The black orc arrow flew through the night with incredible speed and struck Legolas squarely in the back just below his shoulder blades.  The force of the arrow propelled him forward and his arms instinctively flew out before him in an attempt to cushion his fall.  Instead, he dropped first to his knees and then fell prone, his fair face smashing into the dirt and leaf-strewn ground. His delicately carved bow lay useless upon the ground beside his lifeless hand.  His long, slender fingers still gripped an arrow, ready for use, but never nocked.  The circling orcs and goblins moved in quickly, snuffling and snarling amongst themselves.   When they had determined that the Elf was no longer moving, they turned toward the human.

         “LEGOLAS!” screamed the young ranger.  He had seen the arrow strike his friend, and now tried desperately to reach him, hacking his way through the sea of orcs.  His great sword swung to the left and the right, cutting a swath through the black creatures and clearing a path to his friend’s still form.  “Legolas!” he called out once again, straining to be heard over the hideous shrieks of the orc horde, but the Elf prince did not hear him nor did he move.

          The two warriors had been tracking this band of orcs for several weeks.  They had first spied them gathering in the foothills of the Misty Mountains not far from the Old Forest Road and the borders of Mirkwood Forest, Legolas’ home.  From the western borders of Mirkwood, Strider and Legolas had watched the band moving at a determined pace on the opposite banks of the river, traveling south.  Once the foul beasts reached the Gladden Fields, they had turned steadily southeast, eventually crossing the Anduin River to reach the Mirkwood side of its banks.  Orcs were not usually so well ordered, nor did they cooperate willingly for any great length of time, but this particular band seemed to have some common overriding purpose.  They were on the move to a definite destination and Aragorn was determined to discover what it was and who they were serving.  Based on their present course, he could only surmise that the creatures were indeed headed for the black tower on Mirkwood’s southern border. He and Legolas, however, had been unaware that they, too, were being tracked and watched, and in the late night hours just past the moon’s full rising, the orcs had attacked.

         Legolas had shouted the alarm only moments before the black wave poured into their camp.  At his warning cry, Aragorn had swiftly arisen, sword ready, but the band had caught them unprepared.  The Elven horses had panicked and eventually broke free of their tethers, shrieking with confusion and fright as the orcs swarmed past them.  Their sturdy front legs pawed at the air as they reared up on their hind legs, and soon they were kicking and slashing at the foul creatures that had invaded their slumber.  Then suddenly, as if sharing an unspoken agreement, both steeds, wild-eyed with terror, spun about and fled deeper into the forest.

         Once the horses had fled, the abandoned riders had been systematically driven from the relative safety of the trees and out onto the open plains by the encircling orc horde.  The seething tide of fell creatures converged upon the Elf and ranger and Legolas quickly found himself surrounded and separated from Aragorn.  In these tight quarters, his bow was soon rendered useless.  Although the bow and an arrow were tightly clutched in his left hand, he reached up behind his blond head with his right hand to seize one of his long Elven knives.  Before he could retrieve it from its sheath, the arrow struck.

          Despite Aragorn’s killing blows, no matter how many orcs he slew, more appeared to replace them.   The arrival of dawn’s welcoming light was many hours in coming and Aragorn knew that the orcs would not yield any ground until the sun’s rays appeared and forced them to retreat to their hidden burrows.  He and the Elf were now quite effectively outnumbered and overwhelmed.

          Forcing these dark thoughts from his mind, the young ranger viciously struck out at yet another evil creature and sent it crashing back into its companions, but not before receiving a stinging slash along the inside of his forearm.  Aragorn winced at the orc blade’s bite.  He felt his fingers start to numb as the blood began to seep through his torn sleeve; nevertheless, he held on to his sword, bringing his left hand over his right to grasp its hilt with both hands.   The bodies of orcs and goblins began to pile up around him as the ranger struggled to get through them and to the motionless body of his friend, but he might as well be thrashing through the mud and mire of the Dead Marshes for all the progress he was making.  With a last mighty two-handed swing he sent three orcs flying backward into the trees. Their angry screeches could be heard even as he at last reached Legolas’ side.  He dropped heavily to his knees and bent over the still form of the Elf.

         Strider anxiously glanced over his shoulder.  His dark hair fell into his eyes in sweaty strands, but he shoved them away with an irritated swipe of his hand.  Expecting another orc to strike as he attended to his friend, he was surprised and confused to see that the orcs seemed to be hesitating.    Several yards away from him the foul beasts were rasping nervously to one another in words of the Black Speech, and glancing to and fro with uneasy snarls.  Whatever the cause of their agitation, Aragorn thanked the Valar for the brief respite so that he could see to Legolas unhindered.

          Even in the dim light of the moon he could see that the foul arrow had pierced the ornately tooled leather quiver strapped to Legolas’ slender back.  Gently sliding his hand under the quiver, Aragorn ran his fingers up the contour of the prince’s back trying to find the arrow shaft and where it had penetrated the Elf’s body.   He could not find the bolt, only sensing the smooth suede of Legolas’ outer tunic.  There did not appear to be any damp wetness on the fabric, and when he pulled his hand free, it came away absent of blood, much to his relief.  At that moment, Legolas stirred beneath his touch and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, spitting out pieces of leaves and dirt as he arose.

          “Aragorn, stop fussing!” he choked.  Kneeling now, he swatted at the front of his tunic, angrily brushing away the dirt and grass.  “It just knocked the wind out of me.  Leave off!”  He batted the ranger’s hand away from his forearm, refusing Strider’s futile attempt to assist him in rising.

         Aragorn shrugged, ignoring his friend’s disgruntled remark, and moving around behind the woodland being, he placed a booted foot into the small of the Elf’s back. Before Legolas could protest, Strider grasped the orc arrow in both hands, shoved forward with his boot and yanked backward on the shaft, dislodging it from the Elf’s quiver.  The arrow came away with a reluctant “thwonk” but the force of its removal once again sent Legolas catapulting forward onto his face.  This time the Elf sprang up instantly onto his feet in one swift feline movement, demonstrating the grace and elegance that Elves were known to possess.

         He turned an irritated growl at the young human.  “Was that really necessary?”

          Fresh clots of dirt and grass clung to the front of the prince’s tunic and dead leaves were now tangled in his long, golden braids.  A smudge of dirt decorated the Elf’s sculpted chin.   If their situation were not so dire, Aragorn would have laughed outright.  He knew how Legolas hated being dirty, and the very sight of him at this moment was really…..his thoughts broke off as he turned his head from left to right, quickly scanning the area.

          “Yes,” he replied, “Orcs will be upon us in…..” but his voice trailed away.  There were no orcs coming to attack them.  Instead, they were retreating into the trees with crazed shrieks and howls. He glanced back at his friend with a perplexed frown.  “What spooked them?”

          Legolas searched the dimly lit landscape for anything that might have routed the orcs, but his keen eyesight could discern nothing unusual.  Suddenly his head whipped around and upward toward the night sky.  “Into the trees!” he hissed a warning.  “NOW!”  He snatched at the sleeve of Aragorn’s black overcoat and jerked the ranger into motion.

          Strider winced as Legolas’ hand gripped his slashed forearm, but he followed without hesitation.  He had learned long ago to trust the Elf’s acute senses.  Both warriors scrambled through the underbrush and dove under the cover of a deadfall that had a leafy overhang and was further sheltered by graceful willows and birch trees.  Neither human nor Elf made a sound as they curled themselves into the enclosure and looked up through the canopy of leaves at the dark sky above.   A tangible chill fell over the forest air as a black shadow slid across the sky, blotting out the moon and the stars, and causing a deeper darkness to blanket the land as it moved ever forward, silent and deadly.  Legolas shivered uncontrollably and closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the foul morgul beast.  His pale brow furrowed as if he was experiencing actual physical pain and he sucked in a short, ragged breath.

          Strider hugged his wounded and throbbing arm closer to his chest, but his thoughts were not for himself, but his woodland friend.  “Legolas, what is it?  Are you injured?” he whispered.  The Elf did not respond aloud, merely shook his head to indicate that he was unharmed.  Aragorn was not convinced, but there appeared nothing he could do at the moment.  He strained his head and neck outward from under the fallen logs to look up at the flying monster and its dark rider.

          A bone-chilling screech rent the still air, and both companions shrank back against the dead tree and branches of their hiding place.  Aragorn felt the hairs along the back of his neck raise and a shiver raced down his spine.  Cold sweat began to bead on his forehead and upper lip.  He could sense the evil emanating from the flying beast like a tangible wavering of the air about them.  The Nazgul appeared to float across the sky on the slight breezes above them.  It rode upon a great black bat, but the beast was unbridled and appeared to be merely allowing the wraith to ride upon its back rather than being driven by its hand. Turning, the monster glided in ever tighter circles as its yellow, slatted eyes scanned the lands below, searching.

          Legolas moaned softly, his slender hands rising up to clasp his temples.  He tossed his head from side to side, his face mirroring his obvious anguish and pain.  “No, no…..” he keened, “get out!”  He thrashed about as if wrestling with some unseen yet tangible attacker. 

          Strider threw another anxious glance at his distraught friend.  Was it calling to him? he wondered.  Indeed this was some evil servant of the Dark Lord.  First ordered bands of orcs moving so near to Mirkwood, and now this foul beast, so close to Dol Guldur. What could it mean other than the Eye of Sauron was getting much stronger?  Aragorn watched the black fiend with growing disquiet until after a time it rose upward once more into the clouds and slowly took wing.  Once it had passed over them, the ranger felt the tension in his shoulders seep away.

          “Nazgul,” Aragorn spat out the word.  He glanced at Legolas, who still appeared to be in great distress.  “I haven’t seen a Ringwraith since…..” At the pained expression on Legolas’ face, he let his words trail off.  “Come on,” he said softly, rising to his feet and dragging the Elf up by an elbow.  “We need to get away from here.”  Legolas only nodded, allowing the tall ranger to lead him out from beneath their tangled hiding place.

          “I hope the horses haven’t run off too far,” Aragorn muttered as he peered through the moonlit tree boughs, hoping to catch a glimpse of the animals, and praying that they hadn’t been killed by the orcs.  As he walked back toward their abandoned campsite, he gave two short whistles and a few moments later, was rewarded with several welcoming equine snorts.

          The two stallions emerged from the trees, seemingly none the worse for wear.  Strider reached out and caught his horse’s dangling tether.  He pulled the animal closer and stroked its neck with a reassuring hand, murmuring softly to him.  He lifted his uninjured hand up and scratched behind the steed’s soft ear.  Hodoer happily whickered in return and nudged his velvety nose into Aragorn’s chest.  The return of the horses seemed to bring Legolas out of his trauma and he warmly greeted his own grey mount.  He slipped his arms around Astalder’s arched neck, and buried his face into the horse’s mane, leaning into the animal for comfort.  The horse sensed the Elf’s need and swung his great head around to nuzzle at Legolas’ pointed ear.  The Elf laughed at the tickling sensation and drew back from the horse’s neck.  Magically producing a sweet treat from his tunic pocket, the prince allowed the animal’s tongue to caress the palm of his opened hand.   The sugar disappeared with one swift nibble.

          “Let’s pack up.  Even with the darkness, we can still make some distance yet.”  The ranger looked up at the black skies.  “I think that creature was heading toward Dol Guldur.  That can’t be a good sign.”  The moon slid in and out of the clouds as he watched, but it still emitted enough light for them to make out a trail.  He gathered up the broken tether hanging from his steed’s halter and turned into the woods heading toward their abandoned camp, the horse in tow.   “I think we’ve tracked this orc band to their destination. I don’t like the feel of this.”  He glanced over at his friend.  “I wish Gandalf was here.  His knowledge of that tower would be of great help to us, but I don’t even know where we can find him.”

          Legolas nodded his agreement and moved to follow his friend into the woods, but Astalder butted his head into the side of the Elf’s chest, pushing him aside and impeding his forward progress.   The horse nuzzled and snuffled through the Elf’s tunic, making known his demands for more sugar.  This in turn, elicited a laugh from the woodland being. “Nay, melamin,” he whispered in Elvish as he stroked the soft grey nose.  “One is enough for now.”  He chuckled again as the horse snorted his discontent.

          “You spoil that beast,” Aragorn called over his shoulder.

          Legolas looked up from the horse to Aragorn’s retreating back and smirked impishly.  “Are you jealous?”

          A nasty “humpf” and a muttered Dwarven curse filtered out through the forest.  Legolas laughed even heartier as he led Astalder forward through the trees and hastened to catch up with his friend.  As he came up alongside Strider, he grinned.  “What was that about a Dwarf’s unclean mother?”

          Strider grinned sheepishly.  “You heard clearly enough,” he replied.

       Legolas’ grin faded into a concerned frown as he pointed a graceful finger toward Strider’s torn and bloodied sleeve.  “You need to tend to that, my friend.”

          Aragorn had not even been aware that Legolas knew he had been injured in the melee, but before he could reply, both men stopped abruptly at the edge of the small clearing that had been their camp.  The orcs had completely ransacked everything they could find.  Parcels and leather carrying bags were strewn haphazardly about, their contents lying amidst the dirt and dead leaves.  Their bed rolls were ripped and torn and now lay in shredded ruins.  The campfire had been kicked aside and reduced to charcoal rubble and burned out logs.  Their cooking utensils were lying crushed and bent beside them.

          “Well, so much for salvaging our provisions,” Aragorn sighed as his gaze took in the destruction.

          Legolas bent down and began rummaging through their disordered stores.  The darkness made it difficult to make out much, but he was able to find an undamaged water skin and the saddle pouch with Aragorn’s herbs and salves.  “Here,” he called out to the ranger, rising triumphantly with the tattered pack in his hand.  He walked over to where his friend was kneeling and examining the demolished cookware and crouched down beside him.  “Let me take a look at that cut.”

          “It’s nothing really,” Aragorn protested, but Legolas would have none of it.  Reluctantly, the ranger halted his scavenging and sat down upon the ground.  He began to pull aside his torn sleeve to reveal the cut for the Elf’s inspection.  The wound appeared to be shallow and had already stopped bleeding, but the gash ran from the inside of his elbow to his wrist.

          “It’s too dark to see whether or not there’s any infection,” the Elf noted.   He picked up the water skin and gently poured some of the contents over Aragorn’s arm prior to cleaning away the dried blood.  The cut began to seep and Legolas let the blood flow to aid in flushing out the wound.  He washed it thoroughly with the remainder of the water, then drew out a length of clean cloth and slowly began wrapping it around the ranger’s forearm.

          “Does it pain you?”

          Strider shook his head, but flinched as the Elf continued to wrap the linen around his arm.  “It’s just stiff,” he murmured.  “I’m fine.”

          As Legolas tied off the ends of the bandage, he surveyed his handiwork.  “It will be dawn in a few hours.  I can better care for it then,” the Elf pronounced.  Fear of infection was a very real issue with any type of wound from an orc blade.  Legolas looked intently into his friend’s eyes, studying his face for any telltale signs of the poison’s presence.

          Seeing only Aragorn’s steady gaze, he nodded with satisfaction and rose to his feet.  “Well, that will hold it until I can see what real damage there is.”  He offered his arm down to Strider and the ranger clasped the proffered hand and used it to pull himself up to his feet.  The Elf arched an elegant eyebrow at the ranger.  “Do you plan to follow them?”

          Aragorn nodded.   “Let’s see what these orcs are up to.”

          The fell creature soared aloft on the shifting air currents above the dark granite towers of Dol Guldur and slowly descended to the ancient structure in a slow, graceful glide.  Its clawed feet grasped the stonework of the outer tower wall as it landed, sending tiny stone shards flying and fragments of rock tumbling down onto the walkways below.  Once it had steadied itself upon this unnatural perch, the creature eyed the flooring beneath its talons, and satisfied by what it saw, hopped down to the flagstones within the outer battlements.  Slowly and methodically it settled its great black body down upon its belly and enfolded its massive membranous wings back alongside its flanks.

          When the shadow creature finally ceased its movements, the Ringwraith atop the creature slid from the beast’s back and quietly moved away from it toward the doorway in the tower’s central keep.   As it passed through the narrow opening, a particularly hideous orc scurried out of the passageway and hurried toward the fell beast lying upon the stones without.  A long, dark robe was clutched within the orc’s claws and trailed out behind him as he scuttled forward.  The intricate silvered threads that were interwoven about the hem and sleeves of the silken garment sparkled in the moonlight with the orc’s passing.   The orc stopped several feet away from the bat-creature, and with head bowed, waited.

          The still air surrounding the prone shadow beast began to shimmer and waver like the mirages seen in the lands of the Haradrim.  The creature’s appearance and substance also began to shift, melt, and reform into varying shapes.  Abruptly the supernatural metamorphosis came to an end and a malevolent yet sensual, raven-haired woman remained crouching naked upon the stones.  Her smooth skin was so white and pale that it appeared translucent in the moon’s faint glow.  The evil she-demon looked up with yellow reptilian eyes at the orc before her, coolly noting his subservient posture.   Gracefully and unhurried in her movements, she gradually rose to an erect posture.

          The orc darted forward, head still lowered, but with gnarled arms outstretched, extending the ebony robe to the woman.  She took the proffered garment from the creature’s claws without comment and with a single movement, swirled it about her bare body like a succubus performing in some primeval ritual dance.  The delicate material of the robe slid over her ivory limbs and lithe body and she drew it closely about her torso, snuggly tying the fitted sash at her slender waist.   Once clad, she patted the orc upon the head with an almost loving touch.  “Come, Râzgulduk.”

          Her voice sounded low and husky, as if untold years had passed without its use.  At her spoken command, the orc scampered in front of her and made for the iron door in the tower wall.   He grasped a blazing torch from one of the curved sconces at the door’s entrance and stepped into the hallway beyond, lighting the darkened corridor ahead for his mistress.   The shadow being followed the orc’s lead, making no sound as she moved across the stones.  Her actions were fluid and gave the impression of someone floating rather than walking along the dark tower pathway.   Her sinuous robe swirled about her legs like some dark and foul sea crashing against a rocky shoal.

          Arriving at their destination, Râzgulduk halted before a set of formidable double doors made of lusterless black metal.  These portals were huge, tall and heavy, with great brass rings attached to them for use in pulling the doors apart.  The orc clasped one of the rings and strained backward using his weight to inch the great metal bulk of the door along its grooved floor track.   He struggled with the heavy gateway, but was eventually able to pry it open enough so that his mistress could pass through unhindered.  The she-demon could have easily opened the chamber’s door with but a wave of her slim wrist, so great was her power over material objects, but she enjoyed the orc’s groveling attentiveness and allowed him this pleasure.  She glided into the dark chamber and silently moved to the plinth arising from the reflective surfaces of the stone flooring in the center of the room.  The obsidian pedestal was the only fixture within the circular area, although heavy black draperies lined the walls, keeping out the daylight, and affording the chamber an atmosphere akin to that of a tomb.  The air within the space was chill and dank, but she smiled as her golden eyes surveyed the stark interior of the room.  Ultimately, her gaze alighted upon the black pillar and the ancient treasure resting upon it.

          Reaching out an alabaster hand to the pedestal, she grasped the silken cloth covering the sphere and quickly pulled it aside.  The dark crystal orb lying below the silk hummed at the sudden kiss of cool air as its hood was removed, and the clouds within its murky depths began to swirl and writhe.  Râzgulduk shied backward, sidling closer to the doorway and avoided looking directly at the globe.  Although apprehensive and fearing the orb, he made no move to leave the chamber.  In due course, a red-gold, fiery eye similar to that of a serpent or dragon emerged within the crystal’s core, and a reverberating voice echoed throughout the once soundless chamber.

           “What news, Thuringwethil?”

           The Woman of Secret Shadows, Messenger of Sauron, a primordial evil from the time of Morgoth and Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves, inched closer to the dark, seething crystal.  “I have seen them, Master.  They are near.”

           “Are you certain it is the heir?” the disembodied voice questioned.

          Yes, Lord.  The ranger and the Elf travel alone.  I entered the Elf’s mind as I hovered above them.  I was able to discern a name…Aragorn.”  The undead being bowed her head slightly, a satisfied smile forming upon her blood red lips.

          “Yesssss,” the orb hissed.  “At last…the legacy of the Edain.  You have captured him?”

          Thuringwethil glowered.  The thought of having to tell the Dark Lord about the debacle of the failed orc raid was not something she relished, yet she did have an alternative.  “The orc raid was not successful,” she murmured.

