Chapter 1

 

 

In the beginning, white was the most pure of colours.

Until it was corrupted.

 

Saruman covered the shiny palantir stone with a black cloth. He had seen enough.

In times before time, he had been sent to Arda to protect it, to preserve its pure song. A song that forever had been menaced, first by Morgoth, later by Sauron.

A ring had been created then, a thing of power and malice, used by its master for the darkest purposes.

A ring that had become lost and was now found. A ring that Saruman, the White Wizard, wanted for himself.

Forgotten of the task that the Valar had placed upon him, Saruman had now forged a different path for himself, and in that new path, the One ring was his to use and Middle-Earth his to rule.

It would be in his hands soon.

The vile creatures working at his command, creatures of his own creation, had been successful in capturing the halflings, but had failed to put an end to the accursed Fellowship.

Three more remained and were in pursuit of his Uruk-hai.

The man, the dwarf and the elf were his to take care of now and he would not fail. The last threads of the Fellowship would soon fall.

 

~´´~

 

For days they had travelled through the lands of Middle-Earth, hot in pursuit of the band of Uruk-hai that had taken the hobbits Pippin and Merry. They followed, always near enough to feel the earth still hot and angered by the fell beasts passing, but still too far to rescue them.

And now they happen upon this… massacre!

Everywhere they looked, charred carcasses of dead Uruk-hai littered the forest ground. The smell of burned flesh was so strong in the air that it troubled their stomachs.

The sense of failure when they realized that these were in fact the same Uruk-hai band they hunted, was enough to bring tears to the eyes of the proud warriors, for no life could be seen about.

And in despair they fell, until Aragorn found the tiny hobbit tracks… straight in to Fangorn forest.

 

~’’~

 

Gimli gave a sideway glance towards his travel companion. When he was sure that Legolas’ attention was elsewhere, he stretched his tired legs and allowed a pained sigh to escape his mouth. It would not do for the elf to realize just how much their endless hunt had taxed him, for Gimli had his dwarf’s pride, as well as his dwarfish legs, which meant that it took two steps of his to match the long strides of his companions.

‘Curse their long shanks!’ Gimli thought, not for the first, and most certainly not for the last time.

 

Legolas smiled to himself ‘Trust a dwarf to be so blind that he can not see the boundaries of his own body’, he thought, no longer with the bias view he once held against the dwarven kind, but with a new found respect and even curiosity towards a race that, as he had come to realize, he knew little about.

 

This was the first time they made a stop to rest since the foil day when the Fellowship had been broken.

They were all tired and, as Legolas knew, Aragorn and Gimli could not keep this for much longer. Even Men with Estel’s bloodline, and Dwarfs as sturdy as Gimli, could not go forever at the pace they had maintained, for as long as they had run, with out suffering the consequences. He was elven kind and even so could feel the heaviness in his muscles.

 

Even tired as they all were, Aragorn had insisted on scouting the area around them, needing to assure himself that nothing nor none would crawl upon their backs.

Legolas could feel the tension building up amongst the trees behind them. Fangorn forest, it was called, and the trees in there were older than him… much older. Many memories were stored in those trees, old grievances not yet forgotten.

Still his elven senses told Legolas that they were in no immediate danger and, although he had shared these thoughts with the ranger, he also knew that the only way Aragorn would find some rest this night was for him to check that on his own.

 

It was not a case of the ranger not trusting the elf’s instincts, Legolas knew that much, as much as he also knew that Aragorn needed this time alone to put his thoughts in order, to grasp the concept of being in charge, something that was not lightly taken by the king to be.

 

As for Legolas, although his body was beginning to grow weary, his mind would not allow him to stay idle. Thoughts of Merry and Pippin facing such peril and evilness left him with a bitter feeling of wasted time as they sat there. So, the elf had taken upon himself to mend the arrows that had become damaged during their fight in Amon Hen.

Lost in the gestures so many times performed, Legolas could leave his mind to wonder free, as a finger coiled around a thread of his fair hair and pulled, using the silken string to secure the metal arrow head to the new wooden shaft he’d been working on.

 

Gimli had been watching him do this for a while.

“Crazy elf… do you despair so that you have taken to tare the hair out of your head?” he asked, interrupting the silence that had hung heavily between them.

 

“Aye,” Legolas answered with a smile, “ although I should be tearing out yours, as you have so much more to spare.”

 

Gimli grunted, even if inside he was glad that the elf had taken up the bait. The forest near them was pressing his senses, making the fine hair of his neck strand on attention, something he did not like. The silence wasn’t helping either.

 

A sarcastic smile was on his lips when he replied.

“Not my fault elves have less hair on their bodies than most women.”

 

“If you mean dwarven women,” Legolas paused for effect, waiting to see the anger rise in Gimli’s face “ then I most certainly have to agree with you.”

 

The crystal laugh that followed was drowned by the dwarfish curses and grunts. Gimli’s fingers tightened around the handle of his axe, ready to finish this verbal sparring with a more physical one.

 

“Peace, Gimli,” Aragorn’s voice sounded from the darkness around the forest, his cloaked figure soon joining them by the bright fire, “Legolas only jests.”

 

“Nay, I was merely stating a well known fact.” Legolas added in an innocent voice, dangerously testing the limits of dwarven patience.

 

Aragorn looked from one to the other and gave up. It seemed impossible to him that two such different beings could ever coexist without killing each other, much less call themselves friends. Even so, friends they called one another, but a friendship that, as they often forgot, was still too fresh and tender to be tested like this.

“You two have such stony heads that I shall resort to banging them together next time we need to get a fire going” the man mumbled between his teeth.

 

This alone was enough to get the attention of those two. The angry glares that had been going in the elf’s direction were fast redirected towards the seated ranger, and the grin on Legolas face soon was replace by a frown, the new enemy chosen and the elven-dwarven alliance instantly made.

 

Gimli opened his mouth to, most certainly, share his own opinions about Men’s big, thick heads, but was cut short by the elf’s sudden stillness and alertness.

 

Aragorn had sensed it too.

“What do you see?” he asked his companion in the grey tongue.

 

“Someone draws near.” Legolas whispered, his head turning towards the forest’s edge, an arrow already poised on his long bow.

 

Aragorn and Gimli followed his gaze, squinting in to the enfolding darkness, hopping to catch a glimpse of whatever new threat was approaching.

 

A hooded human form, clothed in dark and moving slowly, with the help of a walking staff was coming near.

 

The fine hair in Gimli’s neck was so stiff now that it scratched his skull. The tension he could feel growing in the air was giving him urges to just grab his axe and throw it at the stranger. Beside him, he could see similar reactions in his companions.

 

Legolas was methodically stroking the feathers of the arrow on his bow, his body ready for battle but his mind open to whatever decision his companions made. What his eyes told him to be merely an old human man, his heart warned to be a danger, telling him to not let his guard down and be ready to strike.

 

Aragorn’s grip on the hilt of his sword was so fierce that his knuckles had turned white. His instincts too were telling him to attack, but his brain kept reasoning that that was wrong, for they had no idea if the person coming towards them was friend or foe.

He decided they needed more information to make that decision.

“Come closer stranger, and warm yourself in our fire.” the ranger offered as soon as the figure was within earshot.

 

An old voice answered him in a tongue that none of the three hunters could understand…

… and the last coherent thought to walk through Aragorn’s fading consciousness, was of the words of warning he had heard upon entering the land of the Rohirrim, ‘The white wizard is cunning… walks disguised as an old man… old man.’

 

~’’~

 

Saruman was pleased with the way things had worked. The tree hunters, as his Uruk-hai referred to them, were an easy enough task for him to over come. At the time, he had for moments entertained the idea of ridding himself of their presence, once and for all. But to stain his own hands with the blood of his enemies would be too messy for his liking. That was something the beasts he had created in the caves of Isengard would do. In his twisted mind, a much more devious idea came to be.

The Istar, back at his tower, grabbed the bag he had taken with him on his visit. From inside he extracted the items stolen from the tree members of the Fellowship and placed them over the table. The man’s armband; the pouch that was hanging from the dwarf’s neck and the arrow that the elf had been repairing.

Arranging them side-by-side, Saruman opened a black, thick, old book, filled with spells as old and black as its cover.

And then the wizard began chanting the ancient words.

 

~’’~

 

Deep inside Caras Galadhon, Galadriel woke from her rest with a start.

 

“What ails you, my Lady?” Celeborn asked by her side, sensing her distress.

 

“Evil is at work,” she whispered, her hand clasping her aching heart “ I can feel it.”

 

Celeborn closed his ancient eyes and hugged his long time companion, feeling her slight tremor. Rarely had he seen the Lady of Light so shaken, “Nenya will protect us.” he offered, referring to the elven ring of power that had been entrusted in his wife’s hands, the ring that had kept their borders safe for many ages.

 

Galadriel pushed herself away from his comforting embrace, her eyes distant and old.

“Yes… but who will protect the others?”

 

~’’~

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

~’’~

 

The cold woke Gimli from his slumber. A distant, not quite yet working, part of his brain registered the fact that dawn was nearing and the nagging feeling that he had fallen asleep during his watch spurred him back in to full consciousness. Looking around, he saw his companions still asleep, which only added to his confusion. He didn’t remember it being his turn to stand watch at all.

 

He remembered his tired bones. He remembered yet another argue with the stubborn elf. He remembered a sudden urge to smack Aragorn. He remembered the old man speaking…

 

“The old man!” Gimli shouted, looking around for the one he could now be sure, had been an enemy. There was no surprise when he realized that the old man was, of course, no longer in sight.

 

The surprise came with the fact that his companions had not been alerted by his shout. Or that the elf was asleep at all.

“Aragorn?” the dwarf called, rising to his feet, “Legolas?”

 

Making his way towards the man, both because he was nearer and seemed to be waking on his own, Gimli helped Aragorn to seat up. The ranger looked as confused as the dwarf had felt minutes before.

 

“Saruman!” Aragorn whispered, barely registering the fact that a concerned dwarven face was half an inch from his.

 

“Are you feeling alright lad?”

 

“The old man,” Aragorn said, finally focusing his grey eyes on the short companion, “it was Saruman!”

 

“Yes, yes, I figured as much.” the dwarf said, for now just content that the man had his bearings back and that no apparent harm had come to him.

“Although, I must ask myself if all that bloody traitor had in mind was to give us a good night’s sleep.” Gimli snorted as he and Aragorn made their way to the still prone elf.

 

Neither wanted to put it in to words, but both hearts were weighed down by the fact that Legolas had failed to show any signs of life yet.

 

“Seems his elven superiority didn’t spare him from the wizard’s spell, did it?”

Gimli was aiming for humor, but the concerned tone in his gruffy voice robbed him of any such effect.

 

Legolas eyes were open, unfocused, as was usual when he rested.

 

It had taken a while for the members of the Fellowship, not used to the ways of the Elves, to come to grips which such a habit, because for all it seemed only logical to shield ones eyes to rest. The fact that elves slept with theirs open seemed to them highly unnatural, not to mention unpractical, as they could not imagine how it was possible to sleep with out the comfort of a black eyelid to cover any disturbing light.

 

But for the Elves, as Legolas had explained to them one night, what was disturbing and unnatural was to cover the light around them, even if it was merely the shimmering, faint light of the stars at night. So, they allowed their eyes to stay open in slumber, only to close them when there was no other choice.

It was only natural.

 

What was not natural was the look of sorrow that came across Legolas’ eyes when he heard Gimli’s voice. Nor the fact that he closed them then.

 

“Legolas?” Aragorn’s inquisitive voice sounded next “What is wrong, my friend?” he asked in elvish.

