Aragorn grunted softly as he tried to mold his shoulder around the protruding mass of a lumpy tree root.  He was still in that illusory state of slumber when dreams are most likely to occur, but where full, deep sleep is elusive.  When the steadfast root refused to budge, he flopped over onto his back and tried to hang on to the last remnants of uninterrupted sleep, but it was too late; his body began its own biological gear up to full consciousness.

          His eyelids fluttered open and he gradually began to take in his surroundings.  With a start, he jerked upright, his gaze scanning the sunny skies overhead with consternation.  It’s nearly mid-morn, he thought, why didn’t Legolas awaken me?  At the thought of his Elven friend, Aragorn quickly glanced across the camp toward the spot where Legolas had tossed his few belongings the night before.  The Elf was there lying on his side, wrapped in his hooded cloak like some emerald cocoon.  That fact alone puzzled the ranger and he rose swiftly and moved over to crouch down next to the sleeping prince.

          “Legolas,” he called as he gently shook the Elf’s shoulder.  “Legolas, wake up.  You were supposed to wake me at dawn.”

          When the woodland being did not respond to either his touch or his words, Aragorn’s worry deepened.  He pulled the hood back away from the Elf’s face and stared down at his friend’s striking features.  Aside from being slightly paler than usual, Legolas appeared to be fine and in a deep, peaceful sleep…and then it dawned on the ranger that the Elf’s eyes were closed.

          A stab of panic shot through Strider’s heart and he leaned forward over his friend’s body, clutching both slender shoulders and shaking the Elf more forcefully.  “Legolas!  Wake up!”

          A soft moan escaped the prince’s throat and his head lolled back on his neck as if he were drugged.  Aragorn pulled Legolas up and into a seated position and the Elf’s head flopped forward onto his chest.  Another groan issued from his lips and then his head reluctantly rose upward until he was looking at the ranger with cloudy, dazed eyes.  “Aragorn?”

          “Yes.  What’s wrong?  What’s happened to you?”

          At the sudden barrage of questions, the Elf’s delicate brow furrowed and his eyelids lowered.  He shied away from the sunlight and shaded his eyes with his hand.   Once covered, he half opened them again, squinting up at his friend from beneath his palm.  “Why is it so bright?”

          “Because it’s nearly midday, you nit,” Aragorn huffed, releasing the Elf and rocking back on his heels.  “Why didn’t you wake me at dawn?  Or for that matter, what were you doing sleeping?  You were supposed to be on watch.”

          Now that his body was pretty much functioning on its own, Legolas looked around their campsite as if it was the first time he had ever seen it.  A mystified frown brought down the corners of his well defined lips and he looked at his friend in sheer bewilderment.

         “Well?” Strider pressed.

          “I-I don’t know what to say, Estel,” the Elf look genuinely distressed.  “I don’t remember lying down…or going to sleep.” 

          He glanced over at the tree in which he had spent the greater portion of the night and pointed his finger at the low, overhanging branch.  “I was sitting up there, listening to the forest.”  He paused as if his brain was frantically trying to remember something that was just out of reach.  “I heard something, no; I sensed something, out in the woods.”  He gestured to the right of the tree he had indicated as his prior lookout perch.  “I went to have a look at whatever was out there…”

          “And?” Aragorn impatiently prompted when no further words were forthcoming from the Elf.

          Legolas glanced back at his friend with an expression of remorse and guilt.  What was out there? Why can I not recall what happened?

          His troubled gaze fell away from Aragorn’s concerned face and he brought a shaky hand up to push away an errant strand of golden hair from his temple.  “I don’t remember,” came his whispered reply.

          Strider immediately spotted the ugly wound on the inside of Legolas’ wrist.  It was just below his leather bracer and had stained the arm guard an even darker shade of brown.  He reached out and clasped the Elf’s hand, turning the wrist up and bending his head over the wound for a closer inspection.

         “How did this happen?” he asked.

