The council chamber occupied a natural amphitheater where five ancient trees had grown together, their roots forming tiers of seating that rose around a central speaking floor. Afternoon light filtered through the woven canopy, casting patterns that shifted with the wind.
The seats were half-filled. This wasn't a full council—Legolas had requested a targeted audience, bringing only those with authority over Mirkwood's defense. His father sat at the highest tier, an antlered throne of living wood that framed him in natural majesty.
Thranduil's expression was unreadable. It had been unreadable since Legolas entered.
"You requested formal audience, ion nín." The King's voice carried easily through the chamber's acoustics. "An unusual choice, for a matter you could have raised in private."
"The matter concerns the realm, Father. It seemed appropriate to address the realm's servants."
A ripple of murmurs from the council members. Legolas standing on ceremony was itself unusual enough to provoke comment.
He stepped to the speaking floor's center and forced his hands to remain still at his sides. The memory of the Shadow's whisper still echoed at the edge of his awareness—unwritten one—but he couldn't let that show.
"Mirkwood is dying."
Silence.
"We have known this for centuries," Legolas continued. "The corruption spreads year by year, claiming zones we once patrolled freely. Our borders contract. Our patrols shrink. We retreat and we retreat, and we call it strategy."
Thranduil's eyes had narrowed, but he hadn't interrupted. That was either a good sign or a very bad one.
"I propose we stop retreating."
One of the older council members—Calanon, Master of Patrols—shifted in his seat. "The Prince speaks boldly. Does he also speak with a plan, or merely with frustration?"
"With a plan." Legolas met the old warrior's skeptical gaze directly. "I have recovered—through deep meditation and communion with the forest's memory—techniques of light-weaving from the First Age. Techniques that can cleanse corrupted soil, purify infected trees, push back the Shadow's influence zone by zone."
The silence that followed was different from the first. More charged.
"First Age light-weaving." Thranduil's voice was soft, dangerous. "Such arts have not been practiced in millennia. Where exactly did you 'recover' them?"
Here we go.
Legolas had prepared for this question, rehearsed answers until they felt natural on his borrowed tongue. "The corruption pressed against me, Father. In resisting it, I found old paths. The forest itself remembers what it was—I merely listened."
"Listened." The King's repetition dripped with skepticism. "And the forest simply... taught you magic that the greatest of our loremasters have never recovered?"
"The forest has never been this desperate before." Legolas let a fraction of genuine emotion enter his voice. "The corruption presses closer every year. Perhaps it was willing to share what it would have kept hidden in better times."
Murmurs again, but different in quality. Some of the council members looked uncertain rather than dismissive. The forest's desperation was real—everyone in this chamber had watched the borders shrink—and the idea that it might reach out for salvation wasn't entirely implausible.
Thranduil studied him for a long moment. Legolas could see the calculation happening behind those cold eyes—weighing suspicion against hope, fear of the unknown against desperation for solutions.
"You propose to cleanse corrupted zones," the King said finally. "Using techniques no one else can verify. Techniques that appeared, conveniently, after you began acting strangely enough to concern your own household."
"I propose to prove myself." Legolas stepped forward, accepting the implicit challenge. "One small zone. Monitored by whatever observers you choose. If I succeed, the realm benefits and my claims are validated. If I fail..." He spread his hands. "Then you know my assertions were false, and I accept whatever consequence that merits."
The gamble hung in the air between them.
Thranduil rose from his throne—a theatrical gesture that sent the council into stillness. He descended the root-tiers slowly, each step deliberate, until he stood directly before his son.
"You have changed," the King said, soft enough that only Legolas could hear. "Whatever caused it, whatever you hide behind your convenient explanations—you are not the son who stood in this chamber a month ago."
Legolas met his father's eyes without flinching. Legolas's memories wanted him to look away, to show deference, to be the proper prince who never challenged the king's authority. But that prince couldn't save Mirkwood. That prince would watch the forest die while observing proper protocols.
"Perhaps change was necessary."
Something flickered across Thranduil's face—grief? Pride? Legolas couldn't parse it before it vanished.
The King turned back to the council.
"The prince's proposal is... unconventional. But our situation grows increasingly dire, and desperate times may call for desperate measures." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "I grant permission for a single trial. A small corrupted zone of my choosing. Guards will observe. Success will earn further opportunity. Failure will earn closer scrutiny."
Thranduil looked back at Legolas.
"Do not make me regret this."
"I will not, Father."
The words came easily. Whether they would prove true remained to be seen.
The council dispersed in murmurs and glances. Several of the older members looked at Legolas with expressions he couldn't read—disapproval, perhaps, or reluctant hope. Calanon caught his eye and nodded, an acknowledgment that might have been respect.
Thranduil remained as the chamber emptied. Father and son stood alone on the speaking floor, the weight of centuries pressing between them.
"I assigned Tauriel's patrol to escort your trial," the King said. "She has proven observant and reliable. She will report accurately what she witnesses."
She will report what I do, Legolas translated. And she will tell you if I'm a threat.
"Tauriel is an excellent choice."
"She is ambitious." Thranduil's eyes held something sharp. "Ambitious enough to curry favor with a prince who has shown her unusual attention. I wonder if that attention was calculated."
"She's wasted at her current rank. The realm benefits from competence, wherever it originates."
The King's almost-smile held no warmth. "You sound like a reformer. Another change I must apparently accept."
He turned and ascended toward his throne, dismissing Legolas without words.
At the chamber's entrance, Legolas paused and looked back. His father had settled into the antlered seat, posture perfect, expression distant.
Hope, Legolas realized. That flicker he'd seen earlier—it had been hope. Whatever suspicions Thranduil harbored, part of him wanted his son's claims to be true. Wanted the corruption to have a solution beyond endless retreat.
It was a fragile thing, that hope. Legolas would have to be careful not to break it.
The council doors closed behind him. Somewhere to the south, he knew, the Shadow's attention would pulse in response to what had just happened. It had heard. It would be waiting.
One week to prepare. One chance to prove that borrowed power could save what native magic had failed to protect.
Legolas walked toward his chambers, already planning.
Note:
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.