Laerion, Captain of the Woodland Guard, had seen many strange sights cross the forest borders—wandering merchants from Dale, rampaging beasts from the deeper wilds, even an orc warband bold enough to test the king's gates. But never this.
The ship sat like a dream made solid upon the grass—silent save for a low, steady hum that seemed to thrum not in the air, but in the bones of all who stood near it. Its hull bore no heraldry of elf, man, or dwarf. Instead, the surface caught the sunlight in a way that made it seem the dawn itself had been trapped within metal, each gleam shifting like water.
Laerion raised one gloved hand—an unspoken order for the guards to hold position but keep their arrows ready. Bows stayed drawn, eyes sharp.
A movement on the vessel's flank. A ramp hissed open, lowering to touch the moss without a sound. From within stepped out a young man, though still with the look of someone not long out of boyhood. His clothing was cut in a style Laerion had never seen before: fine, practical, made for swift movement yet tailored with an almost princely care. His gaze swept the ring of elven watchers without flinching, and when his eyes met Laerion's, he smiled faintly—as though all this were merely a formality.
Behind him came thirteen dwarves, their beards plaited and mail-shirts worn from hard travel. Laerion's jaw tightened. King Thranduil had never forgiven their kind for the treasure wars of old. In any other circumstance, such an arrival might have warranted the portcullis slammed shut. And last came… a small figure, barefoot and beardless, with bright, quick eyes—one of the halfling folk, if the old tales spoke true.
Murmurs rippled through the elves gathered behind the guard line. Some speculated in hushed Sindarin whether this was a vessel of Gondolin come again. Others muttered about the Istari. More simply stared in open curiosity. Gasps rose—some for the dwarves, for old grudges were slow to fade; others for the hobbit, for few in the Woodland Realm had ever seen such a creature in the flesh.
Laerion gave a subtle downward flick of his hand—lower your aim, but keep the arrows notched. Bowstrings eased, but the heads of their shafts stayed in the direction of the strangers.
He stepped forward, voice clear and formal.
"Halt, strangers. You stand before the halls of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm. State your names and your purpose—or turn back."
The young man inclined his head politely.
"Hello there. My name is Benjamin Carter. A humble wizard."
He bowed with a practiced grace. At once, a fresh current of whispers rippled through the crowd—a wizard. Of course it would take such a one to command a vessel like this.
The wizard's voice carried easily, calm and assured.
"We bear letters for King Thranduil, from Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and Saruman the White of the Istari. If the king is willing to see us, I will deliver them to him, and we will speak of urgent matters of great importance."
Surprise flickered openly across several faces. Laerion allowed himself the smallest frown before making a hand signal. A runner broke from the line, vanishing along the inner path toward the king's halls.
"A messenger has been sent to the king," Laerion announced. "He will decide what is to be done with you."
Several dwarves shifted uneasily at that—muttered words in Khuzdul, hard glances at the guards. But the young wizard only smiled, as though the delay were an invitation.
"Splendid," he said warmly. "I hope you don't mind if we get comfortable, then."
Before Laerion could respond, the young man lifted a hand—and the air itself seemed to ripple. With a soft pop of displaced air, plush armchairs in rich, velvety fabric appeared on the grass, their cushions plump and inviting. Gasps broke from the watching elves. A moment later, tall canopies of bright colors unfurled behind the chairs, casting deep pools of shade against the summer sun.
The wizard waved again, and crystal-clear goblets, cool with beads of condensation, materialized and drifted through the air toward his companions. Inside each, a thick, vividly colored drink swirled like molten fruit. The dwarves and hobbit accepted them without hesitation, sinking into their armchairs with audible sighs of satisfaction.
Many elves could not help but stare—half in wonder, half in suspicion. They had never seen such casual magic.
Ben raised his own glass toward the crowd, smiling as though among old friends.
"Anyone wants a smoothie?"
---
The halls of the Woodland Realm were cool and dim, their high-beamed ceilings carved like the undersides of ancient leaves, their walls lined with woven tapestries of green and gold. Tauriel's light tread barely disturbed the quiet, but her brow was furrowed.
Like all Silvan elves, she felt the pulse of the forest as one might feel the beat of their own heart—and that heartbeat had grown strained. Something dark was spreading through the Greenwood, slow but relentless. In recent patrols she had seen it herself: webs clinging to trees like burial shrouds, silk glistening in the pale light, choking branch and leaf alike. When the guard had tracked the threads back, they'd found a nest of spiders—each as large as a horse, their mandibles dripping venom.
The nest had been burned, yet more of the creatures spilled from the south as though drawn by some foul summons.
So far, none had dared cross into the Woodland Realm proper. But already the forest beyond their borders was emptying of game, the air itself thick with unease. Tauriel pitied any traveller who tried to cross now. Even the Elven-road, once the surest path through Mirkwood, could not be called safe.
She had spoken of this to Legolas; he, in turn, had carried it to Thranduil. The king's reply had been cool and measured: If the spiders set no foot in my realm, they are no concern of ours.
Tauriel's mouth tightened at the memory.