 

“I am in darkness.”

 

~’’~

 

Saruman’ s howl of rage could be heard in the deepest caves of Isengard.

He could not understand what had gone wrong. His spell was supposed to have affected them all in the same way, yet just the elf had been stricken.

 

The wizard covered once more the palantir stone, anger making his movements brusque. It irked his pride to not have been able to render the three hunters defenceless as he intended, but, alas, he was sure his actions would still be enough to bring the trio to a failure. He had seen the way the Fellowship protected its members, so now, the Istar needed but to wait and see the fall of the man and the dwarf as they tried to protect the elf and failed.

He had other things to occupy his mind now. The demise of all Mankind was to follow… and he would start by Rohan.

 

~’’~

 

Aragorn frowned.

“What do you mean in darkness?” he asked “Legolas… look at me!” he said, grabbing his arm in despair and pushing him to seat, so that they stood face to face.

 

Legolas opened his eyes and looked at his friend.

“There lays the problem, mellonin… I can look at you,” he said unblinking “but I can not see you.”

 

Aragorn’s frown deepened, worry lines marking his face.

 

“What?” Gimli shouted, his annoyed tone trying to mask the growing concern, for he was now sure that something was amiss with the elf.

“What are you two talking? What is wrong with the elf?” he asked “and speak in a language we can all understand!!”

 

Was it not enough that his heart was hammering against his chest in concern for his father’s enemy… now they had resorted to speak in that cursed tongue he knew nothing about?!

“What ails the elf?” he asked again, as it seemed that both his companions had lost the ability to speak.

 

“He is blind.” Aragorn finally answered. The words sounded strange in his mouth.

 

For a split second, he was glad that Legolas could not see the look of pity that crossed the dwarf’s face.

 

As soon as it had come, though, the look was gone from Gimli’ s eyes.

“Nonsense! Come on lad, let’s take you to the stream, wash the sleep off of your eyes and you’ll be bragging again about your superior elven sight in no time!” the dwarf grunted. Grabbing the slacken hands that rested in Legolas’ lap, Gimli tried to get him up.

 

“Nay, master Dwarf… I fear water alone will not be enough to cure me of this illness…” the voice of the elf trembled, melancholy threatening to overwhelm him, “I fear nothing can.” Legolas finished in a whisper so soft that it barely reached the mortal ears.

 

Closing his useless eyes, Legolas leaned against a tree he could feel offering her support and allowed himself to be taken by the forest’s sweet song.

 

~’’~

 

As soon as the old man had approached them and opened his mouth to speak, Legolas had known him to be one of the Istar, but by then it was already too late. Unlike his mortal companions, the spell the wizard had cast over them had not put him to sleep, but had effectively enabled all movement, in a dormancy state akin to a body trapped in ice.

 

Legolas soon wished to be asleep like the others.

 

The elf had never felt so helpless as then. He could see the wizard opening his cloak, revealing his white robes and a silver dagger, as he approached his friends.

Recognizing Saruman, Legolas prayed to the Valar to keep Aragorn and Gimli safe, for he could not.

 

The white wizard bent over the sleeping form of the dwarf, dagger held in his right hand, the moonless night hiding the look upon his face.

Ai! How Legolas wished to have been able to close his eyes then, for he did not wanted to see his friends murdered so. The memory would be too cruel to bear, even as if only for the few minutes that would pass before his own death arrived.

 

Death, however, did not claim the dwarf. Legolas was surprised when he saw Saruman rising, his hands not bloodied by murder, but holding the pouch in which Gimli kept the strings of hair that the Lady of Light had offered him.

 

Next, the wizard approached Aragorn, covering the man’s form from the elf’s view, the knife once more at work.

 

Legolas could feel the iron wrist of dread taking hold of his heart once more. What if Saruman had finally discovered the secret that the Elves had kept so well hidden? What if this was but a plan to murder Isildur’s heir? To rob Men of their lost King?

 

The Istar rose, holding in his hand one of the arm protections that Aragorn had taken as a remembrance of Boromir… and the elf was confused. Why would Saruman want these tokens, so important to his friends but utterly useless for any one else?

 

Legolas could not see what the wizard did when he came near him, for Saruman was shuffling through something at his back and then, as suddenly as he had come, the thief was gone, leaving Legolas staring at the dying fire, his mind trying to figure out what the Istar meant by his actions.

 

‘Gandalf would have known’ the thought came unbidden to him, along with a jolt of pain in his heart. Some memories were still too fresh to be stirred.

 

Time passed slowly as Legolas waited for the stiffness in his limbs to ebb away, finding this condition strangely similar to the effects of the spider’ stings, in his home forest.

Realizing that he was regaining some control over his movements, Legolas shift his body so that he could gaze upon the stars, their light a smoothing balm to his tormented mind.

This night, however, the starlight seemed dimmed of its usual brightness, shimmering in the dark sky until they disappeared all together.

 

At first he thought that some cloud might have moved to cover them. But the sky had been clear this night, and Legolas couldn’t smell rain in the air.

 

With a growing suspicion, the elf looked around him, searching the light of their burning fire, his companions, anything that might prove his suspicions wrong… but the only thing that greeted him was darkness.

A darkness so thick as Legolas had never before experienced in his long life. Not even in the darkest areas of Mirkwood, not even in his father’s caves… not even in Mória...

… for this darkness was more than the total absence of light, it was the absence of sight itself!

 

Legolas’ heart stopped.

 

This was certainly some illusion… for sure a trick his mind was playing. Struggling to raise a shaking hand, Legolas moved it in front of his eyes.

 

Nothing!

There was nothing there, except for the feeling of something passing by! How could this be?

Legolas blinked. With mounting fear, he closed his eyes, send a pray to the Valar and reopened them… only to be faced with the same darkness as before.

“Ai, Elbereth!”

 

The heart that had stopped before was now thundering against his rib cage, threatening to get out, his breath coming in short gasps, cold sweat covering his ashen face.

 

Legolas panicked.

 

Blind! He could not have lost the use of his sight!

In Legolas’ mind, such thing made no sense. Elves did not fell sick, nor did they lose their senses, any of them, in such way, so how had this befallen him?

Then he remembered Saruman’s visit upon their camp… could the wizard be responsible for this?

 

The elf realized that it could be no other.

And Legolas heart sunk deeper. Did this mean that his friends had lost their sight too?

 

He had no way of knowing until they were awake. In his panic, he couldn’t even tell where they were.

The elf was lost in a world of blackness and, with his sight, all of his other senses seemed to have abandon him as well.

 

He could smell nothing but his fear.

Taste its vile flavour in his mouth.

Hear the thundering of his heart hammering against his ears.

Even the earth where he lay seemed harder, unwelcoming.

 

His existence had been reduced to darkness, and Legolas could feel his inner light, the light of the First Born, being torn from him. Amidst the despair that was threatening to engulf his soul, a memory came to him.

Light was back in to his eyes, colours painted his world again. He was still an elfling.

 

His elder brothers had teased him in to playing a new game, challenging Legolas to find their hiding place with a blindfold upon his eyes. They knew about young Legolas’ fear of the dark, they were expecting him to say no, but the elfling was too stubborn and proud for that.

 

The older elves guided him in to a part of the forest that he did not know, a part their father had forbidden them all to go. They placed the blindfold upon his eyes and left to hide.

Legolas was bravely fighting his fear of the dark, ignoring the lack of his sight and trying to use his other senses to track his older brothers, reminding himself that outside this dark, the world was still bright with light and safe, patiently waiting for his return.

 

But then the spiders came.

 

When his brothers returned, wondering why it was taking Legolas so long to start his search, their sibling was already unconscious, bitten by the spiders’ poison, and being carried away by the vile beasts.

Legolas’ brothers were able to rescue him, for the spiders’ party was small and the elder elves were lucky. With their father, however, their luck had not hold much ground.

The thought of loosing his last born had spurred such wrath from King Thranduil that he had banished Legolas’ brothers to the border patrols with instructions to not return until his anger had subsided.

And that did not happen for a long time.

 

Legolas remembered how a light used to be left to shine, at night, in his room for many years to come after that adventure.

Eventually the wood-elf outgrew his childhood fears, but his uneasiness in dark places had never entirely vanished.

And now darkness was all he had.

 

~’’~

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

 

~’’~

 

Aragorn was pacing the length of their camp for the nth time and still no alternatives presented themselves to him. He had heard Legolas’ tale of what had transpired while man and dwarf slept, and Saruman’s actions had him baffled. Why? With what purpose? To blind an elf?! Why not him or Gimli?

The ranger had searched Legolas’ eyes for any sort of illness, but nothing could be found amiss with the blue orbs. Something other than a physical problem was preventing the elf from seeing.

 

The healer side of Arathorn’s son was confused by such situation, for never before had he heard of any elf suffering from such an illness. Or any other illness, for that matter.

So, Aragorn found himself forced to agree with Legolas. Saruman was to blame for this, and he and Gimli could only thank the Valar for having been spared.

 

~’’~

 

Gimli too found himself haunted by answerless questions, prime of which was how could the elf remain so quiet and calm?!

The dwarf had almost raced straight to Isengard all by himself when he had learned what had happened to the gift the Lady had presented him with. Not even all the curses in the Dwarfish tongue were enough to quail Gimli’s anger then.

By the end of the elf’s tale, Gimli’s anger had only increased, and the fact that Legolas, the one of them mostly affected, still remained so calm, only added to that feeling.

 

Until the elf had started to sing.

 

Although Gimli could not understand the words being spoken, the melody carried such sadness and longing that it broke the dwarf’s heart.

For then he understood the odd behaviour. Legolas had given up!

‘Well, you might have, elf, but yer friends haven’t!’ he thought. In his heart, the silent promise that he would do everything within his power to get the elf back to normal was made. And a dwarf always took his promises very serious!

 

Gimli sighed.

How he wished that things were not so complicated, how he longed for days when the major concern of his existence was finding a perfect gem, to craft such weapons that his kindred would be proud of. His life had been good then, working by day, under torchlight, and at night, enjoying good ale while listening to his father’s tales of past adventures, stories of riches and glory beyond imagination, of thousand perils to overcome and of fiery trials to prove one’s bravery. Then, he had often wished to have been there when Smaug, the dragon, was defeated, to have taken part in the great battle of the Five Armies.

Now, he just wished that he had a pitch of ale in his hand and a warm fire at his back.

 

Adventures he had searched, but never had it crossed his mind that such inglorious task would land upon his shoulders. Nine companions (‘seven’ Gimli sadly corrected himself), alone, against a power so dark and evil that few were the ones brave enough to call it by its name.

 

So few against so many… to bear hope with such odds was an act of courage in itself!

 

~’’~

 

“We must move on.” Aragorn said, looking up at the sun, which had by now reached its highest point.

 

Gimli looked at him, startled from his thoughts.

 

“We solve nothing by seating here... Pippin and Merry need our help still.” the ranger explained, more to convince himself than anyone else.

The decision sat heavily on the Dunedan’s heart. Truly, they could do nothing for the halflings or Legolas there, at the edge of Fangorn, but, could they at all?

Aragorn felt overwhelmed by the responsibility, by the feeling that his hands were tied and his fate was no longer his to decide.

If only Gandalf was still alive… Oh! How he wished for his advice now!

 

Aragorn knew little about spells and ways to counter them. Galadriel, the Lady of Light, could have been of some help, but he could not go back to Lothlorien now, nor could he leave Legolas to go on his own.

Not like this.

It would be too dangerous.

But, then again, the path ahead of them was a dangerous one too… how could he guarantee the safety of his friend either way?

