One to rule them all. | Legolas.

Chapter 1- The call from the wild.

It is said that the stars themselves hold the power of direction. When they shine upon the world, they offer a map—a guide to those lost in darkness. With this celestial map, no soul would ever be truly lost, for the stars would always show the way. This gift, a treasure bestowed by a powerful and beautiful goddess, was once woven into the very fabric of the world. But one day, she vanished from Valar, never to be seen again. Some believe that her spirit still walks the earth, taking the form of a shadowy wolf. Always watching. Always waiting. But for what, none can say.

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The night was heavy as Arwen rode her horse, urging it forward as the shadows crept closer. The weight of the Nazgûl pressed upon her, their dark presence like a suffocating cloud. She could feel the terror in the air, but her resolve was unwavering. With Frodo in her arms, she reached the river that marked the boundary between danger and refuge.

"Lasto beth nin. Tolo dan na ngalad," she whispered, hoping to invoke the power of the Elves to guide them to safety. Her voice rang with magic, but the spell did not work as she intended. The river's water, though wide and deep, was not enough to hold back the encroaching shadows. The Nazgûl closed in, surrounding her.

"Give up the Half-ling, she-elf. Your magic will not work here," hissed one of the Dark Riders.

As they circled, Arwen's heart raced. She could hear the shrill cry of the Nazgûl growing louder, their presence like a choking fog. But then, something extraordinary happened. From the darkened hills, a massive shape lunged into the fray. A black wolf—its fur as dark as the night—pounced with ferocious speed, ripping through the Nazgûl one by one, tearing them apart with savage precision.

Arwen did not wait to see the results. She turned her horse and rode hard toward Rivendell, her mind focused solely on Frodo. She could not afford to falter—not while the Ring-bearer's life hung in the balance.

The great black wolf had been roaming the hills, a shadow among shadows, when a sudden presence brushed against its mind. It was fleeting, but unmistakable—a touch of darkness. The wolf froze, its senses on high alert, the ancient call of the wind stirring something deep within. Then came another sound—an echo on the breeze: a whistle. It was a sound the wolf had not heard in eons.

The call was familiar, urging it toward Rivendell. The wolf had no knowledge of what awaited, but something told it that many others—beings of great power—were also on their way. A council was forming. A gathering of the world's warriors.

But before answering that summons, the wolf knew it must first investigate the source of the dark presence. It followed the trail, the whispers of malevolence growing stronger as it drew nearer.

The wolf crept through the shadows, silently approaching the scene. There, in the clearing, it saw her—an Elf, an immortal being with the child of the Shire in her arms, surrounded by the looming figures of the Nazgûl. The darkness was closing in, and time was running out.

Without hesitation, the wolf sprang into action. In an instant, it tore into the Nazgûl, ripping their heads from their shoulders, one by one. Its attack was swift, brutal, and precise. The Nazgûl had no chance to react, their dark forms falling to the earth.

Once the last of the Riders was slain, the wolf stood, panting and bloodied. It turned, expecting to see the Elf, but she was already gone, riding hard toward Rivendell, her path illuminated by the dim light of the stars. The wolf's duty was clear. It would follow. It would protect. It would wait for the council to begin.