I recently watched the Hobbit again and found this story on my harddrive, almost ready for posting.
This is the third story in the series the Mirkwood King (prequels: The Other King, A New Era).
It's been so long since the last part that I'll spare you having to (re)read the others: the series is based on the idea that Thranduil intervenes when Smaug attacks Erebor during King Thrór's reign and is killed. Legolas is now king.
The man bowed his golden head respectfully, his long hair held back by twisting braids which looked plain compared to those of the Woodland King. The man's eyes were watchful; weary; he was not used to elves. The guard that had brought him here before the throne had disappeared, and that left him in the company of four even more blank-faced, slender elves bearing armor and spears, guarding their king seemingly with their gaze in the wind instead of upon either their sire or the visitor.
The king's throne was an elaborate construct of wood and antlers positioned high on a platform above the ground upon which the human messenger stood. The king appeared even more impressive and otherworldly to the man than what he had been prepared for. They had heard, in the realm of Rohan, that the new elven king was young by the count of his people. Men found it difficult to estimate an elf's age; they all appeared to be eternally young to them, and the elven king was no different. The eyes alone, a striking blue set in a pale face, revealed that he had seen many more years, centuries perhaps, than any man ever would.
"King Fréaláf sends word from the Realm of Rohan to King Legolas of the … Great Greenwood," the messenger announced. The hesitation before the name of King Legolas' realm suggested that the Rohirrim usually called it by a different name, and that the messenger had needed to recall the words he was to say in the common tongue.
"We appreciate the King of Rohan's attention to elven affairs," Legolas replied. It came out unchecked, and the Rohirrim's hardening expression told Legolas that he had started off wrong; arrogant, more like his father, less like himself. Diplomacy was not this king's forte, had never even been seen as necessary; after all, he should never have become king.
Legolas rose from his throne and stepped down to the level of the messenger. He had still not replaced his crown of mourning, a plain circlet black as soot with none of the proud, towering elegance of his father's kingly jewels of choice.
"Welcome to the Great Greenwood, also called Mirkwood. The shadows here are long, but you are safe in our home and I hope that our hospitality is satisfactory."
His features appeared softer up close than in the strange light on the platform. The Rider relaxed slightly and nodded.
"Thank you."
Plain speak he was familiar with, and King Fréaláf had considered that this elven king might prefer it, too. The War King some called him, a name born from his status as an accomplished warrior prince, who had faithfully defended his father's realm and people against untold evils. From the messenger bag around his shoulder, the messenger drew out a letter sealed with green wax and handed it to the King with another short bow.
"My King sends his condolences to you for your father's passing. The Rohirrim have lost lives to cold drakes, but the tragedy must be even greater for the immortal folk."
Legolas' long fingers briefly froze around the letter, then he retrieved it from the Rohirrim's hand.
"Immortal to age we may be, immortal to death we are not. We wood-elves have more experience with that than other elven folk, but indeed the elven realms are not as used to new rulers as the mortal realms."
Legolas reminded himself of Celeborn's words to him; all realms looked to him now. They needed to know that the Greenwood was strong, that their relations with other realms would at the very least not worsen, that despite the grief the dwarves of Erebor had brought upon the elven realm, there would not be outright war in the north.
"Thank you for bringing this letter to me. I will read it at the earliest opportunity, and would ask you to stay here for a few days until I have finished my reply."
"That was also my King's wish. Thank you, and I will await your summons."
The king's steward had appeared without a sound, and he indicated for the man to follow. He would be lead deep into the caves, to guest chambers at the other end of the hill. There, the sunlight reached the chambers from the south and the west, and while elves considered the rays of morning to be the most precious, men tended to prefer the warmer light of the afternoon.
Once they had gone, Legolas settled down upon the stairs to his throne. He wondered how long it took to get used to that seat. It was not in itself uncomfortable, and yet he did not feel comfortable upon it either. Curiously, he regarded the green seal. He did not remember ever seeing such a letter while his father was king, and he wished he had had the time to ask why; he traced the wax and the structure of the parchment, committing it to memory in case he would never see it again. Then he carefully broke the seal open and unfolded the letter.
It was not as cautiously worded as that from Gondor by Steward Beregond (sent by messenger bird, for no rider could have overtaken the Rohirrim). Legolas had heard that the Rohirrim were more direct than their southern neighbors, and he could appreciate that as someone whose people were seen as a similar anti-thesis to the Noldor.
He took the letter with him to the King's study where he contemplated the map upon the wall.
Rohan was far; almost two thirds of Mirkwood and then the plains lay between the wood-elves' halls and the Riddermark. Factually, the elven king's realm did not cover the entire forest, as his people had decreased greatly in number for centuries. Evil had grown and Thranduil had been forced to retreat several times with his people to the north; some had not wished to come, stayed, and had then never been seen again.
Dol Guldur was the bastion of that evil, and that dark fortress was close to Rohan. Quietly, mentally, Legolas had been preparing for some time now to attack it. He had not spoken to his advisors yet; his previous shield brothers might guess at it; Celeborn already knew, and Legolas was aware that that was not the order in which things should be done.
Attacking Dol Guldur had been his second thought beyond his grief; only Erebor and the dwarves had come first. He could not kill the naugrim, although in his grief and anger he often felt that desire; but he could do his very best to kill whatever evil Dol Guldur sent out and at last level that fortress so that it could no more be claimed. It would ease the pressure on his realm and his people, hopefully afford them more peace. Yet he had to plan carefully, for no few warriors had died with his father, and he knew that he would be asking a lot from his people if he marched to war so soon after.
With all those thoughts in mind, he sat down behind his desk, dipped his quill in ink, and started drafting a reply to King Fréaláf. He did not expect Rohan to fight with him as Celeborn had promised in the name of his own realm; but he needed to warn them, for they might be watching and take a gathering elven army so close to them the wrong way.
Legolas made a mental note to send a bolt of spider silk as a gift. It was a precious material, but the best way of assuring the Riddermark of his good intentions. There were many things he wanted to change in this new era.