Written really, really slowly and with much respect for (but no ownership in) the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.

Before dawn. 15 January, 3019. Third Age. Anarwen waits for the light of day and continues to dream of the past.

"And this is what you wish?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Why?"

"I…" She had explained twice already. "Because I believe the threat to our people grows—"

"Yes, yes." Legolas shifted slightly in his chair. "I have heard your words." He continued staring at her blankly.

Anarwen felt her throat tighten. He doesn't believe me. "I know of no other truth, my lord."

"I do not doubt your intentions. But I cannot see the logic in sending my finest guard on this journey." He leaned forward and pale blue eyes pinned her.

"I am not worthy of such praise, my lord."

"And yet you think yourself best to take this quest?"

Anarwen quickly weighed half a dozen different replies. She worried that her request had angered him, but the need to take up the Elven-king's mission now burned strongly within her.

"I serve at your pleasure, my lord. I believe this quest honors my oath even though I will not be at your side. What I could accomplish will—"

A vague gesture from him cut off her words. Legolas rose from his chair and paced slowly toward the far end of his chambers. The room's simple furnishings hid the owner's rank. He paused at the farthest wall, which held one of the few visible luxuries. An elaborate tapestry filled the space between floor and ceiling. The Battle of Five Armies. He glanced back over his shoulder, and Anarwen moved to his side.

Silence stretched between them. Anarwen waited patiently. Her eyes moved over the fabric. Bolg, the great goblin leader of the North, drove a host of beasts against the forces of Men, Dwarves, and Elves. The battle raged along rocky spurs of the Lonely Mountain and in the valley before its Front Gate. A tide of red and black banners was driven back by an elf-charge led by Sador, the captain of Thranduil's guard. Anarwen's gaze found the Elven-king positioned atop Ravenhill, the southernmost spur of the mountain. Gandalf was there, along with the Halfling, Bilbo of the Shire. Below them and facing into the valley, a contingent of Elven archers fired into the goblin hoard. Legolas and his captain Duilin led the bowmen.

"Another time will come when free peoples must unite," he spoke quietly. "My father thinks to it."

"It was a great victory, my lord."

"He has witnessed great losses, too."

Anarwen nodded but did not reply. Thranduil had watched his father, Oropher, lead a charge against Sauron's forces during the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. Before the Black Gate of Mordor, Oropher and two-thirds of his army of Wood-elves had perished. Thranduil had survived but the shadow of memory had not dimmed between that Age and this one.

"I had planned to speak to my father about appointing you my captain."

Anarwen whipped her head around to stare at him in shock.

"Do not be so amazed. In truth, you have captained my company in all but rank for some time. It is my own fault that it has been so long…" His words faded away and he continued studying the tapestry. Anarwen did not need to follow Legolas's gaze to know it rested on the woven depiction of Duilin.

Moments passed before she spoke quietly. "We both know what you offer cannot be. Your guards and your subjects will have none other than a true Wood-elf to captain for the forest's favorite son."

His eyes snapped to hers. "Greenwood the Great has no truer daughter than you."

"Greenwood has been Mirkwood for all of my days in Arda." She gave him a small grin. "And there are still a few things you cannot will with your orders alone."

"This I could forbid."

"Yes, my lord." And for a fleeting moment, she wished he would do exactly that. Sadness washed over her.

Silence overtook them again. She focused on the stone tiled floor and tried to calm herself. When she finally braved another look at him, she found him staring at her.

"I give you my blessing, Anarwen." He lifted a hand to his heart. "We will meet again after a turn of the seasons. Farewell until then."

Anarwen sank to one knee and bowed her head. "Upon my honor, my lord, I will serve you well."

A pale dawn sky stretched over the field outside the elf-caverns' gates. Anarwen's hands moved rapidly, making a last check of her horse, Sûl, and her supplies. Her senses flickered at the silent approach of an elf. She turned, expecting Dormallen to come running with some last piece of almost forgotten gear, but the ellon who stopped next to her was the last person she expected. They stood in silence for a few moments. She should have known he would find out and confront her.

"I do not understand how he can think to allow this. What has happened that he would throw you away?"

Whatever accusation she had expected could not have surprised her as much as these words. Antion had spoken in hushed tones but his meaning was clear.

"It has been many years since you made such dim-witted assumptions, Antion. Do not seek to redress the lapse all in one morning." Anarwen grabbed the horse's mane to mount but a hand stayed her.

"I meant only that if he cared for you at all he would not permit this. Will you not reconsider? It cannot—"

"Small patience separates you from words that will sting in your ears until long ere I return," she spoke evenly but glared at Sûl's stamping hooves. "Move your hand."

"Please, I only wish to—"

"It would be infinitely better if you didn't."

"But—"

"Now."

