Strider tossed Hodoer’s reins to the young Elfling stable attendant jogging up to him, and without a backward glance at the youth, ran toward the Palace gates in pursuit of the Elven patrol.  The captain and his troop were already dismounting their Elven horses when Strider came charging up to them.

          The Elf warrior in charge of the scouting patrol recognized Strider and nodded to the human as he approached but did not slacken his pace as he hurried toward the Palace entrance.  The ranger ran up alongside Amorfing and matched his gait to that of the Elven soldier.

          “Legolas?” he panted.  “Any sign of….Legolas?”

          Amorfing’s face was grim.  He shook his head negatively and continued up the steps to the Great Hall.  Strider followed closely behind him.  The remaining Elven bowmen of the first watch patrol held their horses steady and prepared to wait for their captain outside the Palace, ready to ride out again at a moment’s notice.

          Elf and human made their way down the dark, torch lit corridor toward King Thranduil’s common hall where they found his chief minister, Ganduil, sorting through documents and scrolls, presumably preparing for the king’s daily audience.  The hall itself, however, was empty.  It seemed there were no petitioners this day.  Strider noted this and wondered at the reason.  On each of his previous visits to Mirkwood, the hall had been packed with Elves and the men and merchants of Lake Town, but today the echoing chamber was deserted.

          Amorfing halted before Ganduil and acknowledged the minister with a slight bow.  “I must see the king, Lord Ganduil.  It concerns Prince Legolas.”

          The elder Elf Lord rose from his seat at the desk and moved forward, his eyes moving to take in Strider’s presence as well.  He knew of the young ranger and his friendship with the king’s son, but until now, had never had the occasion to speak with the adopted son of Elrond.  His gaze turned back to the Elven guardsman.

          “The king is not well.  Perhaps you could tell me this news?”

          Amorfing hesitated, his eyes dropping to the two long knives still clutched tightly in his left hand.  He glanced back up at the minister.  “I would prefer to speak with his majesty in person.”

          Ganduil stiffened at the rebuke, but he forced his lips into a twisted smile.  “Very well, then,” he demurred.  “I will see what I can do.”  He indicated a low wooden bench along the wall.  “Please be seated.  I shall not be long.”

          Amorfing looked as if he would protest, but Strider placed a restraining hand on the soldier’s arm and his eyes told the warrior to be patient.  The Elf nodded slightly and the two moved to the bench and took their seats while Ganduil disappeared into the inner chambers of the Palace.

          As soon as the minister was gone, Amorfing turned to Strider, his voice a low whisper.  “Do you know what happened to Prince Legolas?”

          Strider shook his head.  “I was hoping you could enlighten me.  We were separated yesterday eve.  I spent the night in the woods outside the city.  I had hoped Legolas would be here waiting for me when I arrived this morning.”

          Amorfing looked bewildered.  “Separated?  How?  Were you attacked?”  The thought of filthy orc raiders this close to Lasgalen had the warrior’s battle hardened instincts on high alert.

          “No,” Strider assured the Elf.  “No,” he paused, “not exactly.”

          The Elf captain turned to better face the young human.  “What exactly was it then?”

          Before he could reply, Ganduil glided back into the hallway and came toward them.  He gestured for them to follow.  “Come,” he said.  “The king will see you.”

          Strider and Amorfing arose and followed the minister into the private chambers of the royal family.   Although no stranger to the royal residence, having been a guest of Legolas on many a former occasion, Strider did not, however, recall ever before entering any of these dark corridors.  The small group halted before a massive oaken door and the minister tapped lightly upon the wood.  Without waiting for a reply, Ganduil opened the door and motioned for Amorfing and Strider to proceed.  The two entered the dimly lit room and Ganduil shut the door behind him as he joined them within the hushed chamber.

          The Elven King was standing at an open balcony window, his back to them.  The dark, heavy draperies that lined most of one large wall were closed save those where the king stood.   The dense trees and forest growth outside the balcony prohibited much of the morning sunlight from filtering into the room, giving it a murky, half-lit gloom. The king did not turn at their entrance.

