Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

COTTONCROW’S CRY – Chapter one

The War of the Ring, as it came to be known, was over. So dark and troubled had been the end of the last Age, that it took a bit of an effort for the free people of Middle-Earth to realize that a new Age had begun.

To the initial period of disbelief, a surge of euphoria followed. Throughout the land, Men, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits and all other good creatures understood that the danger had passed and that the threat of Mordor was no longer upon their heads. And the euphoria gave room to a foolish belief that, with Sauron, all evil had been banished. Life made an effort to return to its normal path, only to discover that that path had forever been changed.

The Elves were leaving. Their existence in Middle-Earth had reached its winter, and a new life awaited and called for them in the lost lands to the West.

The Dwarves had returned to their mining and crafts, content once again with the peace of their isolated and earthly dwellings.

The Hobbits, lords and masters of a reconquered Shire, were all too happy to return to their simple lives, eager to leave adventure aside for many generations to come.

Men had found their King, and the lost heir of Isildur would lead them steadily in to this new Age. The Age of Men.

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Cottoncrow was a small village lost to all maps.

Sufficiently near to have heard about the war and troubles that had scourged Middle-Earth, but still far enough to stay away from the fights and the new king’s ruling.

Those born there lived freely, under their own rules and had done so for many generations. But it hadn’t always been like that.

In the time when Morgoth still walked the land, in the days when Middle-Earth was still young and the island of Númenor was still above the waterline, Cottoncrow was a place of death and slavery.

Caranthir, the cruellest of Fëanor’s sons, had fallen upon the Men who live there, with a group of elves whose hearts were as dark as his. Before moving to the lands north of Gelion, there he imposed his ruling and will. Those had been days so filled with pain and terror that, for a while, Cottoncrow was a village of living-dead.

Ages came and went, things changed, the elves moved on, and the dwellers of such a lost village could once more rule themselves, returning to their quiet existence of farming and fishing. But those days were never forgotten… and never were they forgiven.

The town’s location seemed almost idyllic, like a hidden pearl in an oyster of green and gold. A river ran east of the dwellings, with a lusty wooded area separating the two. The farmers took advantage of the fertile earth and planted their crops north and south of their homes. There, the fields were alive and colourful, with corn, rye, barley and rice, either steadily growing or waiting to be harvested. To the west, snow-peaked hills shielded them from the cold ocean’s breeze and offered iron for their smiths.

All days but one, as early as the rooster sang, the market place would fill with those offering and those searching for goods to trade. On the free day, the leader of the village would gather with the oldest of every family of nearby and discuss what was needed, what had been accomplished and all that was to be done.

The children learned at home with their parents, not of letters or sums, things they had no use for, but about the crafts that their fathers had learned from their fathers. Sons were taught to work, the daughters were taught to obey.

They had no written laws. Whatever problem might occur was solved between the interested parties and the town’s leader. They ruled themselves by Nature’s teachings, and to Nature they paid their devotion and offered their prayers. It was the earth that would give them a good year’s crop or starve them through the long and chilly winter. It was the water from the river that would offer them its fish or drown the fishermen that tried to hunt there. It was the sky above their heads that would send them rain to help the blossom of their seeds or to wash them away.

They knew how temperamental Nature was, and with that knowledge in mind, they tried their best not to anger Her. In return, they were blessed with fields as full and healthy as the ones they had been blessed with this beginning of Age.

They were to Nature what Nature was to them in return, and nothing would befall them as long as they followed this rule.

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The first ones had been the family of the fisherman John, who lived outside the village. Their customers and friends noticed their absence from the market. Five days later, seeing that they still would not come, a friend of the family went to their home, near the river.

As no one answered his calls, the villager entered the dark, wooden house. The first thing he noticed was the smell.

Being a fisherman’s home, the man thought that the smell was perhaps due to some forgotten fish, left to rotten somewhere in the house. A pot of food sat on the long dead fire coals and all of their fishing tools were store against the wall near the door. A few wood and rag toys lay scattered around the dirty floor, but the sound of children was absent from the house.

The man went to the large window and opened it, letting the sun and fresh air inside. And with the brighter light, he saw the bodies.

The fisherman and his wife were in a corner the main room, in a large cot, propped against a wall. Their small boys lay there as well, hidden at first look by the bodies of the parents.

They had all died curled upon themselves, soiled by their own vomit. Their skin, turn in to a yellow-greenish colour, gave them the look of rotten cattle. Their faces were masks of pain. The fisherman had died with his eyes open, and even the unnatural tone that death gave everything could not hide the fear in them.

The man trembled in fright, horrified by such a vision, wondering what could have caused this. He ran out of the haunted place, fearful that it might strike him too, and didn’t stop until he reached the village.

It wasn’t long before others started to die as well.

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The old carpenter was next. Purple spots that he told no one about, started to appear all over his body, giving him feverish spells. When all of his skin started to take a yellowish tinge, the old man closed his shop and refused to leave his house, afraid to be seen by any of the others.

They had all seen the fisherman’s family when they were brought to be buried. And the sight had frightened them all.

The colour was wrong, the gravedigger had granted them, and even the healer refused to touch any of the bodies. In the end, they had decided to burn them, as no one wanted them in the same ground as their dead relatives.

The matter was, after a time, forgotten, until the body of the old carpenter was found.

Panic spread as fast as the strange disease. Fishermen, farmers, shepherds, blacksmiths, housewives, everywhere it struck, killing the older, the weaker, the children and the newborn babies. Even the larger beasts were not spared, horses, cows and dogs dying faster than humans.

The people lived in fear, not knowing or understanding how this could be happening. Why? Had they done something to deserve such a curse upon their heads? They talked about a plague, they talked about demons, but no one could come up with a reason for such a hard punishment.

Samuel, the healer, found himself powerless to stop the inclement and savage path this disease took. The Bruisenbite, they had started to call it. It always started with the purple marks, like little bruises all over the body. The stricken burned with fever for three days, until their pain was too overwhelming. Their skin and eyes would turn into a sick shade of yellow, and their stomachs could take no food. No survivors were left to tell their tales. Ruthless and quick, it was a killer that never missed its mark.

The healthy ones grew scared of the fast way in which it spread, and refused any contact with those infected, taking no heed if they were long time friends or even family. All were abandoned in equal manner. At first sign of the Bruisenbite, the stricken were forced into an old, abandoned house, outside of the village, where they were left to die. When one met his or her end, the body would be dragged outside by any infected still strong enough to do it, and burned.

The fires were lit almost everyday, but still the stench of death and sickness impregnated all of Cottoncrow.

The inhabitants of such a cursed place turned to their ruler for guidance, for he was seen as one of the oldest and wisest men in the district. This time, however, he had no words of encouragement or wisdom to offer them. Not since his youngest son’s disappearance, at the beginning of the current season. Bomieth, as the old man was named, had lost all interest in life and the affairs of his village, living only to see the return of his son.

After Bomieth, Samuel was the most respected man by all, not only because of his understandings of healing plants and herbs, but also because of his gift.

Samuel, it was told, was able to tell the future, much in the same way, as, on feast days, he would gather an audience and tell tales of the past.

They turned to him then, not in search of a healing broth, for they had confirmed to themselves that none would work, but in search of a way to drive this plague away from their homes.

After much persuasion, for it was not something he idly did, Samuel agreed to look upon the folds of fate. He took a set of five stones, which had been given to him by the Dwarves on one of his many travels. Each stone was engraved with a black rune and, as he cast them to the ground inside his house, some of the runes were left facing up, others hidden from view. Samuel looked at his five stones for a long time, earning the impatience of young Tom, who had gone to him in representation of all the others.

“So?… What do you see?” He asked when he had no more nails to eat.

Samuel looked up, his face trying to mask the annoyance of being interrupted.

“It is not very clear,” he begun at last, analysing the three runes facing up. “I see the mark of Sauron…”

Tom choked on his own spit, looking around in fear, as if the dark lord had entered the room himself.

“… the Bruisenbite,” Samuel went on, ignoring Tom’s reaction, “and a two headed creature.”

In front of him, the young butcher had grown pale.

“And what do you understand of such signs?” he asked with growing fear.

Samuel thought for long, turning over the other two stones, one at a time.

“The three are connected like the links of a chain. Break the weakest and we might have a chance. Sauron, from what we hear, was defeated in the south, but the power of his legacy is much too strong for us to face. He seeks revenge, unleashing the Bruisenbite on us, and that one, we have already realized that it is beyond us to defeat. We must face this two headed creature and break the chain that binds us!”

Tom nodded, still in shock at what he had heard. If before he held little hope of them beating this evil, now his hopes were laughable, facing the magnitude of what they must overcome.

“A two headed creature… I have never seen one. Do they even exist?”

Samuel held the younger man’s eyes, trying to determine if he was doubting his word or merely curious. He decided on the last.

“I do not know… I can only tell you what the runes have shown me,” the healer said, storing the stones away. “We have never seen a elf either and yet we have no doubts that they are evil and cunning creatures, who have caused much grief and pain to our forefathers. Let us take this warning at heart and be watchful and prepared for whatever may come!”

A steely determination took over young Tom, and saying his thanks, he went to tell the others all he had heard. And so it was that, in a village decimated by the Bruisenbite, all which were still healthy and able, readied themselves for the coming of the two-headed creature.

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COTTONCROW’S CRY – Chapter two

With the destruction of the One ring, the Fellowship that had been formed in Rivendell to protect the Ring Bearer, had all gone its separate ways.

Aragorn, now crowned king of Gondor, stayed in Minas Tirith, where he ruled in justice and kindness for many years, helped in his charge by Faramir, his Stewart and ruler of Ithilian; Éomer, king of Rohan; and by Arwen, his companion and queen.

Gandalf stayed with him for a time, before joining the other ring-bearers in the Grey Harbours, from where they parted to the lost lands of Valinor.

The Hobbits, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin, returned to their Shire lands, where they lived many adventures more, until and after Frodo’s departure.

And Legolas, the elf, joined Gimli, the dwarf on a journey of their own, fulfilling the promises both had made, of returning to the Glittering Caves and the forest of Fangorn, where the Ents dwelled.

While the caves drove the elf speechless with their beauty, Gimli could not help but to admit that, as far as forests went, Fangorn had a charm of its own that had pleased him.

Content to have visited the places where their hearts had felt more at home, home they decided to go next, for long had they stayed away from their kin and kindred. As their realms were in close proximity, they decided to travel together. Although the dark of Mordor was vanquished, some paths were still not safe to travel alone.

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Looking at the landscape that surrounded them, one could hardly believe that anything of evil could ever sprout out of it.

They walked in the cool shade of the near forest, its trees tall and lusty with leaves, deep greens in a sea of brown, red and gold. Tiny white flowers, like snowflakes, painted the lower branches and surrounding ground in fake winter colors.

“Confess, friend Gimli, magnificent and imposing as any cave you know might be, none can ever match the beauty and serenity of the woods,” Legolas said lightly, his eyes reflecting the azure of the clear sky.

“Bah! Fair opinion that is bound to be, coming from a wood-elf!” Gimli grunted by his side. “The only thing I’m ready to confess is that these blasted trees are giving me an itch worse than fleas do!” He said, rubbing his red nose for the nth time.

Legolas laughed.

“I do believe you are right.” he said, pointing to white cotton-like flowers that the breeze was carrying from the trees. “It’s the blossom season… You’re not the first one to be affected by it.”

Gimli sneezed in reply, mumbling under his breath something that Legolas chose not to understand.

The elf took a deep breath, mocking the suffering dwarf. His nose filled to its content in the sweet and fresh scent of green leaves, springwoods and fertile earth… and then he gagged.

“What?” Gimli asked in mocked concern for the face the elf was making. “Flower up your nose?”

“Orcs!” Legolas hissed between his clenched teeth.

“What!? Here? Now?”

But the elf wasn’t there to listen any longer. Gimli swore and drop his bag, following his friend, who had climbed up a tree branch and was already entering the woods. Not too far off, they found the owners of the smell that Legolas had caught.

A group of about a dozen Orcs sat around their catch, eating.

“There ain’t that many,” Gimli whispered, eager to end the idle days of his axe. “We can take them!”

“They’re doing no wrong,” the elf pointed out, watching as the Orcs struggled amongst themselves for the larger pieces.

Gimli grumbled.

“Give them enough time to sniff you, like you did them, and you will see them do wrong, first hand!”

Legolas was about to agree with that argument, when the chance was stolen from his hands. Gimli sneezed.

The Orcs’ attentions quickly shift from the food to the two intruders, gathering their weapons. Their bloodshot, cat-like eyes locked with the elf and dwarf with a promise of certain death. They moved slowly, menacing in their gestures and taunts, the dense canopy of the green roof turning their screeches and grunts all the more disturbing and evil. A flock of birds flew away in panic, and the first Orc fell dead, an arrow’ shaft and fletching sticking from his forehead.

Gimli landed on top of the group of Orcs like a force of Nature. Dwarfish curses filled the air as he wielded his axe with all the strength and might of a sturdy, long seasoned warrior. Two fell under his broad blade before they could even attack.

“Hey, elf!” He shouted over the battle’s noise, lopping heads like a farmer chopping crops. “We never settled our score, did we?”

Legolas smiled as his arrows found three more targets.

“You mean, you never admitted defeat?” He said, replacing the bow for his two white handle knives, in the same fast and fluid movement.

“We should settle it now!” Gimli said, pretending the elf hadn’t said a thing.

They were down to the last three Orcs, when a deep growl shook the ground under their feet. Branches moaned and were crunched under the paws of the large troll, its massive arms and fists smashing the surrounding vegetation as if it was made of wet paper. Under the protection of the leave-leaden branches, the troll moved unhindered and unafraid of the sun’s light, led in to the fight by a second group of Orcs.

Leaderless, they had wandered lost in these lusty woods for too long, without tasting the blood of their enemies and having for sport only a few lost humans or wild beasts that they could find. But those died all too soon in their hands, feeble things that they were.

Now, the time to parch that thirst had finally come. Perhaps they would restrain from killing their attackers swiftly and, instead, make their tortured screams warm up this night.

The trees cried out their warning to the wood-elf, their leaves trembling in fear of the violence in their mist. They could not move or defend themselves, but their concern lied not on their own salvation, but on the innocent blood that they did not want to see spilled upon their roots.

The remaining Orcs, seeing the arrival of reinforcements, took new heat in battle, certain that victory was theirs.

Gimli roared and launched himself to meet them head on, the bulk of his small but heavy body adding more strength to the power of his axe. An Orc lost his head as he ventured to face the dwarf, fooled in to believing him an easier opponent because of his size. The others behind him didn’t fell in to the same mistake, trying instead to surround the warrior and attack all at once. Gimli didn’t miss a beat, as he swung his axe around, taking as many adversaries down as he could.

To Gimli’s left, Legolas held his twin knives, dancing around his own group of Orcs. His blades had already tasted the flesh of four of them, when the large troll came charging through, throwing bodies around, mindless of whether they were friends or foes, for a Troll has no friends. He came to a stop in front of the elf, scaring away the last Orcs he fought.

Legolas looked from the club in the beast’s hand, high up in to its face, taking in the size of his adversary.

The troll, as if trying to terrify his opponent, seemed to grow even larger, growling and waving his fists. Unfortunately for him, his heavier bulk and mass were of no help when fighting an elf. To Legolas, he seemed to move like an oversized fly, struggling through molasses, delayed in time like the thunder that never manages to catch the lightning bolt.

The troll attacked, raising his club high up above his head. When the splintered weapon hit the ground, with the force of rockslide, the elf was no longer there. Pain reached the creature’s brain, telling him something bled in his legs, before falling heavily to the earth, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The trickiest part done, to bring his opponent to his level, Legolas easily slit the beast’s throat, ending the troll’s suffering.

The elf took a deep breath and turned around, ready to face whatever foes were left. Alive, he found only Gimli, a smug smile on his lips, seating on top of a rather large, and very dead, Orc.

“No need to say it,” Legolas raised his hands in surrender. “This counts only as one,” he said, pointing to his last kill.

Gimli smiled.

“Aye!”

Legolas paused, taking out a cloth to clean the black blood from his blades, mentally counting.

“Ten then.”

The dwarf’s smug expression widened across his beard.

“What an unfortunate thing it must be, for an elf to be bested by a dwarf…” he said, tasting his victory. “My axe felled twelve!”

“Half starved and tired as they were, what a victory it must be…” Legolas teased him.

Gimli’s smugness notched down a few inches. Snorting, he stored his axe away.

“A victory none the less… and as the winner, I believe it is my privilege to claim a prize on the loser!” He announced, enjoying the uneasiness his words were causing.

“And just what do you pretend to claim?” The elf asked, not liking the mischievous look in his friend’s eyes.

Gimli scratched his beard, apparently lost in thought.

“My boots have served me well…” he started, trying not to laugh at the suspicious way in which Legolas was regarding his worn and mud caked old boots, “… but I’m afraid I’ve worn their soles too thin. You will help my tired boot soles, by carrying me,” he finished with a smile.

Legolas blinked.

“You can’t be serious!”

“A game is a game, master Elf, and the sport tastes all the better when the prize is worthy!” Gimli lectured, getting ready for his ‘ride’. He stopped in the middle of the trees and looked at the still stunned elf. “Unless you fear that that fragile elven constitution of yours proves to be too weak for my strong dwarven body?”

Legolas eyed the ‘strong dwarven body’ from the top of its red haired head to the tip of the heavy chain mail, which Gimli still insisted on wearing.

“I thought Dwarves had no love for riding.”

Gimli nodded.

“We see no need for it, for our legs are strong and able,” he agreed with pride, “ but tis not everyday that one rides such a regal mount, hey princeling?” He teased his friend.

The look in Legolas’ bright eyes promised sure retribution… later.

Together, they piled the troll and Orc’s corpses away from the trees, and set them on fire, resting for a while before continuing on their way. Neither wanted to spend the night anywhere near the lingering smell of the vile creatures. When they left, Gimli was allowed on Legolas’ back, claiming his award.

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COTTONCROW’S CRY – Chapter three

The group of men had laboured until late that day, trying to save as much of the crops as they could. Some of the fields should have been harvested at least three moons ago, but few of those not affected by the Bruisenbite could be spared to that task. Finding the village’ supplies drastically diminishing, the men had worked hard to assure that, at least, they would not starve.

The evil disease had given them no slack, having already claimed half of the villagers. Some had tried to leave, but it wasn’t safe outside either. Of the three families that had parted, two men had returned, terrified and in shock, telling of the attack that they had suffered at the hands of a stray group of Orcs. No one had left after that.

David, the carpenter, called for a halt and dropped his side of the wagon that they were pulling. He passed a hand through his forehead, to clean the sweat that had gathered there. His gaze fixed in a distant point and he squinted to better see.

“What is that?” He asked, pointing at the edge of the forest.

The setting sun had dressed the woods in dark colours. The heat that had scourged the land during the day was now released from the ground to meet the cold night, forming a mist that rose in soft wisps and cast everything around in a dream like mist.

The other men looked to where David’s finger pointed, forcing their eyes to see what moved ahead.