          The orc cowering in the shadows beside the door whined in terror at his mistress’s words.  The Dark Lord’s wrath was not something that he wished to encounter either.  He was prepared to flee should something manifest itself from the Great Eye and strike within the chamber. But at the anticipated roar from the orb, Thuringwethil hurried on, “But I have a much better plan, my lord.”  She clasped her pale hands around the ancient palantir and peered into its depths, her malicious smile deepening.  “The Elf’s allegiance to this human is beyond that of friend or brother.  We can use him as bait to lure the Son of Gondor to us.”

          “And you think this stratagem will work?” the snide voice thundered.

          “Yes, Lord,” she purred. “If the ranger’s devotion to this Elf is even half as strong as his woodland companion’s, he will certainly attempt to rescue the fair creature; quite possibly, he might even try to come alone.”

          The Dark Lord’s interest was not with the Firstborn; his only desire was to crush the heir of Isildur.  “Use the Elf as you please,” he allowed. “I care not.  But see that you bring me the last of the Númenórean line.”

          “As you wish, My Lord

          Thuringwethil lowered her head once more, and then slowly brought the silken cover up and over the orb, shutting out the flames of the Eye.  Once concealed, the thrumming sound began to fade away and the room again fell silent.  The were-woman turned to face the orc Râzgulduk and her lips twisted in a cruel and depraved smile.

          “Come, my pet.  We’re going to have guests.”

          The orc cackled with glee at the much anticipated torture of an Elf, for he had heard all that had been spoken within the chamber.  Hopping excitedly from one clawed foot to the other, his mouth began to drool and slather and his tongue darted in and out between pointed, foul-smelling teeth.

          He worshipfully gazed up at the she-creature beside him, willing to do whatever task she would ask of him, but for now, he was content to walk along with her as she left the Seeing Stone behind.   The skies outside the fortress were lightening and she would need the sleep of the were-beings.  He would safeguard her resting place so that she could slumber undisturbed throughout the dread light of day.

          The incongruous pair halted before another obscure chamber deep within the walls of the fortress of Dol Guldur.  Thuringwethil casually flicked her bloodless hand to the side and the door opened on noiseless, well greased hinges.  The interior of the room was completely dark.  No windows or other visible passageways led from the room’s interior to any other part of the tower structure.  As light from the outer corridor filtered into the chamber, a stone sarcophagus could be seen standing alone within the room.   Along the sides of the tomb were carved the words of the unspeakable Black Tongue, insuring that its occupant was protected by the dark spells of Morgoth.

          Thuringwethil ran a caressing hand along the top of the crypt and sighed with pleasure.  Gradually, the massive lid slid to the side, creating a small aperture within the stone.  The were-beast glanced at her orc companion.  “Come to me at dusk.”

          “Yes, Mistress,” Râzgulduk answered.  As the orc watched from the shadows, he witnessed her form change once more from that of a woman into a black and swirling mist.  The foul vapor poured into the stone tomb in a rushing cloud and when the last traces of its fog had curled into the burial vault, the colossal lid slid shut with a resounding thump.  The black robe, no longer supported by a corporeal body of any sort, dropped to the floor in a glittering cascade.  The orc sidled over to the crypt and scooped up the silk garment of his beloved mistress.  He tenderly carried it back toward the doorway and hung it upon one of the numerous hooks imbedded within the chamber’s wall, there to join several other robes and gowns already suspended from the various pegs.

          That task completed, Râzgulduk closed the door to the chamber and using the great iron key hanging about his neck, he locked the portal preventing any from gaining entrance to his Lady’s resting place.  His repulsive lips curved up into a mockery of a grin as his evil thoughts once again turned to the nameless Elf and his imminent doom.

          “She will give him to me,” he hissed with unconcealed excitement.  “Once she has finished with him…she will give him to me.”  His appalling laughter echoed through the halls as he scampered away to let the others below know what was to come.

          Legolas made an overt show of shifting about on his horse’s back in order to glance surreptitiously at his friend.  He knew that Strider was tired and as if to confirm his assessment, the ranger tried to stifle a yawn.  Tired or no, the Elf knew that Aragorn would not call a halt to their ride until the sun had set even though it had been an extremely harrowing night and an even longer day.  After the unexpected orc attack, they had hastily packed up what few belongings they could salvage from the ruins of their camp and had quickly mounted up.  Aragorn was determined to follow the band of orcs before their trail ran cold even though he suspected their ultimate goal was the abandoned fortress of Dol Guldur hidden deep within Mirkwood’s southern realm.  Even assuming their apparent destination was indeed the dark tower, it was still several days journey through the dense and less traveled portions of Mirkwood Forest to reach this site and the ranger was unwilling to lose precious time with unnecessary stops along the way.

          The two had ridden throughout the remainder of the night, but their progress was slow and cautious due to the darkness of the forest and the unreliability of the moon’s faint luminescence.  At dawn they halted along the banks of the Anduin to see to Strider’s wounded arm.  After painstakingly washing out the cut with the pure, clear river water, Legolas was finally satisfied that the injury was without infection.  Aragorn had been lucky.  Either the orc’s blade had not been previously treated with poison, or the foul toxin’s potency had diminished over time rendering it harmless.  Whatever the case, the wound would almost certainly heal cleanly and leave barely a scar to mark its passing.  The Elf then competently re-wrapped his friend’s forearm and declared him fit for travel.

          With Strider’s battle wound administrations resolved, the two friends shared a light breakfast of lembas and berries washed down with cold water from the river’s edge.  Aragorn had not wanted to take the time to build a fire for the heating of tea, and although Legolas would have preferred a warm, soothing bark tea, the cool water was sufficient to replenish his Elven body.  Being an Elf, he naturally required far less than his human companion when it came to the necessities of food or rest, but he did enjoy the camaraderie that a good meal and flavorful beverages provided.

          After finishing their meager repast, Strider gathered up what few packs he had removed from his horse’s back and began to reattach them to his saddle.  Once he was certain that they were securely tied, he placed a foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up onto Hodoer’s back.   Without any conscious thought or effort, Legolas went about gathering up anything left behind from their meal that might leave the area disturbed or offend the forest by its unnatural presence.  When he was finished, no trace of human or Elven passage could be seen amid the trees and grasses along the river’s banks.  With a nod to Aragorn that he was ready, the Elf mounted his own steed and the two resumed their pursuit of the orcs.

          They journeyed without rest or food for the remainder of the day, stopping only when Strider chose to take a closer look at the orcs’ trail to confirm the blatant signs that the foul creatures had trampled through the foliage.  It appeared that the orcs and goblins they were tracking were not taking any great care to conceal their progress.  Either they had no fear of being followed, or they were leading the two into an ambush.  Neither of these scenarios particularly appealed to Aragorn and the ranger’s innate senses were warning him to be on the alert, yet so far he had seen no evidence of a trap and the orcs continued to remain a healthy distance ahead of them.

          They had ridden in this manner for some time, neither Elf nor man speaking, when Aragorn suddenly realized that Legolas was no longer riding beside him.  Reining in his horse and turning about in his saddle, he glanced back over his shoulder at the Elf with a questioning frown.

          “Legolas?”  Strider rubbed his gritty eyes and anxiously scanned the forest.  “What is it?”

          The Elf’s stunning features broke into a tranquil smile.  “Relax, Strider.  I only thought it a good place to stop for the night.”

          “We have yet another hour of daylight left,” the ranger protested.

          Ignoring this comment, Legolas lightly dismounted and gathered the steed to his side with a gesture of his hand and soft Elven words.  “Aphado adel  enni, Astalder.” * He looked up at Aragorn with an expression that brooked no room for argument. “You are tired and need to rest.”

          “I am fine, and you do not need to watch over me,” Aragorn groused.

          The Elf laughed openly, yet his obvious concern for the young ranger was clearly evident in his caring expression. “Well someone has to.”

          Before the ranger could voice a retort, Legolas clasped Hodoer’s bridle and turned the animal off the trail.  Aragorn, still seated in the saddle, was forced to endure being led from the trail and into the woods by the Elf prince.

          “Legolas,” Strider’s voice betrayed his growing annoyance. “Let go of my horse.”

          The flaxen-haired warrior looked over his shoulder and up at his friend with a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.  “I think not,” he grinned.  “Behold,” he made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. “I have found the perfect spot for a camp.”

          In spite of his irritation, Aragorn surveyed the area with the trained eyes of a ranger, and grudgingly had to admit that the small clearing was indeed a highly suitable resting spot for the night.  He could hear the soft gurgling sounds of a stream not far away and the forest floor beneath his horse’s hooves was covered with soft, downy moss, a definite plus since they no longer had any sleeping rolls.  Reluctantly, he swung his right leg over his horse’s neck and slid to the ground.

          “All right,” he conceded.  “You win.  But I am not tired.”

          After so many years and countless adventures traveling together, the Elf and ranger fell into an easy and familiar routine of self-appointed tasks in readying their camp for the night.  Legolas saw to the needs of the horses first, while Aragorn began to gather up loose branches and twigs for their fire.  By the time the horses were brushed down and fed, Strider had the logs ablaze.  A small, dented kettle, recovered from the orc raid, was filled with water and hanging over the flames, suspended from a tripod of long, straight sticks.  The water within the utensil was slowly starting to simmer.

          Picking up his small, light hunting bow and quiver of arrows, Strider called to his friend as he headed out of the clearing.  “I’ll see what I can find to eat.”

          Legolas nodded and waved his acknowledgement.  Even though he was by far the better woodland hunter, he was confident of Aragorn’s skill as an archer.   Without doubt the ranger’s foray into the forest would yield sufficient game for the two of them and he was looking forward to a meal of more than dried meat strips and berries.  While Strider was out hunting, he would have time to examine his damaged quiver and see what harm had come to the arrows stored within.

          Deftly unfastening the straps on his torso, he brought the quiver around in front of his chest to examine the punctured leather.  A dismayed frown crept over his striking features as he examined the destruction the orc arrow had caused.   The meticulously tooled leather was pierced through and the ornate metal embossing that decorated the quiver was crushed and dented.  Dropping down to the forest floor, he settled himself upon the comfortable ground cover and with legs crossed, drew the quiver closer, running his expert hand along the side and back.   The elegant Elven workmanship of the arrow smith was ruined, and Legolas did not think that it could be repaired, but he would take it back to Nónd, his father’s chief armorer, when he returned to Lasgalen and seek the older Elf’s expert advice.  Perhaps this master craftsman could refurbish the quiver and restore it to its former splendor.  He sighed; saddened that such a thing of beauty could be marred by the foul hand of an orc.

          Carefully he withdrew the arrows from the quiver and one by one, inspected them for signs of damage.  Two shafts were broken and had shattered upon impact, obviously the result of a direct hit from the orc arrow.  Both slender bolts were beyond repair.  The points, however, were undamaged and Legolas cut them from the splintered shafts.  He could attach these to new shafts the next time he had the opportunity and ample time to craft more arrows.  He reached over his knee and picked up one of the leather gear bags he had earlier removed from his horse and brought out a small suede pouch.   He opened the bag and withdrew the soft cloth stored within.  He skillfully and efficiently wrapped the points within the cloth and returned them to the pouch.  Gathering up the useless shafts, he tossed them onto the campfire, where they slowly caught fire and began to burn amid the other sticks and logs.

          Of the remaining arrows in this bundle, all were intact and seemingly unmarred, save one that bore a large gouge along the shaft, near the point.  Legolas decided he could repair the harm done to the shaft by sanding down the wood and re-staining the shaft, but knew that the arrow would not equal the standard of the others in his bundle.  He would need to mark it to remind him later that it was inferior and not reliable for a truly accurate shot.

          For the killing of orcs, it would do just fine.  The harsh words flitted through his mind and his jaw tightened in response to the angry thought.  His normally handsome features twisted with disgust and revulsion at the memory of the vile creatures and he shook his golden head in a deliberate effort to rid his mind of their unwanted visions.  He hated orcs with a maddened rage that was just shy of insane.  Like most of his Elven brethren, he was repulsed by orcs at a deep, primal level.

          As he was packing away the remaining arrows and trying to think of more enjoyable things than orcs, Strider returned through the foliage carrying a brace of rabbits.  The ranger dropped the animals next to the campfire and set his bow and quiver down upon the ground near his saddlebags.  Pulling a long Elven blade from the sheath at his belt, he crouched down over the dead hares, lifted one up and began to proficiently field dress the carcass.  As he worked, he absently began humming an elvish lay.   Legolas smiled as the lilting song filled the small clearing and the unpleasant thoughts of orcs were quickly banished.

          “You could help, you know.”   Strider’s apparent sarcasm was confirmed when he tossed the second rabbit directly at the Elf.   Without even blinking, Legolas nimbly caught the animal with one practiced hand.  Strider shook his head and gave the Elf an incredulous smirk.  “One of these days, my friend, I’m going to catch you napping and a dead animal is going to land squarely in your lap.”

          “Not in your lifetime,” the Elf grinned, but he readily accepted the task and worked alongside the ranger to clean and prepare the night’s catch.

          In no time the rabbits were skewered and roasting over the fire.  Both friends leaned back, propped up against the sturdy trunks of two towering and leafy trees, enjoying the night and each other’s company as they waited for the game to cook.   Strider had also discovered and dug up some succulent tubers he had spied growing along the forest path he traveled when returning to the camp.   These he added to the bubbling kettle and soon they were enjoying a tasty meal of rabbit and boiled vegetables.  Their dinner was as satisfying as any feast they had ever attended in either Imladris or at King Thranduil’s great hall and both Elf and ranger were lulled into a lazy, sated stupor -- Aragorn because he really was exhausted, and Legolas because he was calm and content.

          “Get some rest, Estel,” Legolas murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”

          This time Aragorn did not voice any objections to the Elf’s suggestion and stretched out his weary body upon the mossy ground beside the dying campfire.  He rolled over onto his side, his back to the flames, with his head resting upon one of his saddlebags.  He was asleep within seconds.  Legolas shook his head and smiled to himself.  It never ceased to amaze him how quickly Estel could fall asleep anywhere, at any time, and under any circumstances, if he wished to do so.  Must be a human thing, he decided, getting up from his spot by the fire and walking over to retrieve his bow and quiver.

          He slung the quiver over his head and shoulders and fastened it snuggly across his chest.  Picking up his bow, he glanced about the camp in search of a comfortable spot to wait out the night.  His gaze lighted upon a sturdy branch not far from where Aragorn lay sleeping.  He walked over to the tree without making a whisper of a sound as he passed over the groundcover and leapt up into the branches above his head.  The tree sighed its greeting to the woodland being and Legolas sang softly to it in return.  He positioned himself along the solid tree limb, resting his back upon the gnarled trunk and settled down for a peaceful evening of solitude and communion with the stars.

*Follow behind me, Astalder.

          Legolas’ body tensed and he sat up straighter upon the tree limb.  He turned his head slightly trying to discern any unusual noise or movement that might identify the threat he felt growing within his mind.  There was a presence in the forest that did not belong there.  Exactly what was out there, he could not yet determine, but his Elven senses were on high alert.  From his perch upon the low hanging branch overlooking the sleeping ranger, the Elf slowly scanned the campsite and the surrounding woods with his keen eyesight.  The darkened forest about them was silent…too silent.  The ever present nocturnal rustlings and scurrying noises commonly heard within the thick underbrush were absent and there was no sound of a triumphant predator’s howl.

          The prince swung his long, slender legs off the branch and dropped easily to the forest floor without a murmur of sound.  His blond head slowly moved from one side of the camp to the other and his gaze penetrated the gloom along the outer perimeters of the camp.   His hand automatically rose above his right shoulder and skillfully extracted an arrow from his quiver. Without cognizant thought, he nocked the arrow and held his bow ready.

          A thorough inspection of the camp had revealed nothing out of the ordinary to the Elf, yet his mind was still sensing some unknown danger emanating from the dark woods.  They had not yet reached the truly treacherous portions of Mirkwood’s forest, but that did not rule out the possibility that the vile darkness had spread even further than was last known.  He took several wary steps into the shadowed woods directly to his right and began to move away from the dim light of the fire.  He made no sound as his light Elven steps traveled over the forest ground cover and he left behind no evidence of his passage.  In no time he had left the safety of the campsite far behind and entered into the darker, unknown forest beyond.

          Legolas could feel rapacious eyes watching his progress through the trees, but he could not as yet detect their owner.  Whoever or whatever was out there in the darkness was extremely skilled at concealing its presence.  The Elf halted and closed his eyes, letting his ears and nose take in what his eyes could not identify.  Deep woodland smells mixed with the musky scent of game drifted up to his nose, but nothing unusual or unexpected.  Why can I not rouse this creature? he thought.  Frustrated, he opened his eyes once more and moved cautiously forward and deeper into the forest.

          As if by some wizard’s magic, a dark figure materialized amid the shadows directly in front of his path.   Legolas let out a startled gasp and momentarily froze.  Then, with astonishing speed and dexterity, he raised his bow, the arrow set and anchored to his chin.  As he allowed his eyes to better adjust to the dim light, he set his stance and took aim.   He could now clearly ascertain that the figure in his sights was a female.  This disconcerting realization unsettled his mind and fleetingly, he wondered what a woman was doing out here in the darkness of Mirkwood Forest.

          “Do not move,” he warned.

          The strange woman stepped out of the shadows and into the pale moonlight and at that moment he could see her features plainly.  She was incredibly beautiful, yet in some eerie, unnatural fashion that triggered the Elf’s already heightened sense of danger.  Legolas was certain that she was neither Elf nor human, but what manner of creature she might be he could not even begin to imagine.  Ignoring his command not to move, the woman glided through the slight ground mist and came ever closer.  Her overtly sensuous movements and cold, chilling smile unnerved Legolas at some base, primal level and a slight shiver passed over his body.

          “Would you shoot me then?” her throaty voice questioned.

          The woodland hunter was not about to be taken in by her seemingly innocent manner and feminine gender and until he could determine exactly what she was he was not lowering his weapon.  His blue eyes stared straight forward, watching her every move, prepared to shoot at the slightest provocation.

          “What are you doing in these woods?” he demanded.

          The enigmatic entity offered no immediate response to his question and Legolas’ instincts told him that this being was most definitely the unexplained presence he had felt earlier.  At that very moment and for no discernible reason that he could fathom, his vision began to fail him, distorting the woman’s image until she seemed to waver and flicker in front of him.  He blinked rapidly several times, trying to rid his eyes of the double vision.  When he could again see clearly, the phantom woman was almost upon him.  The Elf’s head jerked up with a start.  How had she gotten this close?  I did not even see her move, yet here she is not two feet from me.

          Legolas took an involuntary step backward.   His bow wavered, but he quickly steadied his arm and kept the arrow aimed at the she-demon’s chest.  He tried to concentrate his thoughts on staying alert, but now a peculiar ringing sensation began to manifest itself within his ears.  What is happening to me?  He shook his head to clear the fogginess that had filled his mind, but he could not seem to get his eyes to stay focused and the irksome buzzing sound in his ears was getting louder.

          The shadow woman raised her slender arms up from her sides, palms outward in a gesture of surrender.  The sleeves of her silver gown slid down her startlingly white arms to pile at her elbows.

          “I am no threat to you,” she whispered.

          Indeed Legolas could see no weapon, yet his senses were telling him that he was in real danger now.  This being was not what she appeared to be, and he needed to keep all his wits about him while confronting her, but he could no longer control even the simplest of mental abilities.   The harder he tried to think logically or even lucidly for that matter, the more his mind clouded over and his thoughts began to jumble and wander aimlessly about his brain.   He was having immense difficulty just trying to remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing here. 

          I feel her evil within my mind!  She is in my head!  Distracted and unbalanced as he was by her disquieting presence within his thoughts, he still sensed deep within that he must not allow this assault upon his mind to continue.   He had to stop her from invading his psyche and controlling his judgment, yet somehow he just did not seem to care any longer.  As he tried to puzzle out this conflict of wills battling within his skull for dominance over his spirit, he vaguely heard her hypnotic voice ordering him to lower his bow.

          He could feel her dominating will compelling him to stare into her golden yellow eyes and was trapped by the catatonic fascination a mouse exhibits when confronted by a snake.  Frozen and helpless, his fear escalating, he could not tear his gaze away from her eyes.   Unbelievably, Legolas found himself complying with her demands, knowing that he should resist, but unable to do so.  The bow slowly lowered and his fingers eased back on the tension of the string until the weapon was hanging loosely at his side.  His slender fingers relaxed and the bow and arrow dropped to the ground at his feet.  The deadly creature was now standing only inches away from him and Legolas could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage.  A panicked voice echoed within his head telling him to get away, but he could not force his leaden legs to move.  He found himself falling into the amber swirls of her mesmerizing eyes with no will left to stop himself from plummeting into their abysmal depths.

