“Lost?  What do you mean – lost?”  Strider leaned forward in his saddle and squinted into the murky shadows of the forest ahead.

          Legolas cast an irritated glance over his shoulder at the ranger.  The young man’s incredulous expression was not lost on the Elf and he turned back to the tangle of woods confronting them without speaking.

          “Legolas, this is Mirkwood.  How can you be lost?”

          With an exasperated sigh the slender Elf prince dismounted from his horse and knelt down upon the mossy earth.  Slowly he ran his fingers over the ground, searching the dirt and dried grass for signs of the well-trodden roadway.  Where a highly traveled road should have been, only scant evidence of a trail could be distinguished amid the leaves and soil beneath his fingers.   The anger he felt at himself for somehow missing the trail and leading them astray was now turning to confusion and bewilderment.  He finally arose and pointed toward the woods in front of them.

          “I have traveled this way for millennia,” Legolas replied.  “The gates of my home should be visible through those trees ahead, flanked by those white oaks.”  He turned back to Strider with an annoyed frown.  “Do you see any gates?”

          Strider peered into the gloom ahead and shook his head.  “No.”

          Sensing his friend’s distress, he continued.  “I’ve ridden this path more times than I can count, many alongside you.”  He gazed back the way they had come, only minutes before.  “And, up until you said we were lost, I thought we were approaching our destination.”

          He dismounted as well and pulled the reins over his horse’s head.  Suddenly an eerie chill crept over his spine and he found himself staring over his shoulder into the dark bushes and trees, fearful of a threat as yet unseen.  He glanced uneasily at Legolas and noted that the Elf was also scanning the trees as if sensing something menacing in the forest, watching them, yet hidden.

          “What is it?” he asked the Elf.

          “Uncertain,” came Legolas’ cryptic reply.

          Strider frowned.  “Care to elaborate?”

          Legolas turned back to face the ranger.  “There is something out there watching us, but I do not know what it might be.”

          Although Strider was an accomplished tracker and quite at ease in the wild, he knew his familiarity with Mirkwood was limited.  This was, after all, Legolas’ home.  The Elf knew this forest with an intimate knowledge that Strider could never hope to attain.  The fact that Legolas admitted to being lost was disconcerting to say the least.  And now, some being lurking in the shadows that the Elf could not identify.

          “Suggestions?” he asked his friend.

          Legolas had just completed another circuitous inspection of the area.  It had proven no more helpful than the first.  He turned steely blue eyes toward his companion, his jaw set and his lips a thin, determined line.  “We should go back,” he replied.  “The only logical explanation is that I made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.”  He shook his golden head in bafflement.  “But I do not see how.”

          “Nor I,” Strider agreed.  He looked back behind them at the heavy woods to their rear and his frown deepened.   The daylight was quickly fading and afternoon was turning to dusk.  The deep shadows and dark curtain of leaves and boughs appeared to be closing in around them and the huge, ancient and gnarled trees seemed to lean in toward them.

          “Legolas,” Strider’s voice held a hard, brittle edge.  “Nothing about this place seems familiar to me now.”  He threw the reins back over his horse’s head and quickly vaulted into the saddle.  Unexpected and overpowering, an intense feeling of sheer panic swept over him, controlling his limbs and forcing the young man to mindless terror and an all consuming urge to flee.  “We must get out of here!  Now!”

            The panicked tone of the ranger’s voice spurred the Elf to movement as well, and he, too, remounted his Elven steed.   It took him only a moment to swing up onto Astalder’s back, but when he glanced up, Strider had already disappeared into the surrounding trees, presumably headed back the way they had come.

          Legolas dashed forward, urging his mount to hasten its speed in order to catch up his friend, but after he had traveled some distance at a reckless pace through the ever darkening woods, he pulled up on the reins, halting his wild-eyed horse.  He searched the woods about him, turning left and right, trying to penetrate the murky twilight as his own fear grew stronger.  Strider was not galloping through the trees ahead of him.  In fact, he did not appear to be anywhere in sight.  Just as the gates of Lasgalen had seemed to vanish into the trees, so too, it appeared, had Strider.

          Branches slapped at Strider’s face as he bolted headlong through the trees, heedless of the biting stings each young sapling meted out, until a thick pine bough torn a jagged gash across his nose and cheekbone.  Tears of pain squinted out of the corner of his eye as he raised his sleeve up to his face to daub at the blood now flowing freely down to his chin.

          Hodoer sensed his rider’s distraction and brought his pace down from a mindless gallop to a canter, and finally to an easy trot, until he halted altogether, sides heaving.  Strider absently patted the horse’s neck, calming the animal after its mad dash through the forest.  Now that they were stopped and no longer charging blindly through the trees, Strider could not understand why he had felt so compelled to flee.  The terrifying sense of panic was no longer with him and he now found it hard to believe that he could have been that frightened.

          He looked about at the darkening woods and could see that the sun had already sunk beneath the horizon.  The dark shadowy places of the forest were now almost black and the gray haze of late twilight was permeating the glen in which he sat atop Hodoer making it difficult to see clearly.  But other than the swiftly falling night, he could sense no danger looming just out of sight within the forest depths.  In fact, the woods seemed to be quite normal.  The soft, whispery sounds of small woodland creatures scurrying to their burrows before the nocturnal predators emerged could be heard against the faint background of birds chirping their last songs before slumber took them for the night.

          Wincing, Strider again dabbed at the cut on his cheek and then leaned down to rummage about in one of his saddle bags; eventually he withdrew a thin, clean cloth strip which he then pressed to his nose.   The gash was not deep and the bleeding had all but stopped, but the cut stung mightily where the pine sap had ground its way into his skin.  He swiped at his cheek and jaw, blotting up the blood that had seeped into his beard and then shook his head.

          I will never live this down, he thought with an irritated grimace.   Legolas must be cackling by now.   I did everything but scream like a maiden.  At the thought of the Elf he turned about in his saddle, scanning the woods behind him.

          “Legolas!” he shouted.  “You can come out now.”

          Several frightened mourning doves burst up from the nearby bushes and into the air, agitated wings flapping at the sudden disturbance caused by the ranger’s loud voice, but no answering hail was forthcoming from the Elf, nor could he make out the thundering sound of a horse’s hooves on the forest trail.

          “Legolas!” he called again, his concerned gaze sweeping over the trees, searching for any glimpse of his friend.

          When no answering call was heard and the forest returned to its deep quiet, Strider’s annoyance turned to worry.  He could not have possibly gone that far into the woods that Legolas could not follow, yet there was no sign of the Wood Elf.

          “What deviltry is this?” he murmured softly, his hand quickly moving to the hilt of his sword as he once again surveyed the surrounding woods.  Was there danger lurking in the trees after all and just out of sight?  The forest, however, remained silent and offered no clues as to the disappearance of his friend.

          By now the twilight had given way to the darkness of night and Strider could barely see past the distance to his horse’s ears.  Slowly he slid from the saddle and one hand pressing the cloth to his face, with the other he led Hodoer to a strong birch tree where he looped the ends of the reins over a low lying branch and then he patted the horse’s neck affectionately.  The animal chuffed softly acknowledging the human’s touch and then bent its head down to start munching on the tender green shoots of grass near the tree’s base.  

          It was much too dark now to be riding blind through the forest and even though his knowledge of Mirkwood’s vast expanse was limited, this small clearing did seem familiar.    Perhaps they were not as far from Lasgalen as Legolas had thought and were not lost at all.  Still, it would be foolish to wander about in the deep woods at night.  Even though he much preferred action and was impatient to find his friend, he knew he would need to camp here for the night and start his search anew in the morning.

          If he started a small fire, surely Legolas would be drawn to the light of the flames and would join him.  Obviously, he just took a different trail through the woods and would soon meet up with him.  In a few short hours they would be laughing heartily about this whole episode and how idiotic they had been for thinking they were lost and something evil was about to attack them.

          With these reassuring thoughts running through his mind, Strider proceeded to unsaddle his horse and then began gathering up twigs and sticks for a fire.  Once collected, he brought out his tinderbox and struck the flint stone over the dried mosses he was using as kindling.  A shower of bright yellow sparks landed upon the dead brown grasses and eventually several small orange-red flames danced up and around the firewood, igniting the pile and covering the campsite with a warm, cozy glow.

          Strider settled back against a large oak and brought out his pipe.  Hopefully, he would not have long to wait before Legolas appeared through the trees, acting as if naught were amiss.

          Irksome Elf, he thought.  He’s the one who got us lost in the first place.  A smoky haze traveled upward and around his head and he stretched out his legs, adjusting his back to mold it into the trunk of the tree behind him and settled down to wait.  However, after several hours had passed and there was still no sign of the Elf, he grew edgy and impatient.

          He was tired and hungry, and finally decided to fix himself a light meal of dried meat strips and berries.  He then vigorously brushed down Hodoer and saw to the cleaning and polishing of his sword.  Upon the completion of each new chore, he immediately began upon a new task, trying to keep his hands and mind busy and his thoughts away from what might have happened to his friend and why he had not yet appeared.   But when the flames of the fire had all but died out, and the stars were high in the night skies, Strider finally gave in to sleep, but his dreams were dark and troubled.  He kept seeing Legolas fighting some unknown and unseen enemy and an unshakable feeling of dread and dark evil toyed with the edges of his mind.  He tossed and turned fitfully upon his forest bed, struggling with the phantom demons of the shadowy dreamscape, yet unable to aid Legolas as the Elf battled this Nameless Thing.

////////////////////////////////////////

          Legolas cooed soothing words to his badly shaken horse as the animal spun about, legs pawing at the air and hooves tossing up clods of dirt and leaves.

          “Garo dínen, Astlader*,” he murmured down to the horse’s ear even as he stroked the animal’s arching neck.  “Quiet now.”

          Astalder’s ears lay flat against his head and his eyes were still wide and spooked, but he responded to the Elvish words of his rider and halted his skittish prancing.  Legolas looked up at the dark trees and even darker skies above his head.  This blackness was not natural.  Even on the darkest of nights without a moon, and no stars visible, he was still able to distinguish objects within the woods of Mirkwood.   Now, however, he could barely see his hands upon the reins of his steed.

          Legolas strained his ears and leaned forward ever so slightly.  He had not been mistaken.  Words were being spoken – Elvish words – and not far from his present position.  He leaned down and patted Astalder’s shoulder, urging the beast forward, although the horse was definitely not eager to venture further into the dark forest.

          “Pan naa eithel, mellon nin,**” he whispered.  “Do not be afraid.”

          Slowly Legolas guided the frightened animal back through the trees the way they had come and within several minutes the Elvish voices grew louder and more distinct.

          Sentries, Legolas thought, they are getting ready to close the gates for the night.  It is Lasgalen!  I am home!   

          The faint, white glow of flickering torches could be seen up ahead through the wavering tree boughs and Legolas thought he could just make out the great, wooden gates, but as he drew closer he sensed something was wrong.  The eerie blackness about him was much thicker now; darker, and it felt like a living presence wafting about him.  As he neared the stronghold, he could see the majestic gates, emblazoned with elegantly carved leaves and branches, the sigil of Oropher, yet they appeared translucent and ghostly; their tall structures wavered to and fro as if the portals were floating under water.

          As he watched, two Elven warriors came through the gates and moved to either side of the great entryway.  They, too, were pale and wraithlike, and Legolas could see through them as they marched out of the opening.  Slowly, they pulled the heavy, wooden doors inward and began to shut off egress from without.  Soon the Elven enchantments would envelop the portal, barring entry to all for the night.  Although a royal and able to access the gates at any time, Legolas hastily dismounted and ran forward toward the doors.

          “Hail!  It is Legolas Thranduilion, your prince.  Do not shut the gates!”

          The ghostly sentries did not appear to hear his words and continued closing the huge gates.  As he drew near, he recognized the Elves as Celoril and Amorfing, two of his father’s Sindarin archers.  He called out again, but his shouts went unheard and just as Legolas reached the entrance the two doors swung shut in front of him.  They made no sound as they came together and he could no longer hear the words of the two warriors within.  He raised his hands to beat upon the wooden doors and the palms of his hands slid through the gates as if through air.   At his touch, the portal vanished into the hovering blackness and he was alone in the total darkness.

          “Dartho!” he called. “Celoril!  Amorfing! Car-al gwanna!†”

          Blinded by the lack of light and confused by the vision he had just seen, he spun about with a growing sense of panic.  He strained his ears to hear anything that might aid him in understanding what his eyes could not see, but the silence was total and he was dizzy and disoriented.  He stumbled forward a few paces and very nearly fell, but righted himself as he crashed against a tree trunk.  He threw his arm out, steadying himself against the tree’s sturdy form and strained his eyes, trying to pick out something, anything in the blackness; and then the howling began.

          Legolas whipped his head to the right as something cold and icy glanced off his cheek.  He spun again as another presence, brushed over his hand, and then they were all around him.  Piercing, shrieking wails echoed throughout the blackness and sent knives of pain shooting through his skull, exploding like some hideous version of Mithrandir’s fireworks.  Legolas threw his hands over his sensitive ears, trying to shut out the screams and grimaced as the howling grew shriller and louder within his head.

          He pushed himself away from the tree and snatched his long knives from their sheaths upon his back.   His blond braids whipped about his face as he swung his head from side to side and his long hair cascaded about his shoulders as he tried in vain to see through the darkness and seek out what was attacking him.   His head was pounding and a sickening nausea was valiantly attempting to gain control of his body.   Swiftly he spun from left to right as the beings swirled around and over him.  He could feel their frigid breath as they passed by his face, but the darkness prevented him from seeing what kind of creature they might be.  His knives hissed and swished as they brutally sliced through the air, but could find no solid form to penetrate.

          As long as he kept moving, these things seemed to be kept at bay, but he could not keep up this pace forever.  Even now he could feel his heart hammering against his chest and his breathing was becoming harsh and labored.  If he could only see what he was fighting, perhaps he could form some kind of defense.  He spun again as another wraith slithered over his leg and he kicked out viciously while swiping his knife at the unseen assailant.  Again his weapon struck only air and his frustration and anger increased as he swung the knives again and again.

          The terrible screams of the Shriekers once again ripped through his mind and he staggered backward, dropping his knives and grasping his head with his hands.  A sudden, burning pain seared through the back of his neck and his head snapped backward.    His hand moved to his neck and he felt a hard, chitinous spike piercing the skin where his neck and shoulder met.   The source of the excruciating pain was boring into his flesh and he slowly sank to his knees under the pressure of the giant spider’s poisonous stinger as it pushed him to the ground under its black, hairy legs and bloated body.

*Hold silent. [be quiet, be calm]

**All is well, my friend.

†Wait!  Celoril! Amorfing!  Do not depart!

          King Thranduil shrank back from the deep well’s outer rim.  Hidden far beneath the lowest caverns of his Mirkwood palace for untold eons, the dark abyss now gaped open and spewed forth a darkness that was a living entity.  A reeking stench of things putrid and long dead; foul, evil things that had never walked the earth above nor seen the light of day oozed from the pit and hung in the air, cloying and thick.  The Elf Lord was overcome by a fear the likes of which he had not experienced in over a thousand years and his arm rose defensively as if to ward off a physical blow.   He forced his gaze away from the open shaft in the cavern floor and looked to Ganduil.

          “Quickly!  Seal it off!” he commanded.

          The two Elven metal smiths standing ready hastened forward.  The two grappled with the great iron plate until they were able to maneuver the metal cover over the well’s opening.   The lid, circular in size and etched with Dwarven runes, slid forward until it closed over the gaping maw with an echoing clang.   Once the cover was set in place, they proceeded to slide large iron spikes through the newly bored holes cored out around the outer edges of the metal.   Expertly they hammered the spikes into the stone flooring alongside those spikes already sunk within the stone and then poured molten lead over the edges of the iron cover, sealing the plate to the cavern floor.  Their job completed, both smiths hastily gathered up their tools and together they lifted the stout carrying pole bearing the cauldron of molten lead between them.  They quickly shuffled out into the outer passageway and made their way back through the tunnels to the forges outside the palace.

          After the two workers were gone, Ganduil, the king’s oldest and most trusted confidant, moved to his liege’s side.  He placed a nervous hand upon the king’s forearm and leaned in closer to Thranduil’s ear.

          “It is done, majesty,” he reported.  “Hopefully, it is not too late.”

          Thranduil yanked his arm away from his minister and glowered down at the Elf beside him.  “Not too late!” he thundered.  “You think it is not too late!?”

          Ganduil blanched and backed away from his king, pressing his back against the stone wall of the chamber.  He knew when Thranduil was in this kind of mood it was best to remain silent and out of his line of sight.  He calmly folded his hands together in front of his stomach and waited.

          Thranduil paced back and forth in front of the sealed well, dark blue robes swirling out behind him like an angry sea.  His face was a dark cloud threatening violent storms and lightening.  His blue eyes were hard, yet fearful; fearful of what he had unwittingly unleashed from the depths of this hellhole, all because of his thoughtless greed.

          The Elven King turned once again upon Ganduil, his eyes piercing and demanding.  “Seal off this passageway.  I want no one else to know of this.”  He shuddered involuntarily.  “Or, what happened here.”

          The minister nodded his understanding.  It would be difficult enough to explain the deaths of the Elven guards, but at least they were warriors; warriors died.  The others, however, were a different matter.

          “What of them?” he asked quietly, gesturing to the three Dale Men cowering and whimpering along the far wall.  Their eyes were wild, yet unseeing and they clawed at the stone walls as if trying to dig their way through with their bare hands.  They did not appear to be aware of their surroundings, nor what they were doing.  Mindlessly, they scraped and scratched at the stones in front of their faces, lips quivering with nonsensical murmurings.

          The king’s gaze had followed Ganduil’s pointing hand toward the humans he had employed to do the digging.  Now he turned away from the sight of their broken, tortured souls.

          “There is no hope for them,” he murmured, suddenly lost in his own thoughts and unmindful of Ganduil’s presence within the room.  “How was I to know?  It was only myth – legends told to frighten the young ones.  No one believed they were real.”

          “Majesty?” Ganduil questioned, but the Elf Lord did not hear his spoken words, listening instead to some desperate murmurings within his own mind.  “Thranduil,” he pressed, touching the king’s sleeve.

          “What!?” Thranduil jerked at the elder Elf’s hand upon his arm.  “Oh, yes, take them to the lower dungeons.”  He paused, looking again upon the simpering, pitiful creatures that had once been robust men.  “Isar will tend to them.”

          “But, sire,” Ganduil protested.  “They are humans.  What if someone should ask questions?”  He spread his arms out to his sides, as he, too, began to pace.  “What if they have kin who wish to know of their whereabouts?”

          Thranduil barked out a short, ragged laugh.  “There will be no questions asked.  They are Dale Men.”  He glanced at his friend and adviser.  “I made sure to enlist only men who had no family alive and who would be less than eager to remain in the towns where last they traveled.”   He shook his head slightly.  “No, Ganduil.  There will be no one seeking these poor creatures.”

          Ganduil turned his gaze from the witless men and looked imploringly at his king.  “Is there nothing that can be done for them, sire?”

          The Elf Lord lowered saddened eyes and shook his head.  “I’m afraid not.  Whatever they looked upon has taken away their minds as surely as it took the lives of my guards yesterday eve.”  He brought his slender, bejeweled hands up to his face and covered his eyes as if to blot out the sight of the Elven warriors lying dead upon the stones, blood flowing from their eyes, ears, lips, as if their very brains had exploded within their skulls.   His shoulders shook as the heavy burden of what he had unleashed upon the earth came over him.

          “Was it only yesterday?” he whispered.  When Ganduil made no reply, the king raised his head and glanced back at his minister.  “What about the time rifts?”

          Ganduil looked uncomfortable and lowered his gaze from the king’s stare.  Finally, he spoke.  “Worse, majesty.”  His arm swept the room about them.  “At first the occurrence was only felt within this room.  Now it appears to have moved outward into the palace…perhaps as far as the woods beyond.  The phases and shifts seem to be lasting for longer periods of time, but they are unpredictable.”

          “My subjects?” inquired Thranduil, his voice toneless and crestfallen.

          “They are beginning to speak of “wraiths” and “dark dreams”, sire,” Ganduil replied.  “But I believe we can reassure them that it is nothing to fear, if…”

          “Nothing to fear!”  Thranduil roared.  “Are you mad, Ganduil?  Do you not know what we have done?”

          Ganduil made to speak, but wisely held his counsel.  He could not reason with the king now when he was still too riddled with guilt.  Later, when they were alone and away from this hideous place; perhaps then they could determine what to do to salvage this dire state of affairs before it was indeed too late for all of them.

////////////////////////////// 

//All our yesterdays…//

          “What is it we’re supposed to be looking for anyway?” groused Owyn.

          “Keep quiet and keep diggin’,” answered Roryn as he shouldered another shovel of loose stones into a trough beside him.  “’e’s payin’ us enough to keep our mouths shut.”

          Owyn leaned upon his shovel and swiped at the sweat on his brow.  “I don’t mind the diggin’, but I do mind not knowin’ what I’m diggin’ for.”  He picked up his shovel and began working once more.  “How will I know when I’ve found it?”

          At that moment his shovel slammed into something hard, causing a loud clanking sound to resonate within the chamber.  Owyn and Roryn looked at each other and grinned. 

          “I think ye jest found it, me boy!” Roryn laughed, slapping the other man upon the shoulder.  “Hurry, get Culir.”

          As Owyn scrambled back out of the chamber and down the passage, Roryn started to clear away the debris from the exposed metal chunk lying embedded within the floor of the cavern.  By the time the others returned, he had cleared away the dirt and rock from the top of the hidden find and determined that it was a solid piece of iron, circular in shape, and at least several inches thick.  Markings of indeterminate origin and quite unreadable to Roryn covered every inch of space upon the metal plate’s surface.

