Lord of the Rings 1. Passage of the Sands

Anduin is more than just a river. From its incipience in the frigid hills of the Ered Mithrin to its end in the grand Bay of Belfalas, it is a causeway, a pathway, a way of life. Traveling along its twists and turns brings out the best in some people, the worst in others. As one wends with the river, one undoubtedly comes into contact with beauty, with knowledge, with adventure. It is the main thoroughfare of the land of Arda. It is the river by which all others are judged. It is the giver of life to many cultures, many lands, many people.

And yet South of this river of life, there is a civilization that remains untouched by its beneficence. Even after the Anduin's delta filters its waters to the Great Sea, the land of Arda stretches on for leagues. Bereft of the joys of the river, this land is merely a desert—at least to the untrained eye. It has been ignored by centuries by those to the North. Only those with a thirst for riches, jewels, or slaves ever turn their eyes upon this land. Guarded, shielded, mistrusted. It is a wasteland; it is the Sutherland; it is the Harad.

There is more there than meets the eye, however. An entire empire preparing for an unknown end. A people shrouded in dark colors and even darker deeds. But those willing to make the passage of the sands—if lucky—will not be disappointed by this culture. For while those in the Northern lands toil away as they have for centuries, ignoring this mysterious place, a change in the winds has been felt in the Harad. And now, on the brink of something greater than anyone can imagine, the people of the Harad are tired of praying for rain. They are praying for power, for prestige, for recognition. And those blessed enough to witness the utter revival of this civilization will be affected forever…


	2. Equal to the Task

**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!

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**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.


	3. Many Meetings

**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.).

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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…


	4. Journey

**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.


	5. Reconnaissance and Revelation

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a bit dense, I think, and more than a bit wordy, but incredibly important, so stick with it! First impressions are everything, no? Also, the italicized text (the "language of the Harad") is actually transliterated Arabic (Modern Standard, in case you were wondering). If there are any Arabic speakers out there, _ahlan wa sahlan_! Enjoy!

Chapter Five: Reconnaissance and Revelation

Legolas strode along with as much confidence as he could muster, given the two men that flanked him and held his arms forcefully on either side. Though he could not make out their language, it was clear to Legolas that the sentries were taking him to some sort of leader, for they hustled along the corridors of the great stone building with a sense of inflated importance and a jaunty swagger.

Not wanting to forget the reason he had been sent, Legolas was keen to make mental notes about the civilization, and was keeping a sharp eye out for Morensar. Legolas was not one to read into feelings too much, but, despite logic trying to overrule emotion, he _felt_ something within these halls. Some_one_ within these halls. Something was out of place, the way the guards talked, moved, even _breathed_ with such urgency, as if they were being commanded to fulfill some mysterious end.

Or maybe he was overreacting. Maybe the fear that was threatening to inch its way into his body was actually succeeding in its purpose. In these situations Legolas had found it easiest to ratchet up his confidence and arrogance to cover the fear of the unknown. _He_ was in control. So he tried to remain unimpressed by the Haradrim, though he was infinitely glad they were not "warlike" enough to kill him when he first set foot in their realm.

However, as the sentries brought Legolas deeper into the palace, he had a chance to truly appreciate what was around him, and it was hard to remain so haughtily unappreciative. He had seen the coarse, rough clothing of the sentries and taken it to mean that the entire country would be simple and unrefined, cloaked in dark colors that were not given to flattery. Yet taking a second glance at their uniforms he noticed small details that he had not seen before: jewels woven into the fabric, swatches of silk tied at their waists, silver bands around their wrists. The floor of the hallway he walked along was beautifully inlaid with azure stones, and the walls of the building were covered with decorative symbols and colorful tiles. Also, perhaps wanting to do homage to the ever-present desert sun, the architects of the palace had placed windows at great heights throughout the building, giving the corridors an intangible glow. Watching the shafts of light fall from their magnificent heights, Legolas was reminded of home. The palace of Mirkwood was certainly darker than this place of inescapable sun. And yet the two shared a certain austerity; an indefinable sense of pride and importance. Legolas felt a brief moment of longing pass through him as he thought of home, of his friends, of his father. But if these men of the Harad could build their palaces with the same theme as those of his own realm, then perhaps they would not be as cruel as he imagined…

