Merry Christmas! I wrote this prologue for Mirkwood: The Forest of Fear. This was originally how I was going to start the story until I did more research and realized it wasn't close enough to canon, in my opinion. So I scrapped it and started over. Because I worked hard on this prologue, I'm posting it here for you to enjoy as a Christmas present. I plan on starting my Arda series project in 2021.

Leaves rustled in the breeze, changing patterns of the Sun's beams on the ground as they pierced the canopy. Birds twittered happily as they streaked across the blue sky, returning to their nests and young with food. Below, majestic deer grazed on vibrant green shoots. White spotted fawns frolicked after their parents on shaky legs. Red and grey squirrels chased each other into the trees, their cheeks bulging with nuts.

Despite all of this outside, the focus of the Queen of Mirkwood's eye was her son. Her whole world lay in her arms swaddled in a light green blanket. Legolas was her pride and joy. He had his father's Sindarin blond hair, though it was a shade darker. She liked to believe that her own ross-brown hair influenced that. Both his parents had blue eyes, but Legolas inherited hers: a twilight azure. Those eyes held an age that would not be expected if he were a human and not an Elf. He had already lived much longer than he appeared.

A butterfly as vibrant blue as their eyes landed softly on the railing. Legolas studied it with wide, curious eyes. After a moment, it fluttered away to rejoin its kin.

She sensed him approaching with her Elven warrior instincts long before feeling his embrace and kiss on her cheek. Wordlessly, she placed Legolas into his father's strong arms.

Fainmîr stepped back to take in the scene before her. Thranduil's silver blue eyes never left their son's face, ignoring the entire world as she had done. A smile adorned his face. A face that had the potential to be cold and regal, softened by that tender smile. That's why she loved it. She locked the moment away in her eternal memory.

All too soon, the moment was interrupted by a young Elf named Feren. There was an urgent expression on his face and his hushed words into the king's ear shadowed the joy with grim seriousness.

Wordlessly, the King of Mirkwood handed the prince back to his mother. For the anxiety on her face, Thranduil sent Fainmîr a reassuring smile he reserved only for her before leaving the balcony with his faithful subject in tow.

The moment they were alone, there was a beat before a cold wind suddenly cut through the air like a knife. Legolas shuddered through his blanket and fell silent. The mother instinctively held her son close to her breast as she searched for the source of the chill. Her free hand rested upon the hilt of her sword, which King Thranduil had made for his queen.

She almost drew it when a guard rushed at them. He was breathless, hands pressed against his knees as he gasped for air. His face was pale with fear. She had not witnessed one of her blessed kin so spent and afraid since the War of the Last Alliance at the end of the reign of King Oropher.

"Meletyalda," the guard finally managed, "I must escort you and the prince to safety."

"Why? What is happening."

The moment she finished speaking, another cold breeze swept over the land. The queen gazed out over the kingdom. Beyond the barriers of the Woodland Realm, Greenwood the Great was changing. The once alive forest was now so silent. The Sun was still shining brightly, but she could barely feel her warmth. There was a new scent in the air. It was sickeningly sweet like poison. There was barely a difference to her eyes and she would have thought it nothing if it were not for the foreboding in her heart.

"What is the cause of this?" Fainmîr whispered. Her question hung in the air, but she knew the answer deep within. The air was unusually thick; thick with evil. She sensed a darkness slowly spreading like a plague. Legolas began to cry, his pure heart sensing the same darkness. Even the guard shuddered as his face turned a shade paler.

"Follow me, meletyalda. Quickly."

With her son in her arm and a hand on her sword hilt, Fainmîr followed the ellon deeper inside the palace. It was strangely empty.

"Where is the king?" she asked.

"He has taken a patrol to Amon Lanc."

"Why would he go to his father's abandoned capital?"

"The king believes that it may be the cause of this sickness."

This made the queen stop in her tracks. "Sickness?"

"Alá. A patrol reported decay infecting the trees around Amon Lanc. They did not dare draw closer and returned to report to the king."

A clear horn echoed from the palace doors. The guard and queen paused to exchange worried glances. Fainmîr called over a passing healer and handed her the future of Greenwood with instructions to care for him in his personal room. Then she and the guard ran to the doors.

Feren was awaiting them with a grim expression. At the boarder of the Woodland Realm, a crowd of Elves gathered, each loaded with belongings. Many of them were covered in scratches and some were wounded more severely. Elflings were crying, eyes wide with terror. Black stains speckled their armor and tunics.

