Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien. The story is of my own making, though it is based in the mythology of Middle Earth. It is an embellishment, a tale that I believe deserved telling. Those characters that are unfamiliar are indeed of my imagining, though I cannot claim to own them as they are too busy owning me.

Feedback is appreciated, though certainly not mandatory. I write for entertainment and sanity, though not necessarily in that order.

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Something Wicked this Way Comes

The darkness was weaving its way through the woods, charcoal and pitch threads in a green and brown tapestry. Thranduil felt its icy breath on his neck raising goose bumps on ivory skin. It was close now, all around them. Three weeks had passed since Belegalad slipped away, two since he'd sent out search parties for his wayward son, and so far there was no word.

The Elvenking felt a knot in his throat and swallowed around it, closing his eyes against the threatening sting. In a few days, all the preparations for the march northward would be ready and he would have to make a decision. Would he depart without Belegalad? Or would he place his people in further danger by lingering longer than necessary in the mountains.

"You are greatly troubled, husband." A wistful touch across his forehead drew him from dark thoughts. A fine boned hand cupped his cheek and Thranduil opened his eyes to stare into the vivid emerald eyes of his wife. Such beauty could not be described by mere words, or captured with paints, and the Elvenking found his warrior soul longing for just a touch of the poetic. Even after thousands of years she still took his breath away. Her flowing blonde hair kissed with strawberry, her skin shimmering with the luminescence of the finest pearls. Since he first met her singing among the trees she'd been the most beautiful creature in his world.

Thranduil leaned into the touch upon his cheek, hoping to draw strength from the loving caress. "Ai, Linnaloth, I fear for our son." The king paused, afraid to speak too much to his wife. A beatific smile revealing the barest hint of dimple encouraged him to continue. "The hour of our departure draws ever nearer. I know not what to do."

Linnaloth shifted closer to her husband, her rich green velvet gown whispering over the floor as she moved. "What does your heart tell you, my love? It has never betrayed you before."

Thranduil's nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed. "My heart! My heart rages that I do not search for our son." The king broke away from his tender wife, pacing restlessly about the room. His anger bubbled up without warning, setting his body to burn. How could he remain here, pacing out his uselessness? "My blood boils at the thought that some ill has befallen our child and I did nothing to prevent it." Before his mind had processed the thought, Thranduil grasped a chalice and hurled it across the large room, the green crystal shattering against the stone wall and showering the floor. Slanted sunlight glinted off the wrecked goblet throwing dancing patterns of color on the walls.

Even in chaos is there beauty. The distinctly un-elven thought melted into harsh reality as the unfazed Queen padded to her husband and ran a comforting hand across his back. "Well do I understand your fears, for I share them. My heart grows cold in my chest at the thought of our missing child. But you must believe you have done all you can, Thranduil. Thirty elves hunt for him as we speak."

"But not me." He sneered, feeling like a child in a tantrum but unable to pacify himself. What were thirty elves compared to him? He who'd faced, fought and survived the Dark Lord of Mordor! He who'd seen the truest glory of the elves crumble to dust when Menegroth fell? He who'd dwelled in Lindon before following his father away from the cursed Noldor and coming finally to his home in the Great Wood. The warriors who sought his son were among his best and truest. Yet compared with him, they were mere children. "I'm still here waiting. I hate this waiting," he concluded in a whisper.

Linnaloth nodded knowingly. The Queen saw much and well did she understand her husband's misery. She took her husband's hand in hers lifting cool fingers to her warm lips and placing a lingering kiss upon his knuckles. "Do not listen to your impatience, my love. It is the shadow speaking to you and through you. It whispers to us all. Tries to bend us to its will. It would have you out there seeking for here is where you are needed. Times are too tumultuous for you to leave your people."

Thranduil watched his wife as she kissed his hand, listened rapt to her soft words and heard the truth in them. The shadow was growing, slithering ever closer. He'd sensed it and shivered at its familiarity. He feared he knew this evil though he dared not speak such thoughts aloud. After all, prophesy and sight had never been his gift. Linnaloth had ever been more intuitive than he, and it was on her that he relied to speak the truths he could not bear. "Tell me," was all he said, but it was enough to cause his wife to step back and glide to the table. Delicate hands lifted the lone large green crystal goblet to rose petal lips to sip at the spicy drink.