Suddenly the glow in the hallway was magnified a hundred fold as the guards ushered Legolas into a large hall, which he surmised was the throne room. Enormous windows had been hewn out of the stone and covered with a semi-translucent glass. It looked as if some of the windows were in the process of being restored, as bits of stained glass had begun to creep in around the hall. Legolas could not help but be amazed by the colors and intricate glasswork. The windows cast small pools of light—ruby, emerald, violet—which fell lazily on the stone floor. Next to the completed windows billowing drapes sewn from a rich purple fabric hung easily, though they must have been twenty-five feet high. Their hems floated just above the ground and they seemed to be filled with the same effervescent elegance that graced the rest of the palace.

The entire room was draped in this opulence. A matching purple carpet stretched up to a dais where two magnificent oak thrones perched, gleaming and glinting with a newly-polished sheen in the morning sun. The wall behind the dais was stark white and devoid of any artwork save for a great mural in the center, behind the thrones. The white was overwhelming, catching the sun and magnifying the size of the room. Fair-eyed Legolas had to squint ever-so-slightly at the vast power of it. Two giant columns stood on each side of the throne's dais giving the mural a natural frame, and Legolas' eye caught a glint of gold from the tops of each pillar.

How were the Haradrim so rich? Their opulence was not showy, but rather refined, equal to that of any Elven kingdom, yet displayed in a different way—a way that relied less on nature and more on color and fabric. Their taste seemed even more refined than many of the men in the land of Arda—at least now that citadels like Minas Tirith had lost the power and the beauty of their olden days. How had such a jewel as the Harad been overlooked for so long?

Well, of course it had not _always_ been so overlooked. Legolas remembered reading of the time long ago when the men of Gondor had tried to wrest control of the Harad and the havens of Umbar, succeeding briefly, but never able to hold on permanently; the region slipping through their hands much like its sand through their fingers. But hadn't there been some other disturbance in this region more recently? Legolas strained to remember. Roughly twenty years ago he had heard tell of some skirmish between a man called Thorongil and the Corsairs of Umbar. But now, standing in this magnificent room, he wondered if the dread pirates of Umbar could be in any way connected to this exotically beautiful place. In fact, Legolas marveled at how little he knew—were the Corsairs even a part of the realm of Harad? He smiled inwardly of the massive need for this reconnaissance mission. The notions of the people of the north about the lands of the south were sadly outdated and incomplete. Thankfully Mithrandir had had enough foresight to consider this, and so here Legolas was. Perhaps, given the vast amount of information he needed to collect, arrogance was not the best means by which to carry himself.

While Legolas was pondering these matters, a perfectly concealed door opened in the center of the mural and a dozen people walked in. Legolas watched their entrance from his place on the opposite side of the room, and was again impressed by the elegance of it all. The first two to enter were clearly the King and Queen, both clothed in beautiful silks and sheer fabrics. The King wore an outfit made entirely of the same deep purple as the drapes, save for a white silk sash tied about his waist. His skin was a burnished bronze, tanned by generations of exposure to sun. His hair was dark but regally flecked with gray around his temples, and his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. Even from his vantage point many feet away, Legolas could tell that this was a hard-working man. He did not look more than forty or fifty years of age, yet he carried himself with the dignified air of a long-standing, respected ruler.

He ascended the three steps of the dais up to the throne then turned and extended his hand to his wife, who serenely strode up beside him. She, too, was a picture of composure and regality, clothed in a sheer white linen dress with purple accents. Her skin was fairer than her husband's, yet still darker than Legolas' own. Her hair was jet black, and it fell down in soft curls past her shoulders. Around her next she wore a stunning silver necklace inlaid with the largest pieces of jade Legolas had ever beheld. Where had these stones come from? How could these people, regarded for so long as heathens, be draped in such beautiful luxury?

