Well, well, well… what have we here…. Chapter 7!

Disclaimer: Seven chapters in, and they're still not mine!

A Promise and a Threat

Aragorn breathed a long sigh of relief as he reentered the throne room after having spent three of the longest hours of his life with Bratherond, one of Thranduil's guards and apparently a proposed companion for his scouting mission.

The elf, not believing even a lord of the Dúnedain would be competent at anything and would be as helpless as a hobbit on an oliphaunt, tested Aragorn's archery, tracking and sword fighting skills diligently as the festivities carried on in the throne room. Even when Aragorn bested him in a duel, repeatedly struck the targets dead center, and succeeded in at least figuring out what area of the wood Bratherond was hidden, if not the exact tree, Bratherond continued to doubt the human.

"And what if we are trapped deep in a mine, with no light upon us, and hundreds of rabid goblins are attacking from every corner as a fire rages, and the ring is within your grasp. Tell me human, will you be able to strike your targets, survive the fire, and resist the ring? Or will you fail, as humans so often do?"

"Well, I am sure if there are hundreds of goblins at such close proximity, the laws of probability will work in my favor and at least a few of my arrows will strike their targets, even if we are in the dark. And if I cannot see the ring, it will not be so easy for me to grasp, particularly when my head is about to be severed from my neck by this onslaught of rabid goblins. As for the fire, I fear my flesh and bone are not resistant to it and there is not much I could do about that," Aragorn had dryly answered.

"No, there wouldn't be much you could do about that Human, would there…" the elf had nearly sneered in return causing Aragorn to musingly cock an eyebrow. Though tempted as he was to inquire about the ability of elven flesh to resist flames (and he half expected Bratherond to claim they could in fact walk through fire, and perhaps on water as well), Aragorn decided it would behoove him to hold his tongue. Thus, the testing continued for another couple of hours until finally Bratherond was satisfied, or as close to satisfied as was possible for the elf.

"Well human, it appears you can shoot an arrow.  I suppose you can survive a short while at least in the wild."

"Actually, I have been traveling in the wild for six years now," Aragorn reminded him, forgetting that for elves six years were but a blink of an eye.

"As I said human. A short while. I could hold my breath and stand on one foot for six years. 'Tis nothing to me." Bratherond replied haughtily as he turned and headed back to the palace.

"I should enjoy seeing that," Aragorn muttered under his breath, though this time he did not forget he was in the company of a being who could hear a baby sneeze a league away.

Bratherond turned and scolded the human as if he were a child. "I heard that human!!"

Aragorn shook his head at the memory of the past three hours. "I would rather fight an onslaught of rabid goblins with my hands tied behind my back then spend a prolonged period of time with that elf!" he uttered as the doors shut behind him.

The ranger frowned confusedly as he scanned the deserted throne room.  With the exception of a few grave looking dawdlers, the heap of festive elves had dissipated, leaving behind a mess of half eaten platters, empty goblets, doleful streamers waving faintly, and lonesome birches.  As he explored the remnants of the celebrations, he could hear his own soft footsteps muffled on the mossy ground and the swish of his overcoat against his legs filling the vacuous silence.  Upon finding no indication of Gandalf, Thranduil, Cièdron, or Legolas, Aragorn's stomach twisted in worry. It was far too early for the feast to have ended and surely one of them would have waited for him…

***

'Ai! Cièdron must have pushed me out of a tree again!'

Legolas grimaced at the hammers and axes pounding against every bone in his body. His skull felt too small for his brain and his muscles seemed too tight for his limbs, with the exception of his left arm which he barely felt at all.  How did this happen? The last thing the elf remembered was struggling against Cièdron….

'By Elbereth, if I open my eyes and I see Cièdron looking smug at having bested me, I will tie his hair to a spider's web.'

Too exhausted to go through the effort of having to seize Cièdron, find a web, tie his hair to it and then make sure no spiders actually killed him, Legolas decided a threat instead should suffice.

"Cièdron, I do not know what you did to me, but I swear on the Two Trees of the Valar, I will tie you to the back of a warg holding a stick with a dead rabbit dangling in its face for this." Legolas had not yet opened his eyes and he flinched in surprise when a hand, not Cièdron's, rested on his shoulder.

"I always did admire the creativity of elves. I will inform Cièdron of this, though I do think it is rather hasty of you to pass judgment, Thranduillion, when it was not he that decided the only way to get you here was to knock you out first."

Legolas's eyes snapped open.  Anyone else might have been stunned by the bright blue eyes that unexpectedly revealed themselves, but Gandalf only smiled regretfully at the elf.

