Strider sat alone in a shadowed back corner of the squalid tavern well away from the regular patrons and milling crowds.  The dark and noisy interior of the hostelry was barely lit by the smoking torches spaced about the room at regular intervals.  These flickering lights were bracketed to the smoke-stained wooden columns shouldering the cross-beamed ceiling above their heads and at this late hour, many had burned low or guttered out completely, casting lengthy shadows throughout the corners of the room.  This pleased Strider for he did not wish to be seen or disturbed, yet his vigilant gaze traveled back and forth across the room keeping track of all who entered and all who left.

          A wide, open fireplace set into the far wall of the tavern directly across from his secluded table blazed with heat and was responsible for the greater portion of light emanating from that side of the room.  Most of the inn’s customers were grouped about the fireplace trying to dry wet hands and faces and rain sodden clothes.  Thin wisps of steam rose from their soggy garments as the heat from the flames slowly began to dry the damp clothing, but it also served to heighten the strong and distinctly human odors of sweat, urine and stale beer already present within the cramped and crowded room.  Strider’s nose crinkled as a particularly odious whiff wafted by his table and he grinned slightly as he imagined, had he been here, how his friend Legolas would react as the Elf’s delicate and overly sensitive sense of smell was assaulted by this stench.

          Strider soundlessly shifted in his seat and waved a hand in front of his face to stir the air aside and patiently went back to studying the assembled group of men and women inside the tavern.  The hood of his heavy traveling cloak was pulled down over his eyes and nose and his bearded chin was barely visible as he puffed quietly upon his long-stemmed pipe.  A half-filled mug of warm ale sat upon the table in front of him and to any that might happen to glance his way, he appeared to be either mildly intoxicated or dosing.  Strider was neither and had not yet tasted the brew sitting before him.  He had made an obvious display of sloshing half the beer onto the floor after the serving maid had left it for him, waving her away as though he would topple from the table and onto the floor at any moment.  The harried woman had gladly left him, thankful that he had not asked her to clean up the mess or to get him another tankard of beer.

          That had been several hours ago and now the tavern’s clientele had thinned out somewhat.  Strider’s gaze swiftly turned to the door as an old man in a wet, mud-spattered grey robe and cloak entered the tavern and immediately engaged in conversation with the barkeep.  The ranger kept his full attention steadily fixed upon the elderly gentleman and although he had been watching the grey wizard Gandalf since his arrival, he made no move to indicate that he recognized the Istari or that he wished the wizard to join him.  Likewise, Gandalf had not even glanced in Strider’s direction although he was well aware of the ranger’s presence within the establishment.

          Their conversation at an end, Gandalf nodded his thanks to the man behind the bar and turned to leave.  As he did so, his head gave the barest inkling of a nod toward Strider; then he replaced his pointed grey hat upon his head and made his way to the door.  Moments later he was gone.  Strider made no move to follow but continued to puff idly at his pipe.  Harsh, raised voices suddenly came from another corner of the tavern and shouted threats could be heard as several of the men set upon one another, fists flying and tables scraped noisily across the floor as the others made room for the two combatants.  The portly barkeep grabbed up his wooden club and charged around the corner of his bar, moving purposefully toward the battling malcontents.  Once he had passed by the tables in front of Strider, the ranger quietly arose from his seat and tossed several small coins onto the greasy board alongside his mug of ale.   Then he gracefully glided between the tables and chairs and headed for the door.  His silent departure went unnoticed by those within the smoky room and without a backward glance he pulled the door open and slipped out into the black, rainy night.  The sleeping town of Derry lay before him, dark and quiet.

          The air outside was a welcome relief from the stuffy, stale closeness of the tavern, but the rain gave it a cool, dank heaviness that settled around Strider’s head and shoulders like a misty film.  The ranger sniffed several times, hoping dearly that he was not coming down with a cold or ague.  He had no wish to be ill, especially now.  He peered out from under the soggy hood of his cloak and his silver-eyed glance sought out any signs of movement along the muddy, rain-swollen lanes, and seeing none, he stepped off the stair leading to the tavern proper and melted into the darkness of the shadows alongside the building.  Swiftly and silently he hurried through the alleys and side paths until he was near the town gate.  Gandalf’s rickety wagon was slowly squishing and creaking through the muck and slime of the main thoroughfare, laboring toward the small gatekeeper’s abode.

          As the wagon passed by Strider’s hiding place, the ranger deftly leapt aboard the moving wagon and crouched down among the various crates, leather bags, and soggy packs that were crammed together in the back of the wagon.  Carefully and quietly he made his way toward the front of the conveyance and upon reaching the boards forming the back of Gandalf’s seat, he slid his back down along the wet wood and hastily drew his cloak up and over his knees and boots, covering them from view.   He lowered his head onto his arms as they rested atop his knees.  To any casual observer, he appeared to be nothing more than another one of the numerous bundles stuffed into the back of the wizard’s small wagon.

          He had only just settled his body into a slightly less painful position when the wagon jolted to a halt and he could hear the muffled voice of the sleepy gatekeeper.

          “Leavin’ at this hour, Master Gandalf?  The road’s not safe on a night like t’night.”

          “Aye, Rosdur, but I’m afraid I must,” replied the wizard.

          “Very well, then,” the gatekeeper complied.  “Hol’ on ‘til I get this gate open fer ye.”  Still only half awake, he stumbled forward, his small lantern held out before him as he made his way through the puddles and mud to the large wooden gate.  The feeble light from his lamp cast a smudgy glow about his face as he clasped the heavy iron handle on the oaken door that served as the gateway to Derry.   He pulled backward with all his strength and with a great deal of screeching and protesting of rusty hinges, the ponderous door slowly moved inward and the passage to the roadway ahead lay bare.

          “Thar ye go, Master Gandalf,” the elderly man nodded.  “Safe journey t’ ye then.”

          Gandalf tipped his pointed hat and smiled down at the gatekeeper.  “Back to bed with you, Rosdur.  I shall be fine.”

          The old man waved half-heartedly at the departing wagon and hunkered down against the steady, beating rainfall.  Once the wizard’s cart had cleared the entryway, he pushed the heavy gate closed and reset the latching bar, forcing it back down into place.  Then he gathered up his well worn shawl more tightly about his ancient shoulders and hobbled back to his rooms as thoughts of his warm, cozy bed filled his mind; the wizard already forgotten.

          Gandalf glanced back over his shoulder at the shuttered gate and receding township, then looked down into the darkness of the wagon’s overloaded and cluttered bed.  He chuckled slightly as he discerned a slight movement amid the boxes and chests and knowing that it was Strider, called softly.

          “We are clear of the town.”

          Strider rose up slightly and brushed the hood of his cloak back away from his dripping hair and gazed up at the wizard.  “What did you learn?”

          The old Istari shook his head sadly.  “Nothing of import, I’m afraid.”

          Strider frowned.  “What of Saruman?”

          “He has not seen them since he returned from the East,” Gandalf replied.  He glanced down at the ranger, then back to the dark and precarious roadway.  “That was over two hundred and eleven years ago.”

          “Would he not tell you anything more of them?” Strider asked.

          Gandalf shook his head.  “When I pressed him for more information, he only confirmed what I already knew – he chose to return to the West and they did not.”

          Strider shifted his weight upon the wooden flooring of the wagon in a futile attempt to ease his aching backside; then succumbing to the inevitable, made a conscious effort to ignore the pain and stiffness in his legs and rear and looked back up at the wizard.

          “What do you suppose happened to them?”

          “No one knows…or will say,” Gandalf answered as he pulled back on the reins and halted the wagon.  When the cart stopped, he turned in his seat to better see the young ranger.  “I need you to travel to Rhûn, my boy.  You must learn firsthand if there is any trace yet left to be found of Alatar and Pallando.  If there is even an outside chance that the Blue Wizards might still be alive and still dwell in the East, it is crucial that we take this gamble and attempt to persuade them to return to the West to aid us in this struggle.”

          Strider rubbed the rough stubble along his jaw with slow, thoughtful strokes.  Finally his silver eyes turned back up to the wizard.  “If no one has seen or heard of these wizards in over two hundred years perhaps they have left Arda and returned to the Valar.  Or, if indeed they are still residing in the Land of Rhûn they may have already made their choice of allegiance.”

          “I greatly hope that is not the case, Strider; and that is why it is most imperative that you to make this journey.  If the Blue Wizards were to join us in this fight against Sauron, it would be a great victory over Shadow and perhaps turn the tide in this battle against the Darkness of Mordor.”

          Strider nodded his head to the wizard.  “You know I will do anything you ask of me, Gandalf.  I shall leave at once.”

          The wizard’s eyes shut briefly, an expression of great relief apparent upon his worn face, and then a slow smile spread across his wrinkled features.   “Thank you, dear boy,” he spoke softly.   “I knew I could count on you to make this journey.”

          Strider rose stiffly and then placed both hands upon the edges of the cart and swung both his legs up and over the side of the wagon, landing lightly upon the muddy trail.  He moved to the front of the cart and looked up at the wizard.  “Where shall I meet you upon my return?”

          Gandalf smiled enigmatically and laughed quietly.  “Do not worry, my boy, I shall find you.”  And with that parting statement, he slapped the reins upon his horse’s flanks and the animal struggled against the traces as it strained to pull the cart through the mud-clogged ruts in the roadway.

          The wagon finally lurched forward, its wheels breaking free of the muck and Strider stepped back and off the path to allow the cart to pass by.  He lifted a hand in farewell as the wizard rode past and into the darkness of the night.  When he could no longer make out the Istari’s form, he turned and jogged into the dark woods toward the hidden campsite where he had left his gear, supplies and horse while he ventured into the town.   When he entered the camp he was greeted by Hodoer’s low, rumbling nicker.  He came up to the horse and gently rubbed the velvet soft nose.  Hodoer’s lip curled up, revealing large, white teeth and a tongue that lapped around the ranger’s hand.

          “I missed you too, boy,” Strider chuckled as his hand reached up to scratch the animal’s ears.  “How would you like to go on a little trip?”

          The stallion’s head bobbed up and down several times and he snorted agreeably.  Strider laughed as he swung the saddle over Hodoer’s back and began cinching the girth.   “I knew I could count on you, boy,” he said as he pulled the strap tight and then ran his palm along the horse’s flank.

          Hodoer side-stepped lightly, eager to be away and the steed’s constant shifting made it difficult for Strider to strap his meager gear onto the saddle, but eventually he managed to settle the horse enough to secure all of his possessions.  Then he carefully went over the campsite and methodically cleared away any evidence of his tenure among the woods.  Satisfied, he mounted Hodoer and together they headed northeast across the plains of East Emnet toward the Brown Lands.  

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

          The ride from Derry had been long and tedious, yet uneventful and the monotonous, dead landscape of the Brown Lands was starting to wear on the ranger’s nerves and disposition.  As the deep green of the trees and woodlands of southern Mirkwood gradually came into view, Strider’s spirits lifted and he urged his horse to greater speed.  Hodoer, too, sensed the trees and smelled the greenery and happily cantered to the forest edge.  As they entered the sheltering canopy of the leaves, the air cooled perceptively and Strider felt a renewed vigor that the Brown Lands had all but sapped from his mind and body.

          The ranger casually scanned the trees looking for any signs of an Elven border patrol, but could distinguish nothing within the dark, murky depths of the forest; only the eerie susurrations of the trees could be heard as they whispered among themselves. This portion of the woodland realm had long been marred by Shadow and was home to neither Elves nor Woodsmen, but as long as he kept to the edges of the eastern forests, Strider felt he would be safe enough until he reached the ancient Dwarf Path and eventually the Mountains of Mirkwood.

          As he rode, he debated within his mind whether or not to stop at the Halls of the Elvenking or just continue eastward toward the River Running and eventually the Sea of Rhûn.  Then he laughed quietly, knowing Legolas would never forgive him if he rode past Lasgalen and did not stop to visit, even if only for one day.  And, too, he longed to see the Wood Elf again.  It had been far too long between visits of late.  It seemed they were parted for longer and longer periods of time now that he had begun his lonely journeys through the length and breadth of Middle Earth.  Suddenly seeing Legolas again became more than just an idle thought and his heart yearned to see the Elven prince he had come to respect and value as a true friend and trusted companion.

          Hodoer sensed this new urgency in his rider and slid into an easy loping gait. The trees quickly sped past to either side of them in a green-brown blur as they streaked northward through the forest.  The horse skillfully covered the mossy ground underfoot and Strider left it to Hodoer to choose his own path through the woods, content to ride along without a guiding hand upon the reins.  If they kept to this pace, he would be seeing the Mirkwood Prince in less than a month.  A broad smile crept over his weather-worn face as he realized that it truly would be good to see Legolas again.  But just a quickly the smile faded as this thoughts turned toward his true purpose in traveling through Mirkwood.

          Although Gandalf had not sworn him to secrecy regarding this trip to the East, he knew that the wizard did not wish it widely known where he was going and why.  Venturing into the Land of the Easterlings would be perilous enough and it would certainly be most prudent to have someone other than the Istari aware of his intended destination.  Having Legolas at his back would truly ease his mind for he knew the Elf would be ever vigilant in the event that he did not return in a timely manner.  A wry grin crept over his lips; convincing the Elf to remain behind was another matter altogether. As these conflicting thoughts and worries battled back and forth within his mind, he turned his attention once again to the forest ahead.   The first leg of his journey was almost complete.  All too soon he would be trekking into lands unknown and he was both eager to be off yet filled with a cautious trepidation concerning the task Gandalf had set before him.  Hodoer whinnied loudly as if to echo his thoughts and Strider leaned forward over the horse’s neck as they flew through the dark forestland, ever northward toward the home of the Wood Elves.

           Strider could not be sure when first he realized there were Elves within the treetops and that he was being tracked as he rode through the foothills toward the Mountains of Mirkwood.  That he had not been consciously aware of their presence until now made him inwardly cringe.  He had always prided himself on being completely and totally aware of his surroundings and his relationship to them and this obvious lapse in his attention was testament to his jumbled and troubled thoughts and his eagerness to reach the Gates of Lasgalen.

          The Elves had made no attempt thus far to halt his progress through their realm, apparently signifying that they knew his identity and for now were merely keeping track of his movements through the forest.   He felt certain they had also sent runners ahead to alert the palace of his imminent arrival.  As more and more familiar landmarks came into view, Strider judged that he would reach the gates of the Elvenking by late afternoon if not sooner.  His swift passage through the woods was due in large part to Hodoer’s steady pace.  The sturdy stallion had easily covered ten to twelve miles each day, resting only when Strider had halted for water and food or during the night when he made camp.

          As he slowed Hodoer’s pace to ford a shallow creek, several Wood Elves silently dropped from the trees before him and spaced themselves across the forest trail ahead of him, blocking his path.  Hodoer slid to a halt, his front legs rising from the ground and pawing at the air, then thudding back down upon the forest floor.  The Elves made no move to stand aside and Strider nodded toward them, his thumb and forefinger touching his lips.

          “Mae govannen, Tawarwaith.” *

          A shrill whistle sounded within the treetops, followed by two short yips and several more Elves materialized out of the forest greenery to either side of Strider.  The ranger took note of their numbers, but made no move to turn his gaze away from the stares of those standing before him.  The leader of the scouting party stepped forward and brought his right arm across his chest, his head nodding slightly toward the ranger.

          Strider easily slid from his saddle and moved to Hodoer’s head.  He patted the animal’s neck and held the horse steady, his left hand grasping the bit strap and then he formally returned the Elf’s salute by crossing his own arm over his chest, his palm resting upon his heart.   His dark, tangled hair fell forward into his face as he lowered his head.  Strider did not recognize the Elf standing before him and started to give the warrior his name, but the Elf held up his hand, halting his words.

          “You are known to us, Strider.  However, your approach to our realm from the southeast and through the regions of Shadow gave us cause for concern.  I am glad to see you are unharmed.”

          “Forgive me.  My intent was not to arouse suspicion.  I have journeyed of late through the lands to the south and made my way across the Brown Lands to your borders.  I only wish to pass through Mirkwood on my way east and if it is convenient, to visit for a time with Legolas, your prince.”

          The Elf captain’s eyes flickered with hesitation and misgiving at Strider’s mention of travel to the east, but he merely nodded.

          “Very well, Strider,” the captain replied.  “You have leave to pass.”

          At their leader’s spoken sanction the Elves upon the roadway parted and rejoined their companions, flanking Strider’s horse to either side.  Strider bowed his head to the Elf and remounted Hodoer.  When once again he glanced up, the Elves had vanished, but he knew they were close by and would undoubtedly keep watch over his route to ensure he arrived at the Halls of King Thranduil as stated.  The ranger lightly touched his heels to Hodoer’s flanks and the stallion sprang forward.  The horse easily covered the few remaining miles to the home of the Wood Elves and seemed as eager to reach the palace as his rider.

          As the sun darkened to a deep orange and its last waning rays cast ever deepening shadows across the forest floor, Strider at last rode up to the great carved gates of Lasgalen.  The very sight of Legolas’ home made his heart lift with joy and a smile creased his travel weary face.  His arrival had indeed been expected and he was waved through the gates without hindrance or delay by the sentry on duty.   He cantered through the outer courtyard to the stables and practically leapt from his saddle in his eagerness to reach the palace.  But his elation turned to harsh disappointment when he learned from the stable master that Prince Legolas was not in residence, but off on a diplomatic sojourn at the behest of his father, the king.

          “Not here?!” Strider questioned.  His deep dismay was evident and the totally dispirited expression upon his face touched the Elf greatly as he sadly shook his head.

          “I am sorry, Strider,” the Elf replied.   He gently touched the ranger’s arm and looked into the human’s sad, grey eyes.  “He has been gone for several weeks, but should be returning some time tomorrow.”

          At these words, Strider’s face brightened.  “You are certain?”

          The Elf shrugged helplessly.  “I was not told the exact details of the prince’s itinerary, but yes, we are expecting his troop to return on the morrow.”

          Strider grinned broadly at the Elf.  “Thank you for this news.”

          The stable master smiled and nodded and would have said more, but an anxious groom appeared at his side and he was forced to return to his duties.  Strider turned his attention from the two Elves to securing a stall for Hodoer and arranging to have him fed and groomed while he remained in the stables.  Then he hurried to the palace to see the Steward about a room and to garner more information about Legolas’ return.  

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

          Strider awoke with the dawn and stretched lazily, reveling in the soft comfort of his bed and the fact that it was a bed and not the ground upon which he lay.   He yawned sleepily and then swung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly rose to his feet.  Stretching again like a languid cat, he groaned softly as bones cracked and muscles drew taut, then he silently moved to the side board.  He quickly plunged his hands into the basin of clear, cold water and lowered his face to the bowl, splashing the liquid over his face and head and shuddering slightly as the icy water spattered against his skin.  The jolting shock of the cold water swept away any traces of sleep from his eyes and he quickly toweled his face and beard dry.  He gazed thoughtfully at his reflection in the mirror hanging upon the wall over the wash basin and picking up his brush, tried in vain to run it through his dark, tangled hair.  Giving up, he moved back to his bedside and reached down for the satchel containing his clothes.

          As he rummaged through his belongings he noted that what few clothes he had were all well worn and rumpled and in dire need of a good cleaning.  Sighing heavily as his mind recalled Legolas’ chiding remarks concerning his lack of cleanliness, he donned a shirt and tunic that were at least free of mud and then slid into his leather trousers.  Said trousers were not free of dirt, but he was able to brush most of the caked grime away from the suede so that they at least outwardly appeared presentable; then he hurriedly pulled on his boots.  He was anxious to see if Legolas had arrived with the sun’s rising.

          After checking in with the Steward the evening before, Strider had met Legolas’ father in one of the grand hallways.  The elder Elf was returning from a council meeting and although brusque and preoccupied, had been cordial enough to the weary ranger, insisting that Strider use one of the rooms in the family residence rather than those normally reserved for guests.   The king had summarily issued orders to his Steward indicating the change in arrangements and Strider had been given a room close to that of the young prince.   Strider had hoped that Legolas might return some time during the night and had kept his door slightly ajar in order to listen for his friend’s arrival, but it was not to be, and disappointed, he had eventually fallen into an exhausted sleep.

          He was tossing the remainder of his possessions into his leather bag when the door to his room unexpectedly flew open and slammed into the wall.  Having grown up within an Elven household where all was quiet beauty and grace, Strider had come to associate any Elven abode with serenity and peace.  The sudden and explosive sound of the door hitting the wall of his room gave him a terrible start and he whirled about, heart racing.

          Legolas burst into the room like a whirlwind.  He had obviously come straight from the stables as his clothes were uncharacteristically disheveled and still carried the dust and dirt of travel.  His lush, long hair and intricate braids, normally pristine and silken, were windswept and tangled and fanned out over his shoulders like a cloak.  He was tugging off his riding gloves even as he covered the short distance from the doorway to the bedside where the ranger was standing and tucked them hurriedly into his belt.

          “Legolas!” Strider beamed at the Elf.  His grin slowly diminished as he saw the perturbed expression upon the Elf’s handsome face.

          “Leaving!” cried Legolas.  “How can you be leaving?  They tell me you only arrived late yesterday.”

          Strider laughed as he clasped Legolas’ forearms and squeezed them tightly.  “Good to see you, too,” he said.

          Legolas’ deep blue eyes shone with a radiance that lit up the room as his gaze traveled over Strider’s rugged face as if tracing an old and well used map that he had not seen for some time.   His expressive eyes finally sought the human’s silver ones and a broad smile slowly swept over his face and his musical laughter rang throughout the room.

          “I am remiss in greeting you properly, Aragorn,” the Elf grinned.  “Welcome to my home, mellon nin.”  His strong, slender fingers gripped Strider’s arms in return and the friends grinned at each other like fools until both began talking at once and eventually dissolved into more laughter.

          “You first,” Legolas insisted and a more serious note entered his voice.  “What is this nonsense about leaving?”

          Strider’s smile faded as well and he glanced away for a moment.  “I’m afraid it’s true.  I must leave this morning.”  He nervously snatched up the few articles of clothing still remaining upon his bed and began stuffing them haphazardly into the leather bag.

          Legolas moved around to the ranger’s side, his keen eyes narrowing as he stared at Aragorn’s profile.  The Elf’s flawless brow wrinkled with consternation and he placed an anxious hand upon Strider’s forearm.  “But why?”

          Strider turned to face his friend and a weary sigh escaped his lips.  There would be no easy way to tell Legolas what he planned to do and where he must go to do it – and that he was determined to do it alone.

          “I travel to Rhûn,” he answered.

          “Rhûn!” Legolas exclaimed.  “Are you mad?  What could you possibly have to gain by traveling to the Land of the Easterlings?!”

          Strider slumped down upon the side of the bed, his hands resting upon the tops of his knees as he tried to formulate his thoughts into words before speaking.  Legolas moved to the bedside and sat down opposite his friend patiently awaiting his answer.

          “Have you ever heard of the Blue Wizards?” the ranger asked.

          “Blue Wizards?” Legolas echoed Strider’s words.  “No, I have not.   The only wizards known to me are Mithrandir and Curunír.  Who are these wizards of whom you speak?”

          “Alatar and Pallando,” Strider replied.  “Together with Saruman they traveled to the East sometime around 2759.  Only Saruman returned.”  He paused briefly as his gaze fell down to his hands, now clasped between his knees.  “Gandalf wishes me to try and find them.”

          Legolas pushed off the bed and began pacing about the room.  He had acquired this irritating habit from watching Aragorn range back and forth across a room like a caged beast, but it did seem to help sort out his thoughts.  He finally halted in front of the seated ranger.

          “No one knowingly travels to Rhûn, Aragorn.  You do not know the Easterlings.  I vividly recall the Invasion of the Balchoth.  They were a plague upon this land until their defeat upon the Field of Celebrant.  The Easterlings are a ruthless and vile race of men and a sworn enemy of Gondor.  Their allegiance is, and always will be, to Mordor.   You place yourself in needless peril without reason by venturing into their lands.”

          Strider gave the Elf a grim, yet determined smile.  “You have little faith in me, mellon nin.  I am no fool.  I have traveled to many lands, alone and unaided.   I shall do so again.”  He raised his hand to ward off the Elf’s as yet unvoiced but impending protest.  “I will only stay as long as I must.  I will try to find out what information I can about the wizards and then I shall return.”

          He rose and placed a firm hand upon Legolas’ slender shoulder.  “If they do indeed live, I shall try to find them and speak with them.  If they are but a myth, I shall swiftly return.”

          Legolas was not assuaged.  “If you are adamant about pursuing this folly, then I insist on coming with you.”

          Strider shook his head vigorously.  “You cannot, Legolas.  As you have said, it is extremely dangerous for any man to travel to Rhûn.  For an Elf….” He let his voice trail off, allowing Legolas to form his own dire conclusions.

          Legolas stared back at the ranger with an angry scowl.  He knew Aragorn was right.  It would be suicide for an Elf to journey into Rhûn; even a warrior as skilled as he, but that did not mean he had to agree with Aragorn’s decision to go there without him.

          “I need you here, Legolas,” Strider’s eyes pleaded with the Elf.  “I need to know that there is someone here I can trust; someone who can see to my rescue should it come to that.”

          A flicker of fear and dread for Aragorn’s safety darted in and out of Legolas’ eyes, but he slowly nodded his head.  “Very well,” he answered, “but if you have not returned at the end of four months time, I shall come searching for you myself.”

          Strider smiled slightly, his eyes conveying his gratitude and thanks for his friend’s understanding.    “I will be fine, Legolas.  You’ll see.  I will be back before you have time to miss me.”

          Legolas was not so readily convinced that this trip would be the same as any other the young human had undertaken.  A shadowy sense of foreboding was tugging at the outer reaches of his mind; a feeling he had come to trust and heed.  But he knew that he would not be able to dissuade Aragorn from completing this mission into the forbidden lands of the east.

          Instead he picked up Strider’s much worn and well used saddle bag and handed it over to his friend, a soft smile forming upon his lips.  “You can at least allow me to accompany you to Lake Town.  We can spend a few more days catching up with one another on the trip down river.”

          Strider accepted the bag from the Elf with a grin.  “I would like that very much.  But first let’s break our fast.  I would dearly love to eat some of those berry muffins that only your cook can bake to perfection.”

          Legolas chuckled and shook his head.  “Your stomach,” he laughed.  “Always thinking of food.”

*Well met, Forest Elves.

          The trip from Lasgalen to the mouth of the Forest River and Lake Town was over much sooner than either Legolas or Strider would have wished.  They had been leisurely riding through the quiet, murky woods, sharing stories with one another and laughing at tales much embellished or outrageously exaggerated and then suddenly the noise and bustle of the huge river town was upon them, assaulting their ears and noses with the din of humanity and the rank smells of decaying fish and driftwood wafting off the riverbanks.

          It had been many years since Strider had been to Lake Town and he was amazed at the growth the river community had experienced throughout the years of his absence.   Even the conflagration and massive destruction caused by the dragon’s rampage had been rebuilt and expanded.  The men and women of Lake Town had mourned their losses and moved on, and as is the way of humans, they grew stronger as a result of their travails.

          He could feel the tension coming off Legolas like a physical entity and knew from experience that the Elf was not comfortable in such predominantly human settlements.  Even though both the men of Lake Town and Elves of the Woodland Realm dwelled and traded here, and had done so peaceably and congenially for many centuries, Legolas had never been able to shake the initial stab of fear he always experienced each time he found himself within a large gathering of humans.  And although no stranger to the merchants of Lake Town, having served on many a patrol escorting goods to and from the palace, he nevertheless did not relish trips into the city proper.

          Strider leaned forward in his saddle and his gaze traveled along the piers and quays in the harbor to the many streets and alleys leading from the large river port to other districts within the busy township.

          “Do you know the harbor master?” he asked of Legolas.

          The Elf nodded.  “A man called Brago.  You will find him down near the riverfront at the Harbor Registry.  While you are securing passage downriver, I will check on the consignments for my father.  The shipments should be here by now and I can see to escorting them back to the palace.  I shall meet you at the docks before you depart.”

          Strider nodded, yet reluctant to actually take leave of his friend.  Legolas’ deep blue eyes bored into his face and a slight grin tweaked the edges of the Elf’s lips.  “Well, go on, then,” he urged Aragorn.

