“Coming, coming, coming, comingcomingcomingcoming, coming for me, coming, coming,” Legolas chanted in a brittle, crazed monotone.  His long, beautiful hair, always so glossy and silken, was now a tangled mass around his head and shoulders and looked like dried straw.  As he continuously rocked back and forth, his nervous hand brushed aside the loosened braids and errant strands from his face, only to have them fall back across his cheek a moment later.   Blue eyes, wide and glassy, cast frightened glances darting around the darkened cell, seeing and focusing on nothing, yet constantly moving.  He drew his knees up tighter to his chest and hugged his arms around the tops, then leaned his head sideways and pressed his left cheek against the cold stone wall of the cell.

          “Coming back, coming back, coming back, soon, soon,” he continued his manic mutterings as his right hand suddenly flew to the wall and he started madly scratching at the stones; his cracked and dirty fingernails dug deeply into the rock wall causing tiny dust trails to trickle to the floor.

          “Do you hear them?  Do you hear them?” he asked the darkness.  “Coming for me, coming for me.”

          His frantic questions were left unanswered by the extremely fractious goblin that scuttled into view and moved toward the iron grate to Legolas’ cell.  Once outside the metal bars, he noisily banged his axe handle against the grating.  Startled by the sudden loud noise, Legolas shrank back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.  The goblin snatched a key from his belt, and carefully watching the Elf’s every move, unlocked the iron clasp upon the door.

          “Shut up that racket ye filthy Elf,” he snarled as he pulled the metal door outward, opening a gap only wide enough to allow him to shove a bucket of water and an earthenware bowl of brown, congealed slop into the cell.  Once this task had been completed, he slammed the grating back in place and locked the cell once more.

          “If it were up t’ me, I’d kill ye now, an’ then eat ye while ye were still warm,” he growled; then a wide, nasty grin slowly spread over his black face.  “’Course by the time Master is through with ye, ye’ll be wishin’ ye were dead.”

          With an insidious, cackling laugh, the goblin scurried away, his derisive snorts echoing down the dark corridors until they finally faded away into the darkness and the only sounds remaining were Legolas’ endless murmurings.

          Once he was certain that the beast had left, Legolas scrambled across the stone floor on his hands and knees to the bucket of water.  He dunked both his hands into the liquid and quickly brought his cupped palms up to his lips and drank deeply.  The water had a slightly mossy taste, but was fairly cool, and he dipped his hands into the pail again.  When he had drunk his fill, he snatched up the grimy bowl and scuttled back into the dark corner of the cell, hugging the bowl to his chest.  Once settled in the corner, Legolas sniffed at the gruel and quickly turned his head away.  The bowl’s contents had the revolting, sour smell of gamey meat and something else that he could not identify.

          “Must eat, must eat, must eat,” he mumbled, dipping two graceful fingers into the mush and bringing the lumpy substance to his mouth.  He forced himself to swallow the disgusting orcswill, even as he choked and gagged.  The taste of the viscous goo was hideous and his delicate stomach churned, but he managed to keep it down; then he repeated the process, again and again.

          He had barely eaten half of the bowl’s contents when a screaming wail sounded deep within the caverns and Legolas jumped, dropping the bowl to the floor where it shattered, leaving a slimy glob amid the broken shards of pottery.  His hands flew to his ears, pressing his palms tightly against his head, trying desperately to shut out the howling noise that was growing ever louder.

          “No, no, no, coming, coming, coming, nonononononono….NO!” he screamed.

          He turned his face to the wall and shrank down into the corner, burrowing his head against his chest and raising his hands and arms protectively up and over his head.   He frantically tried to shield his skull from the sounds as if they were physical blows to his head, and his muffled cries of despair were soon swallowed up by the screams of the Shriekers as they swarmed into his cell and their unrelenting torment began anew.

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          “Hunger, craving, need, now, waiting long, light nears, darkness hides, want, want more, evil, feel power, feel strength, want power, need strength, waiting still, soon, strong will, force, bend to my will, others, near, danger, threat, send out my will, loose my minions, break, crush, beat down, shadow, wait, I AM BECOMING.”

