Author’s Notes: By way of introduction, this story was written in response to a challenge at HASA, the task being to compose a story in which Tolkien characters take part in a solstice celebration. For what it’s worth, this is what my wandering mind came up with. Should only be about two chapters with a possible epilogue as the third part. Thank you for reading!

His hands clasped loosely behind his back and his head bowed in grim thought, King Thranduil of Mirkwood stood silently before a roaring fire. Winter’s icy breath clutched the forest tightly this year. The room in which Thranduil now stood had no direct access to the outside world, but the chill of the upper floors had crept down into the very heart of the vast halls. Even for the tolerant elves, fire was now required in every hearth for warmth. Fresh air filtered in through the balconies and windows of the upper hallways while snaking chimneys and tunnels that eventually dumped into a central vent allowed the fires’ smoke to escape. From the outside, it sometimes gave the appearance of a smoldering volcano. And given the current state of fear and unrest that plagued the kingdom, a smoldering volcano was probably an accurate description of Mirkwood’s royal family.

Sighing quietly, Thranduil’s shoulders slumped and he stared at the dancing flames that leaped and twisted upon the logs. He could not see the sky, but his sense of time was highly acute and he knew the sun was only moments away from setting. A nightmare that had haunted the forest ever since darkness again took up residence in Dol Guldur was about to begin. When this horror first came upon them two decades ago, the elves of Mirkwood had not known what to make of the evil. But they had learned quickly enough what beset them, and after many harsh lessons, they had also learned that they could not truly overcome this particular evil. They could only wait out the night and hope to survive the siege while the warriors tried to keep the menace at bay as best they could.

After the first two encounters, Thranduil had sent messages far and wide, beseeching others for their aid. It had severely rankled his pride to do so, but he could not stand idle and watch his people cower before this terror. But in the end, every request had come to naught. Counsel had been taken among those accounted Wise, and eventually answers drifted back to the son of Oropher, all saying essentially the same thing. Mirkwood was already beset by darkness; nothing could be done about that. Forces dispatched for the sake of protecting the realm against an attack that lasted only a single night would be a waste of resources and an unnecessary danger. The Mirkwood elves were counseled to seek safety in Thranduil’s halls and endure the night as best they could. Life could resume its normal tone at the rising of the sun.

These callous answers had infuriated Thranduil, but even so, he could not truly fault his allies. Lothlórien, in particular, had suffered greatly during the assault that had driven Sauron from Dol Guldur. Celeborn and Galadriel had no desire for a repeat of that event. Círdan and Elrond were too far away to be bothered with the events of a single Mirkwood night, and trouble brewed upon the borders of their own realms. The Rangers were finding themselves increasingly short-handed as foul things once again began to stir in the vast wilderness of Eriador. And as for the Istari, Radagast was not powerful enough to be of aid, leaving Gandalf and Saruman, and those two were turning their focus upon Mordor, not Dol Guldur. As was usually the case, Mirkwood had been left to fend for itself.

Valar but I hate the winter solstice, Thranduil moaned, closing his eyes to the dancing flames. This particular solstice was going to be especially bad, though, for there would be no moon this night. In another land, the stars might have been able to compensate for this, but in Mirkwood, it was difficult and often impossible for their light to sink beneath the boughs of the twisted trees.

Moving away from the fire, Thranduil rested his hand upon the hilt of the sword he had girded at his side, trying to draw comfort and strength from the cool hilt. He fervently prayed that he would not have to use the weapon this night. It was an ancient blade of elven make, saved from the ruin of Doriath and given to Thranduil by his father, Oropher. But for all its lineage and all its history, it was as nothing compared to the evil that would soon roam the forests. If he were forced to draw the sword, then the darkness would have broken through all the defenses, and the underground fortress of Mirkwood would be the next target.

A soft knock at the door drew Thranduil’s attention away from his inner thoughts, and he turned slightly, steeling himself for what he knew was to come. "Enter."

The heavy oak swung silently inward, and Mirkwood’s crown-prince entered, bowing as he crossed the threshold. "All is in readiness, father."

"Thank you, Celebas," Thranduil said quietly, turning back to watch the flames. "Have all elves from the outlying settlements arrived?"

"They have, sire, as well as many others we did not expect," Celebas answered with a slight grimace. "A group unlooked for arrived during the last hour. They encountered a spider nest on their way in. Many were wounded in the attack."

"Have we room for all who seek the safety of these halls?" Thranduil asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

"I believe so, yes," Celebas said. "In any case, we are not required to find sleeping quarters for all of them. Those fit to do so shall be joining us in the forest as further support for the other warriors. Those unable to come shall remain here in the care of the healers. Narsigil and Legolas are seeing to their arrangements while Taerorn dispatches the newcomers among our own companies."

"That may not be to our advantage," Thranduil murmured. "Those unfamiliar with the workings of our guards and patrols will be taught in haste, and such teachings are easily forgotten. There is a greater chance for accidents and mistakes, especially tonight. It will be dark, my son. It will be very dark."

"I believe that is why so many have sought shelter," Celebas said. "Almost all of the regions in the far south have been evacuated."

Thranduil sighed again and looked at his son. Of all the king’s children, Celebas was the only one who had inherited his sire’s height and strength. But for all his potential to be a stunning warrior, Celebas had not been gifted with his father’s love for battle. His desires lay rather in the arts, particular writing and composing. But he was the crown-prince of a besieged realm that was forever forced to defend itself from the encroaching forces of the enemy, and as such, pursuit of other pleasures had been denied him for many years. Thranduil shook his head, sorrowing for all he could not give his children and for all they were forced to endure on behalf of their kingdom. "In Lothlórien and Imladris, the elves view the winter solstice as a time of great celebration," he mused quietly, not even aware that he was speaking aloud. "I am thankful that your sisters are in Rivendell this year. Would that we could be so fortunate. Would that we could somehow repel the darkness that roams our forests. Would that we could be as protected as they."

"We once celebrated solstice as well," Celebas recalled, his own voice no louder than a whisper.

"And we shall celebrate it again in the future," Thranduil vowed, tightening his hand upon the hilt of his sword. "A day will come when this forest will be cleansed. Come, now. It is time we took our places. Have all the units reported in?"

"Nay, they have not," Celebas answered grimly, following his father as they left the study. "Most of the archers we expected from the north did not come. The snowstorm that skirted these halls three days ago struck them hard, and many are trapped in their homes. Some few have arrived within the last hour, but I do not know their numbers."

"We need all our forces," Thranduil hissed, cursing quietly. "Anything less than a full compliment will not be enough. If they dare our vigilance as they did the year before, we will be unable to hold them at the borders. They will cross far into our lands."

"We could add Legolas and his archery unit to Taerorn’s units," Celebas suggested somewhat hesitantly. "But they are not specifically trained for that kind of archery. There would be a great risk of mishap."

"Mishap is a rather mild word for it," Thranduil retorted. "We could set fire to the entire forest. The southern boundaries have seen almost nothing in the way of moisture this year, and the risk of an uncontrolled blaze is high. Still, there is little help for it. We need light, and the fires of the arrows seem to be all that consistently keep our foe at bay. We will have to combine the forces."

"Father!" a voice called out, and Thranduil turned with Celebas to watch as Taerorn approached quickly, nodding sharply when he reached the two. "Father, our warriors are prepared and the captains have assembled with the exception of Narsigil and Legolas. We await your presence and your command."

"Find your younger brothers and bid them join us," Thranduil ordered. "I would have all my captains present before we depart. Some changes must needs be made to the ordering of the companies. But ere you go to find them, tell me how many archers you have that are trained in the use of fire when working as a group."

"Six complete units, sire. There would have been ten had a storm not stranded some of them in the north," Taerorn responded immediately, ever the efficient soldier. His face showed no reaction to these diminished numbers, and Thranduil was strongly reminded of his Oropher’s ability to completely set personal reaction aside in a moment of crisis.

"We are adding Legolas’s archery unit to your own units," Thranduil informed his second son. "Legolas shall also be added to your command while his two scouting groups shall be redistributed into Narsigil’s companies. The other commands shall remain as currently ordered."

Taerorn frowned slightly, his strategic mind chewing away at these changes. "Father, with all due respect, Legolas and his unit are not—"

"I am well aware that they are not trained to work with your own guards. Nor are they trained to work in groups where all are using flaming arrows. Nevertheless, we need more archers for the frontlines or we shall be driven back to the very gates of this hall and possibly beyond." Thranduil held Taerorn’s eyes for a brief moment and then nodded. "Go now and find your brothers. And make haste. Night has come."

Shrouded by the silky blackness of a cloak whose darkness dwarfed even Mirkwood's deepest shadows, a figure waited in tense anticipation as the sun dipped below the Misty Mountains far away in the west. Most of the sun’s light never reached the floor of the tortured forest, but its presence could always be felt by those who wandered the paths of twilight. It was a torment and a burden that weakened the servants of the Enemy. This figure was better able to endure sunlight than some were, Orcs for example. But enduring it and making a habit of enduring it were two entirely different things. It was far safer to lie quietly until the shadows lengthened and the world fell into the uneasy silence of night.

It would not be long now. Khamûl, Sauron’s lieutenant and third in the chain of command, answering only to the Lord of Morgul and Sauron himself, turned his cloaked head toward the other two Ringwraiths waiting behind him. He could sense their eagerness to be off, for this night was their night. It was the night of the winter solstice, and the longest night of the year. As such, it was the night when their deadly power endured longest, and it was the night when they showed the foolish elves of Thranduil’s realm who actually controlled the forest.

The Ringwraiths were waiting on the northern edge of the Emyn-nu-Fuin, or the Mountains of Mirkwood. It was a small chain, running east and west, that lay approximately three to four hours away by horse from the southernmost elven settlements. Thranduil’s scouts and spies ventured much further abroad, of course, some of them traveling within arrow range of Dol Guldur’s walls, but in journeying to the mountains, the three Ringwraiths had met with no elf. Had Khamûl been able to smile, he would have done so. They had taught these simple beings what it meant to share a forest with the Nazgûl. The lesson had been learned well, and it would be learned again this night.

The strange ritual of the Nazgûl riding abroad during solstice had begun several years after their return to Dol Guldur. Their original instructions from Lord Sauron were to hold the fortress and maintain a base in Mirkwood from which assaults could be launched against Thranduil, Celeborn, and Galadriel. In addition to that, they were to harry the elven forces as much as was possible but to do so with subtlety so as not to invite a second assault upon the dark fortress. Within the first few years, Khamûl and the other two Nazgûl assigned to Dol Guldur had successfully accomplished this objective, and Sauron came to believe that he could allow them greater freedom. Thus, he gave to his most faithful minions the night of the solstice. In preparation for this night, they had traveled to the Mountains of Mirkwood, and from there, they had launched their attack upon the Thranduil’s unsuspecting kingdom. The first year had been such a success that a second year of solstice terror was granted. After that, it became a tradition to which the three Nazgûl looked with great anticipation.

The winter solstice was the closest thing that any of the Nine had in the way of a holiday. Not that the Ringwraiths really needed a holiday of any kind. The thoughts of the Nazgûl were consumed by the Dark Lord’s own desires and power. Their mood reflected his mood, and their wants were indelibly linked to the needs and demands of Mordor. They had almost no will of their own, which eliminated problems of morale and dissent that periodic celebrations cured among Sauron’s other minions. Occasionally, one of the Nine would show some fraction of a lost personality, but such times were few and far between. Still, there was enough of a shadow remaining from their previous lives for them to enjoy this strange solstice celebration. And their joy, in turn, fed Sauron’s joy, for he delighted in the reports they brought him of the frightened Mirkwood elves who had no sure defense against their darkness. There were powerful elves in Mirkwood, that was certain. And had they been given freedom to maneuver as well as daylight, the elves were quite capable of defending themselves from three of the Nine. Yet when darkness fell and the power of the land cowered beneath the cold grasp of winter, the elves became almost helpless while the power of the Ringwraiths increased itself tenfold.

Beneath Khamûl, his horse shifted and stomped one foot restlessly. It was questionable, actually, as to whether Khamûl’s mount could still be called a horse. The creature had been born and bred to the service of the Dark Lord, and though his form still resembled that of the Rohirrim stallions that had been stolen to create him, his spirit had been drastically altered. Like the Ringwraiths, the horse had no true will of its own. The beast was, in every way that could be conceived, a slave to the Dark Lord. Not even the swift elven horses, creatures of grace and beauty that possessed unswerving love and devotion to their riders, could match the mounts of the Nine in matters of obedience and loyalty.