A tall figure walked at a good pace, along the lines of the distant trees. Like a ghost, it appeared and vanished behind the tree trunks, as if made of no solid matter. The men looked carefully, trying to see if it were perhaps someone from the village, looking for them. As the figure moved on to a less dense part of the woods, the men gasped in fear and surprise, as they realize that this was no villager. This was no man.

The deformed figure had one short arm and a long one, both carrying weapons. The long legs seemed too thin for its bulky constitution, built like a hunchback, with straight forms in front and hunched behind. And two heads, one in front of the other, stood so close together that, at first, they had mistaken one for a hood.

In front of their eyes, the strange creature leaped off of the ground with the same ease as they would jump over a small rock in their path, and disappeared.

Their limbs trembling in fright, the men sought whatever refuge they could find, afraid that the monster had seen them as well and now moved to attack.

“Tis the creature Tom warned us about!” One of the men whispered when he recovered his voice.

“The two headed beast!” Another hissed, grasping the handle of the scythe he carried.

“This is our chance!” David put in with fervour, one hand over the shoulder of his son, a boy still young, but already doing his part to help. “If we manage to capture this evil creature and take it to Samuel, our village stands a chance of being saved!”

The other men looked around at their poor group. Most were not as young as David and his son and they carried no weapons with then, other than their working tools.

“We’re too few…” one pointed out, “… We are nothing but farmers… How can we hope to win over such beast?”

“Aye! We all heard what Tom said… Samuel saw that this creature was in allegiance with the Dark Lord himself!” The man said, touching his groin, as it was custom, to keep that evil away.

David looked each of them in the eyes.

“So we are to turn our backs without even trying?” He asked in earnest. The men refused to meet his eyes.

They knew what was right to do, but they were scared.

“Look, luck is on our side!” He added, excited.

The group of men shift their gaze from the ground back to the strange beast. It had returned to the ground.

“It camps near the castle ruins! The old tunnel is still open, is it not?”

Brouk, one of the oldest farmers, nodded.

“Aye, the opening is but a few yards away.”

“We can catch it unawares then! What do you say?” David asked them, praying that they would realize that fate would not provide them with a chance like this a second time.

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“Should we join them?” Gimli asked, silently enjoying his higher point of view up on Legolas’ back. For him, the group was nothing but shadows moving between the tree trunks, but the dwarf trusted the elf’s word, saying them to be a group of men, farmers he had told. “Or do your legs trouble you so, that you can’t make it there?” Gimli teased.

Legolas laughed.

“My legs trouble me no more than the dirt is troubled by our passing, my friend,” he answered enigmatically, his head turning left and right, searching for something in the trees.

Gimli frowned at the strange answer, looking at the back of his friend’s head for an explanation. As he got none, Gimli shift his body to look back. Sure enough, there were faint footprints on the ground.

“Well, now, there’s a thing unheard of…” He began laughing, but ended up gasping, as Legolas jumped from the ground and climbed with ease a nearby tree.

“Have you lost all that’s left of your sense?!” Gimli stressed out between clenched teeth, grasping the elf’s shoulders with all of his strength, as solid ground was left behind at an unhealthy distance. He dared one look down, seeing his axe where it had landed, and quickly closed his eyes.

“Nay,” the elf explained, his arms opened wide to help balance the additional weight. “I merely thought of easing the ground of our burden,” he finished with a bemused smile.

Legolas knew how much Gimli hated high places, having heard his complains and curses on more than one occasion. For now, though, he felt that a walk through the tall trees was just the right way to teach the dwarf to never again trust his choice of path to an elf. Particularly a wood-elf.

When Legolas thought his revenge was satisfying enough, he left the tree branches, the movement so smooth that Gimli, with his eyes closed tightly, didn’t realize it until his feet touched the earthy floor once again.

“That… was far from entertaining!” Gimli complained, quickly regaining his composure, but losing his temper when he saw how this amused his friend. “Dwarves are two legged creatures who like their feet on the ground, not elven-monkeys that are use to spend their days swinging from tree-branches!”

Legolas raised one fine eyebrow.

“Then, perhaps, elven-monkeys are not the most suitable ride for a dwarf,” he offered with no contempt.

Gimli grumbled, grabbing his axe from the ground and inspecting its condition.

“Now, if I’m forgiven,” Legolas paused and smile, seeing that Gimli needed no apologies, “and answering your question, I would prefer spending one last night amongst the trees, before dwelling in another city of Men. What say you?”

Gimli sighed. He longed to sleep in a bed again, even if the admission of such longing would never pass through his lips. That group of men had held the sweet promise of a soft bed and warm ale too close, and his body was growing tired and sore of sleeping in the hard ground.

But by now he knew his companion well enough, and what had begun as a mere suspicion, was now a bright certainty. Legolas held little love for the cities of Men, less even than what he held for dark caves.

And Gimli recognized that, to a certain point, he agreed with the elf. He didn’t feel the pressure of the heavy stone structures like his friend from the woods did, but he had felt a bit uneasy during the time they remained in both Edoras and Minas Tirith. Men were ever suspicious of those different from them, and quick to pass judgement to those they did not know. For some reason that he could not comprehend, an elf and a dwarf had seemed to stand out the most in those places, and bring out the curiosity and fear to the heart of Men.

To be true to himself, Gimli had to admit he too wasn’t above those feelings of unrest and suspicion when he was faced with different races and cultures. For long the sight of any long legged creature had been a little stressful for him. How could they walk properly with shanks of that size? It seemed likely to him that any stronger gush of wind would lift them off their feet and send them flying like a dry straw. But he had grown accustomed to that, the same way he had grown accustomed to many other strange and foreign things.

It was the odd looks and whispered comments, whenever they walked by, that had really annoyed him. Strange believes, born out of lack of knowledge or simple superstitions towards Dwarven kind, often led to even stranger attitudes and behaviours towards him. And while, sometimes, these situations amused him, there were other times when they wounded his pride so deeply that he found it hard to control his ill temper.

Thought not once had they been mistreated on either place, Gimli knew that, like him, the elf’s patience had been many times tested by the ways of Men and some of their habits, or lack of them. He had been more than glad to leave those cities, and Gimli was sure that the only reason for him to ever return there was the bond of friendship, that held him so strongly. And in the name of that same friendship, the dwarf decided that his body could do with another night in a hard bed of earth and leaves.

“Aye, the night looks pleasant enough for us to partake it with your trees and branches!”

Legolas smiled in appreciation.

“Those ruins,” Gimli pointed out, “look like a good enough place.”

Gathering some long dead and dry branches on their way, the two companions soon had a warm fire going. A comfort not only for the body, for the nights were still chilly, but for the soul as well, replacing the light of the hiding sun.

From what had once been a small but sturdy castle, only two walls and a half collapsed tower remained. The wooden gate and the metal work had long since rotted or disappeared and now, the only beings that took residence there were the forest and its creatures.

“Elves lived here once,” Legolas whispered as they neared the eerie stones. “A very long time ago.”

“They didn’t do a very good job of building it, I can tell you that!” Gimli said, his critical eye analysing the uneven way in which the large stones had been laid one upon the other.

“They didn’t build it… just used it,” the elf said, his voice mirroring his confusion. Much pleasure did the elves in Mirkwood took from weaving their own dwellings, growing and carving them with the same patience and care that one raised and educate a son. The same had he observed in both Imladris and Lothlorien, places where the constructions’ beauty merely reflected the beauty of those who lived there.

Why had these elves let others build such crude surroundings for them escaped Legolas’ understanding and even his knowledge of history. Mayhap it was that they took residence there as a necessity. Whatever motives those elves might have had, they were beyond Legolas’ grasp, for he could not know who had inhabited those woods in the prime days of the trees, when he was not yet born.

Gimli did not discuss Legolas’ claims about the history of these stones, for his friend was like a living book, who could tell of ancient times not as he had read them, but as he had lived them. But, built by elves or not, what was left of the stone walls provided good refuge against the elements and so, in their shadow, they camped.

Legolas would usually hunt some game for their meal, but on that night, he felt uneasy to do so. Something in these woods was calling out to him, trying to pass a message that he could not understand, or maybe it was that the trees were not awoken enough to make it understandable. They ate from their supplies of dried meat and sat by the fire, the flames casting strange shapes and figures in the stones around them.

The days had grown longer, but night came as always, a moonless sky draping its cloak filled with stars over the two travellers.

Legolas leaned against one of the trees that had peacefully invaded the ancient ruins, lost in the words of a sad song and let his melodious voice run free through the forest. He looked up, searching the sky through the tall trees, the shining stars above playing an eternal game of hide and seek with the rustling leaves. His thoughts wandered far, carried upon the wings of the seabirds, in to the unknown.

Gimli sat nearer to the fire, carefully cleaning his axe while watching his friend from the corner of his eye.

It wasn’t the first time that he saw the elf with that expression on his face, isolated in a part of himself where he let no one in. The sea longing, as Gimli had understood it, was like an itch that wouldn’t go away until scratched.

One day, when Gimli had felt particularly frustrated with Legolas unwillingness to talk about the matter, the dwarf had sought his answers from Aragorn, the only he knew to have sufficient knowledge about Elves and more sense then them, to give him a straight answer. But the ranger turned king had little knowledge to share, mainly because it was a matter around which all elves were very tight lipped. It was a call to return home, he had explained, but a call that wasn’t heard by all, and a home that many had never seen before.

Legolas was an elf born in Middle-Earth, so the only memories he held of Valinor were those that came from the tales he had been told by the older elves of Mirkwood… and yet he had heard its calling.

Aragorn had warned Gimli that, eventually, all elves were bound to answer such call, even if some took longer than others. Each had hoped that many generations of Men passed before Legolas answered his. Still, it remained as a dark cloud over the three friends. And every time Gimli saw his friend in these moods, he feared that the storm was getting nearer.

Gimli rose and stretched, laying his, now cleaned and shinny, axe near the remains of the stone bench where he had sat.

“Time to water these lovely trees,” he said with a smirk.

Legolas’ gaze lazily left the stars and focused on his friend.

“Your skills as gardener leave much to be desired,” he replied to Gimli’s back, as the dwarf moved further away, in to the woods, laughing.

The elf occasionally wondered how would his friend manage when he returned to his mountain dwellings, now that he had developed such a fondness for using trees as a target when his bladder needed emptying. Except for Fangorn, Legolas remembered with a smile, his eyes returning to the starlight.

In that particular forest, there had been Ents to consider. If the dwarf had indulged in such actions amongst them, mistaking them for innocent, unmoving trees, the Ents might have shown him their disapproval at being ‘watered’ in such manner, in ways that the dwarf would probably never forget.

Legolas took a deep breath, filling his lungs to the full. Different woods had different smells; much in the same way as they had different songs. Fangorn had a scent of old oak and moss and its song was ancient and elaborate, like a spider’s web. These woods were much younger and innocent, barely touched by the evil of Mordor, smelling of pine trees and fern.

He felt refreshed amongst these trees, his siblings in age and spirit, feeling their existence course through him like sap, leaving him light hearted and hopeful, as hopeful as he could feel in these days.

The further he got away, the stronger the pull became.

He had dreamt of it again last night. The sea. And in his dreams, he was as happy as an elfling. Before Dol Guldur, before the Ring, before Mordor… before the gulls.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Of the whole group, only two had ever ventured inside the old tunnels before and, even so, they had been children then. It took them a while to find the right exit as the tunnel, instead of running straight, had many twists and turns, as if the ones that had built it had circled every tree root they had encountered in their path. By the time they met fresh air again, the only sounds they could hear in the silent night were the rustling of leaves and the singing of crickets.

The creature sat with its back to them, leaning against a tree trunk, sleeping. The men congratulated themselves for their good fortune so far, reading these as signs that fate was on their side. As silently as they could, they moved to attack.

Legolas was roused from his wandering thoughts by a change in the air, the feeling of a new presence in the forest. And suddenly the trees’ whisperings made sense to him. Danger approached.

Jumping to his feet, he turned to face a group of six men. The men looked at him with a mix of fear and shock. A moment of confusion and hesitation passed between the men, and when it passed, they were charging.

At first glance, Legolas reasoned that these were not lost wanderers or common burglars. They carried nothing but farming tools and, if not for the crawling feeling upon his skin, the elf would have thought them harmless.

Deeply believing that this was some sort of misunderstanding, Legolas was almost surprised when they attacked. He was reluctant to use his weapons on them, even if he could, for they stayed out of his reach, near Gimli’s axe, on the other side of the fire. He had fought Orcs and other evil creatures almost all of his life, but few had been the times when he had been forced to raise his weapons against Men, and, even then, Men that had levelled themselves with the likes of Orcs. Murderers and corsairs.

The men attacked in group, determined to give their prey no chance, now that they had recognized him as an elf. But their prey, even without weapons, was far from defenceless.

Two came armed with nothing but sturdy-looking branches, weapons that Legolas could easily dodge. His attention, however, was on the ones carrying a pitchfork, a long handle scythe and an axe.

The two men swung their branches in a direct path to the creature’s midriff but, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. They looked back, searching for him. A speeding fist in the face send one sprawling to the ground, dazzled. The other, pushed by fear and surprise over the creature's velocity, risked a second swing, faster this time.

Unable to escape or change position as he had done before, on pain of leaving himself unprotected against the other four, Legolas deflected the branch with his left arm. The blow left his arm smarting, but he had no time to pay it any heed. Twisting his arm, the elf grabbed the branch from the surprised man’s hands and, in a quick move, hit his face with it.

The one carrying the scythe nervously aimed his weapon low, Legolas noticed. They were not trying to kill, but rather subdue him. For what purpose, he could not guess.

The man holding the sharp tool gasped as the creature, taking advantage of his forward momentum, side stepped him and took the weapon from his hands. The man could not stop himself as the creature pushed him forward and sent him colliding with a tree.

Legolas turned around, in time to block the axe that was coming down on him, held by a young boy. The elf looked in to his eyes and saw only fear. No anger, no blood thirst, no greed… just fear, of him.

“Why are they acting thus?” The elf asked the frightened boy, who still tried to push his axe forward, even after realizing that the other was stronger than him.

The boy, David’s son, was startled to hear the creature speaking to him, in the tongue of Men none the less. He had thought it a beast, unable of wording its thoughts in an understandable tongue. He had seen two heads before and could only one now. He had been told that elves were evil creatures, and to him, all that was evil was foul to look at. The creature in front of him was a thing of beauty.

Legolas sensed another attacker coming from behind and, acting on a long developed instinct, shifted his body away from harm. In the same splinting second, the elf realized with growing horror what would be the consequences of his actions.

The boy in front of him, still surprised by what had happened, was too slow. His brown eyes widened in shock, quickly followed by blinding pain, as the pitchfork’s teeth bit deeply in to his stomach.

“Brenn!!” The man holding the weapon screamed, dropping to his knees, white faced. Trembling fingers grabbed handfuls of black hair, in despair and pain.

Gimli arrived out of breath, his belt still unbuckled, having raced back as fast as he could when he heard the commotion. The scene lightened by the amber tones of the fire was, in the very least, bizarre.

Two men, apparently unconscious, laid by the farthest trees, while another sat on the ground, holding a bleeding nose. The elf looked like frozen in ice, a scythe forgotten in his hands, as he stared at the two men in front of him. Gimli followed his gaze to the ground, where a man howled in pain, crying as he held a boy. The pool of blood gathering around his body and the vacant look in the child’s eyes told Gimli the boy was dead.

That the elf had managed to stand his own against the group of attackers was of no surprise to the dwarf. It was the silence that had overcome all, and the look in Legolas’ eyes that gave Gimli a worrisome feeling in the pit of his stomach.

On the opposite side of them, another man also had an absent look in his eyes, tears running down his face like rivers of sorrow. But, instead of pain or death, his face registered anger.

“This is your fault, beast!” He yelled, grabbing the boy’s fallen axe and charging forward.

The motion of raising the scythe in his hands to block the first attack came unbinding to Legolas. His mind was lost in grief over what had passed, but his body was much too used to defend itself without the need of thought or planning.

The man stroke again, tears blinding his eyes, raw wrath adding strength to his arms. His blows were blunt of danger but fiery, and his frustration grew with the realization that the creature defended all of his attacks without even striking back. The man felt like a toy, a plaything in the paws of a cat, being made to look like a fool by the killer of his kindred’s son.

Legolas wanted for the man to spend his strength and give up, so that he could just leave this place. He knew now what the trees had been whispering about. It had been a mistake to stop there.

Seeing that the two unconscious men were beginning to stir, Gimli moved to retrieve his axe and guard them. The dwarf tried to keep a sharp eye on all of them at the same time, but with the men all scattered around the place, Gimli found that hard to achieve. When a pained gasp reached his ears, the dwarf knew he had left one unchecked.

Oooooooooooooo

The man fighting him was growing tired, Legolas could tell. The blows were not as strong as before, and half of then didn’t meet their target. The elf made one single attack motion, as he circled the man and, pressing two fingers against his jaw, send him unconscious to the ground.

Legolas could see Gimli standing guard over the rest of the strangers, but his eyes avoided the dead boy. The look in the child’s eyes as he had met death would haunt him forever. But grieved as he was, he knew that they could not linger. These men had some dark propose behind their attack, and he would not linger long enough to learn of it.

A movement far at the edge of the forest caught his troubled attention. Even with his elven sight, he could barely tell who the figure was, as it restarted to move, in and out of view, treading behind the trees. A woman, he guessed by the clothes she wore, even if a hood covered her head. She moved against the black night like a wraith and even from that distance, he could feel the sadness that poured from her like waves on a violent sea. It had been the glint of stars on her necklace that had caught his eyes, for he knew no other matter that would glitter like that except for mithrill, and the presence of that metal so far from the dwarven mines intrigued him.

A cold chill ran up his arms, alerting him to danger. But his distraction had cost him dearly, as a smoking piece of wood hit the side of his head, bringing him to his knees. A faint surprised gasp escaped his lips and he felt his head being pulled back and cold steel pressed against his neck.

Oooooooooooooo

Sending one last menacing look to the dazzled men he had been guarding, Gimli raced to the other end of the encampment. The dead boy’s body lay now abandoned, and the man that had been holding it had was now holding Legolas.

“Take no further step, dwarf!” the man said without looking up.

Gimli stopped, his mind franticly searching for a course of action. The weapon that Legolas had been holding lay on the ground, abandoned. The dwarf could see a small knife trembling in the man’s hand. Legolas’ face looked pained, and his eyes were slightly unfocused. The man had a firm grasp on the elf’s hair, pulling it back, and Gimli could hear his faltering voice speaking close to his prisoner’s pointed ear.

“This is your fault…” he mumbled, “… my only boy…your fault my child died… I would never… damn you, creature!”

More than his deadly hold on his friend, the man’s words stopped Gimli from attacking, stunned by their meaning. His eyes went unbidden to the abandoned body once again. The flames of the burning fire gave the pale face a mocking life-like colour, but Gimli knew it for the illusion it was.

With sickening realization, both the dwarf and the elf understood who this man was and how twisted fate had been, to make him accidentally kill his own son.

Over his aching head, Legolas could feel the man’s feeble control over his emotions slipping, just as he could feel the blade of the small knife biting deeper into his neck. A drop of blood prickled his flesh as it ran down his neck, a mirror image of what the man’s words were doing to his heart.

