Chapter 1 – So It Begins

"Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents…"

[Matthew 10:16]

As a cold sun rose imperceptibly on a winter's morning blanketed by a thick yet gentle snowfall, a keen eye and an even keener luck may have granted one a brief glimpse of an elven contingent threading its way carefully through the dim forests of Mirkwood.

Those who knew a little about elven lore would, upon sighting the troop, discover first that these were wood-elves – indicated by their garb of deep browns and greens, making them difficult to distinguish from the dense screen of leaves and branches surrounding them on all sides – and second, that the ancient forest trail they followed (the Elf Path, to all elves) took them, via a roundabout route, southwest to Lothlórien.

More informed observers would have knowledge of the Elvenking Thranduil, ruler of the Mirkwood realm, and might even have noted his crest worked in metal on the mithril cloak clasps worn by all of the maethor, or warrior elves – for this was no mere party of travellers but the Queen of Mirkwood herself with her young son the Crown Prince, accompanied by their honor guard.

These maethor were armed to their teeth, each having a bow and a full quiver of arrows strapped to their back; not surprising, as the woodland realm was renowned for its archers' prowess. Most also had swords or daggers on their person. The Queen herself (who had received maethor training practically since she first learned to walk) favoured twin long-knives with beautifully-sculpted ivory handles: lighter than most swords and thus easier for an elleth to handle without sacrificing any power. Even the little Prince, who was not more than five years of age in terms of human development, was armed with a small dagger in his right boot. None, however, wore armor of any kind beyond leather vambraces around the forearms to protect them from the recoil of the bowstring.

Such armaments were an unfortunate necessity. Dark times had fallen on the wood-elves, darkness that could be physically seen as their forest itself blackened slowly in the face of a relentless tide of evil; evil that had been growing and festering since the arrival of the Necromancer in the dreaded Dol Guldur…whom rumors whispered was the Dark Lord Sauron in disguise... The giant Mirkwood spiders flourished, growing, it seemed, even larger than they had been before; more and more of their nests were found and destroyed near the palace. Scouting missions brought back reports of orc invasions which encroached ever further upon elven domain. Painful as it was to realize, the elves understood that their beloved forest was not safe to roam without protection any longer.

The company travelled, in the way of elves, as silently as the snowflakes that swirled around their heads, but moreover with a distinctly clandestine air about them. On a journey as long as theirs, such furtiveness would serve them well. It was more than six hundred miles from Thranduil's Caverns to Lórien's Calas Galadhon, a distance it would take them the better part of two weeks to cover. More time spent on the road meant more opportunities of attack by spiders, or worse – by orcs. They were already moving as swiftly as was possible with an elfling in tow; while they rode elf-horses, pushing any further would be a cruel strain on their mounts.

So far they had gotten through the Mirkwood Mountain Pass without incident, but they had lost precious time in the process; time they were now trying, desperately, to make up. No more delays could be afforded.

Usually they would have taken the Old Forest Road out of Mirkwood to the Old Ford, where they would have followed the Anduin down to the Golden Wood. Now it was too dangerous to be out in the open, especially at night when orcs roamed at will. The elves kept to the forest, travelling through the thick growth of trees to come out below the treacherous marches of the Gladden Fields, where they would then travel the remainder of their journey along the skirts of the Great River. It was a risk, but a risk that was crucial to avoid passing too near to Dol Guldur. Elves that were taken to that black-towered fortress never returned, vanishing like ghosts in the wind…

Scouts had left shortly before dawn to clear the way for the others and to search the path ahead for any signs of an orc ambush. The breeze brought the lingering smell of charred wood to the elves' nostrils and they shivered in disgust; fire – or the threat of it – was the only thing spiders of the Mirkwood variety feared, and the elven guard were taking no chances with the Royals' safety.

So now the contingent moved more slowly than before, bunched close together, all elves keeping a sharp lookout for the slightest sign of a threat, their horses stamping their hooves and snorting nervously; clouds of mist blasted from their noses and mouths.