The hand fell from Anarwen's wrist, and she swung up quickly. Much as she didn't want to, she found herself looking down into Antion's anxious face. This was not the way she had imagined her leave taking. What is he doing here? Of all the things he could have said, urging her to stay seemed the most unlikely. And as he stood there before her, awkward and unsure of his next words, she felt her anger melt away. Suddenly he reached out once more, his hand covering her own.

"Safe journey, then, wherever you fare."

She turned Sûl toward Mirkwood's gloomy thicket. As the horse clattered across the stone bridge spanning the Forest River, she felt Antion's eyes mark her departure.

Anarwen left the safety of Thranduil's halls in mid November. Moving along a northwesterly path, she followed the Forest River until the eaves of Mirkwood parted and the Grey Mountains loomed before her. For long winter days she hiked across their foothills, fording the icy River Greylin, and making for Framsburg, the hill-fort long abandoned by ancestors of Rohan's horse-lords.

Boarding Sûl at Framsburg, she scouted on foot into the snowy lands of the goblins. At Mount Gundabad the Grey Mountains touched the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains, and it was from here that Bolg, the goblin-lord had marched his orcs toward the Battle of Five Armies. His death had left his forces scattered and aimless. The orc parties Anarwen spied did not number strong or organized enough to pose a threat to the Wood-elves. She mapped their positions and headed back to retrieve Sûl.

Southward they headed, passing along the edge of the Misty Mountains. Traveling both day and night, Anarwen set a steady pace. At dusk each day she charted the locations of orc and Warg packs that roamed this part of Rhovanion, but she could find no great strongholds of the Wood-elves' enemies.

The turn of the year found her in the elevations between the Eagles' Eyrie and the back door to Goblin-town. To free Bilbo and Thorin's company of dwarves, Gandalf had killed the Great Goblin that had once ruled there. It did not seem that any single orc has succeeded him.

As March turned the air slightly warmer, Anarwen made her way down from the Misty Mountains and into the lands of the Beornings. These clans of Men had long protected the trade routes between peoples east and west of the Misty Mountains. Few Men lived in this region divided by the Anduin, but those that did counted themselves friends of the Wood-elves. Here she found safe passage, opportunity to re-supply, and no questions about her journey.

It was also here that she found a curious book among a trader's dusty wares. Titled Laws and Customs among the Eldar, the little yellowed work seemed to have been written by a Man but focused entirely on the Elves. It spoke of their habits in marriage, their traditions in naming, the progress of their lives, and the immortality of their souls, or fëar, within Arda. The trader shrugged his shoulders when she asked where he had found the book. He parted with it for a few coins.

That afternoon she rested along the banks of the Anduin and lost herself in the book's passages. The Elves it spoke of were the Noldor, the High-elves who had once lived among the Valar, the Guardians of the world, before abadonding the Far West and making their way back to Middle-earth. As Anor fled from the sky, Anarwen read of the great powers of the Eldar and the magic they wielded. In times of evil, Elf-lords strung across far lands were able to speak with each other and plan means of combating the Enemy. They had found a way to harness the grace of the Valar to communicate across the distances.

Darkening night finally forced the book from her hands. It had been four months since she had left her home. For Elves, such a short interval would have been barely noticeable, but Anarwen's childhood among Men had left her with the habit of measuring time closely. Lying amid tall grass along with river's shore, she stared up at the brightening stars and thought of nights spent among the Wood-elves. There would be elf-fires in Mirkwood tonight. Merry-making and song would be heard through the forest's northern eaves.

A fair face rose in her mind. Legolas. Sapphire eyes glittered in torch-light. So beautiful…

Alone and longing for home, Anarwen did not stop her mind's wanderings. And there he was, smiling, laughing. Pale, golden hair…the most glorious of the forest's sons.

Layers of black enshrouded her vision. Her mind drifted. Time guttered to nothingness. Within the enveloping darkness, she spoke not with words or thoughts but with a singing in her being. Legolas... Across the void, something opened to her. A feeling of serenity approached the boundaries of her senses. Near enough to touch, to know, but not of her. A separate presence welcomed her. Legolas…Swirling, shimmering radiance. Her fëa kindled with the warmth. Suddenly a halo of flames flared along the edges. Blazing outward, it reached for her, burned the darkness away. Shadow and flame...fear, so much fear…Run!

Anarwen's eyes shot open. Breathing heavily, she swept her gaze across the forest clearing. Mist still clouded her view beyond more than a few feet. It took a few moments more to remember where she was. She touched her face gingerly, but her heated skin did not feel burnt. Memories of another time jumbled her thoughts. Almost a year ago…She had been near the Anduin then, and her discovery of Noldor magic had ended with a pleasurable dream, nothing more. But today her soul had crossed the void and… Legolas…

The pounding of her heart would not stop. The fear was overwhelming. And it was not her own. Somewhere, Legolas was looking into the darkness and seeing his end.