Title: The Healer

 

Author: Nightwing

 

Email: waabooz@chartermi.net   Feedback appreciated.

 

Rating: PG13. Violence, tense situations, character torture, mind control and all that good stuff.

 

Disclaimer: Middle-earth and its characters were created by JRR Tolkien, and are owned by folks other than myself. I do not have permission to use these characters. This story was written for entertainment only, and no monetary profit was made.

 

Summary of Part One: Saruman is kidnapping Elves, and with the information he obtains from his captives he plots to destroy them all. Among those taken is Legolas, who must fight for his survival after he, Merry and Pippin are captured by the corrupt wizard’s Orcs and marched toward Isengard.

 

Acknowledgements: my thanks to Cassia for granting me permission to refer to incidents in Legolas’ past that took place in her story Captive of Darkness, and to continue the story of friendship between Legolas and Aragorn established in the Mellon Chronicles.

 

I also wish to thank Ithilien for offering to beta the reworking of this story. It is much improved due to her efforts. She is a wonderful writer who took me under her wing and gently taught me a great deal about how to craft a story. She set me on the path.

 

Author's notes: This is my first fic, and it has its flaws. It was first posted in early spring 2003. As I learned more about writing, the errors in this story crept into my sleep and demanded attention. At last I could ignore them no longer and dove in again to do some re-working. A significant shifting POV problem needed to be addressed, and I wanted to spruce things up in general. This is the (hopefully) improved version, posted February 2004. I will attach an A/U label, as I played about quite a bit with canon and character experiences, as well as conjuring my own ideas of sorcery and magical abilities. Please forgive a somewhat wandering plot that veers rather abruptly off its original course between Parts One and Two. Hopefully it will still be enjoyable.

 

 

 

 

                                                The Healer (Part One)

                                               

 

 

Night had come to Rivendell, and Legolas relaxed in his room after the evening meal in the Great Hall. Curled in an overstuffed chair with his long legs drawn under him, he was engrossed in one of several ancient books he had eagerly borrowed from Rivendell’s extensive libraries, and so involved was he in the legends contained within the heavy tome that at first he did not notice the soft tapping on his door. It repeated, and he raised his blond head as the portal quietly opened and Lord Elrond looked around the oak panel.

 

“Legolas, may I come in?”

 

The young Prince of Mirkwood hastily unfolded himself and rose to his feet, setting the book aside and bowing quickly. “Of course, my lord,” he said with some surprise. Elrond had yet to approach him during his stay, having spent most of his time recently secluded with Gandalf, and Legolas knew they were deep in discussions about the quest to destroy the Ring.

 

“Enjoying our books?” the elf-lord asked with a smile.

 

“Indeed, yes. Your libraries are magnificent. You have preserved so much of that which is ancient and will soon be lost to memory.”

 

“And I see that you, young one, wish to know much about those days that have passed.”

 

Legolas nodded. “They are not memories for me, but stories. There are times I feel at a disadvantage, being so much younger than most of my kin. At a time when many of the elves were leaving this land, my parents had a child!” he laughed. “I can think of only a handful of elves born so late in the Third Age, and I believe many of them have already moved on to Valinor.”

 

“But not you,” Elrond commented quietly, resting his serious gaze on the eager face of the young elf.

 

Legolas dropped his eyes. “No, not I,” he said reluctantly after a pause. “I have had this conversation with my father many times,” he added with a slight grimace. “It never goes well.”

 

“But you have never spoken of it with me,” Elrond said, seating himself in a chair and gesturing to Legolas to do the same. “I am curious to hear why you stay.”

 

Legolas sat formally with his back straight and his hands on his knees. He felt uneasy. This was not his favorite topic. It put him at odds with his powerful father and others in the elven world, and he was not at all certain of Elrond's opinion on the matter.

 

“First, my lord, I wish to thank you for permitting me to join the Fellowship. I wanted it very badly, and I feared you would choose an elf with more power and more experience, like Glorfindel. I appreciate the opportunity to be of help.”

 

“I had the feeling it was important to you to be part of this endeavor,” Elrond said, looking closely at Legolas. “You do not want to leave Middle-earth until this situation is resolved, however that may be.”

 

The blond elf nodded. “It would hurt me to leave this land without doing what I can to help. I know many of the elves do not care…” he paused with a frown, concerned that his comment might have sounded inappropriate. Turning his eyes, he gazed out of the window, seeking a glimpse of the night sky. A wisp of breeze caused a cascade of leaves to fall, and the sound of them pattering to the ground made his heart wrench as he sought for words that might be more fitting. But his feelings suddenly welled and he could not restrain them. “Forgive me,” he burst out with emotion, “but it seems to me thus. Why is it so many of us leave when the future of this world hangs in the balance? We have loved Middle-earth for years uncounted. I know our relationship with men is now full of mistrust. Our two races are more strangers than allies in these times, but even so…” he cast his eyes down to his hands, which were tightly clenched in his lap. He relaxed them with an effort and drew in a deep breath. “It seems that the elves do not care. It angers and saddens me.”

 

The powerful elf did not speak, and Legolas shifted uneasily as he felt the full weight of the elder's penetrating gaze on his bent head. He looked up after a moment, trepidation in his eyes. He had not meant to speak so boldly to Lord Elrond.

 

“I understand how you feel,” Elrond finally said. “I fought in the battles of the First Alliance when Man and Elf stood together. You are right. Much has changed since those days, and the two races no longer have the same bonds of friendship. Many of us who have lived since the beginning have grown weary, Legolas, after countless ages of war and despair. The promise of peace never lasted long here. But it is the will of the Valar that the elves depart Middle-earth and leave the world to men. You know this, and it is a summons even you must obey.”

 

Legolas shook his head abruptly and his eyes smoldered. “Not yet. I do not yet feel the longing.”

 

“No, perhaps because you are so young,” Elrond responded. “I would have you know that for all the elves who leave, there are still those who feel as you do and have chosen to stay for now. We are not many, but we are resolved to remain here in Middle-earth, even at the risk of our own lives.”

 

Legolas nodded slowly. “It may well be that death awaits all who stand against Sauron, but I am willing to face that if there is even the slightest chance he will come to defeat. I know that if I were to go to the Undying Lands now only to later learn that Middle-earth and her people had fallen, I would never feel joy again.”

 

“You are a good friend, Legolas,” Elrond said softly. “Not many elves could have endured what you did so long ago and then forge such a relationship with a man.”

 

The young archer glanced searchingly at the elf-lord. It had been long since they had spoken of what had happened to him years ago at the hands of the King of Dorolyn, when he had been kidnapped and tortured for sport by the twisted monarch and his men. They had hated him for no other reason than because he was not like them, but an elf, and they had acted on their twisted desires to dominate one of the Firstborn. Elrond himself had found Legolas and had saved his life, but his captors had nearly broken the young elf because he would not submit to them, and his recovery, both physical and emotional, had been long. In some ways it still continued.

 

Legolas bowed his head, staring at his hands again. “If not for Aragorn, I might have hated men my whole life,” he said quietly. “I was afraid of them, and had come away from that experience convinced that they were all cruel, base tormentors. I learned otherwise when I met your foster son, my lord. He became the brother I never had, and helped me to look for the good in other men, as well. I know that if I had never met him I would have sailed to Valinor long since. I hid myself in my father’s kingdom for years, and I feared my heart would never heal. It is not only my love for Middle-earth that holds me here, but my love for Aragorn as well. I know he fears to take the crown, fears the tests he will face, but if we prevail and Sauron is defeated, what a king he will make.”

 

“With you at his side?”

 

“Yes. I owe him my life, and more. He helped me regain both my sanity and my capacity to feel joy, as did you, my lord." Legolas' grateful eyes drifted again to the darkened window. "I once feared those things were lost forever to me. If Aragorn is crowned King, I will remain with him until he passes from this world.”

 

Elrond smiled, but his eyes seemed tinged with sadness. “Aragorn is a remarkable man. You are not the only elf who has sworn to remain with him.”

 

“Arwen,” Legolas said quietly.

 

“I am trying to convince her to leave,” Elrond sighed heavily. “I fear for her safety if she remains, but her love for Aragorn is strong. He engenders such feelings in everyone he meets.”

 

“You raised him well,” said the younger elf, wondering if he should change the subject. Eying the decanter on a silver tray near the open window, he stood and moved toward it.

“Shall I pour you some wine, my lord?”

 

Elrond nodded. He watched the young prince as he set about the simple task, and smiled as Legolas crossed the room and handed him a goblet, bowing as he did so.

 

“What is it, my lord?” Legolas asked, noting Elrond’s expression.

 

“I was just thinking how pleased I am with my choice of elf for the Fellowship.”

 

“We have not begun yet,” Legolas said, somewhat reluctantly. He sat back in his chair and gazed into his goblet, swirling the ruby colored liquid around.

 

“Actually, you have begun, Legolas. I have been watching you these past few days as you have approached the members of the Fellowship and spent time with them. You are putting your royal skills of diplomacy to good use. It is obvious you see the importance of establishing friendship, or at least communication, between yourself and the other members. None of them, save Aragorn and Gandalf, have ever had dealings with elves before. You have made an excellent start in forging good relationships within the group, and that can only help you during the journey. What are your impressions of your fellow members?”

 

Legolas rolled his eyes. “Since he is not here at present, I have yet to approach Gimli. I am happy to leave him for last, for I fear my lofty aspirations will come crashing down around me then. I shall have difficulty tolerating him, and he made it quite clear the feeling is mutual.”

 

Elrond chuckled quietly. “Yet the dwarves have every right to be represented, and from what I know of him he is a fearless warrior and his loyalty cannot be swayed. You will find him a steadfast, albeit irritating, companion. And Boromir?”

 

“Boromir worries me,” Legolas said frankly. “He is not easy to draw out, and I am reluctant to push him when we meet. There is much he does not speak of, but I sense a deep unhappiness in him, bordering on desperation. His behavior at the Council was inappropriate. You saw how close he came to picking up the Ring. If it can pull on him so strongly even here in Imladris, how much worse will it be as we draw closer to Mordor? I see noble qualities in him, but I fear that as the journey continues, I will find myself watching him as I would an enemy.”

 

“Aragorn and I have spoken about him. He is a troubled man,” Elrond agreed, “but there is strength in him, and a desire to do good. I do not know what part he has to play, but when he asked to join the Fellowship my heart bade me allow it. There is also the diplomatic aspect to consider. As the eldest son of the Steward of Gondor, he is one of the most powerful men in Middle-earth, and we need the support of Gondor to prevail here.”

 

“I will keep an eye on him,” Legolas said. “As for the hobbit Sam, I can easily understand why you agreed to let him come. Frodo needs more than strong warriors. He will need a friend. I see both courage and good sense in Sam. He will keep his head in tense situations and he will be the one to see to the comfort of the Ringbearer.”

 

“Exactly,” said the elf-lord, shifting in his chair. He smoothed a wrinkle on his velvet robe. “And the two younger hobbits?” he asked with a smile.

 

Legolas laughed. “Tomorrow is my day with them. We are going to have an archery lesson, Iluvatar help me. I have been busy with your bowyers working on some yew staves, making little bows for them, and they are finished. Why did you agree to let Merry and Pippin come? They are not who I would have chosen. They are scatterbrained and silly.”