A soft hiss from behind drew Khamûl’s attention to the horizon, and he watched his shadowy world became clearer as the sun vanished from sight and the forest slipped into the terror of the year’s longest night. Better sight was a strangely comforting thing for Khamûl, and he occasionally remembered a time when he had looked out over vast stretches of sky and windswept plains with eyes unhindered by shadow. Such memories were clouded and fleeting with little power over the Ringwraith, and yet they were still…noted. Appreciated. They slipped in and out of Khamûl’s mind so quickly that he had little time to enjoy these brief snatches of his forgotten past, but they served to strengthen him and harden his resolve beyond even that which Sauron could influence. They served to make him unique among the Nazgûl, which is how he had advanced to become Sauron’s lieutenant, second only to the Witch-king of Angmar.

Still, even though sight had the power to comfort and strengthen him, more important was the absence of light, for when darkness fell, senses awoke within Khamûl that put to shame any advantage that better vision might offer. The scent of blood carried far in the shadows, and Khamûl could follows its smell with more accuracy than the fabled hounds of Oromë. The impressions of objects and enemies became fixed points within Khamûl’s mental map of his surroundings. He could often anticipate immediate future events with a foresight that would have disgraced the abilities of the most powerful elves. But most dangerous of all these abilities was the enhanced awareness of living things.

Khamûl hated living things. They stirred confusing and confounding memories that seemed to mock Khamûl with something he had lost. He no longer understood or remembered what had been lost and he no desire for life himself, but the presence of others that lived infuriated him. Khamûl could barely tolerate his own minions, hating their foul existence with a passion that had occasionally led to unprovoked murder. The Orcs knew to stay well away from certain members of the Nine, and Khamûl was one of the Ringwraiths that they feared most. For this reason, solstice was considered a holiday for the Orcs as well as the Nazgûl. While the Ringwraiths went north, the Orcs were alone in Dol Guldur, and for one glorious week, they did not have to slink and skirt around corners, always fearing that they would incur the wrath of their dark masters.

Something in the atmosphere around him abruptly snagged Khamûl’s attention, jerking him out of his musings. His head snapping forward and his senses spreading wide, he kneed his horse into a slow walk, easing away from the protective shadows of the Mountains of Mirkwood. It was time. The sun had set completely and the shadows of Khamûl’s world were coming into focus with frightening clarity. As his mount was urged into a canter, he heard the other two Ringwraiths keeping pace behind him, and he tasted the sweet chill of their own anticipation. Gaining steadily in speed, the three raced as nightmares in the twilight beneath the creaking limbs of trees, which groaned and shook in the wake of their passage. Stars were now appearing in the blackness of the sky, but their light could not penetrate the covering of the trees and the moon had forsaken Middle-earth this night. With a piercing scream that rent the silence of the forest and left it quivering in scattered shards, Khamûl kicked his mount into a hard gallop and turned northeast. The night would not last forever, and he intended to see that he made the most of what brief time had been given him.

"One hour," a soft voice breathed.

Startled, Narsigil, prince of Mirkwood, turned and then inclined his head respectfully. "I did not hear you approach, father."

"Then pray your senses sharpen," Thranduil said, his voice curt.

Another might have taken offense at this, but Narsigil was accustomed to his father’s moods and knew that the anger was not directed at himself. Thranduil had a talent for making his movements absolutely noiseless. The king could not fault others when they were surprised by his sudden presence. "You spoke of one hour, sire," Narsigil said, deciding to redirect their conversation. "If I am permitted to ask, what meant you by that?"

"Our forces will meet the Nazgûl in one hour," Thranduil explained quietly.

Narsigil frowned. "The first line of archers left only left two hours ago. They will not have reached the borders of our colonies."

"The Nazgûl are riding hard this night," Thranduil said, raising his eyes to the few stars that could be seen through Mirkwood’s thick canopy. "There is no moon to impede them. They hope to create much havoc and cause much damage. The trees cry out at their passage, and the earth moans beneath the hooves of their steeds. The Nazgûl will have passed our borders ere our archers find them. I warned Celebas and Taerorn of this before they departed. I only hope they heed my words."

Narsigil grimaced and tightened his hand around his spear. Thranduil was connected to the forest of Mirkwood in a way that defied explanation, especially in matters that concerned his own realm. Though he did not hold one of the Three, he did have a power of sorts that was just enough to hold the forces of darkness back. He could sense the mood of the trees better than any elf in the kingdom, and if he claimed that the Nazgûl were moving with more speed than ever, he was not to be questioned. "We will be hard-pressed this night," the prince murmured. "And we are already shorthanded."

"Alas for these times," Thranduil whispered. "And alas for the evils that so divide us."

Narsigil sighed slightly at this and shook his head. He was a very perceptive elf, possessed of an uncanny talent for sensing moods in others, and at the moment he could feel waves of frustration emanating from Mirkwood’s king. Still, this was no surprise. Narsigil had seen it every solstice since the attacks began. After trying various strategies—ranging from ringing the realm in fire to the idea of meeting the Nazgûl before they even drew near the settlements—the tactic of using flaming arrows as the first line of defense had eventually been chosen as the most successful. All companies behind this first line reacted and adapted to the success of the archers with a final contingent of guards standing before the entrance to Thranduil’s halls. And it was here that Thranduil was also forced to stand, for he alone had the power to completely seal the gates and shut out the darkness. It was a last resort that would cut off not only the Nazgûl but also every elf fighting without the fortress, yet it was a precaution that had to be taken. And because of this precaution, Thranduil could not endanger himself in the forest. Naturally, this position at the back of the battle did not sit well with the king of Mirkwood, who chafed to be abroad fighting alongside his sons.

For his part, Narsigil understood well how the king felt. His own role was to coordinate scouting parties that guarded the western, eastern, and northern ways in the event that the Nazgûl ever opted to change their method of attack. And because his companies were split in this endeavor, he remained at the gates with his father, receiving reports and ordering changes as necessary. His single archery unit became the unit responsible for guarding the fortress, and his personal guard unit became Thranduil’s personal guard unit. These responsibilities were not to be taken lightly, but they were not the dangerous tasks forced upon Narsigil’s brothers. The Nazgûl had never come from any direction save the south, and they had never shown any interest in devising a new strategy for their solstice attack. The attack itself was not intended to seriously wound Mirkwood’s forces but rather to prove the superiority of the Nazgûl and establish the power of Dol Guldur. And for the most part, it worked. Still, there was always the possibility that this would change one year, and for this reason, Narsigil’s forces watched closely the other directions that the Ringwraiths might come. But like his father, Narsigil wished to be aiding his brothers rather than serving as a failsafe.

"How much shall we miss the archer companies from the north?" Narsigil asked at length.

"I dare not guess," Thranduil said. "We can only pray that Elbereth is with us tonight. The stars do shine brightly. Perhaps there is yet hope."

"But the stars will not shine at all where the Nazgûl ride," Narsigil whispered. "Even the trees now bend to their will, blocking the sky and thus blinding our forces. Were we upon open country, we would prevail easily. But within the forests that harbor so many of Arda’s dark creatures, how can we hope to succeed when nature itself abandons us at their command?"

"We hope because it is all that is left to us, Narsigil," Thranduil answered, his voice gentle but firm. "We have neither the allies nor the powers that the other elven realms have. If we abandon hope, we are truly bereft. And our hope is not without substance. We boast the greatest archers known to Middle-earth. Our fortress is impregnable. Our woodcraft is beyond compare. Nay, do not despair," the king said, placing a hand upon his son’s shoulder. "There is no place for despair in this kingdom."

"Is there a place for false hopes?" Narsigil challenged.

"Look to your command," Thranduil answered, his eyes glinting, and Narsigil realized that he had pressed his father too far. "And think on your words. False hopes, you say? There are none in this world, for all things are possible. Therefore, no hope can be false. There is always a way."

For three hours, they rode in complete and utter darkness. It was a wonderful thing. The absence of light had done much to stoke the cold fires of their power. Evil was strong this night, and as Khamûl leaned forward over the neck of his mount, he loosed a shrill scream of pure delight. Rarely had he felt so much energy and so much desire from his two companions, and they, in turn, were spurred on by his own excitement.

Half an hour ago, they had passed into Thranduil’s realm. The trees were straighter here, and had the Nazgûl allowed it, starlight would have been able to slip through. But the waxing power of the Ringwraiths had closed the forest’s canopy, plunging the area into a shadow that even elven sight could not penetrate. They now rode past abandoned homes, but they had yet to meet with any resistance. This suited Khamûl well, for the longer they were allowed to advance unimpeded, the greater their strength grew. And it was Khamûl’s goal to press as close to Thranduil’s fortress as he could.

One of the other Nazgûl suddenly hissed, and Khamûl checked his mount, slowing the horse to a trot as he raised his head and allowed the night’s darkness to bring him tidings. Whispers in the shadows spoke of unseen guardians that waited somewhere ahead of them. And blood. He could smell blood. Pulsing, flowing, rich, elven blood. He could sense life. Vibrant life. The life force of the elves. It lacked the power of the Calaquendi elves, but even though they had never beheld the light of the Trees, the Moriquendi were still numbered among the First-born and as such they were still very strong. The sense of their rich lives pounded against Khamûl’s senses, driving his lust for their death to a fever pitch. They were here, and they were close.

Crying to his companions, Khamûl spurred his horse onward, calling on the powers of shadow to hide their coming and allowing the full force of his deadly fear to fill the surrounding woods. A ring of steel was heard as he drew a long blade from a scabbard at his side, and for but a moment, it seemed to Khamûl that he raced across barren steppes, his robes and scarves flying wide as he bore down upon the helpless enemy before him. Then the memory was gone, but the sudden image had given Khamûl an even greater desire for the blood that he smelled. His piercing scream changing to a sudden silence that was even more potent than the cry, Khamûl kicked his horse back into a gallop and charged toward the hapless elves who cowered in the darkness before the might of his coming.

Moving with cautious haste, Taerorn and his small group of archers raced silently through the treetops. They were nearing one of the southernmost settlements, and the sense of darkness was very strong. The branches had closed overhead, eliminating starlight, and the elves ran essentially bereft of sight. Through senses that a mortal could never comprehend, they anticipated every step and every leap as they scrambled through twisted branches. But their senses were dimming as the source of the night’s evil drew near, and it was only a matter of time before a misstep occurred.

Realizing that the Nazgûl were closer than they should have been, Taerorn whispered a command to halt. They could not venture any further without risking a fall and possibly giving their position away. Of course, the Nazgûl were probably already aware of their position, but if there was any chance they were still undetected, Taerorn was determined to take advantage of it.

Quieting his breathing for a moment, Taerorn made a quick head count, identifying each elf in his group by the use of sound and smell. When he counted nine individuals, he loosed a quick sigh of relief. They were still together. "Half-circle," he hissed. "Arm’s length apart. Do not become separated. Ready your arrows, but light them and fire only on my command. Legolas, I would speak with you for a moment."

Murmurs of acknowledgement drifted back to him, so silent they were scarce to be heard, and then he sensed movement as his group arranged themselves. Then came a presence at his shoulder, followed by voice so quiet it might have been mistaken for a whisper in the breeze. "I am here, brother."

"Walk with me," Taerorn ordered, moving away from the group. He sensed his youngest brother trailing closely, following by sound alone, and when they were far enough away, Taerorn stopped. "There is no time to teach you all that you should know," he whispered. "But we shall need your aim this night, so I will endeavor to teach you something. You know the basics of what we do and you are not unfamiliar with using flaming arrows, but I do not think you have ever been schooled in their use as a tactical group weapon. Do I err in this?"

"You do not. At least, not completely," Legolas admitted, his voice quiet and reflective. "I have studied your techniques as a strategy, but I have never used them in combat."

"I suspected as much," Taerorn sighed. "Listen well, then, for there is no time to repeat this. You are accustomed to a method where every archer chooses a target and then shoots. That does not work this night. We shoot as a group and we shoot at a single target rather than selecting multiple targets. It contains the fires. If you are uncertain of the target, do not shoot! There is no dishonor in staying your hand. Given this darkness and the fact that the winter has been unusually dry, we cannot risk allowing a fire to spread uncontrolled."

"All this I know in principle, though I suspect experience shall prove or disprove that which I have learned. But may I ask how any of us shall know the target when we cannot even see the barbs of our own arrows?"