The horses' skittishness was easily attributable – this morning the elves would come the closest they would to Dol Guldur, and even being within a hundred miles of the place was considered extremely dangerous. Here, the black trees could hide an army of orcs even from the piercing eyes of elves, an army that could decimate even a battle-hardened troop of experienced warriors, as theirs was. But even death, horrifying as the prospect was at the mercy of such evil creatures, was not the worst thing that could befall one when dealing with orcs. The brutal fate of orc captives was far, far worse… and all elves had heard the terrible stories of what was done to any elleth unfortunate enough to fall into orc claws…

Tension stretched the air to the tearing point, for the scouts should have returned by now – should have, yet had not…

And there was something else floating on the winter air, a something as elusive as the wisps of smoke that only served to heighten the horses' anxiety. A vague sense of the sinister pervaded the forest ahead. The unknown menace was as tangible to elven extrasensory perceptions as a solid sheet of ice blanketing a lake, but as to pinpointing its exact source… none could say. A pall of gloom was cast over the entire company. Terror looked over the shoulder of every elf, as they peered anxiously into the inky snow-blurred darkness before them.

Guiding her milk-white mare carefully around deep snowdrifts and slick patches of black ice, the Queen sat tall in the saddle, her storm-gray gaze sweeping the thick tangle of scrub that lined the forest path, effectively obscuring her view of the mysterious blackness behind. The scouts' prolonged absence was weighing heavily on her mind as well, and she had made up her mind to ask about them at the very next opportunity. Securely perched in front of his mother, the miniature Prince Legolas shifted restlessly as the wind's frozen breath blew playfully at the few strands of white-blond hair framing his thin face. As the elfling, worn out from a week and a half of constant travel, was still resting, she kept one arm wrapped around her son at all times, so that he would not slip off the horse's back in his slumber. The Queen's one comfort was that at least he was unaware of the peril they were in.

Now she reached down to fuss with the cloak that was wrapped around the little ellon like a cocoon, pulling the hood more closely around his face and head, tucking the cloak's edges more snugly around his body, poking a stick-thin arm that had come free back into the nest of warmth. Legolas stirred, squirming away from his mother's cold fingers, and woke to the frigid gloom that surrounded him.

Immediately, the elfling shivered until his teeth chattered, burrowing deeper into his cloak's soft fabric. His mother, thinking her son chilled by the freezing weather (elven babes grew into their immunity once they reached maturity), pulled him closer to her and drew her own cloak around them both. But now she felt that Legolas shook from more than simple cold.

"Why do you tremble so, tithen las nín? What troubles you?"

Legolas only shook harder, pressing himself more firmly back against his mother's comforting softness, and buried his face in her riding tunic for a moment. Breathing in her scent he drew courage from it, from the smell like the fresh damp earth after a gentle spring shower…the smell of all things good and familiar…the smell of…home.

Turning his little face up to look at her, his eyebrows pinched in fear and confusion, the elfling replied, "The air… I don't like it, Nana, I – don't – like it… It's not – not right. It's too…cold…"

"That is simply because it is winter, ion nín – "

" – No… This isn't the kind of cold that winter makes… There's something else. Something bad that's making it so – so helkh…"

Helkh… Legolas' mother reflected on his choice of word. Meaning 'bitter cold', helkh was not a phrase elves used lightly, mostly saved for occasions when severe pain, grief, or fear produced the sensation…

A nameless dread settled itself on the Queen's heart and began to squeeze with icy fingers.

"…And the trees here are strange," the child continued. "They do not speak…it's as if they've forgotten how…"

His voice sounded decidedly hurt, his mother thought distractedly. Like all wood-elves, her son felt a deep connection to the earth's growing things, and therefore craved the trees' conversation. She stretched out her senses, leaving her mind as open as she could, and yet she could perceive nothing from these dark trees. But, Legolas did seem to take the elven relationship with nature to a far deeper level than was ordinary…

"…But they're afraid... I can sense it." He drew in a sharp, ragged breath. "Nana… I'm so horribly frightened…"

The icy fingers tightened their hold. Had he somehow learned of the danger? "Afraid of what, penneth?"

"I don't know… Only – the trees… They know something's going to happen. Soon. Something terrible..."