 

“I also was reluctant to include them,” Elrond told him. “Gandalf encouraged it, but he did not tell me why. He is wise and his reasons are undoubtedly sound, so in the end I relented. It may be that their high spirits will help to cheer the rest of you during the long journey, especially Frodo, who grows more burdened by the day. He will need the support of his friends.”

 

“I see,” Legolas nodded. “Perhaps Merry and Pippin can be encouraged to take things more seriously before we depart. What if they were to find themselves lost in the woods for a night and had to fend for themselves?" he added with an impish grin.

 

Elrond laughed. “Do not play any tricks on those hobbits. They will be tested enough in the days to come.” With a nod of his head he rose to leave, and Legolas strode ahead to open the door for him. As the archer reached for the knob, he hesitated, turning once more toward the elf-lord. He had something more he would say, but doing so meant once again addressing the painful failure of his people.

 

“Is there something else, Legolas?” Elrond cocked an eyebrow.

 

“I wanted to thank you again for allowing me to be a part of the Fellowship. I was more than a little embarrassed… and angry… that I had to bring news of Gollum's escape from Mirkwood." The young elf hung his head, anxious to avoid any look of reproach from the elf-lord. "I feared what you would think of me.”

 

But Elrond smiled as he rested a gentle hand on Legolas' shoulder. “No one thinks the less of you. It was not news we wanted to hear, of course, but you yourself were not personally responsible for either his keeping or his escape. From what I understood, that was well planned and his guards overwhelmed by the enemy.”

 

“Elven blood had not been spilled in Mirkwood since before my own birth. When I looked down upon the two who were slain, it was the first time I had seen death come to us.” Legolas bowed his head. “My lord, I know you would have already told me, but has there been any news from my people since I arrived here?”

 

Elrond shook his head. “No, Legolas. Your cousin Eldreth and the other two remain missing. There has been no word of them. I fear they have been taken.”

 

“Then I hope they are dead too,” the young prince whispered. “To think of them alive and in the hands of the enemy fills me with horror.”

 

Elrond tightened his grip on Legolas’ shoulder. “You know what it is to endure captivity and torment, and you survived it. Maybe there is yet hope for Eldreth. Your father has scouts searching still.”

 

Legolas nodded, and Elrond looked at him steadily. “I chose you for the Fellowship for several reasons, Legolas. Your role is important. Aragorn goes to protect Frodo, but I send you to protect Aragorn.”

 

“I suspected as much, but you had better not tell him that. He would be terribly offended. Furious, in fact.”

 

“I know.” Elrond smiled, but his grey eyes looked seriously into Legolas’. “I do not need to tell you how vital Aragorn is to the future of Middle-earth… the Middle-earth that will exist after the elves have gone. He alone of the race of men has the power to stand against Sauron. The Dark Lord searches for him, but is not yet sure of his existence. Aragorn must survive, Legolas, if it is in our power to keep him safe. I send you as his protector.”

 

“If need be, I will give my life to keep him from harm. You have my word.”

 

“I am satisfied. Your skills as a fighter are unmatched, and your age gives you a youthful sense of fun, both of which Aragorn and Frodo will need before the Quest is over, but do you want to know the real reason I chose you, Legolas? I chose you because you have suffered. Because you have known despair and come through it stronger than before. Your experience, dreadful as it was, has instilled in you a sense of maturity beyond your years, a desire to see justice done, and most importantly, the gift of compassion. I know elves two thousand years older who do not come close to matching your capacity for caring about another’s pain. I tell you this now: you would not be in the Fellowship had you not experienced Dorolyn. It burned into you the qualities I was looking for.” With a nod, the elf-lord stepped into the darkened corridor.

 

Legolas bowed and closed the door, and he leaned against it for a moment as he silently gathered his thoughts. Elrond's words had startled him. Long had he thought of his memories of Dorolyn as nothing but a nightmare, but after years of struggling to push the pain away and pretend as though it could not touch him, his efforts had exhausted him. And failed him as well, because he still had been unable to find peace within himself after what he had experienced. 

 

Only when he had sought the aid of Elrond's wisdom did he gradually learn to feel the emotions without fearing them, and then he was able to look more clearly at the pain and see it truly as something that could not maim him if he did not permit it. Aragorn's friendship had nurtured his ability to trust again, and with the knowledge that he had friends and was not alone in his struggles to reclaim his life, he had finally been able to transform the terror of his imprisonment into something that no longer controlled him.

 

As he pondered what the elf-lord had said, he knew that Elrond was right. He had been changed, and he would always bear the scars, but he had also found great strength within, and with that came renewed confidence. It had been difficult work, but he had managed to finally overcome the bitterness and fear and find something positive in what had happened to him long ago.

 

Moving quietly around the chamber, he extinguished the candles and readied himself for bed. He lay awake long, thinking of his cousin and his friends taken from Mirkwood and praying that they were not suffering too much. As he finally dropped into slumber it seemed a shadow passed like a fluttering wing over him and he shuddered, his hands tightening on the quilts.

 

* * * *

 

“Remember to always fix your hand at your anchor point, like so,” Legolas told the two young hobbits, drawing back the bowstring and setting his hand against the side of his face, just past the corner of his mouth. “I make sure I press against the same tooth with this finger each time. Nothing is more important for getting a consistent shot.”

 

He dropped to one knee beside Pippin, reaching to make minor adjustments. “Keep your back straight. Do not lean into your shot.”

 

The curly-haired hobbit bent his bow, aiming at the target of mounded earth twenty yards away. “Like this?” he asked.

 

“Better. That looks good. When you release, remove your fingers from the string easily. There is no yanking. The bow will do the work.”

 

Pippin’s arrow flew straight and lighted near the center of the target. Legolas nodded in satisfaction. “That was much better. You can see the improvement with a relaxed stance.”

 

The elf turned to regard their other companion, who nodded as if in appreciation of his instruction. Legolas had been surprised, and pleased, when Boromir had asked if he might join them that morning, carrying a bow and quiver lent to him by the elven bowyers. “I am a swordsman, and could use the practice, if you do not mind,” he had said to Legolas somewhat hesitantly, almost as if expecting to be turned away when he had approached.

 

“Of course, Lord Boromir. You are very welcome to join us,” Legolas had told him with a smile.

 

The hobbits had been delighted. “Another afternoon with our teachers, Pippin," said Merry. "Boromir has been giving us sword lessons, and now we’re learning archery! If we can just convince Gandalf to teach us some spells next, we’ll be invincible.” Legolas had laughed, and he caught a rare smile crossing the serious face of the man as well.

 

The day had been a fine one, warm for so late in the autumn. Gentle breezes stirred the colorful leaves that remained overhead and the rushing of the waterfalls filled the air. After the archery lesson, they had sat companionably together and eaten their lunch, and then Legolas had sprawled on the grass, watching as the man of Gondor instructed the hobbits in sword technique, teaching them the basic parries and attacks. Both Merry and Pippin had caught on quickly, defending effectively whenever Boromir made an aggressive move with his weapon. The nobleman's demeanor had relaxed as he worked with the hobbits, and he laughed easily at their jokes. He seemed to be developing a real fondness for Merry and Pippin, which pleased the elf.

 

As the afternoon wore on, the hobbits were ready for something new. “Enough lessons for one day,” Merry said. “My arm’s about to drop off. Let's go for a walk.”

 

Boromir declined their invitation to venture across the meadows and into the forest, saying he preferred to return to Rivendell. As Merry and Pippin gathered up the remnants of their lunch, Legolas stepped closer to the nobleman.

 

“I have noticed that you dine alone in your quarters. Join us for the evening meal in the Great Hall, Boromir. You would be welcome, and would enjoy both the food and the companionship. I dare say you have not heard elvish music before.”

 

Boromir shook his head soberly.  “No, nor have I heard music of any sort in a long while. Feasting and merriment are things of the past in Gondor.”

 

“Join us tonight then,” Legolas urged, “for I sense your heart is heavy.” He looked searchingly into Boromir’s eyes and his voice softened. “You will not betray Gondor by laying aside your burdens for one night. Your mind churns with thoughts about what can be done to regain hope. You are weary. Give yourself an evening of ease. There is still music in Rivendell, and love, and hope. Drink from it tonight as a thirsty man drinks lifesaving water, and let our songs strengthen your heart until the day music is heard in Gondor again.”

 

Boromir tore his gaze away from the elf and looked out over the waterfalls. He blinked quickly, seeming to be unsettled by Legolas' words. Legolas waited quietly, and after a few moments the man nodded. “Thank you, Legolas. I strive against losing hope, but find it difficult sometimes. I will meet you in the Great Hall tonight. It will do me good.”

 

“Until then,” Legolas said, bowing formally, but his smile flashed unchecked. With a wave, Boromir made his way back up the trail to the House of Elrond.

 

The elf grinned as he turned to Merry and Pippin. “Very well young hobbits, what is your pleasure?”

 

“An adventure!” exclaimed Pippin.

 

“We will head toward the forest then. It is several miles off, if you do not mind the walk, but there you will find trees and animals you have never seen in your Shire.”

 

The hobbits eagerly agreed, and they set their small bows next to the target. The trio began descending the long slope toward the sun-swept meadow, and beyond that rested the edge of the woods. Legolas walked easily with a smile on his face, enjoying the company of the lively young hobbits. Pippin, he noticed, never missed a thing, be it a bug on a leaf or an offhand remark thrown out for a laugh. Merry, slightly older and with a higher temper, tended to be more impatient than his cousin and possessed a keen intellect. When the conversation turned to more serious matters, Legolas had been touched by their fierce devotion to Frodo, and their willingness to accompany him into the unknown.

 

“There will be much danger. I wanted to be sure someone spoke to you about this,” the elf told them. “No one would fault you if you chose to return to the Shire.”

 

Merry looked up at his tall companion. “I would fault myself. It is true we hobbits have lived a sheltered existence. We have had little to do with the outside world, and our lives have been free of burden. But coming with Frodo out of the Shire, when the Black Riders attacked us…” he sighed, shaking his tousled head. “I know now that the evil has been creeping toward us for a long time. The Shire is no longer safe. Nowhere is, perhaps not even here in Rivendell. I can see how worried the elves are.” He glanced at Legolas, who met his eye and nodded silently.

 

“We cannot leave Frodo to face it alone,” Merry continued. “He is our friend. We’re not warriors, but we’ll do our best to help him.”

 

After walking for some time in the meadow, Legolas pointing out the birds flying overhead as they made their way across the grassy expanse, they reached the border of the forest. The elf glanced at their long shadows reaching toward the east.

 

“We should return to Imladris soon. The day is drawing to a close, and I believe Aragorn returns tonight. He has been scouting along our proposed route with Lord Elrond’s sons.”

 

As they walked along the forest paths, Merry picked up a smooth stone and lobbed it quickly toward a small boulder some thirty yards off, hitting it directly on a small, discolored area. A second later Pippin did the same. Legolas' jaw dropped in surprise.

 

“Excellent!” he cried, clapping his hands. “What do you need with bow and arrow? This is a truly useful skill, my friends. Show me more.”

