Chapter Twenty-Seven: Old Friends, Older Enemies

Twenty-eight years later (or forty-two years after Legolas returned to Mirkwood)…

In the Dead Marshes…

It was all that Aragorn could do not to drag his feet as he slogged through the stinking quagmire, bound for home. His entire body ached with exhaustion from the arduous journey he had just undertaken, and now he returned, weighed down still more by the burden of failure.

Though he had searched high and low in the Ash Mountains, walking in sight of the Black Gate and treading the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, braving the fires and choking smoke of Mordor, he had not found Gollum.

Gandalf had some years ago told him of a ring he had discovered, in the keeping of Bilbo Baggins, no less. It had been passed to Bilbo’s nephew Frodo, and for the moment at least seemed safe enough. But the wizard was worried that the Ring, which seemed at first to possess no power more extraordinary than turning people invisible, might actually be a far more significant trinket. Aragorn knew how Bilbo had come by it, but Bilbo had apparently not known how the Ring first came into Gollum’s possession. Thus, they had sought him out, to find the origins of Bilbo’s Ring, through the vales of Anduin, Mirkwood, and Rhovanion to the confines of Mordor.

Mordor was a fearsome place, and perils Aragorn had faced until at last he had despaired and turned away from its darkness. The journey had been a taxing one, and even as the light of the west had brought him hope, Aragorn fought such weariness that he wondered if he would not collapse on the spot. His food and water had run low, forcing him to ration himself carefully, but the dry, bitter tang in the air of Mordor, and now the heavy stench of the Marshes dried his throat until he was tormented by desperate thirst.

*It is not very much farther,* he told himself, plodding on as brackish mud sucked on his boots. *Soon I shall pass Emyn Muil, and there I shall find rest and fresh water.*

He came to another reasonably dry place, where the earth rose hard and dead above the clutch of the greasy, sullen waters. Weariness sang in his blood and bones, and so he chose that place to rest, allowing himself a sip of water and a morsel of elvish waybread, which he always carried with him. Although the waybread eased his hunger and restored some of his strength, it took all his willpower not to drain his waterskin dry. There was so little left; he would barely make it out of the marshes as it was with what he had. He dared not finish it. The festering stink of the marshland seemed to suck the moisture from his mouth with every breath. He closed his eyes; to open them was only to invite further temptation to drink from the acrid mere, and he dared not. That would invite sickness to befall him, and alone in this forsaken place, he would find no aid.

The night came and a slight breeze picked up, bringing more stench with it but at least lessening the muggy heat. It was only early spring, but heat came early to the southern lands of Middle Earth, and the Dead Marshes in particular seemed to hold it in. Aragorn rolled onto his back, letting the light wind dry the sweat on his face. Unfortunately, the moving air was making the water in the meres lap softly, and the sounds were a new torture to the parched Ranger. *Water, water.*

At last he could endure no more and pulled himself to his feet. *By the Valar, there must be a pool somewhere in these fens where water rises up safe to drink!* He staggered through the rotten, scummy mud, searching for any reasonably clean water. But the stagnant meres were so filled with slime and rot that he knew it would be the height of folly to drink of them. *Water…*

Feeling weak with despair and fatigue, he stumbled on, unwilling to tarry in this place any longer without finding water. He folded his arms across his chest to keep them from straying to his water skin, and those last precious mouthfuls it contained, though they called seductively to him. The stink of the place seemed permanently imprinted in his nose and mouth, though he gagged and wiped his face on his sleeve. Slime and sweat dripped from him.

All at once, the swamp seemed at last to recede, and he found himself upon a path easier to tread, where the mud did not attempt to suck him down. Feeling renewed now with the ability to put one foot before the other without great strain, Aragorn turned his attention again to the pools and mires, hoping to see some sign of spring or stream. Finally, as night became day once again, his diligance was rewarded. The wind had died, and the sun’s beams reflected off the standing water through the slough, but in one place, the pool continued to ripple. The Ranger stopped in his tracks, blinking wearily, uncertain of what he saw. Could it be?

It was. Fresh water bubbled up in a tiny spring that opened into a muddy pool, pouring out into the marshes where it would sit still and stagnant forever. Aragorn all but launched himself off the dry path, landing full-length in the mud before the small flow. With trembling hands, he dipped up the water and sipped experimentally. Not terribly sweet, but clean enough. Gasping with weary relief, the heir of Isildur splashed his face clean of sweat and dirt, then dropped over the spring and drank until he was completely sated.

His desperate thirst attended to, he sat up again and set about filling his water skin. He would rest here today, drink his fill again, then set off again tomorrow. Even as he sat back again with his skin full, his gaze fell upon the mud on the opposite side of the pool, indentations not caused by any flow of water.

Aragorn’s heart lurched in anticipation as he scrambled to the imprints, and sure enough, he had at last by fortune come upon what he sought: the marks of soft feet. After having lost Gollum so thoroughly, the trail was fresh again, and it led, to the Ranger’s surprise, not to Mordor but away. He wasted no time, but snatched up his full water skin and sought out the next set of prints. And the next, and the next. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes he followed it, and as the dark evening fell yet again, Aragorn slowed. There by a stagnant mere, a dark figure lurked, barely visible in the faint light. The creature was peering into the water, muttering “Fisshhhh” to himself, and so Aragorn stealthily moved up behind him.

“Nice fissh, nice fissh. Many days without fisssh, Gollum, Gollum, poor Sméagol might starve. But now can find fissh, yes, nice fissh. Get stronger, my Precious. Go find Precious, get Precious back from nasty thief! But first fissh--”

Through those words, Aragorn had crept closer and closer. The creature he sought was shriveled and bony and covered in slime, trembling slightly. Gollum must be very hungry, for he peered on into the mere, muttering to himself, and not once did he sense that anything was amiss. Then he was but an arm’s length away, and Aragorn leapt out and seized him.

“Aaaagh! Evil! Nasty man! Loose us! Let go! Gollum, Gollum! Wicked man! Nasty mens, all wicked! Mustn’t hurt Sméagol! No! Loose us!”

Aragorn wrestled with his quarry, for Gollum was stronger than he looked, or at least more wily. The heir of Isildur found himself covered in slime and lurching off balance in every direction as Gollum bucked and kicked to get free. Managing to hook one arm around the creature’s torso, he wrenched a length of rope from his belt and attempted to loop it around Gollum‘s wrists. Gollum in turn seized the hand holding the rope and jerked it up past Aragorn’s other arm, sinking his white fangs into the Ranger’s flesh. Cursing furiously, Aragorn pulled free and smote Gollum a hard blow to one ear, dazing him long enough to get the rope instead around his neck.

“Gollum, Gollum! Evil, nasty man! Hurts us! Hits and chokes us! Come to take Sméagol back, yes, back--”

“Back where?” Aragorn demanded, examing his bleeding arm after fashioning the rope into a more suitable halter that Gollum would not escape from.

“Gollum, Gollum! Poor Sméagol, hurts Sméagol! Did nothing--”

Extremely cross with weariness and pain from the bite, Aragorn was not in any mood to be trifled with. He seized Gollum again and shook him vigorously. “Where have you been, Gollum? Why were you in Mordor?”

