-Between Darkness and Dawn-

By: Cassia and Siobhan

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Rating: PG-13

Feedback:
cassia_a@hotmail.com and siobhancl2@aol.com

Disclaimer: 
We own nothing of Middle Earth or any of Tolkien’s worlds or characters. Everything recognizable belongs to JRR Tolkien; anything else belongs to us. We have no permission to use these characters and are receiving no money for this story. This story was written for enjoyment only.  Please do not use our original characters or situations without asking first.  Thank you. 

Summary:
Thus far, Aragorn and Legolas repeatedly crossed the path of an ancient evil and managed to escape with little notice taken... but that luck has just run out. The Witch King is very curious about the beings that have twice evaded and thwarted him. He wants to know who they are... especially the human. When he is deliberately poisoned, Aragorn's only hope of survival is to follow the Wraith's summons to Angmar, where the antidote lies. To stay with him now, Legolas must choose to walk willingly into the arms of the darkness that has once enslaved him, and once broken his spirit. Imprisoned by a brutal host, the flame of the ranger's hope begins to dim, even as Legolas struggles to keep it alive.

Series:
Part of the expanding Mellon Chronicles Universe, which includes:
“Tears Like Rain”, “Captive of Darkness”, “Hope”,
“Father’s Love”, “Never Alone”, “First Meetings”,
“Change of Heart, Change of Mind”, “Exile”,
“Return”, “Mistaken Identity”, “Vilya”,
“Black Breath”, “Sickness”, “The Seventh Stone”,
“Betrayal”, “Legolas’ No Good, Rotten Day”,
“Priceless Treasure”, “The Stars of Harad”, “Dark Visions”,
“Traitor”, “Escape from Mordor”, “Curse of Angmar”,
“Siege of Dread”, “Only the Beginning”, “Trouble Follows”, “
It had to be Caves”, “It had to be Stairs”, “Cell Number Eight”,
& “And So The End”
This story will make much more sense if you have read those first, but if you want to be adventurous and give it a whirl by itself, go right ahead!

WARNINGS:
Extreme torture and heaping helpings of angst (with a lot of hurt/comfort mush thrown in to cover all owies *grin*).  I mean it folks, you know when we bother to use the word ‘extreme’ we are serious.  :o)  You have been warned.


Special thanks:
To our readers and reviewers all over the net – you are a wonderful bunch.  To our yahoo group – you always make us smile.  To our Beta Reader San – thank you for sharing your time with us.  And of course, to my co-author Siobhan – thank you for writing with me, it’s the best part of my life. ~~Cassia

Time Frame:
Pre-LOTR, after “Siege of Dread”.

Additional Notes and Disclaimers:
We’ll try to keep this section short this time, I promise.  I’ll just give you a few little disclaimers I want to get out of the way up front. *smile*

We are not herbalists. 
We use many references to herbs and primitive or natural medicines in this story.  While a few are real, most are completely fictional.  Do not try these things at home, they probably don’t work!  LOL

We are not Volcanologists. 
We do some things in this story with magma and volcanic activity that we are not entirely sure is completely possible.  We did look it up and got some interesting answers from a gentleman who *is* a Volcanologist, but take it all with a grain of salt anyway and realize when one is dealing with evil, undead spirits and body-less eyes, there is hopefully room for a few other phenomena. :o)

We are not sane...
OOPS!!!  *quickly hits delete key* how did THAT get in there?... *smile*

Okay, now that that’s over with, on to what you all are really here for: the story!!

___________________________________________________________

-Between Darkness and Dawn-

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~*Prologue*~

Aragorn bolted wide awake, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his hunting knife.  His breath came in short, quick gasps.  He was covered in perspiration and entangled in the blanket wrapped about him.

A cool hand gently grasped his fingers, which still clung tightly to the handle of his blade.

“Easy, Strider.”  The words were elvish and cut through the last vestiges of foggy dreams that entwined him.  “We are safe.  The fighting is long over.”

There had been orcs and people everywhere... and the bear...

The bear!

The human relinquished his grasp on the weapon and turned quickly to his left.  The animal was watching them closely.  Its large, dark eyes reflected the scant moonlight.  It whuffled softly, acknowledging the ranger's glance.  Its breath ghosted lightly on the cool night air.  With a small smile, Aragorn nodded at the animal and allowed Legolas to press him back down against the long grasses that formed his bed tonight.

“Dreaming of it, were you?” Legolas’ voice was amused. 

Aragorn rolled over and gazed up at the elf who had propped himself up on one elbow.  Legolas smiled slightly as he glanced over the human's shoulder, watching the bear that lay behind them both.

It had only been a few hours since the chaos had ended and the plains had returned to their normally peaceful state.  The events of the last few days coiled through Aragorn's thoughts, disturbing his waking moments and invading his sleep.  His head ached - a reminder of the battle not long behind them. 

Legolas’ soft fingers touched the human’s temple, and then drifted down to rest upon Aragorn’s hand again.  The fingers of the ranger’s right hand were bruised and warm to the touch.  “Does it still hurt?”

“Only when I’m conscious,” Aragorn replied dryly.  “That’s what I get for being trodden upon by a hoard of orcs and a clumsy elf.”  It was a joke and Legolas accepted it as such.

“Clumsy?  I wasn’t the one on the ground,” the prince pointed out. 

Aragorn smiled, but his eyes were beginning to glaze with weariness.  This was not how their little trip was supposed to have worked out, but at least everyone was all right. 

“Sleep, you'll need the rest.”  Legolas' words cut through his thoughts; the very same words the elf had spoken to him weeks ago.

With a soft chuckle Aragorn closed his eyes.  “I’ve heard that before.”

“And I was right, was I not?”  Legolas teased gently.  “Nothing will happen tonight.  We are safe I think.”  He placed Aragorn's hunting knife next to the ranger's head.  Almost without thought, the ranger turned over onto his side and pulled the blade closer to his body, within easy reach.  It was a habit he had never broken.  By now he had finally accepted the realization that he never would.

He let the memories flood back through his mind, trying to accept them and own them, just like his adopted father Lord Elrond had taught him so many years ago. 

//”When a memory is owned, the fear it holds you is broken and it no longer enslaves you...”//

Aragorn had thought them wise words then; he had had chance to practice them many times since.

He did so now.

As he drifted off to sleep, Legolas' voice echoed dimly in his mind, words of the past reflecting within...

___________________________________________________________

~*PART ONE*~
~Bitter Parting~

“Sleep, you'll need the rest,” the elf prince insisted.

“Who knew one old man and his apprentice would have so much energy in them,” Aragorn growled grumpily.  It had been two days since they parted from the main company of wood-elves.  The pace they had kept since was even brisker than usual. 

Beoma and the young man he had taken as his apprentice were both as spry as any elf Aragorn had ever known.

The baker was pushing the upper borders of middle age.  His dark black hair and beard were almost completely frosted with grey, but the vitality in his large, powerful limbs had not waned.  His apprentice, Pejor, was still a youth.  He was not yet old enough to grow a proper beard, and only the scraggly beginnings of one clung to the side of face.  The boy was slender and wiry, but very energetic.  Until recently, he had talked to the ranger almost constantly. 

The plan was for the elf and ranger to escort the two Beornings back to their homes.  Under normal circumstances this would have caused the ranger no fatigue.  Unfortunately, Aragorn had not counted on losing so much sleep between the elder baker’s snoring and Legolas’... family trouble.  Aragorn glanced sidelong at his friend, but the elf was smiling now and teasing him, no hint of shadow in his playful gaze.  Aragorn was glad. 

“Master, master you’re snoring again,” Pejor’s soft voice drifted to them from across the darkened camp.  Beoma grunted softly and a rustling sound suggested that he had rolled over.  A few moments later the sonorous drone began again. 

Aragorn had to chuckle and Legolas returned his grin.  Those two... they were quite a handful in their own, unique way. 

“Master Beoma...” Pejor’s voice almost bordered on whining.

Legolas started to rise, but Aragorn caught his friend’s wrist, bidding him stay.  “No, let them be.  For once, the kid has a point...”

Legolas shook his head and raised his eyebrow but settled down beside the ranger again. 

Sometimes eager to the point of aggravation, Pejor was Beoma’s ‘latest project’ as the elder master baker had affectionately introduced him when he brought him to Rivendell several months ago.  He said he needed someone to keep him young since Elladan and Elrohir weren’t able to visit as much as they used to anymore.  Aragorn wasn’t sure if Pejor kept the older Beorning young or just kept him laughing, although perhaps they were one and the same.

Beoma and Pejor had been away from home some time now as they watched over their healing friends in Rivendell and they seemed anxious to get home.  Only after some persuasion from Legolas, had the two finally agreed to halt for the night.  The elf's argument - that dealing with Aragorn after a lack of sleep would drive any being to insanity - had won them over.

Rolling over, the ranger smacked the elf lightly as he remembered what Legolas had said. “And thanks for the vote of confidence back there, using me as your excuse to set up camp for the evening.”

“What excuse?”  Legolas laughed, pushing the human back.  “It’s true, you are insufferable.  Now don’t make me say it again, go_to_sleep.”  He over-enunciated the words as though dealing with a stubborn child.

With a snort of derision, Aragorn grabbed the edges of his blanket.  He wrapped it more firmly around his frame as he rolled over, demonstratively putting his back to his friend. 

“Fussy elf.”  He muttered darkly, the easy taunt earning a light laugh from his companion.

Legolas smiled.  Pulling his cloak around himself, he lay down near his friend, gazing up at the stars.  Legolas had a blanket and bedroll with their supplies but he obviously did not care to use it tonight.  The last time he had neglected his bedding, no less than five of his father’s servants had hurried to bring him more blankets than any being could possibly use.  Despite Legolas’ protests, they had not gone away until Thranduil was satisfied that his son was comfortable. 

Aragorn rolled onto his back again, casting a sidelong look at his friend.  “If you think *I’m* going to pop up and get you your blanket...” he murmured in a somewhat sleepy, but wry tone. 

“You do and I will probably kill you,” Legolas cut him off quickly. 

Aragorn’s grin widened in the dark.  It was as he suspected.  “Enjoying your freedom?” he taunted lightly, closing his eyes as the soft night sounds enveloped them. 

Legolas had loved being with his father in Rivendell, but the more Aragorn watched them together, the more he understood why Legolas liked to spend so much time by himself.  The creator seemed to have placed two very strong willed spirits together in Legolas and Thranduil.  They had the unique problem of being different enough to have their own conflicting points of view, and yet alike enough to lock horns over them.  In Rivendell, all had been well, but once they were on their way home again...

“Yes.  There is something very pleasant about being able to govern one’s own actions.  Strange how that is, is it not?” the elf’s reply was obviously meant in jest, keeping in the light spirit of their conversation, but there was a slight tension under the words that the ranger did not miss.

Aragorn sighed.  He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation now, when he felt ready to nod off at any moment, but he had to say something. 

“He cares for you very much you know, no matter how he acts sometimes,” the human said quietly.  There was no need to specify whom he was talking about.  Aragorn knew how he would feel if his father had refused to say goodbye to him after everything they had just been through in the past few months.  He was a bit surprised how easily Legolas seemed to be dealing with the entire situation.  It seemed to be something to which the prince was unfortunately accustomed.

Legolas was still for a moment.  “I know.  He would trade his life for mine, but he doesn’t trust me to figure out how many pillows I can actually use.”  He rolled onto his side so he could watch his friend.  He could see the concern in the ranger’s tired eyes and smiled gently.  “Don’t, mellon-nín, don’t try to figure us out.  You will only give yourself a headache.”

“Which I already have, thank you very much,” Aragorn rubbed his temples.  “Just because I *can* go night and day without rest doesn’t mean I enjoy it...”

Legolas exhaled with a half-chuckle.  “I’m sorry about that. Beoma and Pejor are surprising for mortals, but then again, so are you.  You should have said something earlier and I would have stopped everyone sooner.”

Aragorn shrugged.  “You had things on your mind.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment, remembering how he and Thranduil had parted two days ago.  It was not the kind of thing he would have wanted or expected after how peaceful their relationship had been in Rivendell.  Legolas was actually a little surprised it had all turned out so badly.

Aragorn was not.  He had seen the clouds gathering from the moment the Mirkwood contingent left Imladris.  Thranduil was ready to go home.  Legolas was not.  The prince could not explain it rationally, because he *did* want to go home... but he did not want to leave Rivendell, not yet.  Thranduil made the decisions however and when he said they were leaving, they were leaving.  Legolas understood and accepted the decree.

Aragorn had softened the departure by accompanying Legolas on the journey for at least part of the way.  The ranger was escorting Beoma and Pejor home now that Celboril was sufficiently recovered to resume the duties that he loved so well.  Since the two Beornings’ village near the Carrock was roughly along the same path that would take the wood-elves home, they agreed to journey together, until such time as they would have to part ways after crossing the Anduin.

The trip over the Misty Mountains had been smooth enough, but traversing the paths that had led them all into so much trouble and pain months before, had not seemed to have a good effect on Thranduil and Legolas.  Thranduil became increasingly protective of his son, undoubtedly still remembering how close he had come to losing him.  Legolas appreciated the concern, but was now fully recovered.  He found the pampering both smothering and occasionally humiliating.  The prince said nothing and let his father have his way, but Aragorn could tell what Legolas thought whether he voiced it or not. 

Thranduil was not an idiot: he could sense that his son was pulling away from him, but he did not understand why.  The harder Thranduil tried to hold on and fix the perceived distance between them in his own way, the more Legolas tried to pull back from the constant pressure to get a little space of his own.  Raniean and Trelan spent many evenings silently slapping their foreheads as they saw the pattern they both recognized far too well settling back into place between their King and Prince.  Legolas and Thranduil had both grown much and their relationship benefited from that growth, but some things it seemed, would never change.

When Legolas quietly announced his intention to accompany Strider to the Beorning village rather than returning home immediately with the rest of the company, it sparked an unexpected firestorm. 

Thranduil forbid the parting, barely even letting Legolas finish. 

//”But father...” Legolas was surprised at the abrupt command.

“*No*, Legolas.  It’s not safe and you’re not well yet.  Besides, haven’t you been away enough?  It’s time to go home.  Strider is more than capable of seeing Beoma and Pejor back by himself.”  Thranduil’s tone was final.  He did not intend to discuss this situation further. 

Legolas took several deep breaths and folded his arms as Thranduil turned away decisively.  He had let Thranduil have his way on every single issue that came up thus far.  Besides, he had already told Aragorn yes, so it was not his father’s decision to make.  “I’m going,” he said quietly.

Thranduil turned back quickly.  “What?”

“I’m going.” Legolas repeated quietly, almost respectfully.  “I am not ill anymore father and I can take care of myself.  I promise I will not be long.” 

“Legolas...” Aragorn was shaking his head, for he didn’t want Legolas to clash with his father over this.  He had invited the elf to come with him, but he hadn’t meant to cause an argument. 

“No, Estel, I said I was going with you and I am.  Nothing will happen father, you have my word.”

“Nothing?” Thranduil’s voice turned incredulous.  “The same nothing that always happens to you when you leave me?  Legolas be reasonable.  The last time you went off on your own you ended up in – in Mordor!  Have you no notion of how many times you’ve almost died since then?  How many Legolas?”

The younger elf flinched slightly.  How many?  More than his father knew.  “The Carrock is barely four days journey from here and Beoma’s village only a little farther.  In all likelihood I will catch up with you before you even make it back to Lasgalen.”  Legolas tried to keep a reasonable, persuasive tone and not give voice to his rankled temper. 

Thranduil was not impressed.  The Elvenking did not like being crossed and his quick-burn temper was winding along with his concern.  “Not this time, Legolas.  I have heard that before.  And now you want me to trust you to...”

“To what?  Make my own decisions?” Legolas shook his head.  Pain flashed behind his eyes and a hard determination came over his features.  This was exactly why he did not usually tell his father more than the King needed to know about where he had been and what had happened while he was there. 

“Do you think I rush into danger because it excites me, or because I don’t know any better?  Do you honestly think...” the prince’s voice dropped.  “...That I have chosen anything that has happened to me these past few seasons?”

“I just want you safe.  You used to be more careful than this Legolas.  Don’t be a fool.”

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably.  He wanted to speak up, but didn’t know what he could say that would help.  It wasn’t his place to interfere between Legolas and his father, but his heart ached for his friend.  Thranduil may have meant well, but he was stabbing at wounds he knew nothing about.  The Elvenking was placing blame upon horrific situations that he had not witnessed and hence could not understand.  Aragorn had witnessed them and he did understand.  He could see Legolas stinging from the verbal blows and coiling into a position to retaliate.  This was not going to go well.

“I cannot live my life in a self-made cage, either to keep the world out or to myself in... that’s not safety, it’s cowardice.”  Legolas’ voice was barely above a whisper.  “I did that once father, you know I did, and it almost turned my heart as cold as the stone walls I was hiding behind.  Do you want me to go back to that?”

“At least then I knew where you were half the time.  I could *do* something when there was a problem, not just sit there for years having nightmares about you and being absolutely helpless.  All you have gained over the years is recklessness.  How often have I almost lost you?  Too often.  And now you want to go running off again, without even coming home first?  What have I done Legolas?  Why are you punishing me?  Is my company that repugnant to you?” there was hurt behind the accusing and angry tones creeping into Thranduil’s voice.

“Of course not, Father!” Legolas protested quickly, deeply hurt by that accusation.  “That isn’t true...”

“Then you will come home,” Thranduil’s voice was quiet now. 

Valar, Legolas could never fight his father’s logic.  “Because you want me to?” Legolas’ question was guarded, but earnest.  If it was really that important to his father that he came home now, he knew Aragorn would understand...

Thranduil perceived the question as a challenge to his authority and his tone frosted over.  “Because I *tell* you to.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  The worst thing he could have said. 

Raniean, standing nearby but keeping respectfully out of the quarrel, resisted the urge to groan.  He knew exactly how his friend would react, and he was right. 

Legolas’ lips tightened.  The prince turned away and started separating his gear from the royal pack horses. 

Thranduil stopped him with a hand on his arm.  “Legolas, what are you doing?”   

“Preparing to leave with Strider,” Legolas answered evenly. 

Thranduil’s hand tightened on Legolas’ arm, forcefully spinning the younger elf back around to face the older elf.  “Legolas, have you heard nothing of what I am saying to you?”

Legolas faced his father calmly.  “Yes, my lord, I’m listening.  I have done nothing *but* listen since we left Rivendell.  I mean you no disrespect, but I wish you would honor my decisions as I honor yours.”

“I do when your decisions are not foolhardy or ill advised.”

Legolas tried and failed to keep the small flash of anger from his eyes.  “And who decides they are foolhardy and ill advised father?  Are you truly the final judge on such matters?”

Thranduil’s jaw tightened.  “Legolas...”

Legolas grabbed his pack and turned away, tugging his arm out of his father’s hands.  “I promise I will return home to you by the time the new moon is full.”//

Aragorn shifted on his blanket and sighed at the memory as he tried to tune out Beoma’s disturbing snoring.  In the end Thranduil accepted Legolas’ course of action only because he would have had to put him under arrest to make him stay.  He had insisted that Legolas at least take Raniean, Trelan and some of the other guards with him, but Legolas refused.  If the suggestion had been made before the issue became a battle of wills, Legolas would have gladly taken his friends along, but not now, not because his father ordered him to do so. 

//”Legolas if they want to come, they are welcome,” Aragorn had tried to bring any measure of peace possible to the situation.  “I always enjoy their company...”

“No,” Legolas was riled and hurt.  He had too much of his father in him to give in an inch now.  “You and I are perfectly capable on our own.  I do not need nor desire an escort of wet nurses.”  His tone was more biting than he intended. 

Aragorn flinched slightly and glanced over Legolas’ shoulder.  Legolas turned, following his friend’s gaze to find that Raniean was standing right behind him.  It showed how upset Legolas was that he had not even noticed his friend’s approach.

Legolas froze slightly.  He really hadn’t wanted Raniean to hear that last statement. 

“Legolas,” Raniean shook his head, speaking quietly, just for his friend’s ears.  “Trelan and I want to go with you.  You’re our friend.  Don’t reject us just because the King would have us act like nursemaids.”

Trelan stood behind Raniean quietly.  He had obviously also heard Legolas’ outburst.

Legolas sighed and took Raniean by the shoulders, wishing to take back his hard words and remove the hurt behind his old friend’s eyes.  He was upset and lashed out at the first person handy.  It was a trait he knew he possessed, but hated.  It was too similar to what he did not like about his father. 

“Ran, Trey, I’m sorry, I did not intend that the way it sounded.  You know I value your company.  But... I need to do this on my own.”  Legolas’ eyes pleaded for understanding. 

“Because, if we go with you and you come back all right, it proves nothing to your father,” Trelan said quietly.  He smiled dryly. 

Raniean saw in Legolas’ eyes that Trelan had accurately assessed the situation and his consternation flared. 

“Legolas, don’t be as pig-headed as he is.  I don’t need two of him!”  The taller elf tried to make a joke out of his frustration, although nothing about it was very funny. 

“Please, Ran, I need you at least to trust me.  I will be all right, I promise.  Look after father.  I will be home soon; perhaps I will even bring Strider with me if he is able.”  Legolas smiled for them, trying to lift the dark cloud that had settled over the camp.

“You know I trust you, Legolas,” Raniean said quietly. 

“You’re a stubborn elf, Legolas,” Trelan shook his head.  “But you better be back in time to start practicing for the spring games.  Raniean and I don’t have a trio for the competitions when you’re gone.”

The three childhood friends tried to smile. 

“All right, I promise,” Legolas squeezed his friends’ arms. 

Aragorn eased away while the three elves were talking.  He felt bad about the way this situation had degenerated.  He felt responsible for this latest rift between Thranduil and Legolas.  Certainly there had been some tension on the journey, but he hadn’t expected to see it blow up quite this badly.  He couldn’t understand.  So much had seemed to have healed between Legolas and his father these past months, and now...

Thranduil was stalking about, overseeing the preparations to break camp.  Harried servants hurried about trying to please their currently ill-tempered Lord. 

“Your highness?” Aragorn tried to get the King’s attention. 

The Elvenking had his back to the human and did not turn for a moment.  When he did his face was cool and diplomatically set.  “Yes?”

“Your highness...” there was so much Aragorn wanted to say, but so much he knew Thranduil wouldn’t hear.  “I won’t let anything happen to Legolas.  I would die to protect him, you know that.”

Thranduil nodded once, but did not speak.  The King did know.  Aragorn had proved his loyalty on more than one occasion.  He did not blame the human for his son’s recklessness anymore, but he did not wish to discuss it with him either.

The ranger hesitated, not sure where to go from their quiet impasse. 

“When I was young, I broke my brothers’ favorite hunting bows.  I was upset because I could not go out with them.  I meant to hide the bow, but ended up ruining it instead.  It was an accident, but they were quite angry.  They left on their trip.  While they were in the mountains there was an accident.  Elrohir broke his leg and they were trapped in a snare-pit they could not escape.  Father sensed something was wrong and Moranuen found them, but it was almost too late.  Until he brought them back I thought I had lost them, like I lost my parents, and there was no way I could take back what had happened between us.”

Thranduil looked away.  “I’m sorry to hear it, but I assume there is a larger point you are trying to achieve here?”

Aragorn nodded.  “We cannot always control what happens to our loved ones.  Sometimes they are hurt.  Sometimes they die.  But if we part angry, and something *does* happen... it hurts that much more.”

Thranduil met Aragorn’s gaze firmly.  “I held my son in my arms and believed he was dying.  I sat there and heard the best healers in Arda say there was nothing they could do to save him.  All I could do was hold his bleeding body.  That is all I have EVER been able to do for him.  I thought he was dead, Estel.  I poured my heart out to him.  Now he will not even return home with me.  Nothing can hurt more.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe we have our separate ways to go.”

Thranduil left Aragorn standing there, looking at the king’s retreat and wishing there was something else he could say.

“It’s not your fault you know,” Trelan’s hand on Aragorn’s back almost made the ranger jump.  “Take it from someone who has known them longer than you.  They’ll get over this eventually.  It’s... it’s a kind of pattern with them.  Believe me, things have improved.  There was a time when Legolas would be on his way back to Mirkwood in irons right now.”  The smaller elf was trying to be light, but Aragorn could tell he was only partly joking. 

Aragorn shook his head and let his breath out slowly.  He realized that Legolas was at his elbow. 

“Come Estel, I have spoken to Beoma, he and Pejor are ready.  Let us go.”  Legolas gave no indication of whether or not he had heard what his father said about him. 

“Legolas,” Aragorn hesitated.  “Maybe you should stay.  It’s not worth all this... I don’t even know what’s being fought about anymore.”

Legolas hesitated briefly, but then resolutely shook his head.  “Nothing we have not disagreed on my whole life.  I am not a child anymore.  Someday father will have to understand that.  If he could only trust a little less in the infallibility of his own wisdom...” the prince’s words trailed off.  He hadn’t meant to go that far.  “Forgive me.  Únauth, mellon-nín. Forget it.  Come.”

