The desiccated, empty shell – all that remained of Legolas’ earthly body – sank between the twin pillars of the Dale Men flanking it and fell to the stone floor when the Nameless Thing fled from within its confines.   As he watched his son’s body fall, King Thranduil instinctively lurched forward, his only thought to aid his son.   An anguished wail issued from his lips as Mithrandir grasped his forearm and held him back within the circle of light shining forth from his staff.

          “No, Thranduil!” the wizard shouted.  “You cannot help him now!  You must wait until the Nameless Thing enters Tharcuru’s body.  It is not yet safe to leave the shelter of the Flame.”

          The Elf Lord struggled furiously with the Istari, desperately trying to escape the wizard’s restraining hand.  His mind was set upon one thing and one thing only – reaching his son.  But Mithrandir’s grip would not be broken and the Elven King was forced to remain at the wizard’s side.

          No longer under the control of the Nameless One, the Dale Men, too, fell to the floor in a senseless daze and lay still.  The screaming wraiths fled to the darker reaches of the cavern, yet their shrieks could still be heard.  And within Strider’s mind Legolas watched as his body lay still and unmoving upon the stones.  A haunting fear arose within his mind:  what would he do if his body was already dead?  Before that thought had time to fester, the commanding voice of Tharcuru rang through his head.

          “Fly, Elf!” she ordered.  “You must return.  NOW!”

          Without really understanding how he would be able to do that, his frightened thoughts turned to his fallen form and almost immediately he felt a jerking wrench.  He was brutally snatched out of Strider’s body and cast into the whistling winds of the void and his spirit soared through the darkness.  He felt his life-force being swept around and around in a dizzying vortex and then a strong, insistent force yanked his being downward until he smashed headlong into the still form lying upon the floor.  The slack body twitched and shuddered and then lay still.

          At the moment Legolas left his mind, Strider experienced a tingling jolt and then his body was violently snatched upward.   His back arched painfully and his arms flew out to his sides as his head snapped back, cracking the bones in his neck.  His ears popped and burned; the result of the intense pressure.  A sudden vacuum had formed within the air about him and it seemed as if all the air had been instantaneously sucked from his lungs.  He gasped and choked, fighting for breath.  The unseen force holding him within its powerful grasp suddenly withdrew and he fell painfully to the stone floor, still frantically gasping for air.   After a few long, agonizing moments, Strider was able to again rise to his knees.   A sharp, spasm rippled through his torso and he quickly wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging his ribs in the vain hope that this would ease the pain.  But once it passed, he was again able to breathe and he looked anxiously to the prone and still form of his Elven friend lying before him.

          “Legolas!” Thranduil cried out as he saw his son’s body jerk and twitch.  He yanked his arm free of the wizard’s grip and ran across the cavern to his son.  Falling to his knees before Legolas’ still form, he scooped up his frail body and crushed the Elven prince to his chest, tears of pain and anguish streamed unchecked from his blue eyes.

          Strider lurched unsteadily to his feet and would have gone to the fallen Elf as well, but without warning, the brilliant light issuing from the illusion of Varda vanished and the ancient Drughu Woman again stood beside the bottomless shaft.  Her milky white eyes were now the deepest black and their stare bored straight into the ranger’s soul.

          “Warrior!” Tharcuru’s low voice commanded.   “Strike!”

          Strider did not trust himself to think, only to act; if he thought about what he was going to do he would hesitate and he could ill afford that luxury.   He gathered up his sword from the floor and rushed forward in one swift movement.  The sword rose and flashed through the air, slicing cleanly and quickly through Tharcuru’s thin neck.  The force of the blow brought Strider’s arm arcing across his chest and he staggered a pace as the momentum knocked him off balance.   He quickly regained his footing and stood staring at the ancient witch-woman.

          The barest trace of a smile crossed Tharcuru’s wizened face and then the weight of her long silver hair tugged her severed head backward.  It slid off of her slender shoulders and plunged into the depths of the pit.  Moments later her headless body toppled over the rim and plummeted into the void as well.  A maddened and enraged scream howled up from the chasm and Mithrandir ran forward, madly waving his staff in front of him.

          “Run!” he shouted to Strider.  “Get them out!”

          At the wizard’s shouted cry, King Thranduil rose swiftly to his feet, lifting Legolas’ ruined body with him as he arose.  He mournfully noted how feather light it was and gently pulled his son closer to his chest.  With a glance to the ranger, he quickly carried Legolas out of the room and ran back through the dark tunnels.  Strider followed closely upon his heels.  The Elven King and ranger reached the fork in the tunnel and turned toward the dungeon cells, and there Thranduil stopped and sank to his knees, Legolas cradled within his arms.  Strider recognized with an ever growing fear that his Elven friend did not appear to be breathing.