"Forgive me, Legolas, but you were being far too obstinate for your own good. I had no choice, for you were like an injured bird that refused help so that he could fly again. The poison has been retracted though now, and I suspect you will be completely healed shortly."

A flash of confusion pricked Legolas's eyes before memory burrowed her way back into his throbbing head.

"You hit me Mithrandir!" Legolas's eyebrows furrowed and his voice seemed to barely find its way out of his throat. "And so did Ada."

Legolas's hand automatically massaged his bruised cheek and he noticed the thick bandages gently wrapped around his forearm.  The elf gazed curiously at this, as if they had always been there and he only just noticed them. He then limply dropped his hand. 

"Yes Legolas I hit you. The pain in your head now is far less than the pain that that poison would have caused you." Gandalf stated matter-of-factly as he helped him sit upright against the billowing tower of pillows.

"And the poison that spilt forth from your tongue rendered the other hit," a low voice, tense as a pulled bowstring yet silky as pudding, added.

Thranduil rose majestically from his seat in the far corner of the room and stepped towards Legolas's bed.  The king's face remained unreadable as he studied his injured son, propped up against three giant feather pillows and protected by a plethora of colorful knitted blankets.  Legolas avoided his father's eyes and continued to stare solemnly at his bandaged arm, the ultimate testimony to the difficult two days he had, until Thranduil's own deceptively youthful hand rested over it.

Like a feather, Thranduil's fingers brushed gently against the bandages making their way to his son's hand. The feather became a warm weight as the king delicately pressed the hand beneath it.  Yet his eyes remained distant and inexpressive.  Legolas's words, like daggers, remained embedded in Thranduil's heart and Legolas could not retract them as easily as the healer had obliterated the poison creeping up his arm.  A moment passed during which Legolas thoughtfully watched his father's hand over his own.  He then gently pulled back his hand, freeing it from the warm weight and leaving in its place a cold empty space.

Without a word, the king remained still, his expression as blank as it was before – an empty slate underneath which lay myriad emotions. He then turned and quietly left the room, leaving Legolas and Gandalf alone in the heavy silence.

In a sudden ignition of frustration, Legolas slammed the bed beside him.  Like multiplying weeds slowly strangling a once vibrant garden, the aggravation and anger tugged at Legolas's spirit – spiders, shadows, Dol Guldur, Nazgul, his father's secrets… Cièdron's words whipped about his head like a violent tornado, uprooting the trees of all he held dear to him, all he thought he understood.

"Mithrandir, why…"

Before he could finish, Gandalf raised his hand to the elf's lips, silencing the oncoming flood of questions and frustrations that his loose tongue, under the stress of the shadow, could not dam up.

"Legolas, I know. I know what plagues you, I know your questions, and I may even know some of the answers, though they are not all for me to tell."

Gradually lowering his hand, Gandalf leaned in closer to the elf.  Ah, how young he looks…. Legolas was a basketful of dichotomies, as so often was the case with elves. Though not in possession of the mystical insight that graced the elder elves of Middle Earth, the depth of his wisdom still matched the oldest humans.  Yet, in many ways, he seemed almost child like in his youthful countenance and his impulsive demeanor. And yet, Gandalf held little doubt that in a blink of an eye, this illusory 'child', this mist of youth, could reveal himself to be a lethal warrior.  But again, the lethal warrior would rather recline in convivial trees and play games with the effervescent night sky than kill his foes in battles.

Legolas raised his eyebrows in an attempt to prompt the pensive wizard to speak.  Gandalf chuckled at the elf's impatience.

"Ah, Legolas, tell me, what are you, for elves are so many things at once, and never do I know for sure if it is a child or a sage, a warrior or a peacemaker I am speaking to."

Legolas cocked his head to one side, bafflement twisting his face. "We are none and yet we are all of what you describe, Mithrandir. One must be a child before they are a sage, and no sage will forget his childhood. A warrior who is not also a peacemaker will have nothing to fight for and a peacemaker who is not also a warrior will never be able to make peace. Mithrandir, indeed, I should ask the same of you, I would think? Who are you who strikes with his staff and brings us ill tidings, yet also a bag of fireworks, a pipe, and joy and hope to those who despair? Mithrandir, what is it you have planned for me?"

Gandalf started slightly at this sudden question, unexpectedly hurled at him. "Nothing is ever completely planned Thranduillion. Not even a wizard can read the future."

"You evade my question Mithrandir! I know you are no soothsayer. Yet you claim such knowledge of my future – you say my future lies beyond the limited knowledge my father bequeaths me.  You cannot foretell my own actions, only your own, and so you must have a role planned for me if you are able to say as much."

