Author's Note: Hello again. Here is Chapter Three—finally a proper-sized chapter! For me, at least. Thanks to Lossefalme for another excellent beta. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and forgive Legolas, because he's a bit emotional. Oh, and the chapter title is "Many Meetings" after one of the songs on the FOTR soundtrack. And standard disclaimers apply to the story (I don't own most of these characters, etc.).


Legolas paced around a clearing in the dense forest of Mirkwood, absentmindedly fingering the smooth white handle of one of the two daggers he kept perpetually sheathed at his hips. Suddenly, he let it fly into a tree thirty yards distant. It landed with a sharp thwack in the dead center of the trunk. He ambled slowly over to pry it out of the bark, but was stopped when another Elf strode into the clearing. It was Alator, Captain of the Mirkwood Guard and, since Morensar had left so many years ago, Legolas' closest friend.

Alator was a tall, fair Elf like Legolas. His features were perhaps les defined than the Prince's, his eyes less sharp, but his temper was also much more even. It was for this reason that he had been appointed Captain so many years ago. Alator, not Morensar…

Legolas gave his friend a feeble smile, and Alator returned it. "I understand your father has asked you to undertake a bit of an errand, my friend," the Captain said.

What little smile Legolas had disappeared and his forehead creased into a frown. "Yes, I suppose you could call it that. An errand."

Legolas wrenched the dagger out of the tree and stood, looking sullenly at the ground. Alator waited a moment before speaking again. "Legolas, he told me what Mithrandir said. About Morensar," Alator appraised Legolas with a keen eye, and saw the Prince flinch slightly at the name. "I understand what you must be feeling right now. After all, what happened those many years ago is partly my fault, and—"

"No, the blame must be placed entirely on Morensar," Legolas said tersely, interrupting his friend and sheathing his dagger with vigor.

"Due respect, Legolas, but while in the end Morensar caused his own banishment, his own downfall, there were many events leading up to it that perhaps could have been avoided. Could have been dealt with." Alator noticed Legolas' ears perk a little at these words. He was on to something. "Maybe then," he said cautiously, "Maybe this is your chance to investigate what really happened. Not just what, but why. Maybe this is a sign. If Morensar is alive, think what an opportunity now exists to talk to him on neutral territory, so many years removed…"

"I would have no kinds words to say to him," Legolas responded forcefully, unconsciously moving his hand to clutch his left shoulder. "I would have nothing to say," he repeated, but more quietly this time. He continued staring at the ground.

"Perhaps," Alator spoke, almost in a whisper, "Perhaps you do. Legolas, everyone knows how true your friendship was. And everyone knows what he did was grievous and deserved banishment, but does anyone know how you felt about the whole situation? To have your best friend turn traitor, and…" Alator trailed off, not wanting to fully broach the subject, not wanting to bring back memories of that day.

"What you say is true, Alator," Legolas said, finally bringing his head up to look Alator in the face. "Indeed even I do not fully understand what happened, or why it happened, or how I feel about any of it! When father first mentioned that Morensar might yet live…" Legolas stopped, and looked wistfully up at the boughs of the trees. The forest was still, waiting for him continue. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "When father first mentioned it, I was angry. I was so angry. I knew Morensar had died. He died! How many times had I told myself that? How many times had I comforted myself with that fact? He could do no more harm!" He paused again, and his eyes flew open. He leaned closer to Alator, and his words were barely discernable, even above the hushed trees. "But then, then I really stopped to think about it. And I realized that once I no longer felt so vengeful or angry, I felt confused. And worried. And, strangely, excited. No, not excited. I believe it was more… I felt that I had a purpose. That perhaps yes, the Valar made this so. Perhaps Morensar is not dead. Perhaps the final chapter in the story of our friendship has not yet been written, as I had assumed for so long it had. Perhaps…" He trailed off again and, not able to say anything else, let fly another dagger.

Alator shifted from one foot to another, the crinkling twigs underneath his boots the only sound in the forest. "Yes, perhaps all this is true, Legolas. And if it is, will you go to the Harad?"

Legolas nodded a long, grave nod. "I promised my father I would. And what he said is true: this mission is bigger than just a petty grudge between the two of us. This is not the past—this is the present. This is the future."