          Culir marched into the chamber, Owyn and two Elven guards in tow, and immediately headed for the strange circle upon the floor.  Roryn glanced up at his fellow laborer.  “Is this what we’ve been searchin’ for?”

          The large brown-haired mason knelt down beside the iron ring and ran his calloused hand along the edges, searching for a catch or locking mechanism.  Finding none, he moved his palm over the top of the iron circle, brushing his hand along the deeply etched markings.  The metal was cold to his touch and eventually he had to withdraw his hand from its icy exterior.

          “Well?” prodded Roryn.

          Culir shook his head.  “Don’t know.  The King didn’t rightly say what it was he was lookin’ t’ find down here.”

          The two Elven warriors pushed their way through the Dale Men and looked down at the iron circle.  Tinondel knelt down beside the well cap and ran a slender finger across the carved symbols.  He looked up at his companion.

          “Toltho i Âr si!” he ordered.  “Amin darthuva sí*.”

          The younger warrior nodded curtly and spun about, heading out of the chamber and down the corridor at a trot.  Tinondel stood and looked at the Dale Men with ill-concealed disdain.

          “Do not touch anything.  I have summoned King Thranduil.”  He gestured for the men to move away from the iron circle upon the floor.  “Wait there.”

          As the three men moved away and leaned back against the chamber walls, muttering angry slurs that they thought the Elf could not hear, Tinondel stood silently before the well, his face an impassive mask, and held his lance at the ready.  He did not have long to wait.  King Thranduil had been making his way down through the tunnels to observe the day’s proceedings when the Elven guard met him in one of the lower tunnels.  Together they entered the chamber a short time later and the Elven King marched directly to the well.

          Thranduil looked over his shoulder and saw his privy minister and chief steward entering the doorway and he waved the Elf forward.  “Ganduil!  Quickly.  Look at this.”

          The elder Elf leaned forward to better see.  “What is it, my lord?” he inquired.

          The king clasped the steward’s wrist and drew the Elf down beside him as he knelt before the well.  His lowered voice was meant for the minister’s ear alone.  “It is something the Dwarf Lords never wished to be found,” he murmured.  “Therefore, it must contain something beyond price.”

          Ganduil glanced again upon the black, lusterless metal ring before him.  He was suddenly overcome with a feeling of fear and dread.  He tried to pull back away from the king’s grasp.  “I…I don’t know, sire.”  He slowly extracted his wrist from Thranduil’s clutches.  “Perhaps we should try to decipher this script before we do anything rash.”

          “Nonsense!” Thranduil replied.  “It is merely a Dwarven curse, meant to scare off those who would try to steal their treasures.”  He rose to his feet and laughed at his steward’s unease.  “I have no fear of Dwarvish histrionics.”

          Ganduil looked to the Dale Men waiting patiently beside the stone corridor then back to his king.  “Very well, sire,” he nodded.  “You there,” he gestured toward the men.  “Get this lid off.”

          The men pushed away from the wall and again hoisted their shovels.  They proceeded to remove the dirt and rock around the edges of the iron plate and in no time the well rim was unearthed and plainly visible amid the stone rubble.  So, too, were the great iron spikes welded to a heavy iron collar completely encircling the plating and embedded into the stone flooring of the chamber.  Culir glanced up at the Elf Lord with a frown.

          “We’ll not be gettin’ that off with shovels,” he stated.

          King Thranduil turned to his steward.  “Get them whatever they need to get that well open.  Summon me when it is done.”

          “Yes, majesty,” Ganduil bowed.

          His command given, the Elven king spun about with a flurry of silken robes and departed, leaving the others to their tasks.  Ganduil motioned toward the Elven guards.  “Get the metal smiths.  And be sure no one else is allowed to enter the outer passages.  Do it quickly.”

          Tinondel slapped his forearm across his chest in salute and then hastened to do the steward’s bidding.  Mioriand swiftly moved to the chamber entrance to guard the opening against unwanted intruders.  Ganduil glanced at the Dale Men who were now standing idly beside the well.

          “You are to speak of this to no one.  Is that clear?”

          The men nodded, eying each other as they did so.  Excited thoughts of untold treasure coursed through each man’s avaricious mind.  They grinned at one another as if reaching an unspoken agreement as to the distribution of the spoils; Elven King or nay, they would get their share.

          They had not long to wait before one of the king’s armorers entered the small room, followed by Tinondel.  The Elf wasted no time speaking but moved directly to the iron disk sunk into the cavern floor.    He pulled out a hammer and chisel from a pouch about his waist and positioning the chisel along one of the spikes, began smashing his hammer down against the spike’s edge where it met the encircling ring.  Sparks flew as metal struck metal, but the spikes remained unbroken.

          The armorer leaned back away from the iron cover and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, trying to determine his next approach to opening this vent.  After a time, he brought his head down to better examine the spikes close up and he could see the barest space between the band encircling the well and the well itself.  He positioned his chisel within this small crevice and began hammering away at the metal.  Before too long the band snapped away from the ring spike, and one small portion of the covering lid was free.  The metal smith made his way around the well separating the rings in this manner until the last of the rings, although still embedded into the stone flooring, were loosened from the band and the lid was freed.

          When his job was complete, the armorer arose and bowed to Ganduil.  The steward gestured for him to depart and the smith did so with eager haste.   After making certain that he was gone, Ganduil then turned to the Dale Men.

          “Do not open the well until I return with the king.”

          The three men casually nodded and Ganduil hurried through the chamber doorway.  “Tinondel, Mioriand,” he called as he left.  “Guard the entrance.  Let no one pass until I return with the king.”

          The Elven soldiers nodded and moved to block the chamber’s entrance.  Facing forward into the passage with their backs to the well and the Dale Men standing within the chamber, the two Elven warriors did not see the men carefully and silently lift the iron cover off the well’s base.  The last thing any of them heard was the howling.

*Fetch the King now! I will wait here.        

          --- light, air, open, free, escape, now, aware, strong, power, take, take all, all is mine, all is mine, confusion, unknown, creatures, not of the light, not of the void, others, touch, fear, pain, no sensations, no feeling, no life, gone, too strong, too fragile, must learn, hunger, need, want, want all, space, movement, time, freedom, energy, being of light, strength, vessel of life, another, fast, deadly, bend to my will, yeeesssssss, bring to me, learn, radiate, flowing of time, opening of  space, change, blackness, the unlight, the Nameless One, I awake ---

////////////////////////////////

          Legolas twitched, not sure if he was awake or dreaming, alive or dead.  All about him darkness blanketed his vision and he knew not if his eyes were open or shut.  He blinked several times and was now certain they were open, yet the blackness remained.  He tried to lift his head but something was pulling his hair taut and he could only lift his head slightly.  The effort was too much and he let his head fall back against the resilient surface upon which he lay.  His arms and legs felt numb; dull and heavy, slow to awaken, yet he could feel them as he strained against bonds he could not see but only feel.  He flexed his muscles again, attempting to twist and rotate his body from side to side, but he was securely restrained and his body remained immobile.  Exhausted by the effort, he lay still.

          Aside from the throbbing, burning ache in his neck and shoulder and the pounding in his head, he felt no pain, only weakness and fever.  It was difficult to think and he forced his mind to stay focused, although he was not sure if his thoughts were his own or maddened delusions caused by delirium.  He tried to relax his body and take deep, calming breaths, as more and more of his senses awakened.  It was then that he heard the sickening smacking, sucking sounds of something very large and very near – feeding.  In the total darkness it was impossible to tell where the slavering gulps were coming from, but it seemed to be somewhere above and to his right.

          A chilling terror and panic arose within the Elf as the sounds grew more rapacious and he found himself pulling harder at his bonds, thrashing his legs and arms, but to no avail.  He was a prisoner, and undoubtedly this beast’s next meal.   Legolas fought to hold down the scream that threatened to escape his lips for he realized now with the clarity of insight that he was ensnared within a spider’s web.  The searing pain, aching head and weakness, were all the results of the poisonous venom the spider had injected into his body.

          No stranger to spiders, having fought them on a daily basis as he rode through the forests of Mirkwood, Legolas knew he was in no real danger of dying from its venom.  Their bite, although extremely painful, was seldom fatal, but could cause fever and delirium or, at the very worst, tremors, unconsciousness and then coma.  Since he was obviously awake, the poison must not have been extremely potent; or…. awake, yes, he thought, but for how long?  How long has it been since I was bitten?

          Being bitten, however, was only a minor concern.  Remembering the size of the spike he had grasped when first he felt the burning pain in his neck, Legolas realized that this particular spider must be of monstrous proportions and being eaten alive was not something he wished to experience.   Again, the suckling slurps and snuffles sounded to his right and he fought the terror rising within him as the webbing beneath his body began to ripple and undulate with the spider’s movement.

          Legolas’ heart pounded against his chest and he struggled anew, his fear adding to his strength, but he was still unable to free his hands or feet.  When he thought that he could no longer suppress his scream, the arachnid’s activities ceased and the web again lay quiet.  Legolas could hear the scuttling sounds of her many legs as she moved upwards and away and he let out his breath in a sudden, frightened rush.  For the moment, at least, he was spared, but for how long, he knew not.

          With the spider’s departure, the utter blackness of the unlight lifted and Legolas could distinguish vague images and the objects surrounding him.  Long, graceful strands of milky white filament and ropy substances hung from the walls and ceilings of the dark cavern.  Raising his head as much as possible, he could see that the spider’s silk was criss-crossed over his torso and wrapped around his limbs, holding him firmly to the spiraled webbing upon which he lay.  He strained his head to the right and quickly looked away.   The remnants of the spider’s feast was still enmeshed within the web and Legolas fought back his heaving stomach as he thought he could distinguish a leg amid the fragments left behind; whether man or Elf he could not say.

          He shut his eyes to banish the gruesome sight and tried to repress his escalating panic.  As he breathed deeper and forced his body to relax, he ultimately began to calm, and once certain he was in control of his panic, he made another survey of his surroundings.   Whether due to the venom and the remnants of the fever, or just his heightened fear, Legolas could not determine, but the walls of the cavern began to waver and distort.  The webbing of the huge spider’s nest began to fade; then reappear.  He was seeing the same area of the cave, but at different times in its history – as it was before the spider made its web and then after the web had been completed.

          As he pondered this strange phenomenon, an unexpected image of Aragorn flitted through his memories, and suddenly he felt his essence being sucked away into the darkness of the void.  He was hurtling through blackness; flying without wings, and then he was there, standing alongside the fitfully sleeping ranger, deep within the woods surrounding Lasgalen; the starlit skies just before dawn twinkling overhead.

          Legolas emitted a startled gasp at his sudden emergence into the forest, somehow freed of the spider’s bonds; yet he could not feel the breeze blowing upon his skin, nor smell the fragrance of the trees.

          “Aragorn!” he called out, dropping to his knees beside the human.  “Aragorn, wake up!”

          The sleeping human twisted and jerked in his sleep, but did not open his eyes.  Legolas could see his troubled lips moving, but no sound could be heard.  He reached out his hand to grasp Aragorn’s shoulder but his fingers could not touch his friend’s body; they merely passed through it.  Legolas snatched his hand away and stared down at his wraithlike palms and then suddenly he was torn away from the wooded campsite and soaring through the blackness at a dizzying speed.

          “No!” he wailed.  “Aragorn!  Hear me!”

          But it was too late; the darkness was complete and he was back, once more, trapped within the spider’s den and a new sound was coming toward him in the dark.

//////////////////////////////////////////

          Strider awoke shouting.

          “Legolas!” he called, stumbling to his feet and snatching up his sword as he arose.   He spun about the campsite, knees bent, sword ready, as his sleep-riddled eyes tried to penetrate the gray gloom of pre-dawn.  He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand trying to clear the sleep from them, his senses heightened; ears straining to hear the slightest sound that was out of place.

          “Legolas!” he shouted again, his head moving upward searching the tree tops, then back down to the forest floor.  But there was nothing, only Hodoer’s nervous whickering.

          Strider moved over to the horse and ran his hand along the animal’s neck, calming it.  “Easy, boy,” he murmured.  “Bad dreams, that’s all.”  He looked uneasily around the small glen once more and certain that he was indeed alone, returned his sword to its scabbard.

          Quickly he started gathering up his meager supplies and gear.  He snatched up the saddle and swung it up and over Hodoer’s back, grasping the cinch from beneath the horse’s belly.  He pulled it tight and wrapped and knotted it securely; then proceeded to start attaching the various pouches and bags filled with his gear to the saddle.

          He moved over to the fire pit and kicked and scattered the gray ashes and burned twigs with his booted toe, making sure there were no live embers yet smoldering.  Satisfied, he pulled the horse’s reins from the birch tree’s branch and swung up into the saddle.  The first tentative fingers of pale light began to filter through the dense tree boughs overhead as he kicked Hodoer’s sides and urged the steed forward and out of the glen.

          Let’s hope Lasgalen is as close as I believe, he thought, his concern for Legolas gnawing at the back of his mind, making itself known and causing his unease to grow stronger.

          As daylight broke over the forest, Strider pressed his horse into a canter and once out of the wooded glen they emerged onto the familiar roadway leading to Legolas’ Mirkwood home.  The ranger pulled up sharply on the reins causing Hodoer to splay out his hind legs and raise his forelegs up and outward.   The horse’s hooves crashed back down onto the trail with a dull thud and he shook his head with annoyance.  Strider absently leaned forward and stroked the steed’s neck.

          “Sorry, boy,” he murmured.  “There is just something very wrong about what’s been happening in these woods.”

          The feeling of panic he had experienced yesterday afternoon had returned, hovering at the edges of his mind, not as strong, but there.  His gaze swept the trees and bushes along the roadside up ahead and then back down the way they had ridden the previous day.  Nothing but woodland vistas met his searching eyes; and yet, a chill slithered its way down his spine.  His body shuddered involuntarily as if plagued with an ague or fever.

          He tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks and Hodoer proceeded forward along the road, head bobbing up and down with nervous tension.  As they traveled through the thinning woodlands, Strider leaned forward, listening, as soft Elven voices emerged, coming from the trees up ahead.  The Elves were singing, but the music was melancholy and sad.

          Strider rode forward and as the trail turned he found himself just outside the huge wooden gates of Lasgalen.  The massive doors were opened wide, their towering heights merging with the leaves and trees alongside the entrance.  A line of Elves was slowly moving outward from the city, traveling into the woods.  Their voices were soft, muted as they sang the dirge for the dead.

          A burial, he realized, watching the group before him.  Whose burial?

          His heart seized within his chest and he thought immediately of Legolas, but this procession was much too small and humble.  Had it been for the prince, the whole of Mirkwood would have been in attendance, the King included.  His racing heartbeat slowed as he convinced himself that it could not be Legolas dead; nonetheless, he mourned the passing of any immortal being.  As the Elves neared, he hastily dismounted and bowed his head.  Touching his thumb and forefinger to his lips and then his forehead in respect, he murmured ‘Namaarie’ as the line of mourners moved past.

          Lifting up his head once more, he noted sadly that there were two bodies being carried to their final rest.  Soldiers by the look of the items being carried with them:  lances, bows and quivers, Elven blades.  Strider watched the Elvish cortege until it disappeared into the woods and was no longer visible, then he gathered up Hodoer’s loose reins and led the horse toward the open gateway.

          At the entrance he was halted by one of King Thranduil’s guards.  He recognized the Elf warrior as one he had met previously, but did not know well.

          “Mae govannen,” he bowed slightly toward the soldier.

          “Hail and well met, Strider,” the Elf responded, but a look of confusion came across his handsome features.  “What are you doing here in Mirkwood?  We thought the prince to be summering with you and Lord Elrond at Imladris.”

          Strider could not keep the disappointment and worry from his voice.  “Then he is not here after all.”  He glanced about the open courtyard and his gaze halted at the sight of the Palace entrance.  “I had hoped he was here waiting for me.”

          The soldier’s stance became more alert.  “Prince Legolas is not with you?”

          Strider shook his head.  “We were separated in the woods.  I spent the night in the forest.  I thought Legolas might…”

          His words were cut short as an Elven patrol clattered into the courtyard at a fast canter and made for the Palace.  As they sped by, Strider noted the captain of the patrol clutching something in his left hand that he immediately recognized.  It was a pair of Elvish long knives – Legolas’ knives.

          Strider tossed Hodoer’s reins to the young Elfling stable attendant jogging up to him, and without a backward glance at the youth, ran toward the Palace gates in pursuit of the Elven patrol.  The captain and his troop were already dismounting their Elven horses when Strider came charging up to them.

          The Elf warrior in charge of the scouting patrol recognized Strider and nodded to the human as he approached but did not slacken his pace as he hurried toward the Palace entrance.  The ranger ran up alongside Amorfing and matched his gait to that of the Elven soldier.

          “Legolas?” he panted.  “Any sign of….Legolas?”

          Amorfing’s face was grim.  He shook his head negatively and continued up the steps to the Great Hall.  Strider followed closely behind him.  The remaining Elven bowmen of the first watch patrol held their horses steady and prepared to wait for their captain outside the Palace, ready to ride out again at a moment’s notice.

          Elf and human made their way down the dark, torch lit corridor toward King Thranduil’s common hall where they found his chief minister, Ganduil, sorting through documents and scrolls, presumably preparing for the king’s daily audience.  The hall itself, however, was empty.  It seemed there were no petitioners this day.  Strider noted this and wondered at the reason.  On each of his previous visits to Mirkwood, the hall had been packed with Elves and the men and merchants of Lake Town, but today the echoing chamber was deserted.

          Amorfing halted before Ganduil and acknowledged the minister with a slight bow.  “I must see the king, Lord Ganduil.  It concerns Prince Legolas.”

          The elder Elf Lord rose from his seat at the desk and moved forward, his eyes moving to take in Strider’s presence as well.  He knew of the young ranger and his friendship with the king’s son, but until now, had never had the occasion to speak with the adopted son of Elrond.  His gaze turned back to the Elven guardsman.

          “The king is not well.  Perhaps you could tell me this news?”

          Amorfing hesitated, his eyes dropping to the two long knives still clutched tightly in his left hand.  He glanced back up at the minister.  “I would prefer to speak with his majesty in person.”

          Ganduil stiffened at the rebuke, but he forced his lips into a twisted smile.  “Very well, then,” he demurred.  “I will see what I can do.”  He indicated a low wooden bench along the wall.  “Please be seated.  I shall not be long.”

          Amorfing looked as if he would protest, but Strider placed a restraining hand on the soldier’s arm and his eyes told the warrior to be patient.  The Elf nodded slightly and the two moved to the bench and took their seats while Ganduil disappeared into the inner chambers of the Palace.

          As soon as the minister was gone, Amorfing turned to Strider, his voice a low whisper.  “Do you know what happened to Prince Legolas?”

          Strider shook his head.  “I was hoping you could enlighten me.  We were separated yesterday eve.  I spent the night in the woods outside the city.  I had hoped Legolas would be here waiting for me when I arrived this morning.”

          Amorfing looked bewildered.  “Separated?  How?  Were you attacked?”  The thought of filthy orc raiders this close to Lasgalen had the warrior’s battle hardened instincts on high alert.

          “No,” Strider assured the Elf.  “No,” he paused, “not exactly.”

          The Elf captain turned to better face the young human.  “What exactly was it then?”

          Before he could reply, Ganduil glided back into the hallway and came toward them.  He gestured for them to follow.  “Come,” he said.  “The king will see you.”

          Strider and Amorfing arose and followed the minister into the private chambers of the royal family.   Although no stranger to the royal residence, having been a guest of Legolas on many a former occasion, Strider did not, however, recall ever before entering any of these dark corridors.  The small group halted before a massive oaken door and the minister tapped lightly upon the wood.  Without waiting for a reply, Ganduil opened the door and motioned for Amorfing and Strider to proceed.  The two entered the dimly lit room and Ganduil shut the door behind him as he joined them within the hushed chamber.

          The Elven King was standing at an open balcony window, his back to them.  The dark, heavy draperies that lined most of one large wall were closed save those where the king stood.   The dense trees and forest growth outside the balcony prohibited much of the morning sunlight from filtering into the room, giving it a murky, half-lit gloom. The king did not turn at their entrance.

          Strider glanced about the room and guessed they were in the king’s private study.  A large wooden desk, strewn with scrolls and parchments, took up much of the space near where the king silently stood gazing out the window.   Books, scrolls and parchments lined the walls in cutaway niches and there were several high backed chairs placed around a huge fireplace that was carved into the far wall, but no fire burned within the grate.  The air within the study was stuffy and close and Strider suppressed an urge to pull wide the drapes and let in the cool morning breeze.

          After an interminable silence, Ganduil finally moved toward the king and placed a hand upon Thranduil’s forearm.  “They are here, majesty,” he said softly.

          Thranduil nodded and slowly moved away from the balcony.  His features were hidden in shadow as he turned to face the Elf captain and ranger, but they could see his shoulders were bent forward as if he carried a great weight upon his back.   His long golden hair was unbraided and disheveled and he wore a simple robe and long tunic, not his usual grand attire.  Strider tensed at the sight of the king, sensing that something terrible had occurred within the Palace and it was affecting the king physically.  As the Elf Lord moved out of the shadows, Strider’s fears were confirmed as he caught sight of the king’s pale and stricken face.

          Amorfing, too, noticed the king’s haunted expression and hesitantly moved forward.  “Majesty,” he said, bending down upon one knee, his forearm across his chest, head bowed.  When Thranduil made no reply, the Elf dared a glance up at his king and then hurriedly continued.  “My patrol found these this morning outside the gates, no more than a hundred feet from the outer wall.”

          He brought the two Elven long knives forward, holding them out to the king on his open palms.  The king stared down at the knives, but made no move, nor did he speak.  Amorfing glanced sidelong at Ganduil, his eyes questioning, then turned back to his king.  “They belong to Prince Legolas.”