Thranduil ignored them when they left.  He did not acknowledge Legolas’ farewell, although the younger elf tried twice. 

Legolas did not seem to expect him to respond, and did not react to the rejection.  But Aragorn knew his friend well enough to see that Thranduil’s actions hurt Legolas whether the prince cared to show it or not.

The morning sky spread out bright overhead as Beoma and Pejor quietly followed their escorts away from the main elf host.  They could tell there had been trouble and kept to themselves for the moment, giving the two friends space. 

“I’m sorry Legolas,” Aragorn said quietly when they crested a ridge and looked back to see the party of elves winding their way away towards the dark, distant shadow of the forest on the far horizon. 

“I had hoped...” the ranger trailed off.  What was he going to say?  ‘I had hoped you both were past this?’  That did not sound at all like what he meant.

Legolas sighed.  “Strider, father and I did a lot of talking in Rivendell.  Real talking, not just him talking and I listening.  I feel I understand him now as well as I ever will... not that this knowledge always helps.”  He chuckled ruefully.  “But nothing changes overnight.  Trees that have grown for centuries take time to bend a new direction, even if the sun and winds that shape them shift.  If I had a horse for every time my father and I have parted badly, Mirkwood’s stables would rival those of the Rohirrim.  I have finally learned that it will pass, we will come to peace again and father will eventually forget he was ever angry.  That is more than I could say ever before.  And right now, I intend to enjoy my freedom while it lasts.” 

Aragorn shook his head, unable to repress a small snort.  “I may never understand your family, mellon-nín, but so long as we are not being exiled or chased by insane relatives, I suppose I can live with a few quirks.”

“Good, especially since you have no right to talk.  I do not have two brothers who put water pitchers above other people’s doors...”

Aragorn groaned.  “Legolas, for the hundredth time, they intended it for me...”

“Mmm,” Legolas nodded.  “All very well, except that they got my father and me.”

“I would have liked to see that,” Pejor commented, now that the conversation seemed to be taking a lighter and less private turn. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Aragorn and Legolas said at the same time.

Beoma laughed.  It was a distinctive, full-bellied whuffling sound that made you want to join him.//

Now, looking up at the night sky littered with stars, Aragorn chuckled again.  He was glad Legolas was here with him, even if that was a selfish thought.  They had been together daily for over three years now, it would be an adjustment when they finally had to say goodbye.  Aragorn knew he had things he had to do, as did Legolas.  Even so, any small amount of extra time they could delay the inevitable parting was welcome... even if Legolas, Beoma and Pejor had seemed content to walk almost all night last night and half of this one. 

“What?” Legolas asked, having heard his friend laugh.

“Beoma and Pejor, I swear they like walking in starlight almost as much as you do.”

Legolas smiled in the dark and shook his head.  He had to agree.  The Beornings were unusual people, but then, he already knew that.  “I thought you were going to sleep.”

“I am, I am,” Aragorn rolled his eyes.  “Gladly.”

___________________________________________________________

~*PART TWO*~
~A Baited Snare~

The morning was bright and rosy, despite the nip of deepening autumn that lingered in the air.  Here and there birds twittered in the branches overhead, winging their way south in preparation for the winter months.  Like the birds, the elf, ranger and two Beornings had risen at dawn and already covered many miles. 

Nature made a beautiful song, but it was difficult for Aragorn to hear it.  Pejor was talking to the ranger and Aragorn nodded politely as they walked.  At first he really had been paying attention to what the younger man said, but about a half hour ago even his lengthy attention span had been exceeded.  He found his mind wandering. 

Pejor was either oblivious, or used to the reaction. 

“So if you hold it over the fire any longer it ruins the color, but if you take it off when it’s only slightly brown you can twist it into...” Pejor stopped speaking when his Master’s hand on his arm stopped his forward motion. 

“Come, Pejor,” Beoma interrupted.  “It’s time for us to let the good ranger have some peace.  Home is just over those hills.”

Aragorn cast the baker a grateful look that made Beoma chuckle.

“Are we there already?” Pejor seemed genuinely surprised.  “Well goodbye, Strider, it’s been wonderful talking to you.”

“You too, Pejor,” Aragorn replied graciously. 

Legolas shot his friend an amused glance.  “You are such a liar,” his laughing blue eyes seemed to say. 

When neither Beoma nor Pejor were looking, Aragorn made a face at the prince. 

“Good-bye, friends!” Beoma and Pejor waved to the two friends as the elder Beorning ushered his apprentice away.  “We thank you for your assistance and your gracious company.  We can find our own way from here.  If you come this way again, you must stop by!”

“As long as you’re doing the cooking, Beoma, you can be sure we will!” Aragorn assured with a smile. 

Aragorn and Legolas watched as the two Beornings wound away into the distance and disappeared from view when their path took them down into the valley, leading them home. 

Aragorn sat down on a rock and tilted his face towards the sunshine.  He was still a bit tired.  He was glad that Beoma had not expected them to go all the way back to their village.  He was not sure Pejor would have survived that long. 

The ranger opened one eye and found that Legolas was standing in front of him, watching him.  He closed his eye again. 

“Do you hear that?” the ranger asked. 

Barely imperceptible rustling sounds told Aragorn that his friend had seated himself on the grass next to the ranger.

“It depends on what ‘that’ is,” Legolas said after a moment. 

Aragorn rolled his eyes.  That’s what he got for talking to an elf.  There wasn’t a single significant sound to be heard for miles, but doubtless Legolas could catalog every bird call and distant footstep if asked. 

“The silence.  It’s beautiful, or at least it *was*,” the human said wryly. 

“Ah,” came Legolas’ reply.  There was a long pause.  “You know, you can’t really hear silence...” the elf said after several minutes. 

For a moment Aragorn actually thought Legolas was serious.  Another quick peek at his friend’s face however told him that the prince was teasing. 

“Then maybe those elven ears of yours aren’t as good as you think,” the ranger’s rejoinder came equally deadpanned.

Legolas snorted softly.  Neither of them wanted to talk about leaving or where they were going to go from here just yet. 

“Oh really?  Well then what do you hear, my esteemed companion?” the elf taunted. 

Aragorn tilted his head back with a small laugh.  “Well, I hear you, and I hear the birds...” the ranger stopped suddenly.  His brows furrowed.  The fact was, he *didn’t* hear the birds anymore.  He opened his eyes to find that Legolas was on his feet again, looking around. 

The birds had all flown off, but there were other sounds.  The distant clamor was faint and muffled to Aragorn’s ears, but very clear now to Legolas’. 

“Estel, I hear orc voices!” he said with no small amount of alarm. 

Aragorn jumped to his feet at Legolas’ side.  In the distance grey smoke rose in thin threads through the morning air.  There was too much smoke for it to be from cooking fires and it was coming from the direction of Beoma and Pejor’s village. 

The two friends took off at a run, following the path taken by the Beornings not long ago.  As they ran, the scent of smoke was carried to them on the breeze. 

Reaching the crest of the ridge, they looked down into the valley below.  The sight that met them was not a good one.  

The small Beorning village sprawled gently across the landscape below them.  Black smoke rose in a thick pall over the normally peaceful scene.  Bright orange flames licked at and devoured thatched roofs like stacks of kindling.  The town was on fire. 

Small black shapes roiled around the burning structures in tangled knots of confusion.  The twisted, ugly shapes of orcs were everywhere, like a swarm of crawling insects.  Beoma and Pejor were nowhere in sight. 

For a moment the shock was incredible.  Orcs never attacked here.  These lands were secure: the Beornings kept them safe.  These people’s blatant hatred of the evil creatures kept the orcs at bay in this part of the world.  Whatever action had set the foul beasts against the Beornings must have been great indeed.  The surprise did not hold Aragorn and Legolas captive long.  Almost immediately they began running down the hill, towards the scene of battle. 

As they came closer, the wide-spread fighting narrowed itself down to that which lay directly before them. 

A stone and thatch cottage was engulfed in flames.  A woman and child burst from the yard behind the house.  They did not scream or cry, but fear was evident on their faces.  The child tripped and fell.  The woman stopped to scoop him up and then kept running without missing a beat.  Half a dozen orcs swarmed out from around base of the burning structure, right behind the fleeing mother and child. 

They never reached their goal.  A blur of brown and gold shot past the woman and an arrow buried itself deeply in the throat of the closest orc. 

Aragorn and Legolas attacked the foul creatures with a cry.  The ranger’s sword flashed bright and lethal in the fire-glow.  Beside him, Legolas’ bow sung.  The orcs fell swiftly before them as the two friends hurried past the burning house, wading deeper into the fray. 

The Beornings were putting up a fierce fight and piles of orc dead already lay heaped amidst the burning houses.  The orcs had the advantage of sheer numbers, but the villagers were making them pay very dearly for this raid.  The small number of Beorning dead was encouraging. 

“Strider!” Legolas shouted to get his friend’s attention. 

Aragorn thrust his sword forward, impaling an orc with one sweep and jabbing another in the gut with the pommel of his blade as he yanked his hand back.  He spun around and finished the orc he had knocked down before looking up in answer to his friend’s call. 

Legolas was a dozen yards away.  The knives in his hands dripped with black orc blood.  His gaze was fixed on a point to the north of them.  Following the prince’s line of sight, Aragorn saw a small group of Beornings surrounded by orcs just beyond the edges of the village.  They could barely see Beoma’s graying head bobbing amid the others. 

For a moment Legolas had a clear look.  Beoma had his arm wrapped protectively around Pejor’s smaller shoulders.  A fierce look was on the man’s face as he struggled with the overwhelming odds stacked against them.  The orcs were trying to pull back, herding their prisoners away. 

Leaping up onto a smoldering haystack, Legolas sighted in on the orcs driving the villagers away.  Three arrows left his bowstring and three orcs fell.  The mound of hay beneath his feet shifted as several of the dark creatures jostled the base, trying to dislodge the elf.  Flames licked higher, making the air stifling hot.  Legolas was compelled to jump down before the dry stack he stood upon burst into brilliant conflagration.

Legolas landed on his feet and slit the throat of an orc that rushed towards him.  “Strider!” he called again.  The orcs on the edges of the town were getting away and he could not stop them from here. 

Aragorn nodded.  He understood what Legolas was trying to tell him.  Jumping over a low fence, the ranger hurried down the cluttered street.  A wave of fighting slowed his progress.  A brave line of stout Beorning men were holding several scores of orcs at bay behind a series of overturned carts and flaming hay bales. 

The orcs swarmed against one of the over turned carts, shoving it back against the defenders, attempting to break their line.  Throwing his shoulder against the bottom of the wagon, Aragorn was quickly joined by several other men.  Together they shoved the defense back into place.  Jumping up onto the large wheel of the cart, Aragorn leapt down into the middle of the orcs below, his sword swinging. 

Legolas lost sight of Aragorn in the fighting.  Stopping only to deal with a few orcs that confronted him, he tried to gain a higher vantage point once more.  The burning buildings obstructed his line of sight and the fighting held him mired down in the center of town, unable to locate Aragorn or the group Beoma had been amongst. 

It looked as if the Beornings were slowly winning this battle, but the orcs were putting up a good fight. 

When Aragorn finally reached the edges of the town, there was no trace of Beoma, Pejor, or the orcs he had glimpsed earlier.  Shouting behind the ranger made him turn around swiftly.  One of the larger, two-story structures was toppling down upon itself.  The huge, flaming front tumbled towards the human like a hungry giant. 

The ranger dropped and rolled only just in time to avoid being crushed under the wreckage.  He covered his head with his arms as burning cinders showered around him.  He started struggling to his feet... and that was the last thing he remembered. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Ohh, my head...” Aragorn wasn’t sure if he had said the words or only thought them.  His head felt as if it had been shoved into a box ten times too small and batted about by a few cave trolls. 

Everything was dark.  He tried to open his eyes, but after a few moments he realized that his eyes *were* open and it was dark because it was nighttime.  He started, suddenly disorientated by that realization.

“Easy, Strider, easy.” Legolas’ reassuring voice helped him come slowly back to full consciousness.  “You should avoid confrontations with falling structures, mellon-nín.  I daresay that your family does not have a good history with them.”

Aragorn smiled ruefully, wincing as he pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to get a better look around.  “What happened?  Where are we?”

The ranger found that he was on a hard earth floor, staring up into darkened rafters of what might have been a barn or stable of some kind.  The smell of smoke and charred wood still lingered heavily in the air.  There was a constant, pattering sound that his sluggish mind could not decipher until a soft peal of thunder told him it was raining.  He craned his neck around, trying to find his friend. 

“We are in a barn, near what is left of Beoma’s village,” Legolas reported quietly.  The elf was sitting cross-legged beside the ranger on the hay-strewn floor.  “This is one of the few structures still standing.  The orcs are gone.”

Aragorn could sense other presences around them in the dark and heard a soft mutter of movement.  “What of the others?” he asked.  “Is everyone all right?”

Legolas sighed softly.  “Some are; some aren’t.  The men of the village pursued the bulk of the orcs westward, back towards the misty mountains.  The creatures will think long and hard before attacking these lands again.  The women and children remained here with a small guard.  Word has been sent to the Carrock and the other villages.  Help should be arriving in a few days.  They will be all right until then, these are a strong people.”

“What of Beoma and Pejor?” Aragorn was almost afraid to ask.  Legolas’ answering silence was not reassuring. 

“I don’t know, Estel,” the elf admitted.  “They are not dead, but they are gone.  A number of the villagers are missing.  I found their tracks leading away to the north.  It seems to me that, for whatever reason, some of the orcs retreated northward with a group of prisoners long before the majority of the fighting was over.”

Aragorn rubbed his face, trying to clear the ringing from his ears.  “So they couldn’t be followed,” he said grimly.  He had seen those kinds of tactics in action before. 

“So I would assume,” Legolas agreed.  He kept his voice low so as to not disturb the other people sleeping in the barn.  “Unfortunately they seem to have been successful.  I was not able to ascertain that they had gone a different way then that which the rest of the orcs took until after the battle was over.  By that time all the fighters had already left in chase of the west-bound orcs.  There is no one here to go after the prisoners now and by the time help comes from elsewhere...”

“They will be beyond reach and hope,” Aragorn finished grimly.  He pushed himself all the way upright and hung his head forward a little, trying to work the tension out of his shoulders.

“That is what I fear,” Legolas concurred.  “The Carrock is two days journey from here.  As soon as word reaches Grimbeorn of what has happened to his kin he will come to their aid.  I do not know him, but I met his father Beorn once, a long time ago.  They are not men one should wish to have as an enemy.  I do not doubt that the orcs attempting to escape to the mountains will be slain, but I fear any aid will come too late to help those taken north.”

“Then we must go after them ourselves,” Aragorn said decidedly.  Beoma and Pejor had been under his protection; he felt responsible for them.  Besides, he would suffer no one to be left captive in the hands of orcs.

Legolas nodded.  “I already assumed we would.  I took the liberty of gathering up such supplies as we shall need before the rain began.  We will be ready to leave at first light... *if* you are all right.”

“Me?” Aragorn flashed his friend a roguish smile.  “You know how hard my head is.”

“Yes, I do.”  Legolas raised one sculpted eyebrow at his friend.  “But you still had me worried.  Finding you in that flaming wreckage was no easy task, my friend.  I feared you had been consumed by the fire.  You were lucky that it was only some of the Beornings personal things had trapped you when the building collapsed.  After we pulled you out, I could not wake you, but you did not rest easy.  I worried that you were more injured than you appeared.  You kept crying out something about the Corsairs.”

“Did I?” Aragorn honestly had no memory of any such thing.  He mused for a moment.  “I’m sorry, Legolas.  I suppose that the last time I saw a village burn and was unable to stop it was in Gondor.”  The man fell silent.  He had been unable to save the prisoners taken in that raid so long ago.  He vowed he would do better by Beoma, Pejor and their people. 

Legolas squeezed his friend’s arm.  “Are you sure you are well?”

Aragorn nodded quickly.  A little too quickly for his aching head, which protested violently.  He hid most of the pain from Legolas under a smile as he eased himself back down unto the makeshift bed of straw, thankful for the cover of dark.  He really could use a bit more rest to ease the pounding between his ears.  The pain seemed to abate some when he lied down. “I will be fine.  I hate delaying though...”

Legolas chuckled.  “Strider, it is dark, it is raining and you are injured.  We would make no progress tonight.  Rest for now, and tomorrow there will be plenty of time to hunt orcs.” 

He watched as the ranger nodded slowly and closed his eyes.  Relieved that the man seemed all right, the elf finally allowed himself to rest.  A small smile crept across the Legolas’ face despite their predicament.  As usual, Estel had not accounted for the fact that the prince could see him perfectly well in the dark.  He had watched the human wince when acting too quickly and noted how slow and painful Aragorn’s movements were.  There was no way Legolas would have let the man leave in the middle of the night in his shape.  Tomorrow would be soon enough.  He hoped that even the orcs wouldn’t force their slaves to move in this weather.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was still raining lightly the next morning when Aragorn and Legolas began their northward trek.  The fall air was chilly and the grey rain cold, but the two friends moved swiftly under the cloudy skies nonetheless.  The tracks were still fairly fresh.  Even with the rain, Aragorn had no trouble following them northward.  The night’s rest had refreshed him and he was eager to begin. The orcs had quite a head start on them, but the elf and ranger knew that if they followed long and fast enough, they would eventually catch up with the foul creatures and their prisoners.

Legolas pulled his hood up over his head to keep the drizzling rain out of his hair and eyes as they hurried along the trail.  He had expected the orcs to eventually turn westward, towards the mountains, but the trail continued to lead them further and further north.  The creatures seemed to be following the Anduin upstream.  As the great river dwindled smaller above the Rhimdoth, nearing its mouth in the Grey Mountains, it became known as the Langflood.  

“Where do you think they are taking them?” the prince asked after several hours, when it became apparent that the orcs were not going to turn sideways any time soon. 

“I could not begin to guess,” Aragorn admitted.  “It troubles me that these orcs did not go the same direction as their comrades.  This whole situation is disturbing to say the least.”

Legolas could not have agreed more.  “It is indeed.  Since Beorn and his kin took to watching the road between the high pass and the Carrock, orcs have not dared to venture there.  True, Beoma’s village was small and relatively unguarded in comparison to some, but even so...”

Aragorn’s thoughts were running along the same path.  The orcs had either been overconfident, or they were seeking retaliation against the Beornings for the woodsmen’s continued vigilance against them.  If the latter were true, then that lent added urgency to rescuing the prisoners before the orcs could vent their rage upon them.

The elf and ranger pressed on even faster.

Suddenly Legolas paused and looked upward.  He thought he had either seen or felt a shadow flicker by overhead.  Yet there was nothing there. 

“Legolas?” Aragorn turned back towards his friend.  “What is it?”

Legolas shook his head and hurried forward to join the ranger once more.  “I don’t know,” the elf replied truthfully.  “Perhaps nothing.  But we should make haste.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Snow was falling upon the upper mountain reaches.  It was still early fall in the southlands, but here, in the frozen north, winter came early and held the world in an iron grip until the mild spring set it free. 

Decent folk did not settled this far north: they did not dare.  If the bitter winters could not drive them away, the dark evil in the brooding mountains would.  Here and there, twisted iron spires and broken rubble were buried under shifting earth and early snow.  The once great realm of Angmar lay in tumbled ruins, but evil still lingered like a stain upon the land. 

The greatest fortress of Angmar had never been destroyed, and for good reason. It was built into the mountain itself: a vast castle etched out of the living stone.  From natural caverns tangled deep in the roots of the mountain to the myriad labyrinths painstakingly carved out of the upper core, the mountain had been converted into a dark palace.  Thousands of slaves had died excavating and shaping the fortress.  Their names and lives were now long forgotten, but the echo of their misery lived on in the cold, cheerless halls. 

Long, the mountain had stood empty, but the past century had slowly seen lights kindling once more in the darkened window and the terror that shrouded the area deepened. 

At one such window, a dark figure stood, gazing out across the cold, barren reaches of his former realm.

The large pane of glass in front of him was frosted over with icy tendrils that created a fern pattern on the window.  It was freezing outside, but the room’s single occupant would not have known.  He experienced neither heat nor warmth.  He lived in a world of shadows in which such things held little or no meaning.  He feared the searing touch of fire and the savage clutch of rivers.  Those elements of earth were the most painful to his twilight-world existence.  But he derived pleasure from nothing, save the torment of others or the fulfilling of his master’s will.  It had been countless centuries since he had felt anything but the aching, searing drive of his master.  Sauron yearned only to be reunited with the one thing that held the key to his power in its keeping and that desire was echoed fiercely to all his minions.  Wincing slightly with the ache of Sauron’s devotion to finding the One Ring, the Witch King growled softly.  It was the only kind of opposition to his Dark Lord’s overpowering hunger that he allowed himself now.  The years had fallen away, slipped by him, and he no longer remembered the freedom that he used to have.

He glanced at the ornate ring on his own finger.  The collar that choked him, the noose that had squeezed all that was good from his life.  It was always with him, he never took it off now... A reminder it was ... But a reminder of what?

Memory had passed, as had the desire to fight the power of the One Ring.  He no longer thought in patterns he could call his own.  He no longer moved through the world by his own volition, he was owned now, owned, bought, sealed, corrupted... he was dead. 

Vacant eye-sockets glanced back towards the window.  He watched the snow fall outside his castle, yet he remained untouched by the beauty of the world.  He was unfeeling of the world about him, but still able to manipulate it skillfully.  His fingers played with the vial he held in his hand, idly tapping it against the table.

Here in his study, he felt free enough to shed the black clothes that marked him as a Nazgûl.  The sword that identified him as the Witch King rested behind him over the mantel.  His form was barely visible when he was not clothed with the dark cloak and the metal shoes and gloves that were his usual guise.  To elvish eyes he would have appeared as a deathly visage of a partly decayed corpse, his once regal clothes torn and whipped about him by an eternal wind - the breath of his master.  But to the eyes of a human, should they ever see him without his corporeal attire, he would seem only a black, shadow-edged form that reeked of terror.  For the most part the Witch King never walked in the world of men without his cloak, but here he was safe and it felt good for a moment to be without the restrictions that the clothes wrapped about him.  His attention returned to his previous thoughts as the wind battered the windowpane in front of him.

His winged mount had brought good news from the south.  The raid against the Beornings had been successful.  True, most, if not all of the orcs he had sent out would likely have been destroyed, but he cared little for them.  The important thing was that his plans had been set into motion.  The prisoners had been spirited away... and they were being pursued. 

Each step brought his quarry closer.  Soon he would begin finding answers to the questions that had been building in his dark mind. 

There were stirrings in the world of men and elves.  Disturbing tidings had reached him, not only from his fellow Wraiths in Dol Guldur, but from other, more troubling sources.  Some time ago, several of the wights he had long ago sent out to inhabit the ancient barrows in Arnor, had fled their way back to him.  Shapeless and quivering with rage, they bore tidings that their barrows had been destroyed and that the corpses they had occupied had been reclaimed by one of the Istari. 

Captured and questioned, the wights had confirmed one another’s stories.  Disturbing though the news had been, what had peaked the Wraith’s interest was not the meddling Istar, but rather the reports of the elf and human who aided him.  The wight that had trapped the pair in its barrow provided some very interesting information.  The human it said, was strange... almost elvish.  The elf had been touched by darkness before.  The wight was positive that he had felt the lingering traces of its Master, the Witch King’s touch upon the fair being, like a healed scar. 

The Witch King was certain that this elf was the same one he had captured so many years ago and nearly turned to his own devices.  He did not think it a very risky gamble to assume that the human was the same one that had rescued the elf from him at that time or that they were the same pair he had seen again in Mordor, near Minas Morgul.  Now it seemed they were keeping company with the Grey Wizard and were responsible for the destruction of some of his servants in the barrows. 

Interesting... very interesting.  Those two seemed intent on popping up and mudding his plans.  This did not please the Wraith. Once was chance, twice might be coincidence, but having crossed paths with that elf and human three times left the Nazgûl suspicious. 

Since Saruman had crossed sides and begun communicating with Sauron, the White Council was no more, and so a great threat to the shadow had been removed... or so the Witch King had supposed.  Now he wondered what the other members of the disbanded Council were planning.  What were the elf and human in the scope of the Council’s plans?  Spies? Or something more dangerous?

The Wraith intended to find out.  He was especially interested in the man... a ranger if he recalled correctly going by the name of Strider.  The evil being still remembered their first encounter.  The human was no ordinary man, he had sensed that even then, but now he had even more reason to think thusly.  The wight he questioned had repeated that one fact over and over again, steadfastly insisting there was something more to this ranger.  Yet none of them knew what it was.

Interesting indeed.