          Strider laughed softly and proffered his right arm.  Legolas clutched it tightly, his stare fixing upon the ranger for a moment longer than needed and then let loose his forearm.  “Very well, then,” Strider replied.  “I will meet you at the piers beside the Registry.”

          Legolas turned Astalder toward the vintner’s district and Strider followed his departure until he lost sight of the Elf among the heavy crowds entering the marketplace.  He then turned Hodoer toward the lake and rode down the main thoroughfare toward the docks in search of the harbor master.  

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

          Securing a berth upon one of the large river barges going south was proving more difficult that Strider had imagined.  It seemed the river traffic leaving Lake Town was steady and profitable, yet limited.  He had spoken to the man, Brago, at length about his desire to travel to the Sea of Rhûn but the harbor master had told him that the barges and boats traveled no more than fifty miles south of Lake Town before turning back for the return trip.

          Strider’s frustration and anger at being thwarted in his desire to reach the eastern lands put a grating edge to his voice.  “You mean to tell me there is no one in this entire township willing to travel to Rhûn?  For any price?”

          The harbor master gave Strider a look of patience wearing thin.  “As I’ve told ye before,” he replied; his tone that of someone speaking to a bothersome child or addle-brained adult.  “The river traffic goes no more ‘an fifty miles south.  No reason t’ go further.”  He turned from his paperwork and leaned upon the large, expansive counter dividing his small work area from the common room.  “If ye don’t mind me saying’, ranger, ye’d do best t’ return t’ the Wilds.  You’ll not be travelin’ t’ Rhûn with any o’ my Rivermen.”

          Strider’s fists clinched, his anger at this pompous town official boiling just beneath the surface of his emotions, yet he held his tongue.  His silver eyes were flint sharp as he glared at Brago, but he merely nodded his head to the portly man.

          “Then I shall have to find my own way downriver,” he answered.

          Brago stiffened at the ranger’s tone, but he said no more and Strider turned abruptly, leaving the harbor office to stand outside upon the wooden steps.   If he could not travel by way of the river, he would simply have to ride Hodoer south to the sea.  The journey would take him twice as long, yet it was not any more difficult than some of his wanderings had been.  Although he had not planned on having to take several months just getting to the Land of Rhûn, he supposed it was going to be the only solution.  He could easily follow the river and camp and gather provisions as he went, but if the settlements thinned out then getting supplies would be more difficult.

          As he pondered these options, a movement to his left caught his eye and he turned to see a well-muscled man leaning against one of the columns supporting the overhanging entry roof.  The stranger was well tanned and his faced was cracked and lined, evidence of a life spent under the beating rays of the sun.  Strider could not accurately judge his age, but his eyes were old and told of hardship.  When the man saw that Strider had noticed him, he nodded and extended his hand to the ranger.

          “Name’s Lund,” he provided.  “Couldn’t help but hear ye talkin’ to Brago about passage south.”

          Strider’s eyes lit with hope and excitement.  “Can you take me to Rhûn?”

          The man shook his head negatively.  “Nobody goes t’ Rhûn and lives t’ tell about it,” he stated, but seeing the look of disappointment upon the ranger’s face, he continued.  “But I been t’ the Land of Dorwinion a time er two.  Men there are civil enough.  I could take ye there.”

          “How far is the Sea of Rhûn from this place?” asked Strider.

          The man scratched at the stubble along his tanned neck.  “Maybe fifty, sixty, miles south.”

          “When can we leave?”

          “My barge is being loaded now.  Should take ‘em another hour or so.”  The Riverman looked Strider up and down.  “Just you?”

          “And my horse,” Strider nodded.  “I will pay you a fare price.”

          “Indeed ye will, lad,” the man answered.  “Be down at quay seven by mid-afternoon.  Name of me boat’s River Rat.”  He stepped off the small porch and walked a few paces down the walk and then glanced back over his shoulder at Strider.  “I won’t wait on ye.”

          “I shall be there,” Strider assured him.

          The Riverman nodded and turned down toward the riverfront.  

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

          Legolas found the ranger down at the docks, unsuccessfully trying to persuade Hodoer to step across the swaying gangway to the barge.  The horse’s eyes were wild and he danced in front of Strider, ready to bolt.  It was all the ranger could do to hold him in place and only because he had wound the reins about his fist several times.

          “You will never get him to board that way,” Legolas noted.

          Strider turned at the Elf’s voice and gave him a sarcastic smirk.  “And how would you do it then?”

          Legolas slid from Astalder’s back and walked up to the panicked horse, whispering soft Elvish words of comfort as he approached.  Hodoer eyed the Elf with skittish tosses of his head, but allowed Legolas to stroke his neck and then eventually his head.  Once the animal had calmed down sufficiently, the prince glanced at Strider.

            “He does not like the idea of this trip any more than I do,” said Legolas.  “Perhaps you should listen to him.”

          Strider’s eyes flashed with an angry retort, yet he bit down the words and glared back at his friend.  “Do not push me, Legolas.  It has not been a good day.”

          Instead of being threatened or hurt, the Elf laughed with amusement.  “Is that so unusual?”

          In spite of his frustration, weariness and irritation to be off, Strider could not help but laugh as well.  “No, I don’t suppose it is.”  He moved to take Hodoer’s reins from Legolas and together they managed to cajole the horse into moving up the gangplank and onto the barge’s gently swaying deck.  Once Strider had him secured in one of the stalls, he and Legolas returned to the boat dock.  The Elf lightly jumped to the pier and turned about to face his friend.

          As he watched Strider waving to him from the barge railing, Legolas could not shake the fear of impending danger that settled about his shoulders like a mantle.  He could not determine what kind of danger it was that he feared so, yet his mind was screaming at him to stop the ranger at all costs.  He wanted to shout out to Aragorn to forego this madness and return to Lasgalen with him, but he forced a smile to his lips instead and waved as well.

          “Band lend, mellon nin,”* he called up to Aragorn.

          “Namaarie,” Strider replied.  And seeing the apprehension behind the Elf’s quiet smile and sad eyes, he added.   “Do not worry so, Legolas.  I will see you before the leaves turn from green to gold.”

          Legolas did not trust his voice to speak.  He knew if he did he would hopelessly plead for Aragorn to remain and he knew that the ranger would stubbornly refuse.  He had no wish to add his irrational fears to Aragorn’s already burdened mind.  He would just have to content himself with being patient and allow the months to pass by as he knew they would.  If Strider did not return, then there would be time enough to worry.

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

          The miles sped by as swiftly as the current upon the river and Strider was greatly relieved that he was not making this journey on horseback.  The lands to either side of the river had been starkly barren almost as soon as they had left the outskirts of Lake Town.  He had seen precious few human settlements along the river as they sailed down the watercourse, and once the trees of Mirkwood vanished from sight as they moved farther and farther southeast, there was nothing to be seen along the banks for miles except burnt scrub and dried sere plains.  It was a desolate, barren land; inhospitable and alien.

          They had traveled more than twenty days when Lund finally poled the barge to the shore and docked the River Rat at a sturdy pier on the eastern side of the river.  This tiny snippet of land was an oasis amid the bleakness of the landscape; a fertile valley of rich soil and lush greenery.  A smattering of buildings could be seen at the end of the lane leading from the pier and moving through the tiny village; and luscious vineyards lined the low hills and dales, row upon row, covering every inch of this small strip of fruitful land.

          Lund came over to the railing where Strider was standing, and watching as his barge settled into land, he leaned his sturdy forearms across the wooden poles, glancing at the ranger from beneath his tattered hat.  Strider, too, leaned his arms upon the rail, staring out at the valley in amazement at this unexpected glimpse of natural beauty.

          “The Vales of the River Running,” said Lund.  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

          Strider nodded his agreement.  “Yes.  What is this place?”

          “Dorwinion,” answered the Riverman.  “Some of the finest wines ye’ll every taste come from this tiny valley.”

          The two men gazed at the breathtaking scenery before them; neither speaking, and then Lund rose up from the railing and looked to Strider.  “This is as far as I go.”

          Strider pulled back from the rail as well and nodded.  “My thanks for allowing me to journey with you.”

          Lund made a humpfing snort and stared at Strider as if he would never see him again.  “The pleasure was mine, ranger.  I wish ye luck.”  He paused, head shaking.  “Yer goin’ t’ need it.”

          Strider made no reply, just bowed slightly and then went to see about getting Hodoer out of his confinement.  Even though he had walked the horse about the barge daily, he knew the animal wanted to run free and work the kinks and knots out of his stiff legs and he, too, had a great desire to stand upon land once more.  He led Hodoer toward the opening in the rail and together they waited until Lund and his crew had secured the barge and lowered the planks.  Hodoer had no difficulty exiting the barge and clomped down the wooden planking with eager anticipation.

          As Strider mounted his horse, Lund came up to his side and looked up at him with concern.   “If ye should change yer mind about goin’ farther south, I’ll be here a day or so until they load the Rat full up with wine barrels.  Yer welcome to return with me t’ Lake Town.”

          Strider smiled grimly.  “My thanks, but I shall go on.”  He looked down at the small village.  “Is there an inn or hostelry in the town?”

          Lund nodded.  “Aye.  Only one.  Called Land’s End.”

          Strider touched two fingers to his forehead in a brief salute to the Riverman and eased Hodoer down the small lane to the village.  The second leg of his journey had come to an end and he was eagerly awaiting the final few miles until he reached his destination.  He would get a good night’s rest at the inn and a hearty meal and be ready to leave at first light.  He also wanted to subtly ask some questions of the inn’s patrons regarding this region and try to glean any information that could be found about Alatar and Pallando and the Land of Rhûn.  He gently nudged Hodoer into a trot and headed toward the center of the town.

*Safe journey, my friend.

          King Thranduil leaned back into his ornately carved oaken chair and with a critical and discerning eye, studied his son, now seated across the expanse of the massive conference table.  His crowned head rested lightly upon his opened palm and a slender, elegant finger stroked at his temple as he continued to contemplate Legolas’ blatant inattention to the meeting going on around him.  Numerous scrolls and parchments littered the table top in front of his son and the king felt sure they were still as yet unread and unsigned.

          Several of his ministers were still heatedly arguing some trifling point of which the king himself had lost track some time ago and he finally leaned forward in his chair and placed his hands upon the table top before him.  At his movement, the counselors grew quiet and all eyes turned toward their king – save those of one Legolas Greenleaf.

          “We have discussed this matter at length and overlong,” the king stated.  “I shall reflect upon your words this eve and give you my decision tomorrow.  This council session is concluded.  You have our leave to go.”

          There was much grumbling and murmuring among the Elf Lords as they gathered up their documents and books, and those who had been hopeful to gain a judgment upon the aforementioned discussion involving the proposals coming from Lorien, were annoyed that the king seemed to be delaying any ruling on this subject and was intentionally withholding a verdict.  But all arose and eventually the room cleared of all save the king and his entranced son.  When the doors to the chamber closed upon the last of his ministers, Thranduil rose from his chair and moved down the length of the table to stand before his son.

          Legolas subconsciously felt the close proximity of another being and visibly jerked as the towering figure of his father loomed over him.  Taken aback, he quickly glanced about the now vacant conference chamber and the untidy pile of parchment still lying upon the table in front of him.

          Thranduil’s hands rested lightly upon his hips as he stared down at his flustered son.  “It is the ranger, is it not, that makes you worry so?”

          Legolas flushed a rosy crimson and nervously began to straighten the haphazard stack of papers lying before him.  He was utterly mortified that he had been caught so conspicuously remiss in his duties as a council member and that his father was now compelled to voice his consternation and forced to reprimand him for his negligence.  Yet when he glanced up at the king’s face he saw no trace of anger or disappointment in his father’s expression, only worry and concern.  Relief flooded over him like a dam broken and the unvoiced thoughts tormenting his mind formed themselves into words and tumbled from his lips in their rush to be released.

          “Yes, Adar!” Legolas nearly shouted in his eagerness to relinquish these voiceless uncertainties.   “I know Aragorn has only been gone for several weeks, yet I cannot stop feeling that he is in grave danger.  I cannot sleep.  My thoughts are in a constant vortex of fear and anxiety, robbing me of rest until I can think of nothing else.  It is driving me mad.”

          The king gracefully seated himself in a nearby chair and turned slightly to face his son, his strong yet elegant hands clasped upon the table in front of him as he studied Legolas’ agonized face.  Both father and son sat motionless and mute, their eyes locked in a silent dialogue of complete trust and love, and then the king quietly spoke.

          “Then you must find him and lend him what aid you can.”

          Legolas’ face literally glowed with radiance, mirroring the inner respite he now felt as he heard his father’s encouraging words.  He reached across the short expanse of the tabletop and clutched his father’s right hand within his own, squeezing it tightly.  “Thank you, Adar.”  He choked slightly as an unexpected lump rose within his throat as the fierce emotions of love and hope flooded his mind and heart.  “Thank you for understanding.”

          Thranduil smiled slightly, eyes suddenly bright with the threat of tears, as he realized that deep within his heart, he knew he would do anything just to see his bright green leaf happy and free of such misery and sorrow.  His left hand wrapped over the one his son now held and he looked down upon their entwined fingers, his own and his son’s, and holding Legolas’ slim hand between his own two palms, his smile saddened.  He gazed up into his son’s face and a resigned sigh escaped his lips as he said.

          “I trust you will depart at dawn?”

          Legolas nodded, eyes bright and feverish in their excitement.  “If you will allow it, Adar.”

          The king nodded his assent and then rose from his chair, pulling Legolas up and drawing his son into a strong embrace.  As he looked over the top of his son’s golden head, his eyes closed and silent tears slid slowly down his face as he rubbed his hand gently across Legolas’ slender back, pressing his son’s shoulders closer to his chest.

          “No band, ion nin,”* he whispered as his fingers softly stroked the silken, blond hair atop his son’s head.

          Legolas drew back slightly from his father’s encircling arms and gazed into his timeless eyes.  “Im náuva, Adar,”**

          Thranduil nodded, eyes lowered, and then hugged his son to him once more before finally releasing him and watched with a heavy heart as Legolas silently left the council room and hurried to his private suite to pack and collect his weapons.  The king swept up the forgotten parchments and unsigned scrolls and gathered them up under his arm and then he, too, left the quiet chamber behind.  

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

          Strider sat at a small table in front of the warming fireplace inside the Land’s End public house, a cup of honeyed wine clasped between his hands, and thoughtfully watched the flames waver and dance within the pit.  Those few men also within the tavern were now ignoring him and talking among themselves in hushed and quiet whispers, furtively glancing in his direction as if they thought he was some demon come to ravage their isolated valley.

          The town folk had been pleasant enough upon his arrival, gladly granting him a clean room and stabling for his horse, and at first, had readily spoken to him about their tiny valley and the wines that were their livelihood.  However, when his questions had turned to Rhûn and what he might find in that unknown land, the villagers had clammed up tighter than the oysters found in the Gulf of Lune.

          From that point on, they had avoided any contact with him; refusing to even acknowledge his initial probing and he had wisely refrained from pressing the issue.  Now, as he watched the fire’s mesmerizing movement, he began to wonder if this trip would yield any useful information at all or merely cost him his life.  

          Perhaps Legolas was right, he mused, as dark thoughts clouded his mind.  I should have listened to his wise counsel and remained in Lasgalen instead of traveling into this hostile place.

          Gandalf’s deep voice suddenly whispered within his mind, driving the doubts and sinister worries from his head. ‘If there is even an outside chance that the Blue Wizards might still be alive and still dwell in the East, it is crucial that we take this gamble…’  Yes, he thought, his resolve renewed.  I must do this.  Gandalf would not send me to this forsaken realm if it were not vital to the survival of all Middle Earth.

          He glanced up from the fire and his gaze swept the hushed room.  The few remaining men were still engaged in their quiet conversations and surreptitiously observing him over their wine cups.  The owner of the inn was behind his cluttered bar, busily twisting the cork from a dusty wine bottle, yet his eyes were fixed upon the ranger.  Strider slowly rose from his seat and walked to the bar, placing his empty cup upon the stained wooden top.  He withdrew several coins from his pocket and placed them upon the bar and nodded slightly to the owner.  The man quickly pocketed the silver pieces and then tossed the cup into a wooden wash tub filled with dirty, greasy water and the cups and platters from the evening meal, but said not a word to the departing ranger.

          Strider suddenly halted and turned back to the man, as if he had only just thought of some insignificant matter, and gazed back at the innkeeper with his steady, silver eyes.

          “Perhaps you could direct me to a merchant within your town who might sell me some supplies for my journey?” he asked with a quiet, yet commanding voice.

          The barman appeared nervous and uneasy, but he nodded his head toward the table of men seated behind Strider.  “Forras handles the trade for our town.  Maybe he can help you.”

          At the mention of his name, a dark haired man looked up and his eyes met Strider’s.  The ranger nodded to the trader and walked toward the table, halting before the man and extending his hand.  Forras did not take the proffered arm, but slowly set his wine cup down and rose from his seat, his stance challenging.  Strider raised his hands in front of his chest in an effort to ease the man’s disquiet and smiled slightly.

          “I am in need of supplies for my journey,” he stated.  “The innkeeper tells me you have goods to sell?”

          The man nodded, his eyes cautious, yet the prospect of a large sale overcame his fear of the stranger.  “Aye.  If you have the money to pay.”

          Strider nodded.  “I do.”

          “Very well then, come to my shop in the morning.  It’s not far from the river docks.  I’ll see what I can do for you.”

          Strider touched two fingers to his temple and nodded at the man.  “Gentlemen,” he nodded to the others about the table, and then he turned and left the men of Dorwinion staring after his departing back.

          Forras shakily returned to his seat and hastily gulped down the last of his wine.  “He really means to travel to Rhûn,” he stated, his anxious glance falling upon each of the men in turn.  “Maybe we should tell him what’s out there.  He seems decent enough.”

          “He’s a fool,” grunted the man across from Forras.  “Only fools go lookin’ for trouble.  Let him find out for himself.  We warned him.”

          “Aye,” the others chorused.

          Forras reluctantly nodded, his gaze drifting to the closed doorway where the dark-haired ranger had only just left.  Mixed emotions churned within his mind and an uneasy cloak of guilt draped itself along his shoulders.  Damn what they say, he decided.  I will tell him tomorrow before he leaves.  He does not deserve to die without knowing what he will face in those mountain passes.  

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

          Legolas raced along the riverbanks following the River Running on its southeasterly course through the barren plains.  He had learned from the Rivermen in Lake Town that Lund’s barge, the River Rat, had not yet returned and was not expected for another week and a half at the very least.  No other boatman was willing to make the long journey that far south and he had been forced to accept passage only as far as the outskirts of the dead plains.  From there he had ridden Astalder along the river, stopping only to rest and water his horse.

          Being Elvish, he had no real need to stop for sleep or even food, but his horse needed rest and nourishment if he wished to keep up this reckless pace.  He had taken more provisions than usual for this journey and had himself become a walking armory, secreting Elven blades throughout his clothing, within his boots and inside his bracers.   His quiver was full and he had strapped several more bundles of arrows to his packs and supplies.  He had no idea what he might find when he reached Rhûn, but he wanted to be sure that he was adequately armed for any contingency.  It was sheer insanity for one of the Firstborn to travel alone to Rhûn, but his fear of the Easterlings was as naught to that of his terror for Aragorn’s safety.

          He guessed that Aragorn was by now at least two weeks ahead of him on his journey and would shortly be entering the Land of Rhûn, but he had made good time sailing along the river and now racing through the barrens.  If Astalder could keep up this mad dash, he might be able to narrow the gap to a week or less.  Only time would tell; however, the dark cloud of fear that hung over his mind seemed to increase the farther south he traveled and he dearly wished that he had Lord Elrond’s gift of the sight.  This horrid “unknowing” was eating at his heart and his fear for Aragorn was a daily companion, taunting him until he thought he would scream.  An unbidden and unexplained sense of desperation had crept into his mind as well, adding to his already troubled thoughts.  Above all else, he feared that he would arrive too late; that his friend would be beyond his aid and forever lost, and that it would be his fault for allowing Aragorn to go on this trip alone and unprotected.

          “Hurry, Astlader,” he whispered the Elvish words into the horse’s flattened ears.  “Our time is running out.”

          The grey Elven stallion sprang forward, urged onward by his rider’s pleas.  The landscape swept by in a tawny blur as horse and Elf sped down the riverside as if the fires of Mordor were raging behind them.  Together they would traverse the empty plains until they reached the Sea of Rhûn.  He would find Aragorn; he had to.  

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

          Strider rode up to the trader’s shop near the boat docks and leisurely dismounted from Hodoer.  The sun had barely risen and the morning mists off the river were still hovering inches above the water, but it looked to be a mild, pleasant day once the sun had fully risen.  He secured Hodoer’s reins to the post alongside the cluttered walkway and stepped up and into the shop of the river trader and quickly glanced about the confined and disorderly quarters.

          The tiny building was crammed with all types of fishing and hunting gear, bags of feed, farming tools and a small compendium of miscellaneous items from baubles and finery for the women, to finely crafted knives and short blades.  Forras was standing at the back of the shop, emptying a bag of grain into an open bin when he spotted Strider and slowly nodded.  When his task was completed, he tossed the empty sack aside and, dusting his hands along his breeches to remove the chaff, moved to the front of the shop.

          He nodded curtly to the ranger, and slid his hands into his back pockets with a nervous twitch.  “So,” he began.  “What can I sell you?”

          Strider had come amply supplied for this journey, but felt that from here to Rhûn he might not come upon any human settlements and thought it prudent to add to his cache of goods.  He gestured toward some dried meat strips hanging from the wall behind Forras and began his list.

          “I’ll need some of that dried meat; grain for my horse; a large water skin; a bundle of those arrows,” he paused as his silver-eyed gaze traveled over the shelves and piles of items within the store, alighting upon a bolt of crisp linen cloth.  “And several yards of that cloth.”  He glanced around the room again.  “Do you carry any herbs or medicines?” he inquired.

          “I’m afraid not,” Forras answered as he gathered together the items that the ranger had requested.  “Not much grows around this valley, save the vines for the grapes and the grains for the livestock.”  He placed the folded linen cloth on top of the grain sack.  “We must depend on Lund to bring us medicinals from Lake Town and the Woodland Realm.”  He looked at Strider with a new, appraising glance.  “Are you a healer then?”

          Strider chuckled.  “Of sorts.”

          Forras nodded, still staring at the dark stranger before him.  The words he wished to speak were there on his tongue, yet he could not summon the courage to voice them.  The ranger was gathering up the various bundles and reaching for his money pouch to pay him for the goods, yet he still could not find his voice and Strider glanced up at him expectantly.

          “How much do I owe you for these supplies?”

          “T-two gold pieces s-should do,” he stammered, palms suddenly sweaty as he wiped them along the legs of his pants.

          Strider eyed him curiously as he drew out the necessary coins from his sack.  “You are sure?”

          Forras nodded hurriedly, accepting the payment; and avoiding the ranger’s eyes, he suddenly gathered up a pile of leather hides lying upon the counter in front of him.   He quickly turned as if to stow them away, yet the shelves behind him were full and no space was left to place the leather skins.  He stood there a moment, hides held before him, and stared at the wall, unsure exactly what to do with the goods he held.  Strider leaned forward, staring at the man with growing concern.

          “Are you all right?” he asked.  “You seem frightened.”

          Forras whipped about to face the ranger.  “No!” he cried much too quickly.  “No, I… just.”  He dropped the leather skins and they fell to the counter top and then slid to the floor in disarray.  He ignored them.

          The Dorwinion trader stared at Strider with an almost wild expression and then frantically blurted out.  “You cannot go any farther!  You don’t know what’s in the mountains.”

          Strider’s eyes narrowed as he studied Forras.  He noticed now that the man was older than he had first assumed, and there was a terrible pain within his eyes that told of some agony he had recently experienced.  Strider stepped forward and touched the man’s arm as his eyes sought and finally held the man’s gaze.

          “Why must I travel no further?  What is it you fear?” asked the ranger.

          Forras’ face had gone ashy white and there was real fear in his eyes as he looked up at Strider.  When he spoke the single word, it came from his lips as a whisper and yet it made the nape of Strider’s neck tingle with an icy chill.

          “Gaurhoth.”

          Striders eyes widened with apprehension and misgiving.  “Gaurhoth,” he repeated almost as quietly as had Forras.  “Werewolves!?”

*Be safe, my son.

**I will, Father

          Strider slowly lowered the various bundles of supplies he had just purchased and set them back down upon the counter and stared at Forras as if he had not quite heard the man correctly, yet Forras’ head made a curt bobbing jab of a nod affirming that he had. 

          “The Wolf-Men of Sauron,” he replied in a voice barely above a hushed whisper.  Then glancing furtively about his shop, he held his hand up to halt Strider’s next comment and hurried around the end of his counter and hastened to the doorway.  He quickly pushed the heavy door shut and slid the wooden bolt across the frame, locking them both inside.  He waved his hand at Strider, indicating that he should follow and quickly moved toward the back of the small building.

          “Come, I have rooms in the back; we can talk there without interruption.”

          Forras disappeared through a doorway and Strider had no choice but to follow.  Slowly he walked around the edge of the counter and made his way through the barrels and stacks of goods to the rooms beyond.  The Dorwinion trader was already seated at a wooden table littered with dirty plates and moldy bread and when Strider entered the small but cozy room, he gestured toward the remaining chair, inviting Strider to join him at the table.

          As he seated himself across from the man, Strider could see that Forras was nervous and edgy, and filled with a terrible fear that he had not seen in any man for quite some time.  His silver eyes studied the harried trader for several moments, trying to assess if the man was serious in his belief that shape shifters of some sort were roaming the mountain passes of Rhûn.  

          Finally he asked. “How do you know of these Wolf-Men?”

          “Because they took my son!” the man hissed.   A harsh, biting stab of bitterness and frustration sounded in Forras’ quavering voice and the expression on his face was hard and angry.  Then, just as quickly, his features seemed to melt and his face was a portrait of pain and anguish.  His work-worn hands came up and covered his face and his shoulders shook as ragged, rough wheezes came from deep within his chest.  Strider half arose from his chair, ready to aid him, but Forras held up a shaky hand.   “No,” he said.  “It’s all right.  I…I just can’t get over losing my son; knowing that I will never see him again.”

          Strider’s compassionate gaze turned on the man and he gently reached across the table and placed a hand upon Forras’ arm.  The grief stricken trader jumped at the ranger’s touch, but quickly came back to himself and ran trembling fingers through his dark hair in an attempt to calm his nerves.  Without preamble, he quietly began speaking.

          “It was over a year ago,” he said.  “We were losing livestock.  A goat here, several sheep…not sure really what was going on, but we thought maybe a lone wolf had come down from the mountains of Rhûn after a harsh winter and no food.  Several of the men in town decided to track it down and kill it and my son chose to join them.

          “They followed the beast for several days and eventually came to the sea and the mountains rising up from the shores.  The tracks seemed to lead up into the ridges and then disappeared.  By this time they had traveled far from our valley and several of the men felt they should just return.  That the wolf had gone back to its lair and would trouble us no further.  But two of their party did not agree and wanted to see the wolf dead.  My son agreed with these two and the three set out into the mountains after the wolf.

          “The remaining men made camp near the sea and waited.  When the trio hadn’t returned by the following dawn, they began to worry.  By mid-day there was still no trace of the men, and at dusk, they finally decided that the hunting party must have met with some type of accident.   Against their better judgment, they decided to investigate.  At the rising of the sun, they, too, started into the mountains.  They hadn’t gone more than a half a mile when they found the bodies.”

          Here Forras halted in his tale and swiped a shaking hand over his mouth.  He was sweating even though the morning air was cool and pleasant and Strider feared he might put undue strain upon his heart just by relating this story, but after a few moments, he continued.

          “They found two of the three men dead; their bodies strewn upon the rocks as if they had been ripped open and gutted by some insane madman.  There was blood everywhere; so much blood…” his voice drifted away and his gaze slid to the tiny window behind the ranger’s back.   Strider had the distinct feeling that someone was watching them, yet he dared not turn about to look.

