A/N: Hey there, REVIEWS! REVIEWS! PLEASE!
Part 1: Flee of the Fallen
Chapter 6: Fate's Ensnare
"Prince Legolas!" Someone's voice jolted him from his trance as he continued to stare at the hand. It was one of the guards who had seen him leave the kingdom's gate.
Legolas didn't wait for the guard to find him; he stumbled back to the palace, drawing curious looks from those he passed. Usually, the gazes of others might bother him, especially since he was the prince of his people. But today, he was too confused to maintain his usual composure. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The weight of the encounter and the overwhelming presence of the old tree's healing lingered with him, leaving him in a daze.
And that hand.
Why do Mirkwood's royal chambers have to be so high up in the palace? Legolas groaned as he began to fumble with his clothes the moment he entered his chamber and dove headfirst into the pool of the bathing area. He didn't even bother to draw some warmer water for himself.
Icy water it is, Legolas decided. It would definitely help clear his mind for a while.
He didn't know how long he had stayed in the cold water, buried in the embrace of ice from head to toe. Minutes or perhaps longer, he was not sure. Until he jumped at the sudden loud rapping sound at his chamber door: "Milord, the king has requested your presence in his study."
Grabbing a clean tunic and a pair of leggings from the wardrobe, he headed for the room down the royal corridor.
"Enter." Legolas swallowed and turned the door knob.
The room hadn't changed at all since that day. King Thranduil's study in Mirkwood with rich tapestries, their intricate designs woven with threads of gold and silver, caught the dim light filtering through the high, arched windows. The walls were lined with shelves carved from the finest wood, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, each holding the weight of countless years of knowledge and lore. In one corner stood a tall, ornate stand holding a map of Middle-earth, meticulously detailed and marked with the Elvenking's strategic plans and notes.
A large, carved wooden desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with delicate quills, ink pots, and neatly stacked papers. A finely wrought silver goblet, embossed with woodland motifs, stood silently beside piles of documents. Behind the desk, an intricately designed chair was occupied by no other but the king of Mirkwood.
Thranduil looked up, his piercing gaze meeting his son's. "Legolas." The lantern flickered once, casting long shadows among the walls. "It has been many years since you entered this study."
Legolas nodded curtly, the painful memory of the last time he stood in this room resurfacing. "Yes, Father," he replied, his tone devoid of warmth. He had long passed the period of harboring feelings for anything, let alone grief for the past.
Thranduil's gaze hardened slightly. "I have heard troubling reports. They say you were acting... strange, after a visit to the forest. What happened out there?"
Legolas hesitated, the memories of the vision from the Spirit Tree and the dream of the beautiful hand still fresh in his mind. "Adar, I..."
The king's eyes narrowed, impatience flickering in his gaze. "Speak plainly, Legolas. What did you see?"
Taking a deep breath, Legolas recounted, "I encountered a white tree in the middle of a small clearing and it... It spoke to me. Or rather, the Valar spoke through it. I saw visions of Mother, Tauriel, and Grand-adar..."
The silver goblet in Thranduil's hand slammed down on the desk, and Legolas didn't flinch as he waited for his father to explode in wrath at the mention of their lost family. Perhaps if he were a thousand years younger or hadn't endured so much pain, Legolas would have cowered at this.
He watched as the king abruptly stood up and walked over to the window, gazing out at the night-shrouded forest. "The Valar," he murmured, more to himself than to Legolas. "It is not unheard of, but rare. This is... unexpected."
"Do you doubt me, Adar?" His voice betrayed no emotion.
Thranduil turned back to him, his face stern and unyielding. "I do not doubt your words, Legolas, but I question your state of mind. This vision, this calling... It changes nothing. You are hallucinating, and it concerns me. I will have the healers prepare a potion for you."
"That is what you think of me, Adar? That your son, the heir to your kingdom, is mad?" A cold smile flashed across Legolas' face.