          Thuringwethil slid her pale hand up the front of his chest, letting it come to rest over his rapidly beating heart.  Even through the leather of his tunic, Legolas could feel the icy coldness of her touch as it penetrated the outer garment and chilled the flesh beneath.  He gasped, not even realizing that he had been holding his breath.

        “Such a strong heart,” she purred, moving her ivory hand along his upper chest and then up toward his face.

          Horrified, Legolas attempted to pull away, but could not break through the sudden paralysis that had overtaken his body, nor could he look away from her haunting, yellow eyes.  Irrationally, flashes of a great mountain cat he had once encountered while hunting in the foothills near his father’s hall, flooded his brain.  He had come upon the carnivore just after it had made its kill.  The huge cat’s slatted golden eyes had fixed upon the Elf and their implied warning had cautioned him to stay away if he held his life dear.  This demon’s gaze held far more peril than that mountain beast’s and Legolas was certain that his very soul was in jeopardy.

          Thuringwethil’s glacial fingers touched the Elf’s sculpted cheek, and then traced a line from his ear down his jaw to his chin.  Legolas shuddered at the fiend’s vile touch.  The were-woman noted the Elf’s revulsion at the unwanted caress and laughed wickedly, enjoying his obvious distress.

          “Such a beautiful Elf,” she leered.  The hunger in her expression sent a whole new set of fears rampaging through Legolas’ mind.  His already racing heart was causing his head to pound and a feeling of lightheadedness was washing over him.  He could not think and the more he tried to concentrate his thoughts, the more nauseous he became.  He sucked in a short, choked breath, but his lungs did not seem to want to work properly either.

        He gradually became aware that the foul demon had clasped his right wrist and was bringing it up to her mouth.  He stared in morbid curiosity as her reptilian tongue flicked out from between crimson lips and licked at the sensitive skin on the underside of his wrist.  That slight touch burned into his flesh and he frantically tried to pull his hand away, but her grip was like an iron vise.  She looked up at his stricken face, her eyes hooded and filled with malice.  She could sense that he was loath to have her touch him, yet helpless to prevent it and knowing this brought an even crueler smile to her lips.

          Without warning, the were-woman’s razor sharp teeth bit down upon the delicate skin of his wrist, puncturing the tender flesh and drawing out a gush of glistening blood.  Legolas emitted a yelp of pain and shock at the creature’s atrocious act.  His mind reeled drunkenly as he fought to remain standing on legs suddenly gone weak.  As he swayed forward slightly, the incredulous realization that she was feeding upon his blood swept over him in a dizzying wave.  He could feel his life force being mercilessly drained from his body by this foul being’s odious suckling.

          “Daro, Helkaer!”* he cried out, his once melodious voice now reduced to a weakened croak.  His lips, parched and dehydrated from the sudden blood loss, could barely emit an utterance above a whisper.  He brought his left hand up in a futile attempt to pull the demon’s mouth away from his wrist, but he was just so tired, so weak.  His mind spun, drawn down into the depths of darkness.   As the monster continued to feed upon his blood, he began to lose his tenuous grip upon reality and his hand fell uselessly to his side.

         “Please, you must stop,” he pleaded, his voice barely audible.

         When it seemed that he would lose consciousness and fall completely into the deadly shadows of this evil, the fiend released her tenacious grip upon his flesh.  The gaping wound throbbed and burned, radiating sensations of pain that traveled throughout his body in searing waves.   Drops of blood shone like tiny rubies at the corner of her mouth, and she avidly licked them away, savoring the luscious taste of the Elf’s blood with an ill-concealed and malevolent delight.  Her tongue lapped over his wrist one final time and the poisoned wound closed as the blood began to clot.  Legolas’ beautiful face turned as pale as porcelain and he swayed backward and would have fallen but the shadow creature clutched his arms tightly and physically held him upright.

          His head fell forward onto his chest, golden hair spilling over his shoulders and cascading down across his cheeks.  He tried lifting his face up to look at the vile creature, but it was just too difficult to raise his head.  The obscene thing before him was speaking, but he could not understand her words.  He just wanted to lie down, to rest.   The demon shook him roughly, jostling his dull mind, and causing his teeth to rattle against one another within his jaws.  Painfully, he forced his head up and looked at the shadow woman with glassy, unfocused eyes.

          “Listen to me,” she hissed.  Once certain that the Elf was indeed aware and heeding her words, she continued.  “Return to your camp.   You will not remember…only the hunger will remain.”   She laughed with pitiless and evil delight.  “It will consume you.”   She released her grip on his upper arms and he stumbled slightly but remained standing.  “Do you understand what I have told you?”

          Legolas nodded numbly.  “Yes,” he whispered.

          “Go then,” she ordered.

          Stepping back away from the Elf, Thuringwethil moved off toward the deeper darkness of the woods from whence she had come and moments later vanished altogether.

          Legolas watched the shadow creature disappear into the forest, but could not be sure that what he saw was real or imagined.  He looked about the woods in confusion, wondering what he was doing here.  The moonlight reflected off something shiny lying on the ground and he gazed down to see his bow and an arrow nestled in the leaves at his feet.  He could not remember having dropped the weapon, nor how it had come to be there.  Perplexed, he bent down and retrieved the bow and arrow, hoping that some recollection would present itself.  When it did not, he decided that he must have encountered some residual spell of darkness that still permeated the woods of Mirkwood.  Apparently he was unharmed, just confused…and… tired.  He glanced uneasily about the area one last time and then headed back to the campsite.

*Stop, Icy One.    

          Aragorn grunted softly as he tried to mold his shoulder around the protruding mass of a lumpy tree root.  He was still in that illusory state of slumber when dreams are most likely to occur, but where full, deep sleep is elusive.  When the steadfast root refused to budge, he flopped over onto his back and tried to hang on to the last remnants of uninterrupted sleep, but it was too late; his body began its own biological gear up to full consciousness.

          His eyelids fluttered open and he gradually began to take in his surroundings.  With a start, he jerked upright, his gaze scanning the sunny skies overhead with consternation.  It’s nearly mid-morn, he thought, why didn’t Legolas awaken me?  At the thought of his Elven friend, Aragorn quickly glanced across the camp toward the spot where Legolas had tossed his few belongings the night before.  The Elf was there lying on his side, wrapped in his hooded cloak like some emerald cocoon.  That fact alone puzzled the ranger and he rose swiftly and moved over to crouch down next to the sleeping prince.

          “Legolas,” he called as he gently shook the Elf’s shoulder.  “Legolas, wake up.  You were supposed to wake me at dawn.”

          When the woodland being did not respond to either his touch or his words, Aragorn’s worry deepened.  He pulled the hood back away from the Elf’s face and stared down at his friend’s striking features.  Aside from being slightly paler than usual, Legolas appeared to be fine and in a deep, peaceful sleep…and then it dawned on the ranger that the Elf’s eyes were closed.

          A stab of panic shot through Strider’s heart and he leaned forward over his friend’s body, clutching both slender shoulders and shaking the Elf more forcefully.  “Legolas!  Wake up!”

          A soft moan escaped the prince’s throat and his head lolled back on his neck as if he were drugged.  Aragorn pulled Legolas up and into a seated position and the Elf’s head flopped forward onto his chest.  Another groan issued from his lips and then his head reluctantly rose upward until he was looking at the ranger with cloudy, dazed eyes.  “Aragorn?”

          “Yes.  What’s wrong?  What’s happened to you?”

          At the sudden barrage of questions, the Elf’s delicate brow furrowed and his eyelids lowered.  He shied away from the sunlight and shaded his eyes with his hand.   Once covered, he half opened them again, squinting up at his friend from beneath his palm.  “Why is it so bright?”

          “Because it’s nearly midday, you nit,” Aragorn huffed, releasing the Elf and rocking back on his heels.  “Why didn’t you wake me at dawn?  Or for that matter, what were you doing sleeping?  You were supposed to be on watch.”

          Now that his body was pretty much functioning on its own, Legolas looked around their campsite as if it was the first time he had ever seen it.  A mystified frown brought down the corners of his well defined lips and he looked at his friend in sheer bewilderment.

         “Well?” Strider pressed.

          “I-I don’t know what to say, Estel,” the Elf look genuinely distressed.  “I don’t remember lying down…or going to sleep.” 

          He glanced over at the tree in which he had spent the greater portion of the night and pointed his finger at the low, overhanging branch.  “I was sitting up there, listening to the forest.”  He paused as if his brain was frantically trying to remember something that was just out of reach.  “I heard something, no; I sensed something, out in the woods.”  He gestured to the right of the tree he had indicated as his prior lookout perch.  “I went to have a look at whatever was out there…”

          “And?” Aragorn impatiently prompted when no further words were forthcoming from the Elf.

          Legolas glanced back at his friend with an expression of remorse and guilt.  What was out there? Why can I not recall what happened?

          His troubled gaze fell away from Aragorn’s concerned face and he brought a shaky hand up to push away an errant strand of golden hair from his temple.  “I don’t remember,” came his whispered reply.

          Strider immediately spotted the ugly wound on the inside of Legolas’ wrist.  It was just below his leather bracer and had stained the arm guard an even darker shade of brown.  He reached out and clasped the Elf’s hand, turning the wrist up and bending his head over the wound for a closer inspection.

         “How did this happen?” he asked.

          Legolas glanced down at the blood-caked puncture marks and dark bruised skin of his wrist and his perplexed frown deepened.  “I don’t recall sustaining any injury,” he said.  “I-I must have caught it on a thorn bush while I was moving about in the darkness.”

          “Nice try,” Strider replied.  “That’s no thorn scratch.”  He turned Legolas’ wrist slightly to one side, then back again.  “It looks like a bite.”  As soon as the words were spoken, the ranger’s glance sped to his friend’s face.  “You weren’t bitten by a spider, were you?”

          Legolas could not help but read the anxiety in the young human’s eyes.  “Certainly not,” he answered.  “If I’d been bitten by a spider we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”  He gave the ranger a reassuring smile reminiscent of the carefree Legolas that Aragorn knew so well.  “It is nothing to worry about, Estel.  It will be gone before tomorrow.”

          Strider was not convinced, but he let go of the Elf’s wrist and stood to his feet.  “Maybe so, but it really looks nasty.  At least let me clean it out and bandage it so that it doesn’t fester.”

          The Elf acquiesced.  “Very well, if it will ease your concern, you may tend to this immediately.”

          As Aragorn groped about for one of his bags and a clean strip of cloth, he studied his friend with growing disquiet.  There were still a great many questions about this late night excursion into the deep woods that Legolas had not answered, but he was not sure that now was the time to pursue the issue or try to fit the pieces together.  Finding his medicines and the cloth, he returned to the seated Elf who willingly offered Strider his arm.

        The ranger poured some water over the cut and gently daubed at the wound with the cloth to remove the caked blood.  When he did so, a gush of black ooze seeped out from the punctures and Legolas flinched.

           “Arrg,” Strider grunted, as he wiped away the vile fluid and rinsed out the cuts once more.  The foul putrid secretion ceased and only normal, red blood seeped out from the holes in the Elf’s wrist.   However, when he placed some crushed herbs into the wound, Legolas cried out in pain and snatched his hand away, cradling it against his chest.

          Aragorn’s face reflected his shock and surprise at this unexpected reaction.  “I-I’m sorry, Legolas,” he floundered.  “I meant you no harm.”

          The Elf grabbed at the cloth strip and began to hastily wrap it around his wrist, avoiding Aragorn’s eyes.  “It’s nothing.  I’ll be fine.”

          Aragorn continued to look at his friend with worry and confusion.  Legolas should not have reacted that way to the healing plant.  Perhaps there was some thorn caught beneath the skin after all and it was causing him pain; he should take another quick look at that wound, but one glimpse at Legolas’ face told him that the Elf would not allow it.

          The ranger rose abruptly to his feet.  “We need to get moving,” he stated, as he brusquely gathered up his medicines and again took note of the sun’s position in the sky.

          Legolas, wrist now bandaged and hanging at his side, lightly arose to his feet as well and began picking up his gear.  “There is no need to hurry, Strider.  Dol Guldur is still there,” he murmured softly.  “I hear its call.”

          Aragorn’s head whipped around and he stared at the Elf.  “What do you mean, you hear its call?”

          Legolas did not answer and he moved to his friend’s side and placed his hand on the Elf’s shoulder, turning him around.  “Legolas, what are you saying?”

          The Elf did not seem to be aware of his presence, and although facing the ranger, he appeared to be looking through him and out into the woods in the direction of the dark tower.  Before he could question the woodland being further, the prince turned a blank face up toward the ranger.  “It’s there.”

          Aragorn was taken aback by the Elf’s cryptic remark.  Although terse at times, Strider could not recall Legolas being this enigmatic about the ever growing darkness that was spreading throughout his Mirkwood home, especially when orcs, malevolent towers and dark lords were concerned.

          “What’s there?” he asked.

          Legolas suddenly snapped out of his daze and looked directly at the ranger.  “I thought you were in a hurry to leave,” he commented.

          Strider blinked at his friend in bewilderment, but decided to hold his tongue.  Instead he began to collect and pack up his own belongings.  Once they were on the move he would try to delve deeper into his friend’s mysterious midnight adventure and even more curious remarks about the fortress.  Aragorn’s sixth sense was telling him that something evil had occurred out there in the darkness, perhaps linked to the flying Nazgul or the dark tower itself.  In either case, he was fearful for his friend’s well being.  Elves were highly sensitive creatures and although not easily won over by evil forces, they could be tortured and tormented until their sanity was stripped from them, leaving behind a grief-stricken soul that longed only for death.  He could not bear the thought of his immortal friend suffering that kind of fate.

          As he brought his saddlebags over to Hodoer, he looked over at Legolas.  The Elf had finished attaching his gear to Astalder’s back and was securing his hooded cloak about his shoulders.  Aragorn frowned as he watched the Elf flip the ample hood over his head and pull it down over his forehead, shading his blue eyes.  Now why would he do that?

          “Legolas,” he called out. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”  He indicated the campfire. “There’s some cold rabbit left if you’re hungry.  I don’t want to stop again until dark.”

          At the mention of cold rabbit, Legolas’ stomach did a back flip.  He quickly looked away so that Strider would not see the nauseated grimace upon his face.  When he was sure that he was not going to be ill, he called over his shoulder to the ranger.  “No, I’m fine.  I’m not hungry.”

          Aragorn shrugged and returned to gathering up his gear.  The Elf was not himself, of that he was certain, but just what was ailing his woodland companion, he had no idea and if Legolas did not want him to know, he would never be able to draw it out of him.

          Legolas furtively watched his friend’s movements from beneath the dark hood; his eyes glittered with a new radiance that glowed within the dim shadows of the material.  He could smell the ranger’s blood pumping within his body; he could hear the liquid of life surging through Strider’s veins and arteries.  He wanted to taste that blood more than anything he had ever desired before.  Even now he could imagine the warm, salty tang, the flavor of his energy, the essence that was Aragorn.

          AHHHHHhhhhhhhhh! Legolas staggered back and fell against Astalder’s broad flank, a shaky hand covering his mouth.  What am I saying? What am I thinking?   He chanced a surreptitious glance at the ranger who was still busy with his gear and not paying him any heed.  The Elf turned and buried his face into the hide of his Elven steed and then jerked back with panic.  He could smell the blood flowing within the animal, too, and it was driving him mad with hunger.  Even as he thought about the blood, a wrenching spasm clutched at his stomach and he stifled a groan so that Aragorn would not hear.

          What is happening to me? his mind wailed, seeking answers to questions his conscious mind had no memory of.  Another shudder ran through his body and he reached out to his horse to steady his wobbly knees and weakened legs.  Astalder shivered and his eyes took on a wild, frightened sheen.  The animal could sense that something was amiss with his Elven rider and the only thing keeping him from bolting was his deep loyalty and love for the Wood Elf.

          Legolas took several deep, measured breaths and tried to clear his mind.  The voracious hunger was still there, but he could overcome it if he held his mind steady.  He had to; he would not let this unknown malady conquer him.   Something had happened out there in the woods last night.  If he could only remember… his thoughts trailed away as a pounding, hammering pain began within his skull.  Another wave of nausea swept over him and he swayed forward, clutching at Astalder’s mane for support.  The horse shuddered at his touch, but held steady.  Slowly and painfully, Legolas pulled himself up onto the horse’s back and forced himself to sit upright.

          Aragorn had cleared away the last of their clutter and was making sure that the embers within the fire pit were cold.   Legolas sat astride his horse, waiting for him to finish and studied the human with an anguished mixture of despair and guilt.  He genuinely wanted to tell Strider of this twisted hunger and thirst for blood… but he also wanted so very much to taste that blood.

          Aragorn finally had everything stowed away and strapped to his saddle.  Without another word, only a troubled glance toward the Elf, he pulled himself up onto his steed and the two moved off through the forest silently heading for the darker, dead regions of Mirkwood’s southern rim.

          Aragorn sat with his back propped up against a sturdy tree and puffed on a slender pipe filled with Shire weed.  He was closely watching the Elf across the campfire and was certain that Legolas knew he was watching him, but was discreetly pretending to be totally unaware of the ranger’s intense scrutiny.

          Although he had been resolute in his desire to make up for lost time and not stop until dark, any hope he might have had for gaining on the orc band had ended when Legolas become violently ill only hours into their journey.  Without warning or prior complaint, the Elf had fallen from his mount, clutching at his abdomen and writhing in obviously intense pain. With a great deal of difficulty, Legolas had pulled his body into the mossy undergrowth of the forest alongside the trail and had valiantly tried to keep Aragorn away, but not before the ranger had seen the vile, dark blood and black bile he vomited into the grasses.  Weak and shivering, Legolas had finally allowed the ranger to help him rise to his feet, but it was only moments before another racking seizure gripped the Elf’s slight frame and he was again retching up the putrid ichor from his stomach.

          Aragorn was now convinced that Legolas had been poisoned, but how or when he could not say.  Perhaps it had something to do with that ugly wound on his wrist.   Despite Legolas’ reassurances and his Elvish nature, it was not healing.  Whatever the cause of the toxin, his friend was now being physically devastated by the waves of nausea and the debilitating weakness that followed.  He was also developing an inexplicable intolerance to light, something unheard of in elves.  Even now, sitting there by the fire, he wore his hooded cloak, shielding his eyes from the dancing flames.

          Legolas had eventually been able to ride again once the tremors and shakes of this unknown sickness had finally ceased but their progress was slowed because the Elf was forced to remain within the shade and cover of the trees.  Any time he moved into full sunlight, his eyes were blinded and terrible stabbing pains shot through his skin wherever the sun’s rays fell upon the exposed flesh.

          Any attempts Aragorn made to question Legolas about this strange illness or his lack of memory regarding the previous night had been futile and they had fallen into an uneasy silent march through the forest.  When the sun had finally dipped beneath the horizon, they had stopped here and made camp, but their awkward alienation had lingered.  Strider was even now hesitant to speak to the Elf, afraid that his words would upset him or that his insistent questions would drive Legolas deeper into withdrawal, but he could no longer sit here and say nothing.

          “Legolas,” he began.  “We must speak of this.”  His silver eyes were filled with pain and apprehension and the anxiety he felt for his friend was evident in the quietness of his voice.  “I believe you have been poisoned,” he continued.

          The Elf stiffened, but said nothing.  Aragorn’s face reflected his inner turmoil as he leaned forward, setting the pipe down upon the grass in front of him.   He drew his knees up to his chest and laid his arms across the tops, his chin resting upon his arms.  “What happened to you out there?”

          Legolas quietly raised his hooded head to look across the fire at his companion and the ranger could just barely discern two glittering, iridescent eyes within the deep shadows of the dark material that framed the Elf’s face, and that image alone unsettled him greatly.  Legolas’ eyes had always been very expressive and beautiful, but Aragorn could not ever remember seeing them look so unnatural, so alien.

          “I know not what to tell you, Estel,” the prince’s soft voice murmured from beneath the hood, “for I know not myself.”

          The sorrow and misery emanating from his friend was more than Strider could bear, yet he felt powerless to help him.  But at this moment, the idea of chasing after orcs no longer seemed to be a priority.  He had to get Legolas back to Lasgalen and to his father’s healers.

          “I’m taking you back home,” Aragorn abruptly stated.  “Whatever this sickness is, it is beyond my meager skills.  You need an Elvish healer.”