          “They never found my son’s body,” Forras’ voice suddenly broke the stillness between them.  “They searched all that day and into the next, but nothing was ever seen of him.  They finally gave up looking, and after burying the poor men who had met with such violent ends, they came back to the valley to tell me the terrible news that my son had vanished.

          “I was utterly devastated.  Torn between taking off for the mountains myself and looking for him, or just accepting this tragedy as something fate had dealt me.  I was beside myself with grief and just when I was finally coming to terms with the fact that he was dead, he appeared at that window.”

          At this he pointed to the very window he had been staring at before and now Strider realized that he must still be waiting and hoping for his son to reappear.

          Forras rose from his chair and walked to the window.  “You can’t imagine the joy I felt at seeing him there.  He looked hale and strong and not a scratch upon him.”  The man turned back to look at Strider.  “But then I saw his eyes.  They were red and glowing… and then he… he grinned at me and I could see his teeth…”

          His body twitched with an involuntary shudder at the remembrance of this terrible sight and his arms crossed in front of his chest as he gathered up his courage to go on.  He turned away from Strider and once again stared out of the back window at the low hills, vine covered and green in the bright sunlight.

          “He begged me to come out.  Said he wished to speak with me.  But I was afraid.  He was my son, but I was afraid.  He had… changed.  I didn’t know how, but I knew that if I went out that door he would kill me.”  He paused, and as his silence continued overlong, Strider thought he might not be able to speak further, but suddenly the man turned back to the table and yanked the chair back, throwing his body into the seat and staring at Strider as if crazed and half mad.

          “I told him I would help him.  Whatever sickness had overcome him, together we would find some way to cure it, but he only laughed at me.  Laughed; but it was no laugh of happiness or joy.  It was an insane cackle that sent chills through my very soul.  That’s when he told me he had been bitten and was forever damned.  He was one with the blood pack; his will no longer his to control.  He was sworn to the Dark Lord and could never return.

          “Upon hearing those retched words, I ran to the door unthinking and would have blindly rushed out into the night.  Rushed to him and grabbed him to my chest as my beloved son.  But he suddenly growled and snarled like some rabid animal and before my eyes transformed into some kind of hideous wolf-like creature.  Not quite animal and definitely not man, yet huge, with great horrid teeth and fangs, and I froze in my tracks unable to move a step further.”

          Forras’ hands came up again to cover his face and this time the sobs and tears of his loss and pain would not be restrained.   The man’s shoulders sagged with his grief and sorrow and he could speak no more.  Strider swiftly rose from his chair and went to the trader’s side, placing a strong hand upon the man’s trembling form; his hand clenched Forras’ shaking shoulder and he quietly remained beside him until the Dorwinion could finally contain his emotions enough to lift his head.  Through blurred and wet eyes, Forras looked up at the ranger and then slowly drew his hand up to his shoulder and placed it upon the steadying hand that Strider had already set there.

          “Thank you,” he whispered.  “I… I’m all right.  It’s… just been a long time coming.”

          Strider nodded, silently giving the man’s shoulders another slight, gentle squeeze and then he returned to his seat opposite the trader.  His sad, grey eyes sought the man’s and he leaned forward, his hands spread open and questioning.  “Is there no hope for your son?  No one who knows of some cure for this, this… sickness?”

          Forras shook his head.  “None that I know of.  There have always been tales… legends really… around this region, about the Wolf-Men of Sauron.  Some said that those bitten by the accursed werewolves could be cured by drinking a potion of some sort that had been conjured and brewed by the ancients… long ago, when the sorcerers lived in Barad-Fân.”  He looked up at Strider with tear-stained cheeks.  “But no one ever really knew where to find the Cloud Tower.  It was said to be floating among the mists of the mountain peaks, inaccessible to any who could not fly to reach its turrets, for there was no mountain pathway that led to the Tower in the Clouds.”

          Forras shook his head sadly and wiped at the rest of his tears.  “But tis only a tale told to children.  There never were any sorcerers there to help; no ancient fortress.   No,” he shook his head once more.  “If there ever really was any kind of cure, it is now forever lost to us.”

          Strider stared at the trader, helpless to ease this man’s suffering, yet his curiosity and excitement peaked by the mention of this Tower in the Clouds and the so-called sorcerers who lived there.  “What happened to your son?” he finally asked.

          Forras shook his head sadly.  “I don’t know.  I never saw him again.”

          Both men sat silent; each with his own thoughts, and then after a time, Strider rose to his feet and quietly slid his chair back under the table.  At his movement, Forras looked up, his face stricken and incredulous with fear.

          “You can’t still be going?” he cried.  “Not after what I’ve just told you?”

          Strider nodded solemnly.  “I must.  I must try to find this Tower.”

          Forras, too, rose from his seat, his eyes frightened and pleading.  “Do not go, ranger!” he begged.  “If you value your life, please, I beg you, do not go.”

          Strider’s lips set in a grim, determined line.  “Fear not.  I shall be on my guard.”  He headed toward the doorway and then turned back.  “I thank you for your warning, Forras.  Be at peace; for my decision to go on is my own.”

          Strider moved out of the back room and into the outer shop.  He gathered up his supplies from the counter’s top and headed for the barred door without another word.  Forras was left to watch as the dark haired ranger unlatched the bar and walked out of the shop, into the lane and, he felt, most assuredly to his death.  

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          It was nearing dusk when Strider reached the vastness of the Sea of Rhûn, two days after his unsettling talk with the Dorwinion trader, Forras.  The haunting tale of the man’s doomed son would not leave Strider and he could not help but feel uncertain about continuing on with his journey.  But the tantalizing hints of this mysterious Barad-Fân kept urging him forward and as he rode through the bleak, foreboding landscape ever southward toward his goal, his curiosity grew with each step closer to the black, jagged mountains that rose from the land beside the sea and dominated the horizon ahead.

          As he gazed out over the cold, grey expanse of the sea, an unexpected feeling of utter despair and loneliness overcame him.  Gone were the green valleys and rolling hills of Dorwinion.  Now all that he could see before him was an endless, slate grey body of undulating water, and wave upon wave of foamy, swirling froth that lapped at the sandy shore with unrelenting regularity.  But there was no sight of any creature, large or small, on land or in the sky above, save he and his sturdy stallion, Hodoer.

          The horse’s head shook with uncertainty and his nostrils flared out, sniffing in the salty tang of the air and water and he pawed impatiently at the feel of the unknown sandy soil beneath his hooves.  Strider leaned down and stroked the horse’s arching neck and whispered to him, his voice barely heard over the whistling winds that skittered and danced over the tops of the waves.

          “I know, boy,” he said softly.  “It’s as if the land and sea are dead and all who once dwelled here.”

          Hodoer chuffed; a low, rumbling vibration that Strider could feel through his legs as they rested against the horse’s ribcage.  Finally, he turned the steed away from the shoreline and headed for the foothills of the mountains nearby.  Almost instantly the sandy beach gave way to rocky outcroppings and rough, steep trails that disappeared into the rugged stone at the mountain’s base.

          A low-hanging, thick mist whirled around the spikes and peaks of the mountain tops and their dangerous narrow path, obscuring the road ahead and Strider wisely allowed Hodoer to choose his route among the rocks and scraggly bushes.  It was not yet dark, but the cloud cover had blotted out the sunset and the entire area seemed to be lost in dark shadows and roiling fog.   As Strider cautiously peered through the mists he was oddly reminded of the Shadow Lands and the realm of the dead.  He pulled his woolen cloak up and around his shoulders and flipped the hood over his head as a sudden chill shivered through his body.  Hodoer, too, seemed tense and skittish and reluctant to go any farther along the precarious pathway.

          The wolves were upon them before Strider even had time to be consciously aware of their presence.  They leapt from the sheltering rocks above and from both sides of the trail, without sound or warning, and the eerie silence of the desolate land was harshly broken by Hodoer’s hideous shriek as a massive, black beast slammed into his neck, fangs bared, growling and snarling as it sank its teeth into the horse’s neck.

          Another great wolf charged into the stallion’s side, knocking the horse off his feet and onto the ground, while a third lunged for Strider as he and the horse fell to the rocky ground.  Hodoer shrieked again as the beast worrying his throat, gnawed deeper, choking off his life and slashing open his neck.  Strider hastily tried to brace himself as his horse fell out from under him, but he was caught beneath the animal’s chest and could not wriggle free of the saddle and stirrup.  The full weight of the horse crushed his right leg and he winced as his knee painfully ground into the rocks.

          The monster that had lunged for his head overshot his mark as horse and rider tumbled onto the stones and it landed some ten feet away from the ranger.  Then bounding off the rocks where it landed, the wolf circled back around and made another leap toward the fallen human; its slavering jaws bared wide revealing white, spiking teeth.  Strider pulled his Elven blade from the boot of his unfettered leg and plunged it into the beast’s chest as the wolf landed atop him.  A piercing yowl filled the air as the keen blade sank deep into the wolf’s hide and blood splattered over Strider’s face and hands as he fought to push the animal’s dead weight off his body.

          Hodoer’s legs wildly thrashed at the air in his death throes and the wolf at his throat finally snapped bone and muscle and the horse lay still as his life’s blood gushed out onto the black rocks.  Strider had managed to squirm out from beneath the horse while it bucked and kicked in its death agonies, and scrambled away on hands and knees.  He tried to gain his feet, but was violently smashed to the ground as another wolf landed upon his back, knocking the air from his lungs and sending his Elven knife skittering down the rocks as his wrist cracked against the stones.

          Strider heard a horrid scream and then realized that it had come from his own lips as a hot searing pain shot through his upper thigh as one of the wolves bit through the leather of his trousers and tasted blood.  He frantically tried to get out from under the wolf standing upon his back and could feel the beast’s hot, rancid breath beating upon his neck, but he was effectively pinned to the ground by the animal’s weight and could not move.

          The excruciating pain in his leg increased as the teeth clamped down harder and Strider screamed again as the white hot intensity of his agony spread throughout his body and raked every nerve of his being.  His vision began to grey out and brilliant flashes of light exploded behind his eyelids and he could remember thinking that now he was going to die and then he knew no more.

          Legolas finished filling his water skin and then brought it upright and securely fastened the sealing cap.  He slung the bag over his shoulder and started up the steep riverbank, heading back to his small encampment alongside the river.  He had almost reached his simple bedroll and camping gear when, without warning, his right leg collapsed out from beneath him and he fell heavily to the ground gasping and wincing as a terrible, burning pain shot through the muscles of his thigh.  He bit down on his lip to stifle the moan that rose from his chest and his hands instinctively reached out for his tortured limb as he rolled off his side and struggled up into a sitting position.  He looked down at his leg fully expecting to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his upper thigh and his hands covered with blood.  But to his astonishment, there was no arrow, nor was there any blood staining the green material of his leggings a muddy brown.  The pain, however, was very real.

          Another intense jolt of searing agony stabbed through his upper thigh and the Elf groaned, clutching helplessly at his seemingly untouched limb.  His ragged breaths were coming in short, rapid gasps and Legolas knew that he needed to slow down his breathing or he would soon start to hyperventilate.  He forced his mind to concentrate on steadying his breathing to slow measured intakes of air, but the pain was so intense that he could barely keep from screaming aloud.  And then, suddenly, just as quickly as it had come upon him, the pain vanished and he was left panting and shaking, but otherwise unharmed.

          Legolas drew a tremulous hand across his mouth, wiping away the fine mist of sweat that had formed over his upper lip.  His skin felt clammy to the touch and he fought down a roiling wave of nausea.  He remained seated upon the ground, afraid to move lest the awful pain in his leg return, but after several minutes had passed without any reoccurrence, he chanced moving his limb and found that he was indeed unharmed and whole once more.

          “Aragorn!” he whispered.  For this freakish, unseen wound could only mean one thing.  Aragorn was injured; somewhere out there in the unknown lands of Rhûn, his friend had actually sustained such a wound to his leg and somehow he had felt that pain as if it were his own.  “Aragorn!” his anguished moan came again as he tried in vain to reach the ranger with his thoughts, but all was darkness.

          Legolas scrambled to his feet and hurriedly began gathering up his belongings.  Astalder sensed the Elf’s alarm and raised his head expectantly.  Legolas tossed his gear over the stallion’s rump and secured his bags to the light saddle harness that was draped over each side of the horse’s flanks.  He swiftly mounted the stallion and urged the steed into a swift canter as they returned to the riverside and once again sped southward.  The sun was lowering toward dusk, yet Elf and horse raced on, desperation now spurring them forward.  As the evening wind ripped through his long, blond hair, Legolas gazed upward at the darkening skies and silently prayed to the Valar that he was not too late, although deep within his heart, a nagging, ugly fear raised its loathsome head and filled his mind with doubt and terror.

          I am coming, Aragorn!  He willed his thoughts into the ether of the Shadows, sending them out to his friend, hoping they would somehow reach the ranger and sustain him.  Do not despair! I am coming!  

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          A short, dark arrow hissed through the murky curtain of mist and struck the grey wolf gnawing upon the fallen ranger’s upper thigh.   The beast immediately let out a surprised yelping squeal and released the human’s ravaged leg.  The shrill sound shattered the still air and the wolf fell dead, landing beside the ranger’s prone and motionless body.  The remaining wolves rose up, growling and snarling, and they turned as one toward the rocks along the pathway where the arrow had been let loose; their red eyes glowed with hatred and vengeance.   The huge wolf standing upon the human’s shoulders bared its sharp teeth in a fearsome grimace and stepped off Strider’s body as it boldly moved to the head of the pack.

          A second arrow flew out of the foggy screen with a high pitched whine and struck another of the wolves. The stricken beast screeched with pain as the arrow embedded itself in his hindquarters and he snapped and bit at the protruding shaft, as he limped to the safety of the covering rocks.  The others in the pack kept their eyes focused upon their as yet unseen attacker, but they slowly began to back away, wary and alert.  When a third arrow flew into their midst, the leader barked an alarm and the pack wheeled about and fled in the opposite direction, leaving the carcass of the dead horse and wounded human behind.

          With the departure of the wolves an eerie stillness fell over the rocky trail and it seemed that time itself had stopped; and then, out of the grey mists, a short yet lithe, dark-skinned being emerged from the boulders and crags along the side of the path.   His long, thick raven-colored hair hung to his waist and he held a short bow with a nocked arrow out before him, ready to shoot should the wolves decide to return.  His jet black eyes quickly scanned the area searching for any straggling members of the wolf pack and seeing none, he cautiously stepped forward along the trail toward the fallen ranger.

          The creature seemed Elvish in appearance and when he knelt down beside the human and drew his long, ebony hair aside to better see the man, the graceful tip of an Elven shaped ear emerged from beneath the thick mane of dark, straight hair.  He laid his bow and arrow aside and placed a slender almond-brown hand upon the human’s neck, fingers feeling along the pale skin for a pulse.  It was there, steady and slow.  He shoved the ranger’s body over and onto his back and stared down into the face of this strange being, his own dark head shaking as he muttered unknown words in a soft, lilting murmur.

          The savage wolf bite marring the human’s leg appeared to be the only outwardly visible wound that the being could identify and he agilely rocked back upon his heels and looked down upon the man lying before him as if contemplating what he should do next.   Finally he gathered up his bow and shouldered the weapon, replacing the unused arrow in his back quiver and then he stood over the large human and straddled the ranger’s legs with his own.  Reaching down, he grabbed Strider’s wrist and pulled his body forward into a sitting position.  Strider’s dark, limp head came up and over and his chin smacked down upon his chest.   Although the creature appeared diminutive in size, he easily hoisted the much larger human up and over his shoulder and then turned about and headed toward the rocks.  He carried the still form of the human into the mists and fog from whence he had first appeared and vanished into the clouds.  

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          Legolas stood beside the River Running and stared across the swiftly moving waters to the small wine valley on the opposite banks.  The moon was high in the skies and shed a soft, blue light upon the waters and the surrounding landscape giving the entire area a cool, soothing luminescence.  This small town was apparently the final destination of the River Rat and the last place that he felt certain Strider had reached.

          As he had traveled along the riverside yesterday morning, Lund’s barge had passed by upon the river heading back toward Lake Town and Legolas had observed the Riverman from the concealment of the low-hanging fogbanks at the river’s edge.  Tonight he planned to swim to the opposite shore of the river and spy upon the men in this tiny community.  If he was lucky, he hoped to learn of the ranger’s fate.

           Deciding that now was as good a time as any to start out, he began shedding his outer garments and soft Elven boots.  He gathered his long hair into a thick ponytail at the back of his neck and secured it with a leather thong.  Then, clad only in his leggings, he withdrew a short, keen blade from one of his packs and clamped it between his teeth.

          He made his way down to the water’s edge and easily slipped into the cold river.  The water flow was swift and strong, and he had to concentrate all his strength and energy upon battling the current and reaching the dock on the opposing shore.  The swim took him almost a quarter of an hour of arduous concentration, but he finally reached the far shoreline and slowly and cautiously made his way up the bank and into the shadows of the buildings along the pier.

          His sharp ears immediately detected human voices coming from the largest of the buildings within the center of the community and Legolas surmised that this was the local inn and tavern.  It was also the place most likely to offer up any information on the ranger’s whereabouts.  The Elf removed the dagger from his mouth and held it loosely within his right hand as he silently made his way along the structures toward the inn.  No lights could be seen in the majority of the buildings along his path, and he felt sure that he would remain undetected and unseen by any of the townsfolk.

          When he was no more than a hundred feet from the inn, he halted and scanned the surrounding area to be sure that no humans were walking upon the street or lingering about the outside of the tavern.  When he was certain that the lane was empty, he dashed across the space between the buildings and flattened his back against the wall of the tavern.  The overhanging eaves of the building threw deep shadows across the walls and Legolas melted into the darkness, listening to the mixture of laughter and murmuring voices issuing from within the public house.

          Most of the overriding conversations were mundane and of little interest to the Elf; however, the hushed voices near the popping crackle of the fireplace caught Legolas’ attention and he concentrated on the words being spoken between these two men.  Apparently the man named Forras was the last to have seen and talked with Aragorn before the ranger departed the small village and he was now arguing with another about having told the stranger about what had happened to his son.  Legolas leaned closer to the wooden boards of the wall and upon hearing the next few words spoken, his lungs unconsciously sucked in a startled gasp of air and his body tensed with fear and disbelief.   This man was talking about the Wolf-Men of Sauron and that he had warned Strider about their presence in the mountains of Rhûn.

          Legolas pulled back away from the wall, unwilling to believe what he had just heard.  He knew of the Wolf-Men.  Sauron himself had taken up the mantle of the wolf on many different occasions during the dark times of the First Age; he had even battled the Great Hound of the Valar, Huan in this wolf form.  A shudder rippled through Legolas’ body at the memory of the searing pain that had pierced his thigh several days ago.  Was he too late?  Had these werewolves already attacked Aragorn?  Killed him!?

          The muffled voices of the two men inside the tavern distracted his panicked and unsavory thoughts and he once again leaned toward the wall to listen.  From the fragments of their conversation, Legolas learned that Strider had left the small valley almost five days ago.  So close! his anguished mind cried out upon hearing this news.  He lingered a few moments longer, but learned nothing further and quietly pulled back from the building’s side.  His determination to find Aragorn was now almost an obsession.  Quickly glancing along the deserted street, he ran across the dirt road, his bare feet scarcely disturbing the dust and leaving no imprint of his passage.

          The Elf sped through the sleeping township and headed for the dark river at the edge of the village.  He reached the dock and raced to the end, launching himself through the air and plunging into the water with a graceful dive.  The surface of the water hardly made a ripple as the Elf’s lean body sliced through the surface of the water and he swam beneath the river until he was well out into the waterway and away from the town.  His blond head, turned silver by the light of the moon, broke through the water and he took in a lungful of clean, crisp air as his strong arms churned through the swiftly flowing current and he began the lengthy swim to the far side.  

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          Strider wildly thrashed about in the fever dreams of delirium and cried out at the endless and agonizing pain tormenting his entire body.  Distorted visions of monstrous pointed teeth and rivers of blood swam before his eyes, intermixed with the bizarre image of a bronze Elven face and fathomless black eyes.  Waves of burning pain shot through his leg, throbbing with every beat of his heart and the ghostly howls of the wolves echoed within his ears.  His dark, tangled hair was plastered to his damp forehead and his pounding head tossed from side to side as he fought to escape the delusions and phantoms of his haunted dream world.

          The dark Elvish being standing beside his bed placed another cooling cloth upon the human’s forehead and wiped away the fever sweat from his brow, all the while murmuring quiet, soothing words in an Elvish dialect that was foreign to Strider’s ears, yet somehow comprehensible to him, even in his disoriented state.  Through glassy, fever-filled eyes, he stared up at an alien profile that was graceful and elegant; a face with skin the color of dark honey and as smooth and flawless as a child’s.  He struggled to find his voice, but could not choke out the words necessary to communicate.

          When the creature noticed that his charge was attempting to speak, he produced a goblet in his left hand and using his right to raise Strider’s head he brought the cup to the ranger’s lips and tilted the vessel so that its contents slid into his dry, parched mouth.  Strider coughed and gagged as the foul concoction drained down his throat, but the creature would not allow him to pull away until the entire goblet was drained.   When the cup was empty, he gently lowered Strider’s head back down upon the pillow, and placed a smooth, cool palm atop the ranger’s forehead.

          “Who are you?” Strider whispered with a hoarse croak.

          The creature smiled, his ebony eyes shining in the candlelight.  “I am Glîngroth of the gódhellim*,” he replied.  “Guardian of Barad-Fân.”

*deep elves 

          Glîngroth brushed gentle fingers across Strider’s brow, moving the damp strands of hair out of his eyes, and then resting his palm across the man’s forehead.  The human’s skin was still hot to the touch and he reached over to a side table and picked up another cool, wet cloth and brought it over to Strider’s head and wiped it over the ranger’s face.   At the soothing feel of the cold material, Strider’s glazed eyes closed briefly and then re-opened.  When once again he looked to his left, the dark-skinned Elf was still there, leaning over his bed.

          “You are real,” he whispered through fevered and parched lips.

          Glîngroth laughed softly.  “Yes, quite real,” he answered.  “And just who might you be?”

          Strider continued to study the Elf with unabashed curiosity and amazement.  “Forgive me,” he murmured.  “My name is Strider; I am a Ranger of the Northmen.”  His murmuring voice halted for a moment as a fever induced shudder rippled through his body, yet his eyes never left the Elf’s face.  “I do not mean to stare, but I have never seen an Elf quite like you before.”

          A short, derisive snort tinged with animosity escaped the Elf’s throat and he looked away.  “I am only half-Elven,” he stated bluntly.

          His hard, black eyes quickly turned back to the injured ranger lying upon the bed, but his face had lost the youthful innocence that Strider had first seen upon it.  Glîngroth’s expression now reflected a scornful and cynical hatred of his own questionable lineage.  He had no reason whatsoever to tell this human anything about his past, yet somehow he wanted to.

          “My mother was of the kindred of Finwë and favored of Aulë, sometimes called the Deep Elves.  My father was one of the Variags, a Warrior-Chieftain of Khand.”  He paused as he busied himself with wiping the dank sweat from Strider’s face and then he continued.  “She was given to him as a war prize; his reward for the annihilation of the enemies of Mordor.”  He looked away from Strider, his face anguished and ashamed of his father’s deeds.  “Happily he is long dead.”

          This last was spat out with a deep-seeded revulsion and Strider could hear the pain in the Elf’s voice.  He tried to concentrate on what the strange Elven being was telling him, but his head was spinning with jumbled and tangled thoughts.  His delirious vision still saw horrid, vile images of flashing teeth breaking Hodoer’s neck and gouts of blood pouring from the animal’s torn flesh.  And his heart sickened as he realized that for one moment he had reveled in the sensation of killing that these images and thoughts aroused within him.   Desperately he fought to drive these depraved thoughts from his mind and he focused instead on this strange and exotic Elf leaning over him.  He forced his lips to speak.

          “What of your mother?” he asked weakly.

          Glîngroth started at the ranger’s raspy voice, his mind obviously lost in the far distant past and the man lying on the bed momentarily forgotten.  “What?”

          Strider wearily turned his head to face the Elf.  “Your mother?” he repeated.

          The dark head lowered and his black eyes saddened.  “Dead.”

          The single word hung between them and Strider contemplated its meaning – ‘dead’ – not ‘gone to the Undying Lands’ or ‘sailed to the West’. ‘Dead.’  Very likely killed or murdered, he thought sadly.

          “I am sorry,” he murmured.  “Forgive me, I do not wish to intrude.”

            Glîngroth removed the cloth from Strider’s forehead and tossed it back into the bowl sitting on the small table next to his bed.  “It is no matter.  It was long ago,” he answered.  He placed his gentle hand over Strider’s tired eyes, drawing the fluttering eyelids closed.  “Rest now, ranger.”

          Strider tried to protest, but was just too weak.  He easily and swiftly sank back into the lunatic maelstrom of delirium caused by the fell poison coursing through his body.  He did not know what ingredients were mixed within the draught the Elf had forced him to consume, but it was quite evident that some drug had been included to make him sleep.  He was finding it more and more difficult to think and finally he gave up altogether and was left floating in a surreal world filled with blood and hunger, darkness and shadow.  

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

          Strider was drifting within a calm, quiet dream world, not yet awake, yet not fully asleep.  The fever was gone from his body and he felt no pain.  Oddly enough, he felt invigorated, strong and robust.  A new freedom infused his being and he smiled slightly as he thought of running wild through the mountains, running with the wind… slowly his eyelids twitched and consciousness slowly washed away the dream of racing on swift, strong paws… Strider’s eyes flew open and a frantic terror gripped his heart.

          Paws! His mind screamed.  I have paws!

          His head thrashed wildly upon his damp pillow, crashing from side to side and his anxious gaze quickly took in his strange surroundings and then a new fear took hold of him as he realized that he was heavily chained hand and foot.   His chest, too, was constricted by thick metal links crossing over his torso and binding him to his bed.

          A frantic shout raced to his lips, but was stifled as a smooth brown hand gently settled upon his chest and the serene, dark beauty of Glîngroth’s face hovered above his own.  The Elf was studying his face with the critical eye of a healer, and despite being chained to his bed, Strider calmed at the Elf’s touch.  Glîngroth’s eyes sought Strider’s and he placed a cool hand upon the ranger’s brow.

          “Be at ease, Strider,” the Elf spoke softly and reassuringly as his gentle hands moved to the chains upon Strider’s chest.  “The chains were necessary.”

          The Elf clicked open the locking mechanism and the heavy metal fetters restricting his movement fell away and his breathing came easier.  Strider watched the Elf as he methodically moved from his feet up to his hands and released each of the manacles in turn.  When he had unlocked the last, he slid his strong arm under Strider’s shoulders and helped the ranger up into a sitting position.

          “Do you know what has happened to you?” the Elf asked.  His voice was neutral, yet Strider sensed a hidden meaning within the question.

          He stared at his enigmatic savior and nodded slowly.  “I was attacked by wolves,” he answered.  Instantly, Hodoer’s scream of agony echoed within his head and his chest ached with pain.  “They killed my horse,” he choked.

          “Yes,” Glîngroth confirmed.  He handed Strider a goblet of the foul, distasteful liquid he had forced the ranger to drink before and nodded his dark head.  “Drink this.”

          Something in the Elf’s tone made Strider obey without question and he swallowed the hideous concoction in a hurried gulp.  “What is that?” he asked as he handed the vessel back to the Elf.

          “Your life,” he tersely replied.  Then seeing the frightened expression upon the man’s face, he added in a much gentler voice.  “It is meant to counteract the poison.  But I am afraid I came upon you too late to prevent the change from taking hold.”  He dark gaze fell upon the heavy chains.  “It was necessary to restrain you.”

          Strider’s heart seized and his silver eyes widened in fear.  “What do you mean too late?”

          Glîngroth’s voice was calm and unemotional, yet his eyes were filled with great sadness and pity.   “You were bitten by one of the gaurhoth.  The poison has spread throughout your body.  Although I began giving you the potion as quickly as I could, I was still too late.  The change has already begun.  This brew will only slow the process for I lack the key ingredient for any lasting cure.” 

          He pointed to Strider’s leg.  “As you can see, your wound has healed.  Your strength is recovered; but it is a morgul power that now fills you with vigor.”