Gandalf grew serious as a decision played out in his mind. "Legolas, as Cièdron has already told you, spiders are not the only disease spreading in Mirkwood. Something much larger than spiders is afoot…"

A smile tugged at Legolas's lips. "Mithrandir, you are as sneaky as we are! You were eavesdropping on our conversation!"

Gandalf looked sternly at the elf, and reminded him, "Nothing is so easily hidden from the Istari, Legolas." 

With a swift clearing of his throat, Gandalf continued "Now I will tell you something I have not yet told your father Legolas. I have spent much of the day in the library, buried in books.  I do believe Legolas, it is not just the Nazgûl who are taunting Mirkwood…"

Gandalf glanced about him and shifted his staff so that he could draw even closer to the elf.  As if he were telling Legolas where the ring itself was hidden, he uttered beneath his breath, "there is other evil beyond the borders of Mirkwood that will gather around Sauron. Humans and elves, those that were once, but no longer are, and those that still are. Now you tell me Legolas.  How brave are you? What terror and dismay are you willing to face for the sake of not just your home and not just the homes of elves, but for the homes of humans, of hobbits and of dwarves? It is easy to be brave for the ones you love – for your father, Cièdron, for Mirkwood. But what about those you do not love and those you have never met? What would you do for them?"

The wizard leaned back and pulled out his pipe. Through a thick wraith of smoke, he watched as Legolas dropped his gaze to his bandaged arm. A moment later, the elf raised his head with the nobility of a king and a stare as unflinching as a cat's.

"I would go to Mordor and back with nothing more than my bow Mithrandir," Legolas firmly promised.

Smoke in the shape of a barge, smoothly flowed from Gandalf's mouth. The wizard's eyes sparkled in its wake and he again leaned in towards Legolas. With an ironic smile, he replied, "Your bow, Legolas, with you behind it, would be the greatest gift Mirkwood could offer to the races of Middle Earth."

With these words, Gandalf stood and patted the elf's shoulder. "Rest now, Thranduillion – you will need it," he commanded with a wink as he departed the room.

* * *

Aragorn anxiously looked about him and turned towards the door when a stooped creature hiding in the nebulous shadows caught his attention. Upon closer inspection, he realized the being was an elf, squatting with his back against a tree, meticulously sharpening his dagger against a smooth piece of whetstone.

"Legolas?" Aragorn called tentatively, not entirely sure the elf wanted to be disturbed, yet refusing to allow him to push him away without providing some sort of explanation.

The elf's head snapped up. "Legolas is not here, Aragorn." Cièdron's voice was heavy yet indecipherable.

Eager to learn what had happened to leave the throne room so empty, Aragorn jogged towards the elf.  Cièdron however ignored the human and remained absorbed in sharpening his knife.  It was not until Aragorn spoke that Cièdron again raised his head and acknowledged the ranger's presence.

"Cièdron, what has happened? Why have the festivities ended so abruptly?"

Cièdron considered Aragorn for a moment as if deciding whether he should inform him of the events of the past three hours. When he resumed sharpening his knife, he spoke.

"Legolas collapsed…He is fine," he quickly assured when he heard the ranger catch his breath, "it was Mithrandir actually…. Legolas is so stubborn and that poison was going to…" Cièdron trailed off, not wanting to even consider the 'what ifs,' "…anyway, he is in the healer's room now. I suspect he would be awake by now."

Cièdron never ceased working on his knife and he told this story to Aragorn as if he were reading off a list of chores for the day or some other such tedious event. 

"And the King and Gandalf are with him I presume?" Aragorn pressed when the elf again became taciturn.

"I would presume."

Aragorn eyed the elf carefully, unable to decipher the vacancy of emotions in his words.  Seeing that Cièdron would not say anymore, he turned and left him alone with his dagger again.

Cièdron sighed and watched the ranger leave the throne room. It had taken every last ounce of willpower to control the emotions mixing in his soul like oil and water.

What was it Mithrandir spoke of when he alluded to Legolas's fate in Middle Earth's future –beyond the affairs their father permitted access to?  His brother had just blatantly overstepped his bounds by speaking the way he did to Thranduil – whether he deserved the slap or not was debatable, but he did not exactly deserve a bout of greater responsibilities, a wizard's blessing… Did he? And then what is my fate? To continue dwelling in the shadows of my father and brother and the memories of Maegren and Feáner?

These thoughts left Cièdron in a haze of dizziness as guilt for feeling even a hint of jealousy tore at his mind and heart. He loved Legolas and he worried about him – he did not want jealousy to sour his feelings for his brother, though his quick temper often failed to ease the rush of bitter feelings when Legolas's careless impulses led him to pulling such stunts as interrupting *his* archery lesson.

