Aragorn pushed Hodoer even harder, galloping through the woods at a dangerous pace until the poor animal faltered and stumbled to a sliding stop, refusing to go any further.  His sides were heaving and white lather dripped from his neck and shoulders.  At the horse’s abrupt halt, the ranger slid forward onto the horse’s neck and then fell from the saddle, landing unceremoniously upon the ground beneath the horse’s hooves.  He looked up at the darkening sky above with glazed eyes and decided that it was just too much trouble to get up.  He was too worn out, too hungry, and too sleep deprived to move.

          Hodoer swung his head and neck over the fallen ranger and blew a warm breath into the man’s face as if trying to help revive him, even though his own lungs were still heaving and gasping for air.  Aragorn listlessly swatted his hand at the horse’s nose and tried to roll away, but fatigue and the rigorous stress he had put his body through these last few days won out and he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.  The steed nuzzled at the ranger’s chest and pawed at the ground near his side, but when Strider failed to move, the animal gave up and lowered his head in weary acquiescence.

          Legolas’ mount, Astalder, now without a rider, had been racing along with the ranger and his fellow equine companion on their frantic sprint through the forest.  He now drew near the winded pair as if to offer what aid and comfort he could give.  Hodoer whickered his appreciation but the overcome ranger just snored in unconscious oblivion.  Sensing that the human would not arise for some time, the two horses turned their attention to the succulent grasses and started to graze.

          The two Grey Elf warriors hidden within the trees above watched the scene unfold below them with a mixture of hilarity and concern.

          “It has to be Strider,” Celoril laughed as he turned a sidelong grin at his companion.

         “Aye,” Amorfing agreed, frowning. “Then where is our prince?”  He gestured down at the two horses. “Is that not Astalder?”

          Celoril’s smile faded.  “We better wake him up.”

          Amorfing nodded and the two Elves agilely dropped from the branches and landed lightly upon the ground near the horses.  Hodoer gave a startled snort and shied away until he realized that the approaching creatures were Elves.  Once certain that they posed no threat to him or his rider, he calmed as the two warriors neared the fallen human.   Astalder whinnied a greeting and pushed his nose into Celoril’s hand as the warrior reached out to him.  The wood Elf stroked the horse’s neck and scratched at his ears in return.

         Amorfing walked over to the human’s horse and detached the water skin from Hodoer’s saddle, then headed over to the sleeping ranger.   He crouched down over the Dúnadan’s prone body and upended the water jug, pouring its contents over Aragorn’s head.  As soon as the cold water hit his face, the ranger sprang up coughing and sputtering, arms flailing, as he awoke from his stupor.   Amorfing easily jumped back out of reach of Strider’s flapping limbs and waited patiently until the water had revived the young man.

          With wet, dank hair plastered to his face and water dripping off his nose, Aragorn blearily looked up at the two Elven soldiers standing over him.  Aghast at being caught so completely off guard and indisposed -- and by Elves -- the young man swept the lank hair from his eyes and lightly touched his thumb to his lips and forehead.

          “Mae govannen,” Strider greeted the two.   He awkwardly rose to his feet while trying uncomfortably to muster some semblance of decorum. “Amin Strider, lîre ned i’ forodrim.”*

          “Yes,” Amorfing tersely replied. “We thought as much,”

          Celoril, still stroking Astalder’s neck, tried unsuccessfully to keep from grinning.  “Have you lost our prince?”

          His embarrassment forgotten, Aragorn’s eyes reflected a sudden inner panic and the two Elves immediately picked up on his fear and agitation.  Their manner changed to one of high alert in response to the ranger’s anxiety and Celoril swiftly scanned the area with his keen eyes.   Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he shook his head negatively at Amorfing.

          “You must take me to King Thranduil.  Legolas… your prince, is in grave danger!”

          The earnest appeal in the human’s face convinced the Elves that he needed to get to Thranduil’s court as quickly as possible.  Celoril whistled shrilly and several more woodland Elves materialized out of the trees, armed with bows and obviously part of this surveillance patrol.  “Alert the Palace Guard that we are coming at speed and have with us Strider, Ranger of the North and friend to Prince Legolas.”

          The Elves nodded and vanished into the treetops, leaping from branch to branch with sure-footed alacrity.  Within minutes they were gone.  Amorfing gestured for Strider to mount up and he and Celoril in turn swung up onto Astalder’s back for the ride to the palace.   Before leaving, Amorfing rummaged through the pouch at his belt and drew out a leaf-wrapped carrier of lembas which he offhandedly tossed over to Strider.

