Shadows Within; Darkness Without
Minka
minkagreenleaf@aol.com 

Part One: Path into Darkness
Chapter Nine: Crossing Paths


Hey all!  Miss me?

Well, as you can hopefully tell, I am back into writing this story and – shock 
horror, have the ninth chapter done!  Now I know it has been a long time, and I 
would like to apologize for that, but, as you can see from my other updates I 
have been slightly busy and real life has been a real bitch lately.  I am also 
in the process of rewriting this entire story, and I wanted to get the first few 
chapters straightened out before posting this up as they were in a great deal of 
disrepair. 

Oh, a little bit of info for you; apart from the strange dream sequences (which 
will be discussed in the next chapter I think…) Aragorn and Legolas have not 
been in a scene together since their first one which was in chapter two!!!!!!  I 
just thought that that was interesting…

Ok, notes:

Oh, and I am really pleased with Aragorn’s tracking scene as I had that written 
before the second movie came out and yet that is just what happened there only 
with the hobbits – I swear, Peter Jackson is stealing my ideas!  Lol

Also, I know that I describe my Treebeard as being different, but that is 
because I am doing him how I saw him whilst reading the books.  I was always 
under the impression that he would be kinda stocker, not so tall and lanky and 
would have more braches and whatnot, so just bear with me on that fact please!  

Had to re-read some of the past chapters and, umm, ouch!  Lol.

Hey, I think this is one of the first chapters that does not carry a warning!  
Lol, whatever has become of me?  *melodramatic stand, wrist pressed to temple* 

Dedication: ok this is very broad, but to all of you who have, some subtly, some 
not so, been telling me in other reviews to *coughupdateshadowscough*.  I can 
not remember all of you at the moment (not on the net whilst writing this for 
once) but I know a few of you (Vana, Gemstone, EJ, Yours Truly, Ihni, Lady V, 
legofan, ZeroCool, just to name a few).  So this is all for you and all the 
others that I have so wrongly forgotten.  Thank you for your comments, support, 
encouragement and the occasional kick up the arse!  Also, thank you to 
IthicaJackal who stood up for me at one point – I never really thought that I 
would have a defender! *big smiles*  thank you for you kind words.  

Oh, last thought, has anyone read “The Gormenghast Trilogy” by Mervyn Peake?

So, without any further ado, I present. . .     

*****

Shadows Within; Darkness Without

By: Minka

Part One: Path into Darkness

Chapter Nine: Crossing Paths


*****

For the second day in a row Frodo was sure that they were being followed and 
from the almost unnatural feeling that seemed to slink along behind them, he was 
almost certain that it was the creature Gollum.  

It had been almost five days since the two hobbits had entered the impossible 
entanglement of Emyn Muil and it felt as through they had been lost since that 
very first step into the rocky wasteland.  In all respects, one would think it 
easy, for, no matter where they were, both travelers could always see the 
flaming turret of Mount Doom off in the distance yet, no matter how straight a 
line they kept, the rocks constantly seemed to want to turn them around or put 
them in the wrong direction.  Supplies were running short, water dangerously low 
and their spirits were even further reduced.  Then, atop of that, as if fate had 
seen fit to give them another challenge, they were incessantly being tracked by 
the very creature that neither wanted to see.

“We catch him,” Sam exclaimed while handing over a piece of Lembas to his 
companion.  “We catch him and put a stop to his lurking once and for all.”

“How, Sam?” Frodo asked with what was almost a smile.  Not only was the idea a 
little uncharacteristic of his friend, but it also seemed impossible.  

Sam seemed to think on that for a moment, washing the crusty crumbs of Lambas 
from his mouth with a gulp of water.  Both sat on a high rock, looking out over 
the barren, black lands below them while trying to strategize a way of getting 
where they, in all truth, did not want to go.

“We trick him,” Sam said at last, his voice almost hard and unyielding as he 
spoke, “tonight.

*****

The thundering of hoses hooves was the first warning that Merry and Pippin had 
of an approaching company.  Exchanging quick glances, they frantically looked 
about the landscape for somewhere to hide yet came sadly no avail.  The land was 
flat and brown, the green grass dried from the sun so that it crunched underfoot 
and there was no tree or bush nearby that offered the safety and shelter from 
eyes that they needed.

The two had been running in the direction that they had come for near on two 
days now; having started out in the early hours of the night on that day that 
Legolas risked his life for theirs.  Their journey had been spent in silence, 
neither one saying much for fear of causing a disaster that could not be 
rectified with mere words.   They had but a scrap of waybread left between them 
and little to no water and yet their Hobbit hearts held true to their vow of 
finding someone to aid Legolas.   

“What do we do?” Pippin asked, breaking the hours of silence that had become 
their lives.  

Pushing his lips together, Merry looked back at the direction the sound was 
coming from; from the way that they had just come.  Knowing that if they could 
hear the steady, rhythmic beats of the horses’ hooves that the beasts must be 
just over the horizon, Merry saw no way out of the current situation.  If they 
were to run off to the side, they would never make it out of sight before the 
riders came over the line where the sky met the land, for, even as they stood 
there, thinking on a way to evade the coming riders, the thunderous sound grew 
louder and louder.  

“Nothing,” Merry said slowly, turning his eyes to his cousin and dear friend.  
“There is nothing that we can do.  We can not hide, and we can not run for they 
will find us.  We must only hope that they are friends and the riders that 
Legolas spoke of.”  Again silence fell over them at the mention of the Elf’s 
name; the one that had sacrificed so much in order to save them.  

Nodding his head in agreement to the statement saying that there was nothing 
else that they could do, Pippin flopped down on the ground in defeat and 
weariness.  They had barely stopped since their escape, knowing that any moment 
that they took for rest could be the moment that would cost Legolas more pain or 
even worse, his life.

“We wait!” Pippin sighed out as Merry cast himself to the ground next to him, 
his breathing coming in labored pants from both the exertion and the growing 
fear.  

Sitting and waiting, as futile as it seemed, did in fact allow them the first 
chance since their flight to consider the future, however glum it may have 
seemed.

Casting a nervous glance to Merry, Pippin swallowed hard, his throat dry and 
sore from the lack of fluid to grace it.  Biting his bottom lip, he was finding 
it hard to just sit still and wait for what might prove all their demise; both 
for him and Merry as well as Legolas.

They had let so much hang on the belief that they would find Aragorn, safe and 
well and searching for them, that not once had they ever considered the other 
options that were present and all the more likely.  What if these riders were 
not friends of the free people of Middle-Earth?  What if they were corrupted 
just as Saruman was by Sauron and only wished to see all that stood against 
their masters destroyed?  It was a horrifying thought to be just sitting there, 
wait for the undesirable outcome of what such an action could cause.  

“What do we do, Merry?” Pippin asked quietly, confusing his cousin.  

“What do you mean?” Merry questioned, “we sit here and wait – ‘tis all we can 
do.”

Shaking his head vigorously, Pippin cast a worried look at the direction of the 
ever growing noise.  “No,” he said, once again quietly as if the riders could 
hear him over the hooves and from such a distance.  “What do we do if they are 
foes?  What do we do about Legolas?”  

Looking back at his cousin, Merry did not have to speak to let him know his 
thoughts.  There was nothing that they could do, no way of aiding their friend 
if this did not go as they would like.  If these riders were of evil intent, 
then they, as well as Legolas were doomed and both knew it.

With that shared knowledge, they sat there, awaiting their fate – good or evil – 
and knowing that that time drew ever nearer as the sound of many horse feet 
pounded upon the ground grew louder.

Minutes seemed to turn into hours though both knew that it was impossible for 
such a lapse of time.  Yet, sure enough the noise grew louder and louder, and, 
with a great feeling of trepidation , the two small hobbits saw a host of riders 
come charging over the rise.

There would have been at least fifteen humans’, each carrying spears and armed 
with swords.  Their helms shone in the midday sun, momentarily blinding the 
hobbits as they looked at the approaching mounted Big Folk.