"I feel it now, stronger than it's ever been. It's like icy fingers trailing my spine grasping at my throat." Pale fingers clutched her swan neck in an unconscious mimicry of her words. Emerald eyes shined brighter than normal as they stared at the visions in her head. She looked so lost and tragic. Somehow alone, though she stood not more than three strides from him. The urge to silence her in a tender embrace nearly overwhelmed him. Thranduil's longing to comfort his wife battled fiercely with his need to hear her out. He twitched once, every muscle clenching with anticipation, and remained in place. "By day it just whispers, dread things that rend my heart. The words are seldom clear, yet I always feel their evil. But by night.by night it is a veritable scream in my mind, filling my head with such images that make me claw my eyes." She turned to face him, the setting sunlight shining red through the window and bathing her in its ruddy glow. Her strawberry hair burned as fire and her skin dusted pink, and Thranduil believed the renowned beauty of Luthien pale beside his flaming goddess.

"I have seen our people fall." She faced him with unfocused eyes, looking beyond him at someplace he could not follow. "Overcome by shadow. Dying at the hands of fell beasts in a wood that is foul and poisoned. Their bloodied faces and dying screams torture me. And that is not the worst." She could not speak of the worse images for fear of collapse. The visions of elves slaughtering elves, thin pale fingers drenched in blood as they pulled flesh from the muscle beneath, plucked eyeballs from fair faces in a frenzied insanity. A tingle spread from her chest, wrapping around her throat and sealing off her voice with a soft sob. Haunted green eyes met his and Thranduil was moving before he could stop himself. "It is too close, my love," she gasped into the pile of his tunic as he drew her into his arms. Slim arms encircled his neck as the king buried his face in the pale throat.

How could he have failed to notice his wife's distress? Linnaloth was no timid damsel and yet she quivered in his arms like a fawn in a snare. He cursed himself a fool for his distraction as he ran soothing hands over Linnaloth's hair and down her spine. "I will not delay the migration north. Once all is prepared, our people will move to our new home." He cooed, long fingers sifting through her silken hair.

"And what of you?" Linnaloth sniffled, afraid to break the peaceful spell that had settled over them. Her husband's presence seldom failed at banishing her horror and she was not yet prepared to relinquish her impromptu peace.

His chest filled, arms tightening ever-so-slightly around her as he considered her question. "I know not. My heart still tells me not to leave. It shouts to find our son." He felt her tense in his arms and decided to kill the conversation. Already had they spoken too many evils while entrenched in shadow. He leaned back to gaze into her eyes, wide and suspiciously shining. "Fear not, my love. I will take care of everything."

"You always do," she murmured against his lips, thumb mapping his cheekbone as fingertips traced his ear. She tasted his shudder, inhaled and answered his moan and drew their bodies flush against one another. For tonight they could find peace with each other, beauty in chaos.

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Thalgaladh scanned the tree line around Emyn Duir with mounting anxiety. The trees that had always been their comforting protectors loomed on the horizon like a poised army of giants. He could not suppress the tingling apprehension. It felt as if the whole world held its breath in anticipation of a heavy blow. Thalgaladh believed that his king had been correct in making and holding to his decision to move, despite the bountiful protests of his subjects. His only concern was that all their hasty preparations would be in vain.

The sun was setting, and the whole of the forest appeared ablaze in the waning light. Crimson light reflected off the waxy canopy and in that brief moment, the woods shone brighter than the fairest gem. Thalgaladh inhaled, seeking the solace that only the sweet forest air bestowed. The breath that should have refreshed him choked him instead. He gasped and sputtered until tears flowed. Rain lingered not far off, the telltale aroma of thunder and lightning spicing the air. But something else wafted on the breeze, something acrid and noxious that left a foul taste clinging to his pallet-a hint of smoke and burnt flesh-which no amount of swallowing could abolish.

