Strider was the first to recover from the shock of the grey wizard’s sudden and unannounced entrance into the king’s private study.

          “Gandalf!” he exclaimed, rushing to the old Istari’s side.  Taking the wizard’s arm, he guided him to one of the high backed chairs and bade him sit.  “Your arrival is most opportune.”

          “Yes,” Mithrandir answered.  “I’m sure it is.”

          The wizard’s gaze followed the ranger as the young man seated himself in a chair next to his own, then his hardened glance traveled to the Elven King.  Thranduil did not quail before the Istari’s penetrating glare, but his expression did not convey the usual hauteur he normally reserved for his dealings with the wizard.

          “Thranduil,” Mithrandir acknowledged the king with the slightest nod of his head.  The fact that he neglected to utter the Elf Lord’s honorific was not lost on anyone present within the room and Ganduil bristled with indignation at the wizard’s affront to his liege.

          The king graciously ignored the informal usage of his name and leaning forward in his chair, rested his hands and forearms upon his cluttered desk top.  He lowered his gaze to study his hands and then quietly spoke.

          “Can you help us, Mithrandir?”

          It was obvious to all just how devastated the Elf Lord was and although believing the king to be a reckless and greedy fool, Mithrandir regretted having to tell him what he must.  His grey head shook sadly.

          “I’m afraid I cannot,” he replied.  “I have no power over this evil.  I am not of this world and this being is very much a part of it.  It was spawned when the earth was created and,” he paused for emphasis, “until now, has never been known by man or Elfkind.”  He looked pointedly at the king, then turned to Ganduil and finally to Strider.  “Even the Dwarves have never dealt with this evil.” 

          His angry scowl returned to settle upon the Elven King.  “At least the Dwarves had sense enough to know that it must never be let loose upon the land. They were extremely thorough in their warnings and in their vigilance in keeping this evil confined to the very depths of the abyss!”

          Thranduil visibly cringed at the wizard’s biting words, his pale face turning a ruddy shade of rose, but he refused to look at the wizard.  Ganduil haughtily stepped forward, hands upon his hips and his lips pressed together in a thin, angry line.  “You said there was one who could help,” he sneered.  “If not you, then whom do we look to for aid?”

          Mithrandir glanced at the minister and calmly folded his hands into his long sleeves.  “The Drughu Woman,” he replied.

          Ganduil snorted in disgust.  “You must be mad,” he answered.  “There is no such witch-woman!  The race of Hidden Men is nothing but a myth.  No one has ever seen a Drughu – man or woman.”

          The wizard’s eyebrow rose as he turned his gaze upon the preening minister.  A long-stemmed pipe had magically appeared in the Istari’s hand; where it had come from was a mystery that only Mithrandir was privy to.   He proceeded to light it with slow, deliberate motions, all the while steadily watching the minister.  Once it was glowing and smoke began to billow out from the bowl, the wizard continued.

          “Nevertheless,” he replied, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.  “Tharcuru is very much alive and the only one who can help us.”

          “Nonsense,” Ganduil huffed.  “We cannot put trust in tales and legends…”

          “The wizard speaks the truth, Ganduil,” the king’s quiet voice interrupted the elder Elf’s words.  At his minister’s incredulous expression, Thranduil resumed.  “I have never seen her.  No one has that I know of,” he mused.  “But I am certain that she exists.”

          “My Lord,” questioned Ganduil, “what are you saying?  Surely you cannot believe that some human woman is living alone out in the woods surrounding Lasgalen and we are not aware of it!”

          The king chuckled softly and looked over at Mithrandir with an amused twist to his lips.  “If no one has ever seen this woman, how do you think you will find her?”

          Strider had impatiently followed this conversation up until now but could be still no longer.  He sprang from his chair beside the Istari and began to nervously pace between the desk and the fireplace.   “We are wasting time arguing whether this woman lives or nay,” he sputtered.  “If she can help us find Legolas and rid us of this, this…thing, then we must seek her out at once.”  He turned to the wizard for support and confirmation of his assessment of the situation.

          Thranduil continued to stare at Mithrandir.  “Well, wizard?  How do you intend to find her?”

