King Thranduil glanced back over his shoulder at the small group following closely behind his lead.  “Mind your step,” he warned.  “There is an underground pool ahead and to the left of the foot path.  The water is so clear that it reflects the ceiling above it creating the illusion that it is a continuation of the path.  If you are not careful of your step, you will find yourself swimming.”

          ‘I remember this place,’ Legolas noted to Strider.  ‘It was here I came to my senses and realized I was being toted like a sack of grain across the shoulder of a foul smelling troll.  On farther down, the tunnel forks to left and right.  I was kept locked in a cell within the right corridor not far from the entrance.’

          Strider moved forward to walk beside Tharcuru and the wizard.  “Legolas tells me the tunnel forks up ahead and the right tunnel contains dungeon cells.  He says that was where he was being held.”

           “You are correct, Aragorn,” the king agreed as he looked back to Strider.  “We were just there not two days ago.   That is where I took you to see the Dale Men.  My son was not in any of those cells.”

          You were there all along, Strider thought to his Elven friend.  Right in front of our very noses and we did not even see you.

          “Not in this reality perhaps,” Tharcuru’s low voice replied.   “The Nameless One has altered time within these passages.  We must be very careful.  I can feel Its presence here; and others as well.”

          The group emerged into the small grotto and after the king indicated its location, the underground pool was visible beside the pathway.  Strider stepped toward the clear water and knelt down beside the basin.  He plunged his hands into the water and then splashed the cold liquid over his face and hands, washing away the foul blood of Ulkûrzlûb.

          Tharcuru placed her hand upon the ranger’s shoulder and looked down at him.  “Fill your water skin, young warrior,” she murmured.  “The Elf will need it.”

          Strider nodded and grasped the small hide pouch attached to his belt and dunked it into the pool.  When it was filled, he sealed it tightly and returned it to his side.  Rising up again, he followed the small party as they continued down the tunnel toward the lower dungeons.  They had not traveled far when the fork appeared up ahead of them.  King Thranduil moved to the left and started to enter the side passage leading away from the prison cells but Tharcuru’s hissing command halted everyone.

          “Wait!”

          The Elven King turned to look at the witch-woman.  Her silver head was turning slowly and she appeared to be listening to something that only she could hear.  No one made a sound.  She suddenly looked toward the king.  “It is near.”

          Mithrandir stepped forward and brought his staff closer to light the way ahead of them.  “Where is this shaft you spoke of?” he asked the king.

          “Not far,” he gestured with an elegant motion of his hand.  “Just through those unused storage areas up ahead.”

          Mithrandir turned to the Drughu Woman.  “Can you determine where It is hiding?”

          She did not speak for several moments and then shook her head.  “No,” she answered.  “It is in a weakened state, but there are many others about It; evil creatures.”  Her face saddened and her head lowered.  “We must hurry.  If It is this vulnerable to my probing then the Elf’s body must be nearly spent.”

          “What are you saying?” Thranduil demanded.  “We will go no further until you tell me what is happening to my son!”

          Strider and Mithrandir exchanged a brief but meaningful glance and then the wizard spoke.  “Take us first to the shaft; I will explain everything to you there.”

          The Elven King did not look pleased and was about to protest when loud, snarling growls and heavy stomping footsteps echoed down the tunnel coming toward them.  All turned toward the sound and Strider shouldered his way to the front of the group.

          “Orcs!” he hissed, drawing his sword and motioning the others to stay behind him.

          King Thranduil gestured toward the small, wooden doorway about ten feet farther down the corridor.  “Quickly!  In there.  The old shaft is in there.”

          The group ran toward the door indicated and Strider guarded the tunnel until all had entered and then he, too, dashed into the opening.  He slammed the door shut and then leaned forward and pressed his ear to the wood, listening for sounds of the approaching orcs.  Moments later, he leapt back away from the door and held his sword ready.

          “They are coming!” he called to the king and wizard. Both were also standing ready, swords drawn.  Strider stepped back a pace from the door and the three spaced themselves in a defensive arc around the opening.

          Tharcuru moved unerringly to the abandoned thermal shaft and knelt down on the floor near the gaping chasm.  She spread her palms outward over the gap and tossed her silver head backward, her tattooed face uplifted to the cavern ceiling.  Her torso began to sway from side to side and a low humming sound resonated from her lips.   She remained entranced thus for several minutes and then eventually her body ceased all movement and, the spell broken, she slowly rose up from the shaft.  She lowered her gaze into the bottomless pit before her and silently stood staring down into its depths as if searching for something.  A loud, banging crash shattered the silence of the room as the orcs battered through the door and the Drughu Woman’s head whipped toward the entry.

          “It comes,” she stated.

          Strider’s grip upon his sword tensed and his knees bent slightly in preparation for the battle to come.  As Tharcuru spoke, large splinters and pieces of the wooden door showered down upon the stone floor before them and then the hammered barrier started to fall inward.  With a great wrenching of wood and the screech of metal hinges tearing out of the stone, the door landed upon the floor with a thundering boom.

