Strider lay beside the central fire pit in Tharcuru’s cave with his head and shoulders resting comfortably upon several stuffed, deer hide pillows.  It was late into the night and although it had been an exhausting and trying few days both physically and mentally, he found that sleep still eluded him.  He was anxious to get on with what he knew would prove to be a very arduous ordeal for them all, but Mithrandir and Tharcuru were still deep in heated conversation across the fire from him.  They were debating a course of action dealing with things mystical and magical that was well beyond the realm of his pragmatic mind and certainly more physical approach to coping with the matters at hand.   Nevertheless, he chafed at not being included in their deliberations.

          They had dined on rabbit stew the likes of which he had never tasted before, and although sated and lulled by the heavy meal Tharcuru had prepared for them, he could not relax.  His muscles were knotted and his nerves on edge.   A restless, troubled urgency weighed on his mind and his thoughts were in turmoil – not to mention the fact that the Elf had been rummaging about inside there, adding to the fray.  He had suffered through Legolas’ analytical comments concerning his eating habits all through the meal, but now the fastidious Elf was strangely quiet and had been for several hours.

          Strider glanced across the flames at the wizard and the old woman as their conjoined voices rose and then quickly lowered.  He could still hear their whispered murmurings, but could not make out any of the words they spoke.

          Can you hear them? he thought to the Elf.

          ‘Not with your ears.’

          Strider chuckled softly.  So how does it feel to be mortal?  

          ‘Dreadful.’

          Strider was poised to respond when suddenly a long shadow crossed over him and startled he looked up to see Mithrandir looming above him.  The wizard sat down across from him and leaned toward the fire, warming his gnarled hands against the night chill.  He gave Strider an amused look, eyes questioning, as his fingers wiggled before the flames.

          “How is our immortal friend faring?”

          Strider gave the wizard a withering glare.  “You mean besides creeping about my innermost thoughts?”

          ‘I do not creep about,’ came the Elf’s indignant reply.

          Mithrandir laughed softly, head nodding.  “Well, at least we know where he is and that he is safe.”  Slowly the grin faded and he turned a somber face toward Strider.  “There is much to do, my boy, and I fear the worst is yet to come.”

          “What have you decided?” the ranger asked as he rolled onto his side.  Propped up on an elbow, his head rested in the palm of his hand and his silver eyes reflected the flames flickering within the pit.  The wizard was suddenly reminded of his own glittering fireworks as he gazed into their depths.

          “We have come to no conclusion,” Mithrandir replied.  “Tharcuru has gone to prepare for the difficult task before her.  She tells me that it will require a great deal of her power and strength to maintain the illusion of Varda.  She will return to us when she is ready.”  He smiled down at the young man.  “Try to get some rest, my boy.  You will need it.”

          Strider nodded and flopped back onto his back, hands nestled behind his neck, but all he could do was stare at the ceiling of the cave.  Just when he thought he would never be able to rest, he heard Legolas’ hushed and muted voice singing softly within his mind.  He was singing an Elvish song that Strider had not heard since he was a very small child, living in the House of Elrond; a time when he was called Estel and knew no other danger than falling from a tree or scraping his knee on a rocky hunting trail.  His lips curved into a slight smile and his eyes slowly closed.

          Hannon le, mellon nin, he thought as he drifted off and sleep finally overtook him.  

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          The Nameless Thing strode through the dark tunnels beneath the Mirkwood Palace with a single-minded determination.  The Elven body in which It resided made no sound as It lightly stepped through the winding corridors.  Its liquid, ebony eyes slid back and forth as It gazed at the empty dungeon cells, searching, and then a movement up ahead caused the being to slow Its pace and It cautiously approached the tunnel’s end.

          Isar’s keen ears had detected Elven footsteps approaching and he shook his head sadly.  Why oh why does the king still venture down here?  It does him no good to see these pitiful creatures, he mused as he stepped out of his guardroom door and into the hall.  A shocked expression came over his face as he saw instead the young Prince of Mirkwood approaching.

          “Prince Legolas!’ he exclaimed.  “We thought some harm had befallen… “   Isar’s words abruptly ceased as he saw the cruel, malevolent expression on the young prince’s fair face and the pitch black eyes whose glare bored through him and into his very soul.

          The Silvan Elf drew back in horror, his arms raised protectively before him to aid in warding off the psychic assault he could now feel beginning to tear away at his mind.  He stumbled backward and fell heavily against the stone walls of the tunnel as an excruciating pain sliced its way into his skull.   His graceful hands flew to his temples even as his knees gave way beneath him and he sank to the ground in a disjointed heap.