Taerorn winced. Legolas had a cynical streak that appeared from time to time, usually when he was irritated of frustrated. And though the circumstances certainly warranted such feelings, he could not afford to become derisive now. "We are forming a half-circle with specified distances set. We shall be shooting the ground that lies below the middle of this circle," Taerorn explained, forcing himself to exercise patience though it was a rather foreign concept to him. "If you wish my counsel, do not join us in that first shot. We have practiced this technique as a group many times. You have not. Wait until there is light upon the ground. After that, you are welcome to add your aim to ours. But remember to shoot only those targets that I specify."

"Then you alone shall be choosing the targets for the group," Legolas surmised.

"Exactly. After the initial shot, we shall also split our number evenly. You will be in my company. Stay close to me. And do not scowl!" Taerorn said sharply, sensing the glare that his younger brother was giving him. "You know well that I trust you to care for your own safety. I am not Celebas. I do not seek to protect you. Rather, I seek to protect my own men. Were you to become separated from me, the archers might find themselves deferring to you because you are a captain in this realm. Yet you do not have the experience or the knowledge to command in these situations. Thus, you will stay with me beneath my authority."

There was a moment of silence after this, and then Taerorn heard a quiet sigh. "My apologies," Legolas whispered. "Perhaps I am simply afraid and it is manifesting itself in anger."

"We are all afraid, Legolas," Taerorn assured him. "Control your fear, though, lest it control you."

"You say you are not Celebas, but you now quote his words," Legolas murmured with a quiet laugh. "Often have I heard him speak thus to others.

"Celebas and I are both very wise," Taerorn retorted. "Come now. Let us rejoin the others. You shall hold position at my side, and when the first arrows fly, you shall see for yourself how this strategy plays out." So saying, Taerorn turned and quickly made his way back to the rest of the group. He felt Legolas following closely, and they soon reached the others. Navigating carefully around the elves, Taerorn found one edge of the circle and assumed his place. He felt the branch beneath him dip slightly as Legolas joined them, and he reached out a hand to guide his brother forward slightly and to the side. Everything was now in order and it was time for the part that Taerorn hated most. It was time to wait.

Silence fell upon the elves like a smothering blanket dropped upon a dying fire. The air became stifled and musty. The night became so dark that Taerorn began to wonder if he had gone blind. He had hunted Nazgûl on the solstice for almost two decades now, but never before had the shadows been so deep or so chilling. And as the night began to wear on, Taerorn began to sense that something was wrong. Something was different. Something was changing.

He frowned, flinging his senses wide in an effort to decipher what was happening. He clutched his bow tightly and shivered, wondering at his own reaction but unable to help himself. A deep chill suddenly struck him, so cold it was actually painful. He felt himself curling into a protective ball around his gut even as he strove to silence the moans that were building in his throat. And as he began to shiver, he felt the regard of another’s mind much as he might feel the presence of one suddenly standing at his shoulder.

They had come.

Taerorn could not say how he knew this, but he knew it with a certainty he had never experienced before. His skin crawled, and the hair upon his neck began to stand as though a thunderstorm pressed close. Icy tendrils of fear slipped into his heart, and his finely honed senses screamed with horror at that which approached. Never in all the years of hunting Nazgûl upon the solstice had he felt as he did now.

"Taerorn?"

In his mind’s eye, Taerorn could see a shape. He could pinpoint it with exactness. It was darker than the night, seeming to be as a hole in the void. And this shape advanced steadily, turning neither to the right nor to the left.

"Taerorn?!"

His brother’s concerned whisper went unheard. Taerorn’s heart began to pound, and perspiration beaded upon his brow. It was too close in here! There was no air! He began to gasp as the need to breathe overwhelmed him. Shudders swept his frame. His fingers jerked and trembled, and the bow in his hand suddenly clattered to the forest floor, shattering the silence like a mithril hammer taken to fine crystal.

"Taerorn!"

The other elves were moving now, certain that something had gone horribly wrong, but Taerorn was not aware of them. Hands seized his shoulders, pulling him back against the trunk of the tree and pinning him lest he should fall. But it was a lost cause. He was already falling.

"Resume your positions! Ready the bolts!"

He could see it! Sweet Elbereth, he could see the form behind the shape! There it stood, watching him and grinning into the night. An inky blackness swelled over his mind and he lurched, struggling to pull free. Fear the likes of which he had never known before snapped the threads of sanity that held his mind together and he felt himself spiraling downward as a stricken eagle.

"Light the arrows! Fire!"

The shape suddenly recoiled, and Taerorn sensed a flash of surprise from it, but the hold on his mind did not lessen. Two other shapes now appeared, but they did not seize him as the first shape had. Rather they rushed forward, screaming in a language that assaulted his ears and sundered his soul. Darkness overcame him and chaos erupted. The sound of hooves rang loud in the night, and other shrill screams were heard.

Taerorn felt himself physically shoved to the side, and the tree upon which he stood began to shudder as the screams intensified in volume. Someone was calling his name and pulling him forward, but he could not respond. His mind was trapped in the icy blackness of a dark dream. He cried out into the night, despair and fear ringing clearly in his voice, and as he screamed, a Nazgûl screamed with him, echoing the sound and intensifying its hold. A limb suddenly gave way beneath him and he fell, plunging through thirty feet of snapping branches before crashing to the ground.

Sharp pain seized his right shoulder where he had struck the earth, but the sudden jolt managed to free his consciousness. Clarity of thought flooded him as the waters of the Bruinen River at the height of spring. Reacting instantly and instinctively, Taerorn surged to his feet and drew his knife, but another Nazgûl scream paralyzed him, and he found himself toppling back to the ground. He could not move and he could not think. His tongue stuck to the roof his mouth and his eyes bulged in the black night. All he knew was terror and all he saw was darkness. Ice settled across his prone body, and his muscles went rigid.

Then a whisper of air touched his cheek. Taerorn frowned, puzzled, until he abruptly realized that the air was warm.

Warm air….

Breath….

The breath of a horse…

"Taerorn!"

Even more Author’s Notes: Sorry to take up space again, but a few quick explanations are probably in order. First of all, Dol Guldur. For those not aware, Sauron abandoned Dol Guldur in the year 2941 just before the forces of the White Council attacked it. Ten years later, he sent three Nazgûl to reoccupy the fortress. Unfinished Tales identifies the leader of these Nazgûl as Khamûl, or the Black Easterling. He and the Witch-king are the only two Nazgûl for whom we have any kind of a history.

Anyway, this story is tentatively set thirty years or so after the Nazgûl returned to Dol Guldur. I have no exact date, but it would be around the same time as Boromir’s birth and Gollum’s first meeting with Shelob.

As for Thranduil’s family, Thranduil and Legolas are the only two canon characters. (And Oropher, but he’s dead) The rest are purely my own invention. As for there being so many of them, I decided the situation in Mirkwood warranted it. According to various comments made in Tolkien’s letters, elves didn’t have many offspring because their minds turned to other things after they were married for a while. But Tolkien also said that elves marry early in life. So working from the assumption that Legolas was born sometime during the Third Age, Thranduil either married extremely late in life or continued to have children for an exceptionally long time. I’ve taken a middle road. And it makes sense to me that a kingdom like Mirkwood would be more focused on offspring than other realms because they were under almost constant attack. They had no protective barrier like Doriath did, they had no hidden valley refuge like Gondolin, and they had no Elven Ring like Rivendell and Lothlórien. Their survival depended almost exclusively upon their warriors. So it makes sense to get a lot of warriors out there. Anyway, that’s my rationale for Thranduil’s unusually large family.

This one was powerful.

Khamûl felt a slight thrill of excitement course through him as he strengthened his hold on the elf’s mind. He loved a good challenge, and finding an opponent that would resist his attack had become something of a rarity during the past few years. Many would fight against him during the initial stages of the mental assault, but once he seeped his will into their thoughts, the battle was over. But this elf was still struggling to free himself, and Khamûl was thoroughly enjoying it.

The warriors that the three Nazgûl faced now were the first elves they had encountered since passing the borders of Thranduil’s realm, and the leader of these archers had been easy to sense. Khamûl suspected this was one of Thranduil’s sons, for he could feel the strength and lineage of Doriath’s nobility pounding away in his blood. He could also sense fear, uncertainty, and impatience, and using these things as a doorway, Khamûl slowly slipped his thoughts into the elf’s mind. Too long had this one chased shadows in the darkness. That which would be known later in Gondor as the Black Breath had already found root in this elf’s soul, and using this foundation, Khamûl put forth his strength. He wrapped his shroud of darkness around the elf’s mind and pressed against it, slowly driving the elf back.

"Taerorn?"

The hushed whisper reached the Nazgûl’s keen hearing, and he mentally smiled. He had been right. This was one of Thranduil’s sons. His second son, to be precise. A fine prize indeed. Signaling the other two Nazgûl onward, Khamûl slowed his horse and devoted more of his attention to the mind games. He briefly wondered why he had never tried to affect Taerorn’s mind before, for the darkness hidden beneath the surface of this elf’s thoughts was not a new darkness. It had been in place for several years, if Khamûl was any judge, and was most likely a product of the growing shadows that afflicted Mirkwood. He would have to find opportunities for testing all of Mirkwood’s chief captains. Surely Taerorn was not alone in bearing these mental shadows. Perhaps this was the fatal flaw of Thranduil’s defenses.

"Taerorn?!"

The whisper was more frantic now, and Khamûl wondered how much time he had remaining to him before he would be forced to abandon his latest toy. There were many locked doors in Taerorn’s mind that Khamûl longed to open and explore. Secrets might be found here. The keys to ending Thranduil’s pitiful realm could be uncovered.

A bow clattered to the forest floor, the sound of its fall piercing the heavy silence. Swerving toward it, Khamûl and his companions now slowed their advance. They were nearing the elves, and because Khamûl was devoting his attention to mental games, the other two Nazgûl were more or less on their own when it came to confronting this first line of defense. Under normal circumstances, the three Nazgûl rushed together, ensuring that at least one made it through the barrage of flaming arrows. But this night they were trying something different, and Khamûl hoped that by destroying the composure of the elves’ captain, he could compensate for the fact that he would not be directly involved in the initial attack.

"Taerorn!"

As though from a distance, Khamûl sensed movement. The other two Nazgûl were also aware of it, and they began sniffing the air while directing their mounts to scan the trees for elves. Khamûl increased his hold on his captive’s mind, trying to force Taerorn into betraying the exact position of the elven warriors. But another force was intruding now, and it was becoming more difficult to hold Taerorn in the thrall of fear. Something else was seeking to capture the elf’s attention, and the battle for Taerorn’s mind was becoming far more difficult.

"Resume your positions! Ready the bolts!"

Khamûl knew what was coming next, and he tightened his grip on the reins of his horse. His time with this frightened elf was almost over, but before he left him, he intended to press his fear as deeply as possible. If he managed to shatter Taerorn’s mind, he would deprive Thranduil of one of his most talented captains.

"Light the arrows! Fire!"

A flash of agony assaulted Khamûl’s mind as the forest was suddenly illuminated by flame. Grappling madly for his hold on Taerorn, he backed his horse away and screamed in both rage and pain. His cry was answered by the other Nazgûl, who added their screams to the chaos suddenly unfolding in the forest. The screams began to build in volume and echoed back and forth between the trees as the foul language of Mordor was shouted into the twisting woods. The trunk of one of the trees suddenly shattered, too dry and withered to withstand the assault. The light of the burning arrows was snuffed out and startled sounds from above informed Khamûl that the elves were scattering as other trees began to crack. The winter had been too dry and too cold for the forest to endure the rising screams of the Nazgûl, and with only feeble starlight to hinder them, the Ringwraiths had enough power in their voices to freeze even the protective waters of the River Bruinen.

Sounds of mounting confusion drew Khamûl’s attention upward, but he still had a slight hold on Taerorn and he intended to keep that hold as long as possible. Bearing down with all the strength of the black night, the Nazgûl drove his will and power deep into Thranduil’s second son. An elven scream split the darkness, and Khamûl screamed with the elf, exulting in the sense of victory and shadow. Limbs and branches cracked and ruptured beneath this new onslaught of sound, and a shower of timber rained down not more than twenty feet in front of Khamûl’s horse. But timber was not the only thing to crash to the ground. Caught in the falling branches, a tall elf also fell, and the Nazgûl immediately knew it to be Taerorn.