As soon as the royal couple was seated, nine of the other people emerged from the shadows of the columns. Four men and four women, all dressed in white, climbed the steps and took their places behind the monarchs. The ninth person, a herald of some sort, walked around the dais and strode down the carpet to where Legolas stood with his guards.

Legolas remained still, though he could not help but notice even the herald's tunic was cut of a fine fabric. Legolas glanced down at his own traveling tunic, smudged with the dust of a hard journey and rumpled slightly. If he could ever feel embarrassment, now would be the time, but it was not in his character. And it seemed thus far that the inhabitants of the palace were more interested in who he was rather than what he was wearing, although perhaps the same couldn't be said of Legolas' attitude towards them.

The herald approached Legolas and his guards. In a proud, booming voice, he began to speak in the strange tongue, and Legolas recognized it as the one he had heard the sentries speaking, though it seemed that the herald's accent had an air of formality and pomp to it. The herald was speaking directly to Legolas, so the Elf assumed he was inquiring about his knowledge of the language—which was, of course, zero.

"_Ijnebbi, enta fii Mezer al-an. Enta imaam al-malik As-Salahn waa al-malika Al-Mezria, alhamdu lillah. Hal enta tafhamu kelimaati_?" The herald finished the question and waited for the answer that surely would not come. Legolas remembered his fear that no one in this region would be able to communicate with him—after all, how likely was it that the Common Speech had traveled this far south? And yet, if Morensar _was_ in this land…

The herald must have realized after a few moments that Legolas could not understand him and he gave a haughty smile. He opened his big, bearded mouth again, and Legolas felt the overwhelming sensation of relief as the herald spoke in Common—rough, heavily accented Common, but understandable nonetheless. Legolas smiled inwardly and had the briefest thought flicker across his mind: perhaps he should feign no knowledge of Common either, speak only Sindarin. Or Quenya, even better. That would surely draw out Morensar. Yet it was too much of a gamble, though leading the people into thinking he did not speak Common would be an effective and deliciously fun way to learn more about them in their natural state—when they were not trying to impress a foreign diplomat. But this was not the time for subterfuge and artifice.

"Foreigner, you stand in front of the great King As-Salahn, and his Queen, Al-Mezria, long may they reign. Sir, you have crossed far south of the boundaries of the world of the Men of Gondor. You are now in Mezer—the Harad as you and your peoples call it. What have you to say for yourself?"

Legolas bowed his head ever so slightly, just to let the King know he came in respect. In his most prestigious Common he spoke slowly: "Thank you, good King and my Lady Queen, for welcoming me peacefully thus far to your land. I am not one of the world of Men, however, and though I have crossed the River Harnen, I do not believe I have yet overstepped my boundaries." The herald raised an eyebrow and turned to the King with a questioning look, but the King merely raised a serene hand and bade Legolas continue. Legolas nodded appreciatively, and took up his narrative again. "Good people of Mezer, I am called Legolas, and I am an Elf from the great northern realm of Mirkwood—a place no doubt foreign in such Southern lands as these." Legolas cast a shrewd eye across the faces of the court of Harad. He had noticed a few eyes flick up toward his ears at the mention of the word "Elf," and—had he merely imagined it?—a look of familiarity and realization flicker across the King's eyes at the mention of Mirkwood. Yet if any of the court had previously heard of the realm—from Morensar or otherwise—they made no overt mention of it. Legolas smiled slyly. This was an intelligent and cunning court.

Before he could continue, though, the herald interrupted. "Legolas—" he said curtly, then fearing rebuke from the King he added: "—Sir, why is it that you have traveled so far south? Have you been blown off course or was Mezer your desired end?"

"I intended to end my journey in this land."

"What is your purpose, then?"