          Thranduil’s jaw muscles twitched and his eyes shut briefly, but not before Strider saw the terrible pain that they held.  Slowly he opened his eyes and moved toward his Elf captain.  His right hand stretched out and his slender fingers touched the proffered knives.   Gently, he moved them along the beautiful etched blades, tracing the elegant designs with his fingertips, and then he suddenly snatched his hand away from the knives as if his fingers had been burned by the metal's touch and a shuddering gasp escaped his lips.

          “Legolas,” he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut.  “What have I done?”

          Amorfing’s perplexed frown met Strider’s and Ganduil hurriedly rushed forward, grasping the king’s forearm and elbow and guiding him toward the chair behind his massive desk.   The captain arose, still holding the knives, not sure what he should do.  His eyes met Strider’s and together they moved as one toward the desk.  The warrior carefully placed the knives upon the cluttered desk top where a thin ray of sunlight glinted off the blades.

          “Sire,” asked the ranger, leaning forward, his hands placed firmly upon the oaken wood.  “What has happened here?   Do you know what befell Legolas?”  When there was no reply from the king, he pressed on.  “Majesty!”

          Ganduil glared up at the ranger and hissed.  “Can you not see the king is unwell?  You must leave now…”

          Thranduil’s quavering hand upon his arm stilled the minister’s words.  “No, Ganduil,” the king sighed.  “Let him stay.”

          The king’s striking blue eyes met Strider’s and a chill went through the young ranger.   His stare still locked with Strider, the king spoke to the warrior at the human’s side.  “Gather together your patrol, Amorfing,” the king ordered.  “Search the woods.  Find my son.”

          The Elf quickly nodded.  “Yes, my liege,” he bowed, and with a parting glance at Strider, hastened from the study to reassemble his patrol.  When he was gone, Strider turned back to the king.

          “He isn’t going to find Legolas out there, is he?” he asked through clenched teeth, his anger and fear for his friend rising.  “IS HE!?”

          Ganduil moved around the desk and pressed his hands to the ranger’s shoulders, placing himself between Strider and the king.  “Be silent, you young fool!” he hissed into the human’s face.

          Thranduil looked up at his minister and the young ranger and waved his hand at Ganduil.  “Let him go, Ganduil,” he murmured.  He looked at the human as if only just now realizing the significance of his presence in the room.  “What are you doing here, Aragorn?” he asked.  “Why is Legolas not with you?”

          Ganduil let his hands drop from the ranger’s shoulders and he stepped back a pace.  Strider placed his palms down upon the desk top and leaned forward toward the king.  “We were separated in the woods outside Lasgalen yesterday eve.”

          Thranduil looked to Ganduil and then back to the ranger.  “Separated?  How?”

          Strider angrily tossed his hands up into the air and began to pace.  “We were traveling along the Old Forest Road and had nearly reached the gates when Legolas announced that we were lost.  That he must have taken a wrong turn.  I thought him joking until I, too, could not identify any of our surroundings.”  He stopped and turned toward the king and minister.  “The forest had,” he hesitated, searching for the words to convey his meaning, “changed somehow.  I know it sounds mad, but the forest felt alive, foreign, evil…”

          Strider glanced at the king and saw that his face had grown paler and more fearful.  He looked to Thranduil’s minister and saw that he, too, mirrored his king’s anxiety.  The two before him were hiding some secret shared between them.  His eyes narrowed as he sought the king’s gaze.   “You know something about this, don’t you, majesty?”

          Thranduil looked away, rising instead and moving once more to the open balcony.  He gazed out at the dark woods as if seeking solace from the trees, but it was not to be.  He turned back to Strider.  “What happened then?”

          Strider came up beside the Elf Lord, gazing into his face, trying in vain to read the thoughts hidden behind the king’s ashen features.  “We thought it best to turn back.”  He lowered his eyes, remembering the panic and fear that had made him flee the woods, leaving Legolas behind.  A deep feeling of guilt and shame overcame him as he silently cursed his cowardly actions.  “I panicked and took off through the trees.  I thought Legolas was following me, but when I stopped some distance away, he was not behind me.”

          He looked up at the king’s face once more, his eyes pleading with the Elf Lord to tell him what he knew.  Thranduil turned away and moved back to his desk, but did not sit.  Instead he lifted a parchment from off the top of a precariously balanced stack and began to scan the script upon it.  Silently, he let it fall back upon the pile of scrolls and paper unread and then he looked back at Strider.

          “Did you search for him?” he asked quietly.

          Strider’s eyes filled with pain and remorse.  He looked away from the king and shook his head.  “No.  I could not.  It was too dark.  I, I thought it best to make camp for the night.  I was sure Legolas would see the fire and join me, but he did not.”  He turned back to the king, his face strained with remembered fear.  “And then there were the dreams…”

          Ganduil’s sharp glance went to the king and he silently pleaded with his liege to conclude this interview, but the king shook his head.  “No, Ganduil,” the king replied, a decision made.  “We must tell him.”

          “Majesty!  Do you think that wise?  Surely we can…”

          But Strider cut him off.  “Tell me what?”

          King Thranduil sank heavily into his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing at the throbbing pain in his head.  Finally he looked back at his son’s trusted friend and sighed wearily.

          “There are more evil things in this world than orcs, Aragorn,” he said softly.  “Ancient things, older than the Dwarves, older than Elfkind…” he hesitated, and then uttered the last in words almost too low for Strider to hear.  “Nameless Things.”

          Strider looked from the king to his minister and could see the terror that held both in its grip.  He did not know of what they spoke, but he could feel the chill of fear in the room.  “What are these,” he paused, “things?”  His hand had unconsciously moved to his sword hilt.  “Can we fight them?” he asked, looking from one Elf Lord to the other.

          Thranduil shook his head, his hands covering his face and his shoulders sagging forward with despair.  “We are doomed,” he whispered.  “No one can help us.”

           “There is one who can,” a deep voice emerged from the shadows at the doorway and all three gasped and turned toward the sound as the Istari, Mithrandir, walked slowly into the room. 

          Legolas lay motionless and quiet, listening.  The darkness still surrounded him, yet he could see shadows and traces of images darker than the blackness.  The unnerving sound was faint and distant, but growing ever stronger; a low, moaning susurration through the caverns, yet he felt no air currents caressing his face.  He strained his ears, trying to identify this new threat, for he knew it was no naturally occurring wind.  And then they were all around him, whistling and screeching.  The darkness prevented his eyes from seeing the wraiths, but he could feel them as they slid over his prone body and slithered around his bare head; their icy hands touching his skin and their splintering howls and wails piercing his brain.  The pain of their shrieks was excruciating as it ripped through his skull and his hypersensitive ears rang with the shattering sound of glass breaking.  His body writhed and jerked with spasms of torment as he fought against his bonds, twisting and thrashing, until he could stand the pain no longer.  He screamed in sheer agony and his anguished cry echoed throughout the cavernous chamber.

          Through the unrelenting waves of torture, his vision began to blur, then turn blood red until finally, darkness overtook him and he sank into oblivion.  His body ceased its movement and he lay still and limp upon the silvery strands of his silken trap.   All around him, the shrieking wraiths dove and flitted over and around his helpless form, their bony fingers prodding his chest, snatching at his hair, and tearing at his clothes.  The sudden and unexpected appearance of torch light and flame interrupted their hideous games, banishing the Shriekers to the darker recesses of the caves, their shrill howls reverberating through the tunnels as they fled.

          Behind the torch loomed the great hulking figure of the Olog-hai, Aslhûg.  His gray-green flesh mirrored the color of the surrounding stones making him appear a part of the cave come to life, a monstrous, lumbering rock beast.  His ponderous feet stomped through the passageway as he made his way to the spider’s web and its bound and defenseless prey.  As he neared the web, the inky black spider skittered down the cave wall bringing the unlight with her as she moved.  The utter blackness blanketed the cave leaving only the meager flames of the torch untouched.

          “Stay back, Ulkûrzlûb!” the beast ordered.  As if to enforce his command, he brought his pike forward and pointed its deadly curved blade toward the spider’s bulbous body.  The arachnid halted, mandibles clicking with anger and obvious agitation, her black, spindly legs tapping a staccato against the rocks.  The Olog-hai watched the spider closely as he lowered his torch into a jagged crevice between two boulders and then clasped the pike with both his massive, boxy hands.

          Satisfied that she would come no closer, he continued.  “Master is pleased with Ulkûrzlûb,” he rumbled.  “You have caught the Elf brat.”

          The spider chittered hungrily.  “Yeesssssh.  Fooood for weee.”

          Her front legs slithered forward along the webbing and the hill-troll lunged forward with his pike, forcing her to scurry back up the web.

          “No food,” he stated.  “Master wants this one.  You have food aplenty.”

          Ulkûrzlûb’s body shook with frustration and the unlight deepened around her, edging along the web toward the ensnared Elf, as she spit and hissed, but she moved no closer.  His watchful stare never leaving the spider, Aslhûg, withdrew a large knife from his belt.  The dull, black metal of the blade gave off no glint in the torch’s light and no images reflected off its flat surface.  He slid the knife under the Elf’s foot and began sawing at the ropelike fibers holding Legolas’ body secure.   As each limb was freed, Ulkûrzlûb hissed her displeasure at seeing her meal being taken from her, but the sharp point of the Olog-hai’s pike never wavered from her thorax and she wisely held her place.

          Replacing his knife, the giant hill-troll edged closer to the web and began pulling away the silken threads that covered the Elf’s torso, raking his stubby fingers through Legolas’ long hair, ripping the wispy strands of spider filament from his head.  Once he had released his quarry from Ulkûrzlûb’s sticky bonds, he slid his bulky arm under the prince’s back and lifted him from the webbing.  He tossed Legolas’ limp frame over his brawny shoulder and placed a steadying hand upon the small of the Elf’s back, balancing and settling his burden firmly in place.  Legolas’ arms and head dangled loosely against Aslhûg’s broad back.   Waves of long, blond hair cascaded down over his pointed ears, obscuring his pale face and just brushing the ground at the troll’s feet.   The Olog-hai crossed his huge arm over Legolas’ slender legs where they fell against his massive chest, and retrieving his torch, he cast one last look at the giant spider.

          “Guard the entrance, Ulkûrzlûb,” he commanded.  “Let no one pass.”

          The shiny black arachnid shivered and scuttled down upon her web, as if hoping the troll would relent and return her pilfered meal to her, but Aslhûg moved away, his pike still menacingly pointed in her direction.  “Watch weeee,” she hissed.  “No passssh weee.”

          The Olog-hai grunted and turned away from Ulkûrzlûb, heading back down through the dark tunnels of the mountain hill.  The Elf’s body jounced and jostled across his shoulder as he trudged through the lower passages, taking no special care not to slam Legolas’ head along the walls as he squeezed through the tight channels, delving deeper and deeper into the rocky caverns and grottos.

          When he came to the deep, underground pool, the Olog-hai halted and knelt down beside the water’s edge.  He dropped his weapon along the rim of the pool and dunked his free hand into the icy swirls, scooping up a handful of the crystal clear water.  Slowly, he brought it to his mouth and drank deeply of the cooling liquid.

          Drifting through a semi-conscious haze of pain and dull gray shadows, Legolas eventually became aware that the irritating bouncing, swaying motion had stopped, and for that he was eternally grateful.  The wrenching movement only exaggerated the hammering spikes of pain that were still shooting through his head, pounding behind his eyes and making them feel as if they would pop out of his skull at any moment.  Cautiously he chanced opening one eye and as his vision cleared, he looked upon a greenish-gray mound that he could not associate with anything he knew.

          His sensitive nostrils flared and he gagged as the foul, fleshy stench assaulted his nose.  Ahhhhh, he choked, even dead orcs do not smell this bad.  He tried to turn his head away from the odor, but found the movement caused an unpleasantness far worse than the reeking smell and he let his head fall back against the warm, rough skin; for skin it surely was, but whose?  He tried holding his breath, but was soon forced to gulp in air, as his lungs refused to cooperate and began to ache within his chest.

          A new pain made itself known, gouging into his stomach and he opened wide both eyes, trying to determine exactly where he was.  All he could see was a wall of rock colored flesh and his golden hair.  He surmised that he was somehow hanging upside down and lifting his head forward he could indeed see a stone pathway a little over a foot from his chin.  He could also see a massive leg and a fat, stubby and extremely grimy three-toed foot.

          Troll! his mind shouted with fear and alarm.  I’ve been captured by a troll!  He started to squirm and twist his body in an effort to escape but the resulting movement only served to alert the Olog-hai to his awakening and distract the troll from drinking his fill.  The hill-troll grunted and dumped Legolas to the pathway with a careless toss of his hand.  The Elf crashed to the stones in a crumpled heap, his back slamming into the rocky wall of the passageway.  Groaning with pain, Legolas tried to rise up on an elbow.

          “So yer awake,” the hill-troll rumbled.  “Then ye can walk.”

          He prodded Legolas with the tip of his nasty weapon and the Elf slid back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the edge of the pike’s blade; it was hovering inches from his stomach.  Slowly he raised his head and looked up at the monstrous beast wielding the pike.  It was indeed a troll, but unlike any troll he had ever seen before.  It was hideously ugly, with wart-like protuberances upon its face and body, and heavy bone ridges above its eyes.  Its skin was actually a mottled grayish-green with darker spots and as it stood against the cavern wall, its flesh blended in with the stones making it almost invisible.

          The pike jabbed at his abdomen again, and Legolas shrank back against the stones, pushing his hands against the rock and slowly easing his back up along the wall, pushing his knees under him until he was able to stand.  The troll motioned for him to move down the dark passage, but Legolas paid him no heed as he stared longingly at the cool water lapping at the sides of the pool.  He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the fresh smell of the water had reached him.  When he failed to comply with the troll’s order, Aslhûg gave Legolas a hefty shove causing the Elf to stumble forward down the tunnel for several feet.

          “Keep moving,” Aslhûg ordered as he fell into step behind Legolas, his weapon aimed between the Elf’s shoulder blades.

          Legolas walked forward, picking his way among the loose rocks and stones of the narrow path.  His keen eyes darted here and there, desperately searching for a means of escape, but nothing presented itself so he kept moving, the troll close behind and ever vigilant.  Eventually they came to a fork in the passageway and the hill-troll gestured for him to continue to the right.  As he did so, he could see a line of carved cells hewn out of the rocks.   Heavy, rusted iron grates covered the openings of each small dungeon.

          “In there,” Aslhûg prodded Legolas, driving him into the first of the cells.  When he balked at the command, the troll shoved Legolas forward and he fell to his hands and knees, landing hard upon the rock floor.  The iron grating clanged shut behind his back and a loud click sounded as the troll engaged the formidable locking mechanism.  Without another word, and taking the torch with him, the troll turned back toward the entrance and left Legolas alone in the darkness.

          The Elf prince rose painfully to his feet, his knees protesting greatly and the heels of his palms smarting from the scrapes and bruises recently acquired from the fall.  He limped toward the grating and grasped the iron bars, shaking them to test their strength.  Although rusty and old, they were no less strong and he could not move or bend them.  Disheartened, he moved back away from the grate and sank down to the cold rock floor of the cell.  He leaned his back against the stone wall and drew his knees up to his chest.  Slowly he folded his arms over the tops of his knees and pressed his forehead into his arms, sighing with weary fatigue and aching pain.

          After a time he lifted his head and looked around his dark cell.  His weakened Elf glow barely emitted a shimmering halo about his body that did little to illuminate his place of confinement.  With saddened eyes and a heavy heart, he leaned his head back against the walls and tried to imagine the star-filled skies that he knew existed far above him.

          Ai, Elbereth! he thought miserably, eyes closing with grief and sorrow.   I shall die in this place if I cannot find some means to escape.  But how can I do that when I do not even know where I am?

          He slowly brought his head forward and brushed away a strand of hair from his face.  He tried to think through what had happened from the time he and Strider were separated, but the pain and exhaustion were taking their toll as was the lack of food and water and he could not think clearly.  Deciding to let his body rest instead, he lowered his shoulders onto the stone floor and stretched out his legs. He clasped his hands under his head and stared up at the stone ceiling of his prison.  He was asleep within minutes, but his slumber was filled with disturbing dreams.

/////////////////////////////////// 

          Legolas was standing alone in the dark forest, the bright stars shining overhead.  A full, round moon cast a blue-white light upon the trees and bathed the small clearing in which he stood with a soft glow.  There was no sound emanating from the forest and he could smell no musky woodland scents that he knew should be present.  His gaze swung to the left as a slight movement within the trees caught his eye.  Walking toward him through the darkness and the shadows of the trees was a tall, thin woman.

          As she entered the moonlight, he could see that she was of ancient age.  Legolas had seen a few elderly humans, and of course, Mithrandir was extremely old, but this woman by comparison seemed older than time itself.  Her long hair was thick and fell to her waist in a silver-blue waterfall.  Rows of intricate braids entwined with beads and shells framed her wrinkled face and a great necklace of bones, teeth and shell hung from her neck to her waist.  She appeared to be wearing the hides of some animal – deer Legolas guessed.  The garment was tooled and tapered in layers and came down past her knees revealing her thin legs and bare feet.  Exotic tattoos adorned her face, upper arms and swirled around her thin wrists.  Her skin was a creamy white, but not as white as the orbs of her sightless eyes, yet she walked through the trees without hesitation and without the aid of cane or staff.

          She came up to Legolas and stopped in front of him.  As he looked upon her face he noted that old as she was now, there was still evidence upon her visage that once she had been beautiful and he realized that she was equally as tall as he.  Her blind, dead eyes gazed into his and slowly her hand rose to touch his cheek.  He started at the warmth of her bony fingers upon his skin, for he could indeed feel her fingertips upon his flesh.  Her lips parted and her low, husky voice whispered into the night.

          “A great evil had been set loose upon the earth.  You are in great danger, Firstborn.  The Nameless One covets your body for its ageless strength and beauty.  You must never allow this.”

          Her hand dropped from his face and she sought his hand with her own, turning the palm of his right hand face up.  She stared down at his hand, tracing her fingers over the smooth pale skin.  Legolas felt a tingling sensation as her fingers moved over his palm and he found he was holding his breath.  She looked back up at his face and spoke again.

          “In Its present form It is only thought.  It can command the lesser creatures and simple minds, bending them to Its will.  It draws the evil creatures of Mordor and those of the Dark Forces to Its side.  They feed off Its energy.  Those who resist meet death, or worse, madness.  It will torment you to insanity; weakening you, crushing your spirit, until It forces your soul to flee from this shell.  Then It will take this body for Its own.”

          Images of the screaming wraiths filled his mind and she nodded.  “Yes, the Shriekers, the undead.  They have already begun.  It sends them to you to torture your mind.”

          She dropped his hand and slowly backed away from him.  “Do not give in to Its madness, Firstborn.  We are coming for you.  I have called the wizard and the warrior.  You must not despair.”

          She faded deeper and deeper into the shadows and Legolas moved forward after her.  “Wait!” he called.  “I must know what this thing is?  How am I to fight It?

          But the strange forest woman was gone and he was once again alone in the darkness, but her words echoed within his mind. They were coming for him.  She had said a wizard and a warrior were coming and the smallest glimmer of hope returned to the Elf.

          “Estel,” he whispered.  “Estel is coming.”

          Strider was the first to recover from the shock of the grey wizard’s sudden and unannounced entrance into the king’s private study.

          “Gandalf!” he exclaimed, rushing to the old Istari’s side.  Taking the wizard’s arm, he guided him to one of the high backed chairs and bade him sit.  “Your arrival is most opportune.”

          “Yes,” Mithrandir answered.  “I’m sure it is.”

          The wizard’s gaze followed the ranger as the young man seated himself in a chair next to his own, then his hardened glance traveled to the Elven King.  Thranduil did not quail before the Istari’s penetrating glare, but his expression did not convey the usual hauteur he normally reserved for his dealings with the wizard.

          “Thranduil,” Mithrandir acknowledged the king with the slightest nod of his head.  The fact that he neglected to utter the Elf Lord’s honorific was not lost on anyone present within the room and Ganduil bristled with indignation at the wizard’s affront to his liege.

          The king graciously ignored the informal usage of his name and leaning forward in his chair, rested his hands and forearms upon his cluttered desk top.  He lowered his gaze to study his hands and then quietly spoke.

          “Can you help us, Mithrandir?”

          It was obvious to all just how devastated the Elf Lord was and although believing the king to be a reckless and greedy fool, Mithrandir regretted having to tell him what he must.  His grey head shook sadly.

          “I’m afraid I cannot,” he replied.  “I have no power over this evil.  I am not of this world and this being is very much a part of it.  It was spawned when the earth was created and,” he paused for emphasis, “until now, has never been known by man or Elfkind.”  He looked pointedly at the king, then turned to Ganduil and finally to Strider.  “Even the Dwarves have never dealt with this evil.” 

          His angry scowl returned to settle upon the Elven King.  “At least the Dwarves had sense enough to know that it must never be let loose upon the land. They were extremely thorough in their warnings and in their vigilance in keeping this evil confined to the very depths of the abyss!”

          Thranduil visibly cringed at the wizard’s biting words, his pale face turning a ruddy shade of rose, but he refused to look at the wizard.  Ganduil haughtily stepped forward, hands upon his hips and his lips pressed together in a thin, angry line.  “You said there was one who could help,” he sneered.  “If not you, then whom do we look to for aid?”

          Mithrandir glanced at the minister and calmly folded his hands into his long sleeves.  “The Drughu Woman,” he replied.

          Ganduil snorted in disgust.  “You must be mad,” he answered.  “There is no such witch-woman!  The race of Hidden Men is nothing but a myth.  No one has ever seen a Drughu – man or woman.”