Linked as he was to the elf’s mind, Khamûl felt a flash of pain in his own shoulder when the prince struck the earth, and then the contact was broken. Adrift for but a moment, Khamûl quickly regained his bearings even as his mount snorted in warning. Free of Nazgûl fear, Taerorn had risen and drawn his blade, his gray eyes flashing with royal anger. Somewhere beyond the elf, a volley of flaming arrows hit the ground, once again driving back the shadows and bathing Taerorn in a red glow. Fey and deadly he appeared, like his elven sires of old, and for but a moment, Khamûl felt a spark of uncertainty.

But the elves had been weakened by fear and confusion. Khamûl’s companions were surging forward despite the fires of the arrows, taking darkness with them and cloaking the forest in their fell wills. Looking closer, Khamûl found weakness in Taerorn’s bravado, and a dark joy filled his heart. Putting off joining the other Nazgûl, the Black Easterling decided to make one more attempt to destroy Thranduil’s second son. Gathering all the power of twilight and building off the chaos ringing through the woods, Khamûl loosed a scream of command and fear and spurred his mount forward.

In his shaky mental state and depleted physical condition, Taerorn was unable to withstand the onslaught. Shuddering, he staggered and fell, the knife dropping from his hand as he crumpled into a pitiful heap. Seizing this opportunity, Khamûl brought his horse alongside the fallen prince. The steed lowered its head and sniffed at Taerorn’s prone form, eventually snorting and shaking its tattered mane in disgust. Khamûl was forced to agree with his mount. Once all was said and done, a Nazgûl’s victim was a pathetic thing. All resistance disappeared, and no matter how strong the individual had been before the attack, the end was always the same. The challenge inevitably disappeared, and the enemy became one more kill to add to Khamûl’s impressive total. Still, the prince had been an enjoyable diversion while he lasted, and if the Nazgûl gained nothing else this night, Taerorn’s death alone would make the solstice ride worth the effort. Holding aloft his heavy sword, the Nazgûl hissed a quiet command of terror that would hold the elf still and then prepared to drive his blade home.

"Taerorn!"

A mad scream of rage and fury startled Khamûl, something that had not happened in years, and before he could recover, a lithe form dropped from the trees above and landed over Taerorn in a protective crouch. A hand shot to the side with elven swiftness and took up the knife that the prince had dropped. Frightened by the sudden intrusion, Khamûl’s horse reared and backed away, which gave the newcomer enough time to set fire to an arrow and notch the dart.

Enraged, Khamûl whipped his mount’s head to the side as punishment for such disobedience before driving his heels into the sides of the horse, pushing the creature forward as he brought his sword down. The flaming arrow was released, but the Nazgûl had moved too quickly and it went wide as the horse swerved and bore down upon the young elf that sought to save Taerorn. A second arrow was fired, this one striking Khamûl’s shoulder, but it had been shot in haste and bore no flames. Shrugging the irritation aside, the Ringwraith screamed his anger, pouring every ounce of Sauron’s fury into his voice, and the elf recoiled violently. Weapons clattered to the forest floor, and the newcomer clutched his ears as he fell to his knees, shaking in terror.

"Legolas!"

A sudden onslaught of forgotten memories took Khamûl, and several curses of old came to his mind. He had neglected to watch Taerorn, and in the time it had taken to regain control of his horse, Taerorn had recovered and risen, now placing himself before his brother just as his brother had done for him moments ago. At the same time, flashes of fire could be seen in the trees, and Khamûl picked up the scent of converging elves, their blood racing swiftly through their veins as they scrambled madly to save their own.

Crying aloud in frustration, Khamûl drove his horse recklessly toward Thranduil’s sons, desperate to destroy at least one of them. But they managed to leap away as he swept past, and his sword met only air. But he did not stop, for to do so would invite further disorientation by fire. Reaching forward with his mind, he attempted to find the other two Nazgûl and eventually sensed their presence some distance ahead. They were nearly through the first line of defense. Elven blood stained the ground over which they had passed, and the scent of this spilled life force was as a tonic for the Ringwraith. Khamûl inhaled deeply, feeling his energy restore itself as he took in the sweet aroma of dying elves.

Allowing himself a moment to taste the first fruits of victory, Khamûl eventually turned his mind back to following his companions. Several collections of burning arrows lay in the way, but these could be easily avoided. Moreover, the surviving archers had been scattered by shattering trees and concern for fallen companions. Their defenses were confused, and it would be an easy task to rejoin the other Nazgûl.

Khamûl hesitated for a moment, considering the idea of turning about and finishing what he had begun. The elves behind him were now encumbered by shadow and fear. He could attempt to return and kill Taerorn as well as Thranduil’s youngest son, who had apparently joined his brother upon the ground. With one strike, two of Mirkwood’s princes could fall. But even as these thoughts crossed his mind, Khamûl shook his head and urged his mount to faster speeds. As tempting as the idea was, the remnants of Taerorn’s archers would be rallying to the princes’ defense. It would be folly to turn now, for they would be expecting such a move and would have prepared accordingly. Success was no longer a guarantee and the opportunity had passed.

A slight pang of disappointment stabbed at Khamûl’s empty heart, but he shook it off. The night was far from over, and there were other elves to face. The Nazgûl were making good time, and if they continued at this pace, it was possible that they might actually break through to the gates of Thranduil’s stronghold. Such a victory would easily compensate for having failed to kill Taerorn and Legolas. And with this new goal in mind, Khamûl kicked his horse into an even faster gallop, hurrying to catch his companions and drawing a cloak of darkness around the forest as he went.

"Prince Celebas!"

One hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, the crown-prince of Mirkwood backed his horse away from one of the trees and turned his eyes upward, searching the branches. "Speak," he commanded, finding the elf hidden within the leaves. "What tidings have you?"

The archer leaped down, pausing to sketch a brief bow before continuing. "I bring word from Captain Ithildae, my lord. The Nazgûl attacked Prince Taerorn’s party and forced their way through, causing enough confusion to disrupt our defenses. The wood is too dry, and the Nazgûl have been shattering trees, making it impossible to launch an attack from the branches. And we are too few to do so from the ground. Ithildae is attempting to reorganize the archer units, but he fears it is too late to stop the Nazgûl. All three of them have come this year, and we believe that all three of them shall converge on your position, my lord. Ithildae bids you ready the spear men and the mounted companies."

Celebas frowned, his sharp mind picking up a strange note of reluctance in the messenger’s voice. "And what of Prince Taerorn? Does he also send word?"

"I know nothing of him, my lord," the archer said smoothly, but Celebas did not miss the flash of hesitation in the gray eyes. "I have only those instructions that Captain Ithildae sent."

Nay, you have more information than that, Celebas thought grimly. Something has happened to him but you have been told to say nothing of it. Valar, I believe Legolas was with Taerorn’s company! I should never have suggested that we combine the archery companies. I should have requested that he stay with Narsigil. Or at the very least, my own company. He and Narsigil are both too young to face such danger. Cursing quietly beneath his breath, Celebas shook his head slightly, but he said nothing of his thoughts. If something had happened to his brothers, he would eventually learn of it, and that was the best he could hope for. Time and circumstances would not permit any greater familial indulgences. They never did. But such is the life of our house, the crown-prince sighed. Our duties are set, and they have been set for many years. Until Sauron is utterly destroyed, this is our lot and our office. As princes of the realm, we can do no less. "My thanks for the message. Has word of this been sent to the king?" Celebas asked, turning his attention to matters of logistics and necessities rather than matters of kin and family.

"Yes, my lord. Captain Ithildae dispatched several messengers."

"That is well. Return to Ithildae, then, and tell him to gather all the archers that can be found. He is to distribute them over the mounted forces as well as over those on foot.

"It shall be as you command, my lord," the elf said, bowing and then ascending back into the trees.

For a brief moment, Celebas stared after the messenger and then he shook himself free of dark thoughts. Time was of the essence. Directing his horse to the side, he quickly found one of his aides and beckoned him over. "Bear a message to Prince Narsigil."

The other elf nodded quickly. "Where does the prince stand, my lord?"

"He is with the king before the halls. Inform him that the Nazgûl have employed a direct attack upon the archers. Those scouts he has upon the east and the west should be drawn together and placed with my own forces upon the ground behind the mounted line."

"I will see these things done, my lord," the aide said. "Have you ought else for me?"

Celebas hesitated, knowing he should not ask it, but unable to prevent himself. Of all of Thranduil’s sons, he was the one who best remembered times of peace, and he had never truly adjusted to the realities of perpetual war. "Yes," he said at length. "Tell Narsigil that any which can be spared from the defense of the gates should be sent in search of the archers that first met the Nazgûl. Their fate is uncertain, and I would not abandon them to the darkness of the forest on such an ill night." And that is all I may do for you, my brothers, for of my own forces I can spare none.

"By your word, my lord." And with that, the elf gave a quick nod in lieu of a bow and wheeled his horse about. Whispering a quiet command to the animal, he quickly set out, vanishing into the deepening shadows of night as they closed behind him like a shroud.

With his conscience partially assuaged, Celebas firmly redirected himself to thoughts of his own forces. If the Nazgûl were indeed past the archers, then they were attacking much sooner than expected. His father had been right. The dark ones were riding hard this night, and little time could be allotted for the organization of his units. A line of mounted elves he had, as well as elves on foot with spear and pike. Pursing his lips, Celebas let out a high, piping whistle, signaling the other elves to begin drawing together. He could not give them an exact position until his forward scouts reported the path of the Nazgûl, but he could bring his rather scattered forces together. Taerorn had spearheaded the archers, which put him due south of Celebas’s position. That at least gave the crown-prince a general range for placement of his own troops.

Answering whistles from unit captains now echoed back to Celebas, and his mind began creating a mental map of his forces, estimating their position and making tentative plans for future movements. The basic plan was simple by necessity, for it often had to be adjusted at the last minute to compensate for the ability of the Nazgûl to conceal their exact location until the last possible moment. The mounted elves would meet the attackers and attempt to knock them from their steeds or slay the foul beasts. If the Nazgûl managed to break through—as they usually did because the elven horses had a tendency to panic—then the ground forces would attempt to do what the mounted patrols could not. They were also responsible for dealing with any Nazgûl that were unhorsed. They were usually successful, but then, they usually only had two Nazgûl to deal with. Most of the time, Taerorn and his companies managed to drive back at least one of the three. But this year, with the moon absent from the sky and the first line of archers weakened by lack of numbers and support, the battle was going to be much different.

A strange shiver crept over Celebas, and his eyes narrowed. The wood was growing very quiet, but he had yet to hear from the scouts. Surely the Nazgûl could not be upon them so quickly. A chill pressed its way up his spine, and for a moment, his vision darkened to the point that he could no longer see the stars above him. Shaking his head, Celebas moved his horse forward and peered into the shadows while at the same time clearing his thoughts and mind. There was… a presence in the night. A shadow that spoke of fear. And it was getting stronger.

Sensing his unease, Celebas’s horse shifted beneath him, but the gelding did not seem to be as troubled as his rider. It was as though the fear was isolated and targeted. Frowning, the crown-prince of Mirkwood attempted to locate the source of his sudden terror. And the moment he focused his attention inward, he had his answer.

Valar, it is in my mind! Recoiling slightly, Celebas squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and attempted to separate himself from the darkness. It was actually a relatively easy thing for him to do as he had been doing it for most of his recent life. Celebas had inherited his father’s frame but his mother’s nature. Mirkwood’s continual state of war weighed heavily upon his spirits in a way that his father and his brothers would never be able to understand, and because of this strain, Celebas had created places of retreat within his mind. He sought these sanctuaries now, and he felt a ripple of surprise from the intruding Nazgûl as he slipped its foul clutches. Momentarily blocking the parts of his mind where the Ringwraith now stalked, Celebas opened his eyes and once again became aware of the outside world. And as he did so, his sharp ears picked up a sound that shook him to his core.

Whistles.

The forest was filling with whistles. The forward scouts had found the Nazgûl.

Celebas fervently cursed the timing and the fickle hand of fortune. He had not yet gathered his resources to flush the Ringwraith from his mind, nor was he even sure he could oust the creature. But he could no longer linger in his mental refuges, for a military mind was now required. Unfortunately, that meant opening himself back up to the Nazgûl, and Celebas was not certain that he could maintain control should his foe press a mental attack. Still, there was no help for it. Readying himself as much as he was able, Celebas loosed his mental guards, raised two fingers to his lips, and sent out a new series of whistles.

