Aragorn sat with his back propped up against a sturdy tree and puffed on a slender pipe filled with Shire weed.  He was closely watching the Elf across the campfire and was certain that Legolas knew he was watching him, but was discreetly pretending to be totally unaware of the ranger’s intense scrutiny.

          Although he had been resolute in his desire to make up for lost time and not stop until dark, any hope he might have had for gaining on the orc band had ended when Legolas become violently ill only hours into their journey.  Without warning or prior complaint, the Elf had fallen from his mount, clutching at his abdomen and writhing in obviously intense pain. With a great deal of difficulty, Legolas had pulled his body into the mossy undergrowth of the forest alongside the trail and had valiantly tried to keep Aragorn away, but not before the ranger had seen the vile, dark blood and black bile he vomited into the grasses.  Weak and shivering, Legolas had finally allowed the ranger to help him rise to his feet, but it was only moments before another racking seizure gripped the Elf’s slight frame and he was again retching up the putrid ichor from his stomach.

          Aragorn was now convinced that Legolas had been poisoned, but how or when he could not say.  Perhaps it had something to do with that ugly wound on his wrist.   Despite Legolas’ reassurances and his Elvish nature, it was not healing.  Whatever the cause of the toxin, his friend was now being physically devastated by the waves of nausea and the debilitating weakness that followed.  He was also developing an inexplicable intolerance to light, something unheard of in elves.  Even now, sitting there by the fire, he wore his hooded cloak, shielding his eyes from the dancing flames.

          Legolas had eventually been able to ride again once the tremors and shakes of this unknown sickness had finally ceased but their progress was slowed because the Elf was forced to remain within the shade and cover of the trees.  Any time he moved into full sunlight, his eyes were blinded and terrible stabbing pains shot through his skin wherever the sun’s rays fell upon the exposed flesh.

          Any attempts Aragorn made to question Legolas about this strange illness or his lack of memory regarding the previous night had been futile and they had fallen into an uneasy silent march through the forest.  When the sun had finally dipped beneath the horizon, they had stopped here and made camp, but their awkward alienation had lingered.  Strider was even now hesitant to speak to the Elf, afraid that his words would upset him or that his insistent questions would drive Legolas deeper into withdrawal, but he could no longer sit here and say nothing.

          “Legolas,” he began.  “We must speak of this.”  His silver eyes were filled with pain and apprehension and the anxiety he felt for his friend was evident in the quietness of his voice.  “I believe you have been poisoned,” he continued.

          The Elf stiffened, but said nothing.  Aragorn’s face reflected his inner turmoil as he leaned forward, setting the pipe down upon the grass in front of him.   He drew his knees up to his chest and laid his arms across the tops, his chin resting upon his arms.  “What happened to you out there?”

          Legolas quietly raised his hooded head to look across the fire at his companion and the ranger could just barely discern two glittering, iridescent eyes within the deep shadows of the dark material that framed the Elf’s face, and that image alone unsettled him greatly.  Legolas’ eyes had always been very expressive and beautiful, but Aragorn could not ever remember seeing them look so unnatural, so alien.

          “I know not what to tell you, Estel,” the prince’s soft voice murmured from beneath the hood, “for I know not myself.”

          The sorrow and misery emanating from his friend was more than Strider could bear, yet he felt powerless to help him.  But at this moment, the idea of chasing after orcs no longer seemed to be a priority.  He had to get Legolas back to Lasgalen and to his father’s healers.

          “I’m taking you back home,” Aragorn abruptly stated.  “Whatever this sickness is, it is beyond my meager skills.  You need an Elvish healer.”

          “No!” the Elf objected. “We are within sight of Dol Guldur.  We cannot leave now.”  He raised a slim, pale hand to still the ranger’s protest.   “I am fine.  Now that the nausea has passed, I am myself again.”

          “No arguments, Legolas.  I do not know what has caused this illness in you, whether it is the sap from some poisonous plant or feral bite that you cannot recall.  But I will not risk your health or quite possibly your life.”  Frustrated and angered by his inability to help Legolas, Strider stood up and began snatching up his bags and gear.  “We leave now.”