“Wicked man, nasty man! Gollum, Gollum!”

With another curse, Aragorn shoved the filthy, stinking creature away, fighting off nausea at the smell and feel of slime on his hands and clothes. Glaring at Gollum, he satisfied himself that the creature would not escape, and sat down, pondering what to do with him now. *Elbereth only knows where Gandalf is at this moment. I would not see this creature in the Shire, for certain.* He frowned to himself, thinking all the places he could take Gollum in the shortest length of time. *I shall be glad to wash my hands of him--literally, as the case may be. Perhaps…but would they receive him? I wonder…I am not known as a friend to the elves of Mirkwood, yet they have long memories. Perhaps my friendship to Legolas will still hold weight, even if it has been more than forty years since he left Rivendell.*

It would be a short trip at least, if he made for Mirkwood. At that point, Gollum began moaning and whining again, and Aragorn glared at him. “I shall gag you if you do not desist this noise.”

“Nasty mens, cruel mens, hurt poor Sméagol…”

Aragorn had only just returned from a nearly-fruitless journey through Mordor, slogged his way through the Dead Marshes, and now found himself covered with slime and nursing a rather nasty bite on his right arm. He was in no mood to be toyed with. Before Gollum even knew what was happening, the Ranger sprang to his feet, pulling a length of cloth from his pack, and stuffed part of it into his mouth, tying it behind his head. “I warned you,” he said coldly when Gollum grunted and whimpered at him. “Now be still or I shall bind you tighter.” With one final grumble, the creature crouched down and glared balefully back at him.

Aragorn sighed. It was going to be a very long walk to Mirkwood. He considered attempting to get some sleep with Gollum’s lead tied to a shrub nearby, but decided against it. He did not trust Gollum any further than Gollum could throw him. That in mind, with another sigh, he rose and took up the rope, gesturing imperiously for Gollum to walk ahead of him. The creature resisted at first, but a few snaps of the rope got him moving.

***

For all the misery that he had endured in Mordor, Aragorn considered the road back even worse. He watched Gollum day and night, getting precious little sleep as they moved up along the Anduin towards northern Mirkwood. He drove Gollum before him, not trusting the creature behind, and only after many days lacking drink and food did Gollum at last walk tamely ahead.

He had one reprieve as he passed between southern Mirkwood and Lothlorien. There along the banks of the Anduin he encountered a small scouting party of Lorien elves, watering their horses. Remembering Aragorn from his previous visit, two of them crossed the river to offer him additional food, and to discover what the strange creature was that Aragorn led with him.

“You are far from your traditional lands, Man of the West,” said the elf in the lead, bowing to Aragorn.

“As you see, Master Elf, I have an unusual errand,” the Ranger replied blandly, gesturing to his prisoner.

“Whither do you take him?” asked the other elf.

“I hope that the Elves of Mirkwood will agree to keep him safe,” said Aragorn. “For he is wanted by Mithrandir in a matter of some importance.”

The elves digested this, then apparently were placated by the mention of the wizard’s name. The first elf bowed. “I am Orthelian, a captain under Haldir of the warriors of Lorien. My companion is Maethor, also a captain of our guard. We have seen you and heard much of you, Lord Aragorn, though we have never been introduced.”

Aragorn bowed in return, “You do me an honor, Captains of Lorien.” His vision blurred slightly. He was very tired.

Maethor noticed it. “Do you mean to depart at once for Mirkwood?”

“I should like to see my prisoner there as soon as possible.”

“And have you none to keep watch upon him? When do you sleep?”

“When I can.”

Orthelian and Maethor exchanged a glance. “Then join us at camp here on the riverbank tonight,” offered Orthelian. “We shall keep watch upon your prisoner while you take some rest. For a weary watcher may prove little use to that which he is charged with watching.”

Smiling wryly, Aragorn conceded to their reasoning. The last three elves of the party swam themselves and the horses across the river with little difficulty, and they made camp upon the eastern bank. Aragorn accepted gratefully their food and wine, but soon felt weariness overcome him, and laid down to rest. Orthelian himself took a watch, and posted another elf specifically to guard Gollum. Earlier, apparently feeling more charitable toward the creature than Aragorn, Maethor had attempted to remove the gag in order to offer Gollum something to eat. Only his elven reflexes had prevented him from having a hand bitten. But the scruples of the party would not let Gollum go hungry while they ate, so they left bread and fruit near him before snatching the gag away. After considerable grumbling, he ate it and drank the water they left him, then the gag went back on.

When Aragorn awoke, the sun was well in the sky. Startled, he looked about but saw the elves still keeping watch over both him and Gollum. Orthelian grinned at him. “Why did you not awaken me sooner, Captain Orthelian? I did not mean to delay you.”

“We thought you needed your rest, being mortal and all,” said the elven captain with a twinkle in his gray eyes. After you have broken your fast, we will be on our way.”

Slightly chagrinned, Aragorn accepted their generosity, and thanked them. He parted with them saying, “If you should happen to see Mithrandir, you might tell him that I have found Gollum. He will wish to know.”

“We shall, Lord Aragorn. Farewell! And,” Orthelian looked back over his shoulder, “please give my regards to Legolas.”

Startled, Aragorn glanced back, but the elves were already swimming back across the river. *Elves. I was reared by them, raised among them, speak their language as naturally as my own, and still they puzzle me.*

***

Seven days later…

Gollum hissed and grumbled around his gag as Aragorn drove him along the edge of the forest. They were still at least three days out of the elven king’s halls, but the Ranger was beginning to fear he would collapse and lose his prisoner. He had had next to no sleep since parting ways with Orthelian and Maethor, and despite the endurance of his Numenorean blood, the strain was taking a heavy toll. Driving Gollum ahead of himself was the only way to ensure that the creature did not notice his growing weakness and attempt to take advantage of it.

*If I do not rest soon, I will be unable to prevent him from escaping.* The lembas of the elves granted him the strength to walk on, but even that no longer served as any substitute for sleep. *So tired…* Lack of food and drink had tamed Gollum, but Aragorn did not trust him for ten seconds if the creature should realize his captor’s growing vulnerability. Aragorn’s hands trembled as he held the lead rope, and he was stumbling more and more frequently as he walked.

*I must sleep,* the Ranger fell to his knees. That caught Gollum’s attention, and the creature looked back curiously. Seeing Aragorn’s weariness, his eyes widened slightly, and he immediately attempted to jerk the lead rope free of his captor’s hands.

But Aragorn still had some strength left in him, and he wrenched it back. Gollum hissed in protest, but became submissive again. Aragorn staggered to his feet and looked around. The dark edge of northwestern Mirkwood was not a hundred yards away, but his peril would only increase if he attempted to brave its depths in this state. He had thought at first to skirt the forest all the way around until he reached the wood elves’ territory. But now his list of plausible choices was shortening. He would not last much longer before his body forced him into unconsciousness, whether he was willing or no. And Gollum would escape then.

Resolutely, he drove Gollum straight toward the forbidding wood until they were just beneath its edge. Then he leaned against one of the dark trunks, closing his eyes against the haze that clouded his vision. *So tired…* Forcing his eyes open, he looked at his prisoner. He had to find some way of securing Gollum so that the creature would not escape while he slept. With that in mind, he began winding the rope around the tree until Gollum was forced up against it, his trussed hands pressed into the trunk. Using another coil he bound Gollum fast until the creature could barely move at all, let alone wriggle or chew himself free of the ropes.