He was now acutely aware of the Nazgûls’ presence, and as they drew closer, the one in his mind became stronger. But though he could no longer separate himself from a part of his mind, Celebas kept open his places of retreat, making it easier to deal with the darkness. It gave him an avenue of escape should he need it, and though responsibility prevented him from ever retreating, the knowledge that he could flee gave him strength to fight. Dividing his attention between the mental intruder and the outside world, Celebas began to relay coordinates and instructions in his whistles. Answers came quickly, and then other mounted elves surrounded Celebas, drawing together to better protect one another. Swords rang clearly as they were drawn from scabbards, and the feeble starlight that flickered above glinted off the edges of the blades. Though she could not be seen, Elbereth was with them, and Celebas took heart in this even as the Nazgûl tried to increase his hold on the crown-prince’s mind.

The whistles had now stopped, but silence did not fall again. Groans and creaks could be heard in the branches, and a glance upward revealed that the limbs were lacing together, blotting out the stars and plunging the forest floor into an even greater darkness. The lights of Elbereth faded from view, and shorn of this connection, Celebas felt the shadows in his own mind grow and multiply tenfold.

"Start the fires!" he commanded even as he struggled against the looming darkness. It was a curious fight, and had he the time to step back and study it, he would have found it to be most intriguing. A part of him was completely removed from the Nazgûl, safeguarded in his mental retreats. Another part was fighting the creature while at the same time sorting through information and analyzing changing situations with learned military instincts. Celebas sensed somehow that he needed to keep at least a portion of his mind away from danger and separated from the outside world. Even though it hampered his concentration, to do otherwise would be a grave mistake. Celebas was not certain how he knew this, but he was not one to go against his intuition. Often it was sharper than his mind, and he had learned long ago to heed its promptings.

Behind the line of horses, bonfires now sprang into being, summoned by elven skill. In years now lost to the past, these bonfires had been the sites of festivities and celebrations. Now they were wardens set against the coming of evil, and their flickering flames represented a futile struggle rather than a joyous holiday.

To Celebas’s right, an elven horse suddenly reared and screamed, its rider cursing and struggling to regain control. Celebas’s own mounted shifted abruptly and danced away, snorting and tossing his head. Celebas felt the eyes of the other mounted elves upon him, waiting for the signal to move forward, but he hesitated for a moment. He had a very good idea of where at least one Nazgûl was, and that Nazgûl had now stopped. Why he stopped was something of a mystery. Perhaps he wished to concentrate more of his efforts on breaking through Celebas’s mental barriers. But perhaps he had stopped to plan an ambush or a trap. Perhaps the other two Nazgûl had stopped with him. If that was the case, they could not afford to move forward until they knew more of their enemy’s plans. Yet if there was no trap and the elves waited too long to move, they would have no ability to maneuver and bewilder the Nazgûl when they did come.

"My lord?" One of Celebas’s aides, an older elf by the name of Tawar, leaned toward him and grasped his arm. "My lord, for what do we wait? We must begin moving now!"

"One is no longer approaching," Celebas murmured, his eyes narrow as they attempted to pierce the forest’s black shadows and unravel this mystery.

A murmur of unease rippled through those around him, and he felt concerned looks drift his way. "How do you know this, my lord?" Tawar asked.

"I feel him," Celebas whispered, hoping his words made sense. It was difficult to explain what was happening when the act of speaking was hampered by his attempts to withstand a mental invasion. "He is aware of me even as I am aware of him. And he is waiting."

"My lord?"

Celebas closed his eyes, unable to endure the fear and anxiety in the voice of his counselor. And as he cut off this connection to the surrounding world, he became even more aware of the shadow within his mind as well as its growing hold over his thoughts. He could not hold it at bay forever, even with memories of other things to focus upon. And perhaps this is its intent, Celebas realized, cursing himself for not having thought of it before. Perhaps it seeks to deprive the elves of leadership before attacking. If this is indeed the case, then ambush or no, we must act and we must act now!

"My lord!"

And in a flash, Celebas saw it. Thranduil’s oldest son was a natural leader but not a natural warrior. On the battlefield, he veered toward prudence rather than bold action. It was why he commanded the second line of defense while Taerorn commanded the forward archer units. And because of his inherent caution, he had a tendency to hesitate. The Nazgûl was using this. Somehow, the Nazgûl had seen this flaw and was using it to his advantage. And seeing how he was being manipulated, Celebas knew that he could afford to waste no more time. It might already be too late.

"Separate!" he snapped aloud, his eyes flying open as he prodded his startled horse forward. "Two equal companies to either side. The Nazgûl seek to skirt and pass us so as to reach those upon the ground. Calbenarth and Tawar shall command. Gaildaur and Lalorn, you are with me. We three strike forward!"

"My prince, what madness is this?" Calbenarth demanded in astonishment even as Celebas began to ride away from his bewildered companions.

"Hold the other two Nazgûl at bay," Celebas answered, urging his gelding into a swift gallop. "I go to deal with the third." Behind him, He heard a surprised Gaildaur and Lalorn whispering commands to their own horses in a frantic effort to overtake their prince. The forest was so dark as to render sight next to impossible, and they were running blind, all of them, but Celebas was determined in his purpose. He was not prone to rash acts, but when angered, he had his father’s temper, as did all his brothers. And it was well known, both in Mirkwood and in the surrounding regions, that no one crossed Thranduil or any of his sons without paying the consequences.

Stumbling as he attempted to navigate a world without light, Celebas’s gelding tripped and blundered his way along, completely reliant upon his master’s touch and quiet word. By contrast, Celebas knew exactly where he was going, for even as the Nazgûl held his mind, he now held a portion of the Nazgûl’s. He delved only far enough to link the two of them, and with this link he blazed a trail directly to his prey. Through senses he did not understand and that were not entirely his own, he sensed obstacles and skillfully directed his horse around them. Gaildaur and Lalorn followed at a slower pace in his wake, but Celebas did not wait for them. This creature had manipulated him, and if there was one thing Celebas prized more than anything else, it was the sanctity of his own mind. That sanctity had been violated, and the Nazgûl would suffer for it.

Charging through a small bramble bush, Celebas suddenly whipped his mount to the side as his eyes caught a flicker of movement. It was not much, but it was enough. He had found the Nazgûl. And in turn, the Nazgûl found him.

A scream of pure terror shot up from the darkness, and Celebas’s steed, faithful though he was, could not endure such fear. He skidded to a halt and reared, acting so quickly that Celebas could not adjust. He went tumbling from the mount and barely managed to avoid the flailing hooves as the gelding brayed and wheeled away. Swiftly regaining his feet, Celebas brought his sword into the guard position, seeking the link that had bound him to the Nazgûl. But the darkness had become so deep and the fear so real that the prince was finding it difficult to concentrate. His thoughts seemed to be unraveling before him, and no amount of retreat into his mental havens could keep reality from spiraling into chaos.

A whisper of cold air was the only warning he had. Reacting purely on instinct, Celebas jerked to the right and swung his sword to the left. His blade met another sword, and the force of the blow sent Celebas stumbling backward. Then the broad body of a horse slammed into his shoulder and the hem of a dark cloak whipped against his face. Fear the likes of which he had never known before coiled itself around his heart. Only reflexes that kept him upright in the midst of complete and total panic, but they were wearing down quickly.

Sudden whinnies heralded the arrival of Gaildaur and Lalorn, but the Nazgûl would not be deterred. He continued his attack upon Celebas with single-minded fury, and Celebas felt himself knocked to the ground as the dark horse charged. He heard the whistle of a sword as it sliced through the air, and even as he rolled out of the way, he felt the blade catch upon his tunic. Sweeping his own sword to the side and hoping to find something of his attacker, Celebas nearly sobbed in relief when steel met flesh. A piercing cry rent the air and the Nazgûl’s horse stumbled and fell as an elven blade entered its stomach.

Shouts rent the air as Gaildaur and Lalorn tracked the sound to its source, but rising above the ruin of his steed’s death, the Nazgûl turned its attention back to Celebas, a deadly threat promised in its darkness. A sword was once again moving through the air, and as before, Celebas raised his blade to block. But the angle was wrong, and the hilt was torn from his grasp. Leaping away, Celebas hit his back on a tree at the same time that the Nazgûl screamed. The wood shook, groaned, and a cracking sound was heard. Sensing what was about to happen, Celebas dove to the side and covered his head just as the branches shattered and began raining down upon the earth. The trunk split in twain and with a grinding roar it plummeted to the ground. The Nazgûl screamed again and Celebas found himself completely paralyzed. He could not move. He could not see. He could only listen as a booted foot hit the ground beside him. Mail clinked beneath black robes, and Celebas wondered if there was a message that his father would wish to pass to his mother in Mandos.

"To the prince!"

Celebas was never entirely certain about what happened next. Wind brushed his cheek and then light blazed through the dark night. So close was he to the world of the unseen that the prince was forced to turn away and hide his eyes from the fires that suddenly appeared beside him. A Nazgûl scream shattered the chill air and groaning creaks echoed through all the neighboring trees. Then others were around him, shouting challenges and brandishing flame. A fair voice abruptly cried out in anguish and the ring of steel was heard. Then something within his mind snapped like river ice cracking in a spring thaw. Celebas suddenly found himself able to move, and he quickly rolled to his feet, swaying slightly when the forest spun around him. Hands steadied him, and he heard orders to fire a volley of arrows. He thought he recognized Ithildae’s voice, but he could not be certain. Confused and bewildered, he attempted to organize the scattered thoughts of his recovering mind while trying to discover what had become of his opponent. Willing his eyes to focus, he looked up just in time to see the Nazgûl throw one last glare at the elves before fleeing into the darkened wood. And at this brief glance, time itself seemed to stop.

Celebas found himself staring into a soulless gaze of night. There was no remorse. No regret. No pity. No warmth. Only a writhing, seething mass of shadows that hungered and yearned for the destruction of all life and all light.

And Celebas felt he knew exactly why it was that Nazgûl screamed.

Khamûl was furious.

This should have been his night. The darkness was complete. The forest canopy had blocked even the light of the stars. The Ringwraiths should have scattered the elves as leaves before the autumn winds that stripped Mirkwood’s trees bare. What had gone wrong?

Perhaps attempting to influence the thoughts of the crown-prince had been a mistake. Celebas’s mind proved to be a far more difficult challenge than Taerorn’s mind had been. The older elf’s mental makeup was complex and varied. It did not at all resemble the straightforward, militaristic thinking of his younger brother. There were entire worlds within Celebas’s thoughts that had seen nothing of shadow or war, and into these realms, the crown-prince had fled, foiling Khamûl’s best efforts to follow. The retreat had been a significant distraction for Celebas, but it had saved his mind in the end.

Still, Khamûl’s own failure could hardly account for the failure of his companions. He sensed them from afar and they were in agony. One had been pierced with many fiery arrows and was even now attempting to crawl away while the elves hunted him with fierce intensity. The other was unhorsed and blinded by light, trying to make his way south and retreat into safer darkness. This should not have happened. The Nazgûl should have been able to break through. At least one of them should have made it! Why had this night come to failure?

Somewhere deep inside the Nazgûl, a voice scarce to be heard whispered warnings of greed and haste. It was an eerie voice that had confused Khamûl for years beyond count. It seemed to be somehow related to a previous life, and occasionally the murmurs of this voice conjured images of a woman with wild, wind-swept hair and eyes so dark they appeared black. Her face was sad, her cheeks stained with tears, and always her arms were outstretched. But the one for whom she reached was gone. He was gone, and he would never return. Then the memories would fade, leaving Khamûl strangely disturbed though he could never say why. Always after these episodes, the Nazgûl known as the Black Easterling would become quiet and pensive. He would begin to act in ways that did not always fully reflect Sauron’s desires or purposes, sometimes becoming overly cautious and at other times becoming overly bold. Naturally Sauron was well aware of the occasional discrepancies, as he knew all the intents and thoughts of his closest minions. And it was possible for him to put a stop to these fleeting memories that the Ring had not been able to banish completely, but he chose not to. Rather, Sauron allowed and even encouraged the thoughts, for these distant shadows of the past made Khamûl a very deadly and a very effective servant. He acted with complete obedience to his master’s dark will, but he added a touch of individuality that served as a safeguard. A check against mistakes. It was because of this that Sauron had entrusted Khamûl with the fortress of Dol Guldur. And it was because of these faint memories that Khamûl decided upon one last solstice gamble.

