A/N: This is the real first chapter, but for clarity's sake we'll call it Chapter Two. Sorry it's so short, but it's still very introductory. Huge thanks to my beta Lossefalme for her help on this chapter. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Two: Equal to the Task
"You called for me, father?" Legolas asked the shadowed figure before him. Thranduil sat on his massive oak throne, staring transfixed at the ground. The Prince's question shook him from his reverie.
"I am sorry. Yes, my son, I did call." The very oak of the throne seemed to quiver as the King inhaled slowly. Dim shafts of dusk's last light filtered in through windows hewn in the stone, catching bits of dust in their incandescent glow. The light shone on Thranduil's face, and Legolas noticed the lines around his eyes more than ever before. His eyes themselves also looked different. Far away. They never quite connected with Legolas', but rather focused on some point far in the distance. Clearly whatever was on the great King's mind was not a trivial matter. He spoke again: "I have need for you to do a great errand for me. Perilous perhaps, but necessary." He paused, scrutinizing Legolas' face. The younger Elf remained unmoving.
"Of course, father. I am equal to the task. What would you have me do?"
The silence in the room settled heavily before Thranduil broke it with a sigh. This would be difficult to explain. How to capture the background, the details, the very essence of the errand itself? How to caution Legolas against any errant vanity that would falsely shield him from the perils of the task? "Legolas, you know I am recently returned from Imladris," he said as he glanced appraisingly at his son. The darkness of the room hid much of Legolas' face, but his eyes glinted in the available light. As always, he looked keen, sharp, and ready. Thranduil continued: "There I met with Lord Elrond and Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood, and Mithrandir as well. The shadow of Mordor is lengthening. We believe it will become insurmountable in the near future. Lord Elrond foresees great battles, and the days are darkening quickly."
The Elvenking paused, and Legolas saw great concern in his father's tired eyes, yet they remained unfocused. The palace had been surrounded by an intangible tension in the past few months, perhaps brought on by increased visits to Elrond in Imladris and the seemingly endless supply of bitter news from the Last Homely House.
"Yes, father," Legolas replied, well aware of what his father spoke. "It is hard not to feel the weight of the shadow even now. But tell me the part I am to play, and I shall fight that weight as much as I can!"
Thranduil smiled faintly, and his own eyes finally locked with his son's. There was pride in both sets, young and old. Pride of the father in his progeny, pride of the son in his own talent. Thranduil continued, careful not to indulge too much. "You are bold, my son, but impatient as well. Let me finish my story!" Legolas smiled as the King resumed. "Mithrandir believes we must call upon any possible allies across the lands of Arda. He says the only way to defeat the darkness is to unite. Therefore, we have need to lengthen our list of friends. This is where your task begins. Have you guessed it?"
Legolas paused, and bit his lower lip. Lengthen our list of friends. It would seem that the King called upon the Prince to forge alliances, take stock of friends, make ready for war. "You wish me to ride out to some foreign land and make friends of strangers? To unite all for good against Sauron?"
"You put it quite nobly, my son," said Thranduil with a grave smile.
"Yes father, but—with respect—what land is in need of convincing? The Eldar know their place, the dwarves are too greedy in their own lands, the Shire folk too remote and small, and the Men of Gondor and Rohan are already preparing for the future. Who then remains?" asked Legolas, mentally ticking off the various regions of Arda. His hopes of grand adventure and breathtaking risk were falling fast. He was no messenger, no servant of the elders to be sent on worthless errands.
"Ah yes, you have appraised the situation well, Legolas," Thranduil said calmly, noting the subtle shift in Legolas' character. "But you must think of the Southern Lands, beyond Anduin."
"But I have mentioned Gondor already. The people of Ithilien follow Gondor, and the Men of Dol Amroth need no convincing either!"
"Further South, Legolas!" he said, more sternly this time. It would not do well for the young Elf's pride and arrogance to cloud over his logic and reason.