"Let them in," Queen Fainmîr ordered with an authoritative tone she rarely used.

"But, meletyalda..." the young ellon began to protest.

"We have enough room, Feren. Late King Oropher built this place to be a fortress for all of Greenwood's people to find refuge."

Elves flooded through the doors and collapsed onto the floor, safe at last. Healers rolled up their sleeves and began to treat the injured.

Fainmîr kneeled beside an ellon who had a hand pressed against his bleeding side. The Silvan queen placed her slender hands over his to help stem the bleed. "What has happened?" she inquired.

"Orcs," he gasped. "Orcs attacked our village."

"Orcs?" Fainmîr repeated. "Orcs have not been seen since the War of the Last Alliance of the Second Age."

"The Shadow has encouraged them. Something is happening in Greenwood."

"Where is the king?" asked a younger Elf, leaning against an unstrung bow.

"He is investigating Amon Lanc where we believe is the source of... this Shadow," she replied. "Once he returns, we will have more information."

King Thranduil did not arrive till long after the Sun sank below the horizon. It was the darkest night anyone in Greenwood has ever seen. There was no evening breeze to make the soothing rustle of leaves. There was no nocturnal presence to bring life to the night. It was still and deafeningly silent, like the forest was holding its breath.

A wave of relief washed over Fainmîr as her husband's brown elk trotted into view with the Woodland Realm Guard following.

"What did you find?"

Thranduil kissed her quickly as his loyal steed galloped away. "Not here. I am calling a war council."

War. It has been a thousand years since she heard that word spoken with that kind of weight.

It wasn't long before she was standing around a table with her husband and the leading officers in the army. A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows on the walls, the map before them and on the grim faces of the Elves in the room.

Thranduil placed his knuckles on the table and paused as if searching for the right words. Raising his head, a seriousness could be felt behind the blue flames in his eyes. The orange fire glinted off of his silver armor.

"A Shadow is invading our home as we speak. A darkness we have not seen since the days of Sauron." The fire flickered violently at the mention of the dark lord's name. "I took a patrol to follow the sickness poisoning our forest to its source. We traced it to Amon Lanc." He pointed to the place on the map of Greenwood the Great. "It was not like I remembered. The trees surrounding the hill were black and screaming in pain. The capital itself was eerie and dark and evil. We didn't dare step onto its premises as we felt almost repelled by its darkness."

Fainmîr nodded as the first two pieces of the confusing puzzle clicked together. "It's true that the source of this power has taken over Amon Lanc. Tiro." She tapped the parchment. "The village that was attacked is the closest one we have located to Amon Lanc. It would make sense that whatever has occupied it would want the nearest threat eliminated."

"Who would use Orcs other than a servant of Sauron or the dark lord himself?" an officer pointed out worriedly.

"We should send a message to the White Council or Mithrandir himself," someone else suggested. "Perhaps they know who it is. At the very least, they should be warned."

"I believe Mithrandir is already aware. And if he is not now, he will be," Thranduil assured him. "All we know now is that Amon Lanc is a place of evil and is forbidden. From this day forth, it shall be known as Dol Guldur and its occupant the Necromancer until confirmed otherwise."

Hill of Sorcery. A fitting name. This Shadow was certainly the result of dark power.

"What are your orders, meletyalda?"

"Double the guard. We will call the people to the Woodland Realm before they are attacked by Orcs or worse."

It remained unspoken, but the intent hung in the air. War was upon them.

Queen Fainmîr spent a restless night at her son's crib, watching him sleep peacefully as her concerns for the future of the kingdom whirled in her mind like a storm. When morning finally broke, she scooped Legolas up in her arms and took him to the same balcony they stood the day before.

The Shadow had spread during the night. The feeling of malice had grown and the forest was still.

Legolas did not smile.

Thus, Greenwood the Great became known as Mirkwood, the Forest of Fear, where the Shadows lie.

Translations
Sindarin:
Ross - Red-haired, copper-coloured
Legolas - Green leaf
Fainmîr - White jewel
Thranduil - Vigorous spring
Amon Lanc - Naked Hill
Tiro - Look!
Mithrandir - 'Grey Pilgrim,' Gandalf's Elvish name
Dol Guldor - Hill of Sorcery

Quenya:
Meletyalda - Your majesty
Feren - Beech-tree
Alá - Yes
Sauron - The Cruel