A sudden movement from behind snapped the traveler from his reverie. He reached for his bow and a shaft, his hands moving faster than an onlooker would have thought possible, as he spun to face the perpetrator. A hooded figure stood but fifteen yards away, an arrow was already notched on their own bow. An arrow that pointed directly towards him.
A strong, clear voice called out, warning him.
"Please do not make me shoot you elf-lord, it would be somewhat difficult to have to justify your death to your liege."
The traveler could hardly believe the situation he found himself in. He had never been caught off-guard, threatened and mocked simultaneously. The audacity and identity of the opponent who faced him, both irritated and intrigued him.
Before the traveler had been interrupted, he had been making his way on foot through an ancient forest in the north of Middle Earth, near Fornost. There had been a chill in the breeze, but the pale golden light of a late winter sun had told those who cared to notice that spring would not be long in coming, although the snow still lay in patches and drifts. Gnarled, grey-barked trees crouched over the path from either side of the old forest track. But they were not threatening as some parts of the Greenwood had grown to be since the shadow of the Dark Lord had fallen upon the ancient forest in the first half of the third age, latterly giving rise to the name of Mirkwood among men.
Having passed through bare and quiet lands alone, the presence of trees had once again brought a sense of companionship to the traveler as he passed. The hills between Weathertop and Rivendell had seemed empty, the orcs who only recently prowled these parts had been largely spent in the war in the east. Even the journey across the Misty Mountains had been uneventful, the goblins having retreated far into the underground tunnels in the wake of defeat.
The quiet had been both cathartic and oppressive. In the depths of the Greenwood, there were usually always a handful of elves present at his side when out on patrol. If not a patrol, then at very least his red-haired elf captain, Tauriel, had always been with him.
Tauriel. Her name came unbidden to the traveler's mind once again. The traveler, Legolas, the Elf-Prince of Woodland Realm, did not shy away from the pain it brought in its wake. Even if he had been alone on the road these past several weeks, she had rarely left his mind. For years, the Sindarin prince had let his feelings of friendship toward the Silvan elf, silently grow into something more. Duty and nobility had however stood in the way, as well as first-hand knowledge of lost love. He had seen how his mother's death, had all but destroyed his father, King Thranduil. Consequently, Legolas had held back from speaking his heart, until it had been too late. The dwarf had been dropped into their lives like a stone in a pond, the ripples he created spreading ever outward. Even though Killi, the son of Durin now lay dead, slain at the ruins of Ravenhill. Watching Tauriel mourn the dwarf, had been enough to tell Legolas all he needed to know, the heart of the Silvan elf was not his to claim.
Tauriel had been banished by the elevenking, and in the events that followed Legolas had openly defied his Father. Legolas was unable to bear her grief, as well as his own sorrow and frustration; he had no choice but to leave. He had however taken Thranduil's advice and headed north, there to seek out a Dúnedain Ranger by the name of Strider. Stopping in Mirkwood only long enough to pack some travel necessities, the prince of the Woodland Realm had left his homeland behind.
Even though he had traveled many hundreds of leagues from his father, from Erebor and from Tauriel, Legolas had struggled to free himself from their presence. His pace was unhurried when the track began to incline as he entered the foothills of the land of Fornost. The Shire was not far from here, and Legolas had momentarily wondered at the country of the Halfling* who had been so instrumental in the events leading to the Battle of Five Armies. However, he had a task to accomplish, here in the north, to find this Strider, and perhaps in time uncover his true identity. In truth, he had been glad of his Father's suggestion, because at the time Legolas had no ready alternative. Thranduil's words had reverberated in his thoughts, 'His father, Arathorn, was a good man. His son might turn out to be a great one...'
Legolas had either been buried so deep within his thoughts, or his adversary possessed exceptional skill and stealth. Either way, he had only been alerted belatedly to their presence. Legolas held his bowstring taut, his own arrow pointed at their heart.
"You have entered Dúnedain lands, stranger, and will go no further without leave." The voice called out again.
"That is fortunate news then, for it is the Dúnedain whom I am seeking," Legolas replied slowly, "I seek the Ranger named Strider."
"Well then, how convenient, let me assist you." His adversary's voice was tainted with mock politeness.
Neither opponent moved.
"Is assistance always given at the tip of an arrow in these parts?" Legolas asked.
His adversary laughed, startling Legolas. "It is usually dependent on whether you smell of orc; however, in this instance, I may be persuaded to do otherwise... If you yield."
"Yield?" The elf was affronted."It is false to assume that you have the upper hand, your confidence will be your downfall. You would die before your arrow fell."
"Perhaps," The voice said simply. "But in that case, you would forgo the opportunity to become acquainted with this Strider whom you so eagerly seek... And in the event that you have underestimated me, well then..." There was a foreboding pause. "I am confident that either outcome would be disadvantageous for you."
A muscle twitched in Legolas's face as he suppressed his annoyance at the unfolding situation.
"Yield." His challenger demanded again.
Legolas sucked in his breath. He knew that this irksome individual was indeed his most favorable opportunity to locate Strider. Furthermore, he knew that he had no intention of shooting his opponent unless pressed; his preferred prey was orcs or goblins, and this particular rival was neither.
He took a moment to examine the cloaked and hooded figure before him in human form, of slight build, at least a foot and a half shorter than himself. The cloak was made of a heavy, woven, dark-green cloth and pinned upon the left shoulder was a brooch of silver, shaped like a rayed star. Judging from the tone of the voice, he was fairly certain that the wearer was female. But he was unable to confirm it, as their face was largely hidden in the shadows of their hood, although locks of long dark hair peeked out among the folds.
He reluctantly lowered his bow.
"Now, drop your weapons on the floor and wrap them in your cloak."
"Is that really necessary?" His hostility evident.
"You are mistaken, elf-lord, if you think I have not already observed the unnatural quickness of your reflexes. So yes, it is necessary."
Legolas was barely able to conceal his anger and resentment at the turn of events, particularly at the prospect of being parted from his weapons. But he resisted the urge to object further, in order not to sabotage the prospect of finding the elusive Strider. And he was confident, that given the turn of events and the nature of his potential captor's speech and manner, that his life was not truly in danger. He therefore reluctantly began to comply with the instructions he had been given.
"Now pick them up and walk in front of me." His captor released some of the tension on their bow but kept the arrow focused on him.
Legolas cursed under his breath, unable to suppress his growing irritation and humiliation at being commanded to do anything, let alone this. But he acquiesced, whilst continuing to assess opportunities for retaliation and escape, should the circumstances demand it.
