

Dark Horizons 
Chapter 12   A Rainy Day

The rain came down in steady, driving sheets, forming winding streams of water 
that flowed off the surrounding hills.  The ground had long since soaked up all 
the moisture it could, and now the water collected into small, muddy pools.  The 
storm was quiet in its intensity, lacking the normal bright flashes of lightning 
or loud booms of thunder.  Low, gray clouds blanketed the earth, stretching from 
horizon to horizon, promising continual rain for the majority of the day.

Aragorn wiped a hand across his weathered face, brushing away the moisture that 
had collected there.   He shrugged his shoulders in discomfort as drops of water 
seeped through his soaked clothing and began to trickle down his back.  His wet 
hair clung to his face, and he kept blinking away the drops of water that flowed 
down into his eyes.  He wondered wryly if he looked as much the drowned rat as 
he felt.  Not exactly the way he had wished to enter the city, but there was 
nothing to be done about it now.

Behind him, the army continued to plod on steadily, despite the miserable 
conditions of the weather.  The horses walked with bowed heads, their hooves 
splashing through the puddles of mud the only sound dimly heard over the rain.  
The soldiers all sat hunched in their saddles wet, cold, and miserable.  
However, they were still making good time, and Aragorn hoped to reach the city 
in little less than three hours.

The army had stuck mostly to the deep ravines winding beneath the tall hills 
that surrounded them on all sides.  This position inhibited their view of what 
lay before them; however, it protected them from the harsh winds that would have 
caused travel to become a nightmare, instead of just uncomfortable.  Aragorn 
knew that he could trust the scouts to bring any warning of a waiting ambush, so 
he was not terribly worried about not being able to see past the tall hills.

Now, however, Aragorn found the hills beginning to thin out, and he realized 
they must be nearing the level plains directly in front of the city.  This meant 
that they were actually closer to the city than he had expected.  This was 
welcome news; although he knew that it was this part of the journey that would 
be the most difficult, for once they left the tall hills behind, they would have 
no protection against the driving rain.

He wondered how Legolas fared in this weather, and his hand unconsciously 
tightened around the bow he still held in his left hand.  The elf should be 
nearing the city by now if he hadn’t run into any trouble along the way.  
Aragorn quickly shoved this line of thought to the back of his mind.  He 
reminded himself that Legolas was no child wandering lost in the wilderness.   
The elf knew perfectly well how to take care of himself! Even without his bow, 
Legolas was hardly defenseless.  Aragorn had seen the elf defend himself using 
no weapon but that of his body, and Legolas also had his sharp senses to warn 
him of any possible threat long before it reached him.

Despite these thoughts, Aragorn could not keep a worried frown from his face.  
If Legolas could make the mistake of leaving his bow behind, what would keep him 
from making some other, more fatal mistake?

Aragorn sighed, once more brushing water from his face.  There was nothing he 
could do for his friend, and neither he nor Legolas gained anything from his 
worry.

At first, he had wanted to send someone out after the elf, perhaps even go 
himself, but he quickly realized it would be pointless.  Arwen was right; 
Legolas could very easily keep from being found if the elf wanted to.  Aragorn 
was perhaps the only one with enough skill to track him, but even he would have 
found it impossible in this rain, and besides, his place was here, with his men.

A muffled voice at his back drew his attention, and he turned slightly so that 
he could hear Gimli above the sound of the rain.  “I apologize, friend Gimli, 
but you will have to repeat yourself, for I was lost in thought.”

Aragorn could feel Gimli shrug slightly against his back.

“I do not like these mountains,” Gimli repeated grumpily.  “They are far too 
dark even when the sun is shining brightly, and on a day like this they appear 
positively evil!”

Aragorn glanced to his right where the mountains towered above the surrounding 
hills.  He found that he had to agree with Gimli, the mountains did look evil.  
The low rain clouds clung to the rocky slopes, casting the mountain in a dark 
haze.  Shadows seemed to cling to every part of them, as they loomed high above 
the army’s head.

“I thought you liked mountains, Gimli.” Aragorn said lightly, pulling his eyes 
away from the dark slopes.  “At least I would hope so, seeing as you live in 
one.  Unless, of course, you have decided to give up the mountains and go live 
with Legolas in the woods.”

Gimli grunted loudly and decided to ignore Aragorn’s last comment.  “Just 
because I live in ONE Mountain, doesn’t mean I like them all!  I’ll have you 
know that the Lonely Mountain is much nicer than this dark pile of rocks!”

“So say you,” Aragorn shot back, “but I have heard many tales of your mountain, 
and most of them are not bright and cheery.”

“Tales told by elves, more likely than not,” Gimli snorted.  “They know nothing 
about our mountain and I would think that you would know better than to listen 
to every little thing you hear from them!”

Aragorn chuckled softly, the sound lost to the storm.  “So you would say that 
the elves judge the Lonely Mountain because they do not know enough about it?”

“Definitely,” Gimli responded emphatically.

“And what do we truly know about these mountains?”  Aragorn asked quickly.  
“Except that evil lies in wait somewhere deep in their depths.”

“Isn’t that enough?”  Gimli growled deeply.

“I intend upon learning more,” Aragorn stated, his voice becoming low and quiet. 
 “Especially since I have a strong feeling that it is within these mountains 
that our destination finally lies.”

Gimli grunted once more and cast a silent and apprehensive look towards the 
towering peaks of the Ered Nimrais.  “I thought we were going to remain in 
Calembel and let Malek come to us.”

“That is the original plan,” Aragorn replied, “but as long as we remain in the 
city, we will be playing on Malek’s battlefield with his rules.  Eventually, we 
will need to take our own battle to him, driving him from his hole and 
destroying him.”

“That is the part that I like,” Gimli said excitedly, running his hand over the 
shaft of his axe.  “When do we intend to do that?”

“First, we must learn more about him, such as the number of orcs he has managed 
to gather to himself.   Also, where exactly it is that he is hiding in that 
‘pile of rocks’ as you called it.”

“And how do we find that out?” Gimli asked curiously.

“Gandalf and I have discussed this a little, but now is not the time to speak of 
it.  We must wait until we reach the city and can all gather together to 
formulate our plans.”

“You are beginning to sound like Gandalf!” Gimli grumbled loudly.  “I shall 
wait, but I hope that you have come up with better plans then I myself have been 
able too.”

Aragorn had no reply to this, so he remained silent, peering ahead into the 
storm and trying to ignore his cold and wet state.  Gimli continued to shift 
uncomfortably at his back, and every now and then Aragorn heard the dwarf 
muttering to himself, the majority of it sounding like curses.  Aragorn did not 
know whether Gimli was cursing the weather or something else, although he had a 
sneaking suspicion of what was bothering him.  Gimli didn’t even seem to be 
noticing the rain that ran in virtual streams down his rough face and into his 
long beard.  He kept shifting and peering around Aragorn, as if in search of 
something, and his muttering was growing louder.

“Legolas will be fine, Gimli,” Aragorn said gently, after putting up with the 
dwarf’s restlessness for several more minutes.  “He knows how to take care of 
himself.”  This was exactly what he had been attempting to tell himself all 
morning, but he found that saying it aloud seemed to make him feel a little more 
like believing it.

“He’d better be fine,” Gimli mumbled, “so I can kill him when he returns!”

Aragorn was about to respond to this when Roheryn stepped from the sheltering 
hills onto the long plain leading up to the city.  Without the high hills as 
protection, the full force of the storm hit him like a sharp blow, knocking all 
air from his lungs.  He lowered his head against the wind and driving rain and 
pushed Roheryn into a faster walk.  Behind him, the rest of the army also picked 
up their pace.

“Just remember what I said about finding the right time and place,” he told the 
dwarf sternly after he had managed to regain his breath. “He will be expecting 
us to confront him.”

“Yes,” Gimli said against his back, and then the dwarf surprisingly began to 
chuckle. “I think you are right. We shouldn’t say one word to him until later! 
Let him stew awhile!”

Aragorn thought about this for a while, then shook his head. “I am not sure that 
will work.”

“Oh, it will work,” Gimli replied, a note of cunning in his voice.

Aragorn merely shrugged, and several long minutes of silence followed until a 
small voice at his side drew Aragorn’s attention.

“Are we almost there yet?”  Pippin asked through chattering teeth, looking up at 
Aragorn with a hopeful expression.  The four hobbits, along with Gandalf and 
Arwen had been riding a few lengths behind Roheryn, but now they moved up 
alongside him.  Faramir was riding back near the end of the army.

Aragorn smiled down at the hobbit and shook his head.  “Only a few more hours, 
my small friend, and then you will be warm and dry.  I promise.”

“I don’t think I will ever be dry again,” Merry piped in from the other side of 
Aragorn, “let alone warm!  This weather is sinking into my very bones.”

“I am sure that once you are seated in front of a roaring fire, drinking ale and 
eating a fine meal, you will change your mind,” Gimli stated from behind 
Aragorn.

“A fine meal,” Sam said somewhat dreamily from the other side of Merry.  “Now 
won’t that be nice, Mr. Frodo.  No more of this travel rations we have been 
forced to choke down this last week, no sireee.

“A nice portion of roast with baked potatoes sounds nice,” Frodo said wistfully. 
 “Do you think they’ll have something like that?”

“Sure, Mr. Frodo,” Sam answered jovially, despite the rain pounding against his 
small head.  “And if they don’t, I will find the kitchen and make you up 
something nice myself.  I know of a really good recipe for stew that I have been 
dying to try out.”

“Does it have potatoes and carrots in it?” Pippin called out excitedly.

“And little green beans and celery?” Merry added.

“You can’t forget meat!” Frodo called out.  “Will it have soft, juicy meat in 
it, Sam?”

“Of course,” Sam answered all of them, “but what makes it really special is the 
mushrooms!”

“Mushrooms!” the other three exclaimed, Merry actually licking his lips.

Aragorn exchanged an amused look with Arwen.  The hobbits seemed to have 
completely forgotten about everything around them, including the driving rain.  
Pippin’s hood had even slipped from his head, yet the hobbit seemed completely 
unaware as he listened hungrily to Sam describing his stew.

“…And then the old Gaffer discovered a whole new way to roast them and collect 
the juice afterward to use….”

“Can we stop talking about food,” Gimli interrupted grumpily.  “I will remind 
you that some of us didn’t get breakfast this morning!”

“That was your own fault,” Merry pointed out seriously.  “You weren’t hungry, 
remember?”

Gimli muttered something beneath his breath, and the hobbits prepared to 
continue their discussion, but something caught Pippin’s eye.

“Hey, Aragorn,” the hobbit called out, “is that the Ciril River up ahead.”

Aragorn turned to peer through the rain in the direction the hobbit was 
pointing.  He could barely make out the thin silver line of a river winding 
lazily to the left of where they marched.

“No,” he answered the hobbit.  “This is one of several smaller rivers that run 
from the mountains; the river Ciril is much larger.”

“Oh,” the hobbit answered.  “How do the rivers get past the mountains?”

“They flow right through them,” Aragorn answered.  “Through underground tunnels 
or passageways.”

“Oh,” the hobbit repeated, looking away from the river and apparently losing 
interest.

“I think the rain may be dying down a bit,” Sam commented hopefully, looking up 
into the sky.

“Perhaps,” Arwen said lightly from the other side of the hobbits, “but whatever 
respite we may have will be brief.  This weather will continue all day, and the 
night promises to be starless and wet.”

“This may work in our favor, or against us,” Aragorn sighed.  “If Malek decides 
to attack us tonight, he will have the cover of complete darkness in his favor. 
 Without the light of the sky to aid us, we will have to depend upon the fire 
pits along the wall, and they may be hard to light with all this moisture.”

“My, aren’t we all full of light and cheer this morning,” Sam said 
sarcastically.

Aragorn smiled slightly at him.  “There is also the chance that Malek will 
decide not to venture an attack in this weather.  We can always hope.”

“I would not count on this.” Gandalf spoke up quietly for the first time.  
“Malek does not strike me as a patient creature.  He will wish to begin his 
little game as soon as possible.  Such a little thing as rain will not keep him 
from us.  But until such a time, we can only wait and see.”

“I hate waiting,” Frodo mumbled quietly, unknowingly speaking aloud the thoughts 
of all the others.

*********

‘Wait…wait….just a little closer,’ Legolas repeated over and over silently in 
his mind.  He knelt quietly in the rain, listening to the approaching footsteps. 
 He tried to guess the nature of his attackers, as well as how many he would be 
forced to face.

He knew it was not orcs creeping up on him, for he would have smelled the foul 
creatures long before they managed to get this close.  Nor could orcs be as 
stealthy and quiet as this.  He guessed that it was men he was dealing with.  
Most likely some bandits who had come to loot whatever they might from the 
destroyed town, and had found him and thought him easy prey.

He could not easily guess how many were behind him, the sound of the rain 
muffling the sound of their footsteps, but he knew there were enough to give him 
a fight.

Legolas continued to kneel silently, outwardly appearing completely unaware of 
anything out of the ordinary.  Shielded by his body, his right hand gripped the 
hilt of one of his knives, then slowly and quietly drew it from its sheath.  His 
body appeared relaxed and unconcerned, yet every muscle was tense and ready to 
spring into action.  He felt a familiar fire burning in his veins, along with 
the expectant anticipation he always got before a battle.

Behind him, the footsteps paused briefly, and then one continued forward alone.

‘They are sending one of their member to sneak up behind me and undoubtedly 
knock me senseless,’ Legolas smiled at the tactic.  ‘Just a little bit closer…’

The footsteps paused almost directly behind him. There was a brief moment of 
complete silence but for the rain, and then Legolas was moving.

Fast as lightning, he flung himself upright and to the side, twisting neatly and 
gracefully away from where he had previously been kneeling.  His timing was 
perfect, for just as he moved, the cloaked figure behind him began to swing 
downward with a heavy club.

The man let out a startled yell as his prey was suddenly gone from beneath his 
blow.   He stumbled forward, off balance, and Legolas never gave him a chance to 
gain his feet.  Swinging back in as fast as he had dodged, he slammed his elbow 
into the back of the unsuspecting man’s neck.  The cloaked figure dropped like a 
stone, face forward into the mud, where he lay unmoving.

Legolas did not stick around to watch the fall.  Once more, he was already 
moving.  He spun and leapt in the direction he had heard the other footfalls, 
his knife extended.

A half a dozen men in light armor and holding short swords stood in a half 
circle in front of him, their eyes just beginning to widen in shock.  Legolas 
did not give them a chance to recover.  He used his slight frame to knock the 
nearest man off balance, then grabbed his arm and swung him into the companion 
standing next to him.  Both went down in the mud in a tangled heap of arms and 
legs.

With a yell, the next man attacked, leaping over his fallen companions and 
rushing toward Legolas with sword arm raised.  Legolas watched him calmly, then 
almost lazily swept up his own knife to parry the blow as he sidestepped 
gracefully, the man’s momentum sending him careening past to slam painfully 
against a partially collapsed wall.  The man slid to the ground with a groan, 
blood pouring from his broken nose.

‘Four down and three to go,’ Legolas thought brightly, facing the last three 
standing members of his attackers. 

The last three men were being much more careful, having seen the ease with which 
Legolas had dealt with their companions.  They were not rushing mindlessly to 
attack, but were spreading out, attempting to flank him, and giving the other 
members of their party a chance to regain their feet.

Already, the two Legolas had first knocked into the mud were struggling to their 
feet, and Legolas knew that if he waited for them all to flank him and attack at 
once, he would have a much harder fight.

Instead of waiting, he struck out, leaping forward and slashing at one attacker 
with his knife.  The man leapt back, swinging his own sword outward.  Legolas 
had been hoping for the move.  He ducked beneath the blade and grabbed the man’s 
outstretched arm, twisting it hard and causing the man to drop his blade with a 
gasp.  The elf’s other hand moved up lightning quick as he reversed his knife 
and slammed the hilt against the man’s temple.  This one fell as lifelessly as 
Legolas’s first victim had only moments earlier.

Legolas knew he didn’t have much time.  The two he had knocked down had regained 
their feet, and now four men rushed toward him, hoping to overcome him by 
attacking all at once.

Legolas scooped up the fallen sword of the man at his feet and braced himself to 
meet their rush, sword held in one hand, long knife in the other.  They met in a 
loud clash of steel and flying sparks, Legolas’ sword arm a blur of movement 
that seemed to parry each blow the last second before it reached him.  The men 
broke up briefly, completely encircling him before rushing back in for the 
attack.

Legolas had an important advantage, however.  He was light-footed and graceful 
on the wet and slippery ground, where as the men continued to slip and slide in 
the mud.  Legolas pressed this advantage, pushing his attack every time one of 
them slipped or lost their balance.

He leapt forward and kneed one man sharply in the groin.  His victim doubled 
over in pain, his sword arm dropping limply to his side, but before Legolas 
could finish the job the next man attacked from behind.  Legolas ducked, then 
dropped completely to the ground and swept his feet out in an arc that caught 
his attacker just behind his knees, toppling him forward into the mud.

Legolas leapt up and danced away, freeing himself from the circle of attackers. 
 He moved swiftly over to a section of wall that remained standing, placing his 
back in the corner and forcing his attackers to come at him from only two 
directions.

They hesitated, obviously considering the best way to get at him.  Legolas used 
the small break to catch his breath, and he was just about to step forward and 
force the confrontation once more when…

Thunk…

Legolas jerked away from the spot where an arrow had embedded itself deeply in 
the wood a few inches from his head.  He cursed softly at this new and unwelcome 
development.  He glanced briefly past the men flanking him, and wondered if he 
hadn’t just maneuvered himself into a death trap.  All the men had to do now was 
keep him in the corner until their archer managed to pin him with an arrow.  
Then it would all be over.

He glanced in the direction the arrow had come from and saw a small figure 
standing on a pile of rubble a few yards off, fumbling to fit yet another arrow 
to the string.  ‘Well at least it isn’t a very competent archer,’ Legolas 
thought wryly, ‘if he managed to miss me standing that close.’  This thought did 
little to comfort him.  Competent archer or not, it would only be a matter of 
time before one of the arrows struck home.

The men flanking him seemed to have come to the same conclusion.  They no longer 
pressed their attack, but merely formed a half circle, holding him captive in 
his little corner until their archer could finish the job.

Legolas cursed once more, then glanced up, a slow idea forming.

He dodged to the side as yet another arrow smashed into the wood near where he 
stood.  The wall was obviously the remains of what used to be a long hallway.  
To his right, the wall only ran a couple of feet before it collapsed into 
rumble; but on his left, the majority of it was left standing, running for 
several yards, clear up to the base of the pile of rocks upon which the archer 
now stood.

Without a second thought, Legolas leapt upward, using the same move he had used 
several weeks earlier to escape the band of orcs.  He lightly caught the rim of 
the wall and pulled himself up, praying the weak structure would be able to hold 
even his light weight.  The four men let out a yell and leapt forward, but they 
were once again too slow.  Legolas raced along the top of the wall, feeling it 
shift and groan beneath him.  However, he moved so swiftly, and his steps were 
so light that it did nothing more than complain slightly.

The archer was just beginning to place a third arrow to the string, and he 
looked up startled, just as Legolas launched himself from the end of the wall.  
The two went down hard, a high yell coming from his victim as Legolas rolled on 
top of him.  He drew back a fist, intent upon knocking the hapless man 
unconscious, but he froze when he got his first glimpse of the archer.

Dirty blond hair fell recklessly around a small face that looked up at him from 
large, terrified, green eyes.  Legolas realized with shock that he was sitting 
on the chest of a boy who could be no older than ten years.  He had no time to 
ponder this, for he could already hear the sound of the other men racing toward 
him.

He jumped to his feet, yanking the bow from the boy’s limp hands before flipping 
him unceremoniously onto his belly and grabbing the quiver of arrows from his 
back.  He jumped away, throwing off the hood of his cloak to free his vision and 
spinning to meet the approaching men, an arrow already notched to the bow.  He 
only took a second to find his target, and then he lifted the bow and shot off 
four arrows in quick succession.

The four men running towards him skidded to a halt, their mouths dropping open 
as four arrows hit the ground inches in front of them.  A gasp came from behind 
Legolas, but he ignored it, stringing yet another arrow in his bow and pointing 
it at the four men.

“Don’t move,” he ordered quietly, “or the next ones won’t miss.”

The four men stood gaping at him, weapons fallen limply at their sides, eyes 
wide in wonder.

“Drop your weapons,” Legolas commanded, still holding the arrow taught against 
the bowstring.  The weapon felt small and strange in his hand compared to his 
long bow, but he still held it expertly, not doubting that he could kill the 
four men before they had taken five steps.

The men looked doubtfully at him, then behind him, obviously trying to figure 
out what to do next.  Legolas could see their thoughts mirrored in their faces. 
 They didn’t want to give up the fight, but they somehow knew they would die if 
they didn’t obey him.  He heard the shifting behind him as the boy rose to his 
feet, his breath coming out in harsh gasps.

“The order not to move goes for you as well, boy,” Legolas said sternly without 
even turning his head.  He heard another gasp, then the shifting stopped as the 
boy stood perfectly still.

Legolas kept his gaze and attention focused on the four men before him.  “I said 
drop your weapons,” he said once more, a dangerous note entering his voice.  “I 
will not ask you again.”

Legolas stared at the men as they continued to shift restlessly, eyeing one 
another.  He tensed, preparing to release the arrow…

“Stop!”  A loud voice called out desperately.  “Please stop!  Ralin, Talor, 
Korin, Matz, do as he says!  Drop your weapons!”

Legolas jerked slightly at this new voice. He turned his head slightly, trying 
to get sight of the owner of the voice without taking his eyes off the four men 
before him.

It did not take him long to find the new visitor.  The man stood upon a small 
pile of rocks, almost directly to the right of Legolas and only a few yards 
away.  He was tall and well built, with sandy blond hair and a moustache.  He 
wore the same armor as the men that had attacked Legolas and a short sword hung 
from his belt.  He held his arms out and away from his body in a sign of 
surrender, as he watched Legolas with intense brown eyes.

Legolas did not like this situation one bit!  He was now surrounded on three 
different sides, and he was finding it difficult to watch everyone at once.  To 
make matter worse, the rain continued to pound down upon him, and without his 
hood for protection the water ran down his face and into his eyes, blurring his 
vision.  Yet with no free hands, he could merely squint and try to ignore it.  
He backed up a few steps, shifting his body slightly so that he could focus his 
attention on one party, while still being able to watch the other from the 
corner of his eye.  He could still sense the boy behind and slightly to the 
right of him, yet he decided he would have to count the child as a lesser danger 
and ignore him for the time being.

"Please," the man called out once more, hands still spread out from his body.  
"We mean you no harm!"

"You have a funny way of showing it," Legolas answered dryly, still keeping most 
of his attention upon the four men directly in front of him.  They had dropped 
their weapons on the new arrival’s command, but Legolas was not about to let his 
guard down.

"Yes," the man replied seriously.  "And for that I must apologize.  This must be 
a big misunderstanding, for my men would never have attacked a High One 
knowingly."

Legolas's startled gaze flew back to the tall man once more.  It had been a long 
time since he had heard the honorary title of respect for the elves.

"Who are you," he demanded evenly, "and what do you know of my people?"

"I am Captain Kenson Brantz," the man replied immediately.  "My men and I are 
escorts for the boats that carry goods and supplies down the river."

"Merchant guards?" Legolas interjected sharply.

The man bowed, hands still outstretched.  "We are known by many names, my lord. 
 Merchant guards is only one of them.  As to what I know of your people…, 
unfortunately very little.  I have had the honor of dealing with a few of the 
High Ones during my work, but not very often, for your kind does not trade with 
man much."

"Why did your men attack me?" Legolas asked, deciding to cut directly to the 
point.  He still held the bow high and ready and he had not relaxed his stance 
an inch.

"My men did not know who you were," the Captain replied plainly, as if that 
explained everything.  “We were riding upstream toward Calembel, returning from 
one of our trade missions, when we saw the ruins of the town.  This place was 
still standing only two months ago when we first left Calembel, and from the 
looks of it, the damage was done recently."

The man paused, eyeing Legolas carefully for anything he might give away.  
Legolas carefully kept his face blank as he waited for the man to continue.

"When we reached the edge of town, I knew that something dreadful must have 
happened.  I split up my men and sent them in search of any clue as to what had 
happened here.  I can only guess that they found you and tried to take matters 
into their own hands."

"It is as the captain has said," one of the four men broke in suddenly.  "We had 
no idea who you were.  We just saw you kneeling there and we didn't know what to 
think.  We were all sort of spooked, as you might understand, and decided the 
easiest thing to do would be to knock you out and take you to the captain for 
questioning.  We were not expecting you to....resist....quite so forcefully."

"A wise soldier always expects the unexpected," Legolas stated firmly.

"A lesson well taught, my lord," Kenson replied with a hint of amusement.  He 
looked to where his four men stood frozen in front of Legolas, and then his eyes 
traveled to the three other men still lying motionless in the mud.  He shook his 
head slightly, "and one I expect they will not be forgetting anytime soon!  But 
I still can only beg for your forgiveness, and perhaps your understanding.  My 
men had no way of knowing if you may have played a part in this," he motioned to 
the burned out houses around them.

"And what do you think now?" Legolas asked pointedly.

"That you could have had nothing to do with it," Kenson replied without 
hesitation.  "I may not know much of the High Ones, but I do know that."

Legolas studied the man closely, searching for any hint of falsehood.  He had a 
strong feeling that Kenson was telling the truth.  For some odd reason, the 
Captain reminded Legolas of Faramir, and he found it impossible to dislike him. 
 His senses had never lead him wrong before, so he decided to trust them once 
more.

The four men let out audible sighs of relief when he lowered the bow.  The 
captain also seemed to relax, lowering his arms to his side, but still keeping 
his hand far from his sword hilt.

"You may see to your companions now," Legolas said lightly, trying to put them 
more at ease.  Captain Kenson nodded at his men, and they turned to go and see 
to their fallen comrades.

Legolas turned, his attention going for the first time to the boy who had stood 
silent and still behind him.  He found the child staring open mouthed at him, 
awe and curiosity filling his small face.

"And what part do you play in all this?" Legolas asked somewhat sternly.

The boy flushed and dropped his eyes, shifting uncomfortably.  "I am with them," 
he finally muttered softly.  "I heard the fighting and came to help.  I didn't 
know who you were either."  He lifted his eyes, meeting Legolas's gaze once 
more, his eyes shining with barely concealed excitement.

"He is my son," Captain Kenson said proudly, taking a few steps forward before 
stopping, obviously unsure of what to do or say next.

Legolas nodded, then turned back to the child.  "And what is your name?" he 
asked gently.

"Dar," the boy answered without hesitation.

"Well, Dar, if I give you your bow back, will you promise not to shoot at me any 
more," Legolas asked seriously, but with a hint of amusement in his voice.

The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded his head so hard that Legolas thought his 
neck would break.  He reached forward and took the proffered bow, still staring 
at Legolas in awe.

"You are quite handy with that thing," Legolas continued, as he reached down and 
retrieved his knife from where he had dropped it earlier.  He sheathed it 
carefully, still watching the boy.  "How old are you?" he asked.

"I'm nine," Dar answered proudly.  "I've been practicing for a long time."  The 
boy paused, and his eyes were practically dancing with curiosity.  "Are you 
really an elf?  I have heard all about them, but I have never seen one.  How 
fast can you shoot?  Can you teach me how to shoot like that?  Did it take you 
very long to learn?"

Legolas was slightly taken aback by the string of questions, but Kenson stepped 
forward and laid a hand on his son's shoulder, cutting off the line of 
questions.

"Yes, I am truly an elf.  My name is Legolas, and it probably took me a thousand 
years to learn to shoot like that."  Legolas smiled down at the boy’s complete 
look of disbelief, then he turned his gaze up to the Captain’s.  "You said that 
you and your men were headed to Calembel?" he questioned evenly.

Kenson nodded.  "Yes, my lord.  My men and I have been traveling the last two 
weeks, and we are anxious to be home."

"Did you see anything strange on your journey up the river?" Legolas continued 
to question him.

Kenson let out a grunt and looked about him at the destroyed village and his men 
who were just beginning to regain consciousness.  "Depends on what you consider 
strange," he answered wryly.

"Any large sets of tracks or prints that you could not explain?"

Kenson shook his head, studying Legolas closely.  "No," he said quietly, "though 
I must admit we were not looking very closely.  As I said before, we were just 
anxious to get home."

Legolas nodded, and peered up into the sky, trying to judge how much time had 
been lost to him.

"Do you know who, or what, did this?" Kenson asked, once more motioning to the 
ruined houses around him.

Legolas glanced at him and several seconds of silence passed before he nodded 
slowly.  "Orcs," he said simply in answer to the man's question.

Kenson let out a loud gasp and opened his mouth, then closed it again.  He 
looked about the ruins again, a sick expression crossing his face.  "The mayor 
at Calembel must be told of this immediately," he said quietly.  "There are 
other towns nearby who will need protection against the same thing happening to 
them."

"I am afraid that Calembel will need to be seeing to its own protection very 
shortly," Legolas answered smoothly.

Captain Kenson shook his head.  "But Calembel is a large city, with high walls. 
 There would need to be hundreds of orcs to dare an attack on it."

Legolas merely looked at him, and a light of understanding began to dawn in the 
captain's eyes.

"I ride as a scout for the army of Minas Tirith that rides to Calembel even as 
we speak," Legolas explained gently. "I am supposed to meet them before the 
city, and I am afraid I have already wasted too much time here."

Kenson was just beginning to realize the seriousness of the situation, and he 
met Legolas's gaze without hesitation.  "I ask, my lord, that you allow my men 
and I to ride with you to the city."

Legolas nodded slowly.  "How many men do you have?"

"There are three more who wait with the horses at the edge of town. Besides 
them, there is just us." he motioned to the seven men behind them, all of whom 
were on their feet now, even if a few of them wobbled slightly.

Legolas nodded again.  "If you can keep up, you may ride with me.  But I warn 
you that I will be going swiftly."

Kenson was quick to assure him that they would be able to keep up.  He sent two 
men to go and fetch the others, and then he looked around him, obviously 
confused.  "Will you be needing a horse, my lord?" he asked carefully.

Legolas shook his head and laughed.  "No, I brought my own mount."  He whistled 
sharply, and a few minutes later Shandarell galloped up, obviously displeased at 
having to enter the ruined town.  He snorted and thrust his head forcefully 
against Legolas's chest, almost knocking him down.

"Let's get started," Legolas said, easily swinging onto the horse’s back.  "We 
have a long ride ahead of us."

*******

The rain was starting to lessen two hours later, as Legolas, followed by the 
captain and his men, left the riverside and crossed toward the city.  They met 
the army on the flat plains before the south end of the city.

Legolas waited quietly on Shandarell's back as the army crossed the last few 
paces toward them.  He was beginning to feel slightly sick as he tried to 
prepare for the unavoidable meeting with Gimli and Aragorn.

He could see the dwarf, perched behind the king's back, and he knew the wet 
weather would not have helped to ease his friend’s temper.  He doubted this 
reunion would be very pretty.

Beside him, he heard Kenson hiss something.  Glancing to his right, he found the 
man staring at him in disbelief.  "The king!" the man whispered sharply.  "You 
did not tell me the army was led by the king!"

Legolas shrugged and turned back to watching Aragorn's approach.  He had much 
more serious things on his mind at the moment.

"This is more serious than I thought," Kenson muttered under his breath.

Aragorn raised his hand, ordering the army to stop; then urged Roheryn forward 
to meet Legolas.  The elf found himself growing tenser the closer they 
approached.  He fought desperately to keep calm, but his stomach was beginning 
to do flips inside his chest.  He shook his head and tried to force the feelings 
down, reminding himself firmly that he had faced armies of orcs before without 
getting this nervous.

Aragorn had reached him now, and Legolas tried to force his mind to the task at 
hand.  The king called out a greeting, and Legolas responded, risking a quick 
glance at Gimli.

The dwarf didn't look angry, but Legolas knew that did not necessarily mean 
anything.  He yanked his attention back to Aragorn, just as the king reached out 
his arm toward him.  Legolas realized with a flush that Aragorn held his bow and 
quiver in his hand.

He took the weapons, waiting for the reprimand and lecture he was sure was 
coming next, but Aragorn only turned his gaze toward the others riding with him. 
 "I take it your scouting mission went well?" the king asked calmly, not a hint 
of reprimand in his voice.

"Fine," Legolas answered, darting his eyes back to Gimli.  The dwarf still did 
not look angry; in fact, he smiled at Legolas!

Warning bells began to go off in Legolas's head, and it took an effort to draw 
his eyes back to Aragorn, as the man spoke to him once more.

"Are you going to introduce us to your companions?" Aragorn asked, his voice 
still completely quiet and calm.

Legolas could only nod dumbly, wondering what his two friends were up to.  He 
had expected them to tear into him the minute they saw him, but instead, they 
were acting as if nothing had happened at all!

"This is Captain Kenson and his men.  We met along the river."  He decided it 
was best not to bring up the circumstances they had met under, and Kenson looked 
relieved that he hadn't.  The captain bowed low to Aragorn; quite a feat, since 
he was still mounted.

"My lord," Kenson said lightly, his voice filled with respect.  "I and my men 
are completely at your service, and you may direct us however you please."

Aragorn smiled at the man, raising an eyebrow at Legolas, who was still sitting 
tensely to the side.  "Do you know what it is that we face?" he asked plainly, 
and Kenson nodded.

"Legolas has told me a little, although I still seem to be facing surprises 
every time I turn around."  Kenson gave Legolas a sharp look, but the elf was 
paying him no mind.

Aragorn laughed! He actually laughed, and Legolas's eyes narrowed.  "You and 
your men will be welcome.  You may not be many, but I assure you that every 
helping hand will be needed."

"Aragorn," Gimli spoke up for the first time, and Legolas jumped slightly at the 
sound, but the dwarf was not even looking at him.  "From the looks of this wall, 
I fear we have much work ahead of us this afternoon.  Perhaps we should be 
going, instead of sitting here in the rain chatting."

Kenson stared at the dwarf, undoubtedly wondering who he was to be able to speak 
to the king in such a manner.

"You are right, my friend, as usual!  Let us be going then."  Aragorn turned 
Roheryn, signaling the army forward once more.

Legolas just sat on Shandarell and watched them go until Aragorn called to him. 
 With a jerk, he kicked Shandarell after them, a stunned look on his face.  
Gimli had not said one word to him!

The rain seemed to echo Legolas's own mood, as he joined his friends and rode 
through the gates into the city of Calembel.

******

"They have reached the city, my lord," the orc captain reported, groveling at 
the feet of Malek.

Malek looked down at him, an evil smile filling his face.  He considered killing 
the orc captain in celebration.  Whenever he got excited the blood lust would 
fill him, and he was very excited at the moment.  All his plans were falling 
into place beautifully.

As if sensing his danger, the orc at his feet began to twist and moan.  Malek 
watched him for a few seconds before he reached out with a clawed foot and 
roughly pushed the orc away.  He certainly hoped that the members of this 
so-called 'fellowship' would show more bravery when they were placed before him. 
It would make breaking and killing them so much more fun if they resisted.

He flicked his tongue out in anticipation of that moment, and then turned to his 
captains.  "Do you understand all your orders?" he demanded, and they quickly 
nodded. He knew that they did not understand, but they would obey, and that was 
all that mattered.

He looked toward the distant opening of the cave to the outside world and 
growled deep in his throat.

"Soon," he whispered to himself.  "Very soon!"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Another chapter mostly devised while sitting in a hotel room. Only this time, 
the ice machine was broken. **pouts grumpily** It seems that this time my muse 
decided to travel with me, the only reason I got this chapter out as soon as I 
did! **grinz** Yeah. Now, I have a pile of homework that I am supposed to do 
this spring break and I haven’t even started on it yet. (ooops)

More frustration. They were supposed to have reached Calembel two chapters ago, 
if everything had gone according to plan. As I said before, I had a change in 
direction, so I needed to put this chapter in. I hope you all enjoyed it.

They are finally in Calembel, and the fighting is about to start. You will also 
learn exactly what Aragorn and Gandalf have discussed, and have the long awaited 
confrontation between Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas! Stay tuned for more!

-----------------------------------------------------------


Chapter 13   Kings and Fools


Merton Fallow Candywell the III was not happy. Nor was he particularly dry, a 
fact that related directly to his sour disposition. He stood in the middle of 
the main street leading to the southern gate of the city, completely ignoring 
the traffic that was forced to swerve around him on the narrow pathway. Luckily, 
the rain had driven most people indoors and the streets were fairly empty.

Four servants stood shivering and soaked on each side of him, holding a long 
piece of canvas over his head in a vain attempt to keep the rain off him. Two 
men in rich, flowing robes stood to his right, also huddled beneath the small 
protection of the canvas.

Merton ground his teeth as a gust of wind drove a blast of rain beneath the 
canvas, dampening his silk cloak and tunic further. He cursed and turned to 
glare at one of the servants, as if his wet condition was the man’s fault. The 
unlucky man jumped slightly and almost lost his wet grip on the edge of the 
canvas. Merton turned his disgusted gaze back toward the city gate, his foot 
tapping impatiently upon the stone of the road.

After another several seconds of wet misery had passed, he turned to the two men 
standing beside him beneath the long canvas. “I thought you said they were 
coming,” he snapped impatiently to the first man.

The man’s only response to Merton’s obvious anger was a slight bow of the head. 
“The lookouts upon the wall spotted their approach. They will be here shortly.”

“They had better be!” he muttered quietly, his voice a veiled threat that the 
other man merely ignored.

“Patience, my lord,” the second man joined in, eyeing Merton critically. “It 
would not do to have the king see you so obviously upset. You must at least act 
as if you are glad to see him.”

“I could ACT a lot better if I were warm and dry and in my own home!” Merton 
bellowed. He was speaking to perhaps the only two people in the city who did not 
fear and avoid him whenever possible. They were his top business advisors and 
the only reason that Merton’s merchant business continued to prosper and bring 
in great wealth. Merton was well aware of this fact, as were the two men.

They were both greedy and devious, much like the man they worked for. They would 
do anything to make a profit, knowing that any trouble they managed to get into, 
Merton would be there to bail them out of it. A smart person, upon seeing them 
walking down the street, would do well to keep a tight grip upon their money 
pouch.

“It would be considered an insult if you did not bother to greet such an 
important guest at the gate,” the first man spoke quietly, in a soothing voice. 
“You must be very careful, my lord. I have heard much about this new king, and I 
have come to the conclusion that he is either very lucky or very powerful. Until 
we know which, I would advise that we proceed with caution concerning him. If we 
play our parts right, this visit may be very profitable for us!” The two men 
exchanged greedy looks, and Merton grunted.

"We must stick to the plan, my lord," the second man broke in once more. “It 
would be best to greet the king warmly, make him feel welcome, serve him that 
grand feast you are preparing, assure him that all is well within the city and 
that we have everything under control, and then send him on his way! With any 
luck, he will be gone from the city by this time tomorrow.”

“And if he is not?” Merton shot back at them.

“Then we simply find other ways to profit from his visit.” The greedy look was 
passed between the two men once more.

Merton turned away from the two, and then stiffened as he caught sight of the 
object of his present misery riding through the gates. He immediately 
straightened, pulling his great girth up as tall as he could and smoothing a 
hand down the front of his tunic. Next to him, he sensed his two advisors 
shifting restlessly.

Merton watched as the main army stopped within the high shelter of the walls, 
and a small group broke off from the rest and began riding up the street toward 
him. There were about a dozen of them, but Merton only had eyes for the man who 
rode at their head upon a tall white horse. He knew without a doubt that this 
was the king. How he knew, he could not exactly say, for the man wore no 
distinguishing clothes nor did he wear a crown or any other insignia of his 
rank. His clothes were that of a man used to hard travel and battle, made of 
fine material but still plain and unadorned. A black cloak hung limply down his 
back, cast far enough back to reveal the sword hanging from his hip. In all, 
Merton had seen some of the lesser merchants of his city dress in a more 
distinguished fashion.

Yet despite all this, there was something about the way the man held himself 
that left no doubt in Merton's mind who he was. He sat tall and proud upon his 
horse, and an almost tangible sense of nobility and grace surrounded him. His 
posture did not look forced or put on like Merton's own upright frame. Instead, 
it looked natural, as if this was the way the man was used to carrying himself.

As the small group of horsemen drew closer, Merton found himself gripping his 
hands together in front of him, rubbing his right thumb over his left in a 
gesture he always used when nervous. He forced his hands down at his side and 
waited as the company closed the remaining distance to him, his eyes never 
leaving the king.

When the party of riders at last reached them, the king swung gracefully from 
his mount and closed the last few steps on foot. Merton was aware of the others 
dismounting as well, but he could not tear his eyes from the man who came and 
stood before him. His own eyes met hazel ones and he shivered at the power and 
strength he saw radiated there. He bowed low to the king; his advisor's 
mirroring him.

"My lord," he said quietly, trying to make his voice light and unconcerned. 
"Welcome to Calembel. I am Merton Fallow Candywell the III, the Mayor of this 
city and your humble servant."

His advisors were the ones who had suggested he use this greeting, and though 
the words stung in his throat, they sounded oddly fitting when presented to the 
tall man standing before him. His advisors had also suggested that he use his 
full title when introducing himself. They seemed to think this would impress the 
king, but Merton suddenly realized it would take something much greater than a 
simple name to impress this man.

He straightened from his bow, reluctantly meeting the king's piercing gaze once 
more. Aragorn merely nodded at him, his eyes flickering towards the two men at 
Merton's side. Merton hastened to make the introductions while forcing his voice 
to remain steady.

"These are my advisors," Merton motioned to the two men. "Fanchon, son of 
Domorin and Telfor, son of Mandul."

Both men bowed once more as they were named, and as Fanchon straightened he 
addressed the king in an oily tone. "Calembel is greatly honored by your 
presence, my lord. I hope your stay will be a long and comfortable one."

Merton inwardly groaned and shot the man a glare from the corner of his eye. Now 
that he had met King Aragorn, he desired all the more for the man to leave. A 
strange unsettled feeling seemed to have come over him and he did not like it at 
all.

"I thank you for your warm welcome," Aragorn spoke for the first time, and 
though his words were soft and kind, Merton flinched. The man held power even in 
his voice! "And now, I will introduce you to my companions."

For the first time, Merton looked past the king to his entourage, receiving yet 
another shock. It was all he could do not to let his mouth fall open in 
surprise. The king's company was made up of the oddest assortment of people that 
Merton had ever seen.

As Aragorn introduced each member, Merton smiled and bowed respectfully, hiding 
his surprise and confusion. He remembered hearing rumors that the king kept 
strange company, yet he had either ignored everything he had heard or dismissed 
it as nonsense. Now, however, he discovered that at least some of the rumors 
were true.

He swept his gaze over the company for a second time, trying to recall exactly 
what it was that he had heard about each of them.

Standing directly to the right of the king was the man introduced as Gandalf the 
White. Even without the introduction, Merton recognized the man to be a wizard, 
and a flash of fear raced through him. Little was known about wizards, and 
Merton was of the opinion that they were creatures to be feared and mistrusted. 
The fact that the king traveled in the company of one only added to Merton’s 
feelings of growing unease.

Gathered around the wizard were the four small forms that Merton had at first 
taken to be merely children, but who Aragorn had introduced as hobbits from a 
land called the Shire. Merton had never heard of hobbits before and he was 
vastly curious about the small creatures.

On the other side of Aragorn were two more strange beings, though not so strange 
that Merton had not heard of their kind before. The dwarf and elf stood side by 
side, and a more vastly different pair Merton had never seen before. In the 
manner of his race, the dwarf was short and stocky, rising little higher than 
the hobbits. A thick beard flowed down his chest, and a metal helm rested upon 
his head. Merton was not completely ignorant of the race of dwarves, having 
dealt with them often in the course of his trading; yet he had had little 
personal contact with any of them.

Beside the dwarf, the elf stood tall and fair, golden hair falling about slim 
shoulders, his body lean and fit. A bow and quiver of arrows hung from his back, 
and the hilt of two knives were visible at his waist. Even as Merton studied 
him, the elf raised his head and met his gaze. Light gray eyes returned his 
perusal, and Merton suddenly felt as if the elf could see right through him, 
into his mind. He shuddered and quickly looked away. Though he had always known 
of the existence of elves, he knew little more about that race than he did about 
hobbits.

Despite the great differences between the two, there was something about elf and 
dwarf that spoke of a close camaraderie, of long travels and bloody battles 
fought side by side. Merton could not completely understand what it was that 
gave him this impression. It seemed as if there was much about this group that 
served to confuse him, and he didn't like this one bit.

Perhaps the greatest shock of all was the dark-haired elven princess introduced 
as the king's betrothed. Merton had heard many rumors concerning the king's 
choice for a wife, but he had paid little attention to any of them. Now, he 
found himself totally infatuated with her. To say the elf princess was beautiful 
would be a vast understatement. Even with her hair soaked and lying flat against 
her face, there was no hiding her graceful features and delicate elegance.

The last member of the company seemed almost boring when compared to his vastly 
different companions. Yet Merton knew this to be false. Faramir, son of 
Denethor, was one of the most powerful men in all of Gondor, and one of the most 
respected when it came to prowess in battle.

Merton suddenly became aware of the silence, and he turned from his private 
musing to find that the king had finished with his introductions, and was now 
looking at him expectantly. For a moment Merton panicked, wondering what he 
should say next, but Telfor stepped forward and saved him from further 
embarrassment.

"My lord," the man addressed Aragorn. "I am sure that you and your men are weary 
from your travels. Quarters have been prepared for your soldiers, along with 
stables for your mounts. As for yourself and your companions, a grand feast has 
been prepared for you at the Mayor's home, as well as rooms were you may rest 
and refresh yourselves."

Aragorn nodded, shifting his feet and glancing about him. A small, but growing, 
crowd had gathered on the streets, watching the strange arrivals with confusion 
and curiosity. "I thank you for your offer, and I accept graciously to both the 
meal and the rooms, though I fear it will be some time ere we can rest." Aragorn 
turned to Faramir. "See that the army is prepared for tonight and then join us 
as soon as possible."

Faramir nodded, turned and mounted his horse and rode back towards the army.

Aragorn turned to Merton once more. "If you will lead the way, sir," he said, 
sweeping his arm out in the direction up the street. "I fear there is much we 
must discuss while we dine."

Merton nodded wordlessly and turned to lead the way to his house. He impatiently 
waved away the four servants holding the tarp over him. He knew this would leave 
him bare to the weather, but he decided that this would perhaps be best while 
the king himself was left unprotected. Aragorn fell in beside him, and the rest 
of the company followed closely after. Merton found himself struggling to keep 
up with Aragorn's long strides, and he was soon puffing and gasping in air, 
unaccustomed to the exercise. Aragorn noticed his struggles and slowed his pace 
slightly.

"I trust you received my message warning of the danger of an orc attack on the 
city."

Merton jumped slightly at the question, and shot the king a quick glance before 
clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, my lord, we received your message," he 
said nervously, his hands clasping together once more.

"I had expected to see work being done upon your walls in preparation for an 
attack," Aragorn said, his voice holding a note of disapproval. "They are sadly 
in disrepair and will not hold against any lasting siege."

"I wish no disrespect, lord, nor do I wish to question your word, but my men 
have seen nothing of these orcs you claim are massing for an attack. Perhaps 
small bands of renegade orcs have chosen to hide out in the mountains of Ered 
Nimrais, but they hardly offer a threat to the great city of Calambel. I fear 
you have wasted both your time and energy coming here." Merton waved a hand in 
dismissal at the end of his last comment, already looking before him towards the 
warmth and comfort of his home.

Aragorn slowed his pace further, eyeing the Mayor closely, and Merton soon found 
himself shifting uncomfortably under the man's intense stare. At last, Aragorn 
spoke. "I am afraid you are mistaken, Mayor. I believe that a force much bigger 
than a mere renegade band has gathered within the mountains. I am not even sure 
of the number of our enemies, but I do not doubt that they are many, and they 
are led by one whose evil knows no bounds."

Merton shrugged. "Even so, they would not dare attack Calembel. And if they 
should, I am sure that the guards of this city would be sufficient enough to 
take care of the problem. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with the 
affairs of Calembel."

"Calembel is a city within my realm and I have every right to trouble myself 
with its affairs." Aragorn's voice had grown soft, and there was an unmistakable 
firmness in his tone.

Merton winced slightly, wondering if he had perhaps gone a little too far. He 
had no wish to make the king angry with him.

"What would you say if I were to tell you that I expect an attack on this city 
this very night," Aragorn continued, his voice still soft and quiet.

Merton looked at him doubtfully, wondering if the king was playing some sort of 
joke at his expense. Aragorn looked back at him, his face completely serious.

Merton shrugged once more, his face showing his lack of concern. "I would say 
let them come and we will destroy them and leave their bodies as a warning to 
the others of their kind."

Aragorn merely looked at him, and then shook his head slowly. "If only it were 
that easy," he said sadly, his voice quiet and strangely distant. "If only..." 
he repeated, trailing off and saying no more as they continued their assent to 
the rich merchant's home.

*******

The Ered Nimrais loomed like a dark giant, its face thrust upward into the gray 
clouds. Nothing moved upon its rocky slopes, and all seemed completely silent 
and still. It seemed, almost, as if the Mountain was sleeping.

This, however, was nothing more than a sculpted mask set to hide the evil 
building and expanding deep within. Though the outside of the mountain looked 
completely calm and still, the inside was roiling with movement. Low grunts and 
exclamations in an evil tongue filled the caverns, as evil preparations were 
made and a malicious purpose was set.

*******

"That low down, overstuffed, pompous, bag of orc guts..." Gimli's voice trailed 
off in a string of very colorful dwarven curses. He was staring at the door 
through which Merton had just exited, and it looked as if he wanted to hurl his 
axe after the man. His face was bright red underneath his beard, and Legolas 
worried his friend was going to burst something.

Beside him, Faramir looked little better. His jaw was clenched and he gripped 
the hilt of his sword so tight that his knuckles had turned white.

Legolas himself was far from relaxed. Anger simmered hot and heavy and he was 
struggling valiantly to control it. The company had just finished holding 
council with Merton and his two advisors, and the meeting had not gone well. He 
felt his rage boiling hotter as he pictured the fat merchant and his two weasel 
advisors. He had to force his mind from replaying the events of the last hour, 
knowing it would only serve to infuriate him further.

Tenseness filled the room, and Legolas glanced from face to face, reading each 
member's reaction to what had just transpired.

The four hobbits looked troubled and uncomfortable, despite the grand feast they 
had just devoured. They kept glancing about them as if hoping someone would 
break the thick, uncomfortable silence that had settled after Gimli’s outburst.

Gandalf stood at the far end of the room, a distant and thoughtful expression on 
his face. He did not look overly distressed at what had happened, but every now 
and then he would turn to glance at the door, and Legolas’s sharp ears picked up 
the muttered word ‘fool.’

Arwen wore a slight frown, and she kept glancing at Aragorn, who was seated at 
her left.

Aragorn himself, surprisingly, was the only one in the room who appeared 
completely calm and unconcerned. He leaned back in his chair, his pipe clenched 
between his teeth, his eyes slightly closed; a picture of contented relaxation.

Both Gimli and Faramir were staring at Aragorn as if he had gone mad, but 
Legolas merely shook his head. He had known Aragorn for a long time, and he was 
not surprised at the man’s calm reaction to the situation. In fact, he would 
have been surprised at anything less. Aragorn had an unerring habit of taking 
bad situations and making them work for the best, and he rarely got excited over 
things he could not change.

“I do not understand how you can merely sit there after…after…” Faramir seemed 
at a complete loss as to how to finish his sentence, and he continued to stare 
at Aragorn in confusion.

Aragorn merely smiled slightly at him.

“I am not quite sure,” Merry spoke up quietly, “but I think that man insulted 
you, Aragorn.”

“Several times,” Faramir replied dryly, his voice laced with anger.

Aragorn shook his head slightly. “Nay,” he replied calmly. “In the face of a 
wise and cunning mayor, I would have taken Merton’s actions as an insult. But 
when dealing with a fool, it merely becomes a nuisance.”

“A simple nuisance it may seem to you, but the man had no call to speak to you 
with such disrespect. You are his king, and I would gladly take it upon myself 
to remind him of this fact, if you will but allow me.”

“Aye,” Gimli all but shouted. “And I will aid him in this task!”

"I must agree with them, Aragorn," Legolas spoke up for the first time. “The man 
practically called you a liar to your face! He must learn to speak with respect 
when addressing his king."

Aragorn continued to shake his head. “I may be a king, but you must remember, my 
friends, who I was before I became king. I am no stranger to others treating me 
with doubtful mistrust, for such was my life when I was a Ranger.”

“That may be, my lord,” Faramir interjected. “Yet a simple ranger you are no 
longer. You are king, and thus deserving of much more respect than you received 
this day."

“I agree,” Gimli spoke out once more. “You should allow us to hang this so 
called 'Mayor' by his ankles from the nearest tree until he gains a civil and 
respectful tongue.”

The hobbits looked at Gimli in horror, for the dwarf sounded completely serious 
in his threat.

Aragorn barked out a laugh. “And what would that accomplish, Gimli?” he asked 
the dwarf.

"I guarantee he would serve you without hesitation in the future,” the dwarf 
answered with a gleeful grin.

“Yes,” Aragorn answered. “And what type of service would it be?” At Gimli and 
Faramir’s confused look he continued. “Service born of fear and hatred is hardly 
trustworthy. I would prefer the grudging and doubtful service that is being 
offered now. Peace, my friends, for it is already late in the afternoon, and we 
have much to accomplish in preparation for the battle tonight."

Faramir and Gimli looked far from convinced, but they thankfully let the subject 
drop. Faramir rose gracefully and bowed to Aragorn, as if determined to show him 
the respect that Merton had lacked. "By your leave, lord. Kenson Brantz and his 
men volunteered to help repair parts of the North wall and I set them to the 
task with the help of a few of our own soldiers. I would go now, and see to 
their progress."

Aragorn nodded and also rose. "There is much for all of us to do. We will 
accomplish what we can before nightfall, and then stand ready for Malek’s 
attack.”

"Um, I have a question," Merry spoke up reluctantly, and all eyes turned to him.

“Speak, friend,” Aragorn urged gently when the hobbit hesitated. He sat back 
down in his chair, giving Merry his full attention.

“I was just wondering how we are supposed to fight Malek tonight,” the hobbit 
said quietly, then rushed on to explain himself. “I mean, we’re expecting him to 
attack with his orcs, right? What do we do when we have to face him? I thought 
he was impossible to kill at night?”

"Ahh," Gandalf spoke up for the first time. "Impossible to kill, my dear hobbit, 
but not impossible to defeat. You merely have to stay alive long enough to 
injure him so severely that he must retreat to heal himself.” The wizard's voice 
was calm, even cheerful.

"Oh. Is that all," Merry replied in a dazed voice. “And he is still after us, 
right? That means he will probably be hunting for at least one of us?”

"Do not worry, Merry," Aragorn said softly. "You will have no need to face Malek 
on your own. All of us will split into two groups. That way, if Malek wishes to 
attack one of us, he will have to face the entire group. I think that puts the 
odds decidedly in our favor. We simply must be careful not to get separated from 
our groups during the battle."