The search for the ring had yielded no new fruits in a very long time.  Many reluctantly suspected that it had washed down the river and been lost in the great sea.  Sauron had withdrawn to Mordor, quietly rebuilding his strength and his troops.  The Nine were scattered about Middle Earth, awaiting the Dark One’s instructions.  Free to do as he wished for now, the Witch King desired to look into this matter more deeply.  His spies brought him word and for a time he waited and watched.  He knew that the elf was a wood-elf, but he and the human both seemed to have strong ties to Imladris and it was there that he judged their purpose and their weakness lay. 

The Wraith had already made one covert attempt to disrupt whatever they might be planning, but it had failed miserably.  That was the last time he left anything solely in the hands of a pack of slobbering orcs. 

At first, word of an orc uprising near Rivendell had promised to provide the Wraith with just the kind of opportunity he sought.  He had sent more wargs and orcs to swell their ranks and lent the dark power of his will to their attacks.  Guruth, for all his cunning, would never have been able to breach Imladris’ protective barriers without that kind of aid.  A disruption of the power of the elves in that area would have been a step forward for the minions of Mordor. At the same time, the Nazgûl had thought to learn more of the elf and ranger as well.  Unfortunately, Guruth had not kept his end of the bargain and proved only interested in his own means to an end.  

In the end it had been a disgusting waste of effort.  Now the Witch King was taking things into his own hands and there would be no mistakes.  Not this time.  He had underestimated them too many times in the past.  It had been a mistake to let the pair go so easily the first time.  He had erred in never thinking that the elf he enslaved was important enough to look into the being’s mind and pry from him his identity and the identity of those he called friends.  At that time it would have killed his new pet project and he hadn’t wanted that... but now he regretted not having taken that step.  Time for him was as as idle as it was for the elves and so it seemed only yesterday that the elf had been under his control and the ranger in his grasp.

Yesterday and a lifetime ago.

The Wraith rose and paced the room.  Restless... his soul was restless and the unceasing pressure of his master’s desire for the One Ring gave him no respite.  His thoughts flowed darkly back to his near success with the wood-elf.  He had thought himself on the verge of a new era, but it was not to be.  Further experimentation on other hapless captives over the years since then had shown him that the Eldar were too resistant.  They could be ensnared for a time, but the poison eventually killed them before they could be notably valuable.  With significant modifications however, he had found a much more useful function for his poison with humans. 

Still, his failure with the first elf galled him.  It would be good to have him here again, to rectify his past misjudgments.  There was just something about the elf and the ranger that barely touched on a memory... If he could find out more from them, more about them, he knew he would finally be able to get to the bottom of the mystery.  He suspected that if he ever did, it might even please his master.

Returning to the task at hand, the Nazgûl wrapped his boney fingers around the vial in his palm.  He had a messenger leaving for Dol Guldur.  The human was bearing messages inquiring about the other two Wraiths’ latest venture in tampering with the great spider’s offspring.  The Witch King was assisting his comrades in the breeding of a new species of the sentient beings, ones with a specific bent that suited his fancy.  Now, he would need his courier to deliver another message as well, an invitation of sorts.  

To make sure that all went as it should, he was also going to need someone to watch over everything from afar and report back to him.

Standing from his desk and grasping his cloak, the Wraith threw the coat on and stormed down the hallways, heading for his mount’s sleeping quarters.  The humans that populated the tower scurried out of his way.  The orcs that attended to him did likewise.  No one interfered with the master when his mood was dark and no one spoke to him unless it was required of them.

Entering the large, open cavern, the Witch King approached the winged beast that lay curled on the heated sands that comprised the floor of the chamber.  The great monster’s bedchambers were specially heated through channels that had been cut in the mountain itself, created to reroute portions of the thermal flows that had been harnessed by the Witch King when he had begun building his retreat here.  It had cost the lives of many slaves to create the channels that heated the castle’s many floors and the upper chambers.  There were still caves and caverns below that the Nazgûl had never felt compelled to explore.  He knew the mountain was occupied by more than just he and his servants.  Signs of cave trolls had been discovered near to the lower reaches and there were other tell-tale signs of occupants that were darker and fouler than the small minded trolls.  Yet the Nazgûl was unconcerned.  His presence was felt by all that lived within the sphere of his touch.  The fear that he invoked and the ill temperament of his winged companion kept anything from encroaching on his home.

The flying beast lazily shifted on the sands, turning is scaly head and fixing iridescent eyes upon its master.  The Nazgûl held no fear for the mount. The beast yawned as the Witch King approached and began to speak in the black tongue.  For a moment the creature considered denying the Wraith.  It had only just returned froma surveillance mission.  It was warm on the sands and the creature did not want to leave.  Accustomed to the arid lands of Mordor where it was spawned, the creature hated this northern cold.  As always, however, its master’s will won out and the fell beast lurched onto powerful hide legs, stretching thick leathery wings out and arching its long neck.  At least the trip back to down the Misty Mountains would be nice this time of year.  It was still warm down there. 

The creature loosened an ear splitting, terror-inducing screech, answering the Nazgûl’s request.  Turning, it leapt off the ledge of the open cavern.  Catching the winter winds, it spiraled high into the air, calling back to the Wraith.  It would return soon with more news, and it wanted its bed kept hot.  With a dark smile that was invisible to the naked eye, the Nazgûl walked slowly back down into the tower.  When his mount got back it would find its bed hot, he would make sure.  He always rewarded faithful service. There was much for which to prepare.  Calling to his servants, he descended the spiral staircase and entered the main living areas. 

“Send me Tynair,” the Wraith commanded, summoning his courier.  “Tell him I have some additional instructions before he leaves.”

The Nazgûl hissed softly in satisfaction as his slaves scuttled to obey him.  He actually had something to look forward to and that was a feeling he hadn’t know in years.

His dark heart laughed and a wave of fear expanded through the castle, encompassing all that lived there.  Angmar would host guests soon.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART THREE*~
~The Jaws Close~

The night was not nearly as dark as Aragorn would have liked.  The full moon overhead illuminated the landscape dully, making hiding places fewer and farther between.  The ranger hunched lower in the bushes, his dark clothes blending into the foliage.  He kept his face turned down so as to not let his skin catch and reflect the moonlight. 

After more than a week of chasing their quarry northward, Aragorn and Legolas had finally caught up with the orcs and their prisoners.  Six Beornings, including Beoma and Pejor, were being held captive by sixty or seventy orcs.  The equation was dismally disproportionate.  The ranger had to wonder why they had bothered with such a small number of prisoners, but he knew that logic did not always factor into orc actions.  Severely outnumbered, Aragorn and Legolas’ only real hope lay in surprise.

The orcs were camped in a small dell, not far from where the rivers Langwell and Greylin joined to form the mouth of the Langflood.  Across the river, the dark shape of Northern Mirkwood blotted out the stars on the eastern horizon.  Mount Gundabad dominated the sky ahead of them and the junction of the Grey Mountains and the Misty Mountains hedged them in on the north and the west. 

They had to act tonight.  It seemed apparent now that the orcs were making for the northern mountains.  Aragorn feared that if they made their goal, all hope of recovering the prisoners alive would be lost. 

The ranger gave a low, whistling bird call.  A few moments later, he heard an answering trill.  Legolas was in position on the opposite side of the encampment. 

The Beornings sat in the center of the camp.  Four men and two women,  bound hand and foot.  A long rope knotted around each neck, connected them to one another.  Beoma lay on his back, pillowing Pejor’s head on his stomach.  Neither of them was asleep.  The younger man had bruises on his face and looked scared.  Beoma seemed to be whispering something very softly to his apprentice, but Aragorn could not hear what was being said.  The big baker shifted slightly.  He seemed to be straining at the rope around his neck. 

“Hold on just a little longer, friends.  We’ll get you out of those bonds,” Aragorn thought.  His hand slid to the pommel of his sword.  In his mind he marked the targets nearest to him.  There were two sentries on this side of the camp, twenty-four other orcs milling beyond them.  Three were lying down, the rest still kept moving about.  He did not concern himself greatly with the orcs on the other side of the camp, beyond marking their number and positions.  That was Legolas’ half to deal with and he trusted the elf could handle his own.  The orcs were still far too alert to make an attack wise.  Their best chance lay in waiting until all but the sentries were asleep. 

Unfortunately not even the best laid plans can account for what direction an orc will take when he needs to relieve himself.

Across the camp, Legolas cringed inwardly as one of the dark beasts rambled out of camp, unintentionally heading directly for his friend’s position.  “Turn right, turn right... all right, turn left, just TURN...” he willed silently.  It was not to be. 

Aragorn tried hard to scramble back deeper into the bushes without being heard, but he was too close and there wasn’t enough time.  The orc tripped over him in the dark.  The creature squealed loudly once.  He never got a chance to make a second sound, but the damage was already done.  The disturbance had caught the attention of the rest of the camp. 

Aragorn shoved the dead carcass away from him and jumped to his feet as the other orcs rushed towards the intruder.  He cursed inwardly.  This was not good.  They had lost the element of surprise and the situation had just become a lot more difficult. 

Legolas gave up his own cover, springing to his feet and firing a hail of deadly arrows into the horde of orcs swarming around his friend.  With a shout, many of the orcs turned to face the new threat. 

Legolas did not bother to hide his glow now.  He flamed in the darkness, intentionally drawing the dark creatures away from the overwhelmed ranger.  The orcs cringed at the sudden flash of light and screamed in hatred.  As soon as they saw that their second foe was an elf, the majority of them swarmed back towards him. 

The minor respite gave Aragorn a chance to dispatch a few of the orcs mobbing him, and to catch his breath.  He tried to cleave a path through the mass of bodies to Legolas’ side, but the dark beasts kept them apart.  He could just see Legolas’ hair flashing pale gold under the moonlight as he whipped in tight circles, surrounded by orcs.  The elf was a constant blur of motion, but did not seem to be in real trouble at the moment, despite the odds.  Legolas was holding his own. 

“Estel, the prisoners!” Legolas called out to his friend in Elvish so the orcs would not understand.  Thus far none of the orcs had been smart enough to use their captives against the elf and ranger.  Legolas did not want to give them the chance to get over their surprise and come up with the idea.  

Aragorn understood and fought his way towards the center of camp.  The Beornings were fighting hard against the tight cords entrapping them.  A few had managed to pop several strands of the twisted rope by brute strength alone.  Aragorn switched his sword to his left hand, quickly pulling his hunting knife with his right.  A sword was ill-suited to the more delicate work of cutting bonds and in the dark, chaotic confusion Aragorn did not want to injure anyone.  Starting at the end of the line, he quickly began slicing the captive’s hands and feet free, leaving them to discard the rope around their necks themselves as he hurriedly moved to the next one.  The Beornings were sturdy folk, not easily given to panic, and for that Aragorn was glad.  As soon as one was free they started helping with the others. 

“Strider, behind you!” Pejor’s warning came just in time.  Aragorn threw himself to the ground, only barely avoiding a scimitar thrust meant for his back. The attacking orcs adjusted quickly to the change.  Aragorn felt the blunt end of a sword handle crash painfully against the back of his head, making his vision blur.  He rolled quickly, bringing his sword up to fend off another blow.  His dagger was still in his other hand and he threw it with a snap of his wrist.  The orc fell backward with a strangled cry.  The ranger jumped to his feet in time to meet the next attack. 

Seeing what Aragorn was up to, the orcs were now after the prisoners.  Working with desperate speed Aragorn slashed at the thick, knotted ropes with one hand while trying to fight orcs with the other. 

“Run!  RUN!” he urged the two women he had just freed.  They were attempting to help him free Beoma and Pejor, but he did not want their own bravery to be the end of them.  The orcs were all around them.  It was hard to avoid being trampled, much less skewered.  The two Beorning men already freed had relieved the orcs of a few hand weapons.  They favored axes over swords, but made do with what was available.  One was already bleeding from a deep gash to the arm, but they continued fighting to hold the orcs back while Aragorn cut their companions free. 

The women did not heed him.  At the moment they could not have without running straight into the arms of more orcs. 

Aragorn had to duck to avoid Legolas who appeared suddenly in the middle of the confusion.  The elf deftly stabbed an orc that Aragorn did not even realize had set its sights on the human’s head.  The ranger attempted to reach Beoma’s ropes amidst the mêlée. 

The orc fell dead, clutching at the prince and trying to drag him to the ground.  Legolas took a quick step back, out of reach, and yanked his knife free.   The fighting was unfortunately so close that the prince’s elbow knocked sharply into the back of the ranger’s head and the elf had to dance to one side to avoid tripping over his friend. 

Aragorn reeled sideways, losing his grip on his sword.  A huge orc tried to tackle Legolas, driving him backward.  The elf was compelled to leap out of the way, nearly colliding with Aragorn again as he was forced to hop over his friend’s back. 

An orc stepped on Aragorn’s fingers as the ranger tried to get out of the way.  Wincing in pain the human jerked his hands free, kneeling upright and banging directly into the back of Legolas’ knees. 

“Strider!” the elf protested as if Aragorn had intentionally sprawled under his feet.  Legolas’ balance was good and a momentary sway and dip was the only result of the impact, but it still took far too much of his attention.  He was clipped sharply across the jaw by an orc elbow and tasted blood.  His vision blurred for a moment as he tried to remain in control of the unwieldy and claustrophobic situation.

“Stop stepping on me!” Aragorn hissed as he scrabbled about to find his missing blade in the churning dust.  He almost had it when an orc rushed by, kicking it out of reach again.  Beoma and Pejor jostled against his side as they too attempted to avoid being trampled, adding to the general chaos.

“Then get out from underfoot!” the elf retorted, wiping his bloodied lip on his shoulder as he danced sideways, trying to take the fight further away from his friend. 

Aragorn grunted in frustration as he rolled out from under the feet of several orcs that had pushed forward to take Legolas’ place.  Grabbing one of the creatures’ ankles, Aragorn yanked hard, bringing the orc down and giving himself the time and space he needed to scramble forward and grab his sword.  Another orc tripped over his fallen companion, landing nearly on top of the ranger.  Aragorn got his sword up in time to impale the falling creature.  He groaned as he shoved the orc off of him only to be faced with another.  This was not going well. 

Finally wrestling free, Aragorn found that Beoma had managed to squirm out of the half-severed bonds around his wrists and was now working on his ankles as he and Pejor scooted urgently around in the dust.  Their kinsmen were locked in battle trying to protect them, but they were frighteningly vulnerable. 

Aragorn crawled quickly to their side.  He sliced the ropes around Beoma’s ankles.  As he turned to free Pejor, Aragorn saw from the corner of his eye how the baker yanked the rope around his neck over his head. The ranger tugged Pejor quickly to his knees as soon as the lad was freed.  This free-for-all was going to get someone killed soon.  They had to get out of here. 

Pejor started to rise, but Aragorn had to tug him back down again to avoid getting beheaded.  The orc changed his grip and stabbed down towards the young apprentice.  Aragorn threw himself in the way, pushing Pejor down and delivering a counter stroke that only barely kept the orc’s sword from finding a home in his own heart.  He pulled himself back to his knees, trying to keep Pejor covered and inch them both away from the fighting.  The press was so great he couldn’t stand. 

Gripping Pejor’s shoulder tight against him with one arm and swinging his sword with the other, the ranger looked around desperately for Legolas.  Eye-level with orc knees and belts and mired in a cloud of dust, he was lucky to see anything.  Aragorn couldn’t find the elf through the flurry of bodies.  He coughed harshly and blinked to clear his burning eyes.  The orcs pressed him savagely, giving him no time or space to maneuver.  He winced as an orc clubbed the side of his head.  He reeled to the side, scrabbling in the dust and trying desperately to rise while protecting himself and the young Beorning in his care.  He could not. 

Aragorn didn’t know what hit him, but the next thing he knew he was taking a mouthful of dirt as his head connected sharply with the ground.  A heavy orc boot dug deeply into his back.  His sword had fallen from his grip and he couldn’t reach it where it lay.  He could not even lift his head.  A shiver of dread ran down the human’s spine.  A small, realistic corner of his mind knew there was no getting out of this situation. 

Suddenly, a strange roar rose above the clamor of the battle.  Aragorn felt the pressure disappear from his back with a jolt.  Grabbing his sword and rolling quickly onto his back, the ranger looked up to find a huge, black bear looming over him.  It was raised up on its hind legs, shaking the orc in its mouth like a rag doll. 

The ranger’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight and he only just had the presence of mind to drag himself to his feet in the space cleared by the wake of the bear’s presence.  He supposed the fighting must have disturbed some of the woodland creatures, but he did not intend to get too close.  The way his luck was running tonight he did not want to escape the orcs, only to be killed by a wild animal. 

Pejor must have been too dazed to be frightened.  Aragorn realized the young Beorning was not following him. He turned back, grabbing the boy’s wrist and tugging him quickly towards the edges of the fighting.  Pejor appeared unable to understand what the hurry was, but obeyed when Aragorn planted him firmly in the bushes. 

“Get down and stay down!” the ranger instructed, before plunging back into the fighting.  He could see Legolas now, surrounded by orcs as usual.  The other Beornings had either pulled back or were simply out of his sight.  The bear had not left.  It raged through the clearing, scattering orcs left and right.  It was easily the largest animal that Aragorn had ever seen.  Razor sharp teeth and claws were making disturbingly short work of the orcs.  The magnificent creature was destroying everything in its path and the orcs fled from it in terror.  Aragorn could not blame them. 

Squealing in terror, the few remaining orcs fled straight past the ranger before disappearing into the night.  Aragorn whirled to face them as they came, but they were only interested in escaping.  When the human turned around again, he found the bear almost upon him. 

The ranger backpedaled quickly, but lost his footing on the uneven ground.  His head was still churning violently from the many blows he had taken tonight and his sense of balance was severely crippled.  He fell on his back. As he scrambled backwards on his elbows, the thought shot through his mind that he should have stayed down here in the first place considering how often he ended up in this position.  Legolas was not going to let him live his clumsiness tonight down... IF he survived.  Right now, that was looking doubtful. 

He kept his sword up between himself and the advancing bear, but the creature was undeterred.  Easily four times the ranger’s size, Aragorn knew that the animal had the definite advantage in this situation.  The ranger feinted right and then tried to bring the sword up closer to the bear’s huge neck.  The huge creature easily checked the man’s movement.  He swatted his massive paw almost lazily and sent the ranger’s sword skittering out of his hand. 

Aragorn froze.  His heart hammered in his throat.  He had heard that you should play dead when confronted with an angry bear, but at the moment, that idea felt much too frighteningly realistic to be considered a possibility.  Still, the human decided not to make any sudden moves that would provoke the animal.

The bear stood over him, its enormous body dwarfing the ranger’s.  Lowering his muzzle, the bear sniffed the ranger.  His warm, snuffling breath stirred the human’s hair.  The hair around the bear’s muzzle was frosted with grey.  For a moment Aragorn was transfixed by the deep, soulful fire in the creature’s eyes.  He decided the bear was not evil, but if it was protecting its space or its cubs, it didn’t have to be malicious to rip him apart.  It wouldn’t have to try very hard either. 

The human’s out-flung hand groped next to him in the grass for his fallen sword.  Where in Arda was Legolas?!  Slowly, his fingers closed on the hilt of the weapon and his body tensed. 

“Strider!  No!” Legolas’ voice startled the human.  Aragorn started to bring his weapon up as he squirmed backward, but Legolas’ hand on his wrist stopped him, pinning his sword arm down.  The ranger didn’t understand and struggled for a moment. 

Legolas firmly pulled the human back towards him, shooting the bear a look that said the creature had better back up a bit.  Aragorn sat up slowly, relaxing a little when he realized that the bear was content to just stand there and watch them.  The ranger’s keyed up nerves gradually began to wind down.  He eased the death grip on his sword and Legolas released his arm. 

A distinctive, wuffling laugh made the ranger look around for Beoma.  Suddenly, Aragorn realized it was the bear that had laughed.  He blinked; certain that one of the many knocks on the head he had taken had affected his mind.  Now Legolas was laughing at him as well. 

“Strider!” the elf nudged his friend hard as he rose back to his feet.  “Don’t you recognize Beoma?”  His voice was amused. 

Aragorn rubbed his head.  Tonight had definitely been too much.  “No, Legolas, for some reason he seemed... different to me.”  The ranger looked back at the bear in semi-amazement.  “Beoma?”

The bear growled an affirmative and Aragorn could have sworn he was smiling.  Pejor joined them, running his fingers through Beoma’s thick, soft fur, comforted by his mentor’s presence.  The bear rubbed his massive head fondly against the youth’s side. 

“Strider, the Beornings are skin-changers,” Legolas chuckled, helping his friend to his feet.  “Didn’t you know that?  Goodness, I would have thought ONE of your brothers would have thought to mention it to you after all these years.”

Actually, Aragorn did know.  However, he had been told the stories as a child and wasn’t actually sure he believed them or not. Until now.  At any rate, it was not the first thing that had come to mind when he saw a creature that size barreling down on him.  The ranger laughed.  It was the only thing that he could think to do at the moment.  This had been quite a night. 

The other Beornings were slowly joining them now.  It seemed that everyone had survived, although certainly not uninjured. 

“Well if you could do this all along, why didn’t you do something sooner?” the ranger asked Beoma as he wiped off his sword.  “Can all of you... change?”

“Yes, we can,” it was Pejor who answered.  “But not all of us can simply shift at will, Strider.  Grimbeorn and his near kin can change forms as they so desire, but for most of us it can only be done when the moon is in the same phase as it was when we were born.”  The young man gestured to the sky above them.  “Then we must remain in our other form until the next moon cycle.  None of us could risk shifting when we were bound as the orcs had us.  The ropes would have choked us to death before the change was complete.  Before you arrived, Master Beoma was telling me he wanted to find some way to shed the bonds.  Tonight was his last night to try.”

“It is rare that none of us were in phase when our village was attacked,” one of the women offered.  “Thank you, for coming after us.”

Aragorn inclined his head.  He was trying to form words but they weren’t coming.  His throbbing head was taking all of his attention.  Legolas saved him.  The elf caught the human’s shoulder lightly, steadying him. 

“No thanks necessary,” the elf assured.  He glanced around at the corpse-strewn clearing.  “Come, let us leave this place of death.  Strider and I passed a spot on the other side of the river that is suitable for a camp tonight.  There we may tend the wounded and hopefully get some rest.”

The Beornings were agreeable to the idea and so they started back the way they had come. 

Legolas stayed close to Aragorn, but the human seemed to have sustained no serious injuries aside from a massive headache.  There was nothing wrong with him that a good night’s rest would not cure. 

Beoma padded quietly along in the dark beside them.  Aragorn couldn’t help repeatedly looking over his shoulder to see if the bear was still with them.  Never let it be said that he could not always learn something new. 

Legolas caught his friend in the act and chuckled.  Aragorn scowled. 

“Will you be coming back home with us?” Pejor asked, falling into step with them.  “Master Beoma can look after us now, so there won’t be any danger.”

The two friends hesitated, exchanging a look to confirm what the other was thinking.  It was Legolas who answered. 

“No, Pejor, I’m afraid not.  If you are safe, then our task is accomplished.  I cannot speak for Strider, but my father is expecting me home and I have already tarried far too long.  I fear he shall have my head if I delay much longer.  After we see you safely on your way, I must begin my return journey at once.”  The elf nodded towards the slowly growing shape of Mirkwood before them. 

“I will see Legolas on his way and then I should be going home as well, Pejor,” Aragorn agreed.  “You are in good hands now and it will be faster for me to take a different route.  Do you think you’ll be all right?”

Pejor nodded.  “Oh yes, we’ll be fine.  I would not wish either of you trouble at home.  Believe me, I understand how that can be.  I will miss you, but...” A small smile spread over the boy’s face.  “Master Beoma doesn’t say much when he’s in his other skin, which makes him much easier to talk with.”

“Or talk *at*?” Aragorn could not resist teasing with a chuckle.

Pejor shrugged with a totally un-self-conscious grin.  “Whichever.”

The ranger laughed and clapped the young man on the back.  Who knew the boy had a sense of humor? 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aragorn sat on a rocky outcropping, his bare feet dangling in the swiftly moving stream.  The Langflood had lost much of its rain-swollen off-run of the previous weeks.  It was currently no more than a deep ribbon of water winding through the tall grasses of the meadow valley that ran past the length of Mirkwood on its western side.

Legolas finished packing up the camp.  He had elected to take care of final preparations while Aragorn bathed.  Aside from the disturbing dreams last night, the human’s rest had been peaceful and he seemed to be doing much better.  For that, the elf was glad.

The ranger laid back on the sun warmed rock, letting the heat of the approaching noon-day dry his hair and leggings.  The heated rock felt good to his bared back and bruised body.  The man’s face was slightly discolored from the knocks he had taken and he ached more this morning from the battle than he had yesterday. Yet he was smiling.  It was one of those glorious autumn days where the brilliant heat of the sun outweighed the waning temperature of the air. 