          Isar screamed in agony as bright, red blood began to flow from his nose and trickled from his ears as he writhed on the stone floor of the dungeon hallway.  He clasped his head tightly between his two hands as the pain escalated; and then he lay still.  His hands fell limply to the ground beside his head and thin rivulets of blood ran down from his blank, staring eyes.  The steady flow of blood soon formed tiny red pools to either side of his head.

          The Nameless Thing stepped forward and leaned down over the lifeless body of the Elf and grabbed up the large key ring that was attached to the guard’s belt.   He lifted the keys up and then carelessly stepped over the Silvan Elf and headed toward the end of the corridor.  Images he had seen within the stricken Elf’s mind had shown him that these thin metal objects would open the door to the prison holding those he sought.  He stopped at the cell containing the Dale Men and lowered a key into the lock, turning it slowly.  When there was no resounding click to indicate that the lock had opened, he chose another key and repeated the process.  On the third try, the key slid easily into the lock and the tumblers clicked open.  The creature pulled the wooden door wide and gazed inside at the three cowering men within.

          When the door opened the Dale Men turned as one, and as if in a trance, slowly rose to their feet.  Their mindless jabbering and nonsensical murmurings ceased and they stood straight and wooden, staring at the cell doorway.  The Nameless Thing looked the men over and issued but one order to the three.

          “Come.”

          Expecting to be obeyed without question, the dark being turned from the door and walked away from the cell.  As It passed Isar’s body It dropped the key ring onto the dead Elf’s chest and continued down the dark corridor without a backward glance.  The three mindless Dale Men silently followed behind.

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          King Thranduil quietly made his way through the silent and seldom traveled hallways along the residential wing of the palace hoping to avoid Ganduil.  He knew his minister would most likely be waiting for him within his study and therefore he could not use the hidden stairwell to gain access to the dungeons. Instead, he was forced to use the much more public areas of the palace complex that afforded egress to the lower dungeons and the cell of the Dale Men.

          The relentless guilt that plagued him over the fate of these men had become an unbearable suffering that he could no longer endure.  His reckless actions had brought about the mindless ruination of these men and he could no longer justify his reasons for keeping them locked away in the dungeons.  He would have Isar take them to the Houses of Healing where they would be skillfully cared for, and even if their madness could never be cured, at least they could live out the remainder of their pathetic days in the open air and the light of day.  No living being should ever be made to suffer alone in the darkness.

          As he stepped down off the last of the stone stairs, his mind was thus occupied and he was visibly shaken from his musings by the incredulous sight of his supposedly missing son walking toward him with the very Dale Men of his recent thoughts trudging along behind him.

          “Legolas!” he shouted.  “Oh, my son!  By the Valar, how….” His voice trailed away as he saw the cruel and wicked smile, so out of character upon his son’s handsome face, and his horror intensified as he looked into the hard, cold eyes as black as a raven’s wing, that stared boldly back at him.

          The dark creature, too, was momentarily surprised by the sudden appearance of the blond Elf upon the stair.  The Elf now standing before It was so similar in appearance to the Elven body It now occupied that it seemed a reflection in a glass. But when this Elf spoke, It realized that this was no image but another living being.  A vile and dark scowl came over the Nameless One’s face as It realized that this new being was a danger.  It quickly sent forth Its evil essence, wanting only to rip through this Elf’s fragile mind and tear it to bits.

          Thranduil Oropherion, however, had survived thousands of years and many a dark time and was extremely well versed in the ways of the Eldar.  He quickly regained his presence of mind and his highly skilled warrior’s instincts and reflexes instantly assessed this new threat.  He brazenly stared back at this malignant creature standing before him, angered that it had somehow managed to take on his son’s countenance.  He deftly waved his hand before him in a fluid arching movement and uttered an ancient Elvish spell.  A brilliant light shown forth emanating from Thranduil’s palm and the Nameless Thing was momentarily blinded.  The Elven King wasted no time wondering if the spell had thwarted his attacker or nay.  He hurriedly sped down one of the angled hallways that led into the maze of warrens and burrows beneath his lower palace.  He soon vanished into their depths, into the dark, hidden places that he, and only he, was familiar.

          The dark being roared with rage as It realized the Elf had eluded Its grasp and had disappeared into the shadowy tunnels of the underground.  Deadly and invisible shock waves rippled outward from the being and slammed into the stone walls of the dungeons, blasting apart the stone and creating huge cavities within the shattered rock of the dungeon walls.  The ground beneath Its feet rumbled and quaked and the hapless Dale Men were thrown to the ground as the stone pathway under their boots rolled and undulated in a riotous upheaval of rock and dirt.   Undaunted, they slowly rose to their feet once again and with a senseless, shuffling gait, moved to follow the dark creature who now ruled their minds and drove their bodies.  Down into the depths of the cavernous tunnels below the palace, the witless slaves of the Nameless One followed their new Master.  

