Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me, though that would be fun. They belong to Tolkien, the dead genius that he is.
Summary: In an alternate universe where the Ruling Ring gained enough power to cause chaos in Middle–Earth, the king of Gondor and several companions must fight to end the wars between the races and somehow survive the venture.
Warnings: There will be slash in this fic.
Pairings: Legolas/Aragorn, Faramir/Éomer, Theodred/Boromir.
Notes: Reviews would be appreciated. After all, what author doesn't love reviews?
Thanks: GoldenRose, melly–chan, tenshiamanda, melodie, Faile, danto, and Earendil–Baby for reviewing.
The Golden Arrow
By Cinaed
Chapter One
– Five years later –
The forests of Mirkwood were covered with a golden halo, the sun's warmth spreading across the woodland and lightening the hearts of all who resided within the forests once known as Greenwood. One of the inhabitants of Mirkwood, alone in his contemplations, tilted his face towards the sky as he stood within a clearing, the golden rays filtering through the trees.
The beams caressed that silky, flawless neck of alabaster, sensual in the way the sunlight fell against that sleek flesh and clarified that perfect visage for anyone who might have been watching. Warmth embraced his face and neck, earning a lovely, pleasant smile from the denizen. Even the golden beams could not match the color of the youth's braided locks, which were an ideal hue of pale blond, almost white.
Then the serenity of Mirkwood was destroyed by the faint sounds of desperate cries which drifted to the denizen's ears. The pointed ears twitched a little as the elf's excellent hearing caught the plaintive cries that meant someone was in trouble.
Without even thinking of the consequences, the elf snatched his bow and his quiver in a single, fluid motion and loped in the direction the discordant sounds came from. Mirkwood would be kept pleasant on his watch, despite the numerous wars that plagued Middle–Earth.
As swiftly as the blond elf sprinted, his hurried rush was nevertheless silent and nimble, like a graceful dancer leaping upon clouds. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he hastened in the direction of the shouts.
He stopped elegantly just before he would have entered the clearing, his ancient eyes flickering around and easily learning of what had caused the ruckus. Two little children, clutching broken swords, were surrounded by a pack of slave–traders. The entire group was human, much to the elf's displeasure.
Wordlessly, the elf notched an arrow to his bow and listened intently to the harsh words of men, speaking in Common.
"We shall have the Ring." The demanding words of one of the men, slave–traders by their garments, made the elf's blood run cold and an odd weariness fill him, chilling him to the marrow. The immortal was unused to weakness, and shifted uncomfortably, aiming the arrow at the man who had spoken. The way the slave–trader had spoken, there seemed to be an automatic power to the simple word.
Was the man speaking of the Ruling Ring that all elves were sworn to help destroy, now here in the hands of babes? The elf could still remember the pain in Elrond's eyes when the elven lord had been requested to tell how the Elves had almost had the Ruling Ring to annihilate it, and how the Elves had lost it to a thief so many years ago.
One of the children, his grimy face defiant, shook his head. "Nay, you will not have it!" The fierce possessiveness surprised the elf, but he kept his aim steady, wondering if the child had been won over by the Ring. "This ring is my only memory of my uncle, and I shall not let you take it from me!"
Of course the child wouldn't know what the Ruling Ring was, which made it all too easy for the Ring to control the ignorant boy. To children, Sauron and his Ring were simply mythical things to terrorize them into obeying their parents. The elf continued to listen, his arrow aimed at one of the slave–traders' throat.
"We shall have It! You filthy hobbit, I shall have It as mine, and I shall rule all of Middle–Earth!" The slave--trader who had spoken before seemed to be the one most under the Ring's spell, his eyes filled with dangerous longing as he gazed at the tiny golden ring that hung around the child's neck on a plain gold chain.
"You mean /we/ shall have the Ring," corrected one of the other slavers, his tone surprisingly mild. "And that /we/ shall rule all of Middle–Earth." His eyes were focused on the Ring, but there were odd emotions in his gaze along with a glint of almost fear.
The leader shot the other man a contemptuous look, and immediately the rest of the slavers bristled, glaring at their so–called leader.
The loudmouthed slaver shook his head, and gestured towards the children, his tone astonishingly gentle. "Look, little ones, you do not want that burden upon you. The Ring is evil, and it will corrupt you."
"I do not understand what you say, and I do not care what you say. This ring belonged to Uncle Bilbo, and I shall keep it for as long as I live!"
With a low, incensed growl, the leader lunged at the child, his eager fingers clawing for the ring. The man was deaf to the loudmouthed slaver's shouts, or the other child's screams of rage and fear.
Noiselessly, the elven archer drew back his bow, aimed, and fired. At last, there was a noise from the elf: the sound of an arrow whistling through the air, and then the sickening thud of the arrow piercing the attacker's throat. The leader of the slavers gurgled only once before he crumpled to his knees, releasing the simple gold chain and falling face–first at the child's stunned feet.
