Disclaimer: I merely employ the services of the characters; I do not proclaim ownership to them.

Note: Inform old Hippothoe of you opinions, please. I find it quite disappointing to pour both copious time and effort into fictional works that prompt no reply. Thank you, readers.

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Chapter One: When Gwirith Saw Mirkwood

Mirkwood certainly was beautiful, Gwirith admitted.

Golden light sliced through the arching, verdant canopy, dappling Anorian's saddle and the sleeve of her dress. Gwirith observed all in silence. Carelessly, she flicked her braid over her shoulder, ignoring Ithil's frankly curious stare. Mud had flecked her pretty new shoes, discolouring the deeply green material, and Gwirith fought against the colour rising to her cheeks.

The pace of the journey was beginning to seem achingly slow – from Elrond's tranquil Imladris, her tranquil Imladris, to that human settlement that stunk of raw fish (Dale?), and finally, past the great rivers and mountains, to here; to these harsh and twisted trees, tainted by evil, that were now, gradually, fading into the nothingness, and providing shelter for the growth of a forest more enchanting and intimidating than any she'd seen.

Their companions, in turn, did not feel at all inclined to strike conversation. Even Anorian began to bristle, and that had never happened before. Beneath her steed's hooves, snapping and crackling as she gestured Anorian forward, she smelled the freshly moistened soil that lay beneath the litter of leaves, sharp and pleasant and unfamiliar. Her eyes began to sting; she did not want to be intrigued by this new and forbidding place. She wanted to return home, to her little collection of books and colourful pots of autumn blossoms. Who would care for her tiny house while she was gone? Who would be there to cook in her kitchen, to open the windows to hear the music of the waterfalls?

Nobody.

Gwirth was miserable.

At the head of the travelling party, wallowing in her own stubborn self-loathing, Gwirith saw Vanafindon raise his hand, signalling the wary elves to a halt. "This is where the wardens meet us – here we remain until we are bidden forward," he said, solemn and serious.

The elves then quietly dispersed, some vanishing into the trees to search for firewood, others keeping wordless vigil, patiently waiting for the arrival of the warriors. Vanafindon himself disappeared into the branches of the nearest mallorn, as lithe as the mountain cats that she had read about.

Ithil cautiously approached her, clasping a friendly hand over her shoulder and smiling sympathetically. She spread her cloak over a patch of dry ground, and they both sat, Ithil gazing wonderingly at the sky – or what could be seen of it – and her comrade scowling sulkily. Gwirith knew that she resembled a petulant child, spoiled and selfish, but she didn't reveal that she cared, not even when Glandur wrinkled his nose at her distastefully.

"You know, Gwirith," Ithil began cheerfully, watching as Glandur sidled away, "if you were to simply smile, even in falsehood, you may find that you are actually enjoying yourself."

"I doubt it."

"Why is that, my friend? It is a glorious day, and it finds us in a wondrous place. You should be happy."

"And why is that, Ithil?" Gwirith mockingly imitated. "Why should I be happy? My parents no longer want me with them."

"That is untrue."

"Oh, is it? You did not see the determination on their faces when they tried their absolute best to persuade me to leave, Ithil. You did not see their delight when I relented!" Embarrassingly, she had begun to weep.

"Now I know that that is not true. Nimthiriel and Lithonion love you incomparably."

Gwirith snorted. "They may. But now that they have Miluiel, I am merely an unwanted protuberance to the family – a baggage."

A stunned silence, the soothing twittering of forest birds, and Ithil burst into laughter. "Ah, now I understand. You are jealous, and of your younger sister!"

"I am no such thing!" Of course she was, yet Mordor would freeze solid before she admitted it.

"But, Gwirith, she is only a baby; she has barely completed her first year." Ithil said.

"Do you think that I am not aware of that?" Gwirith said, mortified.

Ithil curled a comforting arm around Gwirith's shoulders. "Stop it, Gwirith. Stop it right now. I want you to smile and be happy."

"So do I," she replied, sighing.

So do I.

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Day faded into dusk, and still the wardens did not come. Vanafindon had returned hours earlier, and had ordered the pots and kettles to be procured, inspected, and hung over the fire for the preparation of the evening meal.

"I believe that they intend to have us wait," he said, addressing the group of travellers. "Do not wander out and away from the camp during the night, and do not leave any uneaten food uncovered. It may attract scavengers."

Gwirith had kept watch over the boiling water that was intended for tea, stirring through the bubbling leaves with a wooden spoon, pouring liberally for anyone who had wanted a drink. "Tea, if you please," grumbled ancient Tathar, whose irritability seemed only to expand with the birth of each new moon. Gwirith complied, unwilling to set kindling to an argument.

When the pot had been emptied and the tea reduced to a cold mince of herbs, Gwirith lifted it from the hook and glanced questioningly at Vanafindon, who nodded his head and gestured to the sky. "Do not be long," he said.

It was not difficult to find the river, an impressive, winding grey ribbon that traced a shimmering line along the trees and roots, and Gwirith soon found herself a dry patch of moss upon the banks of sand on either side of the water. She settled awkwardly onto her knees, cursing the wind, slipping her shoes from her sore feet, and imploring the Valar to be reasonable, to sense her discomfort and direct her back to where she belonged, safely nestled away in Rivendell. It was a fruitless endeavour. She scooped out the remains of the tea, tossing the pulpy, fragrant handful at the rocks, and washed vigorously away at the warm interior of the metal.

Her buttocks ached from an entire day in the saddle, and Gwirith still had not had a moment to have her dinner, or to bathe, or to comb her hair, or to even clean her teeth. She smelled terrible; her gown, now a dull match for the sluggish river trout in colour, was stained and filthy. And that was omitting to mention that her underclothes had not been changed or aired in days.

Quite a sight you will be, riding into Mirkwood for the first time, she thought bitterly.

"Yes, quite a sight."

Gwirith shot to her feet. Her fingers shaking, the cursed pot clutched to her chest, she surveyed the trees, her heart thundering. "Who is there? Show yourself!" The blood coursed through her limbs; she could feel it as each enternal second dripped into her veins, pounding into her chest.

A chuckle floated to her ears from above. "Peace, my lady. We had no intention of offending you."

We? "I had not realised that I had thought aloud." Faintly, as if from a great distance, Gwirithiel heard her voice falter.

With a flourish, an elf leapt from the branches of a nearby elm, landing upon the soil with a soft thud; Gwirith concluded that the muffled sound was for her own benefit. He was quite tall, she realised, watching as he drew himself upward, a bow of the Greenwood fashion strapped to his back. He appraised her with smiling blue eyes, grinning amiably as a second companion pounced to his side.

"Rather, I had not intended to eavesdrop," the elf said.

"Who are you?"

"My lady, I am Legolas."

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Well, I do hope that you enjoyed the Pilot Chapter.

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