          “Is he alive?” he asked, dreading the answer the king would give him.

          “Only just,” the Elf Lord whispered.  “I can barely feel his heart beating.”

          Strider snatched the water skin from his belt and falling to his knees beside the Elven King, proffered the hide pouch to the King.

          “Here, majesty.  He needs water.”

          The king slowly relinquished his protective hold upon his son’s body and carefully propped Legolas up so that his upper arm supported his son’s head, while his lower body and legs draped over the Elf Lord’s upper thighs.   Holding the grown Elf as if he were a babe, the king tipped the water skin over his son’s mouth until several drops of the liquid touched his cracked and parched lips.  He waited a moment and then forced a small sip into Legolas’ slack mouth and then tilted his son’s head back so that the water would drain down his throat.  Both Elf Lord and ranger anxiously searched Legolas’ face for any sign of life.

          A shuddering sob escaped Thranduil’s lips and he drew Legolas to his chest once again as he wrapped his strong arms about the prince’s thin shoulders.   Thranduil murmured soft and soothing Elvish words into his ear as he slowly rocked Legolas back and forth, paying no heed to the tears streaming from his eyes.   Gently, he kissed his son’s forehead and stroked his pale, sunken cheek.

          “Iuitho bellas nín, Legolas*,” he whispered.  “Iuitho bellas nín.”  

//////////////////////////////

          From the moment he gracelessly slammed back into his body, Legolas could not breathe.  He immediately felt the weight of his earthly body crushing down upon him; his skin smothering him and gravity smashing him down into the ground.  He was quickly suffocating and his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to function.  His panic rose with each passing moment and his thoughts screamed, because he COULD NOT BREATHE!

          His body convulsed and his dehydrated and cracked throat gagged as something wet and cold tried to force its way down his gullet.  As the water trickled down from his throat and entered his stomach, his abdomen seized and a sickening nausea swept over him.  A harsh, choking cough rasped out of his chest and then miraculously his lungs started working again – he could breathe; but as more and more of his body’s senses awoke, more and more pain was triggered as well.  His starved and empty stomach felt as if it had been sucked inside out and twisted in two and a piercing ache burned like wildfire throughout his muscles.  His chest was tight and constricted and his mouth and throat so dry, each swallow seemed like swirling knife blades, ripping his insides apart.

          But even as the pain worsened and his growing sense of awareness sharpened, Legolas could also feel a warm, all encompassing vitality and strength of will cover him like a blanket.  His anxiety began to fade away as the feeling grew in force and intensity and he finally realized that he was being helped back to life by Elven energy and love.  Slowly he relaxed and allowed the infusion of this healing power to engulf his body and after a time the pain began to dissipate.

          Sudden and vivid sensory receptors erupted within his brain as his consciousness awoke and his hearing and sense of smell returned in overwhelming magnitude.  He could feel strong, comforting arms around his shoulders and chest.  He could hear a voice whispering his name and soft Elvish words of solace.  He could smell the rich, spicy woodland scent of his father.  He forced his eyelids to open and he could see a face very close to his own.

          “aaad…ah?” he gasped more than spoke.

          Thranduil’s head jerked up and he stared down into his son’s glassy blue eyes and pale face, and fresh tears sprang to his own blue eyes.

          “Ai!” he sobbed.  “My little Greenleaf!”

          Strider looked away; a gut-wrenching moan tightened within his chest and threatened to rise to his lips, and he hastily rose to his feet.  He placed a solicitous hand upon the king’s shoulder and was about to speak when a sudden commotion upon the stone stairs startled them both and he quickly spun about, sword drawn.  Strider visibly relaxed as he saw that it was the king’s minister, Ganduil, hurrying down the tunnel toward them.  Amorfing and a score of Elven warriors followed close behind.

          “Hurry, majesty!” Strider said.  “Go with them!  I must see to Gandalf!”

          The king nodded his understanding to the ranger and then turned his attention to Ganduil’s anxious voice.

          “Majesty!  Thank the Valar!  The palace is in an uproar.  We thought you missing!”

          The King easily rose up, Legolas draped across his sturdy arms.  “Quickly, Ganduil!  I must get my son to the healers.  See to it,” he instructed his minister.

          “Yes, majesty!” Ganduil bowed.  “At once.”

          The king turned to his captain.  “Scour these tunnels, Amorfing.  Clear them of yrch!”      