Already they could tell that their leader at least had seen them, and, with a 
rising feel of panic, they found themselves surround by the riders before they 
could even stand.  Spears were pointed at them, their tips only just reaching 
the hobbits’ heads whilst standing.  

“What are you children doing out here?” their leader asked, his hair dark and 
longer then Aragorn’s.

Looking to Merry, Pippin shrugged his shoulders, fear in his eyes and inclined 
his head to his friend, telling him to do the talking.  Stepping forward, the 
little Hobbit looked up at the still mounted man.  “We are not children, sir,” 
he said respectively and with a slight bow.  “We are Halflings or Hobbit's – of 
the Shire!” again he bowed slightly, as if the Shire was as common a name as 
Gondor.

“Hobbits?” the man asked while turning to his companions, looking for any 
recognition with their eyes.  Seeing none, he turned his gaze back to the small 
beings in front of him, “we have not heard of your kind before.”

“Most have not, sir,” Pippin put in before his cousin could, “we like to keep to 
ourselves mostly, and out of the way of you Big Folk.”

Confusion settled in on the man’s face as he looked down at the child like 
figures.  True, after further inspection, he could see that they did not have 
faces of a child, they looked to be in their late twenties, maybe a little older 
and the way they spoke also suggested that they were not as young as their 
height so easily suggested.  The other interesting thing was their large furry 
feet and slightly pointed ears, but, through all this, one thing, working on who 
they claimed to be, did not make sense.

“If you like to keep to yourselves,” he stated before following it up with a 
question, “then what are you doing so far from home, little ones?”

 His voice seemed friendly and, much to the Hobbit's ease, the spears had been 
lifted from above their heads, suggesting that the riders meant them no harm.  
Looking to Merry again, Pippin asked the unspoken question of what to tell 
them.  Were they friend of foe?  Could they trust them with the knowledge of a 
wounded Elf and a traveling king?  Letting his gaze answer Pippin the best he 
could, Merry once again turned his eyes to the man, ready to give his answer.

“We were abducted by a band of Orcs and Uruk-hai from near our borders,” he 
lied, not wanting to risk these men obtaining any precious information that they 
should not about their quest.  He had also decided that, until he knew that they 
could be trusted, they should not go telling them of Legolas and his plight for 
many a time had they heard Aragorn or one of the Elves themselves talking of the 
dangers of men finding the fair folk.  They seemed to want to possess them, to 
be able to have an otherworldly being and, as much as he wanted to help Legolas, 
he did not want to deliver him to the hands of a race that could be just as 
cruel when offered the right inspiration.  “We have been taken this far and only 
through luck have we managed to escape around three days ago.  We have been 
traveling ever since.”

“You were prisoners of the Orcs?” the man asked, and Merry thought that he 
detected a little sorrow in his voice.  Nodding his head in a yes, Merry was 
surprised to see the man’s eyes soften and a small, triumphant smile come upon 
his face.   “Very well then,” he said, “whether you are indeed this ‘halflings’ 
that you claim to be or if you are just children, we can not leave you here.  
You shall accompany us to the halls of the King of Rohan.”  Motioning three 
riders towards him, he turned to them, “Savan, would you take,” he looked to 
Merry, his eyes asking his question.

“Merry,” Merry replied, giving his name, “and this is my cousin Pippin,” he said 
while pointing to the other, younger looking Hobbit.  

Smiling, the leader of the riders turned back to the three men, “Savan, would 
you take Merry with you, and Dlin, you shall take Pippin.”  Turing to the last 
man, he allowed the Savan and Dlin to scoop Merry and Pippin up respectively and 
place them in front of them in the saddle.  “Cavain, will you ride back and 
inform Éomer of this matter.  Join up and stay with them until you get back to 
Edoras.”  

With a formal bow, Cavain was on his way, riding like the wind back in the 
direction that they had come, his cape flapping out being him as the party now 
carrying the two hobbits set off once again in the opposite bearing and, for 
Merry and Pippin, the unknown.  

*****

Sam’s plan had worked, and, between the two of them they were able to get the 
rope about Gollum’s neck after grabbing him as the crawled spider-like down the 
rock face near their make shift camp.  They had pretended that they were 
sleeping, letting the Ring do its work in calling the emasculated creature down 
the wall and to them, and, as he was about to snatch it from Frodo, both he and 
Sam had whirled into action.  

Now, after tugging him along and listening to his cries of pain and pleads of 
release, Frodo and Sam had had enough.  Sam, unlike his master and friend felt 
nothing for the twisted creature, and not wanting to give it the power of free 
movement was strongly apposed to what was transpiring.  

Gollum had been begging for the rope to be lifted, complaining that it burnt 
into his skin like a cold flame and Frodo, pitting the creature as Gandalf had 
once said Bilbo had, was in mind to do as the wretched thing asked.  

“If,” Frodo stressed the word, “if we take this off, you must promise to help 
us.  You have been to Mordor, have you not?”  Gollum seemed to shrink at the 
very name, its eternal darkness once again pulling at his mind and welling in 
his heart.  Nodding his head slowly, fear in his eyes Frodo took that as an 
answer and , looking over at Sam, continued.  “Then you shall lead us there, to 
the black gates,” his command was firm and his authority obvious, silencing even 
Sam on the subject.  

At first Gollum shook his head, the few thin hairs that remained floating 
lightly about his face and terror flicked eyes.  “It is that or the rope,” Frodo 
offered him the choice once again, and the Hobbit could see the other thinking 
on the two choices.  After what seemed like an hour, Gollum finally gave his 
answer.

“We swears!  On-on the preciouss.”  Gollum hissed while yanking at the Elven 
rope about his neck and looking pleadingly into Frodo’s eyes.  “We shalls swear 
on the precious!  We know the way, yes, yes we do. Gollum.  We shall take you 
there, but this,” he said while tugging on the rope, “this burns us!” 

Reaching down, Frodo pulled the slip knot out far enough to be able to remove 
the loop of rope from around Gollum’s neck.  “You know that the Ring will hold 
you to your vow,” he said at the look of pleasure that spread over Gollum’s face 
as the rope was removed and he was once again free.  

Nodding once again and casting a weary look to Sam, Gollum hunched over on all 
fours and started to leap forward.  Once at a safe distance, he whirled around 
and looked them both in the eyes.  “Through the missts, we’ll take you, yes, 
yess, through the mists!  Gollum.”  Gollum said, his eyes big and bright.  
Nodding his head, the round grey shape bobbing on his shoulders like a ball on 
wave tossed water, he turned and scampered back a few more paces before once 
again turning and beckoning the two hobbits forward.  “This way hobbitses, we 
shall shows you!”

Looking to Sam, Frodo saw the unwillingness in his friend’s eyes, but, knowing 
that, as much as he hated to admit it, Gollum was their best chance of getting 
out of the maze of rocks, he inclined his head forward, telling Sam wordlessly 
to follow the creature that was leaping about before them.  

*****

The distant snow capped mountains did naught to ease the heat of the day as two 
weary figures trudged onwards, never stopping even though their bodies cried for 
the rest.  It was as if it were a cruel joke of fate, for them to be in such 
immense need of hast and yet to be overwhelmed with such great requirements of 
rest at the same time, thus forcing them to chose between themselves and their 
lost friends.

There was never a doubt as to which of the two both would value over the other. 
 

And so they went on, walking over flat and knoll alike as the sun quickly 
approached her zenith, her light in full strength upon the land and heating the 
air.  It was whilst wiping the sweat off his brow that Aragorn, intently looking 
out over the landscape that rolled out ahead, first picked up on the slight 
tremor in the ground beneath his feet.  Tilting his head to the side in 
concentration, Aragorn carefully cast himself upon the ground, his right ear 
pressed to the dirt and grass as he listened intently.  