"I am sent by my father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood." Legolas noted the King's eyebrows raise in appreciation of Legolas' nobility, and the Elf could not help but smile as he continued, "And also by a great contingent of northern lords and scholars, including Elrond of Imladris and the great Mithrandir, one of the Istari." Legolas had no idea how much of this was registering for the King, but he expected the names lent importance to him and his quest. "Good King, they have sent me and five other of my race as emissaries and ambassadors to your fair realm."

"Where are the others?" the herald brusquely interrupted.

"They were not allowed to enter the palace with me. I assume they are being held by sentries near the entrance where we arrived. And I hope they are free from harm." Legolas said this with a perfect blend of politeness and threat. Having said his peace, he slowly lowered his head.

This time, King As-Salahn was the one to speak. "_Mae Govannen_, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood." Now it was the King's turn to smile slyly, as Legolas was clearly caught off guard by the perfect Sindarin greeting that had escaped his lips. "You are perhaps not as foreign to us as you may think, though it is indeed rare that any from the North do cross our path. I assure you your companions are safe now, though perhaps we can discuss their necessity to your mission? You see, we are a private people, and though we would be remiss to turn away a Prince from the Great Wood, the same might not be said for his escorts."

Legolas inclined his head slightly at the King's words. His mind was still reeling from the Sindarin. The clues were adding up in his mind. Morensar _surely_ was here. Legolas could tell, also, from the way the King spoke. His language was so refined, his tone so familiar—it _had_ to be Morensar's doing. The King's very being seemed hewn from the same stone as Legolas' former friend. And yet, so far King As-Salahn had treated him with respect—a trait counted as a glaring omission from Morensar's character. Legolas realized he would have to keep his guard up. Something still felt off, and though Morensar had not yet shown his face, his presence definitely echoed in the King's words.

"I respect your privacy, and perhaps could call on it right now to discuss the necessities of my mission alone with your Highness?" Legolas asked.

The King smiled again. "Prince, the people you see before me are not just my court or my servants. They are my advisers and counselors, and it is my policy that they hear everything I hear concerning matters of state." The King gestured with both hands to the four men that flanked him and the four women that stood by his Queen.

Legolas nodded. "I understand, your highness, and I apologize for misjudging their role, but perhaps the details of my errand would best fall on your ear alone at first, and then be opened up for discussion after?" Legolas was not quite sure why he said this—certainly what he had to say _could_ be said in front of the court, as the King would no doubt discuss it with them extensively. And yet, perhaps Legolas merely challenged the King's policy so as to stay on equal footing with As-Salahn. Or perhaps Legolas requested a private audience so as to draw out Morensar's presence; surely that Elf could not let his puppet ruler have a private conversation with the Prince of Mirkwood…

Regardless of Legolas' reasons, what was said was said, and both parties felt the tension in the room thicken, as As-Salahn assumed a smile of strained civility. "With all due respect, good Prince, I decline your offer for privacy. Would you please care to give us the reason for your journey this far south?"

"Very well, sir, if you could please give me a moment to compose my thoughts. It has been a long journey, and I am quite tired—any omission from my statement would be grievous, so I must ensure this does not happen." This was a lie—Legolas knew exactly what he needed to say, but he wanted a moment to survey the room. Were these people really the King's advisers or were they just there for show? A display of power in this already-overwhelming room. Such a tactic would not be unheard of from Morensar.

The King acquiesced to Legolas' request, then summoned the herald to the dais, perhaps to chastise him for being so course earlier in the proceedings. While this was happening, Legolas trained his eye on the court. The men standing by the King—four of them, each equipped with a long, curved knife at the waist and garbed in white tunics that sharply contrasted their dark skin and hair—looked passable as advisers. Though Legolas had never beheld a true Haradrim warrior, he had seen illustrations, and they were depicted as tall and thin but clearly able to hold their own in a fight. Their eyes were always shadowed underneath large turbans, as if to conceal their true, cold, terrifying power. Yet these four men did not look so fierce. In fact, if looks could be a true judge, Legolas would guess that they actually were intelligent. They were there to debate, not to fight; whereas Legolas had his knives always easily accessible on his back, some of these men had their daggers positioned backwards, making them harder to remove from their holsters in the event of a fight. Yet though they were ill-equipped for battle, they looked alert and ready, with a calm astuteness exuding from their person.