 

The hobbits started flinging rocks at a rapid rate, and every target they called they hit. Legolas joined in, but the abilities of the Shire folk surpassed his own, and he eventually fell against a great oak, laughing helplessly and clutching his ribs. He leaned against the tree, watching in amusement as the hobbits continued the game, their shouts ringing through the trees. The elf was pleased he had discovered what they could do with rocks.

 

A faint noise, perhaps the snap of a twig some distance off, caught his attention. He turned his head to the right and peered into the trees. The natural sounds of the forest he was completely familiar with, and this was not one of them. In one movement he caught hold of a branch above him and swung himself up into the tree. He heard the hobbits laughing below him as he swiftly climbed higher.

 

“Where did he go?” Pippin’s voice called.

 

The elf poked his head through the autumn leaves and stared down through the foliage, gesturing to the hobbits for silence. A second later he landed lightly on the ground and ran a little distance into the trees, eyes wide and ears straining to take in all he could of their surroundings. A cold sensation of evil crept over him and he shuddered as he looked about. His keen eyes, frantically scanning the forest, spotted its source at last and he spun, flying back to the hobbits. Crouching in front of his companions, he took each one by the shoulder.

 

“We have trouble. A band of orcs is moving through the woods,” Legolas whispered, narrowing his eyes and staring over Merry's shoulder. “We are three miles from Rivendell, and the only way we can get back is across that meadow where we’re easily seen. I do not want to risk it until dark. We must hide ourselves, but I fear they have already heard us.”

 

Merry and Pippin stared at the elf in astonishment, as if unable to comprehend what he said. Seeing how stunned they were, Legolas wasted no more time on words. Grabbing a hobbit under each arm, he bolted deeper into the forest. Rapidly and without a sound he dodged through the trees, then his head came up and he skidded to a stop. Inhaling sharply he set his companions down, his eyes darting right and left. Pippin clung to his elbow.

 

“They have divided and surround us now,” the elf hissed through clenched teeth.

“Why did I not feel their presence earlier? Some foul enchantment is at work here, throwing a blanket over my senses. They risk much in coming this close to Rivendell, and yet they have done so boldly and undetected.”

 

He heard the rattling of dry leaves as heavy feet moved toward them, and beside him Merry gasped in alarm. Legolas grabbed the hobbit under the arms and lifted him. “Up this tree, now!” he said urgently. Merry grasped at the nearest branch and pulled himself higher. Pippin followed a second later and they made their way to the thickest part of the foliage, curling there and trying not to move.

 

Legolas leaped up and crouched on one of the lower limbs, balancing effortlessly on the slightly swaying branch as he pulled his bow off his back and nocked an arrow. He glanced up briefly at the two hobbits, nodding to them, and then he fixed his eyes on the darkening woods stretched out before them. From them black shadows slowly emerged, moving stealthily among the trees. Legolas stared in shock as the figures sharpened into focus. So many of them! Why did I not know?

 

He had seen orcs before, but never any like these. They were massive, powerfully built, with a mark of a white hand imprinted across their grotesque faces. About thirty of creatures fanned out below and around them, cutting off any possibility of escape. Legolas watched silently, scarcely daring even to draw breath as several of the demons stopped, raising their heads and inhaling deeply.

 

“I smell an elf,” a low voice growled. “And a strange smell… must be the halflings. They are here. We have found our prey.”

 

“And if we can’t see them down here,” another creature hissed, “that means they’re up…”

 

Legolas’ arrow embedded itself between the orc’s eyes the instant they had locked onto his own. The creature fell without a sound as the elf rose to his full height, releasing arrows as rapidly as possible, but all too soon his quiver held no more. As he fired his last arrow and spun, leaping to a higher branch, something whistled past his head. Climbing closer to the hobbits, he saw that they were flinging a barrage of rocks at their attackers.

 

“Make each one count, my friends,” he called to them. Merry nodded grimly. He and Pippin knocked down a number of the warriors with accurate blows to the head, but their pockets were empty in moments. The trio stared down from their perch and the orcs stared back. More seemed to have joined their numbers, and they soon set about their work. Several chains were thrown around the trunk and branches of the tree.

 

“What are they doing?” Pippin gasped, his eyes wide.

 

“Bringing down the tree,” the elf responded in a low voice.  He raised his head, looking over the woods stretched out on all sides. “We move to the next one. Follow me.” He quickly made his way along a sturdy branch, trailed carefully by the hobbits.

 

“Merry, this branch runs toward the elm there,” Legolas pointed. “If I throw you across, can you reach it?”

 

Merry nodded, and Legolas heaved him across an expanse of about five yards. The hobbit grabbed at a thick branch and swung himself up. Reaching out, he caught Pippin and steadied him as the younger hobbit flew through the air and crashed against him. Crawling rapidly toward the trunk of the tree, they hastened to make room for Legolas, beckoning frantically to him. But as the elf crouched, preparing to spring across, he heard a cry of alarm.

 

“Legolas, watch out!” Pippin screamed. Legolas spun just as the shining blur of a chain entered his range of vision. It smashed directly in front of him and he propelled himself backward, away from the hobbits, as the bark shattered and wood shards sprayed his face. He turned away to shield his eyes. The momentum of the links caused them to wind rapidly around the branch, and immediately the orcs hauled on the chain. The limb shuddered like a live thing as the elf quickly sought another spot to leap to. Beginning to reach over his head for a different branch, his own suddenly broke with a deafening crack and tore away from the tree. Legolas gasped, throwing himself clear of the heavy branch as he fell. Grabbing for his knives even as he hit the ground, he rolled, coming up immediately onto his feet. Without hesitation he flew at the orcs and drove both blades into the chest of the closest one. Yanking them free he spun, ducking under a swinging club aimed at his head, and raced toward a nearby boulder. He placed his back against it so that his attackers could not come at him from behind. Catching a glimpse of Merry beginning to scramble down, he shouted to him. “No! Get back! Make for the next tree!”

 

As the elf fought to hold off the surging orcs, struggling to engage their thrusting weapons, he heard Pippin cry out, “They’re trying to pull us down!” He looked toward the hobbits in horror and sought to abandon the rock, trying now to reach his companions.

 

The hobbits had been watching the fight, not realizing that the orcs had again tossed chains around their tree. With another effort, the orcs yanked and the elm shifted violently as Legolas tried to draw closer to his friends. Merry clung desperately, but Pippin lost his grip, and with a cry, the young hobbit plummeted to the ground.

 

Legolas saw him fall and fought to make his way toward the small figure lying on the forest floor, but the press of orcs held him against the boulder and he could not get free of them. A moment later he saw Merry clamber down and kneel over his friend, but he was forced to wrench his eyes away from the hobbits once more and focus on his foes as the orcs redoubled their attack on him. The elf’s breath was beginning to grow short as he strove to parry what seemed a dozen blades swinging at once. All of his energy was being used for defense and the opportunities to strike at his attackers were few. Blood streamed from a gash on his left arm where an orc sword had gotten past him. Over ten creatures lay dead, but it did not seem to diminish their numbers, and more dark shapes appeared to emerge from the forest. Legolas saw that Pippin was back on his feet, and the hobbits, though they struggled, were quickly overcome and their hands bound in front of them with stout cords.

 

The elf pivoted as a flash of metal whistled past his head, evading the blow at the last moment as he lunged to the right. He lashed out hard with his knife, noting with grim satisfaction the howl of agony as an orc hand was severed from its arm and flew through the air, but a moment later he gave voice to his own pain, gasping as a sword cut a deep, searing groove along the length of his thigh. Driving his shoulder into one of the creatures and knocking him to the ground, he leaped over the prostrate body, racing toward the hobbits. As he ran, he threw his head back and shouted a high-pitched scream in Elvish… a call for help, though he doubted anyone was near enough to hear it.

 

He slammed headlong into the orc holding Merry and slit its throat with a quick jerk of his wrist. Grasping at the hobbit he dragged him back, putting Merry behind him. Then he crouched, his knives dripping with black gore, and turned toward the largest orc, a terrifying apparition with glittering yellow eyes. This one held Pippin, and the creature almost casually wrapped his thick fingers in the hobbit’s long hair and pulled his head back. Pippin gasped as the sharp blade came to rest against his throat.

 

“Lay down your weapons, Elf,” the huge warrior hissed.

 

Legolas felt the press of creatures closing around him, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Glancing quickly at the circle of orcs, he saw many of them had arrows nocked and anchored, trained on him.

 

“Legolas,” Merry’s voice was low, shaking with fear. “If you try to fight your way out of this they’ll kill you.”

 

“The halfling speaks sense, Elf. I was hoping to find one such as you, an elf who knows how to fight. I am pleased that you are mine to claim today.”

 

Legolas glared at the creature. “What is it you want?" he demanded angrily.

 

“You will find out in time. Disarm now, or this little one dies.”

 

Pippin’s eyes, wide with terror, met Legolas', and the elf knew with bitter failure that he was helpless. Silently he crouched and laid his knives on the soft pine needles blanketing the forest floor. Unbuckling his empty quiver and removing his bracers, he placed them beside the weapons and rose, facing the orc leader. Merry drew nearer to him as the creatures closed in, their hot breath fouling the air.

 

“An elf and two halflings,” the huge warrior growled in satisfaction. “My lord will be well pleased.” He turned to one of the warriors standing nearby and nodded to him. The creature stepped forward, producing several lengths of chain.

 

 “Place your hands behind your back, Elf,” the lower orc commanded in a mocking tone.

 

Legolas riveted his eyes on the subordinate. Directing his most freezing elven glare at the creature, he held its gaze. He did not speak, and after a moment he was rewarded when the orc's eyes fell from his own. It retreated a pace, glowering, and with a derisive snarl Legolas turned his back on it dismissively to face the commander once again. “Let the hobbits go. What can they be to you? Free them, and I shall not try to escape you.”

 

The monster laughed. It was an ugly sound. "Stupid elf! We have orders to capture halflings, not you! Not that my master will mind. He seeks elves as well. Ah, but I do take pleasure in your compassion. I would not think to deny these small creatures your companionship. You, and they, will be easier to tame if you have each other to turn to… and watch suffer. Hands behind your back! Now!"

 

Legolas looked at his frightened companions. “An invitation issued at the point of a sword is difficult to decline,” he told them quietly. “It seems we have no choice but to accompany them.” He faced the huge orc squarely. “I yield. Do not harm the hobbits.”

 

Inhaling deeply, he fixed his gaze on the trees and turned away from the creature holding the chains, relaxing his fists and crossing his wrists behind him. Instantly a roar went up from many throats and rough hands grasped at him, clutching and shoving. He struggled to maintain his balance as his cloak was torn away and the chains were wrapped, cruelly tight, around his wrists and upper body. The faces of the creatures were exultant and their hatred tore through him as if seeking to devour his spirit. He brought his attention to bear on his captors and met that hatred squarely, staring with unblinking eyes into their black soulless orbs.

 

The orc he had humiliated leapt forward without warning and struck him hard across the mouth. Legolas staggered but kept his footing. His temper flashed, perhaps unwisely, and he lunged toward the creature before clawed hands forced him back, tearing through his clothing and ripping jagged wounds into his shoulders and arms. The leader barked out an order and Legolas was roughly spun around. One of his captors stood ready with an arrow drawn, and he set it free as the elf was turned to face him. Legolas saw it and fought to throw himself to the side as Pippin cried out in alarm, but his enemies held him firmly and the shaft met its target, slamming into his left shoulder and hurling him backward. Pain blasted through his body with horrible force as he fell heavily onto his back. Stunned, he struggled to sit up as Merry knelt beside him.