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          Legolas indifferently gazed down upon his body as it lay face down in the dirt and filth of the cell’s floor, still and unmoving.  He was not at all sure how he had managed to leave his body and although feeling a freedom that he had not known before, he was unsettled and uneasy and somewhat frightened by the thought that he might be dead.  The malicious wraiths with their taunting abuses had finally left his cell.  As soon as he lost consciousness, their amusement faded and they fled to the darkness of the lower caverns.  Now he floated alone in the darkness, detached and hovering above his body, no more than a wraith himself and wondering how he was going to return to his lifeless form.

          Perhaps he was dreaming again.  The cell walls around him were distorted, wavering and the light within the small dungeon was much brighter than he remembered.    A dark, shadowy image floated at the edges of the light but he could not distinguish its shape.   He could hear a voice, raspy, cold and malevolent; he was certain of this, but he could not identify the words.  He tried to reach out his hand, but it would not move; then he thought about moving his hand and slowly he drifted forward, his body following his outstretched fingers.

          Suddenly a terrifying feeling of fear assaulted his heightened senses and he knew some other being was present within the small cell.  He tried to look around, but could see nothing but his unconscious form lying upon the floor.  He looked down at his body once more and saw that it was now covered by a dark, reddish light that slithered and roiled over his features as if it were alive.  The fiery glow was shimmering like the desert mirages seen upon the sands in the Land of Harad.  Legolas watched the eerie light with a macabre fascination as it began to mold itself exactly to his body, every curve, every line, until it formed a second skin around his motionless form.

          Now the terror was almost a physical presence within his mind; he could feel harsh probing fingers poking at nerves and pressuring veins, edging his fear into outright panic.   Do not think, his frightened mind shouted.  Do not let the fear take possession of you.

          The red glow slowly seeped into his prone body and unexpectedly Legolas started to feel something within his chest ripping and tearing, as if his soul was being torn from his being.  And then he was soaring through the darkness, unable to halt his flight.  He was screaming, but his voice was lost upon the winds and gales that whipped around him, forcing him ever forward in a swirling freefall.

          Left behind within the dark cell, Legolas’ body arose from the ground and stood tall and straight.  The arms stretched out, palms flexing stiff fingers.  The golden head swiveled right and then left, then made a circular motion, loosening the tight neck muscles.  The lips turned up in a vile and gruesome smile, so out of place on such a fair Elven face.  The eyelids opened to reveal, deep, black pools as dark as pitch.  No whites of the eye showed, nor the deep blue irises that had been the Elf’s at birth; now only curling whorls of blood red hue could be seen swimming within the ebony depths.

          “I AM ALIVE!”  The cruel shout burst forth from the Elven lips; and then hysterical, manic laughter rang through the caverns as the Nameless Thing roared in triumph.  It now had a body; a strong Elven body and It would now be unstoppable.  The earth was Its to destroy.

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          Strider cried out as an unforeseen pain stabbed through his heart and he clutched at his chest, staggering forward along the pathway.  As the wizard hurried toward him, the ranger fell to his knees upon the woodland trail and doubled over, his hands pressing into his sternum.  His breaths were coming in short, ragged gulps, and his face had gone a deathly white.

          “Strider!” Mithrandir shouted as he came upon the stricken human.  The old Istari dropped to his knees and placed his hands upon the young man’s shoulders.  “What is it?  Strider!”

          The wizard tried to lift the ranger’s chin to look into his face, but Strider lurched forward and Mithrandir was forced to catch him in his arms.  Slowly and gently he eased Strider down to the ground and placed a cooling palm upon the ranger’s clammy forehead.   The young man’s eyes were glassy and rolling about within their sockets and his body was jerking with slight spasms.

          “Legolas!” he croaked out.   “Legolas!”

          “Shhhh,” Mithrandir soothed the lad.  “Strider, tell me what is causing you this chest pain!”

          The Drughu Woman quietly knelt down opposite the grey wizard and placed a slim, pale hand upon the ranger’s heaving chest.  Her white eyes stared straight ahead and her lips moved in whispers, speaking an unknown tongue.  After several minutes she turned her head to look down upon Strider.  The young man gazed up at her with fear and apprehension.

          “We are too late,” she whispered.  “He is lost and adrift.”  Her hand moved to touch Strider’s face, her fingers tracing the lines and planes of his cheek and then moving down to his chin.  “Your bond with the Firstborn is strong,” she continued.  “The pain you experienced was the Elf’s.  The Nameless Thing has taken his body and ripped his soul from the earthly shell.”