          Strider viciously threw aside the bed covers and looked down at his right leg.  As the Elf had stated, strong muscle and unbroken skin met his gaze.  He ran his hand along his thigh, touching the place where the wolf had bitten his leg.  There was no sign of any wound or bite, not even a scar.  Strider looked up at the dark face and his eyes filled with a pleading desperation as he spoke.  “You cannot cure me of this sickness?”

          Glîngroth’s eyes lowered and his dark head slowly shook from side to side.  “I am sorry.  I cannot.”  He looked back up at the ranger and his face reflected his utter sorrow and helplessness.  “I am not skilled in the ways of The Two.  Perhaps they could have helped you, but alas, they are no more.”

          Strider’s head whipped up at these last words.  “The Two?  Alatar and Pallando?”

          The dark-skinned Elf looked stunned and stared back at Strider with sudden apprehension.  “You know of The Two?”

          “Yes!  That is why I journeyed to Rhûn.  I came to seek out the Blue Wizards.”

          The Elf’s head shook sadly.  “Then you are twice cursed, ranger.  The wizards of the Cloud Tower fled the darkness of Mordor centuries ago and have long since been absent from the halls of Barad-Fân.  Their gentle hearts despaired when evil spread over the Land of Rhûn and Shadow covered the earth, killing all that was living and beautiful.  When they could bear the anguish no more, they set sail northward upon the Sea of Rhûn, and were never seen again.  Only I, Glîngroth, Guardian of Barad-Fân, remain.”

          Strider’s head fell forward and his eyes shut tightly as the bitter disappointment and harsh reality of his dire predicament washed over him in a crushing, despondent wave.  Glîngroth’s light touch upon his shoulder made the ranger glance up and the pity and sadness within the Elf’s eyes only served to deepen his desolation.

          “What am I to do?” he whispered.  “If there is no cure, then my life is forfeit, for I will not turn to Shadow.”

          The Elf looked down upon the seated ranger and knowing that he could not help him, his compassion for the human tore at his heart.  For without the cure, Strider would surely become one with the gaurhoth.  Then suddenly the Elf’s face brightened and his eyes sparkled with excitement.

          “Wait!” he shouted.  “Wait!  Maybe I can help you.”

          Strider’s heart skipped a beat and he dared not breathe… or hope.  Glîngroth suddenly snatched the ranger’s hands and pulled him up off the bed and onto his feet and then began handing him his clothes.  “The scrolls… why did I not think of this before?  The scrolls and parchments; everything is still here.  I have kept everything as they left it, hoping for their return.”

          Strider was not sure that he understood what the Elf was talking about, but he hurriedly slid into his trousers and absently noted that they had been cleaned and mended, as had his other garments.  He neatly tightened his belt across his tunic and then pulled on his heavy boots and stood up straight, ready to follow the Elf.

          “What do you hope to find in these scrolls?” he asked.  “You said the potion you have been giving me lacks the necessary ingredient to affect a cure.”

          “Yes, that is true.  It lacks the needed gaurdagnir*.”  At Strider’s puzzled frown, he added.  “Aconite – from the buttercup family – it used to grow in abundance deep within the woodlands across the sea, but now the forest is dead and lifeless and everything in it as well.”  He paused; a sullen scowl shadowing his features, and then he added.  “Like the rest of this forsaken land.”

          Seeing Strider’s anxious face, he shook off his own cynicism and continued.  “I only knew of two places where this plant could be found:  Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves, now long vanished beneath the seas, and here within the forests of Rhûn.”  He looked up at the ranger with a hopeful yet tentative smile.  “Perhaps we will find something in the parchments left behind that will tell us of some other region of Middle Earth where the plant flourishes.”

          As the two started toward the door, Strider glanced down at the small, dark Elf, his mind churning with hundreds of unasked questions.  “Tell me, Glîngroth,” he said.  “If the wizards are gone, why do you stay here?”

          The Elf looked back at Strider as if he was a madman and a fool.  “I am the Guardian of Barad-Fân,” he stated with honor and pride.  “Should The Two return, I shall be here waiting for them and all shall be made ready for their magic, for I have kept the Cloud Tower hidden from unwanted eyes and have guarded its secrets throughout the ages.”

          Strider nodded slowly, not exactly sure how to reply to the Elf’s undying commitment and loyalty, even though the likelihood of the wizards ever returning to Middle Earth now seemed highly doubtful.  Instead he asked another question that had been nagging at his mind.

          “Just how did you get me up to this tower?” he asked.  “I was told that the Cloud Tower floated upon the mists covering the mountain peaks and there was no pathway up the mountain to reach it.”

          Glîngroth laughed heartily and the melodious sounds echoed through the halls of stone.  “That is true.  There is no path along the side of the mountain.”  His black eyes twinkled brightly.  “The stairway to the tower lies inside the mountain.  The stone pathway is well concealed by an enchantment and the cavern entrance is unknown to all save me.”

          The Elf laughed again, but cocked his head to the side and stared up at the dark ranger.  “But that, I fear, is not our most pressing concern.  While the brew I have given you will arrest the change, it will not prevent it.  You must keep taking the potion each day; for if you do not, the poison within your body will cause you to shape shift into the wolf; and once you do, the blood pack will call you to their ranks, and like a siren’s song, you will be powerless to resist them.”

          He stared at Strider with a deep sadness and sorrow.  “If that should occur, you would be better off dead, for your mind and body will no longer be yours to control.  You will become a slave to Sauron and a mindless killer.”  

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

          Legolas knelt upon the cooling sands, his long, slender fingers tracing the deep impressions that were unmistakably made by a horse’s hooves.  He looked out over the vast, lonely expanse of the grey sea and then slowly rose to his feet.  His gaze followed the hoof prints along the sands until they vanished into the rocky hills up ahead and he looked up at the towering black mountains, clouded in fog and mist.  He reached over his shoulder and retrieved his bow from off his back and then slid an arrow from his quiver.   He held both bow and arrow loosely within his left hand and ran his right palm along Astalder’s grey neck, whispering encouraging Elvish words to the horse and then slowly moved forward in the direction of the tracks.

          “Stay close, Astalder,” he murmured.

          The grey stallion gave a low whicker in response and moved to follow the Elf.  Together they walked from the desolate seascape toward the foothills and started up the narrow trail into the mountains.   As they traveled farther and farther along the pathway, the low-hanging fog began to thicken about them and eventually the sea vanished from sight to be replaced by the swirling mists.  Astalder’s ears suddenly flattened and his nostrils fared wide.   A nervous chuffing sound issued from his chest as his soft nose butted into the Elf’s shoulder.

          Legolas stroked the animal’s neck in an effort to soothe the frightened horse.  “I know,” he said softly.  “I smell it, too.”

          He carefully nocked the arrow and held the bow ready before him as he stepped lightly forward.  Up ahead something was most assuredly dead.  The intense and noxious odor of dried blood and putrefying flesh assaulted their noses, but the obscuring mists prevented Legolas from seeing the path in front of them.  He turned his head slowly, listening to the sounds about him and then cautiously took another step along the rocky path, his bow moving slightly to right and then left as his gaze scanned the path before him.  And then he saw it.  The carcass of Strider’s horse lay across the stones, its throat ripped out and blood covering its neck and head.

          “Ai, Elbereth!” the Elf hissed, lowering his bow and quickly moving forward, his eyes rapidly searching the surrounding area for any signs of Strider.

          Just past Hodoer’s body and a few feet farther along the trail, Legolas could see the shape of a body, dark haired and apparently human.  The man’s face was hidden from view, covered by dirty, matted hair and his naked body was smeared with blood and grime and covered with cuts and bruises.  The body was resting upon its side and a short, dark arrow protruded from the man’s chest.   Legolas let out a deep, anguished cry and ran to the fallen human, quickly falling to his knees beside the man’s body and pulling him over onto his back.   The lifeless head lolled sideways, the hair falling away.

          Legolas’ breath rushed out in a flood of relief.  It was not Aragorn.  Who it was, he had no clue, but the man was dead and had been so for some time.  A bright flash caught the Elf’s eye and he moved away from the corpse and over to the edge of the trail and knelt down, picking up the Elven blade that was lying there.  The knife was Aragorn’s; he was sure of it.  He rose up again, sliding the knife into his belt, and his gaze swiftly traveled over the rocks and crags, searching for any sign of his friend.  Astalder’s alarmed whinny coincided with his own awareness of the sound of an animal running and his bow swung up before him.  An instant later the wolves leapt out from the mists.

*wolfsbane

          Strider angrily tossed the scroll he had been reading on top of an already precarious stack of papers and books and fell back against his chair.  Several muttered Dwarvish epithets followed as he rubbed his eyes in weary frustration.  They had been scouring the library shelves for books, scrolls and parchments for more than five hours and had yet to find anything useful.  After starting with the obvious tomes on herbs, medicine, cures, potions and brews, they had moved on to texts concerning the gaurhoth and other tales of shape shifting and morgul transformations.

          Most of the treatises were written in Elvish but a great many were in some esoteric runes or symbols that were surely of the Maiar and totally incomprehensible to him.  Glîngroth was able to read some of these mysterious scrolls, yet for the most part he, too, was at a loss as to their substance and meaning.  None of the material they had read so far referred to the aconite plant or where it might be found growing and thriving other than the old forests of Rhûn.

          Strider pushed himself away from the table and stood up, stretching cramped, taut muscles greatly in need of use.  Without thinking, he began to walk back and forth across the marbled floor, his arms behind his back, hands clasped together in a tight wad.  Disturbed by his movement, Glîngroth raised his dark head from the huge book he had been reading and glanced across the room at the ranger.  His eyes widened with apprehension as he noted the scowling, bestial frown upon the man’s face and his relentless pacing steps.

          “Strider?” he tentatively asked.  “Are you feeling… unwell?”

          At the Elf’s querulous voice, Strider halted and turned toward the large desk.  Glîngroth’s childlike body was dwarfed by the huge chair in which he sat and the massive, cluttered desktop before him.   This amusing sight brought a slight smile to his lips and the Elf’s tension eased as he saw Strider’s face return to one more ‘human’ in appearance.

          “I am fine, Glîngroth,” Strider assured him.  “I tend to pace about when I am angry or frustrated.”

          Then seeing the Elf’s skeptical expression and staring eyes, he hastened to add.  “Oh! You mean… no, no, really.  I am fine.”

          The Elf slowly nodded and then quietly returned to his reading.  Strider resumed his relentless pacing, but eventually he halted beside one of the tall, thin windows and looked out at the scene unfolding below the tower’s facade.  Silver-grey mists and clouds huddled about the rocks and crags of the mountain peaks, obscuring much of the land beneath and floated out before him in an endless, nebulous sea giving the vista an unreal, otherworldly appearance.  Gazing out at the clouds like this actually did make him feel as if he were floating among the heavens, and for a moment the truth of his ominous situation melted away like the fog outside the window.

          Glîngroth’s excited shout brought him back to the harsh reality of the present.  Strider turned back to the Elf and saw him frantically waving the ranger forward.

          “Strider!  This may be something.  Quickly.  Over here.”

          The ranger strode forward with eager steps and came around the side of the desk to look at the piece of parchment that the Elf held in his almond dark hand.  The writing was in a crude, simple form of Westron and the phrasing indicated one who was not fluent in the language.  If seemed to be a military dispatch of some sort.

          “What is it?” Strider asked.

          Glîngroth’s black eyes sparkled with glee.  “I found it tucked inside the pages of this book chronicling the invasions of the Easterlings and the migrations of the various tribes during the Third Age.  I almost tossed it aside, but the word “poison” caught my eye.”

          He glanced up at Strider and then pointed toward the letter.  “This message was apparently sent to the wizards seeking their assistance.  It says here,” he paused as his finger traced the words and lines, finally halting at the middle of the page.  “Yes, here it is.  It says that the incursion of the Easterling Warlord, Sûlgond, was thwarted by the unexpected deaths of his company’s war horses.  The animals had apparently foraged upon the leaves and grasses of the region and something they consumed caused their deaths.  When no replacements were forthcoming, Sûlgond was forced to retreat.”

          He scanned farther down the page, his dark eyes following the fading script and then he looked back up at the ranger, his face beaming.

          “The writer of this missive was asking the wizards if the poison could be used upon humans as well, but that is not what is relevant to your situation.”  He turned back to the letter.  “They were finally able to determine which plant was the cause of the poisoning and the soldier making the initial report to his commander described the plant in great detail as ‘a trailing vine with deeply cut leaves and hooded blue flowers growing wild among the trees.’”  The Elf looked back up at Strider.  “He is accurately describing the aconite plant.”

          Glîngroth set the letter down upon the desk and a smug grin spread over his darkly handsome face.  “The plants found here in Rhûn had white flowers, yet I believe that the aconite varieties range from white, blue, violet as well as yellow, depending upon the soil and climate.”

          Strider reached across the desk and picked up the piece of yellowed parchment and his gaze hurriedly scanned the lines.  “It does not say where they found these plants,” he stated as a frown of consternation drew down his lips.  “This helps me naught without a place in which to begin.”

          “Ahhh,” the Elf grinned.  “The author of this note refers to a battle with the Warlord Sûlgond in command.”  He returned to the large book he had been studying previously and ran his lithe brown fingers across the pages until they halted abruptly.  “Here it is.  2910, the Easterlings invade Gondor.  Sûlgond was forced to retreat from his position near the ancient watchtower of Amon Dîn.”

          Strider’s face completely crumbled with disappointment and despair.  The Elf might as well have said the face of the moon for all the good it did him.  Amon Dîn was located within the southeastern region of the Druadan Forest well over six hundred miles from Rhûn, if he flew like a bird straight over the lands.  He would have to travel through some of the most dangerous and barren regions of Middle Earth.  A journey to Druadan would take at least several months non-stop on horseback and even if everything went smoothly and there were no perils to overcome, the bleak lands he would have to pass through offered little in the way of food, water or shelter.  Not to mention the fact that he no longer even had a horse to ride.

          Upon seeing Strider’s desolate face, Glîngroth’s enthusiasm deflated like a sail that has lost the wind.  He turned his sad, black eyes upon the ranger and lightly touched Strider’s arm.

          “Why do you despair?  I thought this information would please you.”

          Strider tried to smile, but a slight jerk at the corner of his lip was all that he could manage.  “It is a very long way to the Druadan Forest.  On foot,” he paused.  “I cannot imagine how long it would take me to reach it, even if I could somehow survive the journey.”

          He sank heavily into a nearby chair with a dejected sigh and covered his face with his hands, fingers gouging at his tired, strained eyes.  He suddenly felt utterly alone and bitterly defeated.   Any hope he might have had; any chance he might have allowed himself to believe in was now gone, cruelly snatched out of reach and yet still taunting and dangling just outside his grasp.

          Glîngroth carefully replaced the letter within the huge book and then moved over to Strider’s side.  His strong hand grasped the ranger’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze and he spoke his encouragement.

          “All is not lost, Strider,” he said quietly.  “I can give you enough of the potion to last at least a month and after that you can mix the ingredients yourself along the way.  I shall give you the needed herbs and write out the measures for you.  You’ll see; once you reach Druadan you have but to find the aconite plant and add that vital ingredient to the potion.  I shall give you the spells required to rid your body of this foul darkness.  You need only find a powerful sorcerer to conjure them for you and… ”

          Strider quickly glanced up at the Elf as this last was spoken.  “Spells?” he interrupted as the words finally sank into his clouded mind.  “You did not mention anything about spells before.”

          Glîngroth guiltily turned away from the ranger, his slender hands twisting with nervous agitation.  “I… I did not actually believe we might find the aconite growing anywhere else.”  He turned a chagrined face back toward the ranger and then quickly lowered his eyes from Strider’s hard stare.  “I did not think it necessary to mention the spells, for I truly thought there would be no need.”

          Strider shook his head at the sheer folly and desperation of it all.   He abruptly stood up from his chair and angrily stomped away from the Elf.  He could not believe this was happening to him.   He stopped and turned back to Glîngroth with a glowering snarl.  “And just where along the way was I supposed to find a ‘sorcerer’ to conjure these spells?”

          The dark Elf was visibly distraught and frightened by Strider’s reaction and hastened to the tall ranger’s side.  He looked up at the human and his black, shining eyes reflected his dismay.  “Forgive me,” he pleaded.  “I should have told you everything from the beginning.  I just never believed there was any real hope that you could rid yourself of this fell sickness.  I do not know of anyone who ever found release from the curse of the gaurhoth – save in death.”

          As angry and despondent as he felt, Strider’s face slowly softened as he looked down at the strange little being standing before him and suddenly the whole retched state of affairs seemed insanely funny to him.  Strider shook his head and wild, maniacal laughter issued from his lips and then abruptly cut off as he slowly sank to his knees.   His shoulders slumped forward and his hands pressed into the tops of his thighs, balling into tight fists as his head hung forward and his crazy laughter turned to brittle sobs of defeat.

          Glîngroth stood frozen, staring at the stricken ranger; certain that the human had gone mad.  Now he found himself fearing what might happen next and he realized that he was too overcome himself to speak further.  After a very long time, Strider finally lifted his head and looked up at the Elf with eyes that were dead and now without hope.

          “It matters not, Glîngroth,” he murmured softly.  “I shall never reach the Forests of Druadan.”

          The Elf lurched forward and then rushed to the kneeling ranger.  He placed his gentle hands upon the man’s shoulders and stared down at his ravaged face.  “Do not lose hope, Strider,” he exhorted.  “You will reach Druadan.  Your will is strong; I feel it surging within you.”  His bright eyes glittered as he held the ranger’s silver gaze.  “You will not fall to Shadow.”

          Strider looked back at the Elf and a great sadness overcame him.  “I wish it were so, little one,” he said.   And then seemingly out of nowhere, he thought of Legolas and the stubborn determination the Elf always displayed no matter what their dilemma; even when there seemed no hope left at all, he never gave up and a short bemused chuckle escaped his lips.

          Legolas, he thought.  You are my driving force even when you are not at my side.  Hannon le, mellon nin.  And with that one heartening thought, a new resolve slowly began to seep back into his soul and he looked back up at Glîngroth with renewed vigor.

          “I will need a horse,” he stated.

          A broad smile creased the Elf’s face.  “If you have gold aplenty, there is a border town on the other side of the mountains.  It is a rough place filled with dangerous and ruthless men.”  He gave Strider a sardonic grin.  “But I think you can handle yourself easily enough among them.  I feel certain you can acquire a horse there.”

          Strider quickly rose to his feet.  “All my supplies were strapped to Hodoer’s saddle.”

          “I very much doubt that they have been disturbed,” Glîngroth replied.  “The gaurhoth may have returned to scavenge the horse’s body, but they would have no use for your supplies.”

          For the first time that day, Strider felt a small sliver of real hope return.  “Very well my little friend,” he smiled.  “Gather together these spells of yours and as much of this potion as you can brew.”  His silver eyes now held a glitter of their own.  “I travel to Druadan.”  

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

          As soon as the first of the wolves emerged from the mists, Legolas steadied his stance and released his fingers from the bowstring.  The arrow sang through the air and struck the lead wolf squarely in the chest as it lunged toward him.  The beast shrieked as the shaft penetrated its heart and then it dropped to the stones in a lifeless heap.   Legolas had already strung another arrow and let it fly toward a second wolf circling around to his left.  The arrow slammed into the grey hindquarters of the animal and the wolf yowled in pain and awkwardly limped away.

          Astalder whinnied in terror, rearing upward, hooves pawing wildly at the air as the wolves charged toward him.  The horse’s feet thudded back to the ground and he spun about, crazily bucking and kicking his hind legs until one forceful kick of his sharp back hooves caught one of the wolves broadside.  The beast grunted painfully as it was violently tossed into the air and thrown across the jutting rocks beside the trail; and then it fell to the ground, its back broken upon the hard stones.

          As the others closed in, Legolas swung his bow around and prepared for another assault.  But before any of the remaining wolves could leap, a huge, silver-grey wolf materialized out of the mists and launched itself directly at Legolas.  The Elf turned to meet the animal and stared directly into its shining silver eyes.  In that one millisecond of time, Legolas did something he never did under any circumstances – he hesitated in his shot – and when that unthinkable momentary fugue was broken, the beast was upon him.   Its massive paws struck him high on the shoulders and knocked him completely off his feet.  The bow jerked from his hands with the force of the collision and the nocked arrow slipped from his fingers and went spinning off into space.  He landed hard upon his back and his blond head roughly smacked the stone pathway and bounced back up.

          Legolas winced as his vision spun with dancing, flashing lights and he instinctively raised his left arm up to ward off the sharp teeth that he knew would be coming for his throat.  He snatched Aragorn’s blade from his belt and tried to strike up at the beast, but the animal pounced upon his arm and chest, pinning him to the ground.  Legolas squirmed beneath the wolf, but could not get his weapon hand free.  The wolf snarled into his face and Legolas quickly turned his head aside to avoid the glistening, white teeth.

          The other wolves rushed forward, eager to join in the feast, but the big grey male bared its jowls and snapped at those of its kindred who got too close, claiming this prize as his own.  The hovering wolves reluctantly backed away, growling their anger and resentment, but they did not challenge the lone wolf as he stood atop the fallen Elf.

          Astalder shrieked wildly, still kicking and bucking, and finally he wheeled about and ran back down the trail toward the sea.  Legolas watched the horse flee and prayed that it would escape as he once again tried to bring the blade up to strike.  The wolf snarled again and its teeth clamped upon the leather of his bracer, crushing his wrist hard enough to cause pain yet not breaking the bone and the knife fell from his numbed and useless fingers.  Legolas chanced a look up at the wolf and for one idiotic moment thought that the beast was actually grinning down at him.

          The remaining members of the pack once again pressed forward, not wishing to be deprived of this kill, but again the monstrous beast warned them back.  Legolas brought his knees up and dug his heels into the pathway, trying to lever the beast from off his chest, but the animal would have none of it.  The massive head swung back around toward his face, and he felt the hot breath of the wolf as its teeth gnashed together an inch from his chin.

          Legolas grunted and writhed, frantically trying to escape, but the beast held him fast.  While it was distracted by the Elf’s struggles, a large, black wolf chanced coming near and tried to take a bite out of the Elf’s kicking leg, but the silver beast quickly turned and snapped at his muzzle, drawing blood as he ripped into the soft fleshy cheek of the impudent black creature.  The bitten wolf squealed in pain and hastily retreated, and shortly thereafter the others faded away into the mists, ceding the prey to the dominant silver-grey.

          When the last of the wolves vanished into the fog, the huge beast standing upon Legolas turned once again and looked down at the sprawled Elf.  It slowly lowered its massive body until it was half lying across the Elf’s torso and then it casually draped its front legs over each of Legolas’ shoulders.  The weight of the beast was crushing and Legolas could hardly breathe.  He turned terrified, blue eyes upward as the wolf’s large head lowered and the muzzle of the beast inched its way toward his nose.

          Legolas let out a strangled groan as the animal’s body shifted and squashed his ribcage further and he found himself staring directly into the silver eyes of the beast.  Legolas gasped what he felt sure was his last breath and then the wolf’s long, pink tongue flicked out and lapped across his flawless cheek.  At Legolas’ surprised and wide-eyed stare, the wolf drew back its black lips in a wide, toothy lupine grin.  Legolas froze; stunned by the animal’s erratic behavior and then his brow slowly creased as his incredulous gaze locked with that of the wolf.

          “Aragorn?” he whispered.

          Upon hearing the whispered name the huge silver wolf threw back its head, neck stretched upward toward the sky, and bayed.  A spine-chilling, mournful howl rose up from deep within its massive chest and the haunting sound reverberated off the mountain sides with an eerie echo.  Legolas felt his skin crawl with recurring shivers as the ghastly cry seemed to pass right through his soul.  When the wolf’s heart-wrenching wail ended, the monstrous animal leapt away from the Elf and bounded off into the mist covered rocks and was gone.

          Legolas lay flat on his back, still and immobile upon the stone pathway, too shocked and bewildered to move.  He was harshly roused from his mystified stupor when a second, terrible howl resonated through the dense fog and he hurriedly scrambled up off the ground and onto his feet, gathering up the Elven knife at his side as he did so.  He saw his bow lying a few feet away and quickly snatched it up as well.   The wayward arrow had been trampled beneath Astalder’s thrashing hooves and was shattered and useless and he left it where it lay and then started up the trail and into the rocks chasing after the wolf.

          “Aragorn!” he shouted.  “Aragorn!  Wait!”

          As he heedlessly ran through the mist and fog, Legolas’ mind was churning with confused and frightened thoughts.   He had no earthly reason whatsoever to believe that this large silver wolf was indeed his human friend, yet something in the beast’s eyes had called out to him, pleaded with him for help.  He knew it was insane to think that Aragorn had somehow transformed himself into a wolf; yet in his heart he knew it was true.

          He halted briefly, his blond head swiveling back and forth and his keen eyes skillfully scanning the crags and rock shelves along the trail, but there was no sign of the wolf.  Suddenly, he remembered the rest of the pack and cursed himself for a fool for blindly running through the thick fog unmindful of their presence.  He forced himself to stop and listen to the whispering winds and the sounds of the earth emanating from the mountain side but after a few moments of intense scrutiny, he felt certain that he was indeed alone upon the trail.

          He started forward once again, jogging lightly along the rocky path, his senses now attuned to pick up the faintest of sounds.  But his eyes were the first to discover the initial evidence of his friend’s passage.  Almost immediately he came upon what looked to be ripped and torn clothing tangled up within the thorny branches of a gnarled bush that was growing out of the rocks.  He stopped and reached his hand into the prickly twigs and freed the remnants of a man’s shirt.  He brought the cloth up to his nose and breathed in the scent.  It was unmistakably Aragorn’s.  Legolas knew well the distinctive smell of his long time friend, and although he immediately noticed that the shirt was much cleaner than usual, he was still confident that it had been recently worn by the ranger.

          He quickly looked around at the surrounding rocks and scraggly bushes and spotted more torn clothing a short distance ahead.   Somehow seeing these scraps of shredded cloth frightened Legolas more than the idea that somehow Aragorn had changed into a wolf.  From the looks of these rent and ravaged garments, it seemed more likely that Aragorn had been attacked by wolves, not turned into one; but if that was so, then where was he?

          “Aragorn!” he shouted again.  “Aragorn, please mellon nin.   If you can hear my voice, answer me!”

          The panic in his voice was evident and the melodious Elvish words rang off the stones in ghostly tones, but there was no answering reply.  Legolas threw the torn clothing to the ground and hurried forward, now suddenly very afraid of what he might find up ahead.

          The path he had been traveling now appeared to narrow and then ended abruptly in a gently sloping wall of rocks and shelves that formed a natural terrace going up the side of the mountain.  He slung his bow over his shoulder and tucked the knife back into his belt and began to climb up the rocks.  The disturbing fog and mist continued to roil about him in thick swirls and he had the distinct feeling that he was not alone upon the trail, yet he could hear no sound save his own breathing.  He rose steadily higher and higher, his gaze constantly looking from right to left, searching for the slightest bit of proof that Aragorn had come this way.

          As he pulled himself up and over the top of a slight overhang his breath came out in a sharp gasp as he saw a bare foot, undoubtedly human, protruding from the rocks in front of him.  Hurriedly he scrambled forward on his hands and knees until he reached the foot.  The rest of the man’s naked body was lying in a shallow cutaway within the rock wall of the mountain side, hidden behind a screen of boulders and Legolas knew that it was Aragorn even before he saw the familiar dark head and tangled hair.  

          “Aragorn!” he cried as he reached his friend’s side and quickly knelt down beside him.  He lightly touched the cold, bare shoulders and could feel the violent shudders radiating outward from beneath the ranger’s icy skin.  Aragorn moaned as if in pain and his legs drew up to his chest as more racking seizures shook his body.   Legolas reached to his throat and hastily unfastened the brooch that was holding his heavy cloak upon his shoulders.  He awkwardly tugged it off and around his back and hurriedly placed the woolen garment over his friend’s shivering, naked form, pushing it up under his back and wrapping it around his shoulders and chest.

          “Aragorn!” he cried again, but the ranger did not seem fully conscious or aware of his surroundings.  His sweat tangled hair fell into his face and his head rolled back and forth across his chest, yet his eyes did not open.