"You have reasoned well, I think."

Legolas did not answer right away. Had he? Was he making the right choice? Would he be able to keep everything in check, to keep his emotions at bay, to actually learn about the Harad and not let his mission simply become an assassination attempt—well, it would not be an attempt. Legolas was sure given the chance, he would kill Morensar. "I am scared, Alator."

Alator was taken aback. In all the years he had known Legolas, on all the hunting parties, all the times they had mercilessly murdered the hated Orcs, never had he seen the Prince come close to any emotion even resembling fear. And now, on the brink of what was supposed to be a harmless reconnaissance mission… Alator opened his mouth to speak, but could not find any words to adequately express his surprise. To his relief—and confusion—Legolas laughed.

"Yes, my friend, you heard correctly. I am scared." And just at that moment, it seemed that everything in the world stopped moving. The breeze, the leaves, the animals, even Legolas himself. His laughed turned sinister and his face twisted into an expression previously reserved only for the vile creatures that roamed beyond the borders of the Kingdom. His eyes burned a cold, dark blue, enhancing the terrifying expression on his fair face. He spoke again, breaking the discomforting silence. "Yes, I am scared that I will not be able to fulfill the objectives of the mission. I am scared that as soon as I see his horrible, traitorous face I will kill him, and shatter whatever peace I am supposed to bring. And for this reason, he should be scared, too."

Without another word, he walked to the oak, ripped his dagger from its grasp and stalked silently back to the palace.


The library in the Palace of Mirkwood was housed in a large room on the top floor. Its walls were lined with the colorful spines of a thousand volumes; on its floors were comfortable wooden chairs and desks perfect for reading or studying. Unfortunately the inhabitants of the Palace rarely used the library, and when the Prince strolled in he found the room almost completely empty.

His conversation and revelations with Alator had left him quite disturbed, but after five or six laps around the Palace he found his mind in a more agreeable state. He would go to the Harad. He would find out about the people there. He would find Morensar. And instead of leaving Mirkwood equipped only with weapons, Legolas decided to equip his mind for the journey as well. So he entered the library, hoping to read whatever he could on the land of the Harad.

In fact, as he entered the library he felt quite cheerful. Just walking underneath the sculpted wood entryway brought back fond memories of his formal education many years ago. He had not been much of a scholar, but was always fascinated by the stories of war and chaos that many of the books contained. The air was slightly musty with the scent of old parchment and aged cedar and Legolas inhaled deeply as he crossed the threshold. "Good morning, Aredhal," he called to the sole occupant of the room.

Aredhal was the She-Elf who ran the library. She was younger than Legolas, but had been in charge of the room for as long as he could remember. She kept the Mirkwood collection in excellent form, and Legolas was always greatly amused at just how much she loved her books.

"Good morning, Legolas," she replied, eschewing his title as he had asked her to centuries ago. "Come to put my library in disarray again, have we?"

"Oh Aredhal, you know I would never dream of such a thing," he responded playfully as he switched the order of two books on the far wall. He broke into a grin as he watched her gallant attempt to be nonchalant at his action, and he smiled even wider as he saw her need for organization cause her to walk briskly over to the wall and put the books back in order.

She let out a forced laugh and then asked, "Well, now that that's done, what can I do for you?"

"I am looking for a bit of reading," he replied.

"Wonderful! Though I cannot imagine why such a quest would bring you to a library," she said with more than a little sarcasm.

"Yes, point well made. But this is not just any reading. I am looking for books on a certain topic: the Harad. Can you help me?"

Aradhel knit her brows and stared at the Prince. "The Harad? As in the desert? The Sutherland? The Wasteland? Why?"

He raised an eyebrow and fixed a pointed gaze on her. "I was not aware that 'Grand Inquisitor' was part of your job title, dear Aradhel." Softening, he continued. "Do we have any books on the region?"

She took a moment to ponder, squinting her eyes as if to scan the catalogue mentally. After a minute or two, she dashed over to the opposite wall and began to scale a ladder. "I believe we should have something right over here." She perched precariously on the top of the ladder and reached her left hand to a shelf just out of her reach.