          “No!” the Elf objected. “We are within sight of Dol Guldur.  We cannot leave now.”  He raised a slim, pale hand to still the ranger’s protest.   “I am fine.  Now that the nausea has passed, I am myself again.”

          “No arguments, Legolas.  I do not know what has caused this illness in you, whether it is the sap from some poisonous plant or feral bite that you cannot recall.  But I will not risk your health or quite possibly your life.”  Frustrated and angered by his inability to help Legolas, Strider stood up and began snatching up his bags and gear.  “We leave now.”

          “Aragorn, stop!”  The Elf also rose, and his voice held a commanding edge that halted Aragorn in his tracks.  Legolas noted the ranger’s startled expression and altered the timbre and tone of his voice before continuing.  “Truly, I am fine.  Whatever it was has left my body.  I no longer feel any pain or sickness.”

          The Elf moved around the fire pit with a swiftness of motion not even possible among those of the Firstborn race and came up next to Aragorn, placing a strong and firm hand upon the ranger’s forearm.  Strider visibly started, not sure whether his eyes had deceived him or whether the Elf had suddenly acquired some new mystical powers of flight.  He could not help but stare at his friend with a growing sense of unease and fear and this disturbed him more than Legolas’ curious disorder.  How could he fear someone he loved as much or more than his own brothers?  Yet he did.

          Legolas smiled beneath the hooded cowl, but there was no laughter in his expression or his voice.  “Believe me, Estel.  I am well.”

          Aragorn so very much wanted to believe that Legolas was indeed well, but he could not get past the nagging voice within his head that kept telling him that something was terribly, terribly wrong with his friend.  He looked into the Elf’s strange and somehow predatory eyes, trying in vain to convince himself that he was being foolish and unnecessarily worried.

          “Very well,” he reluctantly conceded.  “But at the slightest twinge of your stomach, we’re leaving these woods.”

          Legolas laughed softly, eyes glowing. “You have my promise.”

          Aragorn continued to regard his friend with doubt and ill-concealed disquiet, still not quite sure that he shouldn’t just follow his instincts and leave with the Elf right now, whether he wanted to go or not, but he decided to wait and see how the prince fared through the night.  Besides, even ill, he did not think he could force Legolas to do anything he did not want to do.  Aragorn returned to his pipe and settled back against the tree once more, vigilantly watching the Elf’s every move.   Ignoring Aragorn’s obvious surveillance, Legolas moved off to the outer reaches of the camp and appeared to be searching for something out in the woods.

          “Maybe I should stand guard tonight,” Strider called after the Elf.

          “No need,” Legolas replied.

          “But…,” Aragorn pressed.

          The Elf gracefully launched himself up into the tree branches and then crouched along a sturdy limb looking down at the ranger through the leafy bough.  “Get some sleep, Strider.”

          Aragorn decided not to push the matter for now.  Instead he calmly puffed at his pipe until the contents burned themselves out and left nothing but a blue haze floating about his head.  He had already made up his mind that he would just feign sleep for Legolas’ benefit, and would keep a concealed eye fixed on the Elf all night if need be.  If Legolas went wandering about into the woods tonight, Aragorn would follow.

          Legolas watched from the concealment of the tree boughs as the ranger stretched out upon the ground preparing for the night’s rest and fervently hoped that he would fall asleep quickly.  The raging hunger within him was growing too strong and he could not fight its pull much longer.  He had to feed and if he did not find some woodland creature to quench this terrible blood thirst, he might not be able to stop himself from turning upon Aragorn.  He closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands, trying to blot out that horrifying thought and grimaced as another wave of burning fire raced through his body.

          Please, Estel, find sleep, he thought, I cannot fight this craving much longer.

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

          The ranger jerked awake and frantically jumped to his feet.  Orc spit! he cursed.  How long have I been asleep?   Mentally berating himself for letting down his guard, he quickly glanced up into the trees, and as he feared, Legolas was no where to be seen.  “Damn, Elf,” he muttered as he hurriedly buckled his sword belt to his waist and slid the Elven dagger into its sheath.   He started to dash off into the forest, but instead halted abruptly.  He had no idea whatsoever which way Legolas might have gone.

          Standing in the middle of the camp, he closed his eyes and forced his breathing to settle into a slow, measured pattern.  He let his senses and his ranger’s training take over and simply absorbed all that he could smell and hear.  There, far off in the distance, the faint clank and clamor of arms penetrated the night and he turned to his left.  Opening his eyes, he stared at the darkened forest before him.

          “Let’s just see what you’re doing out there, my Elven friend,” he murmured and trotted off in pursuit.

          He did not know how long he had been jogging through the trees, but he could not seem to find the source of the sounds, although they did appear to be getting distinctly louder.  He could also distinguish other sounds as well; grunts, snorts and shrieks were intermingled with the clang of metal upon metal.  That could only mean one thing -- he had found the elusive band of orcs.  Aragorn slowed his pace and listened intently, trying to get a better idea of their direction and bearing.  Slowly and silently, he withdrew his sword from the scabbard and held it loosely at his side.  As he came up upon a small hollow, he crouched down among the low bushes covering its rim in order to remain hidden while he observed the scene below.

          A troop of approximately thirty orcs and goblins was trotting through the moonlit trees into the vale.  To his utter astonishment and disbelief, he also spied the blond head of Legolas, long flaxen hair and braids swaying rhythmically back and forth as he effortlessly ran amidst the foul horde.  The band swiftly advanced through the hollow and ran up the opposite side, disappearing into the thick woods.   Strider followed after them and once gaining the far side of the hill could now make out the dark, ominous towers of Dol Guldur piercing the blackened skies above.   Hundreds of torches illuminated the massive stone structure and ringed the outer battlements like fireflies.  The dark, murky waters of the Anduin channel swirled along the bottom of the tower walls, gently lapping at the ancient stones as the current whirled and eddied against the fortress.

          Aragorn ran through the remaining trees, heedless of the branches that slapped at his face, until his chest pounded from the rigorous exertion.  He ran along the top of the ridge, keeping the orc patrol down and to his left along the river at all times as he followed them through the woods.  They were making such a racket that he hoped his pursuit of them would go unnoticed, even by the Elf.  At last they came through the trees and approached the massive stone and iron gateway to Dol Guldur.   Aragorn stopped at the tree line and falling heavily to his knees leaned his weight upon his sword, panting for breath.

          From the screen of leaves and branches he watched as the orcs, with Legolas in tow, clattered up the stone bridgework crossing the Anduin tributary that flowed into a deep channel and surrounded the dark battlements of the fortress.  The Elf stopped just within the entrance to the gates while the orcs swarmed around him and into the tower.  As if waiting for someone, Legolas stood solitary and immobile until the last of the vile creatures serving as his escort had disappeared into the stone walls of the keep.

          Aragorn’s mind was in a maelstrom of confused and disbelieving thoughts as he stared at his stubborn, yet loyal friend.  Someone he loved more than a brother even though they were not blood kin.  Someone he valued and respected and could never imagine consorting with orcs and goblins in any manner other than to slay them in battle.  Someone he trusted with his life and who had never deceived him…until now.

          He leaned his head upon the hilt of his sword and shook his head from side to side.  “No,” he whispered with despair. “Legolas, no.”

          When he looked up once more, he saw that Legolas was no longer alone upon the gateway bridgework.  A dark-haired woman was standing at the tower’s entrance and she seemed to be talking to the Elf.  Aragorn involuntarily shuddered at the sight of her eerie, translucent skin and reflective, glittering eyes.  Even from this distance, he could see them glowing like points of fire.  This was definitely no human female, nor one of Elvenkind, and he could not shake the feeling of utter malevolence and evil that this creature elicited within him.  His fear for Legolas intensified as he watched the dark being draw ever closer to his friend like some deadly spider luring him into her web.

          This foul creature of darkness was the source of corruption and vile intent that was taking over Legolas’ mind and body.  Of this he was certain, although he did not know why he was so convinced of this fact, he just knew that Legolas was in mortal danger and there was no way in all of Middle Earth that he could help him.  It would be sheer folly to try and attack that ancient fortress alone.  He would have to seek help and the closest place to do that was Lasgalen where Legolas’ father, King Thranduil ruled.  But the Mirkwood palace was almost a two week ride form these southern regions and Aragorn’s distraught mind filled with unspeakable and imagined horrors that would surely befall the fair Elf before he had time to return here with reinforcements.

          He watched in helpless defeat as the shadow being guided Legolas into the tower and both disappeared from his sight.   At the moment his friend entered the keep a deep, dark feeling of dread and an aching sorrow grew within his heart.

          “I will not abandon you, mellon nin*,” he whispered into the night air.

          Slowly he rose to his feet and turned back toward the camp and the horses.  Moving on sore and stiffened legs and weighed down by the shock of this perilous development, he was nonetheless determined to free his friend no matter what the cost to himself.

*my friend

          He could smell death… and blood… my blood? he idly wondered.  Am I dead?   As more and more of his senses came alive, Legolas truly wished that he had never awakened from that dark pit of oblivion in which he had been dreamily languishing in untroubled sleep.  Not dead… he groaned.

          Before there had been nothing, now there was pain, agonizing pain, everywhere.  His head was being bombarded with sensory jolts of torment from screaming muscles and tortured flesh.  He opened his eyes, and then just as swiftly shut them tight as the world tilted and the sickening nausea returned to sweep over him again.  He tried to breathe, but his chest and diaphragm ached with even the slightest inhalation he took forcing him to gasp pathetically at the stale, decayed air.

          He tried opening his eyes again, slowly this time, and managed to avoid the dizzying queasiness as his sight adjusted to the dim light filtering into the room.   The first thing he became fully aware of was the unrelenting ache in his arms.  Both limbs were stretched above his head and secured by metal shackles that were cutting deeply into the flesh of his wrists.   His entire weight was bearing down on his wrists, pulling them against the sharp metal cuffs and causing a terrible pain that seemed to be overriding all the others.  He pushed upward on his sagging legs, straining jittering thigh muscles and straightening out his bent knees.  That simple motion taxed much of his diminishing strength and he was treated to another round of woozy head spinning, but once accomplished, he slid his shoulders up against the rock wall behind his back and stood straight.

          In doing this he discovered two things: the pain emanating from his wrists lessened as the greater portion of his body weight was removed and they were no longer being twisted against the manacles, and his upper torso was bare; he could feel the cold, clammy rock wall pressing against his back.  He distractedly wondered what had become of his tunic and shirt, but under the circumstances, that didn’t really seem to be his major concern.

          He lifted his head and felt the accompanying throb as the blood pulsed and pounded through his brain, but eventually it tapered into a dull thudding that was at least tolerable.  He tried to see through the darkness of his surroundings to determine where he might be.  From what little he could distinguish, it appeared that he was in a dungeon or cell of some sort, not unlike the prisoner holdings of his father’s own underground palace.

         He glanced up over his head at his bound hands and could see that the metal cuffs around his wrists were suspended from a heavy chain that was embedded in the wall above him.  He took a tentative tug at the chain, testing the strength of the metal, but the pain that action caused his already injured wrists was not worth a second attempt.  His fingers were numb as well and he flexed them several times trying to get the blood flowing through his extremities again.

         He shifted his feet below him and realized that at least his ankles were not chained or bound.   Should he be able to somehow free his hands, this would be a definite plus for any escape attempt he might try to make.  Escape… not much chance of that, he thought.

          He fought to remember what had happened to get him into this particular situation, but his mind was muddled and he could not remember anything after leaving the campsite and heading into the forest.  Suddenly images of a bloodied animal carcass, throat ripped out and blood on his hands flashed within his mind and he moaned softly at the sickening memory.   A heartrending sob escaped his throat as he recalled brutally killing the rabbit with his bare hands… but he did not drink its blood... could not force his lips to take in that foul nourishment even though his body burned with the pain and hunger of that vile craving.

          A terrible wrenching spasm shook his body, leaving him gasping and ill, as if to remind him that his body was still yearning for blood and a new panic seized his heart.

          If I did not drink the animal’s blood...then…did I harm Aragorn?  I cannot remember…I CANNOT REMEMBER!

          “Aragorn!”   His anguished cry echoed within the darkened cell.  “Aragorn,” he whispered again, his voice choking as his head fell forward and a silent tear slid down his pale cheek.

          Haunted by illusions of the heinous acts he might have committed, the Elf moaned as more distorted images poured into mind… running blindly through the dense forest, kneeling beside dark river waters and washing the blood off his hands… and then the orcs had come... and the black swirling mist.  He slowly raised his head up and pressed it back against the rock wall, trying to remember what had happened after that, but he could not.  His mind grew cloudy once more, unwilling to impart any further information or enlightenment.

         Legolas shifted his position again in an effort to lessen the strain on his wrists and before he could form any further thoughts or ideas as to his whereabouts or how he had gotten here, a sudden chill permeated the dank room.  He had the distinct feeling that he was no longer alone within the cell, yet he was certain that the heavy door facing him had not opened and it appeared to be securely closed.   Anxiously the Elf peered out into the shadows around him seeing nothing but darkness and then she was there, standing in front of him.

          “Ai!” he cried out, sucking in a shocked gasp of the damp air.  He futilely tried to press himself back into the wall and away from the vile creature, but she leaned forward and placed her icy hands upon his bare chest.  The burning coldness of her foul touch penetrated his skin and seared his aching lungs.

          “Get away,” he implored, but she only drew closer and he was forced to look at her malicious smirk.   “What do you want with me?”

          The demon laughed deep within her throat.  “Want with you… why I don’t want you at all.”  She slid her hands further up his chest, caressing the smooth hollows below his collarbones and then sliding her palms down again to rest at his waist.  “Other than to amuse me,” she whispered.

          Legolas turned his face away from the were-woman, shutting his eyes to avoid looking into those terrible yellow dragon’s eyes, but she grasped his chin and whipped his head back around to face her.  His eyes flew open and he found himself staring straight into her evil, golden eyes.  “What I want is the human…and you will bring him to me.”

          Legolas felt a spike of terror shoot through his heart like a knife’s keen blade and before he could stop his words, he said, “Aragorn?  Why?”

          “Yes,” she purred, “Aragorn.”  Moving her hands back to lie flat upon his chest, one over each pectoral, she gazed up at his stricken face.  “The Dark Lord wishes him dead.”  She paused, as if a thought had only just now come to her, and her smile grew even crueler.  “And you will kill him for me.”

          Legolas’ eyes hardened and he snarled back at her. “Never!”

          “Ah, but you will,” she grinned.  Her terrible, mocking laughter filled the tight space of the dungeon and Legolas’ mind began to whisper taunts and jeers as he felt her presence within his head.  “Imagine how he will feel when the very creature he has come to rescue betrays him.”  Her cold hand moved up to lightly brush the Elf’s cheek, then his ear and finally slid down his neck.  “Imagine how you will feel, slaying your beloved Dúnadan.”

          Legolas struggled in vain against the chains binding him, seeking to pull them from the wall to evade her touch, but her supernatural powers reached out and enveloped his mind, compelling him to look into her eyes.  Once locked into her gaze, he no longer had the will to resist or any desire to fight her.  All he could do was retreat into that core within his being and watch with detached horror as his body was manipulated and used by this evil undead thing.

          Thuringwethil sneered with brutal cruelty as she traced a long, sharp thumbnail across Legolas’ bare chest.   A bloody trail was left in its wake as the nail sliced into the pale skin above his heart.  The Elf recoiled as the cut began to bleed profusely and gush forth with every beat of his clamoring heart.  Making sure that he was watching and aware of what she was doing, the were-woman lowered her lips to the wound in a depraved kiss and began to drink the fresh blood with ravenous lips.

          A keening wail issued from Legolas’ throat as he sank back against the wall, unable to prevent the Shadow Woman from drawing out his life’s blood.   A feeling akin to the rushing of the wind filled his mind and he was swept away upon the dark wings of shadow, down, down, into the void of darkness and doom.  As he plummeted down into the vortex, a voice plaintively called out to him, begging him to hold on, to fight this evil, and when he fell into that last, deep chasm of utter blackness, he realized that the voice was his own.

          When Thuringwethil saw that the Elf was no longer conscious, she withdrew her lips and ceased feeding.  Tormenting this creature when he was not aware of what was happening to him held no pleasure for her; she thrived on the suffering she invoked in her victims, watching the despair in their eyes as it ate away at their souls, especially Elves... they were so… vulnerable.

          She reached up a white hand and stroked his exquisite face, moving aside his long blond hair and exposing his pale cheek.  “Later, my beautiful Elf,” she whispered.  “Your torment has only just begun.

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

          The scrawny goblin scuttled along the passageway, huge, bulbous eyes glowing in the dimness of the darkened corridor as he struggled to keep up with the swift, flowing glide of the Shadow Woman.

         “Does he know the Elf has been taken?” she asked, barely glancing at the black creature scampering at her heels.

          “Yes, Lady,” the beast panted.  “He watched the Firstborn enter the tower.”

         “Good,” she nodded.  “Where is he now?”

          “He travels north.”

          Thuringwethil stopped so suddenly that the goblin crashed into her legs, and she kicked him brutally away.   He cringed against the wall, fearfully looking up at her and waiting for her command.

          “Pity,” she replied, turning again and continuing down the hallway, the goblin dogging her every step.   “I had so hoped he might attempt some absurdly heroic assault upon the tower.  It would have been an amusing diversion…but no matter.”

         She halted before the massive iron doors to the Seeing Stone’s chamber.  The skeletal creature following her stopped as well, gazing up at her with wide, blinking eyes.

          “If he is headed north,” she mused, “he is going to the Grey Elves, but they are few and their woodland kin are no match for my orc army even should they agree to help him.”  She looked down at the scout beside her.  “Keep alert, Haqdû.  It will take him some time to reach the Sindarins, but I’m sure he will return.”

          She laughed to herself as she flung open the doors to the dark chamber holding the palantir.  “All the more time to torture the Elf.”

          Aragorn pushed Hodoer even harder, galloping through the woods at a dangerous pace until the poor animal faltered and stumbled to a sliding stop, refusing to go any further.  His sides were heaving and white lather dripped from his neck and shoulders.  At the horse’s abrupt halt, the ranger slid forward onto the horse’s neck and then fell from the saddle, landing unceremoniously upon the ground beneath the horse’s hooves.  He looked up at the darkening sky above with glazed eyes and decided that it was just too much trouble to get up.  He was too worn out, too hungry, and too sleep deprived to move.

          Hodoer swung his head and neck over the fallen ranger and blew a warm breath into the man’s face as if trying to help revive him, even though his own lungs were still heaving and gasping for air.  Aragorn listlessly swatted his hand at the horse’s nose and tried to roll away, but fatigue and the rigorous stress he had put his body through these last few days won out and he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.  The steed nuzzled at the ranger’s chest and pawed at the ground near his side, but when Strider failed to move, the animal gave up and lowered his head in weary acquiescence.

          Legolas’ mount, Astalder, now without a rider, had been racing along with the ranger and his fellow equine companion on their frantic sprint through the forest.  He now drew near the winded pair as if to offer what aid and comfort he could give.  Hodoer whickered his appreciation but the overcome ranger just snored in unconscious oblivion.  Sensing that the human would not arise for some time, the two horses turned their attention to the succulent grasses and started to graze.

          The two Grey Elf warriors hidden within the trees above watched the scene unfold below them with a mixture of hilarity and concern.

          “It has to be Strider,” Celoril laughed as he turned a sidelong grin at his companion.

         “Aye,” Amorfing agreed, frowning. “Then where is our prince?”  He gestured down at the two horses. “Is that not Astalder?”

          Celoril’s smile faded.  “We better wake him up.”

          Amorfing nodded and the two Elves agilely dropped from the branches and landed lightly upon the ground near the horses.  Hodoer gave a startled snort and shied away until he realized that the approaching creatures were Elves.  Once certain that they posed no threat to him or his rider, he calmed as the two warriors neared the fallen human.   Astalder whinnied a greeting and pushed his nose into Celoril’s hand as the warrior reached out to him.  The wood Elf stroked the horse’s neck and scratched at his ears in return.

         Amorfing walked over to the human’s horse and detached the water skin from Hodoer’s saddle, then headed over to the sleeping ranger.   He crouched down over the Dúnadan’s prone body and upended the water jug, pouring its contents over Aragorn’s head.  As soon as the cold water hit his face, the ranger sprang up coughing and sputtering, arms flailing, as he awoke from his stupor.   Amorfing easily jumped back out of reach of Strider’s flapping limbs and waited patiently until the water had revived the young man.