 

Amongst his choices, Aragorn had none that appeased his heart.

“We leave now. Their tracks lead in to Fangorn forest and we must take advantage of what ever light we have left.”

With a new found resolution, he started to gather what few belongings they had taken with them, pleased to see Gimli doing the same.

 

“I will remain.” Legolas spoke softly.

 

Both man and dwarf stopped, stunned.

“Wha… you will do no such thing!” Aragorn reacted first, the shock still evident in his tone. The idea was so preposterous that it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

 

Gimli could only nod.

 

Legolas rose to his feet and turned to where he guessed Aragorn to be.

“And what would you have me doing, ranger?” his voice raised slightly, while his left hand sought the support of the nearby tree, “look at me Aragorn… really ‘look’ at me.” the elf pleaded the empty air. “What use is to you a blind archer?” Legolas said, giving free rein to his anger.

 

Taking a few venturous steps away from the protecting tree, Legolas tripped on a treacherous root and fell to his knees, his head bent forward, golden hair hiding his face.

When he looked up, his eyes were filled with tears.

“Of what use am I now?” Legolas sobbed.

 

Aragorn was kneeling by his friend’s side the next second.

“Ai! Legolas… you break my heart speaking thus,” he whispered, taking his sobbing friend and embracing him as if a small child he were. “we can not even begin to fathom the ordeal you are facing, mellonin,” the ranger said, fighting his own tears, “but I can assure you Legolas… your friends will stand by your side!”

 

Legolas sighed against the man’s shoulder.

“I can not ask that of you! You and Gimli have a task to finish and I can not place myself in a way that will hinder the success of that!”

 

Gimli, whom had stepped aside to allow a bit of privacy between the two older date friends, couldn’t hold his mouth any longer.

“Never before have I heard so much foolishness sprout from one mouth alone!” he exploded, making his way towards the kneeling elf and man. “On yer feet lads… enough of this defeated speech!” Gimli said, his small stature effectively bringing the taller beings to stand, “We will not allow Saruman to defeat us so easily… where is your stubbornness now, elf?”

 

Legolas knew not how to answer him, so he said nothing.

 

That didn’t stop the dwarf.

“You act as though the wizard’s spell as rendered you daft instead of sightless!”

 

Legolas stiffened at those words.

“It is you who must be daft, dwarf! Can you not see the consequences of the wizard’s actions? He has rendered me useless!” the elf cried to the darkness from where Gimli’s voice came.

 

The dwarf fumed. Daft indeed.

“Nay, Master Elf… the wizard hasn’t made you useless, yer doing it to yourself! Have you not other senses, far better than our mortal ones? Do you deem them so that you think they can not aid you when your sight fails you?” Gimli said in a deadly quiet voice. “I knew you were a fool, Master Elf… I had not thought you were a coward as well!”

 

The strike came so fast that the dwarf only realized that the elf had hit him when he felt the ground beneath his breeches.

 

Aragorn grabbed Legolas, stopping the elf from further expanding his wrath upon the fallen dwarf.

The ranger had tried to stop Gimli’s angry words, for he knew of Legolas’ temper, but the dwarf had silenced him with a look. Gimli seemed to think that Legolas needed to hear this, but Aragorn had his doubts.

 

On the grass-covered ground, a smile spread across Gimli’s beard.

“Seems you can still find your foes in the dark, Master Elf.” he said in a provocative voice.

 

‘Why, the little devil…’ Aragorn thought as he felt the elf stop his struggles against his hold.

 

He let him go.

 

With out the support of Aragorn’ s hands Legolas felt isolated. Cold.

“This proves nothing, dwarf.” he said bitterly.

 

Gimli rose from where he sat.

“Aye… maybe, or maybe you just need to learn to let your friends give their support to you, elf.”, the dwarf said, surprising himself by so lightly labelling himself as elf-friend. “Trust us to not let you fall and we will find a solution for this problem, together… or my name isn’t Gimli, son of Gloin!” he said, grabbing the elf’s arm in a firm grasp.

 

The contact felt both alien and comforting to Legolas.

Their intentions were good, but still he felt at a cross of roads. How could he make them understand that a part of him was missing? How to explain that it felt like a blade running through his heart to realize that he had lost his independence? How heavily it weighed upon him to have no option but to depend on others?

 

For hundreds of years the elf had always been very strong about his decisions. He had to, being the son of the King, often responsible for other warriors in the kingdom. He was, above all, a warrior, and in battle he knew that there could be no doubts clouding one’s judgement, no fear of making the wrong choice. But back then, he believed the worst that could happen was an enemy’s hand finding its target and rushing his departure to the Halls of Mandos.

He had learned different now.

 

The very things that made Legolas who he was had been ripped away from him, with little hope of ever being return. His warrior’s skills, his archery…

How could he let an arrow fly if he knew not where his target lay?

With a piece of his soul missing, Legolas knew that he would simply fade away. He had hoped to do so far from the sight of his friends, but he now realized that they would not allow him that.

“Can someone bring me my bow?” Legolas asked, breaking the silence.

 

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged a look of confusion. The ranger picked the weapon from where it laid and pressed it in to his friend’s waiting hands.

 

Legolas felt the familiar weight and sighed. The gift of the Lady.

Beneath his fingers, he could feel the fine detailed embroideries that covered the exquisite bow. In his heart, he was saying his goodbyes.

In a swift movement, honed to perfection over centuries of repetition, the bow was unstrung. Without the pull of the long string, the deadly weapon straightened and effectively was turned in to a walking staff.

“Let us be off then.” Legolas said to his companions, whom, he knew, were silently awaiting his decision.

 

The tension in the air melted away in relief sighs from man and dwarf. Neither had any idea of what to do if Legolas had not changed his mind

 

Trying to be not too obvious as to hurt the elf’s pride, Aragorn and Gimli guided him in the forest, their steps suspiciously heavier on the ground and their mouths more talkative than usual, so that Legolas could follow the noise. And for that small, innocent trickery, Legolas was grateful to them.

Even so, the elf would often stumble in his path, for the forest was very dense and some of the oldest trees unforgiving.

 

As they moved deeper in to the woods, Legolas’ world seemed to become less void. Voices of gentle trees sought to distract him and offer comfort, some warning him of the dangers in his path, others going as far as moving their long roots so that he wouldn’t trip on them.

Calming his storming heart, Legolas found that he could now better sense the forest. Ever had the wood-elves been the closest to the trees, cherishing their natural beauty, protecting them as they often protected the elves. But now, Legolas could feel an even deeper connection, a more profound knowledge of the ancient beings around him.

 

He could feel every breath dancing in the wind, hear every tree trunk that cracked with old age, understand every whisper between leafs. And right now the leafs were warning him…

“The white wizard approaches.” he whispered to his companions.

 

Man and dwarf stopped. Neither shared a single doubt about trusting Legolas’ word of advice.

 

“Where?” Aragorn whispered back, his weapon close at hand.

 

Legolas listened carefully, but the trees were silent now.

“I can not tell.” he admitted in defeat.

 

Without even realizing it, Aragorn and Gimli moved closer to Legolas. Each could feel the growing tension in the air, all creatures’ breath paused in wait.

 

“Do not let him speak,” Aragorn warned, “or he will put a spell on us again.”

 

Silently, as all elves move, Legolas took one of his white knifes from its sheath, joining Aragorn’s sword and Gimli’s axe. He might not know where his enemy stood now, but to stay there with no weapon in his hands felt like nakedness to the warrior.

 

At once, all felt the powerful presence in the trees behind them and, as one, they turned around, ready for battle.

 

Between two of the tallest trees in the forest, on top of an old trunk that had long been defeated by the passage of time, stood the wizard. Holding his staff in his right hand and surrounded by a light so bright that it seemed like the sun had come down to kiss Middle-Earth, the figure spoke of both power and might.

 

With no doubts in his mind, this time, Gimli wasted no time and threw his axe, intended on freeing the traitor of his head. But the axe never hit its mark, easily pushed aside by a swing of the magic staff.

Beside him, Gimli could hear the faint gasps in his companions’ mouths, as they dropped their weapons to the ground, the heated metal burning their hands.

 

Once again, they stood defenceless against the white wizard.

 

“I mean you no harm.” the powerful voice sounded like thunder in the closed forest.

 

Aragorn had believed that once. He would not be so easily fooled a second time.

“Show yourself!” he demanded.

 

Taking two steps towards them, the wizard effectively shadowed the sunlight coming from behind him, allowing the three companions to see his face.

 

Aragorn and Gimli found themselves gazing not at Saruman as they expected, but at their fallen friend.

“Gandalf? This cannot be…” the ranger stuttered, not believing his own eyes.

 

For Gimli, there could be only one explanation for this return from the death realm. Acknowledging the wizard for the higher being he had proven to be, the dwarf bowed his head in respect.

“Gandalf…”

 

Beside him, Legolas was drowning in self-recrimination. He had failed to recognize the Istar’s unique inner light, the sign the Valar themselves had placed upon those send by them. A light that now shinned so brightly in Mithrandil that no eyes were needed for it to be seen.

He dropped to his knees, in admittance of his mistake and lack of skill.

 

“Raise, Legolas of the Woodland Realm.” the voice of the wizard sounded next to him, startling the elf, for he had heard no movement.

“This is no way for a prince to greet me.” Gandalf said, one hand around the elf’s arm, lifting him to his feet.

 

With one touch, the Istar could feel the heaviness in the warrior’s heart. And the cause for such sorrow.

“Saruman has placed you under a spell.”

 

It wasn’t a question, merely a stated fact.

 

Gandalf’s voice was comprehensive, warm.

“He has taken something from you.” the old man continued, facing the elf, the fair face trapped between his hands. Tears had gathered in Legolas eyes, but he refused to shed them.

“I know that, in your heart, there was hope that I might undo this wrong… but I can not.”

 

Legolas stiffened. Gandalf had squashed his last threads of hope even has they formed.

 

Gandalf could read every emotion going through the face between his hands. The sorrow and hopelessness were dragging the elf deeper and deeper in to darkness. He had to stop this. He had to make him understand.

“Legolas… listen to me.” Gandalf called in a powerful voice “ What Saruman stole from you, is yours to take back… you have just to will it to happen.” he cryptically said, his fierce blue eyes piercing the dull, unfocused version in front of him.” Until that happens, you must not give up… Legolas! You must not fade, for your part in this quest is not over yet!”

 

Legolas took a step back, away from the wizard’s hands. Had he been peering at the very core of his soul?

With his words, the wizard had hit, with the sharpness of an arrow, the centre of his troubles.

The archer couldn’t even make any sense of the riddles in which the wizard spoke. True, riddles were a game much loved by all elven kind, but Legolas would rather have a straight answer at this point.

 

Still, Gandalf’s words seemed to hold a strength within that went beyond their meaning, and Legolas’ heart responded to that, drawing whatever light the wizard was offering.

 

~’’~

 

They exchanged tales.     

Gandalf told them of how he had defeated the Balrog and how he happened to be among the living once again. He also put their hearts at rest about the fates of the Hobbits Merry and Pippin.

The three hunters were amazed to hear about such creatures as the Ents, folks they knew from legendary tales, coming to life and helping their friends.

 

On their part, Aragorn told the wizard about all that had happened after his fall in Mória, the lost of Boromir and ending with the tale of how Saruman had come to their camp at night.

 

The results of that, the wizard was already well aware of.

“The spell Saruman used is a very old one.” he explained them, “One of the forbidden spells.”

 

“And why neither I or Gimli were affected by it?” Aragorn asked.