 

“This is treachery beyond what I expected even of orcs!” the hobbit shouted angrily. “Why treat him so?”

 

Legolas fell back with a gasp, overcome by a burning sensation spreading from his shoulder and creeping along his limbs. His arms and legs began to ache and a heavy, dull feeling swept over his body. His vision blurred, and he realized with a thrill of horror that the arrow had been tainted.

 

“Merry,” he whispered. “I am drugged. Pull the arrow out.”

 

Merry stared at him in fear, but immediately his expression grew hard and resolve shone in his small face. He quickly grasped the shaft with his bound hands and yanked. Legolas twisted his body at the pain but managed to suppress the cry that surged into his throat. He would permit himself to make no sound that would give the orcs satisfaction. Merry flung the shaft aside as the creatures seized him and dragged him back. Before Legolas could act to protect him an orc brutally smashed his fist into the hobbit’s temple, and Merry fell soundlessly to the ground and lay still. He and Pippin were snatched up and heaved over the shoulders of their captors. Several warriors turned to Legolas then, who drew his legs up and kicked out violently at the nearest one, aiming at its head. The creature’s neck broke with an audible crack, and the body fell on top of Legolas as the elf twisted and rolled, attempting to lash another kick at his tormentors. Then they were upon him, thrusting the dead orc aside and raining blows down with their fists. Thrashing over, the elf struck out again until more chains were wrapped around his ankles and the hands of his enemies rolled him onto his abdomen and shoved his face into the dirt, holding him immobile. Gasping, his energy spent, Legolas lay still, his eyes tightly closed against the agony of his injured body. The wound in his shoulder burned, and he felt blood soaking his jerkin. He hoped to bleed enough to lose some of the poison, and to leave signs for others to read.

 

A black hand, heavily gloved, grabbed his hair and his head was yanked back. The yellow eyes of the orc leader burned into his. “The arrow was in long enough to do its work, Elf. You will not be so much trouble now.”

 

Legolas strove to meet his captor’s gaze defiantly, but his vision swam and blackened. A great roaring filled his ears. Thinking he heard Pippin calling his name, he tried to fight again as rough hands lifted him, but the darkness rose in a great wall then and swallowed him.

 

* * * *

 

After nightfall, three horsemen clattered into the courtyard at Rivendell. The torches had been lit and Aragorn’s shadow wavered in their light like a creature of mist as he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting elf. Shouldering his pack, he waved to Elladan and Elrohir and made his way to the door.

 

“Going for that swim then, Estel?” Elladan called after him.

 

“Of course. Try as I might, I cannot stay as clean as the two of you in the wilderness,” Aragorn responded with a grin. “And I like baths, they feel great. Tell Lord Elrond I will seek him out later.”

 

The elven twins nodded as they turned away, leading their horses toward the stable. Aragorn quickly deposited his belongings in his room and, snatching up some clean clothes, went out again into the night, walking down a narrow footpath to his favorite bathing spot. The sounds of the waterfalls were deafening by the small pool, but it was a beautiful and secluded spot, and one he had loved since childhood.

 

He removed his travel-stained garments and waded into the water until it reached his waist, then dove under the surface. Conscious of the odor of campfire smoke, sweat and horses on his body he swam himself clean, unwilling to be the target of any jokes his elf brothers might make at his expense. Elves never smelled like much of anything, even after weeks of hard riding, whereas Aragorn, as Elladan delighted in telling him, seemed to always soak up odors like a sponge.

 

Emerging from the water, Aragorn shook his wet hair back and dried himself. Ordinarily he would pause here to relax and smoke his pipe, but he was anxious to meet with Elrond to discuss the plans for the Fellowship and to find out what had transpired in Rivendell since his departure. He realized he was ravenous as well, and wanted to find some dinner before seeking out Arwen and Legolas.

 

 Shivering slightly in the cool night air, he dressed quickly and trotted back up the path and into the House. Tossing his dirty clothes into his room, he headed down the long, winding corridor and entered a large brightly lit hall. His mouth watered at the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread, and his gaze swept the room, seeking out familiar faces. Elrond was not there, nor was Gandalf. They were probably already talking with the twins, and he planned to seek them out shortly. Flames crackling in the massive stone fireplace and the soft strains of music played by a small group of elves seated nearby lent a cozy atmosphere to the room, which was crowded with folk, mostly elves.

 

“Strider!” he heard a voice call above the din. Turning, he caught sight of Frodo and Sam seated in the corner, waving him over. With a smile he crossed the room and clasped their hands, sitting opposite them at the long oak table.

 

“Well met, both of you,” Aragorn said. He looked appraisingly at the dark-haired hobbit and nodded. “You look much better Frodo. Better than I had hoped to find you. Have you enjoyed your stay in Rivendell?”

 

“Indeed, yes. My cares have fallen away somewhat just by being in this wonderful place. Lord Elrond still treats the wound, but it is nearly healed. As healed as it will ever be, I suppose.”

 

“I am glad to hear it,” Aragorn said, reaching for the food arrayed in front of him. “And where are your friends?”

 

“I’m not sure. I thought they’d be here by now. Merry and Pippin are not ones for missing a meal,” Frodo said with a grin as Sam rolled his eyes.

 

“They’re also not ones for missing getting into trouble,” the stout hobbit stated. “I expect they have found a very diverting amusement, and no doubt we will be hearing about it all too soon.”

 

Aragorn grinned. Glancing up, he spotted Boromir standing irresolutely in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room. He waited until the nobleman’s gaze fell on him and gestured to the empty spot beside him on the bench.

 

“You have returned,” said Boromir as he approached. “How was your journey?”

 

“Uneventful. There are rumors of the enemy’s movements, but the path we plan to take looks clear.”

 

“Have some dinner, sir?” Sam invited, sliding a plate laden with meat toward Boromir.

 

“Thank you. I had plans to meet Prince Legolas, but cannot spot him in the throng.”

 

“He is not here,” Frodo told the nobleman. “We've looked as well. He ought to be easy enough to catch sight of amongst all these dark-haired elves. And we cannot find Merry and Pippin, either. Have you seen them?”

 

Boromir frowned suddenly, glancing quickly around the room, and Aragorn looked at him in sudden concern. Boromir turned back to Frodo. “Your friends went exploring this afternoon with Legolas. They should have been back long since.” He caught Aragorn’s questioning eyes. “I was with them earlier today. Legolas was giving them an archery lesson, and we ate our noontime meal together on the practice range. Merry and Pippin wanted to explore a bit and Legolas agreed to take them. We were to meet here for dinner.”

 

Aragorn looked out the windows. Night had fallen completely and he rose uneasily to his feet. “You will recall that Lord Elrond requested that all members of the Fellowship be within the walls of this House after dark. That is not an order Legolas would forget or disobey. I will check their rooms. Will you wait here until I return? I shan't be long.”

 

The ranger walked quickly down the corridor and turned into the wing of the dwelling that housed visitors. The door to Merry and Pippin’s room was open and he poked his head inside, smiling slightly at the disarray. The chamber was empty, and he continued down to the last room on the left where Legolas always stayed whenever he was a guest in Rivendell. He rapped sharply on the dark paneled door. Pausing but a moment, he turned the handle and let himself in. Aragorn stepped into the middle of the spacious room and looked around him. Nothing seemed amiss. Legolas’ belongings were in order, but the man felt an uncomfortable shiver creep up his spine. He crossed to the open window and leaned out, peering down into the small, enclosed garden below. One of the wood-elf’s favorite spots, he could often be found there, having perfected a method of jumping out of the window onto the branches of a great weeping willow and descending to the fragrant flowers below. But he was not there now.

 

Aragorn withdrew and closed the door behind him. As he made his way back to the dining hall, he asked several elves in passing if they had seen Legolas or the young hobbits. None had, and he noted his growing alarm as he returned to the table where Boromir, Frodo and Sam waited.

 

“They have not returned,” he told them in a low voice. “Hopefully there is a simple explanation, but I feel uneasy. I think we should speak with Lord Elrond.” Turning on his heel, he quickly made his way from the hall, his companions following silently as he led the way to Elrond's private rooms.

 

The elf-lord invited them into his personal suite with a face filled with concern. He had been dining in privacy with his three children, and they all listened intently as Boromir told them of the last time he had seen Legolas and the young hobbits. Arwen moved quietly to stand beside Aragorn and she drew his hand into her own. The elf-lord had turned away and gone to the window as he listened to Boromir's words, his eyes fixed on a spot far in the distance shrouded in the darkness and secrecy of the forest.

 

“I cannot say with any certainty that anything has happened to them,” he said after Aragorn had reported that their rooms were undisturbed, “but I have felt uneasy this day. We have been receiving distressing news of events happening in the world of the elves, and I feel shadows pressing close.” He sighed and pushed himself away from the windowsill. “We must search for them. Boromir, will you lead my children to the place you last saw Legolas and the hobbits?”

 

The nobleman nodded, turning quickly and striding without a word from the room. As Arargorn and the three elves moved to follow him, Elrond laid a comforting hand on Frodo’s shoulder and began steering the young hobbit toward Gandalf’s room. Frodo hesitated and looked over his shoulder, meeting Aragorn’s eyes. The Ranger nodded to him. “We will find them, Frodo. Merry and Pippin will be all right, and we will be back here directly. Do not worry.” With a wave, he hastened to catch up with the others.

 

“We shall need torches,” Elladan said as they strode quickly down the corridor, “and fresh mounts.”

 

“I will see to that,” Arwen replied, and she broke into a run as she headed for the stables, her long black hair flying behind her like a cape.

 

Aragorn turned to Boromir. “It is our hope that we find them quickly, but if we must extend our search it would be best if we had camp gear.”

 

“I will get what I need,” the nobleman said, ducking into his room as Aragorn ran to his own. Grabbing his bedroll and pack, which he had carelessly discarded not two hours before, he raced out to the courtyard. Elrohir was already waiting, having gone to the kitchens to take some food: a loaf of bread, some strips of dried meat and a few apples. Arwen lead the horses out, five of them, and the twins quickly placed bridles and saddles onto the steeds of Aragorn and Boromir. Then they mounted, urging the animals out of the courtyard and down the slope to the archery range.

 

Boromir pointed. “When we parted, Legolas was leading Merry and Pippin that way, across the meadow toward the forest.”

 

“About three miles,” Aragorn said. He followed Boromir at a canter across the waving grasses and then pulled ahead, scanning the ground with his keen eyes. The path the hobbits made was clear enough, though the night was overcast and he got no help from the moon.

 

“It will be harder to see in the woods,” he said to Arwen, who had urged her horse alongside him. “But one thing is certain. They did not come back.”

 

The dark trees loomed before them and they dismounted, Elrohir offering to hold the horses while the others went in on foot to search the area.

 

“They were here,” Elladan said, pointing at tracks. “The hobbits ran all over the place. It is difficult to make out their direction.” He stood still, slowly moving his torch back and forth as he peered into the darkness.

 

Arwen walked ahead several paces and halted suddenly, a look of fear crossing her face. Aragorn stepped quickly to her side. “What is it?”

