Aragorn checked over his weapons and gear one final time, snugging up his sword belt and patting at the Elven knife at his waist.  Gandalf strode forward and handed the ranger a small, leather pouch.  Strider took it from the wizard with a quizzical frown.

         “What’s this?” he asked as he secured it to his side.

          “When I left you in the courtyard of Lasgalen and clasped your shoulder in farewell, I placed a concealing spell upon you.  As long as you remained in the forests of Mirkwood neither the Eye nor any of his minions could detect your presence, but once you enter the fortress of Dol Guldur, the spell will be broken.  This powder will serve to hide you from those within, but its power is limited and of short duration.  Use it wisely and sparingly,” the wizard instructed.

          Strider nodded his understanding and glanced at the small torch beside the Istari’s wagon.  “Give me until that torch burns down.  I should be within the tower by then.”

          The young ranger turned to leave, but the mage’s hand upon his forearm stayed his departure.  “I want you to wear this, Aragorn,” Gandalf stated as he pulled a small amulet on a thin, silver chain out of his belt pouch and carefully placed it over Strider’s head.  “It will help you to resist the controlling power of the Shadow Woman’s thoughts, but remember, do not look directly at her and do not let her touch you.  She has morgul strength and if provoked will crush you like a twig.”

         Aragorn nodded again.  “I will not fail, Gandalf.”

          “I know you won’t, my boy,” the old ancient smiled, “and neither will I.”

          Mithrandir watched after him until the ranger was out of sight and then he slowly clambered up onto his old wagon.  The four Dwarves were already seated in the rear and looked none too pleased about being there.  With a light flick of the reins, Gandalf set the wagon rolling out onto the roadway and headed toward the main gates of the dark tower to set his plan in motion.

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

          Aragorn easily trotted along the dark corridor of the underground tunnel, a torch held aloft to guide him.  Much of the water previously flooding the passage had seeped away into the ground and his footsteps made soft splashing sounds as he ran.  In no time he reached the tower keep entranceway and squeezed through the small opening that the Dwarves had created in the wall.  Once inside the fortress, he crept along each passage one by one as silently as possible, listening for any sound other than his own breathing.

          Mentally recalling the images of the interior tower drawings that Gandalf had shown him, he confidently made his way through the dark outer halls toward the main dungeons.  As he neared the prison cells he could hear the distinctive snorts and growls of several orcs and moments later their foul stench filled the confined walkway.  Aragorn wrinkled his nose at the vile odor and flattened his body along the wall, gradually inching forward on silent feet.  He glanced at the torch he held in his left hand and noted that it had burned down to the base.  It would not be long now until Gandalf’s powders blew out the front gates of the tower.  He patiently waited within a small alcove and tried to keep his breathing shallow and calm.

         As the torch’s flames died away, a muffled explosion could be heard overhead and almost instantly the orcs within the cells started a horrendous shrieking chatter as they rushed out of the dungeons and flooded into the passages, making for the stone stairways.  Aragorn lingered hidden within the nook until he could no longer hear their screeches and then quickly ran toward the prison area.  He proceeded to conduct a swift and thorough search of the dungeon sections and quickly found all the chambers to be empty.  In one of the rooms, however, there was a great deal of blood on the floors and a makeshift table, and Strider winced in anguish as he knew in his heart that the blood was Legolas’.

          Leaving the cells behind, he hastily made his way up the stairs in the same direction the orcs had taken.  Gandalf had told him the tower room he sought would be located on the tenth level and he quietly counted them off as he made his laborious way up through the central keep.  There had been no orcs or goblins in any of the halls that he had traversed and he thanked the Valar for his luck.  The wizard’s tactics were apparently working and their attention was focused on the front gates of Dol Guldur.

          At the top of the stairway leading to the tenth level, Aragorn halted and listened for any sounds.  Immediately, he could hear a shuffling, snorting grumble and the rattle of metal on metal.  Slowly he rounded the last step and poked his head around the corner, glancing down the hallway.  A single orc was unlocking a set of large iron doors and slowly drawing them open.  The beast then grasped a torch from the wall and entered the room beyond.   A few minutes later, the ranger could hear him speaking to the room’s unseen occupant.  Strider leaned closer and strained to hear what was being said, but he could not make out the words; however, he was certain that he heard Legolas’ voice, but there was something wrong with his friend’s speech.  The Elf’s words sounded lifeless and cold to his ear and no longer carried the carefree lilt that Aragorn remembered.