 

Gandalf thought about the objects Aragorn had mention. He smiled.

“Because Saruman, the White, made a terrible mistake. This particular spell requires a very special item from the person on whom the spell is to be cast on. But in your case, Aragorn, the arm protection wasn’t really yours, was it?”

 

The ranger nodded.

“It was Boromir’s.”

 

“Rightly so… and you Gimli, you were saved by Galadriel’s magic.”

 

The dwarf opened his eyes in wonder.

“The Lady’s hair!”

 

“Exactly… although the pouch Saruman stole was yours and therefore, could be used for the spell, the presence of the Lady of Light hairs inside it prevent the spell from affecting you.”

 

Legolas sighed.

“So, whatever the wizard took from me, worked.”

 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Gandalf sadly confirmed, “However, Saruman’s power is diminishing… soon, all that will be left of it will be shadows and smoke. Remember… shadows and smoke.”

 

When Gandalf next told them of the troubles brewing in the lands of Rohan and, realizing that their part in the Fellowship and Frodo’s task was over for now, Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas agreed to follow the new White Wizard to Edoras.

 

~’’~

 

Please review… pretty please?

 

 

Chapter 4

 

 

~’’~

 

 

When they reached the edge of Fangorn forest, Gandalf released from his mouth a sound stranger than anything they had ever heard. It somehow resembled a whistle, but one so out worldly that one could hardly call it that.

 

Confusion over the wizard’s actions lasted short, as they saw three horses running towards them. One, as white as Caradhras snow peaks, one as grey as a winter’s dawn and one as black as a starless night.

 

“Shadowfax,” he greeted, patting the white horse’s mane, “a king amongst horses… and a friend through many travels.”

 

Shadowfax seemed happy to encounter the wizard as well, enthusiastically bobbing his head up and down, guessing the new adventures that awaited them. 

 

“It is one of the Mearas!” Aragorn whispered in awe.

 

Legolas whished he could gaze upon such beauty. Many times had he heard tales about these beings, but never before had he encountered one.

The grey stallion moved closer to the elf, sensing his sadness. Nuzzling his head against Legolas’ chest, the horse gently pushed him back. The archer couldn’t help but smile at the horse’s gesture, searching his nose and patting it gently when he found it.

 

“His name is Arod,” Gandalf introduced them, “and the shy black one is Hasufel, two of the finest breed by the horse masters.”

 

Aragorn moved to pat the dark stallion, but the animal was too nervous to allow the touch.

 

“He’s still young, but faithful… he will serve you well Aragorn.” the wizard assured him.

 

The ranger didn’t seem the slightest concerned. Whispering smoothing elvish words in to Hasufel ‘s ears, the horse quieted down and allowed Aragorn to climb to his back.

 

Legolas too was speaking to the horse that seemed to have chosen him, quietly explaining that he would not be able to guide his path. Arod seemed to understand, much to Gimli’s dismay. For Dwarves, horses were usually more trouble than they were worth, rarely using them for anything but beasts of burden.

 

“Who will you ride with, Master Dwarf?” Gandalf asked.

 

Gimli grunted.

“I would prefer my own two feet, thank you very much.” he complained, “But as it is, I think I would prefer a quiet beast rather than a itchy one.”

 

From the dark glare that both horses sent his way, Gimli could have sworn they had understood his words.

 

Of course, getting a dwarf on top of a horse was something easier said than done. Gimli humphed and grumphed, but in the end, with the help of a good rock and a bit of a push from Legolas, he was more or less well seated on top of the animal.

Feeling a bit awkward, Gimli grabbed Legolas’ waist and fought hard to forget that he was high up, on top of an irrational beast, led by a blind elf. Odds were, he was finally losing his mind.

 

~’’~

 

On horseback, the journey to Edoras wasn’t a long one and in the next day, the golden halls of Meduseld were in sight.

 

“Do not look for a warm welcome here.” Gandalf warned them.

 

As soon as they passed the citadel’s wooden gates, they all understood why.

The faces of the town’s people they rode pass, in the dirty streets, were gloomy to say the least. Mostly composed by old men and women and small children, the villagers seemed devoid of any life. Bleak, colourless imitations of real people.

 

A shudder ran through Aragorn’s back. He had met the Rohans before, having served under Thengel’s rule, in his earlier days as a ranger and, even though those had been hard times as well, the people had stood confident by their King’s side, refusing to let troubles and sorrow undermine their lives and existence. Now, it seemed as if hope and happiness had been sucked from this place, leaving the Rohans empty and resigned to their gloomy fates.

 

“You’d find more cheer in a graveyard.” Gimli mumbled, also touched by the place’s dark mood.

 

Legolas, in front of him, couldn’t agree more. Although he could not see the people’s faces, he could still feel the despair in their hearts, the death that lingered like a bad smell in the air.

 

Not too soon, they arrived at the steps of the King’s Hall, a majestic building that stood in the highest point of the hill, painted in golden tones that caught the rising sun rays and made it shine like a polished jewel.

 

Handing the horses to a pair of stable boys, the warriors and the wizard climbed the stone steps.

 

“Your weapons must be hand over!” A guard, with tired eyes and straw-coloured hair, stopped them at the top. “By order of Gríma Wormtongue.”

 

Gandalf exchanged a look with Aragorn. Much had changed since either had last been there.

Not wanting to be the cause of any trouble, for as long as they could prevent it, the wizard signalled Aragorn and Gimli to comply.

Both had no will to part from their weapons, having felt the tension in the air and knowing that this visit would not be peaceful. But, even so, Aragorn, trusting Gandalf’s wisdom and judgement, proceeded to remove the number of weapons he carried.

 

Gimli grimly pressed his large axe in to the guard’s hands and removed the smaller ones he carried in his belt. At his side, Legolas took the blades from the back scabbard and held them in his hand.

 

The guard, Háma, for the first time in his life seeing one of the First Born, noticed nothing wrong and extended his hand to receive the shinny weapons. He got nothing, as Legolas remained unmoving, in front of him.

“Your weapons, Master Elf.” he asked, with a note of reverence and embarrassment in his voice.

 

Legolas complied, blades safely turned into each other.

The sound of metal hitting stone followed, as he missed the guard’s hands and his weapons fell to the floor.

 

The guard tried hard not to gasp. It would be too rude, for he had finally realized that the apparent distant and unfocused look the elf held had nothing to do with his race or personality, but rather a sign of his lack of sight. Too often had he seen the same look and gestures in the villagers affected by blindness. He hadn’t, however, expected to see such human disability in one of the Eldar.

 

The elf made a slight movement to search for his weapons on the ground, but Háma saved him the embarrassment by picking them up himself. He grasped the beautifully crafted weapons with the same care as when he had taken his first-born child in his hands, and stepped away.

 

“Your staff.” Háma heard one of his subordinates demand of the wizard, apparently taking Gríma’s words to the letter.

 

“Hum? Oh… surely you wouldn’t part an old man from his walking stick?” the wizard asked in an innocent voice.

 

The younger guard looked at his superior, in search of guidance. Háma wasn’t fooled by the Istar’s act, but neither was he pleased with Gríma’s commandeering of him and his men. His loyalty lay with his King, and Wormtongue’s orders could go to hell, with him in front, preferably.

“Let them keep the staffs.” he said to the guard. Deep within, he was curious to see if those staffs would be well put to use.

 

Gandalf smiled as they crossed the wooden doors. He knew an ally when he was blessed with one.

 

~’’~

 

If the atmosphere was grim outside, inside the King’s Halls it was as gloomy as a tomb.

A fire was burning in a pit in the centre of the large stone room, but its warmth failed to spread around. Tall columns of engraved wood circled the central passage, with richly decorated banners hanging from their high stands, occasionally dancing in the wind when one of the side doors opened. Dark faces prowled the sideways, unfriendly looks hidden by the shadows, watching their every move as the newcomers entered their hunting grounds.

And at the end of the hall, in a throne flanked by beautiful tapestries, sat Théoden. Or what was left of him.

 

The king of Rohan looked like an empty shell, withered and crumpled. A premature corpse left behind by a soul that no longer possessed the strength to bear it.

Beside him, seated on the steps that led to the throne, was a man that could only be described as a human crow. Gríma Wormtongue.

 

“The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King!” Gandalf called out, as he got nearer.

 

The foul-looking man seated next to the king whispered something in to his ear.

“Why should I welcome you here, Gandalf Stormcrow?” a feeble voice sounded in the halls, the sound coming from Théoden’s mouth, but the words hollow and lacking of any conviction.

 

Gríma took his cue from the King and moved boldly towards the strangers.

“A just question, my liege. Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lath spell I name him. Ill news is an ill guest."

 

Gandalf had had enough.

“I didn’t come here to exchange words with a witless worm… keep your forked tongue behind your teeth and be gone from my sight!” he blared in a powerful voice, bringing his staff forward in a circular movement.

 

Wormtongue’s white face palled even further.

“His staff… I told you to take all of their weapons!” he gasped, searching for Háma with feverish eyes. When he found the captain of the King’s guards, he knew this betrayal had a name. He snarled. Háma would pay for this!

Even so, he had others that were faithful to him, others that knew who really ruled these Halls, to whom they owned their allegiance.

 

The attack, something that Aragorn had expected since they had enter those dark Halls, came swift.

Keeping a safe path so that Gandalf could reach the King, the ranger took to himself the task of protecting the wizard from those charging from his side, trusting his companions to do the same with the rest.

 

Men that covert for power crumbs and spent their days drinking ale and feeding conspiracies made poor fighters. Not really a challenge for an experienced ranger, even one without any other weapon but his bare hands.

 

As soon as he was able to, Aragorn stole a glance towards his companions to see how they fare.

 

Gimli, as expected, was also finding their attackers lacking in fighting skills, not challenging enough to exercise his warrior’s muscles. To anyone observing, the stout creature seemed to be having fun, his strong fists smashing noses and sending men twice his size sprawling in the floor with ease. 

 

Legolas, on the other hand, was not doing so well. For their attackers, most of whom had never seen an Elf before, or the way their kindred fought, Legolas wide swings of his staff might have seemed powerful and accurate, but Aragorn knew better. He had witnessed on countless times the grace and deadliness of the elven fighting style, with or without weapons. And from what he could see now, his friend was in trouble.

 

Legolas was barely keeping his attackers at bay, his moves mostly defensive and… desperate.

So far, by sheer luck, Aragorn guessed, and partly because the Rohan men were slightly afraid of him, Legolas had been lucky and none of their strikes had hit him. But luck, as lies, was something that always ran on short legs. 

 

As if his thoughts had come from the mouth of doom itself, Aragorn saw one of the larger men, a bolder one it seemed, sneaking around Legolas’ unprotected backside, a blade ready for the kill.

 

“Legolas!” the ranger shouted “Behind!”

 

~’’~

 

The elven warrior was edgy. One of the first, and most pressing, rules his fighting masters had taught him early on, had been about the importance of always remaining calm and alert through a battle, no matter the circumstances. For a nervous and rash mind often fell in to mistake.

Legolas had learned to respect that precious rule throughout his life, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow it now.

 

When they had entered those halls, he had felt confident that, if battle were at hand, he would be able to stand his ground. Tuning his senses to a level far beyond human ability, the elf was aware of every shuffle of feet, of the quickening in the men’s breath, of the heart’s, racing inside their chests, of the heat, escaping from their sweaty bodies, as they readied themselves to attack.

