Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, prowled through the woods on the outer borders of his Colony. When he had founded it some four centuries past, under the welcoming grace of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, it had been a place of great beauty and splendor. Those who sought its borders came only to experience the wonder of the trees, the fragrant scent that was never smelled elsewhere on Middle Earth. Then it had been a happier place, and a happier time.
For many long years he had toiled to make the Colony as self-sufficient as he could, and had been happy only when all the needs of those who lived there could be met within its borders. What drove him to such a point was unclear to him then, but perhaps he had felt the stirrings of unrest beginning in the world. Either way, it had been his driving purpose throughout the long, lonely years, since the death of his true love.
His long, golden hair fluttered out from under his cloak, and he pushed it back impatiently. This was not a place to be seen. The cloaks which his patrols wore he had designed to resemble to the cloaks of Lothlorien, grey and ever-changing in their exact hues. The better to remain invisible to seeking eyes.
What a terrible change had been wrought in Middle-Earth. He had left its shores just fifty years after the founding of his Colony, sailing to Valinor with his dear friend Gimli. The once sturdy Dwarf had begun to falter, and Legolas promised him that he would bring him to the Undying Lands, under his protection, to see once again those friends who had left long ago, and to experience the true majesty of the Valar.
So he had built a boat, tall and stately, and together the Elf Prince and the Dwarf-Lord sailed down the Anduin from Ithilien and from there onto the Western Sea. Valinor had been more beautiful than he had ever dared to imagine. The pure light of the forming of the world still shone there, and the sound of clear music never ceased to ring through the air. Gladly could he have remained in that peaceful place, away from the troubles of the rest of the world, had it not been for one thing.
Nimoë.
His heart swelled at the memory of her still, although she was long centuries departed. When she had been ripped away from him by Grima Wormtongue, he had thought he would not survive. She had been made mortal, through an act of heedless self-sacrifice, and it had seemed that he would never find her again, not even in the Halls of Mandos.
Yet, there was still hope. Lady Galadriel of Lorien had sought after the life-path of his beloved in her mirror, and found that her spirit lived on. There was every reason to believe that she would chose, as was the right of those Elves who died from injury or from grief, to be reborn. Her spirit clung to his like the trees cling to the earth. So he had pulled himself from the mire of despair, swearing to make Middle-Earth a more perfect place, against the time that she would return to it.
Legolas had remained in Valinor until the eventual passing of Gimli, son of Gloin. When there was no longer anything to bind him to that place, he took his leave of his friends who were to remain behind, then once again boarded his ship, setting off along the straight road back to the Western Seas, and to Ithilien. So rarely had an Elf chosen to return, that some had speculated that it could not be done. Legolas found that those before had simply not had enough to draw them back to the living world. He arrived with no difficulty.
A twig cracked nearby, and it brought Legolas out of his reverie. He froze, stock still, listening. After long moments, not another sound broke the stillness, so he relaxed his stance, and continued on his patrol.
The world he had returned to had changed. When he docked in Ithilien, he was greeted with suspicious eyes, and unwelcoming expressions. Perplexed, he had returned to his Colony, which had flourished while he was away, for the groundwork he had lain was strong and well-planned. He was welcomed with open arms and strange tales.
It seemed that the memories of Men were short. Too many had forgotten their history, and they were beginning to make difficulties for those Elves who still dwelt in Middle Earth. The news rattled Legolas, for the thought of Nimoë coming back into a world where danger lurked around every corner frightened him. He had no way of knowing when or where she would return, and he feared that she would not live long enough to be found. So he had decided to fortify the Colony, to spread word of it as a safe haven. Always he made certain that his name was associate with it, so that if Nimoë was alive somewhere in the world, when she reached her maturity, and she remembered him, she would know where to find him,
To keep his Colony safe, Legolas had instituted a system of patrols, guarding the borders with the vigilance of hawks. Training was provided, and all male Elves who came to the Colony were expected to take their turns in its defense. In recent years there had been a steady stream of refugees arriving, and the tales they told set his anger to boiling.
More often now were mobs of Men found, brandishing torches and swords, intent on tearing down this last bastion of the strength of the Elves. Many skirmishes had been fought, and with each battle Legolas grew more alarmed. He himself went out on patrol every other day, although it was only required of him once a fortnight. He found that he could not rest elsewhise.
That day he was patrolling the northern border, and although all seemed quiet enough, his body was tense, ready for action, and his bow was at the ready. On he walked, through the deep trees, feet soft on the earth, which was covered with a blanket of pine needles. He cocked his head to the side, listening. He thought he had heard a sound. Yes, there it was again. It sounded like a child crying.
On rapid, but silent feet, he approached the source of the cry. What he found was a small bundle of rags, lying in a fetal ball at the base of a spreading oak tree. He circled around cautiously, keeping himself hidden, to see if there was anyone else nearby. Finding nothing, he stepped out from his concealment and approached the sobbing, muddy bundle.
Dropping down onto his heels, he gently shook the child by the shoulder. "What is wrong, small one?" he asked in a soft voice.
The response was immediate. The child leapt to its feet and bolted. Legolas was quicker, however, and he caught her by the arm. Her, for beneath the caked mud and bloodied face, he could see that it was indeed a girl-child. "I am not going to hurt you, child," he cajoled. "Please, won't you stay and talk to me? Maybe I can help."
Her wild grey eyes darted about, looking for a place of escape, but finding none, she screwed her courage together and began to kick out at him, scratching with her sharp fingernails, screaming, "I will not stay and speak with you! You'll hurt me, Human! Just like you hurt my mother! Let me go!" She began to cry again, even more piteously than when he had first found her.
What she had said, however, explained much, and he pulled one hand away from his defense to yank back his hood, revealing his Elven features. Still battling with the frantic child, he spoke in a commanding voice, "Look at me!"
Almost against her will, she did raise her eyes, and she beheld his face. Her little lips formed into a small 'oh' and she ceased her struggles. Then, to his great dismay, she flung herself at his feet, wrapping her arms about his legs. "Please, sir, can you tell me where to find the Colony of Prince Legolas? My mother told me that we would be safe there. I've lost her, and I don't know where I am, and I am so very frightened."
Smiling gently to himself, he knelt down and wrapped the trembling child into his arms, offering her what comfort he could. She burrowed against him, almost as if she knew him, and within his protective embrace her sobs began to lessen. He rocked her back and forth, stroking her back, "All is well, child. You have found your way. You are safe. I am Legolas, and I will see you safely to my city. Can you tell me where to find your mother?"
Fresh tears began to seep into his tunic and the little girl replied, "I think that she is dead, sir. Four Men set upon us after the crossing of the road that runs to Minas Ithil. They shot her with an arrow, and then she made me run." Her voice cracked with emotion. "She made me run, even though I wanted to stay. They had swords, sir, and I do not think she could have survived."
Rage simmered in the heart of the Elf Prince. What had happened to the once noble race of Men? How could they perform such atrocities?! His emotions made him fierce, and the kiss he laid on the small brow was not tender. "I am sorry, child. I will send men to see if they can find any trace of her. For now, will you come with me?"
She raised her tear-stained face to him, and nodded. "I will."
"Good." Then he paused, for he realized that he knew not what to call her. "What is your name, child?"
"Nim…" she choked on a sob, then tried again. "Nimoë."