Legolas turned his attention to the women, now, as the King was still conversing with the herald. He had never seen pictures of any women of Harad, though he had heard tales of their dark splendor. And yes, they were exceptionally good-looking, though it was such a strange and exotic beauty. The she-Elves of the North were tall and fair-skinned, and carried themselves with such an austere, translucent elegance. These women of Harad, though, were vastly different. The Queen's advisers (as he guessed them to be) were all of similar height—shorter than any Elf, to be certain, but still as tall than many women of the North. They were dressed in white similar to the men, but their dresses had such a cut of flattery to them it was easy to see where the legends of beauty came from. Each of the women, too, carried a small blade at her hip, and Legolas mused with a smile that the women looked more able to defend themselves than the men. He also noticed that their skin was burnished bronze as well—not quite as dark as the men's, but darker than the Queen's, as if to suggest that these women were not afraid of working under the hot desert sun.

Legolas had not always been the best judge of the feminine character. He certainly respected the she-Elves of Mirkwood, yet was better suited for the archery field, or for roaming with the Mirkwood guard. His dalliances with the fairer sex were few and far between, so it was harder for him to apprise the four women that stood before him. He thought fondly of Aradhel, and tried to compare her to these women. It was difficult, not in the least because mere thoughts of his Mirkwood companion brought pangs of longing to his breast.

It seemed that these Haradrim women all possessed some inner power, though he surmised _everyone_ in the region carried a similar quality—was this the doing of Morensar? They seemed more... _connected_ than the she-Elves he knew, more grounded, and more in tune to the earth, to the world, to their purpose. All of this he felt, and he had not even heard a word from their lips.

Legolas was mildly fascinated by them, two of them in particular. They looked amazingly similar; if they were not twins, then at least sisters. They had dark hair that sprang in wild curls from their face and one had a small silver stud in her nose. Legolas darted his glance toward the men, and could see he was not the only one staring at this pair—all four male advisers were stealing glances at the women. Yet when Legolas looked back at them, he was surprised to see their own eyes boring straight into him. In fact, it seemed that the King's business with the herald was over, and all on the dais were expecting him to speak, which he did with ease, stealing one last furtive glance at the women of the Harad.

"King As-Salahn and Queen Al-Mezria, lords and ladies of the court, I lay before you my mission. As stated previously, a council of learned Elves and the Wizard Mithrandir decided many months ago to send a delegation to the lands of Arda that are unknown to us in the North. Perhaps it was the dawning of the three-thousandth year in this age of the sun, or perhaps it was some other purpose that necessitated this mission, yet all were in agreement that we had been appallingly neglecting our brethren to the south. Indeed, the little information that we had on the Harad—your great land of Mezer—is woefully inadequate and, I am ashamed to report, incorrect."

Legolas surveyed the room. All eleven pairs of eyes were watching him intently, and even the sentries had turned their heads to face his, though he was not sure if they even understood Common. And with such a captive audience, negotiating the next part of his speech would be tricky. What were the alliances of the people of the Harad? Surely they had been distrusted and hated by the Gondorians for ages, but were they truly barbaric? Were they in league with Mordor already, or were they even planning to ally themselves with the Dark Lord? Legolas decided that it was best to follow the shrewd guidance of Mithrandir: best not to overwhelm them with rhetoric of the evils of Sauron. Best not to mention the need for allies in the inevitable War for Middle Earth. Best to sidestep the issue until further reconnaissance was completed.