Cièdron struck his knife against the stone a little more violently at the memory of Legolas's audacious interruption. And then he goes and has Alasse hitting the target in but a couple of hours, while I must stomp grapes from the rise of the sun to the waking of the moon! Then he tells off Ada, and Mithrandir proceeds to foretell great roles for him!

And what are these roles Mithrandir speaks of and what are their costs? Ai! Will my brother be a sacrifice? A martyr? How much more must we give up?

Cièdron paused and hurled the whetstone against a tree, its knock echoing eerily throughout the empty, forested room.  His aching head fell into his hands where it remained as the darkening night closed in around him and one by one, the torches were extinguished, their smoldering glimmers offering the last bit of cheer in the somber room.

* * *

The blankets and pillows soon proved to be too constricting for Legolas. After shifting uncomfortably and attempting different positions – sitting up, lying down, on one side, then the other, then back to the first side – and then fluffing and adjusting his pillows, the elf gave up.

'By Elbereth! This is absurd – a scratch on my arm and I am confined to a bed! I would sooner find sleep in a dwarf's mine!'

Relenting in his futile struggle, Legolas threw aside his blankets and practically hopped out of the bed to stretch his sore muscles.  He then casually strolled out of the room – an inmate escaping the prison through the front door, though no one was there to notice. Nor did anyone notice as he walked down the empty corridors to his room where he grabbed his bow and quiver and then towards the thick, double gated doors that opened to the outside of the palace.  There, he did meet a few guards who raised their eyebrows curiously at the elf.

"Going somewhere Prince Legolas?" one tall, peacock of an elf queried.

"Aye." Legolas felt no need to elaborate as he pushed open the doors. This was his home after all, why must he explain each and every one of his movements?

"Prince Legolas, that is not wise! Let one of us accompany you at least!" the guard called out, shifting his quiver on his back as he prepared to follow the elf.

"Nay! I will be fine – I will not wander far from these walls, I only seek the fresh air and some solitude. If I do not return in an hour's time, then you may worry." By the end of this sentence, Legolas was already a far way off from the guards. The peacock one glanced worriedly at his companion unsure of what to do when a third voice stirred them.

"Do not worry – he will not be alone."

Both elves whipped around to find Aragorn shifting his sword in its sheath. Their mouths fell agape – it was not exactly easy to sneak up on a wood elf guard, yet this human had succeeded in taking both of them by surprise.  A strange smile played on the ranger's face – almost, but not quite a smirk. He then pushed through the doors, offering as much of a challenge as Legolas just did to the guards, daring them to stop him.

This time the peacock's companion spoke up. "Well then, that's taken care of, Käriler. Let him guard the prince and bear his wrath if he gets caught. These rangers may be good to have around. Makes our job little easier, no?"

Käriler frowned and returned to his position, admittedly relieved not to have to risk Legolas's tirade should he be found shadowing him. "Aye, but if something should happen to the ranger as well, I do believe we will be in even deeper trouble with the King. You realize we just allowed Thranduil's and Elrond's youngest wander out of the safety of this palace into a snake pit?"

The other guard frowned slightly, but then displayed a nonchalant grin as he leaned back against the wall. "Käriler you worry too much. We allowed the finest archer in Mirkwood and the Lord of the Dúnedain out into a darkened forest, not two children into the pits of Mount Doom."

Käriler still did not seem satisfied, but with a slight shrug, he relaxed against the wall, watching the door warily as if expecting it to burst forth any moment at the hands of an army of orcs.

Aragorn peered through the thick ocean of darkness, interrupted only by the soft glow of moonlight against the trees. The long fingers of a light wind crumpled the leaves like paper and shadows flitted across the ground. The ranger paused briefly then stealthily crept up to the tree he knew Legolas had just climbed into.

Legolas's eyes widened slightly in surprise as the ranger grabbed on to a branch and lifted himself into the tree, not without a bit of a struggle and some elvish curses. Finally he succeeded in swinging his legs over the branch and with a grunt he sat up and leaned against the trunk next to Legolas, who appeared too comfortable to lift a finger to aid Aragorn.

"Well done Master Ranger! Is that your way of alerting every creature in the wood to our presence? If so, I am sure it was quite a success!"

Aragorn scowled. "It is not my fault you could not choose a lower branch."

Legolas glowed from the gleam of the moon on his face and from the growing mirth within him.

"If I had known I would be accompanied by a human perhaps I would have." Legolas paused and considered this for a moment, "or perhaps I would have climbed quite higher."