          Strider turned his panicked gaze to the wizard.  “Gandalf!?”

          “Easy, my boy,” the Istari replied, placing his hand upon Strider’s chest and forcing him to lay still.  “If we are to believe Tharcuru, then Legolas must be reaching out to you, seeking your help.”

          “You must enter the Shadow World and help guide him back,” the ancient woman murmured.  “If he travels too far from his body and the earthly plane, he will never be able to return to it and will drift alone for eternity as one of the undead.”

          Strider’s horrified expression turned from the woman to his trusted mentor and friend.  “Gandalf?” he questioned.

          The Istari merely shook his head as he first helped Strider into a sitting position and then assisted the ranger in rising unsteadily to his feet.  “I cannot say, Strider.   We must trust Tharcuru.  She alone knows this evil and how to deal with it.”

          The tall woman gracefully arose to her feet.  “Quickly,” she said.  “This way.”

          Without waiting for a reply, she turned and vanished into the trees.  Mithrandir, with Strider leaning heavily upon his arm, hastened to follow her lead through the forest growth.  They had traveled only a short distance when they came to a rock cliff, hidden within the dense foliage of the deep woods.  As they neared the stone wall they could see that this outcropping was a part of the mountain chain that formed the exterior of the Mirkwood Palace, barely visible in the shallow valley some distance below them.

          Tharcuru waved her arm across the rock wall and the stones began to melt and move aside as the enchantment was lifted.  Minutes later a large cave entrance was unveiled and she gestured for them to follow her within.  Once inside, she replaced the spell, covering the cave’s mouth and hiding it from the view of any unwanted eyes.  Mithrandir walked Strider over to the central fire pit and helped him to sit down upon the rugs and furs that covered the cave’s floor.

          Strider glanced uneasily at the cluttered interior of the cavern that was filled with animal hides, bones, claws, bird feathers, shells, and strange earthen jars and bowls filled with herbs, spices and other things that the ranger thought he could identify and wished he had not.  Numerous racks lined one wall of the cave and were obviously being used for the drying of skins and leaves.  Several starkly white skulls that looked very human were stuck in various niches along one wall, their gaping eye sockets staring down at him.  Strider shuddered and hurriedly looked away.

          Tharcuru walked straight to one of the earthen jars and picked it off the stone ledge.  She brought the jar to the fire and knelt down beside the smoldering embers.  She grasped a long stick from a pile near by and stirred the coals to life until a small flame appeared; then she removed the container’s lid and sprinkled some of the jar’s contents into the flames.  A sizzling, popping sound erupted from the fire as the dried substance began to burn and a sharp, tangy smell filled the cave as the smoke rose from the burning leaves.

          “Breathe the smoke,” Tharcuru instructed Strider.  “It will ease your journey into the Shadow Lands.”

          Strider looked uncertainly to the wizard who nodded his head in approval.  Slowly the ranger leaned forward so that his nose and face were within the rising smoke tendrils.  He took in several deep whiffs of the smoke and immediately felt his head begin to swim.  A woozy feeling of lightheadedness continued and his vision began to blur.  Soon the room was spinning around him at crazy angles.  Somewhere in the background he thought he could hear the old woman’s voice, but he could not be sure for he could see nothing but a dark, gray, cloud; the interior of the cave had disappeared.

          He looked around and could see nothing before him.  He seemed to be standing, but he could not even be sure of that for there was no point of reference for his eyes to fix upon.  He could still smell the spicy aroma of the thick smoke and now his ears were humming with the woman’s droning voice.  She was chanting words of a foreign language that Strider did not understand, but the steady, rhythmic sound felt comforting – safe.

          The woman’s voice spoke within his mind.  “Call the Elf to your side, young warrior.  Hurry!  Do it now before he is lost!”

          Strider turned around and around in the grayness that surrounded him.  “Legolas!” he shouted.  “Legolas!  If you can hear me, come to my voice!”

          There was no sound; only the dark shadows.  He turned about once more, his fear and desperation mounting with each passing moment.

          “He is in great danger, warrior!” the ancient’s voice echoed within his mind.  “Call him to you now!”

          “Legolas!  Please!  Hear me!”  Strider took several steps through the cloudy fog and the mists swirled about his legs.  “Legolas!”

          But there was no reply.