Perhaps initially he had been too eager and too greedy for victory. Perhaps he had proceeded too quickly and too confidently. Perhaps he should not have invested so much time and strength into mental games. But the tables were turning, and Khamûl was wise enough to see it. It was the elves who now felt they had the upper hand, and as such, they were beginning to grow careless. Ahead of him, Khamûl could sense a gap in the sea of blood that assaulted his sense of smell. It was opening as elves split into parties and pursued his companions, one of which was fleeing east while the other struck southwest. Behind him, the elves around Celebas were fanning out and attempting to continue the fight, but Khamûl had other ideas. With the gap in defenses, he saw an opportunity, and he was never one to overlook an opportunity. Greed had its place so long as it was controlled by common sense.

Cloaking himself in shadows and channeling all of his dark power into stealth, Khamûl moved north toward the weak point in the elves’ defense. He was tempted several times to veer from this course as he caught whiff of a dying soul or heard a moaning that indicated a mortal wound. But he held to his decision, strengthened by the strange memories that had come and gone. He was dimly aware of pursuit, and he was also aware of a time when the elves seemed to realize what he was doing. But by then, it was too late. He was already halfway through, and the forces could not close rapidly enough to detain him. Besides, how did one stop a shadow? He became the very essence of the night, intangible and untouchable. Only his aura of fear was marked, and it could not be used to pinpoint his location. Elves cried and whistled in warning to one another, but Khamûl was moving quickly now, gaining speed from the night’s shadows that were deepening with the approach of dawn. It had already been a long night, and if Khamûl had his way, it would be an even longer day. He intended to see that Thranduil knew just how close the Nazgûl could venture to the king’s protected caverns.

Softer than the breeze and darker than the deepest pits of Angband, Khamûl raced forward. His sword he kept hidden beneath his robe lest any chance light gleam off its polished edges. Turning this way and that, he wove a twisting pattern through the forest as he elusively dodged pursuit as well as the patrols still scattered before him. He was moving swiftly now, and the warnings shouted to elves before him scarcely reached the warriors before he had already moved past. It would be a near thing. He could feel the dawn approaching. The darkest hour of the night was upon him, and it was in this hour that his strength was most terrible. But his power would flee the moment the sun cleared the horizon. This far north, the trees were far less willing to shield the Ringwraith from Arien as she carried the last fruit of Laurelin into the heavens. And so he raced against time, moving ever faster and weaving even less as he began to close upon his goal.

He could sense Thranduil’s caverns ahead of him. They were filled with a pulsing sense of life that was dizzying and nauseating. Without the shadows of his companions to strengthen him, Khamûl nearly faltered at this onslaught of life and song. He pressed himself onward, but he could feel his strength weakening already. His pace slowed, and the warning whistles now passed him, speeding ahead and warning all that a Nazgûl approached.

Fires exploded within the trees, creating the illusion of dawn, but Khamûl forced himself past these flames. The shadows that the elves cast within his mind were many, and for a brief moment, he wondered at the wisdom in this course. But he had come too far to back down now. He was a Nazgûl, Sauron’s lieutenant, the master of Dol Guldur, and a creature that had been responsible for the termination of more elven lives in the past century than all the Wargs of the snowfields and all the Orcs of the Misty Mountains combined. He would not stop now!

With a suddenness that took even Khamûl by surprise, he abruptly burst from the trees, his cloak billowing wide. Before him, elves shouted and reached for weapons. He had made it! He had reached the entrance to Thranduil’s halls. With a scream of victory that rattled the very foundations of the earth, he summoned all the powers of the night and charged forward.

His sword swept through flesh and bone as elves raced to oppose him. Heat flared along his back, and he saw tendrils of flame racing down his cloak. But he would not stop. Not until he had achieved the gates of the caverns themselves. The night’s darkness was at its strongest now, and calling upon the shadows, Khamûl found enough strength to endure the fires and to rush forward. Flames roared about his head, obscuring his vision, but he had no need of sight now. He knew his goal and he raced toward it. Weapons shattered around him as they tried to pierce his unseen body. Elves cried out in pain and fear, and the flames he bore spread along the ground, consuming fallen branches and hungrily reaching for more. Pausing once as the press of elves wheeled about him, Khamûl loosed a scream so powerful and so devastating it all but snuffed out the fires completely, dropping the forest into a night deeper than fathomless depths of the sea. The elves recoiled, their blood pounding away in their veins with such fervor that Khamûl was almost driven mad by its scent and sound. He had to spill it. Loose it upon the tortured earth where it would flow as the Anduin. Claim it for his own.

So caught up was he in the fury and glory of battle that Khamûl failed to notice a new and slightly different commotion unfolding to his right. But he certainly noticed when he found himself suddenly flying to the side. Screaming in anger, he spun about, bringing his sword up to rend whatever fool had dared interrupt his destruction. He was met by a being that did not flinch from his power and did not tremble in fear of his darkness. Nobility and royalty were strong in this new figure, and Khamûl could sense the fire and determination of a warrior that had once in the companies of Thingol before the ruin of Doriath. Scarcely able to believe his good fortune, Khamûl forgot about every other elf in the area and concentrated all his power and energy on the defiant Eldar standing before him.

He had found Thranduil.

When Khamûl’s full regard turned to him, strengthened by the long night of darkness and the absence of moonlight, Thranduil did stiffen slightly. But he did not back away. Rather, he advanced, sword stretched toward his foe. Elven blessings had been wrought upon the blade, and Khamûl hissed, feeling some of his power slip away in the face of such a weapon. Fires were being banked, and as light increased around him, Khamûl began to feel dizzy and confused. Uncertain, he took a step back and attempted to organize his reeling sense, and with that step, Thranduil charged.

Khamûl almost did not react in time. At the last moment, he angled his sword to deflect the strike, but he was unprepared for the raw power in Thranduil’s blow. The king cried aloud to Elbereth as he moved in for a second strike, and Khamûl wilted before the name. Above him, the stars seemed to grow brighter and the trees spread their branches wide, allowing light to trickle down to the forest floor. Far away in the east, the sky was no longer black but gray, revealing that dawn was near.

Furious that victory was being snatched from him, Khamûl roared and put all his strength into one last attack. His scream shook the trees and drove elves to the ground as he launched himself at the king of Mirkwood. But Thranduil stood strong before his advance and moved to continue his own offensive. Sword clashed loud against sword as Nazgûl and elven king engaged in a furious and deadly dance. Every move was perfectly executed, and every block was perfectly performed. In the last moments of the night, there was no room for mishap on either side. For Khamûl, it was a race to finish ere the sun appeared over the horizon. For Thranduil, it was a matter of holding the Nazgûl at bay long enough for the light of dawn to grace the forest. So quickly did they move and so swiftly did they parry that the other elves, frantic to aid their king, could do nothing. The keen-eyed archers dared not fire for fear of hitting Thranduil.

Desperate to make headway against this fierce opponent and sensing that the coming of the sun was only moments away, Khamûl loosed one last scream, ceasing his attack altogether in order to infuse the sound with every last bit of strength that remained to him. Trees splintered and burst at the cry. Elves cowered and dropped to their knees. Elven blades rang and some even cracked, so powerful was the scream.

But Thranduil was relentless. He took but one startled step away from his opponent, and then he surged forward again, even more aggressive than before. And as he prepared to bring his blade down upon Khamûl’s unprotected cloak, the first rays of morning shot into the sky.

The solstice was over.

Nazgûl were capable of great speeds when the need arose, and the elves of Mirkwood were witnesses to Khamûl’s speed that morning as he fled their presence. Thranduil’s sweeping stroke met air, and the Ringwraith vanished into the disappearing shadows, desperate to put space between himself and his former prey. Dawn came swiftly, and his power faded with each minute even as he pushed himself to even greater speeds in his haste to find shelter. If he could cover enough distance, the elves would not pursue. They would be nursing their own wounds this morning. Already he could hear songs of lamentation in the forest as soldiers began collecting the wounded and the dead. Though not completely victorious, this particular solstice was certainly not without success. He had discovered weaknesses in some of Thranduil’s sons, and he had gone further into the elven lands than his forces had ever managed to penetrate before. A blow had been struck directly at the heart of the elven realm. No, there was definitely cause for rejoicing and excitement. And with these grim thoughts to satisfy him, Khamûl turned south and took up the long road back to Dol Guldur.

The winter sun was dim and its light pale, but its appearance was joyfully hailed by every elf in Mirkwood. The night of terror had come to an end. The days would grow longer now and the power of the elves would wax in strength. But even as this happy thought crossed the mind of Thranduil’s people, they mourned for the loss and the destruction that the Nazgûl had brought. Never before had the foul creatures penetrated so far into the heart of Mirkwood’s realm. Reports were coming back that large swaths of trees had been utterly destroyed by Nazgûl screams, too dry to endure the power granted the fell creatures. There were rumors that many warriors had fallen, but as of yet, nothing certain could be determined. The aftermath of the dark night was manifesting itself as a state of chaos among the elves, and it would be some time before all the facts could be gathered.

But there were fragments of comforting news to be found. Of the injured treated thus far, none possessed wounds so grievous that they would need to be sent away. The previous year, the healers had been forced to send six elves over the sea because their hurts could not be healed in Middle-earth. Seven had intended to take the trip, but one had become so sick by the time he reached Rivendell that he had begged his companions to slay him. And unable to refuse his request, they had complied. His suffering would not have allowed him to survive the journey anyway. It was considered a mercy to send him to the arms of Mandos.

Remembering these events with a sigh, Thranduil tightened his grip upon his drawn sword and turned his piercing gaze into the surrounding forests. The elf that had died had been a close friend of his son Taerorn. The two had trained together, worked together, and fought together. When news of his death reached Mirkwood, Thranduil had immediately ordered Taerorn back from a raiding party and relieved him of his duties, hoping that this would give his son a chance to mourn. But Taerorn had grieved for only a short time and then requested that he rejoin his units in the field, insisting that the incident was behind him. Thranduil had hesitated, but Taerorn was unusually persistent in his demands, eventually winning the king’s reluctant acquiescence. Taerorn returned to the perimeters of the realm and led his units as efficiently and effectively as he had before, but he was not the same elf. A brooding darkness had taken hold of his heart, greater than any weight that the other princes carried, and nothing Thranduil did or said had been able to dispel this burden. True, they were all affected by the growing strength of Dol Guldur and they were all slowly succumbing to its shadow, but Taerorn had taken a rather sudden turn. And now there were rumors that he had fallen during the night…

"Sire, it was foolish."

Shaking himself free of his thoughts, Thranduil sighed and turned his eyes toward Narsigil, knowing what was coming. Narsigil was alone among Thranduil’s children in repeatedly and deliberately daring his father’s temper. They all clashed from time to time for they had all inherited Oropher’s stubbornness, but Narsigil went out of his way to be blunt and direct with the king. This trend had always been present, but it had become even more pronounced after the death of Mirkwood’s queen. It was almost as though Narsigil sought to make up for his mother’s absence by providing a counterpoint to his father. At the moment, though, Thranduil was in no mood to listen to criticism. "Foolish?" the king challenged, raising his brow and daring his son to continue.

"Confronting the Nazgûl. Father, your place is behind the gates. Had you fallen and the Nazgûl continued, we could not have sealed the—"

"You know naught of what you speak," Thranduil interrupted sharply. "See to your duties and—"

"I have seen to my duties, sire. All beneath my command have reported to me, and I have also spoken with scouts of other companies now returning. All that remains is for me to report to you. Would you hear what tidings I have and so fulfill your duties? Or perhaps you wish to pursue that Nazgûl on your own."

"Narsigil…" Thranduil fixed a dark stare on his son, but Narsigil had never been intimidated by these looks and matched the glare with a face devoid of expression. With a sigh, Thranduil attempted to muster the energy needed for anger and discipline, but the fight with the Nazgûl had taken more from him than he’d expected. He was too weary for an argument, and beyond that, Narsigil was right. Confronting the Ringwraith had been a foolish move. But given the chance, Thranduil would not hesitate to do it again. "I will not have such insolence in my captains," the king eventually said when he was unable to think of a better reprimand.

"Insolence?!" Narsigil’s eyes blazed and he stepped forward, his chin lifting defiantly. "Is it insolence, father, to point out a flaw in the defenses? Is it insolence to offer counsel that might better aid our forces in the future? Is it insolence to seek after the good of Mirkwood as my duty and rank demands? For if it is, then I proudly stand guilty before you, my king, and I am prepared to continue in my crimes for as long as this realm endures!"