          With wet, dank hair plastered to his face and water dripping off his nose, Aragorn blearily looked up at the two Elven soldiers standing over him.  Aghast at being caught so completely off guard and indisposed -- and by Elves -- the young man swept the lank hair from his eyes and lightly touched his thumb to his lips and forehead.

          “Mae govannen,” Strider greeted the two.   He awkwardly rose to his feet while trying uncomfortably to muster some semblance of decorum. “Amin Strider, lîre ned i’ forodrim.”*

          “Yes,” Amorfing tersely replied. “We thought as much,”

          Celoril, still stroking Astalder’s neck, tried unsuccessfully to keep from grinning.  “Have you lost our prince?”

          His embarrassment forgotten, Aragorn’s eyes reflected a sudden inner panic and the two Elves immediately picked up on his fear and agitation.  Their manner changed to one of high alert in response to the ranger’s anxiety and Celoril swiftly scanned the area with his keen eyes.   Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he shook his head negatively at Amorfing.

          “You must take me to King Thranduil.  Legolas… your prince, is in grave danger!”

          The earnest appeal in the human’s face convinced the Elves that he needed to get to Thranduil’s court as quickly as possible.  Celoril whistled shrilly and several more woodland Elves materialized out of the trees, armed with bows and obviously part of this surveillance patrol.  “Alert the Palace Guard that we are coming at speed and have with us Strider, Ranger of the North and friend to Prince Legolas.”

          The Elves nodded and vanished into the treetops, leaping from branch to branch with sure-footed alacrity.  Within minutes they were gone.  Amorfing gestured for Strider to mount up and he and Celoril in turn swung up onto Astalder’s back for the ride to the palace.   Before leaving, Amorfing rummaged through the pouch at his belt and drew out a leaf-wrapped carrier of lembas which he offhandedly tossed over to Strider.

          “You must be hungry,” he remarked.

          “Hannon le,”** the ranger replied with open gratitude as he caught the packet against his chest.  He swallowed down the Elven journey bread with great delight while urging a reluctant Hodoer to follow the two warriors.   It would be dark before they arrived at the palace, and neither Elf nor man now wished to tarry.

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

          When they reached the torch lit gates of Lasgalen, they were admitted without hindrance by the members of the king’s Palace Guard.  All three riders hastily dismounted and advanced toward the stronghold’s main entrance.   King Thranduil himself was waiting at the elegantly carved doors to his Great Hall.  The flickering light of the torches wavered over the Elf lord’s face, and his long golden hair and ice blue eyes were so similar to his son’s fair features that Aragorn’s heart wrenched as his over-taxed mind thought for a fleeting moment that it was indeed Legolas standing there upon the stairs.   When he realized it was not, it only served as a painful reminder of his friend’s dire fate.   His pace quickened as he hurried up the steps to the awaiting king.  Bowing down on one bended knee, the ranger drew his arm across his chest in a gesture of supplication and greeting.  “Majesty,” he said.

          “Come inside, Aragorn,” the king commanded, and without another word to the ranger, Thranduil turned and entered his Great Hall.  Strider rose to follow the king and those various court ministers and Elf lords already assembled turned with their sovereign and entered the building.  The two Elf warriors nodded to Strider and then left to report to their troop barracks.  Aragorn waved a farewell to them and hurried inside as the monarch advanced across the lengthy floor, his counselors bustling behind him. Strider discreetly followed at the rear.  The king sat down upon his throne with a flourish and swirl of robes and gestured for the young human to approach.   When the ranger was standing in front of his dais, the king regarded him with an aloof expression of neutrality, honed by countless long years as the ruling king of his people.

          “Where is my son?” he calmly inquired.

          Aragorn choked back a lump that threatened to restrict his throat and forced his voice to remain calm and dignified, but the king could see the fear in the young man’s eyes and his own inner anxiety grew.

          “He is…” Aragorn hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then continued, “within the fortress of Dol Guldur.”

          At these words, the assembled Elf lords gasped in shock and the king’s jaw tightened, but he quickly masked his expression and continued to scrutinize his son’s friend and companion.  The young ranger was obviously reluctant to relate all he knew regarding Legolas’ alleged entry into the fortress.

          “He was captured?  You saw him taken?” asked the king.

          Aragorn lowered his head with remorse and pain.  “He…I could not prevent it, I…” but he could not continue as his weary mind vividly replayed the scene at the fortress gates.

          “Speak,” Thranduil prodded.  “You hold something back.”

          Strider’s eyes stung with exhausted tears barely held in check.  His look was imploring as he willed Legolas’ father to believe him when next he spoke, knowing that his words would be doubted and questioned.  “I saw Legolas, in the company of orcs, enter the dark tower freely, majesty, though I know in my heart that he was not himself, but overcome by some dark spell.”

          The jeers and shouts of the Elf lords grew much louder now and more outraged by these words and King Thranduil angrily gestured for silence.  He signaled his court herald to his side and when the Elf neared the throne, the king hissed. “Clear the room.  All save the ranger.”

          The herald nodded and began motioning for the counselors and other Elven lords present to leave the Great Hall.  Though protests were heatedly given, the king’s will prevailed and the room quickly emptied.  The herald bowed to his regent and then he, too, left the chambers.  Aragorn, head still lowered, stood before the king awaiting his next words.

          Thranduil’s face was unreadable but his emotions were roiling just beneath the surface.  Deep concern for his son was raging tantamount to a whirlwind within his heart, yet he did not want to believe that his son had willingly entered the fortress of Dol Guldur, that bastion of the vile Necromancer, the scourge of Greenwood the Great and the Dark Lord responsible for the decimation of his kindred.

         “Aragorn,” he stated, “you know my son better than anyone.  Tell me truthfully, has he fallen to the Dark Lord’s bidding?”

          Strider’s head jerked up.  “Nay, my lord, never would he do such a thing.  He has been taken against his will by some vile she-demon who has poisoned his mind and body with her foul darkness.  I have seen her.”  He paused, recalling the shadow creature standing beside Legolas at the tower gates, touching him… remembering, too, the foul sickness that taken over his friend.  “She is neither Elf nor human, but some monstrous evil of the Dark Lord’s making.”

          “Then what I feared has come to pass,” a deep, disembodied voice spoke from the shadowed wall hangings at the back of the King’s throne.  “An evil that I thought long dead is now residing in Dol Guldur.”

          Aragorn’s head spun toward the sound of the voice and a look of incredible relief washed over his face as he saw that the speaker was one of the Istari, the grey wizard Mithrandir.

          “Gandalf!” he shouted. “Thank the Valar you are here!”

          The kindly old man’s cracked and wrinkled face came into view and he smiled warmly at the youthful ranger.  “It is good to see you too, young Strider.”

          Thranduil looked from the wizard to the ranger and back.  “What are you saying, Mithrandir?  You know this evil that holds my son prisoner?”

          The wizard moved to the dais and leaned a wizened hand on the back of the king’s throne for the support of his ancient bones.  “Yes,” he answered.  “It is Thuringwethil, Sauron’s minion and unspeakable companion.”  His gaze moved to the ranger.  “She is most evil and we must get Legolas away from her with all speed.”  He paused, scrutinizing the young man’s face. “Yet I do not believe Legolas is her intended target.”

          Both the king and the ranger looked at Gandalf with confusion.  “Then why has she taken him?” asked Strider.

          “Most likely hoping you will come for him,” the wizard replied.  “It seems very likely that Sauron now knows of your existence, Aragorn, and he is using Legolas to force you into doing something rash.”

         The king stiffened at these words and the outrage within him rose to the surface.  “I will not let my son be used in this manner.  I will send out my warriors tonight to attack the tower.  They will… ”

          Gandalf raised his hand, halting the king’s words.  “You cannot fight Thuringwethil so easily, King Thranduil, nor can you take the fortress of Dol Guldur with an army you do not have.  If you are to save Legolas, you must exercise caution.”

         The king was mightily stung by these words, knowing that the Istari spoke wisely, but loath to admit the fact that it was true.  It was common knowledge that his warriors were few and now barely numbered in the hundreds; the Grey Elves were losing the daily battles they fought with the darkness that was encompassing the forests of Mirkwood.  He was angry and insulted by the wizard’s frank remarks, but he forced himself to remain silent, at least for now.

          “Could we breach the tower in some other manner?” asked Strider, gazing intently at the wizard.  “You know this fortress better than anyone, Gandalf.  Could we enter from some obscure hidden passage or little used entry now overlooked?”

          “Hmmmmm,” the old seer mused.  “Possibly… it is an ancient structure and if I remember rightly, riddled with passages and service entries now long abandoned.”  He rubbed his forehead with a wrinkled hand. “But I dare say these accesses have been sealed off or have collapsed in upon themselves.  The fortress has fallen into ruin and some parts of it are no longer structurally sound.  We will not gain entry into that tower with ease.”  He paused, thinking, and then continued. “We could, however, enlist the aid of the Dwarves to dig through the rubble.”

         Thranduil’s angry fist slammed down upon the arm of his chair so hard that Aragorn visibly winced.  “I will have no dealings with Dwarves!” he shouted.

          Gandalf looked at the older Elf with a gentle kindness in his eyes.  “Not even to save your son?” he asked quietly.

          The king glared at the wizard with ill-concealed wrath.  He did not take pleasure in being trapped into decisions that were not of his making.  His lips drew into a thin, harsh line as he fought to bite back the heated words that were straining at the tip of his tongue.  “You try me, wizard,” he glowered.

          “Think, good king, in order to save your son we must not let the enemy gain the upper hand.  You have not the warriors needed to storm this tower with a frontal assault and many immortals would die needlessly should you try.  I know you do not wish this for your people.”  The Istari smiled caringly at the Sindarin Lord, his prudent words helping to assuage the king’s ire.  “This type of work is best left to those who make it their livelihood.”

          Lord Thranduil turned an irritated scowl back to Aragorn as if the young ranger had somehow been working in hidden consort with the wizard to force him to accept this decision.  “The Free Folk care naught about the welfare of others, least of all the Elvenkind,” he paused, the irritation plainly evident on his face.  “And I suppose theywill want some type of payment to undertake a task such as this,” he groused.  Thranduil had long been of the opinion that Dwarves thought of nothing but riches and treasures and this proposal only served to reinforce that judgment.

        Strider reluctantly nodded his agreement.  “A reward of some kind would unquestionably insure their interest.”

          The king was quiet for a long time, pondering any other options available to him to get his son returned safely.  When he finally spoke, it was with bitter resignation.

          “I have gold and gems aplenty,” the king allowed.  He waved his hand in dismissal. “See it done.”  Then as if it were an afterthought, he looked back at the young ranger.  “The steward will see to arranging a room for you, Aragorn, and will send for you when the evening meal is served.”  The King glanced at the wizard. “Mithrandir?”

          “Oh, no need to worry about me, I won’t be staying,” he replied with a genial wave of his hand, indicating his regrets.

          Aragorn nodded his thanks to Legolas’ father, and then he and Gandalf bowed one last time and made their way out of the Great Hall.  Once outside, the wizard put a gnarled hand on Strider’s shoulder and leaned forward to speak softly into his ear alone.  “I will see to enlisting the aid of the Dwarves and will meet with you at the tower in ten days time.  Take heart, my dear Strider.  I have known Prince Legolas for many, many years.  He will not give in to this evil so easily.”

          Aragorn only nodded; the weariness of his body and the constant disquiet over his friend’s uncertain fate overcame his emotions and left him at a loss for words.  The wizard gave the young man’s shoulder another comforting squeeze and with a parting smile, walked away from the palace toward the stables where his horse and wagon were waiting.  Aragorn watched the old man’s retreating figure until he could no longer make out his reassuring form and then turned to re-enter the palace to find the house steward.  He longed for a hot bath and a warm, soft bed.

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

          Even as exhausted as he was, Aragorn still found sleep elusive.  The bath and hearty meal had been soothing and restorative, yet he was still too keyed up and on edge to rest.  Instead he found himself wandering about the silent, darkened halls of Lasgalen, empty now that the palace occupants had retired for the night.  The familiarity of the rooms and corridors only brought home the fact that Legolas was not here with him and with a saddened heart he roamed aimlessly from one passageway to the next until in time he walked out into an enclosed interior garden.  One of Legolas’ favorites, he mused as he moved along the stone pathway through the beautiful, sculpted lawns.  Above, the stars shone brightly in a cloudless black sky and the receding face of the waning moon gave the garden a shadowy, twilight haze.

         Aragorn was so lost in his own mental ramblings that he did not realize the Elven king was seated upon one of the low stone benches beside the fountain pool until he was standing right beside him.  Dismayed that he had intruded upon the king’s private reverie, he apologized for his ill-timed imposition.

          “Majesty,” he began. “I’m truly sorry.  I did not see you there.  I will leave you to your privacy.”

          The disconsolate king looked up. “It’s all right, Aragorn.  Please. Stay.”  He gestured toward a seat on the bench at his side.  Once the young man had joined him, the king continued, although his attention was centered on some point in the distance and not on the ranger.  “You do not know me very well, Aragorn, although I’m sure you have heard the tales – some good, some bad,” he paused. “Most assuredly all true.”

          He slowly turned to face Strider and gazed at the young man with the sad, harried eyes of a father whose son is lost and in danger.   “Just know that I love my son more than my life, and know that Legolas loves and trusts you more than any brother… ” He choked at this last and struggled to go on. “Bring him back to me, Aragorn.”   His whispered voice quavered and he could not continue.

          The young man instinctively reached out a hand to console the king, but hesitated, not sure if he was allowed to touch the king’s person.  Instead, he slid off the bench and knelt down on one knee in front of the king, his arm across his chest, a hand upon his heart.  “I swear to you I will do this, Lord Thranduil, or I shall die in the attempt.”

          The older Elf lord took a ragged breath and reached out, clasping Aragorn’s shoulder in a gesture of gratitude and unspoken appreciation for the ranger’s genuine devotion to his son.  After a moment, he withdrew his hand from the Dúnadan’s shoulder and slid it down to his forearm, cradling his elbow.  The king rose from his seat, pulling Aragorn to his feet as well.  He looked into the young man’s eyes and smiled slightly.  “I never understood Legolas’ unyielding commitment to you, Aragorn.  I always thought you crude and brash, but now I see that he was a good judge of character after all, for you display a deep undying loyalty to my son.  I will not forget it.”

          The king clasped Strider’s shoulders briefly as if he would say more, but too overcome with heartache to continue, he let his hands fall to his sides and slowly moved away.  Aragorn struggled desperately to fight the stinging tears that welled in his grey eyes but lost that battle as they spilled down his cheeks, leaving silvery streaks down his handsome face.  He gazed up at Eärendil and shut his eyes tightly, squeezing back the tears before they became an unstoppable torrent.

          “Hear me, Legolas,” he pleaded. “Wherever you are… know that I have not forsaken you and I will come for you.”

*Well met, I am Strider, a ranger of the northmen.

+Thank you

          Aragorn leaned against the barracks entryway watching Eäráng gather together his weapons and gear.  The Grey Elf was one of the ancient beings of his race and although he looked young and fair and not much older than Strider himself, he had seen thousands of years.  He was the captain of King Thranduil’s elite Sindarin Guard, a highly skilled archer and a seasoned warrior.  During the Second Age, while he served under Thranduil’s father, he had seen heavy battle and grievous losses to the Sindarin kindred; he was one of only a few Elves who had survived the massacre at the Battle of Dagorlad and knew well Sauron’s evil.   In the years that Legolas had spent growing up in Mirkwood, Eäráng had served as a mentor and friend to the young Elfling and Aragorn knew that he was devoted to the young prince.  Estel had met the captain previously on his various visits to Mirkwood and he trusted and respected the warrior’s counsel.

          “Not that the king doesn’t believe your plan will work, Strider,” the Elf was saying as he stowed his belongings into a leather sack.  “But when it comes to his son...”

          “I take no offense, Eäráng, and I welcome the backing of your troops.  Believe me, I have no great desire to take on this evil alone, but I am concerned that your presence in the woods will alert the orcs and compromise our entry into the tower to seek out Legolas unseen.”

          “The day you rode in with Celoril and Amorfing with news of the prince’s capture, I sent out patrols to keep a watch upon the tower.  Despite what you or the wizard may think, the reports that my runners have brought back suggest that there may be only a few hundred orcs actually occupying the fortress.  If that is the case, we shall have little trouble with them.”  The older Elf smiled. “Have no fear, Strider.  They will not see us.”

          Picking up his bow and slinging the leather pack across his shoulder, the warrior strode to the doorway and moved out into the courtyard beyond.  Aragorn followed and they headed toward the assembled Elf warriors who were now marshalling at the billet gateway.

          “You are welcome to journey with us, Strider,” the warrior invited.  Under Eäráng’s command, the Sindarin Guard planned a forced march to the Anduin where they would then board large cargo boats and sail down the river to Carrock.  From there they would move overland through the forest to the fortress of Dol Guldur.

          “Nay, I will make better time moving through the forest alone.  I wish to assess the tower fortifications myself while no one else is about.”   The ranger clasped the proffered forearm of the Elf captain and clasped his shoulder in a gesture of farewell.

          Eäráng nodded and took his leave of the ranger.  Strider silently watched as the Elven company mounted up and prepared to deploy.  Eäráng looked back over his shoulder at the young human and waved a salute.  Aragorn returned the sign and stood aside as the horses began to prance forward and the Elves began filing out of Lasgalen’s military compound.  As the small army departed, a groom came up to the ranger with Hodoer in tow and Strider turned to take the reins from the young Elf.

          “We’ve supplied you with provisions and your horse is rested and ready to go, Strider,” the Elfling smiled.  “I wish I were going with you.”

          The young man smiled and placed a hand on the Elf’s shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze.  “All too soon, Isúl, you’ll be out there with the patrols.  Your time will come.”

          “Not soon enough,” he muttered as he held Hodoer’s head steady while the ranger mounted.

          Aragorn laughed down at the Elf and touched his thumb and forefinger to his lips and then his forehead.  “Namaarie.”*

          “Maer faras,”** The fair being responded and waved as Strider rode out of the garrison and into the forests of Mirkwood.

          Standing alone upon a balcony high above the stockade, King Thranduil, too, watched the departure of his warriors and the young human ranger.  His heart heavy, he stared at the gates until his soldiers disappeared into the forest and then he quietly returned to his private rooms within the palace.  There were still a great many affairs of state that needed his attention, but his mind was elsewhere and fraught with worry over his son’s fate.  If not for the persistent nagging of his steward, he would have cancelled all audiences for the day and sent everyone away.   But he was king, and fear for his son or no, his first duty was to his people.   Listlessly, he left his study and made his way toward the Great Hall and his awaiting ministers.

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

          Gandalf sat at the diminutive table with the small group of Dwarves, his ancient bent knees drawn up to his chest and protruding over the table top and his bottom barely squeezing into the chair they had provided for him, but he was enjoying his meal and pint of brew as he listened with keen interest to their humorous tales.  This particular company of Aulë’s children mined the Misty Mountains to the south of Moria and was known for their great tunneling abilities.  Lomli, their taciturn leader, already knew the reason for Gandalf’s visit to the mines.  He had spoken with the grey wanderer at great length and had agreed to set up this meeting, but his jocular Dwarf companions were as yet unaware of the wizard’s plan.

          When the boisterous conversations around the table died down to a dull roar, Lomli leaned forward over his tankard and nodded to the grey wizard.  “So Master Gandalf,” he began. “Why don’t you tell us about this mission?”

          At this pronouncement several of the seated Dwarves started talking at once and Lomli had to silence them with frequent waves of his brawny hands.  “Quiet! Quiet, I say!”  He gestured toward Gandalf. “Let the wizard talk.”

          Gandalf scrutinized the assembled table members one by one before speaking, and then lowered his head conspiratorially as if this was some secret plot to be undertaken and they were the only ones privy to the information.  Readily drawn in by the Istari’s tactics, the Dwarves eagerly leaned in closer.

          “There is an ancient evil dwelling within the fortress of Dol Guldur on Mirkwood’s southern border.  The tower is filled with orcs and goblins and other foul creatures and a vile she-demon has taken captive one I hold very dear.  I would seek your help in rescuing him.”

          Mithrandir sat back in his chair and absentmindedly produced a long, thin pipe from a massive pocket within his robes.  He proceeded to fill the pipe with Shire weed and a short time later began puffing away on it. Billowing clouds of smoke encircled his head like a wreath and he carefully observed the gathered Dwarves through a smoky haze as they digested his words. 