          “You must be hungry,” he remarked.

          “Hannon le,”** the ranger replied with open gratitude as he caught the packet against his chest.  He swallowed down the Elven journey bread with great delight while urging a reluctant Hodoer to follow the two warriors.   It would be dark before they arrived at the palace, and neither Elf nor man now wished to tarry.

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

          When they reached the torch lit gates of Lasgalen, they were admitted without hindrance by the members of the king’s Palace Guard.  All three riders hastily dismounted and advanced toward the stronghold’s main entrance.   King Thranduil himself was waiting at the elegantly carved doors to his Great Hall.  The flickering light of the torches wavered over the Elf lord’s face, and his long golden hair and ice blue eyes were so similar to his son’s fair features that Aragorn’s heart wrenched as his over-taxed mind thought for a fleeting moment that it was indeed Legolas standing there upon the stairs.   When he realized it was not, it only served as a painful reminder of his friend’s dire fate.   His pace quickened as he hurried up the steps to the awaiting king.  Bowing down on one bended knee, the ranger drew his arm across his chest in a gesture of supplication and greeting.  “Majesty,” he said.

          “Come inside, Aragorn,” the king commanded, and without another word to the ranger, Thranduil turned and entered his Great Hall.  Strider rose to follow the king and those various court ministers and Elf lords already assembled turned with their sovereign and entered the building.  The two Elf warriors nodded to Strider and then left to report to their troop barracks.  Aragorn waved a farewell to them and hurried inside as the monarch advanced across the lengthy floor, his counselors bustling behind him. Strider discreetly followed at the rear.  The king sat down upon his throne with a flourish and swirl of robes and gestured for the young human to approach.   When the ranger was standing in front of his dais, the king regarded him with an aloof expression of neutrality, honed by countless long years as the ruling king of his people.

          “Where is my son?” he calmly inquired.

          Aragorn choked back a lump that threatened to restrict his throat and forced his voice to remain calm and dignified, but the king could see the fear in the young man’s eyes and his own inner anxiety grew.

          “He is…” Aragorn hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then continued, “within the fortress of Dol Guldur.”

          At these words, the assembled Elf lords gasped in shock and the king’s jaw tightened, but he quickly masked his expression and continued to scrutinize his son’s friend and companion.  The young ranger was obviously reluctant to relate all he knew regarding Legolas’ alleged entry into the fortress.

          “He was captured?  You saw him taken?” asked the king.

          Aragorn lowered his head with remorse and pain.  “He…I could not prevent it, I…” but he could not continue as his weary mind vividly replayed the scene at the fortress gates.

          “Speak,” Thranduil prodded.  “You hold something back.”

          Strider’s eyes stung with exhausted tears barely held in check.  His look was imploring as he willed Legolas’ father to believe him when next he spoke, knowing that his words would be doubted and questioned.  “I saw Legolas, in the company of orcs, enter the dark tower freely, majesty, though I know in my heart that he was not himself, but overcome by some dark spell.”

          The jeers and shouts of the Elf lords grew much louder now and more outraged by these words and King Thranduil angrily gestured for silence.  He signaled his court herald to his side and when the Elf neared the throne, the king hissed. “Clear the room.  All save the ranger.”

          The herald nodded and began motioning for the counselors and other Elven lords present to leave the Great Hall.  Though protests were heatedly given, the king’s will prevailed and the room quickly emptied.  The herald bowed to his regent and then he, too, left the chambers.  Aragorn, head still lowered, stood before the king awaiting his next words.

          Thranduil’s face was unreadable but his emotions were roiling just beneath the surface.  Deep concern for his son was raging tantamount to a whirlwind within his heart, yet he did not want to believe that his son had willingly entered the fortress of Dol Guldur, that bastion of the vile Necromancer, the scourge of Greenwood the Great and the Dark Lord responsible for the decimation of his kindred.

         “Aragorn,” he stated, “you know my son better than anyone.  Tell me truthfully, has he fallen to the Dark Lord’s bidding?”

          Strider’s head jerked up.  “Nay, my lord, never would he do such a thing.  He has been taken against his will by some vile she-demon who has poisoned his mind and body with her foul darkness.  I have seen her.”  He paused, recalling the shadow creature standing beside Legolas at the tower gates, touching him… remembering, too, the foul sickness that taken over his friend.  “She is neither Elf nor human, but some monstrous evil of the Dark Lord’s making.”