          “Aye, Majesty!” the Elven warrior saluted and with a brusque hand signal to his troops, sent them dashing forward into the tunnels.

          Strider did not tarry and with one last backward glance at Legolas and his father, he turned and ran toward the pit where they had left the wizard.  Thunderous booms and fire-red flashes of light met him as he barreled through the doorway, sword held high.  Mithrandir stood before the open shaft, head thrown back and arms stretched wide, pointing toward the ceiling.  The Flame of Anar shown brightly atop his staff and sizzling bolts of energy shot forth from its tip and zigzagged through the air above the pit.  The wizard’s deep voice rose as he uttered words of great power and the stone ceiling above them began to tremble and shake.

          The ground beneath Strider’s feet made a sudden shift and he wobbled and lurched to the side, his feet quick stepping until they were once more firmly planted beneath him.  He made his way toward the wizard in a drunken reel as the ground rose up and then dipped sharply back down.  A howling wind raced around them and Mithrandir’s long gray hair and beard whipped wildly about his face.   The piercing shrieks of the wraiths rang throughout the room, but this time their screams were of fear – their fear.  With one last mighty thrust of his arms and a final chanted incantation, Mithrandir waved his staff over the shaft opening and the screeching wraiths were driven down into the pit, the swirling winds accompanied them as they were sucked deep into the depths of the abyss.

          The cavern itself shuddered with a new upheaval of shifting stones and the roof above them cracked and rumbled as the heavy stone separated from the mountain’s interior and a huge slab crashed to the floor with a resounding thud, completely covering the bottomless chasm.

          Strider grabbed the wizard’s arm and pulled him away from the thick cloud of dust and debris that arose when the massive stone hit the ground and as he felt the floor vibrate beneath him once more, he shouted into the wizard’s ear.

          “Gandalf!  We must get away!”

          Mithrandir nodded and hastily followed the young ranger out of the storage area and out into the darkened tunnels.  Together they sped down the hall and made their way to the stairs and the upper levels of the palace.  As they raced up the stone steps, Strider thought he could still hear the raging screams of the Nameless Thing echoing up from deep within the bowels of the earth, but he did not slacken his pace and quickly followed the old Istari up into the light of day.

/////////////////////////////

          Strider purposefully walked toward the half opened door of Legolas’ room and quietly pushed the door aside.  If Legolas was sleeping, he did not wish to disturb him, but as he poked his head into the room he saw that the Elf was indeed awake and sitting up in his bed.  The prince was propped up and reclining on a ridiculous number of plump pillows and the warming sunlight streamed into the room from an open balcony window, bathing him in its cozy glow.   The gilded rays highlighted the Elf’s equally golden head and together they cast a brilliant aura about the young prince’s handsome face.  Although the dark bruises still remained beneath his eyes, his color had returned and the smile he gave Strider was cheerful and genuine.

          “Aragorn!” Legolas beamed.  “I was beginning to think you had left Mirkwood without saying goodbye.”

          Strider crossed the short distance from the door to the bed and then sat down upon the bedside, facing Legolas, his face wearing a broad grin.

          “You cannot be rid of me that easily,” he replied.  “You were much too ill for me to visit earlier,” he stated as his smile faded and his tone grew serious.  “The healers would only allow me a few moments with you before they ran me out of the room and that was several days ago.  I had not heard any word of your condition until this morning.   In fact, it was your father who came to tell me you were up to visitors today.”

          “My father?” Legolas’ eyebrow lifted and a slight chuckle emerged from his grinning lips.  “You must be growing on him.”

          “Hah!  I very much doubt that,” Strider answered with a laugh.  “But he did want me to tell you that he will be by to see you as soon as he can get away from Ganduil.”

          As their laughter died away, Legolas’ face grew somber and he thoughtfully studied the young ranger seated upon his bedside.  Finally he spoke of what was eating away at his mind.

          “It is gone then?” he asked quietly.

          Strider did not have to ask what “It” Legolas was referring to.  He nodded, his face, too, growing serious.  “Yes.  Your father had the lower tunnels sealed off.  No one will be going back down there again.  Amorfing and his warriors rooted out all the yrch with very little trouble, but I’m afraid the spiders are still lurking about.  Amorfing also found the Dale Men cowering in the tunnels, alive but hopelessly insane.  They are with the healers now, and….” His voice trailed off and his eyes grew sad.  “They found Isar.  He is dead.”