          Legolas glanced down at the blood-caked puncture marks and dark bruised skin of his wrist and his perplexed frown deepened.  “I don’t recall sustaining any injury,” he said.  “I-I must have caught it on a thorn bush while I was moving about in the darkness.”

          “Nice try,” Strider replied.  “That’s no thorn scratch.”  He turned Legolas’ wrist slightly to one side, then back again.  “It looks like a bite.”  As soon as the words were spoken, the ranger’s glance sped to his friend’s face.  “You weren’t bitten by a spider, were you?”

          Legolas could not help but read the anxiety in the young human’s eyes.  “Certainly not,” he answered.  “If I’d been bitten by a spider we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”  He gave the ranger a reassuring smile reminiscent of the carefree Legolas that Aragorn knew so well.  “It is nothing to worry about, Estel.  It will be gone before tomorrow.”

          Strider was not convinced, but he let go of the Elf’s wrist and stood to his feet.  “Maybe so, but it really looks nasty.  At least let me clean it out and bandage it so that it doesn’t fester.”

          The Elf acquiesced.  “Very well, if it will ease your concern, you may tend to this immediately.”

          As Aragorn groped about for one of his bags and a clean strip of cloth, he studied his friend with growing disquiet.  There were still a great many questions about this late night excursion into the deep woods that Legolas had not answered, but he was not sure that now was the time to pursue the issue or try to fit the pieces together.  Finding his medicines and the cloth, he returned to the seated Elf who willingly offered Strider his arm.

        The ranger poured some water over the cut and gently daubed at the wound with the cloth to remove the caked blood.  When he did so, a gush of black ooze seeped out from the punctures and Legolas flinched.

           “Arrg,” Strider grunted, as he wiped away the vile fluid and rinsed out the cuts once more.  The foul putrid secretion ceased and only normal, red blood seeped out from the holes in the Elf’s wrist.   However, when he placed some crushed herbs into the wound, Legolas cried out in pain and snatched his hand away, cradling it against his chest.

          Aragorn’s face reflected his shock and surprise at this unexpected reaction.  “I-I’m sorry, Legolas,” he floundered.  “I meant you no harm.”

          The Elf grabbed at the cloth strip and began to hastily wrap it around his wrist, avoiding Aragorn’s eyes.  “It’s nothing.  I’ll be fine.”

          Aragorn continued to look at his friend with worry and confusion.  Legolas should not have reacted that way to the healing plant.  Perhaps there was some thorn caught beneath the skin after all and it was causing him pain; he should take another quick look at that wound, but one glimpse at Legolas’ face told him that the Elf would not allow it.

          The ranger rose abruptly to his feet.  “We need to get moving,” he stated, as he brusquely gathered up his medicines and again took note of the sun’s position in the sky.

          Legolas, wrist now bandaged and hanging at his side, lightly arose to his feet as well and began picking up his gear.  “There is no need to hurry, Strider.  Dol Guldur is still there,” he murmured softly.  “I hear its call.”

          Aragorn’s head whipped around and he stared at the Elf.  “What do you mean, you hear its call?”

          Legolas did not answer and he moved to his friend’s side and placed his hand on the Elf’s shoulder, turning him around.  “Legolas, what are you saying?”

          The Elf did not seem to be aware of his presence, and although facing the ranger, he appeared to be looking through him and out into the woods in the direction of the dark tower.  Before he could question the woodland being further, the prince turned a blank face up toward the ranger.  “It’s there.”

          Aragorn was taken aback by the Elf’s cryptic remark.  Although terse at times, Strider could not recall Legolas being this enigmatic about the ever growing darkness that was spreading throughout his Mirkwood home, especially when orcs, malevolent towers and dark lords were concerned.

          “What’s there?” he asked.

          Legolas suddenly snapped out of his daze and looked directly at the ranger.  “I thought you were in a hurry to leave,” he commented.