If he tried to explain that it had been an unfortunate accident, the trapped warrior feared that the man would simply slit his throat, just to stop the sound of his voice. He could sense Gimli nearby, reading himself to charge. If the man sensed Gimli was ready to attack, the result would be the same.

The man’s mumbling words were cut by a pleading voice.

“David, for the Mother’s sake!” One of the men, on the other side of the fire, was trying to reach them. “Still your hand David, or you’ll condemn us all!”

But David was listening to no one. All he could see, all he could hear, was his son’s face and the pain that had fled his mouth as quickly as life had fled his body.

He could not bring himself to see his hand as the one that had ended his child’s existence. It had been the creature’s fault. He had meant to strike it when his back was turned, when the creature could have never guessed that he was nearing. But the creature had guessed it and pushed his son to meet his end.

This creature, an elf he could see, would meet his end here too. Samuel had often told them about the elves, of their cruel ways and of how their evilness could last forever. They did not die, Samuel had told, and they envied mortals for their mortality. David was ready to make sure this one had cause for envy no more.

A hand on his shoulder startled him.

“Give me that knife.” The older man begged, a dark bruise already forming in his face. “We’ll see that he is brought to Samuel… your son’s death will not go wasted!”

David had known this man all of his life. He had been there when his son was born. He had shared his joy then. New tears rushed to his eyes, and the grieving father eased his grip on the weapon. The older man placed his steady hands over David’s trembling fingers and gripped the knife, pressing the blade harder and preventing the elf from making any movement. David just moved away, head downcast, kneeling to hold his son again.

“You will come with us without a fuss!” The older man snarled in to the elf’s ears, his gentleness while talking to David now replaced by an angered tone. “And you will drop your weapon and come quietly as well,” he said to the dwarf.

Gimli’s grip on his weapon was tight. His eyes looked around, seeing that all others were starting to recover and make their way there. He was surrounded and he needed no further explanation to know the fate of the elf if he failed to comply. These men seemed to want Legolas alive, but they would risk no more lives to achieve that.

Cursing their bad luck, Gimli dropped his axe to the ground and surrendered.

oooooooooooooooooooo

COTTONCROW’S CRY – Chapter four

They arrived at the small village before dawn, the dark, hellish night seeming to have no end. Despite the late hour, there were many in the streets, either alerted by the sounds of the returning group, either kept from sleeping by whatever nightmare that plagued them that night.

Their first stop was the boy’s house. The silent night was suddenly broken by the angst cries of Brenn’s mother and his sisters. The few that were sleeping were awoken by the disturbing wails of the three women, crying their misery to the stars.

Soon, many had gathered around the dead body, asking questions.

The tall figure of the elf stood out amongst the smaller men and women, his skin casting a soft glow under the stars. Heads started to turn towards the silent prisoner as the men explained what had passed.

The initial soft murmur of voices escalated to a full riot, as the villagers started to realize that this was the creature Samuel had told them about. They were quick to assume that Brenn was but his latest victim.

“Murderer!” A woman shouted at the quiet elf, spitting on him.

“Hey!” Gimli protested.

“Spawn of Sauron!” Another yelled, throwing a stone at the prisoner.

“HEY!” The dwarf yelled, even if Legolas had easily dodged it. The situation was quickly becoming out of hand, and there wasn’t much chance of escape for the two friends. “Are you going to do nothing?!” Gimli turned in anger to those that had been guarding the elf so far. But they seemed more willing to vent their own anger too, rather than act against the rain of stones that was pouring over the two strangers.

“Stop this!” A man in long robes and dark hair shouted as he arrived.

The effect of his command was immediate. Though the anger was still visible in everyone’s eyes, all quieted and remained silent.

“Who is this man?” The newcomer asked, nearing the bound prisoner. His eyes widened when he took in the pointed ears and the strange beauty. An elf.

“Tis the creature you warned us about, Samuel!” One of the men said, excited.

Samuel took a longer look. The creature met his stare with sad eyes but without fear.

“It is an elf,” he almost spat, “but I see one head only.”

Gimli’s thick eyebrow raised.

“And how many where you expecting?” He asked in a mocking tone.

Samuel turned to face the owner of the unfamiliar deep voice. A dwarf?

“It had two before!” A man spoke, struggling to reach the healer, franticly pointing to the elf. “I was there! I saw it! It had two heads before!”

“You are mistaken,” Legolas spoke softly, scaring those near him with the sound of his voice.

“He lies!” The man insisted, supported by the others that had been there as well.

Gimli placed himself between his friend and the group of troubled men.

“And who are you, master dwarf?” Samuel finally asked.

“Gimli, son of Gloin,” the dwarf answered, puffing his chest out and turning himself in to a imposing figure.

“Gloin…” the healer rolled the name in his mouth, in thought. Then his attention was back on the elf, “Are you sure of what you say?” He asked the group of men.

“We all saw it… and David’s boy paid the price for us bringing it here!”

Samuel nodded in sadness. He had passed through David’s family, seen it mourning the lost son. David looked like a wretched man, mumbling incoherent words and staring off in the distance, seeing nothing and no one.

Legolas searched for the stricken family with his eyes. He couldn’t see them, but their cries and sobs reached his ears with ease.

“It was a needless and unfortunate death, on account of a mistake,” the elf said. “I regret the child’s passing but I am not this creature you are looking for. Let us clear the air of any misunderstanding and avoid any further reckless spill of blood.” Legolas pleaded for reason to Samuel, recognizing him as a man of power over the villagers.

The healer shook his head, seeming pained to be found in such position.

“We will not be fooled by your elven trickery,” Samuel said with contempt. “But it is not for me to decide on your fate. Guard him well!” He said to the men around. “I will speak with Bomieth.”

“I’m coming with you!” Gimli added, leaving no room for a refusal, as he strode alongside the tall man.

“If it pleases you,” Samuel allowed.

Legolas’ trust in common sense and Men’s ability to pass fair trials had made him walk right into a steaming pot. Gimli figured it was up to him to make sure they were out of the pot before this water boiled. Exchanging a look with Legolas, Gimli followed Samuel’s hurried footsteps.

Bomieth’s house stood at the far end of Cottoncrow, in a dusty street that looked mostly deserted. In the pre-dawn hours, when light painted everything in shades of grey and silver, the wooden, decayed houses around them seemed ghostly and haunted.

“I believe I’ve met your father, master Gimli,” Samuel broke the silence. Gimli, who had been deeply lost in his thoughts, making a list of all the arguments he could use to make this Bomieth see reason, looked curious.

“Our paths crossed when I was but a boy… I had journeyed as far as the Lonely Mountains and he was returning home from the battle of the Five Armies, a hero and loaded down with riches.”

Gimli nodded.

“It was a hard fight, and my father was rightly compensated.”

“Were you there as well?”

“No,” but he had heard the tale often enough to know every detail of it as if he had been, Gimli thought.

“Your father and his companions were kind enough to share their tale with a stranger,” Samuel mused, dwelling in memories that he was, obviously, fond of. “So, I must say, I was quite surprised to see you, son of your father, in the company of an elf.”

“My father’s acquaintance with elves was not the best one,” Gimli replied, measuring his words with care. This tall, lanky man, with small dark eyes and kind smile didn’t inspire much confidence in to the dwarf. His disdain for elves was obvious, and Gimli was glad the decision of letting Legolas go wasn’t in this man’s hands.

“Your father met the elves as they are, I’m afraid. Suspicious, untrusting and evil creatures, who think themselves superior and that would not spare a second thought in regard of others to assure their own interests and pleasure!”

Gimli looked surprised. He would expect to hear such words from his kindred under the mountain, but not from the mouth of a Man.

“Have you met many?” He asked seriously. Not many seasons ago, this too was his view of Elves, spiked by his father’s experiences. But now that he had met some of them and even befriended one, he could see differently.

“Meet them?” The man asked with barely contained wroth. “Our ancestors had not met them, until a group of those creatures came to these parts. At first, their fair faces and gentile fine manners fooled our forefathers, but soon their evilness became obvious. Much suffering did they cause then and, even though none now live that remember having seen one of those pointed ear foul creatures, the tale of those times has prevailed, as a warning,” Samuel explained.

Gimli was mute. His own infant years were filled with memories of nights spent by a warm fire, hearing tales not so different from this one.

The knowledge that bad weeds could sprout in any garden was, sometimes, not enough. And too often did the actions of a few branded an ill view of the entire race, for first impressions and bad deeds were things that not even time could erase. In fact, the turn of the years had many times changed the course of the facts in the mouths of the tellers, forever stripping them of solution.

“So you see,” the healer told, “you need not meet them to know their ways.”

“You can’t judge this elf for deeds that were not his own!” Gimli defended, in a way that would bring shame to his forefathers.

Samuel shrugged. A snake would always be a snake, no matter how often it changed its skin.

“Does he have a name?”

Gimli humphed.

“You could have asked him yourself.”

“I am asking you,” the man pointed out.

“Legolas.”

“Is he one of those that live near your realm? How have you come to travel together?”

Gimli stopped before answering. He did not think wise to let this man know too much about them. Both had gained a certain amount of reputation, on account of their part in the destruction of the Ring, and the fact that Legolas was a Mirkwood elf was something that should never reach Samuel’s ears. It would do them no good if the healer ever linked this elf to the elven-king in Gloin’ stories. No good at all.

“Our paths have crossed,” he answered vaguely.

Samuel could tell the dwarf was hiding something.

“I see,” he replied, as they came to a stop and he rasped lightly on a wooden door.

Gimli felt relieved that with their arrival, any further questions would have to wait. They waited for a moment and, as no one came, Samuel knocked again.

It was apparent that anyone living in that place was deeply asleep, ignorant of all that was going on or not at home at all. Gimli had resorted to pacing in front of the dark door, a part of him wondering why the village’s leader would live in such an abandoned-looking part. The rest of him was still cursing their luck and wondering if it hadn’t been a wisest choice to stay with those Orcs for company.

After a long wait, the door finally opened, revealing an old man, dressed from neck to toes in what looked like rags. His white hair was dirty and tangled, and even in the feeble light, Gimli could see the lice, walking freely over the man’s head.

“Bomieth, I apologize for the late hour,” Samuel begun, “but there is an important matter that warrants your attention.”

The old man cocked his head to one side, looking more like a grey pigeon than a leader. His body swayed gently from side to side, as if pushed by a breeze that no one else could feel. By the lack of comprehension in his eyes, Gimli figured it had been a too long sentence for a too short attention. The man was, after all, clearly drunk.

“Come in,” he finally said.

Samuel stepped inside and closed the door behind him, almost hitting Gimli’s nose, who had followed him close.

“Son of an orc!” He cursed in the worst dwarfish he could think of.

Knowing that banging the door open would solve nothing, Gimli resigned himself to wait and present his arguments when they came out. The simple hut had no other way out; they were bound to face him then.

He was starting to regret having left the elf alone for such a waste of time, when the door’s hinges sounded again.

“Your lordship…” he started before anyone could tell him to be quiet, the courteous words tripping and tumbling from his mouth, from lack of practice. Either way, they were pointless, as only the healer came out.

“Hold your peace, master dwarf,” Samuel begged, holding a hand up. “Do not bother Bomieth needlessly… he has asked me to deal with this matter for him.”

The healer turned and, not waiting for the dwarf, hurried to return to the prisoner. His prisoner now.

“There is nothing to deal with! You people have, obviously, problems of your own, but me and the elf have nothing to do with it!” Gimli shouted to the man’s back, finally losing his patience. “Be glad that no one else died in that foolish hunting your farmers tried and let us be on our way!”

Samuel stopped and turned around. Gimli realized by the look on his face that he had said all the wrongs words.

The healer’s voice was as cold as ice when he spoke.

“You know nothing of our troubles, stranger! But I suspect that that creature, friend of yours, does,” he said, his finger pointing back, to the centre of the village. “And you, should do well to either leave or stay out of this matter!”

Gimli met his fiery gaze with out flinching or showing fear. He knew he had gone too far with his words, for he too regretted the lost of the boy, but he was not ready to apologize. Not to these people.

Samuel grew tired of the staring contest and resumed his way, his long strides making it difficult for the dwarf to keep up.

As they neared the place where they had left the rest of the villagers guarding Legolas, both could hear the commotion ahead. Gimli went from quickening his pace to out right running, as more and more of the words being shouted reached his ears.

The dwarf arrived at the main square with dread filling his heart, no longer seeing the elf. He elbowed his way to the centre of the crowd, knowing that he would find Legolas there, even if he hoped to be wrong.

A piece of silvery silk caught his eye.

“Give that back!” Gimli snapped at the woman that held the torn tunic in her hands. For all the cheeky remarks he had made about that shiny piece of garment that Legolas insisted on wearing, he knew more than well to whom it belonged.

His heart thundering against his chest, Gimli doubled his efforts to reach his friend. The faces and bodies he pushed aside were mere blurs of colour and limbs, until he breached the wall of flesh and had a glimpse of his friend.

Legolas had the look of a cornered wild animal, crouching low to the ground. His tousled hair fell freely over his bare shoulders and from his hands, tied behind his back, still hanged what was left of his tunic and coat.

Gimli cursed out loud, pushing aside all that stood between him and the elf. A large man placed himself in the dwarf’s path.

“Step aside, or you will regret it!” Gimli snarled, his hands bawling in to fists, his fingers missing the handle of his axe, taken away by their captors.

“He is dangerous… we can’t allow you nearer!” The man warned, his hand trying to stop the dwarf.

Gimli gave him such a strong shove that the man landed on his bottom outside of the central ring of people. Ignoring the shouted warnings and protests from the other villagers, the dwarf moved to finally reach his goal.

“Legolas?”

The elf growled menacingly, something Gimli had never heard him do. A total lack of recognition graced his feral eyes and the dwarf instinctively took a step back.

“What have you done to him?” He asked no one in particular.

The sound of the dwarfish voice seemed to send the elf further out of control. Even with his hands secured, Legolas made a move forward, to attack. His balance was lost and the elf landed heavily on his knees. Moving at a slower pace than everything around him, Legolas closed his eyes and fell, unmoving.

“What have you done?” Gimli’s voice was stressed with anger and concern. No one tried to stop him when he grabbed his friend’ shoulders and turned him around. His long hair parted, revealing two small darts with white fletching, hanging from the skin of Legolas neck.

The crowd parted to let Samuel pass.

“They have poisoned him!” Gimli spat out the accusation, holding the guilty darts in his hand.

Samuel took them, smelling the tips and looking at the colour of the fletching.

“No, these are merely tipped with a sleeping draught. A powerful one, used for the larger animals, but harmless,” he explained. “Why were they used?” The question was for the man he had left in charge of guarding the prisoner.

“We was making sure he wasn’t hiding his true form underneath them clothes,” the man explained, matter of factly.

Gimli snorted.

“And now that you’ve seen his true form?” He mocked.

The man gave him a look of uncertainty, but kept his silence.

“He attacked any that came near him, refusing to shed his tunic. So, one of the hunters went to fetch his darts.”

“I see,” Samuel said, taking notice of the way in which the people around them were looking at the elf’s half-dressed form. The revealed skin looked soft and flawless, like a newborn baby’s, belaying the muscles beneath it or the age of its owner. But nothing in those expose limbs and chest could be seen as odd or different. Apart from his ears, the elf was not so different from any other man.

And that knowledge gave birth to a doubt, planted deeply in to their minds.

“You did well. Take him to the house of the sick and place guards at the door,” he ordered the man. “The rest of you would do well to return home and rest.”

“Wait a minute! What do you intend to do about him?” Gimli demanded, watching as three men moved to collect the sleeping elf.

“Tomorrow,” Samuel said as he turned and left, ending all discussions.

Gimli cursed. Loudly.

He followed the men that carried Legolas between them, intended on not leaving him alone a second time, as they made their way out of the village’s limits.

When Samuel had mentioned the house of the sick, Gimli had gathered they would be taking his unconscious friend to some form of healing halls. But the house they came to could hardly be mistaken for one.

It stood alone, near the woods, and, if possible, looked more gloomy and abandoned than Bomieth’s had. The windows were sealed shut by planks of cracked wood and weeds had started to grow on the thatched roof and uneven walls. The air around it smelled foully and, despite the late hours, light could still be seen, framing the semi-rotten front door.

The sound of pained moans reached Gimli’s ears and, with a sickening feeling, he knew they had arrived.

“We go no further,” one man said, dropping the elf to the ground. “We bring you the two headed creature!” He called out, speaking to whoever was inside the house. “Samuel asks of you to guard him well until he decides on what to do!”

“Beware,” the other said, “if you go inside as well, you wont be allowed to leave once you start showing the signs of the Bruisenbite,” he advised. “So, think hard, master dwarf, before your decision is made.”

Before Gimli had any chance of insulting their lack of care in handling the elf, or ask what in damnation was the Bruisenbite, the men had left. Two of them stopped a safe distance away, where they could easily stand guard of the house’s only entrance, while the third went back to the village.

The idea of grabbing Legolas and make their escape played around in Gimli’s mind, but he discarded it almost as soon as it came. The dwarf couldn’t fool himself in to thinking that he could carry the elf fast and far enough to avoid being recaptured, and abandoning him behind was an option that offended his honour.

The wooden door opened before he could form any other plans. Two men stepped outside, their features looking almost healthy in the twilight. Almost.

Their faces were hollowed and looked tired, with flushed cheeks and feverish eyes. Their movements were heavy and sluggish, as if every one of them came at great cost and pain. Gimli stopped them before they could touch Legolas.

“Leave it… I can carry him myself!” He said, doing just that.

As he had imagined, it wasn’t the weight of the elf that made his carrying hard, but the length of his limbs. Silently cursing against whoever decided that elves should be built like tree branches, Gimli slowly made his way inside, half carrying, half dragging his friend.

Once he passed the doors’ threshold, the air became barely breathable. The acid smell of vomit was so strong and intense that the dwarf feared it would burn his lungs. Every square inch was occupied by a cot or, in lack of one, a bundle of rags that served the same purpose, and nowhere could Gimli see one that wasn’t bed to a sick person.

Men, women and children, moaning and delirious, screamed their pain away and emptied their stomachs or any other organs, over which they no longer had any control. The floor felt sticky as they walked pass, and the air was laden and hot, from the feverish bodies.

“Ai, Erü!” Gimli whispered. “What is this place?”

“The house of the damned,” one of the men that had gone outside to help, answered him, “and you’ve damned yourself when you passed trough that door!”

The sound of the front door being bolted shut punctuated the man’s words like the closing of a tomb.

Gimli searched for a clean place where he could lay the elf, but all he had available was the floor. He picked a spot near the back wall and eased Legolas down, glad that he ended up more or less seated. The floor had so much filth in it that the dwarf cringed at the thought of anyone actually laying there. Reaching behind, Gimli tried to untie the knots that still bounded the elf’s hands, but cursed when he found them too tight to undue without a blade.

Making him as comfortable as possible, Gimli searched the small house for anything sharp enough to cut the rope. But the only thing he could find and see were the sick, begging for help, for water, for death.

Eventually, the dwarf made his way back to the man that had spoken to him first, the only one who’s words hadn’t seemed laden with fear and fever in that place.