The ground shook steadily and rhythmically, as if the very earth were a drum and 
a giant was playing upon it, striking up a lively tune.   The wind seemed to 
whisper of an approaching force, just as the stone buried deep beneath the soil 
reflected and enhanced the sounds.

“Riders!” Aragorn exclaimed to a fascinated Gimli.  The dwarf, who had seen 
little in his life other then the wonders of stone and gems, was utterly 
intrigued by the strange show that was played out before him by the experienced 
ranger.  “The ground trembles under their approach, can you feel it?”  To Gimli, 
the question was like asking him to climb a tree, utterly pointless for the 
answer should have already been known.  With that in mind, he merely shook his 
head in a no, not bothering to use the axiomatic statement.  

Aragorn, who was still listening to the vibrations of the earth, was not really 
expecting a response and so, once he had established all that he could from the 
reactions of the surrounding area, rose to his feet and grabbed his pack.  “They 
ride this way, more then a hundred, I should think.  They will be upon us with a 
matter of minutes.”

“What do we do then, are they friend or foe?” Gimli asked, also shouldering his 
pack as a way of reassuring the Ranger that he would follow whatever he decided. 
 

Turning east, Aragorn let his gaze fall in the direction that they had come, 
seeing no where to hide them before sweeping his eyes further south and towards 
the place where Edoras, the city of the Rohan’s lay.  “Once I have traveled with 
them,” he said almost to himself as most of his words where these days.  He 
seemed to be slowly slipping away from the reality that was the world – or 
succumbing into its depths.  “They are true enough, good men though often bold 
and irrational and they follow the ways of old.  It is as if they do not wish to 
see the world age, nor want to move forward with it like Gondor, and so they are 
simpler in their motives and actions.  I do not believe that we have anything to 
fear.”

“So we just wait?  Like ducks upon a pond while a hunter approaches?”

Turning to face his friend, Aragorn offered him the smallest glimmer of a smile, 
the closest thing to an emotion other then grief and self-blame that he had let 
pass over his face in days.  “Aye, my friend, we wait,” Aragorn said with a nod 
while sitting himself on the ground near a large, grey colored boulder.   Small 
creepers had grown up over the rough surface and little weeds sprung from 
crevices in the rock that had been filled with soil by the wind that swept along 
the plain, all of which gave it a slightly alive feeling, taking away from the 
cold, unforgiving feel.  None of this Aragorn noticed as he stared out upon the 
path that they were, hopefully, soon to be once again traveling.  “But do not 
fear for we, unlike ducks upon a pond, have both the skill of flight and fight 
if need calls for it.”

Sighing gruffly, Gimli lowered himself beside the Ranger, his head barely 
reaching the man’s shoulder, and pulled out his water flask.  Taking a deep 
drink he then offered it to Aragorn who declined the offer in silence, his gaze 
fixated upon the twisted borders of Fangorn that lined the horizon.  

It was at least five minutes before the Horse Masters made their way over the 
small hillock that the two sat upon, and, much to their surprise, the riders 
rode right past, not heeding the beings that watched them from the side.  

Standing tall, Aragorn once again grabbed his pack and walked a small way down 
the hill, Gimli after him.  Drawing in a deep breath, he raised his head and 
called, “Hail!  Riders of Rohan, what news have you of the north?”

The leader of the pack lifted his spear and, holding it horizontal to the 
ground, pointed it towards the left.  As one, the body of horsemen turned, 
keeping to their formation and circled back up the hill, enclosing both Aragorn 
and Gimli in a tight and well organized ring.  

“Who goes there?” a voice from one of the riders shouted out, “and what be your 
business in land of the Rohirrim?”

Aragorn held up his hand in a sign of peace as a hundred spears were pointed in 
his and Gimli’s direction.  Eyes quickly searching the riders in front of him, 
he saw that they were all strong swordsmen and armed well and yet most showed 
signs of a scuffle of recent happenings.  

“We mean no harm to you or your land,” Aragorn said, looking at the rider that 
had spoken and who was obviously their leader.  “We are merely passing through.”

Dismounting, the leader of the riders raised his hand in a command for the 
others to lower their spears as he stepped into the formed circle, eyeing both 
companions suspiciously.  “No one just passes through these lands,” he said 
darkly and to both Aragorn and Gimli it seemed that a shadow passed over his 
face.  “No one passes through any lands these days without due reason, so be out 
with it.”

Looking to Gimli, Aragorn bit his bottom lip in frustration at the feeling of 
inapt that had taken over.  He did not wish to tell of the Ring of power, nor of 
the Fellowship and especially not of Legolas and the hobbits capture to a group 
of strangers.  He had heard that the riders where neutral, siding with neither 
the Dark powers or that of the good, and such incomplete knowledge put him at 
unease with the strange humans.  

“We are simply passing through on business which is to remain our own!” Gimli 
said heatedly before Aragorn could have the chance to speak.  The dwarf was 
gripping the handle of his axe, the blades buried shallowly in the earth, and 
glaring up at the helmed human.  

“No one has business in these lands which is unknown for all must appear before 
the King seeking permission,” the man said, his voice clipped and his stare 
harsh as he regarded Gimli with a look that one would send to an upstart that 
needed squashing.  “And, unless you go by winged feet, there is no possible way 
that you could have knelt before my King without I knowing of it.  So now, no 
more of this folly dodging of the subject, tell me who you are and what are you 
doing within the borders of the Rohirrim!”

Standing to his full height in protest of the looks that the human was sending 
him, Gimli squared his shoulders and raised his chin in a sign of defiance.  “I 
shall tell you my name, rider, only if you tell me yours first!”

Whirling on the dwarf and drawing his sword quickly and smoothly, the rider 
pointed the tip to Gimli’s throat, making sure to place emphasis on the fact 
that he had to point downwards, mocking the dwarf’s height.   “Your impudence 
does not cease to aggravate me, dwarf,” he spat while looking down at the 
slightly reddened Gimli.  Withdrawing his sword, the rider turned back to 
Aragorn with one last comment for the son of Gloin, “If your head stood but a 
foot taller I would chop it off, beard and all.”

Having had enough of the offered insult, Gimli hefted his axe into his hands and 
took a step forward, hate and malice in his dark eyes.  Seeing the advance, the 
leader of the riders lifted his sword once again and turned, expecting to face 
Gimli but found a fuming Aragorn planted firmly between the two, hand wrapped 
around the handle of his still sheathed sword.  

“Enough!” Aragorn hissed out while forcing eye contact with the rider.  Holding 
his gaze, the future king of Gondor concentrated in keeping his eyes clear of 
all the emotion that had been building up since Legolas’ capture and making his 
stare even and dangerous.  “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn or Strider of the 
Dúnadan of the North.  This is Gimli, son of Gloin,” his words were hushed and 
whispered yet still with a slight dangerous edge in his tone.  “Now Rider of 
Rohan, return the grace we have shown you and tell us your name.”

Still holding eye contact, the rider bowed slightly to the man that claimed to 
be the long lost king of the southern lands of Gondor.  “I am Éomer, son of 
Éomund and the nephew of King Théoden of the Mark.” His words where spoken 
slowly, as if he had fallen under a spell whilst looking into Aragorn eyes and 
his voice was hushed as if he spoke from a distance.

Finally breaking the gaze, Éomer, looked from Gimli to Aragorn and then to the 
way that the two must have come.  “Now, tell me why it is that you disrespect 
our laws and walk unbidden in our lands.”

“We meant no disrespect,” Aragorn said sincerely while placing his hand to his 
heart in a sign of compliance to the other warrior, “and we did not know that 
such rules existed throughout these lands for long has it been since I last trod 
these plains.”  

When Éomer nodded slightly and turned his hand in a prompt, Aragorn continued, 
careful to choose his words wisely so not to give them cause of suspicion and 
yet not say too much.  “We were in need of great haste for we are tracking a 
band of Orcs that passed this way a day ago.”