The Beornings had headed back south earlier this morning, returning home.  Beoma led his party, still in the form of a bear.  He would remain that way for the rest of the week, until the new moon entered its first quarter.  His mentor’s current guise did not disturb Pejor and the youth had not stopped talking from sun up to sun down.   Finally on their own again, the two friends were enjoying the peace and quiet created by the absence of the Beornings and the temporary release for any responsibilities.  Unfortunately it was temporary and they both knew that they had obligations they could not ignore forever.

Aragorn didn’t move as Legolas silently seated himself next to the ranger.  He knew without opening his eyes that elf was there and he felt, without having to ask, that Legolas was ready to head home, even though the ranger wasn’t.  Secretly he longed to forestall the parting.  They had been together almost constantly for a very long time now, and that made this particular parting all the more difficult.  Aragorn knew he would miss his friend dearly.  Legolas was a prince however, and he had duties that could not be ignored indefinitely.

With a sigh, Aragorn squinted up at the elf.

Legolas smiled down at the man before casting his gaze back across the river.  The thick tree-line of Mirkwood bracketed the far edge of the valley.  The trees called to him, welcoming him home.  It had been long since he had run beneath their canopy and climbed into their branches.  The prince suddenly realized how much he had missed this place.  He hated to leave Aragorn, but he was ready to go home. 

“I have to go,” Legolas answered Aragorn’s unspoken question.  “I would not trade any of my time with you, but we have already been delayed longer than I anticipated.  My father will be waiting and I *did* promise him to return, even if it was not under the best of conditions.  He will not have forgotten our parting and he will be anxious to see me again.”

“I know,” Aragorn replied, rolling over onto his side and leaning on his elbow.  He accepted the tunic that Legolas held out for him.  “And my brothers want help filling the cellars for winter.  They keep saying I never pull my weight around the house anymore.”  He laughed as he pulled on his shirt and laced it up.

“They miss you.”  Legolas smiled at the human.

“Right,” Aragorn growled playfully. “They miss having a scapegoat for their pranks!”  He returned the smile that the elf bestowed upon him.

“You have not been around much lately.  It is *you* they miss Estel,” Legolas countered lightly.

“I know,” Aragorn admitted with a sigh. “And I have missed them.  I think that there are those who have dearly missed your presence as well.”  He shoved the prince teasingly, pushing him off the rock.

Shrugging into his coat, Aragorn accepted his pack from the elf.  Legolas stared at the human for a few seconds, at a loss as to what to say next.  Before he could speak a word the ranger enveloped him in a crushing hug. 

“Don’t stay away too long,” the man whispered, “I’ll need someone to come dig me out of Elladan and Elrohir’s messes.”  The human released the elf and stepped back.

“I promise, mellon-nín.”  Legolas’ words were laced with the slightest tint of sorrow.  “And you are always welcome at the palace.  Don’t let Ada scare you away.  He really does like you now you know.”  With a parting smile the prince headed for a narrow part of the river.  Rocks jutted up beneath its surface, providing a perfect place to cross. 

Aragorn watched as the elf nimbly leapt from rock to rock, quickly crossing the swiftly moving stream.  He waved to his friend from the far bank.  Readjusting his pack, he headed south, keeping to the edges of the river.  Legolas walked away due east, quickly fading into the forest of Mirkwood.

A small sigh escaped Aragorn’s lips.  How he hated goodbyes.  He knew in his heart they were not forever, but still, every time the word crossed his lips a small part of his heart ached.  Who knew how soon he would see his friend again?  Time passed so differently for the human who lived amidst the elves.  He glanced one more time across the river, but Legolas had already faded from his sight.

From his vantage point inside the woods, Legolas stopped and turned back, watching the human as he walked down the river’s edge.  When Aragorn glanced back, searching for the elf, the prince smiled softly.

“Farewell, Strider.  It won’t be long,” he whispered.  He knew exactly what the man was thinking.

The elf had nearly turned back to continue his journey home, when something dark and indistinct touched the edges of his awareness.  There was an evil nearby... and it was close, too close.

Taking a step back towards the meadow valley, Legolas stopped mid-stride.  He vaguely recognized the thin threads of fear and shadow that brushed his mind and the shock was severe.

Úlairë. Nazgûl.

Across the river, a large dark horse burst from the foliage of the woods in front of Aragorn, startling the ranger.  The man stepped back, throwing up a hand to ward off the sudden attack.

The animal was a deep, coal black.  The tack and saddle that the rider used were also black, possessing a definite sense of evil artistry about them.  Jagged points and sharpened corners cut at odd angles turned the steed itself into a weapon.  The horse’s hooves pawed the air as it reared up on powerful hind legs, lunging at the ranger.  Aragorn was knocked to the ground and tried to roll away from the huge beast. 

The piercing red eyes of the horse tracked the human as he tried to escape, keeping the ranger off balance and cowering.  The beast’s hooves pounded the earth like dwarf hammers around the ranger.  It barely missed crushing Aragorn’s arm when he tried to draw his sword, and the human was forced to leave the weapon be to evade the deadly, flailing hooves. 

A black clad rider leaned over the animal’s left shoulder and trained a wicked looking bow on the man.  The arrow that was notched on the string dripped with a thick, foul substance.  The hood of the man’s cape hid his identity and anything that would make him memorable.

“Your presence is requested,” a distinctively human voice called out to the ranger.  Whatever else the man was, he was no Wraith.  The rider’s gloved hand released the string and the arrow pierced Aragorn’s left shoulder, driving him back to the ground with a sickening thud. 

Aragorn cried out in pain.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART FOUR*~
~Invitation to Death~

Legolas’ shout distracted the rider, and he straightened in the saddle reigning in the jittery stallion.  The horse snorted defiantly.  Their task was complete; it was time to turn home.

“Listen carefully,” the rider in black instructed Aragorn.  “My master has summoned you.  *If* you wish to live, you will make your way to Angmar before the new moon is half spent.  Look for the mountain with the black spire.  If you tarry, you won’t live to see a new moon ever again.  Do not think to look elsewhere for help, for you’ll never survive.  Your time is already running out and your only hope lies in Angmar.  Make all haste for the black mountain.  May the Valar have mercy on you... for no one else can.”  With that warning, the rider spurred his steed and bolted for the safety of the woods to his left.  The horse seemed to melt into the dark patterned shadows and fade from sight with a clatter of hooves.

The elf sprinted across the natural rock bridge, bringing an arrow to bear on the darkly clad attacker as he disappeared into the trees, but it was already too late.  Legolas raced towards Aragorn’s position, ready for another attack should the evil beast and its rider return.  Even as he neared the place where they had disappeared, he could feel the dark touch of the Nazgûl’s presence receding.  Legolas realized the rider may not have been a Wraith, but he had most certainly operated on behalf of one. 

Dropping down next to the ranger, Legolas pressed the human back, trying to get the man to stop writhing.  Aragorn moaned and shifted restlessly, one hand locked around the arrow’s shaft. He curled in on himself, trying to stop the fiery pain that was consuming him.  He had been wounded by a drugged or poisoned arrow before, but it had spread numbness.  This one spread pure fire. 

“Legolas, it burns,” he groaned softly.  “Get it out.”

“I will, my friend. I will.  But I need you to lie still for a moment.”  Legolas held the human by his shoulders, trying to get Aragorn to look at him.  He didn’t understand why this had happened, or why their attacker seemed content to just wound the ranger and leave. He didn’t have time for questions right now. 

Locking his gaze on the elf, the ranger quieted under the prince’s touch.  Unable to remain completely still, Aragorn ground the heel of his boot into the forest floor while Legolas gently unlaced his tunic and cut it away from the wound.  A dark substance spread out from the arrow’s shaft, mixing with the human’s blood and running in small rivulets off his shoulder.  The dark, sticky liquid bubbled slightly where it touched the man’s skin.  It truly was burning the ranger.

Legolas pried Aragorn’s fingers from the haft and once more pushed the man back against the ground.  Reaching across the ranger, he dragged Aragorn’s pack close and emptied the contents out on the ground.  He grasped a small glass vial that contained several pebble sized crystals.  Emptying the container on the man’s chest, Legolas chose a good sized stone and pressed it against Aragorn’s lips. 

The ranger’s body was tense beneath his hands and the man resisted the medication, groaning through gritted teeth.

“Aragorn, you must help me,” Legolas pleaded with the human, trying again to unsuccessfully get him to take the crystal.  “Take it, mellon-nín, it is just mentasis.  I know you’re in pain but I have to get this arrow out of you.  It will be easier if you are more relaxed.  This foul substance on the arrow is poison, a form of morgul poison if I am correct.  We need to slow down its spread.  You have to cooperate with me or I can’t help you.”  The elf’s voice was collected, but inside he was panicking.  Aragorn’s pain level was increasing and soon he would go into shock. 

The mentasis was actually a byproduct of the mentalyion plant that grew in the Misty Mountains near Rivendell.  The purple, flowering perennial secreted a substance that, when it came in contact with the air, would crystallize into small crystal formations.  The secretions held a powerful herb that slowed the body’ systems down and dulled pain, making the patient very pliant and calm. It required the wounded party to place the mentasis under their tongue and let it dissolve. That was what Legolas‘ aim at the moment. 

Aragorn knew what Legolas was trying to do, but he was having a hard time thinking rationally.  It was all he could do to keep from knocking the elf off of him and trying to pull the arrow from his shoulder himself.  He wanted it gone and wanted it gone now.  He didn’t care about the damage; all he could think of was getting rid of the encompassing pain.

When the elf pressed the crystal to his lips again, he allowed Legolas to place it under his tongue.  Clamping his mouth tightly shut, Aragorn held his breath and closed his eyes, fighting the waves of fire that swept through his body.

For a few minutes the pain was intense.  Then, with a sigh, Aragorn began to relax beneath Legolas.  He drew in a deep breath and let it out gradually as the herb started to work.   Slowly the ranger lowered his head all the way back as his legs straightened out until he was lying flat against the forest floor, breathing evenly.

“Aragorn?” Legolas was half afraid the dose had been too much.  He didn’t have that much experience with the drug and Aragorn wasn’t in a suitable condition to have been able to judge for himself.

The slightly dilated silver eyes slowly opened and gazed up at the elf.

“Are you with me?”  The prince questioned further as he released his hold on the man.

“Yes,” Aragorn answered softly.  His words were slurred but he was coherent.  “It wasn’t a Nazgûl, Legolas.  It was a man on a morgul steed.”

The elf nodded encouragingly as he began to quickly clean the wound, carefully collecting the dark substance so it would not spread and burn the ranger further.

“Did he say anything to you?”  Legolas was trying to keep the human preoccupied as he worked, also hoping to find out more about what had happened. 

“Yes.”  Aragorn’s voice drifted off and the prince gently tapped the ranger’s face.

“What did he say, Aragorn?  You were going to tell me.  I need you to stay awake,” Legolas instructed softly.  He spread a drawing tincture around the shaft of the arrow and prepared to pull the weapon out.

“He said... my presence has been requested and that I am to go... go to him.  I have less than a fortnight to get there,” Aragorn spoke softly.  His eyes watched the elf’s blue ones.  “I don’t think I want to go.”

Legolas smiled softly.  “I shouldn’t think so.  Don’t worry about that now.  We’ll figure out what to do next in a little while.  Right now I need to get this arrow out of you,” the elf spoke slowly and quietly, hoping Aragorn could understand him even if the ranger was numbed to anything else. The human wasn’t making much sense, but he would worry about that later. 

With a small nod, Aragorn agreed.  He gripped the elf’s shoulder with his right hand and stared up at his friend, waiting.

There was so much trust in the silver eyes that tracked his every move that Legolas found it hard to proceed.  Mentasis or not, Aragorn was going to feel the arrow when it was removed.

With a pained grimace, Legolas placed his hand over the man’s face, gently brushing the ranger’s eyelids with his fingertips.  Aragorn obediently closed his eyes and allowed the elf to carefully tip his head to the side so that his face was turned away from the arrow.

Getting a solid grip on the shaft with his left hand, Legolas held the ranger down with his right and rose up on one knee.  He wanted to do this in one swift motion to lessen the pain, if at all possible.

“Ready, Aragorn?”  He asked quietly, wondering if the man had slipped into unconsciousness.  He half-way hoped the ranger had.

“Yes,” came the soft reply.

Steadying himself, Legolas jerked the arrow straight up, pulling the shaft and the head out of Aragorn’s body.  The man arched against the pain, crying out as the barbed head tore out of his shoulder leaving a jagged, gaping gash behind.

With a small moan Aragorn relaxed and stilled beneath his friend.

A quick check proved that he had simply lost consciousness.  Part of Legolas was grateful for the small blessing - and part of him was worried sick.  The arrow wound itself was not particularly grievous, but it was the fact that the arrow had so obviously been poisoned that filled the elf’s heart with dread.  They were too far from any inhabited place to get help.  His home was on the easternmost side of the woods.  Rivendell laid hundreds of miles away over the mountain ranges.  The Beornings were woefully inadequate in all but the basic healing arts, often taking their more critically ill either to Rivendell or one of the human habitations farther south.  If what the rider said was true and Aragorn didn’t get help soon...

Quickly banishing the negative thoughts from his mind, the elf concentrated on cleaning the wound.  The skin around the cut was red and feverish.  It had been peeled back and burned away in some areas.  Most of the thick liquid had congealed around the arrow shaft and was easily cleansed, but Legolas was certain that a fair amount remained inside Aragorn, already in his bloodstream. 

The elf dug blindly through the tumbled contents of the ranger’s bag, looking for any more of the drawing ointment he had originally used.  It was all spent.  Trying to maintain his calm, the elf mixed together the few herbs he could easily recognize as being good for this type of wound.  Gently he placed it in and around the cut, laying leaves of athelas over the mixture before applying the bandage.  He knew the kingsfoil did little good in his hands, but he hoped that it would aid Aragorn’s body anyway. 

When Aragorn came to, it took him a moment to realize where he was.  The sun was just beginning its slide down the sky behind them and the meadow valley was bathed in the low light.  Long shadows stretched across the Langflood towards the western edge of Mirkwood.  The day had already been spent.

His body felt oddly disjoined from his consciousness.  His hands and feet wouldn’t respond to his commands and he had a hard time just opening his eyes.  As the world slowly came back into focus and feeling began to spread through him again, he discovered that he was being held and gently rocked.  A soft singing voice floated on the warm late afternoon air and he knew at once that it was Legolas who held him.

The elf’s arms were crossed in front of Aragorn, holding him tightly and he sat resting with his back against Legolas’ chest.  Breathing in deeply, he alerted the prince that he was awake and the elf stopped singing.

“Strider?”  Legolas asked, leaning around and gazing at his friend.

“Where are we?”  Aragorn mumbled softly, trying to find his voice.

A flagon of water was pressed to his lips and he drank greedily.  Legolas moved out from behind the ranger, gently leaning the man against the trunk of the large tree they were seated beneath.

“We are still in the meadow near the Langflood, about fifty yards from where you were struck down.”  Legolas knelt in front of the man and gazed into his eyes, judging his friend’s state of awareness for himself.  “Do you remember anything?” he questioned softly.

It took a moment for Aragorn’s thoughts to coalesce.

“I was headed home,” he started to explain.  He frowned as the memories darted away, flitting on the edges of his thoughts.  Shifting against the tree caused his wound to flare and he winced, fingering the bandage curiously.

When the memories came back they flooded his mind all at one time, shouting for attention.

Aragorn gasped and turned back towards the elf who was watching him intently.  “It was a man on a horse.  A dark horse.  At first I thought it was a Nazgûl but he was no Wraith, Legolas,” the words hastily tumbled out of the man and he reached out to grab the elf’s arm as he spoke.  “He said that I was to go to Angmar if I wanted to live.  He cautioned me not to return home or go to anyone else.  He said my only hope lay in making it to the black mountain before the new moon was half spent.”

Aragorn searched his friend’s face for some response.  The elf had gone deathly pale as the ranger recounted the words. 

“Legolas, what did he mean?  *Who* has summoned me?” Aragorn had a feeling he already knew, but he needed to ask anyway.  He was desperately hoping that Legolas would contradict his fears.  Unfortunately the elf could only confirm them.

“The kingdom of Angmar was broken a long time ago, by your ancestors in fact; as I am sure you are aware.  Yet dark rumors have long whispered that the Witch King’s castle remained untouched and that, since the power of your people waned, he returns to inhabit it at times.  A dark terror dwells in those hills.  Some of the Mirkwood exiles who passed through that land when they returned from beyond Carn Dûm with my Uncle, told us that it is a barren place, full of malice.  Beyond their words, I know little.  But this I do know Strider, that, if we have been summoned thus, we are in danger.” Legolas divulged all he knew and had heard of the dark castle.  “I can think of no one other than the Witch King who would wish us to go to Angmar.  If that is true, and this wound is his doing, then it is grievous indeed.” 

Legolas’ words echoed the ranger’s own thoughts.  What Legolas did not express was what he truly feared. If all their suppositions were true, it was likely not even Lord Elrond could save Estel, even if they would get him there on time.  The elf’s heart recoiled painfully, refusing to allow that thought to remain. There was no way he was even going to consider losing his friend.

“We can’t go there,” Aragorn argued, unintentionally sliding into Legolas’ use of ‘them’ as a plural.  Gingerly he moved into a more comfortable position as his body woke from the effects of the mentasis.  “*You* can’t go there, Legolas.  He’ll recognize you.”

“My friend, I think he already has or we would not be sitting here like this now,” Legolas answered softly.  It was painfully obvious that for some reason they had been hunted down and intentionally attacked now, when they had no hope for help.  He had the sinking feeling that this might have even been the whole purpose behind the raid on the Beorning village.  Only someone as powerful as a Nazgûl could have brought that about. The Beornings had never been the targets... they were.  Now here they were, hundreds of miles from any possible means of help.  If it had been a trap, then it was a wickedly clever one.  The prince held no illusions that the message had been meant for Aragorn alone.  If this was the Witch King’s doing, the evil one knew very well that Legolas would never abandon a friend in trouble.  He was right. 

“We’ll go to my father then,” Aragorn pressed on, unwilling to accept the fate that seemed to be chosen for them. “He’ll know what to do.  He can make an antidote for whatever they’ve given me.  He’s the best healer Legolas, we’ll be safe there.”  The ranger kept talking even though the elf was shaking his head. 

“Strider it would take us over a month to get back to Rivendell.  You’re a healer, assess your symptoms honestly and tell me you truly think you have that long,” the elf said quietly. 

“We *can’t* just go to that place and submit to a Nazgûl!”  Aragorn was beginning to panic as their options narrowed.  “That’s as good as walking into the jaws of death!  There has to be another way,” he whispered, staring into the the elf’s blue eyes.

Legolas didn’t answer right away.  Standing on his feet, he gazed skyward.  Judging from the amount of light they had left he realized that they were staying the night here.  Silently he walked off and began to collect rocks for a fire ring.  He was terrified of the thought of being anywhere near the Úlairë and even more afraid that Aragorn would die no matter what choice they made.  All of this was his fault, in more ways than one. 

“Legolas?”

Aragorn’s quiet question drifted towards the elf.  He made sure to stay where the ranger could see him as he collected wood for the fire, but his mind and thoughts were too jumbled, fearful and recriminating for him to deal with Aragorn’s cares as well as his own at the moment.

Realizing Legolas needed a few moments, Aragorn relaxed back against the trunk of the tree.  He wanted to get up and help, but his body ached and his shoulder was throbbing once more.  He watched as the elf silently constructed a fire ring and began stacking the wood.  Unable to stand the pain from his wound any longer, he grabbed his pack and began digging through it for something that might ease his discomfort.

Legolas had a small fire going by the time Aragorn found that which he sought.  He fumbled with a small pouch, trying to untie the knot.  Slender hands stopped his awkward movements and the ranger glanced up at the elf that knelt next to him.

“Elladan tied it shut.  He always uses these stupid slip knots,” Aragorn explained quietly.  “They get stuck sometimes.  I guess I won’t have to worry about that anymore.” He tried to lighten the mood but fell very flat.

Legolas’ gaze snapped up to lock onto the ranger.  He sat down slowly next to the man.  “What do you mean?” The question held a sharp edge stemming from barely concealed distress.

“Legolas...” Aragorn took a deep breath.  There was no use denying the truth.  He trusted Legolas enough to be completely honest with him.  “Legolas, we’ve been friends for too long to lie to each other, or ourselves.  We both know I’m not going to make it,” the ranger’s voice was soft, but frank.  Aragorn shook his head and continued when the elf tried to interrupt him.

“No, my friend, listen to me.  I’ve been thinking about it.  We are, as you say, more than a month out from Rivendell.  Your people cannot help me even if we could reach them and neither could the Beornings.  Where then, do we go?  Angmar?  That’s not a real option; it’s only putting a different and likely more horrible face on death.  I won’t go there.  I won’t take you there.”

The ranger stared hard at the elf as Legolas explained himself.  His thoughts had been running over all the same paths as Legolas’ had been.  The prince had been thinking through every option, trying any way to find a solution that didn’t involve going to Angmar.  The only one he hadn’t thought of was the one that the ranger had chosen.

“You’re not going to die,” Legolas stated flatly.

“Not tonight, no,” Aragorn replied lightly, with a small smile.

“It’s not funny, Estel.”  Legolas was angry and it showed through in his tone.  “You think I would agree to just sit here and wait for you to die?  That’s not an option either.  I won’t let you.”

“You can’t stop it now my, friend.  If what the Wraith’s messenger said is true, then the only ones who could make a difference now are either too far away, or somewhere we aren’t going.”  Aragorn tried to reassure the elf and convince himself at the same time. 

“I have herbs that will help when it gets...” His words were cut off as the elf wrenched the knapsack away from him and walked to the far side of the fire, throwing the bag to the ground.

“Stop it!” Legolas shouted at the ranger.  “How can you think like that?  And what of me, or your family?”  The elf touched his heart before pointing over the hills behind them. “What of us?”

Stalking back around the camp he knelt in front of the ranger and glared at the man.  “You went into Mordor after me and convinced me not to give up this life.  You made me believe I had something to live for.  When I died in the mountains your father valued my life so much he was willing to risk his own to bring me back.  And now you sit there and have the audacity to tell me that you just want to let go as if your life means nothing?  You think I will just let you slip away and not fight for you like you have for me?”  Tears streamed down the elf’s face.  “How dare you,” he whispered.

“It is the Witch King, Legolas.  I only thought to protect you,” Aragorn spoke quietly.  His eyes were large in the firelight and tears of his own collected on their edges.  How could Legolas think this wasn’t hard for him?  Of course it was!  But what choice did he have?  They had to be realistic.

“Do you think I never want to see my family again?  Or Arwen?  Do you think I want to leave you or Middle Earth *now*, this way?  Do you think I *want* to die?”  The ranger shook his head.  “I don’t know what else to do.  I know you wouldn’t let me go to Angmar alone, but how can I endanger you by asking you to go there with me?  How can I ever bring you anywhere near that evil creature’s clutches again?  Better one life than two.  You will not think of yourself.  You will risk yourself for my sake. I know you, Legolas.”

“As if you haven’t done the same for me.”  Legolas’ quiet words stopped the ranger.  “Let me return the favor.  Or at least let me pay the debt of my own folly.”  The elf dropped his head, pressing his palms against his eyes as if to pretend he was tired and hide the tears that were escaping them. 

“Legolas, don’t...”

“No!” the elf snapped, cutting his friend short.  “Do not dare tell me this is not my fault.  The Nazgûl obviously wanted to catch us alone and I did a good job of making sure he could.  If I had allowed Raniean and Trelan to come with us our circumstances would be different.  We may not have had to chase the Beornings and walk into this trap, or at the very least we would not now be alone.  We could go to Angmar while someone else went to your father and my father and tell them what happened and get help.  But father was right about me.  I’m foolhardy and I can’t be trusted.  My stupid pride has endangered your life and made sure no one will ever know what has happened to us.”

The prince’s shoulders shook with a repressed sob.  If Aragorn died he would never forgive himself. 

“You are none of those things, my friend.” Aragorn’s soft voice made the elf lift tear-stained eyes to meet the human’s gaze.  “You couldn’t have known this would happen, no one could.  Everyone makes mistakes; that doesn’t make this your fault.  We can’t live in the past now and wonder about what-if’s.  We have to try and face the future.  That is all we can do.”

Legolas nodded, wiping his eyes hurriedly.  He was by no means ready to let go of his own self-condemnation over the situation, but he did agree that the future was what was important now.  A future, in which he was not going to let his friend die.

“You are right, mellon-nín.  We have walked into worse predicaments than this and escaped.  We can do it again.  Together we will find a way out of this.  We *will* survive, Estel, both of us.  But we must hold onto hope and do whatever it takes.”  Legolas fixed Aragorn with a firm gaze.  “*Whatever* it takes,” the elf repeated.

“Are you saying you think we should go to Angmar?”  Aragorn whispered, almost disbelieving. 

