(A/N) Hello all! This is going to be a short fic set during Aragorn's search for Gollum. Seeing as that took him near Mirkwood, and so much of Legolas' past is unknown, I wondered, could they have met then? Legolas' family aside from Thranduil is also shrouded in mystery, so I made use of creative license. Anyways, here it is: A Chance Encounter.
Disclaimer: I definitely don't own, so don't sue (I don't have much to sue for~).
Special thanks to Toomanyobsessionstocount for beta-ing, go check out her stuff if you can!
CHAPTER ONE
Aragorn knelt in the tall grasses beside the river. His eye traced a familiar and altogether unique print in the dried mud, a print so well hidden beneath the ferns that it would go unnoticed by most trackers. The toes were pressed in deeply, the ball of the bare foot had formed a shallow valley, and the depressions ahead were dappled in an arrangement calloused fingers might've made. The entire set of tracks hardly gouged the surface of the riverside silt, meaning the creature that had left them was light for its size.
Undoubtedly, Gollum had passed by this very point.
However, there was a problem with the finely preserved prints. The ranger stood, sheath clinking at his side, and ran a hand through his choppy hair. This particular bank had been subjected to a drought for over a month and a half. The River Running was barely flowing, only a couple meters deep where it should have been six or seven. For the mud to have been fresh when the prints were made… Aragorn was easily three weeks or more in travel behind his quarry. What he had stumbled upon was hardly a trail; it was the barest hint of passage—too old to be of any use.
He sighed softly, and shifted closer to the stream to fill his water skin.
When Mithrandir had asked him to search out the creature, he had thought it a complement on his tracking skills. The twinkle in the old man's eye and the confidence he had expressed was assuring, almost indicative of a short venture. Now, it seemed, the lazy Istar was simply pushing his dirty work elsewhere. It had only been a short five weeks since he had ridden from Imladris, but his high hopes were quickly diminishing.
Strangely, in all his seventy years of life, he had rarely spent so long without speaking to a fellow creature. The nagging regret was lacing into his stride each and every day. Originally, he'd been adamant about traveling alone; turning down offers from many an elf to accompany him. He made much better time this way, he had reminded them. Yet, now the lack of company was loud in the silence.
The leather from his canteen was damp from the river, and he quickly capped it and tossed it into his pack. Setting his sights northward, he made way along the River Running towards Lake Esgaroth. The tracks had been leading him this way for the last few days, and the meandering path Gollum had taken led the Dúnadan to believe Gollum had yet to discover he was being hunted. Time would be working with him if he made haste along the grassy riverside.
Perhaps his halfhearted attitude towards his quest was due to the heaviness of the enchanted forest to his left, but it felt like more. There was a darker feeling to the air, something far more sinister than the tangled branches of Mirkwood. And the feeling of evil presence was not solely in his head, either. He'd narrowly avoided several orc packs already, surprised at how close they dared come near the Elvenking's Palace. And despite the fact that he was no elf, the continuous rustling of the trees made the forest seem just as restless as he was.
It was at that moment, when he stood poised, listening, that he heard the distant thud of a heavy tread.
The footstep was a pounding cadence, and he quickly realized that it was the sound of many approaching. Aragorn was no fool. If they were coming from the south, it was likely another pack of orcs. He broke for the trees, snapped from his frozen spell and scrambling skillfully into the undergrowth. The Mirkwood forest here was compact and uninviting. Whoever was approaching would not try to enter the woods near the copse where he lay hidden.
His head was ducked low in the brush, hand grazing his hilt, and body tensed like a bowstring. Several minutes more passed this way, with the sound of trudging growing louder until it filled his ears. The first shape trekked over the slight hill to his right, feet dragging and chest heaving, lugging a rusted broadsword over its shoulder.
Orcs again.
Silently, Aragorn cursed his luck. This was the third time he'd run into the filthy creatures by pure coincidence just this trip. For such a short span of time it was unheard of. It concerned him how active the darker forces had become, and now watching beast after beast pass in front of him so well armed and massive in number, he knew something was amiss. This was no simple orc hunting party, nor was it a patrol this deep into elven territory. It was a small army. The crude jeering amongst the brutes was mostly unintelligible Black Speech, but the Westron ungracefully interjected here and there gave the ranger some idea of what was going on.
"Gologrim will fall this day," One with a dreadfully misshapen head grunted.
"Mirdautas vras!" Another agreed with a shake of his spear as he passed within reach of the concealed human. Aragorn recognized only the word for 'elf' amongst the spat jargon, and he clenched his teeth in restraint. The audacity of the foul beings had grown to the point of an organized strike.
The beasts were heading for the crown jewel of the Woodland Realm, Mirkwood, itself.
The Dúnadan waited as patiently as was possible for the orcs to pass. However, the sheer numbers they had agglomerated were staggering, and he was unable to get any feel for exactly how many were geared up for the attack. There was no organization to their trooping, only a dirty mass of rotting flesh five across in places and twelve across in others. A solid few minutes after they had trickled onwards, leaving a path of matted grasses in their wake, Aragorn had decided on a course of action.