Indeed, it took Legolas some time to search the geography of Arda in his mind. He pushed all thoughts of meaningless tasks away and sought the great river Anduin, tracing its course south in his head. He imagined it wending its way from the great Ered Mithrin north of the Woodland Kingdom, down the length of Mirkwood, past Lorien, past Fangorn, past Gondor. He suppressed a shudder as his mind's eye took him past the dark, terrifying Ephel Duath—the Mountains of Shadow. How could the river that gives life to so much goodness in the world be able to wind its way slowly, effortlessly by the region containing so much evil? Legolas heard his father exhale an impatient breath and pushed all such philosophy from his head. He continued his mental checklist, and had yet to come upon any region or people that would need convincing. Anduin had found its way into the Bay of Belfalas, although Legolas could only imagine what the Great Sea actually looked like. He frowned, and ran through his checklist one more time. "The only region left is the Harad—the desert!" he said with a grin. "The people of the Sand, those worthless soon-to-be slaves of Sauron! Surely you cannot mean—"
"This is exactly what I mean," interrupted the King.
"But Father!" Legolas exclaimed, the smile leaving his face. "The men of Harad are barbaric and cruel, and no doubt already in league with the Dark Lord himself! How are we—how am I—supposed to convince them to join us?" Legolas let out a snort at the impossibility of the situation.
"Well, to be certain, my son, the entire burden shall not be placed on your shoulders alone," Thranduil said evenly, keen to keep his son in check. "Indeed, there is some truth to rumors of the barbarism of the Haradrim—they are a proud and warlike people. The Elven Lords Elrond and Celeborn expressed great astonishment at Mithrandir's proposal to venture into that land, and I shared equally in this disbelief, especially when Mithrandir suggested one of the Lords of our Elven-Houses should lead the voyage. After all," he said with a pause. "You know as well as I that this will not be our war. While we have lived many years in this land of Arda, we know the time has come for us to journey to the shores of Valinor." He paused again as Legolas nodded, then continued. "We expressed this feeling to Mithrandir, but he merely frowned. He insisted that a war will come soon, and even the Eldar will not be able to escape it. He insisted that it was absolutely necessary for one of our kindred to journey to the Harad."
"But why?" Legolas interjected. "Does he actually believe that the heads of those pirates could be turned away from their profits and toward the light? Does he truly feel that we may be able to make a difference in that strange and desolate land?"
"My son, I am surprised you ask those questions. Does anyone ever know the inner workings of that wizard's mind? What I would give to be shown the truths in his head… Undoubtedly he is putting many pieces in place—pieces that even the foresight of our kind cannot fathom."
Father and son took a moment to reflect on the greatness of Mithrandir, the sheer volumes of unknowns the wizard would be able to manipulate and parlay into action.
As Legolas remained silent, Thranduil went on. "What was strangest about the whole situation was that Mithrandir recommended that the Elf to lead the task be one of our house—of the Mirkwood Realm. I fear Mithrandir knows something about these lands that we do not. Does it not seem strange—even for the wizard—to request a Mirkwood Elf to journey a great distance from his kin to a land of no consequence to his realm?"
Legolas raised his eyebrows in thought at his father's question. It was true: something did not feel right. How would a Mirkwood Elf be any better than an Elf of Lorien or Imladris? And why should an Elf go anyway, when the wars to come would be wars of Men?
"And then," Thranduil spoke, cutting into Legolas' thoughts, "as I pondered these things, I remembered something. Can you guess what thought I had?"
And suddenly, it hit. It seemed that for the briefest of moments, Legolas was able to channel Mithrandir, to see what he saw, to put the pieces in place. Though much remained shrouded in mystery, one aspect of the plan suddenly became brilliantly, dangerously lucid. "Morensar," Legolas stated without a moment's hesitation.
"Right again, my son." Thranduil's pride returned as it was clear that logic had regained control of the brash Elf's mind. "Could it be that our old friend has found a new home? Do you think it possible that the traitor has had a successful attempt to usurp another's throne?"