         Ah, Legolas, the saddened thought flickered through his intense concentration.  Hold on just a little longer, my friend.

          He slid back around the corner and leaned against the wall, waiting to hear what the orc would do next, and at that very moment, the foul creature shuffled back out of the room, closed the iron doors and moved off down the far corridor away from Strider’s hiding place.   Aragorn remained immobile until he could no longer hear the beast’s footsteps, then he hurried across the stones toward the closed metal doors.  He pulled them open with one mighty heave and quickly entered the dimly lit chamber.

          It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room, but when they did, he spotted Legolas almost immediately.  The woodland being was standing at the far wall, his bow clasped to his chest, feet slightly apart, in the watchful stance that Strider had seen so many times before when Legolas stood guard over their camp.   His familiar woodland garb had been exchanged for a black tunic, leggings and boots that only served to heighten the stark contrast of his ghostly pale features and white-blond hair.  The Elf’s shimmering skin glowed in the darkness of the room and his eyes shone red-orange like those of a wolf’s caught in the firelight.  Aragorn’s chest seized with fear at the sight of his friend and he stopped dead in his tracks.

        “Oh, Legolas,” he whispered. “What has become of you?”

          The prince’s statuesque bearing did not alter, nor did he acknowledge Strider’s presence and the ranger began to wonder if he was in some type of trance when abruptly his attention was drawn away from the Elf and to the stone sarcophagus standing in the middle of the room.  The granite lid was slowly sliding open and he stared in fascination as a cloud of black smoke issued upward from the crypt.

         Instinctively he withdrew his sword and held it ready at his side.  As he watched, the mist quavered and shimmered until it changed into the form of the black-haired woman he had first seen at the tower gates all those many nights ago.  Her white body appeared nude and barely concealed by her cascading raven tresses, but even as Aragorn stared at her, the demon’s form altered and wavered and he could not be sure what his eyes were actually seeing before him.

          Thuringwethil smirked at the young ranger with an incredibly evil smile that sent an icy chill down Strider’s back and she moved closer to the Elf.

          “At last,” she murmured, glancing up at Legolas and lightly brushing her fingers across his cheek.  “Aragorn has come for you.”

         The ranger’s body tensed, waiting.  He was repulsed by the way she touched Legolas’ face and he gritted his teeth in an effort to hold in check his first impulse—to rush the were-woman head on.  Instead he shifted his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet, ready to lunge either to the right or left depending on her next move.  He kept his gaze alternately upon the Elf and the demon before him.

          The shadow creature’s gaze turned from the human and fixed on Legolas.  “Kill him,” she hissed.

         In a blur of movement and incredible agility, Legolas’ bow arm went up and an arrow appeared, nocked and aimed at the ranger.  The Elf pulled back on the bowstring, anchored and set, then let fly the arrow.

          Knowing Legolas’ incomparable speed and skill with a bow was the only thing that saved Aragorn’s life.  At the dark being’s spoken command and without conscious thought, Strider swung his sword up and in front of his face only an instant before the arrow struck the steel blade just shy of the hilt.  Had he not placed the sword squarely in front of his nose, the arrow would now be protruding from his forehead.

         He swiftly and determinedly dove for the floor as three seconds later a second arrow whizzed by his head so close that it blew his dark hair across his cheek; he hit the stone floor and kept rolling, scrambling around the corner of the demon’s crypt as the third arrow struck the obsidian floor.   Shards and fragments of rock and dust flew up from the exact spot where his body had been only a moment before, and then the arrow clattered away.

         Panting, Strider shouted around the side of the crypt.  “Legolas!  Lasto enni!   Maetho he, mellon nin!  Maetho i’ guruthos!”

         At the sound of the panicked Elvish words, Legolas’ bow arm faltered and his smooth brow creased with pain and a deeper, inner suffering.  Why do these words torment me?  How do I know that voice?   The Elf‘s tortured mind reeled as the words reverberated within his skull.