“A band of Orcs?” Éomer asked with a slight chuckle.  “You two are attempting to 
hunt down a large band of Orcs, alone and unassisted and without even a mount?” 
 The smirk on his face infuriated Aragorn to no ends, but, careful of his 
composure, the other human smiled back, pretending to see the humor in the 
situation.

“I do see that it looks rather unprofessional,” Aragorn started only to be 
interpreted by a still smiling Éomer.

“Unprofessional?” he laughed out while his chuckle was shared by a few of the 
other riders that looked on with interest and amusement, “it is pure folly!”  
Finally getting a hold of himself, the rider let his face fall back to that of 
an unreadable mask, his eyes only just hiding the mirth that he found in the 
situation.  

“Unprofessional, yes.” Aragorn stated, unheeding of the mocking looks, “folly, 
perhaps.  Yet either way we beg leave so that we may continue on our hunt for 
time is the one thing that we are running out of.”  He hated this, hated the 
wait and the length of time that they had spent standing still already.  Legolas 
could need them – he did need them – and in order to aid him they had to move 
quickly, and yet, here they were, standing around and discussing the foolishness 
of wanting and needing to save a friend.  

Seeing that there was no reply, Aragorn looked up to Éomer’s eyes, only to find 
that they were locked onto the gauntlets that protected the ranger’s wrists.  

“Where did you come by those?” Éomer asked softly while not taking his eyes from 
the hardened leather painted with the White Tree of Gondor.  

“They once belonged to Boromir of Gondor,” Aragorn said slowly, not sure where 
this was going.

“Once belonged?” Éomer’s voice was slightly shaken and his face had turned pale 
within the few moments of looking at the guards.  

“He has fallen,” Aragorn said quietly while looking to the gauntlets himself.  
He had almost forgotten that he wore them for it seemed an age ago that he had 
taken the son of Gondor’s broken horn and these gauntlets as tokens to present 
to Boromir’s father should they ever make it to Gondor.  

“Boromir has fallen?” Éomer asked with a quivering voice.  Eyes darting up to 
lock onto Aragorn’s, he asked, “how?”

“Orcs,” Aragorn replied with a hint of malice.  “Orcs at Parth Galen; the very 
beings that we hunt now and have cause for need to get back to hunting.”  Trying 
to hint at the fact that they needed to go, Aragorn let his eyes drift over 
towards north-west and was shocked when he could make out the defined wisps of 
smoke coming from over a distant hill.  It disturbed him greatly that he was yet 
to feel the presence of Legolas that day and with smoke coming from the location 
that they needed to reach, his fear for the Elf picked up immensely.   

“Why were you with him?” Éomer asked, cutting into Aragorn’s darkened thoughts. 
 “Why was he with you and what where you doing near the Falls of Rauros?”  Being 
taken off guard by the intensity of the question, Aragorn hesitated for a 
moment, opening his mouth aimlessly and yet having nothing to say nor the 
thoughts to put into constructed sentences.  “What where you doing there and 
what happened.”

Letting the words come to him the best he could, Aragorn tried to explain the 
happenings of the fight without mentioning the Ring or Legolas and the Hobbits' 
capture.  “He was part of our traveling companionship,” Aragorn said, “we were 
nine. . .he fell due to a sudden attack by a band of Orcs.”

“Nine?” the rider asked concisely, catching onto Aragorn stumble.  “I see only 
two, so where are your other six companions?”

Wanting to leave as much detail out of his explanation as possible, Aragorn 
looked to Gimli, who merely shrugged.  “Another has fallen, and two others have 
gone their separate way.  The other three are unaccounted for.”

Frowning at the strange response and wondering how three could just go missing 
from a group, Éomer bit his lip and looked towards the acceding smoke in the 
distance.  “So that is why you follow them – the Orcs?” he questioned, “revenge 
for the fall of Boromir?”

Deciding that it seemed a safe excuse, Aragorn nodded solemnly and bowed his 
head.  Catching onto the lie, Gimli did the same, his face portraying no sign of 
the recognition of the stretched truth.  

“That is well,” Éomer said grimly while turning his eyes back to the two 
standing before him.  “You shall now have no problems in coming with us for know 
that your revenge has been taken.”

Both Aragorn and Gimli’s heads snapped up at the same time, looks of horror 
written across them as they gaped at the riders.  “What?” Aragorn shrieked, the 
fear in his heart making his voice high.

“We rode them down early yesterday morning,” Éomer explained, “none got away and 
none were left living, so do not fear that your vengeance has not been done, for 
it has.  That smoke you see,” he said, pointing over towards the rising gray on 
the horizon that Aragorn had seen earlier, “that is them burning for their 
crimes.  Now come, you may tell me more of Boromir’s untimely departure along 
the way.”  

“W-we have not the time for such. . .for such long and grievous news,” Aragorn 
protested weakly, his hands pressed to the sides of his head and his eyes on 
Gimli.  There was this sinking feeling in his heart and a pounding in his 
temples as, for the first time in days, he seriously thought of the horror of 
Legolas’ death.  Never had the thought really crossed his mind for he had always 
held hope that they would reach him, told himself that they would get there in 
time, that that all would be well and that Legolas would stand to fight beside 
them once again.  Never had he even dared to think of life without the blond 
archer by his side, friends through all as they had been since Aragorn was but a 
child.  These thoughts, the ones of loneliness and death that assailed his mind 
now were devastating, horrifying and enough to numb him to the bones.

“I have told you,” Éomer said, his voice commanding and matter-of-factly, “the 
Orcs are destroyed.  What need could you possibly have for such hurry now?”

“They can not all be dead!” Aragorn said, pushing the evil concepts out of his 
head and renewing his hope for his friend. . .and yet, in the back of his mind a 
small voice whispered to him to prepare for the worst.

“I assure you, we did the job well – Boromir has been rightfully avenged!” Éomer 
stated somewhat testily, annoyed that the lone human seemed to be questioning 
both his word and his accuracy in carrying out such a task.  

Trepidation overwhelming him, Aragorn cast his earlier caution about revealing 
Legolas’ existence to the smoke filled wind and, rushing forward so that he 
could look right into the eyes of the rider, demanded, “an Elf!  There was an 
Elf with them, a Silvan – blond.  Did you see him?”

“An Elf with a band of Orcs?  That is preposterous. . .” his words suddenly 
faded out and a look of confusion passed over his features which was not lost to 
the Ranger or the dwarf.  Éomer’s brow creased with the sudden realization of 
what an Elf was doing among the Orcs and, shooting a sympathetic look towards to 
two travelers said, “I did not see him.”

Again, it was as if Aragorn’s world shattered, came crashing about his feet like 
the remnants of a stone wall long destroyed.  Questions raced through his head, 
each doubtful and yet still he countered them with the smallest glimmer of hope 
that he still held within his heart.  Eyes dropping to the ground and his bottom 
lip bitten firmly between his teeth, he tried to harness the sinking feeling 
that arose in his stomach, making him feel as if he were about to retch.   
Already his vision was blurred with the first formation of tears and he did 
naught to try and stop them from coming, fearing neither ridicule nor damage to 
his pride.  

“Sir?” a hesitant voice called out from one of the horses off to Aragorn’s left. 
  Knowing that the comment was neither directed at him or concerning him, 
Aragorn kept his head bowed, feeling the first of his long held in tears slip 
down his cheeks. 

At a nod from Éomer, the younger soldier continued.  “Sir, I saw this being that 
they talk of – at least I think I did.”  

Head snapping up, Aragorn looked to the man that had spoken, hope in his tear 
filled eyes.  “You saw him?” he questioned, the relief obvious in his voice.  
“Where?  What happened to him?  Was he alright?” the Rangers questions were 
fired quickly, each running into the last in order to find out as much as he 
could about his lost friend.

“Why did you not tell me that there was another among the Orcs?” Éomer also shot 
his question at the poor man who chose to answer his captain’s query first.

“I did sir,” he said nervously, “you told me to-“ he cast a worried look in the 
direction of the Ranger and dwarf who were both staring at him, openly 
displaying their hope, “you told me to leave nothing alive.”