          Strider glanced about the room and guessed they were in the king’s private study.  A large wooden desk, strewn with scrolls and parchments, took up much of the space near where the king silently stood gazing out the window.   Books, scrolls and parchments lined the walls in cutaway niches and there were several high backed chairs placed around a huge fireplace that was carved into the far wall, but no fire burned within the grate.  The air within the study was stuffy and close and Strider suppressed an urge to pull wide the drapes and let in the cool morning breeze.

          After an interminable silence, Ganduil finally moved toward the king and placed a hand upon Thranduil’s forearm.  “They are here, majesty,” he said softly.

          Thranduil nodded and slowly moved away from the balcony.  His features were hidden in shadow as he turned to face the Elf captain and ranger, but they could see his shoulders were bent forward as if he carried a great weight upon his back.   His long golden hair was unbraided and disheveled and he wore a simple robe and long tunic, not his usual grand attire.  Strider tensed at the sight of the king, sensing that something terrible had occurred within the Palace and it was affecting the king physically.  As the Elf Lord moved out of the shadows, Strider’s fears were confirmed as he caught sight of the king’s pale and stricken face.

          Amorfing, too, noticed the king’s haunted expression and hesitantly moved forward.  “Majesty,” he said, bending down upon one knee, his forearm across his chest, head bowed.  When Thranduil made no reply, the Elf dared a glance up at his king and then hurriedly continued.  “My patrol found these this morning outside the gates, no more than a hundred feet from the outer wall.”

          He brought the two Elven long knives forward, holding them out to the king on his open palms.  The king stared down at the knives, but made no move, nor did he speak.  Amorfing glanced sidelong at Ganduil, his eyes questioning, then turned back to his king.  “They belong to Prince Legolas.”

          Thranduil’s jaw muscles twitched and his eyes shut briefly, but not before Strider saw the terrible pain that they held.  Slowly he opened his eyes and moved toward his Elf captain.  His right hand stretched out and his slender fingers touched the proffered knives.   Gently, he moved them along the beautiful etched blades, tracing the elegant designs with his fingertips, and then he suddenly snatched his hand away from the knives as if his fingers had been burned by the metal's touch and a shuddering gasp escaped his lips.

          “Legolas,” he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut.  “What have I done?”

          Amorfing’s perplexed frown met Strider’s and Ganduil hurriedly rushed forward, grasping the king’s forearm and elbow and guiding him toward the chair behind his massive desk.   The captain arose, still holding the knives, not sure what he should do.  His eyes met Strider’s and together they moved as one toward the desk.  The warrior carefully placed the knives upon the cluttered desk top where a thin ray of sunlight glinted off the blades.

          “Sire,” asked the ranger, leaning forward, his hands placed firmly upon the oaken wood.  “What has happened here?   Do you know what befell Legolas?”  When there was no reply from the king, he pressed on.  “Majesty!”

          Ganduil glared up at the ranger and hissed.  “Can you not see the king is unwell?  You must leave now…”

          Thranduil’s quavering hand upon his arm stilled the minister’s words.  “No, Ganduil,” the king sighed.  “Let him stay.”

          The king’s striking blue eyes met Strider’s and a chill went through the young ranger.   His stare still locked with Strider, the king spoke to the warrior at the human’s side.  “Gather together your patrol, Amorfing,” the king ordered.  “Search the woods.  Find my son.”

          The Elf quickly nodded.  “Yes, my liege,” he bowed, and with a parting glance at Strider, hastened from the study to reassemble his patrol.  When he was gone, Strider turned back to the king.

          “He isn’t going to find Legolas out there, is he?” he asked through clenched teeth, his anger and fear for his friend rising.  “IS HE!?”

          Ganduil moved around the desk and pressed his hands to the ranger’s shoulders, placing himself between Strider and the king.  “Be silent, you young fool!” he hissed into the human’s face.