Legolas strolled casually over to the wall, happily diverted by the sight of her frustrated struggle. He gripped the bottom of the ladder to steady it. "Do you need help?" he asked with a laugh.

"No, that's alright. I think I've almost got it. Just an inch or two further…" Unfortunately she could not stretch any more, so with a sigh she began to make her way down the ladder—a task made increasingly difficult by the length of her skirts. She reached the bottom—albeit awkwardly—and turned her flushed face to Legolas' amused one. "Yes, I think you had better retrieve it. It's that medium-sized green one, four feet left of the ladder."

Legolas chuckled as he realized medium-sized green books surrounded him, but he scaled the ladder in two swift steps, reached for what he judged to be the correct book, and hopped down effortlessly—without the ladder. "This one?" he asked, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

She let out a little sigh in affirmation, rolled her eyes, and headed back to her desk. "Wait, Aradhel?" he called after her. "Is this the only book we have on the Harad? Just this little book?"

"Well, if memory serves me correctly—and it does—it is actually only a chapter or two in that little book."

Legolas looked at the book in disbelief. It was old, very old. Its archaic golden script proclaimed the title "Mysterious Realms." Legolas surmised this would not be the most helpful book. He was amazed at how little he and his kin actually knew about that foreign land. "You really mean this is the only book out of the thousands in here that even mentions the Harad?"

"I believe so, yes." Her reply carried no hint of doubt.

"So what is in the rest of these?"

"Mainly poetry."

Bemused, Legolas gave a little snort. "Poetry. Of course—how could I forget? I am, after all, an Elf." He heard her chuckle at his frustration. "Aradhel, do the libraries of our kin at Imladris hold anything but more poetry? Anything, specifically, on the Harad?"

"I do not know. I can check," she said slowly, and hefted a large book from underneath her desk. It appeared to be a collection of many letters bound together, and she began the daunting task of flipping through them. "This," she said in anticipation to his question, "is the complete record of the library at Imladris. Omiel and I keep each other abreast of additions to our collections, so if they have any books, you can find a record in here. But," she added with a sly smile, "it is still mainly poetry."

"And excellent poetry at that," came a new voice from the doorway. It was Mithrandir, leaning on his staff and surveying the situation with a content gaze. Legolas and Aradhel both gave a polite bow and curtsy, respectively, and the wizard returned the gestures with a nod and a smile. "Aradhel, there is no need to keep looking through that book. What little the library of Elrond contained on the Harad is now in my possession." Aradhel heaved a sigh of relief and put the giant book away. Mithrandir continued. "And Legolas, you should perhaps not be so quick to judge the poetry of your kindred. It is truly wonderful. In fact, I have brought a few select volumes specifically for you!" He winked at Aradhel as Legolas' face fell. "And now, good Prince, if you'll come with me, your father and Lord Elrond would like to see you."

"I will take this, Aradhel," Legolas said as he followed Mithrandir out of the library.

She made a mark in a ledger and called after him: "Good luck!"

As he followed the still-chuckling wizard, Legolas realized he would need it.


"This undertaking is, first and foremost, an opportunity to enrich the knowledge we have of the Harad—its people, its customs, its laws." Lord Elrond of Imladris spoke slowly and sternly before the council of scholars gathered to discuss the mission. He was an imposing figure normally, but in this setting, surrounded by some of the greatest minds in Arda, silhouetted against a setting sun, he looked even more ethereal. His gaze focused mainly on Legolas, for Legolas would be the Elf to lead the charge. "I know, as well as you all, that there may be another presence in the Harad—a presence that could jeopardize all that we seek to find. This is indeed a great concern." He paused, and once more fixed his eyes on the Prince, who tried his best not to shift underneath that intense stare. "And yet, it should not rule the fate of the mission. Mithrandir, if you would care to continue."

The old wizard rose from his chair and surveyed the room. Legolas, Thranduil, and three other Elven lords represented Mirkwood. Elrond had traveled from Imladris and brought three of his best scholars and advisors, and even Celeborn had journeyed from Lothlorien, though he brought no one with him. Mithrandir appreciated the turnout and began to speak. "The time to act is upon us. Not one of you can deny the presence of the Shadow. It grows ever darker in Mordor, and soon the fetid Ephel Dúath will not be able to contain it. Who knows, indeed, how far Sauron's arm has already stretched."