          The wizard’s eyebrow rose as he turned his gaze upon the preening minister.  A long-stemmed pipe had magically appeared in the Istari’s hand; where it had come from was a mystery that only Mithrandir was privy to.   He proceeded to light it with slow, deliberate motions, all the while steadily watching the minister.  Once it was glowing and smoke began to billow out from the bowl, the wizard continued.

          “Nevertheless,” he replied, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.  “Tharcuru is very much alive and the only one who can help us.”

          “Nonsense,” Ganduil huffed.  “We cannot put trust in tales and legends…”

          “The wizard speaks the truth, Ganduil,” the king’s quiet voice interrupted the elder Elf’s words.  At his minister’s incredulous expression, Thranduil resumed.  “I have never seen her.  No one has that I know of,” he mused.  “But I am certain that she exists.”

          “My Lord,” questioned Ganduil, “what are you saying?  Surely you cannot believe that some human woman is living alone out in the woods surrounding Lasgalen and we are not aware of it!”

          The king chuckled softly and looked over at Mithrandir with an amused twist to his lips.  “If no one has ever seen this woman, how do you think you will find her?”

          Strider had impatiently followed this conversation up until now but could be still no longer.  He sprang from his chair beside the Istari and began to nervously pace between the desk and the fireplace.   “We are wasting time arguing whether this woman lives or nay,” he sputtered.  “If she can help us find Legolas and rid us of this, this…thing, then we must seek her out at once.”  He turned to the wizard for support and confirmation of his assessment of the situation.

          Thranduil continued to stare at Mithrandir.  “Well, wizard?  How do you intend to find her?”

          Mithrandir puffed away at his pipe until the blue-gray smoke clouds hovering about his head almost obscured his face.  “She has summoned me,” he replied.  Turning his gaze to Strider, he added.  “And you, young Strider.”

          The young man halted in mid-step.  “Me?” he asked.  “How do you know this?”

          “Because I have seen her in my dreams,” the wizard calmly replied.  He abruptly rose from his seat, somehow stowing his pipe away in the same fluid movement.  “We can tarry here no longer, Strider,” he stated.  “We must leave at once.”

          “Now?”  Strider’s face showed his consternation.  “But how are we going to find her?  You said yourself that…”

          Mithrandir gave Strider one of his enigmatic smiles.  “She will guide us.”  He gestured toward the doorway, indicating his desire for Strider to accompany him.   “Gather together your things, my boy.  We must fly.”

          King Thranduil slowly rose from his seat, halting both Mithrandir and Strider as they moved toward the door.   Wizard and warrior turned as one and looked to the Elven King.  Thranduil stared into Strider’s silver eyes, as if taking the measure of the young ranger.  Finally he turned from his desk and moved to one of the book-lined walls.  He reached his hand into the shelving and released a hidden catch.  The wall silently swung outward on a stone pivot, revealing a darkened passageway beyond.

          The idea of secret passages within the Mirkwood Palace was not surprising to either Mithrandir or Strider, although until this moment, neither had known that they actually existed.   Both shared an inquisitive glance but did not speak.  Thranduil turned around to face Strider and gestured for the young man to follow him into the tunnel.

          His eyes were dark and hard, but his expression was unreadable.  “Before you go, Aragorn, I want you to see something,” the king stated.  Expecting the young man to follow, the Elf Lord disappeared into the passage and Strider had to hasten his step to catch up to the king.  Mithrandir also moved to the opening, reluctantly followed by the king’s minister, Ganduil.

          Thranduil led the small group down a stone stairway that spiraled down through the rock and earth of the carved Palace interior.  When Strider was sure that they had gone down even farther than he and Legolas had ever dared while exploring the forbidden areas of the Palace, the king finally stopped and entered a small alcove.  He turned to the wizard and Ganduil.

          “Just the lad,” he said, placing a firm hand on Strider’s shoulder and guiding him through a small stone archway.

          Mithrandir was about to protest, but reconsidered and merely nodded his shaggy head.  Ganduil, knowing full well where the king was taking the ranger, could not conceal a look of distaste, and was only too glad to remain behind.  With one last look at the wizard, Strider ducked his head and went through the narrow doorway.

          It was very dark and dank within this new corridor and Strider’s unease began to grow.  He was beginning to regret having left the wizard behind.  Thranduil quietly uttered an Elven enchantment and several of the bracketed torches came alive with light.  Strider blinked at the sudden brightness and then as his eyesight adjusted, slowly surveyed his surroundings.  It was apparent that they were in the lower dungeons below the Palace, but Legolas had never shown him this particular area before.

          “Come,” said the king and Strider followed the Elf Lord down the passageway to its end.

          As the two approached the end of the corridor, a stocky Silvan Elf emerged from a recessed niche in the wall and stood before them, ready to block their path and prevent them from going any farther.  When he saw King Thranduil standing before him, he bowed.

          “Majesty,” he rumbled in a deep, husky voice.

          “Isar,” the king acknowledged.  “Please unlock the door for me.”

          The Elf hesitated for the barest of moments and then ambled forward to the last remaining cell within the passage.  He quietly unlocked the door and then stepped back along the wall.  Thranduil turned to the ranger.

          “Before you leave with the wizard I want you to know something.”  He gestured toward the still closed door.  “I hired several Dale Men to do the digging in the lower tunnels for me.  They were present when the well was found and opened.”  The king lowered his gaze from the young man beside him and a pained, anguished grimace swept over his handsome face.  “They looked upon this evil.”  He looked back up at Strider.  “I want you to know what could happen to you should you do the same.”

          With that dire pronouncement, the king opened the prison door and stepped aside so that the ranger could look inside the cell.  Strider hesitated a moment, then steeled his nerves and stepped in to the entrance.  What he saw within the dimly lit cell appalled him and he could not keep the look of utter revulsion from his face as he looked upon the mindless, pitiful souls that inhabited this dark abode.  The Dale Men were cowering against the far wall, their bodies folded into compact balls as they leaned against the stones.  They were all muttering and mumbling incomprehensible words as they scraped at the walls with frenzied, jerky movements of their hands and fingers.  Their wild eyes darted here and there, never staying focused upon any one object for more than a second.  They were obviously unaware that the door to their cell had even been opened or that he was standing within the entrance.

          After a horrified moment Strider looked away, his shaky hand covering his mouth.  He had grown quite pale and his frightened eyes turned to the Elven King.  “What happened to them?” he asked quietly.

          “The evil drove them mad with but one look,” the king answered sadly.  “Two of my warriors were slain outright; their minds ripped apart.”  Thranduil choked back a sob of despair.  “They were the lucky ones,” he murmured.

          Strider thought back upon the early morning funeral he had passed; a soldier’s funeral – for these slain Elf warriors.  He shuddered at the remembered sight of the Dale Men in the cell behind him.  This could very well become his fate.  The Elf Lord stood rigid beside him, staring into the dark cell.  His whispered words were barely heard by the ranger.

          “I fear for my son.”   He drew in a ragged breath and slowly backed away from the doorway.  “My bright Greenleaf….”

          Isar quickly stepped forward and gently took the king’s arm, slowly turning him away from the dungeon cell.  Once Thranduil had moved away from the door, he released the king’s arm and turned back to the dank prison.  Carefully he re-locked the cell door and then walked the king toward the corridor entry, a sturdy hand upon the Elf Lord’s elbow.

          “You should not return here, my lord,” the Silvan Elf declared, steadfastly moving the king away from the dungeons.  “It is of no use to them, and certainly no use to you.”

          Thranduil merely nodded, his mind adrift with his own tortured thoughts.  After a last, long look at this dreadful place, Strider jogged forward to catch up with the king; but the nightmare of the hidden cell would haunt him forever.

/////////////////////////////////// 

          Strider halted on the slightly sloping pathway and stared hard at the oddly shaped rock formation at the top of the hill.  It was now the third time he had seen this unusual stone outcropping; he was sure of it.  He glanced back over his shoulder at the aging wizard who was slowly trudging up the slight incline, leaning heavily upon his staff.

          “We are going ‘round in circles, Gandalf,” he announced angrily.  “I have seen this group of stones twice now.”  He sat down heavily upon a fallen log.  “This will make three.”

          The ancient Istari pulled himself up the last bit of the trail and stood looking down at the ranger.  His gaze traveled to the standing stones and he crinkled his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun.

          “Gone by them before, you say?” he asked as he removed his pointed grey hat and slapped it against his long grey robes, forcing a cloud of dust to erupt from the piece of head gear.  He scratched at a worn, bald spot above his temple and then glanced back down at the young human seated upon the fallen tree.  “So we have,” he admitted.

          “Well?” asked Strider. His frustration and impatience were growing, along with a fear that they were now totally lost.  They had been walking through the deep forests for several hours now and he was not familiar with any part of this particular area of Mirkwood.  The wizard, however, appeared not to notice the young man’s irritation and smiled down at him.

          “Then we are here,” he stated.

          Strider gazed up at the Istari with an exasperated frown.  “What do you mean, we are here?  There is nothing ‘here’ but woods and those rocks.”

          Mithrandir nodded to a point just behind Strider’s back.  “Tharcuru is here.”

          Strider turned his head and upper body around and saw a tall, thin woman with long silver-white hair and eyes that were whiter still, standing only a foot away from him.  Scared nearly out of his skin by her utterly silent and sudden materialization behind his back, Strider let out a startled yelp and shot up off the log.  He found himself standing next to the wizard and wondering just how he had gotten there.

          The ancient woman’s voice came to them like the rustling of dry leaves caught in a gentle breeze.  “I have been waiting for you.  We do not have much time.”

          “Coming, coming, coming, comingcomingcomingcoming, coming for me, coming, coming,” Legolas chanted in a brittle, crazed monotone.  His long, beautiful hair, always so glossy and silken, was now a tangled mass around his head and shoulders and looked like dried straw.  As he continuously rocked back and forth, his nervous hand brushed aside the loosened braids and errant strands from his face, only to have them fall back across his cheek a moment later.   Blue eyes, wide and glassy, cast frightened glances darting around the darkened cell, seeing and focusing on nothing, yet constantly moving.  He drew his knees up tighter to his chest and hugged his arms around the tops, then leaned his head sideways and pressed his left cheek against the cold stone wall of the cell.

          “Coming back, coming back, coming back, soon, soon,” he continued his manic mutterings as his right hand suddenly flew to the wall and he started madly scratching at the stones; his cracked and dirty fingernails dug deeply into the rock wall causing tiny dust trails to trickle to the floor.

          “Do you hear them?  Do you hear them?” he asked the darkness.  “Coming for me, coming for me.”

          His frantic questions were left unanswered by the extremely fractious goblin that scuttled into view and moved toward the iron grate to Legolas’ cell.  Once outside the metal bars, he noisily banged his axe handle against the grating.  Startled by the sudden loud noise, Legolas shrank back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.  The goblin snatched a key from his belt, and carefully watching the Elf’s every move, unlocked the iron clasp upon the door.

          “Shut up that racket ye filthy Elf,” he snarled as he pulled the metal door outward, opening a gap only wide enough to allow him to shove a bucket of water and an earthenware bowl of brown, congealed slop into the cell.  Once this task had been completed, he slammed the grating back in place and locked the cell once more.

          “If it were up t’ me, I’d kill ye now, an’ then eat ye while ye were still warm,” he growled; then a wide, nasty grin slowly spread over his black face.  “’Course by the time Master is through with ye, ye’ll be wishin’ ye were dead.”

          With an insidious, cackling laugh, the goblin scurried away, his derisive snorts echoing down the dark corridors until they finally faded away into the darkness and the only sounds remaining were Legolas’ endless murmurings.

          Once he was certain that the beast had left, Legolas scrambled across the stone floor on his hands and knees to the bucket of water.  He dunked both his hands into the liquid and quickly brought his cupped palms up to his lips and drank deeply.  The water had a slightly mossy taste, but was fairly cool, and he dipped his hands into the pail again.  When he had drunk his fill, he snatched up the grimy bowl and scuttled back into the dark corner of the cell, hugging the bowl to his chest.  Once settled in the corner, Legolas sniffed at the gruel and quickly turned his head away.  The bowl’s contents had the revolting, sour smell of gamey meat and something else that he could not identify.

          “Must eat, must eat, must eat,” he mumbled, dipping two graceful fingers into the mush and bringing the lumpy substance to his mouth.  He forced himself to swallow the disgusting orcswill, even as he choked and gagged.  The taste of the viscous goo was hideous and his delicate stomach churned, but he managed to keep it down; then he repeated the process, again and again.

          He had barely eaten half of the bowl’s contents when a screaming wail sounded deep within the caverns and Legolas jumped, dropping the bowl to the floor where it shattered, leaving a slimy glob amid the broken shards of pottery.  His hands flew to his ears, pressing his palms tightly against his head, trying desperately to shut out the howling noise that was growing ever louder.

          “No, no, no, coming, coming, coming, nonononononono….NO!” he screamed.

          He turned his face to the wall and shrank down into the corner, burrowing his head against his chest and raising his hands and arms protectively up and over his head.   He frantically tried to shield his skull from the sounds as if they were physical blows to his head, and his muffled cries of despair were soon swallowed up by the screams of the Shriekers as they swarmed into his cell and their unrelenting torment began anew.

/////////////////////////////////

          “Hunger, craving, need, now, waiting long, light nears, darkness hides, want, want more, evil, feel power, feel strength, want power, need strength, waiting still, soon, strong will, force, bend to my will, others, near, danger, threat, send out my will, loose my minions, break, crush, beat down, shadow, wait, I AM BECOMING.”

/////////////////////////////////

          Legolas indifferently gazed down upon his body as it lay face down in the dirt and filth of the cell’s floor, still and unmoving.  He was not at all sure how he had managed to leave his body and although feeling a freedom that he had not known before, he was unsettled and uneasy and somewhat frightened by the thought that he might be dead.  The malicious wraiths with their taunting abuses had finally left his cell.  As soon as he lost consciousness, their amusement faded and they fled to the darkness of the lower caverns.  Now he floated alone in the darkness, detached and hovering above his body, no more than a wraith himself and wondering how he was going to return to his lifeless form.

          Perhaps he was dreaming again.  The cell walls around him were distorted, wavering and the light within the small dungeon was much brighter than he remembered.    A dark, shadowy image floated at the edges of the light but he could not distinguish its shape.   He could hear a voice, raspy, cold and malevolent; he was certain of this, but he could not identify the words.  He tried to reach out his hand, but it would not move; then he thought about moving his hand and slowly he drifted forward, his body following his outstretched fingers.

          Suddenly a terrifying feeling of fear assaulted his heightened senses and he knew some other being was present within the small cell.  He tried to look around, but could see nothing but his unconscious form lying upon the floor.  He looked down at his body once more and saw that it was now covered by a dark, reddish light that slithered and roiled over his features as if it were alive.  The fiery glow was shimmering like the desert mirages seen upon the sands in the Land of Harad.  Legolas watched the eerie light with a macabre fascination as it began to mold itself exactly to his body, every curve, every line, until it formed a second skin around his motionless form.

          Now the terror was almost a physical presence within his mind; he could feel harsh probing fingers poking at nerves and pressuring veins, edging his fear into outright panic.   Do not think, his frightened mind shouted.  Do not let the fear take possession of you.

          The red glow slowly seeped into his prone body and unexpectedly Legolas started to feel something within his chest ripping and tearing, as if his soul was being torn from his being.  And then he was soaring through the darkness, unable to halt his flight.  He was screaming, but his voice was lost upon the winds and gales that whipped around him, forcing him ever forward in a swirling freefall.

          Left behind within the dark cell, Legolas’ body arose from the ground and stood tall and straight.  The arms stretched out, palms flexing stiff fingers.  The golden head swiveled right and then left, then made a circular motion, loosening the tight neck muscles.  The lips turned up in a vile and gruesome smile, so out of place on such a fair Elven face.  The eyelids opened to reveal, deep, black pools as dark as pitch.  No whites of the eye showed, nor the deep blue irises that had been the Elf’s at birth; now only curling whorls of blood red hue could be seen swimming within the ebony depths.

          “I AM ALIVE!”  The cruel shout burst forth from the Elven lips; and then hysterical, manic laughter rang through the caverns as the Nameless Thing roared in triumph.  It now had a body; a strong Elven body and It would now be unstoppable.  The earth was Its to destroy.

//////////////////////////// 

          Strider cried out as an unforeseen pain stabbed through his heart and he clutched at his chest, staggering forward along the pathway.  As the wizard hurried toward him, the ranger fell to his knees upon the woodland trail and doubled over, his hands pressing into his sternum.  His breaths were coming in short, ragged gulps, and his face had gone a deathly white.

          “Strider!” Mithrandir shouted as he came upon the stricken human.  The old Istari dropped to his knees and placed his hands upon the young man’s shoulders.  “What is it?  Strider!”

          The wizard tried to lift the ranger’s chin to look into his face, but Strider lurched forward and Mithrandir was forced to catch him in his arms.  Slowly and gently he eased Strider down to the ground and placed a cooling palm upon the ranger’s clammy forehead.   The young man’s eyes were glassy and rolling about within their sockets and his body was jerking with slight spasms.

          “Legolas!” he croaked out.   “Legolas!”

          “Shhhh,” Mithrandir soothed the lad.  “Strider, tell me what is causing you this chest pain!”

          The Drughu Woman quietly knelt down opposite the grey wizard and placed a slim, pale hand upon the ranger’s heaving chest.  Her white eyes stared straight ahead and her lips moved in whispers, speaking an unknown tongue.  After several minutes she turned her head to look down upon Strider.  The young man gazed up at her with fear and apprehension.

          “We are too late,” she whispered.  “He is lost and adrift.”  Her hand moved to touch Strider’s face, her fingers tracing the lines and planes of his cheek and then moving down to his chin.  “Your bond with the Firstborn is strong,” she continued.  “The pain you experienced was the Elf’s.  The Nameless Thing has taken his body and ripped his soul from the earthly shell.”

          Strider turned his panicked gaze to the wizard.  “Gandalf!?”

          “Easy, my boy,” the Istari replied, placing his hand upon Strider’s chest and forcing him to lay still.  “If we are to believe Tharcuru, then Legolas must be reaching out to you, seeking your help.”

          “You must enter the Shadow World and help guide him back,” the ancient woman murmured.  “If he travels too far from his body and the earthly plane, he will never be able to return to it and will drift alone for eternity as one of the undead.”

          Strider’s horrified expression turned from the woman to his trusted mentor and friend.  “Gandalf?” he questioned.

          The Istari merely shook his head as he first helped Strider into a sitting position and then assisted the ranger in rising unsteadily to his feet.  “I cannot say, Strider.   We must trust Tharcuru.  She alone knows this evil and how to deal with it.”

          The tall woman gracefully arose to her feet.  “Quickly,” she said.  “This way.”

          Without waiting for a reply, she turned and vanished into the trees.  Mithrandir, with Strider leaning heavily upon his arm, hastened to follow her lead through the forest growth.  They had traveled only a short distance when they came to a rock cliff, hidden within the dense foliage of the deep woods.  As they neared the stone wall they could see that this outcropping was a part of the mountain chain that formed the exterior of the Mirkwood Palace, barely visible in the shallow valley some distance below them.

          Tharcuru waved her arm across the rock wall and the stones began to melt and move aside as the enchantment was lifted.  Minutes later a large cave entrance was unveiled and she gestured for them to follow her within.  Once inside, she replaced the spell, covering the cave’s mouth and hiding it from the view of any unwanted eyes.  Mithrandir walked Strider over to the central fire pit and helped him to sit down upon the rugs and furs that covered the cave’s floor.

          Strider glanced uneasily at the cluttered interior of the cavern that was filled with animal hides, bones, claws, bird feathers, shells, and strange earthen jars and bowls filled with herbs, spices and other things that the ranger thought he could identify and wished he had not.  Numerous racks lined one wall of the cave and were obviously being used for the drying of skins and leaves.  Several starkly white skulls that looked very human were stuck in various niches along one wall, their gaping eye sockets staring down at him.  Strider shuddered and hurriedly looked away.

          Tharcuru walked straight to one of the earthen jars and picked it off the stone ledge.  She brought the jar to the fire and knelt down beside the smoldering embers.  She grasped a long stick from a pile near by and stirred the coals to life until a small flame appeared; then she removed the container’s lid and sprinkled some of the jar’s contents into the flames.  A sizzling, popping sound erupted from the fire as the dried substance began to burn and a sharp, tangy smell filled the cave as the smoke rose from the burning leaves.

          “Breathe the smoke,” Tharcuru instructed Strider.  “It will ease your journey into the Shadow Lands.”

          Strider looked uncertainly to the wizard who nodded his head in approval.  Slowly the ranger leaned forward so that his nose and face were within the rising smoke tendrils.  He took in several deep whiffs of the smoke and immediately felt his head begin to swim.  A woozy feeling of lightheadedness continued and his vision began to blur.  Soon the room was spinning around him at crazy angles.  Somewhere in the background he thought he could hear the old woman’s voice, but he could not be sure for he could see nothing but a dark, gray, cloud; the interior of the cave had disappeared.

          He looked around and could see nothing before him.  He seemed to be standing, but he could not even be sure of that for there was no point of reference for his eyes to fix upon.  He could still smell the spicy aroma of the thick smoke and now his ears were humming with the woman’s droning voice.  She was chanting words of a foreign language that Strider did not understand, but the steady, rhythmic sound felt comforting – safe.

          The woman’s voice spoke within his mind.  “Call the Elf to your side, young warrior.  Hurry!  Do it now before he is lost!”

          Strider turned around and around in the grayness that surrounded him.  “Legolas!” he shouted.  “Legolas!  If you can hear me, come to my voice!”

          There was no sound; only the dark shadows.  He turned about once more, his fear and desperation mounting with each passing moment.