          Legolas nodded slowly.  He could not imagine life at the palace without Isar and he knew his father would sorely miss the jovial Silvan Elf.  “Adar will miss him greatly.”  He laughed sadly.  “He was the only one who could beat my father at a game of chance.  It irked him greatly.”

          Strider smiled slightly and then took in a deep breath in readiness to tell his friend what he had truly come to say.  “Since you are on the mend, I really came to tell you that I will be leaving soon.  Gandalf has asked me to accompany him on a search for some sort of “Gollum” creature.  I told him my sword was his to command and I would gladly journey with him.  We leave tonight.”

          “A Gollum?  What sort of creature is a Gollum?” asked Legolas.

          “I’ve no idea; and with Gandalf you can never really be certain,” he laughed.

          Legolas returned a knowing grin and then his smile faded.  He looked at the ranger, his blue eyes searching the young man’s face, reading every line and detail, and then he spoke.

          “Before you leave, Aragorn…. I must tell you something.”  He hesitated momentarily and then continued.  “Until I shared your thoughts, I never truly realized the burdensome weight you carry about with you each day, and I want you to know that you have no cause to doubt yourself.  You are a good and noble man; a leader of men, and one day you will be a great leader of men.”  He paused.  “A king of men.”

          Strider’s dark head lowered and he would not look directly at his friend.  His voice was just above a whisper.  “You mock me Legolas,” he said.  “I am no king.”

          Legolas sat up and reached over to clasp Strider’s arm.  He forced the ranger to look up at him and their eyes met and locked.  “I do not mock you, Aragorn,” he replied, his voice firm and sincere; but a moment later an impish grin spread over the Elf's face as he leaned back against his pillows.  “I mean it’s not as if you’d become some king fancy pants or….”

          The utterly shocked and stunned look on Strider’s face effectively cut off the Elf’s train of thought and he choked back a laugh as he caught Strider's eye.  “What?”

          “HAH!” Strider bellowed as the total absurdity of the Elf’s statement finally sunk into his brain and his laughter overtook him completely.  “Now I know you’re mocking me!” he answered with a shake of his head and then he pointed his forefinger squarely at the Elf’s chest.   “I will only agree to be king if you pledge to serve by my side.”

          By now Legolas was laughing outright and a wicked, sly grin crept over his fair face.  “I would be privileged to stand by your side, but I rather think you would much prefer Arwen did those honors.”

          Strider’s face went a deathly white and his back went rigid.  Tiny drops of sweat popped out across his brow just along the hairline and he found that he could not breathe.  Within his head, his mind screamed.  NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT ARWEN!  NO ONE!

          At the look of sheer terror upon the ranger’s face, Legolas’ teasing grin faded.  He had not realized just how deeply Aragorn cared for the Evenstar and now he felt terrible for taunting him so blatantly.  His hand again grasped Strider’s arm.

          “You need not fear.  I will not speak of it to any one,” he assured the ranger.  “When you are ready, all will know.  Although…” Legolas chuckled merrily, the mischievous spirit within him resurfacing despite his good intent, “you might want to tell Arwen about this.”

          Strider’s face went from ghastly white to flaming crimson which only made the Elf cackle all the louder.  Finally Strider, too, could contain his mirth no longer and both Elf and man howled until tears ran from their eyes and down their cheeks.

          “Enough,” pleaded Legolas as he clutched his aching ribs.  “I am too weak to endure this strain.”

          “Strain?” asked Strider.  “And just what strain would you be enduring?  You are not the one hopelessly in love with an Elf Maiden you can never have.”

          This remark only served to send Legolas into another fit of laughter that shook him until he started coughing and gasping for breath.  It was then that the Elven King entered the room and both ranger and Elf looked as if they had been caught in the midst of engaging in some high crime.  Thranduil’s penetrating gaze went from his son to the ranger and back, but his expression remained impassive.

          Strider hastily hopped off the side of the bed.  “Well, I suppose I better be going.  Gandalf is waiting.”

          Legolas smiled at his friend and waved a hand in farewell.  “Until we meet again.  Good journey, Aragorn.”

          Strider nodded, and certain that the king could not see his face, he winked at the Elf as he answered.  “Stay well, my friend.  I shall miss you.”

          As he passed King Thranduil, Strider bowed formally.  “Majesty,” he murmured.

          “Aragorn,” the king nodded as the human passed by him and then out into the hall.  The king then turned to his son and walked toward his bed, his head shaking.  “I do not even want to know what that was about,” he stated as he sat on the bedside in the same spot Strider had so recently occupied.

          Legolas’ musical laughter was his only reply.

*Use my strength, Legolas. Use my strength.

The End