As if it were one of Gandalf's tricks of the light, a cloud passed over the sun, shrouding the windowed room in darkness. The Elves in the room took notice—the Darkness was upon them.

"We have recently crowned the three-thousandth year in the Third Age of the Sun," the wizard continued through the darkness. "It has been nigh on sixty years since Sauron returned openly to Mordor, and fifty years since he commissioned the rebuilding of Barad Dûr. Sauron is not necessarily one to act rashly or swiftly—this we know—but if I ventured a vague guess, I would estimate open war within the next fifty years, and certainly before we crown year three-thousand-one-hundred—if we crown that year."

Legolas had been listening to Elrond and Mithrandir for quite some time now, and neither had yet to speak of any details. No one had broached the subject of when, who, where, or why exactly they were going. He opened his mouth to speak, but the wizard began answering his question before it was even fully formed.

"You might wonder, then, good Lords, what that means for the race of Elves. This is the Age of Men. This is their trouble. This War will be for Rohan, for Dol Amroth, for Gondor." Gandalf looked around to see many of the Elves nodding in agreement. He smiled, a kind of slow, forlorn smile, and his eyes were bereft of their usual twinkle. "You would be incorrect, unfortunately. Though the end is near for the brethren of Elves, it is not time to say farewell and forsake the land—not yet. Many Elves still have a large role to play. That is why a company of you must journey to the Harad—and with great haste."

"And Morensar?" interrupted Legolas. "Mithrandir, you believe Morensar is in control of the Harad now, and this is why it must be Elves, not Men, that complete the task, yes?"

"He is a factor, to be certain," Gandalf replied. "But even if we did not suspect him to be in the Harad, the mission would still be necessary! Apart from his presence, this journey has nothing to do with him. You must keep this clear!"

Seregon, a scholar from Imladris, interjected. "So what are we to do in the Harad? Bring our quills and scrolls? Make note of the food and wine, and return in a month? The region hardly seems worth our trouble."

Mithrandir swiftly answered: "Not quite. Although such study will be required—and undoubtedly the wine must be tasted—" he added with a wink, "There is another part of the task. A very important task. The task of reconnaissance. We must know where the Haradrim's loyalties lie—whose side they truly are on."

Seregon let out a laugh of disbelief. "Whose side they are on? The answer to that question is obvious! They are servants of the Dark Lord!"

"Not necessarily," interjected Elrond. "That is an assumption perpetuated by the Men of Gondor."

"But they are sworn enemies of Gondor!"

"Yes, but that does not make them sworn allies of Mordor, although it does increase the likelihood." Elrond remained calm, even in the face of adamant denial by Seregon.

"Master Seregon," Mithrandir said, regaining control of the discussion. "It is precisely this attitude that we are attempting to combat. We know nothing of these people. Master Legolas, in the grand library of Mirkwood today, could only find one solitary chapter written on the people—no doubt containing the phrase 'proud and warlike.' Indeed I, too, have spent many weeks gathering all knowledge of these people, and have found not much more than would fill a small book. This must be remedied, and soon, before it is too late."

But Seregon was not satisfied. "Well why the Harad, specifically? Why not Rhûn or Khand? Why not any one of the infinitely more unknown regions farther East?"

"A just question, Master Seregon. And one that is easily answered. Morensar. This is where he enters. If what we believe is true, and he is in the Harad, then that land forms the most pressing threat. The Haradrim are most likely to join forces with Sauron. Morensar is cruel, he is twisted, and he is smart. He is cunning. He was banished from the realm of Elves, and banished for good reason. No doubt he needs some method to channel this anger, and perhaps allying with the Dark Lord will provide this for him. If Morensar were to openly rule the Harad—which I believe he does not—I have no doubt that he would attempt to attack some aspect of his former life." Mithrandir sent a pointed look at Legolas from underneath his bushy eyebrows.