"Well, I would have followed you then." Aragorn's tone of voice left little to be doubted in this statement. "So I see your wound has been taken care of…"

Like a plug being drawn from a tub releasing all its water, the mirth drained from Legolas. He glanced listlessly at his arm. "Aye, though Mithrandir has a funny way of healing – I think next time I will go straight to the healer myself instead."

"As you should have in the first place," Aragorn said pointedly, not completely succeeding in veiling the amusement in his eyes.

Legolas's eyes turned from his arm to the moon. They grew distant as the elf retreated into himself, not really watching the moon, but rather wandering through his own elven reveries, though he was not actually asleep.  Aragorn sighed softly and looked up to the moon as well. The tranquil midnight blue sky engulfed the two, its flickering stars winking at them, mocking their limited knowledge of the heavens of which these ethereal bodies held all the secrets. 

 "Aragorn, I will go with you."

Aragorn turned, not quite registering what Legolas just said.

"What do you mean…"

"Bratherond will not accompany you.  He is a braggart anyway, and his company though helpful when battling orcs, will be a disease to your well-being otherwise. But I will go with you on this scouting trip my father is planning Aragorn, and even more than that. I will not sit idly as this shadow grows on Mirkwood. If anyone should fight for her, it should be me."

Legolas's eyes were no longer distant, they were determined as stone as they looked straight into Aragorn. The human dropped his head and gazed at his hands. His fingernails were jagged and dirty, and his skin was becoming leathery from its exposure to the elements, quite a contrast to the elves' milky, flawless facade.

"I do not know if that is a wise idea, Legolas," he uttered under his breath.

"And why is that?" the elf challenged.

"What of your people?"

"My people are dependent on my father and Cièdron for leadership. Perhaps they see me as a leader too, but not in the same way. I will never be king – or the chances, Valar willing, are slim at least. I must serve them in other ways – I am not here to entertain them at archery tournaments. My responsibility is larger than that. Besides, what right has an heir to the throne of Gondor, who has taken on the role of a ranger, have to tell a prince who is the youngest of six… " Legolas frowned and paused for a split second, "four children, that he cannot risk his life."

A familiar shadow passed over Aragorn's features – the shadow of remembrance that accompanied him always and remained dormant as long as he forgot who he truly was.

"My life is not anymore sacred than your own. I would not hold my lineage up to such esteem," he frigidly replied.

There it is again! I will not let him get away with it so easily this time.  Legolas nimbly leapt from his branch to Aragorn's and his tall, slim body formed a silhouette in the moonlight directly in front of the ranger. He gazed down at him intensely.

"Aragorn, why is it you hold such a low opinion of who you are?"

"My blood is nothing to be proud of Legolas. Everyone speaks of the blood of kings as if it is gold, but it is not – it is tainted. The blood of kings alone should not be hope to anyone."

Legolas thought about this for a moment and nodded in agreement, "Aye, Aragorn, you are right. The blood of kings alone cannot be relied upon for hope."  The elf then squatted and peered closely at Aragorn as if trying to locate a spot on his face – physical proof of his faulty blood, a blemish or a stain. Aragorn watched the elf intrepidly. When Legolas failed in his search he whispered through a soft smile playing on his lips.

"But you are so much more than just blood Aragorn."

The elf reached out and placed a hand on the ranger's head like a mother trying to gauge her child's fever.

"You are made up of a mind…" he said as he did this. Legolas then dropped his hand to Aragorn's chest. "And a heart." With his other hand, the elf gently lifted Aragorn's chin so that he could look straight into his smoky eyes. "And a soul." Legolas grinned warmly. "With a soul such as yours, Aragorn, Sauron's blood could flow through your veins and you would still be the greatest hope to man – but it is not Sauron's blood in your veins. It is Arathorn's and Gilraen's, and so many more great leaders and kings who you do not give enough credit to. It is not without reason we all place so much faith in you.  Do you think I would choose to follow any lone human, king or no? Nay Aragorn, I would not. I would follow you though – even if you never regained the throne that is rightfully yours, you can always count on my bow to protect you, ranger."

Before Legolas could pull back his hand, Aragorn laid his own atop of it. He lifted it and firmly grasped it, palm to palm. He then laid his other hand on Legolas's and Legolas did the same so the two pairs of hands were locked in a solid grip promising that these two lives were now bonded in camaraderie.