          Legolas drew Aragorn’s torso up off the ground, holding his shaking body within his arms.   He clumsily drew the cloak tighter about the man’s shoulders and back and tucked the remaining length of the warm cloth about his friend’s bare legs.  Aragorn’s head fell to the side and another painful moan escaped his blue-tinged lips.   His eyes remained closed and he looked to be dazed or heavily drugged, but Legolas had seen no life-threatening wounds upon his body, only numerous shallow scrapes and scratches.

          “Aragorn!  Aragorn! Wake up!” Legolas pleaded.

          Legolas continued to hold the unconscious ranger upright and began to vigorously rub the human’s numb hands and fingers trying to get the blood circulating within Aragorn’s frozen limbs, all the while murmuring his name and talking to him in soft Elvish whispers.  Yet even as he did this, his gaze scanned the surrounding area in search of some sheltering place where he could move the ranger and get him out of the elements and near a warming fire.

          But his survey of the rock shelf turned up no such refuge and he held on to the ranger even tighter as he realized that there was no spot within these rocks that would offer them adequate shelter.  His golden head suddenly whipped around as he realized that they were no longer alone upon the rocks and his hard gaze fell upon a dark Elven being who had seemingly materialized out of the thin air.  A knife appeared out of no where and into Legolas’ right hand and his left arm drew the ranger protectively closer to his chest.

          Glîngroth took in the scene before him at a glance, and ignoring the threat of the weapon, hurried toward the fallen ranger and the golden Elf guarding him so fiercely.  He dropped the numerous bags and bundles that he was carrying and brought forth a leather flagon.

          “Quickly,” he ordered in a quiet yet commanding voice.  “We must get this potion down him at once.  For whatever mad reason, he has made the transformation.  They will call for him now that they know he is one of them.”  His intense, black eyes bored into the deep blue gaze of the Mirkwood prince.  “He is in great danger, pen ned malthen*.”

          Legolas stared at the small, dark Elf, completely taken aback by his sudden appearance and extremely reluctant to allow him to administer this unknown brew to Aragorn.  The Elvish dialect he spoke was odd, yet somewhat similar to the ancient language of the Wood Elves that Legolas remembered hearing as a small child.  However, he was still unwilling to trust this peculiar little being.

          Glîngroth opened the leather flask and brought it closer to Strider’s lips.  His eyes continued to focus upon Legolas.  “If you value Strider’s life, you must allow me to do this!”

          When the dark Elf uttered Strider’s name with such familiarity, Legolas relented and his head bobbed forward in a curt nod of acceptance and the knife lowered.  He would not, however, relinquish his strong hold upon the ranger’s body.  He was deeply perplexed by this situation and had no idea what was truly happening, but apparently this curious Elven creature did.  For the moment, at least, he would allow the Elf to treat Aragorn with his noxious brew, but he would have answers to all his questions.

          Glîngroth gently brought the flagon to Strider’s mouth and upended the skin, pouring the smelly potion into his mouth.  Strider gagged and coughed as the liquid slid down his throat and then began to flail his hands and arms about in an attempt to push the flask away.   Legolas was forced to grip his upper biceps and pressure Strider into remaining still until the small creature finally removed the container from the ranger’s lips.  As Legolas watched him, Glîngroth grabbed another of the leather bags and quickly drew out a length of heavy metal chain.  When he started to secure the thick cuffs about Strider’s wrists, Legolas angrily knocked his small brown hands away from the human’s body and snarled at the diminutive Elf.

          “I will not let you bind him like some criminal!”

          Glîngroth’s dark face turned hard and brutal and he glared back at the belligerent prince.  “If you want him to live through this, you will leave off.  We have no time to argue.”  His expression softened slightly as he saw the deep pain within Legolas’ eyes.  “I will explain everything to you; but now you must help me to restrain him.  We are running out of time!”

          Legolas was torn by conflicting emotions and fearful uncertainty and his mind simply refused to function leaving him speechless and numb.  Glîngroth did not wait for the fair Elf’s consent and swiftly and efficiently began to secure the chains about Strider’s wrists and ankles.  He then wrapped the chains tightly about the ranger’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides and then he pulled the metal links tight, locking them in place.  He was barely in time, for no sooner had he leaned back upon his heels, than Strider’s lips emitted a horrid growling snarl and both Legolas and Glîngroth instinctively leapt back and away from the wild and viciously struggling man turned beast.

          Legolas gaped at his friend in horror, appalled by what he saw unfolding before him as the ranger’s face melted and twisted and then wavered between his own strong features and the fearsome snarl of the silver wolf.  His reeling mind refused to accept what it was plainly witnessing as Strider’s body writhed and jerked upon the rocks of the ledge, altering back and forth with the shifting of each transformation.

          Legolas unthinkingly reached out his hand and started to move back toward his friend, but Glîngroth grabbed his upper arm and forcefully held the Elf back and well away from the ranger.

          “Do not touch him!” he warned.  “You must stay back until the seizures have passed.”

          Legolas’ anguished eyes pleaded with the smaller Elf to allow him to reach Aragorn and he tried to pull away from the creature’s tenacious grasp, but the dark Elf was hardhearted and relentless and would not allow Legolas any closer.  Helpless, he was forced to watch from afar as Aragorn screamed in agony and twisted within his constrictive chains as the unrelenting waves of morgul poison coursed through his mind and body.  And then mercifully, it was over and Strider lay still.

          With a satisfied grunt, Glîngroth began to gather up the bags and bundles that he had earlier dropped upon the stones.   He looked at Legolas and tilted his head toward Strider’s quiet form.

          “Hurry!  You will have to carry him.  We must get him inside before the others can call for him.”  He headed toward the face of the cliff and then magically the rock wall melted in front of him and a cavern entrance could be seen.  He glanced over his shoulder and back at Legolas with an exasperated frown.  “Now.”

          Legolas jerked into motion and hurried to Aragorn’s chained and limp body.  He easily picked the ranger up off the stones and carried him the short distance to the cave’s opening; silently, he followed the childlike Elf inside.  As he followed Glîngroth past the enchanted opening he anxiously glanced back out at the trail below.

          “My horse,” he said, looking back at the dark Elf.  “My horse is still out there.”

          Glîngroth nodded.  “Worry not; I shall collect him later.”  He looked up at the taller Elf, his expression grim and determined.  “Right now, we must get Strider inside the Tower.”

          “But the wolves,” Legolas’ concerned voice trailed off as he glanced back at the now concealed entrance.

          “They will not return for a time.”  He gave Legolas a begrudging smirk.  “You managed to kill their leader.  It will take them some time to sort out who will succeed him.  Until then, your horse should be safe enough.”  He quickened his steps and started up a broad, stone stairway.  “This way, Legolas.”

          The prince’s head whipped about, his sharp eyes narrowing suspiciously.  “How do you know my name?”

          The dark Elf laughed gleefully.  “You are surely the Elf of Strider’s fevered dreams.  He called for you many times throughout his ordeal.  He said you would come for him.”

          He laughed again at the astonished expression on the fair Elf’s face and then a wry, twisted smirk creased his lips.  “He did not say you would be so obstinate.”

          And with that last biting remark, he scampered up the stairs leaving Legolas to stare after him, a baffled and irritated frown marring his serene features.  Slowly his gaze lowered to the innocently sleeping face of the unconscious ranger in his arms and his expression turned to one of mild annoyance.

          “Obstinate?” he repeated indignantly.  “I am not obstinate.”  

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

          Legolas dosed lightly, his eyes half-lidded and his head tilted back and resting against the chair’s soft cushion.  He was seated near Strider’s sleeping form, his slender palm gently lying atop the ranger’s chest, monitoring his breathing and sensitive to any change in his condition.  A slight rasp brought him to full wakefulness and he leaned over to look closely at his friend’s face.   Strider was still unconscious, although his lips were no longer blue and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.  Satisfied, he sat back into his chair and began once again to mull over the incredible tale that Glîngroth had told him.

          Aragorn had been headed back to retrieve his supplies and was then planning to travel to some distant forestland south of Rohan.  When he had failed to return to the tower for the potion and herbs needed for his very survival, Glîngroth had gone looking for him, fearing that he had been waylaid by the werewolves.   Instead he had found Legolas, as well as the ranger, when he had emerged from the secret passageway to the Cloud Tower.

          That had been many hours ago and the dreadful chains were still wrapped about Strider’s chest.  Legolas was heartsick at the sight of them.  The dark Elf had explained the necessity of keeping Strider constrained until the morgul poisons within his body had been neutralized, but he could not bear to see him chained thus.  He knew all too well the humiliating feel of chains upon his own body and he was loathe to have Aragorn suffer this same fate; yet he was helpless to prevent it.

          The strange little Elf had told Legolas everything that had occurred since first finding Strider upon the trail and under attack by the gaurhoth.  Yet even now Legolas found it hard to accept that this terrible misfortune had befallen the ranger.  But he could not deny what he had plainly seen for himself.  The only thing he knew for certain was that he would never leave Aragorn’s side and together they would somehow see this grisly dilemma through to its end – whatever end that might be.  But he feared Aragorn was swiftly running out of time.  Soon even that foul potion would no longer be enough to prevent the transformations from occurring.  Simply getting to the Forests of Druadan would be a gargantuan task, especially when they were this close to Mordor and the call of the werewolves so seductive.

          And even if by some miracle, they found this much needed plant, he was still not convinced that the supposed spells and rituals would work.  Glîngroth had gone into lengthy detail with him about exactly what would be required and a great deal more than a weed would be necessary to complete these spells.  Legolas had thoroughly read through the ancient parchments several times and knew that not only would they need the aconite but also the blood of a close relative.  Aragorn had no blood kin living that Legolas knew of and although theoretically Lord Elrond could be considered a blood relative, he was a thousand miles away in the Elven haven of Imladris.

          Legolas held no real hope of Aragorn even reaching the Druadan Forest let alone Rivendell and he had firmly decided not to tell Aragorn about this ill-fated requirement.  Should they both somehow live to reach the forests northwest of Minas Tirith, he would worry about the needed blood at that time.  Some solution would eventually present itself to him; he had found that if he waited long enough, something always happened.  He would wait for that ‘something’ and pray that it would be sufficient.

          He had initially believed that once they found the grey wizard, Mithrandir, all would be as naught and the ancient Maiar would simply lift this curse and the problem of the blood would become moot, but Glîngroth had told him that the Istari would be of no use to them for the conjuring of these mystic rites.  Aragorn would need the sorcerous powers of an ancient Gûladan of the Drúath to rid his body of the treacherous wolf spirit that now claimed it.  But much like the Drughu Witch-Woman who had protected him in the Shadow Lands, finding such a magic man of the Woses might prove insurmountable, if not impossible. 

          So many obstacles, he thought bleakly.  How can we possibly prevail against these odds?

          He sighed wearily and glanced back over at the sleeping ranger.  There was no change in the man’s condition and suddenly, without warning, he was overcome by the terrible sorrow and agonizing pain of his own self-doubt and guilt.   He choked back a ragged breath as stinging tears unexpectedly came to his eyes.  He could not rid himself of the tormenting remorse that threatened to tear his soul apart.   How could he have allowed Aragorn to make this journey alone when he could have pressed the ranger to remain in Mirkwood; or at the very least, gone with him.  But he had not, and now this unspeakable evil had befallen the only man he had ever trusted.

          “Legolas?” the raspy whisper sounded from the bedside and he jerked up out of the chair and quickly moved to the bed.  He leaned down over the ranger and tried to smile as he placed his elegant hand upon Strider’s arm.

          He gazed down at the man’s tired, silver eyes.  “Aragorn,” he murmured.  “I am here, mellon nin.”

          Strider smiled weakly and then his eyes closed again.  “I knew you would come,” he gasped and then fell back into darkness.

*golden one

          Glîngroth entered the dimly lit room and silently made his way to the ranger’s sleeping form.  His honey-dark face looked up at the slender golden Elf already standing beside the bed, and he contemplated Legolas’ troubled profile.  He glanced back down to Strider and quietly asked.

          “Has he awakened yet?”

          Legolas continued to stare at Strider’s pale face although he was aware of the small Elven being beside him.  “Briefly.” 

          He gently relinquished his hold upon Strider’s hand and then wearily returned to the chair alongside the bed and literally fell into the seat.

          “How long will he remain like this?” he asked as he massaged his aching temples.

          The small darkling turned his attention to Legolas and his concerned frown noted that the Elf looked terrible.  It was quite evident that he had not rested properly, nor had he eaten, although a brimming platter of food, as yet untouched, sat upon a side table.

          “He will sleep until the potion has thoroughly cleansed his body of the poisons.  It will take longer and will be much harder on him each time he transforms into the wolf and then back to his former self.”

          He moved to stand directly in front of Legolas and now that the taller Elf was seated, he was able to stare at him eye to eye.  He analytically studied the blond Elf as if taking his measure and Legolas found the smaller Elf’s scrutiny distinctly unpleasant.

          “You have something you wish to share with me?” Legolas irritably snapped at the little Elf.

          Glîngroth’s disconcerting black eyes continued to fix upon Legolas’ face and finally he said.  “There will come a time when you will have to chain him… for his protection as well as your own.”  He watched Legolas’ sensitive face intently as he continued.  “Can you do this?”

          Legolas looked away.  Could he? He asked himself. Could he chain Aragorn up like some wild, rabid animal?

          Glîngroth’s small dark hands clutched Legolas’ slender shoulders and forced him to look up.  “Can you do this for him?” he asked again in a harsh, demanding whisper.

          Legolas glared back at the irksome little Elf.  “Yes,” he hissed.  “If I have to I will.”

          Glîngroth nodded, satisfied, and released Legolas’ shoulders.  “Good,” he replied and a slight smile came over his dark features.  “You are all that he said you were; a true friend to him.”

          Although his face remained impassive, Legolas’ expressive eyes could not hide his inner turmoil and painful guilt.

          “I am neither,” he whispered.  “I should never have let him come here.”

          “And just how would you have stopped him?” the dark one asked.  “He is a grown man.  His decisions are his own to make.”

          Legolas glanced up ready to counter with a scathing retort, but stopped when he saw the dark Elf’s compassionate face.  The small creature was extremely unsettling and he found himself feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable whenever those penetrating black eyes delved too deeply into his heart.  And so instead of answering in anger, he simply looked away, his pained eyes staring at something that only he could see.

          “I should have gone with him,” he finally replied in a voice so paper thin and brittle it was barely audible.

          Glîngroth moved over to the table and thoughtfully surveyed the platter of food and finally selected a shiny, red apple from the dish of fruits and cheeses.

          “Perhaps,” he agreed as he rhythmically tossed the apple from hand to hand.

          He returned to Legolas and offered him the apple, his determined look indicating that he intended to stand there holding it in his outstretched palm until Legolas accepted it.  When he did, Glîngroth continued.

          “There is no way for you to know what might or might not have happened had you done so.  The shifting cosmos of the Valar has too many variables within it that may or may not come to pass.   It is not for us to shape as we please, for we are mere players in the Song of Life.   We have only but to live out one reality at a time and face each challenge as it arises,” he paused, his disturbing eyes holding Legolas mesmerized.  “When it arises.”

          Despite himself, Legolas brought the apple to his lips and bit into the crisp fruit; the first succulent taste confirmed his ravenous hunger and his body’s dire need for nourishment.  As he chewed, he watched the dark Elf move back to the plate of food.  With a sweeping gesture of his graceful brown hand, Glîngroth indicated the tray.  His dark face was grim and he boldly addressed Legolas in a tone not unlike that of Lord Elrond at his most formidable.

          “I suggest you eat heartily and replenish your body, Elf prince.   You will need all the strength you can manage.   The journey ahead will be difficult for both of you, but it will be your tenacity to survive that will ultimately see Strider through the darkness ahead of him.  He will need you now more than ever before.  Do not fail him.”

          Before Legolas could reply, Strider stirred upon the bed and both Elves turned as one and moved to his bedside.  Like an unseen phantom, Glîngroth discreetly began to unlock the chains that bound the human while Legolas gingerly helped the ranger up into a sitting position.  Once the metal restraints had been removed, the small Elf moved aside and then quietly slid out of the room, leaving the two friends to their own private reunion.

          At first, neither human nor Elf could speak, each too tense and overcome to utter a sound, and then both started to speak at once.  Nervous, frightened laughter issued from both and an awkward silence hung over them until finally Strider placed his hand upon the Elf’s forearm and tears misted at the corners of his silver eyes.

          “I knew you would come, Legolas.”  His voice was thick and shaky with emotion and then his eyes lowered.  “I prayed you would come.”

          Legolas realized that he, too, found it difficult to speak, and that his eyes were over bright and shining with unshed tears.  He sat down on the bedside next to his friend and placed his arm around the ranger’s slumped shoulders.

          “I am here, mellon nin,” the Elf murmured.  “I should never have allowed you to leave Mirkwood.  I should have….”

          He took a deep, anxious intake of breath, and would have continued in like manner but he remembered Glîngroth’s earlier words and his racing heart calmed.   He slowly drew Aragorn’s dark head down to rest upon his shoulder.

          “It is no matter.  I am here now and I will not leave your side.  Together we will see this through.”

          “Ahhhh, Legolas…”  Strider’s disconsolate sigh nearly broke Legolas’ heart.

          The ranger’s dark head shook sadly and then he felt the Elf’s gentle fingers combing through his tangled hair, soothing him.  “I hold out no false hopes, Legolas.”

          He looked up at the Elf and Legolas could see that this horrifying nightmare had already taken a great toll upon his friend’s spirits.  Aragorn’s silver-grey eyes were haunted and on the edge of madness.   He forced a smile of encouragement upon his lips and held the ranger tightly against him, shoulder to shoulder, head to head.

          “We shall defeat this evil, Estel,” he whispered.  “You must believe that.”

          Strider slowly nodded.   There was so much more he wanted to say to the Elf sitting beside him; about the journey ahead; about the horror of what had happened to him; about their friendship.  But he could not find the words, and yet somehow he knew that Legolas understood.   They were truly brothers in spirit; two halves of the same coin and each made stronger by the sheer will and determination of the other, and somehow they would prevail.  

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

          Legolas secured yet another bundle to Astalder’s saddle harness and then affectionately patted the horse’s flank when the steed whinnied in protest.

          “It is only until we can acquire a horse for Aragorn,” he murmured to the stallion.  “You are gracious to carry these burdens like a pack mule.”

          Astalder shook his regal head and snorted and Legolas chuckled lightly as he bent down to gather up more supplies.  True to his word, Glîngroth had found the grey Elven steed and had coaxed him through the coastal sea caves that hugged the coastline along the mountains and through the tunnels and passages to this wide cavern of safety.  He had also given Aragorn a detailed map of all the Dwarf tunnels that were located throughout these mountains, and suggested that they use these underground passages rather than trek back along the sea and then around the mountains as they started out on their long journey to the Forests of Druadan.

          Legolas was not particularly excited about traveling through Dwarvish pathways and dark warrens, but until they could secure another horse for Aragorn, both had agreed that it might be best if their presence in Rhûn was kept hidden from the view of any prying and unwanted eyes.   And, too, the gaurhoth still prowled the mountain slopes, awaiting their chance to turn Strider to Shadow and forever make him a permanent member of their pack.

          According to the dark Elf, there was a small human settlement located on the outskirts of the Brown Lands at the base of the mountains near Rhûn’s western borders.   There they could procure a sturdy horse from one of the numerous mercenaries or marauding bandits who frequented this town.

          The Elf glanced up from his horse when he heard Glîngroth and Aragorn walking through the passageway and into the cavern.  Legolas frowned when he saw Aragorn’s tired and haggard face.  Upon waking from the debilitating aftereffects of the transformation, his friend had slept little and when he did, it was fitful and restless at best.   Legolas knew this was not a good sign and having weathered some of Strider’s grumpier moods because he lacked sleep, he did not relish traveling with an overtired and sleep-deprived human.

          As he rechecked the straps that secured the supplies upon Astalder’s back, he sensed that the small Elf was near and looking to his side he saw the odd little creature approaching.  Glîngroth halted beside him and surreptitiously handed him a large leather bag.  At Legolas’ questioning look, the darkling spoke quietly and for his ears only.

          “The chains,” he murmured and he quickly glanced over at Strider, but the human was busy with his packing and did not look up.

          Legolas flinched as if he had been struck and turned his face away, but finally he nodded his head and then turned back to face the little Elf.  Reluctantly taking the unwanted bundle, he placed it atop the other sacks and bags near his saddle and secured it tightly.  When he was finished, he turned back to Glîngroth and with a twinge of resentment still marring his serene face, extended his forearm to the dark-haired Elf.

          “I thank you for Aragorn’s life and the courtesy you have shown me.” 

          Although his words were cool and aloof, they were nonetheless sincere and heartfelt.   The black-haired Elf looked up at Legolas with a tilt of his head and gave the prince an equally haughty smirk.  Then his dark eyes blazed with a wild fire that reminded Legolas of the ancient Avari warriors in the deep woods of his home.   Suddenly the little creature seemed to have grown in size and stature and his slim brown arm crossed over his chest.   His head bowed forward slightly and he saluted Legolas with a soldier’s formal farewell.

          “Aá i Anor nuava pân anann na lle adel, a i calad ned lle cothrim henea*.”       

          Legolas was stunned by the unexpected tribute and returned the gesture in kind and he, too, nodded his head, confirming his respect for the dark Elf and his gratitude for the knowledge and wisdom he had openly shared with them.  “Namaarie, pen tithen.**”

          Strider came up behind Glîngroth and as the dark creature turned about to face the ranger, he knelt down and swept the small Elf into his arms, squeezing him to his chest in an all too human and emotional embrace.  The unforeseen hug startled the dark one and he emitted a nervous squeak, but his slight arms slowly encircled the human’s shoulders and he held the man to him in return and then grinned up at the ranger with dancing, shiny eyes.

          Strider’s intense silver eyes shown brightly and he slowly released the little Elf and then pulled back away from him so that he could look into his darkly handsome face.

          “I owe you my life, Glîngroth,” he stated.  “I shall not forget it.”

          Glîngroth raised his graceful brown hand and placed it gently to Strider’s cheek.  His black eyes saddened as he stared into Strider’s tormented and careworn face and his grin faded away, leaving his own expression somber and troubled.

          “Be well, Strider,” he said.  “I am sorry your quest for The Two was in vain and that this terrible tragedy befell you instead.”  His eyes lowered from Strider’s face and he voice lowered to almost a whisper.  “I would not have it so.”

          Strider’s eyes closed briefly and he swallowed thickly, as the tremendous weight of everything that had happened here crushed down upon him again and he was bitterly reminded of his doomed fate.  But he squared his shoulders and lifted his head and then gently placed his hand under Glîngroth’s chin, lifting up his brown, child’s face.

          “Hannon le,” he whispered in return and forced a smile to his lips as he stared back at the enigmatic little being.  Then he rose to his feet and looked to Legolas, and nodded that he was ready to leave.  The Mirkwood prince nodded slightly in return and gathered up Astalder’s reins and walked the horse forward to join the ranger.  Together they headed toward the Dwarf tunnels and the beginning of their journey through the mountains.  

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

          It had taken Strider and Legolas five long days to travel through the caverns and tunnels deep within the Mountains of Rhûn and finally they emerged from the stone and darkness into the lower foothills at the range’s southern rim.  The trip had been tiresome and uneventful and for the most part spent in silence as both Elf and ranger had brooded with his own troubling and fretful thoughts.

          Legolas, never comfortable when forced to spend time under tons of rock, had been anxious and tense and without the light of the stars overhead to cheer his spirit, had been particularly dour and moody and Strider had given up trying to appease him.  For his part, Strider had been restive and on edge throughout the trip.  He could not seem to find sleep and his disposition had grown surly and bad-tempered.  For both, the fresh air and sunlight was a welcome relief and almost immediately their bantering humor returned.

          As they left the tunnel behind, the foothills spread out before them and the border town could be plainly seen off in the distance ahead.  However, the few crude buildings and small lean-tos visible could hardly be considered a town.  Strider turned to the Elf beside him and nodded in the direction of the outpost.

          “I think it best if I went down there alone.  You stay here and stay hidden.”

          Legolas was only too happy to comply.  He had no wish to become the target of any unwanted attention.  “Try not to get into trouble,” he grinned.  “I do not wish to venture into that hell hole to rescue you.”

          Strider chuckled and shook his head.  “I will not be long.”  His grin faded.  “Stay alert.”

          The Elf nodded and led Astalder into the shelter of the outcroppings and boulders and was soon out of sight.  Strider pulled his hood up over his head and drew his cloak about his chest.  With a final backward glance to make certain the Elf was out of sight, he started walking toward the town below.

          When he reached the outbuildings some time later, Strider boldly walked through the ramshackle posts that served as the main gate and headed straight for the largest building in the grouping.  Dozens of rough and dirty looking men milled about the town talking to one another or engaged in spurious business dealings.  Several eyed the ranger, but none tried to stop him as he continued through the small crowd and entered what served as the town livery.

          A large, well-muscled man with skin blackened by the sun was hammering out shoes on an anvil and barely looked up as Strider entered the building.  When the ranger halted in front of him, he glanced up, but said nothing.  Strider casually opened his cloak to reveal his sword and the Elven blade at his belt and calmly waited for the man to acknowledge him.  At the sight of the weapons, the man stood up from his work and set his hammer aside.

          “What’re ye wantin’, warrior?” he asked.  His tone was sour and made clear his reluctance to be of much help to Strider.

          “I need a horse,” Strider replied.

          “Don’ have any,” the man answered and picking up his hammer, returned to his work.

          “I’m willing to pay a fair price,” Strider continued as if he had not heard the man’s comment.

          The farrier looked up angrily.  “I tol’ ye….”  His words cut off with sudden fear as he stared into Strider’s red, glowing eyes.  An animistic snarl curled the corner of the ranger’s lip and for a fleeting moment the man thought he saw a wolf’s head appear before him.   The man blinked several times, and shook his head and as his vision cleared, Strider’s silver eyes were calmly staring back at him.  “I…mean, I,” he stammered.  He dropped the hammer and stumbled backward a step.

          “A horse?” Strider pressed.

          The man quickly nodded, pointing toward the pens outside.  “Take yer pick.”

          Strider nodded his thanks and moved past the bewildered and frightened man and went out to the enclosure at the back of the building where several horses and mules were corralled.  He spied a magnificent black horse with a proud head and slowly moved toward the animal, greeting it with soft Elvish words.  The horse willingly came over to meet him and nuzzled the ranger’s chest.  He chuffed softly and then sniffed his hand, searching for a treat.

          Strider glanced back at the man within the doorway and said.  “I’ll take this one.”

          “He’s yers,” the outlander hastily agreed.  “Fifty gold pieces.”

          Strider had already slipped a halter onto the horse’s head and attached a lead.  “I’ll give you thirty.”

          The man started to protest, but one look from the ranger changed his mind.  “Thirty it is.”

          Strider handed the man a sack of coins and then swung up onto the horse’s bare back.  He nodded slightly to the flustered smith, and tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks.  The black steed eagerly jumped forward and they were soon cantering toward the town perimeter.  Strider rode out without a backward glance, but as soon as he had cleared the outer reaches of the village, he urged the horse to greater speed and put as much distance between himself and the town as he could.

*May the Sun be always at your back, and the light in your enemies eyes.

**Farewell, little one.

          The grey wizard Gandalf sat alone upon a broad stone bench, lightly dosing.  The huge and musty book he had been reading lay open upon his lap, the pages lazily stirring with the cool breezes that wafted across the glittering white stones of the palazzo.  The massive façade of the archives of Minas Tirith rose up behind the bench upon which he rested and nearby, the glistening spires and turrets of the many buildings within the Gondorian city shone brightly under the morning sun, a dazzling white against a clear blue sky.  His rumpled, pointed hat was pulled down over his eyes, blotting out the sun’s rays and his grey-haired head rested against his propped elbow and cupped palm.