Thranduil's gaze remained cold. "I think you are unwell. The forest can play tricks on even the strongest of minds these days. You will take the potion and rest. This matter is not up for debate."
If Legolas were a thousand years younger, he would have shouted that he was no longer a child, and that he would not be treated as if he were fragile. But he was well past that period. "Very well. Good day, Adar." Giving a slight bow.
Just as he reached the exit, Thranduil's voice cut through the silence. "You are forbidden to leave the palace until the next full moon. That is one month from now. I will not have my heir wandering the forest in this state."
Legolas paused, his jaw tightening. Without turning back, he replied, "As you command, Father."
For the entire month, Legolas had been bored out of his mind.
It wasn't frustration at his father's command—he was too old for such foolish feelings. He had completely given up on interrogating Gollum, that nasty creature in the dungeons. No matter what methods they used to threaten him, Gollum would only wail: "My precious."
Legolas had spent hours shooting arrows at targets across the field, but even that grew tedious. He soon found himself disinterested in unmoving targets. On top of the dull strategic discussions with the council members, he endured the worst way to spend his days: being surrounded by a gaggle of empty-headed ellith. The king's decision to keep the prince in the palace for a month had significantly benefited the ellith, who spent their time either in the seamstress's shop or lingering around Legolas, vying for his attention.
So, when Legolas finally found a proper excuse to slip away, he sought solace in the library. Perhaps a book would provide distraction. Epics of the Silmarils? No, he wasn't Smaug. The Art of Archery? He was far too experienced for that beginner's guide. Songs of the Stars: Elven Astronomy and Celestial Lore? That might be interesting, but—
The cover was blue.
Blue.
Legolas slammed the book shut, exhaling sharply as he tried to clear his mind. That blue hand had been haunting him for too long. Bouncing his head lightly against the nearest shelf, he groaned. Why is that blue hand affecting me so much? It's just a dream.
He left the library and headed for the gardens instead.
"Milord. I didn't realize you would be coming down today. I will—"
The gardener, a petite ellon, nearly dropped a flowerpot when he saw the prince enter and fumbled a clumsy bow.
"It's fine,"Legolas cut him off.
The poor gardener bowed again and fled. If Legolas were a thousand years younger, he might have asked him to stay and chat about botany. Now, he preferred solitude.
As he wandered through the garden, Legolas's steps slowed. Something troubling caught his eye. The trees and plants, once vibrant and teeming with life, now stood like fading shadows of their former selves. Leaves hung limp, their edges curled and blackened, as if scorched. A darkness clung to the branches, twisting their beauty into something hollow and broken.
Legolas's heart sank. Even the trees under the care of elves were falling prey to the darkness that plagued the forest. These gardens, once a sanctuary of light and life, now bore the creeping mark of decay.
He approached one of the ancient trees. Its bark, rough and worn, still possessed a quiet strength. Reaching out, he traced the grooves and ridges with his fingers. The once-vibrant tree now felt cold and lifeless. A profound sadness welled up within him. Unable to bear the sight any longer, Legolas slowly sank to the ground beside the tree. The grass, usually soft and inviting, felt brittle and dry beneath him. Leaning his back against the tree trunk, he allowed himself a rare luxury: feeling.
He let the sensations wash over him—the brittle grass, the rough bark, the hollow silence. His thoughts drifted back to his mother. He remembered her gentle voice, the way she would sing to the trees as if her words could caress them. One song in particular, a hauntingly beautiful lament, echoed in his memory. It was a melody of sorrow and hope, a prayer for healing and renewal.
As he began to sing, the words flowed naturally from deep within his heart
Ngîl sí na vên, henia im uin lhîwU i-mbar na morchaint, gûr gannel uin orodrimLoss o thîn galad, naur iar ú lûmenLegul lass, i-remmaethor gwaith glân, na hwesta.
Yên io hyn, i-hîr edregol, i vên na nórenBára e-glaur, ortheriath uirebGuren linna, thia i-thû, hanna i-vinyëAn caro vi legaer, beleg echuil a veren.
