Roots
Dwimordene
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com



Chapter One -   Meeting in Mirkwood

Legolas, son of Thranduil and prince of Mirkwood, lay flat on his stomach high 
above the ground, and he gazed down from his perch amid the branches of a great 
pine with no small curiosity. From this lofty vantage point, he had a clear view 
of the road that cut through the forest, but his attention was not upon it. 
Rather, it was upon the pair of figures that moved through the trees, and more 
precisely, upon the taller of the two. For he glided along with an almost elvish 
grace, clearly quite at home in a wood though Legolas knew him not at all nor 
what his errand might be. As for the other, the stooped, crawling figure on a 
halter seemed more beast than being, and Legolas grimaced in distaste, wondering 
what it was. The boundaries of Thranduil's realm lay still some miles north of 
this point, and it was sheer chance that had brought him to this place, for he 
had been tracking Wargs all the night before without success. Today's hunt had 
been equally profitless, until now. Instead of Wargs, I find a pair of 
vagabonds! But what are they and whence come they? Now, he lifted his gaze to 
the tall figure crouched at his side and asked softly, "What make you of these 
two, Aradhil?"

Aradhil, a forest warden experienced in the hunt, frowned and raised a hand, 
palm upward. "I know not, my prince. And after the appearance of thirteen 
Dwarves and one hobbit nigh upon eighty years ago, I thought I had seen all that 
the forest had to offer by way of oddity!" The other paused, considering the 
apparitions, and then added, "Do they think to hide from us, by risking the 
trees rather than taking the road?"

"Nay," Legolas replied, turning his attention back to the wanderers. "Nay, I 
think not. See, the one knows well how to move in a forest, but he makes no 
effort to keep to cover. And so for all that he goes quietly, it seems to me 
clear that he does not mean to conceal himself. You are certain you have not 
seen him before?"

"He is no Lakeman, and certainly no hobbit!" The other responded. "And though I 
cannot be certain from here, I think he is not an Elf, either. As for the other, 
I cannot hazard a guess, my prince."

"Well, we shall soon discover the truth," Legolas said, feeling automatically 
for the knife at his belt as he gave Aradhil a mischievous smile. "Hold your 
place here, and I shall flush our quarry, as it were!"

"Carefully, your highness! I would not want to explain myself to your father 
should anything happen to you!" Aradhil cautioned. But he obeyed, and even gave 
a slight smile as he watched the younger Elf drop silently to the earth and 
disappear amid the trees, for he had hunted with Legolas before and knew well 
that the other could never resist a mystery. Fortunately, Thranduil's youngest 
son was also handy with a blade and well-able to take care of himself. And if it 
should prove otherwise this time, still he will be safe enough, for I have not 
missed a shot since the fall of Eregion! Aradhil thought with a predator's 
complacent confidence as he bent his bow and took aim.

***

Waiting in the deep shadows for which Mirkwood was justly famous, Legolas held 
himself perfectly still. For though he was now nearly certain that the other was 
not an Elf, the very fact that he could doubt his own judgment in such a matter 
argued for the utmost respect for the other's abilities. It would not do, after 
all, for a Wood-Elf and a prince to betray himself through sheer carelessness, 
particularly not against an unwitting opponent. So he crouched and waited 
eagerly for the other's approach to bring him near enough for Legolas to judge 
better with what and whom he dealt. Already, his sharp ears had detected a low, 
steady stream of whimpering, interspersed with muttered, thickly-accented words, 
and an occasional sound that seemed to him as a sick frog croaking. As for the 
other, over that mumbling litany, even Legolas could hear nothing of his 
soft-footed movements, which was on the one hand frustrating but on the other 
quite intriguing. The pair drew nearer, almost even with the prince, and the Elf 
grimaced. Cautiously, Legolas began to creep along a parallel track, following 
by sound alone. Not that that is any great feat! he thought, wrinkling his nose 
at the disgusting and pervasive noises. What is that creature? I would stop them 
here and prevent this stranger from bringing that… thing… into my father's 
realm, but that I know naught of his motives. And, the Elf admitted silently, 
with a slight smile, I enjoy this too much! 'Tis a change, and a novelty, and 
that is saying much, even for one so young as I! Of course, at some point, 
pleasure would have to submit to necessity, and he and Aradhil would reveal 
themselves, but for the moment, Legolas was more than willing to be entertained.

Through the clinging brush and the concealing trees, he slipped in secret, 
unremarked by his quarry, and he knew that Aradhil followed circumspectly 
through the branches of the trees. Once in a while, he would even catch a stray 
glimpse of the warden, but Aradhil had many more years on the hunt than had he, 
and could elude even a prince if he so desired. In any case, Legolas paid him 
little heed, still intent upon guessing the other's identity. And it seemed to 
him that though the other was certainly a stranger, he seemed to have some idea 
of his path, for at intervals, he would pause a moment, take his bearings, and 
then continue on in a more or less north-westerly direction, heading straight 
for the heart of Thranduil's realm. So he must know someone who has been here 
before, for his path cannot be an accident! But whom? Though not unacquainted 
with some of the Men of Laketown and Dale, Legolas yet knew that the Bardings 
would not dare the woods. If their business brought them into the forest to deal 
with Elves, they went ever to the Signpost that Thranduil's folk had built nigh 
upon eighty years ago, after the dragon had been slain. It was no more than a 
simple, rune-etched stone around which grew plants not native to the forest but 
blessed by the Elves to flourish nonetheless… and it gave no information as to 
the location of the halls of the king of Mirkwood. Legolas could think of no 
others outside of hidden Imladris who would know the way through the perilous 
woods, yet this wanderer did not carry himself like a herald, and there was 
still the question of his race.

Just then, a bird chirped in the west, and Legolas froze, recognizing that call. 
Not Aradhil, but another group of hunters sweeping eastward. The coded message 
contained in that bit of mimicry alerted other members of the hunting party of 
something unusual in the woods, and Legolas grimaced, for clearly the newcomers 
knew nothing of their comrades' intentions. Aradhil had obviously reached the 
same conclusion, for from behind and above the prince came a second call as the 
forest warden warned the others off. Legolas, meanwhile, realized that the 
stranger had ceased to move upon hearing the signals, and as the Elf cautiously 
peered up through the brush, he saw that the other was staring up towards 
Aradhil's last position. Slowly, he turned westward again, towards the first set 
of calls, and then made a complete circuit of the area, turning in place, grey 
eyes seeking intently after the source of the false voices. Thranduil's youngest 
son narrowed his eyes at that, surprised to have been given away by signals that 
regularly fooled orcs. Or perhaps he truly is an Elf, to be able to tell the 
difference! But then would he not …?

He had no time even to complete the question in his own mind, for at that 
moment, his quarry spoke, sounding weary beyond measure but amused nonetheless: 
"Greetings from Mithrandir, who assured me of the good will of the Elves of 
Mirkwood!"

Mithrandir! Legolas turned to where he knew Aradhil remained hidden, but short 
of revealing themselves, neither could ask the question that burned now in their 
minds. And Aradhil would not come forth until Legolas did, for the decision was 
properly his to make. After a moment's further consideration, curiosity won over 
caution, and Legolas unfolded from his hiding place and stepped lightly into the 
open. And since the stranger had at least a courteous tongue in his head, the 
prince spread his arms and bowed slightly, in a manner that bespoke politeness 
while expressing also uncertainty as to the other's station. Certainly, the 
other looked the part of the vagabond: his clothes were quite travel stained, 
his beard unkempt, and he had pulled his hair back into a queue simply to keep 
it out of his face. Mud caked his boots, a blood-stained bandage was wrapped 
about one hand, and he evinced a profound weariness such as comes only to those 
who have journeyed far and hard. And yet despite his rather rough and bedraggled 
appearance, there was in his eyes and manner an aura that whispered of nobility, 
and of a shrewd heart. And there is something… familiar… about him. Aloud, he 
said, "'Tis a rare stranger who speaks the tongue of the Elves. And he who 
speaks the name of Mithrandir with reverence is always welcome in the kingdom of 
Thranduil." Legolas spoke casually, with a hint of amusement in his voice, but 
his gaze rested intently upon the other, who endured his stare with an 
equanimity that the Elf found quite astonishing. No Man had ever willingly met 
his eyes for more than a few brief moments, and the prince wondered at that 
poise. For now that he had heard the other speak, it was certain that he was 
human, though his was a voice that had many more layers to it than an Elf would 
expect of a Man. "Tell me, what are these greetings? For we had not expected any 
messengers."

"And I had not expected to be one," the other replied with a slight smile. 
"Nevertheless, if you have not heard, Mithrandir has gone away upon some errand 
in the south, to Minas Tirith in Gondor, I believe. In coming here, I do but 
fulfill our agreement in the matter of one Gollum," at which name, the creature 
hissed menacingly, and Legolas grimaced slightly, "and I was told King Thranduil 
had no objections to my presence or his."

"Who are you?" Legolas asked, scrutinizing the other's face. "The king did 
indeed send word to all who protect this forest that one might come bearing a 
prisoner to be held in our dungeons, but that was eight years ago and I was 
given no name."

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn and chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North am I," 
replied the Man, and tired grey eyes flicked over Legolas' person with quiet 
intensity. "No name were you given, for Mithrandir and I had not planned to make 
our separate ways here when we began our hunt. And since then, neither of us has 
had the time to journey north to Mirkwood when business called southwards or 
westwards. But that is a tale that may wait for a time. For the moment, I ask 
only your leave to pass through this realm to Thranduil's halls."

"That at least I may grant you," Legolas responded, raising a hand to beckon 
Aradhil from the trees. A moment later, the warden appeared at their side, 
having dropped easily from the branches above. "Go ahead of us, and take the 
message to the king. Return as swiftly as you may, and I shall accompany our… 
guests." The prince glanced down at Gollum with some distaste ere he raised his 
eyes once more to Aragorn's exhausted face.

"As you wish, my prince!" Sketching a bow, the other hurried away, though not 
without a backwards glance at the Man.

"'My prince?'" Aragorn echoed, raising a dark brow and clearing his throat when 
his voice cracked hoarsely from exhaustion.

"I am Legolas, Thranduil's son," said the Elf. "Forgive me, I forget myself 
sometimes, for guests are uncommon and the day has been full of surprises, which 
has not happened for some time." He felt compelled to explain the lapse in his 
manners, then motioned that they should continue walking. At his invitation, the 
Ranger fell in at his side, dragging the muttering Gollum along with them.

"Granted of course, if you will excuse me as well, for I knew not with whom I 
spoke, and the road has been difficult such that I did not think to ask," said 
the other, shaking his head in mild self-reproval. "But come, tell me, if you 
will, what brings you so far? Admittedly, it has been some years—more than I 
care to acknowledge!—since last I heard of the dealings of the Elves of 
Mirkwood, but if I am not mistaken, we have not yet crossed the southern borders 
of Thranduil's realm."

"You are correct," Legolas informed him. "We have some miles ere we come to the 
edge of my father's kingdom. Aradhil and I came hunting a small pack of Wargs 
some two days ago. Alas, we have thus far met with no success, though at least 
our enemies are once more beyond the pale, as it were."

Aragorn gave a soft grunt at that, and murmured, "As are many others who deserve 
them not! Ah well! 'Tis ever so, and we all have our limits."

"And you seem to have reached yours, son of Arathorn," Legolas said, steadying 
the other as he stumbled a bit.

"Truly, I have!" the Ranger replied, pressing a hand over his eyes for a moment 
ere he shook his head and proffered a weary smile at the Elf. "And I relish the 
notion that for a time it matters not." At that moment, Gollum hissed softly and 
gave a rather skittish hop to one side and then crouched there, staring as he 
sniffed suspiciously. That caused Aragorn to scowl at him an instant ere he 
turned his attention to the surrounding trees. "Did you hear aught?" he asked 
after a moment.

"Nay, nothing!" Legolas replied, pausing to listen more carefully. All about, 
the woods were silent, and there were no other creatures to be seen…. As one, 
Elf and Man drew their blades, suspicious of the preternatural stillness that 
had fallen.

"You said you hunted Wargs?" the Ranger inquired, and in an instant he seemed to 
have left exhaustion behind. His voice hardened and grew sharper, but with that 
edge of polite inquiry that bespoke a man unaccustomed to panic.

"We did. Is this Gollum friendly with such creatures?"

"I think he is friendly with nothing, but he may take the opportunity to run," 
the Man replied, resheathing his dagger. In a sudden and unexpected move, the 
Ranger lunged, grabbed the miserable prisoner by the scruff of the neck and fell 
upon him. But Sméagol writhed like a snake, squirming out of the other's grasp 
more than once, and the elven prince danced aside as their flailing battle 
rolled his way. Were it not for the sheer ferocity of the fight, it might have 
been comic, but Legolas found himself amazed by Gollum's slithering resistance. 
It was almost two minutes ere Aragorn was finally able to bind his legs, and by 
then both he and Gollum were thoroughly mussed and dusty, and the Ranger had a 
new set of scratches along his left temple. Despite the danger, Legolas could 
not quite suppress his vast amusement at the sight of the other's dishevelment, 
but under Aragorn's disgruntled glare, he gave a slight shrug and offered a hand 
up by way of apology.

"Will that hold him?" the Elf queried, returning his attention to the forest.

"It had better!" the other muttered threateningly, and the dagger reappeared in 
his hand.

Minutes passed in a wholly unnatural silence, and Elf and Man stood back to back 
with Gollum huddled pathetically between them for safe-keeping. And slowly, the 
feeling of another, malign presence grew upon them as they waited. Eyes ranging 
over the greenery in careful search, Legolas said in a low voice, "They are all 
around us."

"I feel it," the other replied grimly.

"Then good luck, son of Arathorn, for I have never before hunted Wargs with a 
human," the prince replied, wishing suddenly that he had. For scarcely had he 
ended his thought when the trees exploded in snarling, bristling fury and the 
shadows disgorged large wolf-shapes that rushed in unerringly for the trio. 
Gollum gave a high-pitched squeal of terror, which neither of his captors heeded 
having no time to spare from their desperate fight to survive. Legolas met the 
first Warg head on, for he dared not duck lest its trajectory carry it straight 
into Aragorn from behind. A quick slash took the creature's eyes out, and he 
thrust it aside in time to turn to the next pair of opponents who rushed in, one 
from the side, the other head on. The Elf ducked low, sweeping his blade outward 
to force the one to swerve and then thrust upward, catching the second in the 
belly in mid-leap. The Warg's momentum did the rest, and the Elf grimaced as hot 
blood and entrails splashed him. A second shadow passed over him and then 
another Warg tumbled to the earth to lie motionless. A howl caught his 
attention, and as the Elf rolled out of his crouch, he reached unerringly for 
bow and arrow, pressed, aimed, and released all in a heartbeat. Something 
glittered in the air, and the last Warg gave a choking, gargling roar as it 
fell, the impact dislodging the blade that had sunk into its throat a good inch, 
though the barbed arrowhead remained embedded in its chest.

Legolas turned in a half-circle, scanning the trees, seeking to make certain 
that the danger had passed ere he lowered his bow. Pulling his blade from the 
earth where he had left it, he wiped it on a wolf's pelt and sheathed it. Then 
he raised his eyes to the Ranger who was retrieving his dagger from the last 
Warg's throat, and the Elf raised a pale brow as Aragorn drew first one dagger 
and then another along the hem of his already stained cloak. "Whence came that?" 
the Elf asked, motioning to the second blade, whose intricate metalwork bore the 
distinctive signature of elvish handiwork.

"A gift from my brothers," the Ranger replied, tucking the etched dagger away 
into a sheathe at the small of his back. Then, with a sigh, he sat heavily upon 
the ground, slumping back against a convenient tree trunk, and he gave the other 
a slight smile. "Fortunately for us both, I have hunted with Elves before and 
know somewhat of their style of combat." He surveyed the carnage, counting the 
bodies, and asked, "Seven. Is that all of them?"

"Indeed, I believe so," Legolas affirmed, making his own count as he wiped blood 
from his face. Gore-smeared strands of golden hair clung still to his cheeks and 
brow, and the prince sighed softly. "Aradhil will not be best pleased, I fear, 
to learn of this incident!" A pause, then: "Does your wound give you pain?"

For the Ranger was cradling his left wrist and flexing the fingers of his 
injured hand as if in some discomfort. But at Legolas' frowning inquiry, he 
shook his head and the Elf got the impression that the other was somewhat 
embarrassed. "It is not serious, only troublesome."

"How came you by that?" The Elf asked, gliding over to see for himself.

"Sheer carelessness!" Aragorn responded disgustedly, and arched a severe brow at 
Gollum. "I thought him tame enough to take the gag off, and he promptly bit me! 
For a creature so decrepit and nearly toothless, he uses what he has to great 
advantage!" And Legolas, gazing at the deeply stained bandage, was quite willing 
to believe it.

"You were fortunate, then, that he did not sever the tendons or break any 
bones!"

"Well do I know it, though for a moment, I thought he had," the Ranger replied. 
Then, letting fall his arm, he took one last look at the crumpled forms that 
littered the clearing, and murmured, "They grow bolder with the years. An attack 
in full daylight on the edge of a land guarded by Elves—who in former times 
would have believed such audacity?"

"Ah, but 'tis never full day beneath these trees, not since Dol Guldûr rose. Not 
since the Dark Lord reclaimed his title," the prince replied regretfully. Then 
he shook himself, throwing off the mood as only an Elf could, and said, "But 
come, if you are now rested! We have still some miles to walk, and then you may 
rest for as long as you like. In the meanwhile, I shall see to Gollum for a 
time, if you will."

"May he well become you!" Aragorn snorted, though he was only too glad to let 
another have the care of the foul creature for a time. And as he spoke, he 
climbed wearily to his feet once more though his back and legs ached. But he 
refused to complain, recognizing in Legolas that peculiar charm that comes of 
elvish youthful irrepressibility which knows little indeed of mortal 
limitations. "Fifty days have I borne his company, and glad would I be if I 
never set eyes on him again." At which Gollum gave a threatening hiss and 
resumed his muttering. And Legolas, eyeing the wretch warily, said:

"I think he feels likewise." Stooping, he untied the other enough so that he 
could walk. "This way, then!" With that, he plunged into the forest, and the 
three of them began the long walk back to the halls of the king. The Dúnadan 
followed, and for a time they walked without speaking, though Legolas kept a 
careful if circumspect watch on him, noting the way the other moved. Very like 
to an Elf indeed, and yet at the same time quite different, now that I have a 
clearer view. Who taught him his forest craft, I wonder ? If Aragorn noticed the 
Elf's discreet observation, he said nothing, seeming lost in his own thoughts, 
and the Elf did not disturb him.

At length, though, as they passed the unmarked southern border of his father's 
kingdom, Legolas said casually, "You said that dagger was a gift from your 
brothers." And when Aragorn gave a curt nod, he continued, "I fear that I know 
few of those who call Elrond lord, and most of them but by reputation for there 
is little traffic among our peoples these days. Yet perhaps I know of them. What 
are their names?"

"You may indeed know of them," the other replied with a slight smile. "For they 
are Elrond's sons, Elrohir and Elladan. We came here once when I was still quite 
young, though it was but a brief visit and I spoke very little."

But Legolas, upon hearing that, uttered a low oath of astonishment. Turning 
bright, intense eyes on the other, he stared, recalling that visit, and the very 
young lad who had remained quietly in the background. "You were Estel of 
Imladris!"

Aragorn, for his part, turned a bemused look upon the Elf, and said, "You have a 
better memory than I, for I fear I do not recall you at all."

"You would have had little reason to remember me, for a fourth son has little 
standing when his brothers are present. I stood with the wardens of the forest 
that day, rather than at my father's side." Legolas shook his head, amazed and 
delighted by the coincidence. "I knew not then that you were aught else but an 
Elf, for you said not a word before the court proper, and I went away late that 
night, to return only after you and the others had left. Nevertheless, I recall 
the name, for Tharinsal found it unusual and mentioned it later."

"And is Tharinsal still your father's heir?" Aragorn inquired cautiously, 
hearing in the other's voice a certain melancholy note that he had learned quite 
young to respect.

"Nay, for he forsook Middle-earth some sixty-five years ago, shortly after the 
Battle of Erebor, which the Bardings call the Battle of Five Armies," Legolas 
said softly, and not without chagrin. "It needed not even the sea to call him: 
the sight of Esgaroth was enough!"

"A pity indeed," Aragorn replied, risking a brief, comforting touch upon the 
other's shoulder, knowing too well himself the sense of loss that came of being 
left ever behind. For each year in Imladris, there were fewer Elves, and there 
were days when he could not remember all of those who had left for the havens 
even within the relatively short span of his own life. Yet those of Imladris are 
mostly Noldor, by descent at the least, and many recall the waves upon the 
shores. For a wood Elf to be lured away from the forest by a lake bespeaks a 
strong desire indeed, or else a particularly weak attachment to Middle-earth. 
And since Legolas seemed still mournful, he added, "For long, I feared that one 
day I would wake to find that Elladan and Elrohir had left. For a child who lost 
his father ere ever he knew him, and who grew up away from other children, that 
was a terrifying thought. But there are some friendships and ties that may not 
be abandoned while they last, not for any sea-longing, however powerful."

"Alas, I fear then that Tharinsal had no such ties!"

"Perhaps not, but that is not a measure of your heart, and you have still time 
to forge such for yourself," Aragorn replied, which earned him that peculiarly 
elvish scrutiny that seemed likely to strip a man to the bones. But he did not 
flinch, having learned to endure such looks early on, and after a long, silent 
moment, Legolas gave a soft grunt and said:

"I have never known a mortal who knew aught of an Elf's desire for the sea! Or 
who would dare to mention it, even." A pause, and then the Elf asked, in a tone 
that bespoke at once youthful hesitancy and a genuine curiosity, "Are all of 
your people so wise?"

"Most are wise enough not to speak of such things!" Aragorn replied with a 
slight smile, and Legolas laughed softly.

"Well answered! You could have been an Elf indeed!" Legolas paused. "And what of 
you, Aragorn? Does a Ranger grow weary of Middle-earth?"

"Weary of fighting, yes. But weary of Arda," Aragorn considered that for a few 
moments ere he said slowly, "All mortal creatures tire of her, if what I have 
been taught is true. But the sea cures nothing, for in the end, it is still of 
Middle-earth, and it shall never take us beyond her."

After that, they fell silent, and for a long while, the only sound to be heard, 
other than the noises of the daytime forest, were the muttered imprecations of 
Gollum, who wandered, lost, in the miserable world of his own crafting. But Man 
and Elf alike ignored him, preoccupied with their own concerns and thoughts. The 
measure of my heart, Legolas thought, feeling the notion resonate within him. It 
seems odd to say that I know it not, but in truth, I do not! I would not have 
expected such a revelation to come at the hands of a Man, but then, I would not 
have expected today to be so fruitful in terms of surprises either! Five hundred 
and seventeen years weighed suddenly heavy on the soul of a young Elf—a feeling 
of age that jarred him, as if he had suddenly been torn from the slow cycle of 
elvish growth and made forcibly aware of the swift wearing of the years by 
Aragorn's presence and words. For an Elf, such disruptions are never without 
cost, but then, maturity, too, must be paid for and comes not without pain. 
Legolas let his eyes drift almost shut, 'til the world assumed a golden cast as 
he gazed out from beneath his lashes and let settle the stirred sediments of his 
soul. As the shifting of the earth, that feeling seemed to him, and though he 
knew not yet whither it would lead, he welcomed the bone-deep certainty that 
something new had begun within him. Yes… there will be time for such friendships 
as he speaks of, for how shall I leave when I have been just now reborn? "Will 
you stay in Mirkwood long?" he asked hopefully of a sudden, and Aragorn shrugged 
slightly.

"With your father's permission, I would stay for awhile, for the journey has 
been a hard one. And I hope that perhaps Mithrandir shall hear of my passage and 
come hither," Aragorn replied, somewhat surprised by how quickly the other 
seemed to have taken to him, for it might take many years for an Elf so young to 
begin to take an interest in a Man. Perhaps it was simply an intimation of the 
climax towards which the Third Age rushed—an ending that would destroy the 
slow-lived dream time of the Elves—that let Legolas mature more swiftly than was 
elvish wont. For the young of all our races grow up swiftly in the face of 
troubled times, the Ranger thought with a certain regret. But then again, there 
is about Legolas something that hints of the unexpected… of the extraordinary, 
even!

"Good," Legolas replied softly just then. "For I would learn more of you, ere 
you leave again for the wide lands beyond." For of a sudden, Mirkwood feels 
constricted, bounded, and though I love this forest, I would learn to see beyond 
it! And Aragorn, sensing the other's thoughts, smiled and chuckled softly.

"The world is wide indeed, my friend, and if you would learn of me, then you may 
have to go far beyond your father's halls!" He met the Elf's bright green eyes 
once again, but this time it was he whose gaze was measuring, and Legolas cocked 
his head, as if uncertain what to make of the other's weighty stare. But he did 
not look away, and when Aragorn asked, "What say you?" the Elf replied:

"That when the time comes, I shall go."

"Are you certain of that? Time effaces the ties that we have to Middle-earth, 
and one who has not roots deep within his native soil will swiftly be lost!"

"Fear not for me, then," Legolas replied with a slight, yet serious, smile. 
Aragorn was silent awhile, once more considering the Elf, but finally, he, too, 
grinned and shook his head.

"Then may the road be long, my friend! May it be long and profitable indeed!"

As, indeed, it was, for it was not the sea that separated at last Elessar of 
Gondor from Legolas of Ithilien, but the tides of time alone defined the long 
and wandering path of their friendship.


~~~


Chapter Two - Old, New, Borrowed, True


A/N for the curious: No, Tharinsal is not a "real" elvish name, nor are the 
names of any of Legolas' brothers legitimate. I'm a dedicated fan, but not THAT 
dedicated. All I wanted were names convincing enough to pass muster. =)

**********

The Halls of Thranduil were abuzz with rumor, and had been since the youngest 
prince of the realm had walked out of the woods with blood smeared in his hair 
and clothes, bringing with him an exhausted Ranger and a prisoner of unknown 
race. Aradhil, who had met the two perhaps four miles from the gates, had given 
his prince a long stare, and Aragorn an even longer one, clearly disapproving of 
the fact that Legolas had gone into battle with naught but a human to guard his 
back. "Your highness, I trust you are both well?" And the warden's eyes had 
strayed quickly to Aragorn's bandaged left hand.

"Quite well," Legolas had replied in a deliberately light tone, irked and 
somewhat offended by the notion that Aradhil did not quite trust him to handle 
the matter properly, no matter who his companion might be. And Aragorn is hardly 
a liability in combat! But clearly, naught but the chance to observe the 
Ranger's virtues would change the warden's opinion, and Legolas rather doubted 
that Aragorn would live long enough to supply Aradhil with the necessary 
examples. It might take a century of study for the warden to accept the other's 
worth, and by then, time would have taken Aragorn on to his separate and final 
fate. In any case, the walk home had been more silent than usual, and once 
Gollum had been safely stowed in the dungeons and the necessary courtesies 
observed, the princes, human and elven alike, had retired in search of a bath 
and a change of clothes.

And sleep, Legolas thought, smiling as he sat upon the railing and gazed down at 
the slopes below. Although the city of the Elves of Mirkwood had been carved out 
below and within a mountain, the slopes were riddled throughout with balconies 
and walkways that went among the trees that grew there, for no Wood-Elf could 
live in a closed cave. Other than those labyrinthine outlets and the main gates, 
naught of the city was visible above ground, allowing the forest so beloved of 
the Elves to grow unhindered by their presence. Legolas was intimately familiar 
with all the routes in and out of the city, of course, and he knew with 
precision which balcony led to the Ranger's guest quarters. Second to the left, 
just fifteen feet below. Aragorn had politely declined an invitation to supper 
that first day, and he had been so scarce ever since that rumor had it that the 
Ranger had slept two days straight, so tired was he. Legolas could well believe 
it at least, recalling how very weary the other had been. But sooner or later, 
the Dúnadan would emerge, and Legolas meant to catch him when he did. Thus far, 
three days had come and gone without the Man showing so much as his shadow. 
Still, the elven prince was not discouraged, although Aradhil naturally found 
this latest pursuit of his frivolous, and Thranduil had that air about him that 
told Legolas that his father was vastly amused by his preoccupation with a 
human.

But Legolas paid neither any heed, for other than the Warg pack that he had 
destroyed with the Ranger, there were no traces of the Dark Lord's creatures 
within their borders. That meant that Legolas' time was his own to spend for 
awhile, and if father and mentor were amused or irritated with his chosen sport, 
he was also old enough to stand against their judgment. But as of yet, neither 
Aradhil nor Thranduil had said overmuch about this newest pastime, and so, as he 
waited, the prince, like any good hunter tracking worthy prey, had kept careful 
watch upon Aragorn's quarters. And as he watched, Legolas patiently combed 
through his impressions of his twice-over quarry in the hopes of discerning some 
inclination or habit that might dictate the daily pattern of the Ranger's life. 
Given the vagabond ways of the Arnorian Dúnedain, the Elf had come early to 
watch for the other, and left after sunset, for even a Ranger might hesitate to 
explore an unknown landscape by night. Otherwise, there was naught to narrow the 
hours of watching, but an Elf cares little for fleeting days and Legolas used 
the time to his profit. For he could feel the shifting of his world, and he had 
much to gain through silent reflection upon what that might mean for him.

One never knows where the future shall lead, not with precision, but the time is 
nearly come for me to leave these woods. That much I do know, though I know not 
the hour. Legolas sighed softly, staring at the trees. Elvish eyes traced the 
most minute differences of light and shade upon their trunks, the different 
patterns of bark striation, the placement of knots and the new growth of 
leaves–details realized so fully in the Elf's mind that he could well nigh feel 
them. He knew these trees so well! Each was to him wholly different from its 
neighbors, an individual being that he greeted as a familiar, a companion. Such 
an attitude might be incomprehensible to a mortal, but to an elven prince, 
essentially peerless and with all the long ages of the world before him, trees 
were perhaps the only beings that he could rely upon to grow with him. Certainly 
a mortal could not provide the sort of companionship that comes of centuries of 
association, and yet Legolas waited now for a Man to rouse himself to the new 
day. Folly indeed, I should say, the Prince of Mirkwood thought with a slight 
smile for his own seeming whimsy. Yet this is not any mortal, and whatever 
Aradhil might think, Aragorn has a place in the ending of this Age, and many 
destinies hang upon him. I think it is time that I learned the swift way of 
friendship, rather than relying upon the old and tried ways of the Elves.

For elvish ways had not sufficed to hold Tharinsal in Arda, not though his 
brother had been a thousand years his senior, a thousand years deeper into the 
fabric of Middle-earth. To fade away or to set sail was the fate of the Elves, 
but those of the woodland realm knew little of Valinor, save the tales. Arda was 
their first love, and Legolas, like all of his brethren, looked ahead to the day 
of departure with heartache and a peculiar sense of dread. To hear the Noldor 
speak of it, the sea-longing was the natural end of an Elf, and naught to be 
feared: rather, it was to be embraced, for it would lead the Eldar–whether 
Sindarin or Noldorin–home. But to leave Arda behind, to leave the trees of his 
homeland behind forever…? The promise of a new love could not soothe the fear of 
the loss of his first, and Legolas willed to remain in Middle-earth for awhile 
at least. For a long while, as long as possible, he thought, and knew not 
whether such words as 'long' had any meaning for one who looked upon the next 
five hundred years in the same way that an adult human might view the next five. 
The Age might end ere I do, taking with it all that I hold dear. And then where 
would I go? What would we do, who have dwelt here so long? Would enough of us 
remain to rebuild? Or would we have then only a choice between a faded existence 
and an exiled one?

Legolas knew not the answers to such questions, but for the moment, all 
inquiries were set to one side as the young prince tensed. For below him, a tall 
form had emerged and stood leaning against the railing, surveying the day. The 
Elf smiled, a mischievous, rather predatory smile laden with anticipation, and 
he stood upon the slender stone rail. He had gauged the distance two days ago, 
and knew with precision how far he must leap; he waited now only for Aragorn to 
move slightly to the left, so that he would not risk hitting him. The Dúnadan, 
however, seemed content to remain where he was, and Legolas pursed his lips, 
considering his next move. Perhaps it was childish to pursue the other thus, for 
it would be far simpler to knock on his door, but Legolas had invested two and a 
half days in this endeavor already and he intended to see it through. And I 
suppose I need not land beside him…! The Elf made his decision, took two steps 
and leapt, tucking into a smooth somersault. He made no sound as he landed, yet 
he could not control the ripple of air: Aragorn, feeling a sudden, slight draft, 
as of someone breathing lightly down the back of his neck, turned swiftly, 
laying a hand to the hilt of his dagger. At the sight of Legolas standing there, 
looking quite nonchalant about his unexpected arrival, the Ranger released his 
weapon, but his eyes narrowed. Glancing past the Elf, he quickly spotted several 
places whence the Elf might have come, and sighed softly. "Will you tell me at 
least whether it was a balcony or a tree?" he asked, arching a brow at the 
prince.

"Two balconies to your right, and one above," Legolas admitted easily. "You 
seems much improved! Have you used the days to your advantage?"

"By which you mean to ask where I have been, do you not?" Aragorn responded 
wryly, and chuckled when the Elf nodded.

"There are those who hold that you have slept through a few days," Legolas 
prodded.

"'Days' is quite accurate," the Ranger admitted. "I have traveled by night since 
the first of February. Only when I reached Mirkwood's eaves did I press on by 
daylight as well as darkness, and only to hasten the journey. One needs time to 
accustom oneself to rise at dawn, rather than in the afternoon."

"What is this creature, Gollum, so desired by Mithrandir, that brings you hither 
with such speed?" Legolas asked, curious. But rather than answer, the Man folded 
his arms across his chest as he gazed considerately at the Elf, seeming to weigh 
some matter in his mind.

At last, Aragorn replied, "Without intending any disrespect, your highness, I 
know not what Mithrandir may have revealed to your father, and would count 
myself bound to silence for a time at least. One does not discuss the business 
of a wizard lightly, even with friends and allies of long standing." A pause, 
then, "Indeed, there are days when I wish I knew not as much as I do of 
Gandalf's affairs, and particularly this one!"

"Ah?" Legolas murmured, intrigued in spite of his disappointment at being left 
in the dark. "You have known Mithrandir long then?" he asked instead, willing to 
change the subject somewhat.

"Longer than have many, though in truth, I know not what such a word means in 
the mouth of an Elf." Aragorn chuckled again. "Some sixty years ago we met first 
as allies. Before that, he was a sometime guest of Elrond's, and so I knew a 
little of him as a child. But that is still a short while for one of the Eldar."

"Short indeed," Legolas replied. "But most Men do not think in such terms."

"I have been accused of an elvish affectation before," Aragorn said, though he 
seemed untroubled and even vaguely amused by that fact. "And what shall I think 
of you, Legolas, who would befriend a mortal so swiftly? In these late days, 
that is unusual in an Elf."

"Naught ill, I should hope!"

"I said not so, only that I, too, am curious, for I have known many Elves, and 
few will to invest in so short-lived a relationship. Not when they may hasten 
its end themselves by taking the seaward roads."

"You were raised in Imladris," Legolas replied. "There dwell still many of the 
Noldor, and strange are their ways. We who are Nandorin* are not so eager to 
leave this world, and would seek ways to remain in it for as long as we may. But 
doubtless you speak truly otherwise, for we, too, do not seek Men out. Ever we 
turn inward, seeking only to preserve what is ours, rather than extend our 
reach. It is perhaps a fault in the elvish temperament that we often love the 
land more than those creatures that go upon it!"

"But you would learn better?"

"I would learn, yes. Whether for better or for worse, though," the Elf added, 
with a bright gleam in his eyes, "that I know not!"

"Such insinuations tilt the balance in favor of 'worse,' young prince," Aragorn 
retorted.

"'Tis said that the instructor must take first blame for the fault of his 
students!"

"Most instructors have not elvish pupils!"

"All of those here do!"

Aragorn shook his head and laughed softly. "Lesson the first: you must make 
allowances for the shortcomings of the merely mortal!" The words were spoken in 
jest and utterly without rancor, but the Elf felt his mood shift instantly.

"So say many, and less kindly at that," Legolas admitted, feeling somewhat 
ashamed. The Ranger gave a minute shrug at that.

"I know. But it is not my place or purpose to change that, nor do I believe that 
I would be successful if I did try. The ties of friendship that once bound our 
races together are now nearly severed, and soon they shall be little more than a 
legend, I fear," Aragorn replied. Both were silent then, regretting already that 
inevitability, but soon Isildur's Heir shook himself and changed subjects with 
all the suddenness of an Elf. "But come, let us not speak of that! Rather, I 
would learn more of this place, for as I said before, it has been many long 
years since I entered Thranduil's realm. Tell me how fare the Elves of Mirkwood 
forest."

"As do many others, I suspect: we look anxiously east, and fight to hold our 
borders and folk secure against the incursions of the Dark Lord's minions," 
Legolas replied. "And between battles, we continue our lives. Trade with the 
Bardings is somewhat more bountiful this year, strangely enough. Though perhaps 
it is not so very difficult to understand, for they stand in good stead with 
both the Elves and the dwarven realm of Erebor. Against the shadow of the east, 
three such kingdoms would do well to make overtures of alliance among 
themselves… though I know not what to think of the prospect of having the 
Dwarves as allies! Let the Bardings deal with them, for they are already at the 
fulcrum in all such dealings."

"The King Under the Mountain would make a powerful ally, and a certain one," 
Aragorn mused, by way of counterpoint to the Elf's obvious dislike for the 
Children of Aulë. "Were it my decision, I would not so lightly consign them to a 
distant truce, whatever bad blood might remain between my people and theirs."

Legolas grunted, but he did not take up the other's gambit, preferring to 
continue the business of answering Aragorn's original question. "We must deal 
also with the Beornings. They are not numerous, but they are well-respected and 
fierce, and they at least keep a part of the road under watch, so it is not 
solely our duty to see hapless travelers through the forest."

"I see," Aragorn said, accepting the other's refusal to discuss the dwarvish 
situation as almost inevitable. "In such times as these, I would count that good 
fortune indeed!"

"What of the North, where your people wander?"

"Things are not so well there, I fear, though there are many who know naught of 
the troubles that plague their land. Out of the Misty Mountains come many fell 
creatures, and they are grown quite bold. Spies infest the region, and I have 
lost more men this year than in years prior. Already, we know of three places 
where our enemies have begun to gather in some strength, and each raid upon them 
loses more lives in a battle that does naught but buy both sides time to 
rebuild. We are too few, spread too thinly over too wide a land! And we have 
still our own to think of: women and children, the aged and the men who are 
warriors only at need. Few are they this year, for need ever beckons, it seems."

"I did not know that Eriador's plight was so evil," Legolas said softly, cocking 
his head at the Ranger as he gazed searchingly at the other. Aragorn gazed back 
unflinchingly, and the Elf made a decision. "I would show you a thing, though 
the way is not free of danger. Will you come?"

"If you wish it," Aragorn replied, intrigued though a part of him sighed wearily 
at the notion of challenging fate once again. One can dance at the edge of a 
fire only so many times ere one is burned. How many times shall I dare the 
flames? And as ever, the greater part of his mind and heart replied firmly: As 
often as need be, and unto death if I must! But if he did not precisely look 
forward to a perilous journey, he was glad to have Legolas with him. And 
whatever it is that he would have me see, it has some great significance to him, 
clearly. I wonder what it is?

"Come then!" the Elf said, and beckoned him once more into the underground 
halls. Between stone pillars carved to seem as pale trees, down the long and 
echoing corridors they went, until they reached a door. Legolas opened it and 
went in, and Aragorn followed, uncertain what to expect. Someone's private 
quarters opened before him–Legolas' chambers, he realized, and the Ranger 
glanced about, noting the various objects therein. An airy space, as one would 
expect, draped in various abstract tapestries that managed somehow to 
convincingly imitate sun upon the treetops. The Elf seemed to have a fondness 
for glass sculpture, which struck him as not out of place in a Wood Elf, and 
particularly in a younger one. There was something about the other's personality 
that glittered transparently, and as sunlight refracts through glass, so did 
conversation through the Elf's mind: a chance remark might elicit a number of 
different responses, until the Elf had exhausted the scope of the idea. That, at 
least, was Aragorn's impression of the other, and he smiled slightly at his 
attempt to gain some insight into Legolas through the objects that the Elf 
possessed. Elves being quite particular about their surroundings, I may even be 
close to right in this case, he thought, waiting for the Elf to emerge from the 
set of rooms that lay beyond the further door. Which was why he took care not to 
disturb anything by so much as an inch, for having grown up in an elvish 
household, he knew quite well how that would affect the prince's temper. For 
nothing was ever left to chance, and an Elf knew with precision the arrangement 
of his or her home; let anything fail to conform to the exacting standards of 
elvish memory, and it would be immediately corrected. And although Aragorn 
recognized in his own habits the stamp of that upbringing, the level of 
aesthetic perfection that characterized the elvish mind was beyond his 
aspirations, even had it not been beyond his reach.

Just then, Legolas returned, bearing with him a sheathed sword and his bow and 
quiver. The Elf tossed the scabbard to the Ranger, who caught it easily, and 
slid the blade a good ten inches out of its sheath for inspection. "That was 
Tharinsal's ere he departed for the havens, so you need not fear! Its edge has 
not dulled, and you are of a height with him so it should suit you well. Will a 
borrowed sword bother you?"

"Any sword I use is borrowed," Aragorn replied.

"Understand, I do not slight your skill with a dagger after our skirmish, but 
one feels the need of something more than knives where we are going!" Legolas 
added quickly.

That did little to encourage the Ranger, but he only nodded ere he slung the 
baldric over one shoulder and across his chest, settling the sword comfortably 
at his side. "Then you have my thanks for the loan," he replied simply. "Lead 
the way!"

***

Three hours after Elf and Man had set out, Legolas paused at the base of a great 
tree. All that morning as they had journeyed, the southward path had grown 
narrower, gradually fading away entirely; and although the noon time sun shone 
bright, the trees grew so thick and close that beneath their eaves lay a 
perpetual twilight. "Follow me carefully!" Legolas said, and began to climb 
swiftly up the tree. The Ranger for his part gazed up with some misgiving, 
doubting whether he would be able to follow the Elf. I think me he has already 
forgotten the first lesson! But with a soft sigh, Aragorn leapt and caught hold 
of the lowest branch, grimacing somewhat as the puncture wounds to his left hand 
ached under the strain, and he swung a leg over to pull himself up into the 
tree. From there he very carefully rose and began to pick his way through the 
branches, doing his best to keep to the 'path' that Legolas had taken. At 
length, the Elf came to a halt, much to the Ranger's relief. Legolas caught his 
arm tightly and pointed below them, to the treetops that showed there. For 
Mirkwood lay in a basin, so that the trees grew at different heights, and from 
certain points, one willing to risk the upper branches could see clear to Erebor 
above the forest.

"Behold Mirkwood," Legolas said, gesturing to the trees. "And behold also the 
reason for its naming!" The Elf pointed across a valley of trees to a dark and 
terrible shape that rose up out of the forest.

"Dol Guldur," Aragorn murmured, recognizing the tower almost immediately. He had 
seen it before, though never at so close a range. As a spike of black rock it 
seemed, but shading his eyes with his hand, the Ranger could discern carved 
walkways and crenels. The air about it seemed thick and hazy, as if a mist clung 
to it. Or as if it is but a mirage, as one sees in the deserts of Harad, he 
thought uneasily.

"Sometimes it stands clear against the sky, like a knife; at other times, it is 
scarce able to be seen. And it changes," Legolas said softly. "It has not one 
face but many, and all of them horrible! Since the year of the dragon, a new 
menace has dwelt there, one subservient, but the Dark Lord's aura is imbued in 
the very stones. There pulses sickly a concordance of evil will, and the shadow 
lies upon all our hearts. I fear that Rhovanion will never be free of the taint, 
even if, by some unforeseen grace, Mordor is cast down. And so that which we 
love best is maimed, and we bear the hurt within ourselves as a mirror image of 
the injury done our home." The Elf sighed, glancing at the Ranger at his side. 
"Is it thus with Men? Know they whereof I speak?"

Aragorn did not answer immediately, still absorbed by the dreadful view and with 
thoughts of Gollum preying upon his mind. That tower was many things to him: 
more evidence of the spread of the cancer of malice; a mocking reminder of the 
years that the Dark Lord had dwelt in their midst without their knowledge; but 
before all else, it was Sauron's–Barad-dûr as seen through a broken mirror, 
perhaps. And in spite of himself, the Ranger felt the pull of fascination–of 
desire to know more intimately his enemy's mind through his work. Have I not 
seen enough examples of Sauron's 'craft'? Orcs and Wargs, trolls and ruined Men, 
carrion birds bent to his will and creatures more foul than they and older in 
evil! He shook himself and darted a glance at the Elf, who waited expectantly, 
watching him with something akin to worry. "Men are not insensitive to the land, 
but neither are we bound so very tightly to it. We suffer differently the same 
ills, Legolas, but our sorrow is no less true for being briefer, or less 
consistent."

"Then perhaps you are fortunate," the Elf replied. "No Elf is born without the 
knowledge of sorrow firmly enmeshed in blood and bone. To learn it… to remember 
a time without it… that must be a gift!"

"A dangerous one," Aragorn said in response, "as are all gifts. For we stray 
easily in our ignorance, and once stung by sorrow, we learn swiftly to fear it 
as well. Of more changeable stuff are we made, and so we are more susceptible to 
corruption, I fear. Perhaps that gives a certain nobility to those who resist 
such changes and their own nature, but often do Men long for the stability of 
the Eldar races. If you have not learned envy, then you soon shall, if you would 
truly learn the ways of mortal creatures." Legolas pursed his lips, seeming to 
consider all of Aragorn's words, and for awhile longer, Man and Elf stared out 
at the menace of the tower. "Do you come here often?" the Ranger asked after a 
time, and there was an edge of concern in his voice.

"More than I ought," Legolas admitted. "I know what you fear: that such 
fascination is the first step into the snare. But one must know what one fights, 
and however deep and permanent an Elf's grief, there is much that is beautiful 
that causes us to forget it for a time. Why else does the Forest River** send 
all creatures who touch it into oblivion? It is laden with our will to forget 
the pain of waning Arda!" He sighed softly, then, with a final, defiant look at 
the tower, said, "Let us go down now, for I at least have seen enough!"

"Gladly," Aragorn replied, and let the Elf lead the way back down to the earth.

"You do not climb badly," Legolas observed, watching as the Ranger dropped from 
the last branch to land solidly on his feet. "I hope your hand does not trouble 
you unduly."

"I have had worse before," the other replied, adjusting the baldric to settle 
the sword more comfortably. That was not really an answer, but Legolas accepted 
it, unwilling to embarrass the Ranger. Instead, he turned once more to the 
matter of the wizard and Gollum.

"Think you that Mithrandir will come soon to see this… creature?"

"I know not, in truth. When last we spoke, he purposed to go to Minas Tirith, as 
I told you upon our meeting. Whether he remains there, or has already returned 
to Eriador by some other route, I know not. Messages I have left for him with 
bearers that I trust, but I cannot be certain of his movements."

"Would you stay until he came?"

"I may not," Aragorn replied, and not without regret. "If he comes not within 
two weeks, then I shall take my leave, for I have other tasks to see to, and I 
have been too long away from those whom I love."

"Your wife?" Legolas queried, guessing blindly. But the Ranger shook his head.

"Nay, no wife waits for me," the other said, and though he kept his gaze focused 
upon the ground, the Elf perceived an oddly tender note in his voice. "Cousins 
and friends have I in the North, and who knows now how many remain? Not every 
return is a glad one."

"I know that well," Legolas responded, deciding to let fall questions of 
marriage, for it seemed that the Dúnadan did not wish to speak of them. 
"Tharinsal is gone, and though I have two other brothers left now, Nindarth 
speaks now of departing, and he is but a few centuries older than I. Father and 
Thirisul urge him to consider carefully, but our sisters say naught, and have 
lately begun to look west as well!" The Elf shook his head and sighed, "I fear 
that he shall not remain here long. And who knows but that with his departure, 
our sisters may go as well! The shadow is everywhere, as I said, and I blame 
that tower for the fear and anguish that drive my brother and sisters from their 
native shores."

"The Dark Lord has much to answer for," Aragorn replied grimly, casting a 
sidelong glance at his companion, noting the taut expression of pain on the 
other's face. "Mourn not overmuch in advance, my friend, and take what comfort 
you can from the knowledge that the day of reckoning approaches. Too swiftly, I 
deem, but even if we fail, we may yet take our revenge. But since we left our 
perch to forget Dol Guldur and its master, let us leave such thoughts for now. 
Show me Mirkwood, if you will, for I would not learn only of the forest's pain!"

"Gladly will I show you," Legolas said with a smile. "And perhaps afterward, you 
shall understand our pain better, and yet feel it as bittersweet rather than 
sour!"

 

**********

*Nandorin: Thanks to Arynetrek for bringing this up. I originally thought 
Legolas was a Sindarin Elf, since that is what he speaks, and most Elves seem to 
be referred to as Sindarin in the Third Age. Two things made me waver and go 
with Nandorin: Legolas' and Thranduil's names just sound a lot different (to me) 
from other Sindarin names, i.e. Elrond, Galadriel, Haldir, Celeborn, even 
Aragorn. So I wandered over to Ardalambion again and looked up Nandorin just to 
see if there were any listings. Not much, but Mirkwood was described as being 
originally a linguisitc stronghold of Nandorin, though the language was 
eventually superseded and supplanted by Sindarin as refugees came out of 
Beleriand and other such places. That piqued my interest enough to try an 
experiment with Legolas' ancestry. It may change in subsequent tales, but for 
consistency's sake, I thought I'd tack on my motives behind this switch.

*Forest River: Thanks to all who have read the Sil thoroughly enough to tell me 
whence came the name "Esgalduin."