“Yes.  I am saying we must go.  If that is the only way for you to live, then that is where our course lies.  There must be an antidote there.  The dark one may have his plans, but we can have our own as well.  We’ll find the cure and we’ll make it out again.  We have before.”  Legolas reached out and gripped the ranger’s right arm, giving him a gentle squeeze.  “Just don’t give up on me yet.  Do you understand, my bull-headed adan?”  The softly spoken taunt worked and Aragorn pulled the elf against him.

“I promise, no giving up,” he whispered into the elf’s ear.

Sitting back, the ranger smiled at the fair being before him.  He was not at all sure that going to Angmar was the best idea, but it did seem to be the only one.  If Legolas had hope, then he would try to maintain his own.  He was glad the elf was with him.  He knew deep in his heart that if Legolas were not here now, he would not survive.

“Now, if you’ll be so kind as to bring me back my bag, my shoulder is killing me and I know I have some white willow in there,” Aragorn chided softly.

With a start Legolas realized the ranger had been trying to find something before he snatched the knapsack away.  Quickly retrieving it and pulling the pouch out once more, Legolas sat back down in front of the ranger and handed the items to the man.  He retrieved a small jar and gently spread the ointment over the deep cut, lathing it with the numbing gel.

Aragorn sighed as the pain receded, soothed by the elf’s ministrations.  When Legolas had re-bandaged the wound the ranger handed him the small bag.  It was full of pulverized willow bark and vantium leaves, a pain remedy with which the prince was familiar. 

Legolas laughed easily as he slipped the flap open and poured the herbs into the palm of his hand.

“Were these the herbs you were talking about that would help?” He asked softly, eyeing the ranger with a sheepish grin.

“Yes,” Aragorn admitted. “For the pain.  That was all I meant, my friend.”  He returned the wide smile as he handed over the small pot to boil and soften the medicine.  He was aware of what Legolas had thought he meant.

“Forgive me,” Legolas apologized as he added water to the herbs and set the pot near the flames.  Scooting back he rested against the tree next to Aragorn.

The ranger gently nudged the elf causing the prince to laugh.  “Fussy elf,” He muttered as Legolas leaned back against him.  “I have some nice herbs for you,” he teased lightly.

“You aren’t going to let me live it down, are you?” Legolas murmured good-naturedly.

“Of course not,” Aragorn replied, “It’ll be a great one to tell to my brothers when we get back.”

Legolas laughed.  He rolled his eyes at the thought of trying to explain that one to the human’s adopted family.  Yet he would gladly do so, if only they had the chance to ever see them again.  The prince’s thoughts drifted to his own family as silence fell between the two friends.  His father was expecting him home.  It wouldn’t be the first time things had not turned out quite the way Thranduil wanted.  The king would be angry, but Legolas had to believe that when he explained the situation, Thranduil would eventually forgive him.  He couldn’t leave the ranger man to die anymore than Aragorn would abandon him.  Legolas wished he could somehow send word but knew that was impossible.  He would have to make his explanations and apologies when he returned home.  *When*, not *if*, he told himself sternly.  They would return home – both of them. 

He glanced at Aragorn.  The ranger had scooted down and rested his head on the elf’s shoulder.  He watched the fire wearily, the hypnotically weaving dance of the flames lulling him to sleep.  Legolas didn’t move. The man needed to rest, his body had suffered a great deal that day.

They could head out tomorrow.  Legolas smiled to himself as Aragorn relaxed fully against him.  Tonight they would just rest.

 
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
 

Packing up their belongings had taken longer than usual the next morning.  Neither the ranger nor the elf spoke much.  They set out in silence and the dread of their path hung heavy upon them. 

They had not gotten far before Legolas stopped Aragorn, turning the man away from their northern path.  Aragorn realized they had reached the same place they had split company the day before.  Was it only yesterday they had dreaded leaving one another?  Well now they were together, but under what circumstances...

“Estel, we cannot take *this* where we are going.”  He grasped the man’s hand and fingered the silver and emerald ring on Aragorn’s forefinger.   

“You can’t even hide it in your things, it will be discovered and it is sure to be recognized,” the elf pointed out. 

With a sigh the ranger shook his head.  Of course.  Barahir could not make this journey, it would betray him.

“I hadn’t even thought of that.  But I can’t just leave it.  It’s a family heirloom.”  He winced and rubbed his sore shoulder. It hurt worse today than it had yesterday and the ache was making him edgy.  The ring meant more to him than just lineage; its history made it a meaningful symbol of friendship between the world of elves and men.  The green stones had been cut in Valinor.  It was a relic from the first age and not the kind of item one simply laid aside.

“Of course not...” the elf said thoughtfully, considering their options.

“Then what do you suggest?” Aragorn asked, shielding his eyes against the rising sun.

Legolas glanced about them quietly for a few minutes, his gaze roving over the sparse forests that bracketed the eastern face of the Misty Mountains.  Turning slowly around, he peered across the Langflood and stared longingly into his own woods.  The forests he had loved as a child.  They called to him now even, begging him to return and not leave again so soon.

That was it, *his* forests were the answer.

With a questioning glance he held his hand out towards the man, asking silently for the ring.

Aragorn slipped it easily from his finger, trusting the Silvan elf implicitly.  As he dropped the ring into Legolas’ palm he was struck by a moment of irony.  A long time ago, another golden haired elf had given this ring, the symbol of the house of Finarfin, to Aragorn’s forefather Barahir.  Now he was in turn entrusting it back into the keeping of an elf.  Not too remarkable perhaps, given its many different guardians, both human and elven, over the years.  However, the irony came because, for some inexplicable reason, Legolas had always reminded Aragorn of the image his childhood mind had created to fit the stories of Finrod Felagund.  In their current situation, that comparison, however strange, did not sit well with the ranger.

With agile steps, Legolas ran lightly back across the river using the same stone pathway he had yesterday.  Aragorn followed him much slower, watching his steps carefully on the slippery rocks.

By the time he had caught up with Legolas, the elf was standing near a large, old tree that sat just inside the edge of the forest.  The giant oak had a hollow in its trunk near the base.  Grasses had grown up around the dark opening and leaves blown by the winds had nearly covered the scar.  Legolas crouched down near the hole and pushed the greenery away, exposing the hiding place. 

He smiled up at Aragorn who was nodding in agreement.

“But wait!” the ranger dropped down next to the elf and dug quickly through his pack, pulling out an empty leather pouch that had held some sort of herb at one time.  “Here, we’ll put it in here.  At least it will help to keep it safe from the elements until we can return.”

He held the tiny bag open, allowing the elf to drop the silver circle inside.  Pulling the strings shut, he tied it off just like Elladan had taught him and passed it back to Legolas.

“How will we ever find it again?” Aragorn asked as Legolas rose and helped the ranger to his feet as well.

“It shouldn’t be too hard,” Legolas answered glancing back at the ford.  “First there is the river and the crossing that we used.  It is straight out from this tree.  Secondly,” the elf paused in his explanation and pulled one of his daggers from its sheath on his back.  Quickly and deftly he carved an intricate pattern into the bark of the tree.  The cuts were superficial and did not harm the tree.  Given a few years they would heal over and no one would ever know they had been there.

“There,” he spoke softly, stepping back and allowing Aragorn a closer look.  “That is my mark.  If I were with a group of wood elves they would know that I had been here.  Normally I would show the direction I had gone as well, but not this time.  This time it only shows that I was here.  This will help us find the right tree, but mean nothing to anyone unfriendly.  If Raniean, Trelan or one of my company should find this sign, they will know to look about further to see if I have left anything.  Anyone else will simply assume it was for another party and will ignore it.”

Aragorn nodded slowly.  He glanced back across the river in the direction of Rivendell.  It occurred to him suddenly that he didn’t know what would happen if no one ever found the ring again.  They were heading into darkness and it seemed to envelop his heart for a moment, squeezing tightly and shutting out all hope.

“Aragorn?”

“I just...I...” The ranger’s words faltered and he stared back at his friend.

“I know,” Legolas answered softly.  He understood his friend’s hesitancy and fears.  He had been thinking the same thing.  He hoped that if the worst should happen, Raniean or Trelan would someday chance to come this way and find Barahir.  He wasn’t altogether positive that he and Aragorn would pass this way again, but he wasn’t about to let the ranger know his thoughts. 

“We’ll come back for it,” he reassured softly as he led them back across the river and north towards the snow capped peaks of Angmar.  “I promise you Strider, we’ll retrieve it on our way home.”  He smiled at the ranger and wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulder as they walked.

He vowed not to let himself think differently, even as he silently said his goodbyes to the forests around them.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART FIVE*~
~Sacrifices and Decisions~

~~~~~~~~
I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Anywhere from here

Light up, Light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you

-- Snow Patrol
~~~~~~~~

They had been traveling north for quite some time now and the jagged edges of Angmar’s mountain peaks could be see in the near distance, poking up through the mists that clung to them like blackened teeth.  One seemed a few shades darker than the rest and a twisted spire arched skyward near its summit.  Neither friend had to guess very hard which mountain it was they sought.

Aragorn had slowly been growing worse.  Every day his strength waned and the illness taking him deepened.  Every day it was harder to get up and face another day’s long, cold, grueling march.  In consideration of his friend’s failing health, Legolas forced the ranger to stop early tonight, quickly making camp in a secluded part of the forest.  The human was too ill to protest.  That was a sure sign he was fading. 

“Legolas...” Aragorn’s voice was soft and weary. 

The elf immediately left off tending to the fire he had started and glanced at his friend.  The ranger was huddled back against the tree behind him, a drawn, slightly frightened expression on his face.  His eyes did not fix on the elf, but wandered about as if lost.  The ranger’s gloved hand groped outward slightly over the blanket around him, as if searching for his friend. 

Legolas thought his heart would break.  Hurrying over he sat down beside the ranger.  Sliding his hand into Aragorn’s agitatedly twitching fingers, Legolas squeezed the human’s hand reassuringly.  It was bitingly cold this time of year in the northlands and their breath frosted harshly on the chilly air.  Aragorn’s movements had disturbed his protective covers and he shivered in the cold wind.  The elf gently pulled the blankets back around his friend’s shoulders, tucking the edges in protectively.   

Aragorn started when the elf took his hand, but then seemed to relax a little, calmed by the elf’s nearness. 

Legolas stroked the fingers in his grasp gently with his thumb, rubbing reassuring circles into his friend’s palm.  “Sîdh, mellon-nín, pân natha mae.  Peace, my friend, all will be well.”

Aragorn smiled slightly, letting his head fall to the side a little.  It came to rest against Legolas’ shoulder.  “Nach milui artheled enni.  You are too good to me, Legolas,” he whispered hoarsely. 

Legolas was slightly alarmed by his usually strong friend’s state of weakened dependency, but he let none of that fear color his reactions and simply wrapped his free arm around the human’s shoulders, allowing Aragorn to feel the comfort of being enfolded in the elf’s firm embrace.  The ranger’s throbbing shoulder eased up a little under the prince touch.  The relief, small though it was, was most welcome.

Aragorn’s breathing was slow and labored.  The poisons working on him were taking their terrible toll.  He hated how weak it was making him, how much he knew he was leaching off of Legolas’ strength just in order to keep going.  He felt incredibly ill... and very afraid. 

“Legolas?”  The human murmured softly. 

“Hm?” the elf absently stroked the human’s sweat-slicked hair with the fingers that rested against his friend’s shoulder, Aragorn’s gloved hand still fondly trapped in the long fingers of the prince’s other hand. 

“I can’t see.” Aragorn’s voice was quiet, but a tiny trace of fear flittered around the edges of his tone. 

Legolas started and pulled his friend up quickly by the shoulders, looking into the ranger’s familiar grey eyes.  He realized the human’s wandering gaze was looking right through him, not focusing on anything.  Cold dread chilled the elf’s heart like ice as he passed his hand in front of his friend’s eyes several times.  Aragorn’s gaze did not follow his hand.  The ranger was blind. 

“Can you see nothing at all then?  When did this happen?”  The prince looked deep into the human’s eyes, turning Aragorn’s head gently from side to side in his grasp as he checked him over.  He tried to keep any alarm or panic out of his voice, maintaining a façade of calm for his friend’s sake.  

“About an hour ago, but it’s been dimming for days.  There’s nothing wrong with my eyes.  It’s the poison,” Aragorn’s voice was still soft and matter-of-fact.  He appreciated that Legolas was not overreacting from the startling news.  He didn’t have the strength to deal with that kind of emotional swell right now.  “It’s stealing all the light... leaving nothing but consuming darkness.”

Legolas tried not to choke on the lump in his throat.  He hated to imagine his friend caught in a darkened world like this.  The poison was taking Aragorn too hard, too fast.  He was doing his best to support his friend and share his strength with the ranger, but it wasn’t enough.  He could warm the human’s chilled body with his touch, but it left as soon as the elf withdrew.  All he could offer seemed to be but small drops of strength that quickly disappeared into the darkening maelstrom trying to steal Aragorn away from him.  Something had to be done.  He had to find a way to make a difference, any difference... The prince pressed his lips together tightly.

“Wait here a moment, mellon-nín, I’ll be right back,” he reassured, rising and moving away.

Aragorn nodded and leaned back against the tree.  He could hear the faint sound of Legolas moving around their small camp, but could not see what the elf was doing.  He had no idea what his friend had in mind.  In truth he felt too ill to care very much.  He shivered slightly from an unnatural cold that had nothing to do with the sharp north winds.

Aragorn was glad when Legolas sat back down next to him, because the elf’s presence seemed to push the cold away from his body and let him feel warmth again in his aching bones.  The ranger smelled a new scent lingering around the elf and wrinkled his nose.  “Togiuith?” he exclaimed the name of the herb questioningly. 

Legolas nodded, and then remembered his friend couldn’t see him.  “Yes, I stole it out of your pack I’m afraid.”  He smiled gently.  Peeling the leather glove off Aragorn’s right hand he swabbed the human’s palm with a bit of the pale umber tincture he had taken from his friend’s belongings. 

The human was puzzled.  He didn’t understand what Legolas had in mind.  Togiuith was a drawing herb, used for pulling the sting out of insect bites or mildly poisoned wounds, but it would do nothing for a toxin as severe as the one afflicting him.  He did not think it would have any benefit for someone in his current state.  “Legolas...”

The elf hushed him.  “Just trust me, Strider, all right?  I may not be a healer, but we wood-elves know a thing or two that might surprise you.”  Legolas rubbed his own right palm with the herb.

The human seemed a little uneasy, so Legolas began explaining to assuage his hesitancy.  “When the spiders first appeared in Mirkwood the wood-elves were hard pressed to know how to deal with them.  The most common ones use their venom to immobilize, rather than kill... but some breeds *do* kill with even a bite.  That breed has almost died out as they were weaker beings than their cousins and the elves hunted them to near extinction, but in the early days they were much more prevalent.  At that time, our people were dying frequently with nothing to save them, until a remedy was found.”  Picking up one of his long knives from the ground beside them, the elf cleaned the blade with the same Togiuith tincture.

Legolas did not mention that what he was about to attempt usually only worked, or at least worked best, between family members whose ties of kinship were strong.  That was the reason he had not tried it sooner.  But now they were swiftly running out of time.  Aragorn was the brother of his heart; that had to be enough... Somehow, it had to be.  

Lifting the ranger’s hand, he turned it palm up in his grip, laying the cool metal of his knife blade against the callused flesh so that Aragorn could feel it and not be startled by what he was going to do. 

Aragorn felt the steel against his skin and turned questioning, sightless eyes upon his friend.  He made no move to pull away because he trusted the elf completely, but that didn’t mean that he understood. 

“Legolas?  What are you doing?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to trust me, my friend,” Legolas repeated gently as he flipped the blade onto its sharpened edge against the ranger’s flesh.  “I think I can help you, and at the very worst it will at least do you no harm.  It is something my people discovered a long time ago.  The Togiuith cannot draw the poison by itself, but it can act as a catalyst if used correctly, between two people whose bond is strong enough.  I think ours is.”  There was a gentle smile in Legolas’ voice that set Aragorn at ease. 

The ranger nodded, giving his wordless consent for whatever the prince wanted to attempt. 

Legolas accepted the permission and his fingers tightened on Aragorn’s hand.  “Relax, mellon-nín, this will only hurt for a moment.”

Aragorn had a fairly good idea of what the elf intended to do and breathed deeply as Legolas used his knife to cut a long, deep incision across the center of the human’s right palm. 

Deep, red blood welled up around the knife and Legolas winced sympathetically.  “I’m sorry Estel,” he murmured, asking forgiveness for causing his friend pain. 

Aragorn shook his head, meaning that no apology was necessary. 

Setting Aragorn’s hand carefully on his leg so that the bloody palm was turned upward, Legolas took his stained knife and swabbed it with the herb tincture once more, before placing the shining silver blade against his own flesh.  Without flinching, the elf carefully sliced his left palm open in the same manner in which he had cut Aragorn’s right.  Pouring several spoons worth of the Togiuith into the bowl of his injured palm, the elf tightened as the herb stung sharply.  He should treat Aragorn’s wound with it as well, but the elf hated causing Aragorn further pain, so instead he poured more into his own palm, hopefully absorbing enough for both of them. 

Lifting the human’s arm out of his lap, Legolas clasped Aragorn’s right hand with his left, pressing their bleeding palms together and trapping the Togiuith between the two wounds. 

Aragorn hissed through his teeth as the medicine and the contact burned his palm.  For a minute or two they just sat that way, hands clasped, unspeaking.  Legolas’ eyes were closed and he was whispering something quiet under his breath that might have been a prayer, or might have been part of whatever ritual he was sharing with his mortal friend. 

The ache of the medicine faded... then Aragorn’s palm began to tingle.  It was not an unpleasant sensation however.  In fact, as it spread up his arm and throughout the rest of his body, he breathed a sigh of relief.  It was as if a warm breath of fresh wind had entered his chilled, aching bones, revitalizing his flesh and lifting some of the darkness of oppression from his soul. 

Legolas felt Aragorn’s cold, stiff body begin to loosen against him and he smiled.  It was working.  He knew they could make it work.  The elf breathed slowly, deeply, wading his way through the physical effects of what he was doing.  While Aragorn got a reprieve, and fed off the elf’s strength, Legolas was physically sucking the poison that was killing his friend out of the ranger’s body, and into his.  A creeping chill frosted the prince’s bones and his joints began to ache.  He was suddenly keenly aware of the sharp frostiness of the air and the chill that radiated from the very earth itself under him.  The light of the world around him dimmed several shades and he knew he was experiencing what his friend had been going through these many days now.  A deep, grinding ache flared in his shoulder.  He did not know if he was feeling Aragorn’s pain or if the touch of the morgul poison was reawakening old associations in his own body.  The elf tensed to keep his teeth from chattering. 

Despite the ill effects, Legolas wished he could pull everything out of his friend. He wished he could transfer Aragorn’s fate to himself as Lord Elrond had so selflessly done for the prince earlier in the year.  But he could not.  Legolas did not have that gift and the best he could offer Aragorn was some of his strength and a brief reprieve, lightening the human’s load of suffering by enabling him to share the poison killing him with another body.  Between immortals, and working only against spider venom, the cure could save lives... but this poison was a hundred times worse and Aragorn did not posses the strength of an elven body.  Through the sharing of his immortal blood, Legolas could slow the ranger’s descent into darkness, but he could not stop it forever. 

Aragorn smiled softly as the essence of Legolas’ life-blood flowed into his veins, aided by the herbs and the strength of the elf’s will.  Blessed relief blossomed out through the ranger’s body like a warm, gentle river; like taking a hot bath after being too long in the snow. 

Legolas smiled too, despite the pounding headache building between his temples as he pulled Aragorn’s tainted, mortal blood into himself.  The elf knew the effects on both of them would not be lasting.  His body would deal with and neutralize the poison he was absorbing with his friend’s blood, given a little time.  Unfortunately, the vicious morgul poison would continue to propagate in Aragorn’s body and would overwhelm him again after a short period of time.  As much as he wanted to, Legolas could not cure Aragorn; he could only buy him more time. 

Aragorn’s brows furrowed in concentration as darkness wavered around him like a shifting veil.  Slowly, light began to seep back into his awareness, painting the world around him into vague, muted shapes as though seen on a very dark night.  Into the blindness of his private midnight, Legolas’ dim form appeared beside him, growing slowly brighter.  The ranger could see his friend now, sitting next to him and clasping his hand.  The elf’s eyes were closed as he concentrated on what he was doing. 

Legolas shimmered brightly in the darkness, bathing in the elf’s own inner light... yet it was not the same kind of glow as when Aragorn observed the prince in the dark of a normal night.  Usually, Legolas appeared as if he were reflecting the radiance of the stars like ithildin, but right now the prince shimmered as if he were totally made out of light himself.  He even looked different... Aragorn did not know how to explain it but for a few moments, he was seeing Legolas as he looked in the unseen realm between that which was visible, and that what was intangible.  The natural radiance of the wood-elf’s fëa shimmered around his friend like silver-blue moonlight, drawing Aragorn into the circle of light until he was totally encompassed by the brightening glow. 

Suddenly, Aragorn realized that he himself was glowing dimly.  Then, a moment later, the world about snapped back into focus.  Aragorn was assaulted with the sights, shapes and colors of the fire before him, the rocks and the trees around them, the fading evening sky and the slowly waking stars over head.  He blinked hard several times to make the adjustment of having his sight return, but otherwise felt unable to move.  It was not an unpleasant feeling.  It was simply as if his body had become part of something he couldn’t understand.  He was overwhelmed by the rush of clarity and warmth, afraid to break whatever wonderful spell had wrapped him up in its embrace. 

His gaze was still locked on Legolas.  The elf was no longer glowing, and looked normal once more to his sight, although perhaps a little weary.  Yet there was a smile in the prince’s eyes when he opened them, meeting his friend’s gaze. 

Legolas saw Aragorn staring at him.  Color had returned to the ranger’s face and warmth to his touch.  The elf was relieved.  He smiled softly when the human just sat there, seemingly frozen in whatever he was experiencing.  Legolas had not stopped to think what this kind of sharing between a mortal and an immortal might do to a man, but apparently his friend’s body was a little overwhelmed.  It did not know what to do with the elven blood and elven strength that had just been given.  Had he been a normal human, his body would not have been able to accept the gift, no matter how much love it was given with.  But Aragorn was a descendent of Elros, a man of Númenor, and his body could accept the strength imparted to him, even if momentarily at a loss of how to deal with it. 

Aragorn opened his mouth, but seemed to be trying to remember how to talk. 

Legolas smiled gently, squeezing Aragorn’s hand in his, not quite ready to release it yet. 

“Speak, my friend,” he urged, trying to lead the ranger back to a functional state.  If he did this again, he would have to be careful how much of himself he gave to his friend, for, apparently, the human’s body could take only so much.  He hadn’t thought of that. 

Aragorn chuckled slightly and let a deep breath out as he returned from wherever he had been.  “Dear friend...” he murmured, squeezing Legolas’ hand back.  “What did you do?”

Legolas gently unclasped their bloodied palms and commenced cleaning Aragorn’s wound carefully. 

“Nothing permanent I fear,” the elf apologized quietly.  Legolas felt a little dazed, but pushed the sensation aside.  “Still, it should help for a time.”  He bound up the ranger’s palm with slowed fingers and tied off the soft bandage.  “Can you see again now?”

The ranger nodded, looking around them.  Yes, he could see more than he felt he ought to be able to honestly, especially considering that the moon had risen and the sun was almost set.  It was as if the darkness did not matter, but formed merely a slight filter upon his vision.

Aragorn frowned as he looked at his bandaged hand after Legolas released it... either he was seeing things, which was entirely possible given his state, or his fingers were glistening with a slightly incandescent light in the growing dusk.  That was *very* odd.  The next thing he realized, with a small thrill of panic, was that Legolas, still beside him, was *not* glowing at all, even though he normally would be as darkness descended. 

“Legolas,” the ranger’s voice suddenly took on a serious, demanding tone.  “*What* did you do?”

Legolas had cleaned the blood from his hand, but was having difficulty trying to bandage it one-handedly.  His normally graceful fingers fumbled with the soft cloth.  He focused on the task with a slight frown. 

“I told you, nothing permanent, Estel.”  He sighed.  “My people discovered how to use Togiuith to initiate a transfer of blood and strength.  It allowed the person bitten by the spider to exchange some of the poison for the strength of another elf.  Split between two people, the toxin was not deadly... unfortunately, I cannot do that for you with this foul morgul poison.  I can’t cure you Estel, I can only help.  I’m sorry.”

Legolas’ fingers trembled slightly and he dropped the bandage in disgust at his own clumsiness. 

Aragorn caught his friend’s hands between his own, taking the strip of cloth from the prince and gently wrapping it around the elf’s self-inflicted injury.  The ranger winced.  The wound in his friend’s fair palm looked dark and ugly.  Small tendrils of black ran away from the edges under the skin and the flesh was already deeply inflamed.