"Who will be in what group?" Frodo asked.

"Gandalf and I have already discussed this," Aragorn answered. "Frodo, Merry, 
and Sam will be in a group with Gandalf and Faramir, while myself, Legolas, 
Arwen and Gimli form the other group."

Pippin frowned. "What about me?" he asked. "What group shall I be in?"

Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged glances, and the wizard rose and walked over to 
Pippin. He placed his hand on the young hobbit's back and began directing him 
towards the door. “I have another task for you, Master Took,” the wizard said 
seriously. “And if you will follow me, I will reveal it to you.”

Pippin looked extremely doubtful, and he shot a questioning glance back at his 
friends, receiving only shrugs in answer to his unspoken question. He let 
Gandalf lead him out the door, shutting it firmly behind them.

“I wonder what that was all about?” Gimli muttered, glancing at Aragorn who 
merely shook his head slightly.

Legolas was wondering the same thing, but he didn’t have time to voice his own 
questions, for just at that moment, a slight knock came at the door.

“Come,” Aragorn called out, sitting forward in his chair.

The door cracked open slightly, and a small head poked through, perusing the 
room uncertainly.

“Dar,” Legolas called out, recognizing the boy immediately. He motioned the 
child over to him, and Dar hesitantly entered the room completely.

“S..s..sorry to interrupt,” the boy stammered, walking over to stand next to 
Legolas, his wide eyes fixed upon Aragorn. Aragorn smiled at the boy, which 
seemed to put him more at ease, so he continued. “My father has finished doing 
what he can to the Northern wall, but he is concerned over the gate. He does not 
think it will stand against a rushed attack.”

Aragorn nodded, eyeing the boy curiously. “Do you know much about battle, son,” 
he asked the child gently.

Dar nodded emphatically. “I’ve been guarding merchant supplies with my dad since 
I was six!” he explained excitedly. “I know all about battle.”

“Do you now?” Aragorn asked, then glanced at Faramir and nodded. Faramir walked 
over to the boy and put his arm around the slim shoulders.

“Take me to the gate, Dar, and we will see what can be done,” Faramir instructed 
with a look of mock seriousness. “Do YOU have any ideas of what we can do to 
strengthen it?”

Dar seemed thrilled that Faramir had bothered asking him, and as the Steward led 
him from the room he began to pour out ideas on how to fix the gate.

Arwen smiled delightedly after the retreating form of the child, then she also 
rose and turned to the hobbits. “I saw an armory shop on our way here. If we are 
to fight tonight, then we must be prepared. Perhaps they will have something to 
fit you three.”

The three hobbits stood up and followed the elven princess from the room, 
leaving Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli alone. Legolas glanced at Aragorn, waiting 
for the man to give orders on what else should be accomplished for the battle 
tonight. He was slightly surprised that Aragorn had not gone with Faramir, and 
he was sure that he had some task that needed seeing to. However, Aragorn 
remained seated, his hands folded across his chest and his eyes completely 
closed! Legolas glanced at Gimli and found the dwarf staring back at him with 
narrowed eyes. Legolas glanced back at Aragorn. “I think I shall go and help 
Faramir,” he said quickly, turning swiftly to leave the room.

He had just managed to reach the door when something hurled into the back of his 
legs, flinging them out from beneath him. Legolas let out a shout as he toppled 
ungracefully to the floor, his hands going behind him to soften his fall. Before 
he even had a chance to see what had hit him, a heavy weight settled onto his 
chest, driving all the air from his lungs.

Legolas attempted to gasp in air as he stared in consternation at the dwarf now 
seated smugly upon his chest.

“I thought we were going to try and talk to him first, Gimli,” Aragorn said 
calmly as he rose and walked to stand over the two on the floor.

Legolas glared up at his two friends while still desperately trying to pull air 
into his squashed lungs.

“I owed him one,” Gimli replied dryly, looking down at Legolas in triumph. 
“Besides, he wouldn’t have listened.”

"You're probably right," Aragorn answered with a shrug. He glanced down at 
Legolas and cocked his head slightly. "I don't think he can breathe, Gimli," he 
continued in a conversational tone. "His face is turning a rather bright shade 
of red."

Legolas really couldn't breathe, and he felt all the blood rush to his head. He 
was sure he was about to pass out, and Gimli's face began to blur and dance in 
his vision. Just when black shadows were beginning to creep into his vision, he 
felt the weight lift from his chest, and he took a deep gasp of air.

It took several seconds for him to recover enough to push himself into a sitting 
position, still feeling slightly dazed. He glared at Gimli and Aragorn, who now 
stood before him, but their only response was a slightly raised eyebrow from 
Aragorn, and a fierce scowl from Gimli. The dwarf crossed his arms over his 
chest and stared down at Legolas with an expression the elf had never seen on 
his friend’s face before.

With one last gasping cough, Legolas forced himself to his feet. He had no doubt 
what his friends were up to, and he figured he had only two options. He could 
try to struggle past them to the door and make an escape once more, or he could 
tell them what they wanted to know. At the moment, Legolas was too exhausted to 
even seriously consider the first option.

He let out a loud sigh and turned his back to his friends, walking over to a 
chair and sinking down into it. Behind him, he thought he heard Gimli muttering 
something about a rope. The dwarf sounded disappointed.

"I guess this means you are ready to talk to us now," Aragorn asked quietly, 
moving to stand in front of Legolas. Gimli followed him, still looking at 
Legolas intently.

Legolas let out another sigh, and shook his head slightly. "I don't know where 
to begin,” he answered tiredly, lifting a hand to sweep away a stray lock of 
hair that had fallen around his face.

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged glances before turning back to Legolas. “Then let us 
help you,” Aragorn replied gently, grabbing a chair and placing it in front of 
Legolas, facing the elf. Gimli followed suit, and when they were both seated, 
Aragorn continued. “Before we ever left Minas Tirith, you began to act 
strangely. I could tell that you were not sleeping properly, and I also knew 
that you and Gandalf were hiding something from the rest of us. At first, I 
decided to leave you alone in the hopes that you would choose to talk to me of 
your own accord. However, it soon became apparent to me that you had no 
intention of doing this.”

Aragorn paused, and Legolas glanced at him somewhat guiltily. He glanced toward 
Gimli, but the dwarf’s eyes were on Aragorn. The man continued. “I decided then 
to find a time to confront you on my own, but circumstances interfered and I am 
afraid I never got around to it.” Aragorn shook his head regretfully. “I must 
confess that I placed the matter in the back of my mind. That is, until this 
morning.” Aragorn stopped once more and looked directly at Legolas. “Gimli told 
me what happened,” he stated plainly, watching Legolas for his reaction.

Legolas glanced once more at Gimli, and this time the dwarf was looking at him. 
The anger that had been in his friend’s eyes earlier was gone now, replaced by 
something else. Once again, Legolas had a rough time reading Gimli’s expression. 
The dwarf looked frustrated, concerned, expectant, and tense, all wrapped in 
one. There was something else there as well. Fear.

Legolas quickly looked away, forcing his eyes back to Aragorn. “We have come to 
the conclusion,” Aragorn continued softly, “that whatever is troubling you has 
to do with dreams. Am I correct in this?”

Legolas hesitated for the barest of seconds before he nodded slowly. He let out 
the breath he seemed to have been holding since Aragorn first began speaking. 
“You are correct,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Aragorn and Gimli 
merely continued to look at him, and so with yet another sigh, Legolas settled 
back further into the chair and closed his eyes.

He began to speak, refusing to allow his brain to think on the words, but 
instead allowing them to flow from him as they would. He talked of the first 
night they had returned to Minas Tirith, and of the dream that had plagued him 
since.

At first, he planned to limit what he told them, only outlining and giving them 
the barest of facts in the hope that that would satisfy them. Yet as he began to 
talk, the pent up emotions inside of him began to build and push at him, 
demanding release. Without even fully realizing it, Legolas began telling them 
everything, keeping nothing back.

Part of him remained horrified that he was speaking so directly, that he was 
leaving himself completely bare and open in front of others. Yet he could have 
more easily stopped a flood from breaking through a dam than stop talking once 
he had begun.

He explained his dream in each gruesome detail along with its direct effect upon 
him and his efforts to ignore or forget the images presented him. He shared the 
fear and horror, and above all the complete helplessness that he had felt. He 
shared how he dreaded even sleeping for fear that the dream would come again. He 
did not look at them while he spoke, but instead studied his hands lying limply 
in his lap.

When he had finally finished, a silence hung heavy in the air. Legolas felt 
drained and exhausted, while at the same time strangely relieved. It felt as if 
a great weight had been lifted from him, and for the first time in many days it 
seemed as if all the tension had eased from his shoulders. He felt oddly light 
and weightless, and thought he could probably sleep for days without worry over 
his dream.

For the first time, he glanced up at the faces of his friends, only to find them 
looking back at him with shocked and stunned expressions. He winced at their 
obvious distress, and wished once more that he had been less explicit in his 
explanation.

Aragorn was the first to recover from his shock. He cleared his throat loudly, 
breaking the wall of silence that had been growing more and more intense. He 
faced Legolas squarely, struggling to keep his face emotionless. “You said you 
have had this dream several times?” he asked Legolas, keeping his voice calm and 
business like.

Legolas merely nodded, not meeting his eyes.

“And this dream is of the same nature as the one you had before?”

Once again, Legolas only nodded.

“Well, that’s good!” Gimli broke in, his cheerful voice an odd contrast to the 
tense look on his face. “We changed the outcome of your first dream, and we 
shall change the outcome of this one as well!”

Legolas gave Gimli a weak smile and the dwarf rose and moved to his side, laying 
a hand on his shoulder in silent support. Aragorn moved forward and also placed 
his hand on the elf’s knee.

“We may not have any specific answers for you, my friend, but I am still glad 
you have shared this with us. That is what friends are all about; sharing in 
each other's burdens. I hope in the future that you will not feel the need to 
hide anything like this from us again.” Aragorn’s voice was gentle, yet firm and 
he gave Legolas’s knee a firm squeeze.

“So what do we do now?” Gimli asked quietly, still standing at Legolas’s 
shoulder.

“We will merely have to be careful and extra watchful,” Aragorn answered, rising 
from his chair.

Gimli nodded emphatically, and Legolas turned to him, a firm expression on his 
face. “Do not think to set guards on me,” he said sternly. “And do not try 
following me everywhere I go in the hopes of keeping an eye on me, either!”

Gimli attempted to look innocent, as if he had not been considering those very 
ideas, but Legolas was not fooled. “I know you too well, my friend, and if you 
should attempt to do this, then I will be forced to tie you up and leave you 
somewhere!” Legolas’s tone was lighter than it had been for days, yet he allowed 
his face to show how completely serious his threat was.

“You can borrow a rope from Gandalf,” Aragorn suggested innocently, ignoring the 
dwarf’s glare.

Outside, a bell began to toll mournfully, and Aragorn glanced toward the only 
window in the room. It faced west, and he could see the orange glow of the sun 
setting just above the horizon. He sighed, and rubbed a tired hand across his 
eyes. Behind him, Legolas spoke up.

“Whatever may happen, I hope this whole mess is over soon.”

Aragorn nodded, the same thought running through his head as the three 
companions turned and left the room.

*****

“It’s not fair!” Pippin exclaimed, stalking up the street from the small armory 
shop where he had found his friends trying on armor for the expected battle. “I 
have to sit around and do nothing, while you three fight a battle!”

“You’re not just sitting around doing nothing,” Merry argued, trying vainly to 
keep pace with the younger hobbit. “I think the job Gandalf gave you is very 
important.” Merry had to pause briefly and adjust the bundle of armor he held in 
his hands.

“Besides,” added Sam breathlessly, “you can’t possibly prefer to fight orcs. I 
myself think it is a nasty business and I am not looking forward to it at all.”

“Do you wish to trade places with me then?” Pippin offered grumpily.

Sam glanced toward Frodo, then shook his head.

“It is not fair!” Pippin repeated, looking totally dejected.

“Come on, Pippin,” Frodo spoke up for the first time. “Merry is right. The job 
Gandalf gave you is very important.”

Pippin cast a dark glance in his direction. “You think babysitting a bunch of 
baggage is important,” he muttered angrily.

“Gandalf already explained this to you,” Frodo replied with a sigh. “He does not 
trust Merton, and he needs someone to keep an eye on all our stuff. He doesn’t 
want them attempting to riffle through our belongings while we’re busy guarding 
the city.”

“But why me?” Pippin exclaimed. “I am a warrior of Gondor and should be 
defending the wall tonight! Why can’t he have chosen someone else? One of the 
soldiers, maybe.”

“If Gandalf used a soldier, it would be obvious to Merton that he suspects 
something. We don’t want to outright insult the man!” Frodo was beginning to 
sound a little exasperated.

“I don’t see why not,” Sam muttered. “The man was more than willing to insult 
Aragorn this afternoon.”

“That is not the point,” Frodo said, elbowing Sam roughly, and pointedly looking 
toward Pippin.

“I’m a warrior of Gondor,” Pippin repeated, his tone still injured. "If Aragorn 
did not want me at his side tonight, he could have just told me."

“Don’t worry, Pip, I am sure there will be lots of opportunities for you to 
fight in the future," Merry said in an attempt to cheer up the younger hobbit.

Pippin did not respond to this but continued to plod up the road toward the 
house.

The other three hobbits looked at their friend, realizing that nothing they 
could say would be able to cheer the distressed hobbit.

“Come on, Pippin,” Frodo said gently. “Let's go see if we can grab a bite to 
eat!”

*****

The night was completely black, the heavy blanket of clouds blocking out any 
light the heavens could offer. An unnatural silence hung heavy in the air, all 
sounds muted by the wet earth. The rain had lessened to a drizzle around dusk, 
and now it had completely stopped, adding to the unnatural silence. The normal 
nighttime sounds were strangely missing, as if all of nature lay in tense 
anticipation of what was to come. A sense of evil lay heavily over the land, 
almost tangible in its intensity.

The city of Calembel lay quietly at the base of the Ered Nimrais, looking very 
small and pitiful against the oppressive blackness. Large fires burned within 
fire pits spaced evenly along the city's wall, the light barely penetrating the 
darkness that encased the city. Movement could be seen here and there along the 
wall as soldiers passed before the flames.

Gimli sighed loudly and peered out into the darkness, flexing his shoulders in 
an attempt to relieve tired muscles. Nothing moved over the rocky ground leading 
up to the city, and the only sounds were that of the soldiers moving about on 
the wall. Midnight had come and gone, and Gimli found himself getting anxious. 
He wanted something to happen, anything, that would break the silent tenseness 
that lay over the city.

Legolas sat beside the dwarf on the ground, busying himself with sharpening one 
of his knives. His bow lay on the ground next to him within easy reach. The 
slight hiss of the knife over the whet stone seemed unnaturally loud in the 
otherwise still night.

Aragorn stood a few paces off, Arwen at his side, both peering into the 
darkness. Neither looked tense or worried, merely watchful.

Gimli sighed once more and went to stand next to Aragorn. He peered into the 
darkness, wishing it was not quite so black. Several more long minutes passed, 
and Gimli became restless once more. Legolas had finished with his first knife, 
and was starting on his second.

Gimli glanced at Aragorn, who seemed nothing more than a statue for how still he 
was standing. "Perhaps they will not venture an attack tonight after all."

The words had barely left Gimli's mouth when the abrupt sound of horns pierced 
the still night, coming from the direction of the mountains. All upon the wall, 
save Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Arwen, jumped at the sound.

"I could be wrong," Gimli added, drawing his axe from his belt. Aragorn drew out 
Anduril with a ring, just as Arwen unsheathed her own slim blade. Legolas calmly 
put away his knife, grabbed his bow, and jumped to his feet, moving to join his 
three companions. The horns were growing louder, echoing and reverberating off 
the high mountain peaks. The sound was completely ominous and dark, speaking of 
the evil creatures that now approached the city.

"I can hear them coming," Arwen said softly, and Legolas nodded.

"Remember to stay together," Aragorn reminded them all. "We must not offer 
ourselves as an easy target for Malek. If you fear you are becoming separated, 
shout out." They all nodded their understanding, waiting tensely for what would 
come next.

They did not have to wait long. With a final burst of horns, the first wave of 
orcs broke from the shadows and charged toward the city.

...........................................................

Chapter 14   Blood and Tears

Pippin was bored. Not only that, but he was tired, uncomfortable, hungry, and 
thoroughly disgruntled. He was seated upon a rough wooden stool placed against 
the far wall of the hall leading to the rooms the company had been given for the 
duration of their stay. From this vantage point, he could see anyone nearing the 
quarters, while remaining fairly inconspicuous himself.

Several hours had passed since Frodo, Sam, and Merry had left for the wall, and 
Pippin guessed that it was shortly after midnight. For the first couple of 
hours, he had been too wrapped up in anger, self-pity, and worry, to become 
bored. He had ranted and raved about the unfairness of his situation until he 
was hoarse, despite the fact that no one had been around to hear him.

He hated the fact that he could not stand beside his companions in facing 
whatever danger would come this night. It was not that he was particularly 
fearful for them. He knew that Gandalf and Faramir would not allow any harm to 
come to Merry, Sam, and Frodo. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were well capable of 
handling themselves in battle, and though he had never seen Arwen fight before, 
he guessed that if she handled herself in the same manner she did with 
everything else, than she too would be fine. It was not really fear that 
troubled him, but more the fact that he felt as if he should be with them, 
facing the same danger. Instead, he was left sitting here looking like one of 
the figures carved from stone that the old Gaffer loved to put in his gardens.

His righteous indignation had completely consumed him, building and growing 
until he could think of nothing else. He had even tried out some of the more 
nasty dwarven curses he had heard Gimli use earlier. All in all, he had worked 
himself up into a pretty impressive rage.

Yet as the hours had dragged by, his anger had slowly faded, replaced instead by 
a sort of resigned melancholy. Given time to think about it, he had come to the 
conclusion that the reason he had been the one left behind was simply that 
Aragorn and Gandalf had not wanted him to participate in the battle. They did 
not believe him capable of holding his own in the fight, and thought that he 
would only get in the way. So, despite the fact that he was officially a warrior 
of Gondor, they had placed him here, so they would not have to worry about him.

A part of him whispered that he was overreacting, that Gandalf’s reasons for 
setting him as guard were perfectly legitimate, and Pippin had just been his 
unlucky choice. Yet in the dark hallway, with nothing but his discomfort and 
hunger to keep him company, Pippin found it much easier to think gloomily.

Now, however, he found weariness and boredom his most troublesome companions. He 
caught himself continually glancing toward the door that led to the room he was 
sharing with Merry, and the soft bed just beyond. He figured that he would be 
just as useful sleeping as sitting. However, he was determined to prove himself 
to Aragorn and Gandalf. He would show them that he was capable of finishing any 
task they set him, no matter how useless. He would sit here until the sky turned 
green if that was how long they wanted him to, and he would not complain about 
weariness or hunger, either.

He stifled a yawn, shifting on the hard stool and peering up and down the long 
corridor. His eyes drifted down, studying the large stones that made up the 
floor of the hall. He had counted them three times and knew that there was 
exactly one hundred and two in this particular hallway. He groaned and stopped 
his eyes in the middle of counting them a fourth time. “This is just great, 
Pip,” he said to himself. “Next, you’ll start naming them all and holding 
conversations with them.”

He rose, stretching stiff muscles, then began pacing up and down the hall, 
counting how many steps it took from one end to the other. Every time he reached 
the cross hallway, he would stop, glance both directions to make sure no one was 
coming, then whirl, and pace back to his stool. He was actually getting quite 
into the game, humming a little counting tune that Sam had taught him ages ago 
and trying to figure out different ways to walk that would change the number of 
steps it took from one end to the other. He decided that it was a step better 
than sitting on his stool and moaning about his condition, and at least he did 
not have to worry about falling asleep.

Pippin cleared all outside thought from his mind and concentrated solely on 
figuring out a way to make it from one end of the hall to the other, skipping 
only two stones at a time, in only 22 steps instead of the 26 he had continually 
come up with. He pursed his lips and studied the layout of the stones leading up 
to the base of his stool, hands on his hips and brow wrinkled in thought.

After several seconds of silent contemplation, he thought he had found a course 
that would get him to the other end with the desired number of steps. He lifted 
his foot and was about to start forward when a voice spoke up from behind him.

“What are you doing?”

Pippin whirled, his heart nearly jumping through his throat, his hand flying to 
the hilt of the short sword he wore at his side.  He fiercely berated himself 
for becoming so distracted that he failed to notice anyone approaching.

A young boy stood in the cross way directly before Pippin, eyeing the hobbit 
with undisguised curiosity.  Pippin recognized the boy from the meeting earlier, 
and he tried to recall the name Legolas had used while steadying his breathing 
and calming his heart.

"I didn't mean to scare you," the boy said in way of an apology, shrugging his 
thin shoulders and glancing to where Pippin's hand still rested upon the hilt of 
his sword.

"You did not scare me," Pippin said quickly, removing his hand from the hilt of 
his blade.  "You just startled me, that's all," he added, his tone defensive.  
He studied the boy intently for a few seconds, recalling that Legolas had called 
him Dar.

For his part, the boy stared back at Pippin just as intently, his head cocked 
slightly to one side, the curious expression never leaving his small face.

Pippin frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.  "You should be careful about 
sneaking up on people," he stated firmly, attempting to look down at the boy 
despite the fact that they were almost the same height.  "Especially Knights of 
Gondor.  I could have lobbed your head from your shoulders before I realized it 
was you!"

Dar's eyes grew wide, and Pippin regretted his harsh words, thinking that he had 
frightened the boy.  Dar's next words, however, allayed his fear.

"You're a Knight of Gondor?" the boy whispered softly, his wide eyes filled with 
awe and excitement.

Pippin merely nodded, feeling a surge of pride run through him at the boy's 
obvious admiration.  He straightened to his full height, throwing his shoulders 
back proudly.

"I saw you riding with the king," Dar stated, still staring at Pippin with 
excitement.  Suddenly, he frowned, doubt flickering across his small face.  
"Aren't you a little short to be a knight?" he questioned boldly, looking 
Pippin's small frame up and down.  "And a little young?" he added almost as an 
afterthought.

"I'm probably as old as your father," Pippin stated, ignoring the boy's 
incredulous look. "And as for being short, I'm a hobbit.  All hobbits are 
short."  He placed his hands on his hips and gave Dar a serious look.  
"However," he continued, "Do not underestimate us just because we are small.  
Even the mighty Sauron knew of hobbits and was wary of us."  It was true, Pippin 
decided, even if it was for reasons other than what he was insinuating.

Dar nodded slowly, some of the awe returning to his face, though he was still 
not completely convinced.  "If you are a Knight of Gondor, why aren't you out on 
the wall with the others?" he asked curiously, a hint of doubt still lingering 
in his voice.

"I am on a secret mission," Pippin replied without hesitation, nodding his head 
firmly.

"A secret mission?" The excitement was back in Dar's voice and eyes, and he 
leaned forward eagerly.  "What secret mission?" he asked enthusiastically.

"It wouldn't be a secret if I told you, now would it," Pippin replied 
mysteriously, winking at the young boy.

"Please tell me," Dar begged.  "I promise I won't tell a soul!  Not even my 
dad."

"I don't know," Pippin said, shaking his head doubtfully.

"Please," Dar continued to beg, practically bouncing up and down on his toes in 
his eagerness.

"What if someone captures you and tortures you," Pippin asked seriously.

Dar's eyes grew even wider if that were possible, but he shook his head wildly. 
 "I still wouldn't tell them!" he stated bravely.

"Well," Pippin said, pretending to wrestle with indecision.  "I suppose I could 
tell you as long as you swear to remain silent."

"I do!  I swear!"  Dar cried out, nearly exploding from his curiosity.

Pippin reached forward and gripped the boy's shoulder, lowering his voice to a 
conspiratorial whisper.  "Did you know that a wizard travels with the king?" he 
asked softly, his voice secretive.

Dar nodded.  "I saw him," he said.  "He wears a really funny pointed hat and has 
a lot of white hair."

"That's him," Pippin nodded, and then looked Dar squarely in the eyes.  "Did you 
know that he is the most powerful wizard in all of Middle Earth?”

The child’s eyes practically glowed with wonder.  “Really?” he asked.

“Yep,” Pippin answered.  “My mission is to guard some very powerful objects the 
wizard has brought with him.  The orcs know of these objects and will attempt to 
steal them.  I am the last defense if the orcs manage to break through.”

"You have to guard them all by yourself?" Dar asked, still excited.  "What 
happens if a lot of orcs come here?"

Pippin shrugged.  "That is why they had to put a warrior of Gondor as guard.  
Any orcs that try to get past me will find themselves impaled upon my trusty 
sword."

Dar was left speechless with awe, and then he suddenly burst out.  "Can I help 
you?"  He pulled a short knife from his tunic pocket, the blade no longer than 
three inches, and held it up for Pippin's scrutiny.   "See," he said proudly. “I 
can fight really good, just ask my dad.  I’ve helped him guard the merchant’s 
goods since I was six.”

“I don’t know,” Pippin said seriously.  “This job is pretty dangerous.”

“Please,” Dar begged once more.  “I really can fight.  I’m really good with a 
bow and arrow too.  Even Legolas said so.”

Pippin pretended to think about it for a while, then nodded.  “I suppose you can 
help.  Why don’t you go down to the other end of the hall and let out a whistle 
if you see anyone coming.”

Dar hesitated, and Pippin looked at him expectantly.    The lad looked somewhat 
embarrassed as he looked at Pippin.  At last he murmured, “I don’t know how to 
whistle.”

“Oh,” Pippin said, somewhat at a loss.  “Just let out a little shout then.”

“Alright!” the boy yelled, and then took off at a run toward the other end of 
the crossway.

“Hey!” Pippin yelled after him.  “Weren’t you ever taught not to run with a 
knife in your hand?”

Dar slowed his pace, waving back at Pippin over his shoulder before positioning 
himself at the end of the hall.

Pippin shook his head and began his slow march up and down his own section of 
the hallway.  Entertaining the boy had helped take his mind off his own 
troubles.  He actually let himself pretend that what he told the boy was the 
truth, and that he was the last defense of a great and powerful object.  Who 
really knew what the wizard kept hidden within his belongings.

Long minutes passed in silence while Pippin patrolled his hall with shoulders 
back and head held high, eyes perusing every shadow for a hidden danger.  He was 
getting quite into the game, and was once again startled when Dar’s small shout 
came from down the hall.

He glanced toward the lad, and found Dar racing down the hall towards him, his 
face flushed with excitement.  “Someone is coming,” the boy panted breathlessly 
when he reached Pippin.

Pippin nodded and boldly placed his hand upon his sword.  “Be ready, Dar.  If 
this is a spy of the enemy, we will have to dispatch him quietly and quickly 
before he can warn the others!”

Dar nodded, still clutching his small knife in his hand.

A few seconds later, the object of their discussion appeared around the corner. 
 He was peering behind him, as if afraid of being followed, and his steps were 
slow and cautious.  When the man turned and spotted Pippin and Dar, he stopped 
cold, his face registering frustration before it quickly went blank.

Pippin’s eyes narrowed as he recognized one of Merton’s advisors, and his hand 
tightened unconsciously on his sword. 

The man hesitated, looking almost as if he was about to turn around and go back 
the way he had come. At last, he seemed to make up his mind, and continued 
forward toward Pippin and Dar.

Pippin watched him approach, suspicion and mistrust flaring to life within him. 
 He remembered Gandalf’s warning to watch out for Merton or one of his men 
snooping around, and he had never seen anyone look more like they had been 
caught somewhere that they shouldn’t be.

When the advisor reached them, he looked the two up and down, arching a smooth 
eyebrow at Pippin’s hand upon his sword hilt. Pippin looked calmly back at him 
and didn’t remove his hand.  “Isn’t it past your bedtime,” the man said in an 
oily sweet voice with a hint of mockery.  “Everyone else is either out upon the 
wall or already retired.”

“Obviously not everyone,” Pippin responded dryly, pointedly staring at the man.

The advisor gave him a sickly grin that looked more like a grimace.  “I often 
walk the halls at night when I find that I cannot sleep,” he said innocently.

Pippin grunted, running his eyes over the man’s fully robed form.  “Perhaps in 
the future, you should try more comfortable bed clothes,” he answered boldly.

The advisor’s smile faltered, and his eyes narrowed.  “I am first advisor to the 
lord of this house,” he grated out through clenched teeth.  “I have every right 
to go where I please, when I please.  Who are you, small one, to question my 
actions?”

Anger flashed in Pippin’s eyes, but before he could answer the man, Dar spoke up 
from behind him.  “He is a Knight of Gondor!”

The man seemed startled at the boy’s outburst, and he glanced behind Pippin at 
Dar.  Then he began to laugh, great gusts of false mirth.  He looked back at 
Pippin, still roaring with laughter.  “You, a Knight of Gondor?” he gasped 
between wild chuckles.

Pippin looked back at him and said nothing, his face completely blank.

“Do you even know how to use that blade at your side, small one,” the man asked, 
finally controlling his laughter and looking down at Pippin with a malicious 
grin.  “I am afraid I will have to tell the king that I have found one of his 
brave knights hiding within the house while he boldly awaits to do battle with 
ghosts.”

Pippin narrowed his eyes, his fist clenching tightly around the hilt of his 
sword. He was angry at the man’s mocking tone and insults, but surprisingly he 
found that he was mostly disgusted. “Only a fool speaks of something he knows 
nothing of,” he said quietly, his voice filled with loathing. “I have no stomach 
to tolerate your foolishness, so you will leave now, or I will have this boy 
teach you a lesson in courtesy.”

The man stared at Pippin in shock, his face turning an ugly shade of red. “How 
dare you…” he spluttered, unable to finish his sentence.

Pippin merely grunted and took a threatening step toward the man, drawing his 
sword from his sheath.

The advisor eyed the blade warily, raising his hands slightly. “You will regret 
speaking to me thus,” he hissed, before turning and striding swiftly down the 
hall.

Pippin watched him go, somewhat shocked at his own actions. He turned to Dar, 
but before he could say anything to the boy, bells began to toll throughout the 
city, the sound loud even within the house.

Pippin lowered his blade, his face suddenly pale. He knew what the bells 
signified. Outside, the battle had begun.

******

Merton was lying comfortably in his large bed, sipping an expensive wine that he 
always kept near at hand.  He was completely relaxed, his open window letting in 
the cool evening breeze. He sank back into his soft pillows closing his eyes and 
sighing contentedly.

A few seconds later, he jerked upright, the sound of tolling bells filling his 
room. His wine cup slipped from his nerveless fingers, spilling the expensive 
liquid down the front of his silk bedclothes. He stared unseeingly at the red 
stain, his entire body frozen in shock. Just as Pippin had heard and understood 
the meaning behind the bells, Merton also knew what they signified. His body 
began to tremble, and he fearfully slipped from his bed to lie huddled on the 
ground.

Merton tried to call out to someone, afraid of being alone, but his voice was 
not working.  Whimpering in fear, he crouched beside his bed, too frightened to 
even close his window and shut out the dreadful noise of battle.

******

Legolas stood silent and still upon the wall, watching the hordes of orcs 
rushing toward the city.  Behind him, the bells of the city began their frantic 
toll, warning the people to remain indoors and hidden.  Legolas was aware of his 
companions standing beside him, but his attention was mostly on the approaching 
army of vile creatures.

There were hundreds of them, fierce and intent only upon the death and 
destruction of everything that stood in their path.  They charged toward the 
wall with siege towers, crude ladders, grappling hooks, and battering ram; 
anything that would help them gain access to the city.  The orc horns had fallen 
silent, replaced by foul war cries and the low rumble of thousands of feet 
rushing forward over the uneven ground.

Legolas’s keen eyes scanned their dark ranks in search of any sign of Malek, 
even as his hand went to his quiver and freed an arrow.  He notched the arrow to 
his bow, pulling back and releasing in one smooth motion, sending the dart on a 
deadly course toward an overzealous orc who had pushed a little too far ahead of 
his companions.  Even before his first shot had landed, Legolas had released yet 
another arrow, then another, his movements smooth and continuous, dealing death 
to all he aimed at.

The orcs soon came into range of the rest of the archers upon the wall, and 
Legolas’s arrows were joined by a hail of other shafts, felling one orc after 
another.  Yet still they came on, their howls chilling the blood.  The wall 
seemed to shudder slightly, as the first wave of orcs crashed into it.  Legolas 
and the other archers continued to rain arrows down on the attackers, focusing 
on the orcs carrying the large battering ram.  However, for every orc that fell, 
two more took its place and with a mighty crash, the large beam slammed into the 
wood of the gate.

Up on the wall, the defenders could feel the stone shudder, and Aragorn 
exchanged a worried glance with Gimli.  The gate had been reinforced with large 
beams of wood, but they both knew it couldn’t take too much more of the heavy 
abuse.  They were not given long to ponder this, for even as the ram continued 
to slam into the gate, other orcs began attempting to scale the wall using 
grappling hooks and ladders.

Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen joined the rest of the defenders in cutting down the 
hooks and pushing away ladders as Legolas continued to fire deadly arrows into 
the orcs at the gate.  He was swiftly running out of arrows, and he knew he 
would soon have to give up his bow for the sword at his side.  It was not his 
first choice of weapon, but his knives would not hold up against an orc 
scimitar.

Pulling the last two arrows from his quiver, Legolas took a step to his side and 
thrust the tips into the nearest fire pit.  The arrows immediately burst into 
flame, and without hesitation he shot them both at once into the large wooden 
ram beneath him.  He then grabbed the metal fire grill in both hands, ignoring 
his burning palms, and poured its contents after his arrows.  The orcs below him 
let out a howl, dropping the ram and jumping away from the fire raining down 
upon them.  They quickly regrouped, but Legolas’s plan had worked, and the great 
wooden trunk began to burn, the fire growing and spreading rapidly.  The orcs 
tried to beat out the flames, but the archers continued to rain arrows down on 
them, impeding their progress.

Legolas smiled grimly, swinging his bow onto his back and pulling his sword from 
its sheath.  He glanced about him then, taking in the extent of the battle.  
Despite the defenders best efforts, several orcs had managed to gain the upper 
wall and were fiercely doing battle.  A siege tower full of orcs had made it to 
the wall, with a second close behind it.  Orcs poured from the towers onto the 
wall, crashing into the line of defenders that raced to confront them.  Aragorn, 
Gimli, and Arwen were already caught up in the fighting, pressing the orcs back, 
their blades blackened by dark blood.

Legolas stepped forward, intending to join his friends, but a movement from the 
corner of his eye caught his attention.  He turned, just as an orc head appeared 
over the edge of the wall, sneaking up a ladder that had been missed by the busy 
soldiers.  Legolas swung around, kicking out fiercely, his boot landing between 
the ugly creature’s eyes.  The orc howled, toppling from the wall, and Legolas 
threw his weight against the crude ladder, pushing it back away from the wall.

He turned once more, glancing in the direction he had last seen his friends, but 
they were hidden from view by the battling forms of man and beast.  Several orcs 
had broken through the line of defenders, and at the sight of the elf standing 
before them, they let out a cry and raced forward.  Legolas lifted his sword and 
moved to meet them.

******

The fire of battle burned strong and true though Gimli’s veins as he hacked left 
and right with his axe.  Orcs shied away before his wrath, and those not swift 
enough quickly fell beneath his blade.  Yet more and more orcs were gaining the 
wall, and the defenders were caught up in the struggle around them.

Gimli yanked his axe free from the chest of an orc and was given a brief 
reprieve to catch his breath and glance around him for his companions.  Aragorn 
and Arwen fought side by side only a few paces away, and Gimli allowed himself a 
moment to watch their graceful movements.  The two seemed as perfect a pair in 
battle as anywhere else, their movements precise and complimentary to each 
other.  Aragorn ducked an orc scimitar just as Arwen swung her sword above him, 
taking off the unlucky creature’s head.

Gimli turned from watching them to search for Legolas.  He had not seen the elf 
in quite some time, and he worried that they had somehow allowed themselves to 
become separated.

An orc rushed toward him, and Gimli sloppily swung his axe, cutting through the 
creature’s armor and into flesh beneath.  He did not bother watching the orc 
fall, but continued running his eyes frantically through the melee in search of 
his friend.  “Legolas!” he shouted, but this merely managed to draw the orcs 
attention to him, and he was soon desperately fighting off several large brutes.

One of the creatures swung a blood soaked sword at the dwarf’s head.  Gimli 
easily ducked the blade, but he was not expecting the gauntleted fist that 
smashed into the side of his helm.  He stumbled back, barely managing to duck 
the second swing from the creature.  This move threw him off balance, and he 
fell to his knees, blindly throwing his axe up to protect against the blow he 
knew would be coming.

The orc howled in glee, believing he had managed to defeat the dwarf, but before 
he could land his final blow, a knife blossomed in his throat.  The creature 
barely had time to look surprised, dark blood flowing from the wound, before he 
toppled over backwards.

Gimli grunted, lowering his axe from over his head just as his friend appeared 
before him.  Legolas quickly dispatched another orc who had thought to take 
advantage of the fallen dwarf, then turned and looked down at him.  “Now is not 
the time to be laying around, my friend," Legolas said, his eyes twinkling 
mischievously.  "If you need, I shall fetch a basin of water to pour over your 
head and revive your senses."

Gimli glared up at him, saying nothing and holding out his hand.  Legolas 
clasped his arm and pulled him to his feet, his eyes turning serious as he 
looked Gimli up and down.  "Are you hurt?" he asked softly.

Gimli shook his head.  "Nay, and you?"

Legolas also shook his head, the mischievous light returning to his eyes.  He 
glanced about him at the battle still raging fiercely around them.  "You had 
better get busy, Gimli, if you wish to catch up to me."

Gimli gave Legolas a questioning look, so the elf explained himself.

"I slew many of the enemy before they reached the gate, and my number has grown 
in the last few minutes.  You will have to work hard indeed if you wish to match 
my number."

The light of understanding dawned in Gimli's eyes, and with it a look of 
challenge.  He slashed at an orc who drifted too close, threatening to interrupt 
their conversation, before he turned back to Legolas who was still looking at 
him expectantly.

"So," Gimli said lightly, "You wish to continue our little game?"

"Only if you feel up to the task," Legolas replied immediately, grinning wildly 
at Gimli.

Gimli snorted loudly, looking the elf up and down.  "You might want to stop 
talking and start fighting if you wish to sport a chance of winning against me!" 
he retorted boldly, returning the elf's crazy grin.

Legolas bowed to him dramatically, then spun, neatly swinging his sword to end 
the life of an orc who had been attempting to sneak up on him.  The elf did not 
hesitate, but scooped to retrieve his knife from the orcs throat and press 
forward into battle once more.


"Show off," Gimli grunted, charging into a knot of approaching orcs.

******

Aragorn glanced around him, sweat and blood soaking his tunic, his breath coming 
in hard gasps.  A pile of dead orcs lay before him, staining the stone of the 
wall with their dark blood.  He was aware of screams and shouts all about him, 
but at the moment, no orcs were near at hand.  Glancing around, he realized that 
most of the foul creatures had been driven from the wall, and those that had not 
been were slowly being overwhelmed by the city’s defenders.

Distant horns were blaring a retreat, and the remaining orcs still on the ground 
began a hasty withdrawal back towards the mountains.  Aragorn frowned.  He had 
seen no sign of Malek, and this fact slightly unsettled him.  He had expected 
the dark creature to make an appearance, and an odd sense of foreboding settled 
upon him.  This battle seemed to have ended just a little too easily.

He saw Gimli and Legolas only a couple of paces away, fighting side by side with 
several other soldiers against one of the few remaining groups of orcs still 
upon the wall.  They seemed to have the battle well in hand, and the number of 
orcs were quickly dwindling.

Shaking his head and trying to push away his feelings of unease, Aragorn turned 
to Arwen.   His eyes carefully scanned the elf princess up and down, searching 
for any sign of injury to her slight frame.

Feeling his intense gaze upon her, Arwen looked up and met his eyes.  She smiled 
and took a step toward him.  “I am fine, my love,” she said softly, reaching out 
and gently touching his arm.

Aragorn nodded, but did not stop his perusal.  Arwen’s light armor was stained 
with the blood of the orcs she had slain, her drawn blade covered in their gore. 
 Her hair, which she had placed in a tight braid before the battle began, was 
now coming loose, tendrils poking out everywhere.  Aragorn could not keep his 
eyes from her, wondering how she could look so disheveled and still so 
beautiful.

"The battle seems to have gone in our favor tonight," Arwen said cheerfully, 
squeezing his arm lightly to assure him that she was fine.

"Yes," Aragorn nodded.  "Perhaps a little too easily.  I hope that Gandalf, 
Faramir, and the hobbits fared as well as we did.  I do not like the fact that 
Malek has not shown himself, and I only hope that they did not run into the foul 
creature."

"They will be fine," Arwen assured him lightly.  "Now should we go and collect 
Legolas and Gimli?"

Aragorn nodded, taking her hand in his and making his way toward the dwarf and 
elf.  Even as they approached, Gimli dispatched the last of the orcs with a 
quick swing of his axe.

"Hah," the dwarf shouted triumphantly, stepping away from the falling orc.  
"Thirty-two!  Beat that, elf!"

Aragorn wondered for a second what Gimli was talking about, but Legolas's 
response to the dwarf's outburst answered his unspoken question.

"You will have to do better than that, master dwarf." Legolas responded gaily.  
"That," he pointed to an orc that lay near his feet, "was number thirty-seven."

Aragorn and Arwen reached the two, but neither seemed aware of their presence.  
Gimli glared at Legolas, shaking his head vehemently.  "Are you sure," he asked 
skeptically.

"I do not know about dwarfs," Legolas responded arrogantly, "but elves are 
taught how to count from an early age."

"And then they need thousands of years to perfect the skill," Gimli retorted.  
"I still think you made an error somewhere!"

Legolas opened his mouth to respond to this, but Arwen interrupted.  "If you two 
are arguing about the number of orcs you have slain, I am afraid I have beaten 
you both!  I felled at least forty of the ugly creatures."

Legolas and Gimli turned and stared at her, at last becoming aware of the 
presence of the others.  Legolas saw a familiar mischievous light in the elf 
princess's eyes, and he slowly shook his head.  Gimli muttered something else 
about the elve’s ability to count, and Arwen sent him a devilish grin.  Legolas 
was about to ask her if she was serious, but once more he was interrupted before 
he could say anything.

"I am not sure our battle is yet over," Aragorn said softly.  "Look!"  Three 
sets of eyes followed his pointing finger.

The orcs had retreated about two hundred yards before stopping and regrouping.  
Their black forms were nearly lost within the nighttime darkness, as they stood 
silent and still facing the city, appearing to be waiting for something.  Once 
more, Aragorn felt a shiver of foreboding run down his spine.

"What are they waiting for?" Gimli muttered.  "Surely they do not intend to 
attack once more."

"I do not know," Legolas began, "but..." The elf cut off abruptly, his body 
stiffening.  On the other side of Aragorn, Arwen let out a soft gasp of dismay.

Aragorn turned to them, only to find that both of their faces had turned a 
deathly white. Obviously, their far seeing eyes saw something that the others 
were yet unable to. Aragorn followed their gaze, trying vainly to peer into the 
darkness at the base of the Ered Nimrais.

“What is it?” Gimli asked Legolas softly, but the elf did not seem to hear him 
and did not answer.

Aragorn tensed, straining his eyes even more, believing he had seen movement 
within the dark shadows beneath the mountains. He stepped forward, gripping the 
edge of the wall and leaning as far forward as he could without fear of falling. 
He was now certain that he had seen movement, and a lot of it. The darkness 
seemed to be shifting and swirling, as if alive, and he could not help the 
shudder that ran down his spine.

The defenders upon the wall watched in horror as the nighttime shadows 
transformed into thousands of orcs, moving quickly and quietly towards the city. 
They were too numerous to even begin to count, pouring from the mountain like 
ants from an anthill and joining the small force already upon the battlefield. 
They did not shout or blow horns as the previous group had, yet somehow their 
silence was even more ominous. They formed rank after rank upon the field before 
the city, the flickering light from the fires upon the wall reflected dully off 
their armor and drawn weapons.

“So many!” Gimli whispered hoarsely, his voice seeming loud in the shocked 
silence that covered the wall.

Aragorn did not answer, his heart sinking lower with each line of orcs that 
formed upon the field. He tore his gaze from the horrendous sight, looking about 
him at the defenders lining the walls. Their faces showed their shocked 
disbelief and fear, doubt heavy in their eyes. They began to shift restlessly, 
many crying out in hopeless despair.

“How will we fight them?” a soldier standing nearby suddenly cried out. “We will 
be overcome for sure, for they are too many.”

Aragorn looked at the frightened man’s face and then firmly shook his head. “We 
WILL fight them,” he said loudly, his firm voice carrying to many of the 
soldiers nearby. “And we will endure,” he continued. “Hold fast to your courage, 
men of Gondor! Remember the innocent women and children you protect. We must not 
allow the enemy to pass!”

Aragorn’s words seemed to have a calming effect upon all that heard him, but 
fear and doubt still hung heavy in the air, almost tangible in its intensity.

Aragorn looked out once more at the ranks of orcs, trying to guess at their 
number while also trying desperately to think of a way to protect the city 
against them. The defenders were well outnumbered, and Aragorn doubted that the 
advantage afforded by the city wall would have much affect on the final outcome.

“Where did they all come from?” Legolas asked softly from behind him, his voice 
steady despite his still pale features.

Aragorn shook his head. “I do not know,” he answered just as quietly. “I did not 
think so many of their foul kind had survived the war with Sauron. I fear we 
have made the terrible mistake of underestimating Malek,” he finished, his voice 
a mere whisper.

The orcs seemed to have all arrived at last, but they merely stood before the 
city, an unnatural silence hanging heavy in the air as the soldiers tensed for 
what they knew would come next.

Suddenly, Legolas grasped Aragorn's arm, pointing towards the ranks of orcs. 
“Look!” he said, his voice low and strained.

Aragorn followed his friend’s outstretched arm, his eyes sweeping up and down 
the ranks of orcs in search of what had caught Legolas’s attention. It did not 
take him long to find it, and he felt his body stiffening once more. “Malek,” he 
whispered, the single word sounding like a curse.

A black shadow, seemingly darker than the night itself, hovered a short distance 
before the orc army, an intense feeling of malice and hatred radiating from it 
in waves. Even the orcs seemed loath to approach too near the shadow, and gave 
it a wide berth.

Aragorn shook his head. “I can not see through the darkness that surrounds him,” 
he admitted quietly.

Legolas nodded. “He wears the night like a cloak, and even my eyes cannot 
penetrate to what lies beneath.”

“What is he waiting for,” Gimli spoke up from beside them, his eyes also 
perusing the darkness that was Malek.

Aragorn continued to watch the orc army closely, and several long minutes passed 
before he answered the dwarf.

“He is toying with us,” he finally replied, his voice angry and bitter. “He can 
sense our fear and uncertainty, and he is playing with us!”

Legolas and Gimli had to agree, and their anger ignited as several more minutes 
of intense silence followed, the orc army merely standing and staring at the 
city. Aragorn found himself shifting as restlessly as his men, anxious for 
something to happen and yet dreading it at the same time.

Aragorn was unsure of how much time had passed since the orcs had first 
appeared, but each moment of inactivity seemed like hours. He wondered briefly 
if Malek intended on defeating the city by merely staring at it. It did not seem 
so impossible now, for with each passing second, the soldiers were losing 
courage.

The defenders all jumped as a single horn blast broke the silence of the night. 
Everyone tensed, and weapons were raised in preparation for the attack.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli also raised their weapons, but a second later 
lowered them in surprise.

“They are leaving,” Gimli said quietly, his voice filled with surprise and 
disbelief.

It was true, the orc army was breaking up, melting back into the shadows from 
whence they came, filing away as silently and quickly as they had come.

“It is nearing dawn,” Legolas replied simply.

“They are not going to attack,” Gimli murmured, his voice half statement, half 
question. “What kind of game is Malek playing?”

“A very dangerous game,” Aragorn replied softly, running his gaze over the 
retreating army. “And one in which he has struck us a hard blow.”

Legolas could only nod in agreement. Malek’s last action had been a calculated 
blow, attacking the courage of the defenders instead of their strength. All 
along the wall, the result of this attack could be plainly seen. Men stood ashen 
faced, weapons hanging limply from numb hands, faces showing shocked disbelief 
that they had been allowed to live yet another day. Several of the soldiers had 
even fallen to their knees, and the sound of weeping filled the air.

Legolas met Aragorn’s eye, seeing his own weariness mirrored in the man’s 
haggard face.

The sky opened up once more, pouring down rain without warning to mingle freely 
with the blood and tears of the defenders of Calembel.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Well, here it is!  My very first battle scene ever!  Pleasssse drop a note on 
what you thought of it.  If you don't want to send a review, you can always 
email me at the address on my bio sheet.

For those of you wanting to know what exactly it is that Merton said to Aragorn, 
I will just say that I left that open for interpretation on purpose.  Use your 
imagination and I am sure you will come up with something.  If enough people 
REALLY want me to write it out, then I guess I will, but until then, you will 
just have to guess.



Chapter 15   Plans and Preparations


Dawn, gray and cold, was just beginning to lighten the skies above Calembel.  
The high dark storm clouds choked off most of the light of the rising sun and 
the rain continued to fall in steady sheets.  Far to the west, however, the 
clouds thinned and eventually faded, promising that this day would ultimately be 
dryer and brighter than the previous.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had joined with Gandalf, Faramir, and the hobbits, 
and the small company now stood huddled together up on the wall, viewing the 
damage of the evening’s attack.  The small company had managed to escape the 
night, for the most part, unscathed.  Arwen had already left, intending to join 
the healers of the city in tending to the wounded defenders.  

“I do not like this,” Aragorn said softly, gazing in the direction in which the 
large orc army had just disappeared moments before.  “If I had but known that 
Malek had managed to gather so many orcs to himself, I never would have 
separated the army and continued on without the main force.” Aragorn shook his 
head, and it was obvious that he was placing the blame upon himself.

Gimli looked at him and sighed tiredly.  “You did not know,” he said in support. 
 “None of us knew.”

“Yet I should have been prepared nonetheless,” Aragorn responded.  “It was 
foolish of me to assume anything when dealing with this creature.”

“What is done, is done,” Gandalf broke in.  “Fretting upon the mistakes of the 
past will not help the future.  We must dwell now upon what must be done to 
prepare for the next attack.  I do not expect the rest of the army to reach us 
for another day yet, which means we must fight at least one more battle without 
their aide.”

“There is much to do,” Aragorn agreed, looking up and down the wall.  “If Malek 
had attacked last night, we surely would have fallen, for we were unprepared.  
As it is, he only intended on scaring us.  We must take the reprieve he 
foolishly gave us and use it wisely.”

“If his only intentions were to scare us,” Frodo said quietly, repressing a 
shudder, “he most certainly succeeded.”  Beside him, Merry and Sam both nodded, 
their faces still trying to regain some color.

Aragorn smiled down at them gently.  “This is true, yet the day will bring new 
courage to all.  We shall stand ready when night falls upon us once more, and we 
shall endure, even if Malek sets all the orcs of Middle Earth to the task of 
defeating us.”

“I think we saw all the orcs of Middle Earth last night,” Sam pointed out 
gloomily.

“What do we do in the meantime?” Merry asked.  “How do we prepare to fight such 
a large group of orcs?”

“There is much we can do, my small friend,” Faramir answered.  “Traps can be 
set, defenses made, and strategies determined.  Malek shall find that he made a 
mistake in not defeating us when he had the chance, for the next time he 
attacks, he shall not find us so completely defenseless.”  Faramir paused, and 
there was a strange light in his eyes.  “My father always told me that when you 
are outnumbered, you must find a way to outsmart your enemies.”

“Your father was a wise man,” Aragorn responded, “And indeed, we must find a way 
to outsmart Malek at his own game.”

“I have a suggestion,” Legolas spoke up for the first time.  All eyes turned to 
him and he smiled grimly.  “I am speaking of a tactic that is used often in my 
home when driving away large bands of wargs or spiders.”

“What is this tactic?” Aragorn asked.

“Instead of waiting for the orcs to attack the wall and trying to push them back 
here, I suggest that we build defense lines before the city and meet the enemy 
on the field.  This way, we have more than one position to fall back to, and we 
may slow them enough to protect the city.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I was thinking of this strategy myself,” he admitted, “and I 
think it is a good idea.”

“Then I will get started on it right away,” Farmir stated, stretching sore 
muscles.  “We cannot afford to waste a single minute.”

Aragorn smiled at him, “ You may begin to see to this, but I also expect you to 
find a couple of hours to rest this day and regain your strength for tonight.”

Farmir nodded at this, knowing the importance of facing a battle, especially one 
in which you are outnumbered, rested and prepared.  He turned to leave, but 
Aragorn called out to him once more.

“I also need you to send a messenger to the main army bidding them to hasten 
with all speed to the city.  They must not waste any time in coming to our 
aide.”

Once more, Faramir nodded, then turned and quickly strode from the wall, calling 
men to him as he went.  

Aragorn watched him go, his thoughts distant until he heard a hesitant voice 
call out quietly to him.  He turned and found Kenson Brantz standing 
uncomfortably a few feet away.  The man's armor was stained with blood, and a 
small stream of red worked its way down his face from a cut above his left eye, 
contrasting sharply to his pale features.  He looked awkward and self-conscious, 
so Aragorn smiled lightly at him, trying to put the man at ease. 

"Kenson Brantz," he said quietly, nodding his head at the man.  "Your help was 
greatly appreciated both before the attack and during and if there is anything 
that I can do to repay you, just ask." 

"You are very gracious, my lord," Kenson replied, bowing low.  "However, it is 
not with hope of repayment that I come to you, but more with hope of survival." 

Aragorn arched a questioning eyebrow and Kenson continued. 

"I can see that our enemy greatly outnumbers us, and I would ask permission to 
ride from the city to the trading base of Thruburk.  It is several miles away, 
but I know that at this time of year, the base is filled with soldiers such as 
myself.  I believe I could ride back with over a hundred more swords to aid in 
our fight." 

"Over a hundred swords," Aragorn repeated softly, shaking his head slowly. 

"I know it is not much, my lord," Kenson said quietly, shrugging his shoulders, 
"but any help would be welcome at such a time as this." 

"Very welcome," Aragorn said emphatically.  "You have my permission, captain, 
and my best wishes for a speedy and safe journey." 

Kenson bowed.  "If I leave now and ride hard, I can reach the base shortly after 
noon.  With any luck, we can be back at Calembel before the battle tonight." 

"Then I wish you all the luck in the world," Aragorn replied softly. 

Kenson turned to leave, but hesitated.  He turned back to Aragorn, looking 
slightly embarrassed.  "My lord," he said quietly, then hesitated.  At last he 
continued.  "If I am to leave right away, I have no time to find my son, Dar, 
and tell him of my departure..." he trailed off once more. 

Aragorn smiled at him.  "Have no fear, captain.  I will make sure your son is 
notified that you have gone." 