          Mithrandir puffed away at his pipe until the blue-gray smoke clouds hovering about his head almost obscured his face.  “She has summoned me,” he replied.  Turning his gaze to Strider, he added.  “And you, young Strider.”

          The young man halted in mid-step.  “Me?” he asked.  “How do you know this?”

          “Because I have seen her in my dreams,” the wizard calmly replied.  He abruptly rose from his seat, somehow stowing his pipe away in the same fluid movement.  “We can tarry here no longer, Strider,” he stated.  “We must leave at once.”

          “Now?”  Strider’s face showed his consternation.  “But how are we going to find her?  You said yourself that…”

          Mithrandir gave Strider one of his enigmatic smiles.  “She will guide us.”  He gestured toward the doorway, indicating his desire for Strider to accompany him.   “Gather together your things, my boy.  We must fly.”

          King Thranduil slowly rose from his seat, halting both Mithrandir and Strider as they moved toward the door.   Wizard and warrior turned as one and looked to the Elven King.  Thranduil stared into Strider’s silver eyes, as if taking the measure of the young ranger.  Finally he turned from his desk and moved to one of the book-lined walls.  He reached his hand into the shelving and released a hidden catch.  The wall silently swung outward on a stone pivot, revealing a darkened passageway beyond.

          The idea of secret passages within the Mirkwood Palace was not surprising to either Mithrandir or Strider, although until this moment, neither had known that they actually existed.   Both shared an inquisitive glance but did not speak.  Thranduil turned around to face Strider and gestured for the young man to follow him into the tunnel.

          His eyes were dark and hard, but his expression was unreadable.  “Before you go, Aragorn, I want you to see something,” the king stated.  Expecting the young man to follow, the Elf Lord disappeared into the passage and Strider had to hasten his step to catch up to the king.  Mithrandir also moved to the opening, reluctantly followed by the king’s minister, Ganduil.

          Thranduil led the small group down a stone stairway that spiraled down through the rock and earth of the carved Palace interior.  When Strider was sure that they had gone down even farther than he and Legolas had ever dared while exploring the forbidden areas of the Palace, the king finally stopped and entered a small alcove.  He turned to the wizard and Ganduil.

          “Just the lad,” he said, placing a firm hand on Strider’s shoulder and guiding him through a small stone archway.

          Mithrandir was about to protest, but reconsidered and merely nodded his shaggy head.  Ganduil, knowing full well where the king was taking the ranger, could not conceal a look of distaste, and was only too glad to remain behind.  With one last look at the wizard, Strider ducked his head and went through the narrow doorway.

          It was very dark and dank within this new corridor and Strider’s unease began to grow.  He was beginning to regret having left the wizard behind.  Thranduil quietly uttered an Elven enchantment and several of the bracketed torches came alive with light.  Strider blinked at the sudden brightness and then as his eyesight adjusted, slowly surveyed his surroundings.  It was apparent that they were in the lower dungeons below the Palace, but Legolas had never shown him this particular area before.

          “Come,” said the king and Strider followed the Elf Lord down the passageway to its end.

          As the two approached the end of the corridor, a stocky Silvan Elf emerged from a recessed niche in the wall and stood before them, ready to block their path and prevent them from going any farther.  When he saw King Thranduil standing before him, he bowed.

          “Majesty,” he rumbled in a deep, husky voice.

          “Isar,” the king acknowledged.  “Please unlock the door for me.”

          The Elf hesitated for the barest of moments and then ambled forward to the last remaining cell within the passage.  He quietly unlocked the door and then stepped back along the wall.  Thranduil turned to the ranger.

          “Before you leave with the wizard I want you to know something.”  He gestured toward the still closed door.  “I hired several Dale Men to do the digging in the lower tunnels for me.  They were present when the well was found and opened.”  The king lowered his gaze from the young man beside him and a pained, anguished grimace swept over his handsome face.  “They looked upon this evil.”  He looked back up at Strider.  “I want you to know what could happen to you should you do the same.”