          Thuringwethil shrieked with fury at Aragorn’s plea to the Elf and she began to utter dark incantations in the heinous Black Tongue.  The foul words seemed to strike the Elf like physical blows and he staggered backward in obvious agony as the demon’s voice assaulted him.

          Aragorn rose up from behind the stone tomb, sword raised and ready to lunge at the demon, but the shadow creature saw him and waved her palm at him in an angry sweep.  The young human was lifted up off his feet and flung backward across the room with such incredible force that when his back smashed into the wall, it crushed the breath out of his lungs.  His right hand struck the stones, loosening the sword from his grip and it clattered to the floor, skittering away; his body came hurtling downward to join it moments later.

         Stunned and gasping for breath, Aragorn made an ineffectual grab for his sword, but Thuringwethil flicked her wrist again and the weapon shot across the stones well out of his reach.  Falling back upon his elbows and panting for air, Strider slid backward across the floor, knees bent and pushed himself along as he tried desperately to get his hands up under his body so that he could push off the floor and rise to his feet.  As he did so, his hand landed upon something slender and hard lying on the stone floor beneath his body.  He glanced down and saw Legolas’ spent arrow lying under his palm.  He quickly snatched the weapon up into his fist.

          Legolas, if you can hear me fight her!  Frantic thoughts raced through his mind as he clutched the amulet around his neck, willing his mind to connect with that of his friend.  If the amulet could stop the demon’s thoughts, maybe, just maybe it could help him reach Legolas.  FIGHT HER!

          Legolas cried out in anguished torment, dropping his bow and pressing his hands to his temples. He fell back against the wall, shaking his golden head from side to side, moaning as the words, unspoken yet heard, pounded within his brain.  The Shadow Woman turned away from the ranger and snarled at the Elf.  “Kill him!”

         Aragorn sprang up to his feet and charged the short distance from the wall to the were-woman.  She sensed his movement behind her and spun about to face him, but at that same instant, Strider plunged the arrow shaft forward and into her chest.  The point pierced her heart and drove through her body, protruding out her back.  A look of utter shock and amazement and then murderous rage came over her face and an unearthly scream escaped her red lips.  Strider leapt back horrified and watched in fear as her body exploded into flames and then transformed into thick, black ash that swirled about the room like a raging tornado and just as quickly vanished.  The arrow hung in mid-air for a timeless second and then fell to the floor landing with a soft thud amid the grey dust.

          At that same moment, Legolas howled in ultimate despair and his body sank to the floor in a senseless heap.  Aragorn was momentarily frozen in place, staring at the single arrow lying on the floor.  After a time he slowly got his legs to move and staggered forward to his friend’s aid.  Dropping to his knees and grabbing up the Elf’s body, he desperately held Legolas’ still form to his chest and began rocking back and forth.  A desperate wail began at the back of his throat, threatening to erupt as the fair being’s head fell limply against his shoulder.  Strider pushed the long, blond hair aside, moving it out of the prince’s face and rested his forehead on top of his friend’s head.

          “Legolas!” he cried, hot, stinging tears forming at the corners of his eyes.   “Come back!”  He choked down a desperate sob.  “Come back…”

        After what seemed like an eternity to Strider, he felt the Elf stir within his grasp, and looking down saw that his friend’s face, although still a ghastly pale and haunted, no longer held that eerie luminous sheen.  As his eyelids slowly opened the ranger saw that the Elf’s beautiful eyes were once again clear and blue; the feral red glitter was gone. 

          “Aragorn?” Legolas whispered, not sure if he was imagining the anxious face hovering above him as his eyes tried to focus.  Then his body stiffened with remembered terror and his eyes held a look of sheer horror.  “The Agaraug!** You must get away! She will,”

         “She is dead,” he assured the Elf.  “You need fear her no longer.” Aragorn carefully helped the stricken prince to a seated position and then rising to his feet, pulled the Elf up with him.  “By one of your arrows,” he added.  “But that is a tale that needs later telling.  Now we must get out of here.”

          As if to validate this statement, the menacing growls and shrieks of the maddened orcs and goblins arose from the stairwells beyond the chamber.  Aragorn turned a concerned glance at his friend.

          “Are you yourself again?” he questioned.