          “Then what I feared has come to pass,” a deep, disembodied voice spoke from the shadowed wall hangings at the back of the King’s throne.  “An evil that I thought long dead is now residing in Dol Guldur.”

          Aragorn’s head spun toward the sound of the voice and a look of incredible relief washed over his face as he saw that the speaker was one of the Istari, the grey wizard Mithrandir.

          “Gandalf!” he shouted. “Thank the Valar you are here!”

          The kindly old man’s cracked and wrinkled face came into view and he smiled warmly at the youthful ranger.  “It is good to see you too, young Strider.”

          Thranduil looked from the wizard to the ranger and back.  “What are you saying, Mithrandir?  You know this evil that holds my son prisoner?”

          The wizard moved to the dais and leaned a wizened hand on the back of the king’s throne for the support of his ancient bones.  “Yes,” he answered.  “It is Thuringwethil, Sauron’s minion and unspeakable companion.”  His gaze moved to the ranger.  “She is most evil and we must get Legolas away from her with all speed.”  He paused, scrutinizing the young man’s face. “Yet I do not believe Legolas is her intended target.”

          Both the king and the ranger looked at Gandalf with confusion.  “Then why has she taken him?” asked Strider.

          “Most likely hoping you will come for him,” the wizard replied.  “It seems very likely that Sauron now knows of your existence, Aragorn, and he is using Legolas to force you into doing something rash.”

         The king stiffened at these words and the outrage within him rose to the surface.  “I will not let my son be used in this manner.  I will send out my warriors tonight to attack the tower.  They will… ”

          Gandalf raised his hand, halting the king’s words.  “You cannot fight Thuringwethil so easily, King Thranduil, nor can you take the fortress of Dol Guldur with an army you do not have.  If you are to save Legolas, you must exercise caution.”

         The king was mightily stung by these words, knowing that the Istari spoke wisely, but loath to admit the fact that it was true.  It was common knowledge that his warriors were few and now barely numbered in the hundreds; the Grey Elves were losing the daily battles they fought with the darkness that was encompassing the forests of Mirkwood.  He was angry and insulted by the wizard’s frank remarks, but he forced himself to remain silent, at least for now.

          “Could we breach the tower in some other manner?” asked Strider, gazing intently at the wizard.  “You know this fortress better than anyone, Gandalf.  Could we enter from some obscure hidden passage or little used entry now overlooked?”

          “Hmmmmm,” the old seer mused.  “Possibly… it is an ancient structure and if I remember rightly, riddled with passages and service entries now long abandoned.”  He rubbed his forehead with a wrinkled hand. “But I dare say these accesses have been sealed off or have collapsed in upon themselves.  The fortress has fallen into ruin and some parts of it are no longer structurally sound.  We will not gain entry into that tower with ease.”  He paused, thinking, and then continued. “We could, however, enlist the aid of the Dwarves to dig through the rubble.”

         Thranduil’s angry fist slammed down upon the arm of his chair so hard that Aragorn visibly winced.  “I will have no dealings with Dwarves!” he shouted.

          Gandalf looked at the older Elf with a gentle kindness in his eyes.  “Not even to save your son?” he asked quietly.

          The king glared at the wizard with ill-concealed wrath.  He did not take pleasure in being trapped into decisions that were not of his making.  His lips drew into a thin, harsh line as he fought to bite back the heated words that were straining at the tip of his tongue.  “You try me, wizard,” he glowered.

          “Think, good king, in order to save your son we must not let the enemy gain the upper hand.  You have not the warriors needed to storm this tower with a frontal assault and many immortals would die needlessly should you try.  I know you do not wish this for your people.”  The Istari smiled caringly at the Sindarin Lord, his prudent words helping to assuage the king’s ire.  “This type of work is best left to those who make it their livelihood.”

          Lord Thranduil turned an irritated scowl back to Aragorn as if the young ranger had somehow been working in hidden consort with the wizard to force him to accept this decision.  “The Free Folk care naught about the welfare of others, least of all the Elvenkind,” he paused, the irritation plainly evident on his face.  “And I suppose theywill want some type of payment to undertake a task such as this,” he groused.  Thranduil had long been of the opinion that Dwarves thought of nothing but riches and treasures and this proposal only served to reinforce that judgment.

        Strider reluctantly nodded his agreement.  “A reward of some kind would unquestionably insure their interest.”

          The king was quiet for a long time, pondering any other options available to him to get his son returned safely.  When he finally spoke, it was with bitter resignation.