“WHAT?” Aragorn yelled, anger mixing with his panic.  Not even thinking, he 
raced forward and, reaching up, hauled the man right off his horse by the scruff 
of the neck.  Shaking the man and half lifting him from the earth, the Rohan 
rider tried hard to get out of the crazed Ranger’s grasp, seeing murder written 
in Aragorn’s eyes.  

“You what?” Aragorn demanded while shaking the man again and practically yelling 
into his face.  Yet, before he could ask anything else, a score of spears where 
pointed towards him and a set of strong hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him 
backwards and releasing the man from his death grip.  Once his hands where free 
of the rider’s throat, Aragorn felt himself get thrown back, and, landing on his 
backside and elbows, straightened himself up and hugged his knees while covering 
his face with his hands.  A hand on his shaking shoulder told him that Gimli too 
felt the dread that he did.

“But I didn’t!” the man that Aragorn had grabbed protested, his words not 
sinking into Aragorn’s thoughts.  “I did not kill him – he knocked me out and 
stole my dagger.”  Looking up, Aragorn saw the man smile down at him, his 
expression forgiving and full of the hope that Aragorn no longer felt.  “I took 
care to see if his body was with those to be burnt, and I did not see him!”  
Coming forward and kneeling down beside the distraught man and the dwarf, his 
smile seemed to grow bigger and cause a flutter of optimism within Aragorn.  
“His body was not among them, I assure you, and one of our horses’ is missing, 
the tracks lead towards Fangorn Forest.  I believe that he made it out.”

The man’s smile proved to be contagious and within a few minutes, both Aragorn 
and Gimli were smiling like Cheshire cats.  A small, almost maddened laugh came 
from Aragorn as he looked up to Gimli and held back the urge to hug the rider in 
his restored happiness.

Pulling himself to his feet, the Ranger looked to Éomer, who was watching all in 
silence, and offered a slight bow.  “I beg you, Éomer of the Rider Mark, we must 
be on our way.  I know of your rules, but please, this once, make an exception. 
 We must find him.”  

Looking the man over, Éomer bit his lip and looked towards his men before once 
again turning his attention to Aragorn.  “So you were not really avenging 
Boromir’s death?”

Shaking his head in a no, Aragorn replied, “not entirely.  Three of our people 
where taken by the Orcs, Legolas, the Elven prince and two small child-like 
beings – hobbits, Merry and –“

“Pippin!” Éomer cut him off, causing Aragorn to regard him with unrefined 
curiosity.  “A small group of us who went ahead found them on their road back 
from the Orcs,” Éomer explained, “they are with them now, going to our city.  A 
rider was sent back to tell me of them, but he said nothing of an Elven 
companion nor you, so I did not put two and two together.”

“They are safe then?” Aragorn said while smiling broadly at Gimli.

“Very,” Éomer assured him, “they would almost be at Edoras now, give or take a 
few hours.”

Nodding in relief, Aragorn once again turned to pleading his case to the rider. 
 “Then please, let us go on to find our other friend.  Have the little ones as 
reassurance that we will come to your city, whether our search is successful or 
not, and ask for forgiveness from your king for breaking the laws of this land. 
 Please?”  

Smiling himself, Éomer nodded, almost drawing a whop of excitement from Gimli, 
and nodded towards the far end of the circle of riders.  “I shall even give you 
horses if you promise to bring them back.”  

“You have my word,” Aragorn said with a bow that Gimli matched.  Turning, Éomer 
motioned for them to follow him as the riders dispersed to make a path.

As both Aragorn and Gimli walked through, Gimli reached up and grabbed hold of 
Aragorn’s tunic sleeve and gave it a subtle tug. “Aragorn, I can not ride!” his 
hissed softly, not wanting the riders to hear such a thing.

Nodding slowly, Aragorn looked down at his companion, “will you be content 
riding behind me then?” he asked and received a small and almost nervous nod 
from the dwarf.  

“This,” Éomer said while patting a dark-grey horse on the nose, “is Hasufel and 
he will serve you well.  He is both swift yet careful of his footing making him 
perfect for your needs.  And for you,” he said to Gimli, who rose his hand, 
calling a stop to his sentence.

“I shall ride behind my friend,” Gimli said with as much pride as he could, “it 
is not in the dwarven way to ride, but this is an exception.”

Nodding slightly, Éomer handed the reins of Hasufel to Aragorn and called a 
handful of men over to aid Gimli in mounting the large horse.  Once on, he clung 
to Aragorn as if his very life depended upon it.

“Remember your oath, Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Éomer said with a slight bow.

Inclining his head formally, Aragorn lightly kicked his heels into the sides of 
the horse and within a moment, they were off, racing towards the rising smoke 
while leaving the riders behind along with a cloud of dust.  

*****

Crouching down on the ground, Aragorn tried hard not to let the smell of the 
burnt corpses of the Orcs to fill his nostrils and yet it seemed to be in vain. 
 The smell of the dead hung heavily in the air, cloaking everything with its 
stench like the night sky does with darkness and it was almost impossible not to 
want to retch from the foul reek.  

They had not even bothered to check the corpses of the Orcs that were piled head 
high and charred from the effects of the fire that had been put to them, having 
placed faith in the rider who claimed that the Elf was not among the dead.  
Instead, as soon as they had reached the battle field, Aragorn had cast himself 
upon the bloodied, muddy ground to search for clues as to Legolas’ whereabouts 
during the fight and what direction he had taken.  

So far they had found no trace of the Elf, which, on any normal circumstances, 
Aragorn would have envied his friend for, but this time, all it did was hinder 
their progress in finding the missing prince.  The fact that the place had been 
trampled by many feet and hooves also made the search infuriating, and due to a 
handful of fallen riders and some wounded, they could not even look for the tell 
tale sign of red Elven blood among the black of the Orcs.  

Sighing with frustration, Aragorn stood to stretch his legs and work at the 
cricks in his neck.  He could not remember how long both he and Gimli had been 
there, the intoxicating stench of the dead Orcs working at their senses while 
they stared at the ground and yet not knowing what it was that they were looking 
for.  

“Aragorn?” Gimli called to him from the other side of the Orc pile, “what do you 
make of this?”  

Moving with as much speed as his tired and heavy legs would allow him, Aragorn 
made his way over to where Gimli was kneeling down on the ground, some twenty 
feet from the main area of the battle.  Dropping to his hands and knees, Aragorn 
looked at the strange patch of flattened grass and the deep gouges in the dirt 
that Gimli had pointed to.

Looking behind him, he saw a long line of flattening grass, each blade only 
slightly crushed and yet all in the direction of the strange markings upon the 
ground.  Peering closer, he saw a line of red blood that had partly seeped into 
the ground, the soil glad of the nutrients that it had received.  

Reaching over and grasping Gimli’s shoulder with a smile, Aragorn pointed to the 
trail.  “It is Legolas!” he stated, “look,” he said while motioning to the way 
the grass was bent.  “He pulled himself along, that is why the grass in 
flattened and yet not too greatly.  And look, there were horses here!” he 
pointed to all the hoof prints and the slightly chewed grass.  “He called one to 
him,” he pointed towards the tracks that lead towards where Legolas’ trail 
ended, “and it knelt down, so to speak, to allow him the ability to get upon its 
back.  Those marks are from its feet digging into the earth in order to get back 
up.”

“Is such a thing even possible, Aragorn?” Gimli asked with a hint of disbelief 
in his voice.

“It is for an Elf,” Aragorn said while biting his lip again and following the 
trail of the horses galloping feet.  “And Legolas was always good with such 
beasts’, and see,” he exclaimed while pointing off towards the forest, “the 
tracks lead that way – it has to be him!”

Jumping to his feet, his weariness forgotten, Aragorn pulled Gimli up by the arm 
and whistled for the horse that they were given.  When Hasufel came up and 
nuzzled his hand, Aragorn smiled at the mount, having decided that he like the 
animal early on, and patted its nose.  