“I am not going anywhere and neither are you,” he said curtly. Almost as soon as he had finished securing his prisoner, a wave of dizzy exhaustion brought him to his knees again. “Just as well,” he muttered to himself. “I fear I could not go any further if I wished.” With that, he cast himself onto the ground and fell instantly into an unnaturally heavy sleep.

***

The next day, on the edge of Mirkwood…

“Are you sure that shoulder is well, Caranaur?” Legolas asked his fellow warrior with a worried frown.

“It is fine, Legolas. There does not seem to be any infection,” Caranaur replied, eyeing his bandaged wound.

Legolas’s small hunting party was three days out of the elven king’s halls, nearly to the edge of the wood. They had been hunting spiders, but stumbled across a small company of orcs the day before. Caranaur had suffered the only injury, a shallow knife wound, but insisted it was not worth returning home.

“You simply do not duck fast enough,” said Thalatirn. Caranaur glared at him.

Grinning, Legolas turned his attention ahead to where the break in the trees revealed the plains to the west. “Let us find the sun, and then we shall turn for home.”

The three warriors walked out from beneath the cover of the trees, enjoying the warmth of the spring sun upon their faces. All at once, scuffling noises nearby caused them all to start and look about. “What was that?” muttered Thalatirn.

“Sounds like an animal,” murmured Caranaur.

Legolas said nothing, but quietly drew an arrow and cautiously followed the sounds, his comrades close behind him. The scratches and scuffs seemed not like an animal simply making its way through the grass or chasing prey, but rather like something trapped and trying to break free. So intent was he on seeking the source of the noises that he nearly did not see the large form upon the ground before him. Caranaur grabbed his arm then, pointing excitedly. The three elves froze.

It was a man, dressed in the worn, dark raiment of a Ranger, lying sprawled upon the grass just beneath the shade of the trees at the edge of the wood, dead to the world. Rangers were not ones to sleep unguarded in the wood, and under normal circumstances, this man would have been roused by the noises of the animal nearby. Thus he had to be either injured or ill. Legolas startled his friends by taking a few steps closer, and Thalatirn even grabbed his arm in protest, far less trusting of a strange mortal even if he were hurt. But Legolas motioned them back and walked to where he could see the man’s face, turned slightly away from him.

The bow slackened at once, and he dropped his arrow. “Ara--Strider!” he managed to catch himself as he remembered Caranaur and Thalatirn.

His comrades called out behind him, “Legolas, what--” but Legolas was already kneeling at his old friend’s side, checking the man’s pulse. The other two elves stared at each other in confusion, for none in Mirkwood knew of Legolas’s previous encounters with mortals, and over the past forty years, he had spent most of his time within the realm’s borders. “Legolas?”

“Strider?” Sighing with relief at finding a heartbeat, Legolas looked Aragorn over for other injuries. He could find none, but by the Valar, how fast mortals aged, even those of Numenorean blood. His friend’s dark hair was beginning to show hints of gray, and his face had acquired many lines and shadows. His eyes in particular were closed tight with exhaustion. Deeply worried, Legolas shook him gently, “Arise, my friend. What ails you?”

At last, the Ranger groaned and tossed his head. Legolas sat back a bit as Aragorn started, tensing at once as the elf’s voice pulled him from unconsciousness. Blinking weakly, Aragorn stared at the new arrivals. While the Ranger’s aged appearance came as a shock to Legolas, in more than forty years the Sindarin prince’s face had not changed at all. “Legolas?”

“The guard of the Rangers seems to have lessened, or why have I found you exposed deep in slumber upon these plains?” asked the elf with a small smile.

“Legolas?” pressed Caranaur from behind them, sounding faintly dismayed. Legolas ignored him.

Aragorn pulled his mouth to one side. “As it happens, I was on my way to see you.”

“Indeed--”

“Legolas!” exclaimed both his companions. Exasperated at the explanations that would now be demanded, Legolas turned to face them. Instead, both pointed to a tree just beyond where the man sat, and the creature tied to it.

The elf stared, then wrinkled his nose. “Who…or what…is that?”

Wryly, his old friend answered, “That is why I have come. I had a request to make of your father, King Thranduil, and his folk.”

Legolas grimaced harder, guessing Aragorn’s purpose. “You wish us to keep this…thing?”

Aragorn nodded. “Not the most pleasant favor, I know, but he has information that must not fall into the wrong hands. I am certain your people could keep him safe.”

“What is he?”

“He is called Gollum, though I am told his name was once Smeagol. I shall tell you more if you will permit me within your borders.”

Legolas laughed. “Consider yourself permitted, but first I would know what ails you. I could find no injuries, but you did not wake for several moments.”

With a shrug, Aragorn replied, “There has been precious little time for sleep guarding him. I searched for him all the way to Mordor and back.”

“Ai,” Legolas muttered appreciatively. He rose then, and Aragorn attempted to stand as well, only to find himself so unsteady on his feet that Legolas had to catch him. “Ooph! How long had you been asleep before we came?”

Aragorn sheepishly accepted the elf’s aid sitting down again, then looked at the sky. “A few hours.”

Legolas nodded. “Not enough to make up for the weeks you have gone with less. We shall go to my father’s halls when you have rested longer, but I will send word ahead…along with your friend there,” he added, causing Aragorn to pull a face. “Caranaur, Thalatirn, kindly guide our strange guest back to the elven king’s halls and ask that he be placed under guard. Say that I shall be returning in a day or two with Strider.” At his companions’ confused expressions, he elaborated, “We met on an occasion while I was abroad. He is my friend.”

The other two elves looked doubtfully at each other. Wood elves were not inclined to trust strangers easily, and certainly not mortals. But it was clear to them that Legolas considered this man a friend, and he was commanding the small hunt. So, with intense distaste for their newly-acquired companion, they untied Gollum’s lead from the tree and led the grumbling, hissing creature into the woods.

Watching them go, Legolas grinned. “Not the most pleasant duty I have ever given them.”

“Commanding your own now, are you?” asked Aragorn.

Legolas shrugged. “Yea, small hunts only, but I am content. There is enough darkness in Mirkwood to keep any warrior busy.”

“You’ve not changed at all.”

Pulling out some rations and sharing them with Aragorn, Legolas remarked bluntly, “You have changed much. The weight of the world seems to have grown greater since we last met. Is life so ill?”

“Nay, not ill, merely worrisome.” Aragorn glanced around, making sure that Thalatirn and Caranaur had walked out of earshot. “It is believed that Gollum was a previous possessor of the One Ring.”

Legolas choked on a mouthful of water and nearly dropped the skin. Aragorn grimaced in agreement. Feeling a cold knot of dread form in his throat and slowly travel through his chest to his stomach, the elf asked softly, “What proof have you of this?”

“Proof, I have none, but Gandalf believes it.”

Legolas swallowed hard. “That is proof enough for me.” He greatly desired to strike the ground, break something, anything to relieve the sense of awful tension that tightened every muscle in his body at the thought of the One Ring. Finding his voice again, he spoke in a near-whisper, “Previous possessor, you say? Where does Mithrandir think it is now?”