This time, it was not Seregon but Legolas who spoke. "How then are we to journey safely within the borders of the Harad? If Morensar still harbors a grudge, how will we be able to pass into his realm?" There was great concern evident in his eyes. Though all the other parts of Mithrandir's plan seemed justifiable and necessary, the fact remained that the errand would be highly dangerous—if not impossible.

And indeed, Mithrandir himself took a great while before answering the question. When he did speak, he spoke directly to Legolas, as if no other being was in the room. "Do you remember your time with Morensar, Master Legolas?"

Legolas nodded solemnly.

"You remember the good with the bad, then. You remember the time before the banishment—the time when you were merely two Elven youths."

Legolas nodded again. All the members of the council looked at him, and a powerful emotion was evident in his face. Not anger, not sadness, but memory… Only memory.

"I hope he does, too." That was all Mithrandir would say.

Every pair of eyes was trained on Legolas' face, each set filled with confusion at the wizard's words. But Legolas understood. Somehow, he understood.


Two hours later Legolas returned to the clearing, though this time unarmed. It had been a trying day, and he sank to the ground, resting his back against a large oak. He sat for a moment, ruminating on the day's events. The smell of damp earth fresh from yesterday's rain wafted up to him. In the desert he would miss that smell. He would miss the soft tread of the forest floor. He would miss the sound of the various brooks, babbling their way through the length and breadth of the great wood. He would miss so much when he left…

It had been decided. The party was set. Legolas, Seregon, and an intelligent young Elf named Lolindir would represent Mirkwood—greatest in number since Morensar had come from their realm. Tharantur and Gandien would come from Imladris, and Saéldurn from Lothlorien. The Mirkwood delegation would leave in three weeks, and join the representatives from Imladris and Lorien on the way. And then would begin the long, arduous passage South, farther even than the reaches of Anduin.

Legolas tilted his head back to rest on the tree trunk. "I hope he does, too," Mithrandir had said. Those five little words had somehow managed to reassure Legolas that the trip was feasible.

For their youth, though marred by later events, had been effortless and exhilarating. They had been truly inseparable for so many years, truly happy. And then, when things started changing… Well, then it became at times almost unbearable to be with Morensar. And still the friendship had survived. They had persevered until the very bitter end. But the bond they had shared; would that remain? Would Morensar remember this? Or would he feel the same cold blood that had earlier pulsed through Legolas' veins; the same thirst for revenge and death?

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft patter of footprints and the rustling of skirts. Aradhel entered the clearing, taking care to duck under some of the low-slung branches. As soon as she reached Legolas she collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily. She smiled and brushed some stray hairs out of her face. "Do you know how hard it was to find you? In truth, I cannot remember the last time I was this deep in the woods!"

Legolas smiled and gently picked a few leaves out of her tousled mane. "That is a shame, Aradhel. This is the most beautiful wood in all of Arda, and you do not take advantage of it. Someday I will burn your library and you will have no choice but to pass all of your days in the trees with me."

He smiled, but it was clear that the full weight of his smile was not carried equally in his eyes. There was something on his mind…

And suddenly, without any warning or prompt from Aradhel, he spoke: "Aradhel, you know my mission, do you not?" She nodded a silent affirmative. "You have spoken with Alator, then? Or my father, even?"

"Alator, yes. I have not had audience with the King, but Mithrandir told me some details. Of Morensar, specifically, though I do not know the full extent of that tale."

"Ah yes, you were still at Imladris during that time." A thoughtful expression passed briefly over his face, as if it was a comfort to him that she had escaped Morensar's ire. The expression faded though, almost as quickly as it had appeared. "It is not a happy tale to recollect, unfortunately."

Aradhel nodded. "Undoubtedly so. From what I have heard, it was not a pleasant time for anyone in the realm."

"Will it be sufficient for me to say that he caused me and my family great harm, both physically and emotionally?"

"Legolas, you do not have to tell me anything that you do not want to. I would never dream of making you relive the pain of those events." She reached her hand out and briefly squeezed his knee. He nodded his thanks and began speaking again.