          A black sea of orcs flooded into the storage chamber and Strider surged forward slashing to right and left, his sword working steadily, severing heads and limbs as the foul creatures lunged toward him.  King Thranduil and Mithrandir likewise entered the fray and the corpses of orcs and goblins soon littered the floor and the smooth stones ran black with their blood.  But Strider was relentlessly being pushed back as more and more of the dark legions rushed into the room and soon he found himself separated from the Elven King and the wizard by the swelling numbers of yrch.

          As his gaze swept the dimly lit room to see how they fared, a vicious blow hit him squarely between the shoulder blades and ruthlessly drove him to his knees.  Gasping, Strider fell forward to the ground, and then instinctively he rolled to his side just as a huge scimitar blade sliced into the stone, landing where he had been only a second before.  He deftly brought his sword up in front of his face and felt a stunning jolt to his forearm as the orc smashed his weapon down upon Strider's upturned blade.  The ranger could feel the weight of the orc’s body pressing down upon his sword arm and his own blade was quickly sinking toward his throat.  Somehow he managed to get his knees up and under the orc’s chest and his feet shoved upward, kicking the orc away.  It slammed back into a group of its comrades and knocked them off balance, and then all tumbled to the ground in a tangle of mottled arms and legs.

          Strider quickly leapt to his feet and looked to the left and right, preparing for another onslaught.  He chanced another glance over the heads of the orcs to seek out King Thranduil and Mithrandir and both seemed to be holding their own.  The king was a blur of movement as he ably stepped among the orc horde, killing any that came into the path of his flashing Elven blade.  The old wizard was alternately jabbing with his staff or swinging Glamdring at those orcs and goblins foolish enough to get within range of either weapon.  Strider was about to charge back into the melee once again when a horrendous, howling wail vibrated throughout the caverns and rang off the stone walls.

          ‘ Shriekers!’ Legolas cried out within the ranger's mind.

          Strider’s sword fell from his grasp as the piercing screams grew louder and the pain within his head seemed to implode, driving spikes deep into his brain.  He clapped his hands over his ears in a hopeless attempt to shut out the unbearable sounds.  The Elf Lord and Istari were in similar dire straights as both fell to their knees, hands pressed to their heads as the deafening wails reached a crescendo and encompassed the entire room.  The orcs and goblins remaining sent up a cacophonous screeching, and snarling in terror, they scrambled over one another in a frenzied rush to escape the cavern.

          Tharcuru alone stood impervious to the wailing howls of the wraiths.   She stood straight and tall, her body shimmering slightly in the dusky cave.  Her eerie white eyes glowed with an iridescent light that shown forth through the dimness of the room’s gloomy interior.  The wraiths swarmed over and around her, becoming momentarily visible as they flew through the glimmering aura surrounding her body and then disappeared once again as they passed into the darkness beyond.

          Strider cried out in sheer agony as he fell onto the stones.  His body curled inward upon itself, his knees touching his chest.  His hands smashed flat against the sides of his head and his eyes bulged from the pressure and pain and he writhed upon the floor.  Inside the ranger’s mind Legolas frantically called out to his friend, trying desperately to reach him.

          ‘Aragorn!  Aragorn!  Listen to my voice! LISTEN TO MY VOICE!’  

          “Can’t!” the ranger gasped.  “I…. can’t…..make IT STOP!” his voice broke off into another anguished howl.

          Across the room, Mithrandir was able to block out the screams of the wraiths from his mind with the aid of the Flame of Anar, and dropping his sword, he clasped his staff firmly in both his hands.  He drew his stooped body upright and began to chant in the ancient language of the Istari, his voice booming out louder and louder.  The Flame burst forth from the tip of his staff and a dazzling light swelled and expanded about the room.  As the light grew in brilliance, the screeching wails of the Shriekers receded and soon Mithrandir was able to stand within its protective glow unharmed.

          The wizard reached down his hand to the Elven King lying nearby and shouted through the raucous din.  “Thranduil!  Come to the light of my staff!  Take my hand!”

          The Elf Lord, however, was staring at the doorway transfixed.  His face was stricken with horror as he beheld the ghastly sight of his son’s body as it entered the room.  Two of the Dale Men half carried half dragged Legolas’ emaciated form between them.  The Elf’s slender arms were draped over their burly shoulders and his legs hung limply from his waist.  His twisted feet were motionless and scraped the rocks as they were hauled along by the brawny humans.

          The prince’s once beautiful face was a deathly ashen white.   His normally unblemished cheeks were now wasted and sunken in forming deep hollows below protruding cheekbones.  Dark, purple-black bruises were smeared beneath his eyes like dark crescent moons and his lips were cracked and bleeding.  His long, blond hair was a tangled, dirty mass of dull and lusterless unkempt snarls.  Only his eyes were alive and horrible to look upon.  The deep blackness of their depths emitted an evil that was physical as It sent ripples of hatred surging throughout the small room.  It looked at the creatures before It, and the split and torn Elven lips stretched into an appalling attempt at a grin.  Upon the skeletal face of its host, it looked like a rictus of death.