Mithren gaear, nîf i-ness, naer hannad avathonCeleg íriel, síla erin galadGúren linna, meldis, gerich veleth nînLóth tenn'i-vilya, tinnatha uruis a thrand.
Legolas remained there for a while, letting the peace of the garden seep into his soul. Finally, he rose to leave. He could not bear to stay another moment.
The month of confinement had finally passed, and Legolas was relieved to join the patrol team once more. Palace life was not suited to his adventurous spirit. As he made his way to the palace courtyard, he was met by the patrol team—a new one.
Before Legolas could dwell on a memory that threatened to resurface, one of the guards stepped forward and spoke: "My lord, the patrol is ready. We await your command."
Legolas gave a curt nod, his gaze sweeping over the assembled elves without asking their names. He had learned over the years that the less you knew of someone, the less heartbreak you endured when they fell. "We depart at once. Stay alert."
With that, he led the way into the forest, his team following closely. Their keen elven senses were attuned to the faintest signs of danger.
They hadn't gone far when Legolas suddenly raised a hand, signaling the patrol to halt. He strained his ears, catching the faintest rustling sound—like leaves brushing against each other in the breeze. But the air was still. His eyes narrowed, and he motioned for his team to spread out and search the area.
As they moved cautiously, a guard's voice rang out, urgent and alarmed: "My lord! Over here!"
Legolas sprinted toward the call, his heart pounding with adrenaline. Pushing through the thick underbrush, he came to an abrupt stop. Hanging from the branches of a massive oak was a web.
"Spiders," Legolas muttered grimly. "Prepare for battle."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the spiders emerged from the shadows, their many eyes gleaming with malevolent intent. The air grew thick with the cloying stench of decay as they advanced, their legs making a sickening chittering sound against the forest floor. Globs of venom dripped from their fangs, sizzling as they struck the ground. They moved with eerie, unnatural speed, their spindly legs propelling them forward in a nightmarish rush.
"To arms!" Legolas shouted, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He drew his bow with fluid grace, his arrows striking with deadly precision. Each shot was accompanied by the sickening sound of tearing flesh and the high-pitched screeches of the dying creatures.
As the last spider fell, Legolas lowered his bow, his senses still sharp for any remaining threats.
It was then that one of his patrol members called out, pointing to an unusual figure slumped on the ground.
"Valar!" a guard gasped.
Legolas approached cautiously, his sharp eyes taking in the figure. As he drew closer, he realized just how tall she was—nearly eleven feet in height. Her form was both imposing and graceful, her limbs long and slender, exuding an aura of strength and elegance.
Her skin was a striking shade of blue, interwoven with intricate, glowing patterns that pulsed faintly, as though stars were trapped beneath her flesh. The patterns flowed seamlessly across her body, making her mesmerizing. Her finely chiseled features, high cheekbones, and slender chin lent her an almost elven grace. Her large eyes were closed, framed by long, dark lashes. Her hair, the darkest Legolas had ever seen, cascaded around her face, blending with strange, tendril-like appendages extending from the back of her head.
Legolas's breath caught as recognition dawned. The hand, familiar yet otherworldly, matched the one from his dream—the vision that had haunted his waking hours and restless nights.
The patrol team exchanged bewildered glances. "What manner of creature is this?" one whispered.
A surge of anger rose within Legolas. How dare they call her a mere creature? This being, lying unconscious before him, was different yet resonated with the forest, as if she belonged to its fabric.
"Stay alert in case more of these creatures return," Legolas barked a sharp order. "We depart for the palace now."
With careful hands, he lifted the unconscious being. Despite her size, she was surprisingly light, and he carried her with ease. A strange warmth emanated from her skin, and as he cradled her, a whirlwind of emotions swirled within him—emotions he couldn't name.
Once they reached the palace, Legolas descended into the dungeons. Locking the door behind him, he took one last look at the mysterious figure before issuing a command to his guards: "Put her under watch and alert me at once when she wakes."