This handshake was a testament to their instant friendship and devotion to each other.  It may seem odd that the lives of two beings could become so immediately entangled, bounded by an iron contract of friendship, in just two days time. But how does anyone know when they meet another, be it a future lover or a friend, that this will be a person who will mark a watershed in their life? It is impossible to attribute to anything tangible or anything intangible the instinct one gets in the pit of their stomach when they meet a person who they know will impact their life. Such is the nature of Fate. She is indefinable in terms of space and time, nothing less than an inchoate ghost, yet so much more. Fate is like a vase that has been shattered into a million pieces, its remnants falling into each and every aspect of life, so that everything is connected and a few pieces are even directly connected like two neighboring pieces of a puzzle. When these two pieces find each other, it does not take long for them to know they fit together. They just know.

Thus, Aragorn knew the moment he caught sight of Arwen, his heart would never beat the same way again and anything he did would be in the lingering shadow of her love.  And when he met Legolas, he knew their lives were meant to cross paths as well, and in the elf he would find a loyal friend and fellow fighter – a companion who shared the same devotion to Middle Earth as he did, who would not give up fighting on her behalf even when all the elves have faded from this land. Even when nothing remained for the elf to fight for.

"I am honored," Aragorn finally replied sincerely, squeezing the elf's hand between his two. "Then there may yet still be hope for Middle Earth."

As they released their hands to grasp the other's shoulder, they did not notice as a frantic elf below raced silently towards the palace doors.

* *

The same moon that shone on Aragorn and Legolas engulfed another elf in her radiant shimmer.

After Thranduil had exited the healer's room, he ascended many flights of stairs and climbed numerous winding tunnels until he finally reached his own personal quarters – the only room in the entire palace that offered him the peaceful solitude and comfort that he had been deprived of for days now.

The sight of his bedroom, spacious and regal, with an ebony bed cornered with four towering posts, vines, gold framed mirrors, and soft rugs, never failed to remind him of his long departed wife. The bittersweet memories had that rare, contradictory quality of bringing both loneliness and warmth to the King's heart like a withering flower in the fall that would bloom again in another season or a dying mother bird that has given birth to young hopeful fledglings. He ached for her, but he also stayed for her.  Thranduil refused to sail to Valinor only to tell her he had been defeated – Mirkwood had driven him out and Middle Earth's creatures were now slaves to the darkness their leaders failed to defeat. No, that would only break her heart all over again.

Thranduil then walked over to his terrace. It was the only one in the palace and was kept strictly locked whenever he was not present.  Releasing the doors so that a rush of cool air brushed his face, he stepped onto the balcony and leaned against its railing, taking in the vast forest beneath him. Waves of leaves tumbled in the wind amongst sea of trees. Thranduil almost felt as if he could walk out and fall on top of those leaves and just continue walking, as if the forest's canopy was a field of rolling hills. Of course, being a wood elf, this idea of walking atop the leaves was not entirely infeasible. As Thranduil coolly leaned against his balcony, the delicate breeze teased his long hair, and his ice blue eyes stared into the night, seeing everything and nothing at once. The king looked every bit as regal as he always did – his nobility was as innate as the color of his eyes – but inside, his feelings crashed against each other in a tumultuous storm of regret, anger, confusion, and the worst feeling of all for any high-minded, estimable ruler – helplessness.

I struck my own son. How could I allow my temper to control me like that? There is so much to fight against, and we are fighting against each other. Ai! What am I to do? How do we fight this, when there are so few of us left?  Such was the shifting nature of the king's thoughts. Though this stream of thought shifted, its water remained the same – worry. Worry about his sons, worry about Mirkwood, worry about himself.  How much strength did he have left before he simply could not take anymore?

Thranduil's elven eyes could see the lands beyond the forest's borders and at times Thranduil even thought he could feel the sea though its waves lapped the shore hundreds of miles away from where he stood. Beyond those waters, his wife, oldest son and daughter dwelled in the undying lands, waiting for him to join them. At times, Thranduil could hear their call, the sea's call, beckoning him to leave behind these cursed lands. Times like these Thranduil could nearly weep at the ripping of his heart between these woods and the sea. Often he would have to close his eyes to remind himself of who he was – the King of Greenwood.

Memories of Greenwood never failed to stifle the salty fresh air that tempted Thranduil's senses when the sea called to him and Thranduil would instantly lose any desire he had to sail West in favor of fighting to save these woods – his woods, where his sons, who had not yet heard the sea's calling still placed so much hope. Thranduil loved Middle Earth and how he longed for the days his sons could enjoy it as he once had.  Were it up to me they would not hear the calling for many ages to come. For one day this land will overcome this shadow and its treasures will fill their souls, giving them more joy than even Valinor could offer.