Thranduil bristled, his spark of anger flaring back to life, but he had taught his son well and he could not easily find an answer to the arguments that Narsigil presented. Moreover, he was exhausted. He lacked both the strength and the will necessary to debate the matter. "Morning was upon us," he said at length. "There was not time enough for the Nazgûl to reach the gates, even had I fallen. I judged the insult to our people to be a greater peril and sought to counter the Nazgûl’s victory in penetrating so far. And in this, I was successful. He did not defeat me. I routed him."

"Father, you are king! You cannot put yourself in such danger."

"I know my station, Narsigil," Thranduil said coolly, sheathing his sword and folding his arms across his chest. It was time to move past this, and the king’s anger was beginning to overcome his weariness. "You would do well to remember yours. Now report."

Narsigil hesitated for a moment, his shrewd eyes studying his father, and Thranduil had the strangest feeling that he was being tested. Then the moment was gone and the prince stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back as was his custom when moving from informal discussions to formal reports. "All elves in the field have now been accounted for, whether they be living or dead," he began. "The extent of the destruction is unknown at present, but rumor suggests that some colonies within the southernmost settlements stand in need of substantial repairs. Those who evacuated may be unable to return home until such repairs are completed."

"You say all sent forth are now accounted for. Do you have specific numbers of dead and wounded, then?"

"Nay, I do not. All company commanders have either returned or sent word ahead of them, and all can account for each member of their party," Narsigil answered. "But I do not have numbers. Celebas may, and his runners say he will be here shortly." He paused after saying this, as though debating over whether to go on, and then Narsigil continued, his voice softer. "Some say that Celebas was specifically targeted for an attack and nearly perished. Tawar has already returned, and he is concerned about Celebas’s mind. It seems he behaved strangely when the Nazgûl advanced."

"Strangely?" Thranduil frowned. "Can you be more specific?"

"I cannot as Tawar could not," Narsigil answered, his voice filled with frustration.

"Is Celebas injured?"

"According to Tawar, he bears no physical wounds, but he appears to be in a state of shock. And he has said things about darkness and creeping shadows within his mind."

"What else were you told?"

"Naught, sire. Tawar knew nothing more."

Thranduil grimaced and rubbed his brow. "We shall deal with Celebas when he returns, then. What of Taerorn and Legolas? Have you heard aught of them?

Narsigil nodded, his face grim. "Ithildae sent scouts ahead of his party, and they reported that Taerorn and Legolas both live. But as with Celebas, there is concern. Taerorn also acted strangely, or so say those in his party. According to Ithildae’s scouts, Legolas gave the first order to fire and then came under attack himself. But they could tell me nothing else."

"Elbereth," Thranduil murmured quietly. One hand clenched the hilt of his sword, and he fought with his emotions for a moment, attempting to regain control of the raging fury within him. "Was there aught else of import?" he asked at length when he could once again trust his voice.

"Aside from the need for repairs and the destruction to the forest, nay," Narsigil answered, shaking his head. "Two of the Nazgûl were driven back by Celebas’s forces, and of the one that broke through, none in the area can sense him. I have already deployed some of my guard, and they shall serve as advance scouts should anything come upon us this day."

"Good," Thranduil said with a brisk nod. "Then if you have indeed finished with your duties, go and assist the healers in whatever way you can. But ere you do, leave word with the guards that when your brothers return, they are to report to me. I shall be inspecting the damage upon the western side."

"I will see it done," Narsigil said with a quick bow. "Will there be anything else?"

"Nay. Go now and assist the healers."

Narsigil nodded and moved to leave, but then he paused and turned back. "Father, if I may beg a request, would you send for me when my brothers return?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across the king’s face. "Yes, Narsigil," Thranduil promised. "That I will do."

"Thank you, sire." And without another word, Narsigil left, weaving through the elves in the clearing and making his way toward the entrance of the halls where some of the chief healers had assembled.

With a weary sigh, Thranduil turned back to the forest and shook his head, silently cursing the Valar for gifting him with this fate. He had not wished to raise a family in this manner, but circumstances had given him no other choice. They lived under the constant threat of destruction, and as princes of the kingdom, Thranduil’s sons had been forced to train as warriors and captains, regardless of their own desires. And Thranduil had ruthlessly pushed his children, allowing no room for errors. In Mirkwood’s dark forests, mistakes were usually rewarded with death, and the king loved his children too much to risk letting a slip in a practice session take their lives in the field. The end result was that they had evolved into a distant and militaristic family. Conversations were dictated by necessity and revolved around scouting reports and troop placements. The familial tenderness and casual camaraderie enjoyed by the lords of Imladris and Lothlórien had been replaced by debates over archery assignments and arguments about the advantages of mounted patrols. Yet despite all this, the bonds of family had not been completely lost to Mirkwood’s royalty, and if Narsigil wished to speak with his brothers upon their return and assure himself of their safety, Thranduil was not going to prevent him. He denied his children too much as it was.

The brisk wind whistling through the open balcony door carried with it the scent of coming snow. The late afternoon sun had vanished behind a thick blanket of clouds, plunging the forest into deep, winter shadows. Temperatures were dropping swiftly as the approaching storm drew near, and smoke poured out of the palace’s central vent as elves kindled fires for comfort. Lanterns and candles were lit to stave off the darkness, and windows and doors were shuttered tightly against the growing wind. But these precautionary measures were not universally observed. Sprawled across a large bed, his eyes staring blankly into the shadows, the youngest prince of Mirkwood lay still and silent. His spacious chambers were slipping into a realm of twilight, and the hearth opposite his bed remained cold and dark. Legolas was keenly aware of the growing chill and had even begun to shiver, but he made no effort to warm himself. Rather, he urged the creeping cold onward, desperately hoping that its numbing touch would seal off the memories of the previous night.

But such was not to be his fate. Over and over again, he watched his brother fall, crashing through splintering limbs and slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. He heard the hideous scream of the Nazgûl and he cried out in terror as trees shattered around him. He felt his blood thicken and his mind freeze as a shadow separated itself from the surrounding darkness and advanced upon Taerorn. He watched, paralyzed by fear, as Taerorn struggled to his feet and attempted to confront the horror. He recoiled sharply as another scream ripped its way through the tortured forest, and he saw his brother fall again, a Nazgûl blade hovering above his prone form.

Caught in the throes of his memories, Legolas shuddered and clutched at the blankets beneath him. He remembered being jolted from his fear by the sight of Taerorn lying still before certain death. He’d summoned his will and stepped off his branch, plummeting toward the earth. During the fall, instincts honed over several centuries of training had taken control of his body. He hit the ground hard, immediately falling into a low crouch in an effort to lessen the shock of impact. The black horse beside his brother reared in surprise, and Legolas scrambled away from the flying hooves, pushing Taerorn to the side as his shaking fingers sought to light an arrow. He fired, but the horse suddenly turned and the bolt went wide. He fired a second shot but this seemed to miss as well, and then that horrible scream filled the air once more. Legolas cried out and fell to his knees, his weapons clattering to the ground. He clutched at his ears, desperately trying to stop the sound, and he sensed the Nazgûl bearing down upon him even as he trembled in helpless fear. As though it came from the other side of a dream, someone called his name, and then Taerorn was standing before him, blocking the darkness long enough for Legolas to regain control of his body. Together they leaped to the side, diving for safety as a sword filled with the power of the Enemy flashed above their heads. The scream echoed yet again, and then there was nothing.

Nothing…

Eyes he did not remember closing snapped open, and Legolas’s hands flew to his chest as he struggled madly for air. His room was dark and silent save for the sounds of his frantic breathing, and there existed no hint of the shadows he’d faced the previous night. Flakes of snow were beginning to drift through the open balcony door, and he shivered as the cold wind crawled over him. It is gone, Legolas told himself with something akin to a mental sob. Gone! It was driven back. I am home and I am safe! But despite these thoughts, the memories of the Ringwraith continued to assault him. Desperate to halt the marching tide of darkness that threatened to claim his sanity, Legolas forcefully turned his mind to what had happened after the Nazgûl left, as though to reassure himself that he had indeed found safety.

He remembered Ithildae’s voice rousing him from a sea of nightmares that he could not quite remember. He’d sat up slowly with another’s assistance and stared at the number of surrounding elves. He did not know how or when they had come to be there, and it was obvious that a period of time had passed without his knowledge. He remembered restraining hands and soothing voices that begged him to lies still and rest, but the urge to see his brother had been too great. He’d lurched to his feet, stumbling as he did so, and then he’d sought Taerorn. When he found him, he almost wished he hadn’t.

Taerorn was cold to the touch. His breath was shallow and labored. His skin was pale and clammy. He responded to nothing that Legolas did or said, and Ithildae eventually ordered that a travois be constructed for him from the broken wood of the shattered trees. And all the while, Legolas knelt beside his brother, speaking quietly and begging him to open his eyes and defy the darkness that lingered over them both. And Taerorn eventually heeded Legolas’s words, but his timing could not have been worse. He woke just as they were about to depart, and he stubbornly refused to ride the travois, insisting that he could walk.

I should have beaten you into that travois and tied you down, Legolas thought ruefully, feeling a twinge of pain from his lower back. Had our places been reversed, you would not have hesitated to do so to me. You were in no condition to walk. But nay, that was not to be. The great Taerorn had to prove his strength and march with the rest of us. And when you could no longer walk on your own, you used me as a crutch for the better part of the journey! You are fortunate that I decided to heed the law that prevents me from striking one higher in authority than I. I should have knocked you unconscious! Ithildae would have supported my actions. I think he wished to beat us both senseless.

That last thought managed to produce a wry smile upon Legolas’s face as he remembered Ithildae’s exasperation with the princes upon arriving home. They had met Narsigil’s scouts shortly after the noon hour and they were told that the king wished to speak with them should they feel well enough. Ithildae informed both Taerorn and Legolas that neither of them was feeling well enough for anything save rest, but combined stubbornness on the part of Thranduil’s sons managed to overcome the captain’s objections. Not that it had done them any good. After finding Thranduil, their father had given them both a long look and then said essentially the same thing that Ithildae had said before sending them off with strict orders to seek out the healers. Narsigil had been their escort, and from him they learned that Celebas had also been sent to the healers. But Narsigil would tell them no more than that, and Taerorn and Legolas had both been too weary to force further information from him.

Upon reaching the healers, the brothers had been separated, and in the end, it was determined that Legolas could rid himself of the Nazgûl’s shadow on his own, the healers deeming it to be a trivial thing when compared with wounds that others had sustained. They had sent him to his quarters with a sleeping draught that would cause him to temporarily lose control of his dreams, allowing the remnants of the Nazgûl’s influence to surface. When Legolas regained control, he was to push the taint of evil away, after which he would fall into a more restful sleep. It was a standard remedy for an ailment that was unfortunately rather common among patrols that journeyed in the southern regions of Mirkwood. But Legolas had never needed such treatment, as his own company of archers was usually sent westward toward the Misty Mountains on Warg hunts. Sensing his reticence, the healers had assured him that the procedure was quite successful and very few ill effects were ever reported. His mind would be cleansed and the lingering touch of darkness would be banished.

But the draught they had given him sat untouched upon a table near the dark hearth. Legolas could not explain why he was so reluctant to follow the healers’ instructions. He had never been a good patient, but his current rebellion was not born out of petty desires to defy the healers. Rather, it came from a combination of fear, guilt, and shame. The shame was from the fact that he had been laid low by something that other elves had endured for years. Something the healers deemed trivial. The guilt was for falling before the Nazgûl when Taerorn needed his aid. His stricken brother, who had been injured more grievously than Legolas, had been forced to come to his assistance. And the fear—easily the most powerful of the three emotions—came from the knowledge that he would have to face the Nazgûl once more in his dreams. He would have to face the fear and the darkness, and for a time, they would be allowed to rage uncontrolled within his mind. Legolas did not think he could endure that.

And as these thoughts entered his mind, he was once again pulled away from the comforts of his room and propelled back into the dark forest. The fires of the arrows dimmed, and the black shroud of the Nazgûl grew until it encompassed his entire vision. He could see nothing save for the darkness that was the Ringwraith. His mind shrank before its hideous cry, and he plunged into a void that pounded with the cacophony of discordant notes as they raged and struggled against the beauty of Ilúvatar’s song. His ears ringing and his mind spiraling into chaos, Legolas curled into a helpless, trembling ball. The shadows from the previous night became so dark that he nearly screamed in an effort to prevent madness. He was falling into a shadow with no substance and no end. It devoured all, reaching up to consume Legolas even as he desperately scrambled for safety…

And then it was gone.