“Forgive me if I do not say,” Aragorn replied, nodding apologetically. “But I think the fewer who know the better. I will say only that I know, and Gandalf and I are among many doing all we can to keep it safe.”

“It is not safe so long as it exists,” Legolas murmured, feeling the urge to shudder in spite of the warm sun. “Is there aught that can be done to rid Middle Earth of its evil? If the Ring should be destroyed…”

“I know, my friend. Believe me, the thought has occupied my mind every moment since Gandalf came to me with this news. But how? Even alone in Mordor with no other task than seeking out a loathsome, corrupted creature, the place all but overwhelmed me. To carry the Ring…” he shook his head. “There are other things yet to be done, and I have sent word to Gandalf that I am bringing Gollum here. Hopefully he shall come bearing better counsel than I.” The Ranger rubbed his eyes, trying to bring them back into focus.

Legolas noticed. “Forgive me, my friend, I fear I have kept you awake with my questions. Rest now, and recover your strength.” He grinned at the man’s slightly affronted expression. “Come, you are greatly weary if you slept through Gollum’s infernal noises and our arrival. Get some sleep, and I shall stand watch.” With a resigned grin, Aragorn did so.

***

Two days later…

Candrochon, son of Anunborn, returned from a short hunting excursion to meet his wife, Merilin, and several other elven warrioresses enjoying a day without duties. His wife greeted him with a delighted embrace. “You are late again.”

“Forgive me. Orcs and spiders do not share your respect for punctuality.”

“Do not believe him, Mer, he was merely swilling wine and bragging with Fimsigil and Fandoll!” teased Galithil. The other she-elves laughed and added taunts of their own.

Candrochon looked from his wife to pull a face at the warrioresses. “Unlike you ladies, I have more important tasks to occupy my time than gossiping about gowns and marriages when I am off-duty.” Then he ducked to escape a hail of thrown acorns.

“How do you put up with him, Merilin?” Tuilinn demanded.

“He has his moments.”

“Not many of them, I would wager!”

“Get thee a husband, Salma, then you may talk!”

“Shall we leave them alone, friends?” suggested Edlothia. The other she-elves giggled, but headed for the rope ladder down from the pavilion in the tree. “Ah, look! Someone comes!”

Candrochon and Merilin joined the others at the railing, peering down at the two walkers approaching through the trees. “I cannot see who just yet. But they walk openly.”

Tuilinn narrowed her eyes, “Which of the scouting parties are due back?”

“Only Narbeleth’s, but hers is a party of twelve,” said Merilin.

“There!” Gwilwileth pointed as the approaching pair came further out of the trees. “It is Legolas.”

“But who comes with him?”

Legolas and his as-yet-unidentified companion came further out of the trees until they were in plain view of the elves on the flet. Candrochon heard intakes of breath from all the she-elves at the sight of the stranger. “It…it…it is a man!” breathed Galithil.

A man it was, even taller than Legolas and much bigger, wearing the travel-worn raiment of a western Ranger. So unlike an elf, for his face looked as worn as his clothing, lined and shadowed with care and struggle. Yet there was a chiseled strength to his features, and a depth and perception within his light gray eyes that Candrochon had never seen in a mortal before. It was quite startling.

But evidently, his female comrades were startled for another reason entirely. Beside him, his wife sucked in a deep breath. “That is not a man,” she whispered. “That’s art!”

“Merilin!” Candrochon blurted, his shock breaking his inspection of the approaching mortal.

But every warrioress began to giggle in response and voice her agreement. “Ai, it has always been assumed that men were ill-favored compared to elves,” remarked Tuilinn. “But this one…”

Galithil sniggered, “Looks very strong, does he not?”

“Yea, he has seen much of Middle Earth, I imagine,” murmured Edlothia.

“And most of it on foot, judging by his legs.”

“Mmm, his legs…”

“Merilin!”

Turning her attention to Candrochon, Gwilwileth grinned, “I fear your husband is turning a peculiar shade of green, Merilin.”

Giggling still harder, Galithil remarked, “Poor thing, he cannot stand competition from mortals. And such a mortal,” she added with a sigh, looking back down at the two walkers. Disgusted and quite outnumbered, Candrochon climbed down to meet the newcomers.

***

Walking beside Legolas, Aragorn knew that his arrival with Gollum and news of the One Ring had thrown his friend into a pit of anxiety and melancholy. It sorrowed the Ranger to be the cause of dampening the young archer’s merry nature, and he sought to bring Legolas out of it. “Come, my elven friend, you have grilled me for news of my travels, without telling me aught of your doings these late years.”

With a little shake of his head as though coming out of a trance, Legolas replied, “Little compared to you. Orcs and spiders multiply so that much of our time is commanded by hunts. Many of the villages south of my father’s halls have been emptied of our people, and those that remain in the northern forest have been forced to become stockades.” There was sorrow in his bright eyes, and a trace of anger. “The Enemy’s hold here goes stronger with each passing year. When at last his forces are rallied I know not how we will be able to stop them.”

The admission startled Aragorn, who turned and looked thoughtfully at the elven warrior. Realization came to him with both sorrow and anger of his own. Legolas was frightened. *And he is but one of many among the free peoples of Middle Earth. Eldar, dwarves, men. They are all frightened.*

Here in the northern forest the sun still penetrated the green canopy, but looking south, Aragorn could see a murky darkness in the trees that was almost palpable in the distance. To elven senses, it must seem very close indeed. “Neither of our peoples will fall,” he told Legolas. “No shadow shall hold sway over Middle Earth so long as you or I or Gandalf, or any of our friends draw breath.” He smiled reassuringly, “And that is a heavy obstacle even for Sauron.” Legolas cracked a grin at last, and Aragorn changed the subject. “Tell me of your family. I met your sister’s husband on the banks of the Anduin, and he bade me give you his regards.”

“Orthelian?” Legolas asked in surprised pleasure. He smiled. “I’ve seen naught of him for nearly twenty years. He led the last company of warriors from Lorien across the plains, but since then few of their parties have journeyed beyond their borders. We hear the Galadhrim are deserting the Golden Wood in great numbers for the Havens. Soon there will be none left.” His eyes darkened again, but this time he shook himself out of it. “But Limloeth and Orthelian remain there still, in service to the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.”

Aragorn snickered; he always did when he thought of Celeborn and Legolas at the same time. Legolas mock-glared at him, and continued. “Life within my father’s halls remains very much as it ever was. I attend court often when I am not abroad with the hunting parties,” and his unspoken thought was clearly *far more than I should like.*

Aragorn quashed a grin and asked, “Is it true that Thranduil will permit no dealings with mortals for any reason?”

He would not have dared to ask if he had thought Legolas would be offended, and the son of Thranduil was not. “Nay, though I am not surprised that the rumors paint it that way. Our trade with Dale and Laketown remains the same, or it would if both parties had not been forced to reduce travel for fear of the Enemy’s marauders. But still we have a modest trade with men. Dwarves as always will have naught to do with us, nor my father with them.”

“And your relations with the kingdoms of men?”