Thranduil's eyes snapped open.  No, I will never leave Mirkwood. I would only leave Greenwood. As long as she is suffocated by this shadow and must remain under the name of Mirkwood I will not abandon her. I will not abandon Middle Earth.  The king straightened resolutely.  Despite his son's accusations, he was not idle, nor would he ever be idle in this fight. And whether Legolas realized it or not, it was for him, Cièdron, and his other children, whether they were in the Halls of Mandos or the undying lands, Thranduil chose to stay and continue this struggle, as much as for the forest itself.

The dancing stars and proud moon suddenly gave Thranduil a fleeting sense of hope. We are not lost yet. As long as such beauty still exists in this land, there is hope. As long as I could still feel the moon's glow upon me, there is hope…

A loud knock caused Thranduil to jump from his thoughts. He frowned at this interruption and waited a moment, hoping his visitor would give up and leave him in peace. But such luck would not grace him tonight as attested by another loud, urgent knock.

"King Thranduil! King Thranduil, I must speak to you! I have a message!"

Thranduil's brows furrowed as he headed towards the door. He recognized the voice to be Käriler's, his guard at the back door. Though a capable guard, the elf was notorious for his paranoia and constant worry.

"A message? Are you certain it is so important it cannot wait until morning, Käriler?"

"Yes sir, I am quite certain!"

When Thranduil opened the door, he found not one, but two elves waiting for him. Käriler stood tall and formal, as he always did, though his face betrayed his worry, which was clearly related to the disheveled elf next to him. Thranduil's eyes widened at the sight of the other elf.

"Actually, it is not I who holds the message, but Merionè," Käriler continued, watching the shock sink into the King's face.

"Merionè! You were lost! We had searched all over for you! By the Valar, what happened? Where are the others, do you know?? Mithrandir is here… we were going to search for you and the others…" Thranduil grabbed the warrior's shoulders as he struggled with the deluge of questions that arose at this sudden appearance of one of his missing warriors before him.

"My King, it is good to be back… may I please sit… I am so weary…" Merionè answered breathlessly.

Thranduil released the elf and led him to a large, velvet chair. "Of course, of course, can I get you anything? Wine? Lembas? Water? Anything at all Merionè?"

Merionè held up a hand and shook his head as he sank into the plush chair.  "Nay, King Thranduil, I wish not to hesitate any more in delivering my message."

Thranduil froze in anticipation of the message. After quickly catching his breath, Merionè looked up at the King.

"I had been fighting off bands of orcs in the Southeastern part of Mirkwood with my own band of a dozen warriors. It had been a violent couple of days – spiders, orcs… the Nazgûl had reoccupied Dol Guldur…"

"Aye, I know, it had been reported to me. And Sauron has reoccupied Barad-dûr."

Merionè nodded. "I figured as much… Anyway, we weaved in and out of the shadows, fighting intermittently one evil after another. The worst of course were always the Nazgul…" Merionè shuddered as the name passed from his mouth. "One cannot imagine such evil – they can only experience it."

"Is that then what happened to you and the others? Did the Nazgûl murder them? Did they take them? How did you escape…" Thranduil halted when he saw the other elf shake his head fervently.

"Nay, King Thranduil! It was not the Nazgul! They terrified us and came dangerously close to killing…or I should say enslaving… all of us. But no King Thranduil, the Nazgûl are not the only enemy at Mirkwood's borders."

Merionè paused and studied the rug as he gathered his scattered thoughts. He then continued, "The Nazgûl and orcs pushed us out of Mirkwood, into the lands of Rhûn. In our endless battles, we continued east, past even the Sea of Rhûn." Merionè's wide eyes looked up from the rug at the king. "There were elves there, King Thranduil."

Thranduil nodded slowly, "Aye, Merionè, there are elves that dwell beyond the Sea of Rhûn, though we know little of them…"

Merionè interrupted, "It was a small clan, though I suspect there are more similar clans. We were relieved to meet them, but our relief proved to be short-lived. Skirmishes erupted between them and my own warriors as they seemed to sympathize with Sauron, something which obviously did not bode well with any of us. Strange fates then began to befall each one of my elves."

Merionè's voice quavered as he continued and he wrung his hands nervously. "One by one, and very gradually, my warriors became distant. Their wills to fight were sapped-some fell in fits of rage, others in fits of interminable sadness. I do not know why I was not a victim… I tried to get us out of those lands, but they did not want to leave! They suffered, King Thranduil, yet I know not what it was that tormented their souls! Something transfixed them, something lured them… And then one night, we were attacked. The fight was awful since not one of my elves actually desired to defend themselves! I do not know what fate then befell them for I was struck down rather quickly. When I awoke, I found myself alone in a deserted cave – not a sound echoed in its walls and I was in despair for I knew not where I was or where to go. But then a hooded creature approached me– I do believe it was one of those dark elves of the Rhûn, though I cannot be certain it was even an elf… It gave me this and told me to bring it to you. He refused to tell me any more though I begged for news about my fellow warriors. The creature just led me to the mouth of the cave and pointed in the direction of Mirkwood so that I could swiftly return to you. And he told me not to look into the bag before you did…"

Merionè held out a rolled up scroll tied with a gold string and in his other hand, he held a small light bag. His hand shook as he gave the scroll to Thranduil. "This was three days ago. I have been traveling by night and day without sleep ever since."

