal with him.