          “I have gold and gems aplenty,” the king allowed.  He waved his hand in dismissal. “See it done.”  Then as if it were an afterthought, he looked back at the young ranger.  “The steward will see to arranging a room for you, Aragorn, and will send for you when the evening meal is served.”  The King glanced at the wizard. “Mithrandir?”

          “Oh, no need to worry about me, I won’t be staying,” he replied with a genial wave of his hand, indicating his regrets.

          Aragorn nodded his thanks to Legolas’ father, and then he and Gandalf bowed one last time and made their way out of the Great Hall.  Once outside, the wizard put a gnarled hand on Strider’s shoulder and leaned forward to speak softly into his ear alone.  “I will see to enlisting the aid of the Dwarves and will meet with you at the tower in ten days time.  Take heart, my dear Strider.  I have known Prince Legolas for many, many years.  He will not give in to this evil so easily.”

          Aragorn only nodded; the weariness of his body and the constant disquiet over his friend’s uncertain fate overcame his emotions and left him at a loss for words.  The wizard gave the young man’s shoulder another comforting squeeze and with a parting smile, walked away from the palace toward the stables where his horse and wagon were waiting.  Aragorn watched the old man’s retreating figure until he could no longer make out his reassuring form and then turned to re-enter the palace to find the house steward.  He longed for a hot bath and a warm, soft bed.

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

          Even as exhausted as he was, Aragorn still found sleep elusive.  The bath and hearty meal had been soothing and restorative, yet he was still too keyed up and on edge to rest.  Instead he found himself wandering about the silent, darkened halls of Lasgalen, empty now that the palace occupants had retired for the night.  The familiarity of the rooms and corridors only brought home the fact that Legolas was not here with him and with a saddened heart he roamed aimlessly from one passageway to the next until in time he walked out into an enclosed interior garden.  One of Legolas’ favorites, he mused as he moved along the stone pathway through the beautiful, sculpted lawns.  Above, the stars shone brightly in a cloudless black sky and the receding face of the waning moon gave the garden a shadowy, twilight haze.

         Aragorn was so lost in his own mental ramblings that he did not realize the Elven king was seated upon one of the low stone benches beside the fountain pool until he was standing right beside him.  Dismayed that he had intruded upon the king’s private reverie, he apologized for his ill-timed imposition.

          “Majesty,” he began. “I’m truly sorry.  I did not see you there.  I will leave you to your privacy.”

          The disconsolate king looked up. “It’s all right, Aragorn.  Please. Stay.”  He gestured toward a seat on the bench at his side.  Once the young man had joined him, the king continued, although his attention was centered on some point in the distance and not on the ranger.  “You do not know me very well, Aragorn, although I’m sure you have heard the tales – some good, some bad,” he paused. “Most assuredly all true.”

          He slowly turned to face Strider and gazed at the young man with the sad, harried eyes of a father whose son is lost and in danger.   “Just know that I love my son more than my life, and know that Legolas loves and trusts you more than any brother… ” He choked at this last and struggled to go on. “Bring him back to me, Aragorn.”   His whispered voice quavered and he could not continue.

          The young man instinctively reached out a hand to console the king, but hesitated, not sure if he was allowed to touch the king’s person.  Instead, he slid off the bench and knelt down on one knee in front of the king, his arm across his chest, a hand upon his heart.  “I swear to you I will do this, Lord Thranduil, or I shall die in the attempt.”

          The older Elf lord took a ragged breath and reached out, clasping Aragorn’s shoulder in a gesture of gratitude and unspoken appreciation for the ranger’s genuine devotion to his son.  After a moment, he withdrew his hand from the Dúnadan’s shoulder and slid it down to his forearm, cradling his elbow.  The king rose from his seat, pulling Aragorn to his feet as well.  He looked into the young man’s eyes and smiled slightly.  “I never understood Legolas’ unyielding commitment to you, Aragorn.  I always thought you crude and brash, but now I see that he was a good judge of character after all, for you display a deep undying loyalty to my son.  I will not forget it.”

          The king clasped Strider’s shoulders briefly as if he would say more, but too overcome with heartache to continue, he let his hands fall to his sides and slowly moved away.  Aragorn struggled desperately to fight the stinging tears that welled in his grey eyes but lost that battle as they spilled down his cheeks, leaving silvery streaks down his handsome face.  He gazed up at Eärendil and shut his eyes tightly, squeezing back the tears before they became an unstoppable torrent.

          “Hear me, Legolas,” he pleaded. “Wherever you are… know that I have not forsaken you and I will come for you.”

*Well met, I am Strider, a ranger of the northmen.

+Thank you