She was still dwelling on it when a blur of motion caught her eye—a fellow guard, Tathar, running full-tilt through the corridor. It was rare enough to see an elf hurry; rarer still with such an expression, a mixture of shock and disbelief.
Curiosity stirred. She let him gain a lead, then followed at a distance. His path wound through arching corridors until it opened into the Great Hall.
Tauriel halted just outside the threshold.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of polished wood and summer leaves. At the far end of the chamber, Thranduil sat upon his throne, a marvel of carven elm and beech whose curling forms suggested both roots and branches. Two captains stood beside him, their armor gleaming in the filtered light.
The sharp beat of Tathar's boots rang against the stone. All three elves turned toward him. Dropping to one knee, he bowed his head.
Tathar: "My lord—there is a… vessel before our gates. A ship."
Thranduil's gaze sharpened, one brow lifting.
Thranduil: "A ship?"
Tathar: "A flying ship, my king."
From her place in the shadows, Tauriel's eyes widened. A flying ship?
Thranduil's tone cooled to something between curiosity and skepticism.
Thranduil: "A flying ship."
Tathar: "Yes, my lord. It moved not by wind, but by some unknown magic. From it descended a young man in strange attire… thirteen dwarves… and a halfling."
A faint snort came from one of the captains.
Captain: "Dwarves at our gates can mean only trouble."
Thranduil's hand lifted slightly, forestalling further comment.
Thranduil: "Go on."
Tathar: "The young man named himself Benjamin Carter—a wizard."
A ripple of surprise passed through the captains. Tauriel felt it too. Wizards were rare, and rarely traveled with such company.
Thranduil's pale eyes narrowed, though his voice remained light.
Thranduil: "Is that so?"
Tathar: "He says he bears missives for you, my lord—from Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond, and Saruman the White. He requests an audience to speak of urgent matters."
Tauriel's mind was already turning. A wizard with letters from the three greatest powers of the West—and in the company of dwarves and a hobbit? This she had to see. She slipped silently back from the doorway, already setting her course for the gates.
Within the hall, Thranduil rose from his throne in one fluid motion. The silver circlet of leaves upon his brow caught the lamplight.
Thranduil: "A man who travels in the company of dwarves and hobbits must indeed have an interesting tale. I shall hear it."
He set his crown more firmly upon his brow and addressed his captains.
Thranduil: "Double the guard at the gates. Place archers in the High Watch."
His gaze returned to Tathar.
Thranduil: "Bring this Benjamin Carter to me. Treat him with courtesy… but watch his every step."
---
Tauriel was not alone on the winding path to the front gates. Word of the strange arrival had already flown through the halls swifter than any messenger, and elves—guards and civilians alike—were drifting toward the outer bridge. Even a few elflings, eyes wide with excitement, scampered ahead under the watchful gazes of their elders. Visitors were rare in the Woodland Realm; visitors arriving in a magic flying ship rarer still.
She was halfway across an arched corridor when a familiar voice called her name.
Legolas: "Tauriel!"
She turned to see the Woodland Prince striding toward her, golden hair catching the lamplight, his expression curious. Falling into step beside her, he cast a glance down the passage.
Legolas: "What is all this talk of a flying ship?"
They walked together, their boots making soft sounds against the stone floor. Tauriel answered without breaking pace.
Tauriel: "From what I've heard, a young human wizard appeared at our gates—with thirteen dwarves and a halfling—arriving aboard it."
Legolas's brows lifted slightly.
Legolas: "Dwarves? Here? They haven't been seen in these parts since the fall of Dale and Erebor."
Tauriel: "What's more, the wizard claims he carries messages for the King—from Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond, and Saruman of the Istari."
Legolas glanced at her, surprise deepening.
Legolas: "Where did you hear that? Were you at the gates?"
A faint, knowing smile curved her lips.
Tauriel: "No. I saw Tathar running through the halls and followed. I overheard him telling the King."
Legolas gave a soft laugh, shaking his head.
Legolas: "Ever the curious one."
At barely six centuries of age, Tauriel was young by elven measure, her spirit still bright and untempered by the long years. Legolas had always found it refreshing—a spark of zeal in a realm grown too used to its own safety.
The great stone doors loomed ahead, carved with curling vines and ancient runes. Passing through, they stepped into the open air. The River Running glittered below the high bridge they crossed, its steady murmur echoing in the gorge.
Beyond the gates lay a crowd of onlookers, their gazes fixed ahead. And there it was—the ship.
Eighty feet from bow to stern, it was wrought of gold, silver, and polished wood, gleaming as though freshly made. No sails crowned its mastless frame; instead, elegant wings swept from its sides, catching the sunlight in shifting patterns.
In front of it, the company of strangers lounged in armchairs—soft, overstuffed, and utterly out of place in the greenwood. Thirteen dwarves of varying ages, their beards braided and clasped in gold or copper, and a cheerful hobbit in a neat tweed coat. At their center sat a young man—dark-haired, bright-eyed—clearly human, though dressed in garments unlike any Legolas or Tauriel had seen.
Before them hovered a silver device, no larger than a barrel lid, projecting a moving curtain of light into the air.