          “And just who might this she-demon be?” asked Roifur, a squat ruddy-faced Dwarf with red-gold hair and beard.

          “Aye, an’ who’s she holding prisoner?” asked Glaran, one of the larger Dwarves at the table.  His black, beady eyes squinted at the wizard and his expression held only a guarded interest in this tale.

          Gandalf again looked over the hardy rock workers and slowly set down his pipe to continue the narration.  “The demon is Thuringwethil, an ancient evil spawned in the time of Morgoth and she holds Prince Legolas of Mirkwood her captive.”

          “Thranduil’s son!” shouted Roifur irritably.  “Bah!  And why should we rescue an Elf, especially one from Mirkwood?”

          Several other angry nods and shouts went round the table in agreement with Roifur and Gandalf calmly waited until the Dwarves’ grumbling outcries died down before he went on.

          “King Thranduil is offering a reward for the return of his son,” the wizard replied.  “I should think that might be of some interest to you.”

          “Reward?” Hulir, the youngest and most eager of those present asked.  “What kind of reward?”

          “Aye,” Glaran and Roifur spoke at once. “What kind of reward?”

          Gandalf leaned back and puffed at his pipe in a leisurely manner, allowing their innate inquisitiveness to peak until he was sure that they would burst with curiosity.  Then he spoke with a clever twinkle in his eyes, as if relaying knowledge of grave import to them alone.

          “Enough to satisfy any Dwarf Lord, I should say” he chuckled.  “Surely you know of King Thranduil’s wealth?”

          “Aye,” Lomli nodded bitterly.  “Stolen from the Naugrim!”

          “Now, now,” Gandalf soothed.  “That was a very long time ago and he didn’t exactly steal it...”

          Another spell of shouts and scathing Dwarf curses went round the table and the wizard patiently waited for their tempers to cool before speaking again.

          “My dear friends, we must put aside our disparity and join together in this.  The young prince is a worthy Elf and has shown great courtesy and assistance to the Dwarves when many of his kindred would not.   He means a great deal to me and deserves all the help we can muster to secure his release.  This evil being holding him prisoner must not be allowed to spread her foul darkness any further.  Dol Guldur is not that far from your own halls, and if left unchecked, she will loose her dread orc hordes upon your homes and families.   This is a peril that affects all of the inhabitants of Rhovanion and it is left to us to stop her.”

          “And how do you propose we do that?” asked Glaran, crossing his burly arms across his wide, barrel chest.

          “Ah,” Gandalf smiled.  “The answer is right here.”  He reached down to the floor beside his chair and picked up several of the antiquated scrolls and manuscripts lying upon the floor and placed them on the table.  He carefully unrolled them one by one and spread them out for the Dwarves to see.

          “I already have the allegiance of a young ranger of the northmen called Strider.  He is much aggrieved by the Elf’s capture and has sought my assistance in gaining his freedom.   He would willingly give his own life to help save the prince and fears not Thuringwethil and her orcs.”  The wizard stated.  “But he cannot gain entrance to the tower unseen and unhindered without your aid.”

          “I’ve heard of Strider,” said Lomli, nodding sagely.  “He seems an honest enough human and much respected ‘round these parts.”  Several of the other Dwarves present also nodded their knowledge of the young man and their agreement with Lomli’s assessment of his character.

          Mithrandir smiled and gazed at his stalwart audience.  “What I need from you, my stout friends, is to lend a hand in the tunneling out of these unused entrances.”  He indicated several marks on the parchment with a gnarled finger.  “Here and here.”

          The four, squat Dwarf heads huddled in closer, examining the maps laid out upon the table top.  Roifur ran his stubby finger from the first mark to the second.

          “Do these passages connect?”

          “Yes,” nodded the wizard.  “The first follows the tower roadway from the river channel under the bridge and leads to the tower’s interior keep and the other intersects the first at the tower wall, here.  Either tunnel will allow us entry into the fortress if unobstructed.  Once we arrive at the fortress, you will need to assess which tunnel is the most likely route and Strider will use that avenue to infiltrate the tower, seek out Legolas and bring him to safety.”

          “And what about the orcs?” asked Hulir, a glimmer of fear in his young voice.  He had never actually seen an orc before, but he had heard enough tales from his elders to know that he did not want to fight one.

          “Not to worry, young Hulir,” smiled Gandalf.  “We shall work by day; the orcs are sluggish at best during the daylight hours.   If we work quickly and quietly, we should be through with our task long before the orcs are even aware of our presence.”

          “Tunneling is not a quiet business,” stated Lomli.  “How do you propose we go about this digging unnoticed?”

          “You leave that to me,” Gandalf replied.  He gazed at the Dwarves each in turn.  “Well, my friends, what say you?”

          The four miners exchanged meaningful looks with one another and began chattering rapidly in the Dwarvish tongue.  After some very heated interactions, and much fist waving, they ultimately turned their attention back to the grey wizard.

          Lomli stepped forward as the spokesman for the group and looked up at the wizard.  “This seems a fine enough proposition, Master Wizard, and Elf, or no, we’re sorry to hear of your friend’s capture; however, my companions and I do not see the advantage of this risk outweighing its danger.  I’m afraid we’ll have to decline.”

          “Emmmmmmm,” Gandalf nodded slowly as he began to gather up his rolls of parchment.  “I see.”  He paused for a few poignant seconds and then continued.  “Did I forget to mention the Necromancer’s hidden cache of jewels?”

          This statement sent the greedy miners into a tizzy of babble and commotion, each trying to speak and be heard over the others.  Lomli finally got his cronies to calm themselves and he turned back to the old sage.

          “Very well, Gandalf,” replied Lomli.  “We’ll help you with this tunneling on one condition.”

          “And what might that be?”  The magician inquired with a raise of his brow.

          “In addition to Thranduil’s reward, we claim all rights to the tower and the treasure once your Elf is freed.” Lomli gave his friends a confident wink before turning back to face the wizard.  “And you see to the clearing out of the orcs.”

          Mithrandir laughed and smiled down upon the group.  “Then we have a pact.”  He collected up his scrolls and maps, and placed his rumpled, pointed hat atop his head.   “Now then, my friends,” the Istari stated. “We must make all speed to join young Strider.  He will be awaiting us in the forest outside Dol Guldur at the end of a week’s time.”

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

          The great burning Eye of Sauron swept over the jagged rocks of Emyn Muil and glided over the scorched and barren plains of The Brown Lands, winging toward the tower of Dol Guldur, seeking the one whose fate was so ultimately bound with his own.  Despite the demon Thuringwethil’s assurances that the mortal would come to the tower to rescue the Elf, there had been no sign of the ranger for nearly two weeks and he grew tired of waiting.  He knew the Shadow Woman’s proclivity for degenerate pleasures and idle amusements, but she wasted precious time indulging her depraved appetites toying with this Elf while his true enemy roamed freely throughout the lands of Middle Earth.

          The Dark Lord could feel the Ring’s stirrings; now, after lying hidden for thousands of years, it called out to him and he knew that the time was swiftly approaching when he would again claim dominion over the lands of Middle Earth.   But first he must deal with this upstart Dúnadan who would be king.

          The fiery Eye roiled again, swirling and flickering, casting its brazen gaze farther and farther afield.   With each new vista exposed to its view and still no sign of the Heir, he grew more and more enraged.  He sent his dark will out through the smoldering skies of Mordor, making its way to the unsuspecting Thuringwethil, languishing in her tower and commanding her to attend him to answer for her failure to capture the human.

          She was remiss in accomplishing the task he had appointed her and because of this insignificant distraction with the Firstborn that was consuming her interest, she was being derelict in her allegiance to him.  Punishing her would be quite pleasurable and he looked forward to it with great anticipation.  Even now as his black mind reached her, he could sense her fear and apprehension and it only increased his desire to see her suffer.  She would learn what it meant to disregard the will of Sauron.

*Farewell

**Good hunting

          An impenetrable, black mist writhed and whorled throughout the darkened corridors of Dol Guldur like an uncontrollable tempest, and a piercing, howling shriek followed in its wake, ringing off the granite walls and deafening those within earshot.  The frenzied orcs and goblins fled before the noxious vapors, their terrified screams adding to the thunderous maelstrom caused by the winds and gusts that whipped and lashed out from the dark, unnatural cloud.

          Filled with a seething rage and blind fury, Thuringwethil ultimately shape-shifted from the swirling fog into a human-like form and began rampaging through the tower chambers searching for a victim to unleash her murderous reprisal upon.  Her molten yellow eyes found and locked upon the orc, Râzgulduk, and he wailed in sheer terror at her fierce visage.  His panicked eyes darted from left to right, frantically searching the room for a means of escape, but the iron doors leading to freedom slammed shut with a horrendous clang that shook the very walls of the structure and trapped the orc within this small, confined space with the enraged shadow creature.

          “Mercy!” he pleaded, cringing with unbridled fear and truly believing that his wretched life was swiftly coming to an end.

          “Bring me the Elf!” she screamed.

         Granted this momentary reprieve, Râzgulduk ran toward the portals. “Yes, Lady!  At once!” he quailed, praying that he would make it out of the room without feeling the elemental forces of her wrath rip through his hide.

          Thuringwethil flung her arms wide and the heavy metal doors swung open allowing the orc to scurry through.  Once the beast was gone, she threw her head back and let forth another maddened, insane shriek.  When it was over and her lungs were spent, she started pacing the room back and forth like a caged and seething feline, her body shaking with rage and filled with vengeance.

          She had been callously returned to the fortress of Dol Guldur after being summoned by the Dark Lord himself to appear in Barad-dûr without delay.  Once there, she had been subjected to the smoldering fury of the Eye.  He was much displeased with her recklessness and seeming disregard for the undertaking he had given her, and in return had subjected her to the scathing torments of his black will.  And when the Dark Lord was finished with her, he had given her to his dreaded balrogs for punishment.   The caustic sting of their flaming whips still scorched her pale flesh -- all for her failure to secure the heir of Isildur…all because the human had not come for the Elf as she had promised.  And now back in her tower sanctuary, still smarting from that recent degradation, she could think of nothing else but venting her resentment and disgrace onto the source of her humiliation, that despicable Elf in the dungeons below.

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

          Legolas drifted in and out of consciousness, falling helplessly through nightmarish shadow lands only to be returned to the painful, agonizing reality of hanging suspended from the chains above his head in this dreadful and ghastly dungeon, without light, without stars, without life.  He did not know how long he had been here, whether it was hours, days, weeks, only that his body had been without food and water for so long now that even his Elvish strength was weakening and would soon no longer sustain him.

          The thirst for blood was overriding his reason and he now saw things through a reddened haze, shadowy and blurred, no longer certain what was real or imagined.  At first the orcs had tried to force him to drink the blood of slaughtered animals, but he had struggled so violently with them, that they no longer even bothered to offer it to him and so the hunger worsened and grew even more insidious as it consumed his entire body.

          He had relinquished all hope of rescue long ago, but from what his tortured mind could piece together, he believed Aragorn to be alive and unharmed… somewhere… and for that he was relieved.  He was content that Aragorn had not succumbed to this foul creature’s evil scheme and whatever his reason for not coming, Legolas did not fault him.  He could not bear to think of Aragorn suffering this torment and prayed that wherever he was, he was safe and protected.   As for himself, he was dying; of that he was certain.

         Thuringwethil was mercilessly feeding upon him; draining his life almost to the point of death and then releasing him, weakened and delirious, only to return again to repeat the horror.  She cruelly mocked him with seductive caresses, touching his face and body with her repulsive, glacial hands, violating his body in ways that he had never before imagined.  Each tormenting act left him with a raging hunger burning throughout his body, never fulfilled, and growing more rapacious each time she drank from him.  He was certain that the agarmael* was taking over his body, changing him; and he was revolted and appalled to think that he was becoming one of the undead.  He could no longer bear this rape of his soul as well as his body and he longed for it to end…but she would not let it, and he did not believe he could maintain his sanity much longer.

          When the noisy commotion began outside the dungeon door and the hideous orc entered his cell, Legolas could not determine whether he was dreaming or awake, but when the creature released the chain above his head and he fell like a rock to his knees, the pain that shot through his kneecaps like an arrow’s point assured him that he was indeed very much awake.  His arms, now lowered below his heart, began to seize with spasms as the blood once again began its swift course through his veins.  His bloodied wrists throbbed and oozed as the metal cuffs grated and cut into his skin and his hands shook as if palsied.

         The orc was cruelly indifferent to the Elf’s shattered and weakened body, and clearly relished his suffering.  Heartlessly, he snatched up the lengthy chain and pulled Legolas to his feet.

         “Get up, you worthless Elf,” he spit at the fair being, giving the chain another vicious tug. 

          Legolas lurched forward, his wrists brutally jerked by the chain as he was dragged across the stones.   It was only a matter of moments before his weakened legs collapsed under him and he fell, yet somehow he managed to gain his knees, and then rise unsteadily to his feet.  He stumbled numbly after the orc and nearly fell again when they reached the cell doorway as the dark creature dragged him out into the corridor beyond.

          “Where are you taking me?” The Elf prince croaked through cracked and parched lips.

          By way of an answer, Râzgulduk yanked on the heavy chain again and pulled the woodland Elf along behind him through the dark halls.  Legolas tripped and lost his footing, plummeting to the stones and landing heavily on his side.   As he went down, he grazed his head on the rock wall and the blow caused his vision to blur and darken for several seconds.

          “Stand up, you filthy Elf,” the orc sneered, and cruelly hauled Legolas along the flagstones for another several yards.

          Legolas’ body rolled over and banged into the granite blocks of the passageway before he was able to again rise to his knees.  He painfully rose to his feet and leaned heavily against the stone wall, using it as a support to hold himself upright.  As he swayed forward, dizzy and disoriented from the crack to his head, he squinted through the blood running down his face from a laceration above his eyebrow.  He brought his bound wrists up to his face and swiped the blood away, smearing it across his cheek and down the sides of his hands.

          The relentless orc heaved on the chain and again forced Legolas to move.  Subjugator and captive made their tortuous way through the tower passages in this faltering erratic struggle until both eventually reached the chamber where Thuringwethil impatiently waited.  Râzgulduk pulled the Elf into the center of the room and let go of the heavy chain leash.  It dropped to the Elf’s feet with a clatter and Legolas watched it fall to the ground with a surreal, detached interest.  It was all he could do to remain standing on his feet and not join the chain in a twisted heap upon the obsidian floor.

         The were-woman swooped down upon Legolas from her perch at the tower window like some foul carrion raptor and struck the golden Elf across the face with one ferocious swipe of her opened hand.   Legolas staggered sideways, hammered by the force of the assault and almost fell but rocked back up and stood facing the she-demon, his eyes vainly trying to focus on her face and his surroundings.

         “Where is he?” She shrieked at the battered Elf.  “Why does he not come for you?”

          Legolas’ ears were ringing and bright flashes of light were exploding in front of his eyes, mixing with the red mist of his shadow vision, the aftermath of her brutal attack.  His already disjointed brain was further jumbled and he could not understand what she was asking him, and then he knew.  Aragorn… she’s asking about Aragorn… so, he still eludes her.

          “I-I don’t know… ” he managed to choke out.

          Thuringwethil lunged at him again and the Elf shrank back, raising his hands to his face to prevent another abusive strike from the enraged monster, but she was much too fast.  Her icy hand seized Legolas’ slender neck and her long, tenacious fingers clamped around his windpipe like thin iron bands, crushing the airway and cutting off his breath.  He choked and gagged, desperately clawing at her hand, trying to pull it away from his throat, but to no avail.

          “Aragorn of the Dúnedain!” she hissed. “Where is he?”

          The Elf’s futile attempts to pry her constricting fingers away from his throat were slowly ending as his lungs gave up for lack of air and his awareness began to fade.  Thuringwethil screeched in thwarted fury and using her formidable morgul strength hurled Legolas across the room.  His lithe frame flew through the air and slammed into the far wall with tremendous force and then he fell to the floor like a crushed rag doll; the clattering chain tether followed behind him, slithering along the stones like a silver snake, and came to a halt on the floor beside his body.   He felt his ribs snap when he hit the stones, and his lungs, previously deprived of oxygen, now instinctively began to fill.   As they expanded with air, they pressed painfully against the broken bones in his chest and he moaned in anguish.  Gasping, he drew his knees up to his chest and clutched at his aching sides.

          The malicious shape-shifter sprang upon him anew and snatched up a fistful of his long, blond hair.  Twisting her fingers through the lengthy, golden mane, she yanked his head up and glared down into his face.  Legolas winced as she tightened her grip on his hair and jerked him upward again, half-lifting him off the floor.

          “Where is Aragorn?” she growled.

          “I don’t know,” he gasped.  “I don’t know where he is.”

          Her yellow eyes burned with a volcanic rage that threatened to erupt and then, incredibly, the fiend seemed to hesitate and her entire manner transformed to one of calm, cold malice.  When she smiled, Legolas’ heart stopped; he knew he was now in unimaginable danger.

          “Very well,” she purred, loosening her grip on his hair and walking away.  Legolas fell back onto the stones and grimaced as his elbow bounced roughly off the rock floor.  She turned back and looked at the Elf with a vindictive smirk.  “Maybe my pets can make you talk.”

          She signaled to Râzgulduk and the orc yowled with unrestrained glee.  He scuttled forward and snatched up the chain attached to Legolas’ wrists and mercilessly jerked the Elf to his feet again.  The prince cried out in agony as his cracked ribs slid against one another and a clammy wave of dizziness swept over him.

          Thuringwethil quickly moved to block the orc’s path and the creature looked up at his mistress with sudden terror.  “Do not kill him, Râzgulduk,” she whispered as she ran a hand over the orc’s lumpy head. “Or I will pull out your foul heart and feed it to you while it is still beating.”

          The orc cringed, knowing this was no mere threat and he whined piteously.  “I understand.  No kill.”

          “Good,” she sneered. “Now go.”

          Legolas feebly tried to pull backward upon the chain, but the orc was too strong and he was carried forward and out of the chamber toward some new unspeakable torture.  The hideous cackles of Thuringwethil’s cruel laughter followed them down the corridors.

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

          It was the dawn of the fourteenth day since Aragorn’s mad dash through the woods to reach the court of Lasgalen, and there was still no sign of Gandalf or the Dwarves he was to bring with him.  Strider had set up camp to the north of Dol Guldur in the early hours after midnight.  He had seen no sign of orcs in the surrounding woods and the tower, although quiet, was alit with numerous torches.  He had gone without a fire and planned to allow himself only a few hours of light sleep, when some time before dawn he had been awakened by a blood-curdling shriek issuing from the tower that had chilled his soul.  After that, he had not been able to fall back to sleep and remained watchful until the first rays of the rising sun lightened the sky.

          The young ranger now scanned the trees searching for any signs of movement, but all was silent and still.  The Sindarin Elves under Eäráng’s command were hidden in the trees above, of that he was certain, but true to his word, the warrior’s troop was so well concealed that even Aragorn could not detect them.  Nonetheless, he was glad to have them here as reinforcements.

          As the morning mists began to fade from the forest floor, Strider thought that he could make out the sounds of arguing voices and turning to the right his gaze peered through the trees and bushes.   A short time later the rickety wagon of the grey wizard came into view, Gandalf seated upon the boards.  Hidden from view, the Dwarves riding in the back of the cart continued their noisy squabbles, their voices growing ever louder.  Strider let the wagon pass by his position and then emerged from the undergrowth and appeared behind the carriage as if he had popped out of the thin air.

          Roifur spotted the ranger first and let out a startled shout.  “Hoy there!”  The others ceased their babble long enough to turn their heads to see what had caught their companion’s attention.

          “Gentlemen,” Strider murmured into the murky dawn fog.  “A bit less noise if you please.”      

          Gandalf turned at the sound of Aragorn’s voice and pulled up on the horse’s reins, stopping the wagon.  “Ah, Strider.  Sorry to be late.”

          The ranger walked up to the wizard and offered a hand to assist the ancient magus from off the cart and onto the ground.  The Dwarves seated in the rear began to jump out of the conveyance and drop to the ground as well, still making a good deal of fuss and commotion.

          Gandalf shook his head, laughing.  “We would have been here sooner, but my sturdy companions refused to ride horses.”  He winked at the ranger.  “I barely got them to compromise and ride in my wagon.  It seems they don’t particularly care for my collection of fireworks either.”

          “Aye,” Lomli agreed.  “This job is dangerous enough without bouncing about atop a box of foul blasting power.”  The others nodded their agreement.