 

Her nostrils flared. “I smell blood,” she whispered. “The blood of an elf.” Her eyes, wide in the gloom, met Aragorn’s and she squeezed his hand tightly.

 

Elladan raised his head at his sister’s words and inhaled deeply. “The stench of orcs is here as well,” he said in a low voice. Dropping his torch, he strode forward soundlessly, pulling his bow off his back and nocking an arrow. Boromir glanced in disbelief at Aragorn, who nodded to him.

 

“I have heard of the abilities of elves,” the nobleman whispered.

 

“Now you can see them for yourself,” the ranger responded, laying his hand on his sword. “Heed what they say and be on your guard.”

 

The two elves had made their way deeper into the trees and the men followed cautiously. Aragorn could not help the feeling that came over him. He wanted to send Arwen back to safety. At the same time, he knew she could handle herself and did not need his protection. All her senses were on a knife-edge as she moved through the forest, her eyes taking in everything in her path. She held a long dagger lightly in her hand. She, too, had discarded her torch, not having as great as a need for it as her human companions.

 

“There is no one here now,” the elf-woman murmured after a moment, “though the creatures of these woods still remain silent with fear.”

 

A call from Elladan, who had moved further ahead, rang through the trees and brought the others at a run. Aragorn stared as the light from his torch brought dark shapes into view, scattered over the ground. The forest floor was littered with dead orcs, if orcs they could be called… huge, imposing creatures clad in black armor, with the mark of a white hand emblazoned across their hideous faces. Arwen drew in her breath sharply as Aragorn nudged one of the bodies with his foot and turned it over. The ranger’s jaw tightened as he saw the arrow protruding from the orc’s throat, the distinctive light green fletchings reflecting the glow of the torches.

 

“Legolas’ arrow,” he said heavily, turning to gaze at the numerous bodies.

 

“How have orcs come here without our knowledge?” Elladan asked, a bewildered look on his fair face. “We have always known the movements of anything along our borders. This has never happened to us before. Father must be warned immediately. The strength of the enemy grows, as does his ability to deceive the elves.”

 

“Estel,” Arwen said quietly. She knelt, indicating several items lying on the forest floor. Aragorn caught his breath as his eyes swept over Legolas’ weapons. He crouched and picked them up. The knives were almost unrecognizable but for their shape, covered from pommel to tip with black blood. He glanced around him, taking in the signs of a struggle on the torn earth.

 

“They forced him to disarm,” the ranger murmured as Boromir moved closer, peering tensely at the scene as he held his torch high. “The orcs would never have been able to take Legolas alone, but they caught the hobbits first. He would not abandon them.”

 

“He bled, as the Lady Arwen feared,” Boromir said, pointing at splashes of bright red blood. “I recognize the black blood of orcs easily enough, so this must be his.”

 

“And here is the arrow that hit him,” Elladan said, picking up an evil looking black shaft lying nearby.  The thickness of it was appalling. Aragorn took it from him, looking grimly at the red blood staining it, seeing how deeply it had penetrated.

 

“They are hours ahead of us,” the Ranger said. “Boromir, Elladan, are you with me?”

 

The two warriors nodded and the companions hurried back to where Elrohir waited with the horses. He listened in shock to their report and quickly agreed to accompany Arwen back to Rivendell and notify their father of their findings.

 

“This bodes ill,” he said gravely, the breeze stirring his cloak. “When father spoke with us this evening, he told us that elves are vanishing. You know about the three from Mirkwood, including Legolas’ own cousin. Today, word came from Lothlorien that one of their own is missing, apparently abducted by orcs. I do not know who it was, but Ada was deeply troubled by the news. Now Legolas has been taken. What this means we do not know, but it would appear elves are being targeted by some unseen enemy.”

 

Aragorn shook his head in dismay. “An elf taken from Lothlorien? That cannot be possible.”

 

“Our power dwindles, though we fight on,” Arwen said quietly.

 

The ranger handed Legolas' weapons to Elrohir, but he kept back one of the knives. “I cannot wield this with the same skill as our friend, but I will return it to his hands when we find him.” He turned to Arwen and drew her aside.

 

“I would… ” he began, but she silenced him, placing her fingers against his lips.

 

“We will have time later, my love,” she told him. “But your friend needs you now. I know how dear Legolas is to you. He is to all of us here in Imladris. And the little hobbits must be found, or I fear the loss of his friends will be too much for Frodo to bear.”

 

The man nodded, embracing her. “You are my heart and my strength, Arwen.”

 

Elladan mounted, and with a nod to his siblings moved into the forest, Boromir following. Aragorn swung to the back of his horse and watched as Arwen and Elrohir wheeled their steeds and set off across the meadow at a gallop, their hoof beats drumming in his ears. The elf woman turned and raised her hand briefly, waving to him before she vanished into the night.

 

Aragorn urged his mount to the cover of the trees, catching up with Elladan and Boromir. “We ride all night, my friends,” he said, and they began picking their way across the dense undergrowth, following the path the retreating orcs had torn into the soft brown floor of the forests of Rivendell.

 

* * * *

 

When Merry opened his eyes and looked around him, sunlight dazzled his eyes and he turned away in pain. The orcs were running, and he felt sickened and dizzy as he slammed ceaselessly against the hard armor of the creature carrying him. The hobbit did realize with astonishment that the orcs had apparently been racing into the darkness all night without rest, and they were now continuing into the next day. Merry’s throat was parched and his head throbbed fiercely, but he looked about him again, trying to catch a glimpse of Pippin or Legolas. His eyes instead met those of an orc running beside him and with a sneer the creature reached out and cuffed him. Merry dropped his head again as his senses fled.

 

He landed hard on his shoulder, gasping as the breath was driven from his body. Rough hands were lashing his ankles together with cords and the foul shouts and curses of orcs filled his ears. Half dazed, his injured head pounding, he dragged himself to a nearby tree and leaned against it, reaching up with his bound hands to push his hair out of his eyes. It was dark again. Could it really be the second night? The hobbit watched dully as torches flared and the orcs prepared their camp, too hurt and too exhausted to feel particularly frightened. He looked up as two creatures approached him, bearing the limp bodies of his friends. They were flung to the ground in front of him and Pippin's ankles were tied. Merry sighed with relief as the orcs returned to their fire some thirty yards off, leaving the three captives alone.

 

“Pippin?” he whispered. The younger hobbit groaned and rolled over, slowly raising his hands to his head.

 

“Ah, this hurts,” Pippin ran his fingers over his skull gingerly, tracing a spot of dried blood along his temple. "I was trying to call to Legolas, and they hit me."

 

“Aye, they clouted you a good one,” Merry said.

 

Pippin rested on his back, squinting slightly as he looked around him. “And you. I thought they had killed you, Merry. Where are we now? We can’t be too far off.”

 

“Yes we can. Have you been unconscious all this time? It’s the second night since they took us, not the first.”

 

“What?” Pippin looked at Merry, startled. “They’ve been dragging us along for over a day now?” With an effort he managed to sit up, wincing and holding his head in his hands. “I feel terrible,” he muttered. Then his gaze fell on the motionless form of the elf lying nearby and he pulled himself closer, looking into Legolas' pale face.

 

“He breathes,” he said to Merry, answering the question in the other hobbit’s eyes. “But he is badly hurt. He’s lost a lot of blood from that shoulder wound. But when he wakes, he’ll know what to do. Legolas can get us out of this,” Pippin said, his voice catching in his throat.

 

Merry shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s very strong… you saw how he fought them, but even elves must have limits. He can’t do much now, not injured and chained up the way he is.”

 

Tears welled in Pippin’s eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening to us, Merry. Tell me I’m dreaming.”

 

Merry leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. “I wish I could, Pip.”

 

“Do you think anyone will try to find us?” Pippin asked in a small voice as he struggled to the tree and rested beside his cousin. Merry felt him shivering and turned, helping to draw Pippin's cloak more closely around his shoulders.

 

“I think so, if they feel they can safely delay the quest. I’d like to think so, anyway.”

 

The two hobbits, weary and in pain, fell silent then. The tight cords bit into Merry's wrists and ankles and the orcs shouted around their fire, which set his already frayed nerves on edge. Pippin rested his head on Merry’s shoulder and they sat quietly, watching their captors eating their foul meal and watching Legolas, looking for the reassuring rise and fall of the elf’s chest as he breathed. The light of the moon came and went as clouds gathered overhead, scudding across the dark sky. Merry glanced up unhappily. Tomorrow would probably bring rain.

 

An hour passed, perhaps two, when Pippin suddenly clutched at Merry, rousing him from a fitful doze. Several orcs, including their leader, were approaching. The hobbits shrank back as the creatures crouched in front of them, but they merely checked their bonds and then turned their attention to Legolas. Dragging the unconscious elf off a short distance, they surrounded him, bending over him and blocking the hobbit’s view. One of the orcs held a flaring torch, and they muttered amongst themselves as they crouched over their captive. Merry heard the tearing of fabric and, squinting into the darkness, he thought he saw the sudden flare of a cold blue light. The sound of a low moan made him flinch and he saw Legolas draw his legs up.

 

“What are they doing to him?” Pippin whispered.

  

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it hurts,” Merry muttered with a frown.

 

Rising after some time, the orcs hauled Legolas back to the hobbits again. Merry saw that his jerkin and shirt had been cut open at the shoulder and the wound had been bandaged. The creatures began winding a length of chain around the elf’s neck, securing it with no slack to a stake that they had pounded into the ground. They did the same to his ankles, and with a final glance at the hobbits, stalked back to their warm fire without a word.

 

“What was that all about?” Merry hissed furiously. “They’ve just about killed him, so why chain him down like that?”

 

Pippin shrugged, bewildered. “Perhaps they’re afraid of him. He must have killed fifteen of them yesterday.”

 

The noise of the orcs gradually subsided as most of the creatures fell asleep. Some remained watchful, sitting close to their fire, and others, the hobbits knew, stood guard beyond the perimeter of the camp. The dark woods were silent but for a sharpening wind which scattered the dry autumn leaves along the ground. The hobbits waited wearily.

 

For some hours Legolas remained unconscious, but he became restless, stirring and moaning softly. After a time Merry noticed his breathing quicken. He nudged Pippin, and they pulled themselves closer.

 

“Legolas?” Merry whispered. “Can you hear me?”

 

The elf’s bright eyes flew open so quickly that Merry jumped in surprise, and he stared at the hobbits seemingly without recognition, his features wild and pale in the dim light. Then a look of alarm came over his face and he strove to sit up, only to fall back with a gasp as the restraints cut off his breath and brought him up short.

 

Merry laid his hands on Legolas’ uninjured shoulder, pressing him against the earth. “Lie still,” he told him. “They’ve put chains around your neck and you’ll choke yourself.”

 

Legolas lowered his head to the ground. For a few moments he looked quietly around him, his eyes moving over sky and tree as he took in his surroundings. He turned his head with a grimace, straining against the chain to look at the orcs. Then he looked at the hobbits.

 

“Are you both all right? I saw you fall, Pippin. And Merry, your head?”

 

“We’re not injured badly, Legolas,” Merry told him. “My head aches, but it will mend. Your own wound is serious. You said the arrow was tainted?”