          Strider blinked at his friend in bewilderment, but decided to hold his tongue.  Instead he began to collect and pack up his own belongings.  Once they were on the move he would try to delve deeper into his friend’s mysterious midnight adventure and even more curious remarks about the fortress.  Aragorn’s sixth sense was telling him that something evil had occurred out there in the darkness, perhaps linked to the flying Nazgul or the dark tower itself.  In either case, he was fearful for his friend’s well being.  Elves were highly sensitive creatures and although not easily won over by evil forces, they could be tortured and tormented until their sanity was stripped from them, leaving behind a grief-stricken soul that longed only for death.  He could not bear the thought of his immortal friend suffering that kind of fate.

          As he brought his saddlebags over to Hodoer, he looked over at Legolas.  The Elf had finished attaching his gear to Astalder’s back and was securing his hooded cloak about his shoulders.  Aragorn frowned as he watched the Elf flip the ample hood over his head and pull it down over his forehead, shading his blue eyes.  Now why would he do that?

          “Legolas,” he called out. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”  He indicated the campfire. “There’s some cold rabbit left if you’re hungry.  I don’t want to stop again until dark.”

          At the mention of cold rabbit, Legolas’ stomach did a back flip.  He quickly looked away so that Strider would not see the nauseated grimace upon his face.  When he was sure that he was not going to be ill, he called over his shoulder to the ranger.  “No, I’m fine.  I’m not hungry.”

          Aragorn shrugged and returned to gathering up his gear.  The Elf was not himself, of that he was certain, but just what was ailing his woodland companion, he had no idea and if Legolas did not want him to know, he would never be able to draw it out of him.

          Legolas furtively watched his friend’s movements from beneath the dark hood; his eyes glittered with a new radiance that glowed within the dim shadows of the material.  He could smell the ranger’s blood pumping within his body; he could hear the liquid of life surging through Strider’s veins and arteries.  He wanted to taste that blood more than anything he had ever desired before.  Even now he could imagine the warm, salty tang, the flavor of his energy, the essence that was Aragorn.

          AHHHHHhhhhhhhhh! Legolas staggered back and fell against Astalder’s broad flank, a shaky hand covering his mouth.  What am I saying? What am I thinking?   He chanced a surreptitious glance at the ranger who was still busy with his gear and not paying him any heed.  The Elf turned and buried his face into the hide of his Elven steed and then jerked back with panic.  He could smell the blood flowing within the animal, too, and it was driving him mad with hunger.  Even as he thought about the blood, a wrenching spasm clutched at his stomach and he stifled a groan so that Aragorn would not hear.

          What is happening to me? his mind wailed, seeking answers to questions his conscious mind had no memory of.  Another shudder ran through his body and he reached out to his horse to steady his wobbly knees and weakened legs.  Astalder shivered and his eyes took on a wild, frightened sheen.  The animal could sense that something was amiss with his Elven rider and the only thing keeping him from bolting was his deep loyalty and love for the Wood Elf.

          Legolas took several deep, measured breaths and tried to clear his mind.  The voracious hunger was still there, but he could overcome it if he held his mind steady.  He had to; he would not let this unknown malady conquer him.   Something had happened out there in the woods last night.  If he could only remember… his thoughts trailed away as a pounding, hammering pain began within his skull.  Another wave of nausea swept over him and he swayed forward, clutching at Astalder’s mane for support.  The horse shuddered at his touch, but held steady.  Slowly and painfully, Legolas pulled himself up onto the horse’s back and forced himself to sit upright.

          Aragorn had cleared away the last of their clutter and was making sure that the embers within the fire pit were cold.   Legolas sat astride his horse, waiting for him to finish and studied the human with an anguished mixture of despair and guilt.  He genuinely wanted to tell Strider of this twisted hunger and thirst for blood… but he also wanted so very much to taste that blood.

          Aragorn finally had everything stowed away and strapped to his saddle.  Without another word, only a troubled glance toward the Elf, he pulled himself up onto his steed and the two moved off through the forest silently heading for the darker, dead regions of Mirkwood’s southern rim.