Dread filled him as it had not since Oropher had announced his intentions to join the Last Alliance against Sauron a thousand years before. The light was fading, sinking ever lower and stealing the colors of the world as it went. The bright greens and golds morphed into shades of gray, and the elf fought the urge to whisper a small prayer to their passing. His mind told him that the color would return with the dawn while his heart despaired that he would never behold them again. The trees' shadows stretched, trailing along the ground, grasping for his ankles in the waning light. The General couldn't resist the impulse to step out of their reach.

A chill wind blew out of the south, snagging the end of his cloak and tugging on it like a playful puppy before worming its way beneath Thalgaladh's tunic and trailing his spine. The elf shivered like grass in the breeze. His arms tensed against the urge to hug himself for warmth. The sun dipped below the horizon, the bright red finally yielding to the pressing black. He immediately mourned its departure.

Though foresight had never been his gift, Thalgaladh couldn't banish the notion that what he was currently experiencing was some premonition of evil. He tried to dismiss the cold feeling pooling in his stomach as some trick of the shadow pressed too closely on him. Looking down at the ground, he noticed the shadows of the tree branches twisting and coiling around his feet and he literally leapt from their grasp. When the light of the Anar completely dissipated from the sky, the whole of the forest would be cast into absolute darkness. Ithil would not rise this night. Though usually under the new moon the stars shone twice as brightly, tonight he feared they would not shine at all.

Thalgaladh scanned the tree line one final time in the dying light, ten thousand points tingling along the pathways of nerves. Something came for them. Something evil, something wicked beyond recent memory. The knowledge granted him few options and even less comfort. Determined to double the watch that night, the General retreated into the safe confines of the stronghold.

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"I still don't see why we have to pack the food," Luinaur grumbled, loading a crate of dried venison into a cart.

"Be thankful little brother. There are worse jobs to be had." Verenaur tossed a berry into his mouth. Luinaur pinned him with a glare that would kill an orc at fifty paces, and Verenaur couldn't resist the urge to chuckle at his younger brother. "We could have been tasked with folding linens."

"We're warriors! We should be in the armory, or defending the walls! We should not be on kitchen duty!" One side of the crate that Luinaur carried slipped from his grip, and the entire box of meat threatened to crash to the stone floor. Luinaur shifted, catching the box on his knee and in his hand, swearing at his own clumsiness. Verenaur guffawed at his brother, nearly dropping his own crate at the display.

"We serve my father and his people, and if he requires that we pack food or fold linens, then that is precisely what we shall do." Legolas's tone lacked its usual playfulness as he loaded a crate of salt onto the cart. Both brothers had the decency to look sheepish at their prince's reprimand, and they each resumed their duties without complaint.

Several minutes of tense silence passed, each elf piling crate after crate into small carts that, once filled, would be pushed into the corridor to await the time of the elves' departure. Crate after crate, cart after cart till the end of the world! Legolas stopped his tedious work, rubbing his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger.

The waiting was intolerable, and the weeks interminable. Legolas had torn through the list of tasks that his father had given him in an effort to distract himself from the worry that steadily gnawed at his soul. What would they do? The day of departure was at hand and there was still no word of his brother. Fingers unconsciously sought an ancient, faded scar on his shoulder and rubbed in small circles. Would they be forced to leave without him? What if they never saw him again? The thought chilled Legolas, and he quickly squashed it down.

His thoughts dissolved into the morbidly silent present. The familiar chatter that had provided the undercurrent for most of his years was absent, leaving a palpable void in its stead. Confused, he glanced between his stoic friends and ran through the events that had led up to their current situation. With a deep sigh, Legolas said, "forgive me my short temper, my friends. I did not mean."

"There is not the need to apologize, Legolas. We understand the worries that press upon you." Verenaur appeased, placing a comforting hand over idly circling fingers. He remembered well the scar that lingered there, and the events of the day that had caused it; the injury that would have claimed the young prince's life if not for fraternal foresight and intervention. Legolas's fingers clasped his hand, and grateful eyes met Verenaur's.

"It will only be a few more days, and then we will be out amongst the trees again." Luinaur added, stumbling oafishly under the weight of a vat of oil. Verenaur caught his brother and the oil before the two landed on the floor, snorting at his brother's ridiculous antics.