          High overhead in the cloudless sky, a magnificently feathered hawk circled the various towers and minarets, gliding along on the thermals, its keen yellow eyes searching the city below.  When it spied the napping maiar, it tucked its wings to its sleek sides and began a plummeting dive toward the plaza.  As it dove through the skies it emitted a piercing, screech that echoed off the surrounding buildings.  Gandalf jerked awake at the bird’s shrill call and the heavy book slid off his lap and landed at his feet in a cloud of dust.  He tipped back his hat and brought a gnarled hand up to shield his eyes from the sun’s bright light as he scanned the skies above him.  He easily spotted the diving bird and slowly he arose from the bench to his feet and lifted up his left arm, stretching it out to the side.  The hawk gracefully spread its rust colored wings and broke out of its dive, floating down toward the awaiting wizard.  It extended its razor-sharp talons and then lightly landed upon the ancient Istari’s forearm, gently wrapping its deadly claws around Gandalf’s arm.  The predator’s regal head cocked to one side and it again voiced a raucous squawk.

          “Emmmmm,” Gandalf murmured.  “That is indeed disturbing news.”  He pursed his lips and whistled several chirps and screeches in reply and the hawk’s wings flapped back and forth with great agitation.  Its large claws flexed upon the wizard’s arm and it cawed loudly.

          “You must fly to Gwaihir at once.  You will find him atop the peaks of the Misty Mountains.  Tell him I am once again in dire need of his assistance.  Tell him what has happened and that I will meet him at Mount Mindolluin in three days time.”

          The hawk’s head bobbed up and down several times and then it lifted its wings and spread them outward.  With another loud and abrasive screech, it pushed off the wizard’s arm and took off into the skies, winging its way northwest toward the plains of Rohan.  Gandalf watched the hawk depart with sad and troubled eyes.  The news this messenger had brought him was dire indeed.  He only hoped they would be in time.  Slowly he bent down and retrieved the book that had fallen at his feet.  He glanced back up at the sky once again but the hawk was gone.  Muttering, he reached for his staff and then hastened back into the dim archival halls.  He had much reading yet to do.  

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

          Legolas and Strider faced one another across a small fire, neither speaking.  They had stopped for the night hours ago and had silently gone about setting up a campsite on the flat, dusty plains.   Both were exhausted, bone-weary, and sullen and neither felt much like conversation.  Strider had gone through the dull routine of preparing a meal, yet neither had eaten much.   They were desperately trying to conserve water and therefore he had not used any to cook with, thereby limiting his choice of cuisine.  The dried strips of meat and berries that constituted their remaining stores had not been particularly appetizing and had only served to increase their thirst.

          The two had traveled a little over three weeks into the harsh, barren plains of the Brown Lands and for the first time since they had set out from Rhûn, Legolas thought they might not survive this trip after all.  The sun beat down upon them daily and the winds swept the arid plains causing blinding dust storms that covered them with a thin layer of grit.  It blanketed their hair and clothes, irritated their eyes and seemed to penetrate their skin.  And if they could not find a water source within the next few days, the horses would suffer.  After that…. he tried to put the thought out of his mind and once again he glanced over at the ranger.

          Strider’s physical health had deteriorated quickly and even though he drank the daily potion that Glîngroth had brewed for him, he was in the worst shape that Legolas had ever seen him.  There were great dark circles like ugly smudges of coal beneath his eyes and his once laughing silver eyes were sunken and over large and now totally devoid of life or energy.  Despite the daily pounding from the burning sun, his skin was pale and ashen; and he was so thin.  Legolas felt certain that Strider had not eaten much more than a bird since leaving the border town behind them and heading out into the plains.  He also knew that he had not slept in days, but then again, neither had he.  He had been afraid to rest; afraid that something might happen to Strider while he slumbered.  Across the flames from him, the ranger stirred and the Elf anxiously looked up.

          “What is it?” Legolas asked.

          Strider’s dead eyes looked over at the Elf and he slowly shook his head.  “Nothing,” he replied sadly.  “I was only thinking about the times we used to camp.”  He looked back up at Legolas and tried very hard to smile but somehow the muscles in his jaw would not cooperate.  “Do you remember those tales you used to tell me?”

          Legolas nodded, a slight smile coming to his own lips.  “Would you like me to tell you one now?”

          Strider shook his head again, and then his sorrowful eyes gazed up at the Elf across the fire and the utter hopelessness Legolas saw within them ripped at his heart.  Strider’s head lowered and his voice could barely be heard as he murmured.

          “I fear I shall become one of your tales, Legolas…. and you will be telling it to someone else.”

          Legolas shut his eyes tightly and his breath caught within his chest as the deep hurt these words brought to his soul enveloped him like a shroud.   Those few simple words, spoken so calmly, held a truthful reality that was cruel and brutal.  His only solace came from knowing that he probably would not live to tell the tale either; for he very much doubted that either of them would reach Druadan.  Before he had a chance to answer, both froze as the quiet stillness of the night was replaced by the ghastly howls of the gaurhoth.  Legolas leapt to his feet, his bow already within his hand.

          “They have found us!” Strider shouted as he, too, reached for his bow and quiver.  “Can you see them?”

          Legolas swiftly scanned the open wastelands with his sharper Elven eyes and finally spotted the large, dark shapes loping toward them.  “There!” he pointed.  “Eight of them.”

          By now the horses had caught the scent of the gaurhoth and were frantically pulling at their tethers.  Legolas ran to Astalder and pulled the rein free of the stone weight and leapt upon his bare back.  He wheeled the Elven steed about and stringing an arrow, rode out into the darkness to meet the oncoming pack and quickly disappeared into the night.  Strider slung his quiver across his shoulders and ran for his horse.  The black steed pawed at the ground, its eyes wild and glaring, but it allowed Strider to mount and soon the ranger, too, sped off, chasing after his Elven friend.

          A piercing yowl reached his ears as he headed toward the charging pack and Strider hurriedly grabbed an arrow from his back quiver.  Before he could set arrow to string, the horse swerved madly and he lost his balance, sliding sideways across the horse’s bare back.  He clumsily caught hold of the steed’s neck and mane and pulled himself back upright, but as he made the desperate grab for the horse’s neck, he dropped his bow and the arrow.  Cursing, he turned the animal back around and started to go back for the fallen bow.  Before he had completed the turn, a wolf-man jumped out of the darkness and knocked him completely off the horse and onto the ground.

          The ebony steed neighed in panic and bolted, leaving Strider and the werewolf wrestling upon the hard ground.  Strider held the wolf’s frenzied and snapping jaws away from his face and realized that his combatant was not actually a real wolf at all, but some sort of distorted man with a wolf’s head and misshapen body.  The beast had its clawed fingers upon his throat, choking him and Strider rolled back and forth in a vain attempt to escape, but the monster was quickly cutting off his air.  Strider drew his knee up to his chest and managed to get his boot under the werewolf’s abdomen and pushed upward with a sharp, swift kick.  The wolf-man atop him grunted and momentarily loosened his hold upon his throat, but it was not enough.

          Strider relinquished his grip upon the wolf’s jowls and tried again to roll out from under the beast, but the animal’s head came down and savagely bit into his shoulder.  Strider screamed in pain as the werewolf’s long teeth sank deep into his flesh, burning like fire, and to Strider, the next few moments seemed to pass by in a slowed and unnatural state of consciousness as the blazing poison coursed through his veins.   A surging power seemed to erupt within his body and suddenly he felt consumed with raw hatred and the maddened desire to kill.  Strider’s eyes turned from silver to red and his lips drew back from his teeth in a leering snarl.  The attacking werewolf hesitated and in that brief moment Strider shoved the beast away and rolled out from under the wolf-man.  He instantly regained his feet and then lowered his body into a hunting crouch; a low, nasty growl issued from his throat.  As the opposing werewolf turned to face Strider, the ranger’s body completed the morgul transformation and his human face was replaced by that of a wild beast.

          The two clashed together in a flurry of teeth and claws and grappled with one another upon the dusty plains.  Strider’s sharp teeth sank into the throat of his attacker and bit down hard.  He could taste the hot, coppery blood and his lust for killing grew manic and rabid.  He torn his clawed hand across the chest of the beast beneath him and the wolf-man gurgled in pain, his ruptured throat bubbling with blood and expended air.  His opponent raked his claws down Strider’s back, momentarily causing the ranger to release his grip upon the werewolf’s throat, but it was too late.  Strider’s wolf-strong jaws clamped back down upon the gaurhoth’s neck and the bones cracked and then he lay still.  Strider lifted his massive head from the kill, blood dripping from his mouth, and he glanced about the darkened flatlands for a new challenger.  Now that he had tasted blood, he wanted more; needed more.  His glowing red eyes scanned the barren lands and he spotted the blond head of the Elf.  A low, menacing growl rose from within his chest and he set off toward this new prey.

          Legolas skillfully rotated his torso to the right and let fly another arrow and a third creature dropped dead in its tracks.  The remaining wolves began to circle the Elf and horse and although they made no overt attempt to draw nearer, they continued to watch the Elf with their fiery eyes.   They were much too close now and Legolas knew he could not kill all of them before at least one broke through and reached him.  Astalder was spinning about on his hind legs, pawing the air with his front hooves, but he was tiring and could not continue to prevent the wolves from closing in.  

          Finally one of the werewolves lost patience and made a bold leap, launching itself directly at Legolas.  The Elf swung his bow to meet the attack and released the shot, but the remaining wolves jumped forward as one and brought both horse and rider to the ground.  Legolas was thrown several feet from his horse by the force of the blow and rolled quickly to his feet.  The wolf-man that had attacked also rolled as he landed and sprang easily to his feet and turned to face his prey.  The others, spying the isolated Elf, immediately lunged forward.  Legolas reached his arms up and over his head and both of his Elven long knives appeared within his hands as he pivoted back and forth to face the attacking wolves.  Astalder awkwardly kicked back up to his feet and then fled into the darkness, leaving the Elf to stand alone against the three snarling wolf-men.

          The thudding sound of pounding feet coming fast, made Legolas turn to the left and he ducked and then rolled as a furred body sailed over his head.  The knife blade flashed up and bit into flesh.  The creature shrieked and landed heavily upon the ground several feet from him, but a second beast wasted no time and hit Legolas squarely in the back, knocking the Elf to the ground.  Its vicious jaws snapped at the prince’s head and Legolas winced as the wolf yanked a mouthful of his long, blond hair, digging to find the soft flesh of his neck.

          The wolf upon his back suddenly grunted in pain and his weight disappeared from Legolas’ back as a large silver-furred mass rammed into it and rolled it off the Elf’s prone body.  Legolas scrambled to his feet and snatched up his knives and then whipped around to stare at the battling wolves, but had no time to waste as the last member of the pack charged at him.  Legolas turned to meet it.  The Elf spun and whirled in a deadly blur, keen blades flashing, and ultimately the creature lay dead at his feet.  Panting and gasping for breath, Legolas at last turned back to the two battling wolves and stared in helpless panic as he realized that the silver wolf-man was unmistakably Aragorn.

          He quickly glanced about at the surrounding ground and his highly sensitive eyes finally caught sight of his dropped bow.  He ran toward the weapon and snatched it up off the ground.  Hurriedly he re-sheathed his knives and drew out an arrow, nocking it to string as he ran back to the fiercely struggling werewolves.  When he reached the two, he lifted the bow and prepared to shoot, but the beasts were too entwined and constantly moving and shifting position.  Frustrated, he kept the bow aimed at the two wolves, forced to wait for a clear shot.

          When at last the silver-grey beast tore the throat out of its assailant, Legolas cautiously lowered his bow and waited.  The great silver wolf threw back its head and howled a triumphant call to the skies above.  Its red eyes glowed with conquest and blood lust and finally it swung it’s dripping jaws toward the Elf.  When the hideous beast turned to face him, Legolas froze.  The monster now standing before him was not his friend.  There was no trace of Aragorn left in the wolf’s glittering and evil eyes.  Its bared teeth and deadly snarl were now directed toward him and the creature’s intent was plain.  Legolas slowly backed away, lifting his bow as he did so, his eyes never leaving the beast’s face.

          The silver wolf crouched down, its red eyes following the Elf’s every move.  A low, threatening growl rumbled within its throat and then it took a cautious step toward the retreating Elf.  Legolas’ pained eyes watched the creature stalk him and could see nothing of his friend within the wolf’s terrifying visage.

          “Aragorn!” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes never leaving the wolf.  “Please mellon nin!  Do not force me to shoot you.”

          The wolf growled again, and then lunged through the darkness toward the Elf.  The arrow sang as it flew from the bow and the silver wolf-man yowled in surprise and pain as the shaft penetrated its flesh.  The beast fell heavily to the ground, snarling and howling, jaws snapping, as it grasped the offending arrow and viciously yanked it from its side.  It let out a terrifying yowl and writhed on the ground for several minutes more and then lay still.  Horrified and sickened by what he had done, Legolas dropped to his knees, his eyes shutting in pain and sorrow.  His arms hung loosely at his sides and the loathsome bow fell to the dust beside him.

          Hot, anguished tears sprang to his eyes and a keening wail issued from his lips.  His ravaged face turned toward the stars above and his eyes sought Eärendil; a bitter, ragged sob shattered the stillness as he choked.

           “Díheno nin*!”

*Forgive me!       

          There was no feeling any more; no redemption possible; no acceptable justification for his actions.  There was only despair.  He had killed his gwador.*   And, with Aragorn’s death, he had killed his own will to live.  But now death was too honorable.  Death was release from pain and heartache but there could be no relief from this agony.  There could be no salvation.   He was a murderer.  He was delos.**  

********

          ‘Can you do this for him?  Can you do this for him?’  The unwanted words echoed within Legolas’ insensate mind.  He lived, breathed, yet he drifted in darkness, alone, blinded by the blackness that surrounded him.  And still the troublesome words haunted him; hounded him; tormented him.  ‘Do not fail him.’

          “But I have…,” the Elf sobbed.  “I have failed him.”

          ‘You will have to chain him… Can you do this for him?’  The insistent voice shouted within his mind; relentlessly pursuing him and it would not go away.  He could not make it go away.

          Legolas looked up, disoriented, his dull and unfocused eyes unable to comprehend what they saw of the world about him.   He tried to recall where he was and how he had gotten here but the images were vague and distorted.   He had been fighting, fighting something evil….  He looked upward and saw the sky awash with brilliant stars and the darkness of the night.   He remembered the darkness, but why was he on his knees?  Why did he feel so empty, so bereft of hope?  Where was….

          “Aragorn!”

          The Elf’s tortured cry reverberated across the bleak and barren landscape and with the voicing aloud of Aragorn’s name, everything came rushing back to him with total clarity; slamming into his brain with the full force of his culpability.  The overwhelming grief stabbed through his heart and consumed his spirit like a plague ravaging an unwary populace.   His desolate gaze locked upon Aragorn’s pale and bloodied body, lying upon the ground no more than ten feet from him.   His lungs sucked in a horrified, revolted gasp of air and he was at once appalled and sickened by the repugnant image.  Now he vividly remembered what he had done and he could not tear his eyes from the twisted limbs and contorted body, proof of Aragorn’s last agonized moments.

          Another rough, choking sob convulsed his body and finally he turned his eyes away, no longer able to bear the sight of the slain ranger.  The tears he had shed still burned his eyes and he did not bother to wipe them away.  There would never be enough tears to wash away this last sight of his friend and brother.  And because of his deep sorrow and despair, the whispered groan might have gone unnoticed had it not been for the instinctive keenness of his hearing and the silence of the night that allowed the subtle sound to penetrate his mind.

          Confused and uncertain, Legolas raised his head again and then remained completely still, barely breathing, listening to the sounds of the hushed night.  Something had alerted his subconscious and now his eyes narrowed and his head slowly scanned the darkness about him.  Again, the ghostly moan drifted through the whispering of the night winds and he lurched to his feet.  He took several staggering steps and fell forward, stumbling across the hard, sere ground until he dropped to his knees at Aragorn’s side.  His shaking hand stretched out, afraid that his imagination was playing cruel tricks with his mind; afraid that he would only feel the cold and lifeless body of his friend; afraid – yet he touched the ranger – and found him breathing.

          “Aragorn!” he gasped and now placed both his tremulous hands upon the ranger’s bare chest, searching for the deadly arrow wound.  Aragorn’s body shook uncontrollably beneath his hands and the Elf’s long, sensitive fingers felt the congealed blood and deep gashes all along the man’s torso, but he could not find any wound made by an arrow’s point.  And then he saw it, lower upon the ranger’s body, a darker shadow high upon his hip and to the side of the bone.

          How did I miss his heart? How did I miss his ‘chest’ entirely and merely hit his hip? How could I possibly have missed at all from that range?

          Stunned, Legolas rocked back on his heels, his head spinning.  Aragorn should be dead, but by some miracle of the Valar he was not.  Somehow the Elf’s subconscious mind had overridden his warrior’s hand.  The arrow had struck the attacking beast that Aragorn had become, but the wound it inflicted was not life threatening.  As his mind slowly registered this new information, he was overcome with a sense of euphoria and new tears of joy sprang to his eyes.  However, his new found elation was short-lived.   A low, growling snarl startled the Elf back to awareness and Glîngroth’s prophetic words rang within his head.

          ‘There will come a time when you will have to chain him… for his protection as well as your own.’

          The Elf sprang backward and away from the prone form of the ranger.  The growls emanating from Strider’s lips became louder and his body began to shake with the same violent tremors and seizures Legolas remembered from the time he had found the ranger lying upon the rocky trail in Rhûn.

          He quickly pushed himself up off the ground and ran back to their abandoned campsite.  Once there, he went directly to the mound of bags and sacks near his bedroll and retrieved the heavy pouch containing the chains.  He tossed the pack over his shoulder and trotted back to the slowly awakening ranger.

          He knelt beside Aragorn’s body and dumped the chains out onto the ground.   He hastily snatched up the heavy cuffs and placed them around the ranger’s ankles and then he reached for the wrist restraints.   He had them ready to secure the ranger’s hands when Strider suddenly sat upright, his red eyes gleaming.  Without hesitation, Legolas slammed his fist into Strider’s jaw, knocking the human backward and flat upon his back.  A strangled, surprised grunt escaped Strider’s lips and then his eyes closed as unconsciousness swept over him.

          Legolas grabbed the chains with trembling hands and set the manacles about the ranger’s hands.  Once secure, he picked up the longer chains and with one hand pulled Strider’s upper body up off the ground and with the other began to wrap the metal links tightly about his chest, pinning his arms flat to his sides and crossing the chains over his ribcage.   When he was certain they were secure, he placed the sturdy lock through the links and slammed it shut.  He tucked the empty bag under his belt and then picked up the ranger’s limp body.   He swayed slightly under Strider’s dead weight and then after his feet steadied beneath him, moved back in the direction of their camp.

          Legolas stumbled past the long dead fire pit and then sank to the ground near Strider’s unrolled sleeping pallet, the insensible ranger still held within his arms.  Carefully and gently, he lowered his friend down onto the bed and quickly covered him with several thick blankets.  He was about to search for dried grass or scrub to restart the fire when he recalled the dark Elf giving Strider a dose of the potion the last time he had transformed from wolf back into human form.  He moved over to the pile of gear near Strider’s head and began to rummage about for the leather flagon containing the potion.

          Upon finding the flask, he returned to Strider’s side and slowly lifted his friend up into a sitting position.  He eased the ranger’s head and shoulders back and rested them against his chest, and then uncorked the container and tipped the opening to the ranger’s lips.   After the first initial sip, Strider started to rouse and tried to struggle against the Elf’s administrations, but Legolas was the stronger and he forced the liquid down Strider’s throat.  Once that chore had been completed, he lay the ranger back down upon the bedding and set the flagon aside.  Strider drifted in and out of awareness, and after a time, his breathing slowed and became less labored and sleep finally settled over him.  

          Once he was sure that the ranger truly slept, Legolas rose and began to gather what fuel he could find for the campfire and a short time later had a small but warm fire burning next to Strider’s sleeping form.  The Elf collected his bedding and placed it alongside that of the sleeping ranger.  Wearily, Legolas sat down next to his friend and prepared to wait out the night and the lengthy vigil ahead.  

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

          Legolas dreamt of cool, soothing waterfalls and crystal clear pools of blue-green water.   Misty sprays wet his face as he lazily floated atop the rippling water and a quiet serenity gently cradled him within its protective shell.   He lifted his face up to the cascading water and he could feel the sun-kissed droplets splashing upon his eyelids, the water sparkling like stars as it ran down his cheeks.  He could taste the clear, cold water…. and then he was jerked upward; the idyllic pool vanished.   He was being shaken, hard and someone was shouting his name.

          Legolas’ eyelids fluttered and water dripped off his long, thick eyelashes as another handful of liquid poured over his face.  Water blurred images floated in front of his eyes and his mind struggled to sort out the dream from reality.

          “Legolas!  Legolas Thranduilion!” the voice boomed.

          The Elf’s eyes opened completely and his head turned toward the sound of a familiar voice.  “Mithrandir?”

          The wizard roughly pulled Legolas up from his bedroll and handed him a large flagon of water.  “Yes, young prince,” he smiled.  “You seem to have had quite an ordeal.  You gave me some cause for alarm.  I feared I would not be able to rouse you from your sleep.”

          Legolas stared at the maiar in dazed bewilderment.  Sleep?  When had he fallen asleep?  He quickly glanced to his left, reassuring himself that the ranger was still there and then Mithrandir’s firm hand upon his arm drew his attention back to the wizard.

          “He is sleeping,” the Istari stated.  “For now.”

          Legolas continued to stare at the grey wizard as if he were seeing a ghost, his mind not yet accepting the fact of his presence.  He finally managed to babble out.  “How did you get here?  How did you find us?”

          Mithrandir chuckled softly and pointed toward the container of water Legolas still clutched within his hands.  “Drink up, young prince.  The water will help to revive you.”  When he was sure that Legolas would indeed heed his request, he continued.

          “Gwaihir brought me to you.”  He waved his hand toward the brown, dusty plains and indicated the giant eagles calmly roosting upon the parched land; their majestic heads erect and proud as they surveyed the wastelands around them.  “Mângwaew and Menellach have come to help as well.”

          He turned back to the Mirkwood prince and continued.  “While at Minas Tirith, I was sought out by a curious messenger.  He told me that a valiant warrior and a proud Elf had set out upon a desperate journey through the barren wastelands, traveling to the Forests of Druadan.”

          “What messenger?” Legolas asked.

          “A fine hawk,” answered the wizard.  “Sent to me by one Glîngroth of Barad-Fân.”

          The Elf’s eyes widened with astonishment.  “Glîngroth?

          The wizard cocked his head to the side and studied the Wood Elf with interest.  “I see that you know of him.”

          Legolas’ eyebrow arched and his lip twisted into a condescending smirk.  “He is an impertinent little peredhel†….” he paused and the words trailed away, and then the sarcasm vanished and his voice was quiet and deferential. “But we owe him our lives.”  His glance fell to the sleeping ranger and Mithrandir’s questioning gaze followed.  “If not for his help, Aragorn would now belong to Sauron and the hope of Middle Earth gone forever.”

          The ancient maiar’s sad eyes turned to study the face of the troubled Elf and his soft, calm voice filled the air.  “There are eight bodies lying not far from here; some bearing your arrows.  The others appear to be mutilated and despoiled by wild beasts.  Perhaps you should tell me what has happened here.”

          Legolas shuddered and his hand reached out, protectively covering the ranger’s chest.  An involuntary sob momentarily choked off his speech as his fingers touched the cold metal and then he whispered.  “Ai, Elbereth!”

          Legolas lifted his hand and gently pushed aside the stray strands of hair that clung to Strider’s damp forehead and then his hand slid back down to rest upon the ranger’s gently rising chest.  When at last he turned his pain-filled eyes back to the Istari, he could barely keep his voice from quavering, but he forced himself to speak slowly and distinctly.

          “Aragorn has been bitten by the gaurhoth.  We were on our way to the Forests of Druadan to seek out a plant or weed of some kind called aconite. It is the vital ingredient needed for the curative potion he must consume to rid him of this evil.  However, the spells also needed to affect this cure must be conjured by a Gûladan of the Drúath.”

          He again looked to his friend.  “His time is running out, Mithrandir.” 

          Legolas’ desperate eyes once again fixed upon the wizard’s face.  “He has already transformed into the wolf – once to protect me and then again last night when we were attacked by the gaurhoth.  The first time he shape-shifted it took a great deal of strength and energy from him, yet he was able to fight the beast within.  Last night, the demon took control.  He attacked me and I…. I shot him.”

          At this terrible admission, Legolas’ head lowered and he turned his face away from the wizard, too shamed by what he had done to meet the Istari’s questioning eyes.   Mithrandir continued to watch the young prince, patiently waiting for him to go on with this dreadful narrative, his own compassionate heart sharing in the Elf’s pain and misery. 

          Legolas eventually turned his aggrieved eyes back to Mithrandir.  “Should he make the transformation again, I fear that he will succumb to the beast and will not be able to return.  The morgul demon that wishes to claim him will prevail and Aragorn will cross over to Shadow forever.”

          The ancient wizard nodded and then stiffly rose to his feet, his hand reflexively supporting his tired back as he straightened his old bones.  “Then we have no time to spare.”  He looked down at the distraught Elf and continued.  “Quickly, gather together your supplies; take only what is necessary.  Leave the rest.  You will have to carry Strider.  In his present condition, he cannot ride himself and we cannot afford to wait until he regains his senses.”

          Legolas looked toward the eagles and understanding suddenly dawned upon him.  The three eagles had come to transport them to Druadan.  “But what of the horses?”

          “Mângwaew will see that they reach Mirkwood safely.  He knows where to find water and will see them through the Brown Lands to your homeland.   He will also deliver a missive to your father, should you care to send one.”

          Legolas nodded his desire to do so and then rose gracefully from his seat beside the sleeping ranger.  He methodically began to sort through his gear and possessions, making sure to collect the scrolls that contained the spells and the ingredients specified for the various potions and brews that would be needed to cure Aragorn.

          “Quickly then,” the wizard smiled his encouragement and reassurance.  “I will tell Gawihir of our plans.”

          Legolas nodded his blond head and returned to his packs, culling out those things that could be left behind.  For the first time in several months, he actually felt like singing.  A brilliant smile spread over his face and unhindered, the melodious notes burst forth from his lips and he sang an old Avari song of victory and courage.

*brother in spirit

**anathema

†half Elf

          Legolas finished packing up the last of his gear and strapped the various bags and bundles together onto a makeshift harness.  As he set the burden in place across the eagle’s broad, feathered back, the large yellow eye of Menellach turned to study him and Legolas bowed slightly, acknowledging the bird’s scrutiny.  The giant predator cawed loudly and his feathers ruffled and twitched beneath the unaccustomed harness rigging, but he seemed willing enough to accept the nodded gesture of respect from the Elf.  After a time, his huge head swiveled back to survey the plains and wastelands that stretched before them and he patiently waited for Gwaihir’s command to depart.

          Legolas had saddled both horses and secured what valuable yet unnecessary gear they possessed upon each of the horses’ backs.  These provisions would be retrieved from Mirkwood once their mission to the Forest of Druadan had been completed.  A lengthy letter to his father had been hastily penned and secured to Astalder’s halter.  The horses had been fed and watered and seemed eager to leave the dusty plains behind and after a few comforting and encouraging words from Legolas, Astalder readily set out; the newly acquired black stallion following behind.  Mângwaew had already taken to the skies and high overhead, the giant eagle circled about and then swooped back down over the horses’ heads, herding them before him and exhorting them to press on toward the borders of Mirkwood’s southern realm.  Legolas watched them until all three had disappeared from sight.

          While the Elf sorted through their belongings, Gandalf turned his attention to Strider and engaged in the cleansing and bandaging of the numerous wounds that covered his body.  Because of the gaurhoth poison coursing through his veins, most of the deep gashes caused by the clawed hands of the wolf-men had already begun to heal.  Even the arrow wound to his hip had sealed over and the bruised skin around the puncture appeared to be only slightly discolored; yet that same poison was adversely affecting the ranger in other ways.

          The gauntness had returned to Strider’s face as had the dark circles beneath his sunken eyes.  His skin felt cold and clammy and was stretched taut against his bones, giving the ranger a skeletal appearance.  Gandalf shook his head with worry as he noted how Strider’s ribs jutted out in raised ridges, indicating just how much weight the ranger had lost over the last few months.  As Legolas joined him, he glanced up at the Elf prince and pointed to the heavy chains still wrapped tightly about the man’s chest.