          “Come,” Strider said as he attempted to herd the Dwarves off the road and into the woods.  “My camp is in the trees.  We need to discuss our plans.”

          “Quite so,” Gandalf agreed.  “Come along then my good friends.” He said to the miners.  “Let’s get this wagon concealed and start unloading our supplies.”

          Within an hour everyone was settled and once again looking over the scrolls that Gandalf had brought along detailing the layout of the black tower now visible through the trees to the south.  Satisfied by what he saw, Lomli grasped his axe and hefted it onto his broad shoulder.

          “We best go have a look at these tunnels before we plan anything further.  Roifur, you come with me.  We’ll take the river tunnel.  Hulir, go with Glaran.  You two investigate the tunnel by the tower wall.”  He glanced up at the sun.  “The sun’s high enough now, we shouldn’t have any trouble with orcs poking about.”

          “And do try to be quiet,” Gandalf chided.  “Speed and stealth are our only advantages.”

          Lomli frowned at the wizard’s admonishment, but nodded nonetheless.  “Very well, but as I said before, tunneling is a noisy business; we’ll do our best.”

          With that said, the four boxy Dwarves headed out of the camp and toward the ancient tower.  Strider and Mithrandir followed a pace, talking softly among themselves.

          “The Elves are here,” Strider said, tilting his head slightly upward toward the treetops.  “They have been keeping a watch upon the fortress and the orc movements for the past three days.  Eäráng believes there may only be several hundred orcs within the tower at this time.  If that is true, it will clearly lessen the odds against us.”

          “Indeed,” murmured the sage.  “I trust I can cause enough of a diversion out front of the main gates to draw the orcs’ interest and allow you time to enter the tower without difficulty should that become necessary.”  He turned a concerned frown upon the young man.  “But I fear the real danger will come from Thuringwethil.”

          Gandalf gazed ahead as if to collect his thoughts and then continued.  “If you can breach the tower by day, she will be within her tomb, weakened, but still very dangerous.  You will need to find Legolas quickly and get him out before either she or any of the lethargic orcs can be roused from their slumber.”

          “What if Legolas is not being kept in the dungeons?   I may have a problem finding him.  The longer I am within the walls of the keep, the less chance I have of getting us both out of there unharmed.”  Aragorn flexed his sword arm absentmindedly as they walked, thinking of the task ahead.  “Do you know where he might be if not in the lower prison?”

          “Unfortunately, the Shadow Woman could be holding him anywhere,” the wizard frowned.  “Try the dungeons first.  I will show you where they are located.  If he is not being held there, I assume that he will be somewhere near her secret chambers where she can keep a watchful eye upon him.”  He paused. “There is only one place within the tower where Thuringwethil would be able to lie undisturbed.  It is within the central keep where the Necromancer once performed his foul spells.  You must rescue Legolas by the light of day; to enter that tower after dusk would be much too perilous.”

          He glanced at the young man walking beside him.  “You must take great care, Aragorn.  Although in a weakened state during daylight, if she becomes aware of your presence, she can arise and will relentlessly hunt you down.  Do not allow her to mesmerize you with her stare, and avoid looking directly at her eyes at any cost.”

          “But how can I kill such a demon?” asked the young ranger.

          “You must wait until she assumes a human form.  If you can strike her through the heart with wood or cut off her head with steel, she can be slain.  But beware, young Strider.  You may only have one chance to kill her.  If you are not successful, you may not have another.”  He sighed.  “And I fear for Legolas.  By now we may already be too late.”

          A look of panic filled the human’s eyes.  “What do you mean, too late?”

          “He may already be turned to shadow,” Gandalf replied, the sadness heavy upon his heart.  “If he has, we cannot save him while the were-woman lives.  He will be her minion and obey only her command.”

          “Then I must kill her,” Aragorn swore.  “I will not allow Legolas to suffer thus.”

          Gandalf smiled grimly.  I do hope that you can, he mused, or Legolas is surely lost to us.

*bloodlust

          Râzgulduk frantically squirmed and writhed within Thuringwethil’s relentless grip.  The she-demon held him suspended in the air several feet above the stone flooring, her white hand clutching his scrawny throat and pressing his body into the stone wall of the dungeon cell.  His scaly arms flailed about in the air at his sides as he tried desperately to escape from her grasp.

         “I TOLD YOU NOT TO KILL HIM YOU WITLESS DOLT!” she snarled into the orc’s face.

          The creature’s huge eyes bulged and his black tongue protruded as she tightened her stranglehold upon his neck and his throat was compressed further.

          “Nak deh!” he choked.  “Nak deh!”  His right arm lifted and he wildly pointed toward the makeshift bier of hastily assembled loose planks and barrels where the Elf’s body lay sprawled and broken.

          Thuringwethil’s head tilted slightly and she leaned in closer to the orc’s bloated face.  “Not dead?”  She turned her head to glance at the battered and beaten body of the Wood Elf and then turned back to the simpering orc.  “Did he say anything about the Heir of Gondor?”

         “Naa, ma laahdi,” the terrified beast rasped.  He had no wish to tell her that he and the other orcs had not even questioned the Elf about the human’s whereabouts, only used him for their own amusement and torture.  Should she learn of this lapse in his assigned task, he was surely dead.

          Thuringwethil abruptly released the orc and his body plummeted to the floor, landing with a heavy thump in a tangle of arms and legs.  Râzgulduk rubbed at his aching throat and sucked in hurried gasps of air, but he dared not move from the spot to which he had fallen.  Although her attention was now focused upon the Elven being and her interest in him temporarily forgotten, he knew that Thuringwethil was not yet finished with him.  He warily watched the she-demon as she approached the Elf’s body.  She leaned forward over the motionless figure, intently examining the wood Elf for any signs of life or breath.

          One of the prince’s slender pale arms dangled from the table, blood dripping from the numerous cuts and claw marks that covered its surface from shoulder to wrist.  The chains that formerly encased his wrists had been removed by the orcs.  They did not want him to have a weapon of any kind, and had no wish to be strangled by the long, hanging chain.

          Once relieved of his shackles, they had tossed him into the pit, a filthy hole usually inhabited by half-starved wargs.   This pit was a shallow depression dug out of the ground within the dungeon complex and filled with coarse sand and dirt.  Legolas had been prodded and jabbed from above as the orcs pushed him to and fro toying with him and stabbing at his defenseless body with spears and scimitar blades until he was worn down and weakened.   Then they had jumped into the pit with him to attack with their short knives and daggers and when those failed to bring the Elf down, their claws and teeth.

         Thuringwethil clasped Legolas’ bloody wrist and felt for a pulse.  There was none detectable and she let the arm fall back as she bent over the Elf’s torso to inspect in detail the damage done by the orcs.  Three long, deep claw marks raked his chest from collarbone to waist and the broken ribs he had sustained from her previous fury were now framed with blue-black bruises.  There were several bite marks upon his shoulders and a multitude of small thin cuts, obviously stab wounds from the orcs’ spears and daggers.

          Her gaze shifted to his head and face; once so exquisite and striking, his features were now a travesty framed by matted and bloodied strands of golden hair.  His right eyebrow was cut, his eye swollen shut and his cheekbones bruised and bloody.  His pale lips were cracked and bleeding and there was a large, jagged gash down his left cheek. 

          Thuringwethil indifferently stroked his battered face with her ivory palm.  “Not so beautiful now,” she stated, sliding her hand down his cheek to his neck, seeking the artery.  She pressed her thin fingers to the translucent skin below his jaw.  There was the barest trace of a pulse beneath her fingertips, thready and weak, but there.   “Ahhhhhhh,” she sighed with contentment.  “So he is alive.” 

          She turned her cold countenance back to the cowering orc and Râzgulduk shrank against the wall, his hands pressing against his aching throat.  “I tell you he not dead,” he whined.

          “Be glad, you sniveling toad!” she growled.  “Now get out and see that no one disturbs me!”

          “Yes, yes!” the orc howled, scrabbling toward the door and fleeing from the cell before the she-demon changed her mind and decided to impale him from one of the iron hooks dangling from the ceiling.  As he hastily disappeared from the dungeon, Haqdû, her black goblin scout pushed his way into the cell.

          Irritated by the interruption of the ghoul, Thuringwethil gave the creature a withering glare.  “What is it?”

          Haqdû bowed and scuttled forward.  “Movement outside the tower,” he hissed.  “Dwarves and an ancient one near the bridge.  There are Elves in the woods.  I smell them.”

          The shadow creature’s interest was instantly peaked.  “Was there a human with them?”

          “I see no human,” the goblin replied.

          “I’m sure he’s there,” she smiled triumphantly, yellow eyes glowing with victory.  “Keep a close watch on them, Haqdû.  It won’t be long now.”  She waved a hand at him in dismissal.  “Now leave me.”

          The goblin nodded and retreated, the metal door clanging shut behind him.  Once the beast was gone, Thuringwethil turned back to Legolas.  She glanced at his body again, noting that his leggings were ripped and shredded in several places and there were no boots upon his feet.   A jagged and severe bite covered one of his ankles and a short orc dagger still protruded from his upper thigh.   She placed her hand upon the knife’s hilt and deftly pulled it from his leg.  The short dirk came away with a wet, sucking noise and fresh, red blood oozed from the wound.  At the sight of the crimson rivulet, her yellow eyes glittered with hunger.

         “Not dead yet,” she whispered, “but soon.”  Ignoring her own blood thirst, she drew the dagger across her right wrist and the black ichor of her noxious blood gushed from the cut.  She moved to Legolas’ head and pressed her wrist onto his cold lips letting the poisonous liquid drain into his mouth and down his throat.  After several moments he started choking and gagging, but she pressed the open wound closer to his lips, sliding her left hand under his head and holding it firmly against her slashed wrist.

          The Elf’s eyelids fluttered open and a look of revulsion and horror filled his blue eyes as he began to realize what was happening to him.  He tried to pull his head away, but Thuringwethil would not release her grip upon the back of his neck and he was forced to drink the foul and lethal blood.  After a time however, his desire to resist was broken and he began to suck on the gash with stronger and stronger gulps as the uncontrollable hunger within him overrode his will.   He rose up upon the table and clasped the demon’s arm to his mouth, drinking greedily and deeply of the ancient evil.  The gnawing hunger her blood had stirred within him was now too overpowering and all consuming to stop.

          “Enough,” she hissed, snatching her arm away and stepping back from the table.

          She warily studied Legolas as he slowly slid off the boards and stood to face her.  He stared at her with iridescent, red eyes that shimmered with renewed life as the venomous fluid raced through his system, but there was no trace of the Elf’s spirit in those luminous orbs.  The open cuts and gashes upon his body began to visibly close and heal as the morgul blood worked its black spell upon his body.  The bites and stab wounds faded and disappeared, and he could feel an incredible strength and power flowing throughout his limbs.  When the change was complete, his features, once merely beautiful, were now transformed into something ethereal and otherworldly.  He seemed to be a creature of another time and place, ancient even to the race-memory of the Elves.

          Aroused by his stunning appearance and vampiric sensuality, Thuringwethil slid closer to him and ran her hands across his smooth and sculpted chest.  No traces of any wounds or mauling remained upon his cool, marble skin.  “Ahhhh,” she smiled up at him.  “Beautiful again.”

          Legolas’ expression remained impassive and without interest as he looked at her with empty, soulless eyes.  He had no will, no desire, no feeling, only a faint, nagging sense that he should not submit to the shadow and the darkness, but he could not hold on to that thought and it slipped away into the misty red fog.

          “Come,” the shadow woman commanded.  “I have plans for you.”  She laughed maliciously as the Elf obediently followed her from the prison cell.

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

         Aragorn and Mithrandir looked up expectantly from their seat under the canopy of leaves as the Dwarves returned through the trees.  Lomli was grumbling about something to the others and they were nodding their agreement.  All four halted in front of the wizard and leaned upon their axes, waiting for their leader to speak.

         “We’ve assessed the tunnels and have concluded that we cannot enter by way of the river passage,” he began.  “It is flooded and would take us weeks to drain.  The corridor along the tower wall is not much better,” he reported.

         “But you can dig through it can you not?” asked Strider.

         Lomli nodded slowly.  “Aye, we can.  But it will take some time.  There’s been a cave-in where this passage connects to the river tunnel; there might be flooding there as well.  We won’t know until we get through the fallen rock and debris.  No telling what we’ll find on the other side of that wall of rubble.”

         Aragorn stood upright.  “Then we best get to it,” he stated as he bent down to pick up a shovel and pickaxe from the small pile beside the wagon.

          The Dwarves looked surprised and baffled by his words and actions.

          “Are you planning to dig?” asked Hulir.  The young Dwarf was incredulous that anyone who was not a Dwarf would even know how to dig.

         “We are running out of time, gentlemen.  If I can help, I will do so,” answered the ranger.

          The Dwarves were about to protest further when the Grey Elf Eäráng abruptly materialized out of trees.  His silent and unobserved entrance to their camp gave the Dwarf miners a serious fright.

          “Aiiii!” shouted Glaran, the first of the Dwarves to spot the Elf warrior.  “Damnable Elf!  Creeping about…”

         There was much huffing and grumbling while the Dwarves collected themselves and tried to appear unaffected by the Elf’s sudden manifestation.  Ignoring the Dwarves completely, Eäráng walked quickly over to Strider and began speaking earnestly and quietly in Elvish to the young ranger.

        “You can at least speak so we can all understand,” groused Lomli and the others nodded, arms firmly crossed against their bulky chests.

          The Elf captain’s face showed the slightest hint of distaste, but he nodded slightly toward the Dwarves and continued.  “You are being watched.  They know you are here.”

          Gandalf rose to his feet and moved over to the Sindarin archer’s side.  “You are sure of this?”

          The Grey Elf nodded.  “We followed a party of orcs early this morning.   While they were returning to the tower they spotted your wagon.”  He looked haughtily down at the Dwarves.  “The Dwarves were making such a racket I’m surprised they weren’t heard in Mordor.”

          Gandalf laid a strong hand upon Lomli’s shoulder before the Dwarf leader could reply, and said, “Good.”

          “What?” asked Glaran.  “I thought this was supposed to be a secret expedition.”

          The wizard turned to the sturdy miner and smiled cryptically.  “It is, Master Dwarf.   However, what they think they see is not what it appears to be.”

         The Dwarves looked confused and ready to start another raucous round of shouting, but the mage raised his hand for silence.  “We are wasting time talking.  The digging must be complete before dusk.”  He glanced at Lomli.  “Can this be accomplished?”

          The portly leader glanced at his companions and back to the wizard.  “We only have about five hours of daylight left, Master Wizard.  I cannot promise that we’ll be through to the tower by then.”

         “Then we must make all speed gentlemen,” said Strider, hefting the digging tools upon his shoulder.  “We have run out of time.  I will enter that tower as soon as a way is cleared.”  He glanced significantly at Gandalf.  “Day or night.”

          Before the wizard could reply, Strider started walking toward the dark tower.  Without any further word, the four Dwarf rock cutters followed behind him and they too, soon vanished from sight.   Gandalf shook his head sadly and turned his attention back to Eäráng.

          “If he enters after dark, you will have to contend with the orcs.  Are your warriors ready?” he questioned the Elf captain.

          The Sindarin nodded.  “Yes, Mithrandir.”

          “I pray it does not come to that,” the ancient sage sighed.  “But if it does, I will attempt to cause enough of a diversion to draw the orcs out of the tower and into the woods.  Your troops should be able to pick them off from the trees.”  He turned back to face the elder Elf.  “I will try to give you a signal.”

          “What signal?” asked the captain.

          “You will know it when it comes,” was his cryptic reply.

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

          Strider waved another cloud of rock powder out of his face and swiped a gritty sleeve across his dusty face trying to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.  His dark hair clung to his forehead in damp strands and he was winded and out of breath.  A new admiration for the stout Dwarves and their physical prowess built within him as he forced his aching shoulders to swing the pick at the rock wall one more time.

          Lomli, busily digging away to his left, glanced at the ranger and hid a smile behind his rough beard.  The labor was beginning to tell on the human, but he nonetheless continued hacking away at the stones.  The Dwarf leader was about to suggest that they take a few minutes rest, when a slow creaking, cracking sound began to emanate from the stone wall.  Lomli immediately stepped back and scanned the wall trying to determine where the stone was going to give way.

          “Get back there, Strider,” he called.  “The wall is starting to shift.”

         Before either the Dwarf or the human could move, the rock wall exploded outward in a shower of stone and dust; and then a huge cascade of cold, stagnant channel water gushed out of the rock and completely inundated Lomli and Strider, knocking them off their feet and sweeping them down the corridor like logs in a flooding river.  Strider crashed heavily into the granite wall and frantically tried to grab onto something to halt his progress, but the water only served to make the stone walls more slippery and his hands could find no purchase.

          Lomli fared no better, bobbing up and down like a cork as he was pulled under the water and then popped up again further down the passageway.  The Dwarf had somehow managed to hold on to his pick and after several thwarted attempts, hooked his digging tool into the stone wall and hung on as the water rushed past him.  He watched helplessly as Strider was swept away down the tunnel along with the torrent of muddy, roiling water.

         As suddenly as it began, the waters started to calm and recede as they leveled out, leaving the tunnel filled with several feet of murky, black water.  The Dwarf let go of his pick and dropped down into water up to his waist.  He started to slog his way down the corridor in search of the human, but in no time he caught sight of Strider making his slow way back up toward the breached wall.

          “Was that your plan?” asked Strider as he came into sight of the Dwarf.  His sarcastic expression was not lost on the Dwarf.

          Lomli looked offended and glared up at the dripping ranger.  “I warned you there might be water.”

         Irritated and quite disgruntled about being drenched, Aragorn sloshed his way past Lomli and headed for the broken edges of the wall.  On his way, he grabbed a torch from its seat in a wall bracket.  Miraculously the flame had escaped the surging waters and he held it aloft as he peered into the gaping hole.  The tunnel beyond was in total darkness and he could see nothing beyond the small halo of light that shone inward from the torch’s flames.

          He glanced back at Lomli.  “Get the rest of your fellows.  I’m going on ahead.”

          Lomli nodded his assent although he was still irked by the ranger’s mocking remark about his skills as a tunnel digger.  He carefully waded back toward the outside entrance where the other Dwarves had been left to unload the rock and debris from their earlier excavations of the tower tunnel.  By now, the flowing waters from the break in the wall would have reached the opening and his companions would be hurrying toward him to find out what had happened; and, as if on cue, three excited Dwarves splashed around a corner and stood facing their waterlogged leader.

          “Lomli!  Are you well?” asked Glaran.  “Where’s Strider?”

          The others were all shouting at once and Lomli had to yell over them to be heard.  “Here now!  Quiet!” he cried.  “We’re fine.  Come on, we have work to do.”

         The foursome hurried through the swirling waters as quickly as they could and eventually reached the broken tunnel wall where Strider had entered alone.  Fortunately, both Glaran and Hulir had thought to bring their lanterns with them and they went through the opening first, lighting the way.  Lomli and Roifur followed carrying the extra picks and shovels.  They soon found Aragorn standing in about a foot of water and surveying another wall at the end of the short tunnel.

          Glaran stepped up to the ranger’s side and ran his hands along the stone blocks comprising this walled-in section of the tunnel.  The blocks had been placed across an entryway and had been mortared together.  The plaster was damp with mildew and mold.  He gestured for Roifur to bring him a pick and when the ruddy Dwarf handed him the tool, he nodded his thanks.

          “This is the tower keep,” Aragorn stated.  “How long to break through?”

          Glaran looked up at the tall ranger and shrugged his burly shoulders.  “As long as it takes,” he muttered.  “Stand back and let us work.”

          The other miners shouldered their way past Strider and began to position themselves along the entryway.  Methodically they began to strike pick to stone and the mortar and rock began to chip away.  Strider moved back out of the way and let the Dwarves work.  He knew they were swiftly running out of time and daylight; if he was going to hold to his resolve to enter as soon as they opened this wall, then he was going to have to face the fact that he would now have to deal with the tower inhabitants in the dark of night.  He would also have to trust Gandalf and hope that the wizard’s plan to divert the orcs’ attention would work.  As more stone began to break away and crumble, he again moved impatiently over to Lomli’s side.

          “How long, Master Dwarf?” he asked again.

          Lomli looked up with an aggravated frown.  “Get what you need from your camp and be back here in an hour’s time.  We’ll have an opening by then.”

          Strider nodded at the stocky miner and then turned and headed back toward the tunnel’s entrance.  Lomli watched the ranger’s retreating back and slowly shook his head in weary resignation.