On it, a ridiculous bird with absurdly long legs sprinted through a painted desert, pursued by a desperate coyote in an equally absurd contraption. The coyote ignited a rocket and shot off in a completely wrong direction, vanishing with a puff of smoke. The dwarves howled with laughter, one of them actually wiping tears from his eyes.
The elves stared in bewilderment, murmuring to each other. Never had they seen such magic, nor such frivolous use of it.
Tathar emerged from the press of onlookers, clearly startled by the spectacle. Perhaps he had expected the strangers to wait in stiff, diplomatic silence. Instead, he found them in the midst of what could only be called… play.
Crossing to Laerion, he delivered the King's command. Laerion nodded, then stepped forward, voice carrying over the laughter.
Laerion: "Benjamin Carter—our King will see you now."
The young wizard sprang to his feet, stretching lazily.
Benjamin: "Perfect."
He turned toward a dwarf in a deep blue coat.
Benjamin: "Care to join me, Thorin?"
The dwarf gave a dismissive snort without taking his eyes from the screen.
Thorin: "No, thank you. I'd rather see if this coyote ever manages to catch this tricky bird."
Benjamin: "Suit yourself."
Flashing an easy smile at the guards, Benjamin gestured.
Benjamin: "Alright, lads—lead on."
He fell in step behind a pair of guards, heading toward the gates with an unhurried gait.
Legolas and Tauriel exchanged a look—half intrigue, half amusement—and slipped into the procession, their steps silent as they followed this strange wizard into the heart of the Woodland Realm.
---
Ben walked with measured steps between the two guards of the Woodland Realm, his boots making little sound on the polished stone paths. His eyes wandered across the hall, drinking in the artistry of a place that seemed less carved by hand than coaxed into being by harmony between stone and nature.
Great pillars rose like the trunks of ancient trees, their surfaces etched with patterns so fine they looked as though real bark had once stood there and simply hardened into stone. High above, the carved branches interlaced into a canopy, where lanterns of silver and gold dangled like stars caught in a net of leaves. Between the pillars ran long walkways, some at ground level, others like airy bridges crossing high above, with railings wrought in delicate leaf and vine motifs.
The sound of water was ever-present. Cool, clear streams flowed from hidden springs within the rock, channeled into shallow channels that bordered the walkways, their surfaces glittering in the lanternlight. In some places, they spilled in thin veils down smooth walls, vanishing into shadowy pools.
It was a place that breathed with stillness, but Ben's instincts told him he was not alone. He slowed, casting a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, two figures followed at a deliberate, unhurried pace. One was tall, with hair like spun gold and the composed bearing of one who belonged entirely to such a place. The other moved with quiet alertness, her auburn hair catching the lantern glow, her keen eyes studying him with something between caution and curiosity.
Ben let the guards get several paces ahead before turning slightly, his voice carrying lightly across the hall.
"Tell me," he said with an arched brow, "are you supposed to keep shadowing me all day, or is this an elaborate sort of welcoming committee?"
The golden-haired elf gave a faint, polite smile.
"We were curious," he replied, his voice smooth as still water. "It is not every day a flying ship comes to rest at our gates."
The elleth beside him tilted her head, her eyes not leaving Ben.
"Nor every day," she added, "that its captain walks so calmly into the heart of the Woodland Realm without fear."
Ben chuckled, the sound warm and self-deprecating.
"Fear? Oh, I've plenty of that. I just keep it in the same drawer as my common sense—closed, most of the time."
A flicker of laughter escaped her at that, quiet but genuine, while the elf prince's eyes lingered on Ben with an assessing sharpness that suggested he was weighing more than words.
Ben inclined his head with a hint of a flourish.
"Benjamin Carter," he said. "But friends call me Ben."
The golden-haired elf placed his hand lightly over his chest in greeting, bowing with graceful ease.
"Legolas, son of Thranduil."
The elleth followed with a soft nod.
"Tauriel," she said simply, her voice carrying the lilting cadence of her people.
Ben smiled, his eyes glinting with humor.
"Back home, if two people followed me like this, it was usually because they wanted an autograph."
Both elves glanced at each other, the word clearly unfamiliar. Legolas spoke first.
"What is… an autograph?"
Ben spread his hands as if about to explain a grand secret.
"A sort of written souvenir. You hand me a bit of paper, I scribble my name across it in a way that makes it look far more important than it is, and suddenly it's something to brag about to your friends."
Legolas exchanged a glance with Tauriel, a trace of amusement flickering in his eyes.
"The Men of the Lake do not do this," he remarked.
"No," Ben admitted, "but then again, I'm not exactly from Lake-town or Gondor or Rohan, or any other place you might have heard of."
Tauriel's eyes sharpened with interest.
"Then where are you from?" she asked.
Ben's smile turned knowing, but not unkind.
"That," he said, "is a long story. One I'd be happy to share with you both… perhaps over dinner."
For a moment, the elves looked at one another, some silent understanding passing between them. Legolas gave the faintest of nods.
"Perhaps," he said evenly. "We will see how the day goes."
Ben grinned.
"I like the sound of that."
And with that, the three of them continued on together, their footsteps echoing lightly in the vastness of the elven hall.