          It turned Its lethal gaze upon the being closest to It, the Elven King, and when Its eyes met the king’s, Thranduil cried out in pain and agony as the pure evil touched his mind and groped about with psychic fingers akin to slivers of glass.  The king’s hands clasped his temples as he fell backward to the floor and his eyes shut as another inexorable wave of pain seared through his mind.   Thranduil was certain that his death was near and when he thought the pain would surely rip his skull apart, he felt a strong hand grasp the collar of his tunic and forcibly drag him backward along the floor.

          With a mighty effort, Mithrandir pulled the king within the circle of light shining from his staff and drew him away from the abominable thing that stood within the doorway.  Once inside the protective halo of light, the Elf Lord’s pain lessened and he quickly scrambled to his feet to stand beside the wizard.  A thin line of blood trickled from the king’s nose and onto his upper lip and he swiped it away with a shaky hand.  His eyes spoke his thanks to the wizard and Mithrandir nodded his acknowledgement.

          Thranduil turned his head back to face the Nameless Thing and the ruin of his son's body.  His expression crumpled in upon itself as he cried out a father’s anguish.

          “By the Valar!  It is killing my son!”  He turned to Mithrandir with frantic, pleading eyes.  “Help him!  By all that is sacred, please help him!”

          The grey wizard placed a strong arm around the king’s shoulders and drew him closer.  His commanding voice rang within the Elf Lord’s ears.

          “You cannot falter now, Thranduil.  You must be strong and ready to act once your son is returned to his body.  You must aid and protect him from further harm.”  He peered into the king’s tear-glistened eyes.  “Can you do that, Thranduil?”

          The Elven King nodded.  His shoulders stiffened and rose and his head came up to face the horrid creature that was using his son in such a foul manner.  He pulled slightly away from the wizard and then looked into the wrinkled face and intense blue eyes of the maiar.  “Yes,” he stated simply.  “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

          Thranduil looked again upon the abomination within the doorway but the evil was no longer interested in the Elf Lord.  Once the golden being fled into the safety of the light, the Nameless Thing turned Its attention to something less challenging and Its gaze lighted upon the dark-haired creature that screamed and writhed upon the stone floor.  Its black gaze traveled over the human and It saw raw terror and fear within his eyes.  The hideous grin widened and It urged Its bearers to drag It closer to this helpless mortal.  As It neared, It sent Its psychic waves of pain and torment into Strider’s mind and the ranger cowered back against the walls.  His hands jerked up to cover his head and he screamed again as the unbelievable pain washed over him.

          Legolas was nearly frantic with fear as he tried to reach his human friend’s mind.  No matter what he said, Aragorn did not seem to be able to hear him, or respond to his voice.  He had no choice left.  Gathering up all his power and all his strength, he willed his being into the core of Aragorn’s mind; that sacred place that held his innermost being and his soul.  It was a terrible invasion of his friend’s private and intimate spirit and Legolas felt as if he was stripping bare Aragorn’s inner self, but he was desperate.  He forced his consciousness into that tiny center and suddenly he stood facing Aragorn within the deepest darkness of his mind.

          ‘Go away,’ the ranger ordered as Legolas came into his sight.

          ‘Aragorn, I cannot.  You must listen to me.  It cannot hurt you here.  You cannot feel pain now.  But you must fight It.  What It is showing you is false.  The fear is not real.  The pain is not real.  You cannot let It win!’  

          ‘I do not want to go back there.’

          ‘I know.  Nor did I.  But you must, Aragorn.  You cannot stay here or we shall both die.’  

          ‘But how can I face it, Legolas?   There is a weakness in me.  I cannot escape it.’

          ‘You can.  I know you better than anyone.  You can overcome this weakness because of who you are.  Believe me.  You are the hope for us all, Aragorn.  Trust me.  Fight this.’  

          There was a long silence and Legolas thought he had failed to reach the young human but then Aragorn calmly met his gaze and a new strength glowed within his silver eyes.  His head slowly nodded toward the Elf facing him.

          ‘I trust you.’

          ‘Quickly then.  Use me as your shield.  Face this enemy.  Your sword must be ready to strike true.’

          And then suddenly they were back within the cavern and the very real pain was still slicing through his skull, but Strider forced his mind to thoughts of the Wood Elf and his strong bond with the Mirkwood Prince.  Slowly and agonizingly he rose to his knees, and started to lift up his head.

          ‘Do not look into Its eyes!’ came Legolas’ voice.  ‘Gather up your sword.  Look to Tharcuru!

          Strider groped along the floor for his fallen weapon, and finding it, grasped its hilt and drew it closer to his side.  He used the sword to haul his body up from the floor and finally standing, he painfully lifted the weapon up.  His glance turned to the Drughu Woman, but Tharcuru had vanished.  Instead the illusion of Varda shone brightly from the back of the cavern, her brilliant, shooting rays of light penetrated the gloom of the dark chamber and blinded all who tried to look directly upon her.  Strider staggered backward, still weakened and dizzy from the recent assault upon his mind.  He held a hand up before his eyes as he tried to look upon the image of the Ainu and he could hear Legolas’ voice within his mind telling him to stand ready.

          And then he heard a raging scream as the Nameless Thing erupted from the travesty of a body and Its red and shimmering essence floated above the limp head of Legolas' lifeless form.  Then It flew directly into the light of Varda.