          Legolas nodded in reply and snatched up his bow.   He lightly ran for the doorway and leaned out of the entrance, glancing out and down the hall.  He quickly signaled for Aragorn to follow him.  Orcs were surging up the stone stairway and would soon be upon them.

          “This way,” Legolas called over his shoulder as he ran out into the corridor.  Strider grabbed up his sword from the floor beside the stone crypt and followed swiftly upon the heels of the Wood Elf.

         Both warriors dashed toward a heavy iron door and bolted through it and out into the darkness of the night.  Legolas slammed the door shut behind them and hurriedly looked about for something to bar the door with, but found nothing useful and ceased looking, turning instead to the young ranger.

          Aragorn stood in the middle of the open turret and glanced around the exterior of the keep.  Torches in wall brackets ringed the walls and across the small open space was an arched walkway leading around the side of the turret.  He could hear the sounds of clanking armor emerging from that direction.  He quickly glanced to the left and saw a dark stone wall towering upward with no entry back into the main keep save the one they had just passed through.  Along the turret’s right side was the exterior wall forming the outer edge of the fortress and overhanging the river channel.   The black waters swirled about the tower base a hundred feet below and the moonlight shimmered off the waves caused by the rippling current.

          The ranger glanced back at his friend with grave concern.  “We’re trapped,” he stated.  “Orcs behind us.   Orcs coming up through that archway and the river below us.”

         Legolas deftly leapt up onto the wall overlooking the channel and glanced back over his shoulder at the human.  A wild grin spread across his fair face.  “The river then,” he said and stepped off the wall, vanishing from sight.

          “Legolas!  Wait!” Strider yelled, running to the edge of the wall and leaning his chest and head over the side to look down into the blackness.  He was just in time to see the Elf’s blond head disappear beneath the murky waters of the river far below.

          “Son of an orc!” he cursed, slapping his palm atop the wall.  He replaced his sword in its scabbard and grasping the stones, awkwardly hauled his body up onto the top of the stonework and looked down from the dizzying height.  He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.  “I’ll kill him myself,” he growled.

          Just then the metal door smashed open against the tower wall behind him and a wave of orcs surged forth onto the terrace.  Aragorn wasted no further time deliberating whether or not to jump and leapt out into the night.  His head disappeared moments before a volley of spears flew over the wall where he had been standing and rained down about him as he plummeted to the water below.  He hit the river like a rock and sank straight to the bottom.  Pushing off the riverbed, he swam to the surface as quickly as he could and made for the opposite bank of the channel.  As he crawled up the slippery, muddy sides of the riverbank, a strong hand grasped his collar and dragged him up the remaining few feet.  He flopped onto the ground and rolled over onto his back, his lungs heaving.  Legolas was standing over him.

         Strider raised himself up on his elbows and glared up at the Elf.  “The river then,” he mimicked the Elf’s words.

          Then quite unexpectedly and faster than Legolas thought possible, Aragorn leapt to his feet and took a diving lunge at the Elf.  His shoulder plowed into Legolas’ midsection and the Elf let out a startled woofing sound.  Both of them toppled to the ground where they wrestled and grappled with one another on the moonlit forest floor.  The Elf, taken completely by surprise, found himself wrapped in a tangle of arms and legs and laughing inanely as he and the ranger rolled through the leaves.  Aragorn eventually landed on the prince’s back, pinning him to the ground.

          “I yield,” Legolas choked and spat out leaves and dirt. “Get off me you great oaf!”  He twisted his lithe body and heaved the young human to the side and Aragorn landed in the grass beside him, panting and heaving, but laughing as well.

          “We didn’t have to leap off that tower, you know,” Strider informed the Elf through gasps for much needed air.  “Gandalf gave me some sort of concealing powder that would have hidden us from the orcs.”

          Legolas rolled his eyes at the ranger’s evident gullibility.  “Pixie dust?”

          “Not pixie dust,” Strider grumbled, offended that the woodland Elf obviously thought him naive.  “I have it here in this pouch.”  He snatched at the leather bag at his belt and tore open the leather thongs holding the bag closed.  He jammed his hand down into the bag and pulled out a viscous glob of grey mush.