So Legolas did just that. "I am here, therefore, as a sort of scholar of your people, if you will have me. I wish to gather data for the books of our Northern halls, and, in the spirit of cooperation, I myself am an open book to enrich your libraries here in the South. In these times of lengthening—" he paused. _Do not mention the lengthening shadow_. "—distances both physical and emotional between the peoples of this world, my elders and I profess the need of this mission humbly to you and your people. If you choose to accept my temporary sojourn into your borders peacefully, I can guarantee reciprocity for our lands. And if you choose to reject our offer of study, then I will return straightaway to my home, with no further commitment ever imposed upon Mezer."

Legolas had followed the words and guidance of his father, Elrond, and Mithrandir perfectly, and it seemed that nothing he had said had displeased As-Salahn. Yet he felt as if he had not said quite enough. Perhaps he could stray just a little from the prewritten speech…

"May I add, also, your highness, that one can never know what the future holds for this world and the people in it. It is my utmost desire to foster and strengthen ties between our realms for the sake of ourselves and for the future of our progeny."

Legolas bowed his head to indicate he was finished, and the King returned the nod as he leaned back in his throne. He raised his hand to stroke his face thoughtfully, and then glanced at the advisers to his right and the women on his left. "Well, Prince Legolas," he began. "You speak eloquently and with convincing passion. Thank you for stating your mission and pleading your case. I now respectfully ask your permission to hear input from my advisers on the matter." At Legolas' nod, he continued, this time in his own tongue: "_Hal turiduun an taquluun raiikum?_" He must have asked them for their counsel, for the advisers nodded solemnly. "Thank you. Very well. Hamsed, what is your opinion on the matter?"

As the man on Legolas' far left drew in a big breath and began to speak, Legolas noticed that the shafts of light had traveled far from their original places. How long had he been standing in the throne room? It surely was approaching evening, and Legolas realized how hungry he was. Hopefully the discussion would not last until the night. Yet Hamsed seemed particularly long-winded, and Legolas couldn't help but notice that perhaps he had misjudged the adviser's level of intelligence. He listened half-heartedly as Hamsed repeated himself for the third time, but then he lost focus and his eyes traveled over to the women, where one of his favorite two rolled her eyes slightly, and was promptly reprimanded by means of a nudge from her sister. Legolas smiled, then turned his attention back to Hamsed, who was finally concluding: "… And so though I may not see the necessity for this mission at the present time, it would be against our best interests to turn away the Prince. Thank you, noble King, for hearing my opinion."

The king nodded and proceeded to the next two advisers, who said basically the same thing and with similar obeisance. Legolas marveled at the obsequiousness of the three men who had spoken thus far. The way they gave their opinions and did not actually give any opinion at all, the way they all thanked the king for hearing their opinion—all these traits rang of Morensar. He who wanted, above all, total power and control of his subjects…

The fourth male adviser, thankfully, seemed actually to hold his own opinion: "Well, with due respect to my King and to our noble guest, I believe that perhaps this is not the time for Mezer to be accepting foreign emissaries. With other… _communications_ in process, maybe it would be best to keep ourselves unengaged with the rest of the North. A North, I might add, that has never extended an offer such as this before. I might ask why the offer is placed before us _now_, at this very moment in our history? And sir, if I may say, _la ahshuur bimaisuur kaamil maa al-ijnebbi_." As he said the last sentence in his own tongue, he sent a disparaging look at Legolas, who returned it with a steely glare of his own.

The king nodded slowly as he thanked the man for his opinion. Legolas had definitely noticed the tone of his words. What did he mean by "other communications"? And what exactly had he said at the end, clearly too important or secretive to be said in Common? He felt the defensive side of his character rise up violently at the insinuation that the offer of study had ulterior motives. _Why the offer is placed before us _now_—_certainly there was more concealed in that statement than met the eye. Yet despite this defensive feeling on the inside, Legolas remembered his polite veneer and nodded his head curtly at the fourth adviser.