          “Aragorn, stop!”  The Elf also rose, and his voice held a commanding edge that halted Aragorn in his tracks.  Legolas noted the ranger’s startled expression and altered the timbre and tone of his voice before continuing.  “Truly, I am fine.  Whatever it was has left my body.  I no longer feel any pain or sickness.”

          The Elf moved around the fire pit with a swiftness of motion not even possible among those of the Firstborn race and came up next to Aragorn, placing a strong and firm hand upon the ranger’s forearm.  Strider visibly started, not sure whether his eyes had deceived him or whether the Elf had suddenly acquired some new mystical powers of flight.  He could not help but stare at his friend with a growing sense of unease and fear and this disturbed him more than Legolas’ curious disorder.  How could he fear someone he loved as much or more than his own brothers?  Yet he did.

          Legolas smiled beneath the hooded cowl, but there was no laughter in his expression or his voice.  “Believe me, Estel.  I am well.”

          Aragorn so very much wanted to believe that Legolas was indeed well, but he could not get past the nagging voice within his head that kept telling him that something was terribly, terribly wrong with his friend.  He looked into the Elf’s strange and somehow predatory eyes, trying in vain to convince himself that he was being foolish and unnecessarily worried.

          “Very well,” he reluctantly conceded.  “But at the slightest twinge of your stomach, we’re leaving these woods.”

          Legolas laughed softly, eyes glowing. “You have my promise.”

          Aragorn continued to regard his friend with doubt and ill-concealed disquiet, still not quite sure that he shouldn’t just follow his instincts and leave with the Elf right now, whether he wanted to go or not, but he decided to wait and see how the prince fared through the night.  Besides, even ill, he did not think he could force Legolas to do anything he did not want to do.  Aragorn returned to his pipe and settled back against the tree once more, vigilantly watching the Elf’s every move.   Ignoring Aragorn’s obvious surveillance, Legolas moved off to the outer reaches of the camp and appeared to be searching for something out in the woods.

          “Maybe I should stand guard tonight,” Strider called after the Elf.

          “No need,” Legolas replied.

          “But…,” Aragorn pressed.

          The Elf gracefully launched himself up into the tree branches and then crouched along a sturdy limb looking down at the ranger through the leafy bough.  “Get some sleep, Strider.”

          Aragorn decided not to push the matter for now.  Instead he calmly puffed at his pipe until the contents burned themselves out and left nothing but a blue haze floating about his head.  He had already made up his mind that he would just feign sleep for Legolas’ benefit, and would keep a concealed eye fixed on the Elf all night if need be.  If Legolas went wandering about into the woods tonight, Aragorn would follow.

          Legolas watched from the concealment of the tree boughs as the ranger stretched out upon the ground preparing for the night’s rest and fervently hoped that he would fall asleep quickly.  The raging hunger within him was growing too strong and he could not fight its pull much longer.  He had to feed and if he did not find some woodland creature to quench this terrible blood thirst, he might not be able to stop himself from turning upon Aragorn.  He closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands, trying to blot out that horrifying thought and grimaced as another wave of burning fire raced through his body.

          Please, Estel, find sleep, he thought, I cannot fight this craving much longer.

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

          The ranger jerked awake and frantically jumped to his feet.  Orc spit! he cursed.  How long have I been asleep?   Mentally berating himself for letting down his guard, he quickly glanced up into the trees, and as he feared, Legolas was no where to be seen.  “Damn, Elf,” he muttered as he hurriedly buckled his sword belt to his waist and slid the Elven dagger into its sheath.   He started to dash off into the forest, but instead halted abruptly.  He had no idea whatsoever which way Legolas might have gone.

          Standing in the middle of the camp, he closed his eyes and forced his breathing to settle into a slow, measured pattern.  He let his senses and his ranger’s training take over and simply absorbed all that he could smell and hear.  There, far off in the distance, the faint clank and clamor of arms penetrated the night and he turned to his left.  Opening his eyes, he stared at the darkened forest before him.

          “Let’s just see what you’re doing out there, my Elven friend,” he murmured and trotted off in pursuit.