          With that dire pronouncement, the king opened the prison door and stepped aside so that the ranger could look inside the cell.  Strider hesitated a moment, then steeled his nerves and stepped in to the entrance.  What he saw within the dimly lit cell appalled him and he could not keep the look of utter revulsion from his face as he looked upon the mindless, pitiful souls that inhabited this dark abode.  The Dale Men were cowering against the far wall, their bodies folded into compact balls as they leaned against the stones.  They were all muttering and mumbling incomprehensible words as they scraped at the walls with frenzied, jerky movements of their hands and fingers.  Their wild eyes darted here and there, never staying focused upon any one object for more than a second.  They were obviously unaware that the door to their cell had even been opened or that he was standing within the entrance.

          After a horrified moment Strider looked away, his shaky hand covering his mouth.  He had grown quite pale and his frightened eyes turned to the Elven King.  “What happened to them?” he asked quietly.

          “The evil drove them mad with but one look,” the king answered sadly.  “Two of my warriors were slain outright; their minds ripped apart.”  Thranduil choked back a sob of despair.  “They were the lucky ones,” he murmured.

          Strider thought back upon the early morning funeral he had passed; a soldier’s funeral – for these slain Elf warriors.  He shuddered at the remembered sight of the Dale Men in the cell behind him.  This could very well become his fate.  The Elf Lord stood rigid beside him, staring into the dark cell.  His whispered words were barely heard by the ranger.

          “I fear for my son.”   He drew in a ragged breath and slowly backed away from the doorway.  “My bright Greenleaf….”

          Isar quickly stepped forward and gently took the king’s arm, slowly turning him away from the dungeon cell.  Once Thranduil had moved away from the door, he released the king’s arm and turned back to the dank prison.  Carefully he re-locked the cell door and then walked the king toward the corridor entry, a sturdy hand upon the Elf Lord’s elbow.

          “You should not return here, my lord,” the Silvan Elf declared, steadfastly moving the king away from the dungeons.  “It is of no use to them, and certainly no use to you.”

          Thranduil merely nodded, his mind adrift with his own tortured thoughts.  After a last, long look at this dreadful place, Strider jogged forward to catch up with the king; but the nightmare of the hidden cell would haunt him forever.

/////////////////////////////////// 

          Strider halted on the slightly sloping pathway and stared hard at the oddly shaped rock formation at the top of the hill.  It was now the third time he had seen this unusual stone outcropping; he was sure of it.  He glanced back over his shoulder at the aging wizard who was slowly trudging up the slight incline, leaning heavily upon his staff.

          “We are going ‘round in circles, Gandalf,” he announced angrily.  “I have seen this group of stones twice now.”  He sat down heavily upon a fallen log.  “This will make three.”

          The ancient Istari pulled himself up the last bit of the trail and stood looking down at the ranger.  His gaze traveled to the standing stones and he crinkled his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun.

          “Gone by them before, you say?” he asked as he removed his pointed grey hat and slapped it against his long grey robes, forcing a cloud of dust to erupt from the piece of head gear.  He scratched at a worn, bald spot above his temple and then glanced back down at the young human seated upon the fallen tree.  “So we have,” he admitted.

          “Well?” asked Strider. His frustration and impatience were growing, along with a fear that they were now totally lost.  They had been walking through the deep forests for several hours now and he was not familiar with any part of this particular area of Mirkwood.  The wizard, however, appeared not to notice the young man’s irritation and smiled down at him.

          “Then we are here,” he stated.

          Strider gazed up at the Istari with an exasperated frown.  “What do you mean, we are here?  There is nothing ‘here’ but woods and those rocks.”

          Mithrandir nodded to a point just behind Strider’s back.  “Tharcuru is here.”

          Strider turned his head and upper body around and saw a tall, thin woman with long silver-white hair and eyes that were whiter still, standing only a foot away from him.  Scared nearly out of his skin by her utterly silent and sudden materialization behind his back, Strider let out a startled yelp and shot up off the log.  He found himself standing next to the wizard and wondering just how he had gotten there.

          The ancient woman’s voice came to them like the rustling of dry leaves caught in a gentle breeze.  “I have been waiting for you.  We do not have much time.”