 

But, as all hell broke loose, the elven warrior found that there were too many running feet, shouts of battle and anger, rustling of clothes, gasps of fear, surprise and wonder, weapons unshielded, Gandalf’ s powerful voice in the back ground, calling to the ill King…

Legolas was left confused and lost. With out his sight and with such roar overwhelming his senses, he couldn’t locate his attackers until they stood too near for comfort.

 

The feeling of being cornered in a dark place, filled with every dreadful and foul creature his mind could imagine, took hold of him. Uneasiness grew and with it, the experienced warrior’s movements became more and more clumsy and desperate. Edgy.

 

As it was, Legolas was thankful for the staff in his hands, using it as a broad weapon that he swiped left and right, trying to hit his foes.

What a disgrace to all of his teachers he felt then, whipping around a piece of wood as if he was nothing but a mere elfling with no skills at all. The shame that would bring to his father…

 

Aragorn’s warning shout reached his ears easily enough, for it had been spoken in the grey tongue. Legolas reacted on instinct, swirling around, staff between his hands, aiming high and hoping that that would prove to be the right move.

 

The impact of a blade near his left hand told him he had been lucky again.

 

By the amount of swearing his opponent was mouthing, Legolas guessed that the sword’s blade had gotten stuck on the wooden staff so, taking advantage of the speed that all Elves were graced with, he forced the staff forward, wood and steel hitting the man’s face. The unmistakable sounds of bone breaking and of a heavy body hitting the ground were his reward.

 

Legolas sighed in relief. From what he could hear, the battle was over.

 

“Here!” Gimli’s voice came from near him, “Take care of this slimy one.” he grumphed, pressing a smaller body against the elf’s chest.

 

Legolas, heart still racing from the fight he had almost lost, instinctively grabbed the arms of his prisoner.

“Release me!” a voice snarled. Gríma.

 

~’’~

 

Gandalf had put to good use the path his companions had cleared for him.

As he had feared, Saruman had succeeded in overthrowing the King’s mind, clouding his judgement to a point in which Théoden was no more.

As the sounds of struggle continued throughout the Halls, Gandalf revealed himself to his enemy. The whiteness of his robe seemed to possess a light of its own, flooding in to the dim lit room like a wave of sunny spring.

 

To everyone seeing the wizard’s interaction with Théoden, it would look like little was going on except for some exchanged words. But nothing could be farther away from the truth, for Gandalf was looking at Théoden no more, but at the wizard that controlled him, Saruman. And between the two white wizards, the new and the old, the good and the corrupted, a battle as ferocious as the ones raging the King’s Halls, was being fought.

 

In the end, the powers of the reborn Istar proved to be too much for Saruman and, to the wonder and surprise of all, the decaying figure that had been Théoden, changed in front of their eyes. In a matter of seconds, as a layer of painting being washed away, the decay was gone and in its place stood the handsome face of the King of Rohan, as all remembered him from before.

 

With stunned looks upon their faces, the rebellious men stopped their struggles. Saruman’s hold over them was lifted. Gríma’s short reign was over.

 

“Breathe the free air again, my friend!” Gandalf whispered when he could see the life returning to Théoden‘s eyes.

 

A young woman, with wavy blond hair, ran to the restored King.

“Uncle!”

 

The King blinked, as if awoken from a long sleep. All around him, he could see faces of friends, his warriors… Gandalf, more often than not a bearer of ill news, but always a strong support through difficult times. And in his arms...

“Éowyn” he whispered with affection when he recognized the face of his sister’s daughter.

As thoughts began to organize themselves inside the King’s mind, his gaze fell upon the one he could now see as the source of all of his late dark dreams.

 

Wormtongue squirmed in the elf’s hands.

 

A Théoden under Saruman’s spell was something he could handle well, even manipulate at his own will, but a Théoden lord and master of his own thoughts and whim, an angered King with a sword in his hands, was something that a cowardly being such as Wormtongue trembled just to gaze at.

 

Public was his humiliation, as public would have been his execution had not Aragorn stopped the King’s hand.

 

Seizing his chance, Wormtongue fled Edoras on a stolen horse, running to his true master, Saruman. No one tried to stop him, no one gave chase to the fugitive, for other things were more pressing at the moment.

 

”Théodred,” the King said when his anger subsided, looking around, “where is my son?”

When no one answered and all eyes refused to meet his, Théoden knew.

 

~’’~

 

 

Chapter 6

 

~’’~

 

The road to Helm’s Deep was a long and arduous one, especially for those ill or travelling on foot. Mothers tried to keep track of their children, for whom a trip like this had the flavour of adventure and, that being, behaved adventurously. They were knights and riders, they were wizards and elves, and they fought amongst each other, defending the kingdom from the fell beasts that their imagination hatched.

 

The first day on the road was a novelty for many that had never been far from Edoras’ sight, but the second day was faced with heavy hearts. Two of the soldiers, who had been wounded in the same Orc attack that had claimed Théodred’s life, had passed away during the night. Their families were forced to abandon their bodies and resume their path, for there was no time to put the dead to rest.

 

Moods became darker and the Rohan grew more fearful of their fates, in such way that even the smallest of children soon understood what adults had tried so hard to shield them from.

Death was on their tail, and if they could not reach the fort in time, they would stand no chance at all.

 

The column of refugees stretched for miles, for many had joined them as they passed through other villages. The King and his guards, on horse, rode ahead, while the heavy wagons came last. In the middle, those without horses, walked.

 

Legolas walked alongside the villagers, having left Gimli to ride Arod on his own. The dwarf needed to get more comfortable with their steed, something that Gimli defended to be a waste of time, and Legolas needed the time to clear his thoughts. Much had happened of late, and the elf felt adrift, twirling in waters as swift as those in the river that floated beside them. Much had changed since he had left his father’s halls to deliver a message to Lord Elrond. Much had he learned… much had he lost.

 

Letting his feet find their way in the soft grass, Legolas lost himself in the conversations of the strangers that surrounded him. Faint specks of every-days’ life that brought back a bit of the existence they had known so far. All that was familiar to these people had been left behind, all that lay ahead was unknown to them. And still, they discussed the she-goat that would give birth within days and the first steps that one of the village’s babies had recently taken.

 

Hearing them talk, the elf could have been fooled in to believing that they were ignorant of their true situation, or worse, trying to ignore it. But Legolas had learned to known these humans better than that, and he knew how strong their resolve truly was, no matter what defences they used to keep themselves and their children calm. He knew that, when the time came for them to defend their lives and the lives of their loved ones, they would do so, with a blind faith that only humans could summon.

 

These were strangers. Men, women and children that he had never seen, but that had warmed their way in to his heart. The determination to survive faced with the worse of adversities and perils, had always been something he had admired in Humans, even before he had ever met Estel. Human race knew how limited their time was, and that knowledge led them in to such urgency, such lust for life as Elves could never fully understand. They fought even when there was no hope of winning, holding on to life with every fibber of strength they possessed. It was that important to them.

 

Elves praised and cherished live with the same or even more ardent fervour as Humans did but, could immortal beings truly appreciate something that they took for granted?

 

Legolas could now realize how easy it was for Elves to comprehend the differences between their kind and Humans as flaws, limitations brought by their mortality. He understood now, how wrong they were.

 

Through his own flaws, Legolas could now see how strong Humankind was, so much more than his own kin, for he could not find in himself the same strength to overcome his limitations. A shadow of an elf, he felt, now that the need for his skills was more pressing, now that his friends walked to danger, now that these people, so strange and, at the same time, so familiar, needed him the most.

 

A cold hand ran its claws through his mind, alerting him that something was amiss. The animals around them tried to escape their masters, nervous, having caught the scent of danger in the air as well.

 

“Warg attack!” Aragorn’s voice shouted from ahead, “We’re under attack!”

 

Panic screams crossed in the air as some stood paralysed in fear and others raced to their horses to join the fight.

 

Éowyn had already started to organize the frightened women and children. If the men managed to hold off the wargs long enough, they could still escape to the Deep. As much as the Rohan shield maiden longed to join the others in this fight, she knew that with her uncle leading the warriors and her brother away, the responsibility of leading their people to safety fell on her shoulders.

 

In the midst of the surrounding chaos, Legolas’ decision was immediate. He would not let the others to fight alone. Calling to his horse with a soft whistle, Arod came galloping towards him, with Gimli trying to stay on top of his back.

“Make room.” the elf asked.

 

The dwarf barely had time to do so, as the elf jumped on top of the horse, seating in front of him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing!” Gimli mumbled, his axe already set to taste some Orc blood.

 

‘So do I” was the thought racing through Legolas’ mind as he strung his bow for the first time in many days, glad that his quiver had been strapped to his horse, and raced to join the battle.

 

~’’~

 

The Rohirrim were fearsome warriors on horse, the best in all of Middle-Earth. Their weapons of choice, when ridding to attack, were the sharp spears that they carried, a deadly weapon on its own, but even more so when allied to the animal’s grand speed.

Others, more experienced, had mastered the art of archery on horse back, one of the most difficult war skills, for it required not only skill with a bow and arrow, but also a great amount of trust on the horse they rode.

 

Théoden led the attack, his sword unshielded, a mighty war shout in his lips. Beside him rode the future King of Gondor.

 

The Warg riders were very close now, and many of the Rohan warriors could see, for the first time, the foul beasts. Somewhere between a large wild dog and a small bear, with large teeth, too big to be kept inside it’s mouth, and long claws, that pierced the earth and left it rippled as they passed, the Wargs were the biggest of Nature’s abominations, an animal bread for a single purpose.

 

To kill.

 

The Orcs, struggling to keep themselves on top of the large, untamed beasts, carried no bows, an advantage that the Rohirrim did not waste, letting their arrows fly and take as many enemies as they could before the parties met.

 

The clash between the two groups of warriors was brutal, riders from both sides falling to the ground and being trampled by horses and Wargs alike.

 

Legolas followed Gimli’s directions to aim his arrows and their teamwork managed to strike a good number of Orcs, for even if his accuracy was not as good as before, the elf was still the swiftest archer amongst the fighters.

Now, however, they were too close to use bows and the two companions swung their blades in synchrony, striking any Orc that dare to near them.

 

“How do the others fare?” Legolas asked, one of his knives defending an Orc blade while the other cut through the neck of the Warg he rode.

 

Gimli took a moment of quietness to look around.

“They could be worse.” he said out of breath, his heavy axe dripping black blood and already swinging to strike the Orc rider he could see coming their way.

The axe relieved the Orc of his head, but the Warg, as bloodthirsty as his rider, flung itself at the pair.

 

The air was forced out of Legolas’ chest as the heavy beast smashed in to his side, throwing him to the rocky ground. Gimli landed next to him, his chain mail and armour clattering like broken pottery.

The drooling Warg was on top of them in a heart beat, foul breath and deadly teeth ready to sink in to Gimli’s neck.

 

Reacting on instinct, both dwarf and elf attacked the animal, Legolas’ knife cutting through the thick carcass and piercing its heart, Gimli’s axe severing the Warg’s jaw in two. It fell dead instantly.

 

“Gimli?” Legolas asked, concerned. His hand searched for the dwarf but all he could find was the Warg’s rough fur.

 

“Help me move this stinking beast!” Gimli grumbled, out of breath.

 

Free from the dead weight, Gimli could now see that the Rohan warriors were gaining the upper hand in the fight. Few Wargs could still be seen about, and those remaining were either being chased and slaughtered, or running away.

Searching for Aragorn’s familiar figure, the dwarf spotted him in pursuit of one of the last Warg riders, jumping on to its back as Gimli watched.

The Orc ridding it was, however, ready for that move and with a powerful head back swing, hit Aragorn’s face and unbalanced the man. Feeling the distraction of his rider and with no one to care for its actions, the Warg raced out of control, straight for the cliff’s edge.