          Thranduil looked up at his minister and the young ranger and waved his hand at Ganduil.  “Let him go, Ganduil,” he murmured.  He looked at the human as if only just now realizing the significance of his presence in the room.  “What are you doing here, Aragorn?” he asked.  “Why is Legolas not with you?”

          Ganduil let his hands drop from the ranger’s shoulders and he stepped back a pace.  Strider placed his palms down upon the desk top and leaned forward toward the king.  “We were separated in the woods outside Lasgalen yesterday eve.”

          Thranduil looked to Ganduil and then back to the ranger.  “Separated?  How?”

          Strider angrily tossed his hands up into the air and began to pace.  “We were traveling along the Old Forest Road and had nearly reached the gates when Legolas announced that we were lost.  That he must have taken a wrong turn.  I thought him joking until I, too, could not identify any of our surroundings.”  He stopped and turned toward the king and minister.  “The forest had,” he hesitated, searching for the words to convey his meaning, “changed somehow.  I know it sounds mad, but the forest felt alive, foreign, evil…”

          Strider glanced at the king and saw that his face had grown paler and more fearful.  He looked to Thranduil’s minister and saw that he, too, mirrored his king’s anxiety.  The two before him were hiding some secret shared between them.  His eyes narrowed as he sought the king’s gaze.   “You know something about this, don’t you, majesty?”

          Thranduil looked away, rising instead and moving once more to the open balcony.  He gazed out at the dark woods as if seeking solace from the trees, but it was not to be.  He turned back to Strider.  “What happened then?”

          Strider came up beside the Elf Lord, gazing into his face, trying in vain to read the thoughts hidden behind the king’s ashen features.  “We thought it best to turn back.”  He lowered his eyes, remembering the panic and fear that had made him flee the woods, leaving Legolas behind.  A deep feeling of guilt and shame overcame him as he silently cursed his cowardly actions.  “I panicked and took off through the trees.  I thought Legolas was following me, but when I stopped some distance away, he was not behind me.”

          He looked up at the king’s face once more, his eyes pleading with the Elf Lord to tell him what he knew.  Thranduil turned away and moved back to his desk, but did not sit.  Instead he lifted a parchment from off the top of a precariously balanced stack and began to scan the script upon it.  Silently, he let it fall back upon the pile of scrolls and paper unread and then he looked back at Strider.

          “Did you search for him?” he asked quietly.

          Strider’s eyes filled with pain and remorse.  He looked away from the king and shook his head.  “No.  I could not.  It was too dark.  I, I thought it best to make camp for the night.  I was sure Legolas would see the fire and join me, but he did not.”  He turned back to the king, his face strained with remembered fear.  “And then there were the dreams…”

          Ganduil’s sharp glance went to the king and he silently pleaded with his liege to conclude this interview, but the king shook his head.  “No, Ganduil,” the king replied, a decision made.  “We must tell him.”

          “Majesty!  Do you think that wise?  Surely we can…”

          But Strider cut him off.  “Tell me what?”

          King Thranduil sank heavily into his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing at the throbbing pain in his head.  Finally he looked back at his son’s trusted friend and sighed wearily.

          “There are more evil things in this world than orcs, Aragorn,” he said softly.  “Ancient things, older than the Dwarves, older than Elfkind…” he hesitated, and then uttered the last in words almost too low for Strider to hear.  “Nameless Things.”

          Strider looked from the king to his minister and could see the terror that held both in its grip.  He did not know of what they spoke, but he could feel the chill of fear in the room.  “What are these,” he paused, “things?”  His hand had unconsciously moved to his sword hilt.  “Can we fight them?” he asked, looking from one Elf Lord to the other.

          Thranduil shook his head, his hands covering his face and his shoulders sagging forward with despair.  “We are doomed,” he whispered.  “No one can help us.”

           “There is one who can,” a deep voice emerged from the shadows at the doorway and all three gasped and turned toward the sound as the Istari, Mithrandir, walked slowly into the room.