 

The elf nodded. “I felt its effects immediately. Some kind of drug intended to drain me of my strength and render me unable to fight. It did its job well enough.” He closed his eyes, and Merry saw pain in his face.

 

“Merry," Legolas asked softly.  "When you removed the arrow, did it come out clean?”

 

The hobbit furrowed his brow as he thought, then nodded. “Yes, it was whole and did not break. The barb was not left behind. Why?”

 

“The wound feels strange. It burns and throbs, almost as if it has a pulse. Is my shoulder bandaged? Did you wrap the wound?”

 

“There is a bandage,” Merry told him. “The orcs treated your wound.” Legolas frowned at that, and the hobbit noticed his uneasy glance.

 

“Perhaps it’s just the drug wearing off and it will improve soon,” Pippin said hopefully, but Merry looked closely at the elf, sensing that he was in more pain than he cared to reveal. Legolas was watching the night sky again.

 

“Three hours before dawn,” the elf said quietly. “We’ve gone south, have we not? And further than I would have thought possible in one day. I have no memory of anything since we were taken, but I think this must be our second night with our hosts.”

 

“It is,” Pippin said. “Where do you think they’re taking us?”

 

Legolas turned his head again, his keen eyes narrowing as he regarded their captors. Most of them slept, but the light of their campfire was enough to illuminate them. The elf stared, and Merry saw an expression of shock sweep over his fair face.

 

“Gandalf spoke to Lord Elrond of great orcs called Uruk-hai with the mark of a white hand on their faces,” Legolas whispered to the hobbits. “These are the servants of the wizard Saruman. They take us to Isengard.”

 

Merry and Pippin gasped in fear. They knew the wizard possessed great power, and that he had entered into an alliance with the Dark Lord of Mordor. “What does Saruman want with us?” Merry asked. His throat was so dry that he barely managed to force the words out. Beside him, he felt Pippin's body trembling as he pressed closer.

 

Legolas paused, his brow knitted in thought. “When Frodo escaped across the river, the enemy pursued him. They know the Ring of Power is in Rivendell, and that a hobbit carries it. They may not know which hobbit.”

 

“Well, we’ll really be in for it when Saruman finds out he hasn’t got the right one,” Merry said grimly. “And you, Legolas? The orc said he was pleased to capture an elf. Does Saruman desire a ransom?”

 

The elf shook his head. “No, that sort of thing would not interest the wizard or Sauron. My father is king of the elven realm of Mirkwood. He would pay a ransom, but that is not the reason they took me.” Legolas' eyes moved uneasily toward the gathered orcs. Merry heard him murmur something softly under his breath in his own language then, and though the hobbit could not understand the words, it was his strong impression that the elf was praying for strength.

 

“Legolas?" Pippin whispered, and the blond elf turned his bright gaze toward the young hobbit. “Do you think anyone will try to help us?”

 

Legolas closed his eyes for a moment and shifted uncomfortably. The chains wrapped around his body were undoubtedly painful to him as he lay on the hard ground. After a moment he looked at the hobbits again and spoke. “Knowing Aragorn, I am sure he will follow us. I would not see the quest delayed, however, even to save our lives. Our friends will put themselves into grave danger if they try to help us.”

 

Merry looked with concern at the elf, noting the pain and exhaustion on his face. “We should talk no more tonight, Legolas. I see it adding to your fatigue.”

 

The blue eyes looked long into his own. “I am sorry that we were unable to escape. I should have been able to detect the presence of the orcs much sooner than I did. I do not understand how I was taken unawares.”

 

“Wizardry, Legolas," Merry said. "Do not blame yourself for our capture. You fought hard. I have never seen anything like what you did yesterday.”

 

“I have some skill, but it was not enough to protect you. I am sorry,” the elf said again quietly.

 

“Speak no more of it,” Pippin said. “I think you could have escaped them had you been on your own, but you stayed to help us. You could not have done more than you did.”

 

“Dawn approaches,” the elf said. “They will come for us then. We should get what rest we can, for I fear what lies ahead will not be easy.”

 

Pippin slept, curled up with his head pillowed on his bound hands. Merry tried to relax, but sleep would not come. For a time he tried to reach the knots in the ropes restraining his wrists with his teeth, but he was unable to do so. Frustrated, he sat up again, propping himself against the tree. Legolas, he saw, did not sleep either. The elf had managed to turn himself onto his side and Merry could see his hands in the darkness slowly twisting, working against the strength of the chains.

 

* * * *

 

Morning came as cheerless as Merry had feared. Gray clouds blocked the sun and veiled the woods in shadow, but the rain was light, barely penetrating the autumn leaves overhead, and the air was warmer than it had been during the night. Some of the orcs had moved on at first light, leaving the captives in the hands of about twenty warriors, their commander among them.

 

Water was given to them, and the stake holding Legolas' neck against the ground was removed. Merry helped him to sit and held the flask to his lips. It was not much to share among three, but they were grateful for any amount of water to ease their thirst. The elf's features were strained, and Merry saw when he glanced at Legolas' chained hands that they were swollen and caked with dried blood.

 

“You’ve hurt yourself, Legolas.”

 

“I could not get free. I finally had to stop trying, or I would have broken my own wrists.” Legolas’ blue orbs were dark with anger and he jerked restlessly at the restraints pinning his legs to the ground.

 

Pippin laughed softly. "They're obviously afraid you'll kick another orc's head in," he told the elf, and Merry did not miss the fierce flash of pride that shot through Legolas' eyes at his cousin's words. The elf looked up then, and the hobbits followed his gaze. Their chief captor, the great Uruk, was approaching, and Merry trembled in fear. But the creature merely tossed a chunk of bread to each hobbit and began to turn away, only to whirl on them when Pippin tore away a part of the bread and moved to give it to Legolas. A whip handle smacked against the young hobbit's hand and he yelped in pain.

 

“The elf is not to be fed,” the orc snarled, leaning toward the captives and fixing them with a malevolent stare. “If we see you sharing your food with him you will be punished.” He locked eyes with Legolas, who looked back at him with such fiery hatred that Merry gasped. The creature bent toward the elf.

 

“I am Kurzik of Isengard.”

 

“A lovely name,” Legolas spat sarcastically. The creature grabbed the chain around the elf’s neck and dragged his face within inches of his own. Legolas stared back in fury, his gaze never faltering as the hobbits shrank back in alarm.

 

“You belong to me, until we reach the tower," the creature snarled. "There you will learn what fear is. Glare daggers at me now if it makes you feel better. Soon you will not have strength enough even for that.”  He backhanded Legolas across the face, the powerful blow sending the captive elf to the ground, and returned to his warriors.

 

Merry and Pippin helped Legolas up again. Merry thought to say something to him, a rebuke for provoking the orc’s wrath, but the expression on the elf’s bleeding face stopped him. Pippin set the bread down.

 

“If they won’t let Legolas eat, I won’t either,” he said.

 

Merry eyed his own bread with misgiving. “It looks all right, but who knows what they put in it? I have no desire to eat orc food.”

 

To his surprise, Legolas encouraged the hobbits to eat. “Accept their food. You must do all you can to keep your strength up.”

 

The younger hobbit stubbornly shook his head. “It’s not right. I won’t eat while they starve you.”

 

“Hear me well,” Legolas said, looking earnestly at his two small companions. “I am injured and in difficulty, but I am still strong. If they withhold food from me, or beat me, I will grow weaker yet, but do not doubt my endurance. You will not betray me by doing what you must in order to take care of yourselves and each other. Do not make sacrifices for me.” He turned his head, wiping his bleeding lip on the shoulder of his jerkin as he glanced at the orcs. “Merry and Pippin, I know what the days ahead hold for us, and I have no doubt that we will be forced to endure things that will be almost past bearing. I say this not to frighten you,” he added quickly as Pippin gasped, “but to prepare you. I promise that with whatever strength remains to me I will strive to help and protect you both, and you must vow the same to each other.”

 

“And to you, Legolas,” Merry said quietly.  Pippin bowed his head and slowly picked up the bread.

 

"I fear I have little to offer you in return, Legolas," Pippin said quietly, and it seemed to Merry a little sadly, "but I will also try to be of help to you should you need it. And I will eat the bread, if that is your wish.” He smiled shyly at the elf.

 

“Do not doubt your own worth, Pippin,” Legolas told the hobbit in a quiet voice. “You have more to offer others than you realize.” He raised his blond head and drew in a deep breath. “Reach for your courage now, my friends. They come for us.”

 

The three captives waited silently as the orcs approached them. Legolas sat tall, the hatred in his blue eyes matching those of his captors. Merry drew strength from the elf's poise and tried to do the same, though waves of fear rushed over his heart as his eyes met the yellow ones of the commander. An orc stepped forward with a dagger in his hand. The hobbit feared the worst and shrank back, but the creature merely cut the cords binding his and Pippin's ankles and set the hobbits on their feet. These were numb however, and Merry staggered, unable to stand. He crouched to rub his legs, but froze when a whip handle nudged him.

 

“Give them a minute,” Legolas’ voice rang out sharply. Kurzik spun toward the elf, and Merry thought the huge Uruk was not often addressed so directly by anyone, never mind a prisoner.

 

“They have a minute. You do not,” the warrior snarled. Legolas’ ankle restraints were removed and the orc grabbed the dangling neck chain, hauling the elf to his feet. Legolas stood steadily, never taking his eyes off his captor. With a growl, Kurzik turned and started down the woods, pulling Legolas behind him like a dog on a leash. Pippin was shoved forward, and Merry hastened to catch up with his friends as the orcs fell in around them.

 

* * * *

 

A steady, soaking rain fell throughout the afternoon and into the evening as the captives were forced to march at the pace the orcs set. At dusk the party had emerged from the southern border of the forest and begun crossing meadows of low rolling hills. High grasses and abandoned apple orchards dotted the area. Crumbled dwellings loomed in the gathering dark… all that was left of a settlement of men long forgotten, and Legolas turned his head away as he passed the broken remnants of the castle.

 

The elf paced silently behind Kurzik. Throughout the day he had walked easily enough, though the orcs had found amusement by constantly shoving him and trying to trip him up. Legolas had ignored them as best he could, concentrating his attention on the hobbits toiling behind him and on their surroundings, but now as it grew darker he was obliged to scan the ground before him as he walked. It affected his balance to have his arms pinned behind his back, but he was determined not let his captors see him stumble. It had seemed to him as the march continued that his injured shoulder gave him more difficulty. The intensity of the throbbing, which had irritated him during the day, worsened as he picked his way through the brambles covering a downhill slope toward a grove of trees, and he found himself walking even more cautiously than before, trying not to jar the wound. The orc commander picked up on his discomfort immediately, as if he had been expecting it.

 

“Does your shoulder pain you, Elf?”

 

 Legolas shot him a look, saying nothing, but he wondered what Kurzik knew. The wound did not feel right. In fact it felt terribly wrong, and the elf began to notice the first twinges of fear. He set his features and bowed his head, concentrating on setting one foot in front of the other as smoothly as he could.

 

An hour later the orcs halted, withdrawing into the deep cover of the trees. Legolas was made to sit with his back against a large oak, and his arms were released only long enough for the creatures to pull them behind him around the tree. They were secured again as the elf ground his teeth against the growing discomfort in his shoulder. The neck chain was wrapped around the trunk and his ankles were lashed together and staked down. Tossing a container of water to the hobbits, their captors left them alone.

