Author's Note: This chapter has only had a semi-beta, so if you find mistakes, please forgive me. And while it is somewhat transitory in nature, it also gives you good clues to the past, so read it, ponder it, enjoy it!


Chapter Four: Journey

Legolas stared at the fire, letting his eyes follow the flickering flames while his mind wandered. His party of Elves had left Mirkwood some weeks previously, stopping in Imladris and Lothlorien to meet the rest of the contingent. They were now somewhere near Pelargir in South Ithilien, very near the mouth of the Anduin. It had been a quick and uneventful journey thus far, and Legolas had kept mainly to himself. Images of his time with Morensar kept replaying themselves in his mind, and it was all he could do to focus on the road before him. But his horse was swift and the Elves did not need much rest. The black hills of Mordor loomed to the East, the Anduin hastening them South.

Often Legolas gave his mind over to his memory. Good memories and bad memories, all intertwined. He thought of Aradhel, and her goodbye to him...

"I will miss you, Legolas," she says, her eyes fixed on the ground.

Legolas puts his hand on her chin and tilts her face upwards. Her eyes are brimming with tears, though it is clear she is willing them not to fall. "And I you, O favorite librarian of mine."

She smiles, but the movement causes the tears to spill forth. They run in small rivulets down her face. "I am sorry, Prince. I should not be weeping. This is an important mission for you; I should rejoice for Mirkwood." She raises one hand to her face and wipes away the trail of tears.

"No, rejoice not for Mirkwood, my friend. But you should not be weeping for I cannot bear to see you unhappy," he says, now cupping her face in his hands. "I will return, Aradhel. I promise you. Do you understand?" She nods, meeting his piercing blue gaze. He continues, brushing away more tears with his thumbs, her face still in his hands. "And I will bring poetry when I return." Her smile is genuine, if a bit forlorn.

He brings his lips to her forehead and kisses her, then pulls her closer to him, weaving one hand through her hair. She clutches his back and breathes deeply, her head nestled into his chest, her form melting into his...

"Legolas?" Seregon asked, jostling the Prince away from his memory. "Do you think we should start moving again? The sun is rising." He pointed east, and indeed the sun could be seen, casting a hazy morning light over the earth.

Legolas nodded, and moved to put out the campfire. The other Elves roused themselves from their rest, and within two minutes the entire party was mounted and ready to depart.

"I believe today is the day we will reach the border, Prince," said Lolindir, consulting the map he had brought.

"The border, perhaps, but I do not believe we will reach any civilization. But let us cross the River Poros, and then take stock of our situation, my friend," he said, handing Lolindir a bit of Lembas, the Elvish waybread.

Legolas turned over his words in his mind. They were certainly close to the border, that imaginary line where his world ended and that of his nemesis began. And while Legolas had been glad of the company of Elves in the beginning, but he was starting to wonder if their presence was necessary. Once they arrived in the Harad—provided they arrived safely—what would happen? Surely, even if the Haradrim agreed to host the party for a time, they would not accept six Elves? And Morensar—if he were with the Haradrim—would he be apt to readily accept six characters from his past life? Would he be ready to accept any of them, even his former closest friend and ally?

Legolas was growing tired of such thoughts. The truth was, none of the company knew what to expect when they reached the Sunland. Open arms or arms of war? Hospitality or hostility? Only time would tell. And though even the keenest Elf eyes could see only hazy forms and shapes ahead, Legolas knew they were close.

"We are close." His own thoughts were echoed by Seregon, who rode next to Legolas, scanning the horizon, his eyes little more than slits. "I can feel it."

"I can feel it!" The words triggered something in Legolas' memory, and he was thrown backwards in time. He knew this memory. He remembered well this day. It was the beginning of the end...

"I can feel it!"

"Feel what, Morensar?" Legolas asks, taking a bite of his apple, his legs dangling from the branch twenty feet off the ground.

"Captain of the Guard. I know your father is going to promote me."

Legolas laughs. "This again, my friend? You know he is unlikely to promote someone so young as yourself."

Morensar is silent, staring at the ground below them. "I know I am young compared to the past captains. But who else is there? Orodreth is getting married. He is resigning the post! It is the perfect opportunity!"

Legolas steals a sideways glance at his friend, a little surprised to see such passion etched into his features. "Maybe he will appoint me instead?" he suggests, attempting to lighten the mood.