Jolted from his memories, Legolas shot to a sitting position, clutching wildly at the blankets and struggling vainly to master his racing heart. His breath coming rapidly, he looked around to determine what had call him back and found that someone had entered his room and shut his balcony door.

"The healers told me that you would be sleeping."

His eyes shifting to a figure standing by the dark hearth, Legolas inwardly winced and lowered his head. "Such were their instructions, father, but I have not yet obeyed them."

"I suspected that this would be the case," Thranduil answered, his voice laced with wry humor. "You, Celebas, and Taerorn are notorious for defying the healers’ orders and escaping their clutches."

"Narsigil is no better a patient," Legolas muttered in a weak attempt to defend himself.

"True, but Narsigil is rarely in the care of the healers. He is too cunning for that, leaving such tasks to you and your brothers. Thus he has not the reputation that the rest of you have earned. You, Legolas, in particular are the subject of numerous complaints. I am mildly surprised that you consented to see the healers upon your arrival."

"I did so by the king’s command, sire."

"And when has my command ever swayed you from your own desires?"

Legolas frowned, his hazy mind attempting to determine whether or not he was being reprimanded. But he could not determine what actions had need of censure, and it did not help that his memories were dominated by a growing shadow. "Father, if I have done aught to dishonor your or my brothers, then I—"

"Hush, Legolas," Thranduil interrupted. "My words were a test, one which you failed, unfortunately. Given the state of your room, though, I wonder if the test was even needed."

Now thoroughly confused, Legolas swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to stand, but a firm hand upon his shoulder pushed him back. Shaking his head and attempting to clear his mired thoughts, Legolas looked up at his father and tried to read the emotions behind the expressionless face. "Sire, I—"

"Lie down, Legolas. You are in no condition to be up and about." Thranduil’s hand tightened briefly upon his son’s shoulder, conveying the message that the king was in no mood to be disobeyed, and then the prince was released. Crossing the room, Thranduil knelt beside the hearth and began to kindle a fire. "You should have more concern for your health."

"I had not noticed the cold," Legolas lied.

"Indeed?"

Wincing at the note of warning in his father’s voice, Legolas rolled onto his side, putting his back to the king, and closed his eyes. "It helped," he murmured at length.

"Did it?" The sharp crackle of a fire could now be heard, and a bit of warmth crept into the room, much to Legolas’s dismay. "Enlighten me," Thranduil continued, and Legolas heard him move away from the hearth and toward the bed. "How did the cold help?"

"It numbed me," Legolas answered with a sigh.

"It numbed your body, but what of your mind? Was that also numbed?" An uneasy silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the shifting of logs as they gave themselves over to the growing blaze in the hearth. "Legolas?"

"Nay, it was not. My mind was left to its own devices," Legolas whispered.

"It would seem, then, that your own attempts at healing were in error. And yet still you decline the advice of others. Why is this?"

Despite his efforts to maintain a stoic composure before the king, a shiver of fear escaped Legolas. His fists tightened upon the bedding beneath him, and then a hand fell upon his shoulder, pulling him onto his back so that he could clearly see Thranduil’s face.

"You are frightened."

There was no emotion in the tone; it was merely a statement of fact with neither judgement nor condemnation. But Legolas could not help feeling a pang of humiliation. He had proven himself an adept commander in the fields, and very few could match his growing skill with the bow. But there were still times when he felt as though he walked in the shadow of his father and his brothers, and this was one of those times.

"If I am not mistaken, Legolas, last night marked your first encounter with all three Nazgûl at the height of their power. You have never felt their strength so directly before."

Legolas closed his eyes, refusing to meet the king’s piercing gaze. "What would you have me say, father?" he finally asked, unable to bear the silence. "I am young, as you and others frequently remind me. I have not seen all the horrors that Mirkwood possesses, and I lack the experience that would enable me to better deal with these situations."

For a long time, there was no response to this, and then Legolas heard a chair scrape across the floor. The wood creaked as his father settled himself into it, and Legolas realized that this conversation could continue for quite some time. Shame took him, and he thought of all the demands upon the king. That Thranduil should sit with him when his ailment was something that most elves overcame with ease…

"Perhaps your time would be better spent with Celebas and Taerorn, sire," Legolas said quietly.

"So you now dictate where the king spends his time?"

Legolas winced and shook his head, opening his eyes. "Father, I—"

"I have spoken with Celebas and Taerorn," Thranduil interrupted, dismissing the attempted apology with a wave of his hand. "Celebas was fairly lucid and able to explain some of what happened to him. Though their afflictions are serious and the damage worrisome, the healers assure me that they will both recover, but it might be several weeks ere they are able to return to duty."

"Several weeks?" Legolas echoed in disbelief. He did not know what had happened to Celebas, but Taerorn had not been harmed physically. Was his mental trauma so great that it would actually take weeks to recover?

"So the healers say," Thranduil confirmed, watching Legolas closely. "One of the Nazgûl employed an attack that I have not seen for many years. I did not think they would be so rash as to try it here where there are many elves present."

"What attack is this?" Legolas asked.

"A Nazgûl directly assaulted your brothers’ minds, waging a mental battle rather than a physical one. He deprived them of their will, robbing them of the ability to act according to their own desires. The fear and shadow that drives the Nazgûl wove itself about your brothers’ thoughts, and their minds were consumed by darkness."

"But that is not what happened to me, is it?"

"Nay, you suffer from something different."

"Then why was I spared?" Legolas whispered.

"This mental attack is difficult to employ and requires a bit of preparation. Based on the accounts I have heard, you acted too quickly for the Nazgûl to turn his attention to you with sufficient time to mount a mental assault. Had you hesitated, I am certain you would now be suffering as your two oldest brothers are suffering."

"You said that you had not seen this attack used for some time," Legolas said quietly, his mind wheeling. "Why is that? Why would they hesitate to use it if it is so dangerous to us?"

"Because it is nearly as dangerous for the attacker as it is for the victim. The one employing the attack becomes distanced from his surroundings, and his ability to react to changing situations diminishes greatly. The Nazgûl took a great risk in using this method." Thranduil sighed and shook his head, directing his gaze toward the fire. "Unfortunately for us, the risk was a good one. Celebas and Taerorn were already heavily shadowed, as are we all. It required no great effort to darken their minds, and they lacked the knowledge to effectively strike back, though Celebas did become rather innovative."

"But they will recover, correct?"

"To an extent, yes, though I wonder if any of us shall ever completely recover. We have lived under this darkness too long," Thranduil murmured, his voice becoming distant. Then he shook his head and fixed his eyes upon Legolas once more. "Because your brothers will be unable to fulfill their duties for several weeks, you and Narsigil will shoulder their burden. For that, you shall need to be hale, my son," Thranduil concluded with a pointed glance in the direction of the untouched draught.

Once again, his composure broke and Legolas shuddered as he looked at the cup. "Father, I…"

"There is no shame in fear, Legolas," Thranduil said quietly. "This is the first time you have been thus singled out by a Nazgûl. I have yet to see an elf, man, or dwarf who did not shrink before the dark ones during their first real encounter."

"I dropped my weapons," Legolas hissed, his memory returning to the shadowed forest.

"You wielded them for a moment, and that is a great accomplishment."

"But why am I still shadowed? Why have I been unable to recover? You said I was not attacked as Celebas and Taerorn were. But what ails me?"

"You were essentially alone before a Nazgûl in the darkness of Mirkwood on the year’s longest night. You have never faced such fear before, and you were unable to rest and recover immediately afterward. The Nazgûl attacked you not with the intent to stun or to frighten but with the intent to kill and to maim. He paralyzed you with terror and then sought to destroy you. His shadow and his power cannot be so easily shrugged aside." Thranduil sighed and his eyes clouded briefly. "Be thankful that you are still alive and in possession of your own mind, Legolas. And be thankful that you are now given the opportunity to heal."

"I do not think I can face that fear again," Legolas confessed, his eyes closing in frustration.

"Your lack of trust in your abilities does not change your obligations," Thranduil answered, his tone becoming stern. "You are a prince of this realm, and you must take steps to free yourself of the Nazgûl’s taint as much as you are able. You must take the draught, and you must face your adversary."

"He is too strong," Legolas whispered. "And there is a darkness within me that I fear to fight. I do not think it can be defeated."

"Legolas, look at me."

"Father—"

"Look at me!" The command could not be ignored, and a reluctant Legolas eased his eyes open, turning them to his father’s face. "Hear me now," the king said, holding Legolas’s gaze. "The darkness you feel within yourself is made in part by the darkness of your own heart. We are all creatures of light and dark. There is both good and evil in all beings. The Nazgûl, through fear, has amplified your own misgivings and created an opening whereby your own shadows have begun to grow. There is nothing that can be done about that. Every elf in this realm is so affected. Such is our doom, Legolas. We fight a losing battle, but we fight until the last elf falls."

"This darkness within me…will it grow?" Legolas whispered.

"It will grow with every battle and every mission," Thranduil answered quietly. "It will grow with each passing year as our defenses continue to weaken. It will grow until the sight of your own face in a mirror gives you pain and grief." Thranduil paused for a moment, his eyes flashing with sorrow, and then he leaned forward, one hand coming to rest upon his son’s shoulder. "But you will learn to manage the darkness, Legolas, and it will make you strong. In some ways, this darkness might even be seen as a perverse gift. The warriors beneath our command know more of the deceits and power of the Enemy than the warriors of the other realms, for we are intimately acquainted with the shadow and strength that flows from Dol Guldur."

"We pay a great price for our knowledge," Legolas murmured.

"We do, and the price will rise as the years pass," Thranduil said, releasing Legolas’s arm and rising from the chair. "But for now, we resist the shadow, and we clutch at what little hope we can find. And we also do as duty dictates, which means that you, Legolas, will now drink this draught and sleep." The king took the cup from the table and held it out for his son. "That was not a suggestion," he added when Legolas hesitated.

Slowly and reluctantly, Legolas grasped the cup and stared at the liquid inside. It was clear and clean, like water trickling away from melting snow. The cup itself was warm to the touch, the fire having heated it, and for a brief moment, the shadows within Legolas’s soul subsided. He looked up at the flickering flames, noting that even though they were small and the room large, they managed to drive the shadows into hiding.

"Drink," Thranduil commanded gently, and his hand once again rested on the prince’s shoulder. "I will stay until your sleep is peaceful."

"I am sorry, father," Legolas murmured, still watching the fire. "I do not mean to be a burden."

"You are not," Thranduil answered softly. "I have done this with each of your brothers, Legolas. Your fear is not unique, and it is not a sign of weakness. Now drink, my son, and I will watch over you."

And Legolas drank, comforted by his father’s words and presence as well the reassurance he’d found in the fire. The draught worked swiftly, and before he knew what was happening, he was falling back onto the bed, his eyes glazing as sleep took him. He felt his father draw warm blankets over his body, and then the sound of a quiet song filled his mind. And as he drifted into dreams, he held tightly to this song, knowing it would sustain him against the darkness he was about to face.

Outside, the wind increased in force, rattling the balcony doors. The storm that had been building all afternoon was upon them, and snow began to fly in earnest, swirling past the windows in wild, chaotic patterns. But within Legolas’s room, the fire burned brightly, holding the outside world at bay and allowing two burdened elves a brief moment of sorrowful peace. The peace would not last, of course. The solstice was over, but the battle for survival continued. The rest of winter would be spent defending the realm against mountain goblins that came seeking lower climes with less snow. Then spring would come with an increase in Warg activities as the fell wolves hunted to feed their young. Summer would see spiders on the move, spinning their webs across pathways and feasting upon any that were caught unawares. Fall would bring with it countless Orc raids as the creatures sought to stock their supplies against the coming of snow and colder weather. And then it would start all over again with another winter solstice. But for now, all was quiet. For a brief moment, the dangers of the outside world could be forgotten.

His song drawing to a conclusion, Thranduil leaned over his son, gently brushing tendrils of hair away from the furrowed brow as he had when Legolas was but a child and frightened by the shadows beneath his bed. Now the child was a warrior: proud, capable, and fiercely resentful of dependence upon others. But there were still times when the innocent child returned, and as Legolas moaned in his sleep, Thranduil soothed him with a quiet word. His own duties called for him to leave, but Thranduil had promised to keep watch until Legolas’s sleep calmed and the king of Mirkwood never made an empty promise. The reports and councilors could wait another hour. And so he continued to sit beside his youngest son, sometimes singing and sometimes watching in silence, while the fire crackled merrily in the hearth. And outside, the world was buffeted by a fierce winter storm as the darkness of night slowly drew its cover over all.