          “He is in great danger, warrior!” the ancient’s voice echoed within his mind.  “Call him to you now!”

          “Legolas!  Please!  Hear me!”  Strider took several steps through the cloudy fog and the mists swirled about his legs.  “Legolas!”

          But there was no reply.

          “LEGOLAS!”

          There it was again – his name.  He could distinctly hear someone shouting his name.  He was not dreaming.  It was a real voice; a voice he recognized – Aragorn’s voice.  But where was it coming from?  Legolas looked about him and could see nothing but a gray emptiness, as if he had stepped into a cloud on a dark, stormy day.

          “Aragorn!” he shouted into the fog.  “Aragorn!  Where are you?”

          As soon as he concentrated his thoughts on the ranger and turned them to images of the young human, Legolas could feel his ghostly body being yanked back into the swirling mists.  He relaxed and allowed the sensation to overwhelm him and he was swiftly whisked away into the maelstrom of the dense gray nothingness.  Seconds later he was jerked to a halt, and there, standing before him, was the Dúnadan ranger.

          “Aragorn!” he shouted with genuine joy and relief.

          Strider whirled about at the sound of his name and stared with stunned disbelief at the translucent image of Legolas floating in the mists before his eyes.  “Legolas!” he called, taking a short, tentative step toward his pale, and now, extremely insubstantial friend.

          “You can hear me?  You can see me?” questioned the Elf, his eyes imploring, not daring to hope too soon or too strongly that this was so.

          “Yes, yes, Legolas,” Strider assured his friend.  “I can hear you… and see you… but you are,” he hesitated, unsure what to say should the Elf not yet realize that he no longer occupied his body.  “not yourself.”

          Legolas glanced down at his wavering, wraithlike form and his eyes widened.  Until this moment, he had not really wanted to consider what this present state of being represented.  His frightened, questioning gaze lifted to the ranger’s face.

          “Am I dead then?”

          “No, no, you’re not dead,” Strider paused just a moment too long.  “At least, I don’t think so.”

          Legolas’ elegant eyebrow arched and his lip twisted into a wry smirk.  In spite of the dire circumstances in which they now found themselves and the horrifying reality that Legolas was some sort of spirit existing outside his body, Strider emitted a short, snorting laugh and shook his head in amazement.

          “Well, if you can still give me that look, then I know you’re not dead.”   Legolas gazed back at him with an innocence that Strider knew was disingenuous, but chose to ignore.  Instead he hastened to divulge the witch-woman’s instructions.  “Legolas, you must listen to me.  You are in great danger, mellon nin.”   He took another tenuous step toward the wavering form of the Elf.  “You must return to your body at once.”

          Legolas seemed agitated by this request and his form began to fade in and out of the shadows.   Afraid that he would disappear altogether, Strider reached forward to grab hold of his friend’s forearm, but his fingers came away with nothing but air.  “Wait!  Legolas!  Please, you must listen to me.”

          Within his mind, Strider could hear the forceful words of the ancient Drughu Woman’s husky voice speaking to him.  ‘You must guide him back to his body, young warrior.  Do not let him flee into the mist!’  

          “How?” he asked aloud, unaware that Legolas could not hear the strange woman’s voice within his head.

          “How what?” asked Legolas, a perplexed frown on his ghostly face.

          ‘The Firstborn can sense the psychic pull of his earthbound body.  He must surrender to that feeling.  He must return to his body at once, before the Nameless One severs the tie forever!’  

          “Surrender to the feeling,” Strider echoed the woman’s words, nodding his head as he listened to a voice only he could hear.

          “What feeling?  Strider, what are you going on about?”  Legolas gave the young man an irritated glance and then turned his gaze to the dark shadows that surrounded them and tried to penetrate the thick, murky clouds.  “Where are we?”

          Distracted by the prince's voice, Strider glanced up at the Elf.  “What?  Oh, the Shadow World; we’re in the Shadow World.  I was somehow transported here by the Drughu witch-woman.  She is telling me you must return to your body.  Quickly!  She says you can feel its pull.  Go to it, Legolas!  Go now!”

          Legolas withdrew in horror.  “No, no…I cannot go back there!”  His frantic eyes pleaded with Strider to understand.  “Something took it; something evil.  Strider, I dare not go back.  I cannot… I cannot fight them any longer.  You cannot know the pain they cause.  I cannot endure more…”  He quickly turned away and Strider felt a jolt of icy fear run through him at the thought of Legolas abruptly taking flight.

          The woman’s urgent, commanding voice rang within his head.  ‘Do not let him flee!  He will be lost to us forever!’

          “Wait!” Strider shouted.  “Legolas!  Come back to me!”

          Legolas’ shimmering form turned and he looked back at the ranger, his expression lost and forlorn.  And then without warning, the Elf’s body flew through the mists directly toward the young man.  Before Strider knew what was happening, the glimmering image of Legolas slammed into him full tilt and the force of the collision knocked the ranger backward, leaving him breathless and shaken.   Strider was caught completely off guard by this unexpected assault and shocked to feel the bruising pain that accompanied the attack.  He could feel his body falling backward, but it never seemed to reach the ground and his arms started flailing as he tried in vain to regain his balance.   He could not breathe, and the more he tried to suck in air, the more his lungs refused to function.  He could feel his consciousness slipping away and then everything went black.  

///////////////////////

          Strider first became aware of the firmness beneath his back and then a pungent odor mixed with smoke and ash, wafted through his nostrils making his nose twitch.  He could hear several different voices speaking, but whether they were in his mind and imagined, or very near where he lay and real, he could not determine.  His head ached abominably and there was a tight, heavy pressure constricting his chest, making it extremely difficult to breathe.

          “I think he’s coming ‘round.”

          “Lift his head, yes, like that.  Let him breathe this in.”

          “What happened to him?”

          “I do not know, but I fear we have lost the Elf.”

          At this last statement, Strider shook his aching head and tried to rouse his body, but found that he was still too weak and the effort was too great.  Instead he managed to mumble a few raspy words.

          “No.  No,” he gasped.

          Mithrandir glanced at Tharcuru.  “Is the drug still affecting his mind?”

          “I do not believe so,” she answered.  “Try to get him to drink this tea.”

          Strider could feel strong arms sliding under his back and cradling his neck and then his torso was lifted upward.  His head flopped backward and then he could feel a hand being placed under his head and supporting his neck.  Once his chest was slightly elevated, his breathing seemed to ease and he chanced opening his eyelids.  The gray shadows were no longer surrounding him.  Two white blurry faces were staring down at him and he knew that he had returned to Tharcuru’s cave.

          “Ah, he’s awake,” Mithrandir sighed with relief.  “Here my boy, drink this down.”

          Always leery of potions disguised as ‘tea’, Strider clenched his lips together and shook his head.  The wizard chuckled, knowing the reason for the young ranger’s reluctance and smiled reassuringly.

          “It is only tea, nothing more.”

          “That’s what Ada always says,” Strider grumbled, but he allowed the Istari to place the cup to his dry lips.  After a tentative sip, he found that it was indeed just tea and he drank the contents down.  Surprisingly enough, once he had finished the tea, he began to feel much better; even the headache’s iron grip around his brow seemed to have lessened.

          Strider looked at the grim faces before him and his brief feeling of elation quickly faded.  “What happened?  What went wrong?”

          “We were about to ask you that very question,” answered the wizard.  His deep concern for the ranger was evident upon his face yet his mind was full of questions.

          Strider glanced at the ancient woman.  Her white eyes were looking directly at him and he felt a shiver run down his back.   Her face, however, was an impassive mask.

          The young man turned back to the wizard.  “Legolas was there.  I could see and hear him, but he looked like a phantom.  I could not touch him.  I could see… through him,” his eyes expressed his astonishment at witnessing this phenomenon.

          He turned to the woman and spoke again.  “I told him what you said to me; that he should return to his body, but the very idea of this seemed to terrify him.  He said his body was taken over by something evil; that he could not go back.”

          The woman lowered her head with a saddened frown.  “Then he has fled and is forever lost to us.”

          ‘I have not fled.  I am with you.  Tell her.’  

          Strider jerked upright as Legolas’ voice echoed within his head.  “What?!”

          ‘You great oaf!  Tell them I am in your body!   And I can’t say I’m enjoying it overmuch.’

          Strider’s face paled and his hands flew upward and tentatively touched first his head and then moved down over his chest and finally to his abdomen.  “W-w-where?” he yelped.   His voice held a panicky quaver and his silver eyes looked aghast.

          ‘Oh don’t go on so, Aragorn.  There’s plenty of room for both of us in here.’  

          Strider gave the Istari a horrified stare.  “Gandalf!  It’s Legolas.  He says… he says he’s inside me!  How can he be inside me?!”

          Mithrandir sat up quickly.  “Oh, dear,” he exclaimed.

          Both wizard and warrior looked to the Drughu Woman.  At Strider’s first exclamation, she had turned her gaze upon him with wonder and astonishment.  Now she spoke and a slight smile came to her thin lips.

          “I did not think this possible.  The Firstborn is quite resourceful.  Perhaps this course of action will serve us to greater purpose.”  She looked directly at Strider.  “By entering your body the Elf’s soul remains here within the planes of earthly existence.   Hidden inside your body he will be out of the reach of the evil that has stolen his form.  You can keep him close and safe until we drive the evil from his body and he can return to it unharmed.”

          Strider looked ill.  “And just how long will this take?”

          ‘You sound as if you wish to be rid of me,’ came Legolas’ pouting voice.

          “I do!” Strider replied, and then seeing Mithrandir’s puzzled face and the woman’s questioning gaze, he hurried on.  “I mean… I do… hope you have a plan of some kind?”

          “Ah,” the woman sighed as she placed her hands upon her knees, preparing for a long dialogue.  “That is what we must decide and quickly.”

          “We shall do whatever you ask of us,” said Mithrandir.

          “Then first, let me tell you what It is you face.  This evil is an elemental force, formed when the earth was born.  It is a force of nature; It can cause earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, shifting the earth's shelves and masses.  It resides deep within the earth’s very core and in the natural balance of Eä, It is a necessary element for change; but released as It has been into the upper world, It disturbs the harmony of all things.

          “In Its natural state, It has no form and is but a dark, malignant presence.  It is like a spoiled, unruly child, only wanting, only thinking of Its needs and desires.  It has no moral concepts or conscience of any kind and It cares nothing for the sanctity of any life force other than Its own.  It can bend the earth to Its will, displacing time as It shifts realities.  It can deceive and betray.

          “It was never meant to be aware, but now that It has a corporeal body – an immortal body – It can become a power so deadly that It could destroy the world as we know it.  Already It is drawing upon the evil that exists within our realms.  They feed on Its energy and It, in turn, grows stronger as It gains control of their will and thought.  We cannot allow this malevolence to spread beyond the Mirkwood Palace.  It must be returned to the pits from whence It came and order must be restored.”

          “The Mirkwood Palace,” Mithrandir questioned.  “You believe It is still in the palace?”

          “Oh, indeed,” she nodded her silver head.  “As I have said, It can change our realities by bending time, changing space, so that we seem to move through time when in fact we have never left.”

          ‘So, I never was lost; it was the forest that changed around us.  Then all this time I must have been within the dungeons beneath the palace.’ 

          Strider was trying to follow the words spoken aloud by the Drughu Woman and listen as well to those uttered within his skull.  I was in the lower dungeons with your father only this morning; you were not there, he thought back to the voice inside his head.

          ‘My father?  Why would my father take you to the dungeons?’  

          “He wanted me to see something,” Strider murmured aloud, forgetting that Mithrandir and Tharcuru could also hear his words.

          “What was that you said?” the wizard asked.

          “What?  Oh, nothing, nothing.  I was just thinking back on something.”  He quickly changed the subject.  “If this thing does indeed reside within the lower dungeons of Mirkwood Palace, just how are we going to send it back to the abyss without killing Legolas’ body?” asked Strider.

          ‘Killing my body!’  The Elf’s voice rang sharply within his skull and Strider winced.  He quickly sent his thoughts back to the Elf.

          Will you be quiet! I’m not going to let them kill your body.  Let me think!

          Tharcuru turned her sightless gaze upon the ranger and Strider had to concentrate on her words and try to ignore the internal stirrings of his Elven intruder. He could feel Legolas moving around within his mind and was not sure that he relished the idea of the Elf knowing his innermost thoughts.

          “Its desires are primitive and base and It is not overly clever.  It can be fooled.”  She turned her gaze to the Istari.  “We will have to trick It into leaving Its current body and entering into mine.”

          “It will never do that,” Strider blurted out.  “It has an immortal Elvish body.  Why would It want to enter…” he cut his words off in mid-sentence, but too late, the meaning was clear.

          “An old crone’s body?” Tharcuru supplied for him, a slight, throaty chuckle emerging from her thin lips.

          Strider’s face flushed a bright crimson, and he started stammering.  “I, I meant no offense, I, I…”

          ‘You are such a nit!’ came Legolas’ chiding remark.  Strider started to retort, but wisely closed his mouth instead.  The old woman finally came to his rescue.

          “You do not offend me young warrior.  Were I you, I would think the same.  However, what It sees will not be what is real.”

          “Of course!” came Mithrandir’s amused laughter as understanding came to him.

          Strider looked from the wizard to the old woman with confusion.  “Of course what?”

          Mithrandir’s merry eyes twinkled with delight.  “Tharcuru is a skin-changer.”  When Strider continued to stare at him with a baffled frown, he continued.  “A shape shifter.  Tharcuru can alter her appearance at will.”

          Tharcuru nodded her confirmation of the wizard’s explanation.  “The Nameless Thing desires the light more than anything because in the depths of the earth’s core there is no light.  I will appear to It in a form that would rival Varda herself.  It will not be able to resist the temptation.

          “But we must draw it to a place deep within the earth where there is a naturally occurring opening leading down into the depths.  Once there I will lure It from the body of the Firstborn and into my own.”

          At this point in her narrative, Tharcuru turned to face the ranger.  Her face was stern and commanding.  “Once It has left the Elf’s body and entered mine you will have one last onerous task, young warrior; one that you must swear to fulfill.”

          Strider looked into her frightening milky eyes and spoke quietly.  “What is this task you ask of me?

          Her stare did not falter.  “You must kill me.”

          “I cannot!” Strider shouted with horror.  His stricken gaze turned to the Istari.  “Gandalf, I cannot take her life - not even to save Legolas.”  He turned back to the ancient woman.  “He would never allow me to take a life to save his own.”

          “But you must,” she replied.  “The Nameless Thing can only enter a body if the owner’s psyche has fled, or with weaker minds, allows It entrance, but once inside, should that body die, in order to survive It must find a new host, or It will be forever lost to the void.  At the moment It leaves the Elf’s body, your friend must return to it and reclaim it, blocking the Nameless One’s re-entry.  Then you must kill me at once, trapping It within my lifeless form.”

          Her gaze shifted to Mithrandir.  “Once I am dead, wizard, you must see that my body is cast into the chasm and the portal closed over me for all time.”

          She turned back to Strider and placed a firm hand upon the ranger’s arm.  His anguished eyes watched her ancient face and his mind raced, trying to find another solution that would not incur her death.

          She smiled slightly and then spoke quietly.  “Do not be distressed because of me, young warrior.  I am old and I am dying.  My time upon this world is ending.  I must serve Eä by making this final sacrifice before I am free to journey onward.  You will help me to do this.”

          Strider could only nod his head, not willing just yet to trust his voice.  Tharcuru placed a cool palm against his cheek and he covered her frail hand with his own.  She smiled at him and spoke softly to him alone.  “You are the hope of this world, young warrior, and many a test and trial will befall you.  This is but one.”

          Strider lay beside the central fire pit in Tharcuru’s cave with his head and shoulders resting comfortably upon several stuffed, deer hide pillows.  It was late into the night and although it had been an exhausting and trying few days both physically and mentally, he found that sleep still eluded him.  He was anxious to get on with what he knew would prove to be a very arduous ordeal for them all, but Mithrandir and Tharcuru were still deep in heated conversation across the fire from him.  They were debating a course of action dealing with things mystical and magical that was well beyond the realm of his pragmatic mind and certainly more physical approach to coping with the matters at hand.   Nevertheless, he chafed at not being included in their deliberations.

          They had dined on rabbit stew the likes of which he had never tasted before, and although sated and lulled by the heavy meal Tharcuru had prepared for them, he could not relax.  His muscles were knotted and his nerves on edge.   A restless, troubled urgency weighed on his mind and his thoughts were in turmoil – not to mention the fact that the Elf had been rummaging about inside there, adding to the fray.  He had suffered through Legolas’ analytical comments concerning his eating habits all through the meal, but now the fastidious Elf was strangely quiet and had been for several hours.

          Strider glanced across the flames at the wizard and the old woman as their conjoined voices rose and then quickly lowered.  He could still hear their whispered murmurings, but could not make out any of the words they spoke.

          Can you hear them? he thought to the Elf.

          ‘Not with your ears.’

          Strider chuckled softly.  So how does it feel to be mortal?  

          ‘Dreadful.’

          Strider was poised to respond when suddenly a long shadow crossed over him and startled he looked up to see Mithrandir looming above him.  The wizard sat down across from him and leaned toward the fire, warming his gnarled hands against the night chill.  He gave Strider an amused look, eyes questioning, as his fingers wiggled before the flames.

          “How is our immortal friend faring?”

          Strider gave the wizard a withering glare.  “You mean besides creeping about my innermost thoughts?”

          ‘I do not creep about,’ came the Elf’s indignant reply.

          Mithrandir laughed softly, head nodding.  “Well, at least we know where he is and that he is safe.”  Slowly the grin faded and he turned a somber face toward Strider.  “There is much to do, my boy, and I fear the worst is yet to come.”

          “What have you decided?” the ranger asked as he rolled onto his side.  Propped up on an elbow, his head rested in the palm of his hand and his silver eyes reflected the flames flickering within the pit.  The wizard was suddenly reminded of his own glittering fireworks as he gazed into their depths.

          “We have come to no conclusion,” Mithrandir replied.  “Tharcuru has gone to prepare for the difficult task before her.  She tells me that it will require a great deal of her power and strength to maintain the illusion of Varda.  She will return to us when she is ready.”  He smiled down at the young man.  “Try to get some rest, my boy.  You will need it.”

          Strider nodded and flopped back onto his back, hands nestled behind his neck, but all he could do was stare at the ceiling of the cave.  Just when he thought he would never be able to rest, he heard Legolas’ hushed and muted voice singing softly within his mind.  He was singing an Elvish song that Strider had not heard since he was a very small child, living in the House of Elrond; a time when he was called Estel and knew no other danger than falling from a tree or scraping his knee on a rocky hunting trail.  His lips curved into a slight smile and his eyes slowly closed.

          Hannon le, mellon nin, he thought as he drifted off and sleep finally overtook him.  

/////////////////////////////

          The Nameless Thing strode through the dark tunnels beneath the Mirkwood Palace with a single-minded determination.  The Elven body in which It resided made no sound as It lightly stepped through the winding corridors.  Its liquid, ebony eyes slid back and forth as It gazed at the empty dungeon cells, searching, and then a movement up ahead caused the being to slow Its pace and It cautiously approached the tunnel’s end.

          Isar’s keen ears had detected Elven footsteps approaching and he shook his head sadly.  Why oh why does the king still venture down here?  It does him no good to see these pitiful creatures, he mused as he stepped out of his guardroom door and into the hall.  A shocked expression came over his face as he saw instead the young Prince of Mirkwood approaching.

          “Prince Legolas!’ he exclaimed.  “We thought some harm had befallen… “   Isar’s words abruptly ceased as he saw the cruel, malevolent expression on the young prince’s fair face and the pitch black eyes whose glare bored through him and into his very soul.

          The Silvan Elf drew back in horror, his arms raised protectively before him to aid in warding off the psychic assault he could now feel beginning to tear away at his mind.  He stumbled backward and fell heavily against the stone walls of the tunnel as an excruciating pain sliced its way into his skull.   His graceful hands flew to his temples even as his knees gave way beneath him and he sank to the ground in a disjointed heap.

          Isar screamed in agony as bright, red blood began to flow from his nose and trickled from his ears as he writhed on the stone floor of the dungeon hallway.  He clasped his head tightly between his two hands as the pain escalated; and then he lay still.  His hands fell limply to the ground beside his head and thin rivulets of blood ran down from his blank, staring eyes.  The steady flow of blood soon formed tiny red pools to either side of his head.

          The Nameless Thing stepped forward and leaned down over the lifeless body of the Elf and grabbed up the large key ring that was attached to the guard’s belt.   He lifted the keys up and then carelessly stepped over the Silvan Elf and headed toward the end of the corridor.  Images he had seen within the stricken Elf’s mind had shown him that these thin metal objects would open the door to the prison holding those he sought.  He stopped at the cell containing the Dale Men and lowered a key into the lock, turning it slowly.  When there was no resounding click to indicate that the lock had opened, he chose another key and repeated the process.  On the third try, the key slid easily into the lock and the tumblers clicked open.  The creature pulled the wooden door wide and gazed inside at the three cowering men within.

          When the door opened the Dale Men turned as one, and as if in a trance, slowly rose to their feet.  Their mindless jabbering and nonsensical murmurings ceased and they stood straight and wooden, staring at the cell doorway.  The Nameless Thing looked the men over and issued but one order to the three.

          “Come.”

          Expecting to be obeyed without question, the dark being turned from the door and walked away from the cell.  As It passed Isar’s body It dropped the key ring onto the dead Elf’s chest and continued down the dark corridor without a backward glance.  The three mindless Dale Men silently followed behind.