“What is wrong with these people?” He asked, shaken. What was this enemy that caused such a frightening battlefield, to the likes of the cruelest war?

The man looked from the cot where he laid, up to the dwarf, his eyes looking lost for a moment. He gave the stranger a smile that never made its way to his eyes, and sighed.

“The Bruisenbite,” he explained, crossing his legs to better sit. His wife, who shared the cot with him, stirred in her troubled sleep. “We all have it,” he said sadly, pushing an errant lock of his wife’s hair into its rightful place.

“I have never heard of such illness,” Gimli confessed. The words of warning from the man outside still rang in his ears and he took a step back without even taking notice. “What is it?”

The man ignored the move, too used to it by now. He raised one of his sleeves, showing a number of dark bruises underneath. “It is this,” he said, and then pointed to the delirious bodies all around them, “and that.”

Gimli shuddered, like he hadn’t even faced with the gates of Mordor. The defeat in the man’s voice told him of how vicious and deadly this disease was, of how these people had suffered beneath the weight of its crush. It was all there, in the man’s eyes and voice. He was here, like the others, waiting for his turn to die.

“Which one is the healer?” The dwarf asked, looking around. He had noticed no one taking care of the sick and wandered where the man was.

The seated man laughed with no joy. It was a hollow sound.

“None of them… Samuel refuses to touch us, or even see us, once we’ve become infected.”

“Samuel’s the healer?!”

The man nodded.

“And yet he leaves you without any aid?”

The man shrugged.

“There is nothing he can do.”

Gimli grumphed his disagreement. In two strides he had reached the door, testing its resistance. The man watched his struggles with an amused look.

“There is no point… that door is the most solid thing in this entire house. The roof will probably fall first, before that door is moved by force.”

The dwarf cursed and kicked the wooden frame. It hardly moved.

“Is it true what they said?” The man asked after awhile, when the stranger had vented all of his anger.

Gimli mumbled, returning to the man’ side and seating on the floor in front of him.

The man took that as a nod to give his curiosity full rein.

“Is that truly the two-headed creature that they were all talking about?” The man whispered, his head twisting to get a look at the sleeping elf.

Gimli almost lost his temper anew.

“Does he look like he has two heads?” He asked sharply. “What is this foolishness about creatures with two heads?! All seem obsessed by that in here!”

The man shook his head condescendingly.

“You are not from these parts, you can’t understand.”

“I could, if someone explained it to me!” The dwarf complained. But he was talking to himself. The man had laid back down and had quickly fallen asleep.

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COTTONCROW’S CRY – Chapter five

The chirping birds outside announced the sun’s appearance above the eastern horizon, greeting the new day with an enthusiasm and joy that few shared.

Gimli had not slept and his mood was far from appealing. The sounds of agony and sickness around him had given him no peace during the night and, in the end, he had figured that the few hours of dark before the sun rose would be better spent helping those he could.

At high sun, someone had come to bring food and drink at the door. When the guards unlocked it, Gimli went to collect the buckets and pots left outside. The guards stood away, keeping a close watch upon his every move, nervously gripping their scabbard swords.

Once inside, others busied themselves dividing the food and water in to equal portions, even if few were able to keep the cold stew in their stomachs. Water, however, was welcomed by all, their throats parched by fever and anxious to quench the fires that burned within.

Gimli forced the food inside, more out of need to feed his body than to satisfy his hunger. Legolas still slept, and for a second the dwarf envied him. All day he had waited for someone to come and take them to Samuel, or for his friend to wake, so that they could plan their escape. But neither had happened.

During the day, people came and went, the newly dead departing to the fires and their cots filled with others that arrived.

When darkness returned, the door was unlocked once more.

“Samuel wishes to speak with the dwarf!” One of the guards called out.

Gimli’s deep snores ended abruptly when someone kicked him awake. He pushed the door open, his eyes still closed, and stepped outside, glad to feel the fresh air on his face once more.

“And the elf?” He asked, barely awake.

“Leave him,” the guard replied. “Samuel asks for you alone!”

Gimli looked back, into the gloomy house filled with death. He had no wish to leave his friend in that place, but at this moment, their best chance of leaving rested with Samuel, and so it was with him that the dwarf knew he had to talk. He closed the door behind himself, feeling like it weighed a ton, and made his way towards the waiting guards.

“Stop there!” The same man ordered when Gimli was six feet away from them. “Show us your arms!”

The dwarf frowned.

“What for?”

“Bruisenbite,” the man simply answered.

“And if I refuse?” Gimli asked in defiance.

“Then you have it.”

Gimli swore in dwarfish, complaining about the thickness of these people’s heads, and pushed his sleeves up, revealing a hairy surface but free of any marks.

“Satisfied?”

“Come.”

They led him back to Cottoncrow. The night was a bit chilly, so much so that Gimli was actually glad for the guards’ swift strides, as the walk warmed him. On the downside, it also gave him little time to prepare himself for the verbal battle he knew he was about to face.

The village’ streets were little more than the space between one house and the one in front, making their path claustrophobic at best, with the constructions, not very tall, seeming to lean forward to touch each other.

The hour was growing late and the lack of a moon to brighten the night called everyone home early. Few could Gimli see walking the streets, but his passage, flanked by two guards, called the attention of those he met, eliciting whispers and odd looks. Some even opened their closed doors or came to their windows, to see what was happening.

Soon Gimli realized that, unlike Bomieth, Samuel lived in a better-looking part of the village, and the house was the complete opposite of the dilapidated one he had visited before. Two storeys high, it had pots decorated with colourful flowers and scented plants near the door. A light hung above it, giving the house a warm and cared for appearance.

One of the guards knocked on the wooden door and a woman came to open it.

“Come,” she motioned for the dwarf to enter. “Samuel is waiting.”

Gimli followed her. The woman, tall and lithe of limbs, had surely been a beauty in her youth, but a hard life and too much grief had brought the weight of years too soon and too heavily onto her face. The dwarf wondered if she was Samuel’s wife, but no introductions were made.

The house was larger than it looked from the outside, with a common area below and a set of stairs leading to another portion. But, like all things around there, the inside was sparse and practical. Some cupboards and wooden cabinets, a table, a few chairs and fire to cook were all that could be seen about. At the end of the room, another door led either to the street again, or to a closed room.

Samuel was seated at the head of the wooden table and the woman busied herself by the hearth, leaving them to talk.

“Come,” Samuel called, offering a chair, “sit by my side.”

The dwarf reluctantly did so, his eyes captured by the stones in the healer’s hands. Before Samuel put them away, wrapped in a black cloth, Gimli caught the dwarfish runes carved on them.

“I was told that you spent the night in the house of the sick.”

Gimli nodded.

“It was a foolish risk.”

“And yet you sent Legolas there.”

Samuel shrugged.

“He is an elf. The Bruisenbite won’t touch him.”

“And of the ones it has touched? Those people need assistance. Why do you abandon them?” The dwarf asked tersely.

“We must protect ourselves,” the man replied, leaving the table and moving to small closet. He returned with a jar and two cups. “Besides, what little we could do for them, would only delay the inevitable.”

“My kind doesn’t treat those who are sick like stray dogs!” Gimli said acidly.

Anger flared openly in Samuel’s eyes. And then it was gone, as he poured the wine into the cups, handing one to his guest.

“Our people are not that different, master dwarf,” he said, sipping his wine. “Let us leave perfection for those who crave for it.”

Gimli eyed his cup with contempt, wishing for the dark purple drink to turn in to the amber tones of good ale. He took it to his lips, tasting the fresh and slightly fruity flavour. He hated that.

“I have consulted the runes, concerning your friend’s fate,” Samuel finally said. “They ask for his blood.”

Gimli controlled his anger, the grip around the cup tightening to the point of almost turning it in to shatters. The wine trembled inside it, as if shaken by a quake.

“Of course they did,” he managed to growl out the words, showing no real surprise. This was, after all, what he knew would happen. The wine had left a bad taste in his mouth, a sickening sweetness that threatened to make his stomach turn. The man’s words didn’t help matters either.

“Even if he, clearly, has only one head above his shoulders, unlike this creature you look for.”

“The runes’ meaning isn’t always clear, and never are they easy to interpret,” the healer patiently explained. “Two heads, two faces, two sides of the same surface… all can easily be applied to the race of Elves.”

Gimli’s face was as red as his beard, so violent was the tension inside him. He pushed and pressed his temper down, preventing his fists to taste the man’s face.

“So, any elf would do, is that what you’re telling?”

“The fathers of our fathers, and their fathers before, have no memory of an elf ever returning to these parts. Shall we blame fate, that this one has come right now, or shall we see it for what it really is, a small piece of a much larger painting, that we have yet to understand?”

“Or you could be wrong,” Gimli offered.

“The signs can’t be ignored!” Samuel put in vehemently.

“Nor are they to be blindly followed!”

The woman let out a yelp, startled by the raise of their voices. A pot of steaming soup had fallen to the floor, missing her feet by a nail.

“Foolish woman!” The man yelled, frightening her even further. “Clean that mess and leave us!” He commanded.

Gimli shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hearing the woman’s sobs. His eyes eventually landed on the cloth covered stones, still on the table.

“You said you have met my father?” He asked, the anger gone from his voice.

Samuel nodded, refilling both cups. His nose flared, as the man took deep breaths to regain his calm.

“He gave you those carved stones?”

Samuel blinked.

“They were a gift, yes,” he said. “You are familiar with them?”

“Aye, I am,” Gimli offered with a smile. “These stones you use for telling the future,” he laughed, “my father crafted a set of them, to teach me how to spell and write when I was young and beardless.”

The healer raised one eyebrow, judging the dwarf’s words. However, if he felt any sort of embarrassment by learning that his magic stones where a child’s toy, none of it showed in his features.

“A fish is only a fish, until it’s cooked and turned into a meal,” he simply said.

The amused look failed to leave the dwarf’s eyes even so. The healer could think and say whatever he liked, it wouldn’t changed the fact that Gimli had found a weak spot in the smoke-curtain that the man used to enhanced his powers. And fool these people.

A silent agreement was settled between the two opponents.

“None the less, you have raised some interesting questions that can not be ignored,” Samuel said, his tone making sure that this was in no way related with Gimli’s statement. The true meaning of his words, however, was not lost to his guest.

The healer pondered about what to do. His decision didn’t take long to arrive.

“I will give you three days, to prove to me and the rest of Cottoncrow that this elf is not whom we think. That he is not the same creature I saw in the runes,” he said, the last word spoken carefully, so that Gimli understood that the matter of the stones’ special properties was not open to debate. “Three days, master dwarf. Come that time, if you fail your quest, the elf dies.”

“Three days!?” Gimli protested, the shouted words resulting in a rain of spit that landed on Samuel’s carefully cleaned table. “Have the runes told you that as well?” Gimli snared.

The healer rose from his chair, his face showing Gimli that he wasn’t a welcomed guest anymore.

“Three days, master dwarf, is how long I can keep the others from killing your friend with their own hands,” he explained coldly.

As if to give his dooming words reason, both heard the noise of protesting voices outside the healer’s home.

Word, that Samuel had summoned the dwarf, had spread like fire on a dry field though the small village, causing the same kind of damage. Soon, many had gathered at the healer’s door, searching for news, demanding it.

And what had begun as whispers to this and that ear, easily turned into loud noise, finally bringing the source of all talks to open his door.

“What are you all doing here?” Samuel asked, annoyed.

“We want to know!” A voice said.

“Aye, we have that right!” Said another.

There was no need to ask of what they were talking about. Since the elf’s arrival, there had been no other topic.

Samuel opened his hands in front of his chest, quietening the voices that had started to rise in volume again with the palms of his hands.

“The runes have spoken to me again,” he said. “In three days time, the blood of the two headed creature is to be spilled upon our land, to purge it of the curse of the Bruisenbite!”

A collective sigh of relief and hope ran throughout all, content to know that their trials were finally reaching an end.

The only one not feeling much relief was Gimli. The dwarf found disturbing the way in which Samuel managed to mould the truth. With such ease and lack of care, he manipulated it and made it serve his own purposes, as if truth was a slave of his.

In a way, Gimli understood that this man was giving him three days so that his mouth remained shut, but neither he nor the healer had any illusions about Gimli’s ability to produce believable proof of Legolas innocence. To Gimli, three days were slightly better than no time, and time that would not go wasted, searching for a way to escape, as he knew Samuel was well aware of. And would be prepared for that.

The sound of his name startled Gimli out of his running thoughts.

“…li believes us to be wrong. That the elf and the fated creature are not the same,” Samuel was saying, turning everyone’s attention to the embarrassed dwarf. “I have given him enough time to prove his claims… or to be away from our path when the elf meets his end!”

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Gimli still couldn’t believe his ears as they neared the house of the sick again, mumbling unrepeatable things about Samuel, his breeding in particular and of the whole village in general. The sickening smell of burned flesh reached his nose as soon as he neared the house and fires in front of it were in sight.

The ones inside seemed to have grown accustomed to the acrid scent, but Gimli couldn’t stop the gagging reaction in his throat, made only worse as he got nearer.

His eyes searched the main room, noticing a few new faces. Legolas still slept against the far wall. It irked his pride and stubbornness not being able to do a single thing to change their situation, short of a desperate measure. Everywhere he turned, he met either a stonewall or a closed door. He couldn’t even succeed in a simple task, like freeing Legolas from his bonds.

Gimli neared his friend, clinging to the knowledge that, by now, the elf’s arms and hands had probably grown numb.

“Bollocks!”

Gimli searched the house again for something sharp to cut those ropes, thinking that maybe he had missed aught all those other times he had looked. But the place was bare of anything that wasn’t as blunt as a spoon. Defeated by circumstances, his eyes landed on his own belt, and Gimli cursed his lack of attention, for not having thought of that sooner.

His fingers worked with haste, undoing the belt and using its sharp edge. Reaching around, Gimli patiently started to cut away the thick ropes.

He was almost done when Legolas begun to stir.

“About time,” Gimli breathed, both on account of the opening eyelids and the stubborn rope, which had finally been severed.

Legolas’ face contorted in pain as his arms returned to a more natural position, alongside his body. An unpleasant tingling sensation filled his fingertips as blood returned to them.

“Good morning!” The dwarf cheered, truly glad to have his friend back.

“Tis morning?” Legolas asked, his senses still not all together.

“No, the sun has long set,” Gimli admitted. “You’ve missed it.”

When he felt his arms could obey him again, Legolas used them to push himself straighter.

“How do you feel?” Gimli asked.

The elf paused, trying to judge from where his discomfort came the most. His head pained him, and he could feel a number of bruises forming all over his body.

“Thirsty,” he confessed. “Can I have some water?”

“Aye, for that, we can do something,” Gimli rose and disappeared into another room.

Legolas looked around, noticing for the first time the other faces, looking back at him. And on each one, the elf could feel the feeble candle of life flickering out.

Gimli returned, baring a flask of water.

“What is this place?” Legolas whispered, taking the water to his lips.

“The house of the damned… or so I’ve been told by th…” the dwarf stopped, surprised to see the elf spitting the water on the floor. “What?”

“This water is foul!” Legolas said, the sour look on his face mirroring the taste in his mouth.

“Tasted like water when I drank it,” Gimli said, smelling the rest of the liquid. It appeared quite normal.

“You’ve drunk it?”

Gimli nodded.

“Aye… it’s the only one we have.”

“You mustn’t,” the elf warned, his eyes going from the dwarf to the sick. “They mustn’t drink it either.”

Gimli shook his head sadly.

“I’m afraid that, however foul this water might be, it can’t harm them any further.”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed absent minded, his gaze held by a young girl to his right. Her eyes held the unmistakable glassed look of high fever, but still curiosity and wonder managed to shine in them.

“I can feel their illness,” he said after a pause. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Legolas knew this mortal ailment, terrible as it might be, could not affect him. But he was afraid for Gimli. There was so much pain in this room, so much suffering. He would not see his friend succumb to it as well. “You should leave.”

Gimli avoided his intense gaze.

“We dwarfs are hard like stone, fear not for me,” he said with pride. “Besides, we are prisoners,” Gimli lied.

“For what reason?”

Gimli told him what he had learnt so far.

“So, if you ask me, I’d say they’re all fools!” He finished, punctuating the air with a fist.

“They think I am this creature,” Legolas concluded, removing the remains of his tunic from his wrists. He shuddered at the memory of how that had happened.

Gimli saw the shiver that run through the elf’s skin and thought him cold. He handed him the ragged tunic he had savaged from one of the dead villagers.

“It’s a bit smelly, but it’s in larger pieces than yours,” he explained.

The elf didn’t look too pleased about putting it on, but it was either that or nothing. Legolas got up and walked to a window. Wooden planks covered it, hiding from view if it was dark or clear outside. Not even a small breeze managed to pass through those tight slits and the elf felt the air catching inside his chest.

He knew he should be angry about the villagers’ actions, but right now, looking at the half-dead faces around him, he couldn’t find it in his heart the will to do so. The man lying on the cot near his feet had long since stopped breathing, his passing going unnoticed and unmourned. And the children… barely at the spring of their lives…

“Where is the healer? Why aren’t these people being helped?”

“You’ve met him before,” Gimli told. “Samuel, the one in charge when we arrived. He does little of healing, from what I’ve seen so far, but rather occupies his time with being the biggest fool of them all!”

Legolas raised one eyebrow, questioning.

“He plans to murder you, and has managed to convince all of them that in doing so, this disease will disappear.”

If the elf was surprised, he did not show it.

“Then he is no healer… just a fool,” he said calmly.

The sound of the door being unlocked ended their conversation.

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COTTONCROW’S CRY – Chapter six

Ooooooooooooooo

A man carrying a baby walked in, his eyes dazzled and unseeing. Outside, the cries of a desperate woman and mother could be heard.

Gimli caught a glimpse of her, before the door was locked again. Two guards were holding her, preventing the poor woman from following her husband and child. The number of guards had increased, Gimli noticed as well. Samuel had wasted no time, the dwarf mused.

One of the sick, an elderly woman, neared the newcomer, trying to help. The baby was crying and the woman could see that the child’s father was in no condition to offer any comfort then.

“Do not touch my child!” The man screamed when he saw her nearing. “I will have none of your sick hands touching my daughter!”

In his shocked state, the man saw and understood little of what surrounded him, apparently failing to realize that him and his hands were as ill as the woman’s.

The two strangers, standing by the closed window, caught his attention. His face contorted in anger, blind rage replacing the helplessness of before.

“This is yer fault!” He yelled, launching an attack against the elf. “Undo this wrong now, or I will kill you with me bare hands!”

Legolas sidestepped the man’s charge and circled him from behind with ease, restraining the man’s movements and preventing him from hurting himself and the child in his arms.

The man tried to wrestle free, howling in rage with the realization that he couldn’t. Slowly, the anger lost its violence and the man slumbered against his captor. Quiet sobs broke the silence that had built around them, and only then did the others realize that Legolas was softly whispering in to the man’s ear.

The ones alert enough to watch and understand what had passed were suddenly reminded of how different that creature was from them. The whispers of ‘witchcraft’ and ‘sorcery’ were quickly silenced by the menacing looks Gimli was sharing with the rest of the room. Their eyes, however, kept murmuring the same accusations.