 

“Oh! This ain’t good!” Gimli whispered. With mounting fear, he realized he stood too far to reach the ranger in time to do anything.

 

“What happens?” Legolas asked, frustrated.

 

“Aragorn,” he explained, ”he is strapped to one of those blasted creatures. It heads for the cliff! We have to stop it!”

 

Legolas bit his lip. He had no time for questions or doubts.

“Do you see my bow?”

 

Gimli grabbed the weapon from where it had fallen and pressed it to the elf’s hands.

“Hurry!”

 

“Tell me exactly where they are and in which direction they move.” Legolas asked, an arrow notched in his bow, the cord stretched to its maximum.

 

“North, moving north-west.”

 

Legolas let the first arrow fly, with a prayer to the Valar. In the time of a single blink of an eye, the elf fired a rapid succession of arrows, swiping the direction Gimli had given him in a straight line, aiming low so that no stray arrow hit his friend.

 

Gimli cursed.

“Rear leg, but it still runs.” he shouted, “They move a finger’s length to west.”

 

Legolas adjusted his aim and continued to use the same method as before, his shots becoming even faster, a blur of movements for mortal eyes, as he knew Aragorn’s time was running out.

 

He had released his last arrow when he heard Gimli gasp beside him.

“What? What has happen Gimli?”

 

“He fell…” the dwarf whispered.

 

Legolas’ heart sunk to the ground, shattered.

“It can’t be!”

 

Gimli grabbed his wrist and dragged the elf to where he had seen the ranger plunge off the cliff. Nearing the edge, the dwarf searched for his friend.

“I see naught, but…” he started uneasily, “the current’s too strong.”

 

The rest he needn’t say. Even if Aragorn had survived the fall, he would still be hard pressed to survive the river’s angry waters.

 

It was foolish to think him alive, but foul to accept his death.

 

Legolas whispered something in his tongue, his eyes shut as his head fell to his chest. The stout dwarf felt his eyes stinging with tears for his fallen friend.

 

Behind them, the Orc that the ranger had been fighting, laid on the ground, a mortal wound in his chest. But still, he laughed.

 

In anger, Legolas grabbed the fell being by his tattered leather vest, feeling the warm wetness beneath his fingers.

“Tell me what happened!”

 

The Orc seemed little fazed by the menace in the elf’s voice.

“The ranger,” he said, his voice drowning in his own blood, “took a little tumble, “ he coughed, “off the cliff!”. The laughing brought a stronger coughing fit, blood splattering Legolas’ hands.

“But that wasn’t what killed him…” the Orc said, breathlessly, “…the arrow in his neck did it!”

 

Legolas’ face lost all colour.

“You lie!” he snarled, trying to shake the truth out of the dark creature.

 

But it was of no use. The Orc was slack in his hands. Dead.

Legolas dropped the useless carcass and sat next to it, all strength gone from his limbs. He could feel Gimli’s strong presence beside him, no words offered. Two friends grieving in silence.

 

When Théoden came to them, he didn’t ask what had happened. The sad news were well written in their faces. His hand clasped the elf’s shoulder, the flesh tense beneath his touch.

“Come… the wolves of Isengard will return.” he warned them, “Leave the dead.”

 

The elf turned to him. And Théoden King flinched at what he saw in those old eyes. So much pain and confusion… guilt?

“Come.” he asked again, his voice saying he understood.

 

They had lost Aragorn and many good men of Rohan, to the enemy. He would not lose these two as well, to grief and sorrow.

 

Tears would have to wait to be shed.

 

~’’~

 

It was a subdued group that rode in to Helm’s Deep, their victory tasting bitterly, like no victory at all. With many of the wounded unable to ride on their own, exhausted horses stopped in the main courtyard carrying two soldiers. Others had no rider at all. All, men and steeds alike, came with haunted looks on their eyes, bodies and faces smeared with blood. Theirs, of their friends and of their enemies.

 

“The King!” someone alerted, “The King returns!”

 

Éowyn grabbed the edge of her skirt and raced to the main gate, leaving behind the provisions she had been sorting out.

Her heart, heavy with worry since the warriors had been left behind, clenched inside her chest when she saw how many had made it back.

 

“So few…” she whispered in sad realization, “So few of you have returned.”

 

Her eyes searched for familiar faces amongst the survivors. Her uncle met her gaze, the silent grief in his manner confirming their great lost.

Aragorn, whom she was by now used to see next to Théoden, was nowhere in sight.

Gimli was harder to spot in the middle of the tall Rohirrim, but his fair companion was an easier one to find. Both looked bloodied and bedraggled, and the shield maiden feared the worst when she went to them.

 

Relief to see that none had sustained any serious wound, however, was washed away when she saw the tear tracks in Gimli’s dirty face.

“Lord Aragorn?” she forced herself to ask, ”Where is he?”

 

She already knew the answer.

 

“He fell.” Gimli confirmed in an unsteady voice.

 

The world stopped its breath and blurred away behind fat tears. Éowyn clasped her hands together with all her fading strength and sat on the cold, stone steps behind her. Aragorn was gone!

The man she had come to respect and admire so. The man that had respected her in return, not only as a Lady of the court, but as a woman and a warrior. The man she found her heart opening to… was gone.

 

She blinked her tears away. The two warriors were still standing in front of her, lost. And she realized that, as deep as her pain was, it wasn’t but a drop of water compared to Aragorn’s companions ocean of grief.

 

“Come,” she asked them, cleaning the tears from her face, “I will take you to where you may refresh yourselves and rest for awhile.”

 

The elf had not said a single word since their arrival, head downcast and walking behind them without making a sound. It came as no surprise to either dwarf or woman when they arrived at the fort’s kitchen and found that Legolas was no longer behind them.

 

“Will he be alright?” Éowyn asked in concern.

 

No. His heart bleeds.

“Aye. The elf will be fine.” Gimli said, hoping it wasn’t a lie.

 

~’’~

 

 

Chapter 8

 

~’~

 

For a moment as he woke up, Gimli believed that he was back home. That particular smell that he could only find in deepest of caves was all around him, a mix of earth and fresh water that never failed to ease his spirit and make him feel safe.

 

“How do you feel, my friend?”

 

Gimli jumped from the cot where he was laying and looked at Aragorn.

“It was true then,” he said smiling, his short arms surrounding the ranger, “I thought my eyes were deceiving me… we had you for lost!”

 

Aragorn smiled in return, glad to see the dwarf well again.

“I was lucky.”

 

The dwarf nodded.

“Perhaps… though I believe that Lady Death has been losing her touch, “he smiled, “many have been able to escape her clutches lately!” Gimli’s expression lost all its joy as he remembered, “How’s the elf?”

 

Aragorn moved a little to the side, so that Gimli could see for himself. A small distance away, surrounded by the light of the burning torches, Legolas unmoving figure lay on his stomach. His back was bare and a man with an old face and steady hands, carefully and meticulously threaded with a needle and string on the elf.

 

“It’s not too deep, but it is a long slash.” the ranger explained. “How did this come to happen?”

 

“Orcs!” Gimli snarled, and then cursed. “How could I forget such a thing?! Aragorn,” he said, grabbing the ranger’s arm, “the King must be warned! A large army of Uruk-hai… they make way to this place!”

 

Aragorn placed a hand on the disturbed dwarf’s shoulder.

“Take ease, my friend… the King’s already been warned.”

 

Gimli frowned in confusion.

 

“I too saw that army on my way here.” Aragorn explained.

 

“Oh!” Gimli said, ready to rise “Then we should prepare to meet them!”

 

“You should rest a bit more.” Aragorn stopped him, “Your body is still weary and your wounds could use the time to heal.”

 

The dwarf took notice, for the first time, of the bandages in his arm and hands.

“Nonsense!” he shrugged it off, “We Dwarves are sturdy people”. He got up. The wave of dizziness that hit him did not go with out notice by Aragorn.

 

“You fainted shortly after arriving.”

 

Gimli raised an eyebrow.

“Dwarves don’t faint!” and he wouldn’t accept a second opinion on that, “Besides, I’ll give my wounds as rest when I see you doing the same for yours.” he said with a meaningful look towards the white cloth wrapped around the man’s arm.

 

Aragorn couldn’t argue with that.

 

“What is this place?” Gimli asked, as he took a better look at the cave where they stood. The walls shimmered, as if covered in jewels. Natural galleries, formed by mould rock, stretched as far as his eyes could see. The Rohans seemed to have taken advantage of that natural division and had transformed each rocky niche into separate rooms. This one, it seemed, had been reserved for the healing.

 

“The Glittering Caves.” Aragorn explained, “We are beneath the fortress of the Helm, in the mountain’s roots.”

 

“Glittering Caves indeed.” Gimli whispered in awe, admiring Nature’s work at is best. In his mind, he could not help to imagine all that he, and a couple of good and hard work dwarves, would be able to do in such a place. Dwarrowdelf in its prime days would pale in comparison.

 

“It is done, my Lord.” the older healer called to Aragorn.

 

“Thank you Eother.” the ranger said, clasping the man’s wrist in camaraderie, “You may return to the others now.”

 

The man bowed and left them alone.

 

Aragorn kneeled beside Legolas, searching for something in his bag. Gimli followed him.

“He still sleeps?” he asked, noticing the closed eyes.

 

“Yes.” the ranger said. He had taken a dry plant from his pouch and was now adding it to some water. Instead of turning the liquid green, as the leaf was, the mixture evolved in to a yellow paste as Aragorn stirred it.

 

“I thought they always slept with them open.” Gimli continued to talk, his eyes following the ranger’s actions.

 

Aragorn started to spread the yellow salve over the stitched cut.

“Not always.” he explained, “They close their eyes when they are too tired or ill.” or dying, he failed to add.

 

“He believes you died by his hands.” Gimli whispered. In the silent cave, the dwarf’s grave tone sounded like a vibration of the rock itself.

 

Aragorn’s hand stilled their motion. He looked at the dwarf.

“Why would he think that?”

 

Gimli looked at the ground beneath his knees.

“We saw you battling that beast, heading for the edge.” he explained, “We tried to stop it… Legolas used his bow.”

 

Aragorn could now understand. His eyes sought Gimli’s.

“No arrow hit me.” he assured him.

 

The dwarf sighed in relief. When he had seen Aragorn’s bandaged arm, his heart had skipped a beat.

“Aye… but he knows it not.” he said, his fingers picking at the ragged edges of Legolas’ cot.

 

Aragorn cleaned his hands and covered his friend’s back, first with a piece of clean linen and then with the animal’s skin that covered his legs. The cave was well protected from the elements, but still, as he touched the elf’s forehead, Aragorn could feel the clamminess of his skin.

The ranger would not let his heart admit it, but he knew how strange it was for an elf to loose touch with reality for this long. If anything, the pain of closing such wound would have awoken him.

But it hadn’t.

 

~’~

 

At some point, just as it had started, the voice stopped. And in the silence that followed, the darkness became more present and menacing than before. He searched for a wall and sat against it, the cold of the rock digging in to his back like fingers of ice, pushing him away. He shivered.

 

The silence stretched, bringing the walls closer, enclosing him in. He could no longer hear the sound of his own breathing, nor the sound of his heartbeat. He touched his face, his chest, suddenly not sure if he was really there. He could feel the flesh beneath his fingers, and the fear in his heart, but still he would not move.

 

And then, the distant sound of crying started.

 

~’~

 

Théoden King was not an optimist man. Life had taught him too much for him to be any different.