"Mae govannen." * The grim statement was offered to the children who gazed at him with shock and fear on their grimy, exhausted faces as the elf stepped into the clearing and forgot to speak in Common.
The slavers stared for a long moment, before the group split into three groups. One group consisted of eleven slave–traders roaring and attempting to rush the elf. Another group, the majority, wheeled and fled, knowing it was no good to fight an elf. The final group consisted of only one– the kind–hearted slaver, who simply stood there, held his hands up to show he had no weapon, and then waited for this episode to end.
The incident was over in a matter of seconds. With smooth, deadly precision, the elven archer fired arrow after arrow, catching every slave–trader in the throat or other vital area. Soon the clearing was filled dying, groaning men.
The blonde ignored them, raising an elegant eyebrow towards the two trembling children and the lone slave–trader. When he spoke again, he remembered to speak in Common, and his clear, powerful words rang out through the woods in a way that only an elf's voice could. "Why have you ventured into Mirkwood? This is no place for slave–traders, or children of Men."
"Begging your pardon, Master Elf, but we–" The child who didn't carry the Ring motioned towards the other boy and himself, his face anxious. "–here were fleeing the slave–traders who were after us."
"And we're not men," added the Ring–bearer, his tone slightly stubborn. "We're hobbits."
"Hobbits?" The foreign word almost faltered on the elf's lips, but no elf ever spoke with a stutter, and his clear voice held instead mild bewilderment.
"Some call us halflings, Master Elf." The one without the Ring was extremely polite, and even bowed towards the immortal. His honest eyes flickered towards his hobbit companion, and he added quickly, a desperate note to his hurried words, "We've–we've been accused of killing our late master, but it wasn't us, Master Elf! A dark rider–"
"A dark rider?" The lone slave–trader had at last spoken, and now his eyes blazed with a foreign emotion that none of the group could identify. "With a black hood covering his face, riding a horse of darkest night?"
"Aye, that's who killed him," exclaimed the talkative hobbit, his eyes wide with astonishment. "How'd you know?"
The slave–trader looked bleak and exhausted, and the elf found himself wondering why this man had not lunged and snatched at the Ring or fled to somewhere safe. "I have met the Nine Riders of Sauron before, though that incident was a long time ago. He killed your master for the ring your friend carries."
The round–faced hobbit turned towards his companion and whispered something that the elf's ears easily caught. "Mister Frodo, what should we do?"
However, the other hobbit's expression was seemingly preoccupied as if he gazed at something he couldn't quite see. His intense blue eyes were unfocused, staring beyond the clearing at nothing in particular.
"Mister Frodo?" The round–faced hobbit shuffled awkwardly before he raised his voice a little, staring anxiously at his friend's face.
At last, the halfling called Frodo blinked, expression filling his countenance and focus strengthening his eyes as those cerulean orbs fell upon his companion. "Uncle Bilbo told me a story of Sauron once. It wasn't a happy tale."
"Aye, no story of Sauron is," the blond elf commented, still gazing warily at the final slave–trader. He paused, and his sapphire gaze held the talkative hobbit in a wondering spell. "What are hobbits?"
"Well, we are the little people, Master Elf," matter–of–factly replied the round–faced hobbit. "We grow to about half of Men's heights, and we've been enslaved by them for the past few years." His lovely green eyes looked pleading. "You won't send us back, Master Elf? They'll split us up for sure, and I have to take care of Mister Frodo."
The elf straightened and tossed his head, looking scornful at the thought. "Send you back to our enemy, little one? I shall do no such thing, especially not back into slavery! Come, hobbits, let me show you the realm of Mirkwood."
"Wait." The sudden command from the slave–trader earned a dark look from the blonde, a nervous one from the trusting hobbit, and a startled one from Frodo. His calm eyes focused on Frodo and the elf. "Do you mean to tell me that you are going to ignore the fact that you, an elf, have the Ruling Ring have in your grasp and you are not going to do anything about it?"
The blonde's sapphire eyes gleamed almost feral–like in that porcelain face before the elf replied, his tone mocking once more. "What would you have me do? Take It as my own and let It lead me to my certain doom as the power corrupts me?" Even as he spoke, an odd tugging began in his chest that urged him to take the Ring. After all, he was an elf. Surely he could take it to Elrond and learn how to destroy the vile thing. Surely he could waylay its power and become a mighty name among the elves.
The elf shuddered, a single, violent convulsion that racked his frame. This man was a trickster, some servant of Sauron who attempted to use the Ring's power to turn him to do evil. He was of royal elven blood! He would not be tricked so easily!
"I shall take Mister Frodo and his companion to Lord Elrond of Imladris. He will know what to do with the Ring. He will know how to destroy it." Sapphire was hidden from view as the immortal closed his eyes, as though to ward off the Ring's power of influence. "You, however, are a mortal man and must leave this realm. Now."