          He did not know how long he had been jogging through the trees, but he could not seem to find the source of the sounds, although they did appear to be getting distinctly louder.  He could also distinguish other sounds as well; grunts, snorts and shrieks were intermingled with the clang of metal upon metal.  That could only mean one thing -- he had found the elusive band of orcs.  Aragorn slowed his pace and listened intently, trying to get a better idea of their direction and bearing.  Slowly and silently, he withdrew his sword from the scabbard and held it loosely at his side.  As he came up upon a small hollow, he crouched down among the low bushes covering its rim in order to remain hidden while he observed the scene below.

          A troop of approximately thirty orcs and goblins was trotting through the moonlit trees into the vale.  To his utter astonishment and disbelief, he also spied the blond head of Legolas, long flaxen hair and braids swaying rhythmically back and forth as he effortlessly ran amidst the foul horde.  The band swiftly advanced through the hollow and ran up the opposite side, disappearing into the thick woods.   Strider followed after them and once gaining the far side of the hill could now make out the dark, ominous towers of Dol Guldur piercing the blackened skies above.   Hundreds of torches illuminated the massive stone structure and ringed the outer battlements like fireflies.  The dark, murky waters of the Anduin channel swirled along the bottom of the tower walls, gently lapping at the ancient stones as the current whirled and eddied against the fortress.

          Aragorn ran through the remaining trees, heedless of the branches that slapped at his face, until his chest pounded from the rigorous exertion.  He ran along the top of the ridge, keeping the orc patrol down and to his left along the river at all times as he followed them through the woods.  They were making such a racket that he hoped his pursuit of them would go unnoticed, even by the Elf.  At last they came through the trees and approached the massive stone and iron gateway to Dol Guldur.   Aragorn stopped at the tree line and falling heavily to his knees leaned his weight upon his sword, panting for breath.

          From the screen of leaves and branches he watched as the orcs, with Legolas in tow, clattered up the stone bridgework crossing the Anduin tributary that flowed into a deep channel and surrounded the dark battlements of the fortress.  The Elf stopped just within the entrance to the gates while the orcs swarmed around him and into the tower.  As if waiting for someone, Legolas stood solitary and immobile until the last of the vile creatures serving as his escort had disappeared into the stone walls of the keep.

          Aragorn’s mind was in a maelstrom of confused and disbelieving thoughts as he stared at his stubborn, yet loyal friend.  Someone he loved more than a brother even though they were not blood kin.  Someone he valued and respected and could never imagine consorting with orcs and goblins in any manner other than to slay them in battle.  Someone he trusted with his life and who had never deceived him…until now.

          He leaned his head upon the hilt of his sword and shook his head from side to side.  “No,” he whispered with despair. “Legolas, no.”

          When he looked up once more, he saw that Legolas was no longer alone upon the gateway bridgework.  A dark-haired woman was standing at the tower’s entrance and she seemed to be talking to the Elf.  Aragorn involuntarily shuddered at the sight of her eerie, translucent skin and reflective, glittering eyes.  Even from this distance, he could see them glowing like points of fire.  This was definitely no human female, nor one of Elvenkind, and he could not shake the feeling of utter malevolence and evil that this creature elicited within him.  His fear for Legolas intensified as he watched the dark being draw ever closer to his friend like some deadly spider luring him into her web.

          This foul creature of darkness was the source of corruption and vile intent that was taking over Legolas’ mind and body.  Of this he was certain, although he did not know why he was so convinced of this fact, he just knew that Legolas was in mortal danger and there was no way in all of Middle Earth that he could help him.  It would be sheer folly to try and attack that ancient fortress alone.  He would have to seek help and the closest place to do that was Lasgalen where Legolas’ father, King Thranduil ruled.  But the Mirkwood palace was almost a two week ride form these southern regions and Aragorn’s distraught mind filled with unspeakable and imagined horrors that would surely befall the fair Elf before he had time to return here with reinforcements.

          He watched in helpless defeat as the shadow being guided Legolas into the tower and both disappeared from his sight.   At the moment his friend entered the keep a deep, dark feeling of dread and an aching sorrow grew within his heart.

          “I will not abandon you, mellon nin*,” he whispered into the night air.

          Slowly he rose to his feet and turned back toward the camp and the horses.  Moving on sore and stiffened legs and weighed down by the shock of this perilous development, he was nonetheless determined to free his friend no matter what the cost to himself.

*my friend