The numbers could not be ignored. Ten thousand strong marched to the Deep and whom did he have to defend his keep? His personal guards, a few soldiers and his people. The same people that he had the duty to protect, the same young men and children that would have been the future of his kingdom, had now weapons in their hands. Swords as big as themselves, steel as heavy as their bones. Most would not survive.

 

No, he wasn’t an optimistic man. He was forced to face reality, for the sake of his people. And their reality was that they stood alone, facing a foe ten thousand times more numerous and strong. But face it they would and, if nothing else, their honor and bravery would live on.

 

~’~

 

Aragorn could do no more. The sun was setting and the Huruk-hai army would arrive with the darkness. Their defenses had been planned as best as they could, with what little they had. Provisions had been stored in the caves and the women and children too small to fight or those too ill to wield a sword had been moved there as well.

 

The ranger followed them to the caves and made straight to the small recess where he had left Legolas. Gimli had not strayed from his side.

“He still sleeps.” he said, answering the silent question in Aragorn’s tired eyes.

 

The ranger knelt by his friend’s side, taking Legolas’ hand in his.

“He grows cold.” he noted, pulling the animal’s skin to better cover the elf.

 

“Aye,” the dwarf had already realized that, “and yet the place is warm and the healers say his body is not feverish.” Gimli rubbed his tired eyes and sighed, “He is fading, isn’t he?”

 

The ranger couldn’t meet the dwarf’s gaze. He refused to believe that to be true. He refused to accept it. But the truth was that Legolas should’ve awakened by now.

Elves were much more resistant to injury than Humans, Aragorn knew that for a fact. It was something that he had witnessed time and time again. Wounds that would often kill or disable men for many months, easily mended in Elven kind. In Legolas’ wound, Aragorn could already see the skin healing and covering the slash. He should, by all reasoning, be awake and up by now. 

Aragorn feared that his friend had been deprived of light for too long. He feared that the belief that one of his arrows had hit the ranger was dragging the elf away from Arda. This was not the natural order of things, and yet, he could not deny it any longer.

 

“He is fading.” Aragorn whispered, the words too painful to his heart.

 

Gimli cursed.

 

“My Lord?” a shy voice called to the ranger.

 

The future King turned, one hand holding Legolas’, the other wiping away the tears that had escaped his eyes.

 

“My Lord… the King calls you to his side.” the young soldier, a boy, with a helmet too large for his head, said, ”Lights can already be seen at a short distance.”

 

“Thank you.” Aragorn said, his attention back to his friend, “You may tell the King we will be there shortly.”

 

The boy bowed and was gone without either of the warriors taking notice.

 

“We have to go.” the ranger said.

 

“Aye”

 

But none could bring himself to rise. Neither could bear to leave behind a friend that they were not sure to find alive upon their return. If they returned at all.

 

Aragorn searched the clasp of the silver string around his neck and carefully placed it in Legolas’ hand.

“Keep this safe for me…” he said, closing the flaxen fingers around the shimmering star. Leaning down, the ranger kissed the elf’s cold forehead “…mellonin”

 

Gimli blinked bright eyes, mumbling about the smoke from the fires.

“We have a few things to settle, you and I, elf!” the dwarf complained, the anger in his voice trying to mask the pain in his heart, “I will not have you go thinking you are the best warrior of the two of us, just because you saved me! I’ll be waiting, and then we shall see who the best dwarf is!”

 

Picking up their weapons, the two warriors left with swift steps and heavy hearts.

Everywhere they passed, women of all ages, wept for their loved ones. Fathers, husbands, sons, brothers and even grandfathers, had gone to defend their families, and families were left in tears, in fear of what was to come.

Mothers pressed their babies to their breasts, taking comfort, giving protection.

 

Someone started a prayer. Others joined in, praying for those gone, for those that would not return, for those who remained.

Hands of compassion and gratitude reached out to touch Aragorn and Gimli as they went by, the last warriors leaving for the battle that was about to begin. Their hopes went with them.

 

~’~

 

Maybe he had fallen asleep, or maybe he had left to some other place that his mind could not recognize. He knew not… he only knew that he was back inside the cave again. His cave.

 

He opened his eyes and saw, not the darkness of before, but what had been hidden behind it. The earthen ground with rocky, rough walls and the dusty, old air.

 

The place where he had sat in the dark was now bathed in a soft light. Legolas opened his hand and looked at the shinning star-shaped jewel in his palm.

 

The Evening Star, elven symbol of a choice that only the descendants of Eärendil could make, symbol of the love between Arwen and Estel and that he always carried near his heart.

He closed his eyes and smiled. A symbol of Aragorn’s love and presence in his life. And somehow he knew that the ranger was alive.

 

Rising to his feet, testing the strength in his legs, Legolas took a deep breath and once more searched for the crying sound he had, so hard, tried to ignore. It was still there, waiting for him. And he followed, the star’s light in his hand.

 

~’~

 

Outside, the night was bright, lit by the many torches, burning across the great wall, and by the red sky, promising heavy rain.

 

Soldiers were already on their posts, divided in to those who knew and those who didn’t know how to shoot a bow. There weren’t many arrows, and none could go wasted.

Above the gate, behind the large sheltering stones, large fires were kept alit, ready to boil water and oil, to be thrown down on their enemies.

Smiths worked till the last possible second, sharpening blunt swords, fixing spears, bows and arrows. Their hammers sounded like thunder in the otherwise silent fort. Heart beats of iron and fire.

 

The King stood in the wall’s highest point, behind the front line defenses. The lords of the court and his personal guard stood beside him, all in shimmering armors. Warriors of the old days drawn in gold and leather in the vests of the warriors of the present.

 

All were watching the lights, yellow spots marching at the sound of horns. Aragorn heard the sound too, as he reached the caves’ entrance.

“Those are no Orc horns!” he said, racing to a higher point.

 

By now, the guards at the gate had too seen to whom these horns belonged to, but they still could not believe their eyes.

 

“Open the gates!” someone shouted.

 

The army of Elves, bearing the colors of Lothlorien, marched not as a group of soldiers, but like a single entity, fluid, graceful and synchronous, with a promise of deadliness that lingered in the air.

 

The humans watching them enter the fort were lost between silly grinning expressions of joy and pure wonder, for the army contingent before their eyes seemed unreal, ethereal, a moving and breathing legend coming to life from the books and tales of old days.

 

Théoden’s breath had caught in his chest. He, who thought to be alone and to possess no allies, was seeing his prayers answered in a way he could have never dreamed of. For the beings in front of his eyes, armed with bows and swords, and displaying such power and confidence in every movement, could only have come to fight alongside Men. Once again.

“How is this possible?” the King whispered.

 

Their captain, a blond elf with regal face and dressed in colors more cheerful than the rest of troops, addressed the King:

“I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell. An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago we fought and died together. We come to honor that allegiance.”

 

Aragorn raced down the stairs, two at a time, smiling. He knew this elven captain.

“Haldir!”

 

The elf turned when he heard his name, his face too braking in to a smile. He had harbor some doubts about how the Galadhrim would be received in this place of Men, for Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel had not offered many explanations when their request had reached him. Now, he knew he should have never doubted.

“Mae govannen” Haldir saluted the familiar face in the way of the Elves.

 

Aragorn shortened the distance between the two of them and greeted the elf in the way of Men, with a brotherly embrace.

“Mae govannen, Haldir,” he smiled, “you are most welcomed here!”

 

~’’~

 

The closer he got, the clearer the sobbing sound became. He could now recognize it as belonging to a child, but still, he found no trace of whom it belonged to.

For how long he had traveled, he could no longer tell. Time had no meaning in this place. He just listened and followed.

 

The sobs led him to a dead end. A tall wall of jagged rock, higher than his eyes could see or the light of the Evening Star could reach, stretched like a giant in front of him. Nowhere could he go, except back to where he had come from, or up.

Securing the silver star around his neck, Legolas started to climb, hoping to find the source of the disturbing sound when he reached the top.

 

The rock wall, like a polished black jewel, offered little support for the elf to secure his hands and feet. He had to carefully search for each small indention in the stone, sometimes such a small one that only his finger tips would fit, sometimes large enough for him to secure a foot while his hands searched for the next hold.

 

Fat droops of sweat caressed the outlines of the elf’s face, lingering for a fleeting moment in his nose and jaw before falling to the ground, that stood farther and farther away as Legolas slowly eased his body up. His movements were no longer thought or measured, his mind no longer cared how far he stood from the earth bellow. His eyes and his entire being were focused on one single thing now: the edge of the cliff, coming closer and closer.

 

The sound was so near now, so close he could almost touch it, but as Legolas finally reached the top of the cliff, he saw naught there. The edge was small, a mere platform, limited by the abyss behind him and two other rock walls, mountains of stone so high that in his mind he doubted them to have an end.

 

In between the two cliffs, a narrow canyon split the stone like a sword’s blade cutting through black ice, surrounded in a mist as dense as the clouds, and cast in shadow by the two rock walls.

 

‘Mist and shadow’

 

Gandalf’s words seemed whispered in his ear, so real that the elf turned around, looking for the wizard. But there was no one there. He was still alone. But now, he knew what path was his to take.

Holding his guiding star in his hand, Legolas entered the dark passage, knowing that his answers lay beyond the mist.

 

~’’~

 

Chapter 9

 

~’’~

 

Haldir heard, long before seeing, when the dwarf arrived, out of breath, having raced to catch Aragorn’s long steps.

 

Gimli’s face registered a moment of pleased surprise at the presence of the elven army, quickly replaced by his stout expression before anyone could notice it.

Tales of the friendship between Legolas and one of Aüle’s sons had already reached the Lorien borders, and Haldir smiled as the dwarf struggled to keep his beliefs of untrustworthy and treacherous elves, now that he had learned better from Legolas.

 

“Gimli?” Haldir called.

 

The dwarf was surprised that, the same elven captain that had snubbed him in the Lady’s woods, was now talking to him and remembered even his name!

 

“The Lady of Light sends a message to you.” the elf said, taking from his pouch a small wooden box, “She said: that which is given by her, shall not be taken”

 

Gimli accepted the box from Haldir’s hands, puzzled. Like all things crafted by the Elves, the wooden box was a work of beauty, with low-relief carvings depicturing birds and leafs. The dwarf opened the lid and gasped.

 

Inside, three golden strings of hair shone under the torch’s light.

 

Gimli closed the wooden lid with care and held the box to his chest, close to his heart.

“How could she have known?” he asked.

 

But Haldir offered nothing but a knowing smile as an answer. Now that his messages were delivered, the elf searched for the face that was missing from their reunion.

“Tell me… where is Legolas? It was not long since we last met, but I which to have some words with him before this battle begins.”

 

Aragorn exchanged a sad look with Gimli and told the silvan elf all that had happened.

 

~’’~

 

He felt when the ground beneath his feet changed from hard rock to dry leafs and soft twigs and plants, that broke under his boots. The mist lifted, but he had no need to see it to know that he now stood in a forest. His forest.

 

Mirkwood.

 

He could smell home again, the unmistakable scent of pine trees, oak, plants and fertile soil, wet from the morning dew. There was a faint hummed sound in the underground, of life under the leaves, inside the tree trunks and beneath his feet.

 

Legolas could not tell if it was day or night, for the jealous trees kept all the sun’s rays for themselves, leaving that part of the forest in a never ending night.

He reached a small clearing, familiar and yet never seen, with tall, leaf covered trees that seemed both welcoming and menacing. In the middle of the circle of murky, gloomy trees, there was a child. A small boy, with a blindfold covering his eyes.

 

He was crying.

 

Legolas raced to him and knelt by the boy’ side.

