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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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          Strider awoke shouting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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