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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Hold silent. [be quiet, be calm]

**All is well, my friend.

†Wait!  Celoril! Amorfing!  Do not depart!