“I don’t care about that,” the human said quietly, covering Legolas’ bandaged hand with his own.  “I mean, what did you do to yourself?”  Aragorn’s eyes were sorrowful and worried.  It was nearly completely dark now and Legolas’ elven incandesce remained disturbingly absent.  He might as well have been another human sitting across the ranger. Aragorn was quietly terrified of what Legolas might have sacrificed for him.

Legolas read the dread in his friend’s eyes and shook his head quickly. 

“Ú-gostach, fear not,” he reassured.  “I have taken no lasting harm.  This poison is not meant for me, and what small amount I absorbed, my body can deal with.”  The elf spoke true, but carefully avoided telling his friend that having mortal blood in his veins was nearly as difficult as dealing with the poison.  He felt... old, and suffocated, as if he were both blind and deaf with all his extra senses severed.  He hadn’t expected it to be quite this bad and was suddenly eternally grateful that he was an elf.  If this was even a small taste of mortality, it was not something he relished. 

Aragorn nodded.  As long as his friend had not done anything seriously detrimental to his own health, he would not comment.  Legolas’ hands were cold in his and he hated that the elf had in anyway hurt himself to help him. 

Legolas felt warmth spreading through his arms and quickly pulled his hands away from Aragorn.  “Daro!  I did not give you strength so you could give it away again, Strider,” he chastised gently.  “Please, mellon-nín, you need to keep it for as long as you can.  I... I cannot lose you.”

Taking the elf by the shoulders, Aragorn pulled him close, hugging Legolas tightly.  He didn’t say thank you; somehow that didn’t seem quite adequate for someone who was willing to tamper with his own immortality to keep his friend alive.  He didn’t know what to say, so he just held his friend quietly, trusting that somehow, the elf who knew him so well, would know what was in his heart.

Legolas did. He hugged the human back.  He smiled when Aragorn released him.  “Now get some rest, mellon-nín, I will keep watch.”

Aragorn did rest, and for the first time in days his sleep was deep, dreamless, and refreshing. 

Legolas stood guard over his friend all night long.  As it had been every night since they had entered this land, he had the eerie feeling of being watched.  He could not see anything and nothing came near them, yet he knew it was out there.  The back of his neck prickled constantly and the sensation left him on edge more tonight than any other night.  He attributed his added jumpiness to his own diminished strength, but it remained nevertheless uncanny and very disturbing.  The elf felt certain they were under constant surveillance, but so far, they had encountered no kind of resistance at all.  In fact, it seemed as if something or someone were actually keeping any dangers of the wilds away from them.  As if someone did not wish their journey hindered by unnecessary delays.  That was not a comforting thought. 

By the time the sun rose, Legolas was much more exhausted than he should have been.  The elf had the rare experience of feeling glad to see the stars disappear as the sun slipped up into the sky and ended the long, anxious, wearying night. 

The prince rubbed his eyes.  He wanted to sleep, but that was out of the question.  They had to move forward; Aragorn was running out of time.  Rushing to their doom with open arms because to delay meant death... it was quite a situation they were facing.

“Echuiach, mellon-nín.  Wake, my friend,” Legolas stirred the ranger lightly. 

Aragorn stretched and opened his eyes, sitting up slowly.  He could still feel the dark pulse in his shoulder wound as it slowly worked to reclaim his body, but Legolas’ gift last night had not been in vain and he felt better than he had in days.  He couldn’t say the same for his friend however.

The ranger chuckled as he pulled himself to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  “You look terrible Legolas,” he teased lightly.  “Bad night?”

The elf’s slightly blood-shot glare dared the ranger to laugh at him again.  “Mortals,” he rolled his eyes.  “Pack up, Strider, we’re leaving.”

“Yes, sir,” Aragorn bowed with mock deference.  “Apparently not only humans are grumpy when they’re tired.”

Legolas didn’t bother to reply, but started gathering up his gear.  Aragorn frowned.  The prince was not himself. 

“Legolas... perhaps we should wait.  You should rest before we move on.  I’m sorry; you should have woken me to take turns, mellon-nín.”  The truth was that Legolas often took entire night watches alone.  Normally it did not faze the prince, but today Aragorn wondered if this was one time Legolas should not have pushed himself.

Legolas shook his head.  “No, rest is time we cannot spare.”  He forced a smile for his friend’s sake.  “I’ll be fine.”

The day’s journey was long and both human and elf were fatigued at the end of it.  The dull chill had started working its way out from Aragorn’s wound again and his head throbbed.  Legolas, sharing his friend’s pain, felt nearly the same, although, even as Aragorn’s strength began to wan again a little, the elf’s was slowly working its way back to normal.

After making camp, Legolas sat down and found he could not get up again.  He was freezing cold and couldn’t get warm.  He was exhausted and ached everywhere.  Valar, how did Aragorn stand mortal life? 

Aragorn knelt next to his friend.  He was weary, but he was used to feeling this way.  It was not as much of a shock to him as it was to Legolas.  Pulling a blanket around Legolas’ shoulders, he gave him a gentle nudge towards the ground. 

“Rest, mellon-nín, my turn to take first watch tonight,” he said.

Legolas could no longer deny his need for rest and reluctantly obeyed.  “Promise you’ll wake me,” he murmured as sleep claimed him.  “I don’t want you wearing yourself out, Estel.”

“I promise,” Aragorn agreed, pulling the blanket up higher and tucking the edges in around his friend’s body to stave off any nightly chill.  He would not be foolish and wake Legolas to take the second watch because he knew he was running on borrowed strength alone right now. Yet Legolas had to stop pushing himself as if he were invulnerable.  That elf didn’t know his own limits, whether he was suffering from an influx of poisoned mortal blood or not. 

Aragorn was not overly worried about anything attacking them during the night.  Obviously, the evil that was drawing them in was not about to let them get harmed too soon, if that were any comfort.  So he felt safe letting his attention rest on Legolas for a while as he watched his friend sleep. 

Legolas shimmered very dimly in the moonlight and Aragorn was gratified to see that in combination with the fact that the elf slept with his eyes open.  His friend was drained, but would be all right.  Still, the worn, haggard expression on the fair face and the troubled rise and fall of the slumbering shoulders made Aragorn’s heart ache. 

Too much.  Legolas as always ready to give up too much for him.  Like now... how could he let the elf walk back into the hands of evil, after having seen twice how that evil almost destroyed his friend?  Aragorn would die one way or the other... but Legolas... The human rested his head in his hands.  He felt the cloth of the bandage on his palm against his forehead, and dropped his hands down into his lap again.  Fingering the bandage he slid it off a little, peering at the wound underneath.  He was slightly surprised to find it almost completely healed already.  Only the knitting scar was left, and that still shimmered faintly in the moonlight.  A dim streak of radiance was all that remained left across his palm, like a small trace of his friend’s selfless love.

Reaching out, Aragorn gently eased aside the bandage on Legolas’ out-flung hand, being careful not to wake the slumbering elf.  At the moment however, it would have taken a lot more than Aragorn’s soft touch to stir the prince, despite the fact that he was usually a light sleeper.

The ranger swallowed hard.  The wound to Legolas’ palm was still dark and disturbing to look upon.  It had barely healed at all, although the black tendrils had at least receded back into the dark center.  Legolas’ body was fighting; it would just take time.

Aragorn replaced the bandage and squeezed the elf’s hand lightly.  Legolas, still fast asleep, responded reflexively and a small smile flittered across his lips.

Aragorn wanted to cry.  Their wounds were a physical manifestation of what was happening, what *would* happen if they continued onward as they were.  Legolas gave him life; in return all he could give the elf was death.  That was the way it was between humans and elves.  It was the same thing that kept him from Arwen.  Did he love Legolas any less, to let him make the kind of sacrifice that he did not want to require of his beloved?  They were brothers of the heart, yet very different in body.  It always came back to this inescapable fact.  With growing resignation he realized it always would.  How could it not for a mortal amongst elves?

Selfishly, he had to admit that he wanted his friend with him.  When Legolas was by his side he felt he could face anything, even the possibility of the slow, horrible death confronting him, even the dark terror that wanted to eat through his very heart... but it was not fair to the elf. 

Aragorn was mortal; his death was an eventuality he could never escape, whether it came now, or years from now.  Not so for Legolas.  Only a very cruel person could want to link an immortal star to the same doom as an Arda-bound mortal.  Aragorn was not such a person. He had tried to explain that to the elf in the beginning but he knew Legolas would never listen to him.

Rising quietly, the human picked up his pack.  Legolas would never leave him willingly, even if his life were the price he paid.  Aragorn knew that, but could not accept such a cost.  The ranger could hide his trail as good as or better than any elf.  Legolas would never be able to follow him.  The decision came quickly, but it was not lightly made.

Aragorn paused, taking one last look at his dear friend.  His eyes stung.  He knew Legolas would never understand.  The elf would be angry and hurt; he knew he would be if the situation were reversed.  Yet his friend’s life was worth any sacrifice, even one so dear as that of their friendship. 

He hated to leave the prince sleeping and unguarded, but it was the only way.  In the long run, Legolas would be safer. 

Kneeling down beside the elf, Aragorn pressed a gentle kiss upon his sleeping friend’s brow. 

“Valar keep you, my brother,” the human whispered quietly.  “I shall love you always.”

Pulling the brooch from the neck of his cloak, Aragorn pressed the small mithril star into Legolas’ palm.  The pin had belonged to Elladan and Elrond before him.  Legolas knew how much it meant to the ranger, and would understand the message his friend was leaving.

“Le ú-nach erui,” Aragorn whispered softly.  “You will never be alone.”

The elf’s long, graceful fingers closed automatically around the broach, the peaceful expression on his face deepening.  “Estel...” he murmured in his sleep.

Aragorn closed his eyes, turning his tear-stained gaze to the starry heavens.  “May you find estel - hope, my friend, and know I never wanted to leave you like this.  Forgive me.”

Rising silently once more, the ranger slid noiselessly away from the small camp and was almost instantly swallowed up by the darkness of the night beyond.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART SIX*~
~Abandoned~

~~~~~~~~
Shadows are falling and I’m running out of breath
Keep me in your heart for awhile.

If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for awhile.

When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun
Keep me in your heart for while...

-- Warren Zevon
~~~~~~~~

Legolas tossed and turned in a troubled dream.  He dreamt that Aragorn knelt and kissed his brow before disappearing into the darkness.  The elf tried to call out, to stop his friend... but he could not.  The human was gone and a devastating wave of grief washed over the elf. 

“Estel!” Legolas awoke at his own cry and found that he was staring up into the dawn-lit sky, warmed by the bright glow of the sun as it spread out across the landscape.

He blinked.  Aragorn should not have let him sleep this long.  Drat the human, he was going to make himself more ill!  Rolling on to his elbow, Legolas looked around for his friend, ready to chide him. 

No one was there. 

The fire had burned itself out long ago and the smoldering coals lay unattended in the stone ring. 

Legolas sat up and scrambled quickly to his feet, letting the blanket fall away from him as his gaze darted across the small, deserted camp.  Even Aragorn’s pack was gone.  The ranger’s tracks led to the edge of the camp and then simply disappeared. 

“Strider?  Strider!  Estel!!” the elf shouted in alarm, turning in circles as he scanned the area.  It did not feel as if the human had merely stepped away for a few moments, and if he had, he would not have taken all his gear with him.

Suddenly Legolas’ senses caught up with his body and he realized that he was clutching something in his left hand.  Opening his fingers almost fearfully, Legolas stared down in horror at the small, gold and silver star in his palm. 

Aragorn’s broach.  The one he always wore.  The one Elladan gave him to remind him that he would never be alone. 

Legolas clenched the pin tightly in his fist, letting it dig into his injured palm.  He wanted to scream, to wail at the heavens as he realized what must have happened. 

Aragorn had left him. 

Legolas knew his friend had had the best of intentions, but the abandonment burned like a hot knife in his chest.  It burned like the deepest kind of betrayal of trust and it stole away his breath. 

The ranger had left him, intending to go to Angmar and die there alone.  Aragorn would walk knowingly into the dark snare laid before him, and Legolas would never see him again.  After all they had been through, after Legolas had even been willing to share his very immortality, Aragorn had simply walked away and left him alone.  The ranger had abandoned him here without a word or a second glance. 

Legolas’ throat was so tight he realized he was gagging.  He physically couldn’t breathe.  He knew Aragorn’s actions weren’t intended as betrayal, but Valar, that was exactly what it felt like. 

His dream came back to him and the elf felt tears sting his eyes, sliding heedlessly down his cheeks.  He fell back to his knees in despair. 

He never even got to say goodbye.  Aragorn was simply there one minute, and gone the next, vanishing in the night as if their whole, wonderful friendship had been nothing but a fleeting dream flittering across the immortal prince’s life.  He had always feared their parting would be so one day, but he had never expected it to be this brutal or this abrupt.

Legolas could not accept this.  He could not let it end this way.  Rising to his feet, the elf used his stubborn determination to move up and to hide the crushing grief he felt. 

Aragorn was not getting away with this.  The ranger may be content to accept that his time had come but Legolas was not, not without a fight.  If Aragorn walked into the Witch King’s clutches alone, the elf knew he was never coming out again.  Together... maybe they had a chance. 

Estel had always been the hopeful one; the one who never gave up and Legolas had come to depend on that.  Now however, it seemed that his friend was ready to bow to a fate he should not have to accept.  Legolas’ hands tightened on Aragorn’s broach.  Well then, *he* would just have to hold Estel’s hope alive inside of him, and trust that he could bring it back to the human before it was too late.

Quickly picking up the remainder of the camp, Legolas set out to follow his friend.  He could find no trace of the ranger’s trail, but he knew the direction he would have gone. 

He would find him.  He had to.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

~~~~~~~~
Hold me in your thoughts, take me to your dreams
Touch me as I fall into view
When the winter comes keep the fires lit
And I will be right next to you

-- Warren Zevon
~~~~~~~~

The sky was low and heavy with clouds.  From time to time the distant muted sounds of far-off thunder shook the heavens.

Legolas glanced skyward gauging the weather.  The storm would in all likelihood pass, saving its heavy burden for the mountains higher up the valley.  It was well enough because a rainstorm here would only turn into sleet and snow, which would be an untimely impediment to his journey.

Redirecting his gaze, the elf searched the ground before him for any telltale signs that the ranger had passed this way.  It had been days that he had been traveling alone now, trying desperately to find Aragorn’s trail and rejoin the human.  He knew they were heading into the same direction, but the icy landscape was vast and cluttered.  There might be a hundred different ways to approach the dark mountain.  Two people had very little chance of finding one another out here, especially if one of them did not wish to be found.  The frustrated elf wasn’t even sure that he hadn’t passed right by the ranger.  He had no way of knowing if he was now ahead of him or not.

The twins always swore that Aragorn could hide himself when he wanted to, only to be found if he so desired.  They were right. 

The ground gave up no hint of the ranger’s path, no sign that any human life had come this way before.  Legolas was growing more frustrated and angry by the minute.  Given his present state of mind, it might have been better for the poison to get the ranger before the elf caught up with him.  If he found the human he was going to make sure Aragorn never pulled such a stupid stunt again.

Legolas winced in silent desperation at his own slip.  “*When* not *if*,” he reminded himself.  Anger was easier to focus on than heartbreak right now, but they were both there in equal measure.

The winds picked up slightly as he crested the bowl of the small valley in which he had been walking.  Up ahead, the call of a lone wolf drifted through air.  In moments the howl was joined by several other growls.

Legolas stopped on the ridge and listened, trying to decipher what they were saying.  He was startled to realize that the wolves were moving away rapidly, heading east.  It could only mean one thing this far north: either they had found prey, or they were the prey.

With a burst of speed the elf raced toward the general area where the wolves had been.  He hoped it would shed some light on his friend’s whereabouts and yet feared what he might find.  If the poison had begun to affect Aragorn again as it had before, there was no telling what in what shape the ranger would be.

As he ran, a dark shape blotted out the sky above him, passing over him and disappearing behind the tree line.  As Legolas ran, he glanced up to see what had caused the momentary eclipse.  The black form of a winged Nazgûl mount darted ahead of him; its shrill, piercing cry rending the air.  The sight of the evil beast set a dread in the elf’s heart for which Legolas was unprepared.

It had been years since he had laid eyes on the vile creatures the Úlairë used as their mounts.  He knew they were close to Angmar, but not this close.  Why was the beast here and what was it doing?

Legolas had little time to ponder those thoughts as he raced through the trees, following the morgul beast’s path.  It seemed to be en-route to the same vicinity he was and his fear escalated. 

The dark shadow dropped through the trees with a shriek.  The keening cry was met with sounds of snarling barks and growls that the elf could just now hear.

Wargs.

 
~*~
 

It really had been a stupid idea.  After the third day of trudging alone through the wilds towards the distant peak of Angmar, Aragorn knew he had made a mistake.  There was no way he was going to make it to the mountains on his own.  He was moving too slow and failing too fast.  Yet, even now, he could not bring himself to turn back.  He probably could not have found Legolas again had he tried and even if he did... it would only mean Legolas’ end as well as his own.  Now, nearly a week of hard traveling after having parted from his friend, he was certain he had lost the elf far behind him.

Aragorn’s steps faltered.  The poison was wreaking havoc with his system and he was weary beyond belief.  Yet he dared not stop, not now.  He knew he was being hunted.  He had heard them.  They thought they were being quiet, but they weren’t.

A pack of wargs had picked up his trail a few minutes ago, routing the wolves that had been dogging his steps, trailing him since dawn.  They could sense that the human was in distress as easily as they could pick out the sickly member of a herd of sheep.  The ghostlike hunters had stayed to the safety of the trees, waiting for dark to take down the lone man.  Now their sleek shapes had been exchanged for the more powerful, hulking forms of the wargs that had chased them away.  It was not an improvement.  Aragorn would have taken wolves over wargs any day.

Aragorn pulled his sword from its scabbard and doggedly continued walking.  It wouldn’t matter soon.  The poison or the wargs would get to him.  A better end than at the hands of what lay waiting for him in Angmar, he supposed.  He hoped Legolas wouldn’t find him after the fact.  He didn’t want the elf to see.  Secretly he hoped Legolas would actually appear any minute now, but he knew he had covered his tracks too well.  In all likelihood the wood elf would pass by his final resting place and never know the man had perished.

“Serves you right,” Aragorn chided himself darkly.  He felt incredibly guilty over having left Legolas alone.  What if something had happened to the prince?  He had no way of knowing.  Legolas had been sleeping so soundly when Aragorn left; he hadn’t even realized he was alone.

With a weary sigh, Aragorn tried to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  His gaze darted into the forest that bracketed his right.  He could see the wargs pacing him, their eyes glowing oddly in the fading light.  It wouldn’t be long before they judged their time was right.  He needed to find safety, some place where he could construct a fire and keep the mountains at his back.  He needed to find it quickly. 

A small, bowled-out meadow nestled back against the granite cliffs up ahead, beckoning him.  A long since abandoned fire ring sat partially overgrown near the far edge.  There was enough light to make it safely there and plenty of debris on the ground for a fire.  If he hurried he could make it.

Sheathing his sword, the ranger picked up his pace, keeping to the edge of the granite shelf.  The mountains rose straight out of the forest here at the base of the rocky incline.  Large pieces of shale and granite littered the area, tripping him up and impeding his progress. 

The wargs paced the wounded man, content to let him wear himself out and make their jobs easier.  The less fight their prey could muster, the happier they were.  Low, throaty growls emanated from the woods, causing the ranger to glance in their direction. 

Sweat beaded across Aragorn’s forehead and his breathing was ragged as he pushed himself faster and harder.  Just a few more steps and he would reach his goal.  He stumbled and fell into the shallow bowl, rolling down the grassy incline. 

The sounds of his pursuers increased as the wargs rushed towards the downed man.  The moment they had been waiting for had arrived.

Knowing he was out of time the ranger curled in on himself, covering his head with his hands as the dark bodies poured into the meadow.

~*~
 

The Wraith’s mount wheeled high overhead, watching the human stumble along towards his master’s castle.  Its keen eyes had seen the wargs that rushed silently along the edges of the forest, following the ranger. 

It hated people.  In fact it hated just about everything, except its bed in Angmar and the orcs that fed it.  It tolerated them, and its master of course, but the beast had no reason to be pleased with its life, no source of joy for its existence.  It lived with the twisted soul of a human corpse for its master.  Its sole purpose was to do the Nazgûl’s bidding.  As much as it desired to ignore the Wraith, it could not.  It had been made for the Úlairë and the Úlairë was its own. 

The Witch King had sent his mount out to watch and protect the human and the elf as they made their way to his northern home.  He wanted no harm to befall them on their journey and had impressed that wish upon the morgul beast.

Now it seemed the human’s flailing attempts to reach the castle had attracted a pack of wargs.  When the large, wolf-like creatures swarmed towards the ranger, the mount was actually pleased.  It would finally get to take out its aggressions on something.

Folding its wings back, the fell beast arrowed towards the meadow, losing a shrill, keening cry.  The shriek of the creature threw the wargs into a momentary panic.  It was enough time for the mount to drop down over the creatures and grasp one of the large males, hefting the warg high into the air and dropping it back into the forest.  Wheeling in a tight circle the flying beast dove a second time.

Aragorn was on his feet and running for the more defensible area of the fire ring.  He threw his pack to the ground and pulled his sword.  Behind him, the rock walls rose high, protecting him on two sides now.  The only way for the wargs to approach him was through a frontal assault and he would go down fighting.  Wiping the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, he widened his stance and waited for the wargs to regroup. 

He didn’t know where the Wraith’s mount had come from, although he had a good idea that it was what had been following them all along.  At the moment he did not care.  Any help he could get was welcome and right now the morgul beast seemed to be on his side.

Though momentarily distracted, the wargs had not forgotten why they were here and quickly regrouped.  Fanning out around the edges of the meadow they stalked back towards Aragorn’s position.

A smaller, younger warg to the ranger’s left feinted at the human, drawing the man’s attention and garnering a quick response from Aragorn.  Turning sharply, the ranger arched his sword, swinging it up into the cub and catching the wargling across the chin, drawing blood.

An adult from the right flank charged the distracted man, throwing him backwards with its bulk as it hit Aragorn broadside.  His reflexes were slowed, his reactions muddied by the poison flowing in his blood and he had no time to react.  Rolling with the blow, Aragorn sliced out at the warg’s underbelly.  He cried out as the beast pinned his arm with its huge paw.  The sharp, curved talons cut through his coat and dug into his skin.

In a flash the warg was gone.  A windstorm swept around the prone man as the enraged winged mount swooped into the meadow and pulled the warg off the human.  Its great wings back beat the air as it gained altitude, quickly kicking up dirt and debris and clearing the ring of predatory beasts back to the edges of the field.  Stupid little human.  It couldn’t even take care of itself.  The fell beast snapped the spine of the warg in its mouth viciously. 

Legolas had nearly reached the meadow.  He was tracking the footsteps of the ranger through the long grasses.  Aragorn’s weaving trail was no longer masked and the elf could tell just how badly his friend was faring.  Keeping an eye on the skies overhead and focusing on the sounds of battle just beyond him, Legolas raced forward.  He heard Aragorn’s pained cry and reached for his bow and arrows, afraid of what he would see as he crested the knoll.

His fears were not unfounded.  He saw Aragorn fighting off a large warg that sprang at him from the left, leaping from the ring that was slowly tightening around the ranger.

With a shout Aragorn thrust his sword into the creature’s chest, ducking the massive head and turning away just in time to avoid the beast’s claws.  The rest of the pack had no intentions of giving the human a break.  A large matriarchal warg charged the man, taking advantage of his slow recovery from the last attack.

“Aragorn!” Legolas shouted a warning to the human as the dark creature charged him from the right.  The warg bowled the ranger over, pouncing on his chest and pinning him in place.  She howled in pain as one arrow struck her hindquarters and another one slammed into her shoulder.

Legolas was racing down the shallow incline, firing arrows into the pack of wargs and scattering the large creatures.  The winged mount dove into the fray, picking up wargs and dropping back into the woods.  It caught sight of the elf and screamed in rage. 

It remembered that being.  That was the one who had hurt it in its own home. It had harbored a special hatred for the elf ever since.

Legolas’ arrow targeted the warg’s skull, the tip of his arrow aiming for the base of the monster’s head as it turned back to the ranger.  Aragorn slashed at the warg’s paws.  He tried to wriggle out from under the creature’s weight but he was pinned down fast. 

Breathing out slowly, the elf let the arrow fly.

The warg standing on the ranger stared into the human’s eyes.  For a fraction of a second, a low growl emanated from the slathering open mouth before it fell dead.  It crashed down on top of Aragorn, crushing the air from his lungs.

With an ear-piercing scream the morgul creature dropped from the sky, descending on Legolas.  So intent was the elf on the battle in the grotto that he did not pay attention to the winged creature’s position.

The mount slammed into the elf, raking his talons across the prince’s shoulder as they hooked pincer-like into the fair being’s flesh.