Legolas furrowed his brow slightly. “Beyond trade, very little. My father’s distaste for dealing with mortals does lead him to deny permission for any dealings in which his people are the supplicants.”

“I don’t follow you.”

His bright eyes betraying faint frustration, Legolas explained, “There are few things for which we have a pressing need that we cannot make or find ourselves. But occasionally, such needs come up. Even less often men are in a position to meet our needs in some way, but it is those instances when my father refuses to approach them. Our manner of trade and the items we trade for remain just as they have for centuries even though our needs have changed, because my father seems to think that suggesting a change in routine will inherently suggest a weakness.” He shook his head, but then added hastily, “It does not happen frequently, but once or twice, we have been forced to do without when a simple delegation to Laketown could have procured what we required.”

“Your father is proud even by elven standards.”

“That he is,” Legolas laughed wryly. “But I fear our needs will soon be of a nature that will make it impossible for him to continue thus. For our need for weapons increases daily, and our supply of metals runs short. That we cannot obtain for ourselves, and even the king knows we cannot do without. He knows that day is coming when we must seek aid from men. He is merely determined to delay it as much as possible.”

Aragorn laughed in his turn, startling two squirrels out of the underbrush before them. They paused as the two little animals raced scolding off into the trees, and Aragorn heard something else move in the trees nearby. He put a hand on his sword, but Legolas’s hand stopped them, telling him plainly what the noisemaker was. “A friend of yours, I take it?”

“If he would be good enough to show himself, I would introduce you,” said Legolas. Moments later, a dark-haired Silvan elf, tall even by elven standards, dropped from a tree before them. “Is the company of the ladies too much for you, Candrochon?”

The sounds of feminine laughter reached Aragorn’s ears from the trees ahead, and the look that the newly-arrived elf shot him was slightly vexed. The elven warrior turned back to Legolas and jerked his head at the nearly-invisible flet in a tall tree. “It’s like a henhouse up there.”

Legolas looked confused at first, then cocked his head, listening to elven voices too soft for Aragorn’s mortal ears to distinguish. The prince then turned from Candrochon to Aragorn and slowly grinned. Aragorn was baffled by the talk, and it must have showed upon his face, for Legolas said, “It seems some of the ladies of Mirkwood have been admiring you, Man of the West.”

“What?” before he could stop himself, Aragorn looked at the flet and this time beheld half a dozen she-elves peering back at him, with that particular female look in their eyes that said all too clearly where their admirations lay. Blood rushed to his face and Legolas burst into a peal of laughter.

“Come down, my ladies, and meet our guest.”

As they descended, some in gowns, others in the garb of guards, Aragorn suspected that the six were warrioresses. As interested as they were in the stranger, they briefly turned their attention to Legolas. “Welcome home, my lord,” said each in her turn, some bowing to him, others embracing him. “We had wondered what delayed you.”

Legolas grinned, turning to Aragorn, “Ladies, I present Strider of the Dúnedain. Strider, you have the honor of meeting six of the warrior maidens of Mirkwood. I present Gwilwileth and Salma, daughters of Ulban,” the eldest and youngest of the group bowed to him. “Tuilinn, daughter of Fimsigil,” an elven maid not much older than Legolas possessing remarkable red hair bowed next. “Edlothia, daughter of Soron,” a warrioress older than Legolas nodded to him. “Galithil, daughter of Eregdos, and Lady Merilin, daughter of Lord Heledir,” he finished as an auburn-haired she-elf bowed to Aragorn.

“My wife,” added Candrochon from behind Legolas, in a distinctly sour tone. The other elves tittered. To Aragorn, he asked, “Was it you then who brought that…creature…here to Mirkwood?”

“I fear so,” Aragorn replied apologetically, glancing quickly at Legolas.

His friend interceded quickly, “But the matter must first be brought before my father. Let us back to the palace.”

The walk was a pleasant one, though Aragorn suffered more than his share of consternation by the rather intense scrutiny of the elves--particularly the she-elves--as they drew closer to the palace. It was clear that the Mirkwood elves, like the elves of Lorien but unlike the elves of Imladris, seldom left their realm and saw little of men within it. But at the same time, Mirkwood’s people were not quite the same as the elves of Lorien. While the Galadhrim had viewed the foreigner in their realm with suspicion even after Lord Elrond had vouched for him, here in Mirkwood the friendship of Legolas was evidently enough for Thranduil’s folk, and their stares betrayed curiosity and fascination more than distrust.

Fascination…especially from the elven women.

From what Legolas had told Aragorn, the wood elf population close to Thranduil’s palace-fort had grown denser over the years as the outlying villages were abandoned in favor of greater protection by the elven king’s guard. After Legolas and his friends had led Aragorn past a number of heavily-armed guard posts, the Ranger noticed far more elves walking among the trees, going about their day’s work without fear of attack. While it was not crowded by any means, a sizeable stretch of land surrounding Thranduil’s halls had become a veritable elven city.

And as a result, news of the passage of the mortal Ranger through it soon gained the attention of a good number of the populace. Whispers, discreet nods toward him, stares, and the occasional eruption of giggling told Aragorn how few of the Silvan elves had seen a man close-up. He was quite relieved when at last they passed through one of the western gates of the palace, only to find that the scrutiny did not cease there.

No sooner had they passed through the gate than soft exclamations and whispers bespoke the surprise of Thranduil’s folk at seeing a man in the company of the king’s son. Aragorn wondered, had Legolas told no one of what had transpired while he was abroad in Middle Earth? The Ranger’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry of “Legolas!” from the palace steps.

Many years before, when Aragorn had first beheld Arwen Undomiel on the paths of Imladris, he had been certain she was Luthien returned to Middle Earth. Now, as he spied the elven lady running down the steps, again he thought that a figure of elven legend had appeared in the flesh.

Only this time Nimrodel.

Had the elven maid before him been human, she looked to be perhaps seventeen, but Aragorn suspected she was close in real years to his own age, judging by her youthful demeanor. Her hair, a mass of sun-colored curls, tumbled down her back with a luster as bright as the emerald-green gown that she wore. Even without the crown of Mirkwood upon her head, Aragorn would have known by the familiar manner that she was related to Legolas.

The Sindarin princess hardly spared a glance at Aragorn in her eagerness to greet her kinsman, and seized Legolas in an embrace. Laughing, Legolas returned her kisses and endured her playful scolding. “What did you mean, sending Caranaur and Thalatirn back here and remaining on the forest’s edge alone? You frightened the wits out of everyone!”

“Forgive me,” Legolas pleaded, bowing in mock-contrition. “Another matter arose. Look to your manners, I must introduce you to a friend.” At last, the girl took notice of the stranger among her friends, and fixed curious bright blue eyes upon Aragorn. “This is Strider, a Ranger of the West. I present my niece, Silivren, daughter of my eldest brother Berensul.”

*Glittering.* Amid the stares of the elves as they walked, the company had spoken hardly at all during their return. Now, Aragorn could feel the eyes of a good many elves upon him as they waited to see the foreigner’s response. Smiling inwardly, he performed an extravagantly deep bow (not that courtesy was not fitting for the daughter of a crown prince) and declared, “I am most honored, my lady.”