///////////////////////////////

          King Thranduil quietly made his way through the silent and seldom traveled hallways along the residential wing of the palace hoping to avoid Ganduil.  He knew his minister would most likely be waiting for him within his study and therefore he could not use the hidden stairwell to gain access to the dungeons. Instead, he was forced to use the much more public areas of the palace complex that afforded egress to the lower dungeons and the cell of the Dale Men.

          The relentless guilt that plagued him over the fate of these men had become an unbearable suffering that he could no longer endure.  His reckless actions had brought about the mindless ruination of these men and he could no longer justify his reasons for keeping them locked away in the dungeons.  He would have Isar take them to the Houses of Healing where they would be skillfully cared for, and even if their madness could never be cured, at least they could live out the remainder of their pathetic days in the open air and the light of day.  No living being should ever be made to suffer alone in the darkness.

          As he stepped down off the last of the stone stairs, his mind was thus occupied and he was visibly shaken from his musings by the incredulous sight of his supposedly missing son walking toward him with the very Dale Men of his recent thoughts trudging along behind him.

          “Legolas!” he shouted.  “Oh, my son!  By the Valar, how….” His voice trailed away as he saw the cruel and wicked smile, so out of character upon his son’s handsome face, and his horror intensified as he looked into the hard, cold eyes as black as a raven’s wing, that stared boldly back at him.

          The dark creature, too, was momentarily surprised by the sudden appearance of the blond Elf upon the stair.  The Elf now standing before It was so similar in appearance to the Elven body It now occupied that it seemed a reflection in a glass. But when this Elf spoke, It realized that this was no image but another living being.  A vile and dark scowl came over the Nameless One’s face as It realized that this new being was a danger.  It quickly sent forth Its evil essence, wanting only to rip through this Elf’s fragile mind and tear it to bits.

          Thranduil Oropherion, however, had survived thousands of years and many a dark time and was extremely well versed in the ways of the Eldar.  He quickly regained his presence of mind and his highly skilled warrior’s instincts and reflexes instantly assessed this new threat.  He brazenly stared back at this malignant creature standing before him, angered that it had somehow managed to take on his son’s countenance.  He deftly waved his hand before him in a fluid arching movement and uttered an ancient Elvish spell.  A brilliant light shown forth emanating from Thranduil’s palm and the Nameless Thing was momentarily blinded.  The Elven King wasted no time wondering if the spell had thwarted his attacker or nay.  He hurriedly sped down one of the angled hallways that led into the maze of warrens and burrows beneath his lower palace.  He soon vanished into their depths, into the dark, hidden places that he, and only he, was familiar.

          The dark being roared with rage as It realized the Elf had eluded Its grasp and had disappeared into the shadowy tunnels of the underground.  Deadly and invisible shock waves rippled outward from the being and slammed into the stone walls of the dungeons, blasting apart the stone and creating huge cavities within the shattered rock of the dungeon walls.  The ground beneath Its feet rumbled and quaked and the hapless Dale Men were thrown to the ground as the stone pathway under their boots rolled and undulated in a riotous upheaval of rock and dirt.   Undaunted, they slowly rose to their feet once again and with a senseless, shuffling gait, moved to follow the dark creature who now ruled their minds and drove their bodies.  Down into the depths of the cavernous tunnels below the palace, the witless slaves of the Nameless One followed their new Master.  

//////////////////////////////////// 

          The Elven King fell heavily against the darkened passageway wall as the ground beneath his suede boots unexpectedly began to churn and rock.  Heavy chunks of stone fell from the low ceiling and he drew his arm up over his head as the rocks rained down around him.  He shoved off from the wall and staggered through the rubble and debris of the heaving tunnel and ever shifting stone floor and hastened to where he knew a corridor ultimately led to the outside forests and escape.  He had no wish to be buried alive in an underground cave-in and he desperately needed to gather together his warriors.

          That hideous thing had now invaded his very home and was by some means foul and dark, using his son’s body to conduct Its vile schemes.  His anguished mind reeled with fear and anxiety over the true fate of his son and he shuddered to think of what that dark creature might have actually done with him.

          As he entered the last passageway, King Thranduil skidded to a halt, his booted feet sliding on the loose rocks and gravel as he looked up and found his way blocked by a massive mound of rock-colored flesh brandishing a staff with a very ugly curved scimitar blade protruding from its end.  The huge Olog-hai was grinning wickedly at this unexpected prize and eagerly looking forward to participating in its brutal and messy death.  The Elven king skillfully drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it challengingly before him.

          Aslhûg growled with anticipation at the thought of spilling Elf-blood.   His thick lips curled into a malicious snarl and he took a ponderous step toward Thranduil, as he uttered an orcish threat as foul as his breath.

          “Dulug matat pushdug golug!”*

          The veteran warrior within Thranduil came easily into play as he lightly stepped to the side presenting as small a target as possible to the point of the hill-troll’s pike.  His sword arm moved slightly back and forth, his muscles taut and ready to strike.  The Olog-hai grunted and lunged forward, both of his huge hands grasping the wooden shaft and ramming it forcefully toward the Elf Lord’s abdomen.

          The king spun to the side and easily danced out of the way as the savage weapon sliced through the flowing sleeve of his over tunic, but it did not taste flesh.  Thranduil clasped his Elven blade with both his hands and swung sideways, forcing the troll to stumble backward to avoid its biting edge.  Aslhûg’s hideous roar filled the passage as he rushed forward once again; this time his pike aimed for the king’s chest.

          The Elf Lord swiftly crouched down and ducked under the wooden staff as the troll thundered toward him.  He rose up under the monster’s guard and thrust his sword deep into the creature’s thick hide.  Aslhûg howled in pain, his dark eyes filling with rage and he fell back a pace.  The king’s Elven blade slid from the troll’s pendulous gut and dark, black blood spewed from the wound.  Thranduil leapt back and away from the troll and raised his sword again, waiting for his next opportunity to strike.

          In a blind and wounded rage, Aslhûg charged the Elf once more and jabbed his pike back and forth searching for an opening in the king’s defense.   When the troll leaned forward yet again, the elder Elf whipped his flowing cloak up and around the blade of the troll’s pike several times and then yanked it back in to his chest, bringing the creature stumbling forward after it.  Thranduil then ripped the cloak from his shoulders and flung it aside, allowing the material to further entangle itself around the monster’s weapon.

          Aslhûg was pulled down and off balance by the move and the king whirled around to the hill-troll's back as the Olog-hai fell forward.   Thranduil raised his sword above his head and gripped the keen Elven blade with both hands.  He brought it slashing down upon the troll’s meaty neck, cleaving his head from his body in one swift stroke.  The severed head squished and bounced down the stone passageway until it finally came to rest, wedged between two boulders.  The monstrous gray-green body jerked and twitched in its death throes and then crashed to the ground with a thunderous boom.

          Thranduil staggered back against the cavern wall and watched as the massive bulk of the creature’s body landed at his feet.  He slowly moved around the dead body of the troll and retrieved his cloak from the Olog-hai’s fallen weapon.  He wiped the black ichor from the blade of his sword with a piece of his tattered sleeve and then threw the fouled rag aside.  He quickly re-sheathed his weapon and then carelessly wiped a hand across his face to clean away the black blood that had spattered upon him when he struck the fatal blow.

          Sucking gulps of air into his aching and overworked lungs, the king slowly stepped over the troll’s splayed legs and made his way into the cavern ahead and the opening he knew would lead him to the forests beyond.  He had only gone a short distance into the darkened passage, however, when a rustling, scurrying sound caught his attention and he halted.   His sensitive ears strained to identify the strange, yet somehow familiar noise.

          Suddenly the darkness about him turned into a thick, inky blackness where no light penetrated.  He could no longer see anything about him.  His hand groped out for the wall that he knew to be close by, but his palm only met with air and he felt a panic begin to grow within him as his disoriented mind finally recognized the unmistakable sound of a spider’s hiss.

*”Time to die, stinking elf!”

          Strider stirred restlessly in his sleep when his body innately sensed another presence nearby and in his dreams he felt a slight pressure upon his shoulder.  It seemed as if he had only just fallen asleep, but the gentle, yet firm hand that shook him would not be deterred.  Strider’s eyes slowly rolled open to find the sightless white orbs of Tharcuru staring down upon his face.  The firelight cast jagged orange-red patterns across her tattooed features and silver hair and Strider’s sleep lulled gaze first thought her face covered in blood.  A surging rush of adrenaline pumped through his body and he was shocked into full wakefulness by the fearsome sight of the ancient woman.   With a racing heart and tensing muscles, his upper body sprang upward and he braced his weight upon his elbows.

          “Is it time?”

          “No, young warrior,” she answered softly, pressing his shoulders back down onto the fur rugs and preventing him from rising fully upright.  “There is yet one thing I must do before we leave.”

          Her hand moved to his worry lined forehead and she lightly brushed aside the dark strands of hair that had fallen into his face.  And then touching the area just above his nose, she began to move her fingertips across his brow in small, soothing circles.

          “I must speak to the Firstborn.”

          Strider looked back up at her with a mixture of fear and curiosity but he nodded slightly to convey his willingness to comply with her request.

          “What do you wish me to do?”

          “Just lie still,” she whispered as her fingers continued to gently massage his forehead.  “Close your eyes and listen to my voice.  You will drift for a time while I speak with the Elf.”

          “Yes,” he murmured, but even as he spoke he could feel a dull heaviness pulling down upon his eyelids and a deep drowsiness soon overcame him.

          Tharcuru began murmuring in the speech of the Hidden Men and her body slowly swayed back and forth as the words became a low, rhythmic chant.  The flames in the fire pit behind her danced higher, sending flickering shadows across the cave walls and ceiling.  The heady aroma of the dried leaves burning within the fire permeated the cavern and thin tendrils of smoke rose up gracefully to the roof.  The flames suddenly peaked, hissing and snapping and her chanting monotone abruptly ceased as her ancient body went as rigid as stone.  She had risen above the planes of earthly existence and now crossed over into the Shadow World.

///////////////////////////////////

          Legolas once again found himself alone and adrift in the vast, gray emptiness of the void.   He had heard the words Tharcuru had spoken to Aragorn about wishing to talk to him and he slowly turned around and around, searching through the dense clouds for the Drughu Woman he knew was coming for him.  He could sense her presence nearing, yet all about him was a thick, murky fog and an eerie stillness.  He turned again as her soft, husky voice called his name and then she emerged from the deep shadows of the mists and  slowly glided toward him.

          “Prince of Mirkwood,” she addressed the Elf as she came to a halt before him.  “Heed my words, for our time is short.  You will face a test of strength unlike any other you have ever before attempted.  You must confront a force of evil that is both formidable and daunting.  Are you prepared to accept this challenge?”

          Legolas’ expressive face churned with conflicting and powerful emotions.   The very thought of returning to meet the terrifying evil that had so recently touched his soul sent waves of fear and panic racing through his mind, yet deep within he knew he had no choice but to do so.  He lowered his head to avoid looking directly at the unnerving and haunting eyes of the witch-woman and his troubled thoughts overwhelmed him.  He could only perceive his limitations; his weaknesses and shortcomings.

          “I am frightened, ancient one,” he murmured, his soft voice admitting his disquiet.  “I fear I will not have the necessary valor to withstand this evil and I will fail you all.”

          Tharcuru moved closer to the Elf and placed her hand under his chin, raising his head up until his gaze met her own.  “It is wise to be frightened, Child of Ilúvatar,” she replied.  “Your fear will heighten your senses and serve to reinforce your inner resolve.  It will give you the courage and strength needed to do battle with this evil.  Your spirit is very powerful, young Elf.  Do not underestimate your worth.”

          Legolas lowered his eyes once more; he felt appallingly ashamed and chastised for indulging in his misguided feelings of self-pity and doubt.   He knew in his heart that there was no other course to follow.  He must conquer his fear of this ancient evil and he must do whatever was required of him to insure that It was vanquished.  Order must be restored to the world.  There were others far greater than he willing to sacrifice so much more – he could do no less.

          “What would you have me do?” he asked.

          “I do not yet know when or where this final conflict will occur, but we leave shortly for the caverns beneath the Palace of Mirkwood.   I feel Its presence growing ever stronger.  Once we are inside the underground warrens, I shall be able to use this heightened awareness of Its power to find Its lair.  When we do confront It, the Nameless One will try to strike first at the one among us whose psychic power is untapped and untrained – your reluctant host and mortal friend.

          “You must protect him with your strength of will.  Shield his mind from the false fears that this evil will try to project into the young warrior’s thoughts.  Help him to fight the darkness and shun the madness or the Nameless Thing will drive your friend to raving lunacy.  Aragorn has a warrior’s heart and a strong, determined will of his own, but he will be no match for this creature of the abyss.  It will be up to you to guard and protect him, for his sword will be greatly needed to deliver the ultimate blow to our enemy.

          “You must be strong, too, young Elf when you confront your visage.  It will be difficult to watch this creature use your body to cause harm to your friend.  You must not falter at the sight of your ill-used form, even though it may be hurtful for you to look upon.   Remember that as long as this evil remains within your earthbound shell, you cannot return to it.  But at the very moment It departs, you must flee the safe haven in which you now dwell and return to your own body at once.”

          Legolas’ brow wrinkled with concern.  “But how do I accomplish this?” he asked.  “I do not even know how I left it.”

          “You will hear my voice within your mind at the time of transference telling you to flee to your body.  At that time, you must concentrate your every thought and fiber upon one single purpose – to be inside your body.  Only you know how your body fits; focus upon this and this alone.  Feel your flesh, your heartbeat; know your lungs are filling with air and you are breathing with life.  If you do this, your soul will unerringly return to its sanctuary and you will be whole once more.”

          Legolas nodded his understanding.  “And after I return to myself, will I be weakened, unsteady?”  His imploring eyes searched her white face.  “Will I be able to fight alongside my companions?”

          “I cannot say,” she replied.  “I feel certain that It is neglecting your body’s basic need for food and water.  Its evil power is driving the muscles, making them function, but It is not replenishing the energy It is rapidly expending.   It does not know that a physical body needs to eat and drink - even an Elven one.  You may find that your body is in too weakened a state to function.”  She shook her silver head.  “I just do not know.”

          “I see.”

          “Do not let this unsettle you or sway you from your resolve.  You are an immortal and possess the power of the Eldar.  You will prevail.”

          Legolas smiled ruefully.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “I shall.”

          Tharcuru placed her palm along the side of Legolas’ face.  Her opalescent eyes seemed to penetrate through him and into his very soul.  Legolas reached out and similarly touched his graceful hand to her pale cheek.

          “I leave you now, Firstborn.  We shall not meet again.  By the time you are fully restored to your body, I shall be dead and no longer of this world.”

          Her hand slowly lowered from his face and then she stepped away from the Elf and moved back into the swirling mists.  A moment later she was totally obscured by the dark clouds and Legolas found himself once again floating within the sleeping mind of his trusted friend.  

/////////////////////////////////

          Strider pushed aside a large branch and struggled through the dense tangle of vines and underbrush.  He hacked away at the leaves and ferns with his Elven knife and managed to clear a small passage through the foliage large enough for a person to squeeze through.  He glanced back over his shoulder to see Mithrandir and the ancient woman carefully making their way through the dense brushwood following the shorn pathway he had recently forged.

          It was not yet dawn and the sky overhead was still pitch black, but the moon’s pale luminescence was enough to allow the three sufficient light to see by as they maneuvered through the forests and made their way to the caves and tunnels of the palace’s lower foundations.  Strider halted momentarily from his slashing and hacking and looked up to the hillside above.  He could see the flickering torches at the gates of Lasgalen shining brightly through the thick stand of trees.

          ‘It reminds me of the night we were separated.  I could see the torches of my home, yet I could not reach the palace.’ Legolas’ voice commented within Strider’s thoughts.

            The ranger did not reply, but as he chopped away another low lying bough and broke through the woodland barrier blocking their progress, the Elf spoke up again.  ‘The cavern entrance should be just beyond these flowering vines.  You will see a slight overhang shielding the opening.’

          Strider stopped and turned back to face his two companions.  “Legolas tells me the cave entrance is just up ahead.”

          Tharcuru moved forward and took hold of Strider’s arm, staying his course.  “Wait.  I sense great danger there, young warrior.  The Evil Daughter lies within.”

          “Evil daughter?” Strider asked.  “And who or what is that?”

          Strider actually felt Legolas shiver within his mind and then a  corresponding shudder, cold and icy, rippled through his own body.  Legolas, what is it? he thought to the Elf.

          ‘Ulkûrzlûb!’  The Elf’s fearful voice rang within Strider’s mind and the ranger’s hand moved to his sword.

          “One of Shelob’s abominable brood,” Tharcuru replied.  “She, too, is a giant spider and thoroughly vile.  This monster has made her nest here and now protects the Nameless One.”

          Mithrandir stepped forward.  “She will try to blind us with the Unlight of Ungoliant.  The Staff of Anar will allow us to move through the darkness, but we must be on our guard.  She is likely to have others by her side and they will do everything within their power to prevent our passage.”

          ‘I was very nearly her next meal,’ came Legolas’ strained voice.  ‘Had it not been for the troll, I….’

          “The troll!” Strider exclaimed aloud.  He glanced quickly at Mithrandir who was staring at him with an expectant frown.  “Legolas speaks of a troll,” he shrugged, indicating he knew nothing more.

          Anything else I should know about? he questioned the Elf.

          ‘At least one exceedingly nasty goblin.’

          The Elf went strangely silent.  And? Strider prompted.

          ‘Shriekers.... Aragorn, their screams are….’  After what seemed a very long time, Legolas continued in a quiet, haunted voice.  ‘I was sinking into madness…..their hideous wails were tearing apart my mind…..’

          I am here, Legolas.  Strider’s firm, commanding thoughts blanketed the Elf like a warm cocoon.  You are safe.  They cannot reach you now.  He thought to say more, but Tharcuru was speaking and he turned his ear to the woman’s voice.

          “We will find all manner of evil within,” stated the Drughu Woman.  “The Nameless One has summoned any and all who would serve Its dark purpose.  The journey ahead of us will not be an easy one.”

          Mithrandir withdrew Glamdring from its scabbard and gripping his brightly glowing staff in his left hand, boldly stepped forward toward the deep blackness within the cave.  He looked over his shoulder to Strider and Tharcuru.

          “Stay close to the light.  If we can elude Ulkûrzlûb, so much the better,” he paused, gazing significantly at Strider.  “If not, keep your sword ready.”

          Strider nodded, clasping Tharcuru’s forearm and moving her into a position of cover between himself and the wizard.  He, too, withdrew his sword and with one last look behind them, followed both into the cave.  The soft glow of Mithrandir’s staff surrounded them with a yellow halo of pale light just bright enough to see the stone pathway beneath their feet.

          “What I would give for your keen Elvish ears, mellon nin,” Strider murmured under his breath.

          All three instantly halted when the unexpected sound of a demanding voice issued from within the depths of the unlight.  “Who is there?”

          ‘Adar?!’ came Legolas’ incredulous voice.

          “King Thranduil?” Strider called into the darkness.

          “Beware!  She is upon you!” the Elven King shouted, but too late.  The giant spider suddenly emerged from the inky blackness and charged straight for them.

          When he recognized the agitated sounds of a spider disturbed from its feeding, King Thranduil ceased all motion and stood as still as a deer in the wood.  He could see nothing in the utter darkness of the unlight that surrounded him, but his keen ears listened intently for even the slightest whisper of the creature’s multi-legged progress through the cavern or along the walls.  When he dared to breathe again, he did so very slowly and made every effort not to make any sound that could be heard by the monstrous arachnid.  Cautiously he took one silent step backward.  He carefully placed his booted foot upon the stone path behind him and then he slowly shifted his weight onto the ball of his foot.

          After several seconds had elapsed without any movement from the spider, the Elven King chanced another backward pace.  He was about to attempt a third when a faint glimmer of light appeared across the cavern and the low murmur of several voices reached his ears.  He instantly froze; if he could hear these voices then so could the spider, and as he feared, frenzied and renewed scrabbling sounds arose from a point very close to his current position as the great beast hurtled toward the intrusive newcomers.  He called out to the unknown voices and to his utter amazement heard his name being called by a voice that sounded very much like the Dúnadan ranger.

          As the light began to grow brighter within the cavern, he could eventually see that it was indeed the young ranger and the meddlesome wizard who were approaching through the darkness.  Also with them was a tall, exotic woman of ancient age that he surmised must be the fabled Drughu witch-woman.   His shouted warning however, did little to forestall the spider’s attack upon them and swiftly drawing his sword, he ran toward the others as the huge beast leapt from her glistening web and made straight for the young ranger.

          Strider threw a protective forearm across Tharcuru’s body and pushed her back against the cavern wall and out of the way of the spider’s leap.  Then he dove to the ground beneath the arachnid’s flying body and rolled completely under the great beast and was able to spring up behind the creature as he landed on his feet on the opposite side of the pathway.  He held his sword in a two-handed grip to attain greater strength and power and then quickly swung the weapon in an arching curve.  As he completed the maneuver, the momentum turned him around and about and the blade easily sliced through two of the spider’s hairy back legs.  The black creature shrieked with pain and swung her great body about to face her attacker, ignoring the vile gore that poured from her severed limbs.  Her multi-faceted eyes fixed upon Strider and her horrendous mouth opened wide.

          King Thranduil reached the ranger first and hastily yanked him aside just before a stream of foul, poisonous venom spewed from the spider’s gaping maw and splattered the rock pathway where the young human had been standing only moments before.  The Elf Lord then lunged forward, thrusting his sword at the beast’s bloated body, but she quickly scurried out of reach and prepared for her next assault.  Strider moved toward the spider and lifted his sword to strike her anew, but the dark, agile creature rose upward upon her silken thread and then hovered above them safe and well out of reach.

          Mithrandir hurried forward bearing his illuminated staff and shouted to the two warriors.  “Quickly!  Keep within the light from my staff.  There are others coming!”