Burning pain swallowed Legolas’ consciousness as he suddenly found the ground rushing up to meet him, having been viciously bowled over from behind.  Merciless talons like razor sharp daggers tore his shoulder as he felt his body being jerked to a stop before he could hit the ground.  The prince was lifted slightly, only to be shaken and thrown back to the earth as he was released.  The piercing cry of the morgul mount made his eardrums cringe as the elf painfully rolled onto his back.  Bringing up his knives, he tried to put some defense between himself and his assailant.  

His attacker was already far out of reach however and had no intention of pressing the elf right now.  The treacherous creature circled overhead, glaring down at Legolas with a certain amount of satisfaction as the elf’s red blood dripped from one of its hideous claws. 

It wheeled on the tip of its wing, screaming at the fair being that lay on the ground.  It was incensed.  It had had to protect what it hated.  If it hadn’t been ordered by its master to let no harm befall these two on their journey it would have enjoyed watching the wargs shred the elf to pieces.  He would have enjoyed helping. 

Legolas rose unsteadily to his feet, keeping a weary eye on the sky.  He winced and held his bleeding shoulder, much to the mount’s satisfaction.  The elf saw the flash of an old scar on the beast’s wing as it circled upwards. 

Small minded though the morgul creature might be, it had not forgotten the member of the Eldar race who had injured it several years ago in its own home, where it should have been safe.  The bone still ached in the cold seasons and it was continually cold in Angmar.  The break had healed slowly and its master had not been patient.  The light from the elf hurt its eyes; despicable creature.  The fell beast lashed out at the remaining wargs, lighting down in their midst and scattering them with a sweep of its powerful tail.  If it couldn’t have the elf, it would take his anger out on something else. 

Leaping skyward, the Nazgûl’s mount drove the wargs into the forest and disappeared behind the sky line, bellowing in frustration and rage.  It had wanted to kill the elf but had restrained itself.  The wargs would find no such mercy from the morgul creature.  Still, he had marked the elf even as the elf had marked him, and the archer would not forget the pain of that wound anytime soon.  That gave the creature a small amount of pleasure at least.

Legolas fingered his torn tunic gently.  The morgul beast’s talons had ripped deeply into his shoulder muscle and the cuts stung sharply.  The wound would need to be tended to, but not right now.  His attention was redirected as the warg that had fallen on Aragorn shifted slightly and the human groaned, struggling with the weight of the dead creature.

Stumbling forward, Legolas heaved the bulk of the carcass off the ranger and glared down at the man.

Aragorn grinned a sheepish greeting, but there was no answering spark in the elf’s steely gaze. 

“Legolas, I...”  Aragorn started to speak but was silenced as the elf stalked away a few paces, silencing the man with a short sharp gesture.  Whatever the human had to say, the elf wasn’t ready to hear.

Pulling himself upright, the ranger wove unsteadily on his feet.  His head was pounding.  The warg had crushed the air out of him.  His chest ached with the act of breathing, and his heart ached at the anger and disapproval in his friend’s eyes.  Grimacing, Aragorn leaned over and steadied himself against the dead beast.

“Legolas...” the ranger tried to get his friend to turn around and look at him. 

“Why?”  The emotion charged word ripped from the price when he did turn back towards the man. 

Aragorn resisted the urge to step back under the force of the elf’s withering glare.  He leaned a little more heavily against the dead warg.

“What where you thinking?” Legolas demanded harshly.  “What were you trying to do?  Did you think I wouldn’t follow you?  That I would simply return home as if nothing had happened?  Maybe send word to your family, ‘oh, so sorry, Estel felt the need to go die in Angmar alone, so I let him?’  Is that what you wanted?  Is it?!  I thought we already discussed this!  I thought we were in agreement!  We promised to always stand by one another.  I trusted you!  I let you share my soul, Estel, and you *left* me!”  The elf was practically yelling. 

“And this?”  He held up the broach Aragorn had given to him.  “How did you think to keep the promise that this was given with?  Do you think I value my life over yours?” 

Legolas was trying his hardest not let his emotions get the best of him, but it wasn’t working.  He had thought of all the things he wanted to say and would say when he had finally caught up with the ranger.  He had put it together very diplomatically and reasonably in his mind.   But after seeing Aragorn run down by the wargs and the fear of having lost him already, the elf’s weary heart could take no more.  It overloaded and Aragorn got the full brunt of the prince’s confused and roiling emotions.  Legolas’ words were edged with a fear-induced harshness but he had barely finished the angry tirade before tears slipped from his eyes and slid down his face. 

Taking a shuddering breath, Aragorn kept his eyes focused on the ground.  He was so glad to see his friend and at the same time so afraid of what would happen to him because of where they were headed. 

“No,” he whispered, his voice low and soft.  “No, you do not think enough of your own life and *that* is why I left.”  Slowly Aragorn raised his gaze to meet that of the elf’s. 

The bright blue eyes facing him were filled with tears and accusations.  The ranger realized how much he had hurt his friend and it echoed achingly in his own heart.  He hadn’t wanted to cause this pain, but what was he supposed to do?

“I have told you before, I am mortal.  I *will* die.  You don’t have to.  Not now, and not here in this wasteland at the mercies of an evil that I *know* you fear more than death itself.”  Aragorn pressed on doggedly, trying to make his friend see his point of view. 

His decision to leave had not come as quickly or as suddenly as Legolas might think.  The ranger had been considering it ever since they had set out together.  Visions of Legolas’ cold, dead eyes in the forests near Rivendell when the Nazgûl had bent him to his will, and of the broken elf that had begged Aragorn to end his life in Mordor filled the ranger’s heart and mind with horror.  How could he take the elf back into that kind of darkness?  It had nearly destroyed him twice. 

“I cannot stand to see you destroyed by the Witch King,” he continued softly. “The first time was hard enough.  You give so freely that I am frightened for you.  Do you not realize what he will do if he captures us both?  How he will use us against one another if he can?  How he will destroy one or both of us slowly if it gets him what he wants?  I cannot watch him do that to you.”  The anguish in Aragorn’s eyes was deep. 

“And do you think that I am such a coward that I would turn my back on you and allow you to go through whatever lies ahead alone?  Did you learn nothing from the mistakes of your brothers?”  Legolas took a step forward, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.  

“Do you even remember what you told them in the mountains?  When they thought they were better off without us?  What will it reward you to go on your own?  What will you accomplish?  You walk into certain death.  But if there is help and you refuse it, where is the wisdom in that?  It is folly to me.  We cannot defeat this unless we are together.  Together you and I have a chance.  Alone you are dead.  Do you think I can watch *that* or allow that to happen to you anymore than you would to me?   Don’t turn me away, and don’t you dare try to tell me to leave, because I will no more listen to you than I would to Dehlfalhen and Glamferaen.”  There was no room for argument in the prince’s tone.

Silence fell in the small glen and Aragorn dropped his gaze once more.  His heart warred within him.  He desperately wanted his friend near.  With the elf around it was so much easier to endure the havoc that the poisons wreaked in his system.  Legolas gave him hope when his own began to fail.  Yet he could not watch the fair being destroyed.  They had been on the brink of that too many times before for him to endure it now.

“Estel, please.”  Legolas whispered, breaking through the human’s thoughts.  He knew Aragorn wanted to protect him, but what the human had to understand was that, to leave Aragorn now and let him face this fate alone, would destroy the elf as surely as any darkness. 

Everything was so wrong.  Aragorn’s thinking was fuzzy and his resolution wavered.  The world blurred around him and the ranger found himself suddenly on his knees, breathing heavily.  He held his head gingerly in his hands until the throbbing abated, willing the world to stop spinning.

“Estel!”  Legolas cried out in alarm as he watched the human collapse.  He raced quickly to the ranger’s side.   Aragorn was holding his head and his breathing were labored as though he was in pain.

Kneeling beside his friend, the elf gently brushed Aragorn’s hair back and pressed the palm of his hand against the man’s forehead.  The ranger was burning up and his cheeks were flushed.

“Where is your pack?”  Legolas asked softly.

“What?”  The silver eyes that watched the elf were glazed with confusion.

“Your pack, where is it, Estel?”  The question was repeated patiently.

Glancing slowly about them, Aragorn winced and stopped moving.  “Over there.”  He pointed to a partly constructed fire ring.  The bag had been dropped on the far side. 

It took Legolas a few moments to find what he was looking for and he found it a little odd that he recognized all the herbs he came across as he rummaged through the leather bag.  There was a time he found Aragorn’s pack to always be a confusing jumble of supplies he didn’t understand.  He supposed he must have been around Aragorn far too much and the human was rubbing off on him.  He had just found what he was looking for and had retrieved Aragorn’s water skin when a small commotion behind him drew the elf’s attention back to where he had left the ranger.

The Wraith’s winged mount had returned.  Dropping down through the trees, the large, winged creature alighted a yard away from Aragorn.  It walked slowly, cautiously forward, sniffing the air and exclaiming small cries as it advanced on the human.

Thinking his friend was in danger the elf leapt to his feet and drew his bow, notching an arrow against the taught string.  The mount’s attention snapped towards the elf and it hissed low and menacingly, raising up slightly and extending its wings.  The right wing bone carried a white scar where Legolas had severed it in Mordor. Legolas could see it clearly now.  The animal roared at the small being and dropped back down, using its winged claws like feet as it walked forward.

“Legolas, no.  I...” Aragorn scooted back a bit as the creature advanced.  “I think it’s just hungry.”  He finished his sentence as Legolas dropped his bow and ran forward, grabbing the ranger from behind and hauling him to his feet.  He pulled Aragorn back with him as the winged beast picked up the dead warg’s carcass in its mouth and vaulted skyward, disappearing back behind the line of trees.

Breathing a small sigh of relief, Aragorn relaxed in the elf’s grip.  The presence of his friend was like a breath of fresh wind and he inhaled deeply as Legolas gently eased him back down to the ground near the unfinished fire pit.  In moments the elf was pressing a mug full of cool water into the ranger’s hand.  The liquid was laced with a fever reducing herb and the medicine went to work quickly, mercifully soothing the fiery ache that burned inside of him.

“You should be taking better care of yourself.”  Legolas chided softly.  “You have this for a reason, take it.”

“I was in a hurry.”  Aragorn laughed softly.

“I imagine you were.  To make sure I would not catch up.”  The hurt laced into the quiet words caused the human to glance up sharply. 

“I never meant to hurt you, Legolas.  I saw what happened when you used the Togiuith, how much it took from you.  I didn’t want to be that kind of a burden.” Aragorn was sick at heart that this had come between them so badly. 

It was Legolas’ turn to drop his gaze as he tried to hear the truth in Aragorn’s words.  He knew the ranger thought he had done the right thing for the right reasons, but the abandonment stung and his heart still ached from the fear of the perceived loss. 

“Human, if you were a burden I would have left you in the depths of Moria with those orcs the first time we encountered them together.  Actually, no, I would have left you to Raniean and Trelan when they considered you nothing more than another brutish adan who might hurt me, a worse fate than being left with orcs, trust me.  Trelleps would have been the least of your worries.”  Legolas glanced at Aragorn out of the corner of his eyes.  He fought the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.  He was trying to release his hurt feelings and let the situation go.  They were together, that was what mattered. 

“You are the brother of my heart, gwador, you cannot leave me behind.”  Legolas entreated softly.

“I didn’t want to.  I was just afraid.”  Aragorn placed the mug on the ground and leaned forward, pulling the elf into a tight hug.  “I promise I won’t do it again.  I really do not think I can survive this on my own, if I survive it at all.”

“You will survive.  We will see to it.”  Legolas winced slightly as the ranger’s arms tightened around him but the relief in his heart would not let him move from the embrace. 

“I’m sorry, my friend.” Aragorn apologized softly.  “I really am.”

Legolas didn’t answer, there was no need.  Aragorn knew he was forgiven without words.  The elf simply nodded against his friend, holding the man gently. 

“You have wounds that I would see to,” Legolas said softly after a moment.

The words garnered a warm chuckle as Aragorn pushed the elf playfully back. 

“Oh I do?!”  The ranger crossed his arms and stared at the elf.  “And I suppose you would call those claw marks on your back simply scratches?”  The question was sarcastic and garnered the desired smile from his companion.

When the elf started to protest the ranger checked him. “Ah! Think through that answer before you speak. I hold all the herbs, you know.”  He smiled wickedly at the prince.

With a laugh Legolas conceded.  “No, my friend, they are more than scratches I fear.  But I would have a look at yours first.  My heart needs to know that you are all right, Estel and I will be a much better patient if I know your pain is at least somewhat dulled.”

A brilliant smile decorated the man’s face.  He felt better now that the tension between them seemed to be slowly easing away. 

“As you wish,” he relented, shrugging out of his tunic and exposing the cuts on his upper arm and chest that the warg had dealt him.  In all truth they were surface scratches only, but as they had both so painfully learned, warg inflicted injuries were not to be underestimated.

The Wraith’s mount had dealt Legolas a more grievous blow, and it took Aragorn some time to clean and bandage the deep cuts.  Cruel talons had mercilessly slashed flesh and muscle, missing vital tendons only by inches.  As soon as Aragorn got the prince’s shirt off, he realized the injury was much worse than he had originally thought.  With anyone other than Legolas, Aragorn would have been surprised that they were still functioning around the pain. 

Legolas merely sat on the stone on which Aragorn had directed him and gripped his knee tightly with his good hand, biting back the agony with well-trained stoicism.  His breath hissed between his teeth, but he gave no other sign of distress. 

“You will be all right,” Aragorn diagnosed quietly out of habit.  “But you shouldn’t use your bow for a bit while this heals.”  A mortal with such wounds might expect to never use the arm again with any degree of accuracy and control, but Aragorn knew Legolas would eventually heal with no lasting damage. 

Legolas gave a small snort.  “Well I’ll tell that to any enemies we encounter.”  His sarcasm was gentle, but Aragorn understood that the elf would not heed his advice.  In their current situation he could not really blame him.

By the time the ranger was through, Legolas was stiff and sore and his wearied heart felt exhausted from emotional stress and physical pain.  He graciously accepted Aragorn’s help getting back into his tunic and jerkin.

The two quickly finished setting up the fire pit and had a blaze merrily sparking in it in no time.  They shared the last of Aragorn’s dried venison and the small cache of berries the man picked from the woods they walked through.  The food might have been meager, but the companionship was pleasant.  Though neither of them admitted it openly, they both were comforted by the fact that they were headed out together again.  Slowly, the tension between them gave way to a kind of quiet relief.  They had known each other too long to remain awkward with one another indefinitely.  Reluctant to drop their guards immediately after the attack, they remained awake for a time and spoke of unimportant matters.  Aragorn pressed Legolas on an explanation for his previous statement about Raniean and Trelan’s intended torment, which became a source of great amusement.

Eventually, silence fell across the fire.  Aragorn threw another handful of small kindling twigs into the bright flames and watched as the pitch sizzled and sparked.

“Tired?” Legolas’ soft question caused the man to glance up and raise one eyebrow.

It was a few moments before Aragorn answered.

“Yes.”  He stretched and lay down on his side, his eyelids heavy.  The poisons were still wreaking havoc with his body, but his spirit felt lightened.  He shivered slightly as a chill ran up his spine.  It was difficult to tell how much of the cold ache was seeping up from the ground under him and how much came from the venom claiming him.  He smiled softly as Legolas stood to his feet and rounded the fire, removing his cloak and spreading it out on the ground.

“Use my cloak, Strider.  It’s warmer.”  The elf stepped over the ranger as Aragorn rolled onto the soft cloth and pulled the edges around him.  Legolas tossed the human’s blanket over the man’s shoulders and sat down next to him.  With a sigh the ranger closed his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Aragorn mumbled softly, not moving from his place on Legolas’ cloak as he felt the elf gently reach out and touch his shoulder.  Thinking the ranger was sleeping, Legolas had simply wanted to assure himself that the human was still there with him.

The elf didn’t answer.

Slowly opening his eyes, the ranger glanced at the prince and repeated himself.  “I’m *not* going anywhere, I promise.”

Blue eyes glanced down at the man, watching him carefully.

Worried, Aragorn tried to rise up on his elbows but was pressed firmly in place by the elf’s hand.  Wordlessly, Legolas lay down next to the human, facing the ranger.

“You promised to wake me too.  You frightened me, Estel.”  Legolas didn’t want to bring it up again, but he the words came almost unbidden.  Shaken trust took a little time to rebuild. 

“I know.”  Aragorn swallowed hard.  “I’m sorry, Legolas.  I truly am.  I never...”

The elf silenced the man.  They had been over this before.  Legolas was not angry at his friend anymore and he did not want him to apologize again.  He understood the ranger’s motives... he was just still getting over the fear and hurt of it all.  Slowly he opened his left hand, allowing the ranger to see what he held in his palm.  The small star broach Aragorn had given him sparkled softly in the dim light of the fire. 

Aragorn started and reached out tentatively with his left hand, covering the silver pin.  Legolas’ fingers wrapped around his and crushed the ornate broach between their palms.

“Le ú-nach erui,” the prince whispered.  “You will never be alone.”

With a small nod Aragorn understood.   “Never again.” He echoed the soft whisper.  “Sleep my friend.  We’ll be safe with that morgul beast watching our backs and I *will* be here when you wake.”

Legolas rubbed his injured shoulder and snorted at how ‘safe’ that was, but he knew Estel was right.  The creature was probably under orders to see that no life-threatening harm befell them before they reached their destination. 

Finally calmed in his soul, the prince nodded wordlessly, his eyes glazing over slightly as he gave in to his own extreme exhaustion.  His grip on Aragorn’s hand lessened imperceptibly.  He had nearly lost his friend; a part of him was not ready to let go just yet and the ranger wouldn’t mind. 

Moving ever so slightly, Aragorn pulled the blanket over so that it draped the elf’s sleeping body, sharing the warmth between them.

A gentle rustling, like leaves being shaken by the wind, filtered through the camp, hushing the normal sounds of the night.  Aragorn tensed, knowing fully well that it was their sentinel settling in for the evening.  He could not see the beast but was certain that it was close.  They were safe for the moment; they would be until they reached Angmar.  Settling back uneasily he stilled as Legolas shifted closer, rolling onto his back and pulling Aragorn with him until the ranger’s hand rested against Legolas’ chest.  A deep, soft sigh emanated from the sleeping elf and Aragorn resettled himself next to his friend. 

“Le ú-nach erui,” He repeated the promise quietly before allowing sleep to steal over his weariness.  His body hurt and ached and he felt terrible, but his heart was relieved.  Tonight, the elf prince needed to know he was not alone almost as much as the ranger did.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART SEVEN*~
~I’ll Carry You~

~~~~~~~~

I know that look in your eyes

I see the pain behind your smile

Please don't hold it all inside

Together we can run to the finish line

And when you are tired...

I'll carry you

I can't walk this road without you

You cannot go it alone

We were never meant to make it on our own

And when the load becomes too heavy

And your feet too tired too walk

I will carry you and we'll be carried on.

-- Rebecca St.James

~~~~~~~~

Aragorn could no longer walk.  He tried, again and again, but his legs failed him, refusing to hold his weight.  Even with Legolas supporting him, the elf’s arm flung around the ranger’s shoulder and the elf’s musical voice a soft, constant encouragement in his ears, Aragorn could not push himself any further.  He seemed to have no more control over his body and his mind was foggy.  Moments of lucidness were becoming fewer and fewer. 

Legolas could not stand watching what was happening to his once strong friend.  It tore another wound in his heart every time Aragorn stumbled and fell, blanching in pain as his failing body absorbed even more hurt. 

It was no good, they could not go on this way... but they could not afford to stop either.  The ranger’s rapid decline meant that the end was inevitable if they did not reach their objective soon.

Legolas’ keen eyes sought the growing specter of the dark spire on the horizon.  For what it was worth, they were almost there... if only that realization did not bring such a wave of dread with it. 

Halting, Legolas crouched down to where his friend had fallen yet again.  Aragorn’s skin felt deadly cold and yet his body radiated a fevered heat.  The human trembled and his breathing was shallow.  He couldn’t make it off his knees.  Leaning heavily against the ground, Aragorn closed his eyes. 

“Just a moment... just give me a moment...” his words slurred, belying the pretense of strength he obviously did not have.

Legolas shifted the ranger’s weight off his hands, supporting the man as he knelt on the stony ground.  Quietly, he reached for the ranger’s right palm, fingering the fading scar he found there.  The elf knew he had to do something or Aragorn would not be kept long in this world.  Part of the elf hesitated, knowing the warnings that came with repeated blood transference.  It was not meant to be a common occurrence.  He was a little afraid of what it would do to both their bodies to force another infusion, but he would risk it for his friend’s sake. 

Aragorn saw what Legolas was about to commence and jerked back, out of the elf’s arms.  With what little strength he had, he batted his friend’s hands away from him.  Scooting backward on the cold ground he cowered away from Legolas, shaking his head. 

“No,” the man rasped decidedly.  “No.  Can’t... can’t let you,” he broke off coughing.  He allowed Legolas to hold his shoulders as he choked but would not let the prince get near his hands. 

“Estel, please, it’s all I can do for you...” Legolas pleaded with his friend but Aragorn refused. 

“No, I thank you, dear friend, but... it’s not safe.  Not safe for you.  I need... need you to be strong for me.”  The ranger was having difficulty forming words but Legolas understood what he was saying. 

The ranger eyed the elf hesitantly.  In his current state Legolas would be more than able to physically force him to accept his help, but he could not let that happen.  He saw what the exchange did to Legolas and his healer’s instincts told him it was too soon.  Legolas would do irreparable damage to his own injured body if he tried to share himself that way again so quickly. 

“Don’t try to force me Legolas, I won’t accept it,” he warned and Legolas saw the truth in the ranger’s eyes. 

The elf sighed, accepting Aragorn’s decision reluctantly.  He really couldn’t force it upon Aragorn; both parties had to be willing or it was no good. 

“If you will not let me share my strength with you that way, then at least allow me what I can do for you.  We cannot go on like this.  Haste is of the essence.”

The elf changed his hold on Aragorn.  He positioned the ranger so the human’s chest, and his weight, rested against the elf’s back.  Wrapping Aragorn’s cold arms so they clasped around his neck, Legolas hooked his own arms around the back of Aragorn’s knees and rose back to his feet, taking Aragorn up with him. 

The elf grimaced sharply, gritting his teeth against the burning pain that flared across his torn shoulder and back muscles as his body accepted the human’s weight as well as his own.  He made sure that Aragorn did not see his pained expression and quickly pushed the agony out of his features.  It was at times like these that he actually thanked his uncle for teaching him how to smile no matter how badly he was hurting. 

Legolas bent forward a little as he stood, letting the ranger’s weight settle more fully against him to get a better grip. 

“Hold on Aragorn.  That’s it, hold onto me.  You’ll be all right,” the elf murmured softly as he began walking again, carrying the ranger as one would carry a child for a piggy-back ride. 

Aragorn was not a light man, but Legolas had the strength of the eldar to aid him.  Even with his injuries, his friend was not a burden that was too great for him to bear.

Aragorn’s head lolled against Legolas’ good shoulder as his hands clasped weakly around the elf’s neck.  His lack of protest to being carried worried Legolas greatly; it showed how far gone he already was.

“Sorry...” Aragorn murmured wearily into his friend’s tangled gold hair.  “I’m sorry, Legolas...”

“Shh,” Legolas shook his head as much as he could around the burden he carried.  “If you apologize one more time about *anything*, then you won’t have to worry about the poison killing you.  *I* will,” he jested lightly.  Aragorn’s arm draped over the bandage on his shoulder was excruciating but the elf slowly blocked his body away from his mind and focused on the task at hand.

Aragorn snorted lightly.  “You’d be better off...”

“I don’t think so,” Legolas cut in quickly.  “I need you my dear thick-headed ranger; my life would be so dull without your presence.”

Aragorn chuckled weakly; Legolas felt more than he heard it from the body pressed against his back.  Even so, it was a good sound, giving the elf a small amount of hope.

“Your brothers would agree, I’m sure,” Legolas added, attempting to maintain a steady dialogue with his friend as they walked, wanting to keep the ranger’s mind active. 

Aragorn responded with another soft chuckle.  Now that he did not have to expend so much energy walking, his spirits seemed to be reviving a little. 

“Those two don’t need any help.  You know, I think the last one to carry me like this was Elladan, when I was nine.  I nearly broke my ankle escaping ‘the dungeons’ and he carried me home,” the human smiled faintly at the memory.  “Ada was not pleased with us at all.”

“The dungeons?” Legolas raised his eyebrows as he carefully picked his way across the craggy earth.  “You have dungeons in Rivendell?  My friend, you missed those when showing me around.”  The elf chuckled.

Aragorn shook his head a little against his friend’s tunic.  “No, it was a game we used to play.  I loved the old tales when I was a child.  I lacked children my own age to play-act them out with, but fortunately for me, my brothers were usually up to it if it involved some kind of caper.  Although I recall that recreating Fingolfin’s trip across the Grinding Ice in a partially thawed pond one winter was not one of our brighter schemes...” the ranger couldn’t help the warmth that filled his voice when he thought of home and his childhood.  It brought him closer to the light that was being stolen away from him, so Legolas encouraged this train of thought. 