Her eyes twinkling, the princess bowed in return and announced, “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Strider of the Dúnedain. In the name of my grandfather, Thranduil of Mirkwood, welcome, for any friend of Legolas is a friend of ours.” Despite her obvious youth, her bearing, like that of Legolas and other high-born elves, demonstrated much-practiced nobility. Turning back to Legolas with a smile, she said, “The king wishes to see you both on your return.”

*I’ll wager he does,* thought the Ranger, noticing the slightest tensing of Legolas’s shoulders. Aloud, the son of Thranduil said, “Let us go, then.”

***

The previous three days had been rather anxious ones for the elven king of Mirkwood ever since the two warriors under Legolas’s command had returned from the hunt to inform him that Legolas had remained at the border helping an ailing mortal--AND that he was bringing said mortal back to the palace with him. Still more startling, not to mention distasteful, was the strange creature that the mortal had brought with him and Legolas had placed in his warriors’ charge. When word at last reached the court that Legolas and the stranger had arrived, Thranduil wasted no time in sending for them.

For he had plenty of questions.

Legolas strode through the doors of the throne room first, with the man just behind him. Thranduil took note of the mortal’s familiarity with elvish ways as he stopped just within the door while Legolas advanced and bowed to the king. “My lord, by your leave, I present Strider, a Ranger of the Dúnedain.”

Thranduil nodded his permission, and the man approached, stopping beside Legolas and dropping to one knee. “Hail, Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.”

Beckoning the man to rise, Thranduil looked from him to his son. There was much that bore explaining. How and when had Legolas made a friend such as this? His youngest son had always been rather naïve where men were concerned, which Thranduil gruffly tolerated, but this…the king had strong misgivings about the choices Legolas had just made. He remained silent for several moments, as his son and the Ranger calmly awaited his pleasure. He fixed the man with a long, searching stare, and noted also how the mortal did not so much as blink. Interesting. VERY interesting.

At length, the elven king spoke, “I understand you have come to beg a favor of the elves of Mirkwood, Strider of the Dúnedain?”

The man inclined his head. “I have, my lord. I seek a secure place to confine the creature Gollum, who is my prisoner, and have great faith in the ability of the elves to hold him.”

“And what interest have you in this creature?”

“He possesses information, my lord, information that is sought by the one the elves call Mithrandir. It was he who bade me seek Gollum out, which I did, traversing much of Middle Earth from the Misty Mountains to Mordor in my search. I found him in the Dead Marshes.”

*And the intrigue deepens,* thought Thranduil even as his heart clenched at the mention of Mordor. *What do you know of this man, Legolas?* He leveled a hard look at his son, who evenly met Thranduil’s eyes. *More than you say, that is certain. I may harbor a dislike of men, but I am not so ignorant of them as you think. I dislike information being kept from me.* To the Ranger, he said, “If you have passed through Mordor and returned alive with your objective, you are no ordinary man.”

“No, my lord. I am a Ranger.”

*A quick and clever answer. But I require more than you will give me.* Letting his gaze come to rest on his son’s face, he said, “If you will leave us, Master Strider, I should like to speak to the prince alone.” Without taking his eyes from Legolas, he sensed the man bowing and departing from the room.

Legolas, for his part, did an admirable job hiding his tension at the words, and spoke not until Thranduil did. The king waited until the doors had closed, then spoke without preamble. “I trust you have a good reason for this deceit, Legolas.”

His son’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing. Thranduil went on blithely, “I may not wish to encourage dealings with men, but I am ignorant neither of them nor of the other realms’ contact with them. And in the Elder days I saw much of them.” At Legolas’s continued silence, he finished, “So did you truly think that I would not recognize the heir of Isildur when I saw him?”

At least it was clear that that had been the only secret. Resignation replaced resistance in his son’s face, and Legolas replied softly, “Aragorn gave me his true name in a confidence which I was not prepared to breach, my lord. Even to you.”

“A confidence indeed? And how does this man merit such faith?” Thranduil asked in a condescending tone.

Legolas was forthright at least. “He is my friend.”

Thranduil chuckled, a little irritated but tolerant overall of his youngest son’s caprices. “Friends with a mortal. Of all my sons. Why am I not surprised? Though I had hoped you would grow a little less naïve--”

His son’s chin shot up. “He saved my life.” That startled Thranduil into pausing, and Legolas went on, “Several times, in fact. I asked not for his aid nor had anything to offer in return, but he risked himself more than once for my sake.”

Thranduil harbored a strong aversion to men, considering them covetous and barbaric, though he had never formed any lasting acquaintance with any one man. He preferred to hold the individuals to the standard he had seen set of the entire race in his various dealings with them throughout his life. So his son’s words were rather discomfiting, not fitting at all with what he persisted in believing of them. “So you brought him here to discharge you debt to him?”

Legolas shook his head. “Nay. I had an opportunity to return the favor of my life. I brought him here because he is my friend. And because Mithrandir wishes the creature kept safe. Aragorn said he sent word of where he was taking Gollum.”

*Mithrandir, at least that is something. But accepting the heir of Isildur as a friend, when will you ever learn, boy?* Still, what was done was done. And Legolas’s ill taste in friends aside, a request on behalf of Mithrandir to keep Gollum was not so unreasonable. After all, if the matter was attended to swiftly, the Ranger would be on his way all the sooner, away from Thranduil’s people…and his son.

Legolas was still awaiting an answer, so Thranduil said, “Very well, we shall grant his request. Gollum is being held in the dungeons; he will remain there.”

“The dungeons?” Legolas asked, his eyes showing dismay.

Thranduil replied absently, “Yes.” Then he caught his son’s expression and sighed, “Legolas, we have more refugees from the outlying villages arriving every day. There is no room in the trees for a prisoner, certainly not one so…risky as this Gollum. He will be fed and well cared-for in the dungeons. By the look of him, he spent much of his life out of the sun. The dungeons will do him no further harm.”

The thought of any creature imprisoned in the dungeons clearly distressed Legolas, but Thranduil saw no alternative. He was not troubled by his son’s reaction, given Legolas’s childhood mishap in the dungeons and the incidents during his journeys abroad. From what the warriors said, Legolas seemed to have a knack for getting himself buried.

***

Outside the throne room, Aragorn noticed Princess Silivren and Lady Merilin talking among a clutch of other she-elves--and making little effort to hide their interest in Aragorn. Either they cared not that he could hear their words, or the strength of human hearing had been grossly underestimated by the Silvan elves. “Men are so much more bulky than elves,” murmured Tuilinn, the redhead.

“But I find that rather appealing,” added Edlothia. “His body appears so…powerful.”

“I did not expect him to be so tall,” whispered Merilin. “Nor so graceful. I should enjoy watching him fight.”

“Perhaps we might persuade him to a friendly bout with some of our warriors?”

“There is an idea. I suspect Candrochon might be persuaded.” (Giggle!)

“I’ve never seen a man, so I’ve naught to compare him to,” Silivren replied. “Do you suppose he bears any resemblence to Beren?”

“If so, I understand Luthien far better now!” The was a flurry of muted giggling.

“But he is quite well-favored, is he not, Galithil?”

“I think so. Here, Elunen, you’ve seen many men, what do you think?”

