What if Mirkwood had not held up to the forces of Dol Guldur so long ago? What if the world of elves in Mirkwood accounted to no more than a tiny handful of warriors bent on just surviving in their tortured and destroyed home? What would happen if the leader of this band was none other than the Prince, Legolas? Would he respond to a summons from Rivendell? Or would he simply refuse it?
The Nine Walkers of the Ring
By Lothlórien
The fight was not important enough to the orcs to be called a battle. It was a mere skirmish to them, just an outpost dispute, where some of the Tawar-Maethor, the Forest-Warriors, caused problems every so often. They jested and taunted the attackers, daring them with bared teeth to keep attacking. Already they had hewn their numbers in two since the first day of the spring.
To the Forest-Hiders, this was a life and death struggle that they could not afford to lose.
That once proud culture that stood so solidly in the forest of Greenwood the Great had fallen to the evil forces of Mordor. So long ago, the wondrous, beautiful forest where the Silvian Elves were ruled, in contentment, by the family of Sindarin Elves, was now known as the evil of Mirkwood.
Legolas Greenleaf, son of the Elf-King Thranduil, was one of the remaining seven elves left alive at the cry of summer. Already so many trusted companions had fallen.
No help would come. Lothlórien and the refuge of Rivendell had openly accepted the refugees from the forest of Mirkwood, though there survived few. Legolas himself knew not where his father now dwelled, for rationale of security and safety.
At that moment, the still young elf prince sat quietly in a tree, blowing the horn call of retreat. He saw as one elf fell under a barrage of arrows and throwing blades. The expression of pain, yet resignation, on his visage would haunt the prince of Mirkwood for many a night.
So another died.
The cool, clear sound of the horn was a tone that gave the elves a chance to run. The trees trembled as the remaining six jumped down and ran for safety. Legolas was the last to run, for anger at his follower's demise was burning hot in his soul.
But ran he did, and he did not stop until the whole of the remaining company took refuge in a small cave that undercut a short cliff face.
"What have we lost?" He demanded shortly, in Sindarin, the language of his family.
"Merebrian has died," An older female, named Imarades, spoke up, "Our arrows run short, for the wood of the trees and fallen branches are too rotten for us to craft new. Supplies run low, as does bandages."
Legolas' hand unconsciously went to his cheek. He thankfully remembered that elves did not scar, or he would have still borne a long mark for the rest of that Age. If he survived, of course…
"My lord, a rider approaches!"
The cry pulled all from their shelter, and they took refuge in the trees above.
Legolas remembered all the battles that had begun over this forest, his home, the place where he had been raised. Much blood had been spilt, considering the amount of Elves who had begun this rebellion had counted to forty-three at the beginning of that last year.
The horse carried its rider over the old path, almost directly underneath them. The dark haired rider glanced around, then looked up, searching with clear, elven eyes, and a fair face wrought with concern.
"Prince Legolas, I bring word from Rivendell, home of Elrond Half-Elven!" He called into the trees, "There is to be a council of great importance. Your father, Thranduil, Elf-King, wishes your presence to be known at the home of his friend."
Legolas, despite a resisting grab at his tunic by Imarades, landed silently on the trail behind the rider, who whirled swiftly.
"Give me proof that it is my father's wish that I attend this Council," Legolas stared coldly at the elf, which, in all likelihood, despite his long life, had probably never fought in as many battles as he. His eyes stunned the rider for a moment.
"I—I carry this ring as proof of my credibility," He tossed a golden ring high into the air. Legolas, without moving a muscle in the most of his body, snatched it cleanly out of the air.
It held the mark of his family, and was the same ring his mother had worn so long ago.
"Convinced I am of your truth, but why," He responded, slipping the simple, yet elegant ring of gold onto his finger.
"Isildur's Bane, the Great Ring, has been found!" The rider cried. His patience would hold no longer. Instead, he dropped an envelope onto the old forest path and galloped past Legolas. The elf prince's hair was barely ruffled, as he stood motionless.
"Elves not of Mirkwood cannot stand the evil that has corrupted this forest," He said to his friends, as they landed down from the trees, "We are fortunate in that one respect."
"What respect might that be, my Prince?" An elf that held the short bow of a human scout leaned against a tree.
"Evil cannot affect us, for we have become immune," The young prince ripped open the envelope carefully. Even battle could not take his innate dexterity from him. As he read, the handwriting became clear. It was the hand of his father, written in the language of the High-Elves, the Quenya.
What might have become a joyous time became solemn. Legolas had not heard from the Elf-King for many a year, since the first attack upon Amon Thranduil.
"The Tawar-Maethor shall go to Rivendell," He announced finally.
Hooves pounded the dusty forest trail like the beating of elvish hearts. The steeds' breath came heavily, as they galloped faster and faster, carrying their owners farther from the depths of evil.
The wind raced by the elves' heads, but the cowls they wore covered their hair. Meant for no more than protection and hiding, those cloaks had been made from the hands of the old seamstress of Amon Thranduil, making them a link to the past.
Legolas' eyes searched the trail before him, as they rode on, dodging tree after tree. Many great timbers had fallen, either to the orcish axe or to the rotting roots. The smell of decaying wood was overwhelming.
The hooves pounded hard into the ground. In ordinary circumstances, they would have ridden quietly, keeping their beats light and their presence unknown. But, now, time was of the utmost importance. A breakaway run had been voted upon by all.
Even as they rode, the solid rhythm of the hooves was mingled with the thick, hollow thudding of orcish drums. The blows increased in intensity as the orcs neared on their wolf mounts.
"Imarades! Mierawen! Tiranien! Ride ahead! Break for the Old Forest Road!" Legolas cried. But he knew that the orcs were too close. The wolves may not catch up that day, but they would most certainly overtake them that night.
A cry of pain and surprise caught him off guard. The elf which was so elite with the human short bow had been struck in the back. The arrowhead protruded from his chest.
Legolas reached out to catch the elf before he fell. Being caught under the hooves of a galloping horse was not a forgiving death.
His arm wrapped around the elf's shoulders, and he laid him over the saddle before him. It was a painful position, but it was the only option he had. When he rode around a corner, his horse barely skidded to a stop in time.
A long, thin wire had been stretched across the path, dooming anyone who rode into it with enough force. Mierawen and Imarades, the only elven women remaining in the forest of Mirkwood, lay dead, their heads lying far separated from their bodies.
Tiranien had avoided the wire, as did the rider behind Legolas. Time would not allow them to rest, so they cut the deadly wire. Tiranien quickly laid the women's cloaks over them, reuniting their severed heads. His eyes misted with tears, for the beautiful Mierawen had been betrothed to him for nigh unto a century.
"Come, we must ride!" Nithanien, the other, his hand well skilled in the art of the blade, rode away from the sight, his cowl deep over his head.
Legolas and Tiranien followed closely, their only hope for survival being a fast ride to the Old Forest Road. The prince took one last look at the covered body of his advisor and rode on, dedicated to survive in her memory.