 ~~~

 Chapter Three -  Conflicted



  The old moon lay cradled in the new, riding high above the trees as dawn drew 
nearer, and Aragorn breathed in the scent of wet earth and pine as he gazed up 
at the night sky. He stood once more upon the balcony outside of his chambers, 
leaning against the railing and indulging in the luxury of having naught to do 
but star-watch and let his thoughts flow freely. Two days he had been in 
Mirkwood—well, four, if one counted the two days that he had slept through—and 
both had been passed in Legolas' company. Indeed, after their viewing of Dol 
Guldur, Legolas had acceded to Aragorn's request to see Mirkwood with such 
enthusiasm that the pair had not returned to the palace that evening.

"Mirkwood by night is not to be missed!" Legolas had replied when Aragorn had 
hinted that perhaps they ought to return. "And I have no duty for a time, so 
there is no need to hurry. We could not see all of Mirkwood even in a week, but 
a winter's eve in the forest is worth the time. Tomorrow we shall return." And 
Aragorn, having likewise no duty, had bowed to the other's high spirits—not to 
mention his own whim—and spent the night following Legolas about eastern 
Mirkwood. "I prefer the north, myself," the elven prince had confided, "But 
perhaps you would prefer it here." He had said nothing more on the subject, and 
the Ranger had had to smother a laugh at the implied reasoning: Legolas, 
concerned to keep his guest in good spirits, thought he might feel safer in a 
more or less familiar region of the forest. And that is true enough, but I have 
spent many a night in unfamiliar surroundings and learned to appreciate their 
beauty anyway! But Aragorn had not commented upon the other's unspoken 
rationale, for that consideration bespoke a sensitivity to another's limitations 
that would serve him well when he eventually left Mirkwood.

If only he learns to be somewhat less clumsy in the attempt, that is, Arathorn's 
son smiled slightly, thinking of Imladris and his brothers. Elladan and Elrohir 
had seen thirteen generations of his ancestors through their earliest and most 
vulnerable years, and they went often with the Rangers upon forays into orc dens 
and upon other, more hazardous missions. They had each of them more experience 
with humans than almost any other Elf born in the Third Age, and yet Aragorn 
clearly remembered a number of instances in which the inborn confidence of the 
Elves in their own strength (and the corresponding lack of faith in the strength 
of others) had strained their relationship. Of course, many of those times 
occurred after I developed into a head-strong thirteen year-old! the Ranger 
conceded with a slight smile for the eager child he had been. But though he 
readily admitted that he bore a measure of responsibility for those relatively 
few periods of real resentment, he knew that the twins were not blameless. For 
there were other Elves in Rivendell who, despite millennia of existence, had 
never learned to see men as anything but a weaker race, which in their minds 
meant that humans were less worthwhile. That attitude was not meant to be 
insulting, but that singularly elvish arrogance was the more difficult to 
overcome precisely because it was in many ways justified. For we are weaker, and 
more prone to lose our way in times of difficulty, Aragorn thought, tearing his 
eyes from the sky to gaze out into the dark depths of the forest. And confronted 
with an Elf, there are few men who know enough now to treat with them without 
either fear or worship. Ah well! At least I seem to have made an impression on 
Legolas, and that is something.

It was more than 'something' in fact, for while Aragorn knew a few of the 
younger Elves of Imladris, he had never had much opportunity to interact with 
them. For although he had been drawn to them when he was a boy, feeling often 
out of his depth among Elrond's intimate associates, they were not concerned 
with a human child; and by the time he had reached his majority at twenty, 
Aragorn was somewhat too worldly to be overly eager to join those who seemed 
utterly disinterested in the lands that lay outside of Imladris. I remember 
watching them after my first campaign, Aragorn thought. I was fifteen, and still 
in shock, I think, over the fact of my survival. As we crossed Bruinen, one of 
them… Lindir, I believe it was… called down to us from the trees and laughed at 
how weary and downcast we seemed. And in that moment, he was so utterly alien to 
me that I was disgusted. How could anyone laugh after what I had seen and done? 
It had taken decades of pain and struggle for him to begin to appreciate anew 
the ability to be wholly content with but one patch of land, or a passing 
season, or even a single leaf. Thus Legolas was not the only one who found their 
relationship novel, for the Ranger had never managed to befriend so young an Elf 
before; and it woke in him an oddly paternal tenderness to watch the prince go 
through the slow process of waking to the world that he had gone through more 
than three score years ago.

Of course, being elvish, Legolas' wakening did not follow the same course that 
Aragorn's had, but that very difference was part of what made their burgeoning 
friendship satisfying to the Ranger. Among his own people, Aragorn could easily 
sit for hours in silence if only because the Dúnedain, and the Rangers in 
particular, were accustomed to value it, knowing that their lives depended upon 
remaining hidden. Conversation tended to be sparse in the wild, and much was 
conveyed by gesture, expression, and the other myriad clues of body language and 
sympathetic reaction. But although camaraderie and even good humor were hardly 
foreign to such wordless interaction, he had never had a companion who could, 
without moving a muscle or smiling overtly, evince such a profound joy in the 
simple act of sitting together in silence. Nor have I spent so much time in a 
tree since I was ten! He and Legolas had climbed up an ancient fir whose broad 
branches were ideal for star-gazers; and while the still hour after midnight had 
trickled slowly away, they had sat there, alternately watching the sky, the 
forest, or each other. Not a word, no audible hint of their feelings had passed 
between them, and yet Aragorn had rarely been so content as an adult. As Legolas 
shifted his gaze from stars to trees to the Ranger, the moonlight would 
occasionally flash in those green eyes, or touch upon his hair, and Aragorn had 
wondered how he seemed to the other. As an anomaly, doubtless— or rather, an 
enigma. He has not yet the gravity of other Elves, and I can endure his long 
looks more easily, but his curiosity is the more aggressive for that. His gaze 
is interested and disinterested at once, a combination of passion and science 
that I have never felt before in an Elf. To be the sole object of such active 
attention, even if only for a little while, was at once wearing and strangely 
exhilarating, and Aragorn gave a soft sigh as he watched an owl glide gracefully 
amid the branches of the trees, calling out its mournful cry as it went. We all 
of us search for another to trust in this night!

So deep was he in his own thoughts that instinct was somewhat slow to make 
itself felt, but at length it came to him that he was not alone. And though 
Legolas was his first suspect, something spoke against the obvious conclusion. 
Whoever it was made no effort to alert Aragorn of his or her presence, though 
upon second thought, the Ranger dismissed the possibility of a female visitor. 
This might be a common balcony, but so far as he could tell, he was the only 
guest housed near it, and it seemed to be a lesser walkway, dead-ending rather 
than curving around to burrow back into the mountainside again. After waiting 
some moments longer to give the other a more than reasonable chance to declare 
himself, the Ranger straightened up and turned very deliberately, letting his 
visitor know that he was quite well aware of his existence. Before him stood an 
Elf, and after a moment's scrutiny in the dim light of the lanterns, Aragorn 
bowed gracefully. "Your majesty," he said respectfully, and watched as Thranduil 
acknowledged his salute with a slight smile and an inclination of his head.

"Aragorn of Arnor," the other replied, watching him closely. The king of the 
Elves of Mirkwood glided forward, placing his hands lightly upon the thin stone 
rail as he gazed out into the forest-clad slopes. "It has been many years since 
your last visit to my halls."

"It has indeed," the Ranger said, uncertain of the other's purpose.

"They have wrought many changes in the boy that I recall, if I may say so," 
Thranduil said, and if there were a touch of amusement in his voice, there was 
also an edge as of foreboding disapproval and melancholy that Aragorn's sharp 
ears did not miss.

"The world flows swiftly by outside of Mirkwood and Imladris," Aragorn replied 
neutrally. "And I am not an Elf, to resist the current of time for even a 
decade, your majesty."

"True enough, and I fear that nothing that is remains untouched by the waning of 
the Third Age, Mirkwood least of all, alas!" Thranduil said, and the melancholy 
grew stronger in his voice. "Your coming shall not be without effect upon this 
realm, for sooner or later, all that moves in this forest is known to the 
watcher in Dol Guldur."

"Mithrandir warned me of that, and I would expect no less. How much time have 
we, your majesty?" Aragorn asked, welcoming the chance to turn to business 
rather than continue along a half-guessed path, though he would still need to 
keep his guard up. For if it comes to the matter of Gollum, I may not speak of 
it!

"I cannot say with certainty. It may be that your coming is already known to 
those of the tower. Or it may be that your own actions have bought us all some 
time, for the destruction of the Wargs has silenced at least some of the enemy's 
spies. And once you crossed our borders, the power of Dol Guldur to discern your 
purpose and dealings was greatly reduced. I hope only for a period of respite 
and that Mithrandir shall arrive soon and during that lull."

"As do I, but I fear I cannot hazard a guess as to when he may come. I know his 
errand, but whether it will be successful is another matter," Aragorn admitted, 
thinking to himself that Thranduil's words notwithstanding, Dol Guldur knew of 
his presence. Or rather of Gollum's. The presence of the Elves might hamper 
their enemy's ability to sense the miserable wretch, but then again, it might 
not. Though the king of Mirkwood stood still gazing outward at the night, the 
Dúnadan could feel the quality of the other's attention and knew that Thranduil 
listened now to his silences, seeking to discern, perhaps, the state of 
Aragorn's knowledge and whether it was greater than his own. But Aragorn could 
say nothing of such matters, and continued to speak of Gandalf as if blithely 
ignorant of Thranduil's attentiveness. "I fear I know not even what would 
constitute a success or failure."

"A pity," Thranduil responded, turning from the forest to face the Man again. 
And this time the contest was more pointed, as each strove to evaluate how much 
had been left unsaid. At length, though, the elven king continued softly, "With 
the loss of the latest wolf-packs—you found but one, and many other hunting 
bands reported kills!—the master of Dol Guldur is wroth. I can feel his hatred 
pulse through the earth and surge against our borders. The very trees are bowed 
before it! He will strike again soon, and as his attacks grow more frequent, the 
risk of discovery grows."

"Has anyone yet unmasked the commander of the tower, your majesty?"

"We still know not what sort of being governs there, but we think that it must 
be a Man of some sort," Thranduil sighed, and then raised a brow at Aragorn, "No 
offense to you, Dúnadan, but what we can discern of him through the rumor of the 
forest feels more human than aught else."

"But we have no name? Nothing to indicate his origins?"

"Nay, but that whatever this evil is, it resists our attempts to discern its 
true nature. Perhaps Dol Guldur itself acts as a barrier, for Sauron hid within 
sight of our realm without rousing suspicion." Thranduil shook his head, 
disgusted and regretful, then said, "Assuming a messenger was sent immediately 
to Mordor, I would guess that we have some few weeks, perhaps a month at best, 
ere the news reaches the Dark Lord. Pray, then, that Mithrandir comes swiftly, 
for else you shall not get this creature, Gollum, out of the forest at all, I 
should think."

"I do pray," Aragorn said softly, and with such quiet fervor, that Thranduil 
gave a soft laugh.

"Indeed, you do. And so do I! For alas, we can do no more, I fear," the elven 
king sighed, seeming to accept that he would learn nothing new from the Ranger. 
Then he fell silent, and the Ranger watched him in the darkness, trying to read 
the other's purpose. For although their speech together had not been without 
merit, now that the Elf had apparently let fall the matter of Gollum, it seemed 
clear to him that Mirkwood's king had other reasons to come alone to speak with 
a mortal Man. Aragorn hesitated a moment, then quickly decided that the direct 
approach was in order.

"I thank you for the warning, and if I may be of any service at all during my 
time here, I would gladly lend my aid wheresoever you deemed it needed," he 
said, and then paused a split second as Thranduil nodded ere he continued, "But 
if you will permit, your majesty, I cannot believe that you would come at so 
late an hour only to speak to me of such matters as may be easily discussed in 
council or at other times during the day." Thranduil cocked his head at him, and 
Aragorn felt the probing regard like a brand, but he said nothing, waiting for 
the king to state his purpose.

"And I perceive from your voice that you know well whereof I would speak," 
Thranduil said at length and wryly. "Very well! Let us then speak of Legolas." 
The Elf paused a moment, considering Aragorn in silence, and then he asked, 
"Know you of Tharinsal?"

"Legolas told me he had departed for Tol Eressëa shortly after my last visit," 
the Ranger replied.

"Then doubtless he also told you that others of my children also look west. 
Before their time, I should say, but that all such words begin to lose meaning. 
The days run short, and our departure draws nearer. But for the moment that 
concerns me less than does Legolas' grief. For he does grieve, and more than 
that, he is afraid. Can you understand that?"

There was a certain sharpness to the other's question, an edge to his voice, 
that made Aragorn stiffen slightly. Legolas is not the only one who grieves or 
fears! he thought, and so chose his words with great care. "Not as an Elf could, 
for the sea-longing is not in me. But I suffer its consequences as well, for 
many whom I love and account as friends are subject to the call of the ocean. 
And I fear to lose them, though I know well that I must in the end."

"Then you know more than most Men, and that I say is good, for I would not see 
Legolas suffer from mortal ignorance as well!" Thranduil shook his head and 
grimaced. "Through his mother, he has much Nandorin blood in him, as do many of 
my people, though we are now all accounted Sindarin, so mixed are we become. But 
of all of my children, he was ever the most bound to this forest, and I doubt 
not that he shall be the last to leave these shores. He has his mother's heart, 
and I would not see him suffer as she did!" the elven king said in a low tone, 
his voice taut and grim. For his part, Aragorn did not miss the significance of 
the simple past, and his lips tightened in a thin line, for he had not known the 
fate of Mirkwood's queen. He still could not be certain whether she had departed 
Middle-earth or life itself, and discretion being the better part of valor, he 
did not ask. Clearly, Thranduil had yet to recover from their sundering, and a 
stranger would have to be very foolish indeed to intrude upon his mourning. 
After a time, Thranduil looked up, and he caught Aragorn's eyes with his as he 
continued, in a low, intense voice, "Arda is in Nandorin blood so deeply that 
the call of the sea is as a tearing pain until it is drowned. I know not what 
Legolas intends in his pursuit of you, but if he bonds to you, it will sink but 
another hook into his soul, and make the prospect of his departure the harder to 
endure. More, he will be tainted with the fear of mortality, and that I would 
not see."

Aragorn had spent many years learning the fine art of dissembling, and six 
decades of practice came into play in an instant to cover the anger that flared 
in him. Of the three elvish strongholds in Middle-earth, Thranduil's was the 
only one with regular contacts with humans. As such, and in spite of Legolas' 
words earlier, logic would conclude that such obvious prejudice ought to be less 
deep-rooted here than elsewhere. That one of Thranduil's standing apparently 
felt no shame in bluntly ordering a mortal to leave off a friendship already 
begun was in some sense deeply incomprehensible to Aragorn, and the Ranger 
fought his disappointment but also his indignant anger for the slur. Calmly, 
Aragorn! You did not come here to change the hearts of fading Elves—did you not 
say just that? Drawing a deep breath, the Ranger cast about for some harmless 
response—something innocuous and reassuring. But whatever Thranduil's opinion of 
mortals in general and men in particular, he was still an Elf, and though 
Aragorn was quite tempted, he could not lie while snared still by the other's 
gaze. And perhaps I do not wish to in any case. Mortal ignorance, is it? Then 
let us at least do without elvish blindness! "Your son's heart is not mine to 
order, your majesty. If he would hold with me for a season of his life, then I 
shall not hinder him, for only a fool would lightly refuse such companionship as 
he offers. And though a father seeks always to protect his children, you cannot 
spare him this pain: for he has already chosen, and any rebuff that I might make 
would wound him. If he must suffer hurt for my sake, I would rather he suffer 
from a friendship lost to time than from one refused."

Thranduil was silent for a long while, and his displeasure was evident in his 
tight expression and posture. Finally: "Bold words, son of Arathorn!"

"True words, your majesty: the only kind worthy of a king," Aragorn replied 
softly, arching a dark brow at the other, daring him to recognize the 
double-meaning there. Green eyes met grey ones in a contest of wills, and the 
Ranger gazed back steadily, refusing to retreat before the other's pained anger. 
It was hard, though, for in that moment, he was reminded quite strongly of 
Elrond, when Imladris' lord had learned of his daughter's decision. I seem to 
have a talent for coming between fathers and their children. But even forty 
years ago, Aragorn had refused to bear alone Elrond's blame for another's 
choice. And though a dangerous gleam flared in Thranduil's eyes, Aragorn 
remained steadfast in that refusal, for to accept such responsibility deprived 
Legolas of his dignity no less than it would have deprived Arwen. Still, the 
silent match wore on, and the air seemed to grow thick between them as 
Thranduil's pain waxed with the recognition of inevitability. For even were 
Aragorn to leave that very night, Legolas would follow him; that much was clear 
to both father and friend, and though the former might delay the hour, 
eventually, Mirkwood's youngest prince would leave the forest behind.

And so in the end, Thranduil withdrew, looking away quite suddenly, and Aragorn 
for a moment suffered a peculiar disorientation, as if the world had for an 
instant ceased to exist and then begun again. It was the mental equivalent of 
the stagger of an overbalanced swordsman, but he knew well what he felt, and so 
did not let it affect him noticeably. The elven king turned his face up to the 
stars, and to the moon that was now beginning to touch upon the tree tops, as if 
seeking comfort in the sight. Perhaps the stars did speak to him, for though his 
voice remained flat and hard, there was yet none of the contempt or raw anger 
that one might have expected after such a confrontation. "Wisdom comes slowly, 
and even to the Elves it is not granted once and forever, but must be sought!" 
he murmured, then lowered his eyes to recapture the Ranger's gaze. "Have you 
children, Aragorn?" he asked with pointed emphasis on the word.

"No, my lord." That elicited a grunt from the other, who then gave a slight, 
thin smile as he shook his head.

"A pity, as I said before. Learn from this, then, young one: when your time 
comes, and your own children choose another path, do not let your love for them 
bind you to folly!" Thranduil's smile broadened somewhat in the moonlight, 
sensing Aragorn's surprise at the sudden reversal of his mood and manner. "Have 
a care with Legolas, for though you have a wisdom that I do not often find in 
Men, still, he is centuries your senior and head-strong at that, as Aradhil 
would tell you." If Aradhil would deign to speak with you! The unspoken 
qualifier was clearly communicated nonetheless, and Aragorn gave a slight shrug 
for the warden's contempt.

"I hear and obey, your majesty."

"Good." The king paused, seeming to consider some further matter, and to the 
Ranger's trained eye, the Elf seemed suddenly and wickedly amused by something. 
Which might give a wary mortal cause for fear, but in Aragorn the king's shrewd 
consideration woke only a certain well-placed caution and curiosity. Thranduil 
cocked his head at him, and nodded, as if the Ranger's equanimity pleased him, 
and he said briskly, "Tomorrow, Legolas returns to his duties. He shall learn of 
this in the morning, and I would have you go with him since you have offered 
your service. If my son would befriend a human, well that he learns your measure 
in all things. And it will keep him focused," the other admitted wryly. "Will 
you accept this chore?"

"If you wish it, then gladly."

"I do wish it. Aradhil shall also go, for he has been my son's keeper for longer 
than Rohan has had a king. I fear he has little use for Men, but you need not 
fear, for he would not dare to fail in his duty to a comrade, whatever his 
bloodlines."

"I doubt it not. I know somewhat of elvish pride… and human," Aragorn added 
pointedly, and Thranduil now held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

"Then I need not keep you. Good night, Dúnadan." And with that, the king of 
Mirkwood strode regally away, disappearing quickly into the darkness of the 
halls. Aragorn watched him go, turning over that tense conversation in his mind, 
and at length he gave a soft bark of laughter for the unexpected way that things 
had turned out. Elves! I shall never cease to be amazed by how changeable an 
immortal can be. With that, he stretched and offered a silent good night to 
Varda's skies. And to you, Prince of Mirkwood: sleep well, or sing well— I know 
not which! But I shall see you on the morrow once more. After a final glance at 
the moon-lit forest, Aragorn went to bed.

 

***

Legolas walked lightly out onto a slender branch, emerging from cover only 
enough to survey his surroundings without obstruction. To his left, Aradhil 
perched, bow at the ready should aught threaten his prince, and the other four 
members of their patrol were spread at staggered intervals and heights behind 
them. There was nothing unusual in such a deployment, but the group felt tense 
nonetheless, and the reason was obvious. "Seven," Aradhil had muttered when the 
Dúnadan was out of earshot, voicing one of several latent concerns. The number 
seemed an inauspicious mark that hovered over the patrol, for six, being half of 
twelve,* was accounted a balanced number, whereas seven was considered in many 
ways to be the first truly "odd" number: the number of imbalance, of 
extraneousness, of superfluity. It was a standing excuse for elvish skepticism 
of the Dwarves that the members of that strange race were of seven houses, 
descended from seven fathers, and many Elves still shook their heads over the 
fact that Celebrimbor had made seven dwarven rings. An unlucky number, and one 
that might have ill consequences for the band indeed!

And of course that Aragorn is mortal has nothing to do with Aradhil's 
displeasure at all, Legolas thought sarcastically, with a slight smile for the 
warden's mood. The fact that I have been at the Dúnadan's side all the long 
hours of the day has done naught to ease him either. For as skilled as the 
Ranger might be, it was impossible for a mortal to track an Elf who did not wish 
to be traced, which had given rise to some discussion ere their departure. 
Legolas had at first held forth that the patrol would simply have to show itself 
from time to time so as not to lose the Ranger. "'Tis an unwarranted risk, my 
prince," Aradhil had flatly refused to entertain the notion.

"Then one of us must remain at his side as a guide," Legolas had replied 
cheerfully, though privately he had been irritated by the amount of reluctance 
that the warden displayed over the prospect of having Aragorn along with them. 
Thranduil it was who asked him to come, and if for no other reason than loyalty, 
he ought not to make so heavy a burden of his duty! But Aradhil was set in his 
ways, and Legolas was willing to take advantage of the other's prejudice to suit 
his own purposes. "I know your reservations well, my friend, and as I would not 
put you in a setting of which you are not certain, I shall play the part of 
pathfinder!" And so he had. All that day, he had led the Ranger on the ground, 
ascending to the heights only at intervals to check their position and to get a 
better look at the land. Aradhil was not well pleased with the solution, and he 
evinced an obvious dissatisfaction whenever his prince joined them in the trees. 
But he could scarcely have it both ways; and as Legolas was the most skilled of 
the group (saving only for the warden himself) and a mortal would obviously need 
all the help that they could spare, Aradhil could not argue with Legolas' 
self-appointed role. And if he had, I have still authority over him, the prince 
thought with a certain grim satisfaction. Besides, even Aradhil should have 
little to complain of, for Aragorn has not slowed us.

Now, as the prince gazed out at the forest, he nodded sharply to himself, 
finding the way clear. He signaled Aradhil to stand easy, and gazed about to 
find Aragorn once more. After a moment, he spotted the other, and using the 
branches of other trees almost as a staircase, he nimbly made his way back to 
the earth. Aragorn did not startle at his appearance, intent upon his own 
observations. Apparently, the Ranger, too, found nothing to alarm him, for he 
glanced at his companion and quirked a brow as if to ask Shall we continue? 
Legolas nodded and led the way forward once more. They were moving south, having 
left behind the Forest Road that marked the formal border between Thranduil's 
realm and the dominion of Dol Guldur. In reality, the Road was merely a 
convenient way of measuring the ebb and flow of the fortunes of the Elves, for 
at times, their influence held even south of that pathway; at others, Dol 
Guldur's shadow lay heavily far north of it. At the moment, even a human could 
not possibly be insensitive to the feeling of malaise that pulsed, beating 
against them and radiating outward with steady insistence. What that might mean, 
none could say with certainty, though all were on edge, expecting attack. And in 
spite of the Ranger's obvious skill and ability to adapt to the methods of 
others, Legolas worried about the prospect of a large skirmish. The others were 
Elves, and they would adapt quickly enough, but there was always room for error: 
if Aragorn misjudged the space in which he could safely maneuver, even elvish 
acumen could not snatch an arrow back once it had been released. Not to think of 
that, Legolas reminded himself sternly. Thus far, we have found naught. And 
should that change, I shall still be here to insure that mistakes do not occur.

The land sloped gently but noticeably the further south one went, and now it 
began to fall away sharply about them. The trees on the incline grew at awkward 
angles, pressed up against each other for support but also in fierce struggle to 
reach the light that their dark-leafed branches blocked. Beneath their tangled 
canopy, the land lay as if in perpetual crepuscular slumber. But the dreams are 
never pleasant, and one feels something creeping in the darkness that even 
elvish eyes pierce but with difficulty, Legolas thought, pausing a moment to let 
his eyes adjust to the gloom. The gnarled shapes of the trees seemed to float in 
the distance, their roots lost in the shadowy, clinging underbrush that blended 
well with the shadows. Nightshade and dull moss, mold and dust populated the 
spaces between the trees, and some bushes gleamed with blood-red berries so sour 
that few could endure them. And we must be wary of the cobwebs! The elven prince 
grimaced fastidiously as he grasped a sticky strand of spider silk and yanked, 
clearing the stuff from his path. It was not the same sort of web that signaled 
the presence of the monstrous creatures that would hunt even Elves, but it was 
best to be cautious for they migrated throughout the forest.

By the time night fell at last, the patrol's spirits were low, and though 
Aradhil and the others joined their companions on the ground at Legolas' 
insistence, the warden was quick to station himself as far from Aragorn as he 
could manage. The rest of the company was not so obvious about its disaffection, 
but there was a tension in the air that did not come solely from their 
surroundings. With a soft sigh, Legolas considered the problem, wondering if 
there was aught he could do to encourage some sort of resolution, but even an 
Elf may falter before a millennium's worth of accumulated grievance. Flicking a 
glance at the lone human in their midst, he noted that Arathorn's son had very 
quietly settled with his back to a tree and seemed not to notice his isolation. 
Except that Legolas would sooner believe that the Man could sprout wings, for a 
Ranger did not live so long as Aragorn without having mastered the art of 
minutely detailed observation. He knows perfectly well what the others think. I 
wonder whether he grew accustomed to such prejudice in Imladris? Legolas shook 
his fair head and dismissed such ponderings. In the end, they mattered less than 
the reality that confronted him for the first time: that the divide between 
Elves and Men was deeper and uglier than he had realized.

Were it not for Aradhil's clear rejection of the Ranger, he suspected that the 
others would have been content to more or less ignore him, and to return 
courtesy for courtesy, though without ever allowing themselves to grow attached 
to him in any way. But the warden had great authority, and was older than the 
prince whom he served, and in this matter at least, the weight of that 
prominence pulled the rest of the patrol towards a more clearly hostile position 
with respect to Aragorn. Legolas could do little to offset that prejudice except 
to make his own views clear by sitting down amiably beside the Ranger. I cannot 
even speak to Aradhil until Aragorn sleeps tonight, for he would understand us! 
There are some things I would not have him hear. It would hurt to strain the 
bond of trust that existed between warden and prince, but Legolas could not let 
the matter lie. Not, and call myself my father's son! He thought, staring at 
Aradhil's back as the other stood and gazed out at the darkness.

Just at that moment, he felt a nudge against his arm, and the prince blinked and 
glanced at the Ranger. Aragorn's eyes flicked to the warden, and he gave the 
barest hint of a smile as he shook his head minutely. Leave off! he seemed to 
say.

I cannot! Legolas thought back, wondering if the other would understand that 
mute appeal. Aragorn met his gaze, and those sea-grey eyes gleamed as if with an 
inner radiance that owed nothing to their small camp fire. No, he mouthed the 
word and at Legolas' raised brow, added, Wait. The Elf's brow knit with 
perplexity, but after a moment's hesitation, the prince bowed to the other's 
will in the matter. If only because I am curious to see how he reacts. It is his 
honor, after all, Legolas thought. And Aragorn, reading the prince's confused 
impatience with the situation, smiled to himself. There was little point in 
pressing the issue at this time, but he did not doubt that the opportunity would 
arise to address it, and soon! Aradhil could hardly take a stronger stance, 
which may help me in the end. For if he is shown to be mistaken about a human's 
worth in one case, it will cast much doubt on his judgment in other areas as 
well. In the mean time, I can wait. He is no worse than Denethor in many ways, 
though I doubt not that the Steward of Gondor would be appalled by the 
comparison! the Ranger thought. And now that he was sure that Legolas would say 
nothing on the subject of elvish arrogance, he let his attention drift back to 
the forest. Mirkwood felt threatening tonight, and he wondered what hunted them. 
Wargs? Orcs? Or something more fell than they? What is this malice that lies 
over the land and troubles our hearts? Whatever the source of the malign power, 
it was only a matter of time ere it showed itself more clearly in the creatures 
that it sent against them. And we shall be waiting for them, Aragorn vowed with 
a certain grim satisfaction.

Legolas rose then and assigned the watch, and Aragorn listened without surprise 
to the announcement that he would take his shift with the prince at midnight. 
That left him four hours in which to rest, and as those not on duty spread their 
blankets and cloaks, he nestled down as comfortably as he could, drawing his 
cloak close about his body. Soon enough, he felt Legolas join him, settling back 
to back for protection as well as warmth. As the patrol had been quiet all 
evening, one could not say that silence fell, but a sense of stillness pervaded 
their fire-lit circle as one by one, the members of the group fell asleep.

But the night is not still, and there is a menace in this darkness that I have 
not felt before, Aragorn thought drowsily. And even as he told himself to stop 
thinking and go to sleep, his mind fixed upon the feeling of anticipation that 
grew within him, crystallizing in a final warning:

Sleep now, for as it stands, trouble shall come before the dawn!




**********

Awww… yeah, that's it, that's the end of the chapter. Go to sleep and maybe I'll 
write some more. Or not, because now I'm tired and work beckons tomorrow. Thanks 
for all your feedback, and you'll notice I modified the Nandorin bit somewhat. 
Tell me what you think.

*In Appendix D of RotK, pp. 440-441, Tolkien noted that the Eldar preferred to 
reckon in sixes and twelves, and that their basic unit of (useful) time 
measurement was 144 mortal years, or twelve squared. I'm just playing around 
with that idea a bit. Elves may be immortal, but every race has its numerical 
superstitions.

** "Now let us cry a plague on the stiff necks of the Elves!"-- Aragorn, FOTR as 
they try to get through Lórien. Chapter content clearly inspired by this, and 
also just because a) I think the story needs it, and b) Thranduil was a major 
a$$hole the first time he let me write him, and I haven't forgiven him, even if 
I did manage to get him to play nice(-r) in the end.



~~~


Chapter Four  - Divided We Stand


 The moment midnight arrived, Legolas blinked and sat up, alerted by the 
changing of his dreams in correlation with the changing of the night sky. Or at 
least, with as much of the sky as was visible through the veil of leaves and 
twisted branches, which was very little. But quite enough for an Elf, Legolas 
thought as he smoothly rose to his feet, automatically glancing about for 
danger. But whereas Elves, even in sleep, knew always where and when they 
stood, Men might not notice the passage of time, being at the mercy of their 
own dreaming minds. Legolas gazed down at Aragorn, who seemed quite soundly 
asleep, and considered how best to rouse him. But just as the prince stooped 
and stretched out a hand to touch the other’s shoulder, the Ranger stirred. 
Grey eyes opened quite suddenly, and the Dúnadan quickly pushed himself to a 
sitting position, reaching out swiftly to grasp the scabbard at his side. 
Glancing up unerringly at Legolas, he nodded a silent good evening as he rose 
quickly to his feet, slipping the baldric on again as he did so. Elf and Man 
then picked their way through sleeping forms to where Faladhros stood watch.

The sentry cast a glance back over his shoulder as they approached, and Legolas 
laid a hand on the other’s back, indicating with that gesture that Faladhros 
should go and rest, that the watch was now well in hand. The other Elf bowed to 
his prince, and then turned to Aragorn. Without fuss or expression, he nodded 
politely and then went off to bed, leaving the two to their duty. Aragorn’s 
brows shot up skeptically, recognizing the other’s perfect neutrality for what 
it was: an attempt to use that legendary elvish disinterest as a shield to hide 
his unwilling acceptance of the Ranger’s presence. For his part, Legolas felt 
frustration threaten to boil over as he watched the other retreat. Frustration! 
Five hundred and seventeen years have I lived, and it takes now but a day to 
frustrate me? The prince shook his head, scarcely able to fathom the notion yet 
unable to deny it. At his side, the Dúnadan gave a soft snort that testified to 
his own annoyance while suggesting a certain wry, sharp-edged amusement, and he 
gripped Legolas’ shoulder firmly. Remember your promise! That touch warned, and 
the elven prince sighed as he glanced sideways at the Man. But it would do no 
good to brood overmuch, or to give Aragorn cause to worry, and so, with a slight 
smile, Legolas turned his full attention to the surrounding forest. Apparently 
satisfied, the Ranger released him and followed suit.

Trees sighed in the light wind, and the chitters and rustling of those creatures 
that roamed Mirkwood by night sounded all around them. Yet if there were a 
somewhat threatening, dark cast to those otherwise common noises, Legolas felt 
nothing that directly threatened the patrol. Yet! But the air seems to throb 
with ill-feeling, and I doubt not that once we are discovered, we shall find 
ourselves the focus of it all! The Elf frowned thoughtfully, fingering the 
smooth wood of his bow. Something comes near, of that I am certain, and yet…. 
Legolas narrowed his eyes, trying to put his finger on what he felt and 
uncharacteristically stumbling in the attempt. After several minutes’ protracted 
silence, the Elf shot a look in Aragorn’s direction. The Ranger had not remained 
still, preferring to prowl along the perimeter of their campsite as he watched, 
but he, too, seemed troubled… restless… on edge. What waits in the darkness? 
Surely not Wargs, I know their ways too well. Orcs perhaps… but there is 
something more to this… something unusually more… ‘mixed,’ I should say. Even in 
his own mind, such a judgment did little to clarify anything, and Legolas’ eyes 
narrowed as he, too, began pacing the edges of the camp as his thoughts took a 
darker turn. How much do the denizens of Dol Guldur know? Legolas wondered 
grimly, wishing that he had a better notion of what precisely he ought to fear. 
What is this Gollum that Mithrandir and Isildur’s Heir should seek him and bring 
him here?

But short of asking Aragorn again, he had no means of answering his own 
question, and this was certainly not the place to make such inquiries. Indeed, 
this was not the time or place to speak at all, and there was not a one of the 
scouting party that had not felt the compulsion to remain silent. The forest has 
ears as well as eyes, but whereas we cannot disappear, we may at least deny 
eavesdroppers insight into our thoughts! Assuming our enemies cannot discern 
them already! Once more, Legolas’ mind fastened on the Ranger’s isolation in the 
elvish company, and he hoped that whatever watched them had not so discerning an 
eye as Aragorn, to notice how very isolated he was. If we show weakness now, it 
may prove our undoing! Perhaps seven is an unbalanced number! At the least, the 
balance in this group is upset, Legolas thought. But after a moment, he grimaced 
slightly and shook his head for his own unwillingness to put a name to the root 
of the trouble. ‘Tis not the number that marks us ill, ‘tis our composition… and 
our arrogance. I trust, though, that when confronted, arrogance shall not 
interfere with business.

Time passed, and Legolas wondered whether the hours seemed long or swift to 
Aragorn. Given the evil that seemed to haunt the woods, the Elf certainly felt 
each moment, investigating every fleeting instant with razor-sharp 
attentiveness, aware of the particularity of each heartbeat. Every tree, every 
bush, every member of the patrol fixed themselves in the prince’s mind, a 
pattern of emptiness and solidity that held itself mostly constant in the 
ceaselessly reiterated now of an Elf’s time sense. All was in readiness, all was 
still, awaiting the catalyst of crisis—it needed but that one, particular and as 
yet unknown event that would break the pattern and precipitate them into 
conflict. And although Legolas felt an implicit trust of Aragorn, he could not 
quite suppress a twinge of anxiety for the uncertainty that he represented. 
Although they had already fought one battle together, the prince worried about 
the way that the Ranger’s presence would affect the group. Would Aradhil and the 
others compromise their own well-established patterns of attack and defense in 
an effort to look after the ‘hapless’ mortal? And if they did, how would Aragorn 
react to that? When the Wargs had attacked, neither Legolas nor Aragorn had had 
the luxury of worrying about each other overly much: each had had to trust the 
other to guard his back and concern himself only with defending his half of the 
circle. This would be different, and Legolas could not decide whether his people 
would err on the side of caution with respect to Aragorn or neglect. That 
uncertainty irritated him, grated on his nerves in a way that even orcs did not, 
and the prince had to suppress the urge to let that irritation attach to the Man 
whose presence unintentionally inspired it. It is not his fault, after all!

A soft noise drifted to the Elf’s sharp ears, and Legolas whirled, bow pressed 
in an instant as he sought its source. An owl hooted, drawing his attention 
upward, and then another rustling sounded as some creature—a squirrel? A 
mouse?—darted along an overhanging branch and thence down a tree’s trunk. 
Movement behind him made him look sharply over his shoulder, but even as he 
turned, he placed the pattern of the sound and breathed easier as Aragorn moved 
a few steps closer, hand on the hilt of his sword. Still, nothing happened, and 
after another few moments, the Elf relaxed. Do I jump now at shadows? He 
wondered. Perhaps he did, and he wondered now whether Aragorn were watching him 
too carefully. And why should I think that? He is capable enough of forming his 
own opinion, surely! I ought not to—

Which was when the Ranger turned suddenly and a blade whistled through the air, 
catching an orc in the face. The harsh scream roused the camp instantly, and 
Legolas’ first two arrows were scarcely away when they were joined by a 
half-dozen others as the Elves spread out and, in two cases, up, climbing 
swiftly into the trees. The prince managed to put a total of six shafts in the 
air before he slung the bow over his shoulder and drew his long knife in a 
slicing motion that ripped an orc open from hip to shoulder. He had to dance 
aside to avoid the reflexive down-stroke as the orc curled about the injury, 
unintentionally bringing its blade back down in a cut that would have dealt a 
serious wound to any standing in its path. Aradhil appeared just then at his 
side, expression fierce, and the warden had his bow in one hand and his knife in 
the other. Both bow and knife were bloodied, and there was some blood on the 
other’s left hand that was too red to be orcish. Aradhil, though, seemed 
untroubled by it as he moved left to take on another assailant that threatened 
his prince. Legolas took in all such details in a heart beat ere he ducked under 
a mid-level thrust and came up to put his shoulder into an orc’s belly. There 
came a rush of foul air as the other exhaled sharply, and Legolas darted 
forward, throwing the orc over his shoulder. He did not stop to look back, 
knowing that Aradhil would kill it ere it could rise, concentrating instead on 
the next orc. He brought his blade up to block another slash, then spun like a 
spider in its web to ram the dagger into his enemy’s side with a back-handed 
thrust. The blade went in up to the hilt, and the Elf snarled as he had to kick 
backward to push the body off his dagger ere he could turn to face the next foe. 
An arrow from on high skewered it before he could take even a step towards it, 
and the prince took advantage of the reprieve to see how the battle went.

Bodies lay strewn all about-- none of them elvish thankfully!-- and a goodly 
number had fallen to arrows. How many more? Legolas wondered, amazed that they 
had come so close before being spotted. Perhaps even more surprisingly, it had 
been Aragorn who had reacted first, which gave the prince cause to 
wonder—briefly, given the circumstances— about his own faculties. And where is 
he now? Legolas’ eyes darted about the clearing and quickly fastened upon the 
Ranger: hard by Faladhros, Arathorn’s son caught a blade on his sword, then 
ducked to impale another orc with his second dagger. Slapping aside the first 
orc’s blade with a flick of his wrist, he pushed upward and stepped into his 
enemy with the knife blade. The orc collapsed, but three more came rushing 
towards him, and Legolas smiled grimly as he bent his bow once more, aiming 
carefully….

Another arrow hurtled forward, past Legolas’ face, and the prince blinked in 
surprise. The missile was aimed for one of the three orcs—the one closest to 
Aragorn—but the angle was tight, and Legolas’ eyes widened as the Ranger jerked 
aside, giving a sharp, short curse as he swung at the next foe. Legolas quickly 
shifted his aim and shot the third orc before it could reach the human, and then 
he darted forward to help as the last of their enemies made a final, desperate 
push forward. Faladhros howled as he brought his daggers down in a slicing arc 
that found a jugular, resulting in an impressive spray of dark blood; Aragorn 
and Legolas were quick to fell two more as the archers in the trees slew another 
three. Aradhil’s final shot whistled between prince and Ranger, so close to 
Aragorn’s face that he felt the wind of its passage. But the arrow struck true, 
between the eyes of the last attacker, and the Ranger watched with almost elvish 
dispassion as the orc fell dead literally at his feet. There was a long silence 
as the defenders waited tensely, unwilling to let fall their guard quite yet 
lest they be unpleasantly surprised. But when it became clear to all that they 
had won the day—or rather, the night—a collective sense of grimly satisfied 
relief pervaded the group. Legolas kicked the orc that had fallen last, turning 
it onto its back, and he stared at the broken shaft that protruded grotesquely 
from its forehead. Aragorn, meanwhile, stalked forward to retrieve his dagger 
from the first orc felled, wiping all three blades clean ere he sheathed them.

"Eighteen," said Aradhil, and Legolas rose, turning to the warden who stood now 
at his shoulder.

"Eighteen and scarcely a mark on any of us," Aragorn said, joining them, and 
this time it was he who glanced pointedly at Aradhil’s hand. "This was too 
easy." Aradhil’s eyes flickered: clearly the allusion was not lost on him, and 
he resented the Man’s intrusion. But he said naught, only stared a moment ere he 
returned his attention to Legolas, ignoring the other so completely that it was 
as if the Ranger had suddenly ceased to exist for him.

"Agreed, but we ought not to let that dictate our movements overmuch. We came to 
investigate the cause of this malice which flows so thick and free in our land," 
the warden replied, and Legolas heard the emphasis on ‘our.’ "We should press on 
in the morning and continue upon our planned path: we sweep south-east and cut 
across the edge of the basin where lies Dol Guldur. If there is aught to be 
seen, we shall surely learn of it. At the least, proximity may teach us more of 
the nature of the watcher."

"What think you, Aragorn?" Legolas asked, deliberately including the Man in 
their discussion and Aradhil’s mouth tightened in displeasure.

"I say only that we should go more carefully than we have, if that is possible. 
These orcs were as naught in comparison with what I expected. Something hunts us 
still, and I should not wish to walk into it too lightly," the Ranger replied, 
glancing from Legolas to Aradhil, and the prince felt the clash of wills as 
their gazes met.

"Then we continue on at first light," Legolas said in a bid to recapture their 
attention ere the sparring match could get out of hand. "But for the moment, I 
think our campsite leaves much to be desired in terms of… scenery, shall we 
say?" He indicated the corpses littering the ground, but neither Ranger nor 
warden followed his gesture, still staring each other down. "Can you sleep in a 
tree, Aragorn?"

"If I must," the other replied with a slight smile, as if daring the warden to 
comment on that. Aradhil did not dignify the statement with a response, only 
waited expectantly for Legolas’ decision.

"See to it, then, warden," Legolas said, and since he had so far failed to break 
the line of tension between the two, he reached out to touch the warden’s 
sleeve, physically commanding the other's attention. Still, Aradhil fairly 
dragged his eyes to Legolas' face, manifestly reluctant to surrender the match 
to a mere mortal, no matter what the circumstances. Legolas felt his expression 
harden as the warden stared at him now, and after a moment's silence added, 
"Yes, see to it. And when we are all removed to the heights, I would stand the 
watch with you, for I have much need of thought." Aradhil heard the edge to 
Legolas' voice, and so he gave a minute nod, acknowledging his prince’s orders, 
spoken and unspoken. "Good." Satisfied that things would hold for the nonce, 
Legolas turned and strode away to see how the others had fared.

Aradhil watched his prince go with a frown, staring for a long moment ere he 
made as if to go about his business. But a hand on his shoulder and the feel of 
another’s body blocking his path stopped him, and the warden glared at Aragorn, 
feeling his wrath rise at the other’s audacity. The Ranger stood with his back 
to the others, so that he and Aradhil faced opposite directions, and his hand on 
the Elf’s shoulder tightened in warning when Aradhil tensed. The Dúnadan did not 
look directly at him, seeming instead to stare at some point just short of the 
forest eaves, and his voice was pitched quite low. Nevertheless, Aradhil gritted 
his teeth, for he doubted not that some of the others heard his words, elvish 
ears being sharp indeed. "You must think me blind, or else stupid, Aradhil, to 
be so brash!"

"And you must be foolish indeed if you think to call me out over naught, 
mortal!" Aradhil replied, eyes narrowing.

"Naught, is it?" Aragorn now turned a piercing gaze on the Elf, and he reached 
across his own body to tug at the tear in the shoulder of his shirt. Blood 
stained the edges of the torn cloth, and Aradhil could see the shallow graze 
that showed dark on pale skin. The Elf lifted his gaze from the cut to stare 
into the other’s hard grey eyes, and Aragorn’s tone was scathing as he 
continued. "Naught indeed, and it troubles me not, but I have known Elves for as 
long as I have lived, save only for two years. For all your long life, I doubt 
that you can say the same of your experience with Men. That shot was deliberate, 
Aradhil. Either that, or your reputation in Mirkwood is unearned!" The warden 
sucked in a breath, but he was given no chance to reply. "I shall not mention 
this incident, for in truth I have cut myself worse before. But such antics are 
not worthy of you: in the future, pay more heed to our enemies than to your 
allies!" With that, Aragorn stepped away, raking him over with his eyes ere he 
gave a brief nod, as of farewell for the evening, and then he turned and walked 
away. Faladhros and Dorothil stepped aside as the Ranger passed, returning his 
polite acknowledgment—"Gentlemen!"—in kind ere they dragged reluctant eyes to 
Aradhil. Furious and embarrassed, the warden glared back at them, and the two 
guards quickly looked away, becoming suddenly absorbed with retrieving the 
arrows they had used and gathering up their now blood-soaked blankets to haul up 
to the tree tops. And still, the humiliation did not end, for Aradhil was 
conscious of another’s watching eyes.

Across the clearing, Legolas stood gazing at him, and Aradhil had no doubt that 
he had heard or guessed all that Aragorn had said. Mirkwood’s youngest prince 
raised his chin slightly, as if to urge him about his duties, and the warden 
managed to nod in response. Returning to the group, he hurried the others along, 
helping to move their gear up into the branches above, and all the while he took 
care not to look at the Ranger. Even when Aragorn handed his pack up along the 
elven chain and then hoisted himself up into the tree, Aradhil ignored him. 
After but a little while, only he and Legolas remained upon the ground, and as 
ever, the warden gestured for his prince to precede him. Legolas did, though not 
without casting a significant look at his protector and counselor of many years. 
With a soft sigh, the warden followed him up into the branches, picking his 
agile way past the others to find a place suitably isolated. Not only had he no 
mind for company at the moment, but it would be easier to avoid disturbing 
anyone when he took his watch. For the moment, Legolas and Aragorn held it 
still, and he glared balefully at the mortal’s back as he stood grasping a 
branch for balance. With a final, disgusted shake of his head, the warden 
settled into the cradle of branches he had chosen and quietly withdrew into 
sleep. But his dreams were populated by orcs and men, all of them screaming 
death upon the plains of Eregion, and in his mind he sighed. Whatever else 
happened tonight, it would be a very unpleasant conversation that he and Legolas 
would have under the thin disguise of guard duty, that was certain.

***

"Are you well?" Legolas asked, drawing near to Aragorn so that their whispers 
would disturb no one.

"I am," the Ranger replied laconically, gazing down through the leaves, keeping 
careful watch on the land.

"Are you certain?" The prince reached out and caught his biceps close to the 
joint of his shoulder, and Aragorn felt a slight sting as the pressure reopened 
the cut. Legolas drew a hand over the injury and his fingers came away bloody. 
The Elf cast a skeptical look at the Man and raised a brow, waiting expectantly 
for a response.

Isildur’s Heir turned a searching gaze on the prince, and after a moment’s 
consideration said mildly, "Do not make more of it than it deserves, Legolas!"

"I would make nothing of it, but that I know well whose arrow made the mark, and 
from your faces, I gather your speech with Aradhil went ill indeed. If you would 
have me make naught of it, then why did you confront him?"

"Because I am not an archery post, my prince, and for all that this is but a 
scratch, I will not tamely let him play with me. That is serious enough when the 
danger is immediate, but not so grave that I would put it to you, who are a 
prince of the realm, without attempting to deal with him myself. For he is an 
Elf, and I do not doubt that he intended no more than this, or I would know it!" 
He shrugged.

Legolas grunted at that, admitting the logic of that response. Alas, I fear that 
even being made a fool of by a ‘mere’ human shall not break Aradhil of this 
habitual disdain. We shall see, I suppose, but if he will play such games in the 
heat of battle, then I cannot let it lie only with Aragorn. "I understand, and I 
doubt not that you have the right of it, but I also saw what he did, and so it 
falls to me to speak to him anyway. You need have nothing further to do with 
him, Aragorn."

"I wish you were right, Legolas, but for so long as we travel together, we 
cannot afford to avoid or ignore each other." A pause, then, "Know you why he 
hates Men so?"

"He has lived long, and seen many things," Legolas replied vaguely, unwilling to 
disclose what was not his to tell. "Much evil has befallen the Elves of this 
region, and as you know, our memories are long." The Ranger gave a soft sigh at 
that, and the prince said quickly, but with a slight edge to his voice, 
"Understand, Aragorn, I do not excuse him his foolishness, nor his treatment of 
you, but there are things that I may not say."

"Fair enough, for there are things I may not speak of to you, either," the other 
allowed. "I ask only because his dislike seems to me personal, as if he bore 
still some outstanding grievance."

"Aradhil is a man of strong passions, and usually one quick-witted. I shall 
speak to him later, but unless some other matter arises between you, say nothing 
to him!"

"As you wish," Aragorn replied, and smiled inwardly for the artful evasion. I 
doubt not that it is something personal, for only orcs and their like hate so 
indiscriminately. Ah well! Aradhil knows that I watch him, and that I judge him. 
That may be enough for the time, especially since Legolas will have words with 
him ere dawn. We shall see! In the mean time, that feeling of ill-will has not 
abated appreciably, yet I think we are safe enough until morning. Which judgment 
might be why the last hour of their watch wore away with glacial slowness, at 
least to Aragorn’s mind. Legolas perched above and beyond him, still as a 
statue, and if he suffered a sense of time dragging by, he gave no sign of it. 
The Dúnadan cast a surreptitious glance at the other form curled up in the far 
branches and grimaced slightly, wondering if Aradhil slept or if he had 
overheard all their words. Whether or not he has, best that I follow his 
example, he thought, for I have no desire to hear what those two say to each 
other! And in this case, it may be an advantage that I have not an Elf’s ears!

When Aragorn at last retired, he and Aradhil passed each other in the darkness 
without a word, but the Ranger shivered, feeling the other’s resentment, and 
could not quite forbear to glance with pity over his shoulder at Legolas’ 
silhouette. I do not envy you, my prince!

***

"Those were your arrows, Aradhil," Legolas murmured. He and the warden had 
perched one behind the other for almost an hour without exchanging a word, 
seemingly awaiting the proper moment, though neither could have predicted when 
it would come. But now that it had, the prince spoke quietly and directly, with 
no preamble, and the weight of his disappointment was apparent. "You always 
fletch them with hawk feathers."

"I would not have hit him but that he moved," Aradhil replied tautly.

"You expect me to believe that you could not have compensated for a human’s 
movements?" Legolas demanded archly, trying to turn the other’s prejudices 
against him. "You could have shot any of three orcs, and yet you chose the one 
that least needed your attention. Aragorn would have killed it in any case 
without your help. If he is so inconveniently unpredictable as you seem to 
believe, my friend, then you ought never to have left so narrow a margin for 
error!"

"Then next time I shall widen it! I know not why you care for him so, for I 
thought you clearer-sighted than that, my prince. Clearly I was wrong!"

"And now you insult my judgment!" Legolas replied, voice hardening.

"My prince, I have doubted your judgment for days now! He is a Man—a mortal 
creature, a lesser child who shall yet usurp your place in Arda. He is not 
worthy of you," Aradhil retorted, and but that he knew that the other was 
sincere in his complaint, the prince would have been disgusted. As it was, he 
was appalled and gazed at the other for a long moment, at a loss for words for 
perhaps the first time in his life.

"You know who and what he is, Aradhil," Legolas finally said. "He took care to 
guard my back once already, and glad was I for his help. He has taught me much 
in a short time, and made no complaints for the treatment he has received at 
your hands and at the hands of the others. Can you stand before me and tell me 
that you do not see his worth?"

"What worth is Isildur’s line to me?" Aradhil demanded in a low voice, ignoring 
all caution to say those words, here, beneath the shadows where too many ears 
might hear. Ignoring the hiss of Legolas’ in-drawn breath, he continued with 
quiet intensity, "What worth, all of Númenor, my prince? As many of them serve 
the enemy as oppose him, and their high lords grow powerful in the South, 
steeped in evil from birth! And those who turn from that path are weak, pathetic 
creatures who cannot preserve their own majesty. What blood they once shared 
with us is long since spent, leaving naught but the memory behind. And even 
memory fades among them!"

"You speak of events long past–"

"‘Long past’ is it?" Aradhil asked softly, and though his tone was clipped and 
angry, there was a real fear in it that surprised Legolas. "Is that an Elf 
speaking, or a Man?" The other shook his head distressedly. "He taints you, 
Legolas, do you not realize that? Already you begin to see things through dimmed 
eyes! ‘Long past’ was Eregion, and yet not so long ago as the breaking of 
Beleriand. A younger son am I, and yet not so young that I do not recall 
watching as Men flocked to Sauron’s banner when it became clear that he would 
win Eregion and leave naught but corpses in his wake. The high kings of Gondor 
and Arnor were slain in a single war, and even Elendil’s teachings could not 
save Isildur from corruption! In the mean time, the Nine were chosen and 
transformed, and they were the best of their kindred. If that is all that Men 
can offer at the height of their power in Arda, of what worth are they now, as 
they enter their decline?"

"You do not know that this is their end! And we who are so mighty, Aradhil, what 
has become of us that we care no longer for the suffering of these pathetic and 
helpless creatures, so frail and in need of guidance, if that is how you see 
them? Or would you see them all to an early grave and so end their misery? We 
cannot hold back the darkness alone, and indeed, we flee like cowards into the 
twilight, seeking refuge, leaving Men to a fate we would not endure ourselves. 
Leaving Arda herself to destruction if you speak the truth! Open your eyes, 
Aradhil and look at this Man who has come among us. Mithrandir trusts him, and 
my father sent him with us; does that mean nothing to you?"

"The will of my sovereign and an Ithron mean much, as does the well-being of my 
prince," the warden replied softly. "It is he who means nothing to me. Think on 
it, Legolas! Think well upon all of it, and return to us when you have realized 
your error." And with that, the other sprang lightly away into the higher 
branches, leaving Legolas to stare after him, incredulous, feeling as though he 
had just had a fight with a stranger. I knew of Eregion, and I knew of Dagorlad 
and Gladden Fields… I knew he disliked Men, and yet! And yet, he had never 
thought about it, he realized. Perhaps because he had so rarely seen Aradhil 
interact with Men before, and then only in matters of business, which could be 
conducted formally and at a distance. And all this time, he has borne this 
grievance within him, and I never truly saw it until now! Legolas bit his lip, 
automatically running his hands over the bark of the tree for comfort, feeling 
rather dirty himself. For though I can scarcely fathom it, it seems clear to me 
that Aradhil fears I may be corrupted by mortal influences, and so I am in some 
sense at the root of this hostility of his. I should have seen that earlier, yet 
I did not. What is wrong with me of late that I cannot see these things? Even 
Aragorn was swifter than I this evening to spot the orcs! Which thought only 
angered him in light of what he had just said to Aradhil. For why should I worry 
over that? Is that not my own prejudice speaking now, that a mortal must ever be 
lesser than an Elf in all areas?

After another hour, Aradhil retired and Dorothil took his place. "My prince?" 
Dorothil asked, with an edge of concern in his voice. "Is there aught I should 
know of?" To help you, the unspoken words hung clearly in the air between them. 
But Legolas was a prince, and the commander of this patrol, while Aradhil had 
long been a warden, and a wise Elf would take care not to embroil himself in any 
argument between two such august personages. And a wise prince will not to 
embroil his own in his private troubles, either!

"The night is full of perils, Dorothil, and I have need of thought. Pay me no 
mind," Legolas replied after a moment. There was a pregnant silence as the other 
Elf stared worriedly at him, and the prince heaved an inward sigh. Glancing down 
at Dorothil, he offered a slight smile and forced levity unfelt into his voice. 
"Fear not, I shall take good care tomorrow. But this shadow concerns me, for I 
have not felt its like before. Not as the Dark Lord is it, and yet…."

"And yet too like to discount," the other replied softly, then hesitated. "I 
would not speak out of turn, my prince, but when last I felt aught similar to 
this, ‘twas upon the slopes of Orodruin."

"Indeed? Well then, we must all be cautious tomorrow," Legolas replied, 
considering this new bit of information. Dorothil nodded, seeming to want to say 
more, but after another moment he sighed softly and took himself off to find a 
comfortable post. And while the night lasted, Legolas sat silently, but he no 
longer looked to the forest to find darkness. His back to the trees, he stared 
at the sleeping forms of his own company and saw naught but sunderings. On the 
slopes of Orodruin… where the Last Alliance was broken even in victory. Alas for 
Arda! And alas for us all!


~~~


Chapter Five  -  Slowly into the Night


 Aragorn sighed softly as he woke, wincing slightly as he carefully shifted 
positions. If I need never sleep in another tree again, I will die happy, he 
thought, feeling the twinge in his lower back work its spasmodic way up his 
spine as he straightened. Alas, it appeared that he was doomed to another few 
days of sleeping amid branches, and though he decided that, in the end, other 
circumstances might just enable him to exit this life contentedly in spite of 
that dreary prospect, none of those conditions were met at the moment. Wishing 
that he could silence the memory of that irritating child's ditty about cradles 
in the tree tops, he rose to his feet and began the process of rejoining his 
elven companions. Being Elves, of course, none of them seemed to suffer from a 
night spent in a tree's cramped and breezy quarters, and no one cared to remark 
upon their human comrade's somewhat stiff movements this morning. If morning it 
can be called! For though he knew with a Ranger's certainty that the sun 
climbed even now over the horizon, the shade beneath the forest eaves was such 
that one less discerning could easily have been fooled. Faladhros, in a display 
of unexpected courtesy, moved aside for him without being asked, nodding a 
silent good morrow that felt subtly different from yestereve's cool silence. 
Aragorn returned the gesture, wondering how things stood after last night and 
whither their course would bend now: south-east, as Aradhil suggested, or 
perhaps they would now go due east and hope to join with another group of 
foresters ere they dared Dol Guldur.

Higher up in the branches, there stood two forms. Or rather, there clung two 
forms at angles to the lighter branches, seeming to defy the natural attraction 
of the earth to all other bodies. Legolas and Aradhil spoke quietly together, 
and Aragorn was not alone in awaiting their pronouncements: the other four of 
the company waited tensely as well, watching the pair with singularly elvish 
intensity, and the Ranger took the opportunity to make a discreet surveillance 
of them. Faladhros watched prince and warden attentively, ever and anon casting 
a mistrustful look down at the ground or the lower branches; Hithras seemed to 
Aragorn's eyes as moody as his name suggested this morn; Nuilandar alone waited 
with his head bowed, seeming lost in his own thoughts; and Dorothil…. Dorothil 
is upset, the Ranger realized. It was a subtle thing, but something about the 
way the other Elf gripped the branch nearest him, as if he feared to lose its 
support, woke Aragorn's suspicion. Along with Faladhros, Dorothil had overheard 
the conversation between himself and the warden the evening before, and that was 
enough to unsettle anyone. But the Elf looked now to his prince with a certain 
apprehension that betrayed itself in that grip, in his stillness that made of 
him a living statue. What else did he hear last night? Mayhap Aradhil and 
Legolas? Aragorn had deliberately placed himself too far to overhear that 
conversation, but he had marked Aradhil's sudden flight into the upper branches, 
and the prince's huddled posture as he sat in the crook of two branches had 
seemed telling to the man. Dorothil had the next watch, the Ranger thought. He 
might well have heard their words.

Of course, he could also be wrong entirely. Dorothil might simply worry over the 
unknown menace that prowled the forest, and Aragorn examined his feelings on 
that subject anew. On the one hand, so powerful a threat must not be allowed to 
go undiscovered, and the foresters of Mirkwood were bound by their oaths of 
commission to seek out and destroy the fell creatures that stalked the woods. On 
the other hand, however, six or even twelve might not prove a match for this… 
whatever 'this' might be.


Aragorn had commanded armies before: by sea or by land, ahorse or afoot or some 
combination of the two, he had had ample opportunity to appreciate the 
devastating effects of a well-ordered formation. Nevertheless, with such numbers 
battle plans had all the elegance of sparring with battle-axes, for coordination 
was difficult and movement in a line ponderous, and as time wore on, formations 
degenerated into milling knots of warriors. On who sought elegance in armies was 
doomed to disappointment. But for fifty odd years, he had also gone alone or 
with only few others into peril and often with less shelter than a forest 
offered Elves. There was an essential artistry to combat in small but unequal 
groups, and a commander ignored the aesthetic tension of such ventures at his 
peril.


Yet despite their perception in other matters, Elves tended to misjudge that 
tension, with fatal consequences. For they have not the same respect for 
mortality that a Man has, and overmuch concern for perfection. Indeed, the 
Ranger suspected Aradhil of falling prey to precisely that mindset when 
yestereve's misfire had occurred. There was much to be said for a lifetime that 
allowed one to hone one's martial style over millennia, but Aragorn had never 
seen a 'perfect' order of battle, elvish or otherwise. Men did not wait for 
perfection and only the foolish or the braggart took chances on the order that 
Elves did. Granted, elvish reflexes were such as to make such chances feasible, 
but though not overly superstitious, Aragorn believed in the idea of accumulated 
luck. Some had better luck than others, but the more often one dared fortune, 
the more likely the next skirmish would be the last. And what does that say of 
my future, then? the Ranger wondered idly.

At that moment, there was movement above as prince and warden came spidering 
down, moving through those lighter branches with an acrobatic gait that no 
Mancould hope to imitate. "We continue on today according to our original 
design," Legolas announced as he reached their level. "When the Warg packs that 
had haunted our realm were destroyed five days ago, we soon discerned our 
enemy's ill-will, and it comes, as ever, from Dol Guldur. Therefore we shall go 
there, as close as we dare, to see what menace has been sent against us. But we 
must go carefully, and I have some concern for some of our number." And though 
no one turned to him, it was clear that all understood Legolas to speak of 
Aragorn. Aradhil's eyes swept over the group, watching the reactions of the 
company, and that dark gaze paused coldly on Aragorn a moment ere the warden 
looked to his prince once more. Legolas alone stared at Aragorn directly, and 
the Ranger sighed inwardly, though he knew very well that Legolas was right. In 
this environment, he was in much greater danger than an Elf. Worse, any who 
accompanied him on the ground would expose themselves to the same risk.

"Do you wish me to remain behind, then?" Aragorn asked, feeling that it would be 
best if he broached the subject rather than wait for others to do so. Aradhil 
shot him a suspicious look at that, and there was puzzlement in the warden's 
eyes as if he could not decide whence sprang that oblique offer: cowardice or 
some other, more obscure motivation. That he might have made the suggestion in 
order to avoid being a liability seemed not to enter Aradhil's mind, and Aragorn 
bit down on his own aggrieved frustration. I seek no confrontation with him so 
long as he has a care where he places his arrows! The others stirred slightly, 
and the general air of discomfort… of embarrassment… waxed in the wake of his 
words, but the Ranger did not withdraw the query. What point would there be in 
such a retraction, after all, when plainly the question had been on every mind?

"And how if aught else should come this way while you were alone?" Legolas 
demanded at length. "Nay, my friend, we must all hold together in this, for we 
dare not underestimate the danger. Once again, I shall accompany you on the 
ground and the others shall follow Aradhil." Legolas' gaze touched on each of 
his foresters, ending with Aradhil, and Aragorn did not miss the brief flicker 
of tension that that glance engendered between the warden and his prince. But 
the older Elf said naught, only bowed politely (if stiffly) and waved the rest 
of the company on ahead. For his part, Legolas glanced at Aragorn, and thence to 
the four Elves who were already disappearing into the foliage of the next tree 
ere he began his swift descent. The Ranger, meanwhile, had to pick his way back 
towards the trunk of the tree, wishing just once that he had the skill to follow 
the other more quickly. He had scarcely reached the trunk, however, when his 
progress was blocked. A fleeting warning born of too many lonely battles raised 
his hackles, and then Aradhil caught his shoulder in a vice-like grip. Swiftly, 
the Elf turned him round, half-shoving him up against the tree, and things very 
nearly went ill between them. For Aragorn's right hand went instantly and 
automatically for his dagger, and although Aradhil's left hand shot out to snag 
his wrist, he was not quick enough to intercept. The hilt was in the Ranger's 
hand, and the blade an inch exposed ere the other's iron grip prevented him from 
moving further, and Aradhil hissed softly, as if in displeasure.

"You have something to say, warden?" Aragorn demanded coolly, gazing levelly at 
the other.

"Listen well, mortal!" the Elf grated in a low voice. "You have been in this 
world a pitiful handful of years, and though you may have spent most of them 
observing Elves, there are other creatures in Arda. Whatever this is, it is 
older than you and I like not the feel of it. See to it that you go as carefully 
as you may, Ranger! For my prince walks at your side to guide you, sharing your 
peril by his own choice and I may not gainsay him. But let anything touch him 
and I shall remember it. I will not see him injured for your sake!" With that, 
the warden released him and turned, dashing along the branch and making a blind 
leap to the next tree. As no cry came, Aragorn could only assume that the Elf 
had landed safely and he stared after him, waiting for his outrage to subside. 
'Insulted' was too mild a word for what he felt, but after a few moments, the 
Ranger drew a deep breath and removed his hand from the hilt of his blade. This 
is not the time for such distractions! he reminded himself sternly. Whatever our 
differences, that I dislike him does not make him wrong. Legolas is in danger 
for as long as he remains at my side, and I have not felt the like of this 
menace before. Save only thrice, and more diffusely: once, on the confines of 
Mordor, deep in the south; once, in Moria; and again, in Ithilien when we camped 
beneath the Ephel Dúath. With that disturbing thought firmly in mind, the Ranger 
scrambled down as quickly as he could manage, suddenly unwilling to leave 
Legolas alone.

When at length he joined the Elf upon the ground, the prince gave him an odd 
look, as if wondering what had kept him, but Aragorn simply gestured to the 
trees that lay before them. With a nod, Legolas led the way forward and their 
hunt resumed. Southern Mirkwood's gloom lay thick about them, and the trees grew 
ever darker, ever more twisted, knotted, seeming as living statues trapped in 
tortured repose, forever caught in the midst of a silent and unending scream. 
Cobwebs hung in long strands between many of the trees, and Elf and Ranger spent 
much time slithering between the sticky filaments or else sweeping them aside 
with sword or bow. And still the spider silk clung to their clothes and got into 
their hair 'til Aragorn fancied they must seem as ragged ghosts to any unwitting 
observer. As the hours wore on with the miles, Legolas grew ever grimmer beside 
him and Aragorn did not ask why: if he could feel the forest's torment, then an 
Elf certainly could. Ever and anon, some bird would give a screech or a caw, and 
then the beat of wings would send ripples through the stillness. But though the 
Ranger marked in his mind the points of origin and destination, Legolas never 
once took aim. What point in wasting arrows on spies when those shafts would be 
needed later? The enemy was aware of them, after all, for nothing moved through 
southern Mirkwood without the knowledge of the Watcher in the Tower. And though 
the Elves might be at a loss to explain the Watcher's present wrath, Aragorn had 
too many unpleasant suspicions that he could not share with anyone. For Gollum 
had been shaped by something evil, and though Gandalf had repeatedly insisted 
that they sought Sméagol to learn the truth, Aragorn did not doubt that the 
wizard's guesses were on the mark. And even were Gandalf to be wrong in this 
singular instance, there was a certain familiar feel to Gollum. I recognize 
Sauron's 'style' in this, his 'stamp,' his… 'artistry!' The Ranger thought 
darkly. And if he could, then it was certain that the servants of Sauron 
recognized the mark of their master's malice when they felt it, even if they 
knew not what drew them.

But the enemy that waits for us knows what calls to him. Of that, the Ranger was 
certain. For when first the wizard had broached the idea of leading Gollum to 
Mirkwood--Assuming either of us ever caught the wretch!-- Gandalf had warned him 
to make the journey to the Thranduil's halls as swift as he could manage it. But 
long before, when our hunt was first begun, Gandalf swore me to silence on all 
such matters. And even though it cost us all our lives, I may not break that 
oath. Not when so much rides on secrecy! He thought grimly. Should misfortune 
befall any in this party or in any hunting group--even should aught happen to 
Aradhil!--Aragorn would feel terribly guilty for his complicity in the matter. 
But I have kept secrets before. I kept them ere ever I knew I had any! Still, it 
was wearying to withhold such information, particularly given the dread that 
beat against them all. Ahead of him, Legolas paused suddenly, glancing up and to 
his right, and the Ranger had to step quickly to the left to avoid a collision. 
The Elf shot him a somewhat surprised glance, and Aragorn berated himself for 
his distraction of the moment. I cannot afford it! None of us can, and however 
petty the sentiment, I refuse to justify Aradhil's bigotry with a careless 
mistake!

"Aradhil believes there may be something ahead," the prince whispered, setting 
an arrow loosely to string. "Faladhros and Hithras go to investigate." Aragorn 
only nodded, seeing no point in a verbal response. He had, after all, nothing to 
add by way of insight and there was no reason to risk attracting attention with 
unnecessary noise. So the pair waited, crouched in silence behind the cover of 
dark-leafed bushes and the Ranger laid a hand upon the trunk of a tree. Almost 
instantly, though, he snatched it back, grimacing. The bark was moist… oily… an 
odd mixture of soft and hard, as if the outer layers were but a carapace 
containing some springy substance within. Or as if the interior of the tree were 
as melted wax! What sort of tree is this? Aragorn wondered. Legolas saw his 
reaction and gave a slight smile, then mouthed nargaladh. Frowning slightly, the 
Ranger wiped his fingers on a tussock of moss as he turned that answer over in 
his mind. Fire-tree? Uncertain what to make of this tidbit of information, he 
let it drop, unwilling to let trivia preoccupy him.

For some time, elven prince and Ranger crouched in silence, and Aragorn was very 
much aware of the muted, fearful sounds of the forest: a bird twittered in a 
subdued manner, letting out a rather piteous chirp when no mate answered; a 
squirrel nosed its way down a nearby tree, pausing apprehensively to sniff the 
air. Its face atwitch with distrust, the creature gave an awkward hop, then 
turned and dashed back into the branches for safety. And of a sudden, a flurry 
of harsh caws and flapping told of a startled murder of crows taking to wing. A 
murder…! Aragorn bit his tongue for the apt description as Legolas' green stare 
grew dark with foreboding. Overhead there streaked several dark-winged shapes as 
the crows fled, and the Elf very slowly raised his bow, though he did not come 
to a full draw. For his part, Aragorn gripped the hilt of Tharinsal's sword and 
shifted ever so slightly, habitually reassuring himself that his blades were 
safely within reach in their respective sheathes. And though it was a futile 
task to try to guess at the location of the Elves above, the Ranger made a brief 
survey of the treetops, attempting to place the most likely vantage points 
firmly in his mind. Unfortunately, the leaves grew so thick and the branches 
intertwined in such a maze-like manner that it was impossible to say how well or 
poorly an archer might be able to see the ground from any given position.

Just as Aragorn began to wonder whether something had happened to the scouts, a 
low whistle sounded and both Legolas and the Ranger turned towards it. After a 
moment, and to Aragorn's surprise, Aradhil dropped down from the heights to join 
them, his face unusually grave. "The ravens feast well today," he said in a low 
tone and without preamble. "Come and see!" Prince and Ranger followed the warden 
forward, drawn by the grim urgency in the other's voice but also by what 
promised to be their first glimpse at the work of their enemy, whoever and 
whatever he might be. Through the brush and the clinging, elongated fingers of 
fine spider-silk strands they went, and ere long, they came to a low rise. The 
roots of an ancient tree had dug into the earth, but after years of growing 
crooked and leaning ever to one side, those roots had raised the ground on the 
westward side in their attempt to anchor the tree against a fall. Faladhros 
stood atop that rise, bow to hand with a nocked arrow, while Hithras stood 
staring darkly down at something hidden behind the entanglement of roots and 
stubborn soil. Blood-scent wafted on the air, and both Elves turned to look at 
Legolas as the prince arrived, as if awaiting instructions or some 
pronouncement. Thranduil's youngest son glanced at each, and then leapt lightly 
up to see what merited such concern. The prince's face seemed to harden but not 
before Aragorn caught the spasm of disgusted horror that flitted over it. A 
glance at Aradhil revealed nothing further, for the warden had eyes only for 
Legolas and so, with an inward sigh, the Ranger moved around the mound.

It had been a very long time since Aragorn had been physically sickened by 
anything, and despite the horror that lay before him, his stomach gave him no 
complaints. But he almost wished it would just so that he could turn away with 
cause. It was not, however, his lot in life to be spared the fouler things of 
Middle-earth, and Isildur's Heir was bound by his heritage and his oath to look 
upon such monstrosities, the better to learn how to rid Arda of them. 
Nevertheless, he held his breath as he moved closer and had to will himself not 
to wrinkle his nose at the stench. Spread upon the ground were the remains of a 
great wolf, and 'spread' was quite accurate. Despite the disturbance caused by 
the hungry crows, it seemed clear that most of the organs and entrails had been 
left thus along with the bones, and the Ranger walked round to where the skull 
lay and squatted down, unwilling to kneel in the blood-soaked soil. Heart… 
liver… lungs… stomach… muscle, even, Aragorn catalogued the gory spectacle. No 
kidneys, but that could be a part of one. And all the bones are here, as far as 
I can see without making a closer examination. But no fur. No hide… Valar help 
us all…! "This was arranged." The weight of concerted elvish stares pressed upon 
him, and Aragorn glanced up, looking from face to face, wondering who among the 
four of them recognized the pattern. Hithras nodded slowly, sinking slowly to 
his haunches beside the Ranger. The Elf gingerly reached out with a gauntleted 
left hand and touched a rib that lay nearly flat upon the ground, still anchored 
somewhat by muscle.

"It broke the sternum and peeled the ribs back to reach the organs," he said in 
a taut voice.

"Not 'it'," Aragorn corrected grimly. "Say rather 'they!' See how the soil is 
disturbed? The wolf thrashed about for some time until death or unconsciousness 
took it. Others must have held it down."

"But surely it would be simpler to kill the creature first?" Faladhros asked.

"Nay, he is correct." All eyes went instantly to Aradhil, for of all those to 
come to Aragorn's support, he seemed the least likely. "I have seen this before, 
in Eregion, ere Celebrimbor fell. Our enemies used to make a sport of it, and 
though a wolf was always preferable, some took to hunting the tame dogs that 
were left behind as Celebrimbor's people retreated. It was another way of 
sapping our strength, to force us all to listen to the suffering of creatures we 
had once loved." Aradhil's voice hardened as he stepped down from the rise and 
gazed across the mutilated carcass at Man and Elf. "What we have here, 
gentlemen, is the making of a werewolf. If we searched further, I doubt not that 
we would find the rest of the pack strewn out for all to see who dare these 
eaves, though who knows how fresh the bodies would be." Hithras hissed softly 
and rubbed the fingers of the hand that had touched the bone against each other 
in a fastidious manner.

"And if we are not careful, we may become a part of that display," Legolas said 
softly. There was a brief pause as all present absorbed that comment and the 
Aragorn rose slowly and looked about. Werewolves… I have not seen such for many 
a year! He would have been happy never to see them again, for his first 
encounter with them had very nearly been the end of both himself and Elladan. To 
make a werewolf; to make one rather than to give oneself the appearance of one…. 
Aragorn's mind assessed the situation even as he searched in vain for other 
tracks or signs that might give some hint as to their enemies' movements. In the 
First and Second Ages such crude rituals were not practiced much, for Maiar, 
good or evil, had no need of them, and the Elves had never sought to become 
their own disguises for it was not given to the Children of Ilúvatar to change 
their essential nature. But even in the beginning, the Enemy's craft had found 
ways to shape other beings and transform them. Thus had orcs been spawned of 
Elves, trolls of Ents, and vampire-shape and wolf-form could be imposed upon any 
that went upon two legs. Even in this forgetful Age, such vile practices were 
remembered in certain quarters. Such as Dol Guldur! I wonder, are the wolves the 
only victims? Or are there other unwilling captives who have been tortured into 
submission?

"Have there been any losses among the foresters of late?" Aragorn asked, 
steeling himself inwardly for the response.

"None unaccounted for," Legolas replied. "And no others of our people have gone 
missing."

"Then what of the Bardings or the Beornings? What of traffic between Erebor and 
the Blue Mountains?" the Ranger demanded.

"Or perhaps the enemy seeks skins for his own," Aradhil suggested in a somewhat 
clipped tone, and Aragorn suppressed his irritation.

"That is another possibility," he admitted, and then shook his head, pinning the 
warden with his stare. "In truth, I know not which repulses me more!" And for 
just one moment as the warden stared back unintimidated, the Ranger sensed that 
the other was in wholehearted concurrence with him.

"Faladhros," Legolas' voice shattered the moment, and the other Elf glanced left 
at his prince. "Go and bring Dorothil and Nuilandar hither. Let us all be 
certain of what we hunt, and in the mean time let us see if there is aught here 
to guide us." Faladhros nodded and sprang swiftly up into the branches of the 
precariously balanced tree, disappearing within a few heartbeats. Hithras rose 
and he and Aradhil began to survey the area, while Legolas drifted forward to 
stand at the Ranger's shoulder.

"They shall find nothing, you know," Aragorn said softly, without taking his 
eyes from the forest. "Our enemies did their work too well and covered their 
tracks."

"Well, we shall make certain of it then."

"Aye. I wonder, though, whether we have not been watched more closely than we 
guessed. That butchery is not more than a fourteen hours old, yet we heard 
naught. Could the attack of the orcs have been a screen for other activities 
last night?"

Legolas frowned at that, but after a long moment he nodded reluctantly. "That 
would make sense. And if so, then our enemies are more brazen than I thought. 
This was left for us to find, I doubt it not, though how they discerned our path 
I cannot hazard a guess."

"It may be as mundane as choosing the path that the orcs took, knowing that orcs 
will take the easiest and most likely course whenever possible," Aragorn 
replied. "It would be a risk, but it is the simplest explanation. Or this could 
have been one of several bodies left along different routes."

"And if neither guess is correct? We deal here with makers of werewolves, after 
all!"

"Then we may deal with something whose perception spans distances that ours does 
not. At least not consciously or with any great clarity," he amended. "But that 
does not preclude my own hypothesis, and until we know more of our foes I would 
rather hold to an explanation requiring no further supernatural intervention."

"But if you are wrong…." Legolas trailed off as Aragorn smiled slightly.

"I said I would rather hold to that, but that does not mean I do not expect the 
worst at the same time, my friend," the Ranger said with a sidelong glance, and 
the Elf gave a slight snort of laughter.

"Fair enough. But I see that Aradhil and Hithras have arrived at your conclusion 
and come now with the ill news," Legolas said. "There is naught to see, is 
there?"

"Nothing, my prince," Aradhil replied.

"Then once Faladhros and the others rejoin us, we shall continue on. For though 
a werewolf be deadly, its maker is more so!"

***

Faladhros returned after only a few minutes with Dorothil and Nuilandar in tow, 
and the other five left the two to their horrified observation, spreading out 
automatically into a loose circle to watch the shadows. Aradhil brooded 
silently, pondering the unpleasant notion that there might now be a pack of 
werewolves on the prowl. For who can say with certainty that this was not simply 
the latest shaping? Dol Guldur could have taken a wolf every night of last week, 
or one a month for the past several months-- who can tell? Few knew that the 
Wargs that haunted Eriador and the Hithaeglir were the natural descendents of 
werewolves, made or otherwise. They were bad enough, and the warden hated them 
with a passion, but having faced both Warg and werewolf, he knew well their 
feel. And so I know that more creeps in the darkness than they. Dorothil knows 
it as well, and may even guess its nature, for he too fought before Orodruin. 
Legolas suspects, but he does not truly know, and as for that Ranger…! Aradhil 
was hard-pressed to determine what Aragorn's thoughts on the matter were, but it 
seemed to him that the Man knew more than he told. Certainly he was suspicious 
of the shadow that loomed over the forest, but Aradhil doubted that any Man 
could truly understand the enormity of the threat. For even I am not truly 
certain of my guess, and I shall not say a word until I have some clearer sign. 
I hope only that it shall not come too late, and in the mean time, I must find 
some better way to protect Legolas!

For it galled him to leave his prince in the hands of a human, but Thranduil's 
stubborn son had insisted on keeping the other's company for days now. And as he 
had refused to leave the arrogant mortal behind this morning, someone must 
continue to guide Aragorn, and Aradhil gritted his teeth. Most of the time, he 
was indifferent to Men; they were beneath his tasteful notice and he was content 
to keep it that way. But this was different somehow, and he wished Legolas would 
wake to the danger of holding with a mortal. Were he eighty years younger, I 
might have dared to overrule him in this matter, rather than bid him simply 
think on it! But one must let go at some point, after all. So spoke reason, and 
Aradhil was not an unreasonable Elf in his own opinion. Yet he had been the 
prince's keeper since Legolas had begun to learn the ways of the royal 
foresters, and he could not bear the thought of surrendering that protectorship 
entirely.

Not yet, and especially not to a mortal! He shot a covert glare at the Ranger 
who stood some ten feet away, watching the surrounding trees attentively. 
Perhaps Aragorn felt his stare, for the human glanced back at him, though only 
for a moment ere he turned away, ignoring the warden. For some reason, that very 
calm dismissal roused indignation in Aradhil. On the other hand, everything 
about Aragorn irritated him; indeed, Aradhil could not remember a single 
instance when someone not of the Enemy's persuasion had so quickly inspired his 
dislike. So perhaps I ought not to pay much attention to the minor nuances of 
our hostility. And yet, the warden was acutely aware of the fact that the Ranger 
commanded his attention more and more often as time wore on, though for the 
immortal life of him, he could not say why that should be. In a few fleeting 
years, he will die, and that will be the end of this, after all! And long before 
then, he shall leave this realm….

Just then, Legolas left his place in the circle to come and lay a hand upon the 
warden's shoulder as he said, "Let us go now! I think we have all seen enough." 
Then, in a low undertone, "Go carefully above, Aradhil!"

"I shall, my prince," the older Elf replied, but though the hand on his shoulder 
tightened at his words in a gesture of fond farewell, the prince looked away 
already to Aragorn. The Ranger acknowledged the order with a brief nod and took 
one last look at the carcass ere he and Legolas broke into an easy trot and 
disappeared into the forest once more. Not a backward glance from either of 
them! Duty called, and yet Aradhil stood very still for a long moment as he 
stared after them and tried to fathom his own feelings. Dread predominated, and 
his loathing of Aragorn blossomed quite suddenly into full-blown hatred of him 
for Legolas' inexplicable infatuation with the Man. Never mind whether or not 
the Ranger had intended to steal the prince's heart, it was simply a fact that 
he had. Somehow, the Dúnadan had bewitched the other, and Aradhil could feel his 
hold over Thranduil's youngest son slipping with each painful mortal minute. 
Damn you! he thought with no small touch of despair. Damn you, you will take him 
from us! And who knows to what end? A whistle attracted his attention upward to 
where Dorothil clung halfway up a tree. The other Elf gave him a rather worried, 
puzzled stare, and the warden shook himself. He had no time nor any right to 
remain here, and so he quickly followed Dorothil up into the branches above.

The rest of the company waited for him, and he felt their stares as he took the 
lead once more. Aradhil said nothing, however; what, after all could he say? 
They were his men, not his equals, and a warden had to be discreet. Instead, he 
beckoned them after him and settled once more into the hunt with single-minded 
intensity. But though he went now with senses alert for werewolves or worse, in 
his mind's eye, he followed along in the wake of two figures--one golden and 
aglow with an Elf's inner fire, and the other a dark-haired shadow that walked 
ever between him and Legolas. And yet even so, a pale light seemed to shine 
through him, and Aradhil cursed silently as jealousy and tormented fear for 
Legolas suffused him. A plague on you and all your house indeed, son of Isildur!

****

Regarding the werewolves, the theory of how they are made is my own invention. I 
have since been informed by knowledgeable parties that Wargs and werewolves are 
most likely the physical manifestation of beings like Maiar. I don't think this 
precludes the theory I've imagined, which I think the text explains. I also 
would imagine that one could still get a Warg out of a werewolf pairing, since 
creation dynamics seems to dictate that the next generation is (on the whole) 
lesser than the previous one. I am therefore leaving the werewolf/Warg theories 
as originally conceived.


~~~


Chapter Six - Pawns and Princes



Late afternoon in the kingdom of Thranduil was usually a pleasant time of day, 
for the breezes that blew in from the west came down off of the mountains. Cool 
and brisk, they swept through the forest, clearing the air of its centuries of 
must and, especially in the summer, bringing relief from the heat. Alas, they 
were not in the kingdom of Thranduil, but on the very edge of the valley of Dol 
Guldur, and it seemed that the wind bent to avoid that dark vale. Dorothil 
sighed softly as he sat in the mid-branches of their chosen tree, and he frowned 
as he ran his fingers over the curve of his bow, feeling for imperfections in 
the wood. Not that he had shot anything of late, but he had bent his bow more 
than once after shadows. Everyone had, even Aradhil, and that was worrisome. Two 
days of waiting, he thought moodily. Two days, almost three, and yet nothing 
have we seen! Since the discovery of the corpse the day after the orcs' attack, 
the conviction that their enemies watched them from just out of range had waxed 
along with their anxiety. They now roved the slopes that led down into the very 
heart of Dol Guldur's power, and but that that invisible will threatened to 
suffocate them with fear, they might have thought the tower deserted. It has not 
even changed its visage in the time that we have watched it! Dorothil had long 
hunted and fought the agents of the Dark Lord, and he had played this game 
before. Yet he could not shake the feeling that there was something more to this 
than the cruel amusement of a cat stalking a mouse. For the hate-filled cunning 
of the tower's master pulsed through his dreams, threatening to snatch them from 
his control--he could taste it on the still air, and indeed, he remembered it. 
Three thousand years has not changed the face and feel of evil, the Elf thought 
grimly.

That was why Hithras and Faladhros ranged now in a short circuit, patrolling a 
circular perimeter in the hopes of catching a glimpse of their foes; that was 
why--beyond any desire of his elvish soul--he remained perched with his back to 
the trunk of the tree; and that was why all of them kept bows or knives to hand 
even here, where usually an Elf had little to fear. We are being hunted… 
watched… . At times, Dorothil could swear that he heard whispers on the air, 
though naught stirred, save the squirrels or themselves. When questioned, others 
confessed to similar imaginings. If imaginings they are! Aragorn was the only 
one who heard nothing, but clearly he, too, suffered under the oppressive fear. 
It showed in his wariness, in the way that he watched his elven companions, as 
if measuring them. Though against what, and for what purpose, Dorothil knew not. 
For some reason, the other's regard made him uneasy; Aragorn might not be an 
Elf, but his was not a look that one casually invited. Many long years it had 
been since Dorothil could remember a time when a human had made such an 
impression on him, and though he supposed one ought to expect such from the line 
of Isildur, at the moment he rather resented the distraction of Aragorn's gaze. 
We have already enough to unsettle us! Dorothil thought, with no little 
frustration.

For others found in Aragorn more than mere distraction or uneasy companionship: 
some found a threat. Some, indeed, found an enemy. Dorothil darted a quick look 
upwards to where Aradhil stood, gazing intently out into Mirkwood. With each 
passing day, the tension within the patrol mounted, as they faced not only the 
darkness of the forest but each other, and the warden's mood was black as 
sunless Moria. And whenever he is near Aragorn, his mood grows worse, if that is 
possible. Anyone who knew Aradhil would have expected the warden to feel a 
certain amount of distrust and hostility towards the Ranger. Indeed, there were 
many among Thranduil's people who could sympathize with him. Dorothil knew quite 
well that he himself was not particularly given to trusting Men. Not after the 
Dagorlad! No one who had fought before Orodruin, who had seen the Dark Lord's 
armies rise up to greet them in seemingly endless numbers, and who had had 
victory snatched from his fingers by a hair, could possibly view Men with 
equanimity. Even Faladhros was leery, though he had been a member of Oropher's 
company, and, due to injuries, had never seen the fires of Mount Doom. That all 
their suffering and loss had been betrayed in an instant, and by the high king 
of the Dúnedain at that… . Dorothil shook his head, halting that train of 
thought ere it could infect him with its despairing rage. One Man's fault it had 
been, but one Man was not all Men, even though he stood now among Elves as the 
measure of his race. Dorothil knew that in his heart, for though he had never 
met Isildur, he remembered the many valiant Men who had fought beside him at the 
end of the Second Age--fought and fallen, all too often. And if today he thought 
not overmuch of their descendants, he was not convinced that nobility was beyond 
them, even in these late days. The strength of Númenor might wane, but it was 
not spent altogether. Aragorn was proof of that, but somehow that made the 
situation worse, which irony was the more cutting to an Elf, raised to respect a 
finely-wrought soul.

A lesser Man might by now have proved himself to be beneath Aradhil's concern or 
even his conscious contempt. The which being the case, the warden's mood would 
have been lighter, and the rest of them could safely have ignored him, insofar 
as the bounds of courtesy permitted. Had that been the case, no one would have 
questioned Aradhil's decision to isolate the mortal, particularly when all knew 
what had happened to the warden's family in Eregion. But Aragorn would not rise 
to the goad of Aradhil's behavior, and if he had taken the warden to task over 
the arrow incident, he had made no further comment--even when Aradhil ignored 
him with such deliberate thoroughness that the warden had twice spoken through 
the Ranger, as if he had not existed. Dorothil had winced inwardly each time, 
expecting the Dúnadan to call the other out for the insult, but though it was 
clear to all that Aragorn was hardly pleased with his treatment at Aradhil's 
hands, he had said naught and continued to hold his peace. Unless someone spoke 
to him directly, or he had some warning to give or suggestion to make that 
concerned the patrol's safety, the Ranger spoke not and kept his distance. That 
was a difficult and narrow path to walk, and it took one with a steel backbone 
to dare it, particularly among Elves. Thus far, the Ranger had not faltered, and 
none mistook his silence for cowardice, nor his anger for a sullen nature. Not 
even Aradhil, and that is the problem! Dorothil thought.

For Aradhil knew quite well what the other intended. More importantly, the 
warden knew that Legolas understood as well--that he understood, and that he was 
disappointed in his friend and guide of so many years. And thus, however bitter 
the silent resentment between Ranger and Warden, it was as nothing compared to 
the break between the prince and his protector. Legolas and Aradhil had argued 
before, and over many things besides decisions affecting the company--naturally 
they had, for so long a friendship could not but have its troubles ever and 
anon. But never like this! Dorothil thought with grim certainty. Having 
overheard Aragorn's rebuke of Aradhi, he had rather shamedly eavesdropped on the 
painful conversation between the warden and the prince. What he had heard was 
telling, both in what was said and what was carefully left unsaid, particularly 
by the warden. Dorothil could not be certain whether the prince had realized it 
at the time, but it had been clear to him that Aradhil had fled that encounter. 
And Aradhil never flees! The horror of discovering the corpse the next day had 
eased the tension between the two for a bit, but only because the warden's 
terrible memories had momentarily cut deeper than his sense of grievance over 
Legolas' words and actions. But when they had begun to move again, and Aradhil 
had simply stood there in the clearing, gazing after his prince, Dorothil had 
recognized that the tear in the relationship had widened... perhaps irreparably 
so. The warden's staunch support of Legolas was as well-known as it was 
remarkable, for Aradhil was not one to give his heart easily, particularly after 
Eregion. Thus, when first the two had grown close, the rest of the patrol--and 
indeed, all those who knew Aradhil--had quietly rejoiced to see it.

But now that the prince had chosen a mortal for a friend, that once-warm 
relationship with Aradhil had quickly degenerated into something… else. They 
still spoke to each other in matters of command, and were unfailingly polite 
when they did so before the others. But all heard the strain in their voices, 
and yesterday the pair had returned from a round of sentry duty in so icy a 
silence that Dorothil had felt a chill run through him. Neither had spoken a 
word to each other the rest of the evening, and they had parted company almost 
immediately after their return. What had passed between them where no others 
could hear it, Dorothil dared not guess, but he had his suspicions anyway. The 
effects of that latest argument were still painfully apparent as the Elf gazed 
up at the warden. For whereas once Legolas would have been close at hand, the 
prince was no where to be seen, having ascended into the highest branches almost 
as soon as they had called a halt. He had seen the company settled, set the 
watches, and then disappeared above. And for all that it was heartbreaking, no 
one had dared to follow him.

That was what frightened and shamed Dorothil--that none of them dared to 
approach the young prince, let alone Aradhil. The years had proven that the 
warden was a man of deep emotion, and when his mood grew dark, it was best not 
to speak of it. As a rule, Aradhil would carry out his duties without 
interruption, and eventually his brooding would cease of its own accord. But can 
we afford him that courtesy now? He may be the warden, but he swore an oath to 
the king to serve Legolas first. Bad enough that Aradhil refused to speak to the 
prince outside of matters pertaining to their present task, but the warden's 
behavior threatened to undermine that oath. Faladhros and he had spoken in 
whispers over this matter. Hithras, even, had been troubled enough to let an 
unsolicited opinion pass his lips, which was occasion enough, for Hithras was 
known to be close-mouthed. Nuilandar was on edge as well, and had actually shot 
a squirrel that had tried his patience once too often. Granted that no one had 
grieved to add the creature to their supper, and that the scrawny, red-eyed 
little beasts took entirely too much pleasure in startling them all, the 
incident was a measure of how tense they all were.

And all because of a Man! That was the thought that lay beneath all the 
whispered words of the company and behind all the lancing regards thrown in 
Aragorn's direction. But there was also a collective sense of embarrassment… of 
guilt, truly. For it was not Aragorn's doing: in and of himself, the Ranger was 
more elvish than any Elf had a right to ask of a Man, and even Aradhil had to 
know that, or he would not be so furious. And so fearful! I see what he fears: 
that Legolas may not understand yet the range of difference, that Aragorn stands 
alone and high even among his own people. If we cannot judge all Men by Isildur, 
then we must also avoid judging them by Isildur's current heir! In different 
circumstances, Dorothil decided that he might grow rather fond of the Dúnadan, 
in addition to admiring him in the distant way of Elves. But put him between a 
hurt and jealous warden and one very torn elven prince, and it became difficult 
to say who stood truly at the fulcrum of their internecine troubles: Legolas, 
Aradhil or Aragorn. And while Dorothil could not help but feel for the three of 
them, his concern was primarily given to Legolas. The prince was still very 
young, though he had learned well and swiftly the lessons that Mirkwood had to 
teach a forester. But no captain should have to face a feud between his two 
closest advisors, and Dorothil feared the effects. For Legolas refused to ask 
for help from the others, and none of the rest of the party had temerity or 
seniority enough to intervene where clearly they were not wanted. Dorothil had 
done his best, but what advice he could offer was limited to the warning that 
they faced not werewolves alone. The prince's dismissal after that initial 
attempt, while gentle, had nevertheless been quite clear and final: Legolas 
would not turn to others for help in the matter of Warden and Ranger. As a 
result, he was becoming dangerously isolated for one so young in the ways of 
command.

In the midst of his brooding reflections, Aradhil moved suddenly, attracting 
Dorothil's instant attention. The warden signaled to Nuilandar, who climbed 
swiftly up to stand level with him, and after a few moments more, Faladhros and 
Hithras appeared. The warden nodded to the two of them, and then he and 
Nuilandar headed out, taking their turn on rounds. It was the opportunity for 
which Dorothil had waited, and with rather more impatience than an immortal 
usually evinced. Replacing his bow in his quiver, the Elf stood and cast a final 
glance upwards to where Legolas sat hidden by the leaves. No stirrings, no sign 
that the prince felt a need to come and see the other two off, and so Dorothil 
turned his eyes groundwards, to a now familiar figure. The Ranger, as was his 
wont, stood alone and silent in the lower branches, and, like many, he used the 
time to insure that his weapons were in good condition. Carefully inspecting a 
dagger, the Dúnadan frowned slightly as he found a notch in the blade. Reaching 
into his belt-pouch, the Man withdrew a small whetting stone and began to 
sharpen the weapon, working away the rough edge. To all appearances, he was 
quite absorbed in the task, but something about his manner warned Dorothil that 
his attention was decidedly elsewhere. His was not the most approachable 
demeanor, but no Man could possibly match the Warden's temper. And so, with such 
stealth as only an Elf could manage, Dorothil slipped easily down to where the 
Dúnadan perched.

Just ere the Elf reached him, Aragorn glanced up sharply, warned of his 
approach, perhaps, by instincts developed during childhood. Almost, the Elf 
hesitated, but before his body could even respond to his moment of doubt, he was 
standing before the Man. After an initial moment of mutual scrutiny, Aragorn 
looked deliberately away and sheathed the dagger, slipping the whetting stone 
back into his pouch ere he turned his attention once more to the other. That 
seemed a good sign, for he could have chosen to continue with his task and 
thereby signal his unwillingness to converse at any great length. But still, the 
Ranger's silver gaze was as a mirror: opaque and reflective of nothing but what 
a visitor might choose to see there. "Dorothil," he said simply, by way of 
polite but wary greeting, and Dorothil read in that that the other wondered at 
his intentions. Certainly, such a greeting could not possibly be read as 
offensive in any way, which was perhaps why the Ranger had chosen it. Like 
deserves like, the Elf thought, and so murmured in response:

"Aragorn." And that was all for a moment, as Dorothil and he stared at each 
other in silence, attempting to gauge each other's mood and purpose.

"May I serve in some way?" the other asked at length, passing quickly to the 
heart of the matter.

Being preempted by a mortal was somewhat embarrassing, and as Dorothil gazed at 
the other, he realized that he had not made any definite plans beyond this 
point. Pursing his lips, he lowered his eyes to stare thoughtfully at the 
ground, considering in silence what ought to come next. I would speak with him 
alone… . "Come with me a ways, if you will," he said after a moment, and flicked 
a glance upwards for the other's benefit. The Ranger did not follow that gaze, 
and likely it was that he knew as well as Dorothil the positions of the other 
members of the patrol. Rather, he simply nodded and gestured minutely for the 
Elf to lead on. Without a word, Dorothil acceded to the request, and he made his 
way to the next tree with great care, choosing a path that a mortal ought to be 
able to follow, mindful of the other's limitations.

When they stood out of sight of the other three, Dorothil turned and reached 
back to give Aragorn a hand over the last gap. The Ranger murmured a quick word 
of thanks, glancing around to fix their new location in his mind. That done, the 
Man looked Dorothil up and down and said, "And now that we are come here, what 
would you say, Master Elf?"

"I would speak of the prince," Dorothil responded, and then paused, watching 
Aragorn for any sign of his feelings. The line of the other's mouth thinned as 
the Dúnadan pressed his lips tightly together, and then he gave a slow nod.

"Speak then, but know that there are some suggestions concerning our 
relationship that I will not entertain," Aragorn warned, which took Dorothil 
somewhat aback. There was a certain edge to the other's voice, and the Elf 
wondered who might have broached the subject first with the Ranger. None in the 
common company, unless it were Aradhil, which seemed quite unlikely. Leave that 
aside for the moment! Dorothil commanded himself. I can guess what must have 
been said, but that is not my concern now.

"I am not Legolas' father, Aragorn, nor his brother, nor even accounted of high 
lineage among my people," Dorothil replied, pinning the other with a severe gaze 
in an effort to impress upon the Ranger that he came not with remonstrances. "I 
am his to command, in whatever place and way he desires. More than four hundred 
years have I served thus, and without regrets, but I am not his friend, either. 
In that, you have surpassed me," he admitted, with just a twinge of wishful 
envy. "And so I turn to you, rather than to another."

"What would you have me do?" the Ranger asked warily, folding his arms across 
his chest.

"Speak to him!" Dorothil implored quietly, and shook his head, "It is not good 
that he has no one to consult, and though I have offered what I could, he 
rejected the better part ere ever he heard it!" There was a rather stunned 
silence, if Dorothil read aught aright of the Dúnadan, and some of that opacity 
seemed to fade from the other's eyes as Aragorn realized the purpose of his 
speech. Nevertheless, the Elf sensed no acceptance of his plea, but rather a 
sort of resigned worry.

"I cannot," the Ranger replied softly.

"If not you, then who? I cannot trust Aradhil after this to speak soft with him, 
and I would not see him cut himself off from all others while this lasts. What 
stalks us now is no mere orc, nor even a werewolf, but something else, and my 
lord prince has never encountered its like before."

"Then you, or perhaps Hithras, would be of more assistance than I, for I, too, 
have little experience with this fell thing, whatever it be."

"But he will have none of us, whereas you he trusts with such confidences as a 
captain must keep from his subordinates," Dorothil argued. And when Aragorn only 
shook his head slowly, in refusal as well as regret, the Elf demanded, "Why not, 
then? For a time, you did help him, but in the past two days you have scarcely 
said a word to any."

The Ranger gave a soft sigh and stared off into the forest for awhile, seeming 
to mull over his answer. After a good minute or two, the Dúnadan raised his eyes 
once more and there was that measuring look once more. Dorothil cocked his head 
slightly, puzzled, but ere he could say aught, Aragorn said quietly, "I have 
already spoken my piece to him, and if he has not acted on it, then I can do 
naught more but keep my distance."

"I do not understand."

"Nor did he, at first. And perhaps he still does not," Aragorn replied, a touch 
of his own frustration edging its way into his voice. "But advice is dangerous, 
as Elves know well. And though Legolas may be young, he is still the captain of 
this company, and Aradhil remains his lieutenant. If he likes not the other's 
treatment of him, then it is his place to put an end to it, by whatever means 
are required. It is not my place to provide him with a counterpoint to Aradhil, 
particularly not when Aradhil is present to listen, and knows what Legolas 
does."

"But--"

"Dorothil," the Ranger cut him off, which no mortal had dared to do for many a 
century. "You say that you are not his brother. Well and good, for I am not his 
nursemaid either. You have served the prince for nearly four centuries, and for 
that he may be grateful. But you have not been a captain--yet! I have, and so I 
know that to do as you ask would do Legolas no good and perhaps much harm. The 
timing may be poor, but it is ever poor for such circumstances as these; that 
changes not the fact that the prince commands here, with or without Aradhil's 
support. If they have not yet come to an understanding as to their obligations 
in this matter, then I will not put myself forward to fill Aradhil's place, even 
for a short time. That does them both a disservice."

"But you have helped him in the past."

"When I thought to do otherwise would run counter to my duty to this group and 
to the King of Mirkwood. I will not be used as a lever against others, for it 
breeds more ill-feeling than my advice is worth."

"So instead, you will watch this play out, and let others despise you?" Dorothil 
asked, eyes narrowing as he studied the other's face for any sign of wavering.

"Better that others despise me than that they resent Aradhil or Legolas 
overmuch. For what am I to them or to this company?" The Dúnadan shrugged. "Soon 
enough I shall leave it, but you and the others must still remain with each 
other, and your ranks must not be riven by contention. Things shall grow worse 
in Mirkwood rather than better, after all, and if you fear to face this threat 
divided, you should fear for the future as well," Aragorn replied, with a quick 
grimace.

"I thought you would not be the lever against any," the Elf said skeptically.

"I should perhaps have said that I shall not be one unless I control the heft as 
well! I can keep my distance from warden and prince, and that is all that I can 
do, until they reach some workable arrangement. If you would truly help your 
prince, I suggest that you speak to him yourself rather than seek to manipulate 
him through me." The Ranger arched a brow at him, awaiting his response, and 
Dorothil bit his tongue gently against a sharp retort.

"I see," he said at length, staring at the Man, who refused to look away this 
time, despite the weight of the Elf's gaze. Doubtless, he had grown used to 
worse since joining this company, and Dorothil sighed inwardly. Put thus, he 
could not deny that Aragorn had a very good point: it would not strengthen 
Legolas as a commander to seek ever ways around the problem of Aradhil. Perhaps 
he is right, and this is something that the prince must face in the end. That 
did not mean that Dorothil liked the solution, but he could find no way to argue 
against the other. He turned to leave, but then hesitated, curiosity hanging on 
the Ranger's initial warning. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that 
Aragorn looked down now, and had a hand pressed against his eyes, as if against 
a headache. "Tell me something, if you would: who else has spoken to you of the 
prince?"

Something that might have been a very low, very short, laugh came back, and the 
Ranger shot him a quick, sideways look. "His father," came the somewhat rueful 
admission. Dorothil blinked, and then he wondered that he had not thought of 
that before. The king… .

"Then I hope for your sake that naught goes ill here! Your people would miss 
you, otherwise," the Elf replied, and then sprang away back to the other tree. 
Aragorn gazed after him for a few moments, then sighed to himself, and began a 
much more careful return. Truthfully, he would rather have enjoyed his solitude 
here than return to isolation within the midst of the patrol. But he knew that 
it was not safe to be alone for long in these woods, and so he girded himself to 
face the silent, questioning stares of the others. Assuming that they noticed my 
absence at all! I hope that Legolas realizes soon where his duty lies, for 
something must be done to calm the patrol's fears and frustrations, he thought. 
He had seen such arguments before--had had them himself once or twice--and he 
knew the deleterious effects that divisions among leaders could have on those 
who followed them. He was certain that Legolas knew well that his men suffered, 
but the prince could not seem to bring himself to confront Aradhil on a more 
than personal level. He shall have to realize soon enough that he is a prince, 
and that the warden must bow to that authority in the end. For even an elvish 
company can lose its edge if distracted by such a feud, and that we cannot 
afford!

A squirrel chittered angrily from above, and Aragorn twitched violently, 
reaching quickly for his dagger ere he could stop himself. Glaring at the 
creature, he made himself relax slightly and then continue on his way. As he 
approached a break in the leafy veil, he paused and looked south-east over the 
slanting canopy of the forest as it plunged down into the valley. At the lowest 
point stood a dark spike, and the Ranger felt revulsion run swift through his 
veins, suffusing him. Dol Guldur. Even as we watch, it watches us as well, and 
who knows but that it exacerbates the tension in this group? I wonder, does 
Legolas watch it now? Likely he did, and Aragorn wished he knew with certainty. 
Look not to the tower, Prince of Mirkwood, look to your people! For they need 
you now! Dorothil was no where to be seen by the time he returned, which might 
mean little, since the other was an Elf and perfectly capable of escaping a 
mortal's sight if he wished. But Aragorn hoped that it meant the other Elf had 
decided to approach Legolas himself. Dorothil seemed genuinely concerned, and if 
Legolas would only see that, that might push him to take Aradhil to task. 
Privately, Aragorn rather wished he could do it himself, since Aradhil's 
grievance with the prince had its roots in Legolas' friendship with him. But 
that would take the matter out of Legolas' hands again… . Well, he thought 
finally, mayhap if the opportunity presents itself. I doubt that it shall.

Returning to his chosen branch, the Ranger slouched down, letting his posture 
slip for once, and returned to his interrupted task. Almost three days of 
nothing. How many more such days shall we endure?

***

As the sun sank behind the mountains, Aradhil and Nuilandar made their wary way 
through the forest, heading back towards the camp. The warden was grimly silent, 
sensing that his enemy mocked his efforts from near at hand. And yet we cannot 
find them! Something there is here that confuses the senses… the will of the 
master of the tower, I doubt it not! Often, Elves who ventured south of the road 
reported such dimming of their senses as the power of Dol Guldur waxed. Those 
who remembered Mordor also were not unfamiliar with the phenomenon, and knew 
what it cost to fight against the darkness. The whispered laughter that nibbled 
at the edges of his awareness, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once, only 
stirred his bitter hatred of the enemy, and he silently cursed the dim shapes of 
the trees that concealed his foes. Even an Elf might fear to make a misstep in 
such darkness as this, where the branches of the trees faded to naught but a 
depthless pattern of shade and midnight, tricking the eyes, while the trees 
themselves seemed silent, as if they sought to deny their guidance to those who 
went upon them. And though the air was still, strange rustlings and creakings 
would sound at intervals, threatening them with fatal distraction.

But the two Elves were too well experienced to allow themselves to fall prey to 
the forest's deceptions, and they continued on at a good pace. Where are they? 
Aradhil wondered bitterly. 'Tis not like a werewolf to wait so long, especially 
newly birthed. Surely hunger would drive it to seek us out, to find more 
satisfying prey than the squirrels or deer… if there are deer here. Why do they 
wait? Over all such questions brooded Dol Guldur's invisible heights, and 
Aradhil felt his lips peel back from his teeth in a silent snarl. He had dealt 
with werewolves before, and not simply from the safe distance that a bow granted 
one. He had stood before them, and seen shapes, once familiar, distort and 
change into wolf-form. But the eyes remain the same, always! He had looked into 
their eyes and seen the emptiness, the hunger… the remnants of sanity that 
begged for release. And so he had released them, and he prayed that someone had 
done the same for others… for others whose fate he had never been able to 
discover.

Something flitted in the corner of his eye, and he stopped quite suddenly, so 
that Nuilandar had to leap past him and catch himself on a branch just above 
him. The other Elf spoke not, only turned questioning eyes on him, following the 
warden's gaze. The forest seemed empty below, and Aradhil was almost willing to 
believe that he had imagined it, or that the shifting shadows had fooled him. A 
hiss sounded above as Nuilandar caught his breath, and Aradhil reached slowly 
for his bow, nocking an arrow as soon as he had cleared it. There, below them, 
lurked a hunched shape, partially obscured by the bushes, and as the two Elves 
gazed at it, the head lifted, and eerily bright yellow eyes stared unerringly 
back. Scarcely able to believe such daring, Aradhil lifted his bow, taking aim 
quickly, but ere even he could release the arrow, the wolf-form bounded away, 
escaping into the cover of the bushes. Still, Aradhil waited, wondering if the 
creature would return. But after almost two minutes of waiting while not so much 
as a an insect stirred upon the forest's floor, he sighed inwardly. We cannot 
wait here. Likely, the werewolf knows its peril and shall not show itself again 
until it attacks. But just as the warden lowered his arm, two more such shapes 
darted quickly across the range and disappeared into the night in swift 
succession.

"That was deliberate," Nuilandar muttered, disgust and worry coloring his tone.

"Aye, it was," Aradhil agreed grimly. "They do not lack for audacity. But come! 
If they dare so much now, then I think perhaps the game draws to a close. We 
must warn the others and decide upon a course of action. If we can flush them 
tonight, or at least draw them out, then we may yet have a chance to end this 
and find their maker!"

"But how shall we accomplish that?" the other Elf asked. "Thus far they have 
escaped us."

"They escape because they have no reason to risk themselves," Aradhil replied in 
a thoughtful tone, and an odd glitter shone in his eyes. Nuilandar frowned at 
that, wondering what plan unfolded in the other's mind. Of a sudden, the warden 
glanced sharply up at him, seeming to consider him closely. At length, he said 
slowly, "If we could present them with a reason to show themselves, we might 
well catch at least a few of them in the open long enough to shoot."

"And what reason might we give them?"

"Listen well, and if you would see an end to this, then do as I bid!"

***

Aragorn happened to be on watch when the warden and Nuilandar returned suddenly, 
and by the expressions on their faces he guessed that their rounds had not been 
without profit. Faladhros, who shared the burden of guard duty with him, dropped 
down from the branches above to meet them in a hurried conference, and the 
Ranger's eyes narrowed as he watched the other's face grow intent as he digested 
the news. After a few moments, Aradhil left the trio and climbed swiftly up into 
the higher branches, clearly gone in search of Legolas. Nuilandar and Faladhros 
spoke a few moments longer, and then the latter nodded sharply and began to make 
his way down to where the Ranger stood, while Nuilandar hurried to speak with 
Hithras and Dorothil. "They caught sight of the werewolves," Faladhros announced 
without preamble as he joined his mortal comrade.

"Have they now?" Aragorn replied. And at Faladhros' murmured affirmation, he 
continued, "Was there aught else?"

"Aradhil would try to draw them out, for it is not clear that aught was meant by 
this sighting other than to taunt us. But if they are willing to be seen, then 
it may be their undoing," the Elf responded, then added with a slight smile, "If 
we are successful, you may soon sleep easy upon the ground!"

"Valar willing," Aragorn said, feeling his lips twitch in a wry smile of his 
own. But his eyes were sharp and held no mirth as they gazed down at the forest 
floor. "But we have still their maker to discover."

"True. And I would that we knew what had pricked Dol Guldur's wrath," Faladhros 
replied.

"Mmm." The Ranger's noncommittal response went unheeded, and he was glad of 
that. For I think me that I know why the master of the tower seethes in this 
night! Even through the ruin of a cast-off leaving, the Dark Lord calls to 
others. He suppressed a shudder, feeling suddenly as if his own association with 
Gollum over the interminably long journey had somehow tainted him as well. At 
that moment, Legolas and Aradhil appeared, and the prince beckoned his men to 
gather round.

"You have all heard the news," the prince said quietly. "It remains only to 
decide how to act upon it. For three days we have hunted these werewolves, and 
for all that they have eluded us, it is clear that they hunt us in their own 
turn. More, their maker remains with them, or so we feel. I would be rid of them 
as swiftly as we may, so that we may turn to the maker, but such a sighting as 
this provides us with few clues as to the whereabouts of our enemies." Legolas 
paused, and it seemed to Aragorn that he strove with some distasteful 
pronouncement. "Our choices remain limited, and little changed: we may continue 
on as we have, and hope that our enemies choose to attack us sooner rather than 
later, or we may dare the valley." That elicited a certain unease, but no one 
spoke. Aragorn caught Aradhil staring at him oddly, as if awaiting some 
response, but the Ranger saw no point in reiterating his own position. Dol 
Guldur was vastly more powerful than any of them, and even now they dared much 
to remain at the very edge of its shadow. To approach it was, in Aragorn's mind, 
madness or else the worst sort of bravado. The kind that loses lives to no 
purpose!

"If I may speak," Dorothil said suddenly, and all eyes turned to him. "What 
choice have we but to remain here, skirting the edges of the vale? The 
werewolves cannot remain hidden forever, and a few more days or even weeks would 
make little difference. But to enter the valley… we have no cause to do so, my 
prince, when by patience we may achieve our ends just as completely."

"But if we wait, we know not how many more werewolves may be made," Nuilandar 
pointed out. "Three we saw, and they a scouting party, I doubt not. Shall we 
risk an increase in their numbers? For patience may bring us face to face with 
too many enemies for seven to overcome."

"Then we should send for help," Dorothil replied. "We can afford a messenger." 
And though no one looked at him, Aragorn knew who would be sent in that 
eventuality.

"Can we?" Nuilandar challenged again, much to Aragorn's surprise. Usually, 
Nuilandar and Hithras were the two least likely to speak on any matter, short of 
a direct question. "Three days ago, our lord prince refused to leave another 
alone. We should have to send two men for the sake of safety, and that would 
leave us even more understrength. Nay, whatever must be done, it should be done 
quickly, if possible." There was a murmur of agreement from others, and the 
Ranger bit his lip gently, staring at Legolas. Speak up, Legolas! Well and good 
that others offer opinions, but speak your own so others know where you stand!

"I cannot countenance any suggestion that we move further into the valley," the 
prince said, darting a quick look at the warden, as if to invite comment. But 
Aradhil said naught, only listened in silence. "But it is true that we need to 
move quickly ere the threat multiplies. Somehow, we must try to force the 
werewolves to break cover."

"Then perhaps we ought to bait a trap, my lord prince," Aradhil spoke for the 
first time, and attention shifted to him.

"Using what, warden?" Faladhros asked, frowning. "Or shall we turn north for a 
time and seek an unwary deer?"

"A werewolf prefers live prey," Dorothil shook his head. "A slain deer might 
tempt a Warg, but not a werewolf."

"To lure a pack of them would take some doing," Nuilandar agreed.

"To lure them is but part of the task," Legolas cautioned. "We must still be 
able to kill what comes within bowshot. I think we may not have the means to 
effectively trap a group of them, for we have nothing to pique their interest."

"I should not say so, my prince," Aradhil replied.

"What mean you?" Dorothil asked, and there was a note of sudden, sharp suspicion 
in his voice.

"Werewolves have no loyalty to their progenitors' races: they attack and kill 
wolves and hounds if ever they find them. But even a wolf is of less interest 
than an Elf... or in this case, a Man." A dead silence fell, and a number of 
amazed stares fell upon the warden ere the members of the patrol turned to gaze 
at Aragorn. "They are a race not without cunning, werewolves, and they enjoy 
sport," the warden continued after a moment. "Surely a Ranger ought to prove 
lure enough for the lot of them."

"That is a jest in poor taste, Aradhil!" Dorothil snapped.

"I do not jest," the other replied steadily.

"You cannot ask that of him!" Legolas glared at the other. "If this is a part of 
your quarrel--"

"It is only logical, my prince, and you have said yourself that we cannot brook 
any further delay."

"This is madness! I refuse to consider anything of the sort!"

"May I remind your highness that we have an obligation to uncover what it is 
that haunts the forest? And that the Ranger has an obligation to serve? 'In any 
way at all,' were the words," Aradhil said, suddenly addressing Aragorn. "Is 
that not so?"

From the blank and puzzled looks that flitted round the circle of onlookers, it 
was clear that no one, even Legolas, had the faintest inkling what Aradhil 
referred to with his pointed question. But the Ranger's eyes narrowed, and a 
dangerous glimmer flickered in them as his gaze sharpened markedly.

"So I said indeed," he responded after a moment. "So I said, and thought my 
words spoken in confidence. Apparently, I was mistaken!"

"Then do you renounce your word?" Aradhil demanded.

"Aradhil!" Legolas hissed.

"No, I do not. But neither do I risk myself at your order, warden, for it was 
not to you that I made such an offer," Aragorn replied. "If, however, his 
highness decides that I am best used in this manner, then I shall do as he 
commands." The Ranger turned his attention to Legolas, whose eyes glittered 
greenly with anger in the dimness. "Consider it well, my prince, but not for too 
long, and tell me when you have decided." With a final frosty look for the 
warden, and a rather suspicious one for Nuilandar, who sat silent and refused to 
meet his gaze, Isildur's Heir caught hold of a branch overhead and climbed 
swiftly away from the group, leaving the Elves to what discussion they might 
muster. But it seemed that no one had anything further to say, and shame hung 
thick on the air.

***

"The two of you planned this," Legolas said in a low, angry undertone when he 
and Aradhil stood alone together a short while later. With Aragorn's departure, 
the group had swiftly broken up: Faladhros, Dorothil, and Hithras had left 
together and settled among the higher branches, for the latter two had guard 
duty. Nuilandar had gone off alone, for no one else was willing now to speak 
with him. That left Legolas alone with the warden, and the prince was uncertain 
whether wrath or shock still predominated in him. "How did you convince 
Nuilandar to support you in this?"

"He knew not for what I aimed. His part was simply to argue against further 
delay. But even had he known, he would have been obligated to support the idea," 
Aradhil said coolly. "This matter must end, my prince! You know this as well as 
any. Even the Ranger knows it. You cannot simply dismiss this idea."

"Can I not? Remember, warden, that yours is not the final word in this forest," 
Legolas replied tautly.

"Nay, necessity's is! To that even a prince must bow, and as I said, you know 
what necessity demands: a swift resolution, so that we may turn to the matter 
that brought us hither in the first place! The shadow of threat lies heavy on 
Mirkwood, and we still know not what brews at Dol Guldur."

"That may be so, but do not deny that your hatred of Aragorn played a large part 
in this! Would you have suggested any such plan were he not present to offer as 
a sacrifice?" the prince demanded.

"I would play the part myself if I thought it necessary," Aradhil shot back. 
"For you, I would do it! And if you wish, I shall keep the human company upon 
the ground, for doubtless he shall need a minder."

"And could I trust you not to shoot him in the back?" Legolas retorted, folding 
his arms across his chest. "I know not what oath Aragorn spoke, nor to whom, but 
it seems to me clear that you have conspired against him ere ever we set out. 
Your behavior disgusts me! I know not what has possessed you of late, but it 
ends tonight: henceforth, you will treat him with more courtesy than you used 
with Nuilandar this evening. And if Nuilandar calls you out, I shall witness 
that he had cause! And that if Aragorn does not claim his due first!"

Aradhil lifted his chin slightly, and his eyes glittered, but after a moment, he 
nodded. "As you command, my prince. May I take my leave, so that you may 
consider your course?"

"Do so," Legolas replied curtly, and turned away, unwilling to watch the other 
leave. For however wroth he was, still, Aradhil had long been a friend and a 
guide, and the prince could not understand the change that had come over the 
warden. I would not have thought him capable of stabbing a friend in the back 
like he did Nuilandar. Or me! It was painfully obvious in hindsight that Aradhil 
had let Nuilandar convince them all of the need to act swiftly so that his plan 
would not be rejected out of hand. And however tempting it might be to dismiss 
the scheme, Legolas could not deny that the warden was correct to say that they 
could not justify too lengthy a delay. And so now I must decide whether the 
chance of success is worth risking Aragorn's life! For that, Legolas could 
happily have called Aradhil out himself, but that that would solve nothing. The 
decision would remain before him, however he twisted to avoid it. I would not 
put Aragorn in such an untenable position, but can I truly afford to wait until 
our enemies decide the time is ripe? To do so would surrender the initiative to 
them, and if we are to succeed, we cannot allow them to dictate the terms of 
this battle. So the argument ran in circles in his head, and tripped constantly 
over the fact of Aradhil's hostility towards Aragorn, and the risk to the Ranger 
on whom any such trap would depend. For though he had made difficult decisions 
before, never had he had to make one amid the charged atmosphere that came of 
many conflicted loyalties.

But werewolves care not for such divisions, save that they can profit by them. 
And there is still the maker… and the master of the tower. Closing his eyes, 
Legolas let that ill-will wash over him, and he shivered though the night was 
warm enough for March. Tendrils of malice groped and clawed at him, seeking a 
way forward into his father's kingdom. What does he seek there, the master of 
the tower? What could inspire such fearful interest? Whatever it was, it was 
clear that he could not permit the enemy to uncover such a secret. And so I must 
clear the forest of this threat and draw his attention away from the north! 
Reopening his eyes, he scanned the branches and spotted the Ranger easily 
enough. I do not want to do this… !

But there was no real choice, and so Legolas began to climb up to tell the other 
of his decision. 

 ~~~



Chapter Seven - 	In the Valley of the Shadow of Fear



  The moon was sinking below the level of the canopy and Aragorn sat in silence, 
eyes closed, listening to the forest. Hours had passed since Aradhil's rather 
divisive plan had been broached, but as it had been clear that no better idea 
would save them from it, Legolas had adopted it with merciful swiftness. That 
in itself did little to calm the nerves of a Ranger about to offer himself up 
as werewolf fodder, but long years of practice and discipline fortunately took 
up the challenge. And if Legolas' speedy decision did not calm him, it at 
least allowed him to be rid of any unwarranted hopes of salvation. Werewolves, 
Isildur's Heir thought moodily. Eru above, why? Is there not enough cruelty in 
the world? Which question he knew he ought to know better than to ask, yet he 
could not quite refrain from doing so tonight. Perhaps had he had more faith 
in his partner, he would have faced the prospect of leaving the security of 
the heights with more equanimity, but given that it was Aradhil who would be 
watching his back, he found himself rubbing at his shoulder surreptitiously as 
he waited for the moon to set. The warden doubtless was no better pleased than 
he with the arrangement, but since Aradhil had brought the assignment on 
himself as the author of this plan, Aragorn could not muster much sympathy. 
More than that, he still seethed at the revelation that Aradhil had 
eavesdropped on his conversation with Thranduil, for such blatant disrespect 
was highly irregular among Elves. If only because his sovereign was involved, 
I would have thought he would obey common courtesy! the Ranger thought. But 
clearly where he was concerned, Aradhil had early on abandoned his manners so 
he supposed he ought not to be terribly shocked by anything the other did.

But such an attitude shall not help me to trust him tonight, when I shall most 
need to rely upon him! Aragorn thought, sternly taking himself to task for his 
oppressively black mood. In the end, Aradhil is not my enemy; the werewolves and 
their maker are. I should learn to follow my own advice!

"Even were I to lend you a bow, you would not remain above, would you?" a voice 
in the darkness sounded softly, and Aragorn tried unsuccessfully not to startle. 
Glancing upwards, he arched a severe brow at the prince, who stood silhouetted 
just above him in the branches. And though it was impossible to see the other's 
face, the Ranger could detect the worry in the other's tone.

"Do you ask me now to do so?" he demanded rather more sharply than was his wont. 
Do not change your mind now, after I have spent the past hours accepting your 
decision….

"No," Legolas replied without a trace of hesitation, much to Aragorn's relief. 
"But I would hear it from you."

That much reassurance Aragorn could grant him, in spite of his intention to 
avoid shielding the Elf from the burdens of command. And so he replied, "Then 
the answer is, as you guessed, no. I have not the skill of an Elf, to fight 
effectively from a tree's shelter. If I am to be of any use to you at all, I 
must be on the ground." The Ranger paused a moment, eyeing the prince. "Since we 
ask now questions whose answers we most likely know already, tell me: why will 
you remain above, my prince?"

The young Elf sighed softly. "I would I could join you, but though it pains me 
to admit it, my place is not upon the earth tonight. Aradhil is the better 
companion for one who shall face a werewolf on its own terms. He has hunted them 
before in Eregion and elsewhere, and he knows their ways far better than do I. 
'Twould be an unwarranted risk to you to put myself in his place, and I could 
not justify risking myself in any case." A pause, and then, "I do not like this, 
though."

"Nor do I, but the warden is correct that we cannot afford a longer delay," 
Aragorn replied, pleased by the other's response. Thank the Valar he seems to 
have realized that he is a prince indeed, and that he must decide for himself 
whether to accept or reject Aradhil's advice! And I know well how hard it is to 
learn that others must go first at times, that one cannot always spare others. 
It was perhaps a lesson that came even harder to an Elf than to a Man. Among the 
Dúnedain, by the time a Ranger earned his star he had already learned its price, 
often many times over, so that when it came time to formally swear his oath of 
service, he could say truthfully, repeating the words that had sent many a 
Ranger to an untimely death: "Against the Darkness I pledge my life, and shall 
not grudge to spend it, nor to spend another's at need: for I am a Man, and 
death is my destiny." To which many a new-sworn Ranger would add, in fine 
northern tradition, "But by Eru, I am also free!" thereby signaling his defiance 
as well. Elves, on the other hand, being immortal and having little to do with 
death, were less willing to risk another's life if there were any way to avoid 
it. For no Elf had ever learned to understand the world-weariness that drove Men 
at last to accept the Gift of Ilúvatar. They might flee Middle-earth, but it was 
not life that they grew weary of but the burden of their own memories of Arda 
unstained. Or in this case, less stained! Aragorn thought as the prince came to 
settle before him. Even Elrohir and Elladan tended to shake their heads over 
such customs as a Ranger's oath-taking, and Aragorn knew few other Elves whose 
experience with Men could rival the twins'. Legolas' taut and worried tone thus 
came as no surprise to Aragorn, who needed not to see the prince's face to know 
that the Elf looked at him now with eyes that saw too clearly Aragorn's own 
mortality.

"Nuilandar offered to stand with you, you know," Legolas said just then, and was 
slightly too cavalier in his tone to fool the Ranger.

"And what said you?" I hope you told him 'no!'

"That a guilty conscience favors the enemy in battle," the prince replied. "And 
there is tension enough between you and Aradhil. I think we need not invite more 
ill-feeling by putting Nuilandar and the warden together with only a Ranger 
between them!"

Aragorn gave a soft snort at that. "True enough. I suppose, though, that a pair 
of quarreling Elves and one beleaguered Man would make attractive prey for a 
pack of werewolves."

"Doubtless that is so. Perhaps I ought to reconsider the idea," the prince 
acknowledged wryly, and then fell silent for a time. When he spoke again, 
though, his voice was somber as a winter's day. "You would not lack for 
partners, should you desire another. Even Aradhil accompanies you by his own 
offer." That was certainly unexpected, and Aragorn could not but feel a certain 
gratification at the revelation, though he found it all too likely that guilt 
lay behind most such offers. Still, the fact that Aradhil had put himself 
forward caught his attention, and the Ranger frowned.

"May I ask after the warden's motives, my prince?"

"I cannot say that I know them with certainty. He said that for me, he would 
take this risk on himself, and I doubt not that even were you not present, he 
would say so and mean it," Legolas replied heavily, and Aragorn winced slightly 
under cover of darkness. "But all know that he hates werewolves, and so his 
willingness to join you may have more to do with Eregion than with either of 
us."

"Mmm hmm," Aragorn considered this information in light of other bits and pieces 
that he had picked up from a week's worth of silent observation. After several 
moments, he asked, "Has Aradhil any family left?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because of his roots in Eregion, and because, as I said, his hatred of Men and 
even of werewolves feels too personal," the Dúnadan replied. And there is 
something about him that makes me doubt even that he is Sindarin by birth.* But 
that is less important than other things. When Legolas hesitated, he added 
quickly, "You need not tell me if that would violate his trust, but since we are 
to be the bait for this trap, I would rather know now whether he shall be able 
to control himself."

"He shall control himself," Legolas replied grimly. "There shall be no stray 
arrows tonight!" Aragorn gave a soft grunt at that and let drop his questions. 
Legolas knew perfectly well that his question had naught to do with the score 
between himself and Aradhil, and if he were still unwilling to answer, then a 
wise Man would let well enough alone. But silence, too, is a response, Aragorn 
thought, and wondered whether his present suppositions as to the fate of 
Aradhil's kin were closer to the mark than he liked to think.

Just then, a whistle sounded, cunningly wrought to seem as a nightingale, and 
Aragorn firmly quelled the sharp spike of anxiety that made itself felt at the 
noise. That would be Hithras and Dorothil returning, and that meant that it was 
time he and Aradhil took a walk together. Legolas rose with him, and the prince 
laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Fortune favor you, son of Arathorn."

"I hope that she shall. Should she choose to withhold her favor, however, send 
word north to Rivendell, to my brothers and father, if you will. They will see 
that the news spreads," Aragorn replied, and sensed the other's uneasiness at 
his request. In truth, it was not strictly necessary that he make such a 
request, for a Ranger in the lonely Wild had other ways of insuring that news of 
his demise reached others. It was a standing arrangement between himself and 
Halbarad that if either went for a year without at least sending word, that the 
other could assume the worst and notify friends and family. But in times like 
these, he would not leave his people in doubt for so long, for they would need 
to choose another to lead them. And although Elrond had long had in his keeping 
his farewell to his mother until Gilraen's death some years ago, it was the 
twins who had in their possession the other letters. The one to Arwen, Valar 
forbid she need ever open it! And the one for Halbarad. Werewolves out of Dol 
Guldur…. Damn Sauron to his own foul abysses! Aragorn took a moment to indulge 
in a silent stream of vituperative epithets that would have done an Elf proud in 
its creative variation ere he silenced the voice of protest with oppressive 
finality.

"Should it prove necessary, then," Legolas responded into the silence that had 
fallen, blissfully unaware of the trend of his companion's thoughts. At that 
moment a second silhouette appeared from on high, and the prince continued, "We 
shall be ready should the werewolves take an interest in you. Take no 
unnecessary chances, either of you!"

"As you wish, my prince," Aradhil replied in a low voice.

"Go carefully," Aragorn said, and received a nod ere Legolas quickly climbed 
away, leaving Ranger and warden together.

"After you," Aradhil invited coolly, indicating that Aragorn should descend 
first. And since he could say nothing that could not be misconstrued as 
pointless bickering, the Ranger simply drew an unobtrusively deep breath and 
climbed slowly into the shadow beneath the trees.…

***

Although a Sylvan Elf is most at home in the trees, it is as simple a matter to 
pass unseen upon the ground as it is in the heights. Aradhil had been a forester 
for lo these many centuries, but he had cut his teeth tracking earthbound 
enemies on the fields of Eriador, mastering the art in Eregion. Millennia of 
experience informed him that the werewolves were near, keeping pace with them, 
but as yet unwilling to show themselves. Perhaps they suspected a trap, but 
Aradhil would have bet his bow that whatever their suspicions, it was the 
entertainment of the chase that kept them still within the shadows. To his right 
and slightly behind him, his partner in this endeavor paused suddenly, and 
Aradhil suppressed his irritation as he turned quickly to gaze back at him… and 
so caught sight of a fleeting shade against the shadowed eaves. A shadow itself, 
it might well have passed unnoticed but that the quick gleam of yellow eyes 
betrayed its true nature ere it disappeared once more. The Elf let a hiss 
escape, since their purpose was to attract attention without being too obvious 
about that fact, and stepped down hard on a surge of annoyance with the human's 
perception. Aragorn shook his head slightly, as if with disgusted certainty, and 
whispered, "They toy with us!"

"Let them! 'Twill be their undoing in the end," Aradhil replied tautly. The 
Ranger did not contest that, only stared at him a moment ere he gestured for the 
warden to continue onward and Aradhil permitted himself a silent curse. Of 
course it only made sense for an Elf to take the lead in such darkness as this: 
elvish senses were better, more likely to perceive hidden threats and to read 
the treacherous landscape. Aragorn knew this quite well, but his pointed 
insistence upon following Aradhil smacked of none too subtle distrust. Not that 
the warden was particularly eager to have a mere mortal guarding his back 
either, which did not help the situation in the least. Nevertheless, he was 
willing to accept his unhappiness if only the Ranger suffered his share of it as 
well. And a werewolf will sense the tension between us, which should make us 
nearly irresistible… I hope! It was difficult to predict a werewolf, for they 
were cunning, having a man's intelligence and a wolf's sharp and wary senses. 
Far more dangerous than a Warg, even, the terror the fell beasts could project 
would wax the greater as the night wore on. And contrary to popular rumor, the 
full moon had naught to do with transformative abilities. But whenever a 
werewolf was beneath its birth moon, then was its power at its height. 
Unfortunately, they could be certain of but one moon and werewolf on that 
account, and Aradhil could not hazard a guess as to whether any of the others 
might have been made on the fourth night of the waning gibbous.

The reason for that uncertainty on the warden's part was perhaps even more 
disturbing than the effect itself: for Aradhil's senses were clouded not only by 
the tower's proximity, but also by the interference of the maker who hunted 
tonight with the pack. Many times more dangerous than a mere werewolf, the 
sorcerer's presence was unusually strong tonight and tended to obscure even the 
collective presence of his creatures. Thus the warden found himself unable to 
judge the relative strengths of the pack-members tonight, which was both 
frustrating and frightening. It had been quite long since Aradhil had been so 
vulnerable, and he wondered whether that might not account for his failure to 
notice the scout a few moments ago. But surely, then, Aragorn ought also to 
suffer some diminishment of his senses, yet he caught sight of that werewolf 
before I did… . For the first time, Aradhil regretted that he did not know the 
other's habits and aptitudes better, for then he might know whether the Ranger, 
too, groped in the darkness after their foes. It should have been a foregone 
conclusion that he did, for in Aradhil's experience, Men tended to wilt before 
too strong a menace unless they had numbers on their side. Easily swayed and 
overborne by the malice of the Enemy, it was not safe to rely upon them 
overmuch. But Aragorn had yet to wither beneath the psychic onslaught, and 
perhaps because his senses were less acute in the first place, the tower and the 
maker affected him less noticeably. Perhaps to him this is nearly normal, 
Aradhil thought, and shuddered slightly at the very idea.

They came now to a slight break in the line of trees, to a point where the land 
began to slope sharply downwards, and there the two of them paused. The plan, as 
conceived by Legolas, was to let the two of them go on a perimeter patrol, just 
as others had done in the past several days. This would likely help to allay any 
suspicions the werewolves might entertain as to the purpose of a Man and an Elf 
leaving the safety of the group. But they were not to tread the slopes. "'Twould 
be folly," the prince had stated firmly, pinning both Aradhil and Aragorn under 
his green stare. "The risk is great enough as it is. We can do this again if we 
must, much though we would all prefer to see an end to this tonight." Man and 
Elf had bowed to the prince's wishes and gone their separate ways to wait out 
the moon and the return of the scouts. Now, though, as Aragorn drifted forward 
to stand even with him and gaze down into the midnight gloom, Aradhil sensed 
that for once their thoughts ran in parallel. Well and good that they could do 
this again tomorrow evening, and the next, and the next, until at last the 
werewolves showed themselves. But such waiting would only give their foes a 
chance to breed more of the foul beasts, and that would defeat the purpose of 
their plan. The warden glanced at the Ranger, and Isildur's Heir returned the 
look, both of them considering each other, though a Man's eyes could not have 
seen much more than a barely defined silhouette. Nevertheless, by some instinct 
it seemed, the Ranger looked him full in the face, and his eyes glittered 
briefly silver as the stars reflected in them through a gap in the canopy. A 
ready if wary acceptance greeted the warden's unspoken query, and after a few 
moments, Aradhil nodded sharply and lightly touched the other's shoulder. Come! 
Follow me! that touch said, and Aragorn obeyed.

***

"What are they doing?" Dorothil demanded in a tone of hushed alarm from his 
position in the mid-branches of the canopy. Beside him, Mirkwood's youngest 
prince spat a soft curse into the darkness.

"It seems that they grow weary of this already," Legolas managed after a moment, 
and his tone was acid. But Dorothil heard also the fear that laced his words, 
and knew that the prince wanted nothing so much as to drag the pair back onto 
level ground. But if this trap were to work, it must seem that the two walked 
alone. And although the role of the rest of the patrol was to follow the lead of 
their earthbound companions, Legolas had not expected that the pair of them 
would take matters this far into their own hands. But perhaps I ought to have! 
he thought grimly. For whatever his own authority, both Aragorn and Aradhil had 
been captains for many years, and if Aragorn were incomparably younger than 
either of them, in important ways, his experience was no less extensive than 
Aradhil's. Legolas' brothers and father, not to mention the warden himself, had 
all waxed eloquent about a good commander's creative instincts and willingness 
to take calculated risks as they presented themselves. Clearly, this was one 
such instance, and if Ranger and Warden judged it best to risk the slopes, even 
Legolas might have hesitated to gainsay that instinct had he had the 
opportunity. But I have not the chance, and can but follow! And so, swallowing 
another round of curses, he pursed his lips and signaled the others to follow, 
and further, to change formations to better accommodate the sloping terrain.

I hope only that you know what you do now! he thought with grim anxiety. For if 
I should lose either of you…. He did not finish that thought even to himself, 
instead hurrying forward into the vale of shadows.

***

Once, when Aragorn had been much younger, he and Denethor of Minas Tirith had 
managed to become separated from the rest of the company in the forests of 
Ithilien. This despite the fact that the two of them were the ranking officers 
and ought to have known better than to stay away too long. Denethor likely still 
denied to this day that their absence had been in any way due to his own actions 
in following Aragorn, but the Ranger cared not what the lord steward might say 
of the incident. At the time, however, it had been quite dark as they had made 
their way back towards the camp, and since the two of them had never learned to 
like each other much, there had been a certain added tension to creeping back 
home together through the orc-infested woods. Denethor had not liked him any 
better for being the more experienced forester, either, and the feel of the 
other's hand on his back as he had guided Ecthelion's son through the brush had 
been uncomfortable. And now I know the other side of that coin! the Ranger 
thought, for it was Aradhil who guided him now, and he who followed, drawn on by 
feel alone. An elvish upbringing helped immensely, but still, he was essentially 
blind. Although he could probably have managed to navigate this path alone, by 
touch and kinesthetic intuition, he could not have done so with an Elf's speed, 
and he knew he would have been noisier. Still, it was very odd to feel Aradhil's 
back tense beneath his palm, to have so visceral a confirmation of the other's 
fear, and he wondered whether his own fear distracted the warden.

Valar keep us both focused, he prayed, and glanced slowly about. Not in the 
hopes of seeing anything, but in order to listen and keep track of any sounds 
that might move with them. Every so often, he would hear something, and he was 
certain that it was no accident that the noise stopped almost immediately. The 
warden, too, was not unaware of such signs, but they were never close enough or 
continuous enough to do more than remind them of their enemies' presence. As if 
we need the reminder! Perhaps because robbed of his vision in this murk, Aragorn 
had begun to be aware of something akin to sound that whispered and nibbled in 
the depths of his mind, seeming to prod at the sensitive point just at the base 
of his skull, and he gritted his teeth against it. Is this the whispering that 
the others speak of? he wondered. If there were words in that incessant 
distraction, he could not distinguish them, though his mind continued to try to 
find a language to fit the whispers despite his efforts to ignore the 
phenomenon. Usually, he could choose what he would heed and what he would not 
without overmuch difficulty, but this was not a physical sound so far as he 
could tell. The closest comparison that he had was bearing up to Galadriel's 
eyes and the pressure of the mind behind them.

Of a sudden, Aradhil paused, and Aragorn tightened his grip on the hilt of his 
sword. Darker than pitch it remained, but the Ranger felt a thrill of dread run 
through him as he sensed the stillness, and he felt his hackles rise in response 
to many unseen but watching eyes. By the feel of the air, they had come to a 
more open space, and beyond them and before them came a strong impression of 
evil. Aradhil had chosen to halt while still close by a couple of trees and some 
rocks, or so Aragorn's questing fingers told him. The feel of the tree nearest 
him made it a nargaladh, and at least he knew now the reason for that name. The 
warden glided right, and his left hand brushed against Aragorn's chest, pushing 
him slightly to the left, and signaling also for him to stand ready. The Ranger 
reached quietly into his belt pouch and he drew a deep breath, knowing that the 
moment was come. The werewolves had at last grown tired of hunting, and meant 
now to enjoy the kill… if they could. Still, Man and Elf made no move yet, 
awaiting some further proof, concentration honed to a fine point as they sought 
a sign… .

Something moved in the darkness. Aragorn could not see it, but he felt it 
nonetheless, and quick as lightning he struck the pad of a tinderbox and lunged 
at the tree. Immediately, light flared painfully bright as the resin-soaked wood 
caught and flame spread over the trunk. There came a chorus of protesting snarls 
and howls, and the Ranger and the warden stared across the short distance at 
several bristling wolf shapes. More lingered just out of sight in the shadows, 
invisible save for their eyes, and Aragorn felt that eerie, pre-battle calm 
descend upon him as all other considerations faded before the task at hand. 
Beside him, Aradhil had his blades out and a look of unearthly fury on his face 
that ought to have warned away any sane creature. But werewolves were not sane, 
strictly speaking, and with a barked command, the foremost rank sprang at the 
pair. Far stronger than Wargs, it was a nearly impossible task to engage more 
than one at a time, but necessity mothered many other things besides invention. 
Aragorn spared no energy on conscious evaluations, trusting trained instinct and 
sheer ferocity to carry the day, for outnumbered and overmatched as he was, he 
had no other choice.

He caught one wolf-form on the point of his sword and the scream that came back 
was half-human. Even in its death-throes, though, the werewolf sought him, and 
its claws raked across the Ranger's chest painfully even as he twisted and let 
momentum help rid him of the carcass. A well-placed kick momentarily turned 
another of the beasts aside long enough for him to slash at it on the follow-up 
strike, and the shiver that ran through his arms spoke of a fairly clean hit. 
Something whistled through the air, and before he could blink another werewolf 
fell, sprawling as its momentum carried it towards him with an elvish arrow in 
its side. The Ranger had to dodge the beast's paroxysms, but fortunately, 
another elvish arrow felled the wounded werewolf before it could turn to attack 
him again. A flash of movement in the trees marked an elven archer's path, and 
the storm of howling warned that the werewolves were well aware now of the trap. 
Though still hard-pressed, Aragorn had time to watch in horror as some of the 
wolf-forms shifted to mostly human, though outsized claws gleamed where hands 
ought to be and the werewolves began to climb after the Elves with astonishing 
speed.

"Aradhil!" Aragorn snapped at the warden, and the Elf shot him a fierce glare.

"I see them!" the warden replied, and as if to underscore that comment, one of 
his blades whistled overhead and a half-changed werewolf screamed as the dagger 
embedded itself in its back. But the creature did not die immediately, and it 
launched itself from the tree at Aradhil. Aragorn managed an overhand slash that 
opened the creature's gut, but had no further time to spare from his own 
defense. The arrows from on high grew a bit more sparse as the Elves were forced 
to divert some of their attention to the wolves that had followed them into the 
trees, which left the remainder of the pack more freedom to maneuver. Two of 
them barreled into the Ranger, who impaled one but had then to deal with the 
other with naught but his hands. Aragorn cursed sharply as the werewolf's clawed 
and fanged weight landed atop him, and he quickly swung his legs up to circle 
the creature's body, trying to prevent those vicious hind-claws from finding his 
stomach. The fore-claws, though, sank into his back and shoulders, for he had to 
use both hands to hold the snapping teeth back away from his throat and face. 
Desperate, the Ranger writhed and managed to roll the pair of them so that he 
had the werewolf on its back. That let him use one hand to hold the head down, 
and he swiftly reached for a dagger. Just at that moment, however, the werewolf 
shifted forms, and Aragorn found himself staring down at a woman. Young she 
seemed, and who knew how she had been caught, but despite the danger, he 
hesitated a moment, brought up short by the habits of a lifetime.

With a ghastly grin, she caught his wrist and the fingers that encircled his 
forearm had claws that dug into his flesh. The other hand blocked his strike, 
and of a sudden he was once again on his back, one arm trapped across his body 
by the other's weight, and gazing up into glowing yellow eyes. A low, throaty 
growl blew fetid breath in his face, and the werewolf bent close, letting him 
feel her strength as she scented his blood, and Aragorn shivered, seeking 
desperately purchase enough to turn them again. His assailant, however, seemed 
more amused than alarmed, and with a suddenness that caught him completely by 
surprise, she leaned down and kissed him! The taste of carrion in his mouth made 
him want to gag, but shock held him immobile for precisely three heartbeats. And 
then revulsion set in with gut-wrenching vengeance. Snarling himself now, he 
arched his back and at the same time bit down hard on the other's lips. The 
werewolf jerked, and that let him shift his weight just enough to topple the 
other. Spitting blood, the Ranger turned over and grabbed his sword, yanking it 
free of the other body and continuing to roll in that direction, away from his 
attacker. Almost as one, the two of them came to a crouch: Aragorn on one knee 
with his sword angled before him to ward off attack, and the werewolf in an 
oddly wolfish pose for a human being, her long hair hanging round a face 
contorted now with unholy glee. Yellow eyes glowed fiercely with that particular 
madness that ought properly to reduce a sane man to tears; blood smeared her 
lips, and she lunged at him.

But she never reached him as a second lithe form dropped down precisely on her 
back. A horrible shriek rose above the din, and Legolas jerked his blade from 
between the werewolf's vertebrae with admirable composure. The prince shot the 
Ranger a hard-eyed glance, then snapped, "Up! This is not over!" Aragorn obeyed, 
still feeling rather queasy, but with Legolas now on the ground, priorities 
shifted. Between himself and the warden, they had to keep the prince safe. And 
where is Aradhil…?

"Legolas!" The warden's call caught their attention, and prince and Ranger 
turned to see Aradhil clamber out from under a drooping wolf form, swearing as a 
claw nicked him. The warden darted a glance round the battlefield, and in the 
red light of the burning nargaladh Aragorn saw that both Dorothil and Nuilandar 
had also come down from the trees. From the look of them, the two Elves had 
fought their own battles while Aragorn and Aradhil had been too busy to notice. 
As Dorothil fell back a few paces, glancing warily all about, mistrusting the 
sudden stillness, the Ranger could see the claw marks on his face, and the Elf 
walked with a slight limp. Aradhil looked about as battered as Aragorn felt, but 
the warden's eyes blazed with some unidentifiable emotion that held him yet at 
the ready, as if the pain were but a goad. For his part, the Ranger had his 
pride, and beyond that, he knew very well that the werewolves were not 
vanquished yet. They have drawn off, gone back to their maker… and who knows 
where he waits? Eru above, this pack is not the work of a handful of nights! 
They could kill us all if they wished to use the lot of them, so why do they 
wait? Or is that the reason? Who baited what trap? For now that the Elves had 
been obliged to show themselves and to fight on the ground, Aragorn doubted they 
would be able to return to the trees for at least a night or two while they 
recovered. And so we are more vulnerable than ever before… easy prey indeed!

"Has anyone a head count?" the Ranger asked wearily, pressing down hard just 
above the bone-deep cuts on his left wrist to slow the flow of blood. Legolas 
grimaced as his eyes roved over the carnage.

"Twelve so far. But several escaped. At least as many as seven… perhaps ten or 
twelve more, even," the prince replied unhappily. Glaring suddenly at the Ranger 
and warden, he added sharply, "You two could have been killed!"

"That we knew already, my prince," Aradhil replied, cocking a blood-smeared dark 
brow at the other. "'Twas a worthwhile risk, under the circumstances."

"I thought we had agreed not to dare the slopes!"

"This is not the time for such arguments," Aragorn interjected, and received 
matching glares from both prince and warden. "No one has perished yet, and Valar 
willing none shall. But we have learned more than we might have otherwise: some 
of those werewolves awaited us here, and might have circled behind us had we not 
walked into their line. And there are far more of them than we had guessed. 
Although I cannot help but feel used doubly, I will count twelve dead werewolves 
a worthy exchange for what we have learned. And if we are fortunate, it may be 
that the maker shall be weakened by their loss, for he must have spent much 
power to make them."

"True enough," Dorothil said, coming to his support as he shot a dark look at 
the surrounding forest, "though I fear I sense no abatement of the maker's evil. 
He may be more powerful than we suspected. But we must leave off pursuit for the 
night: some are injured here, and we cannot afford to lose anyone," the Elf 
said, casting significant glances at Aradhil and Aragorn who bore evidence of 
more prolonged contact with the werewolves.

"You speak rightly. Come, you two! And Dorothil, be certain that Nuilandar is 
well. Faladhros, Hithras and I shall take the watches for the rest of the night 
and tomorrow," Legolas ordered, and Dorothil managed a bow ere he limped off to 
speak to Nuilandar.

***

Legolas stood with his back to a large and knobby tree, frowning pensively. 
Above him in the trees stood Faladhros, and Hithras was on the point, circling 
ever about them in an effort to watch the most probable lines of approach. Fear 
still hung heavy in the air, and the scent of blood, human, elvish and 
otherwise, was pervasive and disturbing. Indeed, however much he might have 
liked to rest, Legolas was glad that his eyes were needed to watch the forest, 
for he was not entirely certain he would have been able to control his dreams 
tonight. With a sigh, he glanced down and gazed wearily at the huddled, sleeping 
forms of the four who had fought hardest on the ground, and no one grudged them 
their dreamless repose. Dorothil and Nuilandar were not badly hurt, but they 
would feel the scrapes in the morning in spite of elvish resilience. Aradhil and 
Aragorn were another story entirely: clawed and cuffed, the pair of them were 
all over bruises and some of the claw marks were deep. Indeed, the warden had 
taken a bite high on the calf that had come perilously close to finding a 
hamstring, and he had a set of puncture wounds along his neck, where claws had 
dug in and caught on the clavicle. Aragorn's shoulders would be sore for weeks, 
and he was lucky to have the use of his left hand still, for the werewolf's 
claws had scraped against the tendons and even nicked an artery. The marks on 
his chest were superficial by comparison, and he had suffered no broken ribs, 
fortunately. But although both Ranger and warden swore that they would be able 
to fight if the need arose, Legolas did not want to rely upon them so soon after 
this costly engagement.

Aradhil was more right than he knew when he argued that we could not afford to 
wait. We may already have waited too long, who knows? the prince brooded. I 
wonder whether I ought to risk sending Aragorn back to my father to tell this 
tale, for it is clear to any fool that these werewolves would have been used 
against us sooner or later. One does not breed a company of them lightly, after 
all! Ilúvatar preserve us, how many more are there? But another glance down at 
the sleeping human decided him against it. Even if he slept the night, Aragorn 
would not be able to move with his customary efficiency or grace, and would be 
an easy mark alone. Despite the fact that keeping him here would guarantee that 
he would face the werewolves again, he would still have a better chance of 
surviving the encounter with another to stand at his back. Even if that other is 
Aradhil! Legolas thought, his gaze roving over the four to settle on the warden. 
They did not do too badly together, all things considered. Perhaps it needed but 
the proper… ah… 'inspiration' to make them forget their quarrel for a time. At 
least to make Aradhil forget, for his grievance with the werewolves runs far 
deeper than any he might have with a mortal. Even in sleep, the warden's dark 
eyes betrayed the shades of days past, and Legolas wondered what dreams he 
wrought. Dreams of vengeance, most likely. Thank the Valar it was not he whom 
that she-wolf attacked!

In his mind's eye, the prince saw once more the werewolf that had nearly brought 
down Aragorn, and even at a remove, the Elf felt nauseated. Five hundred years 
on the hunt had failed to touch the prince so closely as the sight of that 
obscene embrace, and he shuddered to think what the Ranger had felt. Aragorn had 
staggered up with a look of absolute disgust on his face, and Legolas had been 
taken aback by the hatred that had blazed in his grey eyes. Fortunately, that 
fire had died swiftly enough as the confrontation had ended, and the Dúnadan had 
quickly regained control of himself. Had it been Aradhil, there might well have 
been no restraining him at all, and Legolas shivered once more for an old 
friend's pain. Glancing across the clearing, he could still see the body--lithe, 
pale, and lifeless, with eyes too gold even in the glow of the slow-burning 
nargaladh. He had heard that werewolves were voracious, and that they loved 
sport, but he had never thought to see that malicious playful streak so 
graphically demonstrated. I wonder who she was before she was made? We shall 
never know, I suppose. Someone's wife or daughter taken in a day raid from the 
edges of Dale, or perhaps even from the south, from the furthest tip of Rohan. 
'Tis impossible to say with certainty, but assuming we live through this night 
and the next, and return safely home, we shall have to inquire of the Bardings 
at least.

Someone stirred beside him, and he glanced down to see Dorothil blink to clear 
his mind of dreams and sit up carefully. "What matter, Dorothil?" the prince 
asked, watching as the other climbed to his feet, favoring his right leg.

"I can dream no more, my prince," the other replied, carefully stepping past the 
bodies of sleeping comrades. "Sleep is nearly as exhausting as waking life this 
close to the watcher's shadow, but it is the maker who eclipses my dreams."

"I wonder, then, that the others do not wake," Legolas said softly.

"Who can say? I have always been more wayward by night than by day," Dorothil 
said, proffering a slight smile. "'Tis the starlight on the river of my soul, or 
so I have been told."

"By your mother, I take it."

"My aunt," Dorothil admitted, then paused, seeming to seek the best way to speak 
his piece. "The maker breeds more than werewolves, my prince, he breeds 
questions in my mind and I would find answers to them if I could. May I ask you 
somewhat?"

"Of course," Legolas answered, curious.

"Has Aradhil said aught of late, my prince, of this maker? Or of the master of 
Dol Guldur?"

"He warns that he remembers a similar presence at the Dagorlad," Legolas 
replied. "But he will say no more--for fear, I think, of misleading me."

"Mmm… yes, that I understand. For I, too, have my doubts, and a mistake might be 
costly. Or rather more costly, I suppose," the other amended, glancing down at 
his three injured companions. "But it comes to me, my prince, that the 
two--maker and master--grow less distinct as time passes. And I wonder whether 
they might not be the same being, wearing two different faces, even as Dol 
Guldur has many different aspects."

"You believe so?" the prince asked, interest sharpening.

"I grow to believe it. Either the same being, or two beings of the same kind, 
but the maker is in the ascendant, whether he be mask or his own entity. 'Tis 
somewhat like the feel of twins, I fancy… or at least so I thought in my dreams 
tonight," Dorothil sighed.

"You may be right, and I wonder that no one else has thought of this. But if 
they are the same being, then why should the master of the tower come to hunt us 
himself? What have we with us that would peak his interest enough to employ at 
least one freshly made werewolf? Or was it happenstance?"

"I know not, my prince. Stranger coincidences have occurred in the past. But I 
can think of one thing that we have that he has not." And this time, Dorothil 
turned to consider grimly the sleeping Ranger. Legolas sucked in a breath, 
grimacing, and the other Elf arched a dark brow at him. "'Tis possible, my 
prince. The memory of our enemy is no less long than ours. Longer, even, and 
perhaps all that saves us is that Aragorn is not his forefathers, whereas there 
is a good chance that we deal with some of the self-same enemies who were 
present when the Dark Lord was cast down."

"I had not thought of that," Thranduil's son murmured.

"'Tis perhaps not surprising, for you are young, my prince," Dorothil replied 
graciously. "You have not the memory of Númenor to compare to the present."

"So I am told, and so I am," Legolas replied with a flash of a smile. "Well, 
young or old, we shall soon discover the truth." And Valar willing, we shall 
even live to tell of it!

 

********

*"Unfinished Tales," p. 246. In the "History of Galadriel and Celeborn" one 
notes that Eregion was a primarily (but not exclusively) Noldorin settlement, 
with Sindarin and Silvan Elves providing diversity.

~~~



Chapter Eight - The Dusk and the Dawn



 "Are you certain that you are not left-handed?" Aragorn shot his tormentor a 
quick glance at that. Faladhros frowned as he inspected his work from the night 
before, and his grey eyes darted Aragorn's way briefly in response to that 
look. "For it seems that you are quite unlucky of late!" Faladhros continued by 
way of elaboration. As the designated surgeon for the company, he had seen to 
both Aragorn and Aradhil, and had spent a lengthy bit of time suturing wounds. 
The Ranger's wrist had required particularly careful work due to the arterial 
flow and nearly severed muscles. Nevertheless, that more urgent concern did not 
prevent Faladhros from commenting on the marks left by Gollum's teeth, and 
though the injury had ceased to give Aragorn any trouble, the Elf tsked now at 
him over the scarring. "I fear you shall have scars from both claws and teeth, 
but less from the former than from the latter, I assure you."

"For that you have my thanks, and were I left-handed, then I would be unlucky. 
As I am not, however, I shall not complain of the fortune that has left me 
alive," Aragorn replied as the Elf carefully rebound the cloth strips round the 
Ranger's forearm.

"And kissed at that!" Faladhros grinned, which comment earned him a rather 
quelling glare. Little intimidated, the Elf continued blithely, "Be careful not 
to break the stitches by any too strenuous activity." Aragorn nodded somewhat 
brusquely, feeling a bit irritated, both by the jibe and by the unnecessary 
reminder. He was a healer as well, and he needed not such basic admonitions. But 
it is Faladhros' task to give them, so bite your tongue, Aragorn! So he told 
himself and tried not to let pain dictate his temper overmuch. The Elf rose and 
gave the Ranger a hand up, and then he paused, gazing past Aragorn as if with 
resignation. Unobtrusively, the Dúnadan made a quarter turn and, under the 
pretext of adjusting the bandages more to his liking, he surreptitiously 
followed the other's gaze. Legolas stood conversing with the warden, and though 
the Ranger had not an Elf's ears, he guessed from the taut, still expression on 
the latter's face that the matter was not to his liking. Hearing the soft sigh 
at his side, Aragorn hid a slight, but not unsympathetic, grin, for clearly 
Faladhros did not relish the prospect of dealing with the warden this morning. 
But duty left him no choice, and so, shaking himself slightly, the Elf offered 
the Ranger a parting nod and moved determinedly towards the pair. "Aradhil…!" At 
Faladhros' approach, Legolas hastily concluded his discussion and moved away, 
leaving the warden to the healer's attention.

With a sigh of his own, Aragorn clenched and unclenched his fist a few times, 
testing the stitches and accustoming himself to the discomfort. His grip would 
be worthless for a time, but he was fairly confident that in a pinch, he could 
use both hands to defend himself. Just not very well! Beyond that, his shoulders 
throbbed, and his shirt would need extensive patching if he ever wanted to use 
it for anything other than rags. At the moment, it occupied the bottom of his 
light travel pack, and short of a return to either Thranduil's halls or Eriador, 
Aragorn doubted he would find both time and safety in which to mend it. One did 
not bother with such trivialities when traveling the mountain passes, and 
Mirkwood forest was proving to be nearly as bad, if not worse. All that I miss 
on this journey is the knowledge that these lives are mine to spend or spare, 
and glad am I to forego that responsibility. But though firmly outside the 
patrol's hierarchy, he was hardly without obligations to the group, and to 
Legolas himself. Indeed, as the Ranger watched the prince move among his men, 
pausing by each to speak in a low voice about some matter, he found himself 
dreading the moment when Legolas should turn to him. For whatever my place in 
this patrol, I ought to know better than to alter set plans as I did last night. 
Had one of his own men been so foolish, he would not have spared him the 
reprimand. Truly, it was not even a matter of 'would,' it was simply an accepted 
fact that a company of Rangers could not tolerate that sort of behavior; and he 
who blithely followed his own notions did so knowing that he would face his 
captain's condemnation. That Aradhil and he together had decided to dare the 
slopes only made matters worse, and Aragorn tasted the irony bitter on his 
tongue. I was concerned that Legolas should assume his rightful authority, and 
yet it was I who was insubordinate!

The prince of Mirkwood spoke now with Dorothil, who stood gravely attentive and 
listened, nodding every so often. To Aragorn's mind, the two seemed to have 
grown closer in confidence since Dorothil had come to plead for the Ranger's 
intervention. I hope that they have, for in this matter I think me his judgment 
is more sound than Aradhil's. Given my actions, it may be more sound than mine, 
for that matter! He sighed softly, letting his eyes sweep over the eerily still 
forest, wary of the shifting play of flame-cast shadows on the knotted bark. 
Nuilandar absently tended to their small fire, rationing their supply of 
nargaladh chips, and it occurred to Aragorn of a sudden that he had been on but 
one other journey so consistently dark. 'Tis unfortunate that the pillars of 
Moria, crumbling and chipped where the worst damage was done, rather resemble 
this stretch of Mirkwood. Or so it seems to me. A shiver worked its way down his 
back, and the Ranger clenched his teeth as his shoulders tensed convulsively. 
There had been other campaigns, in Eriador and elsewhere, in which the threat to 
him and to others had been far more immediate and numerically overwhelming. Yet 
despite that, thought of that long ago trek through ancient Khazad-dûm inspired 
a terror in him that no other memory could match. I know not even the reason for 
it, for I met with nothing untoward. Yet my heart warned me then that I walked 
in the lair of an evil more profound than any I had ever faced… or have ever 
faced directly since then. The watcher and the maker, though, were steadily 
rising in his estimation, and who knew but that they might at some point eclipse 
that older fear? Whatever lay in Moria's depths, it had been intuition and 
feeling that had announced its presence, but whatever stalked them now, its 
whispered incantations were enough to make one frantic even for the leaden 
silence of the forest.

At that moment, Legolas broke away from Dorothil and glided purposefully towards 
the Ranger, and Aragorn drew a somewhat deeper breath as he gave the prince a 
polite nod. "Good morrow, my prince."

"Good morrow," the other replied, and then paused, green eyes flitting 
thoughtfully over the Ranger. "I have spoken with the others already, and 
despite the risk of remaining here, we have no better recourse. Short of 
knocking upon the gates of Dol Guldur, we shall meet no greater danger, and to 
retreat would unduly tax your strength, and Aradhil's as well." The Elf paused, 
as if to give him a chance to object, but Aragorn only nodded. It would be 
pointless to deny that a day on the move would leave him ill-prepared to face 
their enemies, after all. "Truth be told, I think Dorothil and Nuilandar also 
would be the better for the rest, and we shall need what strength we can muster. 
Nuilandar especially, perhaps, for he has been distracted of late when not on 
his rounds." Legolas shook his head, and Aragorn saw the brief flash of worry in 
his face. And strain as well. If this whispering disturbs me, how much more 
difficult must it be for an Elf to ignore it? But the moment of revelation was 
brief, and then Legolas was speaking again, apparently in control of himself. 
"If we cannot destroy the better part of the werewolves in the next battle, then 
our fate is sealed!" This time, green eyes pinned Aragorn as the prince 
continued grimly, "Should that be the case, then my father must know of this 
threat. I would send you and one other back as messengers, and the rest of us 
would do what we could to prevent the werewolves from following."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at this, pondering the other's decision, and after a 
moment he said, "If you order me to leave, I shall. But you know well that I 
shall slow any Elf whom you might send, unless he be sorely wounded. Would it 
not be better for me to remain in that eventuality, and to send two Elves 
instead?"

"If I looked no further than this engagement, then yes. But you are no mere 
Ranger, my friend, and you know that as well as do I. Your people need you, and 
as the Age grows ever darker, many others may also come to depend upon you. You 
know whereof I speak, so do not make of yourself less than you are."

"I seem always less than I am, Legolas. That is a Ranger's way," Aragorn 
replied, unwilling to touch upon that subject. Not here, and perhaps not ever, 
'til the war that must come is at an end. And if we win the day back from 
Sauron's clutches, then it will have been evident enough the reasons for 
disguise. That did not make his excuse ring any truer, but the prince, after a 
moment's hesitation, seemed to accept it, though not without reservations.

"Nevertheless, Aragorn, we know who and what you are, and such foresight as I 
have is based not on mere appearances. For I fear that intentionally or 
otherwise, you put all of us in peril."

"You have my apology for that," Aragorn replied, forcing himself to keep his 
eyes on the Elf's face as he spoke, and not to dither about it like some raw 
youth. Ordinarily, he had less difficulty admitting his errors, but usually such 
mistakes were not willful, as this one was. "The risk might have been warranted, 
but it was not my place to take it without your permission." Legolas cocked his 
head at him, and the Ranger blinked in rather confused surprise. For if he read 
that look aright, it said that his words did not address the matter under 
discussion as far as the prince was concerned. "You do speak of last night's 
diversion, I assume…?" he prompted, fishing for an explanation.

"Nay, not at all," Legolas replied, shaking his fair head. "What I speak of 
concerns a question that has long preyed upon my mind: why the wrath of the 
tower? What goad could elicit so swift and fearful a response, when Wargs are 
often lost that dare our borders? I have but two theories. Or rather, one theory 
and an intuition so vague that I cannot risk even speculation. But your blood 
marks you, Aragorn… and there are those who remember well the noontide of your 
race." As the prince spoke, that forest-deep gaze captured Aragorn's and would 
not release him, and the Ranger felt a certain chill pervade him, though he 
himself doubted the prince's deduction.

"I cannot tell you that your theory is wrong, nor deny that my father and 
grandfather were slain for what they were. But since then we have been careful: 
I knew not what I was for twenty years, as you will remember, and there are 
other precautions in place. To my knowledge, I am naught but a Man to enemy 
eyes."

"Mayhap you seem one to the imperceptive, but some things you cannot hide from 
those who know what to look for. Others here remember well the spirit of 
Westernesse, and they feel it in you. It may be that he who guards the tower, 
being older than we two, also remembers it, and so seeks you out. Be wary yet, 
son of Arathorn! After all, 'tis not every man gets a kiss from a werewolf! 
Clearly there is something… attractive… about you." That last was said with a 
faint smile and a lighter tone, but still, Legolas' eyes were serious. 
Nevertheless, Aragorn sighed softly and lowered his face into his hand.

"Let us not speak of that!" he muttered, rubbing tired eyes in disgusted 
remembrance, wondering if every Elf in the patrol would feel the need to remind 
him of that incident.

"As you wish." And true to word, the prince quickly changed topics. "Guard duty 
is tedious work, but I fear that I must leave it to you and Aradhil most of the 
day. The rest of us will do what we can to secure this place, or at least to 
make attack more difficult. Tonight we shall all remain on the ground together." 
He paused, and Aragorn nodded. Much though he might wish for the range of elvish 
archers, those who had no choice but to remain earthbound were in no condition 
to withstand an attack without the support of hale companions. Legolas read his 
understanding and pursed his lips slightly, running a hand through his hair to 
tuck it back neatly behind his ears. And it seemed to the Dúnadan that the 
prince hesitated, caught in the grip of some troubled emotion. I would say that 
he were nervous… embarrassed, even… . Finally: "On the matter of your actions 
last night and those of Aradhil, you were right to point out that we learned 
what we needed to know of our enemy's strength; and I cannot argue that twelve 
dead werewolves was more than fair recompense. It may save us tonight, if only 
we can match that tally. Nevertheless, should there be a next time, I will know 
better than to pair you with Aradhil, for I think you forget your places." Which 
direct rebuke was nevertheless gentler than Aragorn might have expected given 
the seriousness of the offense.

"I fear that we do. And whatever penalty you impose, I shall not challenge it."

The elven prince gave a soft grunt at that, once again raking the Ranger over 
with his eyes, and he seemed to relax at the Dúnadan's acceptance. When he spoke 
again, his tone was more natural. "I think we may consider the werewolves more 
than sufficient penalty for your fault. More, I know that I am not blameless, 
for I have pondered your words to me and your actions for several days now. And 
I believe that I know why you would forget yourselves…." Legolas trailed off 
significantly, quirking a pale brow at the man. After a brief lacuna, he 
continued, "Take another hour, and then begin your shift." With that, the prince 
gave him a nod and retreated gracefully back to the perimeter, there to relieve 
Hithras of the watch. Aragorn stared after him in a somewhat nonplussed manner, 
yet he felt a slight smile tug at his mouth. Young you are, my prince, but you 
grow quickly when need presses! Irresistibly, his eyes were drawn to Aradhil, 
who sat now with his back to a tree and carefully honed the edge of a notched 
knife. The reason for his expression earlier on seemed now quite clear, and for 
the first time, Aragorn felt a certain pity for the other that went beyond the 
Elf's apparently painful history. One must learn to let go of one's children 
when the time comes. Else when they claim the freedom that is their birthright, 
it will tear us apart! Though the warden's head was bowed and his lashes 
concealed his eyes, the Ranger recognized the telling quality of the other's 
stillness, and wondered in what realm of memory Aradhil now wandered. Eregion, I 
should guess, but perhaps also the more recent past… perhaps he walks now with 
Legolas. Given their mutual dislike of each other, Aragorn knew well that it 
would be worse than useless for him to approach Aradhil, and so he let him be, 
turning his thoughts elsewhere. With a distrustful glance round at the forest, 
Aragorn sat down with his back to a tree and pulled Tharinsal's sword from its 
sheath as he fished around in his belt pouch for a whetting stone. Since they 
were committed to another confrontation, it would not do to be unprepared. One 
hour….

***

Elves work swiftly when need presses, and by mid-afternoon, such defenses as 
they could manage were in place: pikes for the most part, though Hithras had 
managed a lattice-like weave of the long ropes that the Elves carried. He had 
then strung it such that a wolf could not leap over the barrier without being 
caught and forced down onto the close-ranged rows of sticks. That arrangement 
covered approximately a quarter of the little clearing, and the rest was more or 
less open. At the least, the werewolves would not be able to approach with any 
great speed, and they would be forced to show themselves in order to pass the 
rows of pikes. In light of that, the patrol's strategy had changed somewhat as 
they could count upon having a more or less solid barrier at their backs. As the 
werewolves had demonstrated their willingness to take to the trees, Hithras had 
been assigned to guard the group from on high, to insure that they were not 
attacked from that angle. Aradhil and Nuilandar would be in the back row on the 
ground, and were to shoot past their companions to try to pick off some of their 
enemies at a distance for as long as possible. The rest would deal with the 
werewolves at knife or sword point, and if Legolas decided that theirs was a 
lost cause, then Aragorn and Faladhros were to break away and make for 
Thranduil's halls.

In the meantime, there was little to do but wait and rotate the watch while the 
hours trickled slowly away. And so wait they did, busying themselves with such 
tasks as came to mind: blades were sharpened, arrows fletched, and bows oiled; 
Aragorn found time after all to make a start at mending his shirt, and a few 
others also saw to torn clothing. And despite the aura of fear and the edginess 
that even the Elves evinced, quiet conversations broke out among those not on 
guard-- the first time in many days that any had dared to make a casual sound 
during an off-shift. It was as if, knowing that they approached a final stand, 
no one felt the need to preserve the oppressive silence. Perhaps even more 
surprisingly, Aragorn found himself included in the chatter rather than shunned. 
It had been a subtle thing at first, for the Ranger had seated himself somewhat 
apart from the others, as was his wont. But as the Elves spoke among themselves, 
ever and anon one or another of them would casually toss a question his way. 
That had gone on for perhaps an hour or so, until Dorothil had come back from a 
stint of guard duty. Without asking or making a fuss, he had sat down next to 
the Ranger and entered into the conversation as if naught could be more natural. 
After a short while, Hithras had joined them, and even Nuilandar stood at the 
edge of the small group, listening, though his attention seemed rather 
wandering. Only Aradhil kept his distance, and none asked why, accepting the 
other's willful isolation as inevitable.

Privately, Aragorn worried about that, but as he had tried to make a point of 
refusing to interfere in the patrol's relationships, he said nothing, and cast 
but the occasional glance at the warden. If I were truly so concerned about 
Aradhil, I would continue to hold myself separate from the others, so as not to 
jeopardize his standing. So said principled logic, but he knew he was beneath 
principle today. For loneliness is wearing when companionship is so near at 
hand, and I have had my fill of isolation! And let it be ever so banal, I would 
rather listen to Sindarin than that Valar-forsaken whispering! Watches rotated, 
Elves came and went, and eventually Aragorn took his own turn at the clearing's 
edge, staring into the darkness with misgiving as the others continued to talk 
quietly behind him. Though Legolas had decreed that shifts were to be kept short 
so as to tax no one's strength and keep all alert, the minutes seemed to drag by 
cruelly. 'Tis like walking in Rohan, or in the deserts. Where there are no ready 
markers to tell the leagues, it takes an effort to continue without losing one's 
way. In the bleak temporal 'space' beneath the boughs of southern Mirkwood, 
there was little indeed to mark the passing of time, save a growing sense of 
dread unease. And that infuriating whispering! The Ranger found himself drumming 
his fingers on the girth of his belt, unconsciously keeping time with the 
hissing cadence. Irritated with himself, he gripped the hilt of his sword 
tightly in an effort to suppress that habit.

At last, he sensed a frosty presence nearby, and glanced back to see that 
Aradhil had come up behind him. A moment the two of them stood and stared at 
each other. But then Aragorn made himself nod civilly to the other and stepped 
past him, leaving the warden the watch. That earned him naught but cold silence, 
and the Ranger ground under a mental heel his frustration with Aradhil. There 
are other things to worry over, after all. Look up, son of Arathorn! See how the 
sky grows indistinct between the breaks in the leaves? Dusk comes, and with it, 
danger. Casting one last glance over his shoulder at the warden's back, he 
started forward and nearly collided with Nuilandar, who seemed to have appeared 
before him as if by magic. Rocking back on his heels a bit, the Ranger blinked 
in startlement. "Your pardon, Nuilandar!" he murmured.

"'Twas my fault," the other replied quite distinctly, and Aragorn's eyebrows 
shot up at the other's oddly grave tone and blunt words. "I should know to be 
more careful, yet I sometimes ignore what lies before me." The Elf's dark 
eyes--unusual among the Sindar--fixed upon the Ranger's grey ones, and somehow 
Aragorn doubted that the Elf spoke now of their near collision. As if in 
confirmation of that suspicion, Nuilandar darted a swift look beyond Aragorn, 
who knew precisely whither he gazed and at whom. The chill at his back seemed to 
deepen, and Aragorn had to resist the urge to groan. However merited, the 
apology was also a pointed rebuke to Aradhil, and much though the warden 
deserved it, Aragorn did not wish to be caught once more in the middle.

"Let us speak of this more privately, Nuilandar," he murmured, catching the 
other's elbow and steering him firmly away from both the warden and the rest of 
the group. When they had retreated as far as they could, the Ranger released him 
to cross his arms over his chest. For a time, he said nothing, and simply stood 
staring at the glow of their fire. But after a small while Aragorn spoke slowly, 
choosing his words with care, "I thank you for the apology, but I would not have 
Aradhil humiliated. My presence among you has caused resentment enough, and I 
would have no more of it."

"For my part, if he would recognize his fault short of embarrassing himself, I 
would be well content. Alas that he does not! And that I did not!" Nuilandar 
replied, but then sighed. "Nevertheless, you may be right. But leaving the 
warden aside, I know well that I owe you for my part in this--" a minute gesture 
of the hand yet served to encompass the forest entire and all that they had 
suffered in the past several days-- "and more than that, I owe the others as 
well." Eyes dark as coals and smoldering with intensity met his once more, and 
for several moments, the Ranger simply stared at the Elf. A number of thoughts 
passed swiftly through his mind, chief among them that to continue to dwell upon 
Nuilandar's involvement in Aradhil's plan served neither of them well. He ought 
to be content simply to forgive him and forget the incident, but Aragorn held 
his tongue a moment. For the way Nuilandar had phrased this latest apology, he 
had inadvertently presented the Ranger with an unprecedented opportunity. I 
could never have forced Legolas to break his trust, nor would I have wanted to 
do so. Yet I cannot think that all of them are bound by the same trust to say 
nothing of Aradhil's past. Should I take that silence, then, as respect for the 
prince, or as a sign that I ought to let ancient history lie? Turning measuring 
eyes on Nuilandar, the Dúnadan considered the possible repercussions of making 
his inquiry. Ostracism aside, none of them topped the price of ignorance. And I 
know already what it is to be an outcast. Today's interlude was pleasant enough, 
yet I can endure their silence if I must. Aradhil's wounds make him vulnerable, 
and that makes him a danger so long as I know not what to expect of him! So, 
speaking in a low voice and with careful deliberation, he replied, "For my part, 
I would excuse you, for such debts do but breed divisions. If, however, you feel 
you owe me aught, then mayhap you would answer a question for me."

Nuilandar's breath hissed softly in the deepening shade and the Elf lowered his 
eyes. After a lengthy pause, he replied in a low voice, "I think you know not 
what you would ask."

"Think you so? Must I remind every one of you each time I speak that I was 
brought up to elvish ways in an elvish household?" Aragorn asked with asperity, 
letting a touch of heat enter his tone. "I know what I ask of you, to tell of 
another's tragedy when there lies between Aradhil and me bad blood. 
Nevertheless, I do not retract the question, for if it is common knowledge among 
you then there is no reason to hide it from me. Or do you disagree, Nuilandar, 
that Aradhil may well endanger himself in this matter of the werewolves? Do you 
disagree that his actions put us all in jeopardy, warden though he be?"

For a heartbeat, the other's resentment pulsed strong, souring the air between 
them, and then, just as swiftly, it died, draining away as Nuilandar sighed once 
more. "Would that you were an Elf, for then I would be certain of your measure. 
I fear I still know not what to make of Aragorn son of Arathorn!"

"Make of him all that you like, or nothing at all. My question you know already. 
Will you answer it, or not?"

"If I would not be proved faithless, I have no choice," the other said with a 
somewhat bitter smile as he leaned a shoulder against a tree's trunk. "What do 
you suspect already?"

"Something about him whispers to me of Noldorin blood, and all speak of Eregion 
when they speak of werewolves."

"You have a good ear, then, to tell him from the lot of us. He came out of 
Beleriand, originally, a younger son of the Exiles, born in Arda and not Aman. I 
trust you knew that as well?"

"That he had not seen Valinor, yes."

"What else?"

"He has no family left, I think."

"Indeed, he does not, and thereupon hinges his hatred of werewolves," Nuilandar 
replied. Sliding his left arm behind the Ranger to prevent his retreat, the Elf 
stepped in so close their bodies touched, and Aragorn could feel the other's 
lips brush against his ear as he spoke. "They were taken in Eregion while he was 
away fighting with a company of Celebrimbor's folk--one of very few companies 
that survived to join Lord Elrond's host. For a year, he assumed that they, like 
others, had been slain. But it was not so. For the company came upon a small 
scouting unit of the Dark Lord's army, and the commander was cautious, for none 
knew whether the main host might lie nearby. The Dark Lord's minions jeered at 
them, insulting their honor, and they showed among their numbers some who seemed 
prisoners. And among them was Aradhil's wife." Aragorn felt ice sweep through 
him at that, and he stared past Nuilandar at Aradhil's back, understanding too 
well, too late. "They attacked, of course, to try to save those few. And they 
did. But 'twas a ruse, for they were not prisoners. They had been made. Aradhil 
had to slay the werewolf to release his wife. They say when he was done, it 
seemed he had bathed in her blood! I think he is a bit mad, at least when it 
comes to werewolves, and he will take the worst risks in hunting them. He has 
skill enough to warrant them, but… this is no ordinary hunt."

"What happened to his children?"

"None know. We assume that they, too, were made along with their mother. Though 
who knows? They were quite young, perhaps too young to be of any use." Which 
statement told Aragorn almost nothing, for 'young' might mean seventy years to 
an Elf. "For long after he dwelt among us, he was quite solitary: a good captain 
and wise in the forest's ways. But his heart was closed until Thranduil gave him 
Legolas to teach. We were glad of that who knew Aradhil, for we thought he would 
never learn to feel so deeply again anything but hatred for the werewolves and 
grief for his family. Now though, even love is turned against itself."

"Because of me," Aragorn supplied, cursing silently.

"Because of you, and yet it is not so simple as that." Nuilandar stepped back a 
bit, just enough to gaze into Aragorn's eyes as he murmured, "Know that among us 
there is no one save Legolas who does not remember the end of the Second Age. 
Only Dorothil and Aradhil fought at the Dagorlad, but I lost my brother there 
and Faladhros nearly died with Oropher. Hithras was at the siege, but sorely 
wounded before the final thrust. Aradhil swore to see Sauron defeated--to avenge 
his family. And it seemed we had won the day… until Isildur looked upon that 
which he should never have seen, and condemned us all to this existence. 
Therefore wonder not that he hates you, for your blood reeks of Númenór, if I 
may say it. And now that Legolas whom he loves well turns to you… you 
understand, do you not?"

"All too well, I fear, and I cannot blame him for his pain. Nevertheless, it 
does not excuse him, for I am not my ancestors, and for the short life that I 
have had, I have spent the better part of it atoning for a sin older than my 
brothers, even. 'Tis not my place to take his pains upon myself as well!"

"I said not so, nor do I excuse Aradhil--or any of us! I would simply have you 
understand…." The Elf trailed off, running his fingers through dark hair in a 
nervous gesture that struck Aragorn as being out of place in an Elf. And in his 
mind, the undercurrent of whispering surged suddenly louder, as if in mocking 
response to Aradhil's dark tale. Before him, Nuilandar pressed his fingers hard 
just before his ear, as if to try to block a sound.

"Are you well?" Aragorn asked, suspicious, suddenly. Legolas mentioned this 
morning that Nuilandar has been distant… preoccupied, he remembered. And he 
seemed to me rather absent much of the day.

"Yes, thank you," the Elf replied, quickly lowering his hand again, an air of 
pensive distraction on his face. Has he been thus for longer than I know? 
Aragorn wondered. The Ranger had not paid as much attention to Nuilandar as to 
others, for Nuilandar preferred the heights and had often been out of sight even 
while off-duty. Hithras might be quieter, but despite that, he was also more 
social, hovering ever on the edge of other conversations, listening in silence. 
Nuilandar, though, was much more likely to withdraw into his own mind, which 
made it difficult for a mere mortal to measure an increase in distraction. But 
he did shoot that squirrel… and by accident at that, by his own confession. That 
bespeaks an unusual lapse in elvish concentration.

Which was why, seeing that the other's focus remained elsewhere, he asked, "Are 
you certain?"

"Who can say anything with certainty?" the Elf replied, but then hesitated, 
narrowing his eyes. "Hear you aught at this moment?"

"In a manner of speaking. I know not whether it is the same voice that Elves 
hear, but there is a whisper in my mind that has not ceased since I became aware 
of it. Now it seems to me to grow more… insistent. Or insidious, perhaps, is the 
better word."

"Insidious… yes, that is a word for it. So you hear it now, too?" Nuilandar 
murmured. "It ran through my dreams last night, and though I tried to escape it, 
I could not. After a time, I simply listened, as I have done the past several 
days. The maker's voice, I deem it. Or the master's. Dorothil believes that the 
two may be the same."

"I had not heard that."

"Faladhros was tormenting you at the time, so I doubt you would have noticed 
much else," Nuilandar allowed graciously, and then sobered quite suddenly as he 
gazed darkly out at the threatening woods. "But that it seems to me unusual that 
the master should leave the tower to hunt us, I should hold the same opinion," 
he confided after a moment, and then fell silent. And Aragorn, watching him, 
could sense him reaching in spirit for that elusive, yet ever-present babble. 
For his part, the Ranger found his attention divided between Nuilandar and their 
fire, which burned low but bright enough for the patrol's purposes. Yet its 
crackling seemed muted, as if mindful of the opprobrium of the silent trees and 
heavy air…. As if mindful of evil stirring!

"Are there words to this muttering, or do I seek them in vain?" Aragorn asked of 
a sudden.

"There are words, of that I am certain. Almost, I think I can grasp them," the 
Elf murmured, closing his eyes after a moment, falling into an attentive 
silence.

"Nuilandar? What are you doing?" Aragorn asked after an uncomfortable pause. But 
the Elf seemed not to hear him, caught up in a hunt that led not through the 
woods but through the shadowed places of the mind. A swift hunter he seemed as 
well, for after but a little while, his lips twitched and began to move 
slightly, as if he sought to capture the words in his own mouth, to repeat their 
shape, though as yet he gave them no voice. But slowly, it seemed he gained some 
confidence, and a hushed whisper issued forth, growing in strength as the sounds 
came more swiftly:

"… rhapat… dur… ûk… bat… batat… ûk dur… naghâsh… ash… hulughat… na… ash na… 
ûrzu…." Syllables without meaning they seemed--phonemes spoken as caught and 
without comprehension, though Aragorn's ears pricked up at 'ghâsh.' He was not 
the only one, either, as around the clearing, conversation ceased as others 
became aware of Nuilandar's activity. Legolas and Dorothil both rose, moving 
towards them a few paces as they listened concernedly. The latter in particular 
bore a look of arrested fascination. Perhaps it was but the play of firelight on 
his face, but to the Ranger's eyes he seemed almost stricken. As if he remembers 
something.

"Nuilandar…?" Legolas' soft-voiced query brought no response, for the other's 
attention was focused intently inward, and Aragorn's eyes narrowed. He had not 
expected so innocent a question to yield so bizarre an answer, yet he thought he 
knew what the other did, for he had done it himself when faced with a language 
he knew but little. Separate sounds, pull what words one can find from the 
stream… and I know these sounds!

"I have heard this tongue before," the Ranger murmured, feeling his gorge rise.

"Lug… Lug ayanûz… mai…." The Elf's voice hardened, as if he struggled with the 
words even as they came ever more swiftly to him. The forest seemed to press 
close, choking out the light, and even their fire seemed dimmed of a sudden as 
the other members of the patrol rose and gathered round.

"This is why he could not come to Mordor! Nuilandar," Dorothil said urgently, 
and limped forward to stand before the other. Aragorn meanwhile felt his hand 
snake down to grip the hilt of his sword for no discernible reason but the sense 
of threat that stemmed from those words. Even the forest seemed to cower before 
the outpouring of guttural sound, and the Ranger felt his heart begin to race.

"… ash yanûzulûk… ash sko bûrzyanûz…." Through the minds of the listeners 
stalked a vision of darkness incarnate, and the trees seemed to moan. A visible 
shiver rippled through Legolas' lithe frame as the prince stared in horror.

"… mai… mai Lug anazg-durbatash… Ash bûrzum gimbul!"

"Nuilandar!" Dorothil fairly shouted in his face and grabbed the other's 
shoulders, shaking him. With a startled cry, Nuilandar's left hand slapped 
Dorothil's right from his shoulder, and his right hand slammed into the other's 
chest. Dorothil went down hard, and the others, including Aragorn, leapt back as 
Nuilandar swept out his dagger and sank to a crouch.

"Tiro!" he screamed. And even as blades left their sheaths and the members of 
the patrol turned to face the woods once more, the first shapes hurtled over the 
barriers.

***

In the midst of the chaos that erupted, Aradhil remained quite calm, save for 
the familiar edge of blood-lust that tingled throughout his body. Three thousand 
years and more of hunting the creatures of the night had not sated that desire, 
and even pain could not truly reach him in this place. Around him, the others 
flowed in an attempt to shift positions, to put injured comrades further from 
danger, but the attack had come unheralded and at the worst possible moment. 
Doubtless the enemy waited for us to be distracted by his tricks! Aradhil 
thought as he nocked an arrow and considered his targets. But we are distracted 
no longer! Werewolves leapt in from the sides, slowed by the pikes, but not 
stopped. The first of them fell instantly upon Dorothil, who was still trying to 
scramble to his feet, and another barely missed Legolas as the prince dodged 
instinctively to his right. A sharp twang from amid the trees announced Hithras' 
presence, and Dorothil's attacker yelped and collapsed utterly atop him as the 
arrow pierced a gleaming golden eye. Then the archer was sprinting along the 
branches, shooting as he moved to try to give them some cover.

Nuilandar threw a blade and caught a werewolf that would have taken Aragorn, who 
snarled--in pain or in fury, it was hard to say which--as he pulled his sword 
from a corpse. For his part, Aradhil stood with his back to the one nominally 
safe quarter, aiming for those werewolves who still poured over the pikes or 
tried to wend their way through them. Fifteen, he counted grimly, taking his 
fourth shot and snarling softly when he missed. Not for poor aim on his part, 
but because the werewolf in question shifted forms in mid-leap. What ought to 
have been a clean shot to the heart opened a painful--but non-lethal--gash as 
the arrow deflected off a human sternum. Quick as a cat-- quick, almost, as an 
Elf-- the werewolf lunged at Faladhros, pulling him down and throwing itself 
atop him. A second werewolf broke past Legolas to join its companion. Aradhil's 
next shot struck the first one true in the throat but he could spare no time for 
the other and had to trust that Faladhros could handle it.

For a wolf leapt high, knocking a staggering Dorothil to the ground; the 
creature then slithered past Aragorn to spring for Aradhil. The warden felt a 
brief flash of dread but the greater part of his mind remained coldly calm, and 
his hands moved of their own accord. Ere he consciously knew what he did, he had 
an arrow nocked and he let it fly… The werewolf shrieked hideously as the shaft 
went in up to the fletching, and Aradhil managed to dodge to one side as it 
fell. A moment he stared at the dead face, and a slight smile curved his lips. 
They all have the same face. Good night once more, my love! "Down!" a voice 
snapped authoritatively, and Aradhil, by sheer reflex, obeyed. Something 
whistled through the air, straight through his former position, and a weight 
landed atop him. With a snarl, the warden rolled and swept his dagger out… but 
his attacker did not follow. The werewolf lay dead with a by now familiar dagger 
in its chest. Aragorn spared him not half a glance, turning swiftly back to 
slash at another opponent. In the mean time, Nuilandar appeared suddenly and 
grabbed his arm. The other Elf hauled him to his feet, slashing at a werewolf 
that came too near and cursing when it dodged the blow. Leaving Nuilandar to 
deal with that one, Aradhil glanced around, taking in the situation. All the 
others were engaged, but he saw no more werewolves daring the pikes. Is that all 
of them then? But if so, then where…?

He got no further. In the split second that he had to reflect, he knew not 
whether he had felt it first or seen it, but suddenly his calm was pierced. A 
horror gripped him so suddenly, so tightly, that he felt it as pain and doubled 
over. His weak leg buckled and he went down hard to his knees even as he dragged 
his eyes upwards. "Ware!" he screamed, and saw Nuilandar turn just then, pale 
even in the dim light, as the air itself seemed to heave, storm-like, before 
their eyes. Wood splintered and shrieked as their defense-work was shattered 
like a ship on the rocks; Aradhil and Nuilandar, closest to that blast, were 
thrown down, pelted with debris, and they huddled there, unable to move. Even 
the werewolves paused in their attack, and pitiful, groveling whimpers replaced 
the fearful howls and snarls as they backed away, tails between their legs. 
Friend and foe alike retreated from the wave of terror that seemed to issue 
forth from the darkness. Something rose up--something wolf-like and yet more 
sinister, and as Aradhil and Nuilandar dazedly crawled after the others, a 
deadly hiss followed them, seeming to pierce them with a cold more deadly than 
Helcaraxë's ice.

For through the chaos stalked shadow incarnate, cloaked in a wolf's pelt yet 
none present mistook it for even the leader of the pack. "Eru berio men!" 
Aradhil's harsh whisper fell loudly into the sudden stillness, and the hideous 
head swiveled instantly towards him. For a moment, Elf and maker stared at each 
other, and in that brief pause, hatred flared suddenly bright against the 
suffocating terror the other projected. I know you! Beneath that disguise, I 
know you, maker! Noldorin fury pulsed white hot, and Aradhil's voice was 
distorted with it as he cried, "Naur! Naur dan i--!" The maker leapt, and the 
warden felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, rendered speechless by 
the other's will. But if he could not speak, he was not quite helpless, and as 
the demon reared above him, Aradhil remembered the dagger he still held in his 
hand and stabbed upwards. There came a flash, and the warden felt a numbing 
shock run up his arm--felt the blast of the maker's hatred and cruel, mocking 
contempt impale him more surely than a lance, cutting into his soul, wounding 
him more cruelly than any dagger.

"Aragorn!" Legolas! The prince's cry reached him faintly, as if through a cocoon 
of dirty wool or from beneath the dark waters of the Úrînduin. The warden was 
dimly aware then, that something touched his body, enveloped him; and through 
the blind night that had descended upon Aradhil, he made out a dim, strange 
light, and fought to reach it. But it was too great a distance to bridge for one 
sorely hurt. Pain lanced through him as his feeble efforts ceased, and then his 
enemy struck again. Aradhil screamed, writhing in his agony as the maker's cry 
resonated within his mind. And though he struggled against the assault, clinging 
to his sanity with all his might, he simply had not the strength. Whether the 
world shattered or he did, Aradhil knew not: of a sudden there simply was 
nothing, and the stars faded into the night.

***

When the maker attacked Aradhil, Legolas felt his immobility vanish. Weaving 
past stricken comrades and motionless werewolves, the prince darted 
instinctively towards the remains of their camp fire, which burned still in 
spite of it all. Sheathing his daggers, he pulled three arrows from his quiver 
and unslung his bow. Wasting no time, he jammed an arrow into the fire, and set 
the other two with the heads in the flames. Fire, is it? Legolas thought grimly, 
pulling the now burning arrow from the blaze. Even as he nocked it, though, the 
maker let out a shriek, and the prince cringed involuntarily before that sound. 
High and thin, vibrating with rage, the awful cry seemed to pierce the heavens, 
and as it rose, so also rose the maker, seeming to grow and change shape as he 
did. Beneath the wolf's skin was a void that had no shape save where that pelt 
lay, and Legolas felt his heart quail. At the same time, another form darted 
forward, and the prince's eyes widened as he shouted: "Aragorn!" Isildur's Heir 
heeded him not at all; perhaps he could not even hear him. The Ranger slid to a 
halt on his knees, and scooped the motionless warden into his arms. The maker 
seemed to sway back before the pair, but not in retreat; rather, it was akin to 
a snake that draws back only in order to strike the harder.

Whether the Ranger had intended to try to move Aradhil away from his enemy or 
not, Legolas did not know. Had he had the time and peace to consider it, he 
would have doubted that Aragorn, injured as he was, had the strength in that 
moment to lift the other. As it was, though, he had no chance even to try. The 
maker--empty and shapeless save for the pelt, the drape of which seemed to tell 
of a man's shape--stooped to attack again, and the Ranger simply bowed over his 
fallen rival, shielding him in the only way he could. Desperate, Legolas loosed 
his arrow and did not pause to see whether his shot struck aught. The next arrow 
was in flight almost immediately, and the elven prince nocked the third and last 
one just as the maker screamed again. Such was the hatred in that thin and 
fearful voice that Legolas, cringing from the sound of it, sent his third arrow 
wide of the mark. It struck a tree, scattering a shower of sparks as the wood 
began to burn. But that hardly seemed to matter, for the wolf's pelt fluttered 
to the ground, empty. And although the malice of the maker lay still heavy upon 
all of their hearts, Legolas sensed a lightening of the atmosphere. Elves 
stirred, and weapons came up once more as the patrol realized that there 
remained werewolves in their midst.

But ere the fight could begin once more in earnest, a new voice sounded 
suddenly, stern and commanding: "Drego ngaurhoth!" Light flared, and as Legolas 
turned, a grey-swathed figure emerged from the trees at his back, seeming 
drenched in sunlight. A fatal moment the werewolves hesitated, and in that brief 
space elvish daggers found marks. Four werewolves actually broke away, heading 
swiftly for the edges of the clearing. An arrow from Hithras brought one down 
just ere it could leap, but the other three disappeared into the brush. The 
prince stared after them a moment ere he turned back to the newcomer and he felt 
a rush of relief course through him.

"How could you know to come…?" he asked, and then trailed off as the other 
smiled grimly.

"Well," Mithrandir replied, leaning on his staff as his bright eyes took in the 
bedraggled victors. "I am a wizard, you know!"

 

********

A/N: For all of you suffering through midterms, I'm very sorry. More power to 
you. Having wrestled with this chapter for a week now, I am throwing it online 
for your sleep-deprived perusal. The surreal mood that comes of a caffeine haze 
may actually improve this chapter, who knows?

The Orcish/Black Speech stuff is mostly nonsense… at least, it probably is. The 
only things in there that come off the corpus listing are: ghâsh, ash, Lug, 
nazg, ash bûrzum gimbul. The rest are either separated elements, imaginary 
phonemes, or creative attempts to make words out of the tiny list available.

Ash bûrzum gimbul!"‡ (A/the?) Darkness find them!

Elvish utterances:

Tiro!‡ Guard!

Eru berio men!‡ Eru protect us!

Naur! Naur dan i--!‡ Fire! Fire against the…

Úrînduin-- I finally gave that Forest River a name. Tried to go for "River of 
Forgetfulness" but it's literally "not-remembrance river."

Drego ngaurhoth!‡ Flee, werewolves!

As always, go Ardalambion, and also, there's a searchable Sindarin Dictionary 
at: http://www.jrrvf.com/~hisweloke/cgi-bin/sindarin.cgi?cognate


~~~


Chapter Nine -   The Turning of the Earth



 "A sîlo dad, giliath! A sîlo am athrad dîn," Hithras murmured and opened 
Faladhros' eyes to the twilight that showed dim and far through the canopy of 
Mirkwood.

"A esteo vellon ammen an cho, gliro bennas dîn an Ilúvatar," Legolas finished 
softly, forcing himself to watch as the other Elf laid Faladhros' torn and 
bloodied cloak over him, covering the gaping wounds. The two Elves remained with 
their heads bowed for a moment as the first wave of grief flowed freely through 
them. My first loss as a captain unshielded by Aradhil, Legolas thought 
bitterly. And there may be more to follow! Hithras raised his eyes then, staring 
with wordless grief and concern at his prince, and then let his gaze slip to 
where Aragorn knelt, still hunched protectively over Aradhil. With a sigh, 
Legolas signed minutely that Hithras should keep watch for a time, and the other 
gave a slight nod, acknowledging the order as he rose. The prince waited a 
moment until Hithras had taken up his post; then, bowing once to a fallen 
comrade, he turned and made determinedly for the Ranger and warden despite the 
dread that came to sit upon his chest.

Though he naturally trod lightly, Legolas took care to make some noise this time 
so as not to startle his mortal friend into a violent and unfortunate reaction. 
But it seemed he might have spared himself the trouble, for Aragorn seemed not 
to hear him. Indeed, if he had moved at all since the maker had vanished, even 
elvish eyes could not discern the shift. Fear and shock radiated from him, to 
the point that Legolas began to feel vaguely nauseated. But after a few moments' 
silence, the young prince carefully knelt down beside the Dúnadan. Leaning 
forward, he raised a hand and very gently laid it upon his friend's back, 
mindful of the torn flesh of the other's shoulders. Aragorn flinched violently 
nonetheless, but rather than striking out, he seemed to retreat still further 
into himself with a short, soft whimper; Legolas sucked in a sharp breath, 
beginning to feel truly alarmed. Licking his lips, he risked leaning closer, 
letting the Ranger feel him against the side of his body as he murmured quietly, 
"Aragorn, it is over. Come back to us now!" No response, unless it were a 
quickening of the Ranger's ragged breathing, a speeding of the heart that beat 
already swiftly beneath Legolas' hand. "Aragorn? Can you hear me? We will tend 
to you and Aradhil, but you must release him first! It is over, Aragorn, let 
go!" Steeling himself, Legolas placed his left hand flat against the other's 
right cheek and forced him to turn his head towards him.

With a shiver, the Dúnadan's eyelids flew open at that, and Legolas was 
confronted with eyes like slate, and about as sighted as stone. The Ranger 
jerked against the prince's restraining arm and hand, and for a moment, Legolas 
expected the other to strike out of sheer, unthinking terror. But then Aragorn 
blinked, once, twice, and that look of staring horror seemed to ease somewhat, 
leaving him gazing rather confusedly at the prince. "Aragorn?" Valar, his skin 
is like ice! Isildur's Heir opened his mouth slightly as if to speak, but the 
words seemed to catch painfully in his throat and after a moment, he simply 
shook his head. Another shudder rippled through him, and then another as the 
shivers came now in earnest. Legolas flinched slightly as he sensed the violence 
of the other's emotions, and Aragorn closed his eyes once more, releasing 
Aradhil to fold his arms across his chest as if to restrain himself. Or else for 
warmth! Quickly, Legolas unclasped his cloak and laid the garment about the 
other's shoulders, hoping that perhaps that might help as he asked, "What 
happened, Aragorn?"

"I-I kn-know not,..." the Ranger managed in a forced tone, and yet still could 
not control chattering teeth. "H-he was in m-my mind…."

"The maker," Legolas coaxed. "What said he?"

"I cannot… w-will not s-say!" Aragorn shook his head sharply and hissed ere he 
turned a fierce look on the Elf. His grey eyes flashed a tarnished silver in the 
ruddy light as he stared at Legolas almost as if in anger. Then, "Slap me!"

"I… beg your pardon?!" Legolas stiffened, taken aback by that unexpected 
request.

"D-do it! I cannot… ." The Ranger paused, closed his eyes once more and seemed 
to try to collect himself. "N-need to f-focus… he is in m-my head s-still and I 
can... cannot th-think past it…. Help me, L-legolas!"

"What do you mean, he is still in your head?" the prince demanded.

"He is th-there… I hear… hear him still… Nuilandar… l-like Nuilandar!" Aragorn 
clutched at his temples and hunched over somewhat again, seeming in pain. "Ash 
anazg durbatash… yashkâtul gûl na at… burzum-ishi krimpatul--"

Legolas slapped him. Hard. Twice. The others, save for Nuilandar, looked up, 
aghast, but Aragorn did not protest as the prince struck a third and then a 
fourth time for certainty. Legolas then paused, waiting anxiously. Mithrandir, 
in the mean time, murmured something to Dorothil, who sat cradling a still quite 
shocked and shivering Nuilandar in his arms, and then hurried to kneel opposite 
the Dúnadan, leaning over Aradhil's prone form. And while the Ranger struggled 
for control, the wizard gently caught his face in his gnarled hands, thumbs 
pressing against the other's temples, long fingers buried in the other's dark 
hair. "There now, no need for that, I hope," the old man murmured. "Easily, my 
friend. Look at me! Ah, look, and do not fight me! Else, you shall find me quite 
as bad as the maker, I fear!" That threat elicited something that might have 
been a short burst of laughter, but the Ranger obeyed, raising his eyes to meet 
the wizard's. For a time, the two simply stared at each other, but then 
Aragorn's eyelids began to flutter, and he gave a soft gasp that was almost a 
sob as the tension went out of him all at once. Legolas hastily braced the 
other's weight against his body, and he felt Aragorn reach up to grab his 
shoulder tightly for support. At length, Mithrandir sighed and released him, 
though he laid a hand upon the Ranger's shoulder as he shook his head. "Well, my 
dear boy, you were fortunate indeed. Few are they who can say that they have 
denied a Nazgûl his intended prey and lived to tell of it with their wits 
intact!"

"Nazgûl?" Legolas asked sharply. He glanced back over his shoulder at Dorothil, 
who met his gaze with darkened eyes and nodded solemnly.

"Quite. The White Council has sought for some years now to discover the true 
nature of the Master of Dol Guldur, but never have we been able to lure him into 
a revelation. A pity that the price of certainty was so high!" Leaving Aragorn 
to lean wearily against Legolas, the wizard shifted his attention now to 
Aradhil, whose pallor and stillness seemed that of death, the rise and fall of 
his chest barely discernible even to elvish eyes. Laying a hand upon the Elf's 
brow, Mithrandir frowned and closed his eyes, lashes startlingly dark compared 
with the snowy locks and beard that framed his face. The silence of the woods 
seemed terribly loud as all waited for a pronouncement. Aradhil…. Legolas found 
his own eyes closing, and after but a moment, he and Aragorn were supporting 
each other as the prince sought in his mind memories of the warden. So very many 
there were, and something very like pain rippled through Thranduil's youngest 
son, remembering all that Aradhil had been to him. My father thou art, in ways 
that my father is not. How could it come to this, that thou wouldst disown me 
for my affections and not for my faults? How, if thou shouldst die ere I learn 
the answer? Faladhros' face, bloodlessly pale, hung clearly in Legolas' mind, 
and the prince shivered slightly, quickly opening his eyes again.

But Mithrandir remained as he had been, he and Aradhil locked in a silent 
communion that none could intrude upon, and Legolas sighed softly. Glancing at 
the Ranger, he noted that the other's head was bowed, and wondered if Aragorn, 
too, suffered now memories of friends irretrievably lost to the maw of death. 
And he wondered also that he would have been the one to rush to Aradhil's 
aid--certainly no one else had. But was it in vain that he put himself before a 
Nazgûl's fury? For Mithrandir still made no move, and as Legolas' fear began to 
wax once more, he felt Aragorn shiver again. "Aragorn?"

"My prince?"

"Is there aught I may do for you?"

"Nay… nay, nothing," the Ranger replied, and though his voice gave the lie to 
those words, Legolas only nodded as the Man drew a deeper breath and made 
himself sit up straight. Glancing round the little glade, Aragorn took in the 
others, and his jaw clenched as he noted the shrouded body. Turning back to 
stare down at Aradhil, he added in a low voice, "Only one. We might have fared 
far worse."

"We still may," Legolas replied grimly, even as Mithrandir stirred at last. 
Raising his head, the wizard pinned the prince with a pair of darkly glittering 
eyes, and Legolas, returning that stare, felt his heart quail.

"Will he die?" the Ranger asked, voice oddly soft considering the bluntness of 
the question.

"'Tis difficult to say," Mithrandir responded, never taking his eyes from 
Legolas. "Certainly the shock of it would have killed many another, but he 
clings still to life, though I know not for how long."

"But he may recover?" Aragorn prodded.

"He may," at which announcement, Legolas let go the breath he realized that he 
had held. The wizard heard it, though, and held up a cautioning hand. 
"Understand, Prince of Mirkwood, he has been sorely wounded--to the point of 
death, perhaps. Indeed, he would have died, but that he has the strength that 
elvish years bring. Alas, that the years bring other things less desirable as 
well!" With that, the old man drew off his mantel and wrapped the warden in it, 
lifting the Elf in his arms as if he were but a feather. "On your feet, all of 
you! 'Tis past time we left this place! Be so good as to bring my staff, 
Legolas." In pairs and unsteadily, the patrol obeyed: Dorothil hauled Nuilandar 
up and flung an arm about his shoulders to guide him; Hithras, grimacing, raised 
Faladhros' body in his arms, for none would leave a comrade to the mercy of the 
carrion birds of southern Mirkwood; and Legolas offered Aragorn a hand up, which 
the Ranger accepted. But beyond that, Isildur's Heir refused any help, handing 
Legolas back his cloak with a nod ere he followed along after the others. For 
his part, Legolas stared at the other's back for a long, considerate moment ere 
he stooped to collect the wizard's staff. As he straightened, he threw his cloak 
over one shoulder and, with a last glance round at the carnage strewn about the 
glade, he struck out as well, last in the line as befit a prince's station.

***

They did not travel far. They could not have even had they wished, for even 
Elves have their limits. And though some among them had braved Mordor's very 
heart and seen a Dark Lord revealed in his fury, none had ever borne the full 
attention of a Nazgûl unveiled. Which was why Dorothil lay sleepless in spite of 
himself. In spite of torn muscles and flesh, in spite of a bone-deep exhaustion 
that stemmed less from injury than the strain of bearing up to the unseen eyes 
of a Ringwraith, in spite of a need for rest such as he had not known since the 
end of the Second Age--in spite of all these things, he lay in the darkness with 
his eyes closed and wondered if perhaps mortals slept the easier, unburdened by 
any responsibility for their dreams. Aragorn could perhaps have told him, but 
that he knew not how to approach the Ranger with such a question. 'Tis a trivial 
inquiry, after all. And I think me that for the first time since he came among 
us, he is not unhappy in his isolation! Dorothil thought. When Mithrandir had 
decreed a halt for the rest of the night, they had obeyed mutely. Between the 
two of them, Legolas and Hithras had seen to guard duty, and tended to the 
merely physical injuries of their companions. For his part, Dorothil needed no 
gentle remonstrance from prince or friend to know that it would take more effort 
on his part to hold in check the pain that shot up his right leg with each step, 
but there were worse things. He had only to look to his comrades to be reminded 
of that.

For Nuilandar, ever a dreamer, had been forced from himself by the Ringwraith's 
cruel dominance, and likely it was only the fact that he had not been its 
intended victim that had saved him. As it was, his suffering was evident to any 
Elf, and Dorothil had had to fight himself to touch him, to support him as they 
had made their way out of that hateful valley. Perhaps had not he, too, been 
touched by the Nazgûl's deadly spite, he might have done better to control his 
own reaction to the dissonance that radiated from the other. Fortunately, 
Mithrandir had managed to pierce that veil of senseless remove and reach him, 
but it would take time for him to heal fully. For the moment, Nuilandar slept 
dreamlessly thanks to the wizard's aid, and all of them breathed the easier for 
that. As for Aradhil…. Dorothil grit his teeth, for the darkness that filled the 
space where once Aradhil had been was revolting, a violation and a desecration. 
Other than the wizard, Legolas seemed the only one among them able to bear to 
sit beside him for long, and Dorothil felt the prince's misery like a knife 
twisting in his gut.

Thus, although he knew not what Aragorn might be aware of as a Man, Dorothil 
suspected that, after his encounter with the Nazgûl, the Dúnadan craved escape 
from his new vulnerability to the quietly roiling emotions of the patrol. The 
Ranger had withdrawn to the opposite side of the clearing and sat there, alone 
and aching from the exertions of the night. Even now, as Aragorn lay curled up 
beneath his cloak and unconscious, Dorothil could feel him as a distinct yet 
discreet and disturbed presence, as if the Man sought vainly to conceal himself. 
Too late, son of Númenor. It needs time to efface a Nazgûl's mark, he thought 
grimly. I hope only that the wraith did not take your measure more thoroughly 
than you could wish! But surely it had not, for else, why would Aragorn live 
still? Had the Nazgûl realized the prize within its grasp, it would have struck 
to kill, not simply to wound. It would have ordered its few remaining werewolves 
to turn and rend the mortal rather than allow him to escape. It might have 
spared Aradhil. Dorothil winced. Not that I wish Aragorn any ill, but no being 
should be broken like that! Since Beren and Lúthien, Men can die but once, after 
all.

But what, then, would become of Legolas? With an inaudible sigh, Dorothil 
levered himself onto an elbow and sat up, careful not to disturb Nuilandar 
beside him. With his thoughts scattered over so wide and morbid a field, it was 
clear that he would find no peace tonight. Better to spend the hours on such 
reflections as rose within his mind, however dark, for perhaps then he might be 
free of them. Glancing round, he noted Legolas lying tucked within the 
protective embrace of a tree's gnarled roots, one arm cradling his fair head. 
Mithrandir was no where to be seen, and Dorothil frowned, rising to his feet in 
some concern…. The slightest of rustles alerted him to another's presence, and 
then Hithras stepped out from the shadows behind the tree where lay the prince. 
The other Elf's gaze flicked up and down Dorothil's person as Dorothil crept 
quietly to his side.

"You should rest," Hithras murmured, his tone mildly disapproving.

"So should you," Dorothil retorted. "Where is Mithrandir?"

"Who can say? He woke me some while ago and told me to stand watch until he 
returned," the other shrugged slightly. Whither Hithras thought the wizard had 
gone, he did not say, and Dorothil was not surprised. Even were he not a 
close-mouthed sort of person, Hithras was an Elf, and an Elf knew better than to 
say overmuch of a wizard's affairs.

Frowning thoughtfully, Dorothil leaned his back against the tree and stared out 
into the night. Soon, dawn would come and perhaps with it a measure of safety. 
But who would have guessed a Nazgûl would come hunting us, by day or by night? 
What are we to it? Of course, it had known something of them--they had felt that 
for days. And when at last it had revealed itself, it had been quick to strike, 
to find among them those who remembered it and its brethren and immobilize them. 
Mayhap even had Aragorn been slain, Aradhil would still have been maimed, 
Dorothil thought, turning the attack over in his mind once more. Noldorin blood 
was distinctive in its way, even as was Númenorean, and although Aradhil might 
be a lesser son of his people, still, he was more of a threat than Dorothil or 
even Legolas. He who speaks the name of Eru, after all, is no Sindar! The rest 
of us…. Had not Aragorn intervened, mayhap he would have been overlooked 
entirely. That, however, rang false, and Dorothil pursed his lips thoughtfully. 
He was merely less of a threat than the rest of us, I suppose, but his turn 
would have come. Had not Mithrandir intervened when he had….

"Do your dreams trouble you?"

The abrupt question interrupted his grim speculation, and Dorothil shot a glance 
at Hithras, somewhat surprised that he should ask. The other Elf's eyes were 
hooded as he watched the darkness, and there was no expression on his face. But 
clearly, something troubled him, for Hithras was not one to pry in such personal 
matters. "Did I dare to dream, I fear that they would. What of yourself?" With a 
soft grunt, Hithras nodded. "Have you slept?"

"For a time."

"What dreamt you?"

For several heartbeats, Hithras said naught and Dorothil began to think that the 
other would keep his secret. Finally, though, "The siege." He glanced 
meaningfully at his friend, and Dorothil nodded slowly. "I could not move… not 
though it cost me my life. Or the life of a friend. Nor even to save my lord," 
that last admission came out in a rush, and as Hithras glanced down at the 
sleeping prince, Dorothil sensed more than saw the anguished doubt in his eyes. 
Mordor held painful, nearly paralyzing memories for both of them, and it seemed 
that the touch of the Nazgûl's mind had drawn them all to the surface, finding 
the worst of them and using them to assail the Elves afresh.

"I wonder… I wonder if that is why he was spared," Dorothil murmured, gazing 
down at Legolas intently as sudden insight struck.

"What mean you?"

"That he has no such memories," said he. "We who have seen too many tragedies 
are more vulnerable. We are," Dorothil said, lips twisting in a bitterly ironic 
smile, "the largest threat to ourselves." Hithras stared at him for several 
moments, then gave another grunt and tossed his head, brushing irritably at the 
dark strands of hair that hung forward in his face.

"Mayhap, but that does not account for Aragorn," he said after a few moments' 
contemplative silence.

"Aragorn is a Man," Dorothil shrugged, letting that pronouncement stand as both 
explanation and excuse.

"And Men are weak," Hithras retorted, cocking a brow, though his thin smile said 
otherwise. "And mayhap we do but cast about in circles, seeking the means to 
explain away the truth: we fade, Dorothil. Our strength has waned over the long 
centuries, and we have not the memory of the Eldar days to sustain us. No light 
of Aman to restore us in time of need, nothing to anchor our souls or our wills 
save Arda herself. And we know well that she is no safe harbor for our kind. Men 
use her, Sauron--may he be forever damned!--rapes her, and we abandon her. We 
are not made for this world, my friend; the Nazgûl but forces us to see that. It 
belongs now to our… inheritors," Hithras finished, jerking his chin at the 
Ranger.

Dorothil followed his friend's gaze, and for a long time, the two Elves simply 
stared at Aragorn. What thoughts spun through their minds, neither was willing 
to tell, but both were grateful, for once, for the concealing shade beneath the 
trees. All through the darkest part of the night, they waited and watched in 
silence and heeded little the passing hours. Above them, the glory of the stars 
was dimmed as the globe of the earth crept towards another dawn, and yet they 
cared not for that, awaiting the sun that might lighten such memories and words 
as came to their minds now. Grey was the sky over the trees, and the eastern 
horizon grew pale as the first rays of the rising sun stretched forth to caress 
the land. Beyond our time we linger, as does the night of Mirkwood! Dorothil let 
his senses drink in the signs of the stirring of day-- the lightening of the 
air, the cautious sounds of the forest's creatures as they stretched within 
their hollows, the quickening of the pulse of the earth. And when he felt that 
dawn had settled itself comfortably upon the land, he said softly, "Will you 
take the western roads when we return, then?"

"If not now, then soon, for in truth, I grow weary, Dorothil," Hithras sighed 
softly, and a note of pain entered his voice. "Weary, though none see it, 
perhaps. I could never tire of these trees, but to see them die… to see them 
dying and know that their fading is but the echo of myself …. I cannot. And… I 
cannot see Legolas leave. He shall follow Aragorn, I doubt it not, nor that 
Aragorn will prove a faithful guide, but…."

"'Twill be a wrench," Dorothil admitted, turning his head to gaze steadily at 
Hithras, who would not meet his eyes. "Will you go with him?"

"I know not, for I know not whither he shall go. Nor when, for mayhap he shall 
not leave in time for me."

"Hmm…." Dorothil responded, and was grateful that it was Hithras with whom he 
spoke, for Hithras asked nothing more of him. An isolated finch chirped, seeming 
quite loud, and all over the glade, bodies stirred. Aragorn came awake quite 
suddenly, as if jerked from his dreams by that sound. But he calmed quickly when 
he saw the two Elves standing watchful, offering a wordless nod of good morning. 
Hithras gravely inclined his head, and Dorothil smiled slightly, glancing up to 
track the bird's progress. Meanwhile, Legolas sighed softly and blinked, 
uncurling from his makeshift bed and rising into a stretch.

"My prince," Hithras murmured, and Legolas nodded courteously to the two of 
them, though he gave them each a long look, wary before the concerted thoughtful 
gazes of his elders.

"Good morrow," he replied at last, and moved away to tend to his needs. He 
paused by Nuilandar, who lay still in unblinking slumber, glanced sorrowfully at 
Aradhil, who was simply unconscious, and then continued on his path. And as 
Aragorn rose to see to the fire, which had begun to gutter pitifully, Hithras 
glanced at Dorothil.

"I know not when Mithrandir shall return, but best we wake Nuilandar now. He may 
need some time."

"Hithras," Dorothil quickly extended a hand to touch his elbow ere he passed out 
of reach, and the other paused. And when the other glanced back, brows raised in 
silent inquiry, he said simply, "You will be missed."

For a split second, Hithras said naught, absorbing that comment. Then a slight 
smile graced his lips, and he replied softly, "For a time." And then he turned 
away, going to kneel besides Nuilandar, while Dorothil turned to face Aragorn's 
probing regard. The Man could not have failed to overhear that exchange, and his 
was a darkly thoughtful look. But Dorothil merely gazed back, face readable as 
stone, and came to prod at the fire as well.

"Slept you well?" He inquired politely.

"Better than some, it would seem," the Ranger replied, eyeing him speculatively. 
The Elf smiled inscrutably, and after a moment, Aragorn gave a soft snort and 
surrendered, apparently recognizing that expression. But then his eyes cut 
quickly to one side, fixing on Aradhil's still form for a telling moment ere he 
repeated softly, "Aye… better than some."

***

Mithrandir returned shortly after Hithras at last succeeded in rousing a quite 
groggy Nuilandar, and if his mood was not improved, neither was it worse, which 
seemed cause for cautious hope. Or so it seemed to Legolas. The old man drifted 
into their midst with a bare 'good morrow' for the lot of them and came straight 
to the prince, who sat quietly by Aradhil, keeping watch. "Has he stirred?" the 
wizard asked.

"Nay. His breathing is easier, but beyond that naught seems to have changed," 
Legolas replied in a low tone. Mithrandir grunted at that and touched the 
warden's brow, face expressionless, as all about the camp, others listened 
carefully, even as they continued with their tasks. In any other situation, it 
would have been comical, how very diligently three Elves and a Man could mimic 
utter unconcern, yet Legolas felt no urge to smile this morning.

"Well," the wizard said, withdrawing his hand after several moments, "it is 
early to expect any change in any case," he said after a few moments. "If you 
would, Legolas, go fetch yourself and the warden breakfast. None of us can 
afford to collapse, for I mean to move more quickly today."

"Of course, Mithrandir," the prince replied, rising smoothly to join the others 
around the campfire. Dorothil handed him two mugs of broth and rose himself with 
a third, following the younger Elf back to Aradhil's side.

"Thank you," Mithrandir nodded at him, accepting the offering. "Go on then, 
leave him to us!"

"As you wish, Herdîr Ithron," Dorothil replied, bowing ere he retreated back to 
the others.

"Drink, Legolas," the wizard added, setting the example by taking a goodly 
swallow of his own.

"To his health, then," Legolas replied, smiling faintly when Mithrandir's 
bristling brows shot up. But he obeyed, retreating for a brief while into his 
own thoughts. If the wizard intended to press on today, then if they were 
fortunate, they would come to his father's halls in two days' time for they 
would not need to go round about in search of aught. Or so I hope! I doubt 
whether we could pursue anything we found in any case, or else its numbers would 
need to be few enough for Hithras and I to deal with alone. Of course, now that 
Mithrandir travels with us, we may have some better luck. And mayhap I shall 
finally learn some answers to questions that have long troubled me! the prince 
thought, turning a discreet but considerate eye upon the wizard. Many days ago, 
now, when Aragorn had so unexpectedly walked out of the woods to hail his unseen 
watchers in their native tongue, he had reminded Legolas of the wizard's request 
some years ago. And although the Ranger had refused to say aught of his errand, 
lest he inadvertently disclose more than Mithrandir would have preferred, 
Legolas found his curiosity stirring once more when confronted with the source 
of the mystery.

Aragorn would deny that the enemy knows aught of him, and perhaps he is right. 
But now I have a chance to inquire after the other idea: what is Gollum, that he 
should concern an ithron and Isildur's Heir? The prince regarded the seamed face 
of the wizard over the rim of his mug, watching him through the curling tendrils 
of steam. And when Mithrandir raised his dark eyes, feeling Legolas' gaze, 
something like a smile seemed to hover in them, though his expression did not 
change. "If you are finished, my prince, then let us see to your friend." 
Obediently, Legolas drained his mug and set it aside, then moved to kneel 
besides Aradhil's head. Gently, he slipped his hands beneath the warden's 
shoulders and then lifted, shifting him slightly so that he braced Aradhil's 
back against his chest, and he could steady the other's head with his right 
hand. Mithrandir, meanwhile, brought the third mug to the warden's lips and 
carefully poured the liquid into the other's mouth. At least no damage had been 
done to his throat, for Aradhil swallowed reflexively, and the wizard, 
encouraged, continued by small sips to force-feed the unconscious Elf while 
Legolas looked on, doing his best to conceal his fear… and his pain.

I never wanted to see him like this! Legolas had seen Elves die before, victims 
of the evil that haunted Mirkwood, and he had wrought death himself on the field 
of battle more times than even an Elf could count. From Erebor to the Misty 
Mountains, he knew well that none were immune to the Shadow of the East. But 
though he knew that Men and Dwarves sickened, and that poison could fell an Elf, 
never had he seen anyone reduced to so helpless a state. Weaker than a babe, and 
more fragile. Indeed, he felt Aradhil's heart beat frantic and shallow, refusing 
to find a common rhythm with Legolas', as was normal when Elves touched closely. 
There was an emptiness where Aradhil ought to be, a cold, shattered sense of a 
spirit utterly dissipated, and Legolas, sifting through the ruin, could find 
nothing. Nothing at all of him…. The prince shivered slightly, and felt the 
heavy silence of his companions. When he glanced over at them, he caught Hithras 
turning swiftly away. Aragorn was staring sightlessly into the flames, and 
Nuilandar had his back to him. Only Dorothil dared meet his gaze, and the older 
Elf's sorrow struck Legolas as a physical thing.

When, after what seemed even to an Elf an eternity, Mithrandir finished and rose 
to return the mugs to their packs, Legolas remained as he was, holding Aradhil 
close until at length Hithras came to help settle him in the travois that the 
two of them had crafted ere they had slept. Yet they did not set out 
immediately, for they had one other task to accomplish ere the journey began 
again. Faladhros they laid to rest, there in that clearing, with Mithrandir's 
blessing upon him and, in a gesture not unfitting, with such brief rites as 
Aragorn was familiar with, for most Rangers went to their rest in holdless 
Eriador, with but a token white stone laid upon the plains of the Angle to mark 
their passing.

"Come now," Mithrandir said at length, rousing them all from somber reflection. 
"Let us leave him in peace, for he, like we, must travel light now upon our 
appointed paths. Come! We will not rest until we cross the Road!" And so, one by 
one, in single file and silence, the survivors followed the wizard, and the 
forest swallowed them once again.

 

*****

A sîlo dad, giliath! A sîlo am athrad dîn-- O shine down, host of stars! O shine 
upon his way.

A esteo vellon ammen an cho, gliro bennas dîn an Ilúvatar-- O name our friend to 
him, sing his tale to Ilúvatar.


~~~


Chapter Ten -  Fits and Starts


 "You must try to be more careful in the future," Legolas murmured, gently 
spreading salve over Aragorn's shoulders. Raw wounds--ten of them, long and 
clean almost as a knife's cut, so sharp were werewolves' claws--decorated pale 
skin, and blood oozed from some of them. The Ranger had broken several sets of 
stitches during the course of that last battle with the werewolves, and 
although Hithras had done well to rebandage the cuts, they were quite deep in 
places, so that even simple movements could reopen them. The prince worried 
privately about a mortal's ability to endure a steady loss of blood, since they 
had still another day's hard travel ere they reached Thranduil's halls. More 
worrisome to Legolas was Aragorn's withdrawn quiescence, as if he sought to 
retreat into himself. With the examples of Nuilandar and Aradhil staring him in 
the face, the thought of losing Aragorn to that wandering nether-land was not 
to be borne lightly, but Legolas knew not how he could prevent it from 
happening. For injuries fed upon themselves, and if Mithrandir had not seemed 
overly concerned about Aragorn's state of mind, still, Legolas was not 
insensitive to the tattered, shadowy veil that hung about him. Sometimes it was 
more transparent, and other times less so, but the prince had quickly marked 
that the shadow fell thicker about the Ranger when his pain waxed. And right 
now it sits heavy indeed upon him! Legolas thought, dreading the coming of 
night.

Nor was he alone in that dread, for Nuilandar suffered with the onset of 
darkness, and sat already within the relative shelter that Hithras could offer. 
The latter Elf had an arm laid about Nuilandar's shoulders, and his eyes were 
closed as Hithras sought to maintain balance enough for them both. Dorothil had 
quietly volunteered to watch Aradhil for a time, though it was plain that he 
liked not the task and that it troubled him--Nay, it hurts him--to hover at the 
edge of such darkness. Still, he sat with Aradhil's head laid gently in his lap 
and his hands upon the other's shoulders, and Legolas was grateful. For strange 
though it might seem to draw comfort from tending an injured and moody Ranger, 
the prince found him the easier to endure. He knew not why, but although hardly 
unaffected by the wraith's shadow, Aragorn seemed to have thrown off the 
encounter much more readily. It might take an effort of will for him to lift the 
darkness that shrouded him, and such efforts might seem rather... laborious... 
to elvish eyes, but there were times when he seemed nearly himself. And then 
there are times when he is gone strangely mute, and I cannot follow whither his 
thoughts take him. An Elf might be able to read a Man's heart far more readily 
than a Man could read an Elf's, but Legolas had discovered that there were 
recesses within Aragorn's soul from which he was absolutely barred, and it was 
thither that the Ranger went when he could no longer muster the will to resist 
the darkness. And now the elven prince was plagued by a doubt-filled fear: how 
if he should simply abandon the effort altogether?

As the afternoon had crept towards evening, Legolas had grown more conscious of 
the shadow as it crept over his friend, for the Ranger had not attempted to 
fight it. Although the Elves, even Nuilandar, could have continued some hours 
more, all had been relieved when Mithrandir had called a halt for the night. At 
the moment, the wizard stood watch, but if Aragorn did not soon show signs of 
recovering somewhat, the prince intended to take the shift and ask the wizard to 
speak with the Dúnadan. For surely Mithrandir knows more of mortals and their 
ailments than do I! And in these days, none, save perhaps one of the Keepers of 
the Three, can rival his leechcraft in the healing of souls. For the moment, 
though, Legolas concentrated on easing his friend's physical hurts, and he hoped 
that without the distraction of bodily discomfort, Aragorn would be able to 
focus enough to writhe free of the shadow. Finished with the salve, he wrapped 
clean bandages about the other's chest and shoulders, then eased back to give 
Aragorn some space. The Ranger rather stiffly pulled his tunic on again and 
draped his cloak about himself, drawing his knees up against the chill of the 
evening, as he stared at their small campfire. The prince watched him worriedly 
for several moments, sensing that Aragorn remained distant, nestled within those 
confines that even elvish others could not breech. But when after awhile, the 
Ranger still said nothing, he hesitantly reached out to lay a hand on the 
other's back, below the wounds, fearful of losing him to his isolation, but 
equally fearful that uninvited contact might drive him further away.

As if in response to the touch, Aragorn closed his eyes, and Legolas felt him 
tense, and for a moment it seemed his fears might be realized. But as the Elf 
began to withdraw, the Ranger murmured, "Stay!" And although he knew it was 
foolish to waste gestures on those who could not see them, Legolas simply 
nodded, unwilling to break the silence again, even with so low a whisper as 
Aragorn's. Settling himself more comfortably at the Ranger's side, he counted 
his heartbeats and gradually opened himself to the night where lay the darkness 
of a wounded spirit. I am here! The prince drew a deep breath as his senses 
reeled a bit, confronted with his friend's sense of disorientation, of 
unreality, and the conflicted harmony of Aragorn's inner song.* But it was not 
nearly so terrible as touching Nuilandar, nor did his senses dim and grow chill 
as when he touched Aradhil. And I have had time now to learn to endure even 
Aradhil's Silencing, so surely I shall not falter in this. Even now, he could 
feel his pulse steady after the initial alarm, and he focused upon the rhythm of 
his being, rooting himself firmly in himself even as he let himself touch upon 
his friend's darkness. And it seemed that he pierced it readily enough: an Elf 
would find it little trouble to shelter in the ordered mental space that the 
prince provided with his intrusion. Yet Aragorn was not an Elf, and as the 
moments stretched out and no response seemed forthcoming, Legolas felt himself 
falter a bit. Aragorn? Still there came no answer to his offer. Aragorn did not 
seem willing to reach for him in return... or perhaps he knew not how!

Legolas hesitated, caught in the crepuscular realm between light and dark, on 
the pointed edge of choice, and he knew not which way to lean. In the face of 
the Ranger's unmoved silence, he knew not whether he ought to reach deeper in an 
attempt to catch and anchor the other, or whether he ought simply to wait and 
let Aragorn come when he was ready. If he is ever ready! I know not what is 
considered normal for him... what if I misjudged? What if he cannot find me 
without help? Is it possible he has never been taught this? That his brothers or 
Lord Elrond never had cause to teach him? It hardly seemed plausible to the 
prince that this could have been the first time that Aragorn had been hurt thus. 
Elves, after all, had little choice, bound as they were to a tortured Arda and 
the ability to peer deeply into another's soul was equally a vulnerability to 
just such injuries as the patrol now suffered, if on a lesser scale usually. 
Surely Aragorn, with his perception, could not be unfamiliar with such wounds; 
surely he would have suffered them before, for the intricate harmony of his soul 
proved him no stranger darkness. It marked him, even as the scars on his body 
proved him a warrior of long experience. And yet... and yet were he not a virgin 
in this realm, would he not recognize what Legolas tried to do and reach for 
him...?

"Legolas." The sound of his name barely registered, but the weary refusal that 
surged against the prince as Aragorn distanced himself again was clear enough. 
The prince shook himself and withdrew rather more abruptly than he had intended, 
knowing that his own confusion would hardly help either of them. Aragorn 
twitched slightly as Legolas lifted his hand from the Ranger's back, and his 
breath caught for a moment, as if stung by some discomfort. But he said nothing 
more, and so the prince, snatching his dignity back from the yawning maw of his 
own startlement, murmured, "As you wish. Rest you well." And having said so, he 
stood and moved away quickly in an effort to regain his balance. What happened 
just now? If the others had remarked that awkward interlude, they gave no sign, 
and as Hithras and Dorothil were absorbed in their own struggles to bolster 
companions in need, it seemed that they might well not have noticed.

Almost without realizing what he did, Legolas found himself gliding over to 
where Mithrandir sat, chewing on the stem of his pipe as he watched the dark 
woods. The wizard quirked a bushy brow up at the prince, and watched as the Elf 
lowered himself to sit across from him. For a long while, neither spoke, and the 
silence was broken only by the occasional puff of the wizard's pipe. Finally, 
though, the wizard gave a soft grunt and bent his gaze upon the Prince of 
Mirkwood. "Legolas," Mithrandir murmured, exhaling that last syllable in a long 
stream of smoke. It drifted, the vapors curling about to form a blue-grey ring 
and the prince smiled slightly, amused. He had never understood this particular 
habit, but it was endlessly fascinating to watch the wizard's ephemeral 
creations. On the heels of the smoke ring came two others, though one wrapped 
itself about the other in a tangle, eliciting a soft laugh from the Elf. "Hmmph. 
Better!" the wizard rumbled. "Now, my prince, what brings you? Or must I guess?"

"I doubt not that you could, my lord," Legolas replied, casting a significant 
glance at the Ranger, who still sat, seemingly heedless of the rest of the 
world. Mithrandir did not follow the Elf's gaze, but he nodded nonetheless.

"I heard. You did not think that an encounter with one of the Nine would be 
lightly forgotten, shrugged aside like an old cloak, I hope?"

"Nay, not that! But ... I thought he wished for help, for he suffers, that is 
plain. Yet he rejects what aid I might offer. I fear I do not understand him in 
this matter," Legolas admitted, arching a pale brow back at the wizard.

"What is it that you stumble over, Legolas? Surely you have met with Elves 
equally stubborn."

"I have, yet Elves are not contrary in their words. Why ask for help, and then 
refuse it when it is offered? Or have I in ignorance committed some offense...?" 
the prince asked, and Mithrandir smiled slightly.

"I would not call it offense, only a misunderstanding," the wizard replied. And 
when Legolas simply raised his brows, clearly awaiting enlightenment, he added, 
"He did not ask for help, only that you stay." Another puff on the pipe and 
graceful strands of smoke rose up into the darkness. "And as he is human and 
accustomed to his brothers who know him well, he doubtless did not think that 
you would see in that a request."

"Ah." Thranduil's son replied, watching the ash rise. After some few moments, 
though, he darted another glance at the Dúnadan, and asked, in an even lower 
voice, "Are you certain that he is well? I admit, I have never seen a Man fall 
under the Black Breath before, nor even an Elf ere yesterday. But I have heard 
accounts of those who have seen--and sometimes felt!--such things. An Elf needs 
time to overcome such a mark fully. What of a Man? Is it common to seem better, 
and then to grow worse?"

"Men are creatures of less constancy than are Elves, prince of Mirkwood. Born of 
earth, they yet are made for greater things than Arda--that is not a paradox to 
be lightly lived, even if born to it. And so he shall not behave as an Elf, who, 
once cured, is little troubled despite the grief of memory. He will always bear 
the mark, and I doubt not that he shall always need to struggle against it, when 
dark times arise. Fortunately, he is well-suited to such struggles or we might 
all have despaired of him much sooner than this," Mithrandir replied, smiling 
slightly as if recalling some amusing event. "But," the wizard continued after a 
moment, shaking himself out of that memory, "be at ease, for he is in no danger 
of death, nor, I think, will he long permit this to govern him. If it lasts too 
long, I shall speak to him myself." Legolas sighed inwardly, relieved by that 
promise. And then he frowned.

"He will always bear the mark, you say. Then... he truly has never suffered this 
before? For I saw no stain of darkness on him before, though certainly it is 
clear that he has seen much!"

"Nazgûl are uncommon creatures," Mithrandir replied. And when Legolas opened his 
mouth to explain himself, the wizard held up a gnarled hand. "I understand your 
meaning, my prince. No, he has not. Not so seriously as to need help, that is. 
And for that he may consider himself fortunate, for the Rangers of the North 
brave many fell things, and endure many trials, not all of which are recorded in 
blood shed and scars earned. But a Nazgûl, against so few foes and in the shadow 
of its master's old dwelling? Glorfindel might have found it a challenge, but no 
Man and very few Elves could possibly have withstood its fury unscathed when it 
turned its attention solely upon them. You might spend a few moments considering 
your own good fortune, Legolas of Mirkwood, for you broke free swiftly enough to 
spare yourself what others now suffer."

"If I was spared, it was not through my own doing. It seemed suddenly that the 
shadow lifted from me, or grew less oppressive at least. As if," the prince said 
thoughtfully, "the Nazgûl lost interest in me."

"And if you had waited a moment longer, I doubt not that the shadow would have 
fallen back heavily again. Do not blame yourself, that history has denied you 
the experiences of others. Trials bring wisdom and fortitude, but among Elves, 
memory can also enslave, for it held captive your elders while you were free to 
act."

"True. But I fear I am little use now, though we are still riven by need. I 
cannot even help the one whose pain lies within my power to ease!"

At the sound of the worried frustration in Legolas' voice, Mithrandir laughed 
softly. "Give him time. And if he still refuses after another day, then rely 
upon me to force sense between his mortal ears!"

"Tell me this at least: does he not know how...?"

"Oh, he knows. He simply chooses not to, Legolas," the Mithrandir assured him. 
And seeing the Elf's frowning incomprehension, added, "Be not offended, young 
one. As I said, he may seem an Elf in the eyes of many, and even in the eyes of 
some who ought to know better, yet he is a Man, and one not unused to being his 
own succor. Let him struggle awhile longer, and we shall see what arrives." 
Legolas considered the bent, grey figure of the wizard, his lined face framed by 
the tendrils of smoke that curled and caught beneath the brim of his 
broad-rimmed hat. Mithrandir's dark eyes seemed to sparkle, but with a measuring 
sort of kindness rather than simple amusement. The prince cocked his head 
slightly, then gave a soft laugh.

"I bow to your wisdom in such matters, Herdîr Ithron!"

"Good. And I see that Dorothil stirs, so perhaps the two of you would see that 
Aradhil does not waste away from starvation."

"Of course," Legolas replied, but hesitated a moment, watching as Dorothil 
pressed a hand over his eyes and blew out a soft sigh. Eyes still locked on the 
other Elf's back, the prince asked in a low voice, "Tell me truly, Mithrandir: 
what hope have you for Aradhil?"

"Very little. But not none at all," the wizard responded. "Go now, Legolas." And 
the prince went, leaving Mithrandir to stare after him as he stepped lightly to 
Dorothil's side and knelt. Legolas spoke quietly with the other, who nodded, and 
said somewhat in response ere the prince went to fetch a mug and tea from the 
pot by the fire. Dorothil shook his dark head twice and then seemed to collect 
himself as he pulled Aradhil into a more or less upright position as Legolas 
returned. Not none at all, no, but the Nazgûl, curse him, broke him like a child 
might shatter a tea cup! the wizard thought with angry regret. Too crushed for 
others to reach him in his oblivion, yet too stubborn to relinquish this 
life--aye, that is Aradhil indeed! For Mithrandir knew well those who kept watch 
in Mirkwood, and he had long watched Aradhil, knowing the risk of an unsettled 
elvish mind. But hale or failing, he could have done nothing to save himself, 
and the wizard wondered whether efforts to cure him would even be worthwhile. He 
touched the Nazgûl, stabbed it, and that left him bare to it, more helpless than 
he would have been otherwise, even. Not that it would have mattered much.

And what of you, Aragorn? The wizard's keen eyes darted surreptitiously from the 
three Elves to the Ranger, who had not moved since Legolas had left him. 
Mithrandir knew the Dúnedain of Arnor to be a stubborn and independent lot, 
which served them well given their straits; and he knew Aragorn better than 
Aragorn might even remember, for Elrond and the wizard had discussed him often 
enough when he was but a child. Thus despite the veil of darkness that shrouded 
him, he did not truly fear that the Ranger had been done irreparable damage, for 
he had seen no sign of that. Likely, the Nazgûl was too surprised in that moment 
to strike with the force or precision that felled Aradhil, and for that we may 
all be grateful. For that, and for that native tenacity and resistance of yours, 
Dúnadan! What horror, though, did he raise in your mind, I wonder? What memory 
out of the multitude of dark ones do you relive now? Such questions were 
unanswerable at the moment, and the wizard had much else to occupy his mind 
beside guard duty. For there waited within the dungeons of the Elf-king's halls 
one who might answer many questions, and confirm his greatest fears. It will be 
a difficult matter to force sense out of that wretched Gollum. But we must know, 
and so we shall.

 

***

In the dark... running, cries in the darkness... Do not stop! Keep moving!... so 
cold... soundless save for those who run there... breathless terror and ancient 
stone... Shall I ever see daylight again? ... Or am I blind now? Ai, the pain! 
Keep moving!... lost in the darkness... Valar do not forsake us now! Silence. 
Interminable, unending, eternal silence. As one by one, the others were 
engulfed, cries suddenly ceasing, but ceasing horribly... in pain... in fear... 
Help us! ... How? How can I help?... Do not leave us!... Where are you? No 
answer... nothing... Alone in the darkness, in the belly of the earth... And the 
shadow walked still behind... closer... closer... I can feel you... O Valar--!

--Aragorn woke from his sleep with a violence that had served him well in the 
past, but this time he found himself pinned. Panic lanced through him, but even 
as he drew breath to cry out a warning, a voice spoke, sundering him from the 
last vestiges of his nightmares: "Aragorn!"

"Gandalf!" Relief washed over him, and the Ranger closed his eyes again, sagging 
in the wizard's iron grip. Still, Gandalf held him down, hands locked about 
Aragorn's wrists, as if to be certain that he had indeed left the world of 
dreams behind. "You can release me now," he murmured. The wizard did, and 
Aragorn sat up, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. It 
also gave him another moment to collect himself, but already he felt Gandalf's 
gaze on him. Avoiding those dark eyes, he glanced about the clearing, noting 
that all lay sleeping. The darkness was filled with the hesitant noises of the 
night creatures, and a light breeze was in the west. Aragorn let out a long, 
silent breath. Midnight in Mirkwood, however fraught with fear, still fell short 
of the terror of the abyss. "What matter, Gandalf, that you wake me?" he asked 
at length, though from the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he knew 
the answer already.

"You were dreaming," the wizard replied gently, and the Ranger winced at the 
other's tone, which recalled his mother's voice as she had soothed him as a 
child after a bad dream. And why not? Apparently, my nightmares are enough to 
attract a wizard's attention!

"I hope I wakened no one else?"

"No. Fear not," and now there was a smile in that voice, though the words were 
not unkind, "You were restless, but spoke little and in whispers." A pause, and 
then, "You must leave Moria behind you, son of Arathorn."

"It troubles me not at all, unless I have cause to think of it," Aragorn 
replied. "And that is seldom, for I have no cause to return."

"Yet since last night, you return to it again and again in your dreams, waking 
or otherwise. I had thought you had freed yourself from it," Gandalf replied 
with an edge of reproach. But even so, concern predominated, for the wizard was 
well aware of what had driven Aragorn into Moria, and knew of the nightmares 
that had plagued him for a time afterwards. Indeed, it was a measure of the 
trust between them that Gandalf was the only person, other than Elrond, Arwen, 
and perhaps Halbarad, who had heard that tale in full. And if the Ranger now 
fought those memories again....

"It is not the same dream." Aragorn raised his eyes to Gandalf's face, and noted 
how the other stiffened at that revelation. The wizard frowned, and the creases 
in his aged face, visible in the dim light of his pipe as he drew a sharp 
breath, grew deeper. With one hand, he gestured for the Ranger to continue. 
"True, I thought of Moria ere the werewolves struck, yet since yestereve, my 
thoughts turn not to the memory of what happened, but to the darkness of that 
pit, and the shadow that dwelt there--that still dwells there, I doubt not. But 
in my dreams it follows me, threatens to suffocate me and the cold is nigh 
unbearable. And I am not alone. There are others who run with me, and one by 
one, it... consumes them. " And there he fell silent, hearing once more in his 
mind those piteous cries for help--cries that, too often, were real enough, 
being the voices of wounded friends. For a time, Gandalf spoke not, only watched 
him, but eventually, a knowing grunt signaled the other's understanding.

"Interesting," the wizard murmured, tapping the stem of his pipe against his 
teeth. "You have never dreamt this before?"

"Not this particular dream. But it is not new, nonetheless," Aragorn admitted, 
shrugging before he could think the better of such movement. The sharp pain made 
him hiss softly, but at least it helped to clear his head somewhat.

"May I ask which parts are not new?"

"I think you know well that all of it I have dreamt before, in one way or 
another." A pause. "See you aught of significance in one man's nightmares?"

"Not in one man's, but in yours, Aragorn, and in the disrupted dreams of your 
elvish companions. It is not truly surprising, given the shadow that you still 
lie under, and given that it was Khamûl, I suppose I ought to expect a certain 
cruel creativity," Gandalf sighed.

"You know its name?"

"Dol Guldur is not a post for the Witch-king, but Khamûl... yes, it would suit 
him. Not all of the Nine are nameless, Aragorn, and though they are bound to the 
One, they are not all of a kind, as I think you must know from the accounts of 
Elrond and others. Khamûl is quite cunning, and by all accounts delighted in 
playing with his victims even as a mortal man not yet transformed. You have 
heard such tales told yourself in your southern journeys."

"Mayhap, but what has this to do with aught?"

"It may have much to do with your survival, my friend," Gandalf replied. "For it 
is nothing short of a marvel! Had it been the Witch-king, I doubt not that he 
would either have killed both you and Aradhil outright--Aradhil for the threat 
that he might present, and you for your insolence in protecting him--or he would 
have raped your memory to learn what you were. The end result would have been 
the same. Khamûl, though, was always somewhat too subtle for his own good... or 
others' ill, as it sometimes occurred. And he never had quite the sense of... 
occasion. He has tried to use your memories against you, but he let you betray 
your worst fears yourselves," the wizard explained, and as he spoke, pinned the 
Ranger with grave eyes as he continued quietly, "'Tis fortunate, Aragorn, that 
your worst fear is not discovery, else he would have slain you the instant he 
realized who you were. As it is, the lot of you suffer under the strain of your 
own self-confessed terrors."

"Save Legolas, it would seem!" Isildur's Heir replied, quelling the shiver that 
wanted to run down his back. I have been hunted before. This is hardly news to 
me, that my enemies would kill me if ever they recognized me! So said reason, 
and strove with the memory of the primal terror a Nazgûl in its fury could 
inflict.

"Mmm. Well, he is young, and was not long held by the wraith. But he is not 
without fear, and at the moment, you inspire him to the very brink of it, 
Aragorn!" The Ranger blinked, then shot a quick look across the clearing at the 
prince, who slept back to back with Dorothil. "Others who know you better might 
not be as concerned, but remember that he knows little of Men," Gandalf chided 
gently, and Aragorn sighed softly.

"I fear I did not think this afternoon," he murmured, feeling the bite of 
chagrin.

"Nay, clearly not!" the wizard agreed, though his voice was not unkind. Aragorn 
snorted at that, and smiled wryly in the near-darkness.

"You were never one to spare me aught, were you?"

"Would you prefer that I did so?"

"You know the answer to that! Well... I shall have to speak with Legolas 
tomorrow. I can take this watch, if you wish," the Ranger offered, but Gandalf 
shook his head and, swift as a thought, reached out to touch Aragorn's brow. 
Warm fingertips brushed against his skin, and he felt as if a warm weight had 
settled upon him, bowing his head beneath the caress of oblivion. He swayed, and 
felt Gandalf's hands brace him.

"Sleep, Aragorn, and dream not! For you have passed under the shadow, and must 
needs recover your strength!"

"... 'm not a child, t' need wizard's trickery," Aragorn managed to protest ere 
the lure of sleep grew too strong and he acceded to his body's demands. The 
wizard steadied him as he lay down, for his eyes were closing of their own 
accord. Just before unconsciousness claimed him, he heard Gandalf chuckle softly 
at his complaint.

***

Dawn roused the Elves as well as the birds, and while the larks sang the morning 
to life, all went about their business, swiftly accomplishing the routine that 
had been established: breakfast was made, Legolas and Gandalf cared for Aradhil, 
and while Hithras and Dorothil by turns watched Nuilandar and the woods, 
conversation was held in murmured voices. And unlike days prior, there was even 
the slightest hint of anticipation in those hushed voices, for they would reach 
Thranduil's hall that afternoon. Also, as they had crossed the road yesterday, 
they would likely meet with other border patrols, which would let them send 
their news back more swiftly to the king. This prospect was greeted with a 
thrill of ambivalence by the Prince of Mirkwood, for Legolas could not but feel 
a certain discomfort when he considered the inevitable meeting with his father. 
Doubtless, Thranduil would have plenty of time to find fitting words for him 
after this disastrous mission, but he refused to dwell on it overmuch. His 
disappointment is no less than I deserve in this matter, after all! And we must 
first reach home, and there are other things--other people--with whom to concern 
myself, the prince thought as he eased Aradhil back down onto the travois again. 
Faladhros had no wife, for which he could be grateful, but he had a sister and 
two nephews, and his mother had not yet departed over the sea. And Aradhil.... 
There is no one to tell, Legolas thought, and felt that long-known truth to be 
almost a revelation, so hard did it strike him in that instant. There is no one 
for him to return to, no family to grieve. Only we who knew him best, and 
Faladhros is gone! We are but four who hunted so long with him! It was an 
unsettling thought, for even among the Elves of Tol Eressëa, there was no one to 
sing Aradhil's name. Legolas made himself shake off such thoughts, for the 
warden lived still. And Mithrandir still sees some hope. May it not prove in 
vain!

As the prince joined the others about the campfire, he caught a long look from 
Aragorn, who had, he realized, been watching him for some time now. The Ranger 
seemed improved compared to yestereve, though there was, to Legolas' elvish 
eyes, just a touch of fragility to him still that told of wounds not yet healed. 
But the other's gaze was sharp and alert, and that rather surprised the prince 
after yesterday's encounter. The difference of a night, truly! "Aragorn?" But 
even as he asked, Aragorn shifted his gaze to glance over the Elf's head, and 
the prince sensed Mithrandir standing over him. After a moment, the wizard 
spoke:

"Gentlemen, I would suggest we make this a swift journey, for I think we shall 
all be quite glad to reach the halls of Thranduil." Murmurs of assent greeted 
this suggestion as those who had finished their breakfast began to strike camp, 
allowing others to concentrate on downing the remaining food. Soon enough, 
though, all were ready to depart, and Hithras stepped into the harness for the 
travois. Following Mithrandir, they set out again: Hithras followed by Nuilandar 
and Dorothil. Legolas stood to one side to let the others pass, intending to 
take the rear-guard. Soon there remained only himself and Aragorn, and the 
prince waited for the Man to take his place in the line. But as the Ranger moved 
to do so, he paused before Legolas, and the prince found himself once again 
subject to that intent silvery gaze. Legolas quirked a brow at Aragorn, then 
gestured minutely for him to take the lead. Before his air of cautious 
puzzlement, Isildur's Heir gaze a soft and not unself-conscious sigh as he 
lowered his eyes. But only for a moment, and then he seemed to shake off the 
passing mood, and as he looked up once more, he said, "I would speak with you, 
if you would, when we return to your father's city, Legolas. I doubt not, 
though, that you will have much to occupy your thoughts and time...."

"Aye, my father shall wish to hear my account, and... there are other matters," 
the prince admitted, unwilling to name aloud those other matters. Nevertheless, 
the ghost of Faladhros seemed to slip between them in that instant, and both of 
them felt the chill.

"Then I shall find you later, when you have a few moments," the Ranger said 
simply, and so let it stand as he turned away.

"As you wish," Legolas called after him, and then, with a last look round, set 
out on the last leg of the journey towards home.

 

*******

A/N: You can read about Khamûl of Dol Guldur in "Unfinished Tales" starting on 
p. 353. There are a few versions of the movements of the Nazgûl, but they all 
agree that it was Khamûl who was holding the fort in Mirkwood. Any details of 
personality, pre- and post-transformation, are my own imaginings and stem 
primarily from the possible significance of the fact that of all the Nazgûl, he 
was the only one whose name is remembered.

*For more on my fake elven metaphysics about souls and songs, search around 
chapter 10-12 and 16 of "Lie Down in the Darkness...." Save Middle-earth, 
recycle the plots you use! Bring 'em back! ;-)

I'm not entirely happy with the leaving off point for this chapter, but I don't 
think I can reasonably cram everything into this chapter that I would need to 
cram in in order to get to the starting point of the next one. Sorry! Bad pacing 
on my part. :-S

~~~


Chapter Eleven - 	 Makings


 Once again, the halls of Thranduil were in an unusual state of excitement. 
Elves are such remote beings to the younger children of the world that it is 
hardly possible for a Man to imagine the upheaval of an elvish court--such 
events belong to legends long forgotten, save by a few who wander the North, or 
the most learned among the dwellers in the South, or the tenacious elders of 
the Dwarves. And perhaps it would be unjust to describe Thranduil's court in 
such terms as upheaval, but surely no more serious gossip-mongering had been 
seen in the halls of the King of Mirkwood since a good twelve days prior. And 
as on that previous occasion, it was the youngest prince of the realm and his 
companions who stood at the center of elvish attention--a most uncomfortable 
position to assume. It was perhaps fortunate for Legolas that the presence of 
the wizard, Mithrandir, had distracted Thranduil somewhat when the reduced and 
bedraggled patrol presented itself before the king with its tale.

"We are always pleased to welcome you to our halls, my lord Mithrandir," the 
king said gravely, "And we thank you for your aid on our behalf. If it is not 
too much to ask, we would beseech you not to attend upon us, but rather to help 
our fallen warden however you may." And however polite, it was clear that this 
was a dismissal of sorts, and the wizard quirked a brow at that.

"I thank you for your welcome, King of Mirkwood. And I have left instructions 
concerning the warden's care already. Later, I shall see what may be done for 
him, and we may speak then of his fate. However, there are other matters that I 
must attend to, and one of them lies below in your dungeon. If you will excuse 
me, your majesty, I shall go to take care of that now, and speak with you by and 
by."

"I await your convenience," Thranduil replied.

"Good. Then if I may, I shall take Arathorn's son with me, for we began this 
business together and I have not yet heard how it ended." Surprised murmuring 
broke out at that, as the courtiers whispered amongst themselves. Dorothil and 
Hithras glanced sideways out of the corners of their eyes at their erstwhile 
companion, and Legolas turned slightly to look over his shoulder at him. "If I 
may, Thranduil? I have much to do ere the day is done!"

"Of course. As you wish, Mithrandir, he is not one of mine in any case," the 
elven king replied after a beat, his voice suspiciously mild. But no Elf would 
lightly gainsay the will of a wizard, and so he lifted a hand and gestured that 
the pair ought to leave. Mithrandir nodded politely enough, then turned and made 
his swift way towards the eastern door. Aragorn, though, made the king a full, 
if rather stiff, bow ere he returned the looks of his companions. Legolas' eyes 
he held an instant longer than those of the other two, but it was a brief moment 
nonetheless, and then he followed Mithrandir, excusing himself to those who 
moved aside for him.

The courtiers' ranks closed in his wake, swallowing him like the sea, and then 
attention focused once more upon the patrol. Thranduil's darkened eyes swept 
over them coolly, and the three Elves stood straight, awaiting his judgment. 
"Dorothil!"

"Sire?" Dorothil stood forward and then bowed.

"We thank you for your many years of service, and regret the injury done you in 
the doing of your duty."

"It is my pleasure to serve my king and my prince," he replied, and Thranduil 
nodded gravely.

"Well-spoken. And it is our desire that you should continue to do so, but not 
until you are healed. Go, Dorothil! See to your needs, and when you are well, 
then we shall summon you again to our service."

"My lord king, if I may--"

"Nay, you may not," Thranduil cut off the inevitable request firmly, with just a 
hint of thunder in his voice. "Go now and so do your duty to us!"

"Yes, sire." Manifestly, this was not to his liking, but Dorothil bowed once 
more, turned, saluted his prince and captain, and then made his way out.

"Hithras!"

"Aye, my king?" Hithras now moved forward in his turn, and Legolas stifled a 
sigh. It was clear what his father did, and he was grateful that his men would 
at least be spared any ordeal or blame. But the tactic was so obvious it was 
nearly painful, and such heavy-handed dealings did not bode well for the 
youngest prince of the realm.

"We are obliged to you for your loyalty and courage in this and many other 
endeavors. Take therefore this time and bear my thanks also to Nuilandar."

"As you wish, sire," Hithras replied, bowing. "My prince," he added, grey eyes 
sympathetic ere he, too, quit the hall.

"All you others," Thranduil said, gazing at the assembled court, "leave us for a 
time!" After a moment of shocked silence, the courtiers obeyed, speaking in 
whispers as they retreated, and many a doubtful glance was cast at the prince, 
who remained in his place, standing before the dais in silence. The king 
remained seated, elbows resting on the arms of his throne, fingers interlaced as 
he contemplated his youngest son. At length, the last of the assembly had 
retreated from the hall, the doors had closed behind them, and even the guards 
had withdrawn to posts outside. Still, the tableau remained frozen, father and 
son staring at each other, green eyes on grey, and the tension grew suffocating.

"What under the stars of Ilúvatar did you think to accomplish?!" Thranduil 
demanded at last in a clipped tone, his voice reverberating coldly off the 
fluted stone columns and walls. And when Legolas did not answer immediately, he 
lifted a finely arched brow and prompted, "Well? Speak! Explain this folly to 
me, Prince of Mirkwood!"

"I thought to discover the numbers of these werewolves, and to rid us of them, 
if possible, my king." So spoke Legolas, and braved his father's sharp stare, 
his voice low, almost subdued.

"Ah? And what think you of your success?" the king asked, rising and descending 
slowly from the dais, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he glared at his 
son. Legolas stood very still, watching his father approach, sensing that 
Thranduil was not finished yet. Sure enough, "For not only do there remain, by 
your own admission, at least three of them, we are now robbed of the services of 
one of our most experienced wardens, and are short three foresters! Nuilandar I 
cannot trust with a bow until it is certain his sanity is restored, Faladhros is 
dead, and Dorothil is injured! You and Hithras are the only two to emerge 
unscathed from that encounter. What say you to so dismal a tally?"

"That I am ashamed and aggrieved on behalf of my men; that I ought to have 
turned aside for aid ere I continued, sire. But," Legolas added, "it was my 
judgment--ill or proud or both--that we could not afford the time, for few 
patrols will go so far south. If the master of the tower dared to make a 
werewolf only miles from our campsite, then even with the support of another 
group of hunters, we might well have been overwhelmed. It seemed the better 
course at the time to seek them out ere their numbers were increased."

"And so you dared the valley of Dol Guldur! I have not forbidden our people from 
entering that place, but only because I thought none of them so foolish as to 
approach it! Clearly I must reconsider this policy!" came the scathing response.

"Such matters are, of course, the affair of the King of Mirkwood," Legolas 
replied, unwilling to say more, for truly, what defense could he offer? He had 
had plenty of time in the past two days to consider and reconsider every 
decision, every false step down the slippery slopes of the Valley of the Shadow. 
And although he still believed that once committed, he had done all that could 
reasonably have been expected, that did not change the fact that others might 
take issue with his decision to approach the valley in the first place.

"How kind of you to afford me your approval!" Thranduil snapped back 
sarcastically, and the prince cursed inwardly when he could not quite suppress 
the wince that arose at that tone. There followed a brief and uncomfortable 
silence, as father and son sought a measure of composure. At length, the king 
breathed out a slow sigh, then said, "You are young, my son, and your 
inexperience shows." To which, Legolas could but nod, and await his sentence. 
"But it is also true that the young are more easily led astray."

"Father?" Legolas' head jerked up in confused disbelief. What is this...?

Thranduil, unaware, apparently, of his son's thoughts, continued heavily, "Yes, 
I see clearly that it was a mistake to leave you so long under one man's 
tutelage. I should have moved you away from Aradhil earlier, or else forbidden 
that Ranger to go with you. I should have known that the day Aradhil agreed with 
a mortal, other forces in the world would align to correct for the error! The 
warden, at least, has paid the price, and paid it beyond all reckoning, but 
Aragorn has yet to answer for his part in all of this!"

"He has paid for it!" Legolas interjected, alarmed. And angered, for although he 
was not proud of his faults, to have his mistakes dismissed, consigned to the 
realm of inevitable childish errors, was an affront to his pride, not to mention 
the dignity of wounded and slain friends. But perhaps his father did not see the 
affair in that light, for Thanduil's eyes narrowed dangerously at his outburst. 
Nevertheless, the prince continued forcefully, "He apologized to me and 
submitted himself to my judgment. As it was my ban he broke, his fault was mine 
to forgive. And so I have, for he has suffered enough, at our hands and at the 
hands of our enemies."

"Legolas...."

"Moreover, my father," the prince continued, refusing to be silenced, "young 
though I be, I hold still the captaincy of a part of our forces, deferring only 
to my brothers and yourself! If I have been restrained--even remiss--in the 
exercise of my authority before, do not think to relieve me of its burden now! 
For have you not told me always that it is a captain's part to judge his 
followers, but also to stand for their actions before his superiors? So! Here 
stand I. Do not cheapen what my men have endured by dismissing this as naught 
but a young man's errors!"

"Indeed? And are you prepared then to face the consequences of actions 
undertaken by your men? Even by one not of your race?"

"It was the King of Mirkwood who gave me Aragorn's services, therefore he is 
mine, whatever his bloodlines. And if you regret involving him in our affairs, 
sire, I do not," Legolas answered proudly.

"So be it, then! Hear now my judgment, Legolas of Mirkwood, prince of the 
realm," Thranduil replied. "You are hereby stripped of command, and all rights 
and privileges thereof, saving only your royal title, which cannot be erased. 
For a year, you shall be no more than a simple messenger of my hall, to come and 
go as it pleases me to send you. Such additional tasks as I may find for you, 
these I will give to you personally, but you shall undertake to command no one 
again as captain until you learn obedience. Learn it well, for I expect you to 
teach it to your followers next time!" With that, the king pinned his son with a 
look, waiting for his reaction.

"As it pleases you, my king, I am yours to command," the prince replied, bowing, 
keeping an even tone. "May I go now, since I am lately accustomed to go to 
Aradhil at about this hour?"

"Go and see to him then. We shall speak more later," Thranduil assented. Legolas 
inclined his head gracefully, though there was still an aura of tension about 
him unsurprisingly. Then he pivoted precisely and strode swiftly away, shoulders 
squared. Thranduil watched him go with shrewd paternal eyes, and when his son 
had disappeared beyond the doors, he gave a soft snort and shook his head, a 
hint of a smile on his lips. So you would be a captain indeed, Legolas? We shall 
see!

***

Aragorn sighed softly, wishing that he could lean back against the wall while he 
waited, but his shoulders ached too badly to consider such action. Having given 
Gandalf the tale of Gollum's capture-- much abridged and leaving aside the more 
unpleasant aspects of his journey, as they shed no real light on the miserable 
creature's disposition--he and Gandalf had begun the task of questioning the 
wretched Sméagol. It was not a chore that Aragorn much enjoyed, particularly 
since at first it had been his task to act as the stick to the carrot that 
Gandalf proffered: Talk to me, Sméagol! Tell me where you have been, and what 
you have seen! Never mind Aragorn, he shan't harm you if only you will speak! 
Speak, and we shall leave you be! And so on, and so forth, until it was clear 
that that approach led but in circles. They had tried alternating, with Gandalf 
sending the Ranger out of the cell to listen and come in only at intervals. This 
had proved even less to Aragorn's liking, as the squeals of terror whenever he 
entered the room and the wizard left were nigh high enough to split his ear 
drums. And although he had done his share of interrogations, watching Gollum 
cringe from him, whether or not he threatened, was beyond frustrating--it was 
nauseating.

Never did I think to find in orcs aught of worth, but now I may say that at 
least they spare us long questioning, the Dúnadan mused darkly. It was rare that 
one of that foul brood would value information over its own miserable existence, 
but the few who did could almost always be counted upon to slit their own 
throats against a Ranger's blade, which did somewhat to ease one's conscience 
over slaying a helpless thing. And at least it is swift! For several 
reasons--not least a desire to avoid becoming their enemies--torture was not 
something the Dúnedain practiced habitually, although on very rare occasions, 
there simply was no other choice. But even in these desperate times, such 
situations did not often arise, and the nature of the Rangers' operations did 
much to mitigate the need for it. After all, it was rarely necessary to inquire 
as to the reasons that orcs might be abroad--it was only necessary to stop them. 
With such reflections running through his head, he lingered just outside the 
door to the cell and listened with half an ear to Gandalf and Gollum. The rest 
of his attention was devoted to battling his own weariness and his growing 
uneasiness. I would more gladly end the wretch and be rid of him--'tis not as if 
he does not deserve it!--but we must know his tale!

Personally, Aragorn faced the prospect of a confession with a certain 
ambivalence. On the one hand, they could not do without that knowledge, for if 
Gandalf were right, then they knew the Ring's location and could take steps to 
protect the bearer. But by that same token, if the wizard were correct, then 
Aragorn feared it was too late already, that they were behind their Enemy by a 
good ten steps. For surely Gollum would never willingly go so near to Mordor. 
Even if he is but one more ill-willed creature, why would he leave his lair 
beneath the mountains? Something called him out, and I can think of but one 
voice that might compel him! So close to Mordor he was... surely if he were 
called, delay would be intolerable to him. Surely he would continue east, yet he 
lingered, and his face was turned west when I found him. Has he been there 
already? And if so, then how came he to leave again? Naught breeds in Mordor but 
cruelty, and the plots of the Dark Lord are innumerable.... A sharp snarling and 
a round of vicious imprecations sounded just then, and Aragorn stiffened. 
"Sméagol! Let go!" Gandalf's voice cut harshly through the howls, and with a 
muttered curse of his own, the Ranger yanked the cell door open and peered 
inside, just as a burst of blinding white light lit the room. A frightened 
squeal greeted this, and Aragorn shut his eyes too late to avoid the 
after-image. Silence reigned, save for the sound of someone's noisy breathing, 
and after a few moments, the Ranger attempted to blink the bright spots from his 
vision and focus on the red-dark silhouette that could only be the wizard.

"Gandalf?" he asked, pressing a hand over his eyes and hoping that the colors 
would stop shifting shortly. Unfortunately, the flare of light had done nothing 
to damage anyone's hearing, and the sound of his voice provoked a fit of 
nerve-grating shrieking from Gollum's corner. Gandalf sighed loudly--Aragorn 
marveled he could hear it at all over the noise--and when the Ranger opened his 
eyes again, the wizard was brushing past him.

"Shut the door!" he ordered tersely, and Aragorn obeyed gladly enough. Still, 
Gollum continued to scream for no apparent reason, and man and wizard stood 
awhile, trying to ignore the noise while tempers wore thinner and thinner.... 
"Miserable wretch, cease your squalling, or I shall send him back in for you!" 
the wizard finally yelled through the narrow slit of a window, and Aragorn knew 
not whether to be gratified or appalled that the shrieks diminished instantly to 
gibbering moans. With a sigh that was more of a growl, Gandalf dug about in his 
belt pouch and drew out his pipe. "Are you certain," he asked as he tamped leaf 
into the bowl, "that there is not something more you would tell me of your 
journey?"

"What more would you hear?" Aragorn asked.

"How he came to fear you so!" came the somewhat testy reply.

"Tell me you trust me more than to abuse him on the road!" the Ranger retorted 
indignantly. When he got merely a set of raised brows, he continued, "Yes, it 
was a harsh journey for us both, but under the circumstances, I think I was 
uncommon kind to him! If he hates the feel of rope against his skin, I cannot 
help that! And if he hungered on the march, so also did I." Gandalf grunted at 
that, still glowering as he lit his pipe with a muttered word. With a sigh, 
Aragorn folded his arms across his chest, feeling the instant pull and ache of 
his wounds, and waited for his temper to subside somewhat. "I would say it were 
show," he said after a few moments spent watching smoke rings rise, "that he 
does it but to goad and divert us."

"Hmmph! Mayhap you are correct, for his terror acts almost as a screen--one that 
blinds both himself and us to what he may carry within him. Effective! Well," 
Gandalf sighed again, and quirked a bushy brow at the Dúnadan, "I need a few 
minutes to think, but there is no point in giving him a rest yet. See whether 
you can do better!"

"Better? Gandalf, you know that this... creature... is a destroyed thing! I 
could threaten him 'til the year's end and achieve nothing! However he slinks 
and cowers, he understands but one language, and I cannot speak it to him!" 
Aragorn replied, uncomfortably. "Not now."

The wizard eyed him at that, exhaling a smoke ring. "So, you think that he will 
respond only to suffering, then?"

"What else knows he but pain?"

"A destroyed creature you call him," the wizard said thoughtfully, drawing on 
his pipe deeply. "Yet I think that this is not wholly true. Even were it, 
however, there are other ways to make him fear us than lashes. You know this."

"I know it, but I think I have not the patience for it."

"Try, Aragorn. If nothing else, his fear of you--real or feigned--may make the 
next round easier."

"We have played that game for nigh upon two hours now, and with no success."

"That does not mean it has no effect. Such things are cumulative, as well you 
know. And you need do nothing to him."

"Even so, do not ask me to do this, Gandalf!" The low, fervent tone caught the 
wizard's attention unequivocally, and Aragorn felt the brush of a mind vastly 
more powerful than his own. He shivered as he continued, "I mean not to make 
this more difficult, but I cannot be left alone with him. Not again. Not today."

"Why?" the wizard asked softly.

"Because I do not know what I may do. I listened to his cries and moanings for 
fifty days ere this, and that was more than enough. I may have done nothing to 
him, but it was a nearer thing than I like to admit. And now... I cannot hear 
him shrieking without thinking of... of the... of Khamûl," he finally managed 
uncomfortably. "If you leave me alone with him, then--"

"I see," Gandalf replied, sparing him the need to continue. The wizard was 
silent a long while, staring at the Ranger as prodigious amounts of smoke rose 
to gather above him like a miniature storm cloud. "Well, if that is so, then you 
are right: we dare not leave you alone with Gollum. Tonight I shall manage this 
alone then. But, although I rarely feel the need to commend your honesty, as I 
expect it of you, I will say that I wish you had been more open earlier. If you 
had let Legolas help you yestereve, this might not be necessary." Aragorn 
swallowed that rebuke in silence, and for a brief time, the two stared at each 
other--Gandalf's dark eyes were hooded but measuring, whereas Aragorn seemed 
merely weary and quietly ashamed. "No matter," the wizard said at length. "Go 
now and rest, for you are right to remind me that you have had fifty days with 
Gollum that I have not. And if you will not seek out another's help, then you 
shall need your strength to deal with a Nazgûl's shadow."

"Gandalf...."

"Go, Aragorn," the other said, emptying his pipe and replacing it in his belt 
pouch. Gripping his staff in his right hand, the wizard opened the door and 
disappeared back into the cell, leaving the Ranger to stare after him for 
several moments. At last, however, he turned away and retraced his steps back 
out of the dungeons, moving more swiftly after but a few moments, as if eager to 
put distance between himself and Gollum. Or perhaps it was the sudden assault of 
claustrophobia that quickened his steps and lengthened his strides, as the 
memory of Khamûl's corruption weighed heavily in his mind. A long and 
accomplished career as a player on a most dangerous stage let him hide it well 
enough, he thought, but as soon as he had the opportunity, he turned and 
followed a hall that seemed to him to lead outward. The doors at the end of the 
corridor yielded to a sharp push, and he was out. Thank the Valar! The Ranger 
let his momentum carry him to the railing, and he leaned over it, eyes closed, 
trying to control his breathing. This part of the palace was right over the 
river that led out to the Long Lake, where lived the men of Dale, and as he 
listened to the waters eddy noisily in their channel, he willed the vertigo to 
subside. The whole episode had been quite unexpected, despite his growing 
awareness that outside, the day was fast waning. But thus far, he had never been 
so affected by the wraith's mark. It has only been two days; 'never' is hardly 
something I should apply to so short a time! he admonished himself.

A soft noise, as of someone clearing his throat behind him, startled him, and he 
turned rather sharply. An Elf stood there by the doors, apparently having just 
come through them, and in the new-birthed twilight, he evinced that ethereal 
composure that comes naturally to all Elves. "Are you well?" he asked, sounding 
concerned, and the Ranger sighed softly.

"I believe so, yes," he replied as the other moved closer. The Elf studied him 
for several moments, eyes narrowing somewhat as he gazed at the Dúnadan.

"It takes one that way sometimes," he said finally. "One simply needs air. Of 
course, it does not help to be under the cloud of another's casting...."

"Who are you?" Aragorn asked, interrupting, unwilling to speak of such matters, 
though he knew well that no Elf could fail to notice his condition.

"My apologies. I am Nindarth, Thranduil's son and Legolas' brother," the Elf 
replied, inclining his head politely. "And I need no introduction, for I know 
who you are, Dúnadan." As Aragorn stared back, straining his eyes in the 
darkness, Nindarth said naught, only cocked his head slightly, as if to give him 
a better angle, and a slight smile played about his lips. Although color was 
impossible to discern under the cover of night, the Ranger thought that Nindarth 
little resembled Legolas, who apparently took after his Nandorin mother. Yet he 
also did not clearly resemble his sire, and Aragorn spent an idle moment 
wondering whose face and features Nindarth had inherited.

"I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lord Nindarth," he answered after a 
time, and that slight smile broadened further. "May I ask why you came here? Or 
have I intruded?"

"Nay, you have not. Stay awhile, for the voice of the river is restful, and I 
think me you have need of some peace, " Nindarth replied, joining him at the 
railing. The elven prince gazed out over the broad stream that issued forth from 
beneath the mountain, and Aragorn sensed that the other was swiftly lost in the 
play of mist and spray. Even had he not the memory of Legolas' words, he thought 
it evident enough that Nindarth was one called by the sea. Elves could delight 
in the smallest of things, but there was something in the other's devoted 
preoccupation that raised his hackles--perhaps the chill of yearning 
unsatisfied? Nevertheless, it was a less bitter cold than that under which he 
labored in his dreams, and so he, too, turned back towards the river and watched 
the starlight glitter on the water's surface.

How long the two of them stood there, leaning against the rail and watching the 
river, Aragorn knew not. But eventually, he heard a sigh at his side, and 
Nindarth shook his head sharply, regretfully, and proffered a slight, pained 
smile. "Well, mayhap 'tis not so restful for me! And you asked why I had come, 
did you not?"

"Yes, I did."

"Not to gaze at the water, although on any other night, I would have come for 
that reason," the Elf confessed. "I came to find you, in fact. Legolas asked me 
to see if I could not pry you away from Mithrandir for a time." Aragorn sighed 
heavily at that, having nearly forgotten his promise to speak with Legolas. That 
was not something that happened often, and he grimaced in the darkness.

"How long ago did he ask for me?"

"Not long," Nindarth replied. "Fear not, he has been with Aradhil since he and 
father finished their conversation. And with me, for I went in search of him. He 
said that if Mithrandir would not release you, then he would speak to you 
tomorrow."

"I see. But he has, so perhaps I ought to find him...."

"I can take you to him, if you wish it. But if you are too weary, then I shall 
tell him that you would rather speak on the morrow. And mayhap that would be 
best, for if I may say it, you seem quite unwell to me. Should I bring you to a 
healer?"

"No... not yet," Aragorn hastily replied, and then hesitated. On the one hand, a 
part of him wanted nothing more than to crawl under the blankets and shut out 
the world for some hours. But another part knew that therein waited the dreams, 
and he had no real desire to face them again. It would probably be wisest to 
accept Nindarth's offer to find a healer, but.... "Weary though I be, my lord, I 
think I would do better to speak with your brother now, rather than wait until 
tomorrow. I know not Mithrandir's plans, yet I doubt he shall wring anything 
from that wretched Gollum tonight!"

"Very well then. Come! This way!" And Nindarth led him back through the doors 
and down along the corridor. Aragorn felt his heart clench as he passed the 
threshold, and he sternly reminded himself that he had never been claustrophobic 
in his life, and this was no time to begin. Elves might delight in climbing to 
great heights, but they could be amazed by the proclivity of 
humans--particularly human children--to fit into small, cramped spaces. Aragorn 
had startled his brothers many a time with such antics, and since then, he had 
certainly seen the insides of much less comfortable spaces than the nooks and 
crannies of Elrond's house. There was no reason for him to fear Thranduil's 
high-vaulted palace, which did not in the least resemble Moria. Fortunately, 
however, Nindarth very adroitly picked a path that went mostly along the outer 
walkways, sparing him the struggle.

At length, the Elf turned up a quiet corridor that seemed given over to but one 
chamber, for there was but one door set in it, far up the hall. Before this 
door, Nindarth paused a moment, and said, "You should brace yourself a bit. I 
know not how Men perceive such things, but this is not a place for the faint at 
heart!" So warned, the Ranger followed him inside, and soon realized what the 
other meant. Although spacious and well lighted, with currents of air running 
through the place, he found himself growing quite uneasy as he followed Nindarth 
past inner rooms and curtained recesses. Elves drifted past here and there, 
silent and efficient, and they bowed to Nindarth as he cut swiftly down an inner 
hallway to a room that must, Aragorn realized, lie close to the outer walls of 
the palace. The room had no door of its own, but rather heavy curtains, 
intricately patterned, though Aragorn noted the artistry only in passing. The 
chamber beyond them was spare, but comfortable, and the windows were thrown wide 
to admit the night breezes. And there, sitting on a padded stool, was Legolas. 
The youngest prince of Mirkwood leaned his elbows on his knees, and stared 
silently at the face of the one laid before him on the bed: Aradhil. This is a 
sick ward, Aragorn realized in that instant, and wondered that he had not 
guessed earlier. It was rare that an Elf was badly injured, but when such things 
happened, Elrond tended to the victim, and he had sensed such troubled minds 
before. Yet never so many, nor in one place, for that was not Elrond's way. This 
was more like to Minas Tirith, with its Houses of Healing, save that the 
patients were elvish. And I think there are many of them... how many, I wonder? 
What is the price of peace in Thranduil's kingdom?

Legolas glanced up as they approached, and his face lightened somewhat at the 
sight of brother and friend. Nindarth came to stand behind his younger brother, 
and laid his hands firmly upon his shoulders, squeezing gently. "It seems 
Mithrandir could spare him after all," he said by way of greeting, eyes darting 
from Legolas to Aragorn again with a knowing gleam in them. "Why not take some 
air? Or go elsewhere for a time? This is no place for a conversation. I shall 
watch Aradhil for you, if you wish."

"Thank you, Nindarth," Legolas replied, rising. The older Elf traded places, 
reaching out to take one of Aradhil's hands in his, though a shiver rippled 
visibly through him.

"Thank you for taking care of my brother, Aragorn," Nindarth said just as they 
reached the curtains, and Aragorn paused, uncertain how to respond with Legolas 
standing before him. Thranduil's third son, though, only smiled faintly, and 
gestured for the pair to leave. "Good night to you both!"

***

Legolas led the way out of the Healers' Halls and was glad to leave them behind. 
Judging from what he could sense of Aragorn, the Dúnadan was also relieved to 
escape the painful atmosphere of the place. Given their starting point, the 
prince turned left until he reached a stairwell, then began climbing lithely up 
the winding way. Aragorn followed more slowly behind him, and after awhile, 
Legolas paused, frowning. The Ranger seemed to be some distance behind, and the 
prince realized of a sudden that the other's darkly troubled silence had but 
grown the deeper since leaving the Healers' Halls, which he would not have 
expected. "Aragorn?" he called back, descending a few paces.

"Yes?" came the somewhat taut response, and the Elf hurried back along the steps 
with such speed that he nearly collided with the Ranger coming up. A moment they 
stood there, gazing at each other, and Legolas hissed softly.

"The shadow returns... and it grows heavier!" he murmured.

"Just let us leave this stairwell, my prince, and I think it shall lighten 
somewhat!" the Ranger replied, with a queer note in his voice that Legolas had 
not heard before.

"This way then. Since my quarters are on a level with yours, but closer to the 
Halls, I thought to go there first. 'Tis not far," he assured the other, and 
continued on up the stairs, though at a somewhat slower pace.

And indeed, it was not far. At the next landing, Legolas left the stairs for a 
broad hall that wound its way between high pillars 'til it passed a smaller 
corridor. This the prince took, beckoning the Ranger after him until he reached 
the door to his chambers and ushered the other within. As it was a warm enough 
night, the hearth remained cool and dark, but Legolas lit a candle that stood 
near the door, then went about the room, illumination blooming in his wake. At 
last, he set down his candle upon a low table and turned to study his friend. 
The Ranger had sunk down on a couch and had his head bowed, and the prince 
grimaced at the darkness that seemed to cover him. "Why does this shadow grow, 
rather than diminish? I think it was not so bad even hours after the Nazgûl 
attacked you!" he asked, gliding over to seat himself at the other's side.

"I do not know why," Aragorn replied quietly, and it seemed to Legolas that the 
man's eyes were closed. "And it is not always thus, but with night comes terror, 
and I think these halls do but add to my anxiety."

"Why?"

"They ought not to, but... take this not ill, Legolas, but though they are 
furthest from them in form, your father's halls remind me of Moria."

"Moria?" Legolas asked sharply. "You have been there?"

"Once. Ask me not about it, for I have no desire to relive that journey in words 
as well!" the Ranger added ere the Elf could begin to inquire. "And... Gollum, 
too, stirs memories that I cannot control today. Or rather tonight--I thought I 
did well enough earlier!" The wry, resigned tone to the other's voice, at least, 
seemed promising to Legolas, who thought that perhaps that meant the other had 
regained a measure of control.

"Men are strange creatures!" the prince sighed softly, and smiled when Aragorn 
gave a soft bark of laughter at that and glanced up at him.

"I suppose that we are indeed. But no stranger than others who inhabit the 
earth."

"It is strange to me that this malaise should grow worse with time, for surely 
the further removed from Khamûl's touch, the better. But perhaps I simply know 
too little of your people to judge. Mayhap you were wise to reject my help 
yestereve, for I might have hurt you more than helped you!" Legolas replied, 
concernedly.

"Nay, my prince, 'twas not your wisdom but mine that failed! And perhaps my 
courage as well, for I cannot deny that I wished only to withdraw from what I 
felt of the others. Of all others," Aragorn admitted heavily, and his face grew 
very still in the flickering light. After several moments' silence, he continued 
on in a low murmur, "I do not envy your people, Legolas, this peculiar misery 
that comes of being elvish."

"I thought I was to learn envy from you!" Legolas said, striving for a certain 
levity, for something that would break the other's bleak mood. And it seemed 
that he succeeded in part, for Aragorn chuckled softly at that.

"You must needs make the acquaintance of other mortals, then, my prince, for I 
fear I cannot properly instruct you in that matter."

"When I am given the chance, then I shall be certain to ask them for lessons!"

"How went it with your father, if I may inquire?" the Ranger asked, quirking a 
brow at him.

"Better than it might have," the prince replied, careful to keep his voice 
level, and not to allow his embarrassment or disappointment to show. "You look 
now upon the newest royal messenger!" Aragorn, though, must have sensed the 
wince beneath Legolas' light tone, for he made a soft noise of understanding.

"I am sorry, Legolas, that my own actions contributed to this!"

"As you were at pains to try to teach me, it was my place to lead, and not to be 
led. I should thank you that you went to such trouble on my behalf! And truly, 
'tis not so bad a sentence considering my losses. Mirkwood is vast, and I never 
tire of its beauty. And mayhap one day, my father shall need a message sent 
elsewhere: to Dale, perhaps, or even Imladris! That would not be so ill for me."

"Nay, I suppose it would not," Aragorn replied.

After that, they fell silent, neither having much else to say in that vein. 
There comes a point when it does the student little good to hear his own private 
conclusions voiced by his teachers, and it was to Aragorn's credit as a teacher 
that he said nothing further as to the necessity of enduring such occasional 
humiliations, nor of the lessons to be learned therefrom. Still, it might have 
been an awkward silence, but that Legolas was an Elf, with a fine ear for when 
words become superfluous. And so instead, it was an almost peaceful lull--but 
for the darkness that Aragorn continued to struggle against, they would have 
been quite content. Legolas darted a look at the Ranger out of the corners of 
his eyes, tracing the other's silhouette, noting his downcast eyes, and the way 
his hair hid his face in part, seeming to be of the shadow itself. The Elf 
pursed his lips, debating a moment, ere he asked, somewhat hesitantly, 
"Aragorn?"

"Mm?"

"I am not a healer, not as Lord Elrond is, nor as those who care for Aradhil and 
Nuilandar are. But... would you wish my aid now? Mayhap between what abilities I 
have, and your own knowledge, we may find a way for you through the darkness."

There was a longish pause, as the Dúnadan turned that offer over in his mind, 
but Legolas, though young, had patience that even the most ancient of humans 
might envy indeed. And so he feared not the other's continued silence, and 
counted not the moments that ticked away, simply waited as only an Elf can. 
Finally, "If you are willing, then I would welcome your help."

"Then you shall have it. Is there aught I should know of your people's customs? 
For they must be different from mine. Perhaps even Elrond's are different...."

"Nay, there is nothing. Do as you would," the other replied, and seemed to brace 
himself somewhat as Legolas turned towards him, tucking one leg up under himself 
to accommodate his new position.

"Close your eyes then, and I shall do as I did before," the prince replied, 
waiting until Aragorn had obeyed ere he laid his left hand on the other's back, 
mindful of his shoulders. A slight shiver went through them both, and Legolas 
drew a deep breath, feeling the Ranger do the same. As he had the other night, 
he let his senses open to the other, braving the darkness that infected the 
other's soul and assailed his mind as well. But this time, rather than stretch 
his thought towards an unreceptive void, he felt the Man reach back. The touch 
of Aragorn's mind was like none other that he had ever experienced, and Legolas 
uttered a soft cry of astonishment, trying swiftly to orient himself. Dimly, he 
thought he heard the Ranger laugh softly, and certainly he felt his wry 
amusement. He had the distinct impression that this odd, somewhat awkward 
contact was not new to Aragorn, and as if to prove it, the Dúnadan did somewhat 
and something... changed, locking them together. Of a sudden, Legolas 
understood, and the laughter in his mind spilled across their bond unhindered. 
Whither now? he asked... and got his answer fair enough.

Legolas had succored injured friends before, and knew well enough the effort 
required of him to hold another steady. Yet because he was not a healer, he had 
never been asked to do more than be an anchor, a guide back to the waking world. 
But although he found Aragorn to have an oddly light sort of touch, he was in 
some ways the rougher for being so soft a touch. The sheer effort it needed for 
him to do what an Elf accomplished much more naturally was compounded by 
Legolas' uncertainty, and the two of them fumbled and groped their way down the 
darkened paths of a soul under shadow, clinging tenaciously to each other 
through the bond they had created, neither daring to release the other, lest he 
be left adrift in the caliginous tide of mortal terror. The prince did what he 
could to aid his friend, but soon had to abandon control to the Dúnadan's 
training. Yet even so, by the end of the ordeal, he was exhausted. So also was 
Aragorn, he realized, as the two of them floated together in a foggy haze of 
quiet between dreams and memory. Memory.... Thought of the Nazgûl's touch 
encroached upon his consciousness, and Legolas hastily thrust it back, hoping 
the other had not sensed it. Something akin to weary amusement rippled through 
their bond, and with it the assurance that the Dúnadan felt no threat from that 
fleeting remembrance. And entwined in that reassurance was regret.... Hush! 
Legolas roused himself enough to order. It was my offer! The other subsided, and 
for a time they drifted again, while Legolas marveled to feel the other's pulse 
keep time, Elf-like, with his own in their shared somnolence. Aragorn seemed to 
wish to say something, but Legolas hushed him again. Rest! The dawn comes soon 
enough! He half-expected resistance, but after a momentary hesitation, the 
Ranger acquiesced gratefully. The prince, contented, let his mind loose its hold 
on wakefulness, warmly enfolding his friend in an elven dream--guarding him just 
this once from the vagaries of the wayward human unconscious.

As the long, dark hours of the night spun out, Man and Elf dreamt together in 
the circle of each other's arms, collapsed against each other, and one by one, 
the candles guttered and went out.


~~~



Chapter Twelve -   Questions In the Dark



 "Gollum... gol-lum!" Stifling a sigh, Gandalf the Grey glared at the moaning 
prisoner huddled in a corner. Filthy, nearly naked, with bones showing 
prominently through thin, taut skin, Sméagol was the very image of ‘pitiful,’ 
down to the wide and staring eyes. And yet, no one would mistake him for a 
creature of good will, for there was that in his mutterings and look that would 
raise even an innocent hobbit’s hackles. Certainly, the miserable wretch had 
put the wind up Aragorn’s back, which took some doing. And although Gandalf, 
whether out of concern for others or for the sake of a wizard’s pride (which 
was not inconsiderable, admittedly), was not one to advertise that he was at a 
loss, he found himself reluctantly accepting that Sméagol was not quite so 
pathetic as he seemed. A coward, yes, with more twists than a mountain trail, 
but there was something elemental in that darkened mind that refused to unbend 
or break. Bound as that darkness is to the Ring itself, I ought not to be 
surprised, the wizard thought, which did not comfort him at all. For all things 
wrought by the One endure while it endures, and though he thwarts us still, I 
do not doubt my guess is correct, even without the final proof. Thus I doubt 
not that even should this seeming-frail body fail, still, Gollum shall leave 
his mark upon the world. It was a troubling thought, but as there was nothing 
that he could do to change that fact, Gandalf set it aside in favor of more 
pressing considerations. Such as how to break--

"Mithrandir?" A voice sounded from behind him--that of the captain of the guard, 
who alone had been permitted to approach Gollum’s cell, by the wizard’s orders. 
The captain stood and looked in through the little, barred window in the door, 
and keys rattled and chimed in the lock. After a moment, the door opened just a 
crack, and lamplight stole in through the narrow opening. Gollum shrieked, 
gurgling in his throat as he cowered and covered his eyes, and the wizard 
sighed.

"Yes, yes, a moment," he replied gruffly, gazing balefully at the prisoner as he 
rose. "We shall speak again soon, Sméagol." With that, he turned and strode 
regally away in a swirl of grey robes. The captain opened the door a bit wider 
to allow him to pass, then shut it again, firmly. Beyond the captain, where 
Gollum could not possibly see him, stood Aragorn. His arms folded across his 
chest, he raised a dark brow when he saw the wizard’s face. After a moment, he 
tipped his head to one side slightly, subtle suggestion that they should remove 
a bit from the cell, and Gandalf nodded in agreement. "Remain here, captain, and 
be certain that he knows that you watch him!" he ordered tersely.

"As you wish, Mithrandir," the Elf bowed gracefully and turned back towards the 
door, though he seemed rather reluctant to attend to this particular chore. 
Ranger and wizard retreated down the corridor a ways, until they reached the 
juncture that led back towards the upper levels. There, they paused, and Gandalf 
looked Aragorn up and down with a knowing and critical eye. Arathorn’s son 
seemed improved from the day before, although in truth, almost anything would 
have been an improvement on the badly shaken and distracted man he had been.

"I take it that you accepted Legolas’ offer after all," he said, by way of 
greeting.

"Although I am occasionally a fool, Gandalf, I prefer not to be one thrice in a 
week, thank you," the Ranger replied, with a certain glint in his eyes. "And a 
good morning to you as well," he added, after a slight beat. The wizard stared 
at him a moment, but his frown dissipated quickly. With a chuckle, Gandalf 
abandoned his severe mien, reaching out to squeeze the other’s arm, and he shook 
his grey head.

"The young are resilient, they say!" he replied, and the Ranger snorted softly, 
but declined to take up that familiar line of banter. "Good morrow indeed! How 
do you feel, Aragorn?"

"‘Tis too early in the day to say how recovered I am, but for awhile, at least, 
I can help, if you wish it. And," he added, heavily, "mayhap it would be best if 
I took your place for a time, for as Dorothil tells it, Aradhil grows worse. 
Thranduil has even been once to look in on him, or else to look in on Legolas. 
Dorothil was not certain which motivation was stronger."

"No one has been able to reach the warden?"

"No one, not even the prince. Were he a Man, I should say it were futile to try, 
even."

"Yes, I see your point. Nevertheless, if he has not fled the confines of 
Middle-earth yet, then there must be some reason for it; and that means that so 
long as his body lives, there is a chance that we can recall him," Gandalf 
sighed. Aragorn frowned at that, brow furrowing slightly.

"I do not know, Gandalf. Ordinarily, I would believe as you do, that Aradhil 
lingers because that is his will. Yet my heart says otherwise, and were he one 
of mine, I would end it for him, for there is assuredly naught that I can do 
further." At that, the wizard raised a snowy brow, stroking his beard as he 
considered this opinion.

"I trust," he said at length, "that you have not shared this with any other?"

"No, I have not."

"Good. Well, I had promised Thranduil a moment of my time in any case, so he may 
as well have it now. Are you certain, Aragorn, that you are well enough for this 
task?" the wizard asked, this time in utter seriousness, and there was concern 
in his dark eyes.

"I cannot last the day entire, but a few hours with the wretch ought not to 
overwhelm me. If they do, I shall leave him to the captain," the Ranger assured 
him.

"Very well then. I shall hold you to that as to an oath, for we must learn 
Gollum's tale, and if he is pushed too hard or in the wrong way--or damaged 
physically--then we lose our chance." Aragorn nodded, and watched as Gandalf 
went swiftly up the corridor, moving with a speed that few would expect from one 
so aged. Until one comes to know him somewhat, in which case one may expect 
anything. If only expectations were enough to cure us all of this malaise! With 
a sigh, and firmly quelling the disgust that rose within him at the thought of 
bearing Gollum’s presence, the Ranger turned and went back down into the 
dungeons.

***

Thranduil held up a hand to silence one of his counselors, for a knock had 
sounded upon the door to his dayroom. A moment later, one of his servants peered 
in and announced, "Sire, Mithrandir is come to see you, if you will."

"Let him in, then," the king responded, shooting his counselor an apologetic 
look. "I shall send for you later."

"Of course, my liege," the other Elf replied, bowing ere he turned to leave. 
Mithrandir stood aside to let the counselor pass, and then nodded to the 
servant, who shut the door behind wizard and king.

"Good morning, Mithrandir," the King of Mirkwood greeted his guest. "I trust 
that your inquiries have yielded some fruit?"

"Nay, not yet," the wizard answered, and Thranduil blinked, surprised. 
Mithrandir saw, and gave him a thin smile. "Never fear, Thranduil, Sméagol shall 
speak in time, and just in the nick of it, doubtless!"

"Doubtless, and as I know nothing of this creature’s tale, I cannot fear him 
overmuch. Aged and malicious, he seems, and I like not the look of him, but so 
shrunken a creature surely has not much life left in it," the Elf replied, 
waving the wizard to a seat, and settling himself in his accustomed place, 
nearest the window.

"So it may seem, yet appearances deceive. Seventeen years have Aragorn and I 
hunted him, and only now have our efforts been rewarded. He is not ready to die 
yet, and shall not be for many years, I think. But," and here the wizard waved 
one gnarled hand to dismiss the matter, "that is neither here nor there, nor the 
reason I came to speak with you. Insofar as the matter of Gollum is concerned, I 
would ask a favor of you."

"And what is this favor?"

"Keep him here, when Aragorn and I leave your realm. Keep him well, and ask no 
questions, either of him or of me."

"No questions? Of a prisoner held under my authority and at my expense? You ask 
much, Herdîr Ithron," Thranduil said mildly, leaning back in his chair as he 
considered the wizard. Mithrandir only gazed back, awaiting a response, and so 
at length, the king replied, "If that is your request, then I shall grant it, 
out of respect for the wisdom of Mithrandir. However, should this Sméagol 
attempt to escape, or injure any of my people, I will deal with him according to 
my own judgment and the laws of my people."

"Very good, then. I cannot argue that," Mithrandir said, and then sighed as he 
steepled his fingers before him. "Strange though it may seem, I am not unhopeful 
that he may be cured. How, I know not, but my heart says that I must not condemn 
him out of hand, though I think there are many who might disagree. His is a 
difficult case to judge, and mayhap no one in Middle-earth has the right or the 
wisdom to judge it." A moment, the wizard paused, and his eyes grew distant, 
though his expression sharpened. Bearded lips tightened, and gnarled fingers 
intertwined with each other, as if the wizard sought to hold something close, 
but then the moment passed, and he shook his head. "In any case, that decided, 
let us speak of other things. The presence of one of the Nine remained a matter 
of conjecture for far too long among the Wise. For proving our fears, we must 
thank your son and his patrol."

"I cannot say that I approve of his... hasty... decisions, yet you speak truly: 
we have delayed too long in discovering what dwells in the tower," Thranduil 
replied, grimacing, as he added quietly, "And we have suffered for that 
blindness!"

"Not alone, King of Mirkwood. And now that we know that Khamûl keeps Dol Guldur, 
should aught change, send word to Imladris. Elrond shall know how to reach me, 
if anyone does. Things move in the wide world, Thranduil, where the Elves of 
Mirkwood cannot see them, and I think the pinch must come soon, for all of us."

"The world may change beyond my borders, yet we are not wholly cut off, nor are 
we without our own measures, Mithrandir," the king replied, lifting a brow. 
"What preparations we can make to meet the onslaught are already long wrought, 
yet shall be less effective than I would prefer, I fear. We lose too many as 
time passes." To which the wizard only grunted, and Thranduil did not doubt that 
he knew that well enough. All the elven realms were in decline, painful as it 
was to admit that, and the king could not ignore what lay starkly before his 
eyes. Not when my own son and daughters have the sea-look in their eyes! Not 
when it has driven my wife from me already! For a moment, it seemed the world 
grew very dark, and when Thranduil blinked his eyes into focus once again, 
Mithrandir was regarding him with a look of grave regret and pity. Dragging his 
mind from matters familial, the king asked, "What of Aradhil? Since we speak now 
of the Nine, what chance have we to draw him back?"

"I know not, I fear. You knew long ago that Aradhil was dangerous--to himself, 
at the least. If he has learned to love your son, he still has not forgotten 
Eregion, and he clings to Legolas as he would to his own child, resisting all 
forces or individuals who would entice him away from his protection."

"And yet, he is too experienced and too good a man to leave to idleness or 
private vengeance. I had hoped that he had improved, but!" Thranduil sighed, 
raising a hand, palm upward. "At least Legolas has the mettle to resist the 
easier path, though I could wish he had found another way around it, as it 
were."

"Meaning, Thranduil?"

"You know well what I mean, Mithrandir," the king replied somewhat testily. 
"Legolas is young, and I fear that he shall end his days in Arda knowing more of 
strangers than of his own people and their ways."

"Do not repeat Aradhil’s mistake, King of Mirkwood," Mithrandir cautioned, and 
wizard that he was, refused to flinch before Thranduil’s glare.

"If I were so foolish, my dungeons would have more than your Gollum in them. Do 
not ask me to love what must cause me and mine pain, Herdîr Ithron!" For a 
moment, the King of Mirkwood stared at Mithrandir, but the wizard said naught, 
only gazed at him with eyes that saw too easily through him. With an inward 
sigh, Thranduil asked, "What is it you wish from me, Mithrandir?"

"Your word that you shall not misuse your youngest son. Your people dwindle, you 
say; it is, then, of no use to wait a hundred years to restore Legolas to a 
place in the sun, as it were. The world changes, and you must change with it if 
you are to face the Enemy. Whatever his faults, Legolas is willing to learn that 
lesson, which cannot be said, I think, of the majority of your people."

Thranduil gave a soft grunt, grimacing slightly in wry irritation. "Legolas is 
young! He is still reckless and unseasoned, and were I to excuse him this, I 
would be remiss. Had he not argued for a captain’s treatment, he would never 
have held command in my realm again, no matter what his birth."

"But?" the wizard prompted.

"But," Thranduil replied, proffering a slight smile, "he did carry himself as a 
captain, therefore he may one day hold that rank. In the mean time, he can spare 
a year--the blink of an eye--as a messenger. I am not so stiff-necked as the 
Dwarves would have you believe, Mithrandir!" At that, the wizard chuckled.

"Then I am well content, for indeed, your reputation among them is... 
complicated. More so, perhaps, than is the reputation of the Dwarves among 
Elves. But," Mithrandir lifted a hand to forestall sharp words on Thranduil’s 
part, "again, that is not a matter for discussion, for the grievances between 
your two peoples run far back into the Elder Days. I have no interest in any of 
it, frankly, save only that war between Mirkwood and Erebor would be... 
unfortunate."

"Then fear not, for we have no desire for war with any but Mordor. Arrogant as 
the Dwarves may be, they are, as it were, beneath our notice," Thranduil replied 
with a thin, humorless smile. "And they also hate and oppose the Dark Lord. Let 
him break his teeth against their defenses, if he wishes; the Elves shall not 
deny him that chance!" The king paused a moment, then shifted topics once more. 
"But we spoke before of Aradhil. Is there nothing you can recommend, Herdîr 
Ithron? There must surely be a pathway to his soul, else he would not remain 
here."

"But whether we can find it in time is another matter. You have visited him, I 
understand?"

"Yes, I have." Thranduil replied, and said no more despite Mithrandir’s 
expectant silence.

"In that case, you doubtless know as much of his condition as do I. He does not 
respond to me, nor to your son, who is closest to him, nor to any of your 
healers. He could linger a month thus, or perhaps a little longer, as he is an 
Elf," the wizard said at last. "Men are more easily healed, I fear. For I cannot 
save Aradhil from himself. A good day to you, King of Mirkwood." With that, 
Mithrandir rose, made him a bow, and then strode swiftly out the door. But 
Thranduil sat in silence for a time, pondering his words and thinking dark 
thoughts about the fates of those touched by the Enemy. None of us are untouched 
who remain--did I not say it? It was rare that an Elf felt the pull of years 
unnumbered upon him, yet he did in that instant. Firstborn we are, and first 
finished, while hurt and healing come more easily to the Younger Children. And 
this must be so, so far as it is given us to understand. Yet accept it though he 
must, Thranduil would never love the fate that drove his people west, though he 
himself must one day take the Straight Path. With a sigh, the king rose and 
called for his servant to take a message to others of his counselors. The glory 
of Mirkwood was in its decline, and would soon be lost entirely, but even at its 
end, it remained a large kingdom, and its sovereign had many tasks that could 
not wait on one man’s life... nor even his death.

***

Aragorn bit the tip of his tongue against the temptation to snap at the creature 
huddled in the corner across from him. It was fascinating, really, what a range 
of noises Gollum could produce in an inspired moment of sniveling, but he was 
not in the mood to appreciate such virtuosity. Usually, a Ranger developed a 
good sense for the passing of time, and the impatient did not last in Eriador; 
nevertheless, Aragorn could not decide how long Gandalf had been gone. A good 
while, and if he wished to keep his temper, he could not spare attention to the 
minutes that dragged out endlessly, even if a part of his mind fairly begged for 
release from this seeming-endless contest. Gollum whined and moaned in his 
corner, every so often peeking out from beneath an arm or behind a hand to see 
whether Aragorn remained, or whether his behavior had wrought any effects on the 
Dúnadan. And each time he looked, he found the Ranger sitting on the stool, 
staring back at him, his expression unchanged. A moment he would pause, and then 
the wailings would grow more intense for a while ere they weakened somewhat, and 
another look would be snatched. And since nothing ever changed, the cycle 
continued, though Aragorn thought that the intervals between furtive glances was 
growing shorter. That might mean something, if only the Ranger could hold his 
peace another several hours.

Or it might mean nothing at all in the end, he thought, careful to keep his 
thoughts well hidden, for it would not do to show frustration. Indeed, he dared 
not show anything at all, not even so much as a change in his breathing, for he 
had noted on his journey that Gollum's hearing was quite sharp. Pay attention, 
Aragorn! he reprimanded himself, and then cut short the litany of self-reproach 
ere it could distract him. It would be so much easier to threaten and yell, to 
give vent to his disgust and his anger. But without Gandalf to balance his 
temper, he could not trust himself to such tactics. And they have not worked in 
any case, and shall not, unless we are willing to go much further than we have. 
And so he had taken the other path, the only one within his means, and that just 
barely today. He had sat through the shrieks and screams that had greeted his 
arrival in silence and without cringing, and he had waited through the loud 
groans and curses thrown in his direction. Curses had diminished to 
half-coherent gibbering, and when words had proved tiring, Gollum had turned to 
wordless moans and whimpering. How long the wretch could continue this was not 
something Aragorn wished to contemplate, as it made the time spent in Gollum’s 
presence more oppressive. Of one thing only was he certain: silence was beyond 
the miserable creature, and in some sense intolerable to him. Whether he says 
aught of use is another matter, but surely... surely if he is not wholly ruined, 
then something must slip out with time. If I can stand to wait that long!

"Gol-lum... gollum... cruellll they are, precioussssss!" the wretch whined, 
ending in a sibilant hiss. "Yesss... yess... gollum... poor Sméagol with 
nothings to eat.... We are starving! Elves with cold eyess and Man with hard 
handses... not nice, no, my preciouss... my pressscioussss.... Not nice... not 
nice at all... gollum, gol-lum!" Eerily luminescent eyes focused for a moment on 
him, and it took an effort of will not to grimace. Heavy lids closed over those 
eyes, extinguishing their light for an instant. Then Gollum buried his face in 
his hands with a gurgling cry that grated on Aragorn’s nerves. "They hates us, 
preciousss.... Ties us with nasty steel, they do, yes, poor Sméagol!" he 
continued after a moment. "They don’t care that it hurtss uss, do they, 
precious? That it hurts uss... it huurrtsss usss, my preciousss! Hurtss...!" 
Shrill rose that voice, and Aragorn found himself clenching his teeth in spite 
of himself. "Ahh... it hurts us!" Gollum paused a moment, breathing harshly, 
panting almost, and trembling pathetically so that the chain round his ankle 
rattled against the stone floor.

And then something queer happened. All at once, Gollum stilled, and his breath 
hissed through his few teeth in a long, throaty exhalation. And when he spoke 
again, his voice was lower, softer, imbued with a surly malevolence. "They wants 
you, my prrrecious. They wants... they wants you and they think we shall tell! 
But we shan’t, shall we, precious? Oh no...we shan’t ever tell! Cruel Man and 
nasty, bright Elves, friends with the Yellow Eye.... They will never have you, 
precious! Never! Crawling orcs never found uss.... Oh, nasty orcs in the 
mountains feared us, didn’t they, precious? And Men, too, they was frightened of 
us, yes, yes! Gol-lum... gollum. Friends will help uss, yess, precious... nice 
friendses.... He knows them, doesn’t he, precious?" Suddenly, Gollum was looking 
at him again, and the light in his eyes was such to put a chill even in a 
Ranger’s bones. Squatting there, his long-fingered hands caressing the stones, 
seeming to take a perverse joy in their unyielding coldness, Gollum glared at 
him. "Yesss... he knows them! They will get him one day, yess preciouss. Sss... 
cruel he iss... will learn better, eh, my precious? Learn not to hurt my 
preciouss...heh.... Filthy tark!" Gollum spat, and lunged.

It was quite possible that Gollum had not intended to go far; it was almost 
certain that he had had no real intention to attack. Unfortunately, Aragorn had 
listened to that voice grow more and more malicious, and felt his own control 
slipping by degrees. The hate in Gollum’s voice, and his sudden movement touched 
instincts too deeply ingrained to be overridden in that instant. Gollum squealed 
in alarm as the Ranger rose abruptly, and--

"Aragorn!" Before he could do or say anything he would regret later, Gandalf’s 
voice stopped him cold, like a slap to the face or ice water down his back. 
Thank Eru! A moment longer, Aragorn stared at the prisoner, then turned on his 
heel and stalked towards the door, which opened just as he reached it. Brushing 
by Gandalf and the guard captain, he headed down the corridor once more, ‘til he 
felt certain Gollum would not hear. Swearing softly but with feeling, he leaned 
against the wall, heedless of the pressure against his shoulders, and was 
grateful, suddenly, that he had not gone into that cell armed.

"Thrice in a week after all!" he finally sighed, raising his eyes to Gandalf’s.

"Indeed! I fear this is a step back, for now he knows we have limits." The 
wizard’s expression was stormy, but after a long moment, he, too, sighed and 
shook his head. "Well, it is done, and we shall have to work around that. In 
truth, I ought not to have left you in there so long, but you seemed to be doing 
well enough until the end."

"How long were you listening?" Aragorn demanded, frowning.

"Quite long enough. And mayhap, there was naught I could have done, for that 
change came suddenly." Gandalf pursed his lips, eyes narrowing with 
concentration as he thought. Finally, he said slowly, "I think he may be growing 
desperate. He has spent several days in that cell now. I do wish you could have 
held out awhile longer, my friend!" He sighed.

"I think I may be more hindrance than help in this, Gandalf," the Ranger 
admitted reluctantly.

"Hmph! Mayhap, but still, I may have uses for you. Stay!"

"If you wish," Aragorn replied, the skeptical note in his voice a telling sign 
of the measure of his disgust with himself. "At least we know now that Gollum 
has gone to Mordor, else he would not know to use ‘tark’ of one who seems 
Gondorrim."

"You noticed that as well," Gandalf sighed.

"Having had such names flung at me since I was twenty, I should hope I would 
notice," Aragorn replied archly, eliciting a soft, rueful chuckle from the 
wizard. "Need we truly ask further, Gandalf? You said that you had gone to Minas 
Tirith to seek another way to tell the one from others. Have you found it?"

"I have, yet we still know not the heart of the matter: whether he was ever 
captured and questioned."

"Who else would his ‘new friends’ be, if not his captors? And if he was 
captured, then it cannot have been by some roving band of orcs: no orc would 
have the wit to play with a captive thus, promising friendship with one hand. 
Someone of high rank must have spoken to him. And then deliberately released 
him, else he would never have left Mordor."

"True enough, but there are too many closed doors in his mind for me to rest 
content with assumptions and conjecture, even though reasonable. And there are 
other questions that I would ask, and which cannot be answered, save by him. 
Something about him strikes me as familiar, and I would know why. I must learn 
his history, Aragorn, if I am to decide...." What the wizard wished to decide, 
he did not say, and the Ranger did not ask, recognizing that tone of voice.

"I bow to your judgment, then," he said after a moment’s silence. "Shall we 
continue?"

"Yes... yes, we shall. Do as I say, and keep a firm grip on your temper this 
time, my friend!" Nodding grimly, Aragorn followed Gandalf back to Gollum’s 
cell, and the screams shortly echoed in the corridors once more. 



~~~



Chapter Thirteen - The Road Goes Ever On



 "He has done naught but whimper since midnight."

Gandalf gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment, but did not take his eyes from the 
cringing, moaning Gollum. Beside him, Aragorn tapped a forefinger irritably on 
the pommel of his dagger, which at least had the merit of seeming somewhat 
threatening as the two of them stood in a corner of the cell in hurried 
conference. Gandalf had his arms folded across his chest, staff snugged in the 
crook of an elbow as he glared balefully at their prisoner. Two days this had 
continued, and this was but the latest shift for Gandalf. Aragorn had had the 
one just prior, and the Ranger 's demeanor had that edge to it that told of his 
frustration, as he briefly told of the past few hours. All through the night, 
they had harried the wretch by turns, hoping weariness at least would cause him 
to stumble, but although Gollum's defenses were slowly wearing away under 
repeated bouts of questioning, threats, and the silent contests of will, even a 
wizard could not guess when he might crack. It could be tomorrow, or it could be 
years from now, he thought, stone-faced, though inwardly, he grimaced. "This 
takes too long!" he murmured, and Aragorn lifted a dark brow at that.

"So, he has outlasted even your patience, has he, my friend?" the Ranger asked.

"'Tis more than my patience, we no longer have the time to spare in this game. I 
need his tale—all of it—and I need it ere the sun sets today. If he has been to 
Sauron's"—a gurgling snarl at the mere mention of that name made both of them 
wince—"domain, as we both guess from his words and howls, then I cannot risk 
taking longer than today to drag this from him. Already, he has been here a 
fortnight. And you, Aragorn, grow nearly as restless as he," the wizard added, 
as the Ranger shifted positions for the third time since they had begun their 
conversation.

"Whether or not he has been to see the Nameless One, I have been long away from 
the North, and it is past time that I returned."

"True! But not empty-handed. For your people needs must know of this as well, if 
they are to protect themselves and others," Gandalf replied.

"It might be helpful to know more, but it is not necessary. Whatever he tells 
us, I shall strengthen the guard near the Brandywine Bridge, and in other 
places, and alert the Rangers of Khamûl's new activity. That should be warning 
enough, and should any of my people fall captive, 'tis best they cannot answer 
questions," Aragorn replied grimly.

"True enough, but it is of no use to withhold that the time approaches at last, 
when you and all your people must face the folly of Isildur," Gandalf answered, 
and then switched back to the Common Tongue as he gripped his staff in his left 
hand and turned to face Gollum fully. "Go, Aragorn. I think the time has passed 
for such help as you can give. And see that the door is locked when you leave." 
The Ranger gave him a considering look at that, but after a moment, he simply 
nodded, seeming not too unhappy with his dismissal. And why not? He has had 
enough, and it would have been kinder to release him earlier, but... there was 
always the possibility that we might between us force an answer from Gollum, 
Gandalf thought, watching as Aragorn slipped outside. The murmur of his voice, 
as he gave the wizard's instructions to the guard captain, could be briefly 
heard. The captain made some reply, got a terse acknowledgment, and then there 
came the sound of keys in the lock, tumblers aligning to hold that door shut. It 
was, perhaps, a superfluous precaution, for there were other ways to insure that 
others would not disturb them, but there was no point in taking any chances.

There was a strange silence in the cell, and when Gandalf turned towards his 
prisoner, he found Gollum staring at him. The wretch was huddled still in his 
corner, but clearly, he sensed that things had changed, and for once, he was 
silent, his great, gleaming eyes intent upon the bent figure of his opponent. 
"And now let us have an end to this, Sméagol," the wizard said firmly, in a low 
voice, striding forward as the tip of his staff began to glow brightly white....

The screams soon echoed in the hallways without.

 

***

Aragorn had intended to remain just outside the cell. After having fought 
himself to help Gandalf question Gollum, and that after fifty interminable days 
in the wretch's company, he wanted to see this affair finished, even if it was 
not his task to finish it. However, when he had given the guard captain 
Gandalf's instructions, the Elf had touched his arm, commanding his attention a 
moment. "You are wanted above, Dúnadan. My lord prince waits for you," he had 
said, and then turned his attention to the lock.

"My thanks," Aragorn replied. Reluctantly, he left the captain to his duties, 
and went back along the hallway, climbing quickly up the spiraling stairs until 
he emerged into the guard-room that began the dungeons. There, gazing intently 
at a wall hanging, stood Nindarth. Aragorn hesitated, caught off his guard 
slightly, for he had expected to find Legolas. But then, the captain had said 
only that a prince awaited, not which one, and so the Ranger hastily covered his 
surprise. As he shut the door behind him, Nindarth turned from his study of the 
weaving, and raised a brow at him.

"Success?" he asked.

"You must ask Gandalf for the tale, when next you see him," Aragorn replied, 
neatly avoiding an answer. But Nindarth needed none, naturally, to recognize the 
truth, and his mouth twisted briefly in a slight, sympathetic grimace. "What 
brings you to the dungeons, your highness?"

"You, naturally. Or Legolas, if you ask after the one who sent me. We are great 
messengers, we sons of Thranduil," Nindarth replied, smiling a bit, grey eyes 
gleaming. But then he continued swiftly on, "Nothing has changed for Aradhil. 
And I fear for Legolas, and his companions who watch with him. If he does not 
wake, the pain will be slow to fade for them."

"Dorothil, I imagine, would stay with Legolas, since he is injured, but which of 
the others?" Aragorn asked.

"Hithras has come a few times, but mostly Nuilandar, for he, too, has much time 
on his hands, and will not be denied, even by the healers. Something there is 
between him and Aradhil, I deem, but I know not what," Nindarth sighed, though 
his eyes rested for a heavy moment upon Aragorn. The Ranger gazed back, but said 
nothing, though the irony was well nigh sickening. "Well," Nindarth said, a 
touch more briskly, abandoning that line of inquiry, "in any case, between the 
three of them—Legolas, Dorothil, and Nuilandar—Aradhil is never alone. Which may 
be more than can be said of him over the past several centuries. A pity that it 
comes too late."

"Why say you that?" Aragorn asked, tone sharpening with interest and a touch of 
surprise.

"I grow to believe that he is lost to us, whether he will it or no. He cannot 
respond, it seems. If there is hope for him, I know naught of it, for I am no 
healer. But you are," Nindarth said, coming at last to the point. Aragorn 
frowned, skeptical, but ere he could protest, the prince continued, "I know, you 
have been hurt yourself, and you are not an Elf. And Legolas has told me how it 
is with you and Aradhil."

"My prince," Aragorn began, then paused, and reconsidered his words. After a 
moment's silence, he asked, "What is it that you wish to say, my prince? That I 
should try to heal Aradhil?"

"No."

"Then what, if I may ask bluntly?"

"I suppose we are not such great messengers in the end," Nindarth said, with a 
soft laugh, but then he sobered and waved away the jest. "I apologize. My 
brother wishes to hear your views in this matter, and I doubt not that Legolas 
would ask you to try to reach Aradhil. For my part, I think any such attempt 
futile. I mean you no slight, but if Mirkwood's healers have failed, then that 
you shall fail seems a foregone conclusion. Even were you hale yourself, I would 
still believe so. For myself, I would ask that you speak plainly of this with 
Legolas, for perhaps you may make it clear to him where I and all others have 
failed, assuming others have made the attempt. For he sits in silence, and will 
not answer."

"I see," Aragorn replied, already turning the implications of this request over. 
"If he asks, then I shall speak with him, though I cannot promise to succeed." 
He gave Nindarth a close stare, then, for he was still rather surprised that an 
Elf should come to him with such a request. As Gandalf had intimated, Elves were 
reluctant to consign one of their own to death so long as life remained in the 
body. "May I ask why you believe Aradhil beyond cure, your highness?"

"Perhaps it is that I know somewhat more than Legolas of wounds that do not 
heal," the prince replied, with a sad smile. "And surely a Man knows more than 
an Elf of such matters, since such wounds as I bear are accounted by many the 
way to bliss." Nindarth searched his face with eyes that told of anything but 
bliss, and the Ranger felt a twinge, as if that look had touched on wounds just 
barely healed. The Elf gave a slow nod, as if he had seen Aragorn flinch 
inwardly, and said, "Even so. But go and speak with Legolas, please. If he will 
not hear me, then perhaps he will listen to you, and so be convinced that 
indeed, Aradhil will die in time and come no more."

"What of yourself, my prince?" Aragorn asked, still chilled by that look and the 
echo of its pain within him.

"I shall go out onto the walkways, I think. For today it rains," Nindarth 
replied, with that gentle, bittersweet smile. "Good day to you, Dúnadan." With 
that, the prince turned gracefully and left Aragorn to stare after him ere he, 
too, quit the dungeons.

***

Legolas glanced up sharply when someone rapped on the doorframe of Aradhil's 
sickroom. He had not been paying attention—had, in fact, been wandering through 
his dreams, resting after having remained awake all the night before. If, that 
is, one could call 'rest' a walk through four hundred years of memories of 
Aradhil, and in between memories he would plead in silence: Open your eyes! Or 
stir a little, only. Do not leave yet, not with anger between us still! A 
selfish wish, perhaps, but he could not help but implore, however futilely. But 
then had come the sharp sound of another's presence, and now he blinked as 
Aragorn let fall the curtains and ducked inside. From the look of him, Legolas 
guessed that the Ranger had not slept the night before either, for when he 
paused and let his gaze stray over Aradhil, it was with a certain mute 
detachment that he had come to think of as a sign of weariness in the other. 
That, or else something particularly troubling to Aragorn brewed just below the 
surface, and the Ranger did not wish to speak of it. Does he remember the 
Nazgûl, I wonder? he thought, uneasily. Confronted with the sight of Aradhil, it 
was quite likely, and Legolas felt a touch of fear stir within him. Though he 
sensed that Aragorn was in no particular danger now from the injuries done him 
by the wraith, the scars were still starkly evident to his eyes, and might never 
fade entirely. "Nindarth said naught had changed," Aragorn said suddenly, 
without preamble.

"Alas, that is so," Legolas replied, eyeing the Man with concern now. "How do 
you fare today?"

"Gandalf has released me from the dungeons, at least, which is a relief."

"And your shoulders?"

"Sore," came the laconic response.

"Aragorn...."

"I am well enough, Legolas, I assure you," the Ranger replied then, but did not 
smile or take his eyes from Aradhil. "How long have you sat here today?" he 
asked after a moment.

"Too long, doubtless, and yet even were this to last an eternity, it might not 
be long enough," Legolas admitted, rising to go to the windows, which were open 
still. The rain beat steadily upon the sill and shivered the leaves of the 
trees. All the forest seemed to sigh in relief and let droop branches that hung 
heavy with that weight of water. "He always loved the rain."

"My prince?"

"Aradhil. Whenever his moods were black, all who knew him would pray for rain. 
If he is aware of it today, though...." the prince raised a hand to indicate his 
ignorance.

"Legolas," the Ranger's voice behind him was very level, and it paused a moment, 
as if Aragorn were seeking just the right words. "Have you considere—"

"Yes, I have," he answered ere the other could finish. Turning from the window, 
he gazed steadily back at the Man, and continued, "I have listened to Nindarth 
on the subject of Aradhil all this past night. I would I could believe 
otherwise, but Aradhil has not stirred once since that evening in the valley of 
Dol Guldur." There came another silence, and this time, it was Legolas who 
frowned, puzzled, sensing that he had misunderstood, and answered a question 
never asked or intended. But unlike the Ranger a few days ago, it needed but a 
few moments of searching ere he realized what the other had wanted to say, and 
his breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled. "He is still alive," he 
murmured.

"His body lives. As to whether Aradhil does, you have admitted that it seems too 
much to hope that he shall ever return to us," Aragorn replied. "If that is not 
death, I know not what is. Is it not held among Elves, that it is only the body 
and soul together that constitute life?"

"So it is said, and since he lives still, then the ties that bind the two remain 
intact."

"Aradhil could linger long in this state—weeks, even, for Elves are hardier than 
Men, even unconscious. Given what his last memory was, I would not wish this 
peculiar slumber on any, not even my enemy. What dreams may come to one caught 
between earth and air, after all?"

"None, so far as we can determine," Legolas replied, troubled by this turn of 
affairs.

"Then he is fortunate in that, but still, he is caught—he cannot come to Mandos 
yet, but neither can he return home. 'Tis needless uncertainty, to my mind."

"Aragorn, I know that you were not close to Aradhil...." the prince began, and 
then halted, arrested by the expression on the other's face.

"I do not tell you this because I wish to be rid of one I little like," the 
Ranger said flatly. "Were he one of my people, I would still advise you so. For 
we call it 'mercy' among ourselves—after four days, the chance of recovery is so 
slight that it is not worth considering any more. Perhaps a longer period for an 
Elf, but even so, I have never heard of an Elf waking after more than nine days 
of unconsciousness, and that was considered a wonder and unusual."

"I am sorry, then, for my words to you, for they were foolish. Nevertheless, 
though we may release one whose body is shattered beyond healing, we do not slay 
those who live still as Aradhil does, for there is a right time for all things," 
Legolas replied firmly. "And what are a few days, after all, to us?"

"Very well then. Nindarth was concerned only that you should not hold false hope 
for Aradhil, and I admit, I had not intended to speak of this. It is not that I 
am ignorant of this particular custom, but there are some things that Elrond 
failed to instill in me, or which did not take root after having seen too many 
of my own fade away like Aradhil. Better a swift death than this," the Ranger 
shook his head, and for a moment, his eyes held a distant look, and Legolas 
shuddered slightly, shifting his gaze to Aradhil's pale, still face. For a long 
moment, there was silence between the two, as the thoughts of Elf and Man spun 
out behind the masks that each wore to hide his fears. At length, however, 
Aragorn seemed to shake himself, and he said softly, "Never mind, Legolas. I 
doubt not that Aradhil would hold the same, were it he who waited by you, and so 
would wish for nothing different for himself. But if aught should change, I 
should like to hear of it, and how it came about that Aradhil was healed."

"Should that occur, then I shall send word to Imladris, since Lord Elrond knows 
how to reach you. Shall you leave soon, then?"

"Tomorrow morning," Aragorn replied, and his mouth twitched in a half smile as 
he shook his head. "A fortnight at most, I said, when first I arrived, and did 
not expect to stay so long, nor to find 'rest' so arduous!"

"I fear we have been poor hosts in that, and in other things," Legolas admitted 
with a rueful laugh. "But come again, if you can. I know that Rangers will 
escort Dwarves and other merchants less testy over the mountains, so perhaps we 
shall see each other on the road, in passing. Once my year is finished, that 
is," he added.

"Perhaps, though I fear that it may be long ere I take another caravan west or 
east. I have now other tasks. Certainly, though, there shall be many Rangers 
crossing the mountains this season, seeking the latest tidings. And if Khamûl 
stirs, then our clients may be grateful for our help. Should you see one of my 
people, you may always use him as a mail courier—our rates are lower than those 
of the Dwarves!"

Legolas grinned at that, and replied, "'Short of stature, high of price,' we 
say. Very well then, I shall look for the Rangers." Reaching out, he clasped 
Aragorn's forearms, and the Ranger returned the gesture. "Until tomorrow, my 
friend."

"Good day to you," Aragorn replied. And with that, he departed, leaving a very 
thoughtful Legolas to his vigil.

***

The rain had subsided by the time the sky grew rosy with dawn. It was a small 
favor, for which wizard and Ranger both were grateful, for neither had looked 
forward to the prospect of beginning the journey drenched and shivering. The 
Elves had also kindly lent the pair one of the ponies that they occasionally 
used to move goods down the river to Dale and Laketown, so the beast bore their 
packs, much to Aragorn's relief. He and Gandalf had spoken long the night 
before, as the wizard had had much of alarming import to tell of Gollum, whose 
tale he had finally managed to wring from the wretch. "And wring I did! No 
creature should fear fire so, yet there was no choice in the end. I shall carry 
the news to the Shire, and any orders you might have concerning your men," 
Gandalf had said heavily. "You will doubtless have business in the Angle, and I 
think a stop in Imladris would be wise, to see what Elrond can do to mend you 
more swiftly, and perhaps more... expertly." Aragorn had had to agree to that, 
for having heard Gandalf's report, he knew he could not afford to spend more 
time than was necessary recovering from injuries, no matter of what kind. The 
pair had decided to leave early and quietly, and so had been rather surprised to 
find a small gathering of Elves waiting to see them off this morning. Even more 
surprising in Aragorn's eyes, was that Thranduil was among them, and Nindarth as 
well, and Legolas, who stood with remarkable solemnity.

"Herdîr Ithron," the King of Mirkwood said, and bowed politely, "may the stars 
shine upon your path, and keep evil ever from you."

"My thanks for your hospitality and help, your majesty, and may your kingdom 
remain a bulwark against the shadow," Gandalf replied, and raised a bushy brow. 
"I had not anticipated such a crowd."

"'Tis not every day that we have such guests," Thranduil replied, tossing a 
rather wry look at Aragorn. "Your arrivals were precipitous, and your stays 
might not have been all that you could have wished for—this is our last 
opportunity to amend our failings, and to thank you for your service. You in 
particular, son of Arathorn."

"Sire?" Aragorn asked, wary before the elven king's tone, which assumed a 
certain note of reproof, even as Legolas and Nindarth moved forward.

"Have a care in your wanderings, Dúnadan, for brashness may yet be your 
downfall, for youth is ever impatient. However," the king continued, cutting 
short any protest that Aragorn might have made ere ever he could open his mouth, 
"I am reminded that not all have the benefit of many centuries of learning, and 
must make the most of their time here. So: that you may continue your 
instruction in the ways of patience and prudence, and that I might not be 
harried by my conscience over the death of so young a creature, you will accept 
this." And Legolas stood forth then, a slight smile on his face as he extended 
his hands, in which lay a sword. A very familiar sword, as Aragorn reached out 
to grasp the scabbard. "This way you may at least protect yourself, should 
trouble arise, and Legolas assures me Tharinsal would find nothing to complain 
of in the swordsman. Pray, take care not to drop it in any of the rivers this 
time, since you have not a troublesome captive to deal with," the king finished, 
shaking his head as if to say, "Children!" But as Aragorn met Thranduil's gaze, 
the gleam in the king's eyes belied the tone. True, the Ranger might never 
wholly overcome the elven king's reservations, but it seemed that the other at 
least bore him no ill will.

"Many thanks, King of Mirkwood. I am honored by the gift, and I shall be 
careful," he replied, bowing and gritting his teeth to make it a full bow, 
despite aching shoulders. Thranduil gave him the barest of grins and nodded when 
he straightened.

"And you have my thanks also," Legolas said then, addressing Aragorn. "May the 
journey prove swift! Fare you well!"

And so, to the farewells of the Elves and the sounds of the forest stirring, 
they departed, wizard and Ranger, westward bound at last. And as the Elves 
dispersed behind them, Legolas went swiftly along the path and found at length a 
tree that suited him. Quickly, he climbed it, 'til he came to the topmost 
branches, and could look out over the forest to the Misty Mountains. Tall they 
loomed, but today, as far as his keen eyes could see, no shadow of threat lay 
upon them. A good omen, it seemed, for the travelers below, and he smiled. Fare 
well, my friend! Many thanks, for many lessons, and much to think upon that may 
grow roots. That has already grown roots, he thought, sending his thought out, 
and wondering if perhaps the Dúnadan might perceive it. For a time, he remained 
there in the treetops, 'til the sun had risen indeed, and then he left that airy 
field and returned slowly to his father's halls.


~~~


Chapter Fourteen	 - 	     Epilogue


It was some months later that Aragorn stood surveying the ruins of Tharbad at 
dusk, contemplating the news that the Ranger commander at that post had given 
him. Ill rumor in Rohan, of a king who seemed unable to muster the will to 
resist the Dark Lord. "Some say even that he may bend to him, and cooperate in 
the end," Gelthir had confided worriedly. "I have men in Rohan now, seeking the 
truth of such rumors, but it may be long ere we hear from them, for Edoras is no 
evening's walk away." Troubling tidings indeed—Gondor was slowly being isolated, 
and one by one, the free kingdoms and towns would fall, if things continued as 
they did. The more did he cling, therefore, to the good news of last month, that 
Gandalf had given him at Sarn Ford.

"We have It," the wizard had said. "Thankfully, It is well-bestowed, and Frodo 
shall follow my advice. Only guard well the Shire for a time, and I shall soon 
return to guide him north. Look for me in the evenings at Bree, for I shall pass 
through there first, and then wait for us by the dike. You know well whereof I 
speak, no? Good," the wizard had sighed when Aragorn had nodded his assurance. 
"Good. By the twenty-second of September, we shall set out, Frodo and I. Be 
careful in the mean time." An unnecessary reminder, for Aragorn and his men had 
been far too busy of late, and it seemed likely that the situation would only 
worsen as Fall drew on.

Now, he wondered whether it might not be worth it to go himself into the 
Riddermark, even if only to speak with the herders who wandered the broad 
fields, and with whom he and his people kept contact. If he were swift, and took 
one of Tharbad's horses....

"Captain!" Aragorn turned, alerted as much by the sentry's hail as by the sound 
of hooves. A Ranger, newly arrived from the north appeared, and with him, a 
second rider, whose lack of bridle made him an Elf. Raising a brow, Aragorn 
abandoned his place to go and hear the tale. Several of the Tharbad Rangers had 
already gathered, curious, but they asked no questions, only saw to the horses, 
or stood some little ways off, watching. Gelthir was speaking with the Ranger, 
but the Elf remained silent, his hood up, until Aragorn approached. Then did 
their unexpected guest laugh softly.

"Greetings, Dúnadan," said a familiar voice, and the hood was pushed back to 
reveal Nindarth.

"Prince of Mirkwood," Aragorn replied, giving the other a bow. "I confess myself 
surprised to see you here in Tharbad."

"I thought you might be, and I fear I may have surprised others of your people 
as well, for you do wander far afield, and it is not always an easy task to find 
your present location," the elven prince replied. "However, your lad, Cirallan, 
has been most accommodating and assiduous in his duties as messenger and escort. 
Well worth the price of his service, if I may say it without insult."

"I expect no less of him," Aragorn replied, and gave Cirallan an approving 
smile. The lad flushed slightly at that, but drew himself up. He was, indeed, 
young, in only his second year of service, and Aragorn might not have been 
pleased to learn that he had been all the escort Halbarad had spared for one of 
the King of Mirkwood's sons, but that in truth, Halbarad could not have sent 
others. The orcs were pressing far too close of late, and the home guard was 
doubled, as all prepared for flight in the worst case. "What brings you to us, 
Nindarth?"

"A matter I would rather speak of elsewhere, if you will."

"Come then," and Aragorn led him away from the others, leaving Gelthir to see to 
the messenger and matters monetary. When they were far enough that none would 
overhear, he stopped. "How is Legolas?"

"It is partly on his behalf that I have come, for he wished me to give you this, 
when I went," Nindarth reached into his purse and drew out a letter, which he 
handed to the Ranger. Then he folded his hands behind his back, and waited, 
while Aragorn broke the seal and read swiftly through the contents. After but a 
little while, he folded the paper and sighed softly.

"I cannot but say that I am relieved, and pray your pardon if that offends you," 
Aragorn said after a moment.

"Nay, for there are worse things," Nindarth replied with his sad smile, "and 
that is the greater part of what has brought me hither. Mithlond awaits, and 
perhaps across the seas I may find some joy in the rain once more."

"Then I wish you a fair voyage," Aragorn replied. "But for tonight, what 
hospitality we may offer is yours."

"My thanks," Nindarth replied, and turned as if to make for the camp again, but 
Aragorn reached out and touched his shoulder, staying him a moment. "What is it, 
Aragorn?"

"A question, if you will. This letter is dated not long after Gandalf and I 
departed—a few days, at best. Was there aught amiss that Legolas does not speak 
of in this missive?"

Nindarth was silent for a time, but at length he replied, "No. Nothing at all." 
And that was the end of it, as the prince gave him another of those slight 
smiles, and then glided away, leaving Aragorn to stand in silence, wondering. 
After a few moments, the Ranger shook his head over the incident, and sighed. 
And so that is an end of it, I suppose—the final chapter of the tale of the 
Valley of Shadow in Mirkwood. Amid all the troubles of Middle-earth, I wonder, 
should I account this good news, or ill?

In the end, he was not certain, and he had much else to occupy him besides this 
one tale, which might seem odd only to him. He placed the message carefully into 
his purse, and then followed Nindarth back to the camp. Mayhap he would be able 
to send Legolas a message when next one of the Rangers went east to Dale, but 
that might not be soon. He could not even spare Cirallan, for he had in mind to 
send the boy west and south, for he had proved himself a very reliable messenger 
indeed, and done very well for one so young. Things move, Legolas... who knows, 
but that you may leave Mirkwood soon in any event on some errand? It may be some 
time ere we are able to speak again. At least Aradhil may know some peace now. 
Whatever else I may think of him, I am glad of that!

"Anything amiss, captain?" Gelthir asked in an undertone, as he joined the 
Tharbad commander at the edges of the campfire.

"No," Aragorn replied, and then smiled slightly, gazing meditatively at the 
horizon, where the stars were just beginning to appear. "Nothing at all."

****

Aragorn,

I hope you will forgive the delay, but some news ought to be delivered by 
family, or by friends, and not by strangers, and Nindarth told me soon after 
your departure that he planned to take the western road ere the summer was out.

If fortune is kind, then this letter shall find you well, and perhaps I may ease 
your mind somewhat to say that the guest you remanded to our care remains with 
us, and prospers after his fashion. At the least, he seems somewhat fatter to 
me.

However, I fear I must tell you that the times are darker for me, and for all of 
us who dared the valley together. 'Tis a sad duty, that my first task as 
messenger should be to send ill tidings.

For despite our care, Aradhil is dead. The world turns swiftly indeed, and we 
cannot hold it back.

Yours in sorrow,

Legolas of Mirkwood



~~~




Chapter Fifteen - Epilogue 2

Inspired by Gabrielle, here is the "choose your own adventure" version of 
"Roots."



--Dwim



*******



Imladris. Men called it legendary, one of the last elven strongholds of Arda. 
Even to elvish eyes, there was something about it that befitted legend--a 
glamour, and a memory that lay heavy across the land and bewildered the senses. 
Everything seemed so very clear here, from the air to the earth, and the scent 
of pine surely had never been so sweet even in the lost days of the First Age. 
They loomed up on the steep slopes of the valley, towering over a traveler, but 
in a welcoming way. A joyous way, for these trees knew naught of evil, and had 
never learned to fear the darkness, for there was none here. With their roots 
dug deep into the soil, they raised their lofty green limbs in proud celebration 
of their splendor, their age, and their perfect dignity, and delight in being 
the children of Yavanna. The prince who gazed up at them reluctantly tore his 
eyes from the contemplation of their beauty, and reminded himself that he had a 
purpose here and ought not to be distracted, even if his business was not nearly 
so pressing as the errand that had brought him hither from his father's halls in 
Mirkwood. Legolas turned back towards Elrond's house and went swiftly down the 
road, sprinting the distance in an excess of good spirits for the fair day.

Once he reached the house, he slowed, though he still went swiftly through the 
halls, threading his way through Imladris' labyrinthine ways with an ease a 
hobbit might envy. A curious folk, the Periannath, and he was eager to see more 
of them, for he had only barely known of Bilbo Baggins in Bard's day, when the 
dragon had been cast down. But that would wait, and he was not impatient on that 
account, being elvish. There would be time for such observation, but other tasks 
would not wait, and though he looked forward to seeing an old friend, his heart 
ached, too. The door was still closed when he arrived, and sharp hearing picked 
out the sounds of someone moving about inside, and he smiled, relieved to have 
guessed correctly. Leaning against the wall to one side of the door frame, he 
studied the intricately carved stone that graced the corridors, and the 
cunningly woven hangings that served as background for them. It was not long 
until he heard the door handle twist, the latch lift, and a figure emerged from 
the room, pack slung over one shoulder, and Legolas raised a brow.

"The Road does go ever on, but must you see it to the ends of Arda?" Aragorn 
glanced sharply at him, clearly startled to find him there, but after a 
heartbeat, the Ranger relaxed slightly and chuckled as he shut the door behind 
him.

"That would be the work of a lifetime, and I have not one to spare," he 
answered.

"Clearly not. You have only just arrived, my friend, and yet," Legolas gestured 
to the backpack.

"Each time I return, it seems I see less of Imladris," Aragorn confessed with a 
shake of his dark head, and Legolas noted that there were a few more silver 
strands to be found there. "Five days--and much time spent worrying in a 
sickroom. I think I am more intimately familiar with the inside of the Prancing 
Pony at Bree than I am with these chambers, which once were home."

"Whither shall you go now? Lord Elrond has retained me, in the event that he may 
need a messenger later on, one to carry the whole tale to my father. But the 
rest of my party shall return home by the swiftest route, bearing such tidings 
as are deemed good for them to carry, and to alert my father of the danger of 
the Nazgûl," Legolas paused, eyeing Aragorn closely. "You saw much of them on 
your journey here, did you not?"

"More than I could wish," Aragorn replied, and sighed softly. "Thank the Valar 
for the hobbits, else I know not what I might have done--had I not had to think 
of them...." He paused, eyes unfocused and far away, and Legolas frowned, 
worried. But it was a brief moment, and then the Dúnadan shook himself, and gave 
the prince a slight, grim smile. "Strange as it may seem, I think it may have 
helped to see them again--to see all of them. What memory could they raise that 
could rival that of Khamûl? And yet I had no need of memory, for they were there 
before me, and I could act this time, instead of suffer in my own mind only."

"Strange indeed, and far too close a call for my peace of mind, but I am glad 
that your heart is more at ease now," Legolas replied.

"In any case, you asked whither I am bound. My brothers and I shall go south to 
see if we cannot discover what has become of the Nazgûl."

"And you must leave now?"

"Haste is needed, for we have no time left. Now are all hours reckoned mortal, 
my friend," Aragorn answered. "I am glad to have spoken with you, though, for I 
fear I was not particularly... attentive... last night."

"Ah, but you were! And the lady Arwen surely appreciates your attention," 
Legolas laughed, as he and the Ranger started off down the hall. "No wife 
waiting for you indeed!"

"I would appreciate it if you would say nothing about that. It may be an open 
secret in some quarters, but 'tis best not to speak overmuch of that topic," 
Aragorn murmured.

"As you wish. But ere you go, I did have a message for you," Legolas replied, 
and touched the other's shoulder to halt him. Aragorn raised a dark brow, 
alerted by the serious note in the prince's voice. "I would have sent word 
earlier, yet it seemed the chance never arose--some things were meant to be told 
in person, or confided by family, and Nindarth, though he left ere I did to take 
the western road, left not long before me, and so I thought I would bring word 
myself." He drew a breath, and gazed directly into the Man's eyes, as he said, 
"Aradhil is dead."

Aragorn was silent a long moment, and then he nodded slowly. "When?"

"A few days after you and Mithrandir departed. It was very swift."

"Swift indeed," the Ranger replied, frowning. "I would have thought he would 
have had weeks left him, for that is the normal course of things among the 
Eldar. Was there aught amiss?"

"No," Legolas answered, and gave a slight, queer smile. "Nothing at all." The 
Ranger absorbed that, his grey eyes searching Legolas' green ones.

"Nothing at all?" he repeated, and then shook his head, glancing down, plainly 
sensing that more lay behind that than the Elf was willing to admit. "Well," he 
said at last, "I am relieved, then, if I may say it without offense. Whatever I 
may have thought of him, I am glad that he has some chance of peace. And what of 
you, Legolas?" Aragorn raised his eyes again, and there was concern in them now. 
"How did it end between you?"

"He never woke, so I know not what he might have felt. But... for my part, I 
think there was no anger left when he died. Nay, I am certain of it," Legolas 
replied softly, with that same, queer smile, and the Ranger's grey eyes grew the 
sharper as he turned these words over in his mind. Ere he could ask, however, 
Legolas continued, "But you have tasks to attend to, and the lords Elladan and 
Elrohir surely await you. Until we meet again, Dúnadan, for however long or 
short a time that may be. A safe journey to you!" And with that, he turned and 
slipped away down the halls and out again, bound for the tree-clad slopes and 
such comfort as they could bring. And as he walked in the shade beneath their 
boughs, he thought, No, I am not angry with you anymore, Aradhil, nor do I crave 
your pardon, as once I did. I think I am less selfish than that now, and so I 
hope only that I was, in the end, an instrument of peace for you. But I shall 
await your judgment when we meet again, as all Elves must. And in the mean time, 
there is Aragorn, and a world before me to learn to love ere I leave it! 




The End