Kenson returned Aragorn's smile gratefully and then turned and left. 

"So what do we do?"  Frodo asked from beside Gandalf. 

Aragorn looked at the hobbits, running an expert eye over all three of them.  
The strain of the battle could easily be seen etched on their faces, and they 
were clearly exhausted.  Aragorn was reminded that although these hobbits were 
extremely brave, they were not warriors at heart.  They were much more suited 
for eating and merry conversation than fighting, and his heart grieved for them. 

"Go and rest now," he said gently, his voice filled with compassion.  "There 
will be plenty of opportunity for you to help later, after you have refreshed 
your mind and spirit." 

Frodo nodded gratefully, but his sharp eyes found Aragorn, and he did not yet 
turn to leave.  "What will you all be doing?"  he asked curiously and with a 
hint of determination. 

Aragorn could feel the eyes of all his companions upon him, waiting for his 
response.  He lifted his head and met Gandalf's sharp gaze, his own eyes shining 
with determination.  "I think," he said quietly, his eyes still locked on 
Gandalf’s, "that it is time for the plan that we discussed earlier." 

Gandalf immediately frowned, while at the same time nodding slightly as if in 
agreement.  "I see no other option," the wizard stated finally, his voice filled 
with resignation. 

"Nor do I," Aragorn replied, his voice much firmer. 

"What plan?" Gimli questioned, watching the exchange between wizard and king 
with a critical eye. 

"If we are to make plans to destroy Malek, then we must learn more about him.  
We must discover where it is that he hides and anything else that can aid us in 
our fight against him.  This is even more important now that I know how many 
orcs he has.  If we merely sit here and wait for him to attack, we will 
eventually be overrun.  However, if we manage to destroy Malek, the orc army 
will be easy enough to overcome.  They are nothing without a leader!" 

"So how do you intend on doing this?" Legolas spoke up again.

"First," Aragorn replied,  "We must discover where it is that Malek is hiding.  
 From there, we can use the information in formulating a plan.   Gandalf and I 
have discussed this and decided the only way to learn of Malek's hiding place is 
to track his army back to where they came from." 

Silence filled the air as Aragorn's companions merely stared at him, their faces 
incredulous. 

"So," Gimli finally broke the silence,  "you want us to track an army of well 
over five thousand orcs, in the rain, up a mountain, and escaping the notice of 
any rear guard they may have posted?" 

Aragorn nodded and smiled.  "Right on all points except one, my friend.  Me, not 
us.  The rest of you will be needed here in the city to help prepare for 
tonight." 

Once again there was a brief silence, and once again, it was Gimli who broke it. 
 "You mean to tell me that you intend to track those beasts all by yourself!  
Their trail will be nearly impossible to follow once they reach the mountain, 
and any trail they do leave will most likely be swept away by the rain." 

"Do not worry, Gimli," Aragorn said.  "I was taught how to track a rabbit in a 
snowstorm from the time I was barely old enough to walk, and my teachers were 
the best in the land.  Have no fear, I will be able to follow the orcs.”

"And anything that he misses will not escape the eye of an elf," Legolas broke 
in, giving Aragorn a sharp look. 

Aragorn shook his head and opened his mouth to argue, but Gandalf spoke before 
he was able to,  "I think it is a good idea for you to accompany him, Legolas.”

"Then it is settled," Legolas stated, crossing his arms and glancing toward 
Aragorn.  "I am going.”

Aragorn looked at the resolute look upon his friend's face and realized that 
there would be no dissuading the elf short of an outright order.  Even then, he 
was not sure Legolas would obey.  "Very well," he sighed, secretly glad of the 
company. 

"I, too, will go," Gimli stated, placing his hand determinedly upon his axe. 

"Nay, friend," Aragorn said firmly, before anyone could interrupt.  "As I said 
before, you will be needed here.  Legolas and I have hunted together before on 
many occasions, and we will be able to move much more swiftly on our own." 

Gimli looked as if he was going to argue, but Aragorn did not give him a chance. 
 Turning to Legolas, he addressed the elf.  "We must leave as soon as possible 
if we wish to be back before nightfall." 

"I must fill my quiver, and then I will be ready," Legolas stated quietly, 
throwing the distressed Gimli a sympathetic look. 

"Very well, we leave within the hour." 

******** 

"Merry!"  Pippin called out excitedly as his friend rounded the corner of the 
hall.  He jumped up from his stool and raced forward as first Frodo, and then 
Sam joined Merry.  He reached the trio and began dancing excited circles about 
them, hurling questions about the battle, hardly noticing their exhausted state 
or blood stained armor. 

Frodo and Sam exchanged tired, but amused expressions at the younger hobbit’s 
enthusiasm.  However, they did not hesitate to quickly retire to their rooms and 
leave Merry to deal with the excited Pippin. 

"Easy, Pip," Merry said, somewhat exasperated and pushing forward toward their 
room, wishing for nothing more than to strip from his filthy armor and fall into 
an immediate sleep. 

"What happened?  Where are the others?  Did Malek show up?"  Pippin continued 
firing questions at his friend as they entered the small room. 

Merry sighed, rubbing his tired eyes.  Suddenly he froze, staring at one of the 
beds in the corner of the room. 

Pippin followed his gaze, and then laughed softly.  "Don't worry, Merry.  It's 
just the little boy, Dar.  He was helping me guard the hall, but I sent him in 
here when he got too tired to keep his eyes open." 

Merry nodded, then began wearily stripping off his armor.  Pippin lent him a 
hand, never stopping his barrage of questions.  Merry answered in monosyllables 
and grunts, and Pippin was quickly becoming exasperated. 

"Please, Merry," he whined, "it was bad enough being stuck here all night, you 
can at least tell me what happened." 

"I'll tell you when I get up," Merry offered sleepily as he slipped beneath the 
covers of his bed. 

Pippin frowned, disappointment filling his face.  "At least tell me if the 
others are alright," he begged. 

"They’re fine," Merry answered drowsily, already slipping toward sleep. 

Pippin looked at his friend disgustedly, shaking his head.  "Where are they?" he 
asked, hoping to go and find someone more willing to answer his questions.  He 
was already fairly sure that Frodo and Sam, next door, would already be asleep. 

"Faramir is preparing defense lines, Arwen is helping with the wounded, and 
Gimli and Gandalf are working on reinforcing the wall and gate," Merry murmured, 
hoping to stop Pippin's insistent questions so that he could sleep. 

"What about Aragorn and Legolas?"  Pippin asked, curious that his friend had not 
mentioned them. 

"They have probably already gone," Merry sighed, his words almost lost as he 
buried his head beneath his pillow. 

Pippin moved over to the bed and lifted the pillow off Merry's head.  "Gone?  
Gone were?" he questioned. 

Merry glared up at him from a single bloodshot eye, before answering.  "They 
left to find where Malek is hiding.  Now will you leave me alone so I can 
sleep?" 

Pippin dropped the pillow back over Merry's head, then stood and stared down at 
the bed.  In a matter of minutes, the sound of Merry's heavy breathing filled 
the air and Pippin knew he was asleep. 

A series of expression's crossed his face, one right after the other, and if 
Merry had been awake to see them, he would have immediately been alerted that 
all was not well with the younger hobbit.  As it were, Merry did not see the 
expressions flitting across Pippin's face, nor was he aware when the hobbit left 
the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

******* 

"Take care, my friend," Gimli said quietly, gripping Legolas's shoulder as the 
elf knelt and filled his quiver.  Legolas glanced at him and smiled slightly. 

"Of course," he answered with a forced cheerfulness. 

"I must admit that I do not like this," Gimli said, frowning deeply.  "There are 
too many things that could go wrong." 

"I do not like it either," Legolas answered with a sigh, rising gracefully and 
swinging the full quiver onto his back.  "However, I agree with Aragorn and 
Gandalf that it is the only option.  We must learn all that we can about Malek 
if we are to defeat him." 

"All the same," Gimli answered reluctantly, "I wish I was going with you.  You 
need me to watch your back." 

"I will be fine," Legolas grinned down at him encouragingly.  "I was watching my 
own back before you were even born, my friend." 

"Just be careful," Gimli grunted, not meeting his friend’s eyes. 

Legolas looked down at the dwarf and was about to reply, but Aragorn called out 
to him, the man already heading toward the northern gate. Legolas reached down 
and gripped Gimli's shoulder in a silent farewell before turning and joining 
Aragorn at the edge of the city. 

Gimli watched them as they talked briefly with the guard and then turned and 
began walking swiftly toward the distant mountain. As he watched them go, he got 
the strangest feeling that he would never see either one of them again.  Emotion 
welled deep within him, and he found it impossible to swallow the lump that 
formed in his throat.  He fought off the feeling, telling himself that he was 
merely tired and thus overreacting to every thing that had happened the previous 
evening.  Aragorn and Legolas would be fine.  They knew how to take care of 
themselves and had been doing so for years before Gimli had met them. 

Still, Gimli stood staring after his two friends long after they had disappeared 
into the shadow of the mountain.  At last he gave himself a hard shake and 
turned away from the gate to go see to his day’s duty. 

If Gimli had remained where he was for just a minute longer, he would have seen 
the small shape that broke away from the wall and quickly began following the 
path the elf and ex-ranger had just taken.

******

Far above the small city, a lone orc stood on a rock ledge, his eyes taking in 
the activity around the city.  He huddled against the rock face, trying to hide 
as much as possible in the darkness offered by its shadow.  He was restless, 
shifting back and forth and often eyeing the sky that was still blanketed by 
high clouds.  The rain was lessening once more, and the clouds looked as if they 
were beginning to break up and drift away.

The orc growled low and returned his eyes to the city, stiffening as he spotted 
the two figures crossing the short plain and heading toward the mountains.  He 
remained where he was, frozen against the rock face, watching and waiting.  
After several long minutes had passed, he at last spotted what he had been 
waiting for.  

Concealing a wicked grin, the orc turned and scampered from his high perch, his 
job finished.  The only thing left to do was report to his master all that he 
had seen.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….


A/N—Thank you everyone for your encouragement on my previous chapters.  Please 
continue to let me know what you think!



Chapter 16        Hidden Traps


Legolas stood completely motionless, his head cocked slightly to one side.  The 
only thing that moved on the elf was his eyes, which were busy scanning the 
rocky slopes of the Ered Nimrais.  The mountain rose before him like a giant 
finger thrusting from the earth, casting a shadow across the small wooded glade 
the tall archer now stood within.  The morning rain had lessened to a light 
drizzle, and Legolas had cast back the hood of his cloak, allowing the clean, 
fresh drops to fall freely onto his face and hair.  He continued to study the 
slopes of the mountain up which Aragorn and he would soon be traveling.  
Already, the ground was beginning to slope upward, and the elf guessed that 
their travel would become more and more difficult as they continued on.

Suddenly, he turned, his eyes perusing the deep shadows of the trees behind him. 
 He frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing and his hand caressing the hilt of one 
of his long knives.

A few paces away, Aragorn knelt upon the soft ground, examining what little the 
rain had left of the orc army’s tracks.   This glade had been the first 
opportunity to find clear prints, and Aragorn was careful to read the tracks for 
any information they could give him.  He searched for clues as to whether or not 
the orc army had split after their withdrawal, or remained in one giant force.  
 He had been afraid that if the army split into two or perhaps more groups, each 
going to a separate cave, he and Legolas would have no way of knowing which one 
Malek occupied.   However, from what he had seen so far, Aragorn guessed that 
they had all remained together, and this was welcome news to the ex-ranger.

He studied the ground for several more long minutes before finally rising and 
turning to Legolas, motioning to the elf that he was ready to move on.  He was 
surprised when Legolas didn’t even seem to notice him, instead staring intently 
back the way they had come, his body tense and alert.  Aragorn felt the first 
stirrings of anxiety and he quietly moved to stand next to his friend.  “What’s 
wrong,” he asked softly, his voice a mere whisper that blended in with the 
softly falling rain.

Legolas still did not turn towards him or acknowledge his presence, but Aragorn 
knew the elf had heard him.  A few seconds of tense silence followed until 
Legolas at last let out a small sigh.  “We’re being followed,” the elf stated, 
his words as soft and quiet as Aragorn’s had been a moment before.

Aragorn’s only response to the statement was a slight tensing of his shoulders 
and a sigh that matched Legolas’s.  He also began scanning the path behind them, 
although he knew he would be unable to see anything.  “How many?” he asked 
simply, his tone showing that he was not surprised at this new development.

Legolas shrugged and at last turned to meet Aragorn’s gaze.  “I cannot be 
completely certain,” he replied slowly, “but I believe there is only one.  The 
trees whisper of its presence, and yet they tell me very little.  They do not 
seem overly disturbed, and yet that could be simply because a lone orc means 
little to them after the army that just passed through.”  Legolas shrugged once 
more as if in apology that he could not tell Aragorn more. 

Aragorn nodded slowly, accepting the elf’s words without question.  “How long 
before the creature reaches us?” he asked quietly, his eyes scanning the 
surrounding trees once more, as if expecting the orc to step from them at any 
moment.

“He has kept a pretty steady distance between us, but now that we have stopped 
he will undoubtedly gain on us.  Perhaps…” Legolas trailed off, and instead of 
finishing his sentence, he strode to a tall tree standing nearby.  He leapt 
upward and effortlessly caught hold of one of the lower branches, pulling 
himself up gracefully and quickly climbing higher into the tree.

Aragorn watched as his friend became lost within the thick leaves.  Several 
minutes of silence followed, and Aragorn had to fight down the urge to call up 
and ask what Legolas had discovered.  He was still unsure of how far away their 
orc shadow was, and he didn’t want to alert the creature that they were on to 
him.  He had expected something like this, yet he had hoped to at least reach 
the mountain before….

Aragorn gave a start as Legolas dropped silently before him, materializing 
seemingly out of thin air.   The elf looked troubled, and Aragorn looked at him 
expectantly.  “What did you learn?” he asked.

Legolas shook his head.  “The creature has already entered the woods, and the 
trees hid him from my view.   I expect he will reach this glade in a matter of 
minutes.”

Aragorn sighed, glancing up at the midmorning sun peering through the fading 
clouds.  He had hoped to be a lot further along by now; at least on the first 
slopes of the mountain.  Who knew how far away Malek’s hiding place was, and 
Aragorn did not relish the thought of getting caught within the mountains at 
night with thousands of orcs on the prowl.

Legolas was watching Aragorn closely, waiting for his friend’s command.  The elf 
felt strangely disconcerted about their shadow, though he could not explain 
exactly why.  He wondered why it had taken him so long to realize that they were 
being followed.  He also wondered why he still could not sense the orc, although 
the creature had to be close.

Aragorn glanced once more at the mountain, and then swept his gaze behind him.  
“Well,” he said lightly, his voice still toned low, “we can continue on and hope 
to loose the creature once we reach the mountain, or we can wait for him here 
and end his hunt of us once and for all.  What do you think, my friend?”

Legolas seemed to consider for a moment before shaking his head.  “I would 
prefer facing the creature now and not having to worry about him in the future,” 
he replied evenly, his eyes shining dangerously.  

“I agree,” Aragorn replied, unsheathing the knife at his waist.  “You go across 
the glade and cover me with your bow, and I will face this creature.  Hopefully 
we can be finished with this and continue on before too much time is wasted.”

Legolas nodded, then swiftly moved away further up the path, pulling his bow 
from his back.  Aragorn glanced around, finding a patch of scrub brush that 
would offer excellent cover without impeding his movement.  He quietly moved to 
the brush, hunching down within its cover and holding his knife ready, his 
entire body alert and waiting, listening intently for the first sounds of the 
enemy’s approach.  He glanced quickly in the direction Legolas had gone, hoping 
to find where the elf had hidden himself.  Legolas, however, had completely 
disappeared, and Aragorn knew he would not be able to find him.  He turned back 
to the task at hand, slowing his breathing and holding completely still, 
blending in totally with the brush around him.

Silence fell across the small glade, the only movement coming from two small 
squirrels playing tag around a giant oak tree, their chattering and arguing the 
only sound breaking the quiet.  The first squirrel was racing swiftly around and 
around the trunk of the tree, its companion hot on its trail.  Suddenly, the 
leading squirrel stopped cold, staring toward the far end of the glade, its nose 
twitching slightly.  The second squirrel, unaware that the first had stopped, 
nearly ran into his companion, letting loose a wild barrage of chattering that 
soon stopped as he too grew still and wary.

A figure had entered the glen, completely swathed in a black cloak and moving 
slowly and cautiously forward, bent slightly as it studied the ground before it. 
 Still concealed behind the scrub brush, Aragorn could sense it drawing near to 
his hiding place.  He tightened his grip on his knife, every muscle prepared for 
his spring forward.  He closed his eyes, letting his other senses take over and 
tell him what he needed to know.  ‘Just a little bit closer,’ he told himself 
steadily.  ‘Almost there….almost…’

Like a striking snake, silent and deadly, Aragorn leapt forward, his hand 
reaching out to grab the creature by the neck before lifting his knife and 
beginning the downward blow that would end the beast’s life quickly and quietly, 
with no struggle.  

It was only Aragorn’s excellent reflexes that saved him from making the biggest 
mistake of his life.  The knife came to a stop a mere inch away from its 
intended victim’s throat as Aragorn let out a loud curse.

Pippin closed his eyes tightly, too terrified to cry out or struggle, sure that 
his life was about to come to a rather nasty and bloody end. 

Silence once more fell, as all of nature seemed to tense, watching the strange 
scene taking place at the center of the glade.

It took Pippin a few seconds to realize that the knife was not going to complete 
its journey, and he carefully cracked an eye open and peered above him.

Aragorn was too surprised to do anything but stare down at him in horror, his 
knife still clenched in his fist.

Pippin heard the quiet sound of running feet that stopped a few feet away, 
followed by a soft exclamation of surprise.

Aragorn seemed at last to be released from his shocked state, and with another 
loud oath he released Pippin, the hobbit falling unceremoniously to the ground.

Pippin glanced up at him and winced, realizing that Aragorn’s surprise was 
quickly being replaced with anger.  The man’s face could have scared away storm 
clouds.  

“By the Valar, what are you doing here?!” Aragorn erupted, reaching down and 
hauling Pippin to his feet once more.  “Don’t you know that I could have killed 
you just now,” he shouted, shaking Pippin for emphasis.  

Pippin was very aware of that fact, and was still in the process of trying to 
still his madly beating heart to a more normal rate.  Aragorn continuing to 
shake him like a rag doll was not helping matters much either.  Pippin looked 
past Aragorn to Legolas, hoping for some assistance, but the elf stood with arms 
crossed, his face completely blank.  

“I asked you a question!” Aragorn repeated, no longer shouting, but his voice 
low and dangerous, drawing Pippin’s attention back to him.  

“I…I…I….”  Pippin stuttered, trying desperately to think of a reason to give the 
furious man.  The truth was, he was uncertain even himself why he was here.  All 
he knew was that after talking to Merry, something inside of him had snapped.  
He had decided the time was finished for him to be sitting around doing nothing, 
and he had acted without really thinking.  Yet how could he explain that to 
Aragorn?  He doubted in the man’s present condition he would understand 
something that Pippin didn’t entirely understand himself.  He had just had to 
come; it was as simple as that.  ‘Or as complicated,’ he thought as he looked 
into Aragorn’s angry eyes, his friend still waiting for his answer.  “I just 
wanted to help.”  Pippin finished lamely, lowering his eyes to the ground.

“Help?” Aragorn repeated, his voice still low and rock hard.  Suddenly he 
released Pippin once more, causing the hobbit to stumble back slightly before 
catching his balance.  “You just wanted to help?”  Aragorn repeated, his voice 
incredulous.  “How on earth could you think that following us, making us think 
you were an orc, would help?”

“I don’t know,” Pippin answered, feeling a strange well of emotion beginning to 
build within him.  “I guess I just got tired of sitting around guarding a bunch 
of baggage!”  He raised his head, at last meeting Aragorn’s gaze as his own 
anger began to blaze within his eyes.  “If you no longer wish me to be a knight 
of Gondor, you should just tell me instead of pushing me into the background!”  
He blurted out, at last releasing the pent up emotion he had been carrying 
around with him.  “I know I may not be as strong and brave as the others, but I 
am smart enough to know when I am being used!  I have been insulted and 
humiliated, and I have had enough!”  Part of Pippin realized that he was 
shouting; shouting at Aragorn, and yet he could not seem to stop.  “I can do 
anything the others can,” he declared boldly, “and I will prove it if I must.  
If you try to send me back, I will just follow you and….”  

Pippin finally managed to close his mouth, his eyes as wide as Sam’s favorite 
saucepan.  He dropped his eyes to the ground, suddenly ashamed of his outburst 
and feeling unpleasantly guilty.  He waited for Aragorn’s reaction, dreading it 
with every particle of his being.  After several long minutes had passed, and 
Aragorn still had not spoken, Pippin at last raised his head.  He found Aragorn 
looking at him with a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

At last, the man spoke.  “Gandalf once told me that you can know everything 
there is to know about hobbits, and a hundred years later, they will still 
surprise you.  I think I have finally figured out what he meant.”  Aragorn’s 
voice was low, almost as if he was speaking to himself, and there was a hint 
of…was it respect…. in his voice.

Pippin was unsure what Aragorn meant by this comment, but he was too busy trying 
to figure out why Aragorn no longer seemed angry to give it much thought.

“Know this, Pippin,” Aragorn said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle.  “You 
could never stop being a Knight of Gondor, nor would I ever wish you to.  Nor do 
you have to prove yourself to me, for you have already done so many times.”

Pippin’s eyes were locked in Aragorn’s powerful ones, and he suddenly felt all 
the anger and resentment drain out of him.  He knew Aragorn’s words were spoken 
simply and honestly, and he felt himself relax and a flare of hope ran through 
him. 

Aragorn at last broke his gaze, looking upward at the sun’s position in the sky 
and shaking his head slightly.  Turning back to Pippin, his face turned hard 
once more, causing the hobbit to feel all his previous hope drain from him.  “I 
am afraid, young hobbit, that you are in serious trouble,” Aragorn said simply, 
looking down at Pippin.

Pippin lowered his eyes to the ground, certain that he was about to be sent back 
to the city.

“Even were I to allow you to come with us,” Aragorn continued, quietly, ignoring 
Pippin’s hopeful look,  “when we return to the city, I expect Gandalf will skin 
you alive, if he doesn’t think of something worse.”

Pippin winced, picturing the wizard’s wrath.  “I’ll face that when it happens,” 
he responded bravely.  “Please let me come with you!”

Aragorn shook his head slightly.  “The others will be worried about you, Pippin. 
 They will search for you.”

“I left a message with a guard,” Pippin responded quickly, thinking that he had 
to find a way to convince his friend to let him come.  “He will tell them that I 
came with you.”

Aragorn continued to shake his head.  “There are many orcs where we’re headed, 
and the chances are we might have to fight some of them before this day is 
through,” he warned Pippin seriously.

“I am not afraid,” Pippin responded; hope continuing to rise in him.  “I know I 
can help if you will but give me a chance,” he begged.

Aragorn did not say anything, but merely studied Pippin for what seemed like 
ages, causing the hobbit to squirm and fidget beneath the intense scrutiny.  At 
last, Aragorn turned away from him and faced Legolas.  “What say you, Legolas?  
Should we bring him along?” he asked quietly.

Legolas eyed Pippin sharply before turning once more to Aragorn.  “I would 
probably advice against it if it were not for the fact that we do not know 
whether there are any other orcs behind us.  Sending him back could be more 
dangerous than keeping him with us.  It is your choice, Aragorn, do what you 
think is best.”

Aragorn nodded, turning back to Pippin and reading the pleading look in the 
hobbit’s eyes.

A few seconds later, he made up his mind.  “If you can keep up with us, than you 
may come along,” he said at last, shaking off his misgivings.

Pippin resisted the urge to jump up and down in excitement.  “Thank you,” he 
gasped out, “I can keep up, I promise.” 

Aragorn nodded once, his face grim.  He turned, Legolas following, and began a 
swift march toward the mountain.

Pippin watched them silently for a moment, then hiked his pack further on his 
back and raced after them, thinking that he would finally get a chance to prove 
himself worthy of the title, Knight of Gondor.

******

Gandalf was not happy, and this fact was quite obvious to anyone who happened to 
look at him.  The wizard’s bushy eyebrows were knitted together by his fierce 
scowl, and the very air around him seemed to crackle and snap with his anger.  

He strode down the main street of Calambel, completely unaware of the people 
that raced to get out of his path.  The three hobbits followed swiftly behind, 
practically having to jog to keep up with the wizard’s long strides.

“I am going to KILL him,” Gandalf muttered to himself, unconsciously clenching 
his fists at his side.  “When I get through with that young hobbit, he is going 
to wish he had never been born!”

“Gandalf,” a timid voice called out behind him.  “Do you mind slowing down just 
a bit?”

Gandalf once more became aware of his three small shadows, and he slowed his 
pace a bit, allowing them to catch up to him.  As they drew aside him, Merry 
glanced up at the wizard’s face, and then quickly looked away.  Gandalf sighed 
and tried to school his features to calm.  He knew that Merry, Sam, and Frodo 
were worried enough about their friend without having to fret about the wrath of 
an old wizard.

Noon had come and gone within the city of Calembel, and Gandalf had just learned 
about the foolish actions of the youngest member of their company.  The 
remaining three hobbits had been horrified when he had told them what he had 
learned from one of the guards, and Gandalf knew that Merry blamed himself for 
Pippin’s brash actions.

“Do you think he will be alright?”  Merry asked quietly from beside Gandalf, 
still not meeting the wizard’s eyes.

Gandalf shoved down his own anger and worries and strove to make his voice calm 
and soothing.  “I am sure he will be fine,” he stated.  “He has undoubtedly 
caught up with Aragorn and Legolas by now, and if they do not send him directly 
back, they will watch over him.”

“Maybe we should send someone out to look for him?”  Sam suggested.  “Just in 
case he got lost and is wandering around alone out there somewhere.”

Merry looked completely horrified at this possibility, but Gandalf quickly 
assured him.  “Nonsense,” the wizard said dismissively.  “Pippin has proved to 
me before that he is perfectly able to follow tracks, and since Legolas and 
Aragorn made no effort to hide their passing, I am sure that Pippin will be able 
to find them.”

“I don’t understand why he did this?” Merry said, looking as if he was close to 
tears.

“Nor do I,” Gandalf stated, “but I intend to find out!”

Frodo exchanged a glance with Sam, actually feeling somewhat sorry for Pippin 
whenever he returned.  He knew the wizard was not intending to be gentle with 
the young hobbit.

“Come,” Gandalf commanded, “enough time has been wasted this day!  We have much 
to do in preparation.”

Once more Gandalf picked up his pace, quickly pulling ahead of the three hobbits 
once more.  Merry, Frodo, and Sam exchanged looks, the same thought running 
through all their heads.  ‘What had Pippin gotten himself into?’

*****

‘What did I get myself into,” Pippin wondered as he crouched behind a large 
boulder with Aragorn and Legolas.   A big clump of thorny bush shared their 
hiding place, making things rather scratchy and uncomfortable.  Worse, Pippin 
seemed to be allergic to the plant.  He had gotten a rather nasty cut on his 
forearm from one of the thorns, and now his entire arm seemed to be swelling to 
three times it’s normal size.  And to top everything off, the storm clouds had 
faded away, leaving the afternoon sun to beat down relentlessly upon their 
heads.

Pippin shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, then groaned when he felt a 
sharp prick on his bottom.  He seemed to be sitting on a branch of the thorny 
brush and there was no escape from its cruel thorns.  

Surprisingly, Pippin did not complain about his discomfort.  Nor had he 
complained when Legolas and Aragorn had insisted on marching all morning and 
into the afternoon, taking little or no breaks to rest or even eat.  This really 
didn’t matter, for Pippin had forgotten to bring any food with him anyway, a 
true sign of how upset he had been.  Luckily for him, Legolas had seen his 
discomfort and had dropped back long enough to give him some lembas to chew on. 
 This had filled him, if not satisfied him. 

Now, Pippin wished for more of the strength-giving elven bread.  He was worn out 
from the several hours of traversing the steep mountain slopes of the Ered 
Nimrais, forced to keep up with two seemingly tireless companions.  The fact 
that they seemed to have at last reached their destination did little to cheer 
the hobbit.  He was not looking forward to the trek home.

“I must admit that Malek chose the perfect spot to hide his army,” Aragorn said 
softly from beside him, the sound of his voice breaking the tense silence that 
had surrounded the company of three.

Legolas merely nodded, and Pippin shifted once more to try and peer over the 
rock in the direction the elf and man were staring.  He sighed resignedly as he 
felt several more thorns dig into his flesh.  He glanced at Aragorn, wondering 
if his friend was suffering the same as him.  If Aragorn was, he gave no sign.  
As for Legolas, it almost seemed as if the thorns were twisting out of their way 
to avoid pricking into his soft flesh.  ‘Merry is going to be picking these 
thorns out of me for hours,’ Pippin thought glumly.  ‘That is, if I survive the 
trip home, and Gandalf doesn’t meet me and hang me up by my toes from the front 
gate!’

Pippin at last maneuvered himself into a position to peer over the rock.  
Although he knew very little about military strategy, he found that he 
understood exactly what Aragorn was talking about.

The large boulder the three friends hid behind was located at the base of a 
steep and rocky rise that lifted high above the companion’s heads before joining 
with a rock wall.  Directly above them, the mouth of a giant cave opened up, 
it’s yawning blackness a mockery to the afternoon sun.  On either side of the 
cave, the rock wall fell abruptly away into a sheer drop.  The only way to get 
near the cave would be up the rise before them, and this path was open and 
barren, free of any boulders or trees that could offer cover.  Nothing could 
approach the mouth of the cave without being plainly visible to anyone left on 
guard.

“So what do we do now?” Pippin whispered, despite the fact that the distance to 
the cave mouth was too far for any orc to overhear him.  “We have found Malek’s 
cave.  Isn’t that what we set out to do?”

“Yes,” Aragorn answered, “and yet I had hoped to learn much more than I have.”

“Like what?”  Pippin asked,

Aragorn glanced over the hobbit at Legolas, shrugging his shoulders.  “I’m not 
sure,” he responded.  “I just feel that we still know too little.  We don’t know 
how far back that cavern goes, whether it splits once inside, or if Malek is 
just using it as an underground passageway to someplace completely different.”

“I am fairly certain that Malek remains here,” Legolas spoke up.  “I can feel 
his evil radiating from this place and I also can sense orcs nearby, most likely 
those that are guarding the entrance.”

“I still wish there was a way to learn more about the layout inside,” Aragorn 
said, a hint of frustration in his voice.  

“Perhaps there is,” Legolas said thoughtfully.

Aragorn turned to him questioningly, and the elf merely shrugged.  “We obviously 
cannot get into the cave from this entrance, but perhaps we can find another.  
You said before that many of these caves are interlocked, connected by several 
different tunnels.  There has to be another entrance somewhere, we just have to 
find it.”

“Finding it can take more time than we have,” Aragorn responded with a sigh.  

Legolas glanced up at the afternoon sky.  “We still have several hours of 
daylight left.  Why don’t we at least try?”

Aragorn seemed thoughtful for a time, and then at last nodded.  “If we skirt 
this rock wall and come at it from the other side, there is a chance we might 
come across a back entrance.”

“Then let us get started,” Legolas suggested, rising to a crouch and beginning 
to back away from the rock.

Pippin was more than willing to join him, giving the thorny bush one last glare.

When the company had moved far enough down the rise to be hidden from view from 
the rock wall, Aragorn turned and began leading them in a southeasterly 
direction, intending to skirt the wall to the south and come at it from the 
other side.  The three companions traveled in silence, keeping their ears open 
for any sound of roaming orcs set as guards. 

Despite the rocky terrain, it took them less than an hour to completely skirt 
the rock wall, now facing it from the back, which was even steeper than the 
front.  Legolas was the first to spot the small cave located halfway up the 
steep front and partially hidden by a clump of brush.   The climb up to the cave 
looked quite steep and slippery, the ground covered with loose rock, and Aragorn 
and Legolas studied it for several minutes, looking for the best way to reach 
it.  

Pippin studied it as well, but with much more distrust and distaste in his eyes. 
 He knew it would be just his luck if the bush surrounding the cave was the same 
kind of thorny brush that they had just left.  He was already beginning to itch 
horribly everywhere the thorns had pierced his flesh, and he felt as if his 
entire body was beginning to swell.

“I would estimate that this cave sits behind and to the left of the one we just 
left,” Aragorn stated quietly.  “Thus, there is a good chance that it might 
connect with the other.”

“I still sense the presence of orcs,” Legolas stated quietly, “but it is distant 
and muted.  I do not think a guard has been set on this entrance.”

“Which could be bad or good,” Aragorn responded.  “It could mean that they have 
just not bothered exploring and finding other entrances, or it could mean that 
this cave does not connect with the other, after all.”

“There is no way to find out standing here,” Legolas said, looking up at the 
cave entrance with a reluctant distaste.  

“How are we supposed to get up there?”  Pippin asked, frowning at the steep 
face.

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged looks over Pippin’s head.  “Pippin,” Aragorn said 
quietly, kneeling in front of the hobbit.  “I want you to remain here.  Getting 
up there will be difficult enough for Legolas and I, and pure torture for you.”

“I can handle it,” Pippin said immediately, not liking the idea of being left 
behind.

“We need someone to watch our back, Pippin,” Legolas added quietly.  “If orcs 
discover we have entered this cave, they can trap us rather easily.”

“And how am I to stop that?!” Pippin exclaimed.  “I seriously doubt I can keep a 
horde of orcs from doing whatever they want.”

“No,” Aragorn said, “And I do not expect you to try.  Instead, if something like 
that happens, or if Legolas and I do not return before dusk, you must return to 
Calembel and tell Gandalf all that has happened.”

Pippin opened his mouth, not at all liking the sound of this conversation, but 
Aragorn did not give him a chance to speak.

“As a knight of Gondor, I expect you to obey your king,” Aragorn stated firmly. 
 “Now, I suggest that you move downhill a bit and use some of those trees for 
cover.”

Pippin found himself staring at Aragorn’s back as the man turned and began the 
ascent to the cave mouth.  Legolas gave Pippin an understanding look and a 
gentle squeeze to the shoulder before turning and joining Aragorn.

Pippin sighed loudly, also turning and making his way toward the suggested cover 
of the trees.  This trip was not turning out to be anything like he had hoped!

*****

Malek’s eyes practically glowed with his pleasure.  He dismissed the orc that 
had just made his report with an arrogant wave of his hand.  Everything was 
going perfectly, and Malek shivered in anticipation of what would come next.  
Soon, very soon, he would experience the sweet taste of his revenge.  Malek 
laughed, and the sound was hideous enough to cause many of the orcs near him to 
cower in fear.

Striding over to the largest of his captains, Malek quickly gave the creature 
his instructions.  The orc’s eyes glittered with hate and malicious anticipation 
as he listened to Malek’s orders.  When his master was finished, the orc bowed 
low, then turned to carry out his duties.

*****

Legolas stumbled from the opening of the cave, gasping in relief as he felt the 
cool, fresh air sweep around him.  He raised his head and let the late afternoon 
light sweep over his features, calming and caressing him.  Beside him, Aragorn 
also let out a sigh of relief as he exited the cave, breathing deeply of the 
fresh air.

“That was a complete waste of time,” Aragorn said dispassionately, gazing into 
the orange ball that was the sun.  “It is almost dusk, and we have discovered 
nothing!”

Legolas shook his head, his eyes still closed as he basked in the freedom of the 
open air around him, relieved to be free from the close and claustrophobic 
confines of the cave.  “We will merely have to return again tomorrow and 
continue our search,” he replied, feeling his stomach sink at the thought of 
having to enter another cave so soon.

Aragorn nodded.  “We are quickly running out of time,” he murmured, more to 
himself than to Legolas.

“Let us be gone from this evil place,” Legolas suggested.  “The sun sinks fast 
in this land.”

Aragorn nodded and the two began to pick their way carefully down the steep rock 
face.  About halfway down, Legolas suddenly froze, his body stiffening and his 
eyes scanning the terrain below them.  Almost at the same instant, Aragorn 
became aware of an unnatural stillness in the air, and he too became alert.  
Something was wrong.

“Orcs,” Legolas said softly, “many of them.  They have been here recently, but I 
sense that they have gone.”  He glanced over his shoulder at Aragorn, his brow 
wrinkled with worry.

“Hurry,” Aragorn said urgently.  “We must find Pippin and get out of here!”

Legolas turned back around and began picking up speed, ignoring the rocks that 
shifted and slid beneath his feet.  A horrible fear settled in his stomach, and 
he could not shake it.  His eyes scanned the trees that Pippin should have been 
hiding beneath, desperately looking for the familiar shape of the hobbit.  He 
had expected Pippin to come forth to meet them as soon as he had seen them exit 
the cave, but as of yet, there was no sign of the hobbit.  He resisted the urge 
to call out, still sensing the presence of many orcs not that far off.  The 
creatures were out during daylight, and that did not bid well for their chances 
of getting back to the city unmolested.

Legolas slipped to a halt at the bottom of the rise, turning and offering 
himself as a balance as Aragorn slid down a second later.  His friend’s eyes 
shared the same worry that Legolas felt, and Aragorn was busy scanning the trees 
ahead of them in search of Pippin.  “Where is he?” Aragorn hissed, his voice 
both frustrated and worried.

“Perhaps he fell asleep,” Legolas suggested, hoping that this simple explanation 
was all that kept Pippin from meeting them.

Aragorn did not answer, but quickly strode forward into the small clump of 
trees, searching the ground for any sign of the hobbit.  What he saw caused his 
stomach to turn in fear.  Beneath the trees, the ground was littered with 
tracks, some recognizable as the hobbit’s, but most belonging to orcs.  
“Pippin,” he called out as quietly as he could.  There was no response.  
“Pippin,” he called a little bit louder.  Still no response.  

Aragorn turned as Legolas joined him, a grim expression on the elf’s face.  “The 
tracks go in two direction,” the elf informed Aragorn.   “I saw no sign of 
Pippin.”

Aragorn swore loudly, turning a slow circle to peruse the small stand of trees 
once more.  “Perhaps he heard the orcs approach and fled,” he said quietly.  
“This does not mean he was captured.”

Legolas merely looked at him, not agreeing or disagreeing.  “What do we do now,” 
the elf asked, his voice filled with sorrow.

Aragorn sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes.  “We have to find him,” he 
stated firmly.  “He could not have gone far, whether on his own or forced.”

Legolas nodded.  “If we each follow a trail, we may come upon some sign of him.”

Aragorn glanced toward the sun rapidly sinking toward the horizon.  “I am not 
sure we should separate,” he said slowly.

“We do not have much time,” Legolas replied urgently.  “I say we at least go two 
hundred yards both ways.  If we don’t find anything than we can decide what to 
do next, but we must at least try!”

Aragorn made up his mind swiftly, fighting down his growing sense of unease.  
“You take the left trail and I shall take the right.  If you discover anything 
or run into trouble, just whistle.”

Legolas nodded briefly before springing away.

Aragorn turned more slowly, trying to shake the intense feeling that had settled 
upon him.  Something was wrong, very wrong!

‘I never should have left him alone,’ Aragorn thought bitterly, turning to begin 
his own hopeless search.

******

Malek sat upon a high rock, watching the activity below him.  The sun had yet to 
set, and Malek shied away from it’s light, too intent upon his mission to 
completely retreat into the safe shadows of his cave.  He felt the light 
weakening him, yet he had no fear that he was not strong enough to overcome any 
enemy that faced him, and night was fast approaching.

‘And what a glorious night it is going to be,’ Malek thought evilly, his grin 
revealing row upon row of sharp, jagged teeth.

“You will suffer tonight,” He grated out, watching the two figures far below 
him.  “Oh, how you will suffer!” 

He continued to watch for several minutes as the two figures split up, each 
taking a different path in search of their pitiful little friend.  Malek 
laughed.  “It is your friendship that will destroy you,” he hissed joyfully.  
“And how fun that destruction will be for me!”

Malek glanced once more at the fiery ball of the sun, willing it to sink faster. 
 Looking back down he considered which one of his enemies he should hunt first. 
 The very idea of this was too much for him, and he found he could wait no 
longer.  Slipping from his rock perch he began moving quickly and quietly 
downward to begin his hunt.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

And then he slips on a loose stone, tumbles down the rock-face and impales 
himself on a sharp stone.  End of story!  Ha ha, just kiddin!  


Caution:  Falling Readers due to obscure cliffies.  Proceed with care.  You have 
been warned!!!!!  

**winks** This is for you, MeShelly



Chapter 17           Fallen


The city of Calembel lay bathed in a sea of golden light cast from the setting 
sun.   The earlier rain had left many small pools of water that caught and 
reflected the light like a thousand sparkling diamonds.  To the west of the 
city, a multitude of colors danced upon the surface of the Ciril, twisting and 
undulating with the slow flow of the river.

At another time, this scene would have been one of perfect peacefulness and 
tranquility, as the citizens of the city used the evening hours to relax at 
home, enjoy a fine dinner, or sit quietly before the early evening fire.  Now, 
however, all pretense of peacefulness had left the city.  Houses remained dark 
and shuttered, and the only people visible on the streets were soldiers 
scurrying about on various tasks.  The entire city had taken on an air of silent 
and ominous anticipation.

Gandalf stood atop the North wall, his restless gaze never resting on one area 
for more than a few seconds.  His long white robe fluttered and twisted in the 
soft evening breeze, unnoticed by the wizard, who wore a small, preoccupied 
frown.  Much had been done to fortify the city, and although Gandalf knew there 
was still a lot to do, he held higher hopes for the ability of the defenders to 
hold out against Malek’s larger force.

Gandalf’s gaze flickered down to the field before the city wall, where Faramir 
was busy with a large group of soldiers preparing defense lines for the upcoming 
battle.  The Steward had worked tirelessly throughout the day.  When he wasn’t 
working on the defense of the city, he was busy encouraging and heartening the 
soldiers.  After Malek’s show of strength the previous evening, the army of 
Gondor had desperately needed someone strong to hold them together and help them 
gather their courage.  With Aragorn gone, this task had fallen to Faramir.  The 
Steward had been there for the men, just as he had countless times in the past. 
 It seemed to Gandalf that all it took was a simple smile or nod from Faramir, 
and the soldiers were once more ready to throw their fate to the wind and defend 
the city at all costs, even that of their lives.

There were very few men to whom Gandalf gave complete trust and respect.  
Aragorn was one, and Faramir was quickly becoming another.

Gandalf’s gaze moved once more, following the curve of the wall directly below 
where he stood until his eyes fell on yet another who had given so selflessly to 
the defense of a city that was not even his own.  Gimli had also been working 
faithfully throughout the day, not even taking time to stop and get some rest.  
With the aid of a small group of men, the dwarf had reinforced the north gate 
and fortified many of the weaker spots on the wall.

Gandalf let out a small sigh and allowed his eyes to wander further from the 
city, scanning the base of the Ered Nimrais before turning his gaze west, to the 
sparkling rainbow of the Ciril.  The river looked strangely calm and peaceful, 
showing no signs of the great chaos and confusion that had surrounded it just 
hours earlier as every craft or vessel that could float was used to evacuate the 
women, children, elderly, and wounded from the city.  Far down the river, 
Gandalf could just make out the small forms of the last of the boats as they 
disappeared around a corner of the waterway.  Now, all that remained within the 
city were the defenders and a few civilians who had decided to stay and help in 
whatever way they were able.  ‘And a few who remained even when they should have 
gone!’ Gandalf thought somewhat wryly, his eyes returning once more to the field 
before the city, where a small form scurried here and there on different 
errands.

The boy, Dar, had absolutely refused to leave the city, putting up such a fight 
that he had left one soldier limping and another with a black eye when they had 
tried to force him onto one of the boats.  Luckily, Gandalf had been passing 
nearby at the time and had come to the boy’s, or perhaps the soldier’s, rescue. 
 He had agreed to let Dar stay within the city until his father’s return, as 
long as the boy helped out by running errands or delivering messages.  Dar had 
been only too willing to agree, and Gandalf was fairly sure the boy would offer 
to help out in the battle as well, if given a chance.

‘And so the young are left to defend the city while those who are older and hold 
a larger responsibility flee!’ Gandalf thought bitterly, anger drawing his thick 
eyebrows together.  He had just learned that the coward Merton and his two snake 
advisors had slipped from the city on one of the boats.  Not only that, but they 
had used the entire vessel to carry the Mayor’s lavish belongings, refusing to 
allow any others on the boat, and forcing the women and children to wait even 
longer to be evacuated.  This so enraged Gandalf that he had to force his mind 
to think of other things.  

Gandalf stood silently upon the wall for several long minutes, barely 
registering the fact that Gimli had climbed and joined him.  The two stood in 
silence for a while, watching the orange ball of the sun begin it’s descent 
behind the mountain.

“Where are they?” Gimli at last spoke up, his voice pitched low.  Gandalf looked 
at the dwarf sympathetically, knowing of whom Gimli was speaking, and also 
knowing that the dwarf had merely spoken his thoughts out loud and did not 
expect an answer.  Gimli was not even looking at him; instead his gaze searched 
the growing darkness before the city, as if searching desperately for some sign 
of his friends. 

After another several minutes had passed, Gimli looked at the wizard, his dark 
eyes filled with concern.  “Do you think something has happened that is keeping 
them from returning?”

Gandalf shook his head slowly, his eyes also flickering out toward the dark 
shadow of the Ered Nimrais.  “I am afraid that there is a thousand different 
things that could be keeping them,” he said quietly, “and not all of them bad, 
either.  We will just have to wait and see.”

“I hate waiting,” Gimli muttered to himself.  

Another long minute of silence followed before Gimli once more spoke up, his 
voice so quiet that Gandalf had to strain to hear him.   “I have the strangest 
feeling that something is very wrong.  I can’t explain it, nor can I make it go 
away.  I fear for our friends.”

Gandalf could only stare at the dwarf in surprise, wondering at Gimli’s sudden 
pessimistic attitude.  He did not take Gimli’s dark premonitions lightly, and 
his own fears began to build within him.

Gimli suddenly let out a low, raw laugh.  “Knowing Aragorn and Legolas,” he said 
lightly, “They will show up with the whole of Malek’s army hot on their tails, 
and we shall be forced to rescue them.”

“Then we must be ready,” Gandalf said seriously, his hand going up to absently 
stroke his beard.  “And we must hope that they have learned something that will 
help us defeat this dark army and its master.

*******

Arwen straightened gracefully from the act of replacing a bandage around the leg 
of one of the soldiers.  Most of the seriously injured had been evacuated, and 
only the ones the healers had feared moving remained.  She glanced around, her 
gaze drifting up and down the rows of beds.  Only a quarter of the beds were 
filled now, yet Arwen knew the number would be much greater after tonight.

She sighed and glanced out the nearest window at the setting sun.  She was 
somewhat surprised at how late it was, for it seemed to her only a couple of 
hours had passed since Aragorn had strode in to tell her of his plans and bid 
her farewell.  Since that time, she had not had a single moment to herself, busy 
tending to the wounded men and helping prepare for the upcoming casualties.  

Now Arwen found herself staring at the sinking sun, her thoughts turning to 
Aragorn.  She wondered if he had returned yet, then quickly discarded the idea. 
 She was sure he would have come and told her upon his immediate arrival back 
into the city.  She frowned with worry as the darkness outside grew, and she 
tried to push away the sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

A loud moan from one of the beds on the other end of the room yanked her from 
her dark thoughts.  Swiftly pushing her worries aside, she made her way to the 
bed of a young soldier who had suffered a bad cut to his abdomen.  Despite the 
best efforts of all the healers, including Arwen, the wound continued to bleed, 
slowly draining the life from the young man.  The bandage was once more covered 
with blood, and Arwen set to the task of changing the cloths and making the 
soldier as comfortable as possible.  Pain filled eyes looked up at her as she 
worked, and Arwen felt her heart wrench as she realized there was really nothing 
to be done to save the young man.  She placed her hand upon his forehead, 
feeling his clammy skin and listening to the short rasps of his breath, her 
heart weeping even as she tried to force an encouraging smile to her lips.

She finished changing the bandage, than turned and retrieved a small cup of 
water.  Holding the water to the young man’s lips, she lifted his head slightly, 
allowing him to sip the cool liquid.  When she had finished, the soldier reached 
out and grasped her hand tightly, his eyes filled with unspoken emotion.  Arwen 
smiled down at him gently, tenderly brushing a stray lock of his hair from his 
brow as she softly began to sing.  The words of her song were in her own 
language, but the simple melody seemed to fill the small room, soothing and 
calming the hurting occupants.  The low moans slowly died until the only sound 
filling the room was the elf princess’s sweet voice.

Arwen sang for several minutes, feeling the tight grip of the soldier slowly 
loosen as he drifted toward sleep.  She finished her song, then quietly rose and 
moved toward the next bed.

“That was beautiful, lady Arwen,” a quiet voice spoke up behind her.

Arwen turned and smiled down at Merry, brushing an unruly lock of hair back from 
her face.  “Thank you, Merry,” she said quietly.  “Did you find out anything?”

Merry dropped his eyes and shook his head.  “No,” he whispered softly.

Arwen hid her own disappointment and tried to cheer the small hobbit.  “I am 
sure they will all be just fine,” she said encouragingly, glancing once more 
toward the sinking sun.  “We must give them more time.”

Merry just nodded and did not answer.

“Where are Sam and Frodo?” Arwen asked curiously.

Merry at last raised his eyes from the floor and met Arwen’s gaze.  “Faramir set 
up a place where the soldiers can go to rest and get something to eat,” he 
explained, “Sam and Frodo are helping out there.”

Arwen nodded, then continued to work her way down the beds of injured soldiers. 
 Merry followed after, helping the elf princess by fetching fresh bandages or 
water.  He liked having something to do.  It kept his mind off his worry for 
Pippin and the others.  Yet the further the sun sunk toward the horizon, the 
more worried Merry became, until he was unable to keep his mind on his task.  He 
nearly spilled the water twice, and Arwen had to call his name several times 
before she managed to get his attention.  

Merry smiled at her apologetically, but it was obvious that he was greatly 
troubled.  “I’m sorry,” he said self-consciously, unable to meet Arwen’s eyes.  
“I just have this horrible feeling that something dreadful has happened, and 
that I am never going to see him again,” he explained in a choked voice, trying 
desperately to control his emotions.

Arwen knelt before him, placing both hands on his shoulders.  “You must not give 
in to despair, Merry,” she said softly, “for if you do, than Malek has won!”

Merry nodded, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes of moisture.  “I know,” he 
whispered.  “It is just so hard.  I do not understand how you can remain so 
calm.”

Arwen laughed softly, her eyes showing a deep sadness.  “It is not easy, my 
small friend,” she replied gently.  “Yet I have had years of practice while this 
is still new to you.  Have faith, Merry, for if we do not look to the future and 
prepare, there may be no future.”

Merry felt himself shiver at her words, but he quickly pushed aside his feelings 
of despair and looked up at Arwen with fresh determination.  “What do you want 
me to do?” he asked quietly.

*****

Legolas moved swiftly and silently through the mass of heavy boulders and 
underbrush that marked the small trail he was following.  His eyes remained 
focused on the ground beneath him as he searched desperately for any sign of 
Pippin among the tracks of orcs.  He guessed that he had traveled only some 
fifty yards away from the spot where Aragorn and he had split up, yet the path 
he followed twisted and turned so much that the small glade was lost to sight.

He could sense the presence of orcs nearby, yet not so near as to cause him 
immediate alarm.  His bow remained strapped to his back, but he held one of his 
knives before him, his entire body tense and watchful for anything out of the 
ordinary.

He did not like the fact that he and Aragorn had been forced to split up, yet he 
could see no other way.  The sun was sinking fast, and there was simply not 
enough time to explore both orc trails together.  This way was more dangerous, 
yet if it allowed them to find Pippin, or at least find out what had happened to 
him, than it was worth the risk.

Legolas continued on, the ground beneath him beginning to climb upward.  A few 
yards further down the path, the tracks led onto a high, rocky shelf.  Legolas 
swore softly, as he realized the hard rock would make it nearly impossible to 
find the orc tracks, let alone any sign of Pippin.  He glanced about him, 
uncertain whether to press on in the hopes of picking up the trail on the other 
side of the shelf, or turning back.  He did not want to turn back if there was 
any chance of missing Pippin, yet wandering around with night fast approaching 
was neither safe, nor wise.

Legolas remained motionless for a few moments, indecision tearing at him.  He 
could only hope that Aragorn had had more luck than he had.  ‘And if not…’ 
Legolas did not allow himself to finish the thought.

He glanced to his left, where the path fell away in a steep drop off perhaps 
twenty yards from where he stood.   The ledge looked over the valley he had just 
come from, as well as offering a wide view of much of the land around him.  
Legolas moved closer to the edge, hoping to see some sign of Aragorn, or perhaps 
the orc party he hunted.  He was careful to keep the setting sun to his back, 
the bright glare offering a shield in case any unfriendly eyes were turned 
upward to the rock shelf.

When Legolas reached the edge of the rock face, he dropped to his knees, his 
eyes searching the valley below for any sign of movement.  His sharp eyes 
perused every dark shadow and every clump of trees for some sign of the enemy.  
Everything in the valley seemed completely still and calm, and yet Legolas 
sensed that something was out of place.  An unnatural quiet had settled over the 
mountain, and he felt a strange tenseness in the land about him.

Legolas remained kneeling at the cliff edge for several more minutes before his 
senses alerted him that he was no longer alone upon the rock face.  He rose and 
turned swiftly, raising his knife, his eyes scanning the shadows of the path he 
had just come up.  Before he could even consider finding a place to hide, a 
cloaked form came into view around a bend in the trail, heading straight toward 
where Legolas stood.

Legolas tensed, and then suddenly relaxed, his knife lowering to his side as he 
recognized Aragorn.  His friend was walking with his head bent toward the 
ground, and Legolas knew that he had not been spotted yet.  He frowned, 
wondering why Aragorn had followed him.  Perhaps the man had found something, 
yet why had he not whistled as they had planned.  

‘Something is not right,’ Legolas thought as he continued to watch his friend’s 
approach.  He found it very strange that Aragorn had yet to look up from the 
path, and all his senses seemed to be screaming at him that something was wrong. 
 He looked behind Aragorn, thinking that the ex-ranger was being followed.  
Nothing moved on the path behind his friend, yet Legolas could not shake the 
feeling that something evil was approaching.

His frown deepened as Aragorn turned from the main path at exactly the spot that 
Legolas had earlier, still without raising his head.  “Aragorn,” he called out 
softly, trying to get his friend’s attention.

Aragorn paid no attention to Legolas’s call, but continued walking forward with 
bowed head.

“Aragorn,” Legolas repeated, this time a little louder, his voice echoing with 
his uncertainty.

Still Aragorn strode forward with no sign that he had heard Legolas, and with 
head still bowed to the ground.  He was now only a couple of yards away.

Legolas was truly becoming alarmed, and his raging senses were confusing him.  
He found himself raising his knife once more and taking a small step back, aware 
of the drop off directly behind him.  “Aragorn,” he said one last time, his 
voice firm and controlled this time, and full of demand.