Truth be told, even Gimli was surprised with such display. He had before seen the elf’s ability to reassure and quieten horses and other good beasts… he had even seen Aragorn do the same, using that squeakiest tongue of the elves. But to see it used on a man, and seeing it work just the same, was a novelty that the dwarf wasn’t sure to be of his liking.

Legolas led the man to an empty cot and bade him to seat. The baby had fallen asleep in her father’s arms.

The man looked at the creature crouching by his side, and could not recognize in him the vile monster that Samuel had described. There was no doubt in his mind that this was an elf, for even dressed like a man, he could tell the differences. But the eyes looking at him and his child, with nothing but concern and care, were not the eyes of evil.

‘Evil has many faces, and most of them are fair’, Samuel oft said. But in his heart, this man could not see this being in that light any longer, not when he had understood his kindness.

“You have placed a spell on me,” was his reasoning.

“I have no such ability,” Legolas said, rising to leave.

The man reached for his leg, stopping him.

“I do not understand what powers you might have, but I beg of you, save my child!” The man cried softly.

The elf shook his head. There was nothing he could do.

“She is healthy, she should not be here,” the man added in a despair laced voice.

Legolas and Gimli exchanged a look. The man’s pain had blinded his reason, for sure.

“I cannot imagine how hard this must be to accept, for certainly is not fair, but only a healer can help your child now, not us,” the elf tried to explain.

The man grew more agitate, shaking his head vehemently.

“No, you don’t understand… my child is not sick! She hasn’t been touched by the Bruisenbite!”

The man feverishly pushed the child’ sleeves back, showing the marks in her arms, and then doing the same with his.

“I am responsible for this,” he cried, pointing to the dark bruises in the baby’s chubby arm. “When I found that I was ill, I lost my mind… and my reason,” he admitted guiltily.

Legolas’ eyes widened as he started to grasp the meaning of the man’s words.

“See the difference between the two?” The man asked eagerly, presenting both arms to the strangers. While his bruises were of a dark shade of purple and wider spread, the child’s were lighter and ordered, resembling the mark of fingers that had grabbed too hard.

“Sweet Erü!” Gimli cursed. He had seen the way the others had looked at Legolas’ bruised arm, thinking it to be perhaps a sign of disease rather than consequence of his capture. Fear clouded their judgment and he could see how any bruise would be suspicious to them.

“You understand now?” The man asked with a glint of hope.

“Have you explained this to the healer?” Legolas asked.

The man covered his daughter’s arm, nesting her against his chest.

“He is as frightened as the rest… he would not believe me.”

A look usually reserved for Orcs passed through Legolas’ eyes.

“His ignorance condemns her to death,” he said in anger.

The man shuddered, holding the child tighter.

“My wife will not bear the lost of us both.”

“She is not ill?” Gimli asked.

The man shrugged.

“She had no marks.”

“And yet you all live under the same roof,” Legolas reasoned, lost in thought.

The man nodded.

“Sometimes, it takes the all family, sometimes just one… we can’t understand how,” he explained.

“Tis not normal behaviour for a plague,” Gimli concluded.

“Aye… and yet, we can not be sure that the child will not be in danger if she stays,” Legolas added, looking firmly to his friend. “You must get her away.”

Gimli frowned. And then nodded. He couldn’t fool the elf. Legolas knew he was the prisoner there, and that Gimli remained only on account of his own stubbornness. He had to take advantage of that freedom of movement and save at least this life.

The man saw that the two strangers had reached some sort of silent understanding, and smiled. He looked at his sleeping child one last time, committing her auburn curls and freckled face to memory and placed her in Gimli’s hands.

The dwarf looked slightly disturbed by the child in his arms, awkwardly trying to not let her fall.

“Take good care of her, master dwarf,” the man begged, the tears in his eyes not enough to show the pain in his heart. “See that she is taken to my wife and tell her that…” a sob broke his voice, “… tell her…”

But the man could not finish, his grief eating any parting words he might have had for his wife. He turned and left, resisting the urge to see his daughter one last time.

Gimli cursed the disease that caused such grief to each it touched. In front of him, the elf was pale and his eyes reflected the pain in his heart. Of grief elves understood, even if Legolas couldn’t completely grasp the concepts of illness or death.

They concentrated on getting the child to safety, with the help of all that had understood the situation and were willing to aid. A large sling was fashioned and placed around Gimli’s chest. The child, peacefully still asleep, was secured inside the sling, covered by the dwarf’s tunic. His large beard, free of its braids, was enough to hide the hole made, so that the child could breathe, and to help create the illusion that the new lump in Gimli’s physic was due to too much ale, rather than a hidden baby.

The sun was beginning to stretch its long arms over the horizon when the two friends parted, at the house’s locked door.

“Samuel gave me three days to bring him the two headed creature,” Gimli said.

Legolas raised and eyebrow and smiled.

“Another?”

“Do not jest, foolish elf!” Gimli rebuked. Then he added more calmly, “before that time is over, I shall be back and we will leave this place, by force, if needed be!”

“We can not fight a whole village,” Legolas said seriously. “And nothing short of that will do, if we choose the way of force.”

“You have another way?” The dwarf whispered.

“I might,” Legolas whispered back. “Take the child to safety and, if all goes well, I shall meet you at the ruins tomorrow.” He grasped Gimli’s right wrist, in farewell. The dwarf returned the warrior’s greeting. “May the Valar watch over you.”

Gimli nodded, his gaze holding the elf’s eyes. Silently, it held the promise that, if Legolas failed to show, the dwarf would shatter earth and sky to prevent his death at Samuel’s hands.

“Guards!” Gimli shouted. “I wish to leave!” He commanded.

With one last look at his friend, Gimli left through the unlocked door.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Whatever concern Gimli might have harboured about finding the child’s mother, it vanished as soon as he stepped out in to the chilly dawn.

The poor woman had refused to leave, not bearing to lose sight of her loved ones, even if it was through a closed door. The despair and grief had robed her of all will and not even her legs could hold her upright any longer.

One of the guards had remained with her, while a group of five others went to meet the dwarf.

“You can’t be coming and going as it pleases you,” one man complained in ill humour.

“I don’t plan to return,” Gimli replied in the same manner. “Samuel has given me a task, and I plan to get it done!”

The guard shrugged, not really caring. This assignment felt more like a punishment than his usual functions anyway. The sooner his shift was over, the better. “Show me your arms!” He demanded.

The dwarf complied as before, moving carefully as to not disturb the sleeping child. To have her cry now would mean the end of their plan.

The guard confirmed that he had no marks of the disease and, with a sigh of relief, Gimli was on his way.

Free of that first obstacle, the dwarf faced now a harder decision. The person he needed to look for was no more than ten feet away, and yet, to seek her attention now would gain him the guards’ attention as well. The woman’s grief stricken eyes, devoid of all will to live, met his for a brief second, and Gimli almost gave in. Make no heed of reason, walk just right up to her and ease her suffering.

The baby moved against his chest, signalling that her position was not as comfortable, and her sleep not as heavy as before. And before all was lost, Gimli made use of the stone resolve that graces all dwarf kind and, moving as if he was himself made of stone, turned his back and walked away.

Sooner or later, the woman would leave, or be forced to leave. He would follow her and return the child then.

Venturing deeper in to the woods, Gimli undid the contraption from around his chest and awkwardly held the baby in his arms. From amidst a freckled face, large, innocent brown eyes stared up at him, unblinking.

“You will behave, aye?” The inexperienced dwarf asked in a pleading tone.

The child seemed to carefully consider his question, and then giggled.

“I’ll take that as an yes.”

In the cover of the trees, Gimli circled the guards’ position and looked for a hiding place, from where he could spot the road leading back to the village, without being seen himself. Clearing a small area of any rocks or branches, Gimli laid his cloak on the dirt and the child on it.

“Now, let us hope that your mother doesn’t take too long.”

But the woman’s resolve was as hard as a dwarf’s. The sun was high in the sky and still she had no passed by them.

“Mayhap she took another road,” Gimli mused. The waiting was eating at his patience.

More than once he had considered returning and, under some excuse, drag the woman away from the guards. But on each time, he would look at the baby girl, and lose the courage to leave her alone, to fend for wild beasts on her own. To add to his growing sense of despair, the child, who had been so peaceful and quiet so far, started to cry.

“No, no, no,” he rushed to hold her, lost on how to make her stop such angst sobs. “Hush, child, tis no time for wails!” He begged, lolling the baby up and down. But nothing would pacify the crying girl.

So focused was the dwarf on his impossible task, that he failed to see the figure quietly approaching through the trees. The figure stopped behind a trunk, studying him for a minute, and then decided to near him.

The hand on his shoulder made Gimli jump in the air.

“Ah!” He turned around, ready to defend himself from whoever attacked.

A woman, still young, with light brown hair and green eyes, was staring at him. She smiled, reassuring him of her intentions.

“I know of only two reasons for a baby to cry like that, and, as I can’t smell nothing foul, I would say he’s hungry,” she said.

“She,” Gimli corrected, dumbstruck He looked around, making sure that this strange woman was the only one the baby’s cries had attracted. She was alone.

For a moment, a storm of doubts assaulted Gimli’s mind. He was a stranger in a strange place and, for all he knew, this woman could be the local witch, alluring him to her lair, to kill them… or worse.

Her eyes, however, held such gentleness and sadness that the dwarf found it difficult to associate them with aught but a pure heart. In an odd way, her eyes reminded him of lady Éowyn’s, the Rohan shield maiden. The same mixture of sorrow and strength glittered in those green orbs.

The baby redoubled her cries, reminding Gimli that it truly wasn’t his choice, since he didn’t knew the first thing about feeding human youngsters. Casting one last look at the empty road, Gimli followed her deeper in to the woods.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Gimli’s absence only made worst the suspicious way in which the sick ones regarded the elf in their midst. The stony and down to earth figure of the stout stranger had worked to smooth their worries somewhat, for they instinctively trusted the dwarf.

The high manner in which Samuel had always talked about his dwarven acquaintances had helped matters too. But now Gimli was gone. And Legolas could feel all eyes on him. Hostile eyes. Eyes full of fever and hate.

To them, he was the dam that stopped water from reaching their thirsty mouths, a stone blocking their path to salvation.

He knew none would have moved to attack him, due to the weakness in their limbs, but the air in the small house was so laden with contempt and spite that the elf could feel its weight on his shoulders like a physical thing.

The idea of turning his back to the people of this village, in so dire need of help, was uncomfortable to his views of right and wrong. The warrior parcel of his heart, the rational whisper that always had sound advice for him, however, told Legolas the obvious.

He was no healer. His knowledge of those arts resumed itself to a few practical skills he found use for in battle, skills that were nothing but mere delay actions to keep the threads of life together, until a real healer could be reached.

Even if he did possess such knowledge, even if it was as profound and vast as lord Elrond’s, these people would not accept it from his hands. He had tried to warn them about the water, tell them it was soiled and would make them worse, but they would not listen. They refused to listen.

Such a warning, coming from the elf, could only mean trickery for them. Maybe a way to drive them to thirst and madness, as a way to amuse himself. So, they drank more.

And Legolas realized that anything he tried to do would only make matters worse.

So he would leave, and pray to the Valar that they'd provide these people with help better than his.

To escape the house was not a difficult task. The windows were bared shut and the only door was bolted, but the lock was open every time food and water were brought, and for each turn the dead were taken out or the newly sick taken in. The security, even numerous as it was now, was pitiful, for the guards refused to stand nothing less than twenty feet away, fearful of the ill. He needed but to wait and seize his chance.

Opportunity presented itself at dawn of the following day.

The fires were starting to burn, and they had three bodies to put to them. Two had succumbed to the disease. The third was the father of the child that Gimli had carried away, who had taken his own life during the night, unable to bear another sunrise in such a gloomy existence.

The others had not tried to stop him when he broke one the food pots and used one of the jiggered pieces to cut his wrists open. He died peacefully, and the sick envied him, for they no longer possessed the strength nor courage to do the same.

Legolas carried the bodies outside, for no one else was able to. Some resented the fact that their neighbours and friends had to suffer the touch of that creature after they had passed away, but, alas, they had no other choice. There was some even who believe that the man had taken his own life because of a spell that the elf had cast upon him. But such beliefs and accusations were only whispered and thought, never spoken openly, out of fear.

Most did not dare to stay an arm’s reach from the elf. The sound of Legolas’ voice had become poison, his presence a torment.

The day that greeted Legolas when he stepped outside was as downcast and sad as all else in those parts. Fog covered the land, hiding everything around behind a curtain of white and the wind, running away, was of little help.

The air was stifling and loaded, turning the crack of wood in the fires in to numerous thunders, trapped without lighting under the dense atmosphere.

Legolas took great care in studying his surroundings. The shadows of the guards stood at the fog’s frontier, some carrying bows, other long swords, but all weary of seeing him outside, free of bonds.

Behind the guards, the shape of a road could almost be seen. To the village, Legolas presumed. And all around them, the woods, the same that filled the landscape of green.

He carefully laid the dead woman he’d been carrying on the ground and went back to fetch the others, planning his next move.

Legolas figured that, with such a heavy mist, the men would be hard pressed to catch his every movement, particularly when he passed behind the large fire, pilling the bodies.

The wood had been gathered not long before dawn and the dew-laden leaves made the fire raise more smoke than it should. With the lack of wind, the smoke and fog hide Legolas well, making it almost impossible for any stray arrow fired to ever hit him.

He could easily outrun the guards and, as he returned to collect the last body, Legolas decided that the time had come for him to escape.

But, as he came out of the house, he saw the large group of people that the dusty road had produced. Samuel was at the head of about twenty villagers, and Legolas knew that they were coming for him.

The path to the pile of bodies led him even closer to the fast approaching men and women and, for a fleeting second, Legolas considered the idea of abandoning the dead body he carried on the road and run. He had kept the unhappy father for last, for reasons he could not understand. Mayhap dread, of the grief that that soul carried, mayhap fear of the grief it would add to his already heavy heart.

Being as it may, the man looked pacified now, in his death, and as Legolas looked at his ashen face his features morphed in to those of another grieved father, led to kill his own son by a flick of fate.

The elven warrior could not deny this man the respect his dead body deserved. So he never stopped his stride, purposefully marching towards the hostile group. Legolas gently placed the man’s body next to the others, feeling every pair of eyes upon him.

Legolas forced his tense muscles to relax, willing himself to remain calm. It seemed hardly fair that every time the odds balanced to his side, fate would shake its feathers and turn everything against him.

The group surrounded the elf.

“You will come with us,” Samuel commanded with more confidence than what he truly felt.

Oooooooooooooo

“What is this place?” Gimli asked as soon as they arrived.

“Home,” the woman answered.

And the dwarf wondered how loosely she was using that word. ‘Home’ was nothing but some twigs and leaf-covered branches, interweaved and bundled around a tree trunk that had been sundered in half by a lightning. One portion had fallen against another tree, bending it slightly, while the other had fallen against a large rock, forming an open angle between the three. In an ingenious, almost elven way, it felt solid and welcoming.

“Why don’t you live near the others?” Gimli asked, surprised to find out that he could walk straight inside the odd house. The woman worked slightly bent, busying herself around the scattered items that Gimli could see about.

“I prefer it here,” she answered tersely, the tone of her voice clear about her unwillingness to pursue the matter. “I have no milk, but this will do,” she said, carrying a cup with a red hotchpotch inside.

“What is it?” He asked, curious, watching as the woman gave a few drops of the mix to the baby.

The child seemed to like it, for her cries stopped and her small hands curled around the woman’s, as if asking for more.

‘Even a stone can be a mother, if the baby only cries’, was a dwarven saying that seemed to apply to the race of Men as well. Gimli watched as the strange woman cared for the little girl as if she was her own, holding her in her lap, against her breasts and feeding the child with the uttermost care.

“Tis but crushed berries and water,” she explained without looking up, all of her attention on the giggling baby.

Gimli frowned.

“Legolas said that water around here wasn’t that good,” he remembered.

The woman dismissed his concerns.

“I take mine from a fresh spring in the woods. It’s the same I use for long now, and it has never done me wrong,” she told. “Legolas… is he the stranger that arrived with you?”

“Aye.”

“He is an elf, am I right?”

“Aye.”

“And yet, you are not afraid to travel in his company,” she said, sounding surprised.

“He is my friend,” Gimli simply said, as if that short sentence explained enough.

And strangely enough, for the woman, it did. A friend, not an elf, a dwarf, a man, nor even a dog. Just a friend, a being that had a secure place in our heart and that, for the fortunate, called you friend as well.

And yet, the woman had been raised in a place where not all could be called friends and where race and sex had to speak louder than the heart.

“These are strange times, master dwarf. Our beliefs prove to be daff guides everyday,” she sighed.

The baby had fallen asleep against her chest, her hunger satisfied. One tiny hand found its way up and curled around the necklace the woman wore, with a strength that only babies could master.

“Careful there, little one,” the woman said with a giggle, prying the little fingers open. The hand gave up the necklace and twisted around her long hair, content to rest peacefully there.

The white, noble metal had not gone unnoticed by Gimli’s trained eye. He took his chance then to watch it more carefully, taking advantage of the woman’s distraction. The links of the chain were small, a work of detail, with each fine octagonal piece perfectly connected with the next, in a way that made the all chain lay flat and close to the woman’s skin, in a contact more intimate and sensual than most necklaces, as a lover’s caress. From the chain hanged a hammer, resting on top of small, but detailed, anvil. The symbols of Aulë.

Gimli wondered how, in such a distant and closed village, things like that necklace, managed to find their way in. not only was the jewel a work of art, it was also a gift fit for kings. How had it ended there, around the neck of a simple peasant girl?

“That is a fine piece of dwarfish craft,” he couldn’t help himself from saying.

The woman’s fingers were instinctively drawn to the pendent, hiding the strange symbol from view.

“A gift,” she said with sadness in her eyes. “From someone I have lost.”

Ooooooooooooooooooo

a.n.: As always, thank you all for your wonderful reviews, and please, keep on telling me what are your thoughts about this, I need to know if the plot is getting across or too confuse ;)

Ophium

Much as it grained on Samuel’s pride, every decision he took on behalf of Bomieth, had to meet the council’s approval. And they hadn’t.

Of the whole council of elders, the leader was probably the one to have least faith in Samuel’s abilities and rulings. Old Bomieth did not trust Samuel, and the healer knew it. He never had, and never had Samuel been able to win that stubborn heart to his side.

The only reason why Bomieth ever let Samuel handle some of the matters was on account of the fact that the leader’s daughter was the healer’s wife, an arrangement that had never set well with the old man.

But his daughter had been pregnant then, making it a choice between a union that he did not liked or the shame of his entire family. In the end, it was a matter of little consequence, for the child was never born.

When Samuel brought the subject of the runes determining that the elf should be put to death, the same questions that had been raised by Gimli were asked again. The council had doubts about how a creature, foretold by some stones that they could not understand, and an elf, that had happened to wander in their woods, could possibly be related. They failed to see, even if he were such creature, how would his death put an end to an evil disease that seemed unstoppable.