"Am I a mortal man, Master Elf?" The slave–trader's tone had shifted to a musing quality. "I suppose I am, in a way, and yet not at all in another aspect."
"What do you mean by that?" All three of the man's companions demanded of him, and a small, ironic smile played with those lips that seemed prone to being curved upwards with laughter.
Then the slave–trader straightened, and seemed to grow taller before the group's eyes. His long, dark locks became frizzled and gray, and his youthful visage shifted into a weathered, lined face that had seen more years than even the elf who stood before him. A long, wondrous beard flowed from his chin, as gray and untamed as his wavy locks. His eyes alone did not change; they were the same dark brown that held an ancient knowledge, a wondrous and yet despairing knowledge. His attire was now a gray robe and an odd, ragged hat that flopped a little as if too tired to point straight up to the sky. His enormous, lanky frame towered over the group, but his smile was even more benign than before. "Not one of you recognize me, for I have not traveled this way for a long while. Elf of Mirkwood, you were but an infant when I last wandered with the gay elves amid these woods. I am one of the ones who came before, and perhaps will someday be allowed to rest."
His voice changed, and took on a powerful, severe tone. "I am one of the ones who will end these foolish squabbles between Elf and Men, Dwarf and Elf, and Men against Men. I am more powerful than any of you can ever imagine, and yet the Ring the young Frodo carries would corrupt even I. I am one of the ones who will go forth and destroy the Ring!"
"Who–who are you?" There was the faintest hint of fear in the blond elf's words, for although he had lived three thousand years, he was still very much an innocent, and had forgotten that elves were supposed to hide their negative emotions behind smiling, laughing features.
Those brown eyes regarded him, and the young elf felt very, very small. When the gray–haired man spoke once more, his voice was almost gentle, but commanding at the same time. "I am called Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer, friend of all Free People–" His eyes flickered to the hobbits and he added, "–and some Enslaved People. I am called Tharkûn by the dwarves, and–" Again, he faltered, at that point he seemed almost weary. "And in the West that is forgotten, I was Olorin."
He fell silent, and bowed his head for a long moment as if drawing strength. At length, he murmured, "I prefer, however, to be called Gandalf the Grey at this time."
The silence that ensued filled the forest, but it was not the serenity that the elf had grown accustomed to. Instead, it was an unsettling silence that made the immortal think far too much of what might happen should Mirkwood refuse the advice of the mythical Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer who had disappeared so many millennia ago.
"Well, Master Gandalf, I think it would be an interesting tale to hear how you happened to acquire all those names, but Mister Frodo hasn't eaten in a few days, and we were hoping the elf would be kind enough to give us a meal or two."
Gandalf's keen gaze fell upon the stout–hearted hobbit, and he smiled broadly, a grin that transformed him into something undeniably human and brilliant. "If the Master Elf would be kind enough, I should like to see my old friend Thranduil once more."
The blond elf bowed in a graceful motion and offered the group a fleeting smile, not half as merry as he had been only a few moments before. His clear, tenor tones rang through the forest, gathering the strength he had gained. "Mithrandir, King Thranduil would be delighted to welcome you into his halls, and it is indeed an honor that I, his youngest son, would be the one to escort you there."
"You're a prince?" The startled exclamation escaped the green–eyed halfling before he could help himself, but the blonde softly smiled.
"Aye, little one, I am Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil. Welcome to Mirkwood."
The sandy–haired hobbit bowed clumsily once more, and the other hobbit followed suit. "This is Frodo Baggins, Master Elf–I mean Prince Legolas–and I am Samwise Gamgee, otherwise known as simply Sam."
Warm, honest green eyes the color of pale leaves in springtime met searching, pensive blue eyes the color of cold spring water as it splashed gleefully against the pebbles. Slowly, the hobbit and the elf measured one another, leaving Gandalf and Frodo on the outside.
Behind the sincere green eyes, Sam thought to himself, Well, look at that, Samwise Gamgee, you've actually met an elf, and a princely one at that! However, I thought elves were supposed to be merry and mirthful, and this one seems almost sad. I wonder why he is so disheartened!'
Behind the thoughtful blue eyes, Legolas mused silently, Well, to think that fables of the merry people called halflings were true! No elf of Mirkwood has ever met a hobbit. However, I thought halflings were a joyous folk who were as gentle as any herbivore that wandered our forests and as gay as any unburdened elf. I wonder why he is so grim and protective!'
It was the start of a beginning. Or rather, it was the continuation of a dark tale not yet finished, a story of woe and death. Still, the actual account of Frodo the Ring–bearer and his companions began on that lovely evening, when two hobbits, an elf, and an ancient Istari met.
(To be continued
Author's Notes: Mae govannen means Well met.' Legolas was being sarcastic. Please remember to read and review!
Preludes: In the next chapter, we learn what has happened to the Gondorians and Rohirrim in the past five years, and how the hobbits came to be enslaved by Men, and what other evil works the Ring has unleashed upon the world. ~Cinaed)