At last, the figure before him raised it’s head, and Legolas found himself 
staring deep into the blackest eyes he had ever seen as a wave of cold evil 
washed over him and fought to entrap him in a prison of ice.

‘Malek,’ was Legolas’s only thought as he fought to free himself from the cold 
settling over him.  The creature, still in Aragorn’s form, was slowly 
approaching, a long knife held in its hand, an evil grin upon its face.  Legolas 
fought against panic and forced himself to remember Aragorn’s words on how to 
free himself from Malek’s evil stare.  With a great effort he wrenched his eyes 
from the creature approaching and flung himself to the side.

The ice around him seemed to shatter and the next thing Legolas was aware of was 
landing hard on his side upon the ground, his knife miraculously still clenched 
in his fist.  He did not stay in that position for long, instinctively rolling 
onto his knees and raising his knife above him, just in time to block the 
downward thrust of Malek’s weapon.  

Legolas’s arm shook with the force of the blow, yet with a great effort he 
thrust back, knocking Malek away from him and giving him the precious seconds he 
needed to gain his feet.  Malek stood a few paces away, an evil expression on 
his face, a mix of glee and hate.  Legolas could not help the feeling of horror 
that washed over him at seeing such an evil expression through the features of a 
friend.  He had to remind himself that it was not Aragorn with whom he fought, 
but a creature of complete evil.

“Time to play, elf,” Malek hissed, and Legolas felt a shiver run down his spine.

Malek sprang forward once more, dagger sweeping out, and only Legolas’s 
lightning reflexes kept him from being cut in two.  He sprang back, sweeping out 
his knife to parry Malek’s next attack, then stepped forward to begin his own 
assault.  Every movement was quick and precise, as the two combatants began a 
fluid dance of attack and retreat.  Legolas was somewhat surprised to find that 
he and Malek seemed evenly matched.  At least, Malek was forced to go on the 
defensive just as much as Legolas was.  This seemed extremely odd to the elf, 
for he knew all about Aragorn’s fight with the creature.  He wondered at first 
if Malek was merely toying with him, as he had with Aragorn, and yet it did not 
seem so to him.  He was not given the opportunity to ponder this, however, for 
the fight with Malek was taking all his concentration and effort.

He twisted smoothly away from yet another attack, dancing backward a few steps 
before pressing forward once more.  He ducked a swing of Malek’s knife, coming 
up under the blow and slashing out at the creature’s arm.  Malek hissed as the 
elf’s knife cut a shallow groove along his arm, and he backed away a few steps, 
staring at Legolas with pure hatred.

Legolas considered pressing forward, using the advantage of first blood to throw 
his enemy off guard, and yet he also desperately needed a brief respite with 
which to catch his breath.  The two combatants regarded each other warily from a 
few feet apart, their chests heaving and sweat evident on both faces.  Legolas 
realized with a thrill of hope that Malek was not healing himself, and he could 
only attribute this to the fact that the sun was still out.  Malek did not have 
all his powers.

At last Malek smiled cruelly, lifting his arm and licking the slow flow of blood 
from the cut.  “It has been a while since I’ve tasted elf blood,” the creature 
hissed.  “I shall enjoy killing you and feeding upon your sweet blood.”

Before Legolas could respond, the figure before him began to change, the form of 
Aragorn melting away and being replaced by something much more hideous.  
Legolas’s features twisted with horror as the form of Malek was revealed to him 
for the first time.  The creature stood upright upon two legs, and two arms hung 
at its side, yet all semblances to humans stopped there.  Malek’s skin was 
completely black and hung upon him like some leathery scale.  His arms were 
longer than any humans and seemed to bend at two joints instead of one.  Long 
hands ended in four sharp claws that thrust forward like knives.  His head was 
formed much like that of a dog, with a long, ugly muzzle, a high forehead, and 
pointed ears.  Dagger sharp teeth glinted in the fading light as Malek leered at 
Legolas, and hate-filled eyes glowed almost yellow.

Legolas raised his knife, pulling his second blade from its sheath, a myriad of 
emotions running through him all at once.  He was surprised that Malek had dared 
attack while the sun was still out, and he was certain that Malek’s reduced 
powers were due to this fact.  He was also certain that each minute the sun sunk 
lower, Malek would gain more power until he once more became invincible.  
Legolas had to find a way to destroy him before that time.  He was being offered 
an opportunity to rid the world of a horrible creature, and he could not fail.

Legolas saw a glint in Malek’s eyes, and knew the creature was about to attack 
once more.  He took a quick step back, filling his lungs and letting out a 
shrill whistle, the sound carrying the message of urgency and danger.  He 
prepared to whistle yet again, but Malek attacked once more with growing 
intensity, and Legolas soon found himself fighting for his life.  He set his 
mind fully to the task of defeating the creature before him, or at least holding 
him off until help could arrive.  

‘If help arrives,’ Legolas thought, desperately hoping and praying that Aragorn 
had heard his cry for aid and would arrive in time.  

Behind the two struggling combatants, the sun slowly inched further and further 
toward the horizon.

********

Aragorn had only gone about one hundred yards down the trail when he heard the 
sharp whistle.  He had been heading steadily east, following the trail of orcs 
and searching for any sign of Pippin.  As of yet, he had found no sign, and the 
further he went, the slower his steps became as an odd feeling had come over 
him.  He could not explain the feeling, yet he had found himself strangely 
reluctant to go on.

Now, his entire body stood frozen and tense, listening.  The whistle had been 
distant, yet the message clear, and Aragorn remained motionless only a moment 
before turning and beginning to race back up the path he had come.  He ignored 
the branches and brush that tore at his clothes, and his feet seemed to barely 
touch the ground in his haste.

He reached the clearing where he and Legolas had separated and only took a 
moment to orient himself before taking off again down the path Legolas had gone. 
 His heart was racing and he barely paid attention to the land around him in his 
haste to reach Legolas.  He listened carefully for another whistle, yet when he 
heard nothing, his fears only grew.

He found that he had to slow his pace somewhat to make sure that he was indeed 
following the right path.  He unsheathed his sword, using the sharp blade to 
hack away any brush or branches that got in his way.  He grew more desperate to 
reach Legolas as each second of silence passed, and his breath came in short, 
sharp gasps.

He had gone about fifty yards from the clearing when the ground began to slope 
upwards, the path clearing a bit.  Aragorn picked up his speed once more, 
debating whether or not to call out to his friend.  He guessed that he was 
nearing the place where the whistle had come from, and he kept alert, his eyes 
searching each side of the path for any sign of Legolas.

Aragorn rounded a tight corner of the path, and then froze at the sight before 
him.  Thirty yards down the trail, balancing perilously on the edge of a steep 
drop off, Legolas was locked in desperate combat with a dark creature.  It took 
only a second for everything to register in Aragorn’s mind before he was moving 
once more, calling out his presence to Legolas.

Legolas heard the call, but was too busy fighting for his life to respond or 
even turn and look toward Aragorn.  He had been right, and as the sun had sunk 
lower, Malek had seemed to grow stronger, forcing Legolas more and more into the 
defensive.  The elf was covered in sweat and blood from numerous cuts, and yet 
he felt a wave of relief hit him as he heard Aragorn’s call.  He glanced 
desperately toward the sinking sun, knowing that time was swiftly running out.

Malek also had heard Aragorn’s call, and the creature let out a hiss of anger.  
Legolas thought he saw doubt flicker briefly in the creature’s eyes as Malek 
also looked toward the sun.

“Now your game is over,” Legolas gasped, his sharp ears picking up the sound of 
Aragorn racing toward them.

Malek hissed for a second time, and then a strange light entered the creature’s 
eyes.  Legolas felt a thrill of warning a second before Malek leapt forward once 
more.  Legolas slashed out with his knife, cutting deeply into the skin of 
Malek’s chest, yet the creature seemed to hardly notice as he closed in on the 
elf and wrapped him in a bear hug.  

Legolas felt all the air leave his lungs at once, Malek’s weight driving him 
backwards.  He heard Aragorn’s shout of warning a second before he felt the 
ground give beneath his feet.

Aragorn was still several yards away and could only let out a shout, watching in 
horror as Legolas, still wrapped in Malek’s arms, tumbled from the rocky face 
and disappeared from sight.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

The end!  (just kiddin)  Sorry, couldn’t resist



Chapter 18  Capture


Legolas felt all the air leave his lungs at once, Malek’s weight driving him 
backwards.  He heard Aragorn’s shout of warning a second before he felt the 
ground give beneath his feet.

Aragorn was still several yards away and could only let out a shout, watching in 
horror as Legolas, still wrapped in Malek’s arms, tumbled from the rocky face 
and disappeared from sight.

Time seemed to stand still, then speed up as the sun’s last rays disappeared 
behind the horizon, casting the land in the darkness of night.  Aragorn’s cry of 
warning and dismay echoed through the mountains as he stumbled forward, his eyes 
glued disbelievingly to the spot where Legolas had disappeared over the cliff 
edge.  His heart seemed to have stopped beating, and he struggled to breathe 
past the knot of fear that had formed in his throat.  ‘Too late,’ his mind 
screamed, ‘I’m too late!’

His entire body seemed to have gone numb, and as he neared the edge of the 
cliff, his steps slowed of their own accord.  He dreaded what he would see; yet 
at the same time, he had to know.  

Aragorn was still a few steps away from the cliff edge when he heard loud shouts 
coming from the opposite end of the rock shelf.  He whirled, his body instantly 
becoming alert as he made out the forms of several orcs making their way across 
the rocky outcropping in his direction.  A strange rage seemed to suddenly fill 
his veins, coursing through him like the uncontrollable torrents of a flooded 
river.  His grief and anguish seemed to coalesce, building and forming into a 
bitter fury, completely blocking out all thought and reasoning.  He raised his 
sword, letting out a hoarse shout and strode forward to meet his enemies.

The small company of orcs that rushed toward him were not prepared for the 
vehemence of Aragorn’s attack, and they were soon falling back before his wrath. 
 For his part, Aragorn was barely aware of the orcs around him as he swung and 
hacked at them with his sword.  His mind was fighting a battle of its own, 
trying to break clear of the swell of emotion that boiled dangerously throughout 
his body.

Aragorn was not sure whether minutes or hours had passed when he suddenly found 
himself alone upon the rock shelf once more, the ground around him littered with 
the bodies of dead orcs.  He was covered in sweat and blood, though whether the 
blood was his own or his victim’s, Aragorn was not sure, nor did he particularly 
care.  His breath came in hard gasps and his entire body seemed to tremble with 
unreleased emotion. He could distantly make out the sound of more orcs racing up 
the path towards him, shouting to each other in their harsh tongue.  He stood 
waiting for them, a fey light in his eyes and his bloody sword raised and ready.

It was at this time that a soft breeze swept through the mountains, carried from 
the lower plains and smelling of life and freshness.  The gentle gust of air 
seemed to whisper soothingly through the trees surrounding the rock face before 
continuing on to wrap around the lone man, caressing his face and chasing away 
the foul stench of death and blood.  Almost unwillingly, Aragorn drew in a deep 
breath, the cool breeze filling him with a strange peacefulness as his sword arm 
lowered and his body relaxed.

It was but a moment, which was quickly shattered by the approaching shouts of 
orcs, yet it was all that was needed.  Aragorn raised his sword once more, but 
the fire that had previously run through his veins was now gone, his reasoning 
slowly returning.  He could tell from the shouts that the approaching orc party 
was much larger than the first, and too many for him to defeat on his own.

Aragorn knew that he had two choices; he could stay and fight, in which case he 
would surely perish, or he could flee.  His mind baulked at the idea of running, 
yet somehow he knew it was really the only choice.  Someone had to get news of 
what had happened back to Calembel, and Aragorn seemed to be the only one left.

This thought caused a wrench of grief so strong it bordered on physical pain, 
and Aragorn had to fight down his anguish once more.  ‘Do not think,’ he told 
himself firmly, ‘Do not feel.’  He had to survive, if not for himself, then for 
those that awaited back within the city.  ‘If they do not fall this night, as 
well,’ he thought bitterly before he forced his mind blank once more.

The shouts of the orcs were drawing nearer, and Aragorn knew that he had to get 
out of there fast, or there would be no escape at all.  He glanced over his 
shoulder, back the way he had come.  There was something he had to do before he 
left, something he had to find out, despite the dread that stole through him at 
the very idea.  He turned and began working his way swiftly back toward the 
cliff edge, still fighting to keep his mind free from the torrent of emotions 
that ripped at him.

He had only taken a few paces, however, when an arrow flew from the darkness and 
clattered loudly to the stone directly behind him.  Aragorn whirled as a hail of 
others followed the first arrow, the black darts bouncing and clattering off the 
rocks all around him.  Aragorn swore, and then began to run toward the cliff 
edge once more, trying to ignore the shafts in his desperation to find out what 
had happened to Legolas.  

This, however, was not to be.  Aragorn had only taken a few more steps when one 
of the arrows found their mark.  He stumbled forward, a cry involuntarily 
leaving his lips as the arrow slammed into his side, tearing a deep gash through 
his flesh.  The force of the blow nearly knocked him to his knees, and his hand 
flew to the wound, feeling the warm flow of blood over his fingers.  The arrow 
had only grazed him, yet the cut was deep and was already bleeding heavily.

Aragorn realized that while he remained upon the rock shelf he was an open 
target, and the closer the orcs got, the better their chances of hitting him, 
even when shooting in the dark.  He had to reach the cover of the path, and 
soon, or there would be no escape.  

Giving one last glance toward the cliff edge, Aragorn let out a sob of 
frustration and pain before turning and racing back toward the path he had come 
up earlier in his search for Legolas.  He knew that he could very well be racing 
straight into another orc party, yet he had to take that chance.  Hearing the 
sound of the orcs in hot pursuit, Aragorn pressed forward even faster, gritting 
his teeth against the pain in his side.  Arrows continued to land all about him, 
and Aragorn tensed, expecting one of the black darts to strike him any second.  

Yet somehow, miraculously, no more of the arrows found their mark as Aragorn at 
last reached the relative shelter of the path.  His wound was sending burning 
fingers of fire up his side, yet he forced himself to continue running, slowly 
leaving the shouts of the orcs behind.  

He raced on for several minutes, his senses alert for any sign of orcs before 
him while still paying attention to those behind.  As soon as the ground leveled 
out, he left the main path, slowing his pace just enough to weave silently and 
carefully through the boulders, scrub, and underbrush surrounding him.  His 
breathing was ragged, and the pain in his side was growing in intensity.  He 
could feel the slow trickle of blood down his ribs, and he knew the wound would 
need tending to soon, before blood loss made him too weak.

As the minutes dragged on, it took all the skills Aragorn had learned as a 
Ranger to remain ahead of his pursuers and to hide his trail.  He kept his mind 
a careful blank, refusing to allow any thought or emotion to steal his senses.  
He knew it would be a miracle if he somehow managed to survive the night.  He 
was alone and wounded in mountains that literally swarmed with orcs, and he 
could feel himself getting weaker and weaker with each passing moment.

Stumbling to a halt beside a giant tree, Aragorn leaned back against the 
support, closing his eyes and breathing heavily.  He listened carefully for any 
sound of those that hunted him, yet he heard nothing.  Still, the night was far 
too quiet, and Aragorn knew that danger remained close.  

He took the opportunity of his brief rest to carefully examine the wound on his 
side as well as he could in the dark.  The cut was deep and ran diagonally down 
his left ribs, fresh blood oozing out with every breath he took.  His tunic was 
stained dark with it, and Aragorn realized he would have to be careful not to 
leave a trail of blood for the orcs to follow.  Of course, if they drew close 
enough, they would not need a trail, for the scent alone would lead them 
directly to him. 

‘I will just have to make sure they don’t get close enough,’ Aragorn thought 
grimly, raising his head and looking around him.  It was difficult to see far in 
any direction, due more to the uneven terrain than the darkness of night.  The 
tree he rested against stood alone amidst a small thicket of underbrush and tall 
grass that poked their way up through the hard ground of the mountain.  The tree 
looked mostly dead, it’s bark rough and its branches showing few signs of life. 
 Aragorn studied it closely, searching for any way to use the tree’s height to 
further extend his vision.  The nearest branch sturdy enough to hold his weight 
towered at least ten feet above the ground, and Aragorn knew it was too far to 
even attempt, wounded as he was.

‘If Legolas were here, he could make it up this with no effort.’  The thought 
had come unbidden and Aragorn winced.  He knew the torment this line of thought 
would bring and so he savagely thrust it aside, focusing once more on his own 
survival. 

In the distance, he could just make out the dark shadow of a high peak rising to 
his left.  Pushing away from the tree, Aragorn began making his way in that 
direction, deciding to work his way back toward the rock face of the mountain in 
the hopes of reaching a deep cave or cavern in which to hide.  He knew that the 
longer he remained out in the open, the slimmer his chances of survival became. 
 He had to find shelter, and fast.

Shouts and loud horns began blaring distantly back from the direction he had 
come, and Aragorn pushed his tired body into a fast jog.  His eyes scanned the 
tall rock face before him, searching for the dark opening of a cave where he 
could retreat and tend his wounds, both those seen and unseen

******

Falling… 

It was strange, but he had no memory of that.  No memory of the endless seconds 
it must have taken as his body hurtled toward the ground.  Nor did he have any 
memory of actually striking the bottom.  It was as if his body continued to 
float in air, separated and distant from reality.  His mind drifted somewhere 
between awake and unconscious, his thoughts skipping across the black void like 
small stones across a still pond. 

A slow tingling swept through his body, feeling as if a thousand small needles 
were poking into his flesh.  The sensation was not painful, but it wasn’t 
particularly comfortable either, and he instinctively attempted to shy away from 
it, retreating back into the deeper blackness of his mind.

Several minutes passed before his mind began to drift once more toward 
consciousness, encountering the tingling sensation yet again, but this time 
unable to retreat from it.  The closer he drew to complete wakefulness, the more 
intense the sensation became, changing from mere uncomfortable to painful.  The 
needles, which had seemed soft at first, now seemed to be stabbing into his 
body, leaving no part of him untouched from their fierce attack.

Legolas groaned, his eyelids fluttering slightly, his entire body on fire.  
Everything hurt, and as Legolas once more gained consciousness and his memory 
returned, he could not keep back yet another groan.  His eyes fluttered open, 
then immediately shut as a wave of nausea struck him.  He swallowed hard, 
fighting down the bile that rose in his throat.  Several minutes passed before 
he was once more able to open his eyes, then several more seconds before the 
world stopped spinning and tilting in his vision.  

Legolas could tell by the darkness around him that the sun had set some time 
ago.  Even so, his vision seemed unusually dim, a fact that sent a surge of fear 
through him.  He could barely make out his surroundings, and even had it been 
dead of night, his vision should have been keener than that.  His head ached 
terribly, merging with the pain from the rest of his body.

Legolas squinted upward, making out the dim outline of the cliff rising above 
him.  He was amazed that he had lived after a fall from such a great height, and 
he supposed he owed this to the fact that he had somehow managed to fall on a 
thick patch of fern growing near the base of the cliff.  Large boulders and hard 
rock surrounded the patch on both sides, proving just how lucky he had been.  If 
he had fallen just a few more feet to either side, he most likely would not have 
survived.  

Distantly, he wondered what had happened to Malek.  He was fairly certain the 
dark creature had fallen from the cliff with him, yet his senses told him that 
he was now alone.  He seriously doubted that the fall had managed to kill Malek, 
yet this made him wonder where exactly the creature was, and why he had not 
finished Legolas off while the elf lay unconscious?  Had he thought Legolas 
dead?  It didn't seem likely that he would have left without first making sure. 
 A thousand questions ran through Legolas's mind, and had no answer to any of 
them, so he decided to put them aside for the time being.

Gritting his teeth in pain, Legolas set about discovering the extent of damage 
to his body.  He closed his eyes, relaxing into the thick bed of fern, and 
stealing himself against the pain he knew was coming.  Then, slowly, starting at 
his feet and moving up, he began to systematically flex and squeeze the muscles 
of his body.  The process was a slow and painful one, and Legolas kept his eyes 
squeezed tightly shut throughout the whole ordeal, his breath coming in and out 
in short rasps.

His entire body was obviously quite beaten and bruised, yet the majority of his 
pain seemed to focus on three spots; his left knee, his right side, and his 
head.  Taking a deep breath, Legolas pushed himself into a sitting position, 
fighting off the dizziness and nausea that once more assailed him.  He raised a 
shaking hand to his head, wincing when his fingers came in contact with a large 
lump above his left temple.  When he once more lowered his hand, his palm came 
away wet and sticky with blood.  

Legolas glanced around him, moving his head slowly so as not to aggravate the 
throbbing pain in his temples.  He spotted a large boulder resting a few feet 
away and began to scoot his reluctant body in that direction.  When he at last 
reached it, he reclined his body painfully against the rough stone, taking a few 
minutes to catch his breath before conducting a more thorough examination of his 
injuries.

His tunic was torn and dirty and the skin appearing through the rips was bruised 
and scratched.  Legolas skimmed over these lesser wounds, moving on to the spot 
on his side where pain radiated with every breath he took.  Gently he lifted his 
tunic, examining the wound.  A bruise about the size of Gimli's head covered his 
ribs; the skin already turned a bright blue and purple. From the pain each 
breath caused, he reasoned that the ribs beneath were seriously bruised, if not 
broken.  He could vaguely remember striking against an outcrop of rock during 
his fall, and guessed that this wound was a product of that encounter.

Letting out a painful sigh, Legolas continued his inspection, running his hands 
carefully down his left leg until he reached his knee.  He could already tell 
the limb was horribly swollen, and he wondered vaguely how he would manage to 
walk with a wrenched knee.

He knew that he had already remained in one place far longer that what was safe, 
especially with Malek and his orcs wandering about.  He still could not 
understand where Malek had gone or why the creature had left him untouched; yet 
he was not about to question his good luck so far.  Nor did he intend to press 
that luck.  He had to find a place to hide and spend the night, for he knew his 
time was swiftly running out.  He could sense orcs nearby, and knew they were 
drawing closer with each wasted minute.  He was worried about Aragorn, and hoped 
the ranger had managed to find Pippin and work his way to safety.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Legolas prepared to rise.  It took him three 
tries to gain his feet, and when he was finally standing, he feared he would 
pass out again.  Black dots danced across his vision and his head pounded so 
painfully he felt like throwing up.  To top it all off, his knee was sending 
fingers of fire up and down his leg, throwing him off balance as he tried to 
keep his weight off the injured limb.  It was a miracle that he managed to 
remain standing as he swayed back and forth, trying to fight off the screaming 
complaints of his body.

When he had at last managed to somewhat gain control of his body, he glanced 
around for something he could use as a staff or crutch to aid his walking.  He 
found a long branch lying a few feet off, and managed to limp to it, then 
somehow bend over and retrieve it.  This simple task left him drained and pale, 
and he once again wondered how he would manage to escape from this place and 
find some shelter.

He could sense the orcs drawing nearer and nearer, and his eyes desperately 
sought for any sign of his weapons.  His luck remained with him, for he was able 
to find one of his knives, half hidden in the same bed of fern in which he had 
landed.  He searched for his bow, yet could find no sign of the weapon.  This 
greatly upset him, for the bow had been a gift from Galadriel, lady of Lorien, 
and he had treasured it dearly.  

Realizing that his continued search was merely wasting precious time, Legolas 
reluctantly set out away from the cliff, heading east along the easiest path he 
could find.  His entire body screamed in protest at every step, yet somehow, 
Legolas managed to continue on, stumbling forward and nearly falling on several 
occasions.  He could feel his body radiating with unusual heat, and knew he had 
a fever, a testimony to how badly he had been hurt.  Elves very rarely caught 
fever, and when they did, they were able to heal quickly.  His usually graceful 
movements were slow and choppy, and his sharp mind and senses were quickly 
becoming fogged with pain.

It was partly due to this fact that Legolas did not hear the band of orcs until 
they were nearly upon him.  When his mind at last registered their presence, he 
looked around him wildly, searching for a place to hide.  Unfortunately, his 
pounding head was not prepared for the quick movement, and he stumbled back as 
his vision suddenly went black.  He managed to catch himself against the trunk 
of a tree, unable to stop a hiss of pain as his weight landed on his bad leg.  
He could hear the steady tramp of the orcs moving down the trail toward him and 
he once more looked around for a place to hide.

Too late.  The lead orc rounded the bend in the path, stopping short as he 
caught sight of the lone elf leaning against the tree directly before him.  This 
orc was soon joined by its companions as they stood regarding their find.

Legolas raised his knife, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision.  
He had neither his balance nor his wits about him, and the lead orc must have 
sensed this, for he smiled maliciously, motioning to his companions to fan out 
and flank the elf.

Distantly, Legolas realized that he was in a lot of trouble, as he desperately 
tried to come up with a plan of escape.  However, it seemed as if a dark cloud 
had settled over his mind, affecting both his thoughts and his vision.  The 
faces of the orcs were nothing but blurs as they crept closer, and Legolas had 
to fight down his rising panic. 

He swiped out with his knife, hoping to keep the creatures at bay, yet they only 
laughed at his feeble attempt, dodging his swing and creeping in closer.  

It was almost pitiful; a lone, injured elf, attempting to fight off nearly a 
dozen large, heavily armed orcs, with only a single long knife to aid him.  The 
fight did not last long, as all the orcs converged upon Legolas at once, driving 
the elf to the ground and easily disarming him.

Pain and exhaustion warred within Legolas, leaving little room for fear as he 
waited for the final blow that would end his life.  When several seconds had 
passed and still the blow had not come, Legolas at last raised his head, looking 
up into the smirking face of the orc captain standing above him.

"Get up," the orc snarled nastily in his own tongue, the words sounding harsh in 
Legolas's ears.

When the elf made no move to obey but merely stared blankly up at him, the orc 
captain reached down and tangled his hand in the long, blond hair.  With a cruel 
yank, he forced Legolas to his feet, motioning two of his companions forward to 
hold the elf upright.

Legolas fought to keep from crying out at the combined pain of his head injury, 
and the agony from his leg.  He refused to give the orc captain the satisfaction 
of knowing how badly he hurt.

The orc reached forward, grabbing Legolas cruelly by the chin and forcing the 
elf to look at him.  His sharp nails dug into the soft flesh of the elf's jaw, 
and the orc smiled as Legolas involuntarily flinched.

"Where is your companion?" the orc captain demanded, gripping his prisoner's jaw 
even tighter.

It took Legolas a few seconds to realize that the orc was speaking of Aragorn.  
A thrill of hope ran through him; if the orcs were looking for Aragorn, it meant 
the ranger had not yet been caught.  He met the orcs dark eyes with a defiant 
gaze of his own, his jaw firmly clenched.

The orc’s eyes narrowed.  He released Legolas's jaw a second before his fist 
slammed into the elf's side, directly over his bruised ribs.  Legolas could not 
stop his cry of pain, and he would have doubled over had he not been held 
upright by the two orcs on either side of him.  

The orc captain laughed, grabbing Legolas's chin once more and forcing the elf's 
pain clouded eyes upward.  "Know this, elf," he hissed maliciously.  "My master 
sent me out to retrieve you and bring you back to him.  A few minutes with him, 
and you shall quickly loose all your arrogance.  You will bow at his feet and 
beg for mercy."

Legolas met the hate filled eyes of the orc, attempting to hide the fear that 
ran through him at the creature’s words.  "I will bow to no one," he grated out, 
his eyes still flashing with defiance.  He tensed, expecting another blow, yet 
to his surprise, the orc merely laughed.

"We shall soon see," the orc replied, reaching out and placing his thumb firmly 
against his prisoner's chest.  Slowly, never losing his evil grin, the orc began 
to apply pressure, pushing his finger up beneath Legolas's sternum and against 
the elf's lungs.  

The pain was excruciating, and Legolas was unable even to cry out as the 
pressure built.  His eyes blurred with tears of agony, and the last thing he 
heard before he lost consciousness was the evil laughter of his orc captors.

*****

Pippin huddled quiet and miserable beneath the leaves of a giant tree, his cloak 
wrapped about him in a feeble attempt for warmth.  The hobbit remained 
completely motionless, fearful that any movement would merely draw the attention 
of his captors.  

Both his hands and feet were firmly bound by a thick rope, the cord digging 
painfully into his skin and making it impossible to find a comfortable position. 
 Not that he would have dared move anyway.  

After his capture, he had been bound, thrown roughly over an orc’s shoulder, 
carried for several hours, and at last tossed unceremoniously beneath this tree. 
 The orcs had set a single guard over him, and then for the most part ignored 
him.  Not that Pippin minded.  He much preferred being ignored to the 
alternative.  He was surprised that the orcs had not just killed him, and his 
mind quailed at the thought of what else they planned to do to him.

Unbidden, his mind went back to the last time he had been captured by a band of 
orcs.  The memory was not a very nice one, and Pippin did not look forward to 
repeating the experience.  Then, he had had his best friend Merry with him, and 
the two had found a way to escape.  Now, however, alone as he was, he doubted 
there would be any chance of that.  He wondered what Merry would say if his 
friend knew of his present predicament.  At last, he shook his head, for he knew 
exactly what Merry would say.  He would call Pippin five kinds of fool and then 
refuse to speak to him for a week.

'Not that I wouldn't deserve it,' Pippin thought glumly. 'After all, Gandalf 
would say that I brought this all down upon my own head.  No one forced me to 
leave the city and follow Aragorn and Legolas.  I should have known that 
something like this would come of my foolish actions.  Now, I might not see any 
of them again.'

This thought was almost too much for Pippin, and he quickly forced his mind to 
something different.  

For a time, he kept his thoughts busy trying to figure out why the orcs had 
merely captured him, and not killed him.  However, his mind kept imagining worse 
and worse possibilities until he had to force his thoughts away from this as 
well.

His thoughts kept turning to Aragorn and Legolas, and his concern grew for his 
two friends.  He had been attacked shortly after they had entered the cave.  
Pippin reckoned it to have been at least four hours ago.  The company of orcs 
had caught him unaware, yet he had fought bravely, managing to kill several of 
them before his capture.  

Now, however, he was worried about what Aragorn and Legolas might do when they 
exited the cave and found him missing.  He hoped that they would assume he had 
headed back to Calambel, yet somehow he doubted it.  Given time to think, Pippin 
realized that this all looked a little too much like a well planned trap, and he 
hoped that he was not being used as the bait to capture Aragorn and Legolas.  
That would explain why he was still alive.

Pippin shook his head angrily, trying to fight back tears of frustration.  If 
anything happened to Aragorn and Legolas because of him, Pippin would never 
forgive himself.

He sat huddled quietly for several more minutes, his mind on these things, when 
the orcs around him began to move restlessly, murmuring to each other in their 
foul tongue.  

Pippin shifted nervously, watching the orcs beginning to mill about, all of them 
facing away from where he sat.  He briefly entertained the thought of escape, 
but before he could make any plans, his orc guard reached down and yanked him to 
his feet by his bound hands.

'It looks like we’re finally moving out,' Pippin thought resignedly.  Yet his 
guard remained motionless, gripping him tightly and staring in the same 
direction as his companions.  Pippin followed his gaze, realizing that something 
was moving through the trees toward the little party.  A desperate hope ran 
through him, and he watched the trees as intently as the others, wondering if 
his rescue was near at hand.

His hope faded, however, when one of the orcs in the party called out something 
and was immediately answered by a similar call from the forest.  Pippin watched 
with growing disappointment as a troop of orcs broke from the trees and began 
making their way toward the orcs that held him.

Suddenly, the hobbit stiffened, a cry of dismay falling from his lips, his eyes 
glued to the approaching party of orcs.  As they drew closer, it became obvious 
to Pippin that what he had seen was not a mistake, as he had dared to hope.  
With this realization, his shoulders drooped and all hope abandoned him like the 
leaves abandon their trees come winter.  

His soft sob of despair was lost to the lonely night, completely drowned out by 
the orc's wild cheers of victory.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

One last note:  I realize that many of you may have a different opinion on how 
Aragorn would act in this chapter.  This is just what I saw, but if any of you 
noticed anything that didn’t seem right, feel free to let me know. Nicely, of 
course.  Thanks.


A/N—Here it is, a chapter for all you Pippin fans out there.  The majority of 
this chapter is told from his pov, although it does contain plenty of our other 
favorite characters.  Hope you enjoy and pretty please with a cherry on top 
leave a review! Thanks!!!!!!!



Chapter 19


As Legolas’s mind slowly drifted toward consciousness, the first thing he became 
aware of was a horrible jarring and an intense pain radiating from his chest.  
Instinctively he let out a low moan, attempting to shift away from the horrible 
pressure.  It did not take him long to realize that this was a very bad idea, as 
the movement only aggravated the pain, and he once more became limp and still.  
His memory of his present predicament returned to him, and he had to fight back 
yet another moan.

He was being carried by an orc, thrown carelessly over the creature’s broad 
shoulder, the position not helping his injured side one bit.  The jarring 
sensation came from the orc’s rough steps, and when Legolas at last opened his 
eyes, it took several minutes for him to see anything but stars swimming across 
his vision.  Not that there was much to see except the ground and the back of 
the creature that held him.

His hands were tied roughly with a large rope, and though he had long since lost 
all feeling in his legs, he guessed that they were similarly bound as well.  His 
head pounded so fiercely that he half expected it to fall off at any moment, and 
he felt as if he was very near to being sick.  He had eaten nothing but a couple 
of small wafers of lembas since leaving the city, yet the pain of his injured 
body was too overwhelming to allow him to feel any real hunger.

He decided to ignore his physical pain as much as possible and set his mind to 
the task of thinking of some way to escape.  He knew the orcs were most likely 
carrying him back to their lair, back to Malek, and this thought alone was 
enough to send cold fingers of fear through him.  Once the orcs reached the cave 
he knew there would be little chance of escape, though if he was completely 
honest with himself, he knew there was little chance in any case.  He could not 
understand why Malek had not merely killed him when he had the chance, and he 
wondered what foul purpose the creature held in store for him.  His thoughts 
turned unbidden to his dreams, and he had to fight down a rising wave of panic. 
 He gritted his teeth, using all his self-control to keep from twisting and 
fighting in a futile attempt to escape.

As it was, Legolas could not suppress the shudder that ran through his slight 
frame, causing the orc holding him to tighten his grip painfully.

“Be still, elf,” the creature hissed, his voice full of menace and hate.  “Be 
still or I will drag you behind me by that pretty hair of yours.”

Legolas did not respond, knowing that offering any reply would not go well for 
him.  He would not be surprised if the orc followed through on his threat out of 
pure spite and hatred.  He closed his eyes, shutting off the dizzying sight of 
the ground passing beneath him and trying to force his body as limp and unmoving 
as possible.  Normally, he would have given the orc as much trouble as he could, 
disregarding any possible repercussions to himself.  Yet, he had the serious 
feeling that he would need all his strength for whatever was to come, and 
angering the orcs into beating or possibly killing him would be far from the 
wisest thing to do.

Legolas instead turned his thoughts to Aragorn, recalling the horror in his 
friend’s voice as the ranger called out to him the second before he had tumbled 
from the cliff edge.  He hoped that Aragorn had managed to find Pippin and 
escape from the mountains, returning to the city safely, bringing news and 
warning to those that had remained behind.  Legolas’s mind conjured up a picture 
of Gimli, standing upon the wall with arms crossed, berating him for being so 
careless as to allow himself to get caught.  He could almost hear his best 
friend now, the dwarf complaining loudly that he knew he should have come along, 
especially since Legolas did not know how to take care of himself properly and 
needed Gimli at his side to keep him from bumping into his own shadow.  The 
mental picture was so real in Legolas’s mind that he found himself smiling 
slightly, despite his situation.  If he lived through this, Gimli would surely 
kill him!

Legolas’s thoughts were interrupted by an orc’s shout echoing through the silent 
night, the sound coming from several paces ahead.  The first shout was answered 
by another, this one much nearer, and Legolas realized that the company of orcs 
that had captured him were joining with another group.  

He opened his eyes just in time to realize that he was being carried into a 
small clearing, before the orc that held him roughly tossed him to the ground.  
Legolas barely managed to choke back a cry of pain, releasing a soft grunt as 
his battered body connected with the hard ground.

He rolled onto his good side, pulling his knees up in a fetal position in an 
attempt to ease the sharp pain in his ribs.  He glanced above him, his eyes 
widening slightly at the crowd of orcs that had gathered around him, their eyes 
filled with gloating triumph and malice as they stared down at him.

Legolas took a deep breath and returned their stares, showing no sign of the 
fear he felt, his look of calm defiance one that would have brought pride to the 
highest elven lord.  

*******

Pippin was still being held tightly by his orc guard, unable to do anything as 
the new orcs brought Legolas into camp and dumped the elf to the ground.  Pippin 
attempted to call out to his friend, yet his small voice was completely drowned 
out by the shouts of the orcs that had gathered around the fallen elf.

Pippin immediately began to struggle against his captor, trying desperately to 
reach his fallen comrade’s side, unsure of how he could help, yet determined to 
try.  His efforts gained him nothing but a rough slap from the orc who held him, 
the blow nearly knocking him to his knees despite the thick arms holding him 
upright.  He gasped in pain, blood beginning to flow from his nose and down his 
face.

He could do nothing but watch in horror and growing fear as the orcs converged 
around Legolas, laughing and calling out taunts to their victim.  One orc aimed 
a kick towards Legolas’s head, but the elf moved swiftly despite his obvious 
injuries, dodging the blow and causing the orc to stumble slightly, thrown off 
balance.  The creature’s companions laughed at the unfortunate brute, but Pippin 
found nothing funny about the situation, especially when the orc drew its 
dagger, face twisted with rage.

Once more, Pippin fought to break free, feeling sure that he was about to watch 
his friend’s death.   The orc that held him didn’t even seem to notice his 
efforts, the creature as intent upon the unfolding scene as Pippin was, his grip 
an unbreakable vice around the hobbit’s bound hands.

The orc with the dagger lunged forward, pinning Legolas to the ground with one 
heavy boot against the elf’s throat, the dagger raised and ready to strike home. 

“No!”  Pippin screamed, giving one last futile jerk, his eyes blurred with tears 
as he watched the dagger begin its downward journey.

Amazingly, it was another orc who came to Legolas’s rescue, stepping forward and 
catching the arm of his companion, stopping the blade from striking its target. 
 This orc looked to be a captain, for he was larger than the others, and he held 
himself with a commanding air that was rare among the goblin race.  He growled 
something low and menacing at the orc with a knife, wrenching the blade free and 
pushing the creature backwards.

“We take him alive,” the creature commanded, casting a glare around him.  “Those 
were my orders, and unless you wish to answer to the master, I suggest you obey 
them.”

This command was met by angry mutters from some of the orcs, and nods of 
agreement from others.  Pippin watched in apprehension as the orcs began to 
argue among themselves, their voices raised and angry as they began to yell back 
and forth in their dark tongue.  He was amazed when the orc holding him released 
him, leaving him to go and join in on the argument.  

Pippin’s surprise kept him immobile for only a second before he dropped to his 
knees and began crawling awkwardly toward where Legolas lay.  The orcs continued 
to argue above him, the situation looking as if it was drawing dangerously close 
to blows.  ‘Maybe they will all kill each other and leave Legolas and I alone,’ 
Pippin thought wryly, barely avoiding being trampled by two of the fighting 
orcs.  

Legolas’s back was turned away from Pippin, the elf still surrounded by two or 
three large goblins that continued to argue directly over his prone form.  
Pippin called out as quietly as he could, hoping to avoid drawing the orcs’ 
attention, while still somehow gaining Legolas’s.  Luck was with him, for at the 
sound of his soft call, Legolas glanced over his shoulder, his eyes showing his 
dismay at the sight of Pippin crawling towards him.  He started mouthing for 
Pippin to get away, to try and escape, but the hobbit only shook his head 
resolutely and continued forward, drawing nearer to the towering forms of the 
orcs that stood over Legolas.  His heart was beating so fast that he was 
surprised it didn’t pump its way right through his chest.  Every second that 
passed he expected an orc to turn and spot him, and then it would all be over.  
Yet somehow, miraculously, the orcs continued to argue and shout, completely 
unaware as Pippin worked his way past them, at last reaching Legolas’s side.

He collapsed beside his friend, his breath coming out in short rasps that he 
could not control, despite his fear that their captors would hear it.  Legolas 
stared at him sadly, the elf’s face unusually pale except for the black stain of 
blood that ran down the left side of his face.  

“You should not be here,” Legolas whispered so softly that Pippin barely heard 
him.  “Escape while you can.  Go!”

Pippin once more shook his head emphatically, glancing around him for a sharp 
rock he could use to saw at the rope binding Legolas.  “Not without you,” he 
whispered, just as silently, if a bit more breathlessly, his eyes at last 
finding what he was looking for.  A pointed rock with a jagged edge lay only a 
few feet away, and Pippin began to crawl slowly in its direction.  Legolas 
watched him silently, his body completely still. Pippin’s small frame could move 
through the darkness without drawing much attention, yet Legolas knew that if he 
so much as twitched a muscle, the orcs would be upon him.

Pippin at last reached the rock, his hand going out to grip the small item.  He 
was just starting to draw it back towards him when a heavy boot landed on his 
arm, crushing the limb to the ground and causing him to loose his grip on the 
rock.  He let out a small yelp of pain, his eyes flying up to the orc towering 
above him.  The creature glared down at him, reaching and grabbing Pippin by his 
throat and lifting his small frame off the ground, holding him up before him 
like a rag doll.

“Trying to escape, little one?” the orc sneered, giving Pippin a hard shake.

Pippin couldn’t have answered if he had wanted to, the orc’s iron grip cutting 
off all air to his lungs.  He struggled vainly, his eyes wide and black dots 
beginning to cut off his vision.

The orc laughed, holding Pippin up for a few seconds longer before letting him 
drop to the ground.  Pippin gagged and choked, desperately pulling air into his 
starved lungs.  He was not given long to recover before the orc reached down 
once more and pulled him to his feet.  For the first time, Pippin became aware 
that the orcs had stopped arguing and seemed to be preparing to move on.  
Legolas had been dragged to his feet as well, and the orcs were in the process 
of tying a short, thick rope to the bindings on his hands.  The elf swayed 
slightly on his feet, a fresh trickle of blood working its way from the corner 
of his mouth, and Pippin felt a pang of guilt that his actions had caused more 
torment to his friend.

The orc that held him also began tying a short rope to his bound hands, and 
Pippin realized that it was a sort of leash.  It appeared as if he and Legolas 
would be forced to walk wherever they were being taken.  He shot a worried 
glance toward his friend, thinking that Legolas barely looked able to stand, let 
alone walk.  

The orc cut the rope binding Pippin’s feet, then grabbed his chin, forcing his 
eyes upward to meet the creature’s cruel ones.  “You fall, little one, and I 
will drag you,” the orc growled threateningly, a moment before he swept the 
hobbit’s legs out from under him.   Pippin managed to roll to his side and push 
himself to his feet a bare second before the orc started away, laughing nastily 
as he yanked the hobbit after him. 

The orc company, along with their two captives, began marching up the trail, the 
orcs laughing and joking with each other as if the argument of a few moments 
before had never taken place.  Pippin struggled to keep up with his captor’s 
long strides as well as keep an eye on Legolas.  Despite his worries, the elf 
seemed to be keeping up just fine.  True, Legolas was lacking his usual 
gracefulness, and he was limping heavily, but he had yet to fall or even 
stumble.  This was more than Pippin could say for himself.  Between attempting 
to keep up and also watching Legolas, he had nearly fallen several times, 
tripping over unseen roots or stumbling over the uneven ground.  His orc guard, 
according to his word, had not slowed or even glanced behind him when Pippin 
stumbled, and it was only luck that he kept his feet and avoided being dragged.

The fourth time Pippin glanced behind him, Legolas met his eyes, shaking his 
head slightly and giving Pippin what was obviously supposed to be an encouraging 
‘don’t worry I’m fine’ look.  Pippin didn’t buy into this one bit, yet the 
ground was beginning to slope more and more upward and the terrain was becoming 
more rugged, requiring all his attention to keep from falling.

Pippin soon lost track of all time, his thoughts focused on putting one foot in 
front of the other.  He was terribly tired and he realized that he had not slept 
properly in two days, and only a slightly shorter time since he had eaten 
properly.  He was starved, and his stomach kept rumbling with a loud demand for 
food, yet he realized that such a luxury was highly unlikely in his present 
position. He began stumbling more and more often, his eyelids beginning to drift 
shut of their own accord.  Only the sure promise of being dragged kept him from 
collapsing all together.  

Just when Pippin was sure that he could go no further, the ground sloped up 
sharply once more, leading up to the opening of the cave Pippin, Legolas, and 
Aragorn had scoped out only hours earlier.  Pippin sagged with relief that the 
journey was finally over, even as his mind baulked at the idea of entering the 
black hole of the cave.  His thoughts unavoidably turned to the missing member 
of their company.  He had wanted to ask Legolas about Aragorn, yet the one time 
he had attempted to speak to the elf, an orc had shouted at him to remain 
silent, delivering a rough cuff to the side of Pippin’s head along with the 
order.  

The tunnel entrance was guarded by two burly orcs who laughed and jeered when 
they saw the two prisoners.  Pippin winced inwardly when one of the new orcs 
reached out and shoved Legolas savagely, calling out a taunt in his rough 
language.  The elf stumbled back against the cave wall, using the hard stone to 
keep his balance and  keep upright.  Pippin started toward him, but the orc 
holding his bound hands yanked him forward, dragging him further down the dark 
tunnel.  Pippin attempted to look behind him, but the orcs had crowded close, 
blocking his view of Legolas.

The tunnel seemed to go on forever, winding and twisting passageways breaking 
off in all directions.  Blackness surrounded everything, and even the torches 
the orcs carried did little to push it back.  Pippin was careful to mark their 
route as well as he could, trying not to become too disoriented in the black 
maze.  For the most part, the orcs seemed to be following a straight path, 
turning neither left nor right.  

After several minutes of walking, the company broke from the tunnel into a large 
cavern, the ceiling of the cave rising abruptly to tower over their heads.  
Pippin gaped in wonder; reminded of the large caverns the fellowship had passed 
through on their trip through Moria.  That memory was not a fond one, and Pippin 
doubted if this one would be either.

The cavern was huge, looking almost round in shape with a high ceiling and 
jagged walls.  Torches burned along these walls, casting dim light to all but 
one section of the large cave. Many other tunnel entrances opened into the 
cavern, giving the appearance of a giant beehive.  ‘A beehive full of orcs,’ 
Pippin thought glumly, glancing around him.  The cavern was mostly deserted now, 
however it was quite obviously the camping ground for an army of orcs.  A large 
army of orcs. 

Pippin was shoved forward, half dragged and half carried to the center of the 
large cavern, where he was tossed to the ground.  The leash was removed from 
about his hands and his feet were once more bound tightly.  Legolas was shoved 
down next to him, and the same procedure was done with the elf.  Pippin felt a 
brief thrill as he realized that they were not going to be separated.  Hope 
flared within him once more.  Surely he and Legolas together could come up with 
a way out of this.

The orcs finished binding them; set two guards, then turned and left.  Pippin 
stared after them, amazed that they were being left alone with nothing more 
being done to them.  He turned and glanced at Legolas, the elf’s eyes mirroring 
his own surprise.  Pippin glanced at the two remaining orcs, then scooted closer 
to Legolas so that he could speak with the elf without being overheard.

“You all right?” he asked softly, still watching the two orcs who had their 
backs turned to them.

“Yes.  And you my small friend?” Legolas replied, just as softly.

“I suppose I am as well as can be expected, considering our present 
predicament,” Pippin answered.  Legolas smiled slightly at this, but did not 
answer.

“Where is Aragorn?” Pippin asked, his voice still soft but rushed.  He expected 
the orcs to turn around any minute and order them to be silent.

Legolas shook his head, his eyes troubled.  He raised his bound hands, wiping at 
the dried blood on his face.  “I do not know,” he answered truthfully.  “On the 
trail, the orcs were speaking of additional groups out looking for ‘the other 
one.’ I assume they were referring to Aragorn, which would mean that he is free, 
at least for the present.” 

“Good,” Pippin whispered.  “He can get the others and then come back and rescue 
us.”

Legolas glanced at him, a strange expression on his face, yet he only nodded.  
The elf seemed extremely nervous and fidgety, continually glancing around him 
and swallowing hard.  Pippin knew that Legolas hated caves, and being forced in 
one under such conditions would be hard enough for anyone.

“What do you suppose Malek wants with us?” he asked, hoping to distract the elf 
from his discomfort.  He had asked the question automatically, but immediately 
winced when he realized what he had said.  He didn’t particularly wish to speak 
of what evil things Malek had in store for them.

“I expect we will learn soon enough when Malek and his orcs return,” Legolas 
replied softly, looking at Pippin as if reading his thoughts.  “It is as Aragorn 
said.  Malek is sporting with us and I suspect we are but another ‘move’ in his 
game.”

Pippin frowned.  “Do you think he will attempt to use us to get at the others?” 
he asked worriedly.

Legolas shrugged.  “Perhaps,” he replied. “Or he may be waiting until he has all 
of us before he kills us.”

Pippin winced and looked away, glancing toward the nearest tunnel entrance, 
which was easily over fifty yards away.  Escape would be no easy thing.  That 
was for sure.  Turning back, he found Legolas staring at him intently, an odd 
expression on the elf’s face.

“Pippin,” Legolas whispered, then stopped.  

Pippin looked at him expectantly, waiting for his friend to continue.

“When the orcs return, they may wish to have some sport.” Legolas’s voice was 
soft and matter of fact, his eyes saying much more than his words.

Pippin felt his stomach sink, a slow sick feeling stealing over him.  He knew of 
what Legolas was speaking.  Orcs hated elves, and would take any chance to 
torment them, as Pippin had already seen.  He swallowed hard, refusing to meet 
Legolas’s eyes, once more desperately searching for any avenue of escape.

“Pippin, you must listen to me,” Legolas spoke firmly, his voice still toned 
low, but with a note of urgent determination.

Pippin reluctantly turned to face him once more, not wanting to hear what the 
elf had to say, but knowing there was no getting out of it.

“When the orcs return, no matter what they may do, I do not want you to try and 
interfere.  Keep as still and quiet as possible and hopefully they will not 
bother you.”

Pippin stared at Legolas in complete disbelief.  “You want me to sit and watch 
while they…,” he trailed off, too overcome by horror to continue.  “You can’t be 
serious,” he finally blurted out, his voice louder than he intended.

“That is precisely what I want you to do,” Legolas answered firmly.  “It will be 
hard, but you must.  This has nothing to do with our friendship,” he continued, 
“but with common sense.  Elves heal swiftly and can endure much more than you 
may think.  If the orcs were to turn their attention upon you, little one, I do 
not think you would survive very long.”

Pippin stared at Legolas, his mind numbly realizing that his friend had just 
used the same name for him as the orc had earlier.  Coming from the orc it had 
been mocking, yet from Legolas it was somehow comforting.

Legolas was watching him closely, his eyes intense, a silent plea in them.  “I 
do not tell you this to scare you, Pippin, but to make you understand.  You must 
do this for me, my friend.”

‘I thought this had nothing to do with our friendship,’ Pippin thought numbly, 
though he did not say it out loud.  “Maybe they won’t do anything,” he offered 
lamely, refusing to meet Legolas’s eyes.

The elf smiled sadly, his eyes all too knowing.  “You must remain alert for an 
opportunity to escape.  If the orcs are busy with me, perhaps you will get a 
chance to slip away.  If so, you must not hesitate.  Do not worry about me.”

“That I will NOT do,” Pippin stated firmly.  “And don’t tell me it has nothing 
to do with our friendship either,” he added before Legolas could argue.  “We 
will escape together or not at all!” 

Legolas merely stared at him a moment, realizing that arguing would not change 
the hobbit’s mind.  He wondered if Pippin truly realized what he had just said, 
then finally decided he probably did.  The hobbit never ceased to surprise 
Legolas.  He gave Pippin a weak smile of gratitude, and was rewarded by a return 
smile. 

Silence fell over the two companions, each lost in thought.  Several minutes 
passed before Pippin once again turned to Legolas.

“Legolas,” he spoke softly, gaining the elf’s attention.  “I’m hungry.”

*******

Aragorn almost did not find the cave.  He stumbled upon it purely by accident, 
the opening mostly hidden by a large patch of scrub brush.  His discovery came 
not a moment too soon, for he was growing weaker with every passing second, the 
loss of blood making him lightheaded and drowsy.  

Luckily for Aragorn, the cave was just what he needed.  A small tunnel led to a 
slightly wider cavern, just high enough for him to recline against the far wall, 
his head barely brushing the roof of the cave.  Another tunnel led from the back 
of the cavern, offering an avenue of escape should the orcs manage to find his 
hiding place.  The cavern was positioned far enough from the entrance that only 
the barest sliver of moonlight invaded the darkness, yet close enough that he 
could hear anything approaching the cave.  

Aragorn was not particularly fond of being forced to sit and wait, yet he knew 
his body could go no further this night, and out in the open he would stand 
little chance, especially with orc patrols searching for him.  This cave 
provided him a hiding place where he could rest and tend his wound while he 
waited for the light of day.  Once the sun rose, the majority of the orcs would 
retire to their cave and he would have a better chance of escaping back to the 
city.  He could only hope that Calembel would be able to resist the attack of 
Malek and his orcs.  His mind didn’t even want to consider the possibility that 
they would not.

Aragorn let out a tired sigh and sagged back against the cool stone, allowing 
his body to relax slightly.  He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the 
pain of his mind and body.  He had managed to keep his emotions on a tight 
leash, yet now they threatened to break free and consume him once more.  He 
attempted to force his mind into a blank, but it was no use.  His grief and 
anguish could no longer be contained.  

‘Failed.’

The single word seemed to echo repeatedly through Aragorn’s mind, ripping at him 
and tearing him to pieces inside.  He had failed!  Even worse than the fact that 
he had failed, was the price of his failure.  Legolas had fallen, Pippin was 
missing, and Calembel was most likely fighting for survival at this very moment! 
 He had been completely unsuccessful in his mission to learn more of Malek and 
discover a way to destroy the creature, and he had failed to reach Legolas in 
time to save the elf.  He had even failed to discover the final fate of both his 
friends.  Everything had gone wrong, and Aragorn could not stop the feeling that 
he was responsible, that he should have done something to prevent it all from 
happening.  

His mind was full of visions of Legolas tumbling from the rock shelf, and he 
could not contain a soft sob of despair and anguish.  Several long minutes 
passed as Aragorn sat lost within his grief, the pain in his heart completely 
clouding the pain of his wound.  

It took a great effort for Aragorn to pull himself free of his depression and 
sorrow.  At last, he busied himself tending his wound as best he could in the 
cramped and dark confines of the cave.  He tore a strip of cloth from his cloak 
and used it to bind the cut on his side tightly, his actions automatic, his 
brain still clouded with emotions. When he had finished his task, he settled 
back against the wall once more, closing his eyes and sighing deeply.