 

“Legolas?” Merry's voice cut through the fog of pain that drifted around him. The elf turned his head as much as he was able, directing his attention toward his companion. The face of the hobbit was filled with concern. “I have water. Let me help you.” Legolas nodded slightly and Merry held the flask for him.

 

“Thank you, “ the elf said. “The water helps.”

 

“Is your shoulder bad?”

 

“Nothing to signify,” Legolas replied, not wanting to worry his companions, particularly Pippin, who looked exhausted. “It does not bother me overmuch.”

 

Pippin, who had been gazing at the ground, raised his head. “How many days to Isengard?” he asked.

 

Legolas thought for a moment. “If we keep up this pace, five or six days.”

 

Pippin sighed. “I’m not sure I can last that long,” he murmured quietly.

 

“They are pushing hard,” Legolas said. “Lie down, Pippin. Merry and I will watch over you.”

 

The small hobbit nodded, curling up with his back toward the elf. Legolas could see Pippin’s shoulders shaking, and Merry shifted closer to his kinsman, speaking in a low voice to comfort him. The sky had gradually cleared and the moon had risen, bathing the trees in a cold silver glow. The temperature had sharpened and the dry leaves on the ground rustled as they blew along.

 

Had the orcs seen fit to return Legolas’ cloak he would have put it to good use, but as it was he easily ignored the bite of the wind and watched the creatures around their campfire. He noted their exact number, which had dwindled since his capture… sixteen, and worked to commit to memory any details about them that might be useful. It was apparent that a good number of them liked to get drunk, and three had been injured by him in the fight and were nursing wounds. He hoped to take advantage of that, but how such an opportunity would come to him he did not know. His captors were taking no chances with him. His restraints were so severe he could not move at all. The chains wrapped around his neck made swallowing difficult and he could scarcely turn his head, while those confining his arms strained them so much around the base of the tree he wondered that the tendons did not tear. He twisted his wrists, trying to work some slack into the shackles, but gave up when his hands grew wet with sweat and blood. It hurt, and he concentrated on his breath, willing himself to relax. He felt dangerously close to panicking at being unable to move, and he closed his eyes after a time, pulling into himself as the pain in his shoulder pounded and his pulse began to echo in his temples. He felt sick.

 

“Legolas,” he heard Merry whisper sharply, and he opened his eyes to find Kurzik standing over him. The elf blinked in surprise. He had not heard the approach of the huge creature, so occupied he had been in fighting his pain and increasing desperation. Pippin rolled over and sat up quickly, pushing himself back. The orc looked down at the elf.

 

“Pain? I have something to help you with that,” the creature said. Legolas saw that the orc held a small glass vial in his hand. “A sleeping potion, compliments of Lord Saruman. He made it especially for any elf we might take captive, and you meet the requirements.”

 

“That will not be necessary,” Legolas’ responded in his iciest tone.

 

“I must insist. He requires you to drink it every night. I have my orders.”

 

Legolas stared at the orc. “Some foul brew of the wizard’s? I will pass.”

 

“You’ll change your mind soon enough.” The creature drew his booted foot back and kicked Pippin, sending the hobbit crashing against a large tree. Kurzik followed him. Gathering up a handful of the unruly brown curls, he shook the small being until his teeth rattled.

 

“Stop!” Legolas shouted, straining against his bonds. “Let him be. I will do what you ask.”

 

Pippin dropped to the ground with a whimper as the orc released him and turned back to Legolas, a look of triumph on his face. “Your little friends are not entirely useless. They give me more than enough power over you.”

 

The elf’s heart pounded as the stopper was removed from the vial and the glass neck was shoved between his teeth. The taste of the brown liquid was foul and he gagged as the orc grasped his jaw, forcing him to swallow. It burned on the way down and his stomach lurched. Legolas bit back a groan and he breathed deeply in an effort to control the sudden nausea that gripped his belly.

 

“Pleasant dreams,” his captor said mockingly as he left them. In a moment the sickness passed and Legolas opened his eyes to find the hobbits watching him worriedly. He tried to speak and coughed harshly, his throat constricting.

 

“Are you all right, Pippin?” he gasped after a moment.

 

The hobbit’s face was pale and he nodded shakily. “I’m not hurt. Scared me, though. Legolas, I’m sorry. What was that he gave you?”

 

“It is a sleeping draught,” Legolas replied, already feeling slow, hot waves of exhaustion rolling over his body. His extremities tingled weirdly. “Not quite right for an elf, I think. I wonder why they want to drug me. Unless things change dramatically it is unlikely I can cause much trouble,” he added, pulling against his chains.

 

“They have it in for you, Legolas,” Merry said. “No mistake about that. They don’t need to be this abusive. It’s as if they fear you.”

 

Legolas laughed, a harsh sound with no mirth in it. “No need for that at present,” he commented. He looked at the orcs again, gathered around their fire. Kurzik and a few of the others sat apart from the ones who were drunk, and these staggered about and shouted, even quarreling amongst themselves. The elf watched them with revulsion.

 

“Potion or no, none of us will get any sleep with that racket,” Merry said, trying to make himself comfortable on the hard ground. “They appear to have poor heads for wine. What disgusting animals.”

 

Legolas raised his eyes toward the heavens, seeking some form of solace as he gazed at the winking lights far above him. What becomes of the Fellowship now? Who will protect Aragorn and Frodo? His hands knotted in frustration as he pulled against the unyielding restraints. Ai, this was not part of the plan!

 

The stars were bright this night and for a time he drank in the sight of them until he realized his vision had blurred. The potion had left him feeling drained and heavy, drugged in a sticky way that was not altogether unpleasant, and the pain in his shoulder seemed somewhat subdued. He had been uneasy about giving in to the drug and had fought against it for a while, struggling to keep his mind occupied and his eyes moving over the stars until he realized he no longer could. Needing to find whatever ease was possible for him, he stopped resisting the pull of the wizard's draught. Rousing himself with an effort, he spoke once more with his companions.

 

“Merry, Pippin, did you know that elves sleep with their eyes open?”

 

“No, I don’t think anyone has told us that little fact,” Merry’s voice sounded amused.

 

“We do. I did not want you to be alarmed.”

 

“Thank you for telling us, Legolas. I think otherwise it would have given us a bit of a turn. You’re going to sleep, then?”

 

“It seems I have no choice,” the elf murmured, and his head rolled slightly, his hair falling across his face.

 

He dozed for a time, but gradually he became aware of the pulsing in his shoulder once again growing stronger. He tried to move, but it was impossible. His arms ached, the skin of his wrists burned and stung. Exhaling sharply as he struggled with his pain, he pushed the back of his head against the tree. Blue eyes wide open, he sought to find something tangible to focus on, but he could find nothing clear to direct his mind toward. Instead, an image began blossoming without his command or understanding, and his perceptions became even more distorted. He recoiled, knowing the picture was not real, but it was all he could see. Someone standing above him, garbed in a shimmering robe of white and silver. A voice, low and authoritative. Gandalf? Flickering lights threw shadows, writhing, over his eyes, and confused scenes blurred together… orcs, elves, fire. Then, clearly, he saw his cousin, bleeding and in pain, struggling desperately against his captors. Eldreth, captain of Mirkwood’s border guards, fell to his knees and vanished. A great orc reached down and Eldreth gave a cry that was suddenly choked off. Legolas shouted, casting about frantically for some way to help, and the robed figure turned to him, paralyzing him with hard black eyes that glittered like obsidian.

 

“Saruman!” Legolas tore himself out of the dream with a gasp. Shaking and dizzy, his body trembling with pain, it was some minutes before he could focus his eyes and look around him. All was dark and quiet. It was several hours before dawn. The orcs slept, although he knew several stood guard in the shadows beyond their campsite. Moving his eyes to look toward his companions, he saw Merry watching him. The hobbit sat up.

 

“Are you all right, Legolas?” he asked in a low voice.

 

“A nightmare. Nothing more,” the bewildered elf responded. He fixed his eyes once more on the night sky. Merry sat, watching him, but Legolas said no more, and eventually the hobbit settled himself and slept again.

 

 

 

As the first rosy streaks of dawn began to lighten the sky the orcs made ready to depart. Apples and bread were tossed to the hobbits, again with the warning not to feed their companion. Quietly they ate, but Legolas watched them slip some of the food into their breast pockets and nod to him, obviously intending to try to get it to him somehow. He smiled, grateful for their concern.

 

The elf had not slept again. Deeply disturbed by his dream, he struggled the remainder of the night against the drug’s attempts to pull him into its embrace once more. His shoulder wound had pounded like hoof beats and it seemed as though someone had whispered dark words to him from inside his own head during the final hours before dawn. Frightened, he had kept his eyes riveted on Earendil’s bright glow as he sang softly to himself in Elvish. At first light the voice had ceased and the pain ebbed to a dull ache. The drug had worn away for the most part, but for a headache, and he felt drained and weary, but was able to think clearly again.

 

“Legolas, what happened to you last night?” Merry asked. “Did that drink make you sick?”

 

“I had a nightmare,” the elf said slowly. “Or a hallucination. It is over now. I am all right.”

   

Merry eyed him doubtfully, but he had no time to ask further questions. Legolas glanced up as their captors approached them. He was released from the tree and he rose somewhat unsteadily, standing quietly as his arms were chained behind his back again. He dared do nothing else, as an orc had placed a sharp blade against Pippin's throat as his restraints were arranged, making it clear with a triumphant smirk that any movement on his part would result in death for the hobbit. Without a word the Uruk-hai warrior dragged Legolas forward and his small companions fell in behind him, following silently as the march to Isengard continued.

 

* * * *

 

At dawn, Aragorn knelt beside a small stream, splashing water over his face. The chase had been hard and the pursuers had paused only briefly to rest before pressing on again. It had been slow going with the horses through the heavily wooded forest but they had made better time once they had reached the open meadows.

 

The previous day they had come upon the spot where the orcs had camped the night before. The remnants of their fire was cold, the site littered with debris. Pacing back and forth and scanning the area, the ranger found the spot where the captives had lain. Calling to Elladan and Boromir, he had pointed out the markings on the ground near a large oak tree.

 

“The imprints of their bodies,” he said, gesturing, and suddenly frowned as he leaned closer. “What is this?” He poked his finger into several large holes driven into the earth.

 

Elladan had been crouched behind the tree, running his fingers thoughtfully over deep gouges in the bark. He looked up at the two men, concern tightening his features. “Legolas was bound with chains and held against this tree. He struggled… see how the bark is torn. His legs were staked down. That is what those holes are.” The dark-haired elf sighed, touching the scattered red bloodstains on the bark of the tree and on the ground behind it. “I had held out hope that he might find a way to break free and escape with the hobbits, but that fades now. We must catch up with them. They cannot help themselves.”

 

Now Aragorn inhaled deeply, his eyes resting on the landscape before him. The brutal treatment that Legolas was obviously enduring tormented him, and he had slept badly. “Hang on my friend. We are coming,” he breathed silently. As he filled his water flask he heard Boromir calling his name. Turning, he saw the nobleman gesturing to him, a look of dismay on his face.