All of them were well aware of the ages of grievance that ran between Men and Elves, despite all the points in time when both races had been friends and even allies. Mortal and immortal were too different to co-exist free of misunderstandings and mistakes, each too strong and proud to bend to the other.

The elders worried about retaliation, from this elf or from other elves, if they happened to know what had passed there. No one really knew who this elf was, of where he had come from or who his relations were.

The power and might of the elves was not something to foolishly provoke, and their wrath a thing they did not wish upon their heads. Could they risk a war on an uncertainty?

Deaf ears met any argument that Samuel had for them. Something that killed as many and as ruthlessly as the Bruisenbite could only have been conjured by a power as evil and ruthless as itself. The Dark Lord had been the only living force able to command such disease, a point that raised no doubts in the elders’ minds. The thing that made them thread more cautiously was the fact that, so far, Samuel had failed to show a connection between Sauron and this elf. He had yet to prove that elf had been sent by the Dark Lord to finish what the Bruisenbite had started.

In their way of thinking and traditions, they knew it was in their right to kill the elf and save themselves. But, what if an army of elves came to their doorstep, questioning their reasons? If they failed to present the right ones, they would have more chance of surviving the disease than an Elvin army.

They demanded that solid proof was to be found, so that they could have security in their claims and so that their actions might be called just. And Samuel was to provide that.

A stone, about half a man’s height, had been raised in the central square, where the meetings were usually held. The smith had worked hard and fast, adorning it with two large metal rings, one on each side of the stone.

And there the elf had been forced to kneel, facing what looked like the entire population of the village. A rough rope secured his hands to the metal rings, while another bonded his ankles, making his position uncomfortable to keep.

Legolas shift again, trying to ease the strain in his arms. His face was a stone mask that reflected none of the emotions coursing thought his heart.

“Elf, you have been summoned here to determine the extent of your allegiance with the dark lord, Sauron,” the healer proclaimed in an official tone, intend for all to hear.

“Extent? I have no allegiance with Sauron! Never had, shall never have, particularly now, that he has been beaten!”

“Bring forth his belongings!” Samuel commanded. A man stepped forward, carrying a bundle that he set on the floor in front of the elf, at Samuel’s feet.

Everything that the warrior had carried with him was scattered on the dirt. The ivory-handle knives, the Galadhrim bow, quiver and cloak, his bag of utilities, and even a change of clothes.

Samuel ignored everything else and grabbed the cloak. Its unique fabric had caught his attention, for its colour was so unique that he could not decide what to name it. The healer’s fingers ran over the strange wool, feeling its softness and warmth.

“It is,” Legolas confirmed. The clasp was missing, but the piece of garment that had been presented to each member of the Fellowship on their depart from the Lothlórien woods could not be mistaken for any other. More than a simple cloak, it had been one of the elements of union that had made closer the relations between men, dwarf, hobbits, elf and wizard, turning them all in to equals. They had all been equally favored by the Lady, equally cursed by their task and equally fortunate to be together in their struggle to fulfill it. Those friendships formed, that bond, as the cloak, would never fade or grow tatty.

“It was a gift from Galadriel, the Lady of Light,” Legolas answered annoyed. He could see little point in Samuel’s questions and, the fact that the man loomed over him, pricked his pride.

‘If you want to be bigger than your opponent, bring him to his knees’, one of his teachers used to tell him. A sound advice, if you are not the one kneeling.

“Galadriel, the elf-witch?!” The healer snarled, throwing the cloak behind Legolas, as if its mere touch was burning his hands.

There was a collective gasp from those watching, as the cloak flew in the air, touched the dirt and disappeared before their eyes.

But no one was listening. All eyes were fixed on the point where the piece of cloth should be, but was not, making the elf’ statement moot.

“Witchcraft!” Samuel shouted, his eyes round and frightened. His fingers trembled when he circled the kneeling elf and searched the ground where the cloak should be. They curled around the familiar softness and pulled.

A second gasp ran through the crowd, as the magic piece reappeared in Samuel’s hands.

Legolas turned his head as far as it went, trying to see what had captured everyone’s attention in such manner.

“If you claim that she is no witch, how do you explain this bewitched cloak?”

The warrior’s eyes went from the innocent looking piece of cloth to the dirt and pebbles ground, and understood what had happened. How to explain it was no magic, but a particularity of the wool that the Galadhrim used, which gave their cloaks the ability to blend in to their surroundings? Lizards did the same… were they magic as well?

Samuel looked victoriously to the prisoner, knowing that his silence spoke volumes to assure his guilt.

“If he deceives us with a simple piece of clothing, what other ways must he have to further fool us?”

The villagers nodded in agreement, shouting against the elf. They had no love for being fooled and for them, this should be proof enough.

“While this shows us that elves are indeed creatures full of tricks and are experienced in the arts of witchcraft, it still does not tell us that this elf is who we seek!”

The crowed complained, but Samuel ignored them as he searched the rest of Legolas’ belongings. He knew the council would not be satisfied with the cloak alone. Somewhere in the elf’s things he had to find undeniable proof that he was Sauron’s ally, and therefore, killed. Without ceremony, the healer grabbed Legolas’ leather bag and emptied its contents for all to see. Amidst the spare arrowheads, strings, flints and food, a roiled parchment glinted like gold to his eyes.

Breaking the seal with the eagerness of a child unwrapping a sweet, Samuel unfolded the letter, his eyes devouring the careful handwrite.

“That is a message from your king!” Legolas protested, angered. “You have no right to desecrate it!”

“I can see why my actions displease you so,” he said, aware that everyone breathe was hanging from his words, eager to know what that letter belay. “For what I read in here is your guilt!”

Legolas could hardly believe his ears. He had not opened the parchment, as it was meant for his father’s eyes and not his, but he had been there when Aragorn had written it, as the king had asked for his help on the matter. So, he knew that on that piece of paper, there was nothing more than pleasantries and compliments, from one king to another. A diplomatic missive.

“This here,” Samuel went on, holding the paper high for all to see, “tells of the dismissal of your master, and of the elves’ intention of fulfilling the Dark Lord’s plans, regaining rule over Middle-Earth and all of its races!”

The gasps and fright reactions were immediate, quickly followed by anger and determination, of never allowing it to happen. History would not repeat itself in Cottoncrow.

“That is not true!” Legolas blared, even if his words were drowned by the exalted voices around him. “Tis but a message from the king of Gondor to the elven-king of Mirkwood, and the only allegiance it talks, is of that between Men and Elves!”

“Be quiet, beast!” The healer shouted, towering over the kneeling prisoner. “I do not know whose hand wrote these lines, mayhap Sauron himself,” he said, causing some villagers to take a step back in fear. “But it is clear in showing your part in these folly plans!” Samuel snarled, spitting the words in to Legolas’ face. “And you claim it was meant for the king of Mirkwood! We have all heard the tales about him!”

Legolas surged forward, pushing his binds to reach Samuel’s neck, as his anger got hold of him.

“You are spinning your own truth as a spider spins its web!” He said, his voice deep and menacing.

Samuel took a step back, for seconds concerned that the chains might not be strong enough to restrain the enraged elf. At a safe distance, he regained his boldness.

“The truth is but one, and behold! It lies in my hand! It is here, plain to see for any that wishes to do so!” The healer said, offering the letter to the onlookers.

“See? They know who lies, who means to deceive them,” Samuel provoked the elf, holding the parchment in front of Legolas’ eyes.

Legolas blinked, to hide the surprise in his eyes. A suspicion started to grow in his mind. Could it be?

“Who taught you to read elvish Sindarin?” The warrior asked, laying his trap.

“Concern yourself with the fact that I can, not with whom I’ve learned it.”

And Legolas knew then. This man could not read! He couldn’t even discern the westron writing from the elvish one.

It had been a point of some discussion between him and Aragorn, about which language to use. In the end both had agreed that, being Aragorn the king of Men, it would be only proper for him to use the language of Men. Thranduil was fluent in both, and Legolas knew his father would understand Elessar’s choice.

The unfairness of his position was frustrating on the elf. He knew that the man was lying but, if no one else could read that piece of paper in Samuel’s hands, it would be the healer’s word against his. A prisoner. An elf.

Samuel could say what ever it pleased him and these people would believe it to be true. He was the village’s healer, he was their help when they felt ill, their trust in his word and judgment was untouchable.

The faces that Legolas saw looking at him with a mixture of hate and fear had condemned him already. Samuel had merely arranged for a way to justify the contempt and distrust against his kind, which came so easily to the people of Cottoncrow.

Calls of ‘kill him now!’ and ‘end this curse!’ had raised in volume since the elf’s ‘guilt’ had been found, but when an older voice asked if he could even be killed, all others hushed, for they had not thought of that. He was an immortal creature… how could they end his immortality?

“We know his kind does not age or fall ill… how can we be sure to have the means to fulfill this omen?”

The glint of the sun reflected on the unshielded white-handles of the knives on the ground, and the healer grabbed one, an idea running through his mind.

Much as he hated elves, Samuel had to admit that their kind crafted objects of unique beauty. The weapon in his hands felt too light for the blade it had, and the ivory handle fitted his fingers as it had been made especially for them. The cutting steal was covered with fine golden engravings of words and symbols he could not understand but that reminded him of leaves in the spring. Rather than a blood shed tool, it was an object of admiration.

Legolas stood straighter, tense. His immortality had been at risk many times before, in the troubled days of the last Age, and too often had he placed his fate in the hands of the Valar, knowing that, whatever the outcome, it would be for a just cause. Being it the defense of his home woods, or of all of Middle-Earth, he would have gladly departed for the Halls of Mandos, knowing that his actions had served a good purpose.

But never had it crossed his mind that he would meet his end on his knees, killed by his own weapon, on account of a mistake.

Samuel gave him no answer. He held the knife horizontally, the blade steady as he rested its tip against Legolas’ chest.

The elf held his gaze, defiant. All others had become stone still, their breaths suspended and trapped inside their breasts. In such poignant silence, all were able to hear the sudden intake of air that came from the prisoner.

Legolas knew how sharp his own knives were, for he took good care in keeping them so. The slightest pressure from Samuel, and the blade broke the elf’s skin, drawing a red line.

The bloody stain started to spread across Legolas’ chest and the villagers cheered enthusiastically, thinking that the healer had delivered a killing blow. But, as time ticked by and the elf failed to fall down dead, their enthusiasm died away and their anxiety started to grow.

Samuel turned his back on the prisoner, escaping his fiery gaze, and faced the villagers instead. He could see the fear and shock in their faces.

“You all know that I have promised Gimli, the dwarf, three days to prove the elf’s innocence,” he started, his words arousing a number of disagreeing voices. Those who had sick relatives knew that they could not afford the wait.

Samuel quieted them down, knowing that soon his cause would be lost if he wasn’t able to make them seen things his way. The longer everyone’s attention was on the elf and dwarf, the safer it was for him to set his long delayed plans in to motion.

“Though we know of his guilt, promises can not idly be broken,” he went on, unable to erase the disappointment in their looks. Samuel raised his hands again, asking for silence. In his right hand he still held the bloodied blade, high, for all to see. “Two more days, my friends, I ask of you but two more days, and then we will be able to leave these dark times of our existence behind, with no stains to our pride and honor!”

The healer could finally see a few heads nodding, as his words started to win their trust back. He pushed his point further.

“And when the time comes, we need not worry about an immortal’s ability to die,” he said, pointing to red mark in the white, dirty tunic that Legolas wore. “For every creature that bleeds, can be killed!”

Legolas shuddered, an ominous feeling of ill doom coming over him. It was one thing to hear those words from his friend’s mouth, when Gimli had related them. It was something different to hear them after seeing the blood-thirst in these people’s eyes.

Two days. He had two days to either escape or convince these people that they were wrong.

The wood-elf looked at the bright yellow sun up in the sky, just short of reaching its summit. Gimli was waiting for him at the stone ruins and would soon realize that something had gone amiss.

Gimli had lost count of the times his hands had reached for his pocket, in search of his pipe, only to grab it and be reminded that he had no smoking weed left. This time, however, he gave up and took the pipe out. Its touch on his lips was somewhat pacifying. The dwarf rolled it in his tongue, pulling in air, instead of the sweet tobacco fumes.

The elf was late, that part was becoming painfully obvious. Gimli resumed his pacing, his worry growing with each step.

Gimli had spent the night at the woman’ strange house. Lianna, she had asked him to call her.

He had left the baby girl with Lianna, after she had assured him a number of times that she knew where the child’s family lived, and that she could safely return the baby to her mother.

As soon as the sun had come up, Gimli was on his way towards the ruins, anxious to get there and hopeful that, on arrival, he would find the elf already there, waiting for him.

But his hopes were shattered when he reached the ruins and found them empty and his friend nowhere in sight.

Fact of the matter was, nothing was in sight. The fog laid so heavily over the land that Gimli felt as if a white sheet had been wrapped around him, blinding him to all else.

Gimli waited and despaired. And when logic advised him that Legolas wouldn’t be coming, he still waited. But as the night’ shades begun to caress the land, the dwarf couldn’t deny it any longer. Legolas had not managed to escape.

A thousand theories crossed Gimli’s mind, trying to guess the reason for that failure, and none set well with his heart. He couldn’t remember a time when the elf had ever failed on anything, his perfection of movement, actions, and aim and just about everything he did, something too annoying for the dwarf to dwell in.

The only explanation for it to have happen now could only pass by some event so terrible and dark that not even an elf could control and surpass.

He needed to know what had passed, before his sanity gave out. And the only way for him to have any answer was to return to the place where he had left Legolas.

Knowing that the guards would ask too many questions if they saw him back, Gimli took care in staying in the shadow of the trees, turned darker by the moonless night.

The whole place looked eerily empty. A thin laired mist, premature dew that rose from the ground and turned the air in to a sticky substance, had replaced the daytime fog.

Only the smell of burned flesh and hair remained the same near the lonely house and, to Gimli, it seemed like ages had passed since he had first set foot there. The corrosive feeling of worry that had been eating at his stomach throughout the all day reached a higher and even more disturbing level as Gimli read the signs around him, the signs that he could ignore no longer. What they spelled could not be mistaken.

Everything looked empty, abandoned. Even the lights inside the house were, for once, dead.

Smoke still rose from the large fire that had burned that day and, among the ashes, the panting dwarf could still see remains of white bones.

The seasoned warrior shivered with the nonsense thought that those burned bones could be all that was left of his friend and, never breaking his rushed stride, he burst through the door.

A few startled heads turned, scared by the dwarf’s dramatic entrance, but most let it pass with out taking much notice. Gimli searched the gloomy room for the familiar face of the elf, but even with eyes used to the dark like his, he could see aught but the fever-laden faces of the ill ones.

Gimli was out of house before the man could even finish his sentence. The mere name of the healer had been enough for him.

‘That lowlife didn’t keep his end of the bargain,’ Gimli thought angrily, as he raced to the village.

Despite the late hour, this turn Gimli could see more villagers than he had the night before.

A man, seating on the steps of a house, shared his chicken leg with a dog. Above him, on the window, a woman was throwing a bucket of dirty water in to the street, cursing against the chill of the night. Two other women stood at another door, in another street, stopping their chatting when Gimli passed them by, casting unfriendly glares his way. A group of loud youngsters was drinking and laughing near the well. A dog barked somewhere.

Life seemed ordinary in those parts, if Gimli didn’t knew better. Of Legolas, he could see no sign.

Trying to remember all of the twists and turns the guards had taken when they had led him there the previous day, Gimli had a single moment of satisfaction when the searched house came in to view.

“What?…” Samuel started, but Gimli’s hands curled around his neck prevented any further word from leaving his mouth.

“You gave me three days, you maggot! Three days!” Gimli hissed, his fingers pressing harder. “Where is he? Where is the elf?”

Samuel tried to pry open the fingers that were stealing his air away, but his strength was nowhere near enough to achieve it.

“He is… unharmed,” he gasped, his breath barely enough to mouth the words. ”You… still have… time.”

The grip lessened enough for Samuel to take a deep, shuddering breath, his chest heaving like he had run a league.

Hurried steps echoed through the earthen street, but Gimli pay them no attention.

The two seemed to be dancing a strange and deadly tune, with Samuel taking one step back for each that Gimli took forth, until three pairs of hands grabbed the dwarf and stopped him from jumping on to Samuel’s neck once more.

The men had heard the banging and shouting in the otherwise quiet night, and had hurried to see what was going on. To the healer, their arrival could not have been more opportune.

The dwarf’s wroth was enough to drag all four of them forward, as he tried to squeeze the life out of the man in front of him again. But he had lost his chance. The best he could do now was to glare murderously at the man.

The healer, confident of his security, neared Gimli with a victorious smile on his lips.

Amidst the beard and chain mail and several pouches that the dwarf always carried with him, the men holding him back missed one arm for a split of a second. Short as it was, it proved enough for Gimli to send his fist colliding with Samuel’s face, resulting in a sound of bone against bone that filled the warrior with pride.

And the healer with rage. Samuel’s fingers felt the skin around his eye tenderly, knowing it would be black and sorrow in the morning.

“Your friend will pay for this in your behalf, forget not,” he growled in to Gimli’s ear, satisfied to see the barely contained anger in the dwarf’s eyes. “Take him out of Cottoncrow, and make sure he doesn’t return this night,” he ordered the men.

The men dragged Gimli away, kicking and struggling against their hold. Had they loosen their grip then, Gimli would have probably chewed their heads clean off their necks. But as it was, he could use little more than his tongue, and that small advantage, he used it to his content. He cursed Samuel, their mothers, the entire village, using the extensive range of elaborate words the dwarven language could set at his disposal. And he used it loud.

In such a silent night, where not even the crickets found joy in singing, Legolas had no doubts about whose tongue those sharp words belonged to. Gimli had returned to the village, in search of him.

The elf sighed, knowing that his hopes of rescue could not rest on his friend’ shoulders alone. Cunning and resourceful as Gimli was, he could only do so much and, at this point, the dwarf had an entire village between him and his goals.

The wood-elf sighed and went back to the task that had kept him busy most of the afternoon. Untying his hands.

His arms’ position forced Legolas to strain his fingers to reach the ropes, juggling and contorting himself to undo the knots bidding him.

Though no guards had been left to watch over him, the fact that he was standing in the center of the main square meant that he was rarely alone. Too often had Legolas to stop and wait, which made the task of freeing himself slower and even more arduous.

Legolas relaxed his fingers once more, trying to ease the cramps in his forearms. He had to get those ropes untied until dawn, before all were up and about and hope to go unnoticed by most.

For half a day, he had stood like a spectator in a bizarre play, watching the comings and goings of those around him.

The villagers had tried to go back to their usual tasks, but on such an unusual day, most discovered that they could not.

The same faces passed by him several times a day, sometimes moved by curiosity, others by contempt or even hate. Some just went by to throw a harsh word or something more in to his face.

Legolas was like a displayed target, where they could vent their frustration and fear over all that had been going on. And, like target practices, he was unthreatening to them.

Most had not the nerve to get near enough, or even pass by the square while he was there, afraid of the creature that had habited their childhood nightmares. A wraith from the times of their ancestors that had materialized to haunt their waking hours.