          “I think it is safe to remove these until we get some clothes on him.  He is still in a very deep sleep.  If we traveled any way other than by eagle’s flight, I would chance keeping them off, but we cannot have him awaken in mid flight and start thrashing about.”

          Legolas silently nodded and produced the key for the locks from an inner tunic pocket.  While the wizard unchained the ranger, the Elf searched through Strider’s bundles for a tunic, shirt and trousers.  Together with the ranger’s boots, he brought the clothing back to Gandalf and both proceeded to pull the new garments over Strider’s unresisting and pliant body.

          “I think we can leave the ankle restraints off for now,” Gandalf decided.  “He will be easier for you to support if he can straddle the eagle’s back and you hold him around the waist.”  He nodded to Legolas and the Elf effortlessly picked up his friend and carried him to the awaiting eagles.

          “I shall lift him onto Menellach’s back,” Legolas said to the wizard.  “But you will need to hold him steady until I can climb up behind him.”

          Gandalf nodded.  “Very well.  Whenever you are ready.”

          Trundling Strider’s dead weight up and onto the monstrous eagle’s back proved much harder than he thought it would be, but Legolas finally managed to get Strider’s legs up and over the giant bird and with Gandalf’s assistance, climbed up behind the comatose ranger.  He tucked his legs under the bird’s massive wings and settled his body into place, much like he had when riding upon the great dragon, Naurnyar.   Then he pulled the unconscious ranger back against his chest and circled both his arms around Strider’s waist.  When he was certain that they were both steady and balanced, he nodded to the wizard and Gandalf turned to Gwaihir.

          With several shrill shrieks and caws, Gandalf communicated to the Lord of the Eagles that they were ready to depart and both giant birds rose gracefully to their feet.  Their enormous wings stretched outward and with a, short running leap, both were airborne and streaking upward into the cloudless sky.  Legolas clutched the ranger tighter to his chest and then turned his face up to the sun, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of its rays upon his cheeks.  The whistling winds whipped and buffeted about them and the Elf reveled in the sheer speed of their flight.  His long, blond hair streamed out behind his head and tossed by the winds, swirled about his shoulders.  Flying across from him, Gandalf clutched his pointed hat and grinned at the Elf and Legolas could not help but smile in return.

          The huge birds winged their way on a southwesterly course and the dusty lands of the barren plains sped past beneath them at a dizzying speed.  The brown wastelands eventually gave way to the swampy bogs and fens of the Dead Marshes and the Wetwang and then they crossed over the Anduin River and the island of Cair Andros and entered into the grassy regions of Anórien and Gondor.  By dusk they had reached the Forests of Druadan and the eagles slowly circled the ruins of the great watchtower of Amon Dîn, searching for a suitable place to land.  As the sun finally sank behind the vast mountain ranges of the Ered Nimrais and its fading rays left the dark green forests in a grey twilight haze, the mighty eagles lighted upon the crumbling stonework of the beacon hill, and safely deposited their travelers onto the gigantic stones of the ancient site.

          Strider had not stirred throughout the journey upon Menellach’s back, but as Legolas slid down from the eagle and reached up to pull the ranger down, a soft moaning sigh came to his lips and he began to mutter and mumble incomprehensible words and sounds.  Legolas carefully laid him down upon the nearby stones and made him as comfortable as possible while he returned to the bird and began to remove the harness holding their bags and sacks.  When he had finished unloading everything, he moved to stand before the great eagle and he formally bowed his head, his arm crossing over his chest and his hand resting over his heart.

          “Hannon le, pen beleg*,” he said.

          The monstrous bird flapped his magnificent wings, causing a whirlwind of dust and leaves to swirl across the stones of the ancient ruins and he shrieked loudly as his head lifted up toward the heavens.  Then his plumed head lowered and he emitted a soft chittering squawk toward the Elf in reply.  Gandalf chuckled as he appeared at Legolas’ side and he grinned at the Mirkwood prince.

          “Menellach says that he is indeed mighty and has favored you with his regard.”

          The Elf’s eyebrow rose, but he merely nodded to the eagle once more and then quickly moved to check on Strider’s condition.  Gandalf shared several last squawking exchanges with the great birds and then both launched themselves from the topmost stones of the watchtower and winged their way back north toward their aeries in the Misty Mountains.   As the wizard rejoined Legolas at Strider’s side, the Elf looked up at him and asked.

          “Now that we are here, how shall we go about finding the Drúath?”

          The wizard laughed easily and knelt down beside Legolas.   He produced the key the Elf had given to him earlier that day and as he unlocked the restraining chains from Strider’s body he replied.

          “Two great eagles have appeared out of the heavens and landed upon the ancient ruins of Amon Dîn bearing a man, an Elf, and a wizard.  I should think that would be quite a miraculous event in the lives of these primitive forest men.  They will undoubtedly see it as a sign from their Spirit Gods.  I suspect they will find us.”

          He removed the final set of chains and pulled them off the ranger’s body.  “He seems to be coming ‘round.”  The wizard gestured toward the piled supplies resting not far from Legolas.  “He will need water.”

          Legolas nodded and quickly moved to do the wizard’s bidding.  He returned with a water skin and the leather flagon containing the potion.  He handed the water flask to the wizard.  “The potion is almost gone,” he commented.

          Gandalf nodded as he placed the water flask to Strider’s mouth and let several drops of the cool liquid wet the ranger’s parched lips.  Strider stirred slightly and his glazed eyes slowly opened.

          “Legolas?” he whispered; his voice was raspy and feeble.

          “I am here, mellon nin,” the Elf answered.  He put his arm beneath the ranger’s shoulders and lifted him up to a sitting position.  He set the flagon containing the ill-smelling brew to his mouth and titled it upward.  “You must drink the potion.”

          Strider was too weak to even protest and allowed the Elf to pour the liquid down him.  He coughed and choked several times and Legolas held Strider’s head and shoulders upright until the fit had passed and then he eased the ranger down, resting his head and upper body across his lap.  He gratefully took a blanket from the wizard and wrapped it about the ranger’s shoulders and chest and smiled down at Strider as he held him, sharing his own body warmth with the shivering man.

          Strider’s questioning gaze fell upon the strange, crumbling stone walls and the unfamiliar scenery about him.  “Where are we?” he croaked.

          “Amon Dîn,” Gandalf answered and Strider’s head whipped around to face the wizard.

          An incredulous expression came over his pale face as he stared at the maiar.  “Gandalf?”

          The old Istari smiled warmly.  “Yes, dear boy.”  He clasped Strider’s cold hand between his gnarled ones and looked deeply into the wearied silver eyes of the ranger.  “Had I known what great peril awaited you in the Land of Rhûn, I would never have sent you there.  I am sorry.”

          Strider’s frail smile fell upon the despondent wizard and his eyes told the ancient maiar that he held no ill feelings toward him.  “I do not blame you, Gandalf.  It was a chance we both took.”  He laughed sadly.  “And the news I bring you is not what you had hoped for.  Both have fled Arda, and I fear, never to return.  Only their apprentice, Glîngroth, remains, guarding the Cloud Tower and vainly awaiting their homecoming.”

          “Ah, Glîngroth,” nodded the wizard, chuckling.

          At Strider’s puzzled frown, Legolas answered.  “The darkling advised Mithrandir of our dilemma, and he, in turn, brought the great eagles to rescue us.” 

          “Eagles?” said Strider, and his frown increased.

          “I will leave it to Legolas to explain,” smiled the wizard.  “Right now, I wish to study the scrolls containing the necessary spells for the conjuring and ridding of this curse from your body.  Hopefully, we shall soon see this horrendous calamity come to an end and you back to health and recovery.”

          Both Elf and ranger watched the wizard as he moved over to the hastily piled heap of gear and supplies and rooted about for the leather folio containing the parchments.  With an absent wave of his gnarled hand, a small fire erupted from between the cracked stones at his feet and he sank to the ground and began to read the scrolls by the fire’s light.  Strider’s shaky hand upon the Elf’s arm drew the prince’s attention away from the wizard and he looked back down at his injured friend.

          “What happened?” Strider asked.  His frightened eyes searched those of the Elf, seeking answers to questions he could not voice outright and Legolas knew that he was asking about the battle with the gaurhoth and its aftermath.   Legolas studied his worn and haggard face with a pained and anguished expression, but he could not speak the truth of what had occurred.

          “Please, Legolas,” Strider whispered.  “Tell me.  I cannot remember anything that happened.”  He paused, his eyes pleading with the Elf.  “I must know.”

          Legolas nodded reluctantly and eventually began to relate the events following the initial gaurhoth attack.  He left out nothing and when he was finished telling Strider everything that had occurred, his haunted eyes turned away from the ranger’s stark and pale face.

          “Forgive me,” Legolas whispered.

          Strider’s hand reached up and fiercely gripped the Elf’s arm.  “There is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” he murmured.  “You saved my life.”

          A harsh and bitter laugh issued from the prince’s lips and he refused to look at his friend.  “Saved you?  I shot you with an arrow!”  He gasped and an involuntary shudder shook his slender shoulders.  “I thought…. I thought I had killed you.”

          Strider’s piercing silver eyes stared at the Elf’s exquisite profile with an intensity that forced Legolas to turn and face him directly.  When he did, he could see the truth in the ranger’s heart when he spoke.  “You did save me.  The pain and shock of that arrow hitting me caused me to transform back into myself.   Had it not been for that, I know the demon would have destroyed me; I would not have had the strength to fight it.”

          Legolas turned away again, yet his head nodded ever so slightly.  He did not trust his voice to speak but he pulled the ranger up and held him closer to his chest, resting his cheek against the top of Strider’s head.   The human’s hand squeezed his forearm again and then he felt the ranger relax within his arms and knew that sleep had overtaken his frail and weakened body once more.  Gently he laid the man back down upon the stones and tucked the blankets around him.  

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

          Legolas approached the fire and gracefully sank down beside the grey-haired wizard, lightly resting his bow upon the tops of his knees.  His cautious gaze scanned the trees and hillocks surrounding the ruins and his ears were ever alert to any strange or unusual sound.  Gandalf contentedly puffed on his long-stemmed pipe and continued to read through the various scrolls that were now scattered about his lap and the ground around him.  He glanced sideways at the Elf and spoke in a soft, quiet voice.

          “You neglected to mention one very important ingredient required for Strider’s cure.”

          Legolas stiffened.  “The blood,” he whispered.

          “Emmmmm,” the wizard nodded.  He pulled one of the scrolls closer to the fire and read aloud.  “’The blood of the victim must be poured into the silver chalice; another of the same family must also shed blood.’”

          The wizard glanced up from his reading and looked directly at the Elf.  Legolas’ eyes lowered and a guilt-ridden flush tinged his face a rosy pink.  Finally he looked up at Gandalf.

          “In truth, I never believed we would ever reach Druadan.”  His gaze drifted off into the distance, looking at the trees beyond yet not seeing them; seeing instead the barren plains and Aragorn’s wasted body lying still upon the ground.  Slowly he turned back to face the maiar.  “I thought there would be no need.”

          Gandalf puffed on his pipe and mumbled something the Elf could not understand and clouds of blue-grey smoke slowly circled his head.  He set the scroll down upon the others and his blue eyes narrowed as he studied the Elven prince seated next to him.

          “I would imagine you always thought deep within your heart that you would be the one to offer this blood should the time ever come,” the wizard stated.

          The veracity of these spoken words stunned Legolas.  For in truth, he had held this belief tucked away within his heart from the very first moment he had read those fateful words.  And although knowing he was not tied to Aragorn by blood, he had always felt bound to him in spirit.  He had jealously protected that relationship and held dear the strong, unconditional trust he and the ranger shared.  Who better than he to offer this sacrifice?

          “The bonds of a brother in heart and spirit are oft times much stronger than those of mere flesh and bone,” Gandalf said softly.  “The friendship you share with Aragorn is forged in steel; impenetrable to any evil known to Elf or man.”

          Legolas’ eyes narrowed and his face hardened with resolve.  “I would give my life for him.”

          Gandalf nodded, already knowing this to be true.  He slowly lowered his pipe and stared at the Elf.  This prince of Mirkwood was so much more than immortal Elfkind for he was possessed of a powerful force and magic not seen since the Eldar.

          Does he even realize what great strength he possesses, I wonder? the wizard mused.

          “As he would for you,” Gandalf replied and his gaze traveled to the form of the sleeping ranger.  Legolas, too, turned his eyes to the young Dúnedain chieftain and the hope of Middle Earth and then he turned to face the wizard.

          “He cannot die, Mithrandir,” Legolas stated with a hardened strength of will that would not be denied.  “You must tell me that my blood can help to save him.”

          Before the Istari could answer, Legolas sprang to his feet.  An arrow materialized within his hand and he raised his bow, aiming it toward the darkness that surrounded the stone ruins.  His upper body moved from side to side and his eyes narrowed as they tried to penetrate the blackness of the dark woods.  He glanced down at the wizard and his voice hissed out.

          “We are being watched.”

*Thank you, mighty one.

          At the Elf’s warning, Gandalf arose from his seat by the fire with a surprising speed and graceful agility that belied his ancient years.   The various scrolls and parchments within his lap fluttered to the ground and scattered about the hem of his robes as he moved close to the Elf.  His right hand rose up and his fingers gently touched Legolas’ rigid arm and firmly pulled it and the bow downward.

          “Lower your weapon, Legolas,” he whispered.

          The warrior prince glanced at the wizard out of the corner of his eye, a questioning frown clouding his features, but he acquiesced and lowered the bow nonetheless.  He did not, however, release the arrow from its nocked position upon the string and he held both bow and arrow loosely in his hands, ready to use them should the need arise.

          The wavering shadows surrounding their small fire came alive as the silent warriors stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the dancing flames.  Legolas quickly assessed the threat that their sudden appearance represented and counted at least fifteen in their number, but felt sure that many more were still hidden within the trees just out of their immediate circle of light.  The men were all dark-haired and beardless and wore hide trousers in varying shades of brown.  Their soft skin boots of leather and fur made no sound upon the stones as they cautiously moved closer to the Elf and wizard.  All were bare-chested and their powerfully muscled torsos bore intricate tribal markings and swirling black tattoos that were in stark contrast to their lightly tanned skin.  Many wore leaves and twigs interwoven with their long hair, and some bore the antlers of the stag or the skull of the wolf upon their heads.  Their faces, too, bore differing designs and complicated patterns in colors of black or red and their faces were framed with braided hair and interwoven bone and feather adornments.  Many wore copper bands and collars upon their arms and about their necks and all were armed with knives at their belts and held long, deadly spears within their hands.

          A strikingly attractive man that Legolas surmised must be their leader, stepped forward from the group and confidently approached the Elf and wizard.  His long, dark hair, braided at each temple, hung along the sides of his tanned face.   Feathers and teeth were woven into the braids framing his cheeks and a hammered copper collar of distinctive design and workmanship adorned his throat.  The rest of his thick mane of hair was tied with a leather thong and hung down his back to his waist.  An elaborate tattoo wound from his left temple, along his eye socket and over his high cheekbone.   Other designs decorated his upper arms and reminded Legolas of intertwined thorn brambles after winter had stripped bare the leaves.

          He held a long, sturdy spear in his right hand, but did not threaten the two strangers; he merely wrapped his hand about the upper shaft and held it upright at his side.  His curious gaze traveled over the Elf, lingering upon his pointed ears and ethereal features and then settled upon the wizard.  He appeared deferential yet unafraid as he spoke.

          “Én vagyok Dakmar, elsõ Boër.  Mivel szolgálhatok önnek, hírnök Légkör Isten?”*

          The words sounded harsh and foreign to Legolas’ ears and he glanced at the wizard who nodded slightly, letting the Elf know that he understood them, and then he turned and bowed to the warrior.

          “Hát te beszél Westron?”**

          The dark-haired Drúath nodded and his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the ancient maiar, but he made no further comment.

          “I am Gandalf the Grey and this is Legolas of the Woodland Realm.  We seek the aid of your wise man.  One of our company has been… ”

          His words were cut off as several of the forest men suddenly hissed and grunted and lunged forward toward the Elf and wizard with their spears lowered and threatening.

          “Farkasember!”±

          One of the dark warriors spat out the word; the hatred in his voice clearly evident and the meaning of his lowered spear plain.  Others of the band moved forward and closed in on the pair.

          Puzzled, Gandalf stared at the advancing warriors.  The word the man had uttered so harshly meant werewolf, yet how had they known of Strider’s condition before he had had time to explain their circumstances?    He had no more time to ponder the situation for Strider abruptly stumbled between them and then fell heavily against Legolas.  The startled Elf dropped his weapons and grabbed the ranger’s shoulders literally holding him upright.   Caught off guard by his friend’s sudden appearance in their midst, the Elf fiercely whispered hushed Elvish words into the man’s ear as he frantically righted them both upon their feet.

          “Estel! Mani naa lle nawien?”²

          Strider desperately clutched at Legolas’ tunic front, bunching the suede material in his fisted hand and tried to stand on his own feet, but his legs turned weak and wobbly and would not cooperate.  Legolas pulled the ranger closer to him and slid his right arm tightly around Strider’s waist and then one-handed, lifted him up and on to his feet.  Strider clasped the Elf’s upper forearm and held on until his spinning head finally allowed him to speak.  He rasped hoarsely, the words sounding deep within his throat, garbled and incomprehensible, and then he turned his pleading and pain-filled eyes up toward the Elf.

          “Legolas…. help me,” he gasped, even as his grip upon the Elf’s arm slackened and his eyes rolled up within their sockets.  The dead weight of his body began to sink toward the ground, pulling Legolas down with it.

          “Mithrandir!” Legolas shouted as he caught the ranger in his arms and then both awkwardly dropped to the ground and landed upon their knees, facing one another.  Strider’s head fell limply onto the Elf’s chest and his arms hung slack against his sides, and if not for the Elf’s supporting hands, would have fallen face forward onto the stones.  Legolas’ knees slammed into the hard stone when he landed and he winced as the sharp pain jolted up his thighs and along his backbone, but he would not relinquish his hold upon the ranger.   Slowly he maneuvered the man down to the ground and rolled him onto his back.  He looked down into Strider’s strained and pale face and gasped as he saw the man’s eyes glowing with a faint red sheen.

          “Strider!” he shouted.  “Hold on, mellon nin.  Fight it!”

          More of the Drúath converged upon the frenzied scene, their spears and knives ready to strike, but Dakmar silently lifted his forearm and they immediately halted, all eyes looking toward their leader.  The Drúath warrior watched intrigued as the strangers before him hovered over the stricken form of this doomed wolf-man.  A decision made, he turned to one of his men and issued hurried instructions to him.

          “Quickly, get my father and bring the varázslatos.”^

          The forest man nodded his understanding and swiftly disappeared into the darkness of the woods.  Dakmar cautiously stepped closer to the strange ones kneeling upon the stones.  They were obviously attempting to aid the vile demon lying between them; therefore he must be one of them and all three had been sent to the Drúath by the great Sky Gods.  He knew that he should not go near them; the risk and danger of being attacked by the farkasember was great, yet his curiosity was stronger than his fear and slowly he edged closer.

          Strider’s agonized scream rent the still night air and everyone froze.  Legolas’ stricken eyes pleaded with the wizard to do something and Gandalf jerked to his feet.  At the wizard’s movement, the warriors in Dakmar’s troop also came back to life, but now they hastily backed away from the accursed threesome.  The wizard snatched up the flagon of potion lying near Strider’s discarded blanket and brought the flask back to the ranger’s side.  He lifted up Strider's head, placing the flagon to his lips and turned the container upward, pouring the last of its precious contents into Strider’s mouth.  The ranger began to fight and tried to push the flask away from his face and Legolas quickly moved behind him, pulling his arms back and his hands away from the container as Gandalf emptied the last drop into Strider’s mouth.  Legolas forcibly held the struggling human, gripping his arms and restraining his attempts to rise.  Strider growled and bucked within the Elf’s grasp.

          “Hurry, Mithrandir!” Legolas shouted as he fought to hold onto the ranger.  “Get the chains!”

          Strider screamed again, his back arching away from Legolas and his head stretched painfully backward until the tendons along the sides of his neck bulged outward, rigid and hard along the taut expanse of his neck.  His dark hair brushed Legolas’ face and the Elf wrestled with the human trying to maintain his grip upon his forearms, but Strider’s strength increased.   The morgul poisons surged beneath his skin, roaring to be released, and made Strider unnaturally strong.  Legolas felt his hold upon the ranger rapidly deteriorating.

          Unexpectedly, the tattooed arms of Dakmar appeared within Legolas’ peripheral vision, as the young warrior reached down and gripped the ranger’s arms as well, lending his strength to that of the Elf.  Together they were able to subdue Strider until Gandalf reached them with the heavy chains.  The wizard swiftly locked the wrist cuffs in place and then moved to Strider’s feet as the Elf wound the longer chains about the ranger’s chest.  Moments later the chains were in place and Legolas fell away from the struggling human.  He landed hard on his elbows and backside and scuttled a short distance away from the convulsing human as Strider jerked and bucked, fighting against the chains.  His angry growls and snarls increased and Legolas turned his pained face away, unable to watch as the terrible affliction tortured and tormented his friend.  He felt strong arms helping to lift him off the ground, but he took no notice until he found himself being pulled away from the writhing form of his friend.

          “Come,” Dakmar said quietly.  “You can do no more for him.”

          Legolas turned upon the voice with an angry scowl, but upon seeing the compassion in the dark man’s eyes, his unvoiced words quickly died upon his lips and instead his shoulders slumped forward in defeat.  His head lowered and his eyes misted with angry, frustrated tears.  This had to end.  He could not endure Strider’s suffering any longer.  It was tearing apart his very soul.

          Gandalf quietly appeared at his elbow and gently guided Legolas away from the wildly ranting and raving cries of the ranger.  As they walked toward the fire, Legolas vaguely became aware of the large crowd of people that had gathered atop the ruins.  More of the Drúath had arrived while he had been fighting with Strider and now they stared at the chained figure of his friend as if he was some wild beast that needed putting down, yet no one ventured near him.  His mind seemed to shut down and he sank to the stones beside the fire.  Wearily, he laid his head down upon his forearms as they crossed over his knees, and he tried to shut out the terrible screams still coming from Strider’s throat.   It sounded as if the ranger was being ripped apart from the inside out by some horrid monster with long, sharp tearing claws – and then abruptly the screams ended.

          Legolas’ head whipped up and his gaze turned immediately to the ranger.  An older man wearing an elaborate headdress fashioned from a wolf’s skull, the skin and fur still attached, and dark, exotic markings upon his face knelt beside the still form of the ranger.  He had his hand upon Strider’s forehead and spoke to him in the strange tongue of the Drúath.  The Elf did not understand the words being spoken, but he quickly leapt to his feet and moved toward his friend.  Gandalf’s strong hand clamped down upon his arm and stayed his progress.

          “No, Legolas,” the wizard murmured.  “You can do nothing now.”

          The Elf tried to pull his arm free, but the wizard’s grip was tenacious.  His blue eyes bored into those of the wizard and several overpowering emotions washed over the Elf’s sensitive face contorting his beautiful features into a marred and stricken mask of anguish.

          “Mithrandir, please!” he begged.

          The wizard’s arms wrapped around the Elf’s shoulders and he held him tightly, speaking softly into his delicate, pointed ear.  “There is nothing you can do now, young prince.  We must trust in the Gûladan to weave his magic.  He will do battle with the spirit that has taken control of Strider.”  He turned Legolas’ body around to face him directly.  “Your time to help will come, but for now you must wait.”

          The Elf nodded stiffly and reluctantly relaxed within the wizard’s grip.  Gandalf slowly released his hold on the Elf and lowered his hands to his sides.  Legolas straightened and when he once again gazed upon the maiar, his eyes were steady and resolute.  Gandalf nodded his approval.

          “They will take him to the sorcerer’s lodge.  It is hidden within the forest and there the Gûladan will treat him until he can perform the spells and rituals needed to rid Strider of this curse.  Come.  Dakmar and his father have generously offered to share their abode with us.  Gather your things.”

          Legolas nodded numbly and methodically began to gather up what few possessions they had brought with them and was surprised when Dakmar silently picked up several of the sacks and swung them over his back, offering to help.  Gandalf retrieved the scrolls and parchments and the remainder of the bundles were retrieved by the remaining warriors of Dakmar’s band.

          A sturdy litter had been brought to carry Strider and the magic man was personally seeing to his care and transportation.  Whatever the sorcerer had said or done to Strider had calmed the ranger and he no longer struggled within his restraints, and his terrible, anguished screams had not resumed.  Legolas was loath to have Strider out of his sight even for a moment, but was forced to comply with the wizard’s decision and allowed the ranger to be taken away by the Gûladan’s acolytes.  With Dakmar leading the way, both Elf and wizard headed into the deep Forests of the Druadan to face their fate.  

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

          Legolas could not sleep or rest and had finally decided to leave the large wooden building that comprised the lodge of the tribal chieftain and his family.   While the humans slept all about him, Legolas walked the few paces it took to step out into the small village and then his eyes turned to the tall and ancient trees that surrounded the forest dwellings of the Drúath.   On feather light feet, he walked through the shadowed clearing and then leapt up into the branches of the nearest tree.  The great oak sighed at the Elf’s touch and its leafy branches swayed as it eased his passage upward through its limbs and boughs to the topmost covering of its leaves.  Here Legolas halted and perched upon a strong branch, leaning his back into the trunk of the tree.   He turned his face up to the night skies, letting the starlight gently wash over his being.

          As he listened to the quiet sounds of the forest, his aching heart began to calm and he drank in the much needed energy of the stars.  And although he did not think it possible, he slowly began to believe that these people might indeed be able to help Aragorn.  They were not like the other gatherings of men he had encountered in his past.  These gentle people were highly attuned to nature and the earth and sky above them.  They were quiet and reserved and did not take from the forest more than they required.  They had no desire for wealth or power like so many of the corrupt men he had known and they seemed to genuinely want to help Aragorn heal.

          After they had reached the chieftain’s lodge, they had been offered food and a sweet wine and he had barely listened as Mithrandir related their tale to the tribal leader and the enigmatic Gûladan while they ate their simple meal.  For the most part, the wizard spoke in the strange language native to the Drúath and he had not been able to understand what was being said.  And so, his mind drifted.  He tried to reach Aragorn’s mind with his thoughts, but found only emptiness and his anger and frustration returned as he thought of the ranger alone and held in some hidden forest retreat.

          Mithrandir’s decision to allow this still rankled within him and he could not help but feel anxious and concerned for his friend’s treatment and welfare.  Even Dakmar’s calming words had not convinced him that the ranger was safe.  The Drúath had immediately recognized the vicious beast residing within the ranger and had been ready to defend themselves against its evil nature; but once they realized that Aragorn was a victim of this fell demon, they had been determined to help him in any way they could.  He only hoped it would be enough.

          It was obvious now that the potion could no longer hold the demon at bay and they stood upon the fine edge of a deadly sword with Aragorn’s life hanging in the balance. Yet now, as he sat amid the topmost branches of the trees, peace had finally come to him.  He closed his eyes and let the cooling night breeze caress his face and his lips slowly turned up into a tranquil smile.  Tomorrow would bring with it a life and death struggle, but right now, in this one brief moment in time, all was serene.

*I am Dakmar, first son of Boer.  How may I serve you, messenger of the Sky God?

**Do you speak Westron?

²Estel!  What are you thinking?

±Werewolf!

^wizard, magician

          Gandalf found Legolas sitting well apart from the other Drúath within the chieftain’s spacious lodge, quietly sharpening one of his long knives.  At the wizard’s approach, he glanced up expectantly, momentarily halting his steady, rhythmic motions.

          “It is time,” Gandalf stated.

          Legolas silently nodded and quietly re-sheathed the Elven blade.   He started to sling the quiver harness and shoulder strap over his head, but the wizard shook his head.

          “You will not need your weapons, Legolas.  The battle we are about to wage cannot be fought with knife or bow.”

          The Elf was reluctant to leave his weaponry behind, but trusting the wizard he nodded and set the quiver down upon his bedding alongside his bow.  As the pair walked from the building, Gandalf quietly spoke to him, telling him what would be expected of him and what would occur during the long night ahead.