Morensar does not laugh, but rather shakes his head. "No, you cannot be Captain of the Guard, for you are already the Prince! It has never been done that way before."

"I know, Morensar. It was a joke. And you know I think you would make a fine Captain. I only guard you against falsely raising your expectations. You know my father is often fickle with his decisions." Legolas sees his friend's face harden with these words, and he feels uneasy. A strange silence passes between the two of them before Legolas speaks again. "Is there something wrong? Is something troubling you? You have not seemed yourself lately."

There is no answer for a full minute. And when Morensar does answer, he does so slowly. "No, my friend, truly I am myself. It is just that sometimes I feel... I feel that this life we lead is never-changing. Every day the same. How much longer will it continue to pass as such? We have talent, Legolas, but do we use it? Or do we merely climb trees? Something must change."

And without another word, he throws his half-eaten apple to the ground, drops down to a lower branch, and works his way down to the ground. As he strides off in the direction of the palace, Legolas remains in the boughs of the tree, feeling utterly confused.

Legolas was once again forced to rejoin the present: "There it is—the River Poros. Do you see it in the distance, Prince?" Lolindir extended a slender hand and pointed at a tiny ribbon of silver a few leagues from the party.

"Let us gallop there. Our horses surely are in need of a stretch," said Saéldurn, the representative from Lothlorien, a keen look on his fair face.

Legolas smiled and nodded his agreement, gently squeezing his legs against his horse. The stallion acknowledged even this slightest of touches, and was off in a flash. Legolas crouched low, clutching the mane of his horse, completely in tune with the steed's flying form. He closed his eyes and let his horse guide him, carrying Legolas closer and closer to that which he desired—and feared—most.


"How could you do this to me? How could you do this to my father? To Mirkwood? You have betrayed us, Morensar!"

Legolas is seething, torn between the most fervent anger and the most passionate sadness. He stands alone with his friend—but could he even call Morensar that anymore? Morensar says nothing, no emotion but calm, meditated fury burned on his face.

Legolas will not—can not let him speak. He does not want an explanation. He does not want to know what has happened to lead his friend so astray. So he continues yelling, fully aware that the palace guards are coming down the hall to take Morensar away. Away from Mirkwood. Away from Legolas. "I will never see them again! I will never see her again! They were entrusted to your care, Morensar, and you led them into danger! You led them—" He cannot continue. Profound sadness overtakes him, and he feels his usually stoic exterior crumble as it is racked with sobs. "How could you?" He whispers. "How could you?"

"Legolas!" Once again the Prince was thrown back into reality. He had been staring idly at nothing in particular, those final moments rehashing themselves over and over on the plane of his memory. The last time he saw Morensar. Surely his company took him for deranged by now, with his frequent dalliances with his memory. He smiled a rueful smile. If only they knew the whole truth, would they have been so apt to travel to the Harad?

For they were now on the threshold of that realm. Four days had passed since they had crossed Poros. Indeed, none could have guessed the vast expanse that lay between that river and the next: the River Harnen. Where once they had been surrounded by the beauteous green of the northern forests, they now saw only desert. Where once they had been guided by the powerful, vigorous Anduin, they now had only the muddy tributaries of the Poros to give them a path. Legolas knew that somewhere to the west was the Sea, but he dared not lead his company that way. Straight on. Through the desert. And once they crossed the Harnen, they would be in the territory of the Haradrim.

"Legolas!" Came the cry again. It was Lolindir, and he was pointing straight ahead. Legolas urged his horse up next to Lolindir's and trained his eyes on the spot. Sure enough, Lolindir had spotted something. Something big. A large building—a palace, perhaps, by the look of it. But not just that. An entire city. They had arrived. They were not far from the Harad.

Legolas felt the air around them grow tense, and he wondered if his fellow Elves were feeling the same heaviness in their hearts, the same hardness in their souls. He looked around, and nodded tersely at the company. They all nodded back, a few eking out clipped smiles or taut phrases of acknowledgement.

Only Seregon looked eager. "Come, friends. Why the gloom? It is a whole new world, a new horizon. Let us make an entrance!" Without another word he spurred his horse on, and the rest of the pack followed.

As he felt them drawing nearer and nearer to the gates of the city, Legolas began to agree with Seregon. Why should he feel this way? Surely there was nothing to fear. He was surrounded by five of the best-trained warriors in all of Middle Earth. They were intelligent, strong, and bore no quarrel against the Harad. Who was he to fear? Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, afraid? He shook his head and narrowed his eyes, focusing them on the city looming larger and larger on the horizon. He whispered to his horse, and felt the animal pull ahead of the pack.