“Shsss” he said, taking the blindfold away, “You are safe now, for I will protect you.”

 

The boy sniffed and cleaned the wetness from his eyes.

“Thank you.” a soft, melodious voice answered.

 

Legolas caressed the child’s blond hair, the touch of silk under his fingers. The soft locks parted to reveal two delicate pointed-tip ears. An elfling.

“Who did this to you?”

 

The elfling sobbed once more, “The old man.”

 

Legolas looked around, searching for the culprit, but only the dark trees stood around them, silent.

“Why didn’t you take the blindfold yourself?” he asked. Legolas could see the that elfling’s hands were free, so he could see no need for the child to have stayed in the dark like so for so long.

 

The elfling’ s intense blue eyes searched his, trapping him in his gaze.

“I was waiting for you.” he said, his voice too old for his years, “I called for you.”

 

Legolas frowned. And then understood.

“The voice… it was yours?”

 

The elfling nodded. Taking the hand of the older elf, the young one caressed Legolas’ head in a gesture that mirrored his own before, the same softness running through the child’ small fingers and the archer’s longer ones.

“Do you understand now?” the child asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

The elfling smiled, Legolas’ hand still in his. “Come.”

 

The small elf led Legolas to one of the tallest trees and started to climb. The older elf followed, trusting that his guide would take him to safety. Climbing higher and higher, the two elves soon broke through the dense canopy of trees, in to a world of brightness.

 

The sunlight shone with a multitude of colors, reflected in the higher leafs in a feast of greens, reds, browns and yellows.

Legolas closed his eyes to the bright light as it kissed his skin and warmed his heart. He could feel his blood racing faster, his breathing becoming easier, his soul lighter. He felt like singing, laughing and flying, all at the same time.

He refrained from indulging in those wishes, instead opening his eyes to the beauty that surrounded them both, a serene smile on his lips.

 

“It’s time to go.” the elfling’ s voice broke through his inebriated joy.

 

“Yes.” Legolas agreed. He kissed the small hand that still held his, and then his guide’s forehead. “I thank you.”

 

Young Legolas smiled and let his older self go.

 

~’’~

 

New lights could be seen in the dark plains, and this time there was no mistaking them. Thousands of burning spots marched towards the fort like a sea of lava, the wind carrying taunts and Orc curses.

The ground shook, trampled by heavy, muscled bodies, Orcs and Uruk-hai bearing long spears, knives, swords axes and pitchforks, anything that could maim and kill.

 

Inside the walls of Helm’s Deep, lights shinned too. The warriors waited, their fear growing in tempo with Saruman’s army pace, their enemies quickly changing from a whispered menace to a shouting reality.

The weaker emptied their stomachs against the walls, the acid smell lingering in the air like a herald of what was to come. None managed to stay untouched by fear.

 

The Elven warriors had been divided in to two groups, one up on the walls, the other hidden, down on the yard behind them. Haldir had delegated his command to Aragorn, knowing that the human would serve better as a bridge between the two armies. The ranger felt at ease among the elves, giving them words of encouragement and warning, sadly knowing that so many of these immortal beings would find their mortality in this cold dark night.

 

Gimli stood at his side as they made their stand on the front battlements, amidst the elven archers. The stone wall, tall enough to offer good protection to the men, with its narrow gaps so that the archers could fire their arrows, was never the less too high to allow any vision of what happened bellow to a dwarf.

“You could’ve picked a better spot.” he complained to Aragorn. “What’s happening out there? I can’t see naught!”

 

“Shall I describe it to you?” a voice said from behind them, “Or would you like me to find you a box?”

 

The two warriors looked at each other, the same startled expression in their faces, wandering if perhaps their ears had played some trick on them, and quickly turned around to look at the familiar figure that had spoken.

 

Legolas was looking at them with mischievous eyes and a smile on his lips.

 

Ranger and dwarf had no words, their jaws slacken and their eyes wide, full of surprise and joy. The elf was awake, up, and most important of all, he was truly ‘looking’ at them.

 

“How?” Aragorn managed to whisper.

 

Legolas took the ranger’s hand and carefully placed the silver star in the extended palm. “I had my friends beside me,” he answered with a calm smile, “and a good guide to bring me home.”

 

Aragorn closed his hand around the Evening Star and threw his arms around his friend. Gimli joined them, his short arms trying to surround both.

 

“Bless you laddie… it is good to see you thus!”

 

Some of the other elves around them turned their heads, surprised to see such a display of love and friendship between one of their kind and a dwarf. Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn paid them no heed.

 

“It is good to ‘see’ you too!” Legolas answered him.

 

~’’~

 

When the elf had awoken in the caves, he had thought to be still walking inside his dream. Legolas looked around, like a new born child, seeing things for the first time and becoming fascinated by them all. He realized these walls were not as dark as the ones in his dream. This cave glittered, like stars shinning from inside the rock, reflecting the warm light from the fires he could hear cracking.

Hushed sounds of women and children sounded from a distance, amplified and distorted by the hollow caves, but he saw none. Next to him, a woman with long fair hair sat, holding his hand in hers.

 

Legolas recognized her touch.

“Lady Éowyn” he whispered.

 

He had not meant to disturb her, having spoken softly for that purpose, but still she jumped. And then a smile graced her sad face.

“Master elf!” her hand tightened around his, “You had us all worried!”

 

“And for that I apologize.”

 

He sat up slowly, remembering the wound that his body had sustained. The initial dizziness that he had expected, subsided with a few steady, deep breaths, and Legolas flexed his shoulders and arms, testing the tenderness of his back. He was pleased to realize that his wound was almost fully healed.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost contact with reality for too long… what happens?” he asked.

 

Éowyn was brief in her explanations. The elf was on his feet as soon as she related how close Saruman’s army was. The battle was soon to begin, if it hadn’t already.

 

“I must join them!”

 

The shield maiden looked uncomfortable.

“Are you certain you should?” she asked, her gaze falling on the red welt crossing Legolas’ back, “Your wound stills heals and you…”

 

Éowyn could not find the words to say that he shouldn’t join the battle blind as he was, because she knew whatever she said, it would sound too close to the words she had heard from her uncle’s mouth, when he told her that she could not fight because she was a woman. She had seen him fight in the dark, she knew he could at least try to do it. She could try to do it. But she had promised lord Aragorn that his friend would be kept safe. And she had promised her uncle that his orders would be obeyed.

 

Legolas turned to face her, smiling. The thoughts in her mind were as clear as if she had spoken them. Shortening the distance between them, he grasped her hands and held them between their chests.

“I thank you for your concern, my lady,” he said, his eyes searching hers, “but you need not trouble yourself for me… for I am whole again.”

 

Éowyn looked in to the disturbingly clear eyes, trying to understand what he meant with his words. And she saw him looking back, following her eyes’ movement. She gasped. He could see her!

 

Her smile widened. And then her face reddened and her eyes dropped to the floor, as Éowyn realized how close she stood to the half undressed elf.

 

“Waste no more time then… I shall find you your weapons and something to wear in battle.” she muttered, leaving in a fast pace. Once properly dressed and armed, he would be able to do what was denied to her. Fight.

 

~’’~

 

Saruman’s army had stopped a short distance away from the keep’s walls. A mass of dark bodies and snarling yellow teeth, stomping their spears and banging their fists against their chests, challenging Human race.

 

And the skies wept for all the lives that would be lost.

 

On top of the walls, soldiers waited in silence, observing their enemies. Arrows were already poised on stretched strings, ready to fly and make their claim of death. Mortals and immortals stood side by side, glancing their common nemesis, knowing that tomorrow was a dream’s distance away, a goal not all would achieve.

 

They trembled in cold, the rain making their armors wet and heavier. They trembled in a mixture of fear and anxiety, a confusion of feelings where they did not wish to go to battle and, at the same time, prayed for it to start soon. They trembled, but they did not quail, for a will made of stone strengthened their hearts. The shadow of those that they were protecting, covered their backs and shielded their will. And they would not fail, for such situations of no reasonable choices and announced doom were often the ones that led ordinary men in to becoming heroes and legends.

 

Legolas was seeing, for the first time, the faces of those he had lived with the past weeks. Familiar voices he could hear here and there. The Rohan were no longer made out of just words, feelings and sounds, but had now shapes of their own, unveiled in to real beings of fair hairs and frightened eyes.

 

He had battled all of his life. The darkness, which lingered too near to the place he had been born, had made sure he knew few times of peace. Darkness had shaped his personality since his younger years, making him untrusting of others and used to depend on no one but himself. Darkness had stolen his mother away.

Legolas could recognize himself in the faces of the Rohan. How many years of peace had these children known? How many of them, now holding swords in their hands, had cried themselves to sleep in their mothers bosoms, not knowing what new devilries dawn would bring?

 

The weight of the bow in his hands was reassuring. An extension of his own arm that he had feared lost. More than anything, he had feared his archery days had been over, feared that he would not be able to fight that darkness any longer.

 

He had feared too much, when he should have trusted more. Like these people trusted they would prevail, simply because their cause was just and right.

 

Unlike Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel, he did not possess the gift of foresight. He could not tell what this night would bring, he could only hope that they would indeed prevail, for their cause was indeed just and the most right of them all. Life.

 

The shy was veiled, hiding the stars from eyes that had desired to see them for so long. In their stead, other stars, with lights of their own, shone around him.

 

The Rohan, fearsome spirits that refused to yield.

His kindred from Lothlorien, that by all rights should be on their way to the safety of the Grey Ports, but stood now, ready to die alongside Men.

The ranger that would be King of Men, Estel to the elves and to all that crossed his path.

The dwarf that had taught him not to judge by appearances and race, for they were often deceiving.

The friends that had stood by his side, the ones he hoped would still be by his side in the following day, when they all could gaze upon the light of the stars once again.

 

With a prayer to the Valar to keep his aim true, Legolas pulled the string of his bow and picked a target in the darkness below.

 

~’’~

 

The Uruk-hai army didn’t move, testing the men’s nerves, taunting them with the approaching doom and certain that the killing will be theirs to make.

 

Amidst the walls, tired arms that could no longer bear the pull of the bow’s string, released the arrow that had long waited to be free. It flew true, under the observing eyes of both armies, unhindered neither by poor aim or rain. The Orc it struck would not join this battle and the only blood he would taste was his own, as his body fell dead to the ground.

 

A silence, more menacing that any of the taunts and shouts of before, filled the plains like a heavy blanket.

 

Suffocating.

 

A scream ripped through the night, and the battle begun.

 

The end

 

 

(…)

Let your pain be my sorrow
Let your tears be my tears too
Let your courage be my model
That the north you find will be true
When there's no information
And the compass turns to nowhere that you know well

Let your soul be your pilot
Let your soul guide you
Let your soul guide you
Let your soul guide you upon your way...

Sting- Let your soul be your pilot

 

 

Author’s note: This is it! Its finished! Over! Now, I’ll be very, very angry at you all if you don’t FINALLY review this. Tell me everything, what you liked, what you didn’t like, what should’ve happened different, anything!

 

Those of you that have reviewed before THANK YOU SOOO MUCH, you’ve been very sweet to me - not a single flame :D – and I hope those that have been following this haven’t gotten disappointed with the way it ends.

 

Finally, a word to my betas: Marilyn (you were a pain in the a**, for which I thank you, couldn’t had done without you), Heike (it’s very nice to feel appreciated, thank you) and Naq (thank you for your work).

 

Another story is being cooked up, but, a fragile writer as I am (puppy eyes) I wont find the strength and courage to finish unless you guys feed me some reviews… so, do it!