          The day had been painfully long and fraught with tension, especially for Legolas who had paced the lodge like an anxious feline until Dakmar had finally persuaded him to demonstrate the use of his bow and arrow to the curious members of his tribe.  The forest men had been excited and eager to examine this new weapon and were impressed by the accuracy of the Elf’s shots as well as the great distance the projectiles covered.  All could see the great potential of this weapon in their hunts for food and Legolas readily showed the men how to construct a simple bow and fashion arrowheads from the sharp, obsidian stones they found near the mountains.  His innate love of archery and the genuine enthusiasm of the men had helped to soothe his soul and kept his mind off Strider for the short respite of time it took to teach the warriors this new hunting skill.

          But now that the time had come for the actual ritual and spells, Legolas found that he was nervous and fearful that these incantations would not be successful and he would lose his friend to Darkness and Shadow.  And even though Mithrandir was at his side, he felt a frightening shiver scamper along the back of his neck.

          “They will not allow us to see where the sorcerer’s lodge is hidden, therefore we must submit to their request that we be blindfolded and led to our destination.   The Gûladan has been preparing for the battle with the demon-wolf through meditation and travels to the Shadow Lands securing allies in the mystic realms.

          “I have already prepared the potions for the cure for disease, the purification of the blood and the removal of curses.   These three potions were specified within the parchments Glîngroth gave to you.  The vials have been taken to the sorcerer to be purified and made ready for use tonight.  The magic man’s attendants harvested fresh sprigs of aconite by the light of last evening’s full moon and have already gathered together within the forest and are awaiting our arrival.”

          He glanced at Legolas and placed a firm hand upon the Elf’s forearm.  He stared directly into the prince’s deep, blue eyes and his voice became commanding and firm.

          “We will be allowed to observe the ritual from the beginning and will participate in it only at the sorcerer’s command.   Once the rite has begun you must not move or speak – no matter what occurs.  There will be forces present that are not of this world; dangerous forces, good and evil.  You will only be protected if you remain within the prepared circle.   Do you understand?”

          Legolas was not sure that he did, completely, yet he nodded stiffly.  “Yes, Mithrandir.”

          The wizard’s eyes narrowed and his grip upon Legolas’ arm tightened.  “It is imperative that you do exactly as the sorcerer commands.  If the ritual is interrupted or the conjured spell broken, it could very well mean Strider’s life.”

          Another rush of fear swept over the Elf’s face and he nodded again.  “I understand, Mithrandir.  I will do as you say.”

          The wizard smiled grimly and his grip upon Legolas’ arm loosened.  A heavy sigh issued from his lips and his shoulders slumped forward slightly as he patted the Elf’s forearm with a wrinkled hand.  “I know you will, young prince.  Use the strength within you.  Your bond with Aragorn will keep him anchored to this world and will help him to fight the Shadow that seeks to destroy him.  Do not fail him.”

          ‘Do not fail him.’  Those words again.  Would he never stop hearing those ominous words?   Legolas shuddered as the admonition resounded within his mind, over and over again.   He simply nodded his golden head; his body too numb and his throat too dry to enable him to voice his pledge.  Before he was again able to speak, the approach of Dakmar and his men brought an end to their whispered conversation.

          The chief’s son nodded to both the Elf and wizard and held out his hands before him.  Two soft, suede strips were lying across his palms and he offered them in turn to Gandalf and Legolas.

          “You must wear these until we reach the varázslatos’ lodge,” Dakmar instructed and each, in turn, took one of the strips from the Drúath’s hand.

          Legolas reluctantly placed the leather band across his eyes and tied it securely behind his head.  Once it was in place, he felt several pairs of hands upon his arms and more reached upward to his face, making sure that the blindfold was indeed preventing him from seeing.  The touch of hands, human hands, upon his body brought an unwanted and uneasy tension into his muscles, but he forced himself to relax and ignore the involuntary repulsion that the feel of these hands provoked.  The hands upon his arms were firm, yet gentle and guided him forward at a slow, even pace.  Letting his ears become his eyes, Legolas allowed the Drúath to lead him into the forest.

          Although their tread was soft and muted by the forest floor, Legolas concluded that there were at least ten men walking with them through the dense woods.  He could hear Mithrandir’s breathing directly behind him and those of the men guiding them through the forest.  The trees whispered their assurances to him as the group passed by and he eventually stopped trying to determine their route, certain that the warriors had doubled back and circled about several times in order to obscure their true path.

          And when it seemed as if they had walked for hours, the men finally halted and Legolas could immediately smell the strange and pungent odors that identified the Gûladan’s abode.   The soft, muted beating of drums could be heard over the snapping and crackling of a fire and when their blindfolds were removed, Legolas squinted as the bright light of a huge bonfire momentarily blinded his unfocused eyes.  A circle of men, clad in hides, furs and exotic masks danced around the flaming fire pit to the rhythm of the throbbing drums.  The heady aromas issuing from the burning braziers lulled and intoxicated his senses, making Legolas dizzy and lightheaded as he was ushered toward the fire.

          When they reached the outer edge of the huge ring, the dancing men parted and Dakmar led the Elf and wizard into the circle of dancing figures.  Once through, the transmogrifying dancers closed in behind them.  The beating of the drums and the dancing men reminded Legolas of the hidden Elven rituals that surrounded the rites of passage he had participated in during his youth and, as he grew older, the more esoteric and stringent Avari hunting rituals.  Somehow, this similarity served to calm his anxiety and he willingly followed Dakmar farther into the circle.

          They were led past the blazing bonfire and Dakmar indicated that they should sit upon the ground facing a large and forbidding stone altar.  Once they were seated, the Drúath warrior took up a place directly behind them and then leaned forward in between them to speak.

          “The varázslatos is preparing to do battle with evil.  We must wait until he is ready and then the ritual will begin.  You may not move from this spot or make any sound unless called upon by the sorcerer.  Do you agree?”

          Both Legolas and Gandalf nodded and Dakmar resumed his position behind them.   Legolas slowly looked about the large circular clearing and noted the two huge standing stones jutting upright behind the altar.  Lighted braziers were spaced around the circle and to each side of the altar and upon the altar itself, a large silver goblet forged into the shape of a skull was flanked by a long, slender silver knife and various bowls and vials filled with unknown substances and liquids.   As he watched, one of the masked attendants poured water into a silver basin and placed what appeared to be leaves or flowers alongside the bowl.  The smoke and fumes from the numerous censors began to choke the air with a bluish haze and gave the scene a surrealistic and haunting beauty.

          The beating of the drums suddenly grew louder and stronger and Legolas could feel his stomach knot and his breathing increase as the dancers spun before his eyes.  Before he even realized what was happening, his gaze was drawn to the stone pillars and he saw Strider being pulled and half carried toward the massive stone columns by several members of the Gûladan’s lodge.  The ranger seemed to be heavily drugged and unaware of his surroundings as the masked men dragged him between the pillars and set him upon his knees between them.  They then lifted each of the man’s arms upward and securely locked each unresisting wrist within the iron cuffs and heavy chains embedded within the stone columns.  Strider’s chest and feet were bare and as Legolas watched his friend hanging helpless from the chains, an agonized moan escaped his lips.

          Gandalf’s hand reached across and clasped the Elf’s wrist and Legolas tore his eyes from the sight of his friend to look upon the wizard.  Gandalf shook his head quickly and the Elf trembled slightly, his eyes closing to shut out the sight of the bound and powerless ranger.  When he again opened them, the Gûladan had appeared within the circle and proceeded to the center of the altar.  The drums abruptly stopped and the sorcerer raised his arms aloft, palms turned upward to invoke the spirit gods and his deep voice echoed throughout the woods.

          “I, Raduvhar, invoke this circle.”

          His arms swept down and outward around the circle and then he slowly began to walk along the ring in a clockwise direction.  As he did so, he touched each of the participants within the circle upon the shoulder.  When he had completed the circuit of the ring, he returned to the altar and again raised his arms.

          “I Raduvhar, ask Talaj, ruler of the element of earth to close this circle and to protect these ritualists.  Will you grant me this aid?”

          The animal-clad men chanted in unison. “I grant you this aid.”

          “I, Raduvhar, ask Egykor, ruler of the element of air to close this circle and protect these ritualists.  Will you grant me this aid?”

          The chanting men responded again and the slow beating of the drums resumed.  Legolas’ head began to spin as the words droned on and the thick, cloying smoke filled his lungs.  The sorcerer continued the invocations to Gyújt, fire; Felönt, water; and Éter, the ether and then slowly walked around the circle again.  This time when he returned to the altar, a huge man holding the fearsome werewolf skull awaited him.  The Gûladan took the skull from the warrior’s hands and held it above his head and then he turned to the inner circle.

          “Behold the skull of a greater werewolf!” he shouted.

          The tempo of the drums increased as he slowly lowered the skull to the altar.  He then began to chant.  “Talaj, imbue this skull with the powers of the earth.”  The assembled men repeated the chant four more times and then the sorcerer returned the skull to the huge warrior’s keeping.  The attendant silently took the skull and backed away from the altar and the sorcerer moved to the silver goblet.  He took one of the small pouches and poured a small amount of powdered silver into the vessel.  He then lifted the cup and turned to the circle.

          “Behold the crushed powder of purest silver.  Egykor imbue this powder with the powers of the air!”  And four more times the men chanted the words.

          He turned back to the altar and lifted the gleaming silver knife and held it above his head.  “Gyújt imbue this blood with the powers of fire!” he intoned and as the men chanted, he moved to the stone pillars where Strider hung from his chained wrists and holding the silver vessel in his left hand, with his right cut a diagonal slash across the ranger’s forearm with the silver knife.  Strider jerked as the knife’s blade cut deep into his skin and bright, red blood poured from the gash.  The Gûladan caught the blood in the silver vessel and then returned with the half filled goblet to the stone altar.  He again raised the bloodied knife above his head.

          “Who offers the sacrifice of blood?” he shouted.

          Legolas sat frozen; his eyes riveted upon the dripping knife.  Gandalf’s hand upon his wrist tightened and from behind his back, Dakmar’s strong hands grasped his shoulders and the warrior whispered.  “If you offer the blood, you must go to him now.”

          The Elf lurched unsteadily to his feet and slowly walked toward the altar, his eyes fixed upon the shining blade.  He halted a few steps in front of the sorcerer and looked upon the magic man’s tattooed and painted face.  The Gûladan watched as Legolas came toward the altar and his black eyes bored into the very heart of the Elf standing before him.

          “You are not of his blood,” he stated.

          Legolas returned the man’s stare, unafraid and unyielding.  When he spoke his voice was clear and steady.   “I am his brother.”

          A hush fell over the circle, leaving only the sound of the steadily beating drums and time seemed to stop.   Legolas’ heart raced within his chest and he did not dare to breathe.  An agonizingly long time elapsed before the sorcerer finally lowered the silver knife and stepped toward the Elf.  He grabbed Legolas’ left wrist and pulled him toward the altar, and once there, stretched his palm over the rim of the silver goblet.  With a swift strike of his hand, the sorcerer sliced the blade across Legolas’ pale palm and a thick crimson line of blood erupted and flowed down the heel of his hand and into the chalice.

          Raduvhar lifted Legolas’ bleeding hand up into the air and shouted, “Gyújt accept this blood as the sacrifice of fire!”  As the men chanted, the sorcerer lowered Legolas’ arm and still clasping his wrist tightly, lead him to the twin pillars to stand before the ranger.  The magic man knelt down in front of Strider and forced the Elf to do the same.  Dipping his fingers into the vessel of blood and powdered silver, the Gûladan swiped the blood across Strider’s forehead and then down both his cheeks.  As the blood touched his skin, Strider cried out and tried to move his face away from Raduvhar’s touch.

          Still holding Legolas’ bleeding hand, the sorcerer looked deep into the Elf’s blue eyes and pulled his hand forward, placing it directly upon Strider’s heart.  At the touch of the Elf’s bloodied palm upon his chest, Strider screamed in pain and thin wisps of smoke arose from his skin as if he were being branded.  Appalled by what was happening, Legolas gasped and tried to pull his hand back and away from the ranger’s smoldering flesh but the sorcerer held it firmly in place.  When finally he allowed Legolas to remove it, a dark red imprint of his palm remained upon Strider’s heart.  The dark blood from his cut palm smeared Strider’s heaving chest and slowly dripped down his ribs in tiny rivulets.   Strider emitted another strangled howl and then the ranger’s head fell forward upon his chest and his cries ceased.

          Pale and shaken, Legolas felt strong hands upon his upper arms, lifting him to his feet and guiding him back to his place beside the wizard.  As he sank to the ground beside the maiar, Gandalf quickly tore a length of cloth from the hem of his robe and gently wrapped it around the Elf’s bleeding hand.  Legolas’ body shook with rippling shudders and he stared numbly at Strider’s bound figure and the bright, red handprint upon his chest.

          Raduvhar returned to the altar and lifted up the silver bowl.  “Behold the water sprung from the driest of deserts.  Felönt imbue these potions with the powers of water!”  As the attendants chanted, the magic man mixed the three potions prepared by Gandalf into the water and stirred the contents with the bloodied tip of the knife.  He added the crushed leaves and flowers of the aconite and then poured the contents of the silver bowl into the vessel of blood.  As the chanting ended, the Gûladan grasped the silver goblet in both his hands and lifted it up into the air.

          “Éter imbue Aragorn, son of Arathorn, with the powers of the ether!” 

          The drumbeats grew harsher and quicker and as the men rose up and began to dance about the circle once more, Raduvhar brought the silver chalice to Strider’s lips and forced the liquid into his mouth.  As the noxious fluid entered his throat, Strider began to gag and struggle and several hide-covered warriors came forward and held the ranger’s arms and forced his head back, while the sorcerer continued to pour the brew into his mouth.  When the cup was drained he placed it upon the altar and again moved around the circle until he stopped once more before the huge man holding the werewolf skull.

          He carried the skull back to the moaning figure of Strider and placed the bleached bone upon the ranger’s head.  When it rested upon Strider’s brow, Raduvhar stepped back and cried out.

          “By the powers of earth and what has passed, I cast out the beast!”

          He scooped up a handful of the silver powder and blew the dust into Strider’s face.  “By the powers of air and what shall be, I cast out the beast!”

          He ran his fingers around the dregs of the silvered goblet and again spread the streaks of blood across Strider’s forehead and cheeks.  “By the powers of fire and that which is within, I cast out the beast!”

          He picked up the silver bowl and the remainder of the water and the potions and placed it again to Strider’s lips, forcing him to drink.  “By the powers of water and that which is without, I cast out the beast!”

          He raised both arms and held aloft the silver knife.  “By the powers of the ether, and that which cannot be seen, I CAST OUT THE BEAST!”

          Strider’s hideous scream rent the night air and his body convulsed and jerked as he writhed between the pillars.  Legolas watched with revulsion and horror as the man’s features faded and the wolf’s emerged and then both blended together to form a contorted grimace of snarling teeth and red eyes.  The dark shadow of the wolf’s form swirled around Strider’s pale image and the maddened scream of the beast assailed their ears.  Legolas rose to his feet and would have run the short distance to Strider’s side but for the strong hands of Dakmar and Gandalf restraining him.  His horror-stricken eyes pleaded with the wizard to let him free, but the ancient Istari held him fast.  The deadly black cloud of the wolf’s spirit body rose upward and hovered over the writhing, screaming ranger and then suddenly Strider’s body fell forward against the chains and he hung suspended by his outstretched arms.  The silence within the circle was deafening.

          The thunderous drums broke the ominous silence of the circle and the masked dancers once again began their madly spinning dance about the edges of the fire lit ring.  Dakmar’s strong hand clamped over Legolas’ mouth and stifled the cry that rose up from deep within the Elf as he saw Strider’s spent body dangling between the pillars of stone.  The Drúath’s right arm swung across the Elf’s upper chest and roughly rose up under his jaw, pressing back into his throat, choking him.  Dakmar’s lips pressed close to the Elf’s sensitive ear and the man’s harsh whisper echoed within his skull.

          “Do not move!” Dakmar hissed.

          Legolas’ battle-hardened instincts reacted to the assault and his hands flew upward, gripping Dakmar’s forearm.   He tried to pull the arm free of his neck, but the Drúath was ruthless in his strength and determination to keep the prince still.  The Elf’s terror-filled gaze flitted back and forth across the circle as the men began to chant and the Gûladan’s body started to shake and twitch as the malevolent black cloud drifted from Strider’s still form toward Raduvhar and then it hungrily wrapped itself about the sorcerer’s convulsing body.

          “The varázslatos must now do battle with the demon-wolf on the planes of the Shadow Realm.  This is the most perilous time for your friend.  In order to live, he must die and resurrect.  If the spell is broken now the demon will claim him and he will die – never to resurrect again.  He will be doomed to haunt the Shadow Realms forever.”  Dakmar’s arm cruelly jerked up against Legolas’ throat and the Elf gagged.  “Do you understand?”

          Legolas’ head nodded once and Dakmar slowly inched his hand away from the Elf’s mouth.  When he was certain that the prince would make no further sound, his arm eased off the Elf’s throat, but he did not remove it.  Instead, he pulled Legolas backward against his chest and then pulled his body down to the ground.  Once he had forced Legolas onto his knees, he slowly lowered his forearm and slid his hands onto the Elf’s shoulders, compelling him to sit back down upon the ground.  Gandalf clasped Legolas’ wrist and held it tightly and both stared at the frenzied scene within the circle before them.

          The warriors began to chant louder and stronger, the repetitive words sending magic and power to the sorcerer as his body writhed and jerked.  Twirling and spinning, he battled the amorphous cloud that was the demon spirit.

          “By the powers of Earth, We cast out the beast.”

          “By the powers of Air, We cast out the beast.”

          “By the powers of Fire, We cast out the beast.”

          “By the powers of Water, We cast out the beast.”

          “By the powers of Ether, We cast out the beast.”

          The drums pounded within Legolas’ head and vibrated through his bones and he could feel his heartbeat quickening as the dancers increased their pace, spinning in front of his eyes until they became a nauseating blur of movement.  While the men continued their chant, several of the sorcerer’s attendants clasped the possessed magic man and lifted him up, his contorting body thrashing between them as they carried him to the stone altar.  Hastily, they set his struggling form atop the dark stone amid the vials, potions and other magical utensils already there.   One man grasped his ankles while another pressed down upon his shoulders and together they fought to keep the Gûladan’s twisting body atop the stone.

          The huge warrior behind the altar retrieved the werewolf skull from off Strider’s brow and carried it back to the altar.  He lifted the head above the squirming sorcerer and the dark mist that now totally engulfed Raduvhar.  The chanting rhythm of the men’s words grew to a deafening roar.

          “By the powers of the greater werewolf, cast out the beast!” the warrior shouted above the droning of the men and upon the altar beneath him Raduvhar cried out in pain.

          Three deep gashes appeared across his chest, made by the ravaging claws of an unseen beast.  Blood gushed from the gaping wounds and flowed down the sides of the sorcerer’s chest, dripping onto the stone of the altar and pooling beneath his back.   And then as quickly as they had appeared, the horrific cuts disappeared and the piercing howl of a wounded beast echoed throughout the forest.  The black cloud whipped and swirled around and over the prone body of the Gûladan and the beat of the drums reached a crescendo.

          Legolas stared at the altar transfixed as the demonic ebony fog began to transform and shift into the form of a snarling man-beast and the two opponents twisted and fought upon the top of the altar and then suddenly they tumbled to the ground in a tangled mass of limbs.  The attendants backed away and let the combatants fight in this treacherous and deadly battle.  The demon’s clawed hands wrapped around the sorcerer’s neck and Raduvhar struggled beneath the weight of the beast, now in a physical form and very much alive.

          The chanting grew in its intensity and the drums beat faster and Legolas could feel the air about him hum and come alive with power and energy.   His eyes turned from the battling figures and looked to Strider and he could see his friend’s body jerking and twisting as if it were a toy being battered about by unseen giants.   A hideous cry brought Legolas’ head jerking back to the sorcerer and he saw the brilliant flash of the silver knife in the Gûladan’s hand and then it plunged into the heart of the black beast.   A blood-chilling shriek penetrated the maddening sound of the chanting and the drums.

          Strider and the demon screamed in unison and then both fell forward.  The beast writhed upon the ground at the sorcerer’s feet for one brief and mesmerizing moment before it altered shape and reformed, once again becoming the shifting black mist.  A monstrous whirlwind swept through the circle and then coned upward into the heavens, sucking the black cloud into its midst and then it vanished from sight.  The ranger hung between the stone columns, his head against his chest and did not move.  Horrified, Legolas stared at his friend, unable to discern whether he lived or breathed.  The sorcerer staggered toward the altar and raised his arms skyward, the silver knife lifted high above his head, the black blood of the demon dripping from its sharp edge.

          “I, Raduvhar, thank you Talaj for your aid, and I release you from this circle!” he commanded.

          His booming voice continued as he named the other elements in turn, returning these spirits to their abodes, but to Legolas time had stopped and he was not aware of anything around him save the sight of the ranger’s unmoving body, still chained and hanging between the towers of stone.  He was not even aware that he had moved until he found himself kneeling in front of Aragorn, cradling the man’s head upon his chest as he smoothed the damp hair back away from his friend’s pallid face.

          The masked attendants materialized out of the smoky haze and loosened the chains, releasing Strider’s wrists from the iron rings and he fell forward into Legolas’ arms.  The Elf slowly eased the ranger down to the ground and placed a shaking and frightened hand upon his chest, gently touching the glaring imprint of his hand still visible upon the ranger’s pale flesh.  Strider’s eyelids slowly opened and his dazed eyes stared upward, unseeing.  His lips trembled and he tried to sound out words, but only a harsh croaking hiss emerged and Legolas placed his fingertips upon the man’s mouth and whispered.

          “Shhhhh, do not try to speak, mellon nin.”  A shuddering sob choked back any further words he might have uttered and he clasped Strider’s cold hand with his own.

          Dakmar suddenly appeared at his elbow and placed a comforting hand upon the Elf’s shoulder.  “Bring him,” he said softly, and Legolas nodded that he understood, still unable to speak.

          He slid his arms beneath Strider’s gaunt body and easily lifted the ranger up and into his arms and then turned to follow Dakmar.   He carried Strider toward the Gûladan’s lodge and followed the Drúath as he guided him to a small, back room within the large building and then carefully placed the ranger onto a pallet that had been earlier prepared for him.  One of the sorcerer’s young acolytes entered the room carrying blankets and cloths and another soon followed with a basin of water and healing unguents.

          Dakmar gently clasped the Elf’s forearm and pulled him away from the bed.  “Come,” he said.  “They will see to his injuries.  You may return to him when they have finished.”

          Legolas was reluctant to leave Strider’s side, but slowly nodded and allowed the warrior to lead him away to a small alcove near Strider’s room.  Mithrandir stood within the hallway outside waiting for him and smiled as he saw the Elf approach.   The maiar clasped Legolas’ elegant hands between his own and nodded his bearded head, his eyes over bright and shining.

          “It is done,” he murmured.  “He is free of the beast.”

          Legolas’ eyes shut briefly and he squeezed the wizard’s hands in return.  When he could find his voice, he asked.  “How long before he fully recovers?”

          The wizard’s smile faded and he shook his head.  “No one can say.  Perhaps in the morning we shall know more once the Gûladan has recovered his strength and we may speak with him.”

          “I wish to remain here with him,” Legolas replied.

          “Of course,” Mithrandir nodded.  “Strider will need you now, more than ever.  I shall return to you both tomorrow.”

          Dakmar placed a hand upon the Elf’s shoulder and when Legolas turned to face him, the warrior nodded his head toward Strider’s room.  “He asks for you.”

          Legolas brought his hand up to his shoulder and covered the warrior’s hand with his own.  Their eyes met and locked and then he nodded to the Drúath.

          “I thank you and your people for his life.”

          Dakmar smiled and merely nodded his dark head.  Then he stepped aside and allowed the Elf to return to his friend.  The attendants were just leaving as Legolas entered the small room and he quickly moved to Strider’s bedside.  The young boys had washed away the blood from the ranger’s face and had bandaged his cut forearm.  They had also bathed his body and pulled the blankets up and over Strider’s chest and Legolas could just see the edges of the soft linen that bound his chest.  His eyes closed briefly and a pained and sorrowful expression washed over his beautiful face as he vividly recalled the burned and bloodied impression of his palm upon Strider’s flesh.

          As he silently sat upon the edge of the cot, Strider’s eyes slowly opened and eventually focused upon the Elf.   His hand reached up and Legolas swiftly clasped it between his palms.

          “I am here mellon nin,” he said quietly.  “Are you in pain?”

          The ranger shook his head, his eyes momentarily closing, and when they opened again, they seemed clearer, yet weary.  “Tired,” he rasped.  “Very tired.”

          Legolas placed his hand upon the ranger’s forehead and was relieved to find it cool and dry.  He brushed the dark hair to the side and looked intently down into the silver eyes of his friend.  “The beast is gone?”

          Strider nodded slightly.  “I no longer feel the evil weighing upon my soul,” he murmured.

          Legolas smiled and squeezed the ranger’s hand tightly.  “Rest now, Estel.  You are safe.  I shall be right here.”

          Strider mumbled a response, yet even Legolas’ keen ears could not understand what was said, and he carefully placed the ranger’s arm back down onto the bed.  He rose from the cot and sank down upon the furs and hides beside the bed and leaned his back against the wall.   He rested his arms across his raised knees and settled back to keep a silent watch over his friend’s sleep.  

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

          Legolas was not aware that he had been sleeping until the firm hand upon his shoulder shook him to full awareness.  He anxiously turned to the ranger’s bedside, but the deep voice beside him reassured him that the human was well.

          “He is resting,” the Gûladan answered the question in the Elf’s eyes.  “I wish to speak with him alone.  Get some nourishment, bátyja lékek*.  You may return to him when we are finished.”

          Legolas started to protest, his eyes lingering upon the ranger’s prone form, but he silently nodded his head and gracefully rose to his feet.  With a deferential bow to the elder Drúath, he quietly left the room and Raduvhar sat down alongside the dozing ranger.

          “Legolas?” Strider asked as his eyes slowly opened.

          “I asked him to leave us for a moment,” the Gûladan replied.  His dark eyes stared down at the pale ranger, searching the man’s face for any evidence of the evil that had so recently plagued him and seeing none, continued.  “He will return to you soon.” 

          It took a great deal more effort to rise than he thought it would, but Strider managed to push himself up onto his elbows and he looked back at the sorcerer with a tense and anxious gaze.  When he spoke, his voice was ragged and hesitant.

          “Am I truly cured?” he asked quietly.

          The Gûladan nodded, and a slight smile played at the corners of his mouth at the relieved sigh that escaped Strider’s lips.  “The evil has left you.”  He paused.  “The spirit of the wolf, however, remains.”

          Strider’s eyes filled with renewed fear and he sat completely upright, wincing with the effort.  “I don’t understand?” he gasped.   “If I am cured, what do you mean the spirit of the wolf remains?”

          The sorcerer laughed softly and placed his hand upon the ranger’s chest, gently pushing him back down onto the bed.  “I think you know,” he said calmly.  “You have wandered alone for much of your life.  You are cunning and resourceful and you have the valor of one who has known much adversity.  Yet you would also sacrifice your life for the benefit of others.”  Raduvhar’s gaze traveled to the doorway where Legolas had only recently left the room.  “For one in particular.”

          He turned back to face the ranger.  “The spirit of the wolf gives you great power.  That is why evil wished to claim you for its own.  By defeating it, you have grown stronger.  Use the wolf, young ranger,” the sorcerer said as he rose from the bedside.  “He will be your strength.”

          Strider stared at the sorcerer, unable to sort out his confused and conflicting thoughts, but before he could speak, the Gûladan waved his hand over the ranger’s eyes and he swiftly fell back into a deep and dreamless sleep.  When Legolas returned to his bedside with a platter of food and a flagon of sweet wine, he found the ranger sleeping soundly and the sorcerer no where to be seen.   Smiling, he quietly set the tray and wine aside and sat back down beside the bed, nesting his hands behind his neck as he leaned back against the furs.  He could wait.  There would be time enough to talk later; time to heal – for both of them.

 *spirit brother 

The End