And with that sign from their leader, the rest of the company shifted their focus. They became one, a driving force, pushing hard on the desert, getting nigh to the city. Within minutes, it seemed, they found themselves suddenly in the midst of green. They had reached the river.

"The Harnen." Lolindir said. "Shall we cross?"

Legolas gave no answer, merely led his horse into the rushing waters. He felt the riverbed drop out from underneath as his horse began to swim. The river was bordered by an expanse of green, strange trees and bushes undoubtedly making use of the river's fresh water. But the foliage only extended for a little stretch on either side of the banks. Beyond that was desert again. And the city. He could see it clearly now, and marveled at the architecture.

As if in a daze, he felt his horse's legs connect with the rocky riverbed as the tandem emerged from the river. Legolas was still staring transfixed at the city before him, and judging by the pervading silence, so were his companions. They moved slowly now, taking in as much as they could. The palace loomed large before them, hewn out of bricks the color of the sand. It was resplendent with trees, bushes, and flowers, and statues of various creatures peered out from underneath boughs and branches.

The group steered themselves toward the road that led to the gates of the city, still in a collective trance. This was to their disadvantage, however, as a group of sentries suddenly jumped out from behind a group of trees, surrounding the group, weapons brandished.

Legolas mentally cursed himself for not being on keener alert. The guards did not appear pleased to see them. If anything, they looked confused. How often did Elves cross into their territory, after all? Legolas surmised.

One of the guards began to speak. His language was harsh, his movements harsher. The cut of his cloth was rough. They were all garbed in deep purples and reds, tattered tunics and loose pants. Their heads were wrapped, leaving free only their eyes, which were rimmed in a black substance.

Legolas continued staring at the guard, though he could not understand what he was saying—only that he was gesturing quite violently with his spear. Legolas looked around his company, as if by some miracle one of them understood. They all shook their heads, though. None looked worried, but all looked anxious.

Finally, Legolas realized that the guard must have been asking for their leader. He dismounted swiftly and stepped forward, raising his hand and saying, "I am Prince Legolas of Mirkwood. May I speak with your King?" He gestured toward himself and then toward the palace. The guards muttered amongst themselves for a moment and then two of them grabbed Legolas tightly by the arms and pushed him toward the palace. The rest of the guards reached for the horses' bridles in an attempt to take the remaining Elves somewhere else, but the steeds reared their heads and stepped backwards.

In a split second, the Elves had all drawn their weapons. Lolindir had his bow aimed at one of the guards, and Seregon was brandishing his knives, sending murderous looks to the Haradrim, who were responding with fierce stares of their own.

"Put down your weapons!" Legolas called angrily in Sindarin. "They have not threatened you!"

Reluctantly, the Elves obeyed, each sheathing his knives or arrows. The Haradrim seemed to calm down as well, though a few would not loosen their grips on their spears. Legolas wrenched himself free of his guards and turned towards his company. "They cannot harm you," he said, still speaking Sindarin.

"What makes you say that?" asked Seregon, his fingers twitching as he looked at the knife cinched at his waist.

"It is against the rules of engagement, Seregon. We have done no wrong," Legolas replied, gesturing at his Haradrim guards to wait one moment.

"You think they follow those laws, Legolas? What is to stop them from killing us right now?" Seregon was still angry, and Legolas knew the brash Elf's patience would not last long.

"Trust me, Seregon. You cannot compromise the mission within the first five minutes! I suspect they will lead you away for a time. And if they make any move to harm you, you have my full permission to fight back. But until then, remain calm." Legolas made the entreaty with his eyes as much as his words. He looked especially at Lolindir, who, in the absence of a leader, would be the most rational.

Seregon grunted an approval, and the Haradrim seemed to understand that the Elves would be led away in peace. Legolas turned back toward his guards and once again gestured at the palace. They, in turn, once again grabbed his arms and half-dragged him up the paved stone path.

Legolas felt his mind shift into focus as he stared at the giant oaken doors of the palace, now so near he could see the strange symbols carved into them. He could not worry about his party. They would be safe. The time was upon them, the mission was at hand. It was time to discover the secrets of the Harad. Time to begin the reconnaissance. Time to search for Morensar. It was time.