          Strider had been so absorbed with the giant creature that he had not noticed the approach of the remaining members of her nest.  Now he anxiously looked about him and could see hordes of smaller spiders scurrying toward them in a massive, undulating black wave.

          ‘You need fire!’ Legolas’ voice shouted within his head.  ‘You must burn them out!  Burn the web!’  

          “Gandalf!” Strider yelled to the wizard.  “We need fire to repel them!”

          The grey wizard nodded his understanding and turned to face the woman.  “Hold fast to my staff, Tharcuru.  The light will protect you.”

          Her silver head gave the slightest nod as she grasped the wooden staff in both hands and stood behind the wizard, firm and resolute.  As Mithrandir tossed Glamdring from his right hand to his left, Strider thought he spied the barest glimpse of a mithril ring upon his hand and then it was gone.  Instead a ball of fire blazed within the wizard’s palm, yet obviously caused him no pain.  Mithrandir hurled the fiery orb toward the huge glittering web that hung suspended from the cavern ceiling.  Although securely attached to the walls by long, silky ropes, the instant the flaming ball struck the silvered fibers of Ulkûrzlûb’s intricate work of weaving and design, the tenuous filaments went up in flames and the delicate webbing was transformed into a blazing inferno.

          King Thranduil and Strider shrank back away from the heat of the flames, arms raised before their faces and watched as the smaller spiders fled before the raging fires and scurried back into the darkness of the cavern’s cracks and crevices.   Ulkûrzlûb, however, was not so intimidated.  The vile monster spit and hissed her rage and skittered away from the flames, moving to an area of the cave that was out of the fire’s reach.  She rotated her ponderous body upon her dangling spider’s thread and hung suspended above the cave, glaring down at her enemies below.

          Elf, wizard, and man stared upward at the hanging behemoth, their swords raised and poised for battle.  The spider did not hesitate long before launching a new attack.  Ulkûrzlûb flung her body across the chamber and sailed over the heads of Mithrandir and Thranduil.  The Istari and Elf Lord watched transfixed as the spider hurtled over them and landed squarely atop Strider.  Even though the ranger had seen the beast coming for him and had tried to back away, he was hampered when his foot slid across the top of a stone slick with venom and he lost his balance.  Tumbling backward, he landed heavily upon his back and the huge spider was on top of him in a matter of seconds.

          Her fiercely clacking mandibles reached toward Strider’s face and throat and he smacked the side of the beast’s head with a hard fist, but it did little to deter the creature from diving toward his head.  The spider opened her mouth wide, preparing to douse the human with her caustic saliva and then sink her chitinous jaws into the ranger’s flesh.  Strider frantically tried to lift his sword but his arm was caught at an awkward angle and he could not gain the leverage needed to raise the weapon.  As the spider’s body lowered closer, Strider turned his head away and tried to roll out from under the beast, but several of her remaining legs were pinning his body to the ground and he was trapped beneath her.

          As the monstrous arachnid struck, her slavering jaws met Elven metal instead of flesh as King Thranduil’s sword cut through her face and sheared away half of her lower mandible.  Gouts of foul, black blood and steaming acid splashed down upon Strider as the spider rose upward in pain and fury.  Released from the pinioning legs, Strider clasped his sword and leapt to his feet.  He rushed beneath the spider’s upturned thorax and shoved his sword upward, plunging the weapon deep into the creature’s swollen belly.   The Evil Daughter’s deafening scream echoed off the stones of the lofty cavern with a piercing sound wave that caused all within the confines of the cave to wince as the excruciating shriek assaulted their eardrums.  Violent death agonies shook the spider’s huge black body as gore and noxious fluids gushed from the sword wound, and then she crashed down upon the rocks of the cavern floor in a withered, twisted heap.  Strider leapt back out of the way as the black shell of her lifeless body landed on the stones in front of his feet.

          Panting and gasping for breath and drenched with blood, Strider wearily leaned against the wall of the cave and wiped the reeking gore off his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

          And you face these monsters on a daily basis? he thought to Legolas.  Going on a spider hunt has a whole new meaning for me.

          A soft, nervous laugh echoed within Strider’s mind.  ‘Well, in truth, this is the largest one I’ve ever seen.  I am grateful it is dead.’

          A darkening spot on the ranger’s upper thigh began to hiss and steam as the acid from the spider’s spittle started to burn through the heavy material of his trousers.   Strider slapped at the smoking cloth, trying to keep the corrosive substance from reaching his skin.  King Thranduil swiftly came to the young human’s aid and, as he replaced his sword within its scabbard, he shouted to the ranger.

          “You must douse it with dirt.  Quickly!”   The Elven King scooped up a handful of loose soil and grit from the cavern floor and hastily rubbed it over Strider’s leg, covering the spider’s caustic saliva with the dirt.   Within minutes the acid was neutralized and the hole in his trouser leg grew no wider.

          Satisfied, the king rose up and diligently brushed the dirt and grim from off his hands.  His golden head then nodded in the direction of the silver-haired woman who was approaching them, the wizard beside her.

          “I see you have found the witch,” he stated.

          Strider glanced up, shaking sweat-damp hair from his brow.  He swiftly and efficiently wiped the blade of his sword against his already soiled tunic and then returned it to its sheath.

          “Aye,” he replied to the king.  “And Legolas as well.”

           “Legolas?!” the king cried; his voice was over loud in the quiet of the cavern.  “I just saw my son walking through the dungeons with several mindless Dale Men following behind him like cattle.”  He paused and his hard, stern gaze traveled back into the dark caverns.  “But it was not Legolas,” his voice lowered and his head shook in denial.  “It was not my son.”

          “You are correct, Thranduil,” Mithrandir spoke up as he came upon the two.  “It was not your son.  The energy and spirit that constitutes the soul of Legolas is safely residing within young Strider.”

          “WHAT!?” Thranduil roared.

          ‘This will not go well,’ remarked Legolas’ voice and Strider grimaced, knowing all too well the Sindarin king’s thorny temperament.

          “It is much too complicated to explain just now, majesty,” said Strider in a vain attempt to dissuade the Elven Lord from asking too many pertinent questions.  “But believe me, he is inside me and he is unharmed.”  He paused.  “We just have to get him back into his own body somehow.”

          Thranduil took several purposeful steps forward and peered closely into Strider’s face, searching the young man’s silver eyes as if he expected to see his son’s face looking back from within them.  Strider pulled back and away from the king’s intense stare, and tried to extricate himself from the uncomfortable scrutiny of those sharp blue eyes.  The king finally backed away and Strider gratefully stepped around and behind the wizard and Tharcuru. 

          The Elven King squared his regal shoulders and his sculpted face turned hard and imperious.   His fierce blue-eyed stare traveled from Mithrandir to the Drughu Woman and then back to Strider and a dangerous twist came to his lips.

          “Suppose you take the time to explain to me just exactly what has happened to my son,” he curtly remarked.  His formidable glare made it quite plain to each one of them that he expected to be obeyed.

          Mithrandir fearlessly stepped forward and placed a firm hand upon the king’s shoulder and taking a strong hold of his forearm with the other, turned the Elf Lord toward the darkness of the deeper tunnels within the palace underground.

          “Perhaps I can explain as we move along,” the wizard smoothly replied.  “Our time runs short, majesty.  Ulkûrzlûb’s death screams will have rung throughout these warrens by now and our presence here within these tunnels may no longer be undetected.   We must find the Nameless Thing before It becomes aware of our true intent here.  It is our plan to cast It back into the abyss from whence it came and forever bar Its return to this world.  But before we can accomplish this task we must see that It does not destroy your son’s body or he can never return to it.”  He walked the Elven King farther down the dark tunnel.  “And we must do it quickly.”

          Thranduil balked, easily extracting his arm from the wizard’s grasp and he gave the old Istari an annoyed scowl.  “I have already sealed over the well where It first emerged.  It would take much too long to have it re-opened.”

          “Then we will need to find a similar shaft that will serve our purpose,” Mithrandir replied.  “Do you know of any such alternative within these caves?”

          As the wizard gently coerced the king down the dark corridors, the Elf Lord nodded.   “Yes, there is a volcanic shaft beneath the older palace foundations that was used for ventilation and heat when the palace was first carved from the stone.  After additions were completed and the palace refurbished, it was abandoned; but I do not believe it was ever capped off.”

          “Excellent,” murmured the wizard.  “Can you show us this place?”

          “Of course,” the king replied and then he abruptly halted in front of the Istari.  “But you have not answered my questions concerning my son.”

          Before Mithrandir could reply, Strider came up alongside the king and wizard and anxiously glanced down the tunnel behind them.  “We must be on our guard.  Legolas spoke of a troll and goblins lurking within these warrens.”

          “You need not worry about the troll,” Thranduil dispassionately remarked.  “It is dead.”

          And as if to verify his words, the headless body of the Olog-hai suddenly came into view.  The halo of light provided by Mithrandir’s staff swept across the path before them and shone down upon the mountainous form.  Strider grimaced as the putrefying stench of the troll’s corpse reached his nose.  The Elf Lord casually stepped around the carcass and indicated an obscure tunnel that was barely visible behind a large jumble of boulders and stones.  Recently dislodged by the strange and unexpected earth tremor that earlier shook the dungeons and lower tunnels, the rocks effectively hid the little traveled passageway.

          “The abandoned shaft is down here.”

          The king gestured toward the little used opening and the three carefully followed him into the half-hidden passage.  As Strider entered the tunnel, he gave the dark pathway behind them one last glance but saw nothing to indicate that they had been discovered or were being followed.  Yet he could faintly hear guttural snorts and growls echoing throughout the caverns that could only mean orcs were close by; how many he could not tell.  He stepped into the new tunnel and hastened his pace to catch up with the others as they made their way through the darkness ahead of him.  

/////////////////////////////////////

          The Nameless Thing seethed with rage.  It had heard the dying screams of the Evil Daughter echo throughout the underground caverns and then hundreds of her spider brood scurried through the darkness and back into their burrows.  It could feel their fear and It loathed and despised their weakness.  Now It ranted with frustration and unspent anger.  Its control of these simple creatures was rapidly slipping away.  Its own core energy had somehow faded and weakened.  The body It had so desired was now depleted and would no longer function to Its satisfaction, yet It could not understand how or why this had occurred; nor could It comprehend why Its thoughts were no longer able to detect the danger It knew was coming.

          As It had moved this stolen body through the tunnels, It felt the limbs shake, stagger, and stumble.  Several times the shell had collapsed and fallen to the ground and the last time the body had buckled beneath It, It had not been able to raise it again.  The two-legged beings It took from the dungeon cell had to be summoned to carry the body back to Its haven and it was some time before It could get the shell to move once again.  Yet even those mindless creatures were no longer totally within Its control and had lapsed back into their inane babbling and endless gibberish.  It took more and more of Its power to force them to do Its will.

          And now It raged anew; It needed to feed.  The evil of Its essence must be restored and Its force and power returned, but it was trapped within this useless body.  It must find another.

          King Thranduil glanced back over his shoulder at the small group following closely behind his lead.  “Mind your step,” he warned.  “There is an underground pool ahead and to the left of the foot path.  The water is so clear that it reflects the ceiling above it creating the illusion that it is a continuation of the path.  If you are not careful of your step, you will find yourself swimming.”

          ‘I remember this place,’ Legolas noted to Strider.  ‘It was here I came to my senses and realized I was being toted like a sack of grain across the shoulder of a foul smelling troll.  On farther down, the tunnel forks to left and right.  I was kept locked in a cell within the right corridor not far from the entrance.’

          Strider moved forward to walk beside Tharcuru and the wizard.  “Legolas tells me the tunnel forks up ahead and the right tunnel contains dungeon cells.  He says that was where he was being held.”

           “You are correct, Aragorn,” the king agreed as he looked back to Strider.  “We were just there not two days ago.   That is where I took you to see the Dale Men.  My son was not in any of those cells.”

          You were there all along, Strider thought to his Elven friend.  Right in front of our very noses and we did not even see you.

          “Not in this reality perhaps,” Tharcuru’s low voice replied.   “The Nameless One has altered time within these passages.  We must be very careful.  I can feel Its presence here; and others as well.”

          The group emerged into the small grotto and after the king indicated its location, the underground pool was visible beside the pathway.  Strider stepped toward the clear water and knelt down beside the basin.  He plunged his hands into the water and then splashed the cold liquid over his face and hands, washing away the foul blood of Ulkûrzlûb.

          Tharcuru placed her hand upon the ranger’s shoulder and looked down at him.  “Fill your water skin, young warrior,” she murmured.  “The Elf will need it.”

          Strider nodded and grasped the small hide pouch attached to his belt and dunked it into the pool.  When it was filled, he sealed it tightly and returned it to his side.  Rising up again, he followed the small party as they continued down the tunnel toward the lower dungeons.  They had not traveled far when the fork appeared up ahead of them.  King Thranduil moved to the left and started to enter the side passage leading away from the prison cells but Tharcuru’s hissing command halted everyone.

          “Wait!”

          The Elven King turned to look at the witch-woman.  Her silver head was turning slowly and she appeared to be listening to something that only she could hear.  No one made a sound.  She suddenly looked toward the king.  “It is near.”

          Mithrandir stepped forward and brought his staff closer to light the way ahead of them.  “Where is this shaft you spoke of?” he asked the king.

          “Not far,” he gestured with an elegant motion of his hand.  “Just through those unused storage areas up ahead.”

          Mithrandir turned to the Drughu Woman.  “Can you determine where It is hiding?”

          She did not speak for several moments and then shook her head.  “No,” she answered.  “It is in a weakened state, but there are many others about It; evil creatures.”  Her face saddened and her head lowered.  “We must hurry.  If It is this vulnerable to my probing then the Elf’s body must be nearly spent.”

          “What are you saying?” Thranduil demanded.  “We will go no further until you tell me what is happening to my son!”

          Strider and Mithrandir exchanged a brief but meaningful glance and then the wizard spoke.  “Take us first to the shaft; I will explain everything to you there.”

          The Elven King did not look pleased and was about to protest when loud, snarling growls and heavy stomping footsteps echoed down the tunnel coming toward them.  All turned toward the sound and Strider shouldered his way to the front of the group.

          “Orcs!” he hissed, drawing his sword and motioning the others to stay behind him.

          King Thranduil gestured toward the small, wooden doorway about ten feet farther down the corridor.  “Quickly!  In there.  The old shaft is in there.”

          The group ran toward the door indicated and Strider guarded the tunnel until all had entered and then he, too, dashed into the opening.  He slammed the door shut and then leaned forward and pressed his ear to the wood, listening for sounds of the approaching orcs.  Moments later, he leapt back away from the door and held his sword ready.

          “They are coming!” he called to the king and wizard. Both were also standing ready, swords drawn.  Strider stepped back a pace from the door and the three spaced themselves in a defensive arc around the opening.

          Tharcuru moved unerringly to the abandoned thermal shaft and knelt down on the floor near the gaping chasm.  She spread her palms outward over the gap and tossed her silver head backward, her tattooed face uplifted to the cavern ceiling.  Her torso began to sway from side to side and a low humming sound resonated from her lips.   She remained entranced thus for several minutes and then eventually her body ceased all movement and, the spell broken, she slowly rose up from the shaft.  She lowered her gaze into the bottomless pit before her and silently stood staring down into its depths as if searching for something.  A loud, banging crash shattered the silence of the room as the orcs battered through the door and the Drughu Woman’s head whipped toward the entry.

          “It comes,” she stated.

          Strider’s grip upon his sword tensed and his knees bent slightly in preparation for the battle to come.  As Tharcuru spoke, large splinters and pieces of the wooden door showered down upon the stone floor before them and then the hammered barrier started to fall inward.  With a great wrenching of wood and the screech of metal hinges tearing out of the stone, the door landed upon the floor with a thundering boom.

          A black sea of orcs flooded into the storage chamber and Strider surged forward slashing to right and left, his sword working steadily, severing heads and limbs as the foul creatures lunged toward him.  King Thranduil and Mithrandir likewise entered the fray and the corpses of orcs and goblins soon littered the floor and the smooth stones ran black with their blood.  But Strider was relentlessly being pushed back as more and more of the dark legions rushed into the room and soon he found himself separated from the Elven King and the wizard by the swelling numbers of yrch.

          As his gaze swept the dimly lit room to see how they fared, a vicious blow hit him squarely between the shoulder blades and ruthlessly drove him to his knees.  Gasping, Strider fell forward to the ground, and then instinctively he rolled to his side just as a huge scimitar blade sliced into the stone, landing where he had been only a second before.  He deftly brought his sword up in front of his face and felt a stunning jolt to his forearm as the orc smashed his weapon down upon Strider's upturned blade.  The ranger could feel the weight of the orc’s body pressing down upon his sword arm and his own blade was quickly sinking toward his throat.  Somehow he managed to get his knees up and under the orc’s chest and his feet shoved upward, kicking the orc away.  It slammed back into a group of its comrades and knocked them off balance, and then all tumbled to the ground in a tangle of mottled arms and legs.

          Strider quickly leapt to his feet and looked to the left and right, preparing for another onslaught.  He chanced another glance over the heads of the orcs to seek out King Thranduil and Mithrandir and both seemed to be holding their own.  The king was a blur of movement as he ably stepped among the orc horde, killing any that came into the path of his flashing Elven blade.  The old wizard was alternately jabbing with his staff or swinging Glamdring at those orcs and goblins foolish enough to get within range of either weapon.  Strider was about to charge back into the melee once again when a horrendous, howling wail vibrated throughout the caverns and rang off the stone walls.

          ‘ Shriekers!’ Legolas cried out within the ranger's mind.

          Strider’s sword fell from his grasp as the piercing screams grew louder and the pain within his head seemed to implode, driving spikes deep into his brain.  He clapped his hands over his ears in a hopeless attempt to shut out the unbearable sounds.  The Elf Lord and Istari were in similar dire straights as both fell to their knees, hands pressed to their heads as the deafening wails reached a crescendo and encompassed the entire room.  The orcs and goblins remaining sent up a cacophonous screeching, and snarling in terror, they scrambled over one another in a frenzied rush to escape the cavern.

          Tharcuru alone stood impervious to the wailing howls of the wraiths.   She stood straight and tall, her body shimmering slightly in the dusky cave.  Her eerie white eyes glowed with an iridescent light that shown forth through the dimness of the room’s gloomy interior.  The wraiths swarmed over and around her, becoming momentarily visible as they flew through the glimmering aura surrounding her body and then disappeared once again as they passed into the darkness beyond.

          Strider cried out in sheer agony as he fell onto the stones.  His body curled inward upon itself, his knees touching his chest.  His hands smashed flat against the sides of his head and his eyes bulged from the pressure and pain and he writhed upon the floor.  Inside the ranger’s mind Legolas frantically called out to his friend, trying desperately to reach him.

          ‘Aragorn!  Aragorn!  Listen to my voice! LISTEN TO MY VOICE!’  

          “Can’t!” the ranger gasped.  “I…. can’t…..make IT STOP!” his voice broke off into another anguished howl.

          Across the room, Mithrandir was able to block out the screams of the wraiths from his mind with the aid of the Flame of Anar, and dropping his sword, he clasped his staff firmly in both his hands.  He drew his stooped body upright and began to chant in the ancient language of the Istari, his voice booming out louder and louder.  The Flame burst forth from the tip of his staff and a dazzling light swelled and expanded about the room.  As the light grew in brilliance, the screeching wails of the Shriekers receded and soon Mithrandir was able to stand within its protective glow unharmed.

          The wizard reached down his hand to the Elven King lying nearby and shouted through the raucous din.  “Thranduil!  Come to the light of my staff!  Take my hand!”

          The Elf Lord, however, was staring at the doorway transfixed.  His face was stricken with horror as he beheld the ghastly sight of his son’s body as it entered the room.  Two of the Dale Men half carried half dragged Legolas’ emaciated form between them.  The Elf’s slender arms were draped over their burly shoulders and his legs hung limply from his waist.  His twisted feet were motionless and scraped the rocks as they were hauled along by the brawny humans.

          The prince’s once beautiful face was a deathly ashen white.   His normally unblemished cheeks were now wasted and sunken in forming deep hollows below protruding cheekbones.  Dark, purple-black bruises were smeared beneath his eyes like dark crescent moons and his lips were cracked and bleeding.  His long, blond hair was a tangled, dirty mass of dull and lusterless unkempt snarls.  Only his eyes were alive and horrible to look upon.  The deep blackness of their depths emitted an evil that was physical as It sent ripples of hatred surging throughout the small room.  It looked at the creatures before It, and the split and torn Elven lips stretched into an appalling attempt at a grin.  Upon the skeletal face of its host, it looked like a rictus of death.

          It turned Its lethal gaze upon the being closest to It, the Elven King, and when Its eyes met the king’s, Thranduil cried out in pain and agony as the pure evil touched his mind and groped about with psychic fingers akin to slivers of glass.  The king’s hands clasped his temples as he fell backward to the floor and his eyes shut as another inexorable wave of pain seared through his mind.   Thranduil was certain that his death was near and when he thought the pain would surely rip his skull apart, he felt a strong hand grasp the collar of his tunic and forcibly drag him backward along the floor.

          With a mighty effort, Mithrandir pulled the king within the circle of light shining from his staff and drew him away from the abominable thing that stood within the doorway.  Once inside the protective halo of light, the Elf Lord’s pain lessened and he quickly scrambled to his feet to stand beside the wizard.  A thin line of blood trickled from the king’s nose and onto his upper lip and he swiped it away with a shaky hand.  His eyes spoke his thanks to the wizard and Mithrandir nodded his acknowledgement.

          Thranduil turned his head back to face the Nameless Thing and the ruin of his son's body.  His expression crumpled in upon itself as he cried out a father’s anguish.