Others were that not only neared him, but were bold enough to touch him. Extended fingers gingerly pointed forward until they touched his chest or arms, as if not well too sure about his consistence. For some, Legolas could see, the fact the he was made of solid matter come as a surprising discovery.

At first he tried to speak to them, capture their attention; call their hearts to reason. But they would not talk back, at least not with the words that Legolas was hopping to hear.

The children seemed to be the only ones truly unafraid of him, uncorrupted in their innocence. But Legolas knew that would not take long to change, washed away by the generations of prejudice.

In a place where all were doomed by their teachings and ways to act and react in a predetermined form, Legolas was learning to despise the inhabitants of Cottoncrow.

At some point during the day, the village’s fool had come to seat by him, in silence, watching. He was a man of perhaps Aragorn’s age, with the signs of time already marking his face. His eyes, however, were those of a child, innocent and eager. Eager of learning, of attention, of talking and being listened to. And yet, he remained silent, just looking.

Legolas looked back, at first with anger, because, fool or not, the man was one of them. Soon the elf realized that he was doing exactly the same thing that he condemned the villagers of doing, and he understood how easy it was to be trapped in those ill feelings. Legolas tried to forget that the fool had been raised in Cottoncrow and forced himself to see him as just a man.

Only then was Legolas able to see the sorrow and sadness in the man’s eyes. He didn’t talk, but he had no need for words. In his unique form of communication, the man as saying all the right things. He was saying he was sorry for what was happening, he was apologizing for how the others acted. He was saying that he wanted to help.

In a village of fools, the village’s fool was the only one that understood, and Legolas thanked him for that.

The man eventually rose and moved forward, one hand reaching to touch the rope around Legolas’ right wrist. He could see the elf’s tries to get the knot undone and smiled. The smile turned wicked, like a boy’s, who is about to do something he shouldn’t, and grabbed both ends of the rope.

Legolas’ hopes of release flourished under the man’s actions, until the sound of footsteps came and squashed all plans. The man didn’t take long to hear it too and, with the frightened look of a wild beast that has smelt the hunter, scattered away.

A group of five, all too old to be called children, but still too young to be thought of as men yet, were making their way towards Legolas. The smell of liquor in their breaths reached him before they did.

“What did I tell ya?” One of them said, the words coming out slightly blurred.

“Aye, you was right,” another agreed, laughing and tumbling over his own feet.

“Less just get this over with and be gone,” said the one carrying a bucket. The splash of water could be heard inside, as it wobbled from side to side with the boy’s unsteady strides. “Shyt! We forgots to bring a cup!”

“Damn the cup! Just leave the bucket there! He can drink from it if he wants to!”

“But Samuel told us to give him water!” A shorter boy, who looked even younger than the others, said in a whinny tone of voice. Were he not so drunk, one might have thought that he was about to cry. He giggled instead.

“We could use me shoe for a cup,” he said, holding the holes-filled leather in his hands.

Legolas had remained silent as the youths discussed among each other. He was glad that Samuel hadn’t had a total disregard over life’ small necessities. It was true that elves could fair well enough with little food or sleep for longer than humans, but water was a different matter. Already could Legolas feel his body protesting over the lack of any drink for too many days. It had gone beyond thirst. He had to have some water.

“If you were to free one of my hands, I could drink it myself,” Legolas offered when he saw that the boys were reaching no wise decision.

Five pairs of startled eyes turned to him, most of them showing the unfocused state of their minds.

“Cover yer ears!” One of the boys shouted, doing exactly that. “He’ll put a spell on us!”

On the back, a boy that hadn’t said a word yet, stepped forward, a small knife shinning in his hand. He seemed sober than the others.

“He can’t put a spell on all of us at the same time,” he said, playing with the blade. “And if he tries, we cuts him!”

Legolas stood on his guard. There wasn’t much he could do, bound as he was, but there was an edge to that boy’s voice that told him to be prepared.

“I know,” the younger one said, pushing the bucket until it stood in front of the prisoner. “Now he can bend and drink his full!” He said, beaming with pride for having reach a reasonable solution on his own.

The fact that the rope binding the prisoner to the stone prevented him from reaching the bucket anyway was the only flaw in his plan, one that the boy failed to see.

The others nodded in agreement, seeing that as the best course of action. Legolas didn’t. He was one of the princes of Mirkwood, one of the Nine Walkers, one of the Three Hunters. He would not be forced to drink water like a dog by a group of drunken youths. His thirst would be parched, but on the expense of his self-respect.

“Drink!” One of them blared impatiently, spitting on the ground. Unfortunately, his drinking affected his aim, and it hit the bucket instead. “Drink!” He yelled again, taking no notice of the filth now swirling around in the water.

As Legolas refused to bend, the boys tried to force him down, two pushing on his shoulders. But their combined

strength wasn’t enough to force him to move even an inch. Someone grabbed a hand full of the elf’s hair, pulling it down. Legolas hissed but still didn’t move. Instead, he twisted his shoulders and pushed sideways, shaking the two boys off of him like they were nothing but a pair of flees.

The boys’ pride ended more wounded than their bottoms. How could they prove themselves men of worth, if they couldn’t even get this creature to drink?

When most were ready to force their fists in to the elf’s face, the boy with the knife stepped forward, stopping his enraged friends. The rest of the boys, even drunk, obeyed him instinctively, like they had done on so many other occasions. They had seen the glint in the boy’s eyes, and they knew he was up to no good deed when he neared the elf with a predator’s look on his face.

“My friend there,” the boy hissed in to Legolas pointy ear, twisting a hand around his hair “was telling me how much you looked like a woman.”

Legolas tried to wrestle free once more, but stopped when he saw the spark of a blade nearing his eyes.

“I hadn’t believed him. But now…” the boy went on, twirling the blond locks between his fingers. “Tell me, with your looks and long hair, softer than me mother’s… how many times was you mistaken for a whore?” He said with a provocative smile.

The anger that poured out of Legolas was not a visible thing, but still the boy could feel it, hitting him like an ice fist.

“Hold him still,” the one with the knife asked, seeing a chance for a bit of amusement. “I have an idea.”

A knowing look passed between the five boys and the remaining four struggled to hold the prisoner still.

“We are going to help you, elf,” the boy said, playing with the knife in his hand. “We’ll make sure that you aint mistaken for a whore any more.”

Legolas’ eyes were round with dread when he realized what the boy intended to do. He tried to shake the boys off of him again, but they were ready for his moves this time around. One had sat on top of his bound legs, arms around the elf’s chest, while the others took charge of preventing him from moving his arms or head.

A hand grabbed the larger braid that hung from the back of the elf’s head, and put the knife to work.

Legolas struggled to keep them away, pushing, twisting, turning and growling like a caged animal. But the only thing he managed to achieve with his efforts was to make the knife slip from its path on occasions, and cut in to his scalp.

The knife’s blade wasn’t very sharp, and the boy was finding it harder than what he had imagined, to cut the locks away. He pulled and sawed and cursed every time the elf moved. The boy was sweating when he stepped aside, to admire his finished handy work.

The elf was furious, his eyes blazing blue fire amidst a face red with anger. His once long hair, along with his warrior braids, laid on the ground, leaving him with a jaw-length butchered haircut, along with a head that was smarting from the miss-cuts and pulls. The boys looked pleased.

“That’s a lot better now,” the boy concluded, grabbing one of the braids from the floor. “I’m keeping this… for luck.”

“Watering the prisoner,” one remembered to say, hiding the braid in his hand behind his back.

“Alright then… be quick about it and go home to your fathers!” The man ordered, going back in to the shadows. The boys were fast in scattering away.

Alone, in the dark village square, Legolas could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. At some point, someone had kicked the bucket of water and now its content soaked the dirt at his feet, mixing earth, water and the remains of his hair in the same soup.

Unlike the numerous jests that Gimli always made, elves had no greater care for their hair than what they had with the rest of their bodies, cleaning both perhaps more often than what the dwarf thought reasonable.

But amongst the elven community, shortened hair on an adult was a sign of punishment.

Elves who were banished from their realms had their hair cut short, so that other elves could tell them apart. It was not lightly that an elf was banished in such a way, a punishment reserved for the worst deeds, of the likes of murder or rape. For the hideousness of those crimes, it wasn’t very common to see a shorthaired elf.

Elves aged very slowly, so slowly that they seemed untouched by time to mortal eyes. Much in the same way, slow was the growth of their hair. It usually took many generations of Men for that to happen, the same amount of time that took for an outcast elf to be accepted back, if ever. For Ages damned to walk Middle-Earth alone, despised by all other elves.

Legolas knew that his feelings made no sense. He was no outcast. His hair had been cut as a childish revenge, but still he could feel the social weight of its lost. He couldn’t help but to feel sundered from the elven midst, branded as a murderer, for this was how he would be seen henceforth. A tear escaped his eyes, rolling alone and unnoticed.

Right and wrong were twins he could no longer tell apart. Anger was an emotion that had taken on new vests, redder than before, of a colour so deep that not even the veil of confusion could soften.

There had always been a sense of wrongness about the all situation that, being absurd as it was, made it almost laughable. To fall in to such a trap of misunderstanding, disbeliefs, ill wills and desperate needs that made no sense!

Legolas had thought that the fate turning event of his existence in Middle-Earth, the deed that would mark him for eternity, had been his part in the destruction of the One Ring. Never had he thought that the Valar had reserved such a joke of doom for him. Such a cruel joke.

He couldn’t even determine the target of his anger. The youths, who really didn’t know better and had been raised by their fathers and a society that had deemed all elves as evil creatures and untrusting beings? Or was his anger towards Samuel, with his lies and deception that led this people in to believing impossibilities and folklore? Or maybe it was towards the entire village, cursed as it was, cornered in a forsaken place where no help would arrive. Brief lives being shortened even further by an unpunished killer…

He could now see how foolish he had been. His senses had been dulled in to an idle state by the end of the war. Too much horror witnessed in the lands of Mordor had dented his perceptions of good and evil, misunderstanding and carefully laid plans.

Had his mind betrayed him so, believing that Orcs and spiders and other evil creatures were the only enemies he would ever face? Had he been thinking with the brains of an elfling, forgetting the flaws that grace all, even good Men, Elves and Dwarves?

All rational beings possessed deep in their core a beast, waiting to be released. Consciousness and moral values were its keepers, two guardians that never rested and could only be beaten by n unforgiving reality that pushed them beyond their limits. When beaten the guardians, the beast was unleashed, and no reason or moral could hold it back.

These weren’t evil men and women; Legolas could see it in their eyes. But they were capable of evil deeds; their actions had the potential and ability of being as cruel as the cruelest of Orcs.

And of his actions? Were they above reprove? He had been a fool as well, of that he had no doubts. And he had been so on a number of occasions, whenever he could have taken his leave of this place. A fool lead in to disaster by his own emotions. What sort of warrior could he call himself?

Legolas shook his head, trying to get rid of his thoughts as if they were drops of water on his shoulder. The fresh air felt cold against his wet cheek and only then did he acknowledge the tears that had kept falling from his eyes. It was a good kind of cold.

For all the mistakes he had made, for all the wrongness he had suffered, he refused to stay idle and wait for rescue like a frightened child. Legolas redoubled his efforts and his fingers started to work faster.

If two young hobbits had managed to break in to the lands of Mordor, then certainly a hard seasoned dwarf warrior could break in to a village of farmers and fishermen.

Much to his shame and anger, Gimli was coming to the conclusion that no, he couldn’t.

For any number of times he had tried to make his way from the outskirts to enter Cottoncrow, Gimli had been spotted and stopped.

Those who lived there knew every small street and dark ally that led in to the forest or the old road, and that knowledge gave them all the leverage they needed to keep the dwarf at bay, as Gimli was learning at his own expense.

Eventually, Gimli gave up. He cursed and kicked the rocks in his path, but nothing relieved him of the weight of his failure. Frustrated and deeply concerned, the dwarf returned to the only friendly place he knew around there, Alumna’s home.

“Safe in her mother’s arms,” she reassured him, getting inside to escape the chill of the evening. Gimli followed her. “She will keep the baby hidden, until people forget. She asked me to thank you.”

Gimli looked up, questioning her with his eyes. The smoke that rose from the hot drink made them look old and tired.

“Took his own life,” she explained, in the dull tone of voice often used by those too familiar with death. “I’ve heard news about your friend as well.”

“That he is friend with an elf-witch. And that he carried a letter with him, for the king of the dark forest, telling of ways to take rule of these lands,” she resumed, worrying about the reddish color that was taking hold of Gimli’s face. “Samuel wants his head taken off tomorrow, at sunset.”

“I will kill him!” Gimli exploded, rising to his feet, rising to his feet and ready to put his words in to action.

“Samuel must be handled carefully, master dwarf,” she advised. “Do not let your heart take command of your actions.”

The dwarf slumped back in to his seat, exhausted. Right as she was, he could not bring himself to accept that all was lost. He looked up at her.

“I know what Samuel is capable of,” she said in a distant voice, lost in her own past. As soon as it had arrived, the memories were forced away and she looked at the dwarf once more, “Although, I must admit that, from what I’ve been told, it was a truly convincing performance… your friend even had a magic cloak!”

“It ain’t magic,” he dismissed the idea as nonsense. “It’s just special,” he said, unclasping his and taking the warm cloak from his shoulders.

“Aye,” Gimli nodded, bringing the garment closer to the light. “It was a gift to us all… see?” He asked, moving the fabric around, “It changes color, depending on where you place it.”

And, with growing awe, she could see. The piece of cloth in the dwarf’s hands changed from a dark gray, inside her home, to a light green, when outside.

“And the letter?” She eventually asked, watching as Gimli placed the cloak back on his shoulders.

The dwarf scratched his beard and then looked at his own bag, the only thing that the guards had allowed him to keep. From inside, he took a sealed parchment, much similar to the one that Legolas had carried.

“Tis a diplomatic letter,” he explained, “to Thorin III, lord of Erebor, the Lonely mountain, from the king of Gondor.”

“Nay, we were just doing a favor to the lad,” he said with a smile, remembering with pride the sight of his friend on his crowning day.

The smile disappeared hastily. Gimli rose from his seat and started to pace, escaping the woman’s questioning eyes. Even with his back turned, he could feel her gaze burning a hole between his shoulder blades. He pulled his belt up, adjusting his trousers and passed a hand through his beard, thinking.

This woman had trusted him and had helped him without having even learned his name. In a place where all seemed to be against him and Legolas, she had been the only one that had turned her back to pre-conceived ideas and had extended a caring hand. And yet, despite it all, Gimli felt reluctant to share the all truth with her.

To keep his and Legolas’ tale from her would shatter the feeble trust they had constructed so far. To tell her everything that had happen, and how they had come to be there under those circumstances, would be baring himself in way that Gimli was not comfortable with.

Alumna was patiently waiting for him to make up his mind, knowing it was something important. Her eyes leveled with his and she knew he had reached a decision. He would trust her.

Legolas let out a sight of relief as his bonds finally broke free. He brought his hands front, rubbing the numbness and pain away from his wrists before freeing his legs. It wouldn’t be long for the sun to rise behind the purple horizon, and he knew he had no time to waste.

Keen elven eyes searched the yard carefully and, finding it empty of witnesses, Legolas got up, feeling his knees complain at the change of position.

The elf took the darkest street out of the central square and ran as silent as a cloud through a clean sky. A well, dug deep in to the earth, stood not too far from his path, hidden by the shadows of the nearest houses.

Legolas’ mouth was tormented by a thirst as he had never experienced before, some lingering effect from the drug used to put him to sleep, he suspected. His heart, ever wise, warned him against risking his freedom foolishly.

The need to make haste out of the village grew with each breath he took, but, at the same time, Legolas feared that his body would betray him soon if he kept water from it much longer.

Knowing how close that betrayal was, Legolas moved swiftly to the well, gently dropping the corded bucket until hearing a distant splash of water. The sound alone made his need for the liquid even stronger. Eagerly, he brought it up. Legolas’ hands dipped in to the fresh water and, cupping them, he drank what tasted better than the sweetest of wines.

As the water reached his stomach, the illusion was shattered. Legolas felt the bile rising up his throat and realized that this water was a foiled as the one Gimli had offered him before.

Fighting the terrible taste in his mouth, the elf turned and followed one of the streets that he hoped to lead out of Cottoncrow.

Legolas regretted having to leave his weapons behind. His knifes, a gift he had received at ceremony of his passing from elfling to warrior, a present from his father, and one of the rare occasions when the king had praised his son’s qualities and showed how proud of Legolas he was. Since then, Legolas had never parted from them. Until now.

And his bow, a weapon he knew impossible to replace, for those made by the Galadhrim were the finest of all of Middle-Earth, and no Galadhrim was now left to craft him another. A terrible lost, but one he could not help.

But, alas, time was against him and he had no other choice but to leave everything behind and be gone before it was too late. He had lingered too much as it was.

His stomach turned once more, a strange and unfamiliar sensation for an elf that had never experienced sickness before. Legolas clenched one arm around his midriff, alarmed by the fact that he could hear his innards twisting and moaning. He was forced to stop when the painful cramps became too much to endure, feeling like his body was rebelling against him.

Supporting his trembling body with one hand on the nearest wall in the ally he found himself in, Legolas emptied his stomach; his eyes clenched against the disturbing feeling of his body rejecting the water that he tried to keep inside. When the eaves finally stopped, the elf let his head drop against the wall, feeling exhausted and soiled in a way as he never felt before. He passed a hand through his lips, breathing deeply, waiting for his body to allow movement again.

The senses that had been distracted by what had just happened returned as his strength did. Only then did he hear the faint cries of distress that seemed to come from the wall itself.

Distant words soon began to take shape until he realized that it was a woman’s voice, muffled by other male voices.

Legolas closed his eyes, willing his body to move away, ordering his mind to ignore the despair and tears he could hear in those cries, begging for help. He took two steps back, ready to make them the first of his escape path, but found himself unable of taking a third step.

Legolas realized that he would be denying himself if he walked away. To turn his back on those cries and leave them unanswered, without ever knowing what was the cause behind them, would haunt him forever.

Knowing that he was heedlessly forfeiting his freedom, Legolas searched for a door and entered the house.

The first sunrays tumbled from the east, soft light that did little more than to announce the coming of a new day. A rooster sang in some distant yard, soon followed by others, in a competition of greetings to the day’ star.

The door cranked and moaned like an old lady as Legolas opened it, but the sound went unnoticed by the male voices that drowned all else.

The house was barely lit, a single oil lamp burning on top of a table in the first floor, casting more shadows than light in the place.

Large pieces of wood, roughly cut or not cut at all, were pilled in most of the corners, and carpenter’s tools laid scattered here and there. On top of the only visible table, beside the lamp, more tools and a half finished chair. In the center of the room, a hearth had been dug, opening in to the large chimney on the roof.

The unprotected flame flickered again as Legolas closed the door. Had he been a man, his steps would’ve been nosy, as he walked over the splinters that littered the all floor. At the top of the stairs, the elf could see at least three youngsters, their backs turned to him. Although their faces were hidden from view, their laughter alone was enough for Legolas to recognize them as the same group that had tormented him earlier. Of the owner of the cries for help, he could see no trace, but he guessed her to be hidden in the shadows of above.