He knew it was going to be a long night, even more so because he would have to 
keep himself awake and alert.  He would much prefer to sleep, for then he would 
not have to deal with all the feelings of grief and despair that continually 
battled for control over his mind.  Instead, he busied himself with thoughts of 
what he would do come morning.  His heart desired more than anything to return 
to the spot where he had lost Legolas, to finish what he had been unable to do 
during the night, yet he knew this area was likely to be guarded by orcs.  
Continuing his search for Pippin was another option, yet he somehow doubted he 
would be able to discover any more than he had previously.  He could only hope 
that Pippin had managed to escape the orcs and work his way back to Calembel.  

‘Calembel.’  That was one of Aragorn’s greatest worries, for he knew not whether 
the city had been prepared well enough to withstand Malek’s attack.  He held 
complete trust in both Gandalf and Faramir, yet he still ached to be at their 
side, fighting with them.  He missed Arwen terribly, and mourned for the pain he 
would cause Gimli when he returned with news of Legolas’s fall.  He prayed 
desperately that Pippin had reached the city, for he had no desire to carry bad 
news to the hobbits as well, especially Merry.  He at last decided that the only 
path open to him was to return to the city.  From there, he could decide what to 
do next.

With this decision made, Aragorn allowed himself to relax a bit more, his mind 
still sharp and alert for any sounds disturbing the night.  His entire body 
ached and screamed at him to sleep; yet somehow he managed to remain awake until 
the first faint traces of morning light could be seen peering through the cave 
entrance.  

Aragorn waited until he was sure the sun had completely risen before he moved to 
exit his small hiding place.  He could hear the bright songs of birds filling 
the air, and he breathed deeply of the fresh air winding in through the tunnel. 
 His muscles screamed in protest at his every movement, and when he finally 
straightened after crawling out of the cave, his wound sent a shot of hot pain 
throughout his body.  His hand instinctively flew to his injured side, and he 
winced when he felt the heat radiating through the bandage from the wound. His 
tired body had not registered the unusual heat before, and Aragorn thought wryly 
that he should have expected this.  Orcs often tipped their arrows with poison, 
and he had been unable to clean and dress the cut properly.  

Now, there was no time to worry about bringing the fever down.  He was filled 
with an urgency to reach the city, and he could wait no longer.  He glanced to 
the rising sun, gaining his bearings before starting in a southerly direction, 
back toward the city.  He traveled slowly, his mind on constant alert, and his 
eyes scanning the path ahead.  He came across several tracks of orcs, yet no 
other signs of the creatures.

It took him well past midmorning before he at last broke free of the mountains, 
working his way through the last foothills that lay before the plain that ran up 
to the city.  His movements continued to be slow, but this time due more to his 
injury than any real alertness.  The fever had spread throughout his body, and 
Aragorn was struggling to keep his mind clear and his form moving forward.  

He was nearing the top of the final hill before the city, when he casually 
glanced upward, his body stumbling to a halt at what he saw.  He stood frozen 
for several minutes, his fevered mind taking time to register the sight before 
him.  When it finally did register, all color drained from his face, and he fell 
to his knees.

A large plume of black smoke was visible over the last rise, snaking its way 
slowly into the sky.  The dark cloud of smoke was still a fair distance away, 
its base still hidden by the hill, and yet Aragorn had no doubt of where it came 
from.  

“Calembel.”  The word came out in a horrified whisper, and he was unable to tear 
his eyes from the giant mushroom rising into the sky.  He suddenly no longer had 
the energy to even rise.  Calembel was burning, the smoke rising and 
disappearing into the bright sky, fading as surely as the last of his hopes.

Aragorn was not sure how long he remained kneeling upon the grassy knoll, his 
eyes locked on the heavy plume of smoke rising from the direction of Calembel.  
His mind felt strangely disconnected from his body, and he could not force 
himself to rise.  The fever from his wound raged through him, leaving him 
feeling empty and weak, and a dark shadow was beginning to cloud his vision.  He 
was vaguely aware that his body was trembling uncontrollably, despite the raging 
heat that flowed through his veins. 

A part of Aragorn's mind that still functioned, not yet clouded by fever, urged 
him to rise and continue on.  He attempted twice to push himself to his feet, 
and twice he failed.  His sickness and despair had robbed him of all strength, 
and he at last allowed himself to sink back to the earth, surrendering to the 
great weariness encompassing him. 

Just as he neared unconsciousness, his head pillowed by the tall grass, he 
thought he saw several horsemen topping the hill directly before him.  He 
blinked heavily, thinking that his mind was somehow playing tricks with his 
eyes, and he once more gave a valiant effort to rise.  Yet it was no use, his 
body would be ignored no longer, and just as his mind slipped into darkness, he 
imagined he heard his name being called, the sound echoing with the pounding of 
hooves.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Attention:  For those of you who read my last chapter right after I posted it, I 
added some more at the end.  Not much, but you might want to go back and check 
if you read it!  Thanks

A/N—Hey all.  Apologies all around for the lateness of this chapter.  I am on my 
final week of school, and I graduate this weekend (Saturday) and so I am sure 
you can all understand the hectic life I am now living.  Especially all of you 
who have graduated before.  Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter!



Chapter 20   Light and Darkness 


Flames, bright and intense, rose toward the heavens with an angry roar, licking 
greedily ever higher and turning the sky black with smoke.  The air above the 
raging inferno seemed to shimmer and dance with heat, and a sickening stench 
filled the air.   

One hundred yards from the base of the bonfire, the city of Calembel lay quiet 
and subdued, the walls reflecting the light of the flames and giving off an 
eerie glow.  No sounds of bird’s cheerful singing filled the still morning, and 
even the sun seemed veiled and shadowed, though there was not a cloud in the 
sky.  The cold touch of death permeated the air, and an unnatural silence 
encompassed the land.

Faramir stood silent and still upon the field before the city, surrounded by a 
scene of death and destruction.  The fire raged before him, and the city lay 
behind, yet Faramir’s mind registered neither as it wept at the sight before 
him.  All about him, the land bore the horrible mark of the fierce and bloody 
battle that had raged here only hours before, and he thought sadly that the 
earth would never be rid of the dark stain that had settled upon it.  Bodies lay 
everywhere, both orc and human, sightless eyes starring unseeingly into the sky 
or turned forever downward to the earth from whence they came.  Soldiers 
wandered through the battlefield, pulling their fallen comrades free, 
unashamedly weeping at the loss of friends and companions and reverently 
carrying them back to the city with honor and respect.  Those soldiers who did 
not have the task of searching for fallen defenders, had the much more gruesome 
task of dealing with the dead orcs.

Faramir grimaced in disgust as two soldiers struggled past him with the body of 
a dead orc, stumbling with their burden as near to the fire as they could, 
before tossing the carcass into the hungry flames.  The fire welcomed the orc's 
body with a fresh belch of flame and black smoke, and the two soldiers hurried 
away, gagging and choking at the horrible stench of burning flesh.  The smell, 
mixed with the heavy smoke, was intense enough that all those working upon the 
field wore heavy pieces of cloth wrapped about their noses and mouths to block 
out the toxic fumes.  

Faramir also wore one of the cloth strips, yet standing so close to the fire he 
found it did little good, and his eyes were beginning to burn intensely from the 
black smoke.  He stood for a couple more minutes before turning away and slowly 
walking back toward the city, his eyes taking in the damage and automatically 
forming a long list of repairs and tasks that would need accomplishing this day. 
 Several sections of the city wall had partially collapsed from the force of the 
orcs attack, and many other sections were black and charred where the orcs had 
attempted to set fire to it.  The north gates hung crooked and broken upon their 
hinges, the heavy wood splintered and shattered, and several defenders worked 
swiftly to repair them as best they could.

Faramir shook his head, as he realized, not for the first time, exactly how 
close the city had come to falling to the orcs.  Only the bravery and 
determination of the defenders, as well as the timely arrival of Kenson Brantz 
and almost three hundred fresh soldiers, had kept the city from defeat.  The 
creatures had managed to break past the lines of defense upon the field, pushing 
the defenders back to the city walls.  Even then they had not relented, 
breaching the wall in several places including the gate, and entering the city. 
 Faramir had led the charge that had pushed them back, yet he knew that if the 
sun had risen only a few hours later than it had, it would have risen upon a 
defeated Calembel.  Yet luck, or perhaps fate, had been with them, and the 
defenders had prevailed long enough that the orcs had been driven back by the 
arrival of day. 

Even so, the cost was great for both sides.  The orcs had the advantage of 
numbers, and could take such losses without much thought; yet each new casualty 
to the defenders marked clearly just how desperate their situation was becoming. 
 The way things stood now, Faramir had little doubt that another orc attack 
would end it all.  Therefore, he had been extremely relieved upon receiving the 
message that the other half of the army of Gondor was only a few miles away, and 
would reach the city in a few hours.  Faramir knew that the soldiers’ arrival 
would be a great moral booster for the worn and weary defenders, as well as 
providing fresh and much needed assistance.  With the new help, he held hope 
that the city could stand long enough for a plan to be made to conquer Malek.  
Without leadership to pull them together, the orcs would become confused and 
quarrelsome, making them easy to defeat.  Malek was the key to everything, the 
very reason Aragorn had decided to track the creature to his cave and attempt to 
learn more about him.

This line of thought was one that Faramir had been carefully avoiding all 
morning, fighting down worry over his missing companions and attempting to keep 
his mind focused upon the defense of the city.  When Aragorn, Legolas, and 
Pippin had failed to arrive at Calembel before nightfall the previous evening, 
Faramir had half expected to see Gimli, and Merry as well, march out the gates 
and begin an immediate search for them.  Only Gandalf’s calm words of caution 
and wisdom had held the dwarf and distraught hobbit at bay.  The wizard had 
argued that there could be several reasons to explain their companions delayed 
return, and he had urged them all to remain patient and focused.  

When the orcs had attacked, everything had been forgotten in the desperate 
battle for survival, but now that the battle was over, Faramir found himself 
once more overcome with feelings of worry and restlessness.  Less than two hours 
after dawn, Gandalf, Gimli, Merry, Sam, and six soldiers had set out on a search 
for the missing companions.  Gandalf had seemed strangely reluctant, yet 
whatever his reasons, he had kept them to himself.

Frodo, who had been injured during the battle, Faramir, and Arwen remained 
behind.  Faramir had longed to go, yet he knew he was needed within the city, 
all the more so because of Aragorn’s absence.  Arwen had also longed to 
accompany the search, and Faramir guessed that her decision to stay behind had 
been much more difficult than his own.  After the attack, the number of wounded 
had outnumbered those of the healers caring for them, and Arwen’s skills were 
desperately needed within the city.  So they had been left behind, trusting 
Gandalf and the others to do whatever possible to find Aragorn, Legolas, and 
Pippin.  Faramir desperately hoped that all their worry would end up being for 
nothing, and that Aragorn and the others would be just fine.  

Forcing his mind back to the city, Faramir busied himself for the next several 
hours helping reconstruct the fallen north gate.  Midmorning came and went 
without him really registering the passing of time.  He was just starting up the 
street, planning on visiting Arwen and Frodo, when loud shouts along the top of 
the wall alerted him that someone was coming.  He ran back down the street, 
reaching the wall and bounding up the nearest stairs, hoping to get a good view 
of whoever was approaching.  A young soldier met him at the top, pointing 
excitedly to the north were a group of horsemen were riding toward the city.

Faramir felt a thrill, as he realized that the group had to be Gandalf’s party, 
and the only reason they would be returning so soon was if they had found 
something.  The horsemen were still too distant for him to make out any distinct 
forms or numbers, yet the closer they came, the more certain he was.  He left 
the wall and hurried to the gate, squinting past the fire toward the approaching 
riders.  As they drew closer, he at last could make out the form of Gandalf in 
the lead, the wizard carefully supporting a limp figure in the saddle before 
him.  Faramir felt his heart lurch as he realized the figure was too tall for 
Pippin and not quite tall enough to be Legolas.  It took all his self-control to 
remain waiting at the city gate and not go racing out to meet the approaching 
riders.

It seemed like forever before Gandalf at last rode through the gates, pulling 
his horse to a stop and carefully dismounting with an unconscious Aragorn in his 
arms.  Faramir held the wizard's horse, his worried eyes scanning the pale face 
of his king for some sign as to what ailed the man.

"How is he?" he asked worriedly, reaching forward to offer Gandalf aid with his 
burden.

"He is alive for the moment, and that is all that matters," Gandalf replied 
shortly.  "He is running a high fever, and we must get him to Arwen."

Faramir nodded and quickly handed the reins of Gandalf's mount to a nearby 
soldier.  "What of Legolas and Pippin?" he asked worriedly, for he had already 
noticed the absence of the two.

Gandalf shook his head slightly, his eyes full of worry.  "He was alone and 
unconscious when we found him," he replied simply, and Faramir felt his heart 
sink at the words.  He glanced over his shoulder to where Gimli was being helped 
off a horse he was sharing with a soldier.  The dwarf's face was strained and 
weary, and he kept glancing over his shoulder the way they had just come, the 
top of his hand rubbing nervously over the haft of his axe.  Beside him, Merry 
looked dangerously close to tears.

"Where do you think they are?" Faramir asked softly, turning back to Gandalf.

Once more, the wizard merely shook his head.  "That is something I can only hope 
Aragorn can tell us once he wakes," the wizard replied, turning and quickly 
striding up the street toward the temporary house of healing.

******

Legolas knew the minute Malek entered the cavern.  A dark chill ran throughout 
his being, and it seemed as if the torches surrounding the cave flickered and 
dimmed.  A black evilness filled the room, settling down upon the two huddled 
prisoners like a dark blanket, seeping away all light and warmth.  Even the air 
seemed to become oppressive and suffocating.  Legolas had faced the evil that 
was Malek face to face, yet at that time, it had still been daylight, and he had 
been preoccupied with fighting for his life.  This time, lying bound and 
helpless deep within the closed confines of the cave, the evilness seemed much 
more palpable and intent, chilling his blood and freezing his heart.

Legolas kept careful control over his emotions, scanning the many cave entrances 
for some sign of Malek.  His eyes at last came to rest upon the far end of the 
cavern, the only place still completely shrouded in darkness, with no torches to 
add the slightest amount of light.  Legolas recognized the blackness of this 
section to be unnatural, for even his keen eyes could not penetrate it’s black 
folds, and he knew that it was within this shadow that Malek stood, watching 
him.

Beside him, Pippin began to shift restlessly, fearful eyes darting around the 
cave, and Legolas knew that the hobbit felt Malek’s presence as well.  Pippin 
glanced up, meeting Legolas’s gaze and opening his mouth to speak; yet no words 
came out, for suddenly orcs began to pour into the cave, appearing from several 
different entrances and filling the cave with their loud and vulgar language.  
The orcs arrival startled Legolas nearly as badly as Pippin, and he cursed 
himself for not sensing their coming long before.  It seemed that Malek’s 
presence was serving to cloud his already dulled senses even further.  

As the orcs continued to fill the cave, Legolas had to clench his jaw tightly 
and fight to remain calm against the tight knot forming in his stomach.  He knew 
he could not allow the orcs to see his fear, for the creatures enjoyed nothing 
more than causing such fear and pain in their victims.  He was determined not to 
give them the satisfaction.  He had to remain calm and in control no matter what 
torment they had in store for him, for nothing else would be acceptable for the 
proud prince of Mirkwood.  His mind kept recalling all the stories he had heard 
of elves captured by orcs.  None of the stories had been pretty, and none of 
them had ended happily.

Legolas forced his mind away from such thoughts, focusing instead upon the 
frightened hobbit at his side.  Pippin was yet another reason he had to remain 
calm.  The hobbit was once more shifting nervously, his eyes wide and terrified, 
looking as if he was considering bolting, bound limbs or no.  Legolas gently 
placed his tied hands upon his small friend’s shoulder, squeezing softly.

“Be still,” he ordered quietly, surprised at the level of complete calm and 
command he heard in his voice.  He most definitely did not feel calm.

Pippin looked up at him, surprise evident in his young face.  Slowly, Legolas 
felt him begin to relax beneath his hands, the hobbit’s face still frightened, 
yet losing the wild look that had been there before. 

“Remember what I said earlier,” Legolas whispered, his voice still surprisingly 
calm.  “Do nothing to draw attention to yourself, no matter what happens.”

Pippin shook his head, his eyes tormented.  “Legolas, I still do not think I 
will be able to…”

“But you must,” Legolas cut him off mid-sentence.  “Think of Merry if you have 
to.  Think of the pain it would cause him to loose you.”  

Pippin let out a small gasp, his eyes widening, and Legolas felt a pang of guilt 
at the cruel words.  Yet at the moment, he was willing to try anything to get 
Pippin to understand.  

Pippin stared up at him silently for a few seconds, his eyes showing his hurt, 
yet at last he replied, “And what of Gimli?  What of the hurt he would feel?”

Legolas flinched slightly, but quickly recovered.  “If Gimli were here, he would 
tell you to remain still as well,” he answered softly.

“Maybe, but he himself would not,” Pippin retorted.

Before Legolas could even think of a response, the first of the orcs spotted 
them and let out a high yell, rushing forward and calling to their companions 
who were still entering the cavern.  In no time, the two prisoners were 
completely surrounded by a horde of orcs calling out for their blood. Legolas 
was glad that Pippin did not know the creatures foul language and thus could not 
understand the ugly threats directed toward them.  Even so, he glanced down at 
the hobbit worriedly and was surprised to see Pippin sitting up straight, his 
chin raised and glaring back at the orcs with resolve filling his small face.  
Legolas felt a thrill of pride at the hobbit’s action, and he squeezed Pippin’s 
shoulder tightly one last time before dropping his hands back into his lap.

The orcs kept edging closer and closer, their faces filled with blood lust, and 
Legolas doubted that anything could keep them at bay.  He stared up at them 
bravely, his face defiant, and tensed his body for what he knew was about to 
come.

Suddenly, a chill so intense it rocked his body swept through him, and the orcs 
halted their advance, their voices dying away into complete silence.  The front 
row of orcs shifted and moved aside, revealing an approaching Malek, the 
creature looking much more terrible than before in the blackness of the cave. 
Legolas heard a strangled sound coming from beside him, yet he could not tear 
his eyes from the creature before him.

“Welcome,” Malek hissed, the sound coming out more like a hideous laugh.  “I 
have been waiting a long time for this moment.”

Legolas stared up at the creature, his features calm and expressionless.

Malek cocked his head, his grin widening.  “My pets are calling for your blood,” 
he continued, his voice gleeful.  “They have worked hard, and perhaps I shall 
give you to them.  They know how to have fun, and it shall be an enjoyment to 
watch them.  I am curious what it will take to make an elf scream.”

When Legolas merely continued to watch him, his face cold and unreadable, 
Malek’s features darkened.  “Of course, if you should bow before me and beg for 
your life, perhaps I shall spare you from their hands,” he growled, his eyes 
narrowing.

For the first time, Legolas showed a reaction, but it was not one Malek was 
expecting.  The elf let out a short laugh, looking up at Malek with disgust and 
contempt and already shaking his head.  

“I would never bow to you, creature of the dark,” Legolas spat with disdain, his 
light eyes flashing.  “Nor would I beg mercy from a bunch of orcs,” he added, 
filling the last word with as much derision and contempt as he could muster.

An angry mutter went through the surrounding creatures, yet Legolas was not 
finished.  He knew that his words were bold and rash, yet if they managed to 
draw all of Malek’s and the orcs attention and anger to himself, then perhaps 
Pippin would be ignored.  “Do with me as you please, Malek,” he continued, his 
voice now filled with taunting.  “You may even have your orcs kill me, but do 
not think you will have the pleasure of seeing me broken.  No matter what you 
may do, light will always triumph over darkness, and you cannot change that.  
You will be defeated, Malek, just as all dark things are defeated.  You will 
fall!”  His speech given, Legolas fell silent, staring up at Malek with cold 
defiance.  

The silence in the cave was deafening.

Malek looked down at him, a hideous rage burning in his dark eyes.  At last he 
spoke, advancing a single step, his voice cold and dangerous.  “You think so, 
elf?” he hissed, his voice a mere whisper.  “You think I shall be defeated?  
Darkness can extinguish light, as I will soon teach you.  I will show you 
exactly what it means to be a ‘creature of darkness.”

The words were spoken coldly and with a definite promise, and Legolas could not 
stop the wave of terror that swept through him at the dark meaning of the 
threat.  Legolas’s face must have given away a hint of his fear, for Malek 
suddenly laughed.

“No, my pet,” he spoke slowly, his voice now filled with condescension.  “I 
shall not kill you, though you will wish you were dead before I am through.  I 
have a much better plan for you.  But first, I must keep my promise to your 
friend.”  Malek motioned a large orc over to him, the creature perhaps one of 
the largest of the breed Legolas had ever seen.  “I would see the elf suffer,” 
he ordered the orc coldly.  “I would see him bleed.”  At this last sentence, 
Malek licked his lips, looking at Legolas hungrily.  

These words were met with a mutter of anticipation from the surrounding orcs, as 
the large creature bowed before Malek, pulling free a wicked looking whip from 
its belt.  Legolas thought that such an instrument was a strange tool for an 
orc, but he was given no time to think over this.  Two of the creatures stepped 
forward and roughly grabbed his shoulders, brutally shoving him face forward to 
the ground, a heavy boot landing on the back of his neck and pinning him down.  
He gasped in pain as his bound hands dug into his chest, making it hard to 
breath.

“I have heard that elves are extremely resilient,” Malek spoke once more.  “I 
hope this is true, for it will make this so much more fun.”

Legolas’s cloak was torn from him and tossed carelessly away as his tunic was 
ripped open, exposing the soft flesh of his back and shoulders.  He heard a soft 
cry from Pippin, and he closed his eyes, praying fervently that the hobbit would 
do nothing to earn a share in the fate awaiting him.  His entire body was tense, 
waiting for the first fall of the whip, as the orcs screams and jeers filled his 
ears.

He heard the loud crack before he felt the pain, and he could not stop the gasp 
that escaped his lips.  The orc wielding the whip was obviously no stranger to 
the tool, for he administered the beating with a cold proficiency, waiting 
several seconds between blows to allow Legolas to experience the full pain of 
each terrible lash.  Legolas bit his lip hard, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting 
against the cries of pain that were becoming harder and harder to choke back as 
the whip repeatedly bit deeply into his flesh. 

Pippin stood a few feet away, tears burning his eyes and running tracks down his 
face, an orc’s rough hand gripping his shoulder and holding him in place.  He 
flinched heavily at each new blow that landed upon his friend’s back and 
shoulders, each lash opening up new ribbons of crimson that flowed from torn 
flesh.  Each time the whip fell, the orcs screamed with pleasure, yet Legolas 
did not cry out once, and Pippin wept harder at the courage and determination of 
his friend in the face of such brutality.

The beating seemed to go on forever, and Pippin watched helplessly as Legolas’s 
back became a ruined mass of torn flesh and blood.  He couldn’t see how anyone 
could survive such a beating, and each time Legolas’s body jerked from a blow, 
Pippin breathed a sigh of relief that the elf still lived.  Pippin was unsure 
how many minutes passed before Malek at last raised his arm and signaled an end 
to the violence.  Pippin let out a relieved sigh, thinking that Legolas would at 
last be left alone.  He was terribly wrong.

The same two orcs who had forced Legolas to the ground now roughly shoved him 
onto his back, facing upward into the jeering face of his captors.  A small 
trickle of blood flowed from the side of his mouth from where he had bitten 
through his lip, and his eyes were clouded and dark with pain.  The cold stone 
against his burning flesh actually helped clear his mind a little, bringing him 
back from the edge of unconsciousness.  It would have been better if it hadn’t, 
if he had just allowed the blackness to take him right then.  As it was, Malek 
had a much more terrible darkness in store for him.

Legolas watched through blurred vision as Malek knelt over him, reaching down 
and almost gently caressing his face, wiping the blood from the corner of his 
mouth.  Then, slowly, the creature raised his hand to his lips, licking the 
blood from his fingers and rolling his eyes in pleasure.  Legolas felt as if he 
was going to be violently sick.

Malek’s eyes locked with Legolas’s own, and the elf felt the ice prison close 
firmly about him once more.  Only this time, he did not have the energy or 
strength to fight it.  Malek continued to stare at him long enough to make sure 
Legolas was securely entrapped, then reached down and ripped the remainder of 
Legolas’s tunic away from his chest.  Cruelly inserting the tip of one sharp 
claw into Legolas’s chest, just above his sternum and just deep enough to draw a 
tiny pinprick of blood, Malek began to move his finger, carving an ugly groove 
into the elf prince’s flesh.  As he worked, he spoke softly and intently in a 
foul language, the small sound seemingly filling the large cavern and further 
dimming the light of the torches while deepening the shadows.

Pippin watched in horrified fascination, completely unaware that the orc behind 
him had released him.  Malek’s slow chanting reminded the hobbit of Gandalf 
preparing for a spell, and he wondered distantly what sort of dark curse the 
creature was placing upon Legolas.

As for Legolas, he found himself suddenly encompassed by a cold more intense 
than anything he had ever experienced.  Blackness, darker than anything he could 
have ever imagined seemed to be stealing over him, pressing in upon his very 
inner being and slowly engulfing him particle by particle.  He finally found the 
strength to fight, yet it was no use.  Just as it had been in his dreams, cruel 
hands held him to the ground and laughter assaulted his ears.  Yet even the 
laughter could not drown out the soft words being spoken above him, their 
meaning lost, yet their purpose clear.  It was the words, and the painful 
pressure upon his chest that aided the cold and dark takeover of his body, and 
there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Desperately, Legolas attempted to recall light and warmth, before all memories 
of these things were torn from him.  He tried to picture Mirkwood, his home, the 
trees dancing in the afternoon light and a warm breeze lightly playing with his 
hair.  Yet even as the memory came to him, it seemed to warp and distort itself, 
the trees turning black and dead, the air colder than winter.  Each memory he 
attempted to wrap around himself for protection was thus torn from him and 
polluted, until he could not even recall what light looked like, or what it felt 
like to be warm.  The coldness and darkness wrapped itself around his soul, 
seeming to become a very part of him and slowly squeezing all life from him. 
With the final takeover of his body, Legolas could at last no longer keep back 
the horrible scream of pain and despair.

It was Legolas’s cry, filled with ultimate agony and loss that finally jerked 
Pippin back to his senses.  Without thinking, without even truly realizing what 
he was doing, Pippin lunged forward, straight toward Malek.  His body collided 
roughly with the dark creature, and both of them stumbled back, falling to the 
hard floor.  

Time seemed to stand still as the orcs fell silent, completely frozen in shock. 
 Almost automatically, the nearest orc reached down and grabbed Pippin by the 
back of the neck, hauling him up and shaking him roughly.  Malek leapt to his 
feet, his eyes burning with rage, and Pippin thought for sure he was dead.  

Malek glared at the hobbit for a second before turning back to finish his task 
with the elf.  But it was too late, Legolas was unconscious, his head fallen 
limply to the side and his breath coming out in short rasps.  Malek turned back 
to Pippin, seriously considering killing the hobbit for disturbing him before he 
had finished his task.  He struck out, his sharp claws slicing four deep grooves 
down the side of Pippin’s face.  He smiled in satisfaction at the small cry that 
came from the hobbit.

Pippin kept his eyes tightly shut, waiting for the killing blow he was sure was 
coming.  He was surprised when the orc holding him suddenly dropped him, and he 
opened his eyes just in time to see Malek striding away and the orcs slowly 
dispersing.  His bound hands flew to his bleeding face, feeling how close one of 
the jagged cuts had come to his eye.  He grimaced in pain, the salt from his 
tears burning into the deep scratches.  

Slowly, Pippin dragged himself across the hard stone to Legolas’s side.  He wept 
at the bloody scratches that covered his friend’s chest, and his fear grew as he 
felt how cold Legolas’s body had become.  Gently he leaned over the elf, trying 
to share his own body heat without aggravating Legolas’s injuries.  He could not 
stop the flow of tears caused by fear and pain, and several drops fell to land 
upon the still and pale form of Legolas.

******

Arwen carefully removed the wet cloth from the basin, wringing it dry and 
placing it gently across Aragorn’s brow.  After several hours of continuous 
care, his fever was at last diminishing, although Arwen thought him still far 
too warm for comfort.  When Gandalf had first brought him in, she had been 
fearful for his life, yet now he seemed to be slowly recovering, though he had 
yet to wake.

Arwen gently brushed a stray strand of dark hair from his forehead, before 
leaning down and kissing him lightly.  When she once more straightened, her 
sharp senses alerted her of the arrival of several more people to the small room 
where Aragorn lay.  She turned as Gandalf, followed closely by Gimli, Faramir, 
Merry, Sam, and a slightly limping Frodo, entered the room.  All of them crowded 
closely around the bed, peering worriedly down at Aragorn.

“Has he stirred yet?” Gandalf asked, reaching forward and laying a hand against 
Aragorn’s cheek.

Arwen shook her head.  “Not yet,” she replied, “He is still recovering from the 
poison in his body, and he needs rest.  It may be several more hours before he 
awakens.”

“We do not have several hours,” Gandalf responded wearily, shaking his head 
slowly.  “Can he be roused?”

Arwen frowned, not liking the idea, but before she could speak, Gandalf 
continued.  “We must find out the fate of Legolas and Pippin, and I am afraid 
that time is quickly running out.”  Gandalf’s dark eyes locked with her own.  “I 
would not even suggest it, daughter of Elrond, if the situation was not so 
dire.”

Arwen’s gaze darted quickly towards Gimli and Merry and she at last let out a 
small sigh.  “He still runs a fever, and his mind may not be clear,” she warned 
as she turned back to the bed, leaning over Aragorn and shaking his shoulders 
gently.

Gandalf merely nodded, accepting her warning but seeing no other choice and thus 
willing to take the chance.

“Aragorn,” Arwen called softly, continuing to shake him lightly.  “Aragorn, you 
must wake.  Come, my love, for we have many question we would ask you.”

It took several minutes of shaking and begging before Aragorn shifted and 
moaned, seeming to at last approach consciousness.  When his eyes fluttered 
open, he blinked them several times, obviously having trouble focusing upon the 
group of faces peering worriedly down at him.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, my friend,” Gandalf greeted him 
softly, reaching forward and gripping Aragorn’s arm.  The ex-ranger blinked up 
at him, then immediately began to struggle into a sitting position.  Faramir and 
Gandalf aided him, supporting him while Arwen placed several large pillows 
behind his back.

When he was at last settled, he glanced once more at the faces surrounding him, 
frowning slightly.  “What happened,” he asked in a whisper, his voice hoarse and 
raspy.

“That was something we were hoping you could tell us,” Gandalf responded 
lightly, taking a proffered cup of water from Arwen and holding it to Aragorn’s 
lips.  “Have you no memory of how you came to be here?” he asked, as the man 
drank thirstily from the cup.

Aragorn finished drinking and then sank back into the pillows with a tired sigh. 
 Gandalf repeated his question, but Aragorn only shook his head.  “I can’t seem 
to think very well at the moment,” he explained wearily, his eyes already 
beginning to drift shut.  “Perhaps if I sleep…”

Gimli had had enough.  All morning he had begged to go in search of Legolas and 
Pippin, and each time Gandalf had urged him to be patient and wait for Aragorn 
to wake.  The wizard had insisted that Aragorn would be able to give them 
valuable information that would aid in any search.  So, despite the waves of 
worry and misgivings, Gimli had waited, and now he was not about to let Aragorn 
go back to sleep without giving some answers.

Elbowing past Faramir, the dwarf reached forward and seized Aragorn by his 
shoulders, giving him a firm shake to get his attention.  “You cannot sleep now, 
Aragorn,” he ordered sternly, forcing the man’s clouded eyes to meet his own.  
“We must know what has happened to Pippin and Legolas.  They left here with you 
yesterday morning, but you returned alone.  Where are they, and what has 
happened?”

“Easy Gimli,” Gandalf warned, “We cannot rush him.”

Gimli merely grunted, turning back to Aragorn with the purpose of pressing him 
further, yet he stopped at what he saw.  Aragorn was sitting bolt upright, his 
face pale and his eyes distant.  It was obvious that he was seeing something the 
rest of them couldn’t, and they could only hope that his memory was returning.

After several minutes of silence, Gimli reached out and gripped Aragorn’s 
shoulder once more, gently calling the ex-ranger’s name.  Aragorn did not 
respond or even blink at Gimli’s call, and the dwarf exchanged a worried look 
with Gandalf.  Gimli was opening his mouth to repeat the call, when Aragorn 
spoke.

“We…,” the ranger started, swallowing hard before continuing.  “We lost Pippin.”

Merry let out a soft cry at this statement, but Gandalf merely reached forward 
and gripped Aragorn’s arm.  “What do you mean you lost him?” he asked quietly, 
trying to get the man to look at him.

Aragorn continued to stare straight ahead, and Gandalf was not sure he had even 
heard the question.  “He disappeared,” Aragorn continued, his voice slow and 
uncertain, almost as if he were relating the information even as he first 
recalled it.  “Legolas and I hoped he had come back here, but we also feared he 
had been captured by orcs.”

Merry began to shake his head wildly at this idea, tears streaming down his 
face, yet Aragorn seemed unaware even of this as he slowly continued his story.

“Legolas and I split up,” he said softly, frowning intently as if trying to 
remember exactly what happened next.  “And then…”

Suddenly, Aragorn stopped, his face going even paler and his eyes flying to 
Gimli.  The dwarf actually took a step back at the intensity within Aragorn’s 
eyes, and he felt a cold dread steal over him.

“I’m sorry, Gimli,” Aragorn whispered, his eyes still glued to the dwarf.  “I’m 
so sorry.”  

Silence descended upon the room, and as Gimli’s eyes locked with Aragorn’s, it 
seemed as if the two were suddenly alone, the presence of the others fading into 
a blurry background.  Gimli shook his head slowly, desperately wishing he could 
plug his ears and block out what he knew would be coming next, yet his entire 
body seemed frozen as his dread turned into ice cold fear.

“I tried to reach him in time,” Aragorn continued, still in a whisper, his 
agonized eyes fixed on Gimli.  “I tried, but I was too late.  Too late.  I’m so 
sorry, my friend.”

The silence in the room seemed to grow into something palpable, something evil, 
intent upon destruction, and Gimli could only stare at Aragorn, his body 
completely numb with disbelief.  Ages seemed to pass before Gandalf finally 
spoke, somehow breaking the dangerous tension that filled the air.

“I think you should start at the beginning.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………


Chapter 21        The weight of duty 


A cool breeze swept across the land, bringing with it the fresh and brisk scent 
of approaching autumn.  The late afternoon sun shone brightly, tipping the high 
peaks of the Ered Nimrais with golden light and causing shadows to dance and 
shift upon the lower foothills of the mountain.  High, wispy clouds drifted 
across the bright blue sky, and the cheerful sound of birdsong filled the air.  

This wonderful display of nature went for the most part unnoticed by the 
inhabitants of the besieged city of Calembel.  Instead, soldiers raced up and 
down the city streets or out onto the short plain leading up to Calembel’s high 
walls, doing what they could to prepare for the coming night’s battle.  The 
large fire before the city had lost most of its ferocity and was beginning to 
die down considerably, though it still emitted plumes of foul black smoke.  A 
loud buzz of activity filled the air and the city was alive with movement.

However, there was at least one spot, deep within the heart of Calembel, where 
the noise did not penetrate and little movement could be seen.  Instead, silence 
hung heavy in the small room where Aragorn had been taken after being brought 
back to the city.  The king had finished relating his tale, and as all those 
within the room digested what they had just learned, each face showed a 
different reaction.

Aragorn looked drained and exhausted, his face pale and his eyes sad, his hands 
balled into fists that gripped the blankets upon his bed.   His eyes kept 
drifting from face to face, as if attempting to gauge the reactions of the 
others to what he had just told them.  

Above him, Gandalf stood with a worried frown, his shoulders slightly bent as if 
a great weight had settled upon him, his brow wrinkled with thought.  Next to 
the wizard, Faramir looked sorrowful and sympathetic, as he too, glanced around 
the room.  

Arwen stood near Aragorn’s bed, one hand resting upon his shoulder, her face 
hard to read as a series of expressions flashed across her smooth features.  Her 
eyes were bright with unshed tears, and the hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder 
trembled slightly.

All three of the hobbits stood in shock and dismay, their faces showing their 
disbelief and grief. Merry looked as if he was desperately trying to wake from a 
bad nightmare, shaking his head slowly as if he could shake away the horrible 
news he had just received.  He was as white as a ghost, and a silent flow of 
tears ran down his face.  

Sam had a hand upon the distraught Brandybuck’s back, and he looked as if he was 
struggling against his own tears.  Frodo wore a distant and bleak expression, 
one that he had worn during much of the last leg of his journey through Mordor 
little more than a year ago.

Yet perhaps most surprising of all, was Gimli’s reaction.  The dwarf’s face was 
completely expressionless.  His body remained totally motionless, not a twitch 
or blink of an eye revealing the inner turmoil that raged through him.  His eyes 
stared straight forward and one hand gripped the haft of his axe so tightly that 
his knuckles turned white.  Despite their own shock and grief, all those in the 
room watched him closely, waiting for what would happen next.

Gimli felt as if he was in a dream, a nightmare, in which he could not escape.  
Despite his outward tranquility, inwardly he was a wreck.  His tattered thoughts 
and emotions fluttered through him like the elusive flecks of light that used to 
dance and shimmer on the hard stone floor in his favorite cavern within the 
Lonely Mountain.  When he was a child, he had chased and attempted to catch the 
tiny pinpricks of light, just as he now attempted to catch and hold on to a 
single thought in the flood that raged through him.

Aragorn’s words kept echoing over and over within his brain; ‘I’m sorry Gimli, I 
was too late.  Too late.’   He was not angry with Aragorn.  His mind was too 
numb to feel anger, too numb to feel much of anything except confused disbelief. 
 Besides, he knew that the ex-ranger had done everything he could for Legolas.

‘Why do I feel this way?’ his mind kept questioning him.  ‘Why do I feel so 
empty and lost?   Until a year ago, I did not even like elves.  Why does the 
loss of one now so affect me?  

He knew the answers, knew them as clearly as he knew his own face.  It was true, 
until recently he had not cared one whit about the elves.  He had thought them 
all too arrogant and proud, thinking themselves better than his own people.  
Gimli had not even liked Legolas at first, containing a strong distrust and 
suspicion of him when the elf had been chosen to accompany them on the quest to 
destroy Sauron’s ring of power.  Yet that had all changed, and the truth of the 
fact was, Legolas was different.  Different than all the other elves Gimli had 
ever known, or thought he had known.  It hadn’t taken Gimli long to see this 
difference, and his own curiosity toward Legolas had been the first step toward 
bridging the gap between the two races.  

Gimli was not sure how it had happened, yet he and Legolas had formed a strong 
bond of friendship that even the long feud between their two races could not 
break.  Legolas had given so much to Gimli, been so much a part of his life, and 
now that he was gone an empty void seemed to fill the dwarf.  He could not seem 
to bring himself to accept the fact that Legolas was dead.  Aragorn’s story had 
been anything but conclusive on this point, and Gimli soon realized that he 
would not, could not, believe it until he was given proof.  From the moment 
Legolas, Pippin, and Aragorn had failed to show up the previous evening, Gimli 
had expected and dreaded the worst.  Now that the worst seemed to have truly 
come to pass, he refused to believe it, convincing himself that Aragorn had 
somehow made a mistake.  

‘Legolas would not dare die without permission from me, for he knows I would 
kill him!’  Completely ignoring the irrationality of the thought, Gimli at last 
raised his head and looked squarely at Gandalf, determination shining in his 
dark eyes.

“We have to go after them,” he stated firmly, breaking the blanket of silence 
that had covered the room.  His voice was perhaps more low and rough with 
emotion than he would have liked, yet the resolve in it was unmistakable.

Gandalf stared back at him, his bushy eyebrows rising slightly.  “Them?” he 
asked quietly, his voice gently questioning.

“Yes, them.” Gimli replied rather forcefully.  “I do not believe Legolas to be 
dead, nor shall I until I have proof.”  He continued to stare at Gandalf, 
ignoring the small murmur that swept through the room at his announcement.  He 
knew what the others were thinking, and he found he could not really blame them. 
 Surely they thought he was merely denying the truth because it was too painful, 
and perhaps he was; yet he could not bring himself to care.  He was filled with 
a new determination, and he would not allow his thoughts or reason to interfere, 
for he feared the conclusions they would bring to him.

“We all heard Aragorn’s story,” he continued, “and you must all agree that there 
is no way to know for sure the fate of either Legolas or Pippin.  I myself, have 
found elves to be very hardy, and I believe he could have survived a fall such 
as Aragorn describes.  I shall not give up on him until I learn the truth, one 
way or the other,” he repeated firmly, turning to look into the eyes of each 
member in the room one by one.  He had been right, for each face shone clearly 
with a sad sort of pity.  However, Gimli refused to allow himself to see their 
sympathetic looks.

“And what if he did survive, Gimli?” Gandalf questioned softly, his voice no 
more than a whisper.  “What do you suppose has become of him now, for surely 
Malek and his orcs would not allow him to go free?  If he is not dead, then 
surely he is captured, and what do you suppose that means for him?”

The wizard’s question stabbed into Gimli like a knife, causing him to wince 
inwardly, though he showed no reaction outwardly.  “All the more reason why we 
must go and search for him, and immediately,” he retorted, his voice slightly 
angry and desperate.  “If he is captured, then we shall rescue him, along with 
Pippin!”

Gandalf gave a sad shake of his head, a small sigh escaping his lips.  “And you 
would go immediately?” he questioned, “With night fast approaching and the enemy 
on his way?”

“You would have me wait?” Gimli replied hotly, realizing that he was taking out 
his frustration and anger upon an undeserving source, and yet unable to stop.  
“Every minute that is spent wasted in not looking for them is another minute 
that we leave Legolas and Pippin to suffer at the hands of our enemy!  I will 
not allow this!”  Gimli distantly realized that his voice was nearing a shout.

“Suppose we do go and search?” Gandalf responded, his voice still completely 
calm.  “Suppose even that we find Legolas and Pippin and rescue them from the 
orcs, and then return to find the city fallen, destroyed by Malek?”

Gimli opened his mouth, and then realized he had no response.

Gandalf continued.  “I understand your wish to begin an immediate search, my 
friend.  Yet we hold responsibilities that go beyond that of our missing 
comrades, no matter how we mourn their loss.  We are responsible for each and 
every soldier within this city, and I will not allow them to face Malek and his 
army alone.”

“Then I shall go alone,” Gimli stated, his voice ringing with desperation.  “Or 
with any that would choose to accompany me!”  At the foot of the bed, Merry 
shifted slightly, his expression desperately hopeful.  

“We have already attempted this,” Gandalf explained slowly, his voice holding 
the first hint of frustration, “and look what became of that.  If we separate 
again, we shall be playing directly into Malek’s hands.  It is too big a risk.

When Gimli opened his mouth to argue once more, Gandalf quickly forged ahead, 
effectively cutting off the dwarf’s protests.  “Peace, son of Gloin.  I do not 
ask that you give up hope for either Legolas or Pippin, nor do I ask that you 
not search for them.  I merely ask that you wait until morning.  Help us 
tonight, and come dawn, if we still live, we shall all go and aid in the search. 
 I merely ask you to be patient.”

Gimli gritted his teeth, attempting to come up with any argument against 
Gandalf’s request, yet Aragorn suddenly reached out and gripped his forearm, 
speaking up for the first time.

“Please, Gimli.  Think of what Legolas would have you do.  I, too, yearn to go 
and search, and yet the city needs us.”

Gimli stared down into Aragorn’s pleading eyes and had to fight down a tidal 
wave of emotions that threatened to overcome him.  He swallowed hard several 
times, dropping his eyes so the others would not see his face.  

Several minutes of silence passed before he raised his head, his expression once 
more stony and unreadable.  “Very well,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice gruff 
and filled with the emotion absent from his face.  “I will wait.  However, come 
morning, I shall begin my search, whether I be alone or with companionship.”

With this final statement, he gently pulled from Aragorn’s grasp and strode from 
the room, praying that his decision would not come back to haunt him later.

*******

After the door shut firmly behind Gimli, silence once more filled the small 
room, and it was Sam who finally broke it.

“I almost feel sorry for any orc who attempts to attack him tonight,” the hobbit 
whispered softly as he stared at the closed door through which Gimli had just 
exited.

The others stared at him incredulously, and Sam shrugged uncomfortably under 
their scrutiny.  

“I don’t,” Merry replied forcefully, his short frame straightening to its full 
height, his hand reaching to grip the hilt of the short sword he wore at his 
side.  “I hope he destroys them all,” he stated angrily, “and I shall help.”

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged sad looks, and it was Sam and Frodo’s turn to 
stare at Merry in surprise.  Merry looked completely unaware of the scrutiny of 
his friends, his eyes hard and his hand caressing his sword hilt.

“There is still much to do,” Faramir said lightly, when the silence in the room 
once more became too much to bear.  He rose and bowed gracefully to Aragorn.  
“With your leave, my lord, the other half of the army has arrived and needs to 
be positioned for tonight’s battle.”

“Of course,” Aragorn responded, his eyes still on Merry and his voice sounding 
slightly distracted.  Faramir walked to the door and opened it before Aragorn 
called out to him.  The steward turned with a questioning look, and Aragorn gave 
him a sheepish smile.  “Thank you,” he said simply, thinking the simple phrase 
was somehow not enough to express his gratitude.  Faramir seemed to read his 
thoughts, and he bowed low, returning Aragorn’s smile before turning and 
striding from the room

“How fare you, Frodo?” Arwen suddenly spoke up from beside Aragorn, her eyes 
perusing the small hobbit.  “You seem weary.”

Frodo shrugged and attempted a smile.  “I’m alright,” he answered, shifting his 
weight and glancing down at his bandaged leg.  “I hardly feel any pain now, 
thanks to your excellent healing skill, my lady.”

Arwen smiled at the compliment.  “Your dressing probably needs changing, and I 
will see to that now.”  She glanced worriedly down at Aragorn, but at his 
encouraging nod she turned and left the room with Frodo.  Merry and Sam followed 
after, leaving Gandalf and Aragorn alone in the small room.

As soon as the door had shut, Gandalf released a loud sigh and sank onto the 
hard wooden stool next to the bed.  Aragorn watched him worriedly, thinking that 
the wizard looked far more weary and downcast than he had ever seen him.

“Faramir is right.” Gandalf said softly, “There is still much to do, and perhaps 
I should leave you now so that you may rest and recover your strength.”  Despite 
his words, the wizard remained seated, his eyes distant and sad.

“Tell me, Gandalf,” Aragorn said softly, watching the wizard from the corner of 
his eye.  “Tell me of the battle last night, and how the city fared against 
Malek and his army.”

Gandalf glanced at him and shook his head slightly.  “I shall tell you,” he 
responded with yet another deep sigh, “and yet I fear you shall not like the 
tale.”

Aragorn listened carefully to Gandalf’s every word as the wizard began relating 
all that had transpired within the city from the moment he and Legolas had left. 
When Gandalf at last finished his tale, it was Aragorn’s turn to sigh deeply.

“It seems we had a very close call,” he said somewhat shakily.

Gandalf let out a raw laugh.  “You have a knack for stating the obvious, my 
friend.”

“How long do you believe the city can hold out?” Aragorn asked seriously.

Gandalf took his time responding, and his eyes once more took on a distant look. 
“With the other half of the army, we should be able to withstand Malek’s attacks 
for two, maybe three more days.  Our time is swiftly running out, and the sooner 
we find a way to lure out Malek and destroy him, the better.”

Aragorn nodded.  “He braved the day while hunting Legolas.  Perhaps we can 
convince him to try once more.  Maybe when we go in search of Legolas and Pippin 
tomorrow?”

Gandalf did not look convinced, yet he nodded slowly.  “If only I could find a 
way to restore my powers,” he muttered softly, his voice sounding frustrated and 
angry.  “And yet I fear it shall be a long time ere my full strength returns to 
me, and we do not have the time.”

“We will find a way,” Aragorn said with more conviction than he truly felt.

“Yes,” Gandalf replied with a sad smile.  “We shall, for we must.”  He stood 
then, turning to Aragorn one last time and squeezing his shoulder gently.  
“Rest,” he ordered sternly, before turning and striding to the door.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn cried out, just as the wizard opened the door.

Gandalf turned back to him and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Aragorn seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say, but at last he blurted 
out, “Do you think Gimli may be right; do you believe Legolas may still be 
alive?”

“It is a possibility that I have not rejected,” the wizard answered carefully, 
“yet as I said before, what would that truly mean for Legolas?”

Aragorn nodded, his face full of understanding.  “And yet I cannot keep myself 
from hoping,” he said quietly.

Gandalf smiled sadly. “Nor can I.”

****

“Please let me help!” Dar’s small voice was loud and anxious.  “I promise I 
won’t get in the way!”

“We have already been over this, son,” Kenson replied firmly, pulling on his 
boots and adjusting the straps of his armor.  “If you truly wish to help, you 
can do so best by remaining here.”

“But I want to go with you,” Dar protested, his voice nearing a whine.  “I can 
take care of myself, and I’m not scared of orcs.”

Kenson sighed deeply, weary of the arguments he had been hearing for nigh on a 
quarter of an hour.  “You are too young, Dar,” he said resolutely, pinning his 
son with a look that clearly stated the discussion was at an end.

Dar’s small shoulders slumped, and the utter dejection upon his small face 
caused Kenson to sigh heavily once more.  

“The lady Arwen asked for you specifically, if that makes you feel any better,” 
he told his son, relieved when he saw a spark of interest ignite in Dar’s young 
face.  “You will have plenty of opportunities to help here, aiding the healers.” 

Dar looked anything but happy, but he at last gave up his hopeless pleading.  

Kenson straightened, then bowed low as he spotted the lady Arwen approaching 
them.  The elf princess nodded regally to him, then smiled down at Dar, 
receiving a return grin from the boy.

“Are you ready to help the other healers and I?” she asked Dar softly, squeezing 
his shoulder gently.

Dar glanced once more at his father before sighing and nodding his head.  “Yes,” 
he replied somewhat sullenly, then quickly added, “my lady,” at a sharp look 
from Kenson.  Arwen merely smiled.

“How fares the king, my lady?” Kenson asked with genuine concern, noticing the 
way the elf princess’s eyes clouded slightly at his question.

“Not well enough to join the defenders upon the wall, as he insists upon doing,” 
Arwen replied hotly, her tone heavy with frustration.  “Gimli is with him, yet I 
fear in the dwarf’s condition he will be unable to help should something go 
wrong.”

Kenson was not sure what Arwen meant by ‘in the dwarf’s condition’, yet he 
realized that he had obviously broached a sensitive subject.  

“His presence brings courage to the men,” he said slowly, watching Arwen’s 
reaction.  “I am sure that he will be just fine, my lady.”

Arwen looked at him, a slight smile lifting the corners of her lips, yet she did 
not respond.

Turning back to Dar, Kenson knelt before his son, gripping the boy's shoulders 
tightly and forcing the lad's eyes to meet his own.  “I want you to listen and 
obey everything the lady Arwen tells you,” he commanded, waiting for Dar’s nod 
before continuing.   “And I don’t want you to set foot outside of this building. 
 Not for any reason, do you understand?”  Once more Dar nodded, and Kenson 
pulled him forward into a tight embrace.  “I love you, son,” he whispered 
gruffly before rising and striding from the room, his heart torn by the well of 
unshed tears brimming in Dar’s eyes.

He let out a relieved sigh as he strode out the door, closing it firmly behind 
him and allowing the cool evening air to wrap itself around him.  Several of his 
men stood waiting for him outside and they closed in behind him as he made his 
way down the stone street toward the city wall.

As Kenson neared the wall, he allowed his eyes to travel up and down its long 
length until he spotted what he was looking for.  Mounting the stairs up to the 
wall he quickly made his way to a point almost directly over the north gate, 
bowing low as he neared the spot where Aragorn stood.  His sharp eyes quickly 
perused the king, noticing his slightly pale features.  Beside Aragorn, Gimli 
stood like a stone statue, his eyes staring out in the direction of the Ered 
Nimrais.

“Welcome, Kenson Brantz,” Aragorn called out as he approached, reaching forward 
and grasping his arm in a tight grip.  “Gandalf has told me of all you have done 
for the protection of this city, and you have my deepest gratitude.”

Kenson bowed once more at the king’s words, shrugging his shoulders slightly.  
“Calembel is my home, my lord,” he replied evenly, “and even though there is 
some less than desirable aspects that go along with that fact, still I would 
protect it.”

Aragorn smiled understandingly at this statement.  “Is there something I can do 
for you, Captain Brantz?” he asked earnestly, searching Kenson’s face carefully.

“Nay, my lord,” Kenson answered softly.  “I merely ask that my companions and I 
be allowed to stand with you during this night’s battle.”

Aragorn’s smile grew wider, and he slowly began shaking his head.  “Did the lady 
Arwen send you, perchance?” he questioned lightly, eyeing Kenson up and down.

“No, my lord,” Kenson answered truthfully.  “I came on my own, though it is 
obvious that the lady worries for you.”

Aragorn’s smile faded, his eyes becoming serious once more.  “You are welcome to 
stand at my side this night, Captain, and I will be glad of your company.”

Kenson opened his mouth to reply, but he was abruptly cut off by the gruff voice 
of Gimli.

“We should not be here,” the dwarf stated flatly, turning to face Aragorn.  “We 
should be out there with Faramir,” he waved his arm toward the field before the 
city where soldiers were positioning themselves into two different defense 
lines.  “That is where the battle shall begin, and I do not like the thought of 
standing here waiting while others fight.”

“Nor do I, Gimli,” Aragorn responded gently.  “Yet I am afraid that I do not 
have the strength to join the front lines, and if you were to go alone, you 
would be too easy a target for Malek.”

Kenson watched as Gimli mumbled something noncommittal under his breath, turning 
away to once more stare at the mountains.  The merchant captain remembered 
Arwen’s words, and though he was anything but an expert on dwarves, he was 
certain that something was definitely bothering this one.  He was curious as to 
what it might be, yet from the look on both Gimli and Aragorn’s faces, he 
decided it would be best not to ask any questions right at the moment.

Kenson turned to his men, motioning for them to take up a defensive ring around 
Aragorn.  He hoped the king would not notice, or would at least not object to 
the extra protection.  When he turned back around, he found Aragorn watching him 
with an all too knowing expression, yet the man said nothing, and Kenson 
breathed a sigh of relief.

Several hours passed in relative silence except for the nervous shifting of the 
defenders upon the wall.  All eyes carefully watched the darkness leading up to 
the field, and weapons remained close to expectant hands.  Kenson had un-slung 
his own bow from his back and now held it ready before him.

It was around three hours after midnight, and Kenson was quickly becoming 
impatient, wondering why the orcs were waiting so long to attack. The thought 
had barely entered his head, when the first horns began to sound, echoing off 
the mountains and filling the valley with their eerie cry.  Aragorn 
straightened, his eyes vainly attempting to pierce the heavy darkness before the 
city.  “They come,” he whispered softly, raising his own bow slightly.

A few minutes later, the horn calls intensified as the first wave of orcs broke 
from the surrounding darkness and began to form into long lines in front of the 
city.  The light from the fire pits along the wall and also from the still 
burning fire on the field cast eerie shadows up and down along the line of orcs, 
making them look even more hideous than before.

The city defenders, both those on the field and up on the wall, drew their 
weapons and prepared themselves to meet the orcs first attack.  An unnatural 
silence fell upon the valley as the orc horns suddenly grew quiet, and the two 
armies faced off across the wide field.  A tense expectation filled the air, a 
sense that something was about to happen.

Suddenly, a low murmur swept through the soldiers upon the wall, and many began 
to point toward a certain spot in the line of creature’s facing the city.  
Kenson followed the pointing fingers, his eyes searching for any clue as to what 
might be causing the commotion among the soldiers.  What he saw caused his 
breath to catch in his throat and his body to stiffen.

There, standing directly before the front rank of orcs, the light clearly 
silhouetted the form of an elf, long golden hair waving slightly in the breeze 
and a long bow held firmly in his hands.

“Legolas!”  The cry came from Gimli, as the dwarf stumbled forward to the edge 
of the wall, gripping the stone rim tightly, his face pale and shocked.

Beside him, Aragorn’s entire body had stiffened, a horrified expression filling 
his face.

Kenson felt his own shock making it hard to breathe as he stared down 
incredulously at the elf he had first met on a rainy morning three days ago.

“That is not Legolas, Gimli,” Aragorn spoke up softly, his expression still 
showing his horror.

Kenson glanced at him, wondering what the king was speaking of.  He knew that 
many elves looked alike, but there could be no mistaking the tall and proud form 
of Legolas standing before the orc army.

“He is merely toying with us once more,” Aragorn continued softly, his eyes now 
turned toward the distraught dwarf.  “It is not Legolas,” he repeated again, his 
voice firm and steady.

Kenson was still confused, and several minutes passed before Gimli at last 
ripped his gaze from the form standing upon the field.  “He shall pay for this,” 
the dwarf said simply, his voice ringing with a cold promise that made Kenson 
shiver.  Aragorn met Gimli’s eyes, and a sort of understanding seemed to pass 
between them.  Kenson opened his mouth, unable to contain his curiosity any 
longer, but he was given no chance to speak.  The figure upon the field raised 
its hand and let it drop, and the orcs surged forward with a roar, straight 
toward Faramir and the first line of defense.

All those upon the city wall tensed as they watched the wave of orcs swarm 
forward, crashing into the first line of defenders.  Amazingly, the orcs were 
thrown back, and soon the air was filled with screams and the angry clashing of 
swords.  The orcs obviously had not been expecting such fierce resistance, for 
the defenders had been reinforced with new, fresh soldiers, and they fought 
bravely.  

With a howl, the orcs pressed forward once more, their sheer number slowly and 
inevitably pushing back the first line of defense.  The defenders gave slowly, 
making the orcs fight for each step.  Those upon the wall watched with bated 
breath as the first and second defense lines fused and once more brought the 
orcs' advance to a halt.

Kenson shifted impatiently, watching the fierce battle rage beneath him and 
strangely wishing that he were down there, fighting against the foul creatures 
that would take his home.  He knew that his chance would come all too soon, and 
yet he could barely refrain from racing down from the wall and into the wild 
struggle.

After what seemed like several hours of intense fighting, the defenders on the 
field once again began a slow retreat. As the battle drew closer to the city 
wall, Kenson lifted his bow and expertly notched an arrow, dimly aware of others 
doing the same around him.  Suddenly, the high clear note of a horn could be 
heard, calling for the retreat of the defenders on the field back into the city. 
 At the sound, the soldiers immediately broke away from the orcs and began 
racing toward the open gate.  The orcs let out a howl and charged after, but the 
defenders upon the wall were ready, and a hail of arrows rained down upon the 
orcs, effectively covering the soldiers' retreat and slowing the enemy's 
advance.

Kenson fired arrow after arrow, distantly aware that the last of the field 
defenders were making a break for the gates.  He could make out Faramir, mounted 
upon a tall white horse, the last to retreat and closely hounded by several 
orcs.  He abruptly shifted his position, aiming his arrows at the orcs that 
surrounded the Steward and giving the man the precious seconds he needed to 
break free and gallop full speed into the relative safety of the city.

The freshly mended gates slammed shut with a loud clang, and all those upon the 
wall let out a shout of victory.  The orcs, however, were not finished.  They 
swarmed against the city like a tidal wave against a rocky shore, appearing like 
small ants as they attempted to breach the wall.  Kenson and the other archers 
continued to fire volley after volley down into the mass of orcs as Faramir and 
the other defenders joined them upon the wall.  Yet for every orc that fell, two 
seemed to replace it. 

Kenson was dimly aware of the loud clatter of grappling hooks and siege ladders 
falling all about him.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gimli leap forward, 
swinging down with his axe and effectively cutting loose one of the ropes.  
Minutes later, the distant clang of sword upon sword proclaimed that some of the 
creatures had managed to gain the wall. Hours seemed to pass in a matter of 
minutes, and as the number of orcs upon the wall grew, Kenson was forced to 
abandon his bow and draw his sword.  He glanced around and found Aragorn 
fighting a few feet away, the king showing no signs of weakness as he slashed 
and cut at several orcs attempting to reach him.  Several of Kenson’s men still 
surrounded Aragorn, fighting off even more orcs, and the Captain allowed himself 
to turn away with a satisfied nod.  

He slashed out, his sword biting deeply into the belly of an overanxious orc.  
The creature fell with a howl, as Kenson’s blade found the throat of the orc 
behind it, dropping that creature as well.  Time seemed to slow, as one orc 
after another threw themselves at the warrior, and were quickly dropped by his 
sword.

A loud roar caused Kenson to start slightly, and he turned to find Gimli madly 
fighting off nearly a half dozen orcs that had converged upon him.  The dwarf’s 
face was alight with a fierce battle rage, and Kenson watched in astonishment as 
the orcs either fell or fled before his wrath.  He was still watching the dwarf, 
when a large orc slipped past Gimli’s axe and slammed the hilt of his heavy 
blade down upon the dwarf’s shoulder.

Kenson heard Gimli let out a cry, releasing his axe as the force of the blow 
dropped him to the ground.  He began to race forward to help, watching in horror 
as the orc prepared to deliver his killing blow.  Suddenly, an arrow whizzed 
past Kenson’s head and buried itself deep within the creature’s chest.  The 
captain glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Aragorn lower his bow.

“Help him,” the king called out, as several orcs converged upon him once more.

Kenson nodded and quickly fought his way to Gimli’s side, reaching down and 
hauling the shaken dwarf to his feet.  He grabbed Gimli’s fallen axe, and then 
slowly began to fight his way back toward Aragorn, dragging Gimli after him.  He 
was not sure how badly hurt the dwarf was, but about half way to their 
destination, Gimli broke free from his grasp and reached out for his axe.  
Kenson was only too happy to give the heavy weapon back, and together, the two 
fought their way to were Aragorn stood.

“Are you alright?” Aragorn called to Gimli once they had reached him.

Gimli nodded, though his face was pale and his left arm hung limp and useless at 
his side.

“Stay together,” Aragorn shouted, as the three warriors formed a triangle, backs 
to each other and facing the attacking orcs.  

Kenson looked around for any sight of his men, but in the wild melee upon the 
wall, it was impossible to see anything but madly struggling bodies.  He quickly 
abandoned his search as several large orcs charged them, forcing him to focus 
all his attention on fighting the brutes back.  He slashed at the wrist of one, 
causing it to drop its weapon, then quickly dispatched the creature with a 
smooth thrust of his sword.  He turned just in time to block yet another sword 
thrust aimed at his belly, sweeping the blade out wide then coming in sharp with 
his own sword.  The orc hadn’t even hit the ground before Kenson stepped toward 
his next target, only to find that Aragorn had beaten him to it.  The king 
yanked his sword free of the creature’s chest, smoothly stepping back to avoid 
the black spray of blood.  

The Captain’s eyes met Aragorn’s, and Kenson raised his sword in a salute.  He 
was just turning away when he felt the ground beneath his feet give a sudden 
shudder, and a loud boom filled the valley.  The first shudder was quickly 
followed by another, and Kenson realized that the orcs still on the ground were 
attacking the newly mended gates.  He had no chance to react to this new 
development, for suddenly a fresh wave of orcs sprang over the wall and charged 
toward him, their howls filled with the lust for blood.

*****

Dar gripped the edge of the window tightly, peering out into the dark night and 
listening to the distant sounds of the battle.  A frown of pure frustration 
covered his young face and his teeth worried his bottom lip unconsciously.  

Throughout the night he had been kept very busy running errands for the healers; 
fetching water and bandages, helping prepare beds for the flow of injured 
expected after the battle, and overall attempting to keep out from underfoot.  
Now, however, things seemed to have at last settled down as the healers tended 
to the wounded already in their care and waited for the chaos that morning would 
surely bring.

During this lull, Dar had managed to slip off to a distant window looking out 
onto the streets leading down to the city wall.  He had remained here for close 
to an hour, his avid imagination coming up with all sorts of terrible things 
that must be going on down at the battlefront.  

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the approach of 
Arwen until the elf princess laid a soft hand upon his shoulder.  Dar started 
violently, then immediately flushed in embarrassment.

“Do you worry for your father?” Arwen asked gently, kneeling down until she was 
eyelevel with the boy.

Dar nodded, glancing down at the floor and swallowing the sudden lump forming in 
his throat.  He didn’t know what it was about the lady Arwen, yet every time she 
looked at him it seemed that she saw right through him, reading his thoughts and 
understanding his deepest emotions.  One look into those light, clear eyes, and 
Dar felt like sharing all his deepest fears and frustrations.  He also felt like 
bawling, and that scared him the worst.  True warriors did not cry!

“I wish he had let me go with him,” he muttered sullenly, still staring at the 
ground.

“Your father seems like a very fine warrior,” Arwen answered softly, reaching 
out and gently brushing away a stray strand of hair from Dar’s forehead.  “I am 
sure that he will be just fine.”

Dar again merely nodded, turning once more to stare out the window.  “When do 
you think he will be coming back?” he asked in a whisper.

“Dawn is but a little over an hour away,” Arwen replied softly.  “I am sure the 
battle is nearing an end even as we speak.”

The words had barely left the elf’s mouth, when the distant sound of horns 
drifted up the city streets.  Arwen smiled at the sound, gripping both of Dar’s 
shoulders.  “You see?” she whispered excitedly, “even now the orc horns call for 
their retreat.”

Dar returned her grin.  “May I go and find my father now?” he begged.

Arwen shook her head slightly.  “I promised him that I would keep you here until 
he could return for you,” she answered firmly.  “However,” she continued at his 
crestfallen look, “he also promised to come for you as soon as possible.  I am 
sure he will be here very shortly.”

“Can I stay here and watch for him?” Dar asked, motioning toward the window.

Arwen nodded.  “They will be bringing in the injured soldiers soon, and it will 
be best if you remain out of the way.”  She squeezed his shoulder one last time, 
then rose and walked away.

Dar watched her go, and then turned back to the window expectantly.  It seemed 
like hours to the impatient boy before he at last made out the shadowy forms of 
soldiers walking up the street.  Many of them were limping or being supported by 
others, and a wagon followed soon after, filled with soldiers too badly hurt to 
walk. As they drew nearer, Dar studied each face for some sign of his father, 
his heart beating wildly.

As it was, the first tinges of dawn were already beginning to lighten the 
horizon when Dar at last spotted his father wearily making his way up the stone 
street toward the house of healing.  Dar immediately darted away from the 
window, racing to the door and out onto the street to meet his father.  

Kenson stopped and dropped to one knee when he spotted his son racing toward 
him, opening his arms in welcome.

Dar threw himself into the open embrace, unable to stop his flow of tears at the 
sight of the bright stain of blood covering one side of his father’s face.  He 
buried his head against his father’s strong shoulder, attempting to control the 
sobs of relief that shook his frame.

Kenson held his small son tightly, stroking Dar’s back and murmuring soft words 
of comfort.  At last, Dar pulled away and looked up at him, his body still 
jerking with an occasional hiccup.  His eyes widened in surprise when he saw the 
unmistakable glint of tears reflected in his father’s own eyes.  He stared in 
wonder for a few seconds before once again collapsing against the firm strength 
of his father, smiling slightly and thinking that perhaps true warriors did cry 
sometimes after all.

*****

Gimli walked slowly through the wreckage of the battlefield, his mind barely 
digesting the horror around him.  He wandered without any true purpose, watching 
as the first rays of the sun lit up the horizon.

He was unsure exactly why he had slipped away from Aragorn, unsure why he had 
chosen this area to walk and attempt to sort through his thoughts.  Perhaps the 
wreckage and death that surrounded him somehow fit with his tattered and 
stretched emotions.

At last, he came to a stop, lifting his head and closing his eyes.  He pulled in 
a deep breath, hoping that some fresh air would help to clear his muddled 
thoughts.  However, the air was anything but fresh, instead smelling of death 
and fear and causing him to cough and choke.

With a sigh, Gimli lowered his head, opening his eyes to the sight around him 
once more.  He stood motionless for several seconds before at last turning and 
beginning to make his way back toward the city.

He had taken no more than three steps when something to his left suddenly caught 
his attention.  He stopped short, staring at the spot several yards away and 
wondering what it was that had caught his eye.  He could see nothing, and yet 
something seemed to be drawing him toward this area.  With a shrug of his 
shoulders, he began carefully making his way toward the spot, surprised at the 
wild pounding of his heart.  

Once he reached the area, he once more came to a stop, looking around him and 
trying to still the near frantic pounding within his chest.  He could see 
nothing, and he was confused by the strange reactions of his body to this one 
area.  His eyes locked with the staring gaze of a dead soldier, and suddenly he 
found it difficult to breath.

Carefully kneeling beside the dead man, Gimli hesitantly reached out and rolled 
the body to the side.  His heart stopped its heavy beating at what he saw.   In 
fact, it stopped beating completely, and his breath caught in his throat.

He knelt for what seemed like hours before he slowly reached out with a 
trembling hand and touched the object that lay before him, almost as if testing 
to see if it was real.  The smooth brush of wood against his fingertips seemed 
to jerk his body back into reality, and his heart once more began beating 
jerkily.  

The faint light of morning danced and shimmered among the delicately carved 
leaves and smooth flowing elvish runes, and Gimli felt as if he was somehow 
dreaming as he lifted the beautiful bow of Lorien from where it lay upon the 
ground.  

He cradled the weapon against his chest, continuing to kneel upon the ground for 
several long minutes, staring at the towering peaks of the Ered Nimrais.  At 
last, he rose, and still holding Legolas’s bow cradled against his chest, he 
turned and made his way back to the city.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………..


A/N—First off, a thousand apologies to all, but I did not get as far as I had 
hoped in this chapter, and so the next one will be called ‘Knight of Gondor.’  
Sorry!

Also, for those of you who mentioned the battle scene in the last chapter, I 
just want to give you a big thank you.  I greatly appreciate the constructive 
criticism and the friendly and encouraging way in which you put it.  I agree; 
the battle scene needed a little more work, and thanks for the suggestions on 
how to make it run more smoothly.  I have rewritten it and posted the revised 
version, and I would appreciate it if you all would read it and tell me what you 
think. (I added a part with Dar.)  And thank you to those who have already read 
it and reviewed.  Now, on to the story!



Chapter 22        Breath of fresh air

Pippin sat huddled and miserable deep within the cold confines of Malek’s lair, 
his eyes downcast and his arms wrapped around his small body in a futile attempt 
to gain some warmth.  A cold chill seemed to fill his body and spirit, and 
despite the cloak wrapped tightly about him, he could not seem to stop shaking. 
 The only place on him that was not numb with cold was his left cheekbone, where 
Malek had struck him earlier.  Four, deep, red scratches ran down his face from 
the creature’s claws, and the welts burned fiercely in contrast with his 
otherwise frozen body.   

Though Pippin remained outwardly motionless, inwardly his mind was whirling 
madly, his foremost thought that of escape.  He did not know how, just as he 
knew that attempting it was nigh on impossible; yet he was determined to try.  
He also knew that he would have to move soon if he was to have even the 
slightest chance of success.  Malek was gone, off leading the orc army in their 
mischief at Calembel, his black presence no longer throwing a heavy shadow over 
Pippin’s mind.  Only a dozen orcs had been left behind to guard the prisoners, 
and Pippin knew he would not get a better opportunity.

‘Only a dozen,’ he thought wryly to himself, shaking his head slowly, ‘come on, 
Pippin, a true warrior of Gondor would not be daunted by a mere dozen orcs!’  If 
the situation hadn’t been so serious, he might have laughed at the thought.  
After all, it had been his desire to prove himself that had gotten him into this 
whole mess in the first place.   The truth of the matter was, the thought of 
battling twelve orcs was more than daunting, it was terrifying.  ‘Perhaps if I 
had Legolas to aid me…’  He did not finish the thought, knowing the futility of 
such hopeless wishing.  There would be no aid from Legolas.  Whatever he was 
going to do, he would have to do it on his own.

As thoughts of Legolas unavoidably filled his mind, he turned and glanced at the 
elf sitting a few feet away.  Legolas had awakened shortly after Malek’s 
departure, much to Pippin’s immediate relief.  However, that relief had quickly 
faded upon closer inspection of his friend.  Legolas’ face was far too pale, and 
when he had pushed himself into a sitting position, the cave floor had shone 
bright with the blood from his mutilated back.  His long golden hair hung limp 
and dirty about his shoulders, and his chest was covered in bloody scratches.  

Yet that had not been the worst.  Since waking, Legolas had not said a single 
word, nor had he responded at all when Pippin called his name.  Instead, he 
merely sat with his knees pulled up to his bare chest, his bound arms wrapped 
around his legs and his eyes staring forward, sightlessly.

Pippin had been frightened when he looked into those eyes.  Frightened by the 
dull lifelessness that stared back at him from the glassy gray orbs. Legolas’ 
eyes had always been full of light and hope, yet now it seemed as if all light 
had been extinguished from them, leaving in its place only a dark anguish.  What 
was even worse, when Legolas looked at him there was no recognition, in fact, no 
emotion whatsoever.  There was only the cold and sightless gaze of one 
completely dead to his surroundings.

Pippin had crawled to the elf’s side, desperate to garner some response from his 
friend.  When he had reached out and touched Legolas, he had found the elf’s 
skin cold and clammy, with no hint of warmth.  He had immediately cast about him 
for Legolas’ discarded cloak, finding it and struggling to place it over his 
hunched form, wincing as he viewed his friend’s mutilated back up close.  He had 
held a brief hope that Legolas’ cold skin came from the chill within the cave.  
However, somehow he found himself doubting.  The icy feel of Legolas’ flesh was 
too much like the cold within his eyes, and Pippin guessed it came not from 
natural causes, nor even from his wounds.  He suspected that the cold came 
instead from something Malek had done to Legolas.   It was as if a shadow 
enveloped his friend, choking off all light and warmth.

Now, as Pippin watched him, he found no change in Legolas’ condition.  The elf 
continued to stare straight ahead sightlessly, an occasional blink the only sign 
that he was even conscious.  

Pippin swallowed hard, fighting back hopeless tears.  Whatever dark curse Malek 
had placed upon Legolas, he was determined to find a way to reverse it.  He was 
sure Aragorn would know what to do to help the elf, for Aragorn always seemed to 
know what to do.  Yet in that case, Pippin still had to find a way to get 
Legolas to Aragorn, and that would prove to be easier said than done.

The fact that they had to escape was not what was giving him problems.  It was 
the how that had him stumped.  He had been attempting to come up with a plan of 
escape for well over an hour, and he knew his time was swiftly running out.  It 
just seemed so impossible, bound as he was, with a dozen orcs standing guard.  
Yet he had to try.  For Legolas, he had to try.   He figured that even should 
the orcs kill him, it would be better than anything awaiting him when Malek 
returned.  Especially if the creature tried to continue what he had started with 
Legolas, for Pippin had already decided that he would do anything to keep Malek 
from hurting his friend again. 

The first thing he had to do was find a way free of his bonds.  The ropes 
holding him were far too tight, the knots too secure for him to twist his way 
free, even if he were given days to try.  He would need something with which to 
cut them, yet this once again posed a dead end.  The area around him was 
completely barren of any small shards of rock with which he could saw at the 
ropes, and the nearest orc blade lay far out of reach.  He closed his eyes in 
frustration, wondering how on earth he could even dream of escape if he was not 
even able to break free from his bindings.  He was sure that Legolas could have 
come up with a way to work the ropes loose, yet he was at a complete loss.

Once more, Pippin glanced toward Legolas, then started violently when he found 
the elf staring back at him.  Legolas’s eyes were still void of life and energy, 
and Pippin saw no sign of recognition, yet he felt a thrill of hope run through 
him.

“Legolas,” he called gently, his voice low and quiet in an attempt to avoid 
drawing their guards’ attention.

The elf blinked slowly, his only response before turning away to stare straight 
forward once more.

“Legolas,” Pippin called out again, raising his voice just a little.  He 
imagined he saw his friend’s head move slightly, but the elf did not turn again. 
 Still, he seemed to be showing more signs of awareness than he had before, and 
Pippin was glad of that.  He scooted closer to the elf, reaching out and 
touching Legolas’s shoulder lightly.  His friend did not respond at all to his 
touch, and Pippin sighed as he felt the icy chill still radiating from Legolas’s 
skin, despite the heavy cloak covering him.

Touching Legolas only seemed to add to his own chill, and Pippin quickly pulled 
away, grasping his own cloak and pulling it more firmly about him.  He closed 
his eyes and let out a weary sigh, resisting the urge to just lie down and go to 
sleep.  Despite his best efforts to keep his mind focused upon escape, he slowly 
found his thoughts drifting.  He thought of the Shire and of long summer nights 
spent idly smoking pipe weed and visiting with old friends.  He remembered grand 
feasts set beneath large, shady trees and of single meals that often lasted all 
day.  

The thought of food caused his stomach to clench painfully, reminding him that 
he had not eaten in quite some time.  He tried to push his thoughts away from 
food, yet it was a losing battle. He began to picture in his mind every grand 
banquet and delicious feast he had ever partaken of, and there were quite a few 
to go through.  His mouth began to water, and his empty stomach growled loudly, 
causing him to groan softly in discomfort.

‘What I wouldn’t give for just a single flake of lembas about now,’ he thought 
glumly, his bound hands pressing against his empty stomach.  

Thoughts of the elvish waybread led to thoughts of Lothlorien, and Pippin let 
out a soft sigh of longing.  He could clearly see the beautiful home of the 
Galadrim, the picture as fresh in his mind as if only a day, instead of nearly a 
year, had passed since last visiting there.  No place more beautiful had Pippin 
ever seen, and his memories of the golden wood and the elves that lived there 
seemed to warm his spirit, causing him to relax even further.  

The cloak he now wore had been a gift from the elves of Lorien, and Pippin 
smiled as he remembered a seemingly much younger self asking the elves if the 
cloaks were magic.

‘I do not know what you mean by magic,’ one of the Galadrim had answered him, 
‘They are fair garments, and the web is good, for it was made in this land.  
They are elvish robes certainly, if that is what you meant.  You are indeed in 
high favor with the Lady, for she herself and her maidens wove this, and never 
before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people.’ *

Now, with his bound hands gently brushing the smooth cloth, and his eyes tightly 
closed, Pippin could almost picture himself back within the golden wood.  Once 
more, he smelled the sweet and fresh scent of life and listened to the gentle 
and magical singing that seemed to constantly fill the air.  His hands brushed 
against the leaf shaped brooch at his neck, and suddenly, a picture of the lady 
Galadriel filled his mind.  So real was the image, that Pippin jerked upright, 
his eyes flying open and his heart beating wildly.  Still, the image remained, 
the radiance that was Galadriel shining upon him and filling him with a strange 
comfort.  It was as if the Lady were speaking to him, and though her words were 
spoken in her own language, it seemed to him that he could almost understand 
them.  The words were filled with encouragement and hope, and Pippin sighed 
contentedly, allowing his eyes to drift shut once more.

When the image at last began to fade from his mind, Pippin realized that he was 
gripping the brooch so tightly that the metal was cutting into his palms.  He 
released the brooch, lowering his palms and looking, somewhat chagrined, at the 
deep groove pressed into his skin.  He placed his palms together and gently 
began rubbing back and forth as best he could with his tightly bound wrists.  

Suddenly, he froze, staring down at his hands, eyes widening.  ‘You fool of a 
Tookl!’ his mind screamed, as he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes in pure 
frustration with himself.  ‘Here has been the answer all along.  Right beneath 
my very nose, and still I did not see it!’  If his feet had not been bound, he 
would have kicked himself.

His eyes flew open, and he quickly glanced around him, noting the position of 
each of the orc guards.  The nearest one, only a few yards away, lay spread 
eagled upon the ground, snoring loudly.  Two more stood near the opening to one 
of the tunnel entrances, and the rest were gathered in a tight circle about ten 
yards off, laughing and arguing loudly.  None were even looking in the direction 
of the prisoners, and Pippin felt a flare of hope.  

Quickly reaching up with slightly fumbling fingers, he undid the brooch from his 
cloak, clasping it tightly in his hands and lowering them to his lap.  
Carefully, he positioned himself at an angle where he could keep an eye on the 
orcs while still shielding most of his own body from their view.  Closely 
examining the brooch, he found the sharpest end near the very tip of the leaf, 
and pulling his legs up, he began sawing at the ropes binding his ankles.

The work was agonizingly slow, his bound wrist making it difficult to angle the 
brooch just right, and his bent position causing his shoulders to continually 
cramp.  He kept half of his attention upon his job, and the other half upon the 
orcs, making sure the creatures didn’t look over and discover him.  Luck 
remained with him, for the orcs continued to pay no heed whatsoever to their 
captives.  After all, what harm could come from a small, bound hobbit and a 
catatonic elf.

Pippin no longer felt cold, for his excitement was more than enough to keep him 
warm.  He reminded himself that escaping from his bindings was only the first 
step.  He still had to find a way to get past the orc guards, and that would 
prove twice as difficult.  

Working as quickly as he could, he sawed away the ropes until only a couple of 
strands remained, weak enough that a simple tug would free him.  That task 
finished, he rolled onto his side, placing the leaf brooch between his raised 
knees and beginning to saw at the rope holding his wrists.  The new position put 
his back to the orc guards, and Pippin was forced to move even slower so that 
the movement of his arms would not give himself away if one of the orcs happened 
to glance in his direction.

He had nearly finished sawing through the binds on his wrist, when his senses 
warned him of the approach of one of the orcs.  He froze, quickly tucking his 
wrists close against his chest and forcing his body to relax.  The shuffle of 
heavy boots drew closer, and Pippin closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to 
remain calm and steady.  Obviously, the orcs had decided to check on their 
prisoners, and Pippin could only hope the creature would think him asleep and 
leave him alone.  If the orc decided to check the ropes…

A heavy shadow fell across Pippin, and it took all of his self-control to keep 
from tensing.  ‘I can’t get caught now, not when I am so close,’ he thought 
desperately, praying that the orc would go away and leave him alone.  The 
creature remained standing over him for what seemed like years to Pippin, his 
heavy breathing grating on the hobbit’s nerves.  At last, the orc turned away, 
the sound of his boots retreating across the cave.  

Pippin could not stop the soft sigh of relief that escaped as the creature’s 
shadow left him.  He remained perfectly still, not even daring to open his eyes, 
his entire attention focused upon listening to the movements of his guards.  He 
could still make out the rough snores of the nearest creature, yet it seemed as 
if something was going on with the others, and Pippin strained his ears to catch 
any clue as to what it might be.  There was an awful lot of shuffling feet, a 
couple of grunts, and then the heavy tramp of many booted feet moving across the 
cave.

Unable to resist his curiosity, Pippin slowly raised his head and glanced over 
his shoulder, watching in amazement as all but three of the orcs disappeared 
down the main tunnel entrance, the sound of their footfalls slowly receding into 
the blackness.  One of the remaining orcs still slept soundly, and the other two 
now sat several yards off, their weapons set carelessly beside them.

Pippin could not believe his luck, and he watched the tunnel entrance closely, 
expecting the other orcs to reappear any moment.  However, when several minutes 
had passed without their return, Pippin grew excited.  Quickly sawing the rest 
of the way through the remaining strands, he rolled into a sitting position, 
holding the cut ends in his hands to hide the fact that he was free.  He knew he 
had to work quickly, for he did not know when the other orcs would return, and 
he planned to be long gone before they did.  He glanced around, trying to figure 
out what his next move should be.  His eyes fell on Legolas, and he once more 
found the elf silently watching him.  He smiled excitedly at his friend, only a 
little discouraged when he received no response. 

He continued to look around the room, his eyes at last coming to rest upon the 
sleeping orc a few paces away.  The creature’s slumber was obviously deep, for 
he had not stirred at all at the others leaving, and Pippin’s eyes came to rest 
upon his blade, lying a few feet from his outstretched hand.

Quickly and quietly, he removed the ropes from his wrist, then bent over and 
pulled away the ones from around his ankles as well.  He knew that once he made 
his first move, there would be no turning back.  He would have to be quick and 
silent, and if he were to fail… He did not allow the thought to finish.  Failure 
was not an option. 

Before he could lose courage, Pippin silently rose, closely watching the two 
orcs who had their backs turned to him.  With as much stealth as he could 
muster, he tiptoed over to the sleeping orc, bent over and carefully picked up 
the creature’s sword.  The weapon was heavy, and Pippin let out a soft grunt as 
he lifted the blade over the orc’s still snoring form.  He hesitated only for a 
moment before swinging the sword downward with all his might.

A sickening crunch filled the cave as the sharp sword cleanly cut through the 
orc’s neck, severing his head completely in one blow.  A spray of black blood 
rose upward, splattering onto Pippin’s face and causing him to wretch violently. 
 He felt as if he was about to be very ill, and it took all of his strength to 
turn from the dead orc and face the remaining two guards.

The creatures had jumped to their feet and were staring at Pippin in complete 
astonishment, their eyes wide and disbelieving.  Pippin used their moment of 
inactivity to steady himself, gripping the orc blade tightly and preparing 
himself for what would come next.

The orcs’ surprise only lasted a second, and with a howl they reached for their 
weapons.  

Pippin darted across the cave, slashing out with his new weapon and managing to 
cut deeply into the wrist of the first orc.  The creature let out a howl, 
dropping the weapon he had been in the process of raising.  Pippin pressed his 
attack, stabbing inward and feeling his sword slide smoothly into the orc’s 
abdomen.  He yanked the blade back, feeling a moment of panic when the weapon 
seemed to catch.  He was desperately aware of the third orc racing toward him, 
and with a final yank he managed to pull the blade free.  

The orc was upon him, and Pippin barely managed to raise his sword to block the 
downward stroke of the creature.  The force of the blow drove him to his knees, 
and the orc raised his blade above him.  Pippin flung himself sideways, his 
sword arm flinging out to cut at the orc’s knees.  The creature howled and 
jumped backward, tripping over its dead companion and falling to the ground.  
Pippin was immediately up, racing forward and stabbing downward into the orc’s 
exposed chest.  The creature let out yet another blood chilling howl, limbs 
flailing, one arm connecting violently with the side of Pippin’s head, sending 
him flying backward.  He landed hard upon the stone floor, the breath knocked 
from him and the fresh taste of blood filling his mouth.  He let out a gasping 
cough, spitting out the blood before pushing himself to his feet.

The orc continued to flail, but his eyes were beginning to glaze over, and 
Pippin knew the fight was over.  He gasped in relief, unable to stop the 
trembling of his limbs.  He had done it!  He felt a surge of relief, which was 
quickly replaced by caution.  The other orcs may have heard their companions’ 
cries, and if so, they would be coming to investigate.  

Rushing forward, he swept up the first orc’s weapon, then turned and raced back 
to Legolas.  Now would come the difficult part.  If he could not manage to get 
Legolas up and moving, then it all would be for naught, for there was no way he 
could carry the elf.  He swiftly cut Legolas loose, then straightened and 
grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling lightly.

“Come, Legolas, we must go now,” he urged gently, looking deep into the elf’s 
eyes and attempting to find some sign of awareness.

Legolas stared back at him and did not move.

Pippin grabbed both of Legolas’ arms, pulling with all his strength in an 
attempt to get the elf up and moving.  “We have to leave now, Legolas,” he 
cried, his voice filled with desperation.

He almost lost his balance and went tumbling to the ground when Legolas suddenly 
responded. The elf shifted his position forward, rising shakily.  Pippin gave 
him what support he could, feeling a flash of relief as he gently pulled Legolas 
toward the nearest tunnel entrance.  The elf followed slowly, his every movement 
painfully sluggish, his head bowed to the ground.

A torch hung from a metal bracket next to the tunnel entrance, and Pippin 
realized they would need the light to navigate in the dark passageway.  Yet in 
order to hold the torch, he would need a free hand.  That meant either releasing 
Legolas or dropping his weapon.  He was not sure if Legolas would move forward 
without his urging, which meant he would have to leave the sword behind.  He 
hesitated, knowing that if they were caught, he would be weaponless.  However, 
at the moment, the light was more important.  With any luck, he and Legolas 
would be long gone before the orcs discovered their absence.

As if in mockery of his desperate wish, a distant shout echoed through the 
cavern, drawing closer.  Pippin immediately dropped his sword, grabbed the 
torch, and then plunged into the cold, dark passage, pulling Legolas behind him. 
 He tried to push the elf to a faster pace, but soon found that Legolas seemed 
only capable of a slow walk.  He reminded himself that his friend was hurt 
badly, yet he still felt frustration rise in him at each passing second.  It 
would not take the orcs long to discover which tunnel they had taken, and Pippin 
wanted to be well ahead of them when they did.

Only a few paces in, the passageway split, and Pippin did not hesitate before 
plunging into the left tunnel.  He did not know where the passageway led, yet 
anywhere was better than where they were before.  He cared only that each step 
hopefully carried them further from Malek’s lair and the orcs that hunted them. 
 

He kept a tight grip on Legolas’ arm, wincing every time the elf stumbled over a 
loose rock or the uneven ground.  The torch illuminated only a couple feet 
ahead, and Pippin was kept busy watching every step while listening carefully 
for any sounds of pursuit.

The tunnel split again, and this time Pippin turned right, only to find the 
passageway ended abruptly a few paces in.  Quickly backtracking, he prayed that 
the whole tunnel would not turn out to be one gigantic dead end.  Already, he 
could hear distant shouts back the way he had come, and he guessed that the orcs 
had figured out that their prisoners had escaped.  It would not take them long 
to be on their trail.

Suddenly, Legolas tripped, almost going down and carrying Pippin with him.  The 
hobbit barely managed to catch his balance, steadying Legolas and eyeing him 
with concern.  The elf looked even paler than before, if that was possible, and 
his dull eyes had a glassy look to them.

“Come on, Legolas,” Pippin urged quietly.  “Just a little bit further and we 
shall be out of this dark hole.”

Not surprisingly, Legolas did not answer, and Pippin once more led the way 
forward.  As they moved on, Pippin slowly became aware of a gentle rushing sound 
filling the tunnel.  At first, he was confused by the sound, for the further 
they went, the louder it became.  Suddenly, he stopped, slow realization dawning 
on him.

“Water,” he whispered aloud.  “It must be one of the underground rivers Aragorn 
spoke of.”  He continued forward slowly, a plan beginning to form in his mind.  
If he and Legolas could find the river, then perhaps they could follow its path 
out of the mountain.  He could no longer hear the sound of pursuit, yet he knew 
that did not necessarily mean that the orcs were not there, or even that they 
were not close.  Orcs could be quite silent if they had a mind to, and Pippin 
was not going to dare hope that they had not been followed.

The tunnel split several more times, yet Pippin now began to stop at each 
diverge, listening carefully before choosing whatever passageway he believed 
would carry him closer to the river.  He was unsure how long he and Legolas had 
been travelling, but his friend was beginning to stumble more often, and Pippin 
feared he would not make it much further without rest.  He had not wanted to 
stop until free of the black cave, and yet if they did not find the river soon….

His thoughts trailed away as he rounded a corner of the tunnel and the roar 
suddenly increased tenfold.  The edge of his torch just barely illuminated the 
edges of the river, and Pippin felt a surge of renewed energy.  He quickly moved 
forward, then stopped, a frown crossing his face.  

Instead of running parallel to the path, as he had hoped, the river cut across 
it horizontally, surging into yet another tunnel and disappearing into the inky 
blackness.  This was not what Pippin had expected, and he found himself 
wondering what to do next.  He was not given long to ponder, however, for a 
sound back from the direction they had come caused his blood to freeze and his 
heart to race.  The unmistakable sound of a boot scuffing against loose stone, 
and it was not that far behind him, either.  There would be no backtracking.  

Pippin stared hopelessly across the expanse of the river.  It did not look to be 
particularly wide or deep, nor the current very strong, yet with the poor light 
of the torch, he had no way of being certain.  He had little doubt that he could 
manage to swim across it on his own, but with Legolas, things became a little 
more complicated.  He did not know if the elf was aware enough to swim if he 
entered the river, and he doubted he could keep both of them afloat and still 
make it across without being carried away down the tunnel. It looked as if they 
were trapped, with no way forward, and no way back.  He didn’t even have a 
weapon with which to defend them.

‘Has it all been for nothing then?’ he questioned numbly, feeling as though he 
would like to sit down and cry.  ‘What am I to do now?’

As if in answer to his silent plea, Pippin imagined he felt the soft caress of a 
gentle breeze brush against his cheek.  He froze, his eyes staring across the 
river and down the passageway beyond.  The breeze came again, this time strong 
enough to cause the torch to waver slightly. The soft movement of air wrapped 
about him, carrying with it an unmistakable fresh scent.  His heart began 
pounding wildly, and he peered forward intently across the river, imagining that 
he could barely make out a tiny pinprick of light at the far end of the tunnel. 
 He had no way of being sure of this, yet when the gentle breeze once more 
caressed his face, he knew what he had to do.

‘There is the way out of this dark hole, and there is the way we must go!’ he 
thought with grim determination.

Carefully, he positioned the torch between an outcropping of rock close enough 
to the river that the majority of their journey across would be lighted.  Once 
they reached the other side of the river, they would have to proceed in 
darkness. Yet if his guess proved to be correct, they would not have to go far. 
 

He quickly stripped off his cloak, rolling it up tightly and tucking it into the 
back of his belt so the heavy cloth would not drag at him during the crossing.  
He considered doing the same with Legolas, but decided against it.  The cloak 
was the only thing covering the elf’s back and shoulders, and he would need some 
protection against the icy cold water.

With a sigh, Pippin gave a final glance back the way they had just come, last 
minute doubts clouding his mind.  He had heard nothing else since the last 
shuffle of boots, and he was beginning to think maybe his frightened mind had 
merely imagined it.  Crossing the river definitely had its dangers.  If the 
current was stronger than he thought, or the river deeper, Legolas and he might 
be easily swept away to their certain deaths.  Even should they manage to cross, 
freezing to death was a possibility, for they would have no fire with which to 
stop and dry their clothes.  Also, he was unsure how long they had been 
wandering in the tunnel.  It was possible that it could still be night outside 
the caves, which would mean the absence of the sun to warm them once they had 
made it out.  Legolas was already far too cold, and with his injuries, a simple 
swim could easily cause the elf to take a turn for the worse.

On the other hand, backtracking, even without the risk of running into orcs, 
would mean wandering around for who knew how long, searching for another exit 
that might or might not be there.

“This is the way we must go,” he said softly, aloud.  

He quickly turned and grabbed Legolas’ arm once more, plunging forward with the 
elf before his doubts could cause him to change his mind.  From the minute his 
feet hit the water, they went numb, and he gasped aloud at the icy temperature. 
 Yet he did not turn back.  Moving as swiftly as he could, he surged forward, 
moving upstream, against the current.  Legolas followed silently after, wading 
into the frigid water without a sound.

Luck seemed to have decided to stay with the two companions for just a while 
longer, for the current was indeed not very strong, and the river was actually 
shallower than Pippin had first expected.  He was very close to the center of 
the river before his feet no longer touched bottom and he was forced to start a 
lopsided swim, kicking with his feet and stroking forward with his free arm.  As 
for Legolas, the water was barely over his waist, and he seemed to be moving 
forward easily enough, if a bit slowly.

Pippin’s eyes remained glued to the opposite bank, a mix of determination and 
adrenaline helping him fight off the numbing cold.  He breathed a sigh of relief 
when his feet once more touched the bottom, and he could walk the rest of the 
way forward to the rocky bank of the river.  Once he pulled himself completely 
free of the cold clutches of the water, he had to fight off a desire to sink to 
the ground and allow his weary body rest.  They were too close to their goal, 
and he would not allow them to stop until he felt the fresh air of freedom.  

Surging forward once more and half dragging Legolas behind him, Pippin made his 
way toward where he had imagined seeing the pinprick of light.  The blackness of 
the cave soon surrounded them, the light of the torch lost behind, and Pippin 
had to slow his pace, careful not to trip and bring both he and Legolas down to 
the floor.  He was not sure he would be able to rise if that were to happen.   

He might have lost hope within the black expanse of the tunnel if not for the 
softly intensifying smell of fresh air, and the gentle breeze that continued to 
wrap about him.  Slowly, he found that he could make out different shapes within 
the tunnel before him as the blackness seemed to be replaced with a soft light. 
 The further he went, the brighter the light became, and with a small cry of 
triumph, Pippin and Legolas rounded a final bend in the tunnel and stepped 
forward, out of the cave and into the starlit night.  The moon hung low and 
heavy within the night sky, casting a bright glow upon Pippin’s face and 
reflecting off the slow flow of tears down his cheeks.

******

Malek was not happy.  A fact that caused all the orcs in his near vicinity to 
shy away fearfully if he even glanced in their direction.  The orc army was 
tramping their way back to the cave, and it seemed that all knew of the 
displeasure of their master, for everything was silent but for the heavy tramp 
of feet.

Things had not gone as anticipated at the city this night, and Malek’s eyes 
flashed dangerously as he thought back over the battle.  Tonight was to have 
been his night of victory.  The night he took Calembel, crushing her army and 
capturing the members of the so-called ‘fellowship.’  He had had everything 
planned so perfectly, only to have it thrown back into his face!

The city had obviously received reinforcements, and Malek’s army had been 
continually thrown back until the coming dawn had driven them to retreat.  
Malek’s plans had failed, and that was enough to throw the creature into a fit 
of rage.

He had no doubt that he would eventually be able to take the city.  He had the 
advantage of numbers, and could take casualties without a second thought, while 
the defenders grew more desperate with each loss to their number.  It was not 
the possibility of defeat that angered him, but the fact that he no longer 
seemed to be completely in control of this game he had started.

He decided that in the future, he would just have to take a more active role in 
the battle.  Until now, he had been content to mostly watch and gloat; yet the 
defenders of Calembel were proving to be a more difficult adversary than he had 
planned.  Soon they would know Malek’s rage, and they would hide in terror of 
him.  He would take the ‘fellowship’ and have his fun with them, killing them 
one by one, and crushing the hopes of their people.   With them out of his way, 
all of Middle Earth would lie open to his taking.  He would defeat the nations 
one at a time, feasting upon their people and growing stronger and stronger 
until nothing could stop him.  He would become invincible both night and day, 
and the lands would bow in terror of him.

The anger in Malek’s eyes slowly diminished, replaced by an evil smile as the 
creature pictured his victory over Middle Earth.  The orcs nearest him sighed in 
relief, though they still kept a wary distance from him.

Sensing the close approach of dawn, Malek left the orc army to fend for 
themselves and raced on ahead.  He was still angry, desperately needing 
something to vent his frustration on, and he had the perfect idea.  Torturing 
others had always had a calming effect upon him, and he looked forward to the 
fun he would have with his prey.

Slipping silently into the cave he had chosen as his lair, he passed soundlessly 
through the twisting corridors, his eyes glowing slightly with anticipation.  He 
entered the main cave, his eyes immediately flying to his prisoners...at least, 
to where his prisoners should have been.  He stopped cold, his eyes taking in 
the scene before him with quickly growing rage.

Three orcs lay dead within the large cavern, their black blood forming dark 
pools, their eyes staring sightlessly upward.  A fourth orc stood nervously 
beside a tunnel entrance on the other side of the cavern, his back turned to 
Malek as he peered into the dark hole. There was no sign of the other eight he 
had left behind to guard the prisoners.

Malek sprang across the cavern, his movements so silent that the orc did not 
know of his presence until Malek grabbed the creature’s shoulder and flung him 
about to face him.  

“What happened,” he hissed. “Where are the prisoners?”

The orc let out a high-pitched wail, falling back to the floor and covering his 
head with his hands as if expecting Malek to strike him at any moment.  “Please, 
my lord,” he cried! “It was not my fault!”

Malek stared down at the orc coldly, causing the creature to whimper pitifully. 
 “Where are they?” he repeated softly, his voice deceptively calm.

The orc’s eyes were filled with terror, yet he knew better than to hesitate in 
answering.  “They escaped, my lord,” he whispered softly.

Malek reached down and seized the creature, hauling him to his feet, his claws 
digging deep into the orc’s flesh.  “How?” he demanded, his face a mere inch 
from the terrified orc.

“It was Fletwit’s idea, my lord,” the creature howled, struggling to break free 
from Malek’s painful grasp.  “He said that they were asleep.  He said it was 
safe for us to go out and hunt something to eat.  It was all Fletwit’s plan.  I 
didn’t want to go along with it, but he made me, my lord, he made me!”

Malek regarded the pitiful creature for a second before casually tossing him 
backward.  The force of his throw sent the creature flying, violently crashing 
against the stone wall with a bone-snapping crunch.  Slowly, the orc slid to the 
floor, leaving behind a black trail of blood to mar the stone wall, his eyes 
sightless and his head tilted at an impossible angle.

Malek, however, had already gone.  Leaving the cavern, he raced back down the 
tunnel; reaching the entrance just as the first of his orc captains began 
climbing the steep hill leading up to the lair.

The orc army stopped at the sight of Malek, and one of the captains visibly 
flinched as he watched his master approach him.

“The prisoners have escaped,” Malek stated without preamble.  “Take a company of 
orcs and find them.  They went through one of the eastern tunnels, so 
concentrate your search there.”

The orc captain bowed low, unable to meet Malek’s stormy eyes.  “When you find 
them,” Malek continued, “bring the elf back to me, for I have not yet finished 
with my plans for him.  You may kill the little one, but bring his body back as 
well.  Perhaps we shall send it as a gift to our friends back within the city.”

A flicker of evil laughter ran through the nearest rank of orcs, and Malek 
smiled himself at the thought.  “Go quickly,” he ordered.  “They cannot have 
gotten far.  Not with the elf slowing them down!”

“We will find them, master,” the orc captain boasted loudly, bowing before Malek 
once again.

“You had better,” Malek replied softly, “or you shall suffer their fate instead. 
 Now go!”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………


A/N—Hey all, this chapter would have been out a lot sooner, but I have been 
having trouble getting on to FF.net.  Oh well, I hope it is worth the wait!  
Enjoy



Chapter 23 - Knight of Gondor


Frodo was exhausted - physically, mentally, and emotionally.  His injured leg 
ached furiously, his head was pounding, his stomach turning at the bloody scene 
around him, and he had decided that if Sam told him he looked pale and should 
sit down one more time, he would hit him!  All in all, he was not in the best of 
moods.

He stood atop the high wall of Calembel, watching the first dim rays of dawn 
light up the horizon, and wishing for nothing more than a nice quiet place to 
curl up and sleep for a week.  However, he knew that even should he be given an 
opportunity to rest, which was unlikely, he would not be able to sleep.  His 
mind was too troubled by grief and despair.  It seemed to him that a blackness 
had settled over his thoughts, and try as he might, he could not shake it.  He 
yearned for the simple life he had once known within the Shire, when his only 
worries had been the Sackville Bagginses.  He could not believe that there had 
once been a time when he had longed for adventure.  Now, all he wanted was his 
life to return to normal.  To be a simple hobbit once more. 

‘Is that possible?  Can things ever be normal again?’  The questions of his mind 
haunted him.  Somehow, he doubted it.  Things never would be the same for him 
again, for he himself had changed.

A gentle hand resting on his shoulder caused Frodo to glance up into the worried 
eyes of Gandalf.  The wizard looked a sight, his normally clean white robes 
stained and blood splattered, his long hair tangled and ratted.  Frodo also 
thought he looked tired, yet it almost did not seem possible.  The wizard was 
always strong and unshakable, giving hope where all hope had failed.

“Are you alright, Frodo?” Gandalf asked quietly, his voice toned low for Frodo’s 
ears only.

Frodo attempted a reassuring smile.  “I am fine, Gandalf,” he whispered back, “I 
am just thinking, that’s all.”

“Ahh, a dangerous pastime for hobbits, as I have learned,” Gandalf replied, his 
small smile doing nothing to hide the worry in his eyes.  “Any thoughts you 
would care to share with an old friend?  Perhaps it would help lighten the 
burden you seem to carry so heavy upon your shoulders.”

Frodo hesitated, glancing away from Gandalf and shrugging his shoulders 
slightly.  “I was just thinking of home,” he replied at last, unable to hide the 
wistfulness in his voice.

Gandalf nodded understandingly.  “Perhaps wishing you were there, instead of 
here?” he asked quietly.

“Wishing we were all there,” Frodo replied tiredly.  “Me, Sam, Merry,…Pippin.”  
The last was said in a near whisper, and Frodo had to fight back a tight knot 
forming in his throat.  “I wish Aragorn and Arwen were happily married and safe 
within Gondor.  I wish Gimli was busy working within his mountain; Legolas 
safely relaxing in the forest he so loves, and you…”  Frodo trailed off for a 
moment, glancing back up at Gandalf.  “And I wish you were wherever your heart 
desires to be!  An awful lot of wishing, yet it does not change a thing.  We are 
still here.”

Gandalf’s eyes were filled with sadness as he looked down at Frodo, and the 
hobbit found himself once more glancing away, unable to meet the troubled depths 
of the wizard’s gaze.

“Things will never be the same again, will they, Gandalf?”  It was not really a 
question, but a statement, and Frodo felt the wizard’s hand tighten on his 
shoulder.

“My dear hobbit,” the wizard murmured sadly, “You have been through much, 
suffered much, and still suffer.  If it were in my power, I would change that.”

Frodo shook his head slowly  “It is not I that suffers,” he said quietly, unable 
to contain his own sadness.  “Pippin, Legolas, Gimli, Merry; they are the ones 
who truly suffer.  My pain is merely for them, and is only a shadow of what they 
must feel.”

“The last few days have been hard on all,” Gandalf murmured, no longer looking 
at Frodo, but gazing away toward the mountains.

Frodo did not reply, but also turned his gaze from the wall, looking to the east 
where the sun was just peeking its bright face over the horizon.  A cluster of 
clouds hung close to the earth, capturing the sun’s light and reflecting it in a 
myriad of bright colors that contrasted sharply with Frodo’s dark thoughts.  All 
night and into the morning he had been plagued with thoughts of Legolas and 
Pippin.  Like the others, he found it hard to entertain even the briefest 
thought that his friends could possibly, even likely, be dead.  Yet he knew that 
he had to accept, or at least consider this possibility if he was to be any help 
to Merry should it prove to be true.  He had to prepare himself for the worst, 
no matter how it hurt!

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, master Frodo.” 

Frodo gave a slight start at the voice beside him, turning to find Sam staring 
at the rising sun, his face bathed in golden light.

“Aye Sam, it’s beautiful,” Frodo replied sadly.  “Yet I cannot help think that 
such beauty does not belong here, at such a time as this, surrounded by nothing 
but death and destruction.

“Nay, master Frodo,” Sam answered immediately, turning from the sunrise and 
studying him.  “I think it belongs here just fine!  It shows that no matter how 
long or dark the night, there is always a sunrise waiting at the end.  No night 
lasts forever, and darkness can never defeat the light of a new day!”  

There was a vehemence to Sam’s words that caused Frodo to stare at him in 
surprise.  Finally, he shook his head, letting out a wry laugh.  “You should 
have been a philosopher, Sam, not a gardener.”

It was Sam’s turn to shake his head.  “Aye, but master Frodo, gardeners are 
philosophers.  We argue our points to our plants all the time, and we never have 
to worry about them arguing back!”

Sam’s words brought a small smile to Frodo’s face, as indeed, Sam had intended 
them to.  Frodo was just opening his mouth to reply to his friend, when another 
voice spoke up quietly from behind them.

“I wonder if Pippin is watching the sunrise.”

Frodo turned, his smile fading and his heart sinking as he took in Merry.  The 
hobbit looked a wreck, his face strained with dark circles beneath his eyes.  He 
too was staring toward the rising sun, his expression distant and his voice 
sounding almost as if he was in some sort of trance.

“It has all his favorite colors in it,” Merry continued quietly, still not 
looking at the others, his voice containing a hopeless note.  “I wonder if he 
can see it.”

“Maybe he can, Merry,” Sam said quietly, eyeing his friend sadly. “Maybe he 
can.”

Frodo stepped closer to Merry, reaching out and gently touching the younger 
hobbit’s arm, offering silent support.  After what seemed like ages, Merry at 
last seemed to come out of his trance, blinking his eyes and returning to the 
present.  He raised his head, glancing toward Gandalf.

“Shouldn’t we go and find the others now?” he asked somewhat shakily.  “I want 
to begin our search as soon as possible.”

Gandalf nodded.  “Here comes Aragorn now.”

Frodo turned just as Aragorn mounted the wall and began making his way toward 
them.  The ranger looked as tired as Frodo felt, his blood stained armor 
contrasting sharply with his pale features, his long brown hair falling about 
his haggard and worn face.  Faramir walked beside the king, a slight limp 
marring his usual graceful strides.

When the two warriors reached them, Aragorn immediately ran his eyes over his 
companions, obviously checking for injuries.  Frodo imagined that his gaze 
rested just a little longer upon him and Merry, before passing on.

“Is all well here?” Aragorn asked quietly, once more perusing the small company.

“As well as can be expected,” Gandalf replied slowly.  “None here are hurt, 
though we all are weary.”

Frodo was somewhat surprised that Gandalf had included himself in the confession 
of weariness, and he began to study the wizard closely.  However, he was soon 
distracted from his task when Aragorn addressed him.

“And what of you, Frodo?  Are you all right?”  his friend asked softly.

Frodo was surprised and slightly disgruntled at being picked out by the 
ex-ranger, but before he could think of a proper reply, Sam spoke for him.

“If you ask me, he is far too pale, and I think he should sit down before he 
falls over!”

Frodo turned a withering glare on his friend.  “He didn’t ask you, Sam, and I am 
not going to fall over!”  Frodo was growing embarrassed by Aragorn’s continued 
perusal.

“I think you are right, Sam,” the ranger finally spoke, “he does look pale.  
Perhaps you should sit down and rest for a while.” The last was spoken to Frodo, 
who immediately began shaking his head.

“I am no more pale than you, Aragorn,” he stated firmly, dividing a glare 
between the king and Sam, “And I will sit down and rest just as soon as you do.”

Aragorn looked surprised at the response, a slight smile lightening his 
features.  He looked as if he was about to argue, when Merry broke in.

“Where is Gimli,” the hobbit asked impatiently, his eyes scanning the wall top 
for any sign of the dwarf.

Aragorn immediately sobered, his face growing serious and worn once more.  “He 
departed from me shortly after the orc’s retreat,” he told them all quietly, his 
eyes sad.  “He did not tell me where he was going, and I did not ask.”

Gandalf nodded in understanding to this news, but Merry did not seem to like 
what he had heard at all.

“What if he has left without us,” he cried, looking around desperately.  
“Perhaps he grew tired of waiting, and now has gone and left us behind!”

“Peace, Merry,” Aragorn said gently, laying a hand upon the distraught hobbit’s 
shoulder.  “Gimli knows that we have promised to help aid him in his search.  He 
would not have left without us.  I believe he just needs a moment alone.”

‘And who can blame him,’ Frodo thought wearily.  ‘Especially after the cruel 
game Malek played with us this morning.’  He could still picture the form of 
Legolas, or Malek disguised as Legolas, standing upon the field.  Even knowing 
it for the trick it was, he had been unable to quench the horror at the sight 
before him.  He wondered how much worse Gimli must have been affected.

“I am sure that he will return shortly,” Aragorn was telling Merry, his hand 
still resting on the hobbit’s shoulder.  

Merry nodded glumly, his eyes cast to the ground.  An awkward silence fell then, 
as each were lost in their own thoughts.  At last, Aragorn spoke to Gandalf.

“I have sent for our horses to be prepared for us.  I think it best if we ride 
as far as we can, before continuing on foot.  I will take us to Malek’s lair, 
and we can begin our search from there.  I expect we will be gone for most of 
the day.” This last sentence was spoken to Faramir, and Aragorn’s eyes were 
apologetic.

Faramir shrugged his shoulders casually.  “Have no fear for the city during your 
absence, my lord.  I will see that everything is done to prepare for Malek’s 
next attack.”

Aragorn smiled.  “I do not fear for the city, but see that you get some rest as 
well as getting that leg looked at.”

“It is only a scratch, my lord,” Faramir replied dismissively, “but I will do as 
you say.”

Aragorn nodded, satisfied, then turned back to Gandalf.  “Shall we go to the 
stables and wait for Gimli there?”

The wizard nodded slowly, and after Faramir bid them all farewell and good luck, 
they left the wall and began making their way into the city.  When they had 
reached the stables housing the horses and the hobbit’s ponies, they found 
grooms already saddling their mounts.  Merry moved away from the others, 
retreating under the stables’ high awning where he could watch the entrance for 
Gimli while remaining sheltered from the morning sun’s glare.  Aragorn and Sam 
immediately moved to the horses, Sam already holding a one sided conversation 
with his pony. Aragorn dismissed the groom saddling Roheryn and took over the 
job himself.  Gandalf, not surprisingly, seemed to have disappeared.

Frodo sighed, glancing around him before starting to pace up and down the 
walkway in front of the stables.  Each stall door had a top that opened out to 
the courtyard, and Frodo’s pacing soon caused several large heads to poke out 
through the openings, big eyes regarding him with a mix of curiosity and 
annoyance.  Frodo paused his pacing to pat the noses of several of the more 
friendly looking beasts, feeling their hot breath wash over him as they snuffled 
around for any snacks he might have brought them.  A familiar whinny caused him 
to turn just as a fiery head poked from a stall a few yards away.

“Hello, Shandarell,” he called out softly, causing the horse to turn and regard 
him with large brown eyes.  Shandarell stamped his foot loudly, before turning 
away and eying the courtyard before him.  It seemed almost to Frodo as if the 
horse was searching for something, and he shook his head sadly as Shandarell let 
out another loud whinny.  “He is not here, boy,” he stated quietly.  Shandarell 
flicked an ear in his direction, but did not turn away from his perusal of the 
courtyard.  After several minutes, he let out what sounded like an indignant 
snort, disappearing back into his stall, more snorts and a couple of loud bangs 
drifting from the opening.

Frodo could not help but smile.  “Throwing a temper tantrum, are we?” he 
muttered softly.  “I shall have to tell Legolas that he needs to start teaching 
you some manners.”  He had said the words before thinking, and he immediately 
winced, turning from the stalls and making his way toward where the grooms had 
finished preparing the horses. 

Sam glanced at him, opening his mouth to speak, but at that moment, Gimli strode 
through the gate into the stable courtyard.  Merry leapt to his feet, his face 
shining with relief, and Frodo, Sam, and Aragorn all turned to greet their 
friend.  All froze, however, when they saw what the dwarf was carrying.

“Legolas’ bow,” Frodo heard Aragorn whisper hoarsely, the words almost lost 
beneath the heavy pounding of his heart.  All stared, as Gimli made his way 
toward them, the bow gripped tightly before him, his face an unreadable mask.

“Are we ready to go?” he asked simply upon reaching them, and Aragorn nodded 
slowly.

“We have been waiting for you,” he replied quietly, his eyes still locked upon 
the weapon held in the dwarf’s grip.  “Gimli…,” he began, then trailed off, 
obviously having trouble with what he wanted to say.

Gimli met his eyes, shaking his head ever so slightly.  “He needs me, Aragorn,” 
the dwarf whispered, his face a mask of determination and his voice so low that 
Frodo had to strain to hear him.  “Already I have made him wait too long.”

Aragorn studied his friend for a few seconds before once more nodding slowly.  
“Everything is prepared, and we are ready to move out.”

“Good,” Gimli said loudly, brushing past Aragorn and sending a glare over the 
horses.  “Now, which one of these horrible beasts am I to ride.  As long as it 
has a smoother gait than that fiery beast Legolas rides, then I shall be happy.”

Aragorn shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the 
pain evident in his eyes.  “I have rarely seen a horse with a smoother gait than 
Shandarell, and none of those are here now.  I am afraid you will have to settle 
with Roheryn and I.”

Gimli merely grunted in response, moving to the large horse and eyeing him up 
and down.  Aragorn walked over and helped the dwarf mount before swinging into 
the saddle in front of him.  The three hobbits moved to their own ponies, 
pulling themselves into their saddles just as Gandalf reappeared from one of the 
large barns.  

Quickly mounting, the wizard ran a critical eye over all of them, briefly 
resting on Gimli and the bow he still carried before him. His dark eyes 
flickered slightly, but otherwise there was no response.  “We are ready then?” 
the wizard asked. Without waiting for a response, he swung his horse around and 
urged him forward.

The others followed silently, all thinking the same thoughts as they started out 
on a mission all prayed would be successful.

********

Pippin was in trouble, and the small part of him that realized this dangerous 
fact cried out in warning.  He was slowly loosing his battle against the cold 
taking over his body, and he was finding it harder and harder to continue on.  
He stumbled forward, surrounded by cold and darkness, hardly aware of where he 
was going and unaware that his steps grew slower with each passing minute.  
Complete numbness was settling over body and brain, and if something didn’t 
happen soon to waken him from his stupor, both he and Legolas would most likely 
die alone and forgotten within the mountains.  The night sky stared down at them 
uncaringly, the stars giving little light and no warmth to aide the weary 
travelers beneath them.

It seemed like ages ago that he and Legolas had stumbled free of Malek’s cave, 
stopping only long enough to catch their breath before stumbling forward once 
more.  Then, the knowledge that orcs would soon be swarming the mountains in 
search of them had urged him on.  He had not known which way Calembel lay, so he 
had merely randomly picked a direction, content that it led away from the 
horrible cave they had been imprisoned in and praying it would lead in the basic 
direction of the city.  His adrenaline and fear had served to warm him and give 
him energy, yet after nearly an hour had passed with no sight or sound of orcs, 
Pippin had begun to relax.  This had been his downfall.  The night had suddenly 
become ten times colder, and weariness had begun to drag at him.

Now, he found it more and more difficult to fight off the cold and exhaustion 
claiming his body, and at last he gave up the battle completely, falling to his 
knees upon the hard ground, and barely aware of Legolas collapsing behind him.  
He released Legolas, wrapping his arms around his body in a futile attempt to 
ward off the chills that swept through him.  A large boulder lay nearby and 
Pippin slumped against it, closing his eyes and attempting to stop the slow flow 
of tears.

‘I can’t go any further,’ he thought numbly, the tears flowing even faster.  ‘I 
am so tired and cold and hungry.  I think I will just rest here for a moment.’

A small voice within his mind began to desperately argue against the idea. No!  
Get up, get moving!  You stop now, and you will never go on.  Both you and 
Legolas will die here in this wilderness!

Pippin sobbed at the thought, but he was simply unable to get his rebellious 
body to move.  He had passed his endurance, and there was nothing he could do.

“I’m sorry, Legolas,” he whispered brokenly.  “I’m so sorry, but I just can’t go 
on.”  He opened his eyes and looked toward the shadowy figure of the elf, his 
heart skipping a beat when he caught sight of the eastern sky.  The heavens were 
alive with the light of dawn, the first morning rays reflected from the clouds 
and sending out a myriad of color that took his breath away.  Even as he 
watched, the golden orb lifted from its bed upon the horizon, rising slowly to 
cast the earth in its light and warmth.  

Pippin closed his eyes again, breathing deeply as the sun’s golden rays came to 
dance upon his face with a warm and gentle touch.  Vaguely he realized from the 
sun’s position that he had been heading steadily southeast for the last hour, 
which meant that with a little adjustment to the south, he would be heading 
directly for Calembel.  The city was probably no more than three perhaps four 
hours steady walking from where he now lay.

Still thinking of giving up? The small voice was back.  You are so close, it 
would be a shame for you to have come so far only to quit now.  Come on, get up!

“I don’t think I can,” Pippin sobbed out loud, his voice sounding weak and 
desperate in the early morning stillness.

Fine, sit there and die.  Just realize that you are killing not only yourself, 
but Legolas as well.  That is, if the orcs don’t find you first!  I wonder what 
Merry and the rest of your friends would think if they found out you were so 
close and gave up!

This last was more than Pippin could bear, and with a small shout of 
frustration, he pushed himself up from the ground, wobbling slightly as 
dizziness caused the world to sway before him.  He used the large boulder to 
steady himself as he waited for the dizziness to pass, then turned to Legolas.

It took him several attempts to get the elf on his feet, and Pippin was nearing 
despair once more before Legolas at last rose from the ground.  Pippin was 
unsure of how much longer his friend could go on; how much longer he could go on 
for that matter, but he was determined to get as far as he could.  

Grasping the elf’s arm tightly, he began stumbling forward once more, changing 
his direction slightly so that he was heading almost directly south.  He knew 
that once he worked his way free of the mountains, the going would be easier for 
both him and Legolas, and the rising sun would serve to dry their wet clothes 
and warm their bodies.

He had gone about a mile before his senses suddenly became aware of an unnatural 
silence surrounding them.  He froze, listening intently, then suddenly dived to 
the side, ducking behind a large thicket and pulling Legolas after him.  He was 
not a moment too soon, for a large group of orcs suddenly appeared around a bend 
in the path, moving silently and quickly toward their hiding place.

Pippin held his breath, trying desperately to still the mad beating of his 
heart.  His eyes fell with horror on a single print pressed firmly into a patch 
of dirt and unmistakably pointing directly toward where they crouched hidden.  
He had to fight off a sudden desire to break free and run, knowing that they 
would not stand a chance against such a large group of orcs.  If they saw the 
print…

To Pippin’s dismay, the orcs slowed, then stopped not ten feet in front of the 
thicket where they hid, a large orc boot coming to rest right beside the print 
left in the dirt.  Pippin closed his eyes, expecting any minute to hear a shout 
of discovery, followed by a search that would unavoidably end in their capture.

“Are you sure we’re looking in the right direction, Sharbag,” Pippin heard one 
of the orcs growl.

“This is the way back to the city, aint it!” The one called Sharbag snapped 
back.  “They’ll be trying to get back to their friends, and this is the way they 
have to come!”

“Well, how come we haven’t seen any sign of them?  Not a single print!  I still 
think we’re looking in the wrong place!”

“Just shut your face and leave the thinking to me, Sluggut.  Maybe if you quit 
your whining and started looking you would find something!”

“Well, we had better find them soon, cause I am getting tired of wandering 
around under this blasted sun!”   A new voice spoke up, but was quickly silenced 
by Sharbag.

“Shut up, Fletwit!  We wouldn’t be wandering these mountains if you hadn’t lost 
the prisoners in the first place!”

Fletwit let out what sounded like a whimper.  “How was I to know that the hobbit 
wasn’t really sleeping?  When I get a hold of him, I’m going to make him dance 
at the end of my knife before I slit his scrawny throat.”

“We have to find them first, now don’t we!  And if we don’t, it is you, Fletwit, 
that the master is going to eat alive!” Another pitiful whimper followed this 
statement.  “And just remember, we are supposed to bring the elf back alive!  
The master has some sort of plan for him!”

With this last statement, the group of orcs began to move again, trudging by 
barely five feet in front of the thicket!  Pippin’s vision was beginning to blur 
with the effort of holding his breath, and he felt sure that the wild pounding 
of his heart would alert the orcs to their presence.  

Pippin remained crouched behind the thicket for several minutes after the last 
orc had disappeared from view, listening intently for any sound that would 
indicate their return.  When he was at last certain that they were indeed gone, 
he leapt to his feet, pulling Legolas after him.  It seemed as if the orcs 
orders were not to capture him, but to kill him and return Legolas to Malek to 
finish whatever he had started with the elf.  Pippin was not about to let that 
happen!  He liked being alive way too much!

With desperation fueling him on, Pippin hurried forward once more, still moving 
south, but at an angle away from the orc party.  Legolas followed silently 
after, his movements still frustratingly slow.  

Pippin now kept his senses carefully alert in case they should run into any more 
orc parties, but relief soon swelled within him as he realized they were nearing 
the edge of the mountains.  A bit further, and they would reach the foothills, 
and Calembel lay only shortly beyond that.

“A few more hours, Legolas,” Pippin gasped quietly, “and we will be home!  
Aragorn can take care of you, and we will have a nice large fire to warm 
ourselves and all the food we can eat!”  The thought of warmth and food caused 
him to groan softly and pick up the pace as much as Legolas would allow.  The 
morning sun was beginning to dry their sodden clothes, yet Pippin was still 
chilled, and Legolas’ arm was deathly cold beneath his grip.

So it was, that as the sun was still hanging near the horizon, Pippin and 
Legolas passed from the mountains into the foothills.  Much of their path now 
lay out in the open, yet free from the oppressive slopes of the mountains, 
Pippin found himself relaxing once more.  He doubted the orcs would have 
ventured this far away from their caverns, and even if they had, they would be 
as visible out in the open as he and Legolas were.  As long as he remained alert 
and watchful, things would be just fine.

They were passing through a wooded glade at the base of two large hills, when 
suddenly, without warning, Legolas collapsed, carrying Pippin to the ground with 
him. 

Pippin cried out as he landed heavily on top of the elf.  He immediately rolled 
to the side, his eyes widening with dismay as he looked down at Legolas.  His 
friend’s eyes were closed, his face deathly pale, and for a horrible second, 
Pippin thought for sure that he was dead.  With a cry, he fell beside the elf, 
reaching out with trembling fingers and searching for a pulse.  He let out a 
ragged sob of relief when he found it, the beat fast and erratic beneath his 
fingers.

“Legolas,” he called out softly, tapping the elf’s cheek gently with his hand.  
There was no response, not even a flutter of his eyelashes, and Pippin sat back, 
knowing there was no use trying to rouse his friend.  It was obvious that 
Legolas had gone as far as he was able.  

Pippin closed his eyes tightly, frustration causing him to clench his hands at 
his sides.  Legolas needed help, and soon, or he would die and Pippin would 
never forgive himself.  The only problem was, help now lay completely out of 
reach.  There was no way Pippin could carry Legolas, and dragging him was not an 
option.  He could barely carry his own weight.

‘I’ll have to leave him here, and go and get some help.”  The thought had no 
sooner entered his mind, then Pippin shied away from it.  He did not like the 
idea of leaving Legolas alone.  There were simply too many things that could go 
wrong!

‘But what other choice have I?  If I stay here with him, I might be able to 
protect him from orcs, but he will still die from his injuries.’  Indecision 
gripped at Pippin, though he already knew what he had to do.  

Leaning forward, he gently brushed a stray strand of golden hair from Legolas’ 
face.  “Legolas, I am going to get help.  I’ll be back, I promise!” he whispered 
softly, his heart wrenching at the decision.  He doubted Legolas could hear him, 
but saying the words out loud somehow made him feel slightly better.  

Unclasping his cloak, he gently laid the garment over Legolas’ prone form before 
rising and slowly backing away.  Each step away from his friend was torture, but 
with a final look, Pippin turned and began climbing the large hill before him.  
His steps were slow at first, but as desperation took hold of him, he quickened 
his pace until he was half jogging, half running up the steep hill.  

Once he reached the top, he glanced around hopefully for a sign of the city, 
sighing when all he saw were more hills stretching away before him.  Gritting 
his teeth, he pushed forward once more, jogging down one hill and up the next, 
each time stopping to look for the city.  

After what seemed like hours of this, Pippin was beginning to grow desperate.  
He began to think that he might have somehow passed up the city, and with that 
thought the first flames of panic arose within him.  Time was running out for 
Legolas, and if he didn’t find the city soon…

Pippin never finished the thought, for suddenly he gained the crest of a tall 
hill, and the sight below him caused him to gasp in excitement.  It was not the 
city, but it was the next best thing; horsemen.  The riders were moving swiftly 
across the small valley at the base of the hill, and with a shout, Pippin began 
racing down the hill, waving his arms frantically in an attempt to gain the 
horsemen’s attention.

*********

Aragorn almost did not hear Pippin’s frantic calls over the loud pounding of the 
horse’s hooves.  It was pure luck, and perhaps the strange alerting of a sixth 
sense, that caused him to turn suddenly in his saddle and glance to the side.  
He pulled Roheryn to an abrupt stop, the hobbits’ ponies nearly crashing into 
him, as he stared in disbelief, thinking that his eyes were somehow deceiving 
him.  

Yet the small figure racing down the hill towards them did not disappear, and 
now with the horses stopped, his faint calls could be heard drifting upon the 
breeze.

Gandalf was about to ask Aragorn why he had stopped when he too heard the calls, 
as did the others.  All stared in shock for several seconds.  Not surprisingly, 
it was Merry who reacted first.

“Pippin!” the hobbit cried, digging his heels into his pony and leaping forward 
toward the small figure, which had now collapsed at the bottom of the hill.  Sam 
and Frodo were right behind him, and after exchanging surprised looks, Gandalf 
and Aragorn followed.

Pippin was numb with relief as he knelt upon the grass, weeping openly as he 
heard Merry repeatedly calling his name.  His friend’s pony was charging toward 
him, closely followed by the others, and Pippin merely knelt and waited for 
them, suddenly drained of every last ounce of energy he had left.

Merry did not even wait until his pony came to a complete stop before flinging 
himself from the saddle, collapsing before Pippin and pulling the exhausted 
hobbit into his arms.  The two friends knelt there, tightly holding on to each 
other and weeping unashamedly.  Sam and Frodo stood silently to the side, tears 
streaming down their own faces as they watched the reunion between the two 
friends.  

“Oh, Pippin,” Merry sobbed, “I thought you were dead!  I thought I would never 
see you again!”

Pippin did not respond except to cling to his friend even more fiercely, 
watching through a veil of tears as Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf dismounted a few 
paces off.  The ex-ranger approached the two friends slowly, dropping to his 
knees beside them and taking in Pippin’s rumpled, wet clothes and bloody cheek.

“Well met, Pippin,” he said softly, reaching out and gently brushing the injured 
cheek.  “I will admit we were all despairing of ever seeing you again.”

Merry at last released Pippin, allowing the hobbit to sit back and run a teary 
eye over all his companions.  Pippin attempted a small smile, his overwhelming 
relief causing his exhaustion to set in.  “What are you all doing here?” he 
asked softly, realizing it wasn’t the brightest question he could ask, but 
thinking of nothing else to say.

“We were looking for you, Pip,” Sam explained slowly.  “You and Legolas!  We 
never expected you would just pop up and…”

“Legolas,” Pippin interrupted, sitting bolt upright, dismayed that he had 
forgotten about his friend, even for a moment.

Aragorn saw the dismay on the young hobbit’s face, and shook his head sadly, 
thinking it was caused by the news that Legolas was not with them.  “I am afraid 
Legolas is also missing, Pippin,” he stated quietly, his eyes flickering to 
where Gimli stood with bowed head.

“No!”  Pippin shouted, surprising them all.  “He’s not missing!  He was captured 
along with me, and we were both taken to Malek!”

Aragorn’s heart skipped a beat at the news that Legolas had indeed survived the 
fall from the cliff, but his relief was quickly replaced by horror as the 
realization of Pippin’s words hit him.  “Then Malek has him,” he whispered 
softly, horrified at the thought.

“No!”  Pippin exclaimed again, shaking his head fiercely.  “He’s here!  Well, 
not here.  I had to leave him about a mile back.  He couldn’t go any further, 
and I thought I would go and get some help.  I didn’t want to leave him, but…”

Pippin was suddenly cut off as Gimli pushed forward, kneeling before him and 
reaching out to grip his shoulder painfully.  “Are you saying that both you and 
Legolas escaped from Malek?” the dwarf asked intently, his voice a hoarse 
whisper.

Pippin nodded, then turned to Aragorn.  “We have to go to him, and fast.  He is 
hurt badly.  Malek and his orcs, they…” he trailed off, unable to complete his 
sentence as new tears filled his eyes.

Aragorn looked stunned, but he reached down and gently pulled Pippin to his 
feet.  “Take us to him,” he ordered softly.

*******

Gimli had never before experienced the wave of emotions that now threatened to 
overwhelm him as Pippin led them to where he had left Legolas.  Though he had 
refused to admit it, even to himself, he had thought his friend to be dead, and 
now that he found out otherwise…  Relieved did not even begin to describe his 
feelings at the moment.  For the first time, he was immensely relieved that they 
had the horses, for the beasts would bring him to his goal much faster than 
walking.

It seemed like only seconds, instead of minutes, had passed before Pippin 
directed them into a small wooded glade between two tall hills.  As soon as he 
caught sight of Legolas lying upon the ground, Gimli slipped from the saddle, 
not waiting for assistance in his rush to reach his best friend.  He ran to 
Legolas’ side, dropping to his knees and worriedly gazing over the elf’s prone 
form.  When he reached out and gently grasped Legolas’ hand, he shuddered at the 
cold and clammy feel of his friend’s skin.

Aragorn knelt on the other side of Legolas, Gandalf beside him.  He quickly 
examined the elf, feeling his unnaturally cold skin and the dampness of the 
cloak that covered him.  He felt Legolas’ forehead, then took his pulse, aware 
of the hobbits standing worriedly behind him.  Removing the cloak, he inspected 
the bruised and bloody skin of the elf’s chest, frowning at the deep scratches 
left by Malek’s claws.  The wounds were red and inflamed, the skin next to them 
the only warm spot on Legolas’ body.

Gimli watched Aragorn closely, studying the man for any clue as to the extent of 
his friend’s injuries.  At last, the ex-ranger lifted his head from his 
inspection.

“We have to get him to the city,” Aragorn stated firmly.  He reached forward 
with the intention of lifting Legolas from the ground, when a shout of warning 
caused him to freeze and turn a questioning look on Pippin.

“His back,” Pippin explained softly.

Aragorn frowned, turning back to Legolas and gently shifting the elf to his 
side.  A low growl escaped from Gimli’s lips as he took in his friend’s torn and 
bloody back, and he clenched his fist in rage at the thought of the obvious 
torment Legolas had gone through.  

Aragorn’s face was grim as he lifted the elf as gently as he could, being 
careful to position his arms where they would not aggravate Legolas’ injuries.  
He strode over to Roheryn, and Gandalf helped him set Legolas before him in the 
saddle.  As soon as the elf was positioned as comfortably as possible, Aragorn 
kicked Roheryn into a gallop, knowing the others would catch up.  He had to get 
Legolas back to the city, and fast, for he could sense his friend was fading 
quickly.

Gimli watched Aragorn ride away, his hand gripping the haft of his axe in a 
death grip, his eyes tormented.  Gandalf gently laid a hand upon the dwarf’s 
shoulder.

“He will be fine, Gimli,” the wizard spoke softly.  “He has not survived all 
this way to die now.”

Gimli nodded slowly, watching as Roheryn disappeared over the rise.  “Malek 
shall pay for what he has done to him,” Gimli muttered softly.  “This I promise, 
I will not rest until Malek is dead!”

*******

Arwen gently brushed her hand across Legolas’ brow, forcing her movements steady 
and fighting down the bile that rose in her throat.  Each touch to Legolas sent 
a wave of darkness and evil radiating through her, threatening to make her sick.

“There is a shadow over him,” she whispered softly, “A darkness deeper than any 
of his wounds.”

“I sense it, also,” Aragorn murmured from where he stood on the other side of 
the bed, “though it seems to affect you more than me.”

“You see these scratches?” Arwen asked, running her hand lightly over the 
markings on Legolas’ chest.  “The darkness seems to come from here.”

Aragorn nodded slowly.  “I am not sure how to tend this,” he admitted softly.  
“Any ideas?”

Arwen shook her head.  “First, we must learn what happened to him.  We must know 
what caused these markings. Perhaps then we will get a clue as to how to treat 
them.”

“The others should be returning soon,” Aragorn replied quietly.  “Only Pippin 
can tell us exactly what happened.  In the mean time, we can only tend the 
wounds that we do see.”

Arwen sighed, reaching for a basin of water and a clean cloth.  “Aye, and these 
wounds are enough to worry me.  We must clean his back carefully, before 
infection sets in.”

Aragorn nodded, and the two set to work on their friend, cleaning and binding 
his wounds tightly.  They had nearly finished when the door opened and Gimli 
entered, followed closely by Gandalf and the hobbits.

“How is he?” Gimli asked worriedly, hurrying to the bedside and peering down at 
Legolas.

“His wounds are serious, but not life threatening,” Arwen replied gently.  “Yet 
there is something about his condition that bothers me, and will continue to 
until I learn more of what has happened to him.”  She glanced at Pippin then, 
her eyes gentle as she took in his exhausted state.  “Hello, Pippin,” she called 
softly, receiving a small blush and bow from the young hobbit.

“Pippin,” Aragorn called gently, moving over to the hobbit.  “I know that you 
are tired, and you shall receive rest soon, but first, we must know what has 
happened if we are to completely care for Legolas.”

Pippin nodded slowly, letting out a weary sigh.  “Where do you want me to 
start?” he asked tiredly.

“From the beginning,” Aragorn commanded, as he gently led Pippin toward the 
single chair in the room.  “Tell us everything from the moment Legolas and I 
left you to explore the cave.  Don’t leave anything out, no matter how 
inconsequential it may seem to you.  I want to know everything.”

For the next hour, the company listened carefully to Pippin’s tale, Aragorn only 
interjecting occasionally when he felt the hobbit was being too vague or to 
clarify a certain fact.  When Pippin reached the part where the orcs had whipped 
Legolas, followed by Malek’s actions, Aragorn made him repeat it several times, 
his face thoughtful.

Gimli did not look thoughtful, he looked murderous, and Aragorn caught him 
muttering darkly beneath his breath, though he only caught ‘axe’ and ‘Malek’s 
head’ in the dwarf’s mumbling.

Pippin continued his story, relating his and Legolas’ near escape and how he had 
almost given up several times before spotting the others.  He did not seem to 
notice the growing surprise and respect upon his listeners’ faces, his eyes 
firmly cast down to his clenched hands, his voice low and ragged with the effort 
of reliving each moment of what was probably the worst day of his life.

When he had at last finished and the silence in the room had grown so great that 
he could not resist glancing up, he found Aragorn staring at him with a very 
strange expression upon his face.

“Pippin…” the Ranger began; but the hobbit cut him off.

“I’m sorry, Aragorn,” he whispered brokenly.  “I wish I had just acted sooner, 
instead of sitting and waiting for Malek to finish whatever it was he was doing 
to Legolas.  If he dies, it will be all my fault!  I should have…”

“Pippin!”  It was Aragorn’s turn to cut off the hobbit, his voice firm and 
strong.  He knelt down before Pippin, reaching out and resting his hands on the 
hobbit’s knees.  “You saved his life!” he whispered harshly, forcing the hobbit 
to meet his eyes.  “You continually risked your own safety for him, showing more 
courage and determination than many veteran warriors I have known.”

“But I almost gave up several times!” Pippin exclaimed, self-disgust evident in 
his voice.

“Yet you didn’t.”  Aragorn pointed out firmly.  “Despite being cold and tired, 
you kept going, and Legolas owes you his life for it!”

“I was frightened,” Pippin whispered softly, not understanding why Aragorn kept 
picturing him a hero.

“Courage is not the absence of fear, my dear hobbit, but the ability to continue 
on despite that fear!  You have shown great courage this day!”

Pippin stared into the dark eyes of Aragorn, his breath suddenly catching as he 
saw the sincere respect deep within their depths.  

“Do you remember what I told you the other day,” Aragorn asked softly, “about 
never having to prove yourself to me?”

Pippin nodded wordlessly, unable to tear his eyes from Aragorn’s.

“Well, that remains true, yet even if it wasn’t, you have proven yourself ten 
times over this day!  I am proud to have you in my service.  You are a true 
knight of Gondor!”

Pippin continued to stare at Aragorn, tears filling his eyes.  It seemed as if 
he had been doing a lot of crying lately, and he struggled to keep his emotions 
in check.

“Don’t worry about Legolas, Pippin,” Arwen spoke quietly.  “We will care for 
him, and everything will be fine.”

Pippin nodded, swallowing hard as Aragorn rose and moved back to the bed.  Gimli 
replaced him, moving forward and gripping Pippin’s shoulder tightly, the 
gratitude and emotion in his eyes speaking more loudly than any words he might 
have spoken.  At the silent thanks, Pippin felt the tears at last spill over.

Arwen gently helped him up, leading him to a small room next to Legolas’ where 
she cleaned the scratches on his face before leaving and bidding him to rest.  

Merry, Frodo, and Sam had all followed him over, and they now stood around his 
bed, regarding him silently, a different expression on each face.  Pippin soon 
became uncomfortable under their scrutiny.  

At last, Frodo spoke.  “I’m proud of you, Pip,” he whispered quietly, “you’re a 
true hero.”

Pippin shook his head firmly.  “You weren’t there,” he whispered softly.  “We 
almost didn’t escape.”

“Ahh, but you did, and I’m glad your back!”  Merry exclaimed, reaching out and 
grabbing Pippin’s hand in his own.

Sam let out a small laugh.  “I sure would have liked to see Malek’s face when he 
realized you had escaped!”

“Not me!”  Pippin exclaimed.  “I have seen all I want of him, and I don’t think 
I would like to be anywhere near him when he is angry.  You can expect that his 
attacks will be all the more fierce from here on out.”

“It doesn’t matter, Pippin,” Merry stated firmly.  “We’re all together again, 
and that’s all that matters.  Together, we can handle anything Malek decides to 
throw our way!”

Pippin nodded, though he was secretly doubtful.

“Is there anything we can get you before we leave and let you rest?” Frodo 
asked.

Pippin’s eyes lit up at the question.  “Well,” he said slowly, “there is one 
thing…”

“Anything,” Sam offered boldly.

“Food,” Pippin whispered dreamily.  “Lots and lots of food!”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

BTW—There is a line from a movie that I put in here.  Kudos for anyone who can 
name the line and movie it comes from! J



Chapter 24                Battles in the dark               

Everything was cold and dark.  He floated alone through a world of nothingness, 
where the only sensation was one of intense suffocation.  The darkness pressed 
in on him, filled him, until he was no more than a tiny particle within a 
massive river of black ice, the uncaring current sweeping him away to oblivion. 
 He did not fight against it.  He did not know how.  The blackness and cold was 
all he knew, all he would ever know, and he lay quiet and meek within its icy 
embrace.

All thoughts and memories of who and what he had once been were overcome by the 
cold, the shadow resting over him refusing to allow any link between mind and 
body.  Deep within the blanket of darkness, physical sensations were as lost to 
him as his mental sensations, stolen as surely as light and warmth.  There was 
nothing, and he was lost.

This was the world into which he had been banished.  A world devoid of any light 
or warmth, any life or hope.  For an elf, who so cherished these things, this 
world was a place of ultimate suffering and agony that went far beyond physical 
sensations.  A world in which any thought would freeze and then shatter into a 
million shards before the mind could grasp it.

He was completely unaware of anything outside of this darkness.  Unaware of his 
friends, who even now crowded close beside him, calling to him and urging him to 
fight against the black nothingness he was quickly becoming.  He was unaware of 
the gentle hands that touched him and cared for him, unaware even of the 
presence and voice of his deepest and dearest friend.  It was all lost to the 
blackness.

Yet slowly, very slowly, the darkness seemed to ease around him, its suffocating 
grip lessening a little.  This change was so minute that he barely noticed it, 
and even if he had, even if his mind had comprehended the meaning behind the 
sudden relief, the remaining darkness would have quickly flushed all thought 
away.  Yet a rift within the darkness had opened and could not be shut again.  
The blackness continued to slowly loose its tight grip upon its captive, and as 
its embrace grew weaker, the first dim flickers of life reappeared.

Time flowed on, if there could be such a thing as time in this place, yet 
something was different.  The flicker of life within him was growing, ever so 
slowly, while the darkness retreated.  Pinpricks of thought began to return to 
him, just as the cool pinpricks of returning blood to an arm or leg that has 
fallen asleep.  The thoughts brought with them a gentle reminder of warmth and 
light, and he clung to them as a drowning man would a piece of driftwood.  The 
blackness, as if sensing the new spark of life within its prisoner, attempted to 
encompass him once more, closing in like a suffocating wave. 

He would have been overcome then, but for a single word that penetrated the 
blackness around him, echoing throughout his mind and bringing him a sudden 
surge of warmth and strength.  The word came to him as if through a great 
distance, seeming both strange and familiar to him.  He repeated it over and 
over within his mind, using it to fight off the darkness and finding a new 
strength within himself.

‘Legolas’ his mind screamed, and though he did not yet understand the 
significance of the word, he knew that it was the key to the battle he now 
fought.  The battle against the cold and dark.  The battle that would become one 
of the longest and hardest he would ever fight.

********

“Legolas,” Gimli called softly, reaching out and gently touching his friend’s 
shoulder.  “Legolas,” he repeated, searching desperately for some stir of life 
within the elf.  Behind him, Aragorn and Gandalf stood silently, watching in 
sympathy the dwarf’s continued efforts to rouse Legolas.  Gimli had been calling 
to his friend for the last five minutes and though he had yet to receive any 
response, he was determined not to give up.  Aragorn and Gandalf saw the efforts 
as futile, but neither said anything, realizing that Gimli’s actions were as 
much for the dwarf’s own sake as for Legolas’.

Arwen had just left with Pippin and the other hobbits, leaving Aragorn, Gimli, 
and Gandalf to think over the news the brave young hobbit had brought them.  The 
emotions of all the fellowship were mixed.  Joy and relief at the return of 
Legolas and Pippin were combined with worry, uncertainty, anger, and even a hint 
of desperation.  One thing they all knew for sure; something had to be done 
about Malek, and soon if the city was to have any hope of survival.

Several more minutes passed in silence but for Gimli’s soft calls.  At last the 
dwarf slumped back, sinking into the chair Pippin had just vacated and letting 
out a long sigh.  He was not used to feeling so helpless, and the frustration 
within him was growing to dangerous heights.  He glanced toward Aragorn, trying 
to hide his worry over Legolas and failing miserably.  “Is there nothing more we 
can do for him?” he asked hopelessly, already knowing the answer.

Aragorn shook his head gently.  “Arwen and I have already tended to his physical 
wounds and he is as comfortable as we can make him.  Now we can only wait.  
Perhaps he will wake soon.”

Gimli let out a loud grunt.  “Yes, and when he does, will he be the mindless 
zombie that Pippin described?  Will he even recognize us?”

Again, Aragorn merely shook his head.  “We will just have to wait and see,” he 
responded quietly.  Despite his calm words, Aragorn was troubled and deeply 
worried for Legolas.  The elf had been a close companion and a dear friend for 
many years, and it pained Aragorn when he thought of the shadow lying so heavily 
over Legolas.  Moreso because of the heavy responsibility he felt toward his 
friend’s present condition.  He was desperate to help Legolas, but from the 
moment he had touched the elf, he had know that the shadow over him was beyond 
his ability to heal.  He and Arwen had done all they could, both healers of no 
small talent, but now all they could do was wait.

“I hate waiting,” Gimli muttered, then turned his eyes on Gandalf.  “And what of 
you?” he asked gruffly.  “What do you think of the hobbit’s tale?”

Gandalf was deeply lost in thought and barely heard Gimli’s question.  He turned 
his gaze briefly to the dwarf, one hand absently stroking his beard and his eyes 
distant.  “Interesting,” he at last replied before turning back to his own 
private contemplations.

Gimli glared at him, mumbling loudly beneath his breath.  “For a very wise and 
learned wizard, I would expect you to be able to come up with a slightly better 
word than ‘interesting’”, he huffed, switching his glare to Aragorn when the man 
let out a wry chuckle.  “I meant,” he continued loudly, after clearing his 
throat to gain Gandalf’s attention, “what do you think of what Malek did to 
Legolas?  If the physician can’t come up with any answers, perhaps the wizard 
can!”  His voice was harsh and sarcastic, and he realized remorsefully that he 
was unfairly taking out his frustration on Aragorn and Gandalf.  He was somewhat 
amazed that he had refrained from burying his axe deep into one of the few 
pieces of furniture in the room, and guessed that all his time with Legolas was 
rubbing off on him.  His friend seemed to contain an unending patience, and 
Gimli found himself more and more often holding himself in check, whereas before 
he would have lost his temper.

Both Aragorn and Gandalf understood all too well the dwarf’s raging emotions at 
the moment, and neither took offense at his harsh words.

“Malek has cast some sort of spell over Legolas,” Gandalf finally answered 
slowly.  “A very dark and ancient spell from the sounds of it and how he went 
about it.”  Gandalf stepped forward, looking down at Legolas’ chest intently, 
even though the bloody scratches left by Malek were hidden from his eyes by a 
thick patch of clean bandages.

“So how do we go about getting rid of this spell?” Gimli asked impatiently.  
“You’re a wizard, can’t you do something to help him?”

Gandalf sighed heavily.  “I am afraid, Master dwarf, that to know even where to 
begin to help him, I would have had to have been present when Malek cast the 
spell.  Dealing with another’s magic is harder than you might think, and with my 
weakened abilities and sketchy information, I could end up doing more harm than 
good.”

Gimli sank back into the chair, his shoulders drooping and his face desolate.  
“Then it is hopeless,” he whispered.  “Even should he wake, he will not know 
himself, let alone any of us.  He shall be forever lost within his own world of 
darkness.”  Gimli’s voice was filled with despair and weariness, and his 
apparent surrender came as somewhat of a shock to his two companions.  Gimli was 
not one to give up, no matter what the odds against him.

“Do not give up on him yet, dear friend,” Aragorn replied comfortingly.  “You 
are forgetting a very important detail within Pippin’s tale.”

Gimli cast Aragorn a tired glance.  “And what is that?” he asked 
unenthusiastically.

It was Gandalf who answered.  “Malek never finished the spell,” he answered 
matter of factly, his voice soft but firm.

Gimli gave a derisive snort.  “What he did manage is quite enough, don’t you 
think,” he asked wryly, pointedly glancing toward the still form on the bed.

“True,” Gandalf replied slowly.  “However, unfinished spells have a tendency 
to…” the wizard paused as if searching for an appropriate word, then shrugged 
and finished, “unravel.”

“Unravel?” Gimli repeated questioningly, unsure of the wizard’s meaning.

“Dissipating,” Gandalf clarified, “fading away,” he waved one thin hand in the 
air as if brushing away an invisible strand of smoke.  “Slowly,” he added as an 
afterthought, when he noticed the excited glint reentering Gimli’s eyes.  “And 
if this is truly the case with Legolas, then our friend has a very long and hard 
fight before him.  He will need all the help and support that we can give him.”

“And he shall have it,” Gimli stated boldly, “whenever and whatever I can give!”

“He will carry many scars from this,” Aragorn said sadly, his eyes locked on the 
pale form of his friend.  Gimli and Gandalf both knew that he spoke of more than 
the physical scars that Legolas would carry on his back and chest.  “He may 
never be the same after this.”

Aragorn’s statement hung heavy in the small room, and though none of them wished 
to dwell on it, they all knew the truth of the words.

The door opened and Arwen entered, the slight smile of amusement on her face at 
odds with the tenseness in the room.  Aragorn gave her a questioning look as she 
passed by him to the bed, and her grin grew wider.

“I trust our brave new hero is resting comfortably?” Gandalf asked softly, also 
watching Arwen closely.

The elf maiden shook her head, her eyes twinkling.  “Nay,” she answered, “he is 
attending to a more important matter at the moment.”

Aragorn frowned.  “He was exhausted,” he protested.  “He needs rest in order to 
recover.  What could possibly be more important than…” he trailed off suddenly, 
realization dawning.  “Oh,” he said simply, shaking his head wryly.

“I hope they leave some food for the rest of us,” Gimli grumbled from across the 
room, having come to the same conclusion as Aragorn.  “I wouldn’t mind a bite to 
eat myself.”  Despite his gruff voice, Gimli couldn’t suppress a small smile at 
the mental picture of all four hobbits up to their ears in food.

The tense atmosphere in the room had eased a bit, and the four companions found 
themselves able to relax slightly.  Aragorn turned to Arwen and pulled her into 
his arms for a quick embrace.  “I am going to go and find Faramir,” he informed 
her softly, gently kissing her cheek before releasing her.  “Take care of him,” 
he said, glancing over at Legolas, “and send word if he wakes.”

Arwen nodded, her eyes shining unnaturally bright.  “He will be well cared for,” 
she promised softly.

Aragorn turned to Gandalf and Gimli.

‘I will accompany you,” Gandalf said, but Gimli shook his head.

“I think I will remain here for a while longer,” he stated.  “Have no fear, I 
will be there for the night’s battle.”

Aragorn nodded, and he and Gandalf turned to leave, but Gimli suddenly called 
out to them.  Aragorn turned back, arching a questioning eyebrow.

“Pippin and Legolas’ escape from Malek was quite a blow to the creature, 
wouldn’t you say?” Gimli asked slowly, his eyes narrow and thoughtful.

Aragorn merely nodded, not quite sure where Gimli was going with the question.

“He will want revenge, no doubt,” Gimli continued, a strange expression on his 
face.  “He may even openly confront us during the battle tonight.”

Aragorn frowned, nodding once more.  “I expect he might,” he answered slowly.  
“We will have to remain alert and watchful.”

Gimli nodded, turning back to the bed, a satisfied expression flitting quickly 
across his face.  Aragorn noticed this, just as he noticed one of Gimli’s hands 
absently stroking his axe.  He guessed that the purpose behind Gimli’s statement 
had more in it than simple worry over the fellowship, and he decided that he 
would have to keep a sharp eye on the dwarf during the coming battle.

*****

They came in waves, howling with the anticipation of fresh blood and spurred on 
by the rage of their master.  The very heavens seemed to echo their charge, the 
sky alive with flashes of lightning and the almost continual rumble of thunder. 
 The earth shook beneath their feet and all creatures fled before them.

They charged onto the field before Calembel, screaming at their enemies, their 
voices taunting and filled with hate and bloodlust.  Malek led them, appearing 
in his natural form, the darkness of night wrapping about him and cloaking him 
in protective blackness.  All who looked upon him saw only a shadowy outline, 
indistinct yet horrible to look on all the same.  

The defenders of Calembel watched the orcs rushing toward them with a calm 
determination that could only come from men who had experienced this all before 
and who were resigned to whatever grim fate awaited them.  They stood ready in 
two different defense lines on the field with a third, mostly made up of 
archers, on the wall.  Aragorn led the soldiers on the field, Faramir and Gimli 
at his side, while Gandalf, Merry, Sam, and Frodo remained on the wall.  The 
presence of their king at their head gave new courage to the weary defenders.  
They stood tall and proud, the light from the firepits glinting along their 
drawn weapons and bathing their grim faces in an almost holy light as they 
waited for the first wave of orcs to reach them.

They did not have to wait long.  With a bright flash of lightning, the two 
armies met, the resounding clash of sword upon sword meshing with the loud boom 
of thunder.  The soldiers of Gondor fought with bravery and a ferociousness that 
matched their enemies, and though they were outnumbered, they brought the orcs 
advance to a screeching halt.

Aragorn, Anduril gripped tightly in his fist, was a blur of movement, each step 
and swing a dance of death for any orc who drew near.  He slashed at one 
creature, then without waiting for it to fall, he pivoted neatly and drove his 
blade through the throat of yet another orc.  Dancing back several steps, he 
raised his sword to block an overhead blow, then gracefully lifted his leg and 
snapped his heavy boot into his attacker’s exposed midriff.  The orc doubled 
over, then fell dead to the ground as Anduril slashed down at the exposed neck.

Beside Aragorn, Gimli was also a blur of movement, and though his fighting was 
less a fluid dance, and more the angry charge of a wild bear, the results were 
the same.  His axe was covered with the dark blood of orcs, and he was busy at 
the moment fighting off three of the creatures at once, bellowing his war cry, 
his eyes alight with the furious passion of battle.  Two of the creatures turned 
and fled, deciding to find easier prey than the enraged dwarf.  The third was 
not so lucky, loosing his head to Gimli’s axe.

Minutes seemed to turn into hours as the battle raged on, the sheer number of 
orcs and the force of their charge finally pushing the first line of defenders 
into a slow retreat.  Each step was given up grudgingly, and the ground was soon 
littered with bodies.

The first and second lines merged, and the orcs advance was once more brought to 
a halt.  This time, the battle had drawn close enough to put the fighters in 
range of the archers on the wall, and soon a hail of arrows were falling on the 
back ranks of orcs, further aiding the defenders’ courageous stand.

A mighty flash of lightning temporarily blinded all those on the field, followed 
by a deafening crack and the horrified shrieks of a group of unfortunate orcs 
who had just watched a group of their companions incinerated by the bolt.

A cheer went up from the defenders, but it was only halfhearted, for they all 
knew that the next bolt could very easily find its way into their own ranks.  
However, the unexpected event did cause the attacking orcs to hesitate slightly, 
glancing uncertainly at the sky and calling out fearfully to their captains.  
Orcs were a superstitious lot for the most part, and the defenders now took 
advantage of their fear and hesitancy, even managing to push the orcs back 
several paces before the creatures could regroup under the horrible threats of 
their captains.

The battle was going well for the defenders, and this fact caused the soldiers 
to fight even harder, not backing down an inch.  The orcs were becoming confused 
and frightened, every flash of lightning causing them to flinch or even to throw 
themselves to the ground.  Still, there were many of them, and they knew the 
rage of their master should they fail.  Slowly, they began to press forward once 
more, their thirst for blood overcoming even their fear as they once more began 
pushing the defenders into a slow retreat.

Pulling Anduril free of the last of a particularly persistent group of orcs 
attacking him, Aragorn heard a sudden shout off to his right.  He turned just in 
time to see Gimli take off at a run, slashing his way through any orcs that 
stood before him.  Aragorn stared after the dwarf in confusion, wondering what 
his friend could possibly be doing, for Gimli was not running back toward the 
city, but forward, further into the ranks of orcs.  

“Gimli!” he shouted, trying to get his friend’s attention.  Gimli continued 
forward, either not hearing the call, or ignoring it.  Aragorn frowned and 
followed the dwarf’s path with his eyes, trying to figure out where his friend 
could possibly be going.

And then he saw him.  Malek.  Standing within a ring of orcs, his wide muzzle 
dripping with blood, his sword slowly twisting through the chest of one of the 
soldiers.  He stood only a few yards in front of the charging Gimli, and Aragorn 
suddenly had no doubt of his friend’s intent.

“Gimli, no!” he screamed, racing forward after the dwarf, cursing his friend for 
his rashness and cursing himself for not keeping a closer watch.  “Gimli, wait!” 
he cried, as he watched the dwarf break through the ring of orcs surrounding 
Malek, charging forward with raised axe, his bellow of rage echoing above the 
sounds of battle.

Aragorn felt his stomach sink as Malek turned to meet the charging dwarf, a 
wicked grin crossing his face as he pushed the dead soldier from the end of his 
sword.  Aragorn stumbled forward, slashing his way through the melee, desperate 
to reach his friend before it was too late.  

Only his battle instincts and lightning reflexes saved him from being split in 
two, as three very large orcs suddenly materialized in front of him, cutting off 
his path to Gimli and slashing at him with their wickedly curved swords.  
Aragorn went the only direction open to him, back and down, hitting the ground 
hard and immediately rolling to the side as two blades chopped deep into the 
ground where his head had been only a second before.  However, he was not quite 
fast enough to miss the third blade, which cut deep into his shoulder, opening a 
gash down his left arm.  He shrugged off the blow, ignoring the pain as he 
fought to regain his feet.  

When he had at last pushed himself from the ground, he found that the orcs had 
fanned out, flanking him on each side and slowly moving forward, leering evilly. 
 They were huge, perhaps the biggest he had ever seen, and Aragorn knew that he 
was in trouble.  If he waited for the orcs to charge him, he would surely be 
overcome.  So instead, he attacked first, leaping forward toward the nearest 
orc, sword outstretched before him.

The creature, startled by his bold move, halted its advance, squaring its feet 
and preparing to meet Aragorn’s attack.  The attack never came though, for when 
Aragorn was still several feet away, he suddenly pivoted, turning smoothly and 
slashing instead at the orc charging his back.  

The second creature had expected Aragorn to be busy with its companion and had 
hoped to surprise the man from behind.  It, however, was the one surprised as 
Anduril cut cleanly across its face, blinding it.  A return swipe of the sword 
bit into the creature’s neck, slashing the windpipe and killing it with one 
clean blow.

‘One down, two to go,’ Aragorn thought grimily.  He quickly sidestepped over the 
fallen orc, turning just in time to meet the charge of the remaining two.  It 
took all of his talent and strength to keep the creatures’ weapons at bay, and 
he seemed always a mere step in front of their attacks.  Anduril rose to meet 
one block, then swept down and to the side to meet another, the ring of metal 
against metal filling the air.  

Aragorn went on the defensive just long enough for him to gain his footing, then 
suddenly switched to the attack, using both his sword and his body to help throw 
his attackers off balance.  He watched carefully for any opening in either of 
the orcs’ defense, praying it would come soon, for he was quickly growing weary. 
 He had not completely recovered from his previous injuries and the fight was 
fast draining him.

A group of struggling orcs and men stumbled past, brushing close to the three 
combatants and briefly distracting his two attackers.  It was the opening that 
Aragorn was looking for, and without warning he leapt forward, his sword a mere 
blur, slipping beneath the first orc’s weapon and digging deep into the 
creature’s ribs.  At the same time, Aragorn punched out with his uninjured hand, 
his fist slamming painfully into the throat of the second orc.  This creature 
stumbled back, gasping and choking for air, his sword arm lowering.

Aragorn would have finished it then, but the first orc, blood pouring from its 
injured side, reached forward and grabbed Aragorn in a bear hug.  The 
ex-ranger’s arms were trapped at his side, and he found himself suddenly gasping 
for air as the orc’s grip tightened about him.  His injured ribs screamed in 
protest, but once more Aragorn pushed aside the discomfort.  He struggled 
wildly, fighting against the black dots that threatened his vision and trying 
desperately to drag air into his tortured lungs.  

He was surprised when the orc suddenly released him, a strange gurgling sound 
emitting from its mouth.  He stumbled away, just as the creature toppled 
forward, a knife buried deep into its back.

Aragorn finished off the orc he had punched in the neck, then turned and saluted 
Faramir as the steward bent and retrieved his knife.  Faramir smiled back grimly 
and returned the salute, but Aragorn was already gone, racing forward once more 
toward the last place he had seen Malek and Gimli and praying that he was not 
too late.

******

Gimli was not faring too well.  He was not dead, a miracle in and of itself, but 
countless wounds covered his stocky frame, blood covering his armor and matting 
his beard.  He was presently working at pushing himself from the ground, a task 
that was more difficult the ninth time than it had been the first.  He knew that 
Malek was merely toying with him and that the creature could finish him off 
whenever he pleased, but the rage and pride of the dwarf would not allow him to 
back down.  He had sustained blows that would have knocked any ordinary person 
flat, yet he continued to battle on, determined to fight to the last.

Malek stood a few feet away, watching as Gimli struggled to his feet, a crooked 
grin on his face.  It seemed as if the creature was impressed with his show of 
strength and determination, but Gimli knew that it was only a matter of time 
before Malek would tire of the fight. The evil creature was plainly enjoying 
waving the dwarwf’s mortality before his eyes.  

Still, Malek’s actions only served to further infuriate Gimli, which in turn, 
gave him strength.  A slow plan had been working its way through his head, and 
as Gimli at last gained his feet, he decided that it was time he put it into 
action.  He swayed dangerously, appearing on the verge of swooning while all the 
while watching Malek from the corner of his eyes.  He saw the creature’s 
disappointed frown at the thought that the battle might be over, yet another 
sign that Malek was enjoying this fight immensely.  

‘Let’s see if you are still enjoying it by the time I get through with you!’  
Gimli fought to hide the grim smile that this thought brought to him. 

He at last seemed to regain his balance, and lifting his axe, he stumbled once 
more toward Malek.  The creature grinned evilly, excited the fun was not yet 
over, yet not the least bit concerned with the dwarf’s stumbling approach.  He 
did not even lift his sword in defense, certain that Gimli would not have the 
strength to actually strike at him.  

“I am going to have to kill you soon.”  

The words caused Gimli to pause for a second, breathing heavily and glaring at 
Malek.  It was the first time that the creature had spoken since the fight 
began.

Malek grinned back at him, his razor sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight.  
“Have no fear,” he continued in the same low and mocking voice.  “I shall make 
sure you die slowly and painfully.  Your continued resistance only makes the 
game that much more fun.”

Gimli growled and continued forward, his steps even more slow and unsteady than 
they had been before, causing Malek to laugh mockingly.

“You are finished, dwarf.  Even you must see this.”

That was exactly what Gimli wanted Malek to believe.  He advanced until he was 
only a couple of feet from Malek, then suddenly collapsed to his knees, all 
strength apparently seeping from him.

Malek laughed again, taking an ominous step toward his apparently helpless 
victim, his sword rising. 

It was just what Gimli had hoped he would do.  With a final surge of his 
remaining strength, Gimli brought his axe up and swung with all his might.

Malek saw the blade swinging toward him and jumped back quickly, but not in time 
to avoid Gimli’s axe cutting a deep groove through the dark flesh of his side. 
He hissed in pain and fury, glaring down at the dwarf he had thought defeated.  

It was Gimli’s turn to grin, and he was once more on his feet and advancing with 
no sign of stumbling, enjoying the enraged expression on the creature’s face 
when Malek realized that he had been tricked.   

“Time to die, dwarf,” Malek hissed, raising his sword and beginning his own 
advance.  

Gimli had little doubt that he was about to die, for the wound on Malek’s side 
was already beginning to close in on itself, and the creature’s movements were 
as swift and graceful as ever.  Still, he managed to lift his axe proudly, 
spitting at the feet of his advancing enemy in a last show of defiance.  He 
tensed his body and prepared to spring forward to meet Malek, determined to do 
as much damage as he could before the end.

He never got the opportunity however, for a sudden blinding flash of light 
roared past him, its force actually picking him up and flinging him several 
yards backwards to land in a dazed heap.  A thousand dazzling lights exploded 
across his vision, and the roar that filled his ears was deafening.  Pain 
assailed all his senses and as he slowly slipped toward blackness, his last 
thought was one of intense remorse.

‘Lightning!  After all this, to die from lightning!  Such a pity…’ 
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………


Chapter 25         Light of Eärendil  

“Gimli?”

The voice came as if from a great distance, cutting through the blackness and 
jarring into his semiconscious mind like a spear through a ripe melon.

“Gimli, you must wake!  Come, my friend, show me some life.”

Gimli moaned.  At least, he tried to moan, but his vocal chords no longer seemed 
to be obeying his mind’s commands.  His eyes also were rebelling against him, 
for as hard as he tried, he could not seem to get them open.  It seemed as if a 
great, numbing blanket had settled over his body, and he wished for nothing more 
than to give into its weight and drift back into the painless comfort of 
nothingness.

The voice would not let him.  That nagging, incessant voice that had been 
calling to him for what seemed an eternity!  Gimli tried even harder to press 
his mind into consciousness, if for no other reason that to shut up the voice!

“Gimli, if you do not wake, I shall shave your beard and turn your armor pink!”

It was the last straw.  With a gigantic effort of will, Gimli forced his eyes 
open and glared up at the figure bending over him.

“You wouldn’t dare!”  he growled, even as he tried to fight off the waves of 
nausea and pain that crashed down on him.  His eyes refused to focus, and there 
were three Aragorns looking down at him, each one nothing but a blur, but that 
did not stop Gimli from glaring at all of them.

“Ahh, so there is some life left in you after all,” Aragorn said wryly, his 
voice sounding distant, as if it were coming to Gimli through a heavy fog.

Gimli grimaced, trying desperately to focus his eyes and watching as Aragorn’s 
three heads slowly melted back into one.  “What happened,” he asked, breathing 
deeply and trying to summon the energy to push himself upright.

“You were knocked unconscious,” Aragorn answered, reaching forward and helping 
Gimli maneuver into a sitting position.  His tone was half worried and half 
angry, and as Gimli focused on him, he saw the same odd mix on the man’s face.

He glanced around him, ignoring his dizziness and trying to collect his 
scattered thoughts and summon some memory of what had happened to him.  It did 
not take long for everything to come crashing back, and he jerked himself 
further upright, his hands desperately searching for his axe.

“Malek,” he gasped, his eyes searching through the nighttime darkness and 
shadows cast from the fires along the wall.  There was no sign of Malek 
anywhere, and no sign of any orcs either, at least, no live orcs, and he frowned 
in confusion.

“Gone,” Aragorn said calmly, placing a strong hand on the dwarf’s shoulder to 
steady him.  “He has retreated along with all his orc army and will not trouble 
us further this night.”

“Gone,” Gimli repeated, still confused.  He glanced toward the eastern horizon, 
half expecting to see the light of dawn, and frowning when there was only 
darkness.  “How long have I been unconscious?” he asked slowly, eyeing Aragorn 
suspiciously.

“A matter of minutes,” Aragorn answered immediately, returning Gimli’s look with 
one of his own.

Gimli frowned.  “If that is the case, it is still hours until sunrise.  Why 
would Malek retreat so early?”

Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, a sudden 
realization struck Gimli, causing him to snap his fingers loudly.

“The lightning,” he gasped, watching Aragorn’s face carefully for confirmation. 
 “The lightning,” he repeated, “It got him, didn’t it!”  His voice was filled 
with excitement, but also no small amount of disappointment.  Oh, how he longed 
to drive his axe into the heart of Malek, and the thought of lightning stealing 
that joy from him was somewhat disturbing.

Aragorn shook his head.  “It was not lightning,” he answered easily, “and yes, 
it did get him.  Not hard enough to cause serious or lasting damage, but enough 
to cause him to retreat for the night and take his foul army with him.  We have 
been given several extra hours, and I suggest we find the best way to put them 
to use.  That is, if you have finished your little nap.”

Surprisingly, Gimli offered no retort to Aragorn’s words.  He was still busy 
trying to mull through what his friend had told him.  “Not lightning,” he 
whispered, his brow wrinkled in thought.  “If it was not lightning, what…” he 
trailed off, comprehension dawning.  “Gandalf!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening. 
 “Gandalf was the one that blasted me!?”  It was more a statement than a 
question, and Gimli’s voice was outraged.

“Blasted Malek,” Aragorn corrected, his voice still annoyingly calm.  “You just 
happened to be a little too close.”

Gimli grumbled a curse loudly, glaring at Aragorn.  “He almost killed me,” he 
huffed, and would have continued, but Aragorn cut him off.

“He saved your life!” the ex-ranger replied sharply, his eyes flashing 
dangerously.  “Going after Malek on your own was not the wisest thing you have 
ever done, Gimli.  In fact, I would dare to say it was the most unwise.  What 
where you thinking?  You knew, at least should have known, that you could not 
hope to win against him.  Have you gone utterly and completely mad!?”

Aragorn was not shouting, but he came close.  Gimli did not answer him right 
away, partly because he didn’t know what to say, and partly because he was taken 
off guard by his friend’s obvious anger.  It was true, he knew.  The anger and 
battle rage had taken control of him at the sight of Malek, and he had thought 
of nothing other than revenge upon the one who had caused so much pain to his 
friends, Legolas in particular.  Now, with Malek gone, the mad rage that had 
controlled him had also gone, leaving him with the realization of just how 
foolish his actions had been.  Still, he could not rid his mind of his single 
instant of triumph, when his axe had sunk deep into Malek’s black flesh!  Even 
the knowledge that Malek would quickly heal from the strike did not steal away 
the grim satisfaction that the dwarf had felt!

“My mistake,” Gimli finally admitted with a shrug.

Aragorn sighed, the anger draining from his face as he sat back and studied the 
dwarf’s battered form.  It was obvious that Gimli’s statement was the closest 
thing to an apology that he would receive.  

“Let us get off this field and find Gandalf and the others,” Aragorn finally 
said, reaching forward and attempting to help Gimli to his feet.  “It is time we 
come up with our own plan concerning Malek, and he has kindly given us some 
extra time in which to do this.”

Gimli couldn’t have agreed more.  However, as he was hauled to his feet, a wave 
of pain and nausea struck him hard, causing him to sway unsteadily and moan 
loudly. His head felt as if it was about to burst.

Aragorn quickly steadied him, holding him upright until most of the dizziness 
had passed.

Gimli reached up and gently rubbed the back of his head, wincing as his fingers 
encountered a sticky wetness matting his hair.  When he brought his hand back 
down, it shone darkly with blood.  “I think I must have landed on my head,” he 
muttered softly, looking around him and grimacing when he spotted his smashed 
helm lying several feet away.

“Then it is a good thing that dwarves have such hard heads,” Aragorn answered 
lightly, still holding Gimli steady, but moving behind him to examine the wound 
on his own, “or else your brains would be scattered all over this field right at 
the moment.”

“Are you sure they aren’t?” Gimli muttered, wincing yet again at Aragorn’s 
gently probing fingers.

“Yes,” Aragorn answered, “but the gash on your head is deep, and will need 
tending, as well as all your other wounds. Come my friend, let us waste no more 
time here.”

Gimli nodded, but had only taken two shaky steps when he collapsed against 
Aragorn, blackness once again closing in on him.  He distantly heard Aragorn 
sigh, and felt strong arms close about him a second before everything went dark.

*****

“He looks so pale,” Sam whispered softly, staring down into the still face of 
Legolas lying on the bed before him.  Frodo stood beside him, but did not 
answer, his eyes sad as he watched his unconscious friend.

“Arwen said he woke about an hour ago,” Sam continued, “but he didn’t seem to 
recognize her, or even know she was there.”

Frodo nodded silently.  “That is what Pippin said he was like during their 
escape,” he whispered softly.  “Gandalf seems to think it will pass, though.”

“I hope so,” Sam muttered.  “I do not like seeing him like this, and I think it 
is driving Gimli crazy.”

Frodo nodded once more, imagining that he could still hear Gimli’s loud 
grumbling and muttering clear on the other side of the house of healing.  
Aragorn had carried the dwarf there, where Arwen now tended him. He was awake 
once more and complaining loudly about anything and everything.  It was plain 
that the dwarf’s frustration was wearing away at his nerves, not to mention the 
nerves of everyone around him.

After delivering Gimli to Arwen, Aragorn had left in search of Faramir and 
Gandalf, and Merry had gone to see if Pippin was awake yet.  Frodo and Sam had 
decided to check in on Legolas, as much to get away from Gimli as for any other 
reason. 

“You know what he reminds me of, Master Frodo,” Sam asked slowly, still staring 
down at Legolas’ pale features.  “He reminds me of you.”

Frodo looked at him in surprise, but Sam only nodded.  “Right after you got 
bitten by that big spider near Cirith Ungul.  When I saw you lying there, as 
pale as anything and not moving, well, I thought for sure that you were dead!”

“Don’t remind me,” Frodo cried, shaking his head fiercely.  “That is a time I 
would just as soon forget.”

“Aye,” Sam said slowly, “me as well, but I fear it is something I will never 
forget.”  He turned to Frodo then, and the sadness in his eyes was almost more 
than his friend could bear.  “I left you there,” he whispered.  “Just left you 
lying there.” 

“You thought I was dead, Sam,” Frodo replied gently.  “You cannot blame 
yourself, for I never did.  There was no way you could have known.”

Sam was shaking his head.  “But I did know, Master Frodo.  At least, I should 
have.  When I took your phial out, the one from the lady Galadriel, you looked 
so peaceful in its light, as if you were merely sleeping.  I should have known 
then that you were still alive, but I just didn’t understand it until it was too 
late.”

Frodo shook his head helplessly, unable to come up with anything to say that 
would comfort Sam.  It was obvious that this was a burden the hobbit had been 
carrying deep within himself for quite some time, and Frodo only hoped that 
talking about it might clear Sam of some of the guilt he seemed to feel.

Silence fell between the two for several long minutes before Sam suddenly jerked 
upright, turning to Frodo with an excited look.  “That’s it!” the hobbit 
exclaimed, snapping his fingers.  “The light!”

“What about the light?” Frodo asked, confused.

“Maybe the light in that phial can help Legolas,” Sam explained.  “Arwen said he 
was trapped in darkness, maybe the light will help bring him out!”  

It took Frodo a couple of seconds to figure out what Sam was talking about, but 
when it finally dawned on him, he too sat up excitedly.  “It might just work,” 
he whispered slowly.  

“It most certainly won’t hurt to try,” Sam commented, watching Frodo closely.  
“Did you bring it with you?”

Frodo nodded.  “It is up with the rest of my stuff at the mayor’s house,” he 
told Sam.  “You stay here, and I will go and get it.”

Sam agreed, and Frodo quickly left the room, and then the building, striding 
swiftly up the dark streets toward the mayor’s large house.  He guessed that 
dawn was still close to an hour away, and when he finally reached the house, he 
paused in the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the almost pitch black inside 
the building before pushing forward into the gloom.  He found the room he had 
been sharing with Sam easily enough, and with a single wistful glance to the 
bed, he moved to where his and Sam’s packs lay discarded in one corner.  He 
fished around in his until he found the small compartment he had sown to the 
back of the pack.  Opening the pocket, he pulled out a small pouch and stuffed 
it inside his tunic before rising and leaving the building once more.

When he re-entered the room, Sam leapt up to meet him, and the two walked over 
to the bed, looking down once more at Legolas’ too pale features.  

“Let’s try it then,” Frodo whispered, pulling the pouch from his tunic and 
undoing the strings holding it shut.  The two hobbits shared one last hopeful 
look, before Frodo tipped the small pouch and let the contents fall into his 
hand.

The small phial glittered and twinkled mysteriously for a few long seconds, then 
slowly began to brighten, its white light spreading through the room.  Shadows 
fled before the dazzling light, and the single low burning lamp beside the bed 
seemed weak and dim when compared to the bright glow of Eärendil’s star.

Frodo and Sam watched in wonder, hypnotized by the unique beauty of the phial.  
Sam nudged Frodo lightly and pointed toward the bed, and Frodo smiled and 
nodded.

Legolas did indeed look better, for instead of making him look paler, the white 
light seemed to enhance the color of his skin, bringing out a slight flush to 
the high cheekbones.  Even as the two watched, they imagined a slight flutter of 
Legolas’ closed lids, and they both leaned closer, praying the elf would wake.  
However, several more minutes passed with no movement from the prone form, and 
Frodo and Sam at last sat back, their disappointed sighs echoing through the 
silence of the room.

Frodo moved to replace the phial in its pouch, when a sudden loud gasp from the 
doorway caused both of them to spin around.  They had not heard the door open.

The small boy, Dar, stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with wonder and his 
mouth hanging open.  He clutched the open doorway in one hand, while the other 
covered his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. He seemed unable to tear his gaze 
from the bright light emanating from Frodo’s closed fist.

“Hello, Dar,” Frodo called quietly, and as the boy’s gaze snapped to his own, he 
slipped the phial back into his pouch.  The sudden gloom that fell over the room 
caused all three of them to gasp in surprise and blink rapidly to clear their 
vision.

“Hello,” Dar finally answered slowly, moving fully into the room and shutting 
the door behind him.  He stood regarding Frodo and Sam intently, his hands 
twisting and gripping his shirt, and his eyes shining brightly.

“Come to see Legolas, have you?” Sam asked cheerfully, motioning Dar over to the 
bed.

The boy moved slowly, nodding his head, but his eyes remained glued to the small 
pouch in Frodo’s hand.  He reached the bed, and at last glanced away to look 
down at Legolas.  His youthful face immediately scrunched up in a frown, and he 
gripped an edge of the blanket tightly in his fist.  “He doesn’t look too good.” 
 He commented softly, causing Frodo and Sam to exchange surprised looks.

“Legolas is very sick right now, Dar,” Sam said gently.  “But elves are also 
very strong.  Don’t worry, he will be up and about before you know it.”

Dar nodded, and his eyes strayed once more to the pouch lying in Frodo’s lap.  
“What is that?” he finally asked, obviously unable to contain his curiosity any 
longer.

Frodo glanced at Sam, who merely shrugged, before turning back to Dar.  “It is a 
gift,” he explained slowly.  “Something that was given to me by the Lady of the 
Wood.”

Frodo had not expected Dar to know whom he was speaking of, but by the sudden 
stiffening of the lad’s body, and the gleam in his eyes, he guessed that Dar 
might know more than he thought.

“The Lady of the Wood?” Dar gasped, his eyes going as round as saucers.  “Is it 
magic then?”

“It’s Elven,” Frodo replied, as if that was the only answer needed.  “It is the 
light of one of their stars, set amidst the water of their land.  It is very 
powerful.”

“Can I see it again,” Dar begged, “please?”  

Frodo shrugged, and once more removed the phial from the small pouch.  The 
bright light returned in full, and not a shadow was left in the room.

“It’s very beautiful,” Dar commented, unable to stare directly at the blinding 
light.

Frodo smiled at him, and then held the phial out toward Dar.  “Would you like to 
hold it?” he offered, grinning wider at the delighted look in the boy’s eyes.

Dar reached forward and reverently took the phial from Frodo’s hand, his face 
ecstatic.  Frodo allowed him to hold it for a several minutes before finally 
retrieving it and dropping it back into the pouch.

“Thank you,” Dar said politely, his eyes shining brightly.  “I had better go 
now.  My dad doesn’t know where I am, and he will probably be looking for me.  
Wait until I tell him.”

“Goodbye, Dar,” Frodo and Sam called after him as the boy raced to the door and 
yanked it open.  He waved back carelessly over his shoulder, then charged 
through the door, nearly knocking over Merry and Pippin, who had been about to 
enter.  Yelling back an apology, he disappeared down the hall.

“What was that all about?” Merry asked as he walked into the room.

“Come on you two,” Pippin called from where he still stood in the hallway.  
“Merry and I are going to find some breakfast, you want to come along?”

“That is a dumb question,” Sam mumbled good naturedly, already heading towards 
the door.

“You don’t have to ask us twice,” Frodo agreed, joining his companions in the 
hall, and shutting the door quietly behind him.  The four friends started off 
down the hall, arguing about the best breakfast meal Sam had ever prepared.

Back in the room, Legolas shifted slightly, the fingers of one hand fluttering 
softly before he once more lay still.

*******

Dar found his father down near the southern gate of the city, and the lad wasted 
no time in telling his father everything about the small crystal phial, and its 
powerful magic.  Kenson listened patiently, allowing his son to rattle on and on 
for several long minutes before he finally dropped to one knee before the boy.

“That is a very interesting story, son,” he told Dar fondly, reaching out and 
ruffling the lad’s hair, “And I would love to hear more about it, but right now, 
I have a lot of work to do.”

Dar’s small face scrunched up in disappointment, and he let out a loud sigh.  
“When is this whole thing going to be over?” he asked grumpily, his shoulders 
slumping.  “I want things to go back to normal now.”

“I do as well,” Kenson replied honestly, “But right now, there is a very bad 
creature leading the orcs to attack us, and until he is defeated, we must 
continue to fight.”

“Why don’t you just kill him?” Dar asked simply, his face puzzled.

“I wish it were as easy as that,” an amused voice spoke up from behind the pair, 
and Kenson immediately jumped to his feet and bowed low to Aragorn.

“My lord,” he gasped. “I am sorry, but I did not hear your approach.”

Aragorn waved away his apology, a small smile briefly flashing across his grim 
features.

“Why isn’t it?”  Dar asked, and both men looked down at him, confused for a 
second before remembering what the lad was speaking of.

“The creature leading the orcs is very evil and very powerful,” Aragorn 
explained gently.

“I bet my dad could beat him,” Dar boasted proudly, “He can beat anything.”

“I am sure you are right,” Aragorn replied seriously, and Kenson shifted 
uncomfortably.  “But you see, this creature is not normal.  He cannot be killed 
at night, and is powerful beyond anything you could imagine.”

“You mean he is immortal?” Dar asked, confused.

“Invincible,” Aragorn corrected, “And only at night, for he is a dark creature. 
 He hates light, for it steals his strength and leaves him weak and pathetic.”

Dar nodded slowly.  “I do not think he would like Mister Frodo’s star very much 
then.” he commented lightly.

Aragorn frowned slightly and shook his head.  “What do you mean, Mister Frodo’s 
star?” he asked slowly.

Dar brightened, having found a new audience to whom to tell his tale.  “He said 
it was a gift from the Lady of the Wood,” he explained excitedly.  “It’s a star, 
and it gives off a beautiful white light.  He even let me hold it!  It lit up 
the entire room just like it was day!”

“Dar,” Kenson began, intending to send his son away, but he stopped suddenly 
when he saw the expression on Aragorn’s face.

“What is it, my lord?” he asked worriedly, but Aragorn did not respond.  The 
ex-ranger whirled suddenly and grabbed a passing soldier by the arm, startling 
the man.

“Go and find Faramir and Gandalf,” Aragorn ordered the surprised man.  “Tell 
them to meet me at the Mayor’s house.”

The soldier nodded quickly, and Aragorn released him, turning back to Kenson and 
Dar.  There was an excited look in his eyes, and a wide smile on his face.  He 
dropped to his knees in front of a startled Dar and reached out to grip the 
lad’s shoulders tightly.

“Thank you,” he said softly.  “Thank you so much.”

****

Dawn was just beginning to lighten the horizon over Calembel, as Aragorn, 
Gandalf, Faramir, Gimli, and the four hobbits gathered together in the spacious 
room that had served as the office of Merton Fallow Candywell III.  Kenson 
Brantz had unexpectedly been invited to attend the meeting, and he stood 
awkwardly in one corner, obviously feeling out of place within the group of 
friends.  A tense excitement filled the air as all waited for Aragorn to reveal 
why he had called them together.

At the moment, both Aragorn and Gandalf stood at the far end of the office, 
speaking quietly together, and apparently completely oblivious to the seven sets 
of eyes that watched them intently.  The tension and excited anticipation within 
the room had risen quite high before Aragorn at last turned from Gandalf and 
strode toward the rest of the companions, smiling slightly at their eager and 
expectant faces.

“I believe our waiting is finally at an end,” he began softly, eying each of his 
companions in turn.  “I think the solution to our problem has at last been 
found.”

Gimli leaned forward in his chair, his face excited and his hand clenching 
tightly around the hilt of his axe.  “You have come up with a plan?” he asked 
eagerly.  “A plan to destroy Malek?”

“The beginnings of a plan,” Aragorn answered slowly.  

“The beginnings?” Gimli asked with a frown, his voice confused.

“Yes, the beginnings” Aragorn repeated, smiling down at the dwarf.  “That is why 
you are all here.  To help me figure out some of the finer…details.”

“Perhaps you should tell us what this plan is,” Pippin stated quietly, unable to 
hold back any longer.

“I could tell you,” Aragorn answered slyly, “yet I would prefer to show you.”  
He turned to Frodo then, and arched a questioning eyebrow.  “Did you bring it?” 
he asked simply.

Frodo nodded and reached a hand within his tunic.  He alone, besides Gandalf, 
knew at least part of what Aragorn planned, for the ex-ranger had already met 
with him, and they had talked long.

All eyes had now turned to Frodo, eying him curiously, and at Aragorn’s slight 
nod, he withdrew his hand from his tunic.  In it, he held the small crystal 
phial given to him by the lady Galadriel, glittering and emitting rays of white 
light that twirled and shimmered around the room in a hypnotizing dance.

“Eärendil’s star,” Aragorn whispered softly into the ensuing awed silence.  “It 
shines brightest when things are darkest.  It is to be our last hope, the means 
with which to fight the evil that is Malek.”

No one spoke, and it seemed almost as if the companions in the room were caught 
in a spell cast by the tiny crystal object.  At last, Aragorn nodded to Frodo, 
and the hobbit returned the phial to the small pocket on the inside of his 
tunic.  Without the star’s light, the room seemed dark and gloomy, despite the 
early morning sunlight streaming in though the many sets of windows around the 
office.

“For many days, I have been trying to figure out a way to lure Malek from his 
underground cave and into the light of day.”  Aragorn continued, his voice 
hushed, as if reluctant to break the reverent silence that encompassed the room. 
 “Now, however, I realize I have been going about it the wrong way.  Why try to 
bring Malek into the light, when we can bring the light, to Malek?”

“Will it be strong enough?”

The question came from Gimli, who at last managed to tear his eyes from where 
the small phial had disappeared inside Frodo’s tunic.

It was Gandalf who answered.  “It will be strong enough,” the wizard replied, 
calm assurance filling his voice.  “With this, even the black of night will be 
unable to protect Malek.  He will be weakened and unable to withstand our 
attacks.”

“So, now we have the means to destroy Malek,” Aragorn stated boldly, “Now all we 
have to figure out is where and when.”

“Why not wait until Malek attacks us tonight, and then confront him with the 
light?” Faramir suggested.  “Once you destroy him, the orcs will most likely 
scatter.”

Aragorn was already shaking his head before the Steward even finished.  “If we 
confront Malek during the battle, there is too great a chance of his slipping 
away and escaping us.  Either that, or calling his orcs to his aid before we can 
finish him off.  We will have only one chance at this, one chance to take Malek 
by surprise.  We cannot risk any possibility that he might escape.”

“What do you suggest then?” Gimli grunted, eying Aragorn shrewdly.

“We must confront Malek in an area where we can trap him, keep him from running. 
 Also, where the light of Earendil will shine the brightest and do the most 
damage.”  Aragorn glanced around at the faces staring at him questioningly.  
“The most likely place will be within his cave.  It is time we bring the battle 
to Malek!”

Shocked silence fell, but did not last long.

“Are you suggesting that we attack Malek and his army at their lair?” Faramir 
asked, a slight frown marring his handsome features and his eyes doubtful. 

“That’s impossible,” Pippin blurted out, his eyes wide and his face pale at the 
thought of returning to the place where he had gone through so much torment.  
“To get to Malek, you would have to get past thousands of orcs,” he reasoned 
stiffly, trying to hide the slight quiver in his voice.  “There would be no 
surprise, and I doubt we would even manage to reach Malek before we would all be 
cut down!  It would be suicide,” he finished haltingly, beginning to feel 
slightly embarrassed by all the eyes on him.  His hand went unconsciously to the 
freshly healing cuts along one side of his face, and he could not hide his 
sudden shudder.

“Easy, Pippin,” Aragorn said calmly, giving the young hobbit an encouraging 
smile.  “I have no intention of facing Malek with all of his orcs around.  Malek 
chose his lair well, and a mere handful of orcs could defend it against our army 
easily, while the rest of the beasts circled around behind us and cut us off. We 
will just have to find a way to separate him from his army.”  His voice was 
calm, despite the enormity of the task he was now suggesting.

“That will prove to be no easy task,” Gandalf pointed out quietly, watching 
Aragorn closely.

“I may have an idea,” Aragorn replied, “yet I need more information before I 
will know whether or not it will work.”  He suddenly turned to Kenson, the 
bright gleam in his eyes causing the man to give a slight start.  “Captain, how 
well do you know the land around the mountains?”

Kenson cleared his throat, straightening and trying to shake off his surprise at 
being addressed.  “I know the land quite well, my lord,” he answered 
immediately, not taking his eyes from Aragorn’s.  “I grew up here, and the 
mountains were like a back yard to me when I was a lad, and I have traveled 
through them often with the merchants.”

“Awful big back yard,” Sam muttered under his breath, and Kenson shot him a 
quick smile.

“Do you know of any area where a smaller army might be able to hold off a 
larger?” Aragorn asked without pause, ignoring the small exchange.

“You mean to leave the city?” Gimli gasped, hardly daring to believe what he was 
hearing.

Aragorn replied with a grim smile.  “As I said, it is time we bring the battle 
to Malek.”

“Yes,” Gimli spluttered, “but what could we possibly gain from such a desperate 
act.”

Aragorn gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.  “I do not now,” he answered 
honestly, “yet,” he finished.   “The act is indeed desperate, and Malek will no 
doubt believe it merely the last futile attempts of a defeated army.  If we play 
our positions right, we may be able to use this to our advantage.

Gimli shook his head, obviously not convinced by Aragorn’s reasoning, but he 
said nothing more.

Aragorn turned back to Kenson, arching a questioning eyebrow and repeating his 
earlier question.

Kenson nodded slowly, though he plainly did not understand where Aragorn was 
leading with his line of questioning.  “There is one area where what you speak 
of can be accomplished.” he answered slowly, his eyes distant.  “Several miles 
northeast of here, where the river Ciril begins its cut through the mountain.  
The land around the river is mostly a maze of high canyons, where ambushes can 
be easily set, and were a small force can hold off a larger as long as they know 
well the area they choose to fight in.”

“And how well do you know this area?” Aragorn asked quickly, his expression 
telling the others that an idea had come to the ex-ranger.

“As well as any,” Kenson answered quickly.  “I traveled through the canyons 
often with my father as a child, and though the merchants usually choose to 
avoid them, I have also traversed them as an adult.”

“Tell me of them,” Aragorn ordered, “Everything that you can remember.”

Kenson complied, speaking of the high walls and many mazelike passageways 
cutting through the caverns.  He told Aragorn everything that he could recall, 
and when he had finally finished, the ex-ranger sat back with a small sigh and a 
very thoughtful expression on his face. 

The others watched him closely, the four hobbits exchanging shrugs and confused 
looks.  At last, Aragorn leaned forward, a strange but familiar light glowing in 
his eyes.

“I think I have a plan,” he stated quietly.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………


Chapter 26      Desperate Plans  

Aragorn stood tall and relaxed on the north wall of Calembel, allowing the early 
afternoon sun to bathe his face in calming warmth.  There was much to do, but 
for this fleeting moment, he allowed his body to rest, and his mind to briefly 
work free of the tangle of plans and details that had crowded his thoughts for 
so long.  It felt good to merely stand, without moving or thinking, allowing the 
gentle breeze to ruffle his dark hair, and when he finally forced his body back 
into action, he somehow felt rested and revitalized.  His thoughts turned back 
to the task at hand, and the relaxed set of his features once more transformed 
into a hard and determined grimace.  He knew that night would be coming all too 
soon, and there was still much to be set in place if his plan was to have any 
chance of success.

The plan.  Aragorn had gone over it time and again within his mind, smoothing 
out the fine edges and searching for any weak points.  Unfortunately, he had 
found all too many, but there was simply nothing to be done about it.  The city 
was on its last legs, and something had to be done fast if there was to be any 
hope of survival.  The plan was the last desperate act of an army that was 
swiftly running out of time and hope.  Legolas was out of the action, both he 
and Gimli were wounded and quickly losing strength, and all the others were 
nearing collapse from exhaustion.  One way or another, Aragorn knew that this 
night’s action would see an end to it once and for all.

Still, he could not keep the doubts from crowding in on him, nor the heavy 
responsibility he felt toward his people from crushing down on him.  He had 
spent several hours this morning with Gandalf, Gimli, Faramir, and Kenson, 
pouring over maps and working out the final details of the plan he had laid out 
before them.  He knew that his friends stood firmly behind him, though they knew 
as well as he all that could go wrong, yet the overall responsibility of success 
or defeat would fall on him.

His plan was simple, yet at the same time, somehow terribly complicated, 
requiring split second timing, dangerous maneuvers, and no small amount of 
courage and luck on the part of the defenders.  It was a plan that rode a fine 
line between success and defeat, and only the fates knew on what side of this 
line the desperate defenders would ultimately fall.  Yet, despite the dangers, 
if carried out correctly, it would see not only the defeat of Malek, but the 
destruction of his orc army as well. 

“My lord!”

Aragorn turned at the call, watching as a young soldier scrambled up the wall 
and hurried toward him.  

“What do you have to report?” Aragorn asked when the young man at last reached 
him, red faced and puffing for breath.

“Captain Kenson has returned from the canyons, my lord,” the soldier replied 
hurriedly. “He reports that everything is in place, and he is ready to lead the 
force there whenever you order.”

Aragorn nodded, smiling slightly at the quick efficiency of the merchant 
captain.  “Tell him he may begin his preparations, but that I wish to speak with 
him before he leaves.”

The soldier nodded, then quickly bowed and departed at a run.  He had not even 
faded from sight before Aragorn was once more hailed from behind.

“My lord.”

Aragorn turned to face the new messenger, this one a bit older than the last, 
but in no less of a hurry. 

“Lord Faramir bid me tell you that he and his men are ready and wish to depart 
as soon as possible.  They wish to learn the land where they will fight before 
night approaches.”

For the second time, Aragorn nodded.  “Tell him to proceed,” he stated simply, 
and the soldier bowed and also departed at a run.

Everyone was running today, or so it seemed.  An excited air filled the city, 
and no one had escaped its influence.  Except for the officers, few of the 
soldiers knew the details of the plan beyond their immediate role, yet they were 
no less affected then any others.  

“My lord.”

For the third time in less than five minutes, Aragorn heard the call from behind 
him, yet this time, instead of rushed and urgent, the voice was soft and gentle. 
 Aragorn smiled and turned, opening his arms to Arwen and pulling her tightly to 
his chest.  He bent down and laid a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“My lady,” he responded to her greeting, his voice soft and slightly teasing.  
“I have missed you.”

“And I you,” she responded lightly, turning within his embrace to look up at 
him.  “It seems the only time I see you anymore is if you or one of your 
adventurous companions are in need of my healing skills.”

Aragorn smiled down at her wistfully.  “I wish I could spend every minute of 
every day beside you, my love,” he whispered softly, “yet I hold a 
responsibility to this city and…”

Arwen cut him off by reaching up and laying a finger across his lips, the bright 
twinkle in her eyes telling him that his explanations were not needed.  “I 
know,” she said simply, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head 
against his firm chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart.

Aragorn merely held her against him tightly, stroking her smooth hair and 
allowing her to relax against him.  At last, Arwen pulled back from Aragorn and 
began looking him up and down, her eyes going from his bandaged arm to his weary 
and pale face.  She frowned slightly, and Aragorn almost laughed out loud at the 
small pucker in her lips.

“Do not pout at me, my love,” he said teasingly.  “I am tired, yet I still have 
enough strength left in me to do what needs to be done.  Do not worry.”

Arwen did not respond except for a small shake of her head, her large eyes 
unreadable.   This scene was nothing new between them, and any arguments she 
might have had for him had been used up long ago.

“How is Legolas?” Aragorn asked, attempting to change the subject and switch 
Arwen’s attention from himself.

“He is doing well,” Arwen answered after throwing Aragorn an all too knowing 
look.  “His physical wounds are healing quickly and I expect he will wake soon. 
 Gimli is with him now.”

Aragorn nodded, pleased with the news.  “Walk with me?” he offered, holding his 
arm out for Arwen to grasp.  “I must go and meet with Kenson Brantz, and I will 
be glad of your company.”

Arwen nodded, and the two began to walk slowly toward the nearest ramp that 
would lead down from the wall and into the city streets that seemed strangely 
quiet and empty.

“Where are all the soldiers?” Arwen asked curiously.

“Most are down by the north gate with Kenson, preparing to head into the 
canyons” Aragorn responded.  “The rest have already departed with Faramir.  All 
that are left are the ones who will be remaining here in the city.”

Arwen nodded, and they walked on in silence for a while before Aragorn again 
spoke.

“When will you begin to move the injured down to the docks?” he asked.

“Soon,” Arwen responded.  “Yet I hope it will prove to be unnecessary.”

“As do I,” Aragorn assured her.  “Yet the city will be virtually defenseless, 
and if Faramir fails in his task and the orcs come here, I would prefer that 
they find nothing but stone and wood.”

“You do not truly think that Faramir will fail?” Arwen stated as much as asked.

“No,” Aragorn responded, “yet I intend to take no risks.  Things have gone well 
so far, and both Kenson and Faramir are well prepared for the tasks before them, 
yet that does not mean that nothing can go wrong.”

“And what of you?” Arwen asked suddenly, squeezing his hand tightly.  “Are you 
and the others prepared for your part in all of this?”

“We are prepared,” Aragorn answered firmly, then started in surprise when Arwen 
snorted at the reply.

“Prepared,” she said hotly.  “One old wizard who admits his powers are weakened, 
four hobbits who are better suited for eating than for fighting, a dwarf who 
should be flat on his back, and a king who has not slept in days, all going up 
against an evil creature who’s sole desire is to destroy them, and you believe 
that you are prepared?”

Aragorn stared at her in surprise.  “I think that the hobbits have proved…” he 
began, but Arwen cut him off.

“I am not speaking of the hobbits,” she whispered. “I am speaking of me!”

Aragorn stared at her, now completely confused.

“I wish I was going with you,” Arwen said, her eyes filled with sadness.

“As do I,” Aragorn answered, though it was not completely the truth.  Though he 
loved having Arwen at his side, he would never like the idea of her in danger, 
even with the knowledge that she was more than able to take care of herself.

Arwen let out a low laugh, as if reading his thoughts.  “Ignore me, my love,” 
she said sadly.  “I have spoken out of place, and I apologize.  I hold complete 
faith in you and the others.”  She stopped suddenly, pulling Aragorn to a halt 
beside her.

“I must go,” she stated abruptly, and Aragorn wondered briefly if he had somehow 
angered her.  “We shall be moving the injured soldiers soon, and I wish to be 
there to help.”  She stepped forward and quickly embraced Aragorn, kissing him 
briefly but passionately, before turning and gracefully striding back up the 
narrow streets.

Aragorn watched her go, trying to sort through his conflicting emotions.  At 
last he sighed and turned back down the road.   Kenson was waiting for him, and 
Aragorn had kept him too long already.  His phase of the plan would not require 
him to leave the city until near nightfall, and he resolved that he would find 
time to speak with Arwen again before that time.  Right now, he had other things 
to worry about.

******

“I wish you would wake, Legolas.”

Gimli’s voice, instead of being rough and harsh, was surprisingly calm and 
gently, and strangely resigned.  He stood over Legolas, staring down at his 
friend as if expecting the elf to immediately respond to his wish and wake up.

“We would make an unbeatable pair, you and I,” Gimli continued softly after 
several minutes of silence.  “Malek would not stand a chance!”

Again, Gimli paused, his eyes distant as memories of past battles beside the elf 
returned to him.  They had truly been an unbeatable pair, and Gimli now found 
himself wondering sadly if he would ever fight beside his dearest friend again. 
 Even if he somehow survived the coming battle with Malek, would Legolas survive 
the black shadow that encompassed his soul?  And if he survived, would he ever 
be the same?  

Gimli felt his heart clench painfully at this line of questioning, and he 
realized that he would do anything to see that it was so.  He would stand beside 
Legolas, and if the elf did not have the strength to break free of this shadow, 
then Gimli would give him his strength.  He would not allow Malek to destroy his 
dearest friend!

“He shall pay for what he has done to us.” Gimli muttered softly, as much to 
himself as to the figure on the bed.  His voice was hard, and he clenched the 
haft of his axe, and wicked gleam entering his eyes.  He was determined to stand 
by Legolas, but first he had to deal with the creature that had so hurt his 
friend in the first place.

“Have no fear, Legolas,” Gimli whispered softly, “he shall not escape my axe 
again!”

He glanced down to the bed once more.

“And I expect you to be awake by the time I get back!” he huffed, reaching 
forward and  clasping Legolas’ hand tightly, imagining for a brief second that 
he felt a slight squeeze of response from the slender fingers.  Yet he knew this 
was most likely only his wishful thinking, and with a soft grunt, he turned and 
silently left the room.

*******

Faramir sat still and silent atop a high rise, his watchful gaze sweeping over 
the narrow valley below him.  The high peaks of the Ered Nimrais rose 
majestically directly to his left, offering partial protection against the chill 
evening wind.  The last rays of sunlight were just disappearing from view, 
casting the valley into shadow and turning the boulders and outcroppings into 
indistinct shapes.

Faramir needed no light as he continued his study, for everything he needed to 
know was in his head, impressed in his mind like some topographical map.  He 
knew where each boulder lay, where each tree grew, the narrowest and widest 
section of the valley, and even the slightest dip or swerve in the terrain.  It 
was all memorized, and he had little doubt that he could walk down the hill and 
through the valley in the darkest of night without even stubbing a toe.  He and 
his men had spent all afternoon getting to know the area, and Faramir at last 
felt satisfied that everything was in place.

Beneath him, his horse let out a soft whiney and stamped its foot impatiently.  
Faramir reached down and patted the creature’s soft neck, whispering soothingly. 
 Behind him, nearly five hundred soldiers sat atop their mounts, their heads 
cocked toward the mountains and their hands gripping weapons nervously.  He had 
warned them all to remain alert and watchful, and to keep their ears open for 
the first sounds of the approaching orc army.  Faramir had no worries that the 
orcs would sneak up on them, but he wanted his men to be ready.

The loud cry of a hunting night bird caused Faramir to glance upward.  He noted 
with grim satisfaction that the sky was cloudless and that the bright shine of 
the moon and stars would aid in the night’s task.  They would not be fighting 
completely blind.

A distant horn shattered the silence of the night, startling the soldiers and 
their mounts.  Behind him, Faramir heard more than one sword ring free of its 
scabbard.  He smiled grimly, then motioned to one of his captains, signaling 
that the soldiers should spread out and conceal themselves behind the rise and 
wait for his signal.  They did so quietly and quickly with the ease of practiced 
soldiers, and Faramir was pleased.  The first phase of Aragorn’s plan was about 
to begin.

He heard the distant horn again, this time answered by another, closer by.  
Still, nearly an hour passed before the first sounds of the heavy tramp of many 
boots reached the hidden defenders.  Faramir quickly dismounted, moving forward 
to crouch at the very crown of the hill.  Behind him, his men shifted 
restlessly.

The Steward peered into the darkness at the base of the mountains, his hand 
gripping the hilt of his sword as the loud clamor drew closer; the distinct 
sound of orc voices drifting through the night.  Down in the valley, the shadows 
swirled and shifted as the first ranks of the vast orc army began to march 
toward the base of the hill.  Faramir noticed that some of the creatures carried 
torches, but for the most part, the army traveled in darkness.  He gave a 
satisfied grunt, his body tensing in anticipation.  Soon, the first ranks would 
reach the base of the hill directly below him, and the time for action would be 
upon them.

Faramir commanded a force of less than five hundred soldiers, a pitiful army 
when compared to the thousands of orcs marching through the valley below them.  
However, the soldiers’ job was not to stand and fight against the overwhelming 
odds, for they would not stand a chance, but to strike quickly and move away.  
They would use the element of surprise to wreak as much chaos and damage as they 
could before the orcs managed to recover and retaliate.  Once they had gained 
the orcs’ complete attention, they would slowly retreat west, using strike and 
retreat tactics to draw the orcs after them, straight toward the high walled 
canyons where Kenson and his men would be waiting.

Faramir tensed as the first orcs moved into place below him.  He rose and made 
his way quickly and quietly back to his horse.  Swinging into the saddle, he 
reached down and released the clasp holding an intricate silver horn.  Raising 
the horn to his lips, he paused only long enough to wrench his sword free from 
its scabbard, before blowing a single long and clear note; the signal for his 
men to charge.

*******

The orcs were taken completely by surprise as Faramir and his men suddenly 
appeared at the top of the hill, charging down toward them like a rushing wave 
of death, the thunder of their horses’ hooves echoing throughout the valley.  
The startled creatures didn’t even have a chance to draw their weapons before 
the soldiers were upon them, crashing into their ranks and cutting into them 
like a single lethal blade.  Startled cries were soon replaced by anguished 
screams as the first ranks of orcs dissolved into wild chaos.

The orcs who had not yet entered into the valley milled about in confusion, 
unable to see what was happening before them and unwilling to rush blindly 
forward to the aid of their companions.  The loud shrieks of the orcs, along 
with the war cries of the men of Gondor combined to form a deafening cacophony 
that made it seem as though the armies of all of Middle Earth had come down upon 
them.  Disorganized and confused, hundreds of the foul creatures fell dead 
before they even knew what hit them.  The surprise had been complete.

Malek, further back in the ranks, heard the desperate calls of his orcs and 
guessed at what was happening.  His face contorted in rage, and he began 
screaming at his orc captains, ordering them to drive the confused army forward, 
certain that they could overwhelm any force before them.  The captains, 
terrified of the rage of their master, moved quickly to comply, gathering the 
confused orcs together and doing their best to organize a counter attack against 
an enemy they could not see.  

When they at last managed to regain some semblance of order- reforming their 
lines and readying their weapons-they charged forward into the valley directly 
into a scene of absolute chaos.  Dead orcs lay everywhere, and those who had not 
yet fallen ran around wildly, screaming for aid and searching for any escape 
from the deadly trap.

The fresh orc ranks charged forward wildly, enraged, yet their enemy had already 
gone, disappearing back into the night from which they had come, the sound of 
their hoof beats fading into the darkness.

“After them!” Malek screamed, his voice filled with hatred and rage.  He could 
not believe that his enemies had dared leave the protection of their city and 
brave an open attack against him.  Yet just as Aragorn had predicted, he thought 
it no more than the last desperate act of a defeated and hopeless army.  The 
fact that his prey was so near, and so obviously outnumbered spurred him into a 
wild frenzy.  

“I want their blood,” he howled wildly, spurring his bloodthirsty army forward 
without any thought to direction.  They charged on, seemingly always a step 
behind their fleeing enemy, howling with rage whenever the soldiers would turn 
and strike at them before retreating once more.

Malek was no fool, and as the minutes dragged on and the defenders remained 
always one step ahead, goading his army forward, he briefly considered the 
possibility a trap.  He thought about halting his army’s wild chase then, 
splitting his orcs and sending some after the troublesome raiders while the rest 
returned to their course for the city.  He quickly discarded the idea, however, 
confident that his superior numbers could withstand any trap that the desperate 
defenders could have lain for them, and determined to squash the men who had so 
foolishly dared to attack him.  

When the high walls of the canyons came into view, the first flickers of doubt 
entered his mind, and he slowed his pace.  Yet it was too late to stop now.  The 
orcs around him were in a wild frenzy, spotting their evasive prey fleeing just 
out of reach and believing that they would soon be able to trap them against the 
fast flowing waters of the River Ciril.  Nothing could stop their wild rush at 
that moment, and the whole force flowed into the canyon’s first winding 
corridors, crashing blindly ahead, following the dust trail left by the 
soldier’s mounts.

Malek flowed along with them, unable to suppress his rising doubts, yet still 
confident in the invincibility of his forces. Nothing could stand against them.

****

“They are coming, Captain!”

The call rang through the canyon, filled with excitement and anticipation.  
Kenson immediately rose from his crouched position and signaled to the messenger 
that he had heard and understood.  Beside the captain, several of the officers 
also rose and began shifting around nervously.

“Go and take your places,” Kenson ordered calmly, and the soldiers immediately 
dispersed.  The captain glanced around him, his critical eye taking in every 
detail as he checked that all was in readiness.

He stood near the center of a large bowl shaped depression, surrounded on three 
sides by the high walls of the canyons, and on the fourth by the fast flowing 
Ciril.  The bowl contained only two main entrances, one to the south, where he 
could already make out the distant shouts of the approaching orc army, and one 
almost directly across from it, to the north.  The light of the moon reflected 
brightly off the waters of the river, lighting up the bowl with a bright glow.  
Straight before him, spaced along the high walls of the canyons, Kenson could 
just make out the dim silhouettes of the lines of archers.  He glanced toward 
the southern entrance, and though he could not see them, he knew that a large 
force lay concealed just beyond, waiting for the orcs to pass before closing 
from behind and sealing them in.  

The trap was set. All that was needed was for it to be sprung.

Convinced that everything was in place, Kenson turned and raced for the north 
entrance, pulling his sword free of its scabbard along the way.  The tingle of 
anticipation that always struck him before a battle was coursing through his 
veins, and he felt like laughing out loud, despite the dangerous gamble they all 
were about to make.  

He reached the entrance and easily found the little alcove that he had chosen 
for himself.  The small niche in the stone appeared to be a very small corridor 
running from the canyon wall, but it only went back into the stone for about 15 
yards before sloping upward, offering him a small perch were he could watch the 
corridor below him as well as have a clear view across the bowl.  He tucked 
himself carefully into his hiding place, watching the last few soldiers 
disappear from view as they found their places, and the area once more fell 
still; deathly still.

The minutes seemed like hours for those waiting in ambush, but at last the 
steady pounding of horses’ hooves drew near, and everyone tensed.  From the 
southern entrance, Faramir and his men burst into the bowl, urging their horses 
into a flat out run to outdistance the orcs who came rushing through right 
behind them.

Kenson watched as the horsemen reached the halfway point, and then began the 
final stretch toward the corridor below him.  The orcs were falling back 
slightly, their howls filled with rage and hatred, and when the first of their 
ranks had reached the center of the bowl, Faramir and his men swept into the 
Northern corridor.  Faramir saluted Kenson with his blood stained sword as he 
charged by, and Kenson smiled grimly and returned the salute though Faramir was 
already long gone

He turned his attention back to the bowl just as the first lines of orcs were 
nearing his hiding place.  They charged forward blindly, looking neither to the 
right, nor left, but focused on their prey fleeing before them.  Kenson let them 
through, his eyes focused across the bowl to the other entrance, where still 
more orcs continued to flow forward into the large depression.  

He was ready to spring the trap, but knew that he had to wait until all of the 
army had entered the bowl.  He was growing increasingly nervous and more orcs 
continued to flow into the passage below him, but he steadied himself and kept 
his eyes locked across the chasm.  

At last, the final ranks of orcs broke into the bowl, and Kenson did not 
hesitate.  He raised his horn to his lips and gave three sharp blasts, then 
turned and stumbled down the incline and toward the main passageway, yelling 
loudly as he ran.

The hidden defenders closed in from both sides, rushing in to fill the gap of 
the corridor, cutting off the flow of orcs like a cork in a bottle.  The 
surprised creatures skidded to a halt, confused when they saw that the way 
forward, which had been open just seconds before, now lay blocked by a large 
force of grim faced warriors.  Too late, they realized the trap.

In the back of the orc army, several of the cowardly creatures turned to run 
back the way they had come, only to find that this passageway had been blocked 
as well.  Howls of dismay now echoed from both ends of the bowl, and for the 
second time that night, the orc ranks broke apart as confusion reigned.  

The defenders did not give them a chance to recover from their surprise.  On a 
signal, the archers along the cliff face began to rain volley after volley of 
arrows down into their milling enemy, adding to the chaos.  The soldiers 
blocking the tunnel entrances did not rush forward to engage the orcs, but 
waited patiently for the creatures to come to them, knowing that they held the 
advantage against the larger force within the narrower confines of the 
passageway.  All they had to do was hold the orcs trapped within the bowl until 
sunrise; a difficult task, yet one that seemed not so impossible as the 
confusion within the orc ranks continued to grow.

A large force of the beasts charged forward, attempting to escape the deadly 
rain of arrows and use their sheer numbers to push through the trap.  Yet they 
were unorganized and frightened, making them easy prey for the soldiers, and 
they were cut down one by one.  Soon the sound of fighting filled the canyons as 
small forces of orcs continued to try to break free, only to die at the end of a 
sharp sword.  If the creatures had taken the time to organize and band together 
before attacking, they would have stood a better chance. Yet, luckily for the 
soldiers of Gondor, orc had never been known for wise battle tactics.  

Still, there was several hours left before dawn, and eventually the orcs would 
calm down and begin to band together.  Kenson, standing at the front of the line 
of defenders blocking the Northern passageway, knew that then the true fighting 
would begin.  Already, near the center of the bowl, Malek and his captains were 
beginning to organize. Behind him in the corridor, he heard the ring of metal 
against metal and knew that Faramir and his men were taking care of the orcs who 
had already come through.  The captain could only hope that the steward would be 
able to clear the orcs quickly and come to their aid.  So far, they had managed 
to land all the blows, but he was not foolish enough to believe that this would 
last.

The true challenge was just beginning.

********

Arwen sat quietly at the base of one of the long docks leading out into the 
Ciril River, watching the gentle play of moonlight on the glassy surface.  It 
was the first time all day that the she had gotten a chance to sit down, and her 
soft boots lay casually by her side as she dangled her feet in the water, 
allowing the cool river to help ease the weariness she felt in both mind and 
body.  

Aragorn, Gimli, Gandalf, and the four hobbits had left several hours earlier, 
and Arwen was still wrestling with the fact that she had not gone with them.   
Aragorn had told her that she was needed here, yet Arwen was not so sure of the 
fact.  She had helped with the loading of the injured soldiers into several 
large boats and barges that could be pushed out into the river at the first 
approach of orcs, yet now she found herself merely waiting and worrying, as was 
usually the case when Aragorn was off on one of his daring adventures.

A soft call from behind her jerked Arwen from her thoughts, and she twisted 
around to see a short fat man hurrying toward her.

“What is it, Anvanar?” she called out, worried that one of the injured soldiers 
had taken a turn for the worse.

“My lady,” he replied, gasping for breath as he finally reached her, “You asked 
to be notified if the elf lord showed any sign of waking…”

“Legolas is awake?” Arwen gasped out, pulling her feet from the water and 
reaching for her boots.

“Nay, my lady,” he replied quickly, causing Arwen’s shoulders to slump slightly 
with disappointment.  “At least, he was not awake when I was sent to fetch you, 
but he is tossing and turning and crying out in a language none of us can 
understand.  We have been unable to calm him at all.”

“How long has this been going on?” Arwen asked sharply, hurriedly putting on her 
boots.

“Near a quarter of an hour now, my lady,” Anvanar replied, and Arwen felt a 
flash of irritation.

“You should have notified me at once,” she said impatiently, then shook her head 
and immediately apologized.  She was angrier with herself for wandering off 
alone when Legolas so obviously needed her.  

She hurried toward the boat where she knew she would find Legolas, quickly 
outdistancing Anvanar in her haste.  She slipped onto the vessel and quickly 
made her way toward the back, where she could see a crowd of healers trying 
desperately to calm Legolas.  She pushed her way swiftly through them and knelt 
down next to the small mat containing her elf friend, motioning for the healers 
to leave them.

Legolas was indeed tossing and turning, his head twisting around wildly on the 
pillow, a fast stream of Sindarin flowing from his lips.  She could not catch 
all the words, but she heard enough to know that he was talking of a shadow and 
darkness.  His eyes were still closed, but the lids were fluttering wildly, as 
if he was desperately trying to open them.   His body was arching and twisting 
so violently that Arwen immediately feared that he would injure himself, or 
reopen the newly healing scabs on his back and chest.

“Legolas,” she called out gently, reaching out to cup his pale face in one palm. 
 She began to talk to him calmly in Sindarin, her words slow and unhurried as 
she desperately tried to still the wild movements of his body.  It took several 
minutes, but slowly he began to calm, his muttering dying away to silence and 
his body lying limp once more except for an occasional wild tremor.  Arwen 
continued to speak to him quietly as she brushed the hair from his face, talking 
about anything and everything that came to her mind, one arm carefully draped 
across his chest to keep him still.  She glanced down at the bandages wrapping 
his chest to see if they showed any signs of fresh blood, and when she again 
moved her eyes back to his face, she found his eyes open and watching her.

“Legolas,” she said again, watching the light gray orbs for any sign of 
recognition.

Legolas blinked, and then appeared to be struggling to speak.  Arwen quickly 
reached beside her and poured him a glass of water, leaning forward and holding 
his head up as she put the goblet to his lips.  He gulped greedily for a few 
seconds before she once more took the cup away.

“Arwen,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes locked onto her face as if trying to 
memorize it.

“I am here,” Arwen answered softly.  “Just lie back and relax. You are safe 
here.”

Legolas closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.  He opened them again a 
second later and looked back up at Arwen.  She was struck by how dull and 
lifeless his eyes appeared, the normal twinkle gone, replaced by shadow.

“Where…” he had to stop and swallow before trying again.  “Where are we?”

“We are in Calembel,” Arwen replied.  “Do you remember anything of what 
happened?”

Legolas nodded slowly, pain flickering across his face.  “Is….is Pippin 
alright?”

“Yes,” Arwen answered slowly.  “He is just fine.”

Legolas seemed relieved, and he sank back to the mat, his gray eyes flickering 
closed, only to snap open once more a few seconds later.  “Where are they?” he 
asked suddenly, his voice sounding frightened.  “Where are they?” he repeated, 
his eyes locked on Arwen.

Arwen knew whom he was speaking of, and she was more than a little unnerved by 
the desperation in his voice.  “They are gone,” she replied slowly, watching 
Legolas’ reaction carefully.

“Where?” Legolas asked again, his voice taking on