Gandalf's request would be postponed, for he needed to warn Mirkwood of the looming violence marching their way.
He knew the Silvan elves had a reputation for their incredible skill in battle, but the quantity of orcs present would be enough to crush any small force of the most adept fighters. Without proper fortifications, the Wood elves would shed much blood even if they emerged victorious.
But, if the orcs followed the River Running until the more distinct entrance into the woods, Aragorn might reach the Elvenking's Halls quicker through the forest. He'd only been inside the palace once prior, and passing too close while unwelcome was dangerous even for him. Still, he was certain that he could locate the Halls if he made good time.
Boots gracefully skipped over protruding roots as his hands batted away a tangled web of branches, immersing himself deeply within the thickets of Mirkwood. The air always felt denser within, and the light fluttering through the branches was found far and in between. The entire sense was one of full isolation. A stifling solitude.
While the forest gave the impression of never having been touched, the ranger knew elves traversed this section regularly, and his tracking mindset took over. Keen eyes picked out the slender traces of light-footed passage, and he was gliding along them without a second thought.
He only hoped that he would make it in time.
*Gologrim*—"elves" (Black Speech)
*Mirdautas vras*—"It is a good day to kill" (Black Speech)
**An hour earlier**
The underground hall was bare, and the mottled brown of the tree trunks appeared stony instead of radiating its usual warmth. Beautiful as it was, it was missing the old joy that had once flooded it.
"Adar, I'm taking a circuit today." Legolas stiffly addressed his father, fully garbed for guard duty. His daggers were strapped at his side and his bow neatly tucked over his shoulder, lying across his well-worn quiver. Much like the hall, he was resigned where he would have been jovial.
"No. You stay here." There was no room for argument in the Sindar's command as he stood, back turned to his son. He gazed across the elegant expanse of the pillared hall without so much as another word Legolas' way. The autumn crown adorned his golden hair and his robes were graceful where Legolas' were functional. The archer felt as if the differences between them had never been so stark.
"Very well, adar."
He took his leave with a short bow and retreated down the empty pathway. He knew his father's eyes were not following him, yet it still seemed as if his feet echoed all too noisily on the hard stone.
If he won't even look at me, then why can't I leave? The prince thought sadly, his foot stabbing the ground harsher than necessary. But he knew why his ada had such difficulty holding his gaze. He looked like him. Like Elidyr.
"Legolas, get down!"
The blonde archer ducked a wide swipe of his foe's club, thrusting a dagger into the midsection of the offending orc before twisting to hack at the knees of another. His immediate vicinity was clear enough to sheath his blades and notch two arrows. The bowstring was pulled in a heartbeat, and the shafts flew true, striking two more enemies square in the forehead.
"Hannon le, Elidyr." He called, freeing another bout of perfect bulls-eyes.
The orc pack had sprung out of nowhere, attacking the exchange in the area with the worst footing. Now, just beyond the settlement of New Laketown, their party was marooned on the rocks, backs against the fast flowing banks. Though many an orc had fallen, there were a minimum of twenty remaining and he was running out of arrows. A few of the men from Laketown were wounded, and a couple had collapsed. Now, Legolas dearly wished that more than two elves had been requested to carry out the protection of the trade route. It wasn't long before it was just Elidyr and himself fighting a losing battle.
The orcs were beginning to close in once again, and Elidyr retreated nearer to his side, blonde locks flying as he wrenched his knife out of an adversary's stomach. The sooty blackness of their blood encrusted both the elves' blades, spotting their clothes and dirtying the rocks in stinking puddles.
Legolas loosed his final arrow, managing to nail two orcs at once—one through the heart, another with a nicked lung. With no other option but closed ranged combat, he tossed his prized longbow to the ground and whirled forward, daggers wickedly fast yet never quite fast enough.
Elidyr was right beside him, in the thick of the black fleshed walls. The two attempted to remain side by side, but were quickly forced apart by the need to evade the ubiquitous swords crashing down in deadly arcs. Legolas knew his back was undefended, so he tried to keep moving. He was pressed into making creative blocks, spinning a few low kicks, and springing up again. He was tiring, and from the panting only mere feet away, he knew his brother was as well. It was simply too much.
It was the moment when four bent blades were swung in unison, that Legolas knew he would only be able to avoid one, and block two. The rudimentary fighting style of the orcs had accidentally brushed upon a moment of brilliance—for there was no path he could take, no technique he could enact, that would allow him to escape injury this time.
There was the ricochet of two swords rebounding back to their owners, the hiss of one slicing air, and—
And the squelching sound of metal sinking into flesh.
Instead of the flaring pain of cold iron ramming through his back, Legolas felt the soft weight of a body leaning heavily on him. A whimper of pain. Against all fighting instinct, he froze. His heart pounded in his ears so loudly that he couldn't hear anything else.
Legolas saw red as he turned, hand trembling around the grip of his dagger. Too afraid to see and yet terrified to look away. The orcs were puzzled by his delay, just long enough for him to meet the wide, unblinking blue eyes of his dead brother. Face permanently contorted into an expression of pain, an ugly orcish blade run through his heart.
The light was gone from him instantly.