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          The Elven King fell heavily against the darkened passageway wall as the ground beneath his suede boots unexpectedly began to churn and rock.  Heavy chunks of stone fell from the low ceiling and he drew his arm up over his head as the rocks rained down around him.  He shoved off from the wall and staggered through the rubble and debris of the heaving tunnel and ever shifting stone floor and hastened to where he knew a corridor ultimately led to the outside forests and escape.  He had no wish to be buried alive in an underground cave-in and he desperately needed to gather together his warriors.

          That hideous thing had now invaded his very home and was by some means foul and dark, using his son’s body to conduct Its vile schemes.  His anguished mind reeled with fear and anxiety over the true fate of his son and he shuddered to think of what that dark creature might have actually done with him.

          As he entered the last passageway, King Thranduil skidded to a halt, his booted feet sliding on the loose rocks and gravel as he looked up and found his way blocked by a massive mound of rock-colored flesh brandishing a staff with a very ugly curved scimitar blade protruding from its end.  The huge Olog-hai was grinning wickedly at this unexpected prize and eagerly looking forward to participating in its brutal and messy death.  The Elven king skillfully drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it challengingly before him.

          Aslhûg growled with anticipation at the thought of spilling Elf-blood.   His thick lips curled into a malicious snarl and he took a ponderous step toward Thranduil, as he uttered an orcish threat as foul as his breath.

          “Dulug matat pushdug golug!”*

          The veteran warrior within Thranduil came easily into play as he lightly stepped to the side presenting as small a target as possible to the point of the hill-troll’s pike.  His sword arm moved slightly back and forth, his muscles taut and ready to strike.  The Olog-hai grunted and lunged forward, both of his huge hands grasping the wooden shaft and ramming it forcefully toward the Elf Lord’s abdomen.

          The king spun to the side and easily danced out of the way as the savage weapon sliced through the flowing sleeve of his over tunic, but it did not taste flesh.  Thranduil clasped his Elven blade with both his hands and swung sideways, forcing the troll to stumble backward to avoid its biting edge.  Aslhûg’s hideous roar filled the passage as he rushed forward once again; this time his pike aimed for the king’s chest.

          The Elf Lord swiftly crouched down and ducked under the wooden staff as the troll thundered toward him.  He rose up under the monster’s guard and thrust his sword deep into the creature’s thick hide.  Aslhûg howled in pain, his dark eyes filling with rage and he fell back a pace.  The king’s Elven blade slid from the troll’s pendulous gut and dark, black blood spewed from the wound.  Thranduil leapt back and away from the troll and raised his sword again, waiting for his next opportunity to strike.

          In a blind and wounded rage, Aslhûg charged the Elf once more and jabbed his pike back and forth searching for an opening in the king’s defense.   When the troll leaned forward yet again, the elder Elf whipped his flowing cloak up and around the blade of the troll’s pike several times and then yanked it back in to his chest, bringing the creature stumbling forward after it.  Thranduil then ripped the cloak from his shoulders and flung it aside, allowing the material to further entangle itself around the monster’s weapon.

          Aslhûg was pulled down and off balance by the move and the king whirled around to the hill-troll's back as the Olog-hai fell forward.   Thranduil raised his sword above his head and gripped the keen Elven blade with both hands.  He brought it slashing down upon the troll’s meaty neck, cleaving his head from his body in one swift stroke.  The severed head squished and bounced down the stone passageway until it finally came to rest, wedged between two boulders.  The monstrous gray-green body jerked and twitched in its death throes and then crashed to the ground with a thunderous boom.

          Thranduil staggered back against the cavern wall and watched as the massive bulk of the creature’s body landed at his feet.  He slowly moved around the dead body of the troll and retrieved his cloak from the Olog-hai’s fallen weapon.  He wiped the black ichor from the blade of his sword with a piece of his tattered sleeve and then threw the fouled rag aside.  He quickly re-sheathed his weapon and then carelessly wiped a hand across his face to clean away the black blood that had spattered upon him when he struck the fatal blow.

          Sucking gulps of air into his aching and overworked lungs, the king slowly stepped over the troll’s splayed legs and made his way into the cavern ahead and the opening he knew would lead him to the forests beyond.  He had only gone a short distance into the darkened passage, however, when a rustling, scurrying sound caught his attention and he halted.   His sensitive ears strained to identify the strange, yet somehow familiar noise.

          Suddenly the darkness about him turned into a thick, inky blackness where no light penetrated.  He could no longer see anything about him.  His hand groped out for the wall that he knew to be close by, but his palm only met with air and he felt a panic begin to grow within him as his disoriented mind finally recognized the unmistakable sound of a spider’s hiss.

*”Time to die, stinking elf!”