"Yes, and according to our King, our new home shall be far grander." Verenaur asserted. A pale smile graced the Prince's features, before he resumed his work loading carts. The brothers exchanged a worried look. "I can see no harm in taking a short respite. Perhaps we could go outside and greet the evening."

Legolas paid his friend no heed, continuing to work as though the fate of all Middle Earth rested on the proper loading of food into a cart. Verenaur watched Legolas, worrying about the state of the prince's spirit. The passing days since Belegalad had left had dragged like centuries, each one etching new lines around the fair young prince's eyes. Verenaur watched as Legolas threw himself entirely into preparing for the move, attacking each task with his full fervor, from the grand to the menial. The prince had neither eaten nor slept, and hadn't stepped out of the keep once to so much as breathe the fresh air.

Grasping Legolas's arm, Luinaur said, "Legolas, let us take a small break. Surely a few minutes to bathe in the starlight will not delay our journey."

Legolas glanced between his two friends, noting their haggard appearance. How could he be so insensitive as to keep his two friends cooped up for three weeks, without sunlight or starlight to lift their spirits? "You are right, my friends. I have been unfair to you. Please take your ease for the rest of the night." And with that, the prince resumed his work.

This was ridiculous! Legolas was a ghost of himself, and seemed to fade more with each passing moment. The normally jovial elf had disappeared in favor of this melancholy, and at times ornery version of himself. A few more days and he will have become his father. Verenaur stepped forward and took the crate from the prince, setting it back in the pile. "No, Legolas, we must all take a break," he commanded, tugging on the prince's arm. Legolas's brow folded up, eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. He tightened his muscles against the hand that clasped it, holding his ground defiantly. Verenaur gritted his teeth, drawing nearer to the prince. "You need a break from this Legolas. Cease this stubborn foolishness and come outside."

The prince's gaze was as lethal as his aim. His fist clenched till his knuckles turned white, and his arm trembled. Luinaur stepped forward in time to catch the flying fist an inch from his brother's temple. Had the blow remained unchecked it undoubtedly would have rendered the elf unconscious. "Enough of this. Do you not see, Legolas? You would strike your friend who's only crime is concern!" Luinaur glanced at his brother's shocked face before continuing, "and a deficiency of tact." Verenaur turned his glare on his smirking brother but Luinaur ignored him. He loosened his grasp on the prince but did not relinquish it as he leaned in and whispered, "It is the Shadow, my friend. Each day it tightens its grasp upon us. We all feel it, but you are not fighting it because you are too busy fighting us."

Legolas went limp in the brothers' grasp and had Verenaur not had such a firm hold on his arm, the prince would have collapsed to the floor. Luinaur lifted the prince's arm over his neck to support him. "Come my friend. You sorely need the comfort the stars and trees can provide. A half hour will be a balm to your aching heart, I am certain."

"I am sorry." Legolas whispered, breath hitching on a sob. Verenaur shook his head, placing a comforting hand on the prince's shoulder.

"Peace, Legolas. Come, let us go outside. The trees call to us."

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The darkness opened its eyes and blinked, stretching out lazily across the forest. It spread and arched, wrapping around tree-limbs and twining in leaves. A soft sigh drove and herded the clouds for grasping tendrils to catch and hang low over the lush forest. Within this cocoon the dark coalesced and solidified, growing teeth and claws. And eyes--thousands of yellow eyes. Writhing masses of flesh and magic spawning and slithering along the forest floor. Thick veined wings beat the air, bruising and poisoning with each flap.

It pushed forward.

Trees groaned and shriveled at its passing, shedding leaves like a snake's skin, showering them like flower petals on a wedding aisle. Only the marcher was no white bride, nay. This one came draped shrouds of shadow, reaping life wherever it be found and devouring it whole. It grew as it progressed, fattened on the corpses of its victims, sweating venom on ever- larger areas of forest only to exacerbate the infection.

With bony fingers it pointed, and reached, weaving a web around its prey, setting the trap. No heavenly light pierced its mantle. The time was ripe, its power peaked.

It would be done tonight.