"Muindor," Legolas barely whispered the word, choking on it like poison.
He stumbled backwards as the weapon was wrenched out of his brother's torso, the limp elf dropping to the ground like a lump of clay. His hands continued to shake as he numbly stared at where his brother had been propped up. His eyes unfocused and refocused, and when he finally came to his senses, he was staring directly at the orc that had slayed his kin.
His hands stopped shaking.
The orc had a dagger lodged in his skull before he could blink, black blood flecked across the clothes of his murderer. A cold, calculating terror had taken over Legolas' posture, and so much adrenaline was pumping through his veins that he cleaved through the orcs with renewed vigor. Anger and sadness and grief and pain were ripping through him so terribly that he had reverted to death on autopilot.
He hardly noticed when his foes began to fall to arrows. When he was left standing alone, drenched in the lifeblood of his enemies, he still took no stock of the comforting hand placed on his shoulder.
"Mellon-nin, are you unhurt?"
The wreckage was absolute. A party of Silvan elves had come to investigate the duress signal all too late—the few men had been slaughtered, and now the crown prince of Mirkwood was lying among the dead.
"I am fine." He lied, shaking off the hand to go find his brother's corpse.
He fingered the hilt on his sheathed stiletto, clenching the grip torpidly. It was the same weapon from that very day.
Legolas relived that battle too often, lately. Every night. Despite the passage of a year, the sharpness had not faded, and the emptiness had only intensified. It was a grief that every member of the royal family shouldered, but it was his burden most of all. It was his fault.
It must be the reason for his father's coldness. He knew, somehow, even if the Elvenking never said it aloud. Where they had once been so close, he was now almost entirely ignored. The rift growing between them felt like ice in his chest.
Sighing deeply as he found his way to his mother's chambers, the prince released his unforgiving hold on the dagger and gently rapped on the door.
"Enter." The voice of Lethonnel was melodic even when distant.
He swung the door in on its hinge and was welcomed into the arboreal alcove that his nana resided in. The walls were like folds of cloth immortalized in wood, neat, perfect columns entirely unlike the current occupant's condition.
"Ion-nin," she called calmly, glazed hazel eyes seemingly unreachable.
"Naneth, how do you fare today?" He clasped her hand, as she lay supine in bed yet again.
"Fine, fine, my dear. How did it go with your father?" She was lying, he could tell. Her hand was cold to the touch, and her spirit felt weaker than the day before. The grieving was harder on her. She had cared for Elidyr for over a thousand years, whereas Legolas had only known him for the six-hundred years he had lived. It was always harder to part with one that was raised from an elfling.
"He is the same." Legolas admitted a bit guiltily, dropping his eyes to the floor.
"Is that so?" She had spaced out again, and he felt there was nothing he could do. She was close to fading, he knew, the awful grief was eating away at her life energy as he sat there. It always grew worse when he was there; even the healers had admitted so.
He swallowed his unspoken words and prepared to leave, the visit having already been too taxing for her. He made sure her form was well covered with blankets, smoothing her long brown locks out over the pillow.
Then he left.
His resemblance to Elidyr was a token to all, it seemed, of the tragic death. He would do some good to disobey his father just this once and take an evening patrol. Even though his naneth and adar dealt with their loss in different ways, the pain of seeing the deceased each day probably felt like salt in the wound. They would all be better off if he went unseen for a short while.
After all, there would be a celebratory feast tonight. It was Mereth-nuin-Giliath, and the autumn dinner should not be dampened by mortal reminders. Hearts should be light on such a day, he tried to convince himself as he approached the main gate. He passed elves arming for the pass off between circuits, those who appeared saddened by the prospect of missing the banquet.
While his own heart felt both leaden and empty, Legolas' conscious lifted a little with his decision. The forest would do him well, for he had neglected the trees as of late, and the space would be welcome within the Elvenking's halls. He adjusted the strap on his belt, aligning his sheathed daggers properly.
The prince allowed a short smile to warm his face, calling out to Anildor, the patrol's commander.
"I hope to join you all today." The Wood elf's eyes brightened, but proceeded to flash mischievously.
"I do not think you are supposed to, mellon-nin." The mock-scold was light, and the response, a mere shrug, taken wrongly for rebellious nonchalance.
"Are you coming back to your old self?" The jovial chuckle was enough to be permission in Legolas' eyes, and indeed it was. "We follow you, my lord." Anildor gestured forward, in higher spirits with the added company.
They exited the underground, a party of fifteen, into the forest of Mirkwood.
*Adar/Ada*—"father" (Sindarin)
*Hannon le*—"Thank you" (Sindarin)
*Muindor*—"brother (blood)" (Sindarin)
*Mellon-nin*—"My friend" (Sindarin)
*Naneth/Nana*—"mother" (Sindarin)
*Ion-nin*—"son" (Sindarin)
(A/N) So that's chapter one! I have the entire plot outlined, and I'm aiming for four chapters, but it might flow over into five. As my first attempt working with LotR, I'd very much appreciate feedback, so pretty please review! Any kind of critique, or compliment drives me to write faster, so tell me what you think! Thanks for reading, I'll update soon!
