BROKEN ARROW

(Pilin'rusva)

Disclaimer - The setting and characters within this story belong to the creative genius of J.R.R. Tolkien, I own nothing, save the idea behind this modest extension of his world.

Summary - Many years before the forming of the Fellowship, Legolas reflects on the grim instructions and warning of foreboding he receives from his father.

N/B - Written in UK-English.

A/N – I'm very new to this particular fanfic category, so I'm hoping this idea hasn't been used before, at least not exactly in this form. Well, enjoy!

BROKEN ARROW

(Pilin'rusva)

The delicate, willowy trees of Mirkwood rustled their tender, new leaves in the gentle spring breeze. They passed hidden secrets through the encoded whisper, which few but the Fair Folk could decipher. Time out of mind they had shared this land with the Elves and they had not remained unchanged because of it. A radiant, earthly magic flowed through the trees very sap, touching all that dwelt within the forests of Northern Mirkwood.

Far away from the Forest's heart, close to where the trees met open moor, a shadow stirred and the light wind died. Moving silently with fluid grace, under the canopy of the living wood walked an Elf. The homes of the Elves were concealed within the deepest thickets of Mirkwood. To sense one of the Firstborn alone, so far from their hidden retreat made the Forest catch her breath and take note.

His agile, long legs carried him swiftly and without fault across the root-riddled floor. Clad in light cloth of subtle shades of green, with a neatly crafted bow clasped in one hand, he made his way to a break in the trees. The wood parted to reveal a small, clear lake, which had formed there mere centuries ago. He paused by the waters edge and gazed down into the cool, crystal depths.

Legolas Greenleaf stared hard at his reflection. Had he truly expected to observe a visible change? The same princely Elfish face looked back, framed with sleek golden hair and set with sharp eyes tinged with a faint sadness that would only increase as the years drifted by.

Releasing his breath in an inaudible sigh he sat on a fallen log and let the bow fall from his hand. His eyes focused on an intangible point in the wooded distance while his lithe fingers retrieved an arrow from the quiver on his back.

He refocused his mind on the present, and fingered the weapon with vague distaste. From its sharp head, to feathery tail it was beautiful fashioned, as is all made by Elven hands. But its burden weighed heavy in Legolas' heart. For one purpose alone was the arrow hewed.

A sudden burning anger flickered in the Elf's eyes and he caught either end of the wooden arrow in his hands and fervently snapped it in two. The crack and splinter of broken wood pierced the forest. The unexpected flood of anger departed, leaving behind only an empty guilt.

Legolas held the break firmly in one hand and let his eyes fall shut. He sat perfectly still, his chest did not even visibly move with breathing. Casting his mind back he recalled what had triggered his despair…

…Time is irrelevant, it happens, but there is little need to count it. And so it was not long ago, that Legolas had found himself summoned to see his father, Thranduil, King of Northern Mirkwood.

"Legolas, I have something for you," Thranduil announced mildly, moving in his silver-grey robes with typical Elvish poise. Legolas watched with eyes keener than the eagle, as his father retrieved a bow and quiver of arrows from the highest shelf of a white marble bookcase.

"Father?" he questioned, his eyebrows drawn in a frown over his fair brow.

"Take them, I foresee you will have need of them." As he spoke a grave, darkness washed over the King's face.

"I am a competent archer with my own bow," Legolas replied slowly, inexplicably reluctant to accept his father's gift.

"Competent?" Thranduil repeated with a chuckle. "Your modesty is admirable, though your obstinacy is less so," he added seriously. "This bow has been crafted especially, it will serve you well."

"Especially for what?"

A thick silence followed, broken only by the faint radiance of the Elvish songs of Mirkwood. Thranduil drew a deep breath and although age did not stain his slender features he seemed to grow tired and weary before Legolas' eyes.

"Elrond is right," he declared, and at this he son tensed, though Legolas sensed the truth within the words. "Our time on Middle-Earth is drawing to a close, and yet I feel we have perhaps one last role to play." The words unsaid touched Legolas more keenly that those shared openly.

"In which case, I believe you would do better to bestow your gift on one with a greater love of battle," he argued carefully.

"No, Legolas. My choice is true."

Turning away from Thranduil in sudden anguish the younger Elf began to pace the splendid room, which was raised high above the forest floor. The rumoured Shadow in the East had not yet touched Mirkwood, why then must this terror assail him? For he felt that if he took the bow he was binding himself to something much greater, much darker than he could currently comprehend in the safety of his home forest.

"I do not relish the thought of extinguishing even one life," Legolas stated eventually. Thranduil's smile was sad, yet hope glimmered in his wise eyes.

"When that time comes you must decide if that which you deem to preserve is of more value than that which you attempt to eclipse." And that had been his last elusive counsel…

…Dusk was falling like a velvet curtain on the forest when Legolas re-opened his eyes. He unclasped the hand, which was still holding the broken arrow. His lips curved in a soft smile when he saw the snapped wood had mended; for that which as lived never truly fades. Moving his arm gracefully he placed it back in his quiver with its companions, then he picked up his father's discarded bow and ran his nimble fingers along its strings.

He spoke low, in his native tongue and the branches strained to hear.

"One day, when the cause is right you will sing." He stood sinuously. "Until then we will be at peace."

THE END