"Aradhel, when I talked to Alator today, something took over my mind. All of a sudden I was transformed into this… this thing that was unable to control himself. All I could think of was revenge. I told Alator that if I went to the Harad, I would not fulfill the mission. I would only…" he bowed his head, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I would only murder Morensar."

The silence settled heavily between the two of them. Legolas kept his head angled toward the ground, and Aradhel could only stare into the vague distance. She knew that Legolas was a fierce warrior, a dangerous fighter. But she had never known him in this context. To her, he was just the mischievous young Prince who liked to rearrange her library. And yet now here he was before her, talking of cold-blooded murder? What did Morensar do that would drive Legolas to this? But she could not ask him this question. He raised his eyes slowly to meet hers, and she saw such depth and cold passion in them. It was truly unnerving. And it was clear he was not going to say anything more to explain himself.

After the silence seemed to stretch for an eternity, she spoke. "Legolas, I am not a warrior. I once tried to hold my father's sword and I toppled over. I tried to fire an arrow and I snapped the bow. And the only thing I use knives for is chopping carrots, and I am not even skilled at that," she said with a smile. "You see, it is hard to get all the slices the right size and keep the knife moving fast."

Legolas gave her a weak smile. "I am sorry to hear of your culinary shortcomings, Aradhel, but do you have a point?"

She returned his grin. "Yes, dear Prince. The point is that I have never known the feeling of revenge. I have never had to avenge a death or fulfill a destiny or anything of the sort. I do not know what you are feeling right now."

Legolas frowned and raised a confused eyebrow.

She sighed. "Still not clear. When you go the Harad, you will feel these things, and I know it will be difficult to control them. But I believe you can. I believe in you and in your sense of duty, and I know you will go to this place and find such wonder and mystery there!"

She brought her gaze to Legolas' face, and saw that his eyes were happier now, less cold, but still not fully understanding. "I know I must sound silly. I know this mission is not some fantasy, but rather crucial for the future well-being of the land. And I know that you will realize this when you arrive. Do you?"

Legolas let her words sink in. His sense of duty… crucial… the bond… "Yes, thank you, Aradhel. I can only hope you are right."

"I am."

A slight breeze danced through the leaves of the trees, breaking the much more bearable silence that passed between the two Elves.

Legolas looked down at Aradhel's lap. She had brought a book. Of course, he thought with a smile. "What is that?"

She jumped, startled at his sudden question. Her eyes followed his gaze to her lap, and she beamed as she remembered the book she had brought. "This, Legolas, is a book of poetry!" She spoke to him as if she were instructing a small child, and he followed along blithely.

"Poetry? What is that?"

"Legolas, I found a poem on the Harad! And it is beautiful. Here, read it!" She thrust the book at him.

Legolas flipped the book open to the page she had marked and read the poem:

Desert.

The sands of time pass swiftly

over its forsaken boundaries.

The Men of Gondor do not heed

its forgotten war-cry.

The steeds of Rohan do not rear their heads

in fear of its pirates.

The banks of Anduin do not alter their course

to reach the sea before they reach the

Desert.

Legolas looked up at Aradhel, a small smile playing at his lips. "This is a poem? It does not even rhyme!"

Offended, she snatched the book from his hands. "Legolas, not all poetry rhymes! Did you not read the words? There is beauty there!"

The smile had become a full grin. "Forgotten war cries and forsaken boundaries? I could have written this poem, Aradhel."

Casting him another resentful glare—though tinged with a smile—she responded. "Well, perhaps when you venture back from the desert you will. In fact, I challenge you to. Secure the future of this world, make peace with old foes, conquer the barren place if you deign it necessary, but come back here and you owe me a poem. A non-rhyming poem!"

Legolas raised his hand to his chest in mock indignation. "Me? A poet? What would my father say?" His grin widened further still. "But who am I to refuse a challenge? You shall have your poetry, Aradhel, on one condition."

She swallowed nervously and tightened her grip on the book, as if it would shield her from whatever condition was frolicking in the Elf's head. But if he was to write poetry… She nodded her acceptance and bade him continue.

He leaped up from the ground and extended his hand to her. "Climb this tree with me."

Two hours later they remained content among the branches, the book of poetry lying forgotten on the forest floor…