 

“Aragorn, the horses are lame,” he said in a low voice.

 

The ranger stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then jumped to his feet and raced to the grove of aspens where the horses were tethered. He found the Rivendell elf crouched beside the animals, holding a hoof in his hands. Elladan looked up as Aragorn stepped beside him.

 

“All three of them, Estel,” he said, unable to conceal his anxiety. “They have been deliberately lamed. Here… see the wound in the frog.”

 

Aragorn went to his own horse, who stood with one leg eased off the ground, and examined it. A small, deep puncture was clearly visible in the fleshy part of the hoof. Boromir’s steed was injured in the same way. Elladan rose, a look of anger and confusion on his face.

 

“I stood watch most of the night, as I felt little need for sleep. No one drew near, I am certain of it, and the horses made no sound. There was nothing. Nothing!”

 

“Our enemies conspire against us,” Aragorn muttered. “We have obviously been followed, and they bided their time until they saw an opportunity to strike a blow.”

 

 Boromir looked at him uneasily. “But how is it anyone could come here during the night and slip past Elladan?” he asked.

 

“Sorcery. Either Sauron or Saruman watches us.” The ranger’s face was grim. “And that does not bode well for those we seek to rescue.”

 

Elladan had begun removing the packs from the horses. His voice was low and furious. “I will write Ada a message and tell him what has happened. My horse can carry it back to Imladris. It will take time, but the animals will find their way home. We will divide up the supplies to carry. And I think we should… ” he paused suddenly, turning to his two companions. “We do mean to go on, do we not?” he asked sharply.

 

Aragorn and Boromir glanced at each other, and after a moment the nobleman nodded. “I have concerns about continuing the pursuit on foot,” he said, meeting the elf’s gaze. “It may be impossible to catch up with them now, but I could not live with myself if we abandoned the captives. There is no one else who can help them.” He drew a deep breath and blew it out. “It sickens me to think of Merry and Pippin in the hands of the orcs. And Prince Legolas… he extended friendship to me when I was badly in need of it. I will not turn my back on them now.”

 

Elladan riveted his grey eyes on Aragorn. “We go on,” the ranger said firmly. He looked closely at his elven brother. “Elladan, this is not your fault.”

 

The dark-haired elf shook his head angrily. “I was deceived during the night and because of it we have lost the horses. It enrages me. We can ill afford their loss.” He dropped his voice, and Aragorn could see the line of tension along the elf’s jaw. “I know what they are doing to him, Estel. It's tearing me apart.”

 

Aragorn nodded quietly. Boromir, startled, looked at the tall elf. “What do you speak of?” he asked, but Elladan had turned away, busying himself with the horses. Bewildered, the nobleman glanced at Aragorn. The ranger sighed and rested his hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

 

“Causing pain and suffering is the chief pleasure of orcs, and they hate the elves more than anything else in this world. Elladan’s mother was held captive by them long ago. Her sons rescued her, but she was unable to fully recover from the abuse she suffered at their hands. She went west and dwells now in Valinor, the final refuge of the elves.” He broke off, glancing at Elladan’s stony face. The elf was treating the horses’ injured hooves with ointment from his medicinal pack.

 

“And Legolas?” Boromir pushed, his dark eyes clouded.

 

“Legolas is enduring harsh treatment, perhaps even torture. They will unleash all their twisted hatred on him.” Aragorn shouldered his pack as Boromir looked at him silently.

 

Elladan had affixed his message to his horse’s halter and untied the animals from the line. He whispered urgently in his roan’s ear, and it turned and began slowly limping along the route they had traveled, the other two following. The elf stood still, watching them until they vanished from view, then he looked at the men. Without a word, the three broke into a jog, hurrying along the trampled path left by the orcs.

 

* * * *

           

Another day of forced marching had taken its toll on the weary captives. Night had fallen once more and the orcs had pushed them for several hours in the dark before finally stopping to make camp. Legolas was again chained to a tree as he had been the previous night, and this time he had been unable to entirely disguise his quick flash of fear as Kurzik had forced the drink down his throat. Now the three companions sat silently together, too tired to say much. After a time Legolas turned to the hobbits.

 

“Merry, Pippin, tell me a story,” he said. His companions looked at him curiously. He knew his request was an odd one, and he knew also that the hobbits had been witness to his increasing distress. He had stumbled several times this day, and they had tried to stay closer to him as they were forced along. He smiled at them. “I do not desire sleep. Come, Pippin. I’ll warrant the Shire folk have many tales to keep the night at bay.”

 

“Aye, we do at that,” the young hobbit nodded his tousled head. “Many to bring back happy memories, right Merry? Well, Legolas, did you know that Gandalf is a master of fireworks? They’re magnificent. At Bilbo’s birthday party, Merry and I stole one of them…”

 

Legolas rested his head against the tree and closed his eyes as he listened. Pippin was an amusing storyteller and the elf needed the distraction as his shoulder throbbed and the potion strove to mire him in dark dreams again. For a while he was able to follow the hobbit’s funny stories, but after a time another voice quietly and relentlessly entered his consciousness, vying for his attention. He knitted his brow, trying to force the vile whispers back and remain focused on Pippin’s voice. Suddenly a white-hot arc of pain tore through his shoulder, as if in punishment for his resistance, and he gasped. He pressed his body against the tree, vainly seeking escape. Then the discomfort gradually ebbed and he felt a hand on his arm.

 

“Legolas?” Merry’s voice urged. “What is it?”

 

The elf drew a long shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Both hobbits were staring at him.  “My shoulder. Give me a moment.” He inhaled deeply again and concentrated on relaxing the tension in his body. He tried to reassure Merry and Pippin. “I think the wound is not healing as it should, and it hurts sometimes. Please do not worry. Elves heal well, and it will right itself in time. But now it is late. Try to get some sleep.”

 

His companions looked at him closely, but as he said no more they obeyed. Curling up on the ground and drawing their cloaks around them, they cast their minds back to happy memories of the Shire, leaving the elf alone.

 

* * * *   

 

Merry woke with a start. For some time a voice had been singing softly within his dreams, a lovely voice that had sent him floating easily into a place that was warm and bright and tranquil. He drifted in the beauty of the song, though he did not understand the words, happy to let it bear him away from the earlier part of the night, which had been filled with ugly images and pain. The sweet melody was soothing, a light balm that coated the fear and laid a gauzy curtain between him and the waking world, but suddenly it was cut off and a different sound came to his ears that worried him.

 

Turning his head, the hobbit ran his hands over his face and sat up, peering around uneasily. Pippin breathed evenly. The glow of the moon easily let Merry see his cousin's small face, peaceful in sleep. He looked then at Legolas and froze. The elf’s face was taut, a look of agony distorting his fair features. His breath came in short gasps and his body trembled. Alarmed, Merry scrambled to him as quickly as he could and grabbed his arm.

 

“Legolas, what’s wrong? Legolas!” Merry shook his companion roughly, and the bright elven eyes snapped open, wide and frightened, reflecting the eerie glow of the moon. Merry could see blood dripping from the elf’s wrists and from his neck where the chains tore into his skin as he struggled.

 

“They die.” Legolas’ usually fluid voice was ragged. “Oh, they die. In the fires… I hear their screams.” He gasped, twisting violently in his bonds.

 

Merry clung fiercely to the elf’s arm. “What are you talking about? Legolas, stop it. You’re hurting yourself.” He glanced around as Pippin appeared next to him. The younger hobbit gaped at the elf.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” he gasped.

 

“Another nightmare. He had one last night, but this is far worse.”

 

A shadow fell over them and the hobbits looked up in alarm at the orc leader who had come to stand before them. The creature stared at Legolas for a minute and then crouched in front of him, grasping the elf’s face in his hand and looking at him intently. The blue eyes, wide with shock and pain, locked onto the yellow ones and narrowed. “Take your filthy paws off me,” Legolas ground out between clenched teeth. A second later he moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Kurzik stood again as Merry stared at him, nodding in satisfaction.

 

“Things go as planned,” their captor said.

 

“What do you mean? Why does the wizard do this to him?” Pippin cried, but the orc turned away and left them without responding. Legolas shuddered violently as Merry tried to draw his attention.

 

“Legolas, talk to us,” Merry begged. “What is happening to you?”

 

“I do not know," the elf gasped. "The drug forces me into dreams… visions of the wizard’s making. His voice murmurs inside my head during the night, speaking of foul things, and when I try to resist my shoulder hurts more.”

 

“How can we help you?” Pippin asked.

 

The elf shook his head, but he did not open his eyes. “I do not want you both losing sleep because of me. My need for it is not as great as yours. You can best help me by taking care of yourselves. Move away from me and rest again.”

 

“And leave you on your own to endure what the night brings?” Merry demanded. “No, Legolas, that we cannot do.”

 

“They will push us hard again come daylight. You need sleep,” Legolas said.

 

“And you need help,” Merry retorted sharply. “Stop being so stoic and accept it. And stop being so protective of us. We’ll do what needs to be done to see all three of us through this. Tell us what we can do.”

 

Legolas smiled slightly as he brought his eyes around to meet Merry's. “I can see there is no point in arguing with you, Master Meriadoc. Very well, but in all honesty I do not know what you can do.”

 

“Then we will sit and talk with you. I know we can’t stop what the wizard is doing, but maybe we can help to keep you calmer. You’re fighting the chains and tearing yourself up.”

 

“I had not noticed,” the elf murmured. He flinched slightly and moaned again, as if a sudden pain had come to him.

 

“Legolas? Come on, we’re right here,” Merry pleaded. “Don’t shut us out. What can we do?”

 

The elf’s voice was a mere whisper. “Sing with me. The wizard’s voice hurts my head. I need to hear the language of my people.”

 

“Teach us,” Pippin said.

 

Legolas began singing quietly, a simple song in Elvish, and the hobbits quickly picked up both words and melody. They kept their voices low, trying not to draw the attention of the orcs. Three songs the elf taught them before his face went white and his voice failed him. He braced against the tree, breathing heavily, his forehead knotted in pain. Pippin looked at Merry in alarm, but Merry kept his eyes locked on the elf’s face and he held his arm firmly.

 

“We can sing for you, Legolas. Come on, Pip.”

 

The quiet voices of the hobbits, singing songs in a language new to them, went on until dawn. Then the nightmares finally faded and the three captives slept, exhausted, until the orcs came for them.

 

* * * *

 

The landscape had begun to change as the orcs and their prisoners continued the march south. The large areas of forest gave way to rolling plains, dotted sparsely with smaller groups of trees and low brush. Rocky outcroppings sprang up and small hawks wheeled overhead, their shrill cries echoing in the skies. Legolas watched them with longing, envying their freedom. He knew his energy was failing as his shoulder wound increasingly hurt him and the lack of food and sleep began to take their toll. He felt the first light touch of fever caress his body.

 

Late in the day the orcs grew eager to press on more quickly and move to an area where they were not so exposed. Far ahead lay another expanse of trees and the party started toward it, the orcs forcing the captives forward at a run. Legolas was able to keep up, but he quickly realized the hobbits were having difficulty. He could see the fatigue on their pale faces and feared they had reached the end of their strength. Several times they faltered and were roughly prodded along or shoved with whip handles. Concerned, the elf tried to slow his own steps and close the distance between them, but Kurzik