          “I guess it got wet,” Strider replied.  The forlorn look upon the ranger’s face actually made the Elf cackle and finally Aragorn could hold back no longer.  The two friends howled until their sides hurt and eventually had to stop laughing just to breathe.

         After their absurd amusement ended, the tension of the past weeks came upon them once again and an uncomfortable silence fell over them.  Strider glanced sideways at Legolas, his eyes filled with a deep concern and worry over the horrific ordeal his friend had just endured.  “Are you well, Legolas?”

          Even the moonlight could not fully conceal the dark shadow that fell across the Elf’s face; he turned his head away, unable to confront the young ranger.  Finally he spoke, his words barely a whisper.  “I would have killed you.”

         Aragorn leaned forward and placed his hand on the Elf’s forearm.  “But you didn’t,” he replied.

         Legolas eventually turned back to look at his friend, his intense blue eyes telling the ranger much had happened that he was not yet ready to speak of and could not yet reconcile within his own heart.  “I have failed you,” he murmured.  “And myself.”  His voice trailed away and Strider had to strain to hear his last words.  “I still feel the evil within me—a part of me.”

          Before they could say more, a tremendous explosion rocked the forest around them and a huge fireball exploded into the air above the tree tops, casting an orange glow across the sky.  Both Aragorn and Legolas leapt to their feet and scrambled for their weapons as the concussion rolled through the woods.   They were ready for battle and watched in stunned amazement as the four Dwarf miners made a mad dash through the woods, coming straight towards them.

          “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!” the terrified shouts of the Dwarves could be heard as they came crashing through the trees, arms in the air, fleeing around and past the two friends and disappearing into the darkness.

          Aragorn and Legolas exchanged puzzled glances and were about to pursue the foursome when Gandalf suddenly emerged from the shadows.  His pointed hat was missing and his face and beard were smudged with black soot.  His robes were covered with dirt and dust and appeared to be smoking.

          “Gandalf?” Strider questioned.

          “Witless Dwarves!” the wizard mumbled.  “I told them to watch the flame...” he halted in mid sentence as he recognized Strider and Legolas standing before him.  “Ah, young Strider,” he grinned.  “I see you have rescued Legolas.”

          As they stared at Gandalf, the trees came alive and the Grey Elven warriors of the Sindarin Guard dropped down to the forest floor around them.  Eäráng stepped forward and spoke to the wizard.  “The orcs are routed.  They are fleeing the tower and heading for the southern reaches.”  He stopped speaking when he saw Legolas appear beside the mage.  He bowed formally to the Elf, his arm crossing his chest in a salute.

          “My prince,” he stated, the relief plainly visible on his handsome face.  “I trust you are well.”

          Legolas nodded formally, and then clasped the elder soldier’s arm in greeting.  A silent communication was shared between the two warriors as Legolas replied. “I am alive.”  The prince then looked about at the elite archers standing quietly behind their captain and Eäráng followed his questioning gaze.

          “Your father sent an escort to return you home,” he smiled.

         Legolas’ expression could not conceal the love he felt for his father nor his surprise that the king would act thus.  “I can’t ever recall him sending the Sindarin Guard to see me home before.”  He smiled slightly at the significance of this gesture and nodded to Eäráng. “But I welcome it.”

          The older Elf placed an arm across Legolas’ shoulders and walked him toward the other members of his troop.  “Your father will be greatly relieved to see you, my prince.”

         Aragorn watched as the Elves took Legolas into their protective company and then glanced at the bedraggled wizard beside him.  He returned his knife to the scabbard at his belt and nodded toward the woods.  “I suppose we best gather up the Dwarves,” he stated.

          “Hmmm?” the maiar replied.  “Oh, yes, quite right.” 

         He started to follow Aragorn into the shadows of the trees but lingered a moment to look back at the Elf prince.  Although Legolas was now smiling and seemed to be recovered, Gandalf knew that he would carry the terrible memories of this imprisonment for many years to come.  As he turned his glance back to the young ranger, the healer who would become king, he smiled to himself knowing that Aragorn would contribute greatly to the healing of Legolas’ soul.  And for this he was very grateful. 

*Legolas, Hear me! Fight her, my friend! Fight the Shadow! 

** Blood demon

The End