"No, Father, it cannot be! Morensar is dead; we learned this long ago." Legolas felt the fingers of his hands begin to tighten into fists against his control. He felt his temper rising, his anger at Morensar propelling ancient memories up and up until the surface of his mind's eye was teeming with them.
"Yes, I believed this to be true as well, but could it not have been an untruth? It is entirely possible, I believe, that Morensar, given this history of his behavior, could have spread rumors of his own death, or even faked it himself!" Thranduil's voice had an edge of urgency, of fear, even. King and Prince both knew the potential political dangers this rogue Elf could cause—had caused. Father and son both knew of the betrayal of Morensar, and how the wounds still stung deep, though their maker had vanished years and years ago.
"But we tracked him, Father. He could not have gotten away!"
"Very true, my son, but we received our last report on his location many, many years ago, correct?"
"Because he died! And if he did not, then we should have killed him for the treason he committed against this land! Against you!" Legolas' fist shook the small table beside him with such vigor and violence that Thranduil rose from his throne and walked toward his son.
"And against you, my son—treason against you, betrayal upon you. And yes, it is true that what he said and what he did were both grievous and dangerous. Perhaps we should have executed him. But that is not the way I run this Kingdom. And that is not the way fate would have it. So do not let the anger you feel for the past rule the future. We must at least consider the fact that Morensar remains alive to this day."
"You believe it to be so?" Legolas could not bring his eyes to meet his father's, ashamed of the emotion that burned so deeply within them.
"I cannot tell yet," Thranduil said more calmly as he regained his seat. "But Mithrandir has many eyes watching many things in this world. He has heard rumors of a gradual change in the Sutherland. And he knows well the story of Morensar's departure from Mirkwood. He believes the rumors may be connected, may indeed be describing Morensar."
"But if Morensar has taken over the Harad, surely he would have let the rest of the world know by now!" Legolas grasped at any logical explanations he could. Morensar was dead. Morensar had to be dead. And if he was not…
"Yes, there is no doubt in my mind that Morensar would openly display his acquired power. And it is this very thought that leads me to believe he does not rule the Harad—at least not yet. And Mithrandir, too, mentions that the rumors do not speak of a complete overthrow. Only of a change."
Legolas paused. It was only now that he fully understood what task was set before him—a task none but he could complete. Their history—the history of Legolas and Morensar—was long gone, but not forgotten. Riding to the Harad, traveling to this forsaken country would involve so much more than offers of diplomatic treaties, accords, and amnesty. This was not merely a fact-finding mission—not anymore. Legolas hardened his self to the past, pushed away the frothing fold of memories. This task, this errand, this journey… It was revenge. It would be revenge. "I will do it," he said firmly.
Thranduil took a moment and beheld his son before responding. It was as if all signs of life had passed from the Elf's body. Where once father had seen proud and ambitious son, now only resolute determination remained. Legolas had entered the throne room only minutes before grinning and overflowing with the vivacity of young life, and now all had been transformed, and the being that stood before the throne seemed hewn from stone instead of the fibers of flesh.
Thranduil wondered if he had been wise in accepting this duty for his Kingdom, in telling Legolas about Morensar up front. But if that Elf was still alive, then it was time Legolas came to terms with the past and did something about the future. It was time for Legolas to prove himself; to prove himself as more than just a champion with the bow, more than just a young Elf who had not yet felt the wanderlust that only an adventure could provide.
"Yes," he said slowly. "You will do it. But careful, my son. Understand that rash actions are the things you must absolutely avoid. This is not the beginning of a battle; this is not an attack on your past. This is a diplomatic mission, worth so much more than you or I can fathom. You must appraise the situation. Discover his intentions. Morensar is cunning, as you know, so this task will be difficult. But you and I both know that Morensar desires power above all else. This motive can guide you, if nothing else does."
It seemed as if Thranduil's advice had fallen on deaf ears. The strange being before the King remained unmoving, showing no sign of understanding. And, for the first time in his long life, Thranduil truly appreciated the passion within his son—and was genuinely scared by it.