          “By the Valar!  It is killing my son!”  He turned to Mithrandir with frantic, pleading eyes.  “Help him!  By all that is sacred, please help him!”

          The grey wizard placed a strong arm around the king’s shoulders and drew him closer.  His commanding voice rang within the Elf Lord’s ears.

          “You cannot falter now, Thranduil.  You must be strong and ready to act once your son is returned to his body.  You must aid and protect him from further harm.”  He peered into the king’s tear-glistened eyes.  “Can you do that, Thranduil?”

          The Elven King nodded.  His shoulders stiffened and rose and his head came up to face the horrid creature that was using his son in such a foul manner.  He pulled slightly away from the wizard and then looked into the wrinkled face and intense blue eyes of the maiar.  “Yes,” he stated simply.  “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

          Thranduil looked again upon the abomination within the doorway but the evil was no longer interested in the Elf Lord.  Once the golden being fled into the safety of the light, the Nameless Thing turned Its attention to something less challenging and Its gaze lighted upon the dark-haired creature that screamed and writhed upon the stone floor.  Its black gaze traveled over the human and It saw raw terror and fear within his eyes.  The hideous grin widened and It urged Its bearers to drag It closer to this helpless mortal.  As It neared, It sent Its psychic waves of pain and torment into Strider’s mind and the ranger cowered back against the walls.  His hands jerked up to cover his head and he screamed again as the unbelievable pain washed over him.

          Legolas was nearly frantic with fear as he tried to reach his human friend’s mind.  No matter what he said, Aragorn did not seem to be able to hear him, or respond to his voice.  He had no choice left.  Gathering up all his power and all his strength, he willed his being into the core of Aragorn’s mind; that sacred place that held his innermost being and his soul.  It was a terrible invasion of his friend’s private and intimate spirit and Legolas felt as if he was stripping bare Aragorn’s inner self, but he was desperate.  He forced his consciousness into that tiny center and suddenly he stood facing Aragorn within the deepest darkness of his mind.

          ‘Go away,’ the ranger ordered as Legolas came into his sight.

          ‘Aragorn, I cannot.  You must listen to me.  It cannot hurt you here.  You cannot feel pain now.  But you must fight It.  What It is showing you is false.  The fear is not real.  The pain is not real.  You cannot let It win!’  

          ‘I do not want to go back there.’

          ‘I know.  Nor did I.  But you must, Aragorn.  You cannot stay here or we shall both die.’  

          ‘But how can I face it, Legolas?   There is a weakness in me.  I cannot escape it.’

          ‘You can.  I know you better than anyone.  You can overcome this weakness because of who you are.  Believe me.  You are the hope for us all, Aragorn.  Trust me.  Fight this.’  

          There was a long silence and Legolas thought he had failed to reach the young human but then Aragorn calmly met his gaze and a new strength glowed within his silver eyes.  His head slowly nodded toward the Elf facing him.

          ‘I trust you.’

          ‘Quickly then.  Use me as your shield.  Face this enemy.  Your sword must be ready to strike true.’

          And then suddenly they were back within the cavern and the very real pain was still slicing through his skull, but Strider forced his mind to thoughts of the Wood Elf and his strong bond with the Mirkwood Prince.  Slowly and agonizingly he rose to his knees, and started to lift up his head.

          ‘Do not look into Its eyes!’ came Legolas’ voice.  ‘Gather up your sword.  Look to Tharcuru!

          Strider groped along the floor for his fallen weapon, and finding it, grasped its hilt and drew it closer to his side.  He used the sword to haul his body up from the floor and finally standing, he painfully lifted the weapon up.  His glance turned to the Drughu Woman, but Tharcuru had vanished.  Instead the illusion of Varda shone brightly from the back of the cavern, her brilliant, shooting rays of light penetrated the gloom of the dark chamber and blinded all who tried to look directly upon her.  Strider staggered backward, still weakened and dizzy from the recent assault upon his mind.  He held a hand up before his eyes as he tried to look upon the image of the Ainu and he could hear Legolas’ voice within his mind telling him to stand ready.

          And then he heard a raging scream as the Nameless Thing erupted from the travesty of a body and Its red and shimmering essence floated above the limp head of Legolas' lifeless form.  Then It flew directly into the light of Varda.   

          The desiccated, empty shell – all that remained of Legolas’ earthly body – sank between the twin pillars of the Dale Men flanking it and fell to the stone floor when the Nameless Thing fled from within its confines.   As he watched his son’s body fall, King Thranduil instinctively lurched forward, his only thought to aid his son.   An anguished wail issued from his lips as Mithrandir grasped his forearm and held him back within the circle of light shining forth from his staff.

          “No, Thranduil!” the wizard shouted.  “You cannot help him now!  You must wait until the Nameless Thing enters Tharcuru’s body.  It is not yet safe to leave the shelter of the Flame.”

          The Elf Lord struggled furiously with the Istari, desperately trying to escape the wizard’s restraining hand.  His mind was set upon one thing and one thing only – reaching his son.  But Mithrandir’s grip would not be broken and the Elven King was forced to remain at the wizard’s side.

          No longer under the control of the Nameless One, the Dale Men, too, fell to the floor in a senseless daze and lay still.  The screaming wraiths fled to the darker reaches of the cavern, yet their shrieks could still be heard.  And within Strider’s mind Legolas watched as his body lay still and unmoving upon the stones.  A haunting fear arose within his mind:  what would he do if his body was already dead?  Before that thought had time to fester, the commanding voice of Tharcuru rang through his head.

          “Fly, Elf!” she ordered.  “You must return.  NOW!”

          Without really understanding how he would be able to do that, his frightened thoughts turned to his fallen form and almost immediately he felt a jerking wrench.  He was brutally snatched out of Strider’s body and cast into the whistling winds of the void and his spirit soared through the darkness.  He felt his life-force being swept around and around in a dizzying vortex and then a strong, insistent force yanked his being downward until he smashed headlong into the still form lying upon the floor.  The slack body twitched and shuddered and then lay still.

          At the moment Legolas left his mind, Strider experienced a tingling jolt and then his body was violently snatched upward.   His back arched painfully and his arms flew out to his sides as his head snapped back, cracking the bones in his neck.  His ears popped and burned; the result of the intense pressure.  A sudden vacuum had formed within the air about him and it seemed as if all the air had been instantaneously sucked from his lungs.  He gasped and choked, fighting for breath.  The unseen force holding him within its powerful grasp suddenly withdrew and he fell painfully to the stone floor, still frantically gasping for air.   After a few long, agonizing moments, Strider was able to again rise to his knees.   A sharp, spasm rippled through his torso and he quickly wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging his ribs in the vain hope that this would ease the pain.  But once it passed, he was again able to breathe and he looked anxiously to the prone and still form of his Elven friend lying before him.

          “Legolas!” Thranduil cried out as he saw his son’s body jerk and twitch.  He yanked his arm free of the wizard’s grip and ran across the cavern to his son.  Falling to his knees before Legolas’ still form, he scooped up his frail body and crushed the Elven prince to his chest, tears of pain and anguish streamed unchecked from his blue eyes.

          Strider lurched unsteadily to his feet and would have gone to the fallen Elf as well, but without warning, the brilliant light issuing from the illusion of Varda vanished and the ancient Drughu Woman again stood beside the bottomless shaft.  Her milky white eyes were now the deepest black and their stare bored straight into the ranger’s soul.

          “Warrior!” Tharcuru’s low voice commanded.   “Strike!”

          Strider did not trust himself to think, only to act; if he thought about what he was going to do he would hesitate and he could ill afford that luxury.   He gathered up his sword from the floor and rushed forward in one swift movement.  The sword rose and flashed through the air, slicing cleanly and quickly through Tharcuru’s thin neck.  The force of the blow brought Strider’s arm arcing across his chest and he staggered a pace as the momentum knocked him off balance.   He quickly regained his footing and stood staring at the ancient witch-woman.

          The barest trace of a smile crossed Tharcuru’s wizened face and then the weight of her long silver hair tugged her severed head backward.  It slid off of her slender shoulders and plunged into the depths of the pit.  Moments later her headless body toppled over the rim and plummeted into the void as well.  A maddened and enraged scream howled up from the chasm and Mithrandir ran forward, madly waving his staff in front of him.

          “Run!” he shouted to Strider.  “Get them out!”

          At the wizard’s shouted cry, King Thranduil rose swiftly to his feet, lifting Legolas’ ruined body with him as he arose.  He mournfully noted how feather light it was and gently pulled his son closer to his chest.  With a glance to the ranger, he quickly carried Legolas out of the room and ran back through the dark tunnels.  Strider followed closely upon his heels.  The Elven King and ranger reached the fork in the tunnel and turned toward the dungeon cells, and there Thranduil stopped and sank to his knees, Legolas cradled within his arms.  Strider recognized with an ever growing fear that his Elven friend did not appear to be breathing.

          “Is he alive?” he asked, dreading the answer the king would give him.

          “Only just,” the Elf Lord whispered.  “I can barely feel his heart beating.”

          Strider snatched the water skin from his belt and falling to his knees beside the Elven King, proffered the hide pouch to the King.

          “Here, majesty.  He needs water.”

          The king slowly relinquished his protective hold upon his son’s body and carefully propped Legolas up so that his upper arm supported his son’s head, while his lower body and legs draped over the Elf Lord’s upper thighs.   Holding the grown Elf as if he were a babe, the king tipped the water skin over his son’s mouth until several drops of the liquid touched his cracked and parched lips.  He waited a moment and then forced a small sip into Legolas’ slack mouth and then tilted his son’s head back so that the water would drain down his throat.  Both Elf Lord and ranger anxiously searched Legolas’ face for any sign of life.

          A shuddering sob escaped Thranduil’s lips and he drew Legolas to his chest once again as he wrapped his strong arms about the prince’s thin shoulders.   Thranduil murmured soft and soothing Elvish words into his ear as he slowly rocked Legolas back and forth, paying no heed to the tears streaming from his eyes.   Gently, he kissed his son’s forehead and stroked his pale, sunken cheek.

          “Iuitho bellas nín, Legolas*,” he whispered.  “Iuitho bellas nín.”  

//////////////////////////////

          From the moment he gracelessly slammed back into his body, Legolas could not breathe.  He immediately felt the weight of his earthly body crushing down upon him; his skin smothering him and gravity smashing him down into the ground.  He was quickly suffocating and his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to function.  His panic rose with each passing moment and his thoughts screamed, because he COULD NOT BREATHE!

          His body convulsed and his dehydrated and cracked throat gagged as something wet and cold tried to force its way down his gullet.  As the water trickled down from his throat and entered his stomach, his abdomen seized and a sickening nausea swept over him.  A harsh, choking cough rasped out of his chest and then miraculously his lungs started working again – he could breathe; but as more and more of his body’s senses awoke, more and more pain was triggered as well.  His starved and empty stomach felt as if it had been sucked inside out and twisted in two and a piercing ache burned like wildfire throughout his muscles.  His chest was tight and constricted and his mouth and throat so dry, each swallow seemed like swirling knife blades, ripping his insides apart.

          But even as the pain worsened and his growing sense of awareness sharpened, Legolas could also feel a warm, all encompassing vitality and strength of will cover him like a blanket.  His anxiety began to fade away as the feeling grew in force and intensity and he finally realized that he was being helped back to life by Elven energy and love.  Slowly he relaxed and allowed the infusion of this healing power to engulf his body and after a time the pain began to dissipate.

          Sudden and vivid sensory receptors erupted within his brain as his consciousness awoke and his hearing and sense of smell returned in overwhelming magnitude.  He could feel strong, comforting arms around his shoulders and chest.  He could hear a voice whispering his name and soft Elvish words of solace.  He could smell the rich, spicy woodland scent of his father.  He forced his eyelids to open and he could see a face very close to his own.

          “aaad…ah?” he gasped more than spoke.

          Thranduil’s head jerked up and he stared down into his son’s glassy blue eyes and pale face, and fresh tears sprang to his own blue eyes.

          “Ai!” he sobbed.  “My little Greenleaf!”

          Strider looked away; a gut-wrenching moan tightened within his chest and threatened to rise to his lips, and he hastily rose to his feet.  He placed a solicitous hand upon the king’s shoulder and was about to speak when a sudden commotion upon the stone stairs startled them both and he quickly spun about, sword drawn.  Strider visibly relaxed as he saw that it was the king’s minister, Ganduil, hurrying down the tunnel toward them.  Amorfing and a score of Elven warriors followed close behind.

          “Hurry, majesty!” Strider said.  “Go with them!  I must see to Gandalf!”

          The king nodded his understanding to the ranger and then turned his attention to Ganduil’s anxious voice.

          “Majesty!  Thank the Valar!  The palace is in an uproar.  We thought you missing!”

          The King easily rose up, Legolas draped across his sturdy arms.  “Quickly, Ganduil!  I must get my son to the healers.  See to it,” he instructed his minister.

          “Yes, majesty!” Ganduil bowed.  “At once.”

          The king turned to his captain.  “Scour these tunnels, Amorfing.  Clear them of yrch!”      

          “Aye, Majesty!” the Elven warrior saluted and with a brusque hand signal to his troops, sent them dashing forward into the tunnels.

          Strider did not tarry and with one last backward glance at Legolas and his father, he turned and ran toward the pit where they had left the wizard.  Thunderous booms and fire-red flashes of light met him as he barreled through the doorway, sword held high.  Mithrandir stood before the open shaft, head thrown back and arms stretched wide, pointing toward the ceiling.  The Flame of Anar shown brightly atop his staff and sizzling bolts of energy shot forth from its tip and zigzagged through the air above the pit.  The wizard’s deep voice rose as he uttered words of great power and the stone ceiling above them began to tremble and shake.

          The ground beneath Strider’s feet made a sudden shift and he wobbled and lurched to the side, his feet quick stepping until they were once more firmly planted beneath him.  He made his way toward the wizard in a drunken reel as the ground rose up and then dipped sharply back down.  A howling wind raced around them and Mithrandir’s long gray hair and beard whipped wildly about his face.   The piercing shrieks of the wraiths rang throughout the room, but this time their screams were of fear – their fear.  With one last mighty thrust of his arms and a final chanted incantation, Mithrandir waved his staff over the shaft opening and the screeching wraiths were driven down into the pit, the swirling winds accompanied them as they were sucked deep into the depths of the abyss.

          The cavern itself shuddered with a new upheaval of shifting stones and the roof above them cracked and rumbled as the heavy stone separated from the mountain’s interior and a huge slab crashed to the floor with a resounding thud, completely covering the bottomless chasm.

          Strider grabbed the wizard’s arm and pulled him away from the thick cloud of dust and debris that arose when the massive stone hit the ground and as he felt the floor vibrate beneath him once more, he shouted into the wizard’s ear.

          “Gandalf!  We must get away!”

          Mithrandir nodded and hastily followed the young ranger out of the storage area and out into the darkened tunnels.  Together they sped down the hall and made their way to the stairs and the upper levels of the palace.  As they raced up the stone steps, Strider thought he could still hear the raging screams of the Nameless Thing echoing up from deep within the bowels of the earth, but he did not slacken his pace and quickly followed the old Istari up into the light of day.

/////////////////////////////

          Strider purposefully walked toward the half opened door of Legolas’ room and quietly pushed the door aside.  If Legolas was sleeping, he did not wish to disturb him, but as he poked his head into the room he saw that the Elf was indeed awake and sitting up in his bed.  The prince was propped up and reclining on a ridiculous number of plump pillows and the warming sunlight streamed into the room from an open balcony window, bathing him in its cozy glow.   The gilded rays highlighted the Elf’s equally golden head and together they cast a brilliant aura about the young prince’s handsome face.  Although the dark bruises still remained beneath his eyes, his color had returned and the smile he gave Strider was cheerful and genuine.

          “Aragorn!” Legolas beamed.  “I was beginning to think you had left Mirkwood without saying goodbye.”

          Strider crossed the short distance from the door to the bed and then sat down upon the bedside, facing Legolas, his face wearing a broad grin.

          “You cannot be rid of me that easily,” he replied.  “You were much too ill for me to visit earlier,” he stated as his smile faded and his tone grew serious.  “The healers would only allow me a few moments with you before they ran me out of the room and that was several days ago.  I had not heard any word of your condition until this morning.   In fact, it was your father who came to tell me you were up to visitors today.”

          “My father?” Legolas’ eyebrow lifted and a slight chuckle emerged from his grinning lips.  “You must be growing on him.”

          “Hah!  I very much doubt that,” Strider answered with a laugh.  “But he did want me to tell you that he will be by to see you as soon as he can get away from Ganduil.”

          As their laughter died away, Legolas’ face grew somber and he thoughtfully studied the young ranger seated upon his bedside.  Finally he spoke of what was eating away at his mind.

          “It is gone then?” he asked quietly.

          Strider did not have to ask what “It” Legolas was referring to.  He nodded, his face, too, growing serious.  “Yes.  Your father had the lower tunnels sealed off.  No one will be going back down there again.  Amorfing and his warriors rooted out all the yrch with very little trouble, but I’m afraid the spiders are still lurking about.  Amorfing also found the Dale Men cowering in the tunnels, alive but hopelessly insane.  They are with the healers now, and….” His voice trailed off and his eyes grew sad.  “They found Isar.  He is dead.”

          Legolas nodded slowly.  He could not imagine life at the palace without Isar and he knew his father would sorely miss the jovial Silvan Elf.  “Adar will miss him greatly.”  He laughed sadly.  “He was the only one who could beat my father at a game of chance.  It irked him greatly.”

          Strider smiled slightly and then took in a deep breath in readiness to tell his friend what he had truly come to say.  “Since you are on the mend, I really came to tell you that I will be leaving soon.  Gandalf has asked me to accompany him on a search for some sort of “Gollum” creature.  I told him my sword was his to command and I would gladly journey with him.  We leave tonight.”

          “A Gollum?  What sort of creature is a Gollum?” asked Legolas.

          “I’ve no idea; and with Gandalf you can never really be certain,” he laughed.

          Legolas returned a knowing grin and then his smile faded.  He looked at the ranger, his blue eyes searching the young man’s face, reading every line and detail, and then he spoke.

          “Before you leave, Aragorn…. I must tell you something.”  He hesitated momentarily and then continued.  “Until I shared your thoughts, I never truly realized the burdensome weight you carry about with you each day, and I want you to know that you have no cause to doubt yourself.  You are a good and noble man; a leader of men, and one day you will be a great leader of men.”  He paused.  “A king of men.”

          Strider’s dark head lowered and he would not look directly at his friend.  His voice was just above a whisper.  “You mock me Legolas,” he said.  “I am no king.”

          Legolas sat up and reached over to clasp Strider’s arm.  He forced the ranger to look up at him and their eyes met and locked.  “I do not mock you, Aragorn,” he replied, his voice firm and sincere; but a moment later an impish grin spread over the Elf's face as he leaned back against his pillows.  “I mean it’s not as if you’d become some king fancy pants or….”

          The utterly shocked and stunned look on Strider’s face effectively cut off the Elf’s train of thought and he choked back a laugh as he caught Strider's eye.  “What?”

          “HAH!” Strider bellowed as the total absurdity of the Elf’s statement finally sunk into his brain and his laughter overtook him completely.  “Now I know you’re mocking me!” he answered with a shake of his head and then he pointed his forefinger squarely at the Elf’s chest.   “I will only agree to be king if you pledge to serve by my side.”

          By now Legolas was laughing outright and a wicked, sly grin crept over his fair face.  “I would be privileged to stand by your side, but I rather think you would much prefer Arwen did those honors.”

          Strider’s face went a deathly white and his back went rigid.  Tiny drops of sweat popped out across his brow just along the hairline and he found that he could not breathe.  Within his head, his mind screamed.  NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT ARWEN!  NO ONE!

          At the look of sheer terror upon the ranger’s face, Legolas’ teasing grin faded.  He had not realized just how deeply Aragorn cared for the Evenstar and now he felt terrible for taunting him so blatantly.  His hand again grasped Strider’s arm.

          “You need not fear.  I will not speak of it to any one,” he assured the ranger.  “When you are ready, all will know.  Although…” Legolas chuckled merrily, the mischievous spirit within him resurfacing despite his good intent, “you might want to tell Arwen about this.”

          Strider’s face went from ghastly white to flaming crimson which only made the Elf cackle all the louder.  Finally Strider, too, could contain his mirth no longer and both Elf and man howled until tears ran from their eyes and down their cheeks.

          “Enough,” pleaded Legolas as he clutched his aching ribs.  “I am too weak to endure this strain.”

          “Strain?” asked Strider.  “And just what strain would you be enduring?  You are not the one hopelessly in love with an Elf Maiden you can never have.”

          This remark only served to send Legolas into another fit of laughter that shook him until he started coughing and gasping for breath.  It was then that the Elven King entered the room and both ranger and Elf looked as if they had been caught in the midst of engaging in some high crime.  Thranduil’s penetrating gaze went from his son to the ranger and back, but his expression remained impassive.

          Strider hastily hopped off the side of the bed.  “Well, I suppose I better be going.  Gandalf is waiting.”

          Legolas smiled at his friend and waved a hand in farewell.  “Until we meet again.  Good journey, Aragorn.”

          Strider nodded, and certain that the king could not see his face, he winked at the Elf as he answered.  “Stay well, my friend.  I shall miss you.”

          As he passed King Thranduil, Strider bowed formally.  “Majesty,” he murmured.

          “Aragorn,” the king nodded as the human passed by him and then out into the hall.  The king then turned to his son and walked toward his bed, his head shaking.  “I do not even want to know what that was about,” he stated as he sat on the bedside in the same spot Strider had so recently occupied.

          Legolas’ musical laughter was his only reply.

*Use my strength, Legolas. Use my strength.

The End