“I fought in the Last Alliance beside many men, and met my share since. There were some quite handsome, and yet…this one is different. He seems almost familiar.”

Aragorn tensed at those words, but at that moment, Legolas emerged from the Great Hall. “My father has agreed to keep Gollum here.” With a knowing grin, he added, “So take heart. He is off your hands.”

“Thank the Valar!” Aragorn declared, and his friend laughed aloud.

Legolas noticed the small clutch of admirers and grinned more broadly. “I fear you shall find the hospitality of my kinswomen somewhat smothering while my kinsmen slightly lacking. I hope you enjoy your stay as much as I will.” His eyes sparkled with amusement at his friend’s expense.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Oh I shall, particularly when I seize the opportunity to flirt with your niece. Lovely even by elven standards, that niece of yours.”

“I did not know you desired to become spider fodder!” Elf and man walked back out of the elven king’s halls. Legolas glanced fondly at Silivren. “She is a novice warrioress; her first coming of age was only twenty-two years ago.”

“She carries herself well for so young an elf.”

“She is her father’s daughter.” Legolas led him out of the cave and took an unconscious deep breath. Gazing about as though relieved to be out of doors, the elven king’s son said, “Come. You have not been here before. I will show you my father’s realm.”

“I would like to see it.”

***

For the next few days, Legolas led Aragorn threw the beeches and elms and dwellings of northern Mirkwood. His friend was a most gracious guest and expresses much admiration for the achievements of his people, but at the same time, Legolas knew that one who had already seen the lands and cities of Imladris and Lothlorien would probably find Mirkwood lacking. It was a frustrating notion. Legolas loved his home with all his heart, and though its dwellings were as fair as anything of elven make, the oppressive nearness of shadow marred its beauty. *Will any ever see the Greenwood as it once was? As my mother knew it, beautiful enough to rival even Rivendell and Caras Galadhon.*

They were walking by the archery fields watching several of the novices warriors practice when Candrochon came riding up. “Legolas, Mithrandir has come.”

“Ah,” said the elf, turning at once with Aragorn beside him. “Now perhaps we shall get some answers.”

They arrived at the palace to find Berensul greeting the Maia. Mithrandir turned and smiled at Aragorn. “Success at last, my friend. I am in your debt such efforts.”

“They paid off in the end.”

Mithrandir bowed to Legolas. “Well met, son of Thranduil. I understand I’ve you to thank for giving…Strider and his guest entrance into Mirkwood.”

The elf bowed back. “Both my people and I would gladly do any service you requested, Mithrandir. If you believe this Gollum must be kept safe within our borders, then we trust your judgment.”

“I am glad to hear it. Speaking of Gollum, where have you stashed him?”

Legolas felt a twinge of discomfort. “He is…being held in the dungeons.”

But the Maia’s face showed no sign of surprise or even disapproval. He simply nodded, “I should like to speak to him, if I may.”

“Of course,” Legolas smiled. “I daresay my father will have no objection. Candrochon, escort Mithrandir to Gollum’s cell, if you would be so kind.” He grinned as his friend shot him a fierce glare at being assigned such an unsavory task. Not that any elf objected to Mithrandir’s company, but Gollum’s cell was deep within the dungeons. Legolas would gladly have taken the wizard to see the prisoner himself, but for that fact. And this was one instance where rank had real privileges.

Which Candrochon’s wife noticed. “Well-executed,” Merilin murmured in Legolas’s ear. Although the youngest prince of Mirkwood was by no means in disfavor among the ladies of Mirkwood, their attentions toward him (and vice versa) went no further than easy camaraderie and friendship. But in the week since Aragorn had arrived, the elf had noticed a marked increase of she-elves in his company--whenever he and Aragorn happened to be together. The long memory of elves let Legolas recall easily the time when he had been the object of interest of many fawning ladies, as well as his extreme embarrassment at the time. Still…seeing Aragorn’s discomfort at the attentions of his friends, he had to admit…it was highly amusing.

He caught Salma and Silivren peering at the Ranger from behind a tree and was forced to bite his lip to avoid sniggering. Even the elder ladies, like Edlothia, Elunen, and Gwilwileth, found Aragorn an object of interest and curiosity, and so wherever the prince and the heir of Isildur went, a small fleet of she-elves was certain to follow. The kinsmen, husbands, and suitors of said she-elves, on the other hand, were highly UN-amused, and although Legolas suspected they were equally curious about the rare appearance of a mortal in their midst, they avoided Aragorn like the plague. When it came right down to it, the whole thing was incredibly funny.

***

That evening…

The elven king, as one would expect, invited Gandalf to dine with his family as a welcome and honored guest. He also invited Aragorn, as--the Ranger suspected--a reluctantly-tolerated guest.

Present at the meal were the Crown Prince Berensul, whom Aragorn had been introduced to only in passing, but seemed willing enough to accept his youngest brother’s word concerning the mortal stranger’s merits. He looked hardly anything like Legolas; the only trait they had in common was the dark gray eyes. And in contrast, the only trait Berensul did not have in common with his father was that the prince’s hair was dark. Aragorn had met Berensul’s wife, the Crown Princess Eirien, before when she came to Imladris for healing instruction from Lord Elrond. Even if she had not, Aragorn would recognize her as Rivendell-bred by her looks alone: the golden-brown hair, not as dark as a wood elf’s, fair skin, and deep blue eyes. And like most elves who had spent centuries under the tutelage of Lord Elrond, she was both wise and firm. Though gentle, mild, and soft-spoken, Aragorn had seen enough of her to know that beneath the sweet exterior lay a will as strong as mithril.

Then of course, there was their young daughter, Silivren. Though comparable to Aragorn in actual years, the elven princess looked no older than a mortal teenager. Now that she sat among her closest kind, Aragorn could see some resemblance to all of them. She had her mother’s deep eyes and her father’s face, but her golden hair was closer to Thranduil’s than Legolas. In fact, Legolas was the only one of her kindred whom Silivren did not seem to share any physical traits with. On the other hand, Aragorn had seen enough of her merry spirit in the past few days to suspect that it was personality in which novice warrioress most closely resembled her uncle.

Aragorn had no doubt that Thranduil had serious misgivings about his friendship with the king’s youngest son, the depth of which had been shown by the amount of time Legolas and Aragorn had spent together in the past week. This was the first time since Aragorn’s arrival that he or Legolas had supped formally with the elven king, and there was no mistaking the daggers Thranduil’s eyes shot at the Ranger when Legolas indicated for him to be seated at the prince’s side. Gandalf certainly did not miss it.

Gandalf had spent several hours in the dungeons with Gollum, and after the necessary small talk, conversation turned inevitably to the matter that had brought him. “Did you learn anything useful from him?” Thranduil inquired.

Undiscouraged, the wizard shook his head. “I fear not, but I expected not to draw anything from him so soon; it has only been one day. We shall talk again on the morrow, and again and again, if necessary until Gollum wearies so of my presence that he tells me his tale merely to be rid of me.” The company laughed.

The Lady Eirien wrinkled her nose slightly. “I visited him in the dungeons shortly after he came to make certain his health was well. He is a loathsome creature. The Enemy’s Ring has corrupted him beyond all recovery.”