Turning to Gimli, he aided the dwarf up onto the mounts back and then leapt up 
himself, careful not to knock Gimli out of the way in his effort.  Clicking his 
tongue against his cheek and pulling the reins in the direction that they wanted 
to go, the horse automatically took off at a neck breaking pace, causing Gimli 
to hold onto Aragorn so tightly that it restricted the Ranger’s breathing.

With a few curses flowing from Gimli’s lips, they were off and heading in the 
direction of the dark forest, Aragorn never taking his eyes from the trail that 
he was sure was caused by his friend.  

*****

The woods of Fangorn forest held an eerie dark presence about them, putting both 
Aragorn and Gimli at unease as they entered under the first overhanging 
branches.   Mist seemed to cling to the ground, circling the twisted roots of 
the trees that protruded from the forever damp soil and coiled up the contorted 
trunks of the strange, dark wood trees.  No sunlight was able to penetrate 
through the thick canopy that the leaves of the deformed trees created, thus 
giving the forest even more of a menacing effect as well as making it 
unnaturally cold.  Behind Aragorn, Gimli clung to him, muttering about how the 
trees seemed as if they were about to attack them and were closing in, and 
Aragorn wished above all that they had Legolas with them in such a dark place.  

The tracks were easy to read even in this place due to the fact that no other 
animal had passed through that way in many a year or maybe even more.  From what 
Aragorn could tell, they were at least a day behind the tracks, but were quickly 
gaining on them which was a great relief.  The sun had already started to set in 
the West, but that hindered them not for it made the woods no darker then what 
they already were, and if anything, it spurred them on, knowing that Legolas 
would need to seek rest sometime soon.   

Looking ahead, Aragorn was startled to see an almost glowing white through the 
dark trees.  Double-taking the image, he found it to be real and not a figment 
of his overworked and stressed mind, and, leaning forward, he whispered to the 
dwarf behind him to look over his shoulder.  “Gimli!  Look ahead!”

Peering into the darkness, Gimli too saw the strange white shape ahead and, 
muttering a dwarven curse, allowed his eyes to roam over the area surrounding, 
looking for any sign of danger.         

“Gimli!” Aragorn hissed, “dismount!”  Grumbling, the dwarf slipped from the 
horse as best as he could, trying not to make too much noise. 

Once Aragorn was out of the saddle and had his sword drawn, they both moved 
hesitantly forward, Gimli with his axe held high and at the ready.   Moving 
through the trees with as much stealth as they could, it was Aragorn who first 
realized what the strange whiteness was.   

Casting aside his caution, he hurried into the small clearing and over to what 
was now apparent to be a horse supporting the tack of the Rider Mark.  

Once the horse saw the man approaching, it moved away from where it was grazing 
and stood protectively in front of a large tree, its eyes boring into Aragorn’s 
as the human slowly approached with his hand stretched out.  

Seeing the distrust in the horse, Aragorn stopped his advance and looked it 
right in the eyes.  “Gar sidh!” he said softly, telling it to have peace.  
Noticing the way that the hose visibly relaxed at his hushed Elven words, 
Aragorn continued to talk to it while once again advancing upon it slowly, a 
gentle smile on his face.  “Im car le u lhaew!  Im hirní an mellon, an Edhel!” 
[I do you no harm!  I am looking for a friend, an Elf!]

As if it understood the words that were spoken to it, the horse moved over to 
the human and nuzzled him affectionately.  Smiling and running his hand over its 
nose, a strange mark on its side drew Aragorn’s attention and, bending down he 
gasped and called Gimli over.  

“Blood!” he said once the dwarf was by his side, “Elven blood.”  Moving around 
to the other side, he saw a long stain that mirrored the other.  “My dream – if 
that is what it was,” Aragorn stated while returning to Gimli’s side, his right 
hand in the air and turning over as if it helped him to think.  “When Legolas 
went to leave, he-he had a rope through his ankles.  Such a thing would cause 
such a mark!”  He finished while looking back at the horse.  Why else would a 
Rohan horse be deep within Fangorn Forest?  

“Then where is the Elf?” Gimli asked, trying not to think of what Aragorn meant 
by a rope through his friends feet.  “If this is the horse that he took, then 
where is he?” the own puzzlement mixed with that of his fear for Legolas and his 
hate towards the Orcs, making his questioning more of a strong demand then that 
one would ask a friend.  

With his own emotions in an instable order, Aragorn took the dwarf’s words to 
heart and, jumping in to defend himself, said, “I do not know everything Gimli, 
maybe you could look for yourself!  I do not know everything!”

“Yet you seem to know more of what you are doing here-” Gimli said in attempt of 
his own defense.  When it came to the ways of tracking anything, especially an 
Elf, he would gladly announce Aragorn the better of them.  And so he tried to 
say so only to be once again interrupted by an angry human.

“I did not want this, Gimli!” Aragorn almost shouted.  Deep down he knew that it 
was not the dwarf’s fault, that the things that he was saying were not even on 
the same subject and that Gimli did not deserve the words so harshly thrown at 
him, but he needed to say them, to get them out of his head and stop them 
gripping at his heart.  “I did not want to lead this fellowship!  Do you think 
that I like the fact that Boromir died for me?  Or that insane notion of sending 
the one with the Ring off to Mordor alone.  I know that this is all my fault, I 
know that if Legolas dies it is on me!  ME!  It’s my fault!”  placing his head 
in his hands, Aragorn already regretted what he had said and was already 
composing an apology.

Gimli, who had seen what was going on in the Ranger’s mind, had let him yell, 
let him get whatever he needed out and, taking a step towards the man to console 
him, was cut off before he could say anything.

“Hoom, and Elf you say?” a voice called, deep and slow compared to the raised, 
arguing tones of the human and dwarf.   Spinning and drawing his sword in one 
fluent motion, Aragorn’s eyes darted through the dark wood behind him, searching 
for the owner of the loud words.  Seeing nothing, he sent a quick look behind 
him to see Gimli also staring in the same direction, axe at the ready and fear 
upon his face.  The alarm was a slight encouragement to the Ranger as it meant 
that the dwarf had heard it as well and that he was not hearing voice within his 
head.  

Gulping, Aragorn scanned the woods once again and, just like the last time, 
found nothing that would be capable of speech.  “Show yourself!” Aragorn 
demanded whilst tightening his hands around the leather strapped hilt of his 
sword.  

“Hrum, Hoom,” the voice sounded again and Aragorn thought it almost like the 
sound of a deep, throaty laughter.  “I am already shown, little fellow.”  The 
voice sounded old, like that of a wizened old man; one who had seen the world 
and the changes that had come about and was in constant longing for the better 
days of old.  

A rise of anger at what the human thought an obvious defiance clouded his mind 
and, speaking quickly Aragorn countered the last comment.  “I call your bluff,” 
he said boldly, “for I see no person before me.  So come out of the shadow 
before I pull you out!”  He could feel Gimli tense behind him, obviously ready 
for whatever was to come and faintly he heard the dwarf dig his foot into the 
ground for better stability.

“Hoom, you young ones, always so hasty,” the voice said calmly, almost toneless 
in its deep, dreary state.  “But perchance you should open your eyes to more, 
young man, for perhaps it is no person that you seek to find.”

“Like talking to the damned Elves,” Gimli muttered under his breath only just 
loud enough for Aragorn to hear, “never make any sense.”  

“Then aid me,” Aragorn said, practically daring the being to come out and seek 
retribution for the ill-mannered way in which he was treating him – whoever it 
was.  “Show me what it is that I should be seeking and be over with it!”  He 
almost did not care anymore; he had given up hope or more so, it had fleeted 
from him.  Gandalf had fallen into Shadow, Boromir into darkness in his name and 
stead, and the Ring bearer was now alone save for his friend and marching boldly 
in the direction of Mordor.  The two hobbits that they had tracked were now on 
there way to Edoras, being held as a bond to Aragorn’s own word and Legolas was 
lost to them, both in body and spirit.  What was left?  Who had he not failed 
through his inadequate attempts at leading?