“I can imagine,” the prince chuckled, shifting Aragorn a little higher up his back as he pressed resolutely onward.  “My people had their own tales, including one about a long-ago warrior who discovered enemies planning to attack.  They caught him and put out his eyes, leaving him far away in unfamiliar woods to wander in despair until death should take him.  But he was clever and with the help of the trees he found his way back home again in time to warn his people.  Raniean, Trelan and I invented a game from that where we would blindfold one another and try to find our way around.  Eventually it met with results similar to what must have resulted from your ice-escapades.  Raniean almost drown and father forbad us from playing that game anymore.  But what did you play in a dungeon?”

“Two of us would be Finrod and Beren in the pits of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the other got to be the Werewolf.  *I* always wanted to be the wolf, but they usually made me be Beren because they said I fit the roll better,” Aragorn chuckled.  “Big children, that’s what they were.  Only, we changed the story, because in our story Finrod didn’t die after saving Beren.  We didn’t have a Lúthien, so in our story Finrod and Beren escaped together, running while the wolf gave chase.  Elladan liked being the Werewolf, trying to catch Elrohir and me... Unfortunately he was a little too good at it and I didn’t watch where I was going, hence the injured ankle.  I felt so sorry for my brothers.   Ada lectured both of them for an hour or more about who of us were supposed to be the elders that knew better than to go crashing around dangerous places like that,” Aragorn smiled distantly at the long ago memories.  He loved his family dearly. 

“Truthfully, I always hated that story though,” Aragorn mumbled thoughtfully as his semi-delirious mind followed its own randomly wandering track like a meandering brook. 

“About your brothers?” Legolas was puzzled. 

“No,” Aragorn didn’t have the strength to shake his head.  “About Beren and Finrod.  It was all wrong.  Finrod shouldn’t have died, not for Beren, not for someone who would die anyway someday.  I always hated that.”  The ranger had never confessed this to anyone before, but it had been on his mind more than he wanted to admit since they left Barahir behind weeks earlier.

Legolas cocked an eyebrow.  “You realize that if Beren had died instead, you would not be here.  Lord Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, none of them would be here.  The race of Númenor would never have been, and the world of men as we know it would not even exist.”

Aragorn sighed quietly instead a shrug for which he didn’t have strength. 

“I suppose... but I still hate it.  All my life, I have been compared to Beren,” he snorted quietly.  “Even the... impossible way we both fell in love.  When I hear that story I think of...” his voice trailed off. 

Legolas closed his eyes for a moment, realizing what Aragorn meant and understanding afresh some of the reasoning that had gone into the human’s attempt to leave his elven companion behind earlier.  “You think of your brothers or me, and what if it was one of us in Finrod’s place,” the prince finished quietly for his friend. 

Aragorn barely nodded, pressing the side of his cold face against the back of the elf’s warm neck as his head swam dizzily.  “I would never want you to do that for me.  Promise me, Legolas, promise me you won’t ever be so foolish.  Promise me I won’t lose you that way.  I thought I lost you once... It would be a blow worse than death.”

Legolas did not respond for a few minutes.  He felt Aragorn’s ragged breaths brushing his cheek and stirring his hair in irregular patterns.  He felt the ranger’s body tremble lightly against his... Aragorn was so weak, it was frightening. 

“I... can’t,” Legolas shook his head.  “I can’t promise that, Estel, no more than you would promise it to me.  We’ll make it through this mellon-nín, somehow... somehow we will.  I believe that.  I need you to believe it too, Estel, please, my hope has never been as bright as yours.”

Aragorn smiled faintly.  “You’re wrong, mellon-nín,” he breathed quietly.  “If that hope was not inside of you, you would not have survived this long.  Please... hope for me my brother, because I have not the strength for it anymore.” 

Legolas’ eyes clouded with tears and he had to blink fiercely in order to get the landscape back into focus once more.  He could not afford to trip with his precious cargo.  “I will,” he whispered.  “And we will escape this darkness my friend, both of us, together... somehow... I swear it.”

“Mm, somehow,” Aragorn echoed his weak assent.  “Together.”

“Yes, mellon-nín, together we can do anything,” Legolas murmured encouragingly as he felt Aragorn’s body go limp against his back, indicating that the human had passed out once more. 

Pausing only to shift Aragorn’s lolling head back into a secure place against his neck and shoulder, Legolas pushed swiftly onward towards the ominous spire of iron and obsidian that grew ever larger before them.  He had hoped that when they got here they could arrive unnoticed, perhaps finding a way to get that which they sought without an outright surrender to darkness.  In Aragorn’s current state however, Legolas knew they stood no chance.  The ranger did not have time for subterfuge, even if they could have tried to escape the watchful eye of the fell beast tracking them from above. 

The elf squared his aching shoulders.  If they had to walk into the mouth of doom, he would do so with his head held high and trust that they would be able to escape again somehow. 

For several hours they journeyed on like this in silence, the determined elf and the unconscious ranger.  Angmar loomed large before them and the trees around them began to fail.  Legolas had never felt as exposed as the moment when he walked out of the cover of the trees and into the wide, barren plain of snow and icy stone that lay before the forbidding mountain fortress of Angmar. 

The elf’s grip on his unconscious friend’s knees tightened.  Desperate, nameless fear churned in his gut.  Ahead of him he could see a huge, recessed door in the face of the mountain.  The gaping mouth stood open.  The plain before the mountain was eerily quiet. 

Then, almost without a sound, a black stream of orcs issued from the doorway, streaming towards the two friends. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

From his vantage point high in the mountainous castle of Angmar, the Witch King spotted his new arrivals when they reached the edges of the granite field just beyond the woods.

He gazed out the window with sightless eyes and watched as the elf stopped just on the outskirts of the forest.  He did not ‘see’ as he had done in life.  But his unique perspective of being neither alive nor dead gave him the advantage of being able to view living beings as they truly were.

The elf was a luminous being.  The light he exuded was so pure it almost hurt the Wraith to look at him too long.  He hated the eldar.  They were everything he was not and never would be. 

The orcs that poured of the castle at his command were dark in his twilight vision.  Blacker than the world around them, they were like a void wave that moved forward to intercept his guests. 

The human on other hand was somewhere in-between the two extremes.  The light that marked him was soft and dim as though unaware of its true nature and calling.  The human was waking to his destiny but it had not yet occurred.  The ranger that lay against the elf’s back on the edges of the steppes was barely alive and his dim light faded even as the Wraith watched.

The fell beast dove down into the open plain, skirting just above the heads of the orcs as they advanced towards the two newcomers.  The creature skimmed the cliff-face of the castle.  Crying out in a throaty, screeching language it told its master that it had returned with his new slaves.

Arching upwards, the mount headed for its cave high above and entered its lair with a triumphant scream.  It was pleased to be home where it was warm.

Legolas watched as the winged beast circled the spires of Angmar before returning to its resting place.  He turned his gaze on the advancing orcs warily.  The black tide of creatures had stopped only a few paces away from the elf.

“You bring that human in and we we’ll let you live a few moments longer, pretty thing,” the leader of the pack commanded, much to the delight of his comrades.  He pointed a wicked looking scimitar at the elf.

Keeping his eyes on the foul beings, Legolas crouched into a kneeling position, gently allowing Aragorn to slip from his back.  The ranger had not recovered consciousness and right now the prince was glad he had not.  This might not go well.

Now that they were here, now that he was faced with the prospect of submission to the orcs before him, the prince wasn’t sure that he could.  Everything in his being, every fiber of his body tensed and rejected the very thought. 

Stepping away from his friend, but remaining between the ranger and the orcs, Legolas deftly pulled his twin fighting knives from their sheaths on his back.  He took up a defensive stance.  The elf did not trust the dark creatures.  Never surrender to an orc. It was the first thing that was drilled into every wood-elf warrior’s head from the time they were children.  Orcs had no honor and it was better to die fighting them than to become their toy. 

“Now, we can do this hard, or it can go easy,” the orc leader cautioned the obviously reluctant elf before him.  The wicked being’s grin widened.  They didn’t get much of a chance for a good brawl and it looked like this elf just might give them one.  He relished the idea of killing the fair being; it would be a thrill indeed.  He knew his master wanted these two alive, but if they wouldn’t come willingly...well, then it wasn’t his fault if the elf died accidentally, was it?  Using force was something Retzhrak enjoyed.

“You will not touch him or I will kill you,” Legolas warned.  His voice was low and his tone was lethal.  He hadn’t come all this way to watch the ranger be destroyed by orcs.  If that was how it would come to be, then maybe it was best if they both died here and now.

“Very well then, hard it is.  Take them, boys!” Retzhrak gave the command, sending his troop rushing towards the elf.

From his vantage point, the Wraith watched as the orcs tried to take the elf and ranger by force.  He growled softly as the count of dead orcs multiplied rapidly.  He knew that the elf out on the steppes was probably capable of killing the whole compliment of them single-handedly, if trying to protect the unconscious ranger did not impede him too much.  The Wraith had seen the warrior do it before.  Even though he did not care for the lives of his servants, the Nazgûl did not want to lose too many of the creatures.  He could always get more, but he despised useless waste like this.   Besides, he was concerned that one of his idiot minions would land a lucky blow.  He *needed* the human alive and he intended to at least interrogate the elf himself before he let the orcs have their way with him.

“Yrinvan!”  Rising from his seat, the Witch King stormed out into the hallway, seeking out his head servant.  When he found the man instructing a few of the newer slaves in the kitchen, he immediately summoned him.

The human that stepped into the hallway and bowed low before the Wraith was a tall man.  He had not yet reached middle age, but his dark brown hair was already streaked with touches of grey.  Angmar aged people before their time.  Yrinvan had been in the Wraith’s service the longest of any of his surviving servants.  The man served his master well.  He obeyed quickly and had a sharp, clever mind.  His usefulness had kept him alive.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?” the servant asked, keeping his eyes averted from the empty black hood that stared at him.  Even at his height, the Wraith towered over the human.

“Out on the steppes there is an elf and a man, a ranger.  I ‘invited’ them here. Retzhrak was sent to bring them in and he has been unsuccessful.  Go bring them in at once,” the Witch King ordered darkly.  He handed the man a small glass vial.  “The human will need this soon.  See to it that they are alive and unharmed when you retrieve them, but do not give the human the antidote until they are safely secured in their new quarters.” 

When Yrinvan bowed in compliance, the Wraith stormed out of the passage, heading back for his study.

Yrin stood in the hallway watching the Wraith go.  Visitors?  That meant new slaves, or worse.  Now it all made sense. 

“Oh, Tynair... you had to obey to the last, didn’t you?” he thought sadly.  He understood, but... Sighing deeply Yrinvan turned to leave.

“Did the master say that one was an elf?” A quiet voice questioned the headservant. 

Yrinvan started and turned back, looking down into the eyes of a young woman who stood behind him.  She was younger than Yrin by no small span, but like the other servant, she too had aged beyond her time.  Her back was stooped from years of abuse and hard life, but her eyes held a glimmer in them that had never been quenched.  It was what had drawn him to her in the beginning and why he had married her here in this terrible wretched place.  She was the spark of light that kept him going.

“Don’t you worry about it.” He smiled at the woman.  It was best *not* to let her get started on elves.  “Get back in there before the master finds you taking a break,” he urged her.  “I can’t afford to have anything happen to you.  Now get.”  He attempted to shoo her away, but she wasn’t intimidated by the taller man.

“You’ll need blankets and hot food for the newcomers.  You know what it’s like coming to this place.” She eyed her husband wryly, challenging him to argue with her.  They always tried to ease the shock a little for the new ones. 

With a nod, he agreed.  He had the uncomfortable feeling that the Master had plans for these new arrivals that went beyond merely adding more numbers to his slaves, but he kept those thoughts to himself.  It would only distress his wife.  He was surprised when she turned back and called another girl out and instructed her to quickly bring blankets and warm food to the cell a level down.

“Ahnna,” Yrinvan growled out his wife’s name, realizing she intended to accompany him.

“Go, quickly.” She shooed him in front of her.  “The Master won’t wait long.  If you don’t hurry those dumb beasts will kill both the newcomers and then you’ll suffer for it.  I won’t lose you because of their stupidity.”

“What would I do without you to state the obvious, my love?” Yrinvan muttered as he hurried along.  She was right of course.  He knew that and so he ran quickly towards the lower entrance.  He glared at the woman who ran beside him as they headed for the front gate.  His wife could be very stubborn when her mind was set.

Yrinvan stopped on the castle’s threshold and took in the grim sight across the way.  The orcs were swarming around the elf, but making no headway.  The fair being turned with lighting speed and slit the throat of an orc that had slipped around him and tried to pick up the unconscious human.  Spinning back around, the elf cut a wide swath between himself and the orcs, forcing them back with his double edged blades.

“Oh, Yrin, it *is* one of the eldar,” Ahnna whispered in distress.

“Go back in, Ahnna,” the headservant commanded, trying to dissuade her.

“Yrin, you cannot let him be taken.  He will not live in this place, he cannot.  Look at his clothes; he is one of those that lived near my people.  One of the wood-elves, those are their colors.  Look at him,” she implored her husband.  “He is light and this place is darkness.  The master will destroy him.”  Her voice was strained and it was obvious that this new twist of events distressed her greatly.  “Please.”

Yrin sighed deeply and kissed her on top of the head.  “There is nothing we can do for them now, you know that.  Go back in.  I know how your people felt about the elves, but *you* are all I care about.  I will go out and stop Retzhrak before he kills the elf.  Otherwise I can only do as the Master bids.  We’ll talk about this later.”

“We *will* talk about it later,” the woman agreed.  She wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy.  Her lips drew a thin line across her face as she stared at her husband.  Turning to leave, Ahnna nearly bumped into Tinald, a younger male slave that Yrin had taken under his wing after the death of most of his relatives.  He was grooming the other man to take his place when the time came that death finally freed him from this prison.  The two men were good friends and Tinald had come to see if he could be of assistance.

Tinald’s mouth dropped open as he watched the elf fighting the orcs.  Two more dropped dead at the fair being’s feet, one gutted and the other decapitated.  “What are they doing here?” He asked softly.  These didn’t look like any of the new slaves he had ever seen brought here. 

Ignoring the question, Yrin pushed the Ahnna and Tinald back across the threshold.  “I’d better get out there.  Tinald, go help Ahnna get the room ready for our guests and then both of you get back to work before I have to explain your absences,” he warned them sternly as he stepped out onto the granite walk and approached the fight.

So it was true.  He had overheard the master speaking to Retzhrak several months ago about a ranger and an elf that he wanted to question.  If what he suspected were true, then there had been several foiled attempts at gaining the two prisoners already.  What he could want with them the slave had no idea.  There was no time to ponder such questions as the fighting escalated.

“ENOUGH!” Yrinvan’s voice carried across the rocky way and echoed in the woods behind Legolas.

Retzhrak heard the command but didn’t call his men off immediately.  An orc on the elf’s right jumped forward, swiping out at the fair being’s legs and trying to catch him unaware.

Legolas jumped over the low arcing blade and caught the orc’s neck between his knives, spinning hard to the right as they cut through the tough hide.  The orc squealed and dropped dead to the ground.

“Retzhrak!  I said that was enough,” Yrinvan warned as he finally reached the remaining small group gathered around the elf and the human.

“All right boys,” the orc leader growled, reigning his forces in.  “Let the slave through.”  His words were mocking and arrogant as he glared at the headservant.

Choosing to ignore the foul beast, Yrin stepped over the dead bodies near the elf and approached Legolas slowly, his hands held out in a placating manner.  He himself knew little of the elves, but Ahnna, who had been born free, had grown up near them.  She had entertained the servants many a nights with tales of her home and the fair beings that occupied the woods nearby.

The elf stepped back nearer to the ranger that lay behind him.  He watched warily as Yrinvan stepped into the loose circle of orcs and approached him.

Glancing behind the elf, the servant noted the shallow breathing of the human he protected.  The man was in bad shape and needed the antidote quickly.  He recognized the signs.

“My name is Yrinvan, I run the master’s household,” he offered by way of speedy greeting.  Judging from the look of the ranger, they didn’t have too much time for pleasantries.  “If you will come with me, we have prepared a room for you and your friend,” the servant instructed.  He kept his tone even and did not drop his gaze away from the elf’s.  There was only one way out of this alive now for all of them.  If he failed to bring these two in, the orcs would kill them and his master would take out his wrath on his headservant.  That was not a situation that Yrin intended to allow.

“We do not belong here,” Legolas answered cautiously.  “We cannot go in there.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Yrin sighed softly, they didn’t have time to argue.

“You have no choice,” he answered evenly.  When he stepped forward, the elf raised his blades a bit higher.  Legolas stepped farther back until his boot heels touched the man behind him.

Nervously the orcs shifted around them, tightening the ring ever so slightly.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART EIGHT*~
~Inescapable Summons~

~~~~~~~~

Be.

Wish there was somewhere else to be.

Go.

Wish there was somewhere else to go.

Run.
Wish that I knew how to run from here...


But there’s no running now, when you’ve hit the wall

Nowhere to go once you freefall
 
Fire or ice who can decide?
I just need to keep you by my side.




If we never see the light again
Will you blame me for this choice, my friend?




-- Cassia
~~~~~~~~

“You do not understand what the Úlairë desires from us,” Legolas hissed, his imploring voice barely above a whisper. “If you did you wouldn’t ask us to...”

Callously repeating himself, Yrin cut off the elf’s words.  He hated this part of his job.  He hated most of the tasks the Wraith set for him, but acquiring and conditioning new slaves was the worst.  He had adopted a closed exterior to those around him, trying to keep his emotions as dead as possible.  Unfortunately, unlike the Nazgûl he served, he still had a heart and it still ached sometimes at the plight of those who were caught up in the evil that surrounded them.

“We have a room for you...” he tried to explain.

“You mean a cell,” Legolas growled at the man, cutting off his explanation in turn.  He had not relaxed at all, his knives still being held in a defensive position.  He did not trust this human anymore than he trusted the orcs.  “Will you not help us then?”

Yrin did not respond to the comment, for he knew what awaited the two newcomers.  “Your friend is dying,” he said calmly, without much emotion.  “I have seen many in his shape and he is not long intended for this world now without help.  Inside I can treat him and give him the antidote he needs to stay alive.  There will also be blankets and clothing should you need them and we have hot food.”  The human glanced at the ranger lying on the ground behind the elf.  “May I?”  He questioned softly, indicating the prone man.

Legolas barely nodded and stepped slightly aside, watching the servant carefully.  He was not ready to give into these people, but Yrinvan was unfortunately correct.  Aragorn did not seem to be in any shape to survive without their help.

The orcs around them settled uneasily in a large circle about the elf, awaiting further instructions.

Yrinvan knelt next to the ranger, gently pressing the back of his hand against the man’s cheek.  The ranger was burning up; they had little time left.  Tilting Aragorn’s head to the side the servant felt the erratic pulse beneath his fingers.

Turning on his heels Yrin glanced up at the elf.  “Your friend is failing very fast.  He needs the antidote immediately or it will be too late and he will not survive.”

“I will not turn him over to orcs,” Legolas whispered fiercely.  The hopeless desperation of their situation screamed inside his chest.

“You won’t have to.”  Yrin glanced behind them at the creatures that pressed in close.  “They also obey the Master and will not harm you if you pick up your friend and follow me.  I’ll lead you to your room.”

For half a heartbeat the elf entertained the thought of refusing, but he could see no other way.  Re-sheathing his knives with a bit more flair than normal he cleared the space around the two humans and himself, causing the orcs to step back and flinch slightly.  Dropping down next to the servant he pierced the man with a clear, hard stare.

“You can save him then?” Legolas questioned further.  “You promise this is not a trick?  If I follow you in there, you will give him the antidote?”

“It’s no trick.  The Master wants him alive and I will help him.  You have my word,” Yrin answered honestly, piercing the elf with an even stare. 

It seemed the wood-elf stared straight through him into his soul, touching on a place the servant thought was hidden from the world.

In truth Legolas had glimpsed into the man’s soul.  There was no hope for their escape out here; he read the hopelessness of such an attempt in the other man’s gaze.  Yet perhaps once Aragorn had been given the antidote and they had a little more time... perhaps then they could find a way.  It was the best chance they had.  No, it was the only chance they had.

“If you want your friend to live, you must bring him now,” Yrin said quietly.  He knew it was hard for the elf, but the human’s time was running out swiftly. 

“You do not know who this man is,” the elf’s tone was anguished as he realized submission was their only hope.  Legolas’ hand rested gently on Aragorn’s chest.  “Perhaps you do not care, but it matters to me. And it matters to you more than you can understand.  The one you serve wishes to destroy him.  That cannot be allowed to happen.”  Legolas risked a lot by saying even that much, yet something in him told him that as strange as it seemed, Yrinvan could be trusted, at least to a certain extent.  He had seen it in the man for only the briefest of moments, but it was there. He could only hope he was right and the servant would not turn his confession against him.  But the reality was that they needed any and all help they could get.  When one is about to walk into his own tomb, one must be willing to gamble.  For Legolas and Aragorn, the stakes were very high.

Yrin swallowed hard and glanced to his left, into the woods.  How many times had he heard families beg for their loved ones, as if there was something he could actually do about any of this?  As if he *wanted* to be part of the Dark One’s malicious schemes... how many more pleas would he have to endure?  Standing swiftly to his feet the servant looked back down at the elf, the firstborn’s piercing gaze causing him to glance away again just as quickly.  Everyone thought their loved one was someone special.  The truth was that all of their lives combined meant nothing here. 

“There is no other choice.  You can come inside with me, or your friend will die and these orcs will kill you.  I cannot help you or do as you ask.  I cannot make your friend better if you don’t follow me.  We have tarried long enough as it is.”  Yrin glanced back at the castle’s turrets; he knew his master was watching them.  The Nazgûl did not understand delays, nor accept tardiness easily.  “Let’s take your friend inside and get some of the antidote in him and then...”  With a sigh Yrin stopped speaking.  “Accept my help; it’s all I can give you right now.  If you do not, you will both be destroyed.”  The servant whispered harshly.  “Please.”  He held his hand out towards the elf. 

Rising slowly to his feet, Legolas did not take the proffered hand.  He knew the servant was doing as he was told.  He knew there was no other way out... but his heart balked fiercely.  He could barely keep the dread from choking him.  With a short nod the prince agreed to the inevitable and stooped to pull Aragorn up with him.  It surprised him when Yrin dropped to one knee and gently cradled the ranger’s head with his right hand as he shifted the Dùnadan into a standing position.  Yrin helped the elf support the ranger’s weight as he walked the two strangers through the castle’s main entryway.

The orcs trailed behind the trio, unwilling to get too close to the elf but still forming a constant threat if the prince tried anything.

As they stepped through the darkened portal of the Nazgûl’s home, a shudder ran through Legolas and he caught his breath.  Yrin tried not to notice.  He could still remember the day he was brought here as a child and he saw that fear echoed on the fair face of the elf that walked opposite him. 

Legolas held more tightly onto Aragorn.  It felt as if they were walking into a deep black void, worse than any cave he had ever entered.  Here the forests were silenced, the songs of the earth and sky were dimmed and an evil pervasiveness chilled his soul.  He remembered the touch of the Nazgûl, the way it had felt, the way it smelled, the way it slowly sought to kill his soul and poisoned all it touched.  The familiarity faltered his steps.

An orc behind the prince shoved him roughly forward, causing all three to stumble.

“Stop that.” Yrin barked the command in the dark tongue, one of the few words he had learned in his internment with the evil creatures.  “The Master wants them well and untouched.  Don’t you have other work to be about?”  His voice was low and menacing as he stared down the orc that had pushed Legolas forward.  “Leave us with Rhzaq; he is more than capable of seeing us to the... quarters.”  He stopped himself from using the word dungeon. All of Angmar was one big dungeon really.   

Legolas watched the exchange between the orc and the man curiously.  He had never seen a human work so easily and so fearlessly with the evil creatures before.  The alliance between Paxcyn and the orcs that had followed them into Eowioriand many years ago had been distrustful and uneasy at best.  If Drelent hadn’t killed them all they would have surely killed each other.  But here was a man totally un-intimidated by the vile creatures and they in turn were in full obedience of him. 

With a grunt, the orc Yrinvan had addressed led the contingent down the hall in the opposite direction, leaving one smaller-sized orc behind.  The dark skinned creature watched the headservant curiously. 

“Rhzaq, we’re heading to the empty room.  I’m going to need some salve and bandages.  See that they are waiting there, we’ll follow you,”  Yrin ordered the orc softly.

With a nod, the creature limped down the hall, eager to obey.

“He is not all there,” Yrin remarked to the elf next to him, tapping his forehead with the fingers of his free hand.  “I have heard there were complications when he was birthed and the Master has experimented on him...” Yrin watched