The Wild Ones (Lord of the Rings - Legolas)

The Wild Ones

They are Silvan and they are dangerous. Travelling to Imladris on a mission for Thranduil, Legolas, or Taú, leads his group under the guise of a simple captain. Cultural differences and age-old prejudice will arise, and the Noldor's perception of the Silvan people will drastically change - but will it be for good or bad? Imladris prepares for uncouth wood-elves...

Disclaimer: I do not own the canon characters in this story. They belong to JRR Tolkien. All OCs are my invention, and no money is being made by this humble author, who seeks only to entertain.

Author's note: welcome to The Wild Ones. I had the urge to write something light-hearted, and this is what I came up with. I really hope you enjoy the tale, and if you do, please let me know! It would truly make my day ☺

I should be updating every two or three days.

Benár cantered amidst the small group of four warriors, brothers in all but blood, loyal unto death to their commander, who rode at the fore. On this journey, he was to be known only as their captain, not by his true rank or name.

Indeed nothing differentiated their leader from the rest. He wore the same brown, green and blue uniform, their armour made of reinforced leather, rather than the finer metals of the Noldorin and Sindarin warriors – for these warriors were Silvan – veteran fighters of the Mirkwood.

Benár glanced over at Halú, the youngest of their group. Son of a royal councillor, the child had chosen to follow the ways of the warrior, rather than the politician. Benár smiled, for the boy was fierce indeed, although not quite as much as the commander he venerated, for Legolas of the Woodland Realm – or Taú – as they would call him when in the wilds, was the fiercest elf Benár had ever met. In spite of his royal training, the prince was as wild as he was blunt, as undiplomatic as he was loyal to his father and land.

Benár smirked as he cantered, remembering some of the more monumental skirmishes his prince had found himself involved in, but his mirth promptly disappeared as the reason behind such behavior made itself known.

The elf was forged from hardship. The horrific circumstances of his mother's death, the loss of so many siblings, the steady encroachment of evil into the lands he knew and loved so well.

So much death, so much horror for one still so young; the grief and the responsibility had matured his friend well beyond what was considered normal, indeed at one point in his life, he had been named the 'infant warrior', amongst other things, and Benár smirked once more.

A quieter, wiser smile graced Benár's weary face then, as he glanced at his commander's wind-swept face, still bruised and bloodied, as most of them were.

The journey had not been easy, and both pain, hunger and exhaustion drove them those final leagues into Imladris, their destination.

Two more days, two cycles of the sun and they would reach safe haven.

For now, Benár gritted his teeth and bent lower over his panting horse, for they had picked up the pace as the rotten stench of orc made itself more apparent. They were being stalked – again.