A deep, throaty almost groan sounded around the small clearing and was then 
quickly followed by another “Hrum, Hoom.”  After a few moments of tense silence 
and stillness, Aragorn let out a defeated sigh, ready to admit out loud that 
there was no hope to be found; ready to say what his mind and heart had been 
telling him since that fateful dream of Legolas, the dream that had been their 
last.  

“Perchance,” the voice once again sounded, unexpected and without warning, “this 
may help you in seeing what it is that you must see.”  After the cryptic clue 
there was a loud creaking sound, like a heavy man walking across bowed 
floorboards of an ill-kept inn and a rustling akin to that of wind through long 
grass.  

Not sure where to really be looking, both Aragorn and Gimli scoured the woods 
before them with hawk like eyes, still seeing naught of importance.   

Honing his senses in more to the right, Aragorn was the first one to see what it 
was that, until now, they had been looking right at and yet not heeding.  “Ed an 
Valar aen Elenath or!” Aragorn swore under his breath as he saw the thick base 
of the foremost tree lift as if it were a giant’s foot.  Taking a step back, he 
bumped into a just as astonished Gimli who was also cursing colourfully in his 
own tongue.  

Both peered up at the suddenly alive tree with divulged horror as the half 
man-like, half troll-like figure moved forward and further into the clearing, 
its large yellow eyes blinking open in the bark-like skin of what could only be 
thought a face due to its placing.   Slowly, as the tree being came further into 
animation, Aragorn and Gimli could see that its face had a beard of vines, 
mosses and leaves, covering what must have been a mouth and a large, barky nose. 
 Thick boughs stood out from the rest of the tangled branches, obviously acting 
as what would be arms to the tree-creature while its thick base, on closer 
inspection, was actually divided in two, creating legs and the ability to move 
as any walking creature.  

“What devilry is this?” Gimli hissed to Aragorn’s back, his hand tightening 
about his axe handle to the point of the blood draining from his knuckles within 
his gloves.  As the tree stepped closer to the two, the two travellers took 
another step back which was to the great amusement of the tree.

“It is an Ent!” Aragorn stated with a slight hint of wonder in his voice while 
finally stopping his backward steps.  He had long heard tales of them; in fact, 
they had been one of his constant favourite subjects for stories; especially 
from Gandalf whom seemed to know so much about the beings.  Though, through all 
his childhood stories and love for the great creatures, he had thought that they 
had all but disappeared from the earth ages ago, leaving behind only just the 
few tales that he knew almost by heart.  To actually see one was amazing, almost 
a revelation in what he thought was steadily becoming a lost cause.

“Hoom, hoom,” the Ent said again, surly its favourite words.  “Treebeard is my 
name and you are right, young one, but it should not be so.  Is it not 
disturbing that you know me now from sight but did not from memory and knowledge 
or even faith when I was hidden?  And lower your axe, Master Dwarf; you have no 
need for it in my forest!”  

The question came as a shock to the Ranger, not really understanding what the 
herder of the forest was trying to tell him with his enigmatic message and just 
as Gimli lowered his axe to the ground, Aragorn sheathed his sword, not thinking 
on the action.  Why had he not thought of an Ent before?  Was he becoming so 
blind to the world and the Valars’ children that he could not even recall past 
memories of once powerful and plentiful creatures? 

Feeling the overwhelming cluster of thoughts assail his mind, Aragorn 
concentrated on grabbing a hold of one.  Legolas.  Clinging to that thought as 
if it were a piece of smashed ship on a storm-tossed sea, Aragorn turned his 
eyes back up to the Ent, his question already spilling out from between his 
lips.  

“Y-you asked us about the Elf that we spoke of,” Aragorn prompted the Ent, 
wanting the answers to the main question plaguing his mind.  “Have you seen 
him?”

“Hoom, an Elf,” Treebeard mused, his eyes looking thoughtful in their shiny 
yellow state.  “What would you be wanting with one of their kind; a human and a 
dwarf?”

Looking quickly to Gimli who was still staring at the talking tree in disbelief, 
Aragorn pushed his lips together and took a slight step forward; wanting to show 
the Ent that not only was he not afraid but that he also meant no harm.  After 
all, the tree herder would feel inclined to protect Legolas from any harm, he 
being of the Elven kind and the Woodland one at that.  

“Legolas is a dear friend of mine-ours,” he corrected himself at the husky huff 
from Gimli.  Offering his dwarven companion an apologetic smile, Aragorn went 
on, “he was taken from us by a band of Orcs and we have been tracking him ever 
since.  We believe that he rode here on that horse over yonder,” he motioned 
over to the blood streaked horse that stood at the edge of the clearing, 
watching all with dark eyes as if it could comprehend every word.  “But the 
tracks come to an end here.”  His voice was pleading, begging the Ent for any 
knowledge that he may have on their lost friend as he stared up into the large 
eyes.

“Hoom, interesting.  Interesting indeed,” Treebeard stated with another 
thoughtful look down at the man.  

“Well?” Gimli demanded, taking a step forward and around his human counterpart, 
“have you seen him or not?” 

“Perhaps,” Treebeard said slowly and leisurely, “and perhaps not.” His last 
statement drew a boisterous grunt from the dwarf and a sigh of annoyance from 
the human.  They did not have time for this; Legolas needed them with him, not 
talking in riddles with a tree.  “What did he look like?”

“What do you mean, ‘what did he look like’?” Gimli asked, his impatience getting 
the better of him, “just how many Elves have you seen tramping around this 
forest lately?”

“Gimli!” Aragorn hissed, silencing any further comments from the dwarf with a 
shove that once again placed the smaller being behind him.  “I do apologize,” 
the Ranger said with a slight bow, “is has just been a tiring journey for both 
of us.  As to Legolas’ appearance, he is tall, my height give or take, blue eyes 
and blond hair.  I-” his voice trailed off suddenly as a flash of his friend 
wounded and bleeding passed in front of his eyes.  He had not been able to rid 
himself of that vision since that last fateful dream that the two had shared 
and, to his horror, it had been forever present as soon as he closed his eyes, 
sometimes even when they were open.  It was as if it had been burnt into his 
memory, a constant reminder of the painful consequences that others paid for his 
incompetence.  

Shaking his head clear, he looked up to the Ent who was looking down on him with 
questions displayed rather clearly ion his wooden face.  “He,” once again 
pausing, he expelled a deep breath through rounded lips, mentally preparing 
himself for what he would have to say.  “He would have been tormented,” he said 
quietly while avoiding eye contact with Treebeard, “he is bound to be in bad 
shape.  I saw him, in a dream, and I hardly recognized him – he had been badly 
beaten, mistreated in a way that one ever should be-”

“Hoom Hrum.  A sad tale.  A sad tale indeed.” Treebeard concluded after Aragorn 
had once again faulted in his speech.  Seeing no reason not to trust the two 
that stood below him with his newest charge, the Ent decided to put their 
obviously worried minds at ease.  “And I guess it is a good thing that I have 
seen this friend that you speak of!”

Two pares of downcast eyes snapped up at the same time, both looking hopefully 
at the face of the Ent.  Taking another step forward, a smile passed over 
Aragorn’s face for the second time that day as he felt hope rekindling within 
his heart.  “You have seen him?” his voice was no more then an exhale of breath, 
the air forming words as they passed his lips.  

“Aye, indeed I have,” Treebeard said with what looked to be a smile of his own, 
“and I have more then just seen him.”  At the confusion that showed on both his 
visitors faces’ he took a large step back and offered them another warm smile.

As they watched, a large cluster of branches that had been tangled behind the 
Ent throughout their conversation started to move towards them as if they had a 
mind of their own.  Leafy branches moved up to the others, forming a solid 
cocoon as the previous ones, in turn, opened up as if something was being gently 
passed forward between them.  The process took a few minutes, each fleeting 
moment adding to the joint excitement, hope and wonder that Aragorn and Gimli 
felt.  