Shifting his head to the left, the King sought the advice of the women now. The Queen smiled graciously at Legolas, bade him welcome, and said she would be delighted if he stayed. Legolas smiled openly at her graciousness, and dipped his head low. The Queen returned his bow with a smile of her own, and Legolas noticed that her beauty was striking. Perhaps that was why she was queen: the ability to wield her good looks to her advantage. Certainly the King seemed taken with her; his hand had not left her own during the extent of the discussion, and Legolas noticed that As-Salahn robustly nodded after the Queen gave her opinion.

The first two of the Queen's advisers bowed demurely and said they agreed with the Queen. Apparently this was their general trend, as nobody seemed surprised that they did not have an opinion. Legolas thought that perhaps he had misjudged the women as well as the men. Yet before the third woman—the one that had rolled her eyes earlier—spoke, there was a change in the atmosphere of the room, as if everyone simultaneously braced him or herself.

And with good reason, Legolas soon discovered. This woman opened her mouth and almost shouted her answer. "Due respect, Queen and King, but I vote for the complete rejection of the Prince's offer to stay and study our people. I do not trust the motives of the council of the North, and I agree with Ramahi's assessment of the situation: with other negotiations in progress, surely now would not be the appropriate time for Legolas to conduct his study. Perhaps there will _never_ be a good time for the study, if I may state my opinion overtly. Perhaps the realms of the North and our kingdom in the South should stay permanently apart."

Legolas raised his eyebrows at her words. Certainly he had not been expecting such a rejection from any of them, especially from a woman, but it seemed now that that innate powerful quality he had noticed was truly showing. The King inhaled slowly, a bit taken aback by her statement. "Thank you, Maisara," he said with strained patience as the rest of the court relaxed a bit. "Your opinion, as always, has been heard and noted."

As-Salahn turned now to the final woman—the one Legolas assumed was this Maisara's sister. Legolas quite expected her to echo Maisara, but she did not. "My good King and Queen, I think that my mind is not quite made up as to the request of Prince Legolas. Perhaps we should adjourn this meeting as it is getting quite late, and many more deliberations must certainly be held."

The king cast an appraising glance at her. He seemed to appreciate the calm of her response after her sister's, but was also not satisfied by it. "Yes, Amina, it is late, but I would like to end the discussion tonight. If I could have your opinion as it exists now, please."

Perhaps Legolas was imagining it, but he thought he saw the woman's eyes dart back to the shadows near the door before she spoke. "If your Majesty insists, I would agree with my Queen and bid Prince Legolas welcome to stay, though I may caution against the length of such a stay."

Queen Al-Mezria smiled and the King nodded again. "Well," he said, directing his words toward Legolas, "it seems that there remains some disagreement among the ranks."

"Yes, your highness, I have perceived this," Legolas responded. "Perhaps, though, if I may be so bold as to ask, what is your highness' opinion on the matter?"

This time Legolas _definitely_ saw eyes dart back to the shadows of the door, but the eyes belonged not to Amina, but to the King. The discussion was becoming increasingly strange.

The king spoke: "Prince, it is not too bold for you to ask, but I must call upon one more voice, my most trusted adviser, who always speaks the way I think. I hope he has been listening to the deliberations, and I ask him to step forward."

At these words Legolas felt something pass through the chamber—not something physical, but emotional. It seemed that every one of the advisers stiffened with expectation, and with relief, perhaps, but also with fear. It was hard to adequately describe the change that came over the room, but there was something there… Legolas, too, felt himself tense as he followed all the pairs of eyes to the back of the room…

There was a long pause before a disembodied voice came from the shadows: "By all means, let him stay."

Legolas heard the instantly familiar voice before he saw the body of its owner. And then everything was made clear. A dark figure emerged from the shadows and around the dais, his form walking in and out of the shafts of light cast down by the windows, though he was not strongly illuminated in their dusky shafts.

"_Mae Govannen, Legolas Thranduilion, mellon nin_." As Legolas heard these words, the speaker moved in front of the throne, now fully lit by the dying sun; a sun that revealed the man—no, the _Elf_—it shone on: Morensar finally showed his face.


End file.

Lord of the Rings, Adventure, Romance