With great trepidation, Thranduil took the scroll and unrolled it, quickly scanning its contents. His eyes moved rapidly as he read and when he reached the end they darted quickly to the top to reread the note.  His already pale face turned ashen as if the last of whatever blood that previously flushed his cheeks was drawn out by the leeches within the scroll's words. With trembling hands, he returned the letter to Merionè and took the bag in exchange.

Merionè stared at the scroll in his hands as if it may jump up and bite him and then with great dread, read the note that had so affected his king. The words were elegantly written in clear, perfect Sindarin:

To the King of the Woodland Realm, Mirkwood, formerly Greenwood the Great:              

How much longer will you resist, King Thranduil? You know you cannot fight what is inevitable. The sun will soon set on the time of the elves and only one power will rule over these lands with an iron fist. Thus, three choices stand before you. You can sail West with your people and abandon these woods as so many elves have already done. Or you can grasp the opportunity to wield great power in service of Lord Sauron.  Should you choose neither of these, you will choose slavery for not just yourself, but your people as well. The time when you must make your decision is drawing near.  I send you this messenger to inform you of the fates of those who already foolishly chose the third option.  Will you damn the rest of your people by following in their paths? You are wiser than that. Why continue to fight a losing battle?

The author did not sign this letter, thus leaving Merionè and Thranduil clueless as to who it might be.  Merionè glared angrily at the letter.

"Ha! He sends me to inform you of the fates of my warriors, yet I do not even know their fates for they struck me down before I could see for myself and they refused to tell me later! They are fools indeed! Do they really think they could intimidate you with such a message…." Käriler's gasp interrupted Merionè and he fell silent when he looked up at Thranduil. Merionè's mouth hung open in mid sentence as if time had stopped leaving them all frozen in a terrible caged existence.

Thranduil too remained perfectly still except for the trembling of his hand, which he held out in front of him.  The bag dropped to the floor as every other muscle in Thranduil's body fell limp.

A small silver brooch, carved in the shape of two leaves bordering an arrow – the emblem of the wood elves worn by all of Thranduil's warriors - lay in his outstretched palm.  But it was not the brooch the three pairs of sharp elven eyes focused on fearfully. A long golden braid, glimmering in the moonlight that crept in from the balcony, dangled loosely from the brooch over the edge of Thranduil's quivering hand.  The three stunned elves remained motionless for several long moments. Finally breaking free of the trance that held him, Käriler dropped to the floor and violently grabbed the fallen bag.  He opened it up and pulled out another braid… and another…and another….

When Käriler was done, at least fifty braids lay scattered on the floor around them. Käriler held one up in disgust. "Thranduil! This brooch is stained with blood!" He dropped down again and continued to study all of the brooches. "Ai! They are all stained with blood!"

Merionè gaped at the braids. "Fifty…fifty! I only had twelve… I only had twelve, King Thranduil!" Merionè shook his head disbelievingly. "Where are they now?" he whispered. "What did they do to them?"

Thranduil did not answer. The King stood silently for a moment before collapsing hopelessly to his knees, cradling his head in his hands, which still held tightly to the first braid pulled out of the bag. The two other elves watched in dismay as their aggrieved King crumbled in despair in the midst of fifty of his own warriors' braids, scattered like fallen soldiers on the lushly carpeted floor of the King's own bedroom.

TBC

Its done its done! I've been apartment hunting, which as it turns out, is a 24/7 job – whenever I get home & try to write, I end up dreaming of big, beautiful spacious apartments, clean & shiny and new, overlooking the water and me there sipping French wine and hanging up my paintings on my 15 foot high freshly painted walls. Then I remember… I am a poor student and such apartments do not exist for us. We get the rat infested closets and generic beer. Sigh. 

Reviewer, reviewers, reviewers… ahhh, what would I do without you? (actually, I'd probably stop writing) You guys are wonderful – Dot, RainyDayz, Mer, Maranwe, and everyone else, thanks! I wasn't that happy with the last chapter because I hit my first major writer's block, but reviews help so much to overcome that! And I've been reading many of your stories, and all I have to say is wow- it's so cool to have such good writers review me!