“Nay, my lady, I would not despair of him yet. There may still be hope for his cure, once he has lived long enough away from the Ring,” replied Gandalf.

“But you said the Ring had enabled him to live long beyond the years of his kind,” spoke up Legolas. “Surely without it he must die soon.”

“Soon by elven standards, perhaps, but not his,” the wizard said. “It is possible that before the end of his life he will at least find peace.”

The elves and Ranger digested Gandalf’s words. In a soft voice, Legolas said, “Then we should not keep him ever in the dungeons under the earth, for none will find peace there. Surely he can be guarded elsewhere.”

None missed the sharp, quelling look Thranduil shot his youngest son before turning instead to address Gandalf. “As I told my son already, Mithrandir, the encroachment of shadow upon my realm has forced many of my people to take shelter close to the palace, and within it. We once did use cells in the trees as places to hold prisoners, but necessity has forced us to convert them into dwellings. There is no room for Gollum in the outer palace where he would not be too close to the elves.”

The wizard narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “I have seen how dark and close the Enemy’s creatures draw, and the number of refugees here. Your task is a hard one, Lord Thranduil, I recognize.”

“Then perhaps we might find a medium,” offered Silivren suddenly. “Surely if we cannot let Gollum dwell above the earth all the time, it would not be beyond the scope of his guards to lead him out of the dungeons during the day. After all, he must be guarded in any case, whether in the cave or without.”

This time, Thranduil and Gandalf both nodded. “A wise suggestion, young princess,” said the wizard, inclining his head to her. Aragorn hid a smile at the way Eirien’s chin lifted proudly. *Mothers. Elf or mortal, they are all the same.*

“Then we are agreed,” said Thranduil. A twinkle came then into the elven king’s bright eyes as he turned his gaze to his youngest son. “Since Legolas is so keen to bestow kindness upon Gollum, I shall place him in command of the creature’s guards.”

Hardly an appetizing assignment, but Legolas took it with good humor. “As you wish, Father,” he replied mildly, with a little nod. Then he glared at Aragorn as the Ranger stifled a snigger. Silivren caught it and was not so successful in hiding a giggle. As Aragorn was a guest, Legolas had to bear his taunts, but now the prince fixed a mock-scowl at his young niece, and said in a near-drawl, “Guarding Gollum seems a suitable task for a few novice warriors. I think this would be an excellent training exercise for Silivren, do you not agree, Berensul?”

The crown prince grinned. “Most definitely. I’m sure Eregdos can be persuaded to release her to your command, Brother.”

“Assuming you’ve no objections, Sili?” Legolas asked wickedly.

But Silivren came back with a weapon of her own. “None at all, Uncle Leg’las.”

Gandalf nearly choked on a piece of meat, Eirien hastily covered her mouth, and even Thranduil’s lips quirked. Aragorn raised a mocking eyebrow at his friend and said, “Leg’las?”

“She’ll pay for that.”

***

A few days later…

Legolas met Gandalf at the entrance to the inner palace as the Maia came out. “You were within the dungeons long,” said the prince. “Was he more cooperative?”

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, his mind still partly occupied by his own thoughts on what Gollum had told him. Then he noticed Legolas’s anxious expression, and smiled. “Forgive me, my lord, I fear my own musings on his tale are distracting me. It seems his true name, or perhaps it would be better to say, the name of the person he once was, is Sméagol. For one thing, it confirms accounts given me by other sources. And fortunately, it seems that his desire to possess the Ring kept it out of reach or knowledge of others for most of the time that he had it.”

“Thank the Valar,” sighed Legolas.

“Be not so hasty, son of Thranduil,” said Gandalf gravely. “I have learned that Gollum was taken in Mordor by the Enemy’s forces.” The elf turned pale. “How he escaped the Dark Lord’s dungeons, I know not, but it is beyond all doubt that there all he knew was forced from him.”

“Then…”

“Then the Enemy knows now that the One is found.” Gandalf knew that Thranduil, the crown prince, the captain of Mirkwood’s guard, and indeed half of the Silvan elves between here and Rivendell would have questions for him on the subject of Gollum, but only to Legolas did he impart these facts. For it was Legolas who most needed to be aware of what he held, here in his father’s halls. It was vital that Gollum be kept safe. “Knowing these things, I must depart with all speed. Forgive me if I say not where I go, but swift action is of the essence. Legolas,” the Maia placed a firm hand on the elven archer’s shoulder. “Be wary. Underestimate not the malice of Gollum, for long was he exposed to the corruption of the One. He would wreak much mischief if he were free now even as I seek to keep the One from the Enemy’s reach. He cannot be allowed to escape.”

To any other elven warrior, such words might almost be insulting, as though Gandalf did not trust them to do their duty well. But Legolas was unlike other elves in many ways, some subtle, others strangely fundamental, which Gandalf knew even as he spoke. So it surprised him not at all that Legolas merely nodded gravely and took the words in the spirit that they were intended, as a well-meant and well-deserved warning of the danger of the situation in which the keepers of Gollum now found themselves.

“Sméagol will be safe here, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf smiled. “Knowing that his protection is in your charge eases my mind greatly, Legolas of Mirkwood. But remember also what I told you, and hope still for his recovery. Given time and kind treatment away from the corruption of the Ring, he may yet be cured of his malice.”

With that, Gandalf went to the outer palace and bade farewell to the elven king and his elder children, giving them a brief description of what he had learned from Gollum. Thranduil was more inclined to accept sketchy explanations from the wizard than he would from most other visitors to his realm, and let Gandalf go without prying to heavily. Gandalf suspected Thranduil’s easy acceptance of his words had much to do with the fact that he was taking Aragorn with him when he departed. So the Maia counted his blessings when the elven king released them, and wasted no time collecting the Ranger. There was much still to be done.

Legolas escorted Gandalf and Aragorn from the palace to the gates, followed by a small crowd of elves bidding farewell to the wizard and taking a last look at the strange mortal who had spent so much time in their midst. The elven men were casual enough in their goodbyes. Among the ladies, on the other hand, could be heard many sighs of regret.

Turning on their horses outside the gates, Gandalf and Aragorn each raised a hand in farewell to the elven prince. “Guard him well, son of Thranduil.”

Legolas raised his hand in a salute of his own. “We shall not fail, Mithrandir!”

That final reassurance given, the man and the Maia turned their mounts and rode away at a gallop, eager to reach the Shire as soon as possible, and leaving Legolas standing at the gate, with Gollum now in his charge.

*****

Does anyone sense a full circle coming into fruition? Next, Gollum’s guards run into trouble, we get a glance into the happenings in other parts of Middle Earth concerning some other rather important figures, and Legolas leaves on an appointment with destiny in…

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Escape of Smeagol

Almost there… almost there…

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Berensul: Legolas’s oldest brother and crown prince of Mirkwood
Eirien: Berensul’s wife, born in Imladris, crown princess of Mirkwood
Silivren: Berensul and Eirien’s only daughter
Merilin and Candrochon: childhood friends of Legolas’s, now married
Caranaur, Thalatirn, Fimsigil, Fandoll: fellow warriors of Legolas’s
Salma, Edlothia, Elunen, Gwilwileth, Tuilinn, Galithil: warrioress friends of Legolas’s