          “We had better have this wall down when the ranger returns, lads,” he grumbled. “He’ll be going through it, open or not.”

          Aragorn checked over his weapons and gear one final time, snugging up his sword belt and patting at the Elven knife at his waist.  Gandalf strode forward and handed the ranger a small, leather pouch.  Strider took it from the wizard with a quizzical frown.

         “What’s this?” he asked as he secured it to his side.

          “When I left you in the courtyard of Lasgalen and clasped your shoulder in farewell, I placed a concealing spell upon you.  As long as you remained in the forests of Mirkwood neither the Eye nor any of his minions could detect your presence, but once you enter the fortress of Dol Guldur, the spell will be broken.  This powder will serve to hide you from those within, but its power is limited and of short duration.  Use it wisely and sparingly,” the wizard instructed.

          Strider nodded his understanding and glanced at the small torch beside the Istari’s wagon.  “Give me until that torch burns down.  I should be within the tower by then.”

          The young ranger turned to leave, but the mage’s hand upon his forearm stayed his departure.  “I want you to wear this, Aragorn,” Gandalf stated as he pulled a small amulet on a thin, silver chain out of his belt pouch and carefully placed it over Strider’s head.  “It will help you to resist the controlling power of the Shadow Woman’s thoughts, but remember, do not look directly at her and do not let her touch you.  She has morgul strength and if provoked will crush you like a twig.”

         Aragorn nodded again.  “I will not fail, Gandalf.”

          “I know you won’t, my boy,” the old ancient smiled, “and neither will I.”

          Mithrandir watched after him until the ranger was out of sight and then he slowly clambered up onto his old wagon.  The four Dwarves were already seated in the rear and looked none too pleased about being there.  With a light flick of the reins, Gandalf set the wagon rolling out onto the roadway and headed toward the main gates of the dark tower to set his plan in motion.

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

          Aragorn easily trotted along the dark corridor of the underground tunnel, a torch held aloft to guide him.  Much of the water previously flooding the passage had seeped away into the ground and his footsteps made soft splashing sounds as he ran.  In no time he reached the tower keep entranceway and squeezed through the small opening that the Dwarves had created in the wall.  Once inside the fortress, he crept along each passage one by one as silently as possible, listening for any sound other than his own breathing.

          Mentally recalling the images of the interior tower drawings that Gandalf had shown him, he confidently made his way through the dark outer halls toward the main dungeons.  As he neared the prison cells he could hear the distinctive snorts and growls of several orcs and moments later their foul stench filled the confined walkway.  Aragorn wrinkled his nose at the vile odor and flattened his body along the wall, gradually inching forward on silent feet.  He glanced at the torch he held in his left hand and noted that it had burned down to the base.  It would not be long now until Gandalf’s powders blew out the front gates of the tower.  He patiently waited within a small alcove and tried to keep his breathing shallow and calm.

         As the torch’s flames died away, a muffled explosion could be heard overhead and almost instantly the orcs within the cells started a horrendous shrieking chatter as they rushed out of the dungeons and flooded into the passages, making for the stone stairways.  Aragorn lingered hidden within the nook until he could no longer hear their screeches and then quickly ran toward the prison area.  He proceeded to conduct a swift and thorough search of the dungeon sections and quickly found all the chambers to be empty.  In one of the rooms, however, there was a great deal of blood on the floors and a makeshift table, and Strider winced in anguish as he knew in his heart that the blood was Legolas’.

          Leaving the cells behind, he hastily made his way up the stairs in the same direction the orcs had taken.  Gandalf had told him the tower room he sought would be located on the tenth level and he quietly counted them off as he made his laborious way up through the central keep.  There had been no orcs or goblins in any of the halls that he had traversed and he thanked the Valar for his luck.  The wizard’s tactics were apparently working and their attention was focused on the front gates of Dol Guldur.

          At the top of the stairway leading to the tenth level, Aragorn halted and listened for any sounds.  Immediately, he could hear a shuffling, snorting grumble and the rattle of metal on metal.  Slowly he rounded the last step and poked his head around the corner, glancing down the hallway.  A single orc was unlocking a set of large iron doors and slowly drawing them open.  The beast then grasped a torch from the wall and entered the room beyond.   A few minutes later, the ranger could hear him speaking to the room’s unseen occupant.  Strider leaned closer and strained to hear what was being said, but he could not make out the words; however, he was certain that he heard Legolas’ voice, but there was something wrong with his friend’s speech.  The Elf’s words sounded lifeless and cold to his ear and no longer carried the carefree lilt that Aragorn remembered.

         Ah, Legolas, the saddened thought flickered through his intense concentration.  Hold on just a little longer, my friend.

          He slid back around the corner and leaned against the wall, waiting to hear what the orc would do next, and at that very moment, the foul creature shuffled back out of the room, closed the iron doors and moved off down the far corridor away from Strider’s hiding place.   Aragorn remained immobile until he could no longer hear the beast’s footsteps, then he hurried across the stones toward the closed metal doors.  He pulled them open with one mighty heave and quickly entered the dimly lit chamber.

          It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room, but when they did, he spotted Legolas almost immediately.  The woodland being was standing at the far wall, his bow clasped to his chest, feet slightly apart, in the watchful stance that Strider had seen so many times before when Legolas stood guard over their camp.   His familiar woodland garb had been exchanged for a black tunic, leggings and boots that only served to heighten the stark contrast of his ghostly pale features and white-blond hair.  The Elf’s shimmering skin glowed in the darkness of the room and his eyes shone red-orange like those of a wolf’s caught in the firelight.  Aragorn’s chest seized with fear at the sight of his friend and he stopped dead in his tracks.

        “Oh, Legolas,” he whispered. “What has become of you?”

          The prince’s statuesque bearing did not alter, nor did he acknowledge Strider’s presence and the ranger began to wonder if he was in some type of trance when abruptly his attention was drawn away from the Elf and to the stone sarcophagus standing in the middle of the room.  The granite lid was slowly sliding open and he stared in fascination as a cloud of black smoke issued upward from the crypt.

         Instinctively he withdrew his sword and held it ready at his side.  As he watched, the mist quavered and shimmered until it changed into the form of the black-haired woman he had first seen at the tower gates all those many nights ago.  Her white body appeared nude and barely concealed by her cascading raven tresses, but even as Aragorn stared at her, the demon’s form altered and wavered and he could not be sure what his eyes were actually seeing before him.

          Thuringwethil smirked at the young ranger with an incredibly evil smile that sent an icy chill down Strider’s back and she moved closer to the Elf.

          “At last,” she murmured, glancing up at Legolas and lightly brushing her fingers across his cheek.  “Aragorn has come for you.”

         The ranger’s body tensed, waiting.  He was repulsed by the way she touched Legolas’ face and he gritted his teeth in an effort to hold in check his first impulse—to rush the were-woman head on.  Instead he shifted his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet, ready to lunge either to the right or left depending on her next move.  He kept his gaze alternately upon the Elf and the demon before him.

          The shadow creature’s gaze turned from the human and fixed on Legolas.  “Kill him,” she hissed.

         In a blur of movement and incredible agility, Legolas’ bow arm went up and an arrow appeared, nocked and aimed at the ranger.  The Elf pulled back on the bowstring, anchored and set, then let fly the arrow.

          Knowing Legolas’ incomparable speed and skill with a bow was the only thing that saved Aragorn’s life.  At the dark being’s spoken command and without conscious thought, Strider swung his sword up and in front of his face only an instant before the arrow struck the steel blade just shy of the hilt.  Had he not placed the sword squarely in front of his nose, the arrow would now be protruding from his forehead.

         He swiftly and determinedly dove for the floor as three seconds later a second arrow whizzed by his head so close that it blew his dark hair across his cheek; he hit the stone floor and kept rolling, scrambling around the corner of the demon’s crypt as the third arrow struck the obsidian floor.   Shards and fragments of rock and dust flew up from the exact spot where his body had been only a moment before, and then the arrow clattered away.

         Panting, Strider shouted around the side of the crypt.  “Legolas!  Lasto enni!   Maetho he, mellon nin!  Maetho i’ guruthos!”

         At the sound of the panicked Elvish words, Legolas’ bow arm faltered and his smooth brow creased with pain and a deeper, inner suffering.  Why do these words torment me?  How do I know that voice?   The Elf‘s tortured mind reeled as the words reverberated within his skull.

          Thuringwethil shrieked with fury at Aragorn’s plea to the Elf and she began to utter dark incantations in the heinous Black Tongue.  The foul words seemed to strike the Elf like physical blows and he staggered backward in obvious agony as the demon’s voice assaulted him.

          Aragorn rose up from behind the stone tomb, sword raised and ready to lunge at the demon, but the shadow creature saw him and waved her palm at him in an angry sweep.  The young human was lifted up off his feet and flung backward across the room with such incredible force that when his back smashed into the wall, it crushed the breath out of his lungs.  His right hand struck the stones, loosening the sword from his grip and it clattered to the floor, skittering away; his body came hurtling downward to join it moments later.

         Stunned and gasping for breath, Aragorn made an ineffectual grab for his sword, but Thuringwethil flicked her wrist again and the weapon shot across the stones well out of his reach.  Falling back upon his elbows and panting for air, Strider slid backward across the floor, knees bent and pushed himself along as he tried desperately to get his hands up under his body so that he could push off the floor and rise to his feet.  As he did so, his hand landed upon something slender and hard lying on the stone floor beneath his body.  He glanced down and saw Legolas’ spent arrow lying under his palm.  He quickly snatched the weapon up into his fist.

          Legolas, if you can hear me fight her!  Frantic thoughts raced through his mind as he clutched the amulet around his neck, willing his mind to connect with that of his friend.  If the amulet could stop the demon’s thoughts, maybe, just maybe it could help him reach Legolas.  FIGHT HER!

          Legolas cried out in anguished torment, dropping his bow and pressing his hands to his temples. He fell back against the wall, shaking his golden head from side to side, moaning as the words, unspoken yet heard, pounded within his brain.  The Shadow Woman turned away from the ranger and snarled at the Elf.  “Kill him!”

         Aragorn sprang up to his feet and charged the short distance from the wall to the were-woman.  She sensed his movement behind her and spun about to face him, but at that same instant, Strider plunged the arrow shaft forward and into her chest.  The point pierced her heart and drove through her body, protruding out her back.  A look of utter shock and amazement and then murderous rage came over her face and an unearthly scream escaped her red lips.  Strider leapt back horrified and watched in fear as her body exploded into flames and then transformed into thick, black ash that swirled about the room like a raging tornado and just as quickly vanished.  The arrow hung in mid-air for a timeless second and then fell to the floor landing with a soft thud amid the grey dust.

          At that same moment, Legolas howled in ultimate despair and his body sank to the floor in a senseless heap.  Aragorn was momentarily frozen in place, staring at the single arrow lying on the floor.  After a time he slowly got his legs to move and staggered forward to his friend’s aid.  Dropping to his knees and grabbing up the Elf’s body, he desperately held Legolas’ still form to his chest and began rocking back and forth.  A desperate wail began at the back of his throat, threatening to erupt as the fair being’s head fell limply against his shoulder.  Strider pushed the long, blond hair aside, moving it out of the prince’s face and rested his forehead on top of his friend’s head.

          “Legolas!” he cried, hot, stinging tears forming at the corners of his eyes.   “Come back!”  He choked down a desperate sob.  “Come back…”

        After what seemed like an eternity to Strider, he felt the Elf stir within his grasp, and looking down saw that his friend’s face, although still a ghastly pale and haunted, no longer held that eerie luminous sheen.  As his eyelids slowly opened the ranger saw that the Elf’s beautiful eyes were once again clear and blue; the feral red glitter was gone. 

          “Aragorn?” Legolas whispered, not sure if he was imagining the anxious face hovering above him as his eyes tried to focus.  Then his body stiffened with remembered terror and his eyes held a look of sheer horror.  “The Agaraug!** You must get away! She will,”

         “She is dead,” he assured the Elf.  “You need fear her no longer.” Aragorn carefully helped the stricken prince to a seated position and then rising to his feet, pulled the Elf up with him.  “By one of your arrows,” he added.  “But that is a tale that needs later telling.  Now we must get out of here.”

          As if to validate this statement, the menacing growls and shrieks of the maddened orcs and goblins arose from the stairwells beyond the chamber.  Aragorn turned a concerned glance at his friend.

          “Are you yourself again?” he questioned.

          Legolas nodded in reply and snatched up his bow.   He lightly ran for the doorway and leaned out of the entrance, glancing out and down the hall.  He quickly signaled for Aragorn to follow him.  Orcs were surging up the stone stairway and would soon be upon them.

          “This way,” Legolas called over his shoulder as he ran out into the corridor.  Strider grabbed up his sword from the floor beside the stone crypt and followed swiftly upon the heels of the Wood Elf.

         Both warriors dashed toward a heavy iron door and bolted through it and out into the darkness of the night.  Legolas slammed the door shut behind them and hurriedly looked about for something to bar the door with, but found nothing useful and ceased looking, turning instead to the young ranger.

          Aragorn stood in the middle of the open turret and glanced around the exterior of the keep.  Torches in wall brackets ringed the walls and across the small open space was an arched walkway leading around the side of the turret.  He could hear the sounds of clanking armor emerging from that direction.  He quickly glanced to the left and saw a dark stone wall towering upward with no entry back into the main keep save the one they had just passed through.  Along the turret’s right side was the exterior wall forming the outer edge of the fortress and overhanging the river channel.   The black waters swirled about the tower base a hundred feet below and the moonlight shimmered off the waves caused by the rippling current.

          The ranger glanced back at his friend with grave concern.  “We’re trapped,” he stated.  “Orcs behind us.   Orcs coming up through that archway and the river below us.”

         Legolas deftly leapt up onto the wall overlooking the channel and glanced back over his shoulder at the human.  A wild grin spread across his fair face.  “The river then,” he said and stepped off the wall, vanishing from sight.

          “Legolas!  Wait!” Strider yelled, running to the edge of the wall and leaning his chest and head over the side to look down into the blackness.  He was just in time to see the Elf’s blond head disappear beneath the murky waters of the river far below.

          “Son of an orc!” he cursed, slapping his palm atop the wall.  He replaced his sword in its scabbard and grasping the stones, awkwardly hauled his body up onto the top of the stonework and looked down from the dizzying height.  He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.  “I’ll kill him myself,” he growled.

          Just then the metal door smashed open against the tower wall behind him and a wave of orcs surged forth onto the terrace.  Aragorn wasted no further time deliberating whether or not to jump and leapt out into the night.  His head disappeared moments before a volley of spears flew over the wall where he had been standing and rained down about him as he plummeted to the water below.  He hit the river like a rock and sank straight to the bottom.  Pushing off the riverbed, he swam to the surface as quickly as he could and made for the opposite bank of the channel.  As he crawled up the slippery, muddy sides of the riverbank, a strong hand grasped his collar and dragged him up the remaining few feet.  He flopped onto the ground and rolled over onto his back, his lungs heaving.  Legolas was standing over him.

         Strider raised himself up on his elbows and glared up at the Elf.  “The river then,” he mimicked the Elf’s words.

          Then quite unexpectedly and faster than Legolas thought possible, Aragorn leapt to his feet and took a diving lunge at the Elf.  His shoulder plowed into Legolas’ midsection and the Elf let out a startled woofing sound.  Both of them toppled to the ground where they wrestled and grappled with one another on the moonlit forest floor.  The Elf, taken completely by surprise, found himself wrapped in a tangle of arms and legs and laughing inanely as he and the ranger rolled through the leaves.  Aragorn eventually landed on the prince’s back, pinning him to the ground.

          “I yield,” Legolas choked and spat out leaves and dirt. “Get off me you great oaf!”  He twisted his lithe body and heaved the young human to the side and Aragorn landed in the grass beside him, panting and heaving, but laughing as well.

          “We didn’t have to leap off that tower, you know,” Strider informed the Elf through gasps for much needed air.  “Gandalf gave me some sort of concealing powder that would have hidden us from the orcs.”

          Legolas rolled his eyes at the ranger’s evident gullibility.  “Pixie dust?”

          “Not pixie dust,” Strider grumbled, offended that the woodland Elf obviously thought him naive.  “I have it here in this pouch.”  He snatched at the leather bag at his belt and tore open the leather thongs holding the bag closed.  He jammed his hand down into the bag and pulled out a viscous glob of grey mush.

          “I guess it got wet,” Strider replied.  The forlorn look upon the ranger’s face actually made the Elf cackle and finally Aragorn could hold back no longer.  The two friends howled until their sides hurt and eventually had to stop laughing just to breathe.

         After their absurd amusement ended, the tension of the past weeks came upon them once again and an uncomfortable silence fell over them.  Strider glanced sideways at Legolas, his eyes filled with a deep concern and worry over the horrific ordeal his friend had just endured.  “Are you well, Legolas?”

          Even the moonlight could not fully conceal the dark shadow that fell across the Elf’s face; he turned his head away, unable to confront the young ranger.  Finally he spoke, his words barely a whisper.  “I would have killed you.”

         Aragorn leaned forward and placed his hand on the Elf’s forearm.  “But you didn’t,” he replied.

         Legolas eventually turned back to look at his friend, his intense blue eyes telling the ranger much had happened that he was not yet ready to speak of and could not yet reconcile within his own heart.  “I have failed you,” he murmured.  “And myself.”  His voice trailed away and Strider had to strain to hear his last words.  “I still feel the evil within me—a part of me.”

          Before they could say more, a tremendous explosion rocked the forest around them and a huge fireball exploded into the air above the tree tops, casting an orange glow across the sky.  Both Aragorn and Legolas leapt to their feet and scrambled for their weapons as the concussion rolled through the woods.   They were ready for battle and watched in stunned amazement as the four Dwarf miners made a mad dash through the woods, coming straight towards them.

          “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!” the terrified shouts of the Dwarves could be heard as they came crashing through the trees, arms in the air, fleeing around and past the two friends and disappearing into the darkness.

          Aragorn and Legolas exchanged puzzled glances and were about to pursue the foursome when Gandalf suddenly emerged from the shadows.  His pointed hat was missing and his face and beard were smudged with black soot.  His robes were covered with dirt and dust and appeared to be smoking.

          “Gandalf?” Strider questioned.

          “Witless Dwarves!” the wizard mumbled.  “I told them to watch the flame...” he halted in mid sentence as he recognized Strider and Legolas standing before him.  “Ah, young Strider,” he grinned.  “I see you have rescued Legolas.”

          As they stared at Gandalf, the trees came alive and the Grey Elven warriors of the Sindarin Guard dropped down to the forest floor around them.  Eäráng stepped forward and spoke to the wizard.  “The orcs are routed.  They are fleeing the tower and heading for the southern reaches.”  He stopped speaking when he saw Legolas appear beside the mage.  He bowed formally to the Elf, his arm crossing his chest in a salute.

          “My prince,” he stated, the relief plainly visible on his handsome face.  “I trust you are well.”

          Legolas nodded formally, and then clasped the elder soldier’s arm in greeting.  A silent communication was shared between the two warriors as Legolas replied. “I am alive.”  The prince then looked about at the elite archers standing quietly behind their captain and Eäráng followed his questioning gaze.

          “Your father sent an escort to return you home,” he smiled.

         Legolas’ expression could not conceal the love he felt for his father nor his surprise that the king would act thus.  “I can’t ever recall him sending the Sindarin Guard to see me home before.”  He smiled slightly at the significance of this gesture and nodded to Eäráng. “But I welcome it.”

          The older Elf placed an arm across Legolas’ shoulders and walked him toward the other members of his troop.  “Your father will be greatly relieved to see you, my prince.”

         Aragorn watched as the Elves took Legolas into their protective company and then glanced at the bedraggled wizard beside him.  He returned his knife to the scabbard at his belt and nodded toward the woods.  “I suppose we best gather up the Dwarves,” he stated.

          “Hmmm?” the maiar replied.  “Oh, yes, quite right.” 

         He started to follow Aragorn into the shadows of the trees but lingered a moment to look back at the Elf prince.  Although Legolas was now smiling and seemed to be recovered, Gandalf knew that he would carry the terrible memories of this imprisonment for many years to come.  As he turned his glance back to the young ranger, the healer who would become king, he smiled to himself knowing that Aragorn would contribute greatly to the healing of Legolas’ soul.  And for this he was very grateful. 

*Legolas, Hear me! Fight her, my friend! Fight the Shadow! 

** Blood demon

The End