Finial, as the lowest branches closed into a tight crib-like structure and the 
others above receded, Treebeard took a smaller step forward, holding the cradle 
out for the two to look at.  The top was covered in smaller, leafy twigs and 
fresh, green sprigs, forming a sort of blanket over what was held within the 
padded nest of leaves and branches.  Though, through all this wonder and display 
of a long thought lost creature’s power, Aragorn, who was the only one tall 
enough to see into the nest, had eyes only for one thing.

There, surrounded in the tree’s greenery was Legolas, looking like a fallen, 
defeated angel with his golden hair sprayed out about his head and over the 
leaves.  He was lying flat on his back, his arms crossed over his chest and his 
eyes closed, most unnatural for the Elven kind and, for a terrifying moment, the 
supine state of the Elf added fuel to Aragorn’s dark thoughts telling him of the 
prince’s death.  Yet, upon closer inspection, Aragorn let out a great sigh of 
relief as he saw his friend’s chest steadily moving up and down.

“What is it?” Gimli demanded, trying to volt himself high enough up on his axe 
so that he could see into the little nest.  

A large smile crept over the human’s face as he looked down upon his slumbering 
friend, and, without taking his eyes of the Elf, said to Gimli, “it is Legolas. 
 He is alive!”

As his eyes traveled up and down the still form of his greatest friend, terror 
once again took hold of Aragorn’s heart at just how close Legolas was to leaving 
the world.  The sight of his friend like that was, without a doubt, one of the 
worst that he had ever seen and ever would lay witness to.  

What he could see of Legolas’ face through the blood, dirt and grime that 
covered it like dust did to most of the lore books in Elrond’s library, was pale 
and drawn while hardly a fingers width was left unmarked from the angry 
blue-black bruises.  The Elf’s eyes were sunken, dark crescent moons lying under 
them, their reason something Aragorn could not tell; bruise or lack of rest – or 
maybe even both.   From the rasping way that Legolas drew in his breath, the 
healer in the Ranger could already tell that there was severe damage to the 
Elf’s chest and stomach and multiple broken ribs was assured.  Legolas’ wrist 
were covered in dried blood, the aftermath of bonds being too tight or 
struggling with the Orc’s coarse rope, and what little of the prince’s arms 
Aragorn could see through the almost shredded tunic where akin to his face, 
bruised and bloodied.  A large crimson patch stained his right shoulder and the 
once golden hair that fell behind his ear, and, it was by following the trail of 
blood up the golden strands that Aragorn found the cause.  

“By the Valar!” he said softly while leaning forward to look at the mutilated 
Elven ear.  The point had been loped clean off, the wound gone untreated, the 
blood allowed to flow and once again Aragorn felt a blinding rage build up 
inside of him at the sight of his mistreated friend.  

“What is it?” Gimli once again demanded, curing his races lack of height for the 
very first time.  “What is wrong?”  Yet he was to get no answer as Aragorn 
continued to look over the Elf he valued more then his own life. 

There were ugly welts covering the Elf’s chest and shoulders and, from what he 
knew of Orc’s, probably the rest of the prince’s body.  A festering, inflamed 
wound was clearly seen in his shoulder, the skin re-torn and the blood dried, 
the doings of an arrow no doubt.  The rest of the Elf was blanketed from his 
sight by the green leaves of the quiet Ent and, in a way, Aragorn was glad for 
he thought that he could not handle any further sightings of the beaten prince 
that lay before him just yet.  

Stretching a trembling hand out, Aragorn let his fingers brush gently against 
the Elf’s bruised and bloodied brow.  “Legolas?” he whispered the name as if for 
the first time, seeing if it fit its namesake, while toying with a strand of his 
friend’s hair.  “Legolas, my friend, can you hear me?” his voice was quiet, 
comforting and as gentle as the feather light touches that he trailed over the 
Elf’s pale skin.  

Unbeknownst to him, tears had welled in his eyes from the moment that he had 
seen the Elf, and it was not until the first one parted from his cheek and 
splashed onto a dirt smeared brow that he noticed his own weeping.  The tear 
seemed to stay in the place of its fall for a moment, as if deciding where to go 
before making a muddy trail through the Elf’s eyebrow and into the hollow of his 
right eye.

The gentle trickling seemed to irritate the Elf who, in his sleep, wrinkled his 
nose and tried to burrow closer into the surrounding trees.

Letting out a happy half-gasp, half intake of air, Aragorn lent further over, 
his right index finger tracing the line the tear had just made across the Elf’s 
brow.  Stopping at the dark eyebrow, he changed his path and smoothed the small 
hairs down, running his finger tenderly over the high cheek bone and back down 
the Elf’s face.  

“Legolas?” he asked again, three more droplets of water falling upon the 
prince’s brow and nose as he spoke.  

Once again Legolas squirmed away from the strange tickling feeling that was upon 
his face, this time adding a little quiet, throaty whimper to his attempt.  It 
was strange, he could have almost sworn that he could hear Aragorn calling to 
him through the strange darkness that seemed to cloud his senses and thoughts.  
And yet, that was impossible, was it not?  

“Legolas, wake up, please?” it was Aragorn’s voice again, and once more he felt 
a soothing movement about his cheek and a strange liquid running down his face. 
. .just blood, he told himself as he moved even further into the warm place that 
he had found himself in.

Watching the Elf wriggle away, Aragorn could not help but smile at his friend.  
Even after all this quest had put him through, all that the Orcs had done to 
him, he still seemed to maintain that element of innocence that none other could 
possibly hope to possess.  

Cupping the Elf’s cheek in his hand, Aragorn gently rubbed some of the dirt away 
from under Legolas’ right eye.  “Open your eyes, Legolas!” he commanded softly 
and lightly, nothing but kindness in his tone.  The Elf seemed to lean into his 
soothing touch and, as he watched, Aragorn could see Legolas’ eyelids fluttering 
slightly.  

It took a few moments, but soon Legolas willed his heavy eyes to start to open, 
wanting to believe that Aragorn really was there and that it was not just a 
hopeful dream.  Wrinkling up his face slightly and nuzzling into the touch that 
he was sure would disappear once he did; Legolas forced his eyes open once and 
for all.  

Aragorn watched intently as Legolas screwed up his face once again and Aragorn 
would have given anything to know what was going thoughts the Elf’s mind at that 
point in time.  Gazing intently at Legolas’ fluttering eyelashes, he was almost 
stunned when the pale lids lifted and revealed a pair of ice-blue orbs, locked 
directly onto his.

There, leaning over him, was the only human that he ever wanted to see at such 
close proximity.  Aragorn had tears running down his face, his storm-grey eyes 
flicked bloodshot while filled with unshed drops of sadness and his lips lifted 
in a small smile.

“Estel?” 

*****

Tbc. . . 

Timeline for Chapter Nine

29 – early morning.

	Frodo and Sam meet up with Gollum who tells them of the path through the 
mists.  

29 – midday. 

	Some of Éomer’s men ride back and find Merry and Pippin.  They take them 
with them and send a message of it to Éomer.

30 – day.

Éomer, meets with Aragorn.  Horses lent to Aragorn while Merry and Pippin stand 
to be a way of insurance.

30 – late afternoon. 

	Aragorn finds Legolas with help of Treebeard. 



Well, there it is –was – whatever.  I hope you all liked it and it was worth the 
wait that I so cruelly put you through.  Once again I do apologize for the 
rather lengthy gap between updates and I will try my hardest to make sure that 
it does not happen again.  

Umm, I really didn’t know what to do with Aragorn’s finding of Legolas, so I 
improvised the whole thing – hope it had the emotional impact that I was aiming 
for.  

Anyway, I shall see you on the next update which, all going to plan, should 
introduce a further nine to ten key characters – bet ya can’t work them all out! 
 Lol.

Minka.