“I beg of ya, sirs,” the woman’s voice sounded again, between sobs, “have mercy on me!”

“Have mercy on me!” A deeper voice mocked her tone, whining the words and trying to sound like she had. The mocker and rest laughed even harder at his tries.

Legolas grabbed a piece of wood, about the size of hand, and tossed it at the group.

“Ai!” A boy with curly hair screamed as the wood hit the back of his head. Turning back, the boy looked down, one hand gingery touching the point where his scalp had started to bleed. A man, half hidden by the dark, was standing alone down bellow, another piece of wood in his hands, ready to toss.

The flying wood hit another of them in the arm, even crouching as they all were.

Legolas remained in silence. The woman’s cries had soften in to quiet sobs, letting him know that he had succeeded in drawing their attention away from her.

The others nodded. The liquor heated their blood and the drug-like power of lust cursed through their veins, making them reckless and fearless. Without further concerns about knowing their enemy, the group of boys descended the stairs, ready to teach a lesson to the stranger that had dared to spoil their fun. Another projectile flew, hitting one of them straight in the forehead. The boy lost his balance and came tumbling down the steps, resting at the bottom in a heap of broken limbs and dust, unmoving.

Four more reached the end of the stairs on their own, stunned by the loss of one of their members. Legolas could see that the all group was there.

The warrior took a step forward, nearing the light so that the rest of the boys could see him. It took them but a moment to realize who he was, but when they did, any intention of attacking fled their hearts. Even the boy who had been so brave with his knife before, coward now, behind the others, feared that the elf had come to extract his revenge and his life had reached its end.

“Tis the elf!” One stuttered, taking a step back in fright. The others looked as scared as that one sounded. Drunk as they were, that strange being, free of his bonds and towering over them with such rage and anger in his face, was enough to make them soil their own breeches.

Above them all, supported by the stair’s banister, the woman had recovered courage enough to rise and look down at what was happening. The panic that had taken over her ever since the moment when the group of youngsters had captured, morphed in to breath-freezing fear, the kind that feels like a giant hand curled around ones’ chest, crushing lungs and mind.

All the tales she had ever heard about elves and other scary creatures came back to play havoc with her thoughts and feeble emotions at that moment. She couldn’t breathe, her heart thundered wildly against her chest and all that she could hear was the angry voices bellow and the whoosh sound the room made as it started to turn and spin around her. The flickering flame above the table fooled her eyes, and all that the woman could see were monsters and beasts, threatening, mocking and hurting her. With a soundless whimper, she let darkness claim her and fell down on the floor, senseless.

The young men, facing the elf, had not seen her, nor did they remember her now, as they stared at their opponent.

Legolas, however, had. The rumpled clothes and hair, the bruises forming on her face and the torn shreds of what had been her shirt burned his eyes. There was no denying of what those boys had been doing, and that reality, the hideousness of such act made Legolas tremble with barely contained rage. What sort of rational being could ever turn against his own kindred in such an animalist way?

He moved forward, on to the terrorized boys, prepared to make them regret deeply all of their actions on that night.

An orange sunlight burst bright in to the dark house, coming through the shattered windows and the door, suddenly kicked opened by a group of guards.

The boys, who had been exchanging desperate looks amongst each other, seized that opportunity and broke in to a run, escaping through a back door. In their haste, one of them ran in to the table, sending everything on it clashing to the floor.

The moment the oil lamp touched the ground, its flame escaped like sand through open fingers, consuming all the wooden litter and straws on the floor.

The stunned guards could barely react to so many events happening at the same time. Half ran to try and catch the boys, while the rest, seeing the fallen body of another boy in the fire’s path, raced to take him out. None were able to stop the elf when he jumped off the ground, grabbed on to the chimney’s opening and swung over to the top floor, disappearing from view.

Coughing the smoke out of their chest, the men carried the unconscious boy out and laid him on the ground. The early traders, on their way to the market, had seen the smoke rising from the street and had raced there to see what was wrong. A cue of improvised buckets of water had already been formed and those available fought hard to tame the raging fire.

Legolas knew that the guards, unaware of the woman’s presence above, would do nothing to rescue her. Taking advantage of their confusing and the building smoke he jumped to reach her. On the top floor, a cot covered with dirty rags and an opened trunk, from which a few shirts and breeches hung half in, half out; were enough to crowd the space. There, it seemed, the carpenter who owned the house lived, but of him there was no trace.

She was a small woman, barely out of her childhood years, and she had yet to awake, something for which Legolas felt thankful. He had seen the fear that his sight had caused on her. Had she been conscious, he could only imagine how hard it would be to take her out before the all house burned around them. Kneeling down, he grabbed her arms and threw her over his shoulders, grabbing her legs in front. It wasn’t the most comfortable position for her, but it left him with a free arm.

When Legolas finally reached the stairs, the fire was already making its way up, eating everything in its path. He backed way, coughing the acid hot air that assaulted his throat. His eyes searched for another way out in despair, but all he could see was black smoke. The loud voices of the men and women shouting orders and fervently fighting the flames could be heard outside. But Legolas knew they were fighting a lost battle. That house was doomed to burn and they with it if he didn’t found a safe path soon.

A faint breeze disturbed the smoke near the ceiling above his head and Legolas looked up, thanking the Valar for their aid. The thatched ceiling, neglected by the house’s owner, had seen better days, and a large gap had opened over the years. The hole, made larger by the heat and hot smoke, didn’t took much to gave away and allow Legolas to pass over to the roof.

Outside, the fresh air greeted the elf like a long missed friend, easing his breathing and cleaning the tears from his eyes. With a cat-like agility and lightness, Legolas found his way down, easing the sleeping woman on the earth in a place far from the crowd’s eyes but where he knew she was sure to be found.

Coughing out the remaining smoke from inside him, Legolas turned to make his long delayed escape at last.

The elf had not taken more than two steps when a large group of guards surrounded him. It took some effort from their part to recognize that shorthaired person, with smoke smeared face and singed clothes and eyebrows, as the same elf of three days ago. They moved with caution, their swords trusted forward, ready to taste the stranger’s flesh at the slightest suspicious movement. Fearful of getting too near, the men still advanced, shoulder-to-shoulder, none brave enough to take the lead.

Legolas looked to all sides, in search of a way out. He could not afford to get caught once again, for that would mean his end. With the guards closing in on both ends of the narrow street, Legolas looked at the only available path that he had left. One the guards could not follow.

The roofs of the two buildings almost touched one another, framing a small piece of blue sky. Jumping like no men ever could, Legolas reached for the sky, grabbing the edge of the left building. Legolas could almost taste his freedom when the first volley of arrows flew in the air, seconds after the harsh sound of the crossbow wires snapping in the hands of their shooters.

Legolas’ fast reflexes saved his left hand, as one of the wooden bolts dug sharply in to the same place where his fingers had been a breath before. But reflexes alone could only do so much.

A crossbow arrow is much shorter than those fired by a long bow or even those of hunting bows, twelve inches of wood and a sharp metal tip. Although its range is not as wide as that of the long bows’ arrows, the crossbow bolts are heavier on impact, propelled by a mechanical devise that is able of placing much more strength in to the throw than any bowman ever could.

Even if Legolas, a bowman himself, knew nothing about crossbow bolts, he would have learn fast and hard, as one dug deeply in to the right side of his waist.

The force of the impact and the pain that radiated from it were enough to cost Legolas his balance. He managed to twist in the midst of his fall and land on his feet. Still, the ground hit him fiercely and Legolas could feel the short arrow jolting inside him, a vibrating movement that started in the bolt’s black feathers and ended inside his flesh, leaving him noxious and weak.

The guards were upon him in seconds, holding him to the ground, twisting his arms back to tie his hands with a rope. The last thing Legolas saw, before the handle of a sword collided with the side of head, was the roof of the burning house collapsing to the ground with the sound of a dry thunder.

Alumna knew that the dwarf had been hiding something of importance from her, but never had it crossed her mind that it would be something like this.

Gimli’s tale was too unreal to be true. Had it not been for the honesty on his face, the sincerity and deep emotion in his voice, as he talked about Frodo’s journey to Mordor, Alumna would have thought him mad or jesting her. Beings the size of little children but old enough to drink ale and more brave than many men?

Hobbits seemed to her as believable as winged horses and Alumna feared that, somewhere along his fantastic tale, Gimli would end up mentioning one too.

He spoke of far places that she had only heard of in fairytales, of people and beasts she had never set her eyes on and some that she had never even heard of. Talking trees, and wizards, and Balrogs, and Elves fighting for Men, and Eagles coming to save the day.

The woman looked at the stranger with different eyes then. This was someone that had stood up against the Dark Lord and had, not only lived to tell his tale, but defeated him as well. The dwarf and his companions had faced perils and met foes so terrible that her mind could barely imagine. And the free folk of Middle-Earth could still call themselves free on account of what they had done.

Twice, since the day she met him, had Gimli changed her views of the world and her existence. First, when he had trusted that baby in to her arms, an innocent child, whose touch opened her eyes and made her realize all that she had truly lost. All the chances and experiences she would never be able to feel…

And now… So little of what happened beyond Cottoncrow’s borders reached her ears, happenings that concerned all, their fates and lives decided by others, their freedom earned at the cost of the sweat and blood of strangers.

For a moment she felt very small and selfish, as the bigger troubles of world put her personal trials in perspective. The hard life that had been the only thing she had ever known, seemed now pointless, faced with what might have happened, had not Gimli and his friends stopped Sauron’s plans.

She knew why Gimli was telling her this at this only now. He needed her aid; he had no one else to turn to. In a very cunning way, the dwarf had assured that she had no way of denying him what he wanted. How could she after listening to all that the elf, along with the others, had done for them all?

“Come, master dwarf,” she said, breaking the silence that had settled between the two. “There is something I must show you.”

Gimli had been reluctant about following her. He had too much to do, even if no idea of what yet. It was wrong of him to be enjoying refreshing strolls through the woods now. He didn’t even fancied woods.

The elf’s time was running thin and the dreading feeling at the tip of his stomach, telling him that something had happened, would not go away. What he needed to do was to return to Cottoncrow and turn every corner upside down until he found Legolas and then… do something!

On one thing Legolas had been right: they could not fight the all village, and Gimli had no time to fetch help. He was just too far from everywhere. So, his only option was to find a way to convince these people in to letting Legolas go.

Gimli shook his head. That would be as probable of ever happening as him seeing a bearded elf.

Alumna had said that something of importance was there for him to see but, try as he might, Gimli could see nothing but trees and ferns, growing everywhere and menacing to swallow the path they had been following.

The small clearing where they stood was like a game of contradictions. Light and shadow played in the wet leaves; warmth and freshness came and went at the breeze’s will; the young sun, in its first hours of the day, tinted the flowers and berries with a blood-red colour of war, while the gentleness of water rushing nearby gave a sense of peace and quietness to the place.

Life bubbled around them, small animals moving from place to place, minding their own business and paying little attention to the two strangers in their midst. Alumna’s voice broke the spell.

“We used to come here, to be together,” she said, her eyes seeing little of the present, as she lost herself in the pleasant memories of the past. “It was our special place, where no one could meddle with us, Bomieth and I”.

Gimli, whom, truth be told, wasn’t paying her the due attention, got his interest spiked at the mention of a name he recognized.

“His son,” she explained. “My father was a very traditional man. When I was still very young, he chose a man for me, but the man he chose wasn’t…” she paused, looking for the right word to describe the vile man who’s bed she had been forced to share for five years, “… wasn’t to my liking. When my husband decided that I was no longer suitable for him and expelled me from his house, I felt like fate had finally smiled upon me,” she said, not daring to look at the dwarf as she told her tale.

She moved further ahead, placing a hand over the rough bark of an old, bent tree.

“Bomieth and I fell in love not long after that, but we knew that his father would never accept our union. Bomieth son was to rule Cottoncrow when his father passed on, and the woman he would chose would be the bearer of his heirs. Old Bomieth would not want a spoiled woman, another man’s leftovers, to be the mother of his grandsons. So, we hide our love from all.”

“You said that you knew something that could help my friend,” he reminded her. Hers was truly a sad story, one that he was sure was worth sharing, but at the moment, the only thing that he could focus on was the sun, unstoppable on his way towards the hills.

“I told you that I knew Samuel better than most,” she said, looking in to Gimli’s eyes for the first time. “He was my husband, until trading me for Bomieth’s daughter… I alone know what he is capable of.”

“I know of what I saw… he killed Bomieth! I saw him kill my love!” She told with tears spilling from her eyes.

Gimli patiently waited for the woman to tame her emotions, as a thousand theories and possibilities struggled against each other inside his mind. If Samuel was proved as murderer, then…

Alumna sniffed, cleaning the tear tracks in her face with the back of her sleeve.

“We’d always use different paths to com and go, so that no one grew suspicious. On the day it happened, we were about to return to the village when Bomieth chanced upon Samuel. Neither saw me from where I hid, but I saw them argue. They fought…” her voice trembled and faltered. “Samuel killed Bomieth… here… and then just dragged his body out of sight…”

“Sweet Erü!” Gimli hissed, trying hard not to show how much relief this information brought him.

Samuel had killed the son of the village’s leader, a future leader himself. The healer was a murderer, and if the rest of Cottoncrow discovered that…

“At first I thought that the reason was me, foolish as I was. But later, when I thought about it more calmly I knew I had been wrong.”

“Little pieces of their shouted words, small things that Samuel let escape when he thought I wasn’t listening… Bomieth oft told me that he didn’t liked Samuel. He believed that Samuel had chosen his sister only to get closer to his father’ seat at the council. I believe that was the reason why… Bomieth died because he knew of Samuel’s plans.”

“And with Bomieth’s son out of his path and him being married to the old man’s only offspring… why have you kept a secret of this?”

“No one would have believed me,” she explained. “A woman’s word is of little consequence in these parts. And even if they did listened to me, they would’ve thought that I had lost my senses. Samuel made sure of leading every soul in to believing that his rejection had pushed me over the edge of sanity, and everyone believed him… even me, for a time.”

The tears came harder to her eyes. Different tears, tears of anger and frustration, for not having been able to do justice to her lover, for never having had the strength to stand up against Samuel’s cruelty.

Gimli could feel his own frustration mounting up. Samuel’s manipulations seemed to surround him and suffocate every spark of hope he could muster. Even now, with such knowledge on his side, he could do nothing, for if the villagers had believed her mad then, they would think her completely out of her head now, with him as a companion. Unless…

“To where?” Gimli asked, hopping that his voice hadn’t reflected the eagerness that ran in his heart. Hope was born anew there.

Gimli wasn’t an experienced tracker like Aragorn, who could read grass like a book. Inside a mine, he could tell, in a moment’s glance, which rock was safe to break and which wasn’t. But dirt and branches? Those were strangers to him.

Even so, it was plain to see the marks left by something heavy being dragged away. The path seemed untouched and unwalked since that day, and Gimli couldn’t be more thankful for that.

They followed the trail of broken branches and disturbed earth, occasionally loosing their track beneath the growing vegetation, only to discover it again shortly ahead. The path moved away from the river at some point, and as the sound of gushing water started to sound fainter and fainter to them, the two wondered if, mayhap, they weren’t following the wrong clues. For what reason would Samuel drag a dead body this far?

When neither Gimli nor Alumna could hear the river, the marks suddenly stopped. The body, if that was what they had been following, had not been dragged further than that point. But, as far as they could see, no body was around.

The place had no particular features that could set as different from all the others they had seen so far in those woods. The same trees, the same bushes, the same animals surrounded them. It wasn’t even a clearing, just a spot, guarded by some ancient looking and some scattered rocks. And yet, the place seemed… sorrowful. The leaves weren’t as bright as those they had seen so far, and, on a closer look, the bushes appeared half-dead and no animal would feed on them.

Gimli got on his knees, searching the ground around the place where the track ended. Maybe Samuel had tried to erase it, maybe they had missed something. He moved away the pebbles and dead leafs, but still nothing seemed out of place to him.

Gimli turned around and saw it too. A piece of tore clothing, hidden by a long dead bush. He got up and raced to collect it, not really looking to where he was going. The guttural sound, one that only earth and rocks could do when they moved, was a late warning to the dwarf, punctuating his mistake. He dared not take a step further, knowing what would happen if he did.

Before he could finish swearing, the dirty beneath Gimli’s feet gave away under his weight, swallowing the dwarf before Alumna’s eyes.

“Gimli!” She shouted, running to where he had last stood. A cloud of dirt surrounded the place and the woman coughed out as she kneeled at the edge of the newly formed hole. “Gimli! Are you alright?”

She heard another cough in reply. And then the muffled voice of the dwarf reached her.

“Aye,” Gimli said, struggling to get to his feet. “The fall was smaller than what I’d feared.”

The dwarf waited until his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and looked around. It was a natural cave whose roof was made of the large roots of the trees above, as if earth was their food and that space had been eaten away. The surrounding walls where like grotesque statues of unworldly creatures, sculptured in mineral rock that glowed in the dark. It smelled of old, decayed matter and the sound of running water echoed in the stiff air.

From the far right, a thin, feeble spring leaked from the wall, giving birth to the course of water than ran at Gimli’s feet. It spread and grew in that cave, disappearing in the left dark corner, beneath the rock formation, into a hole too small for even a hobbit to pass.

The decaying smell, that filled the dwarf’s nose since he had arrived in that place, grew stronger as the dust begun settling. Decay became down right rotten, in such way that made Gimli gag. It wasn’t long before he came about the source of such smell.

It was lying over the spring, rags of his clothes floating in the waters like tentacles. It had been a man once, Gimli could tell that by the general shape of the body, but little it resembled one now, half consumed by maggots and time as it was.

After all he had witnessed, the warrior neared the body gingerly, half expecting it to rise from its death and attack him. He didn’t like dead people; especially those that refused to behave like dead people.

Gimli touched him with the tip of his boot, turning him around when he was sure that that dead man was going nowhere. The face that greeted him, even without its nose or eyes was, as Gimli had expected, unknown to him. He could, however, make a good guess of whom this man had been.

“Gimli?” Alumna call out, concerned about his delay. “Answer me, I’m growing worried!”

He forced his eyes away from the empty orbs of the murdered man and looked up, towards the light. He wasn’t much of a climber; in fact anything taller than a good bed was not a welcomed sport to Gimli. However, staying in there to keep company to that corpse was not an option, and poor as they might have been, his skills as a monkey had improved greatly in Legolas’ company. “Aye, I can see a way out.”

Gimli had no idea of what to do with the body he had discovered. There was no doubt in his mind that he was Bomieth son, Alumna’s lover, murdered by Samuel. Taking it out of that cave was a near impossible task, plus he didn’t thought it wise for the poor woman to see what had become of her loved one. However, he needed a prove, something that identified the man without question, so that Samuel could be properly accused. He needed something he could take back to Cottoncrow and show to old Bomieth. The grieving father would finally have his closure, and, as Gimli hoped, would act against the healer.

Reluctant to touch the man’s spongy remains, Gimli dragged him away from the water and searched him for anything that could suite his proposes. The dwarf’s eyes lighted up when he found the ring in the man’s right pointing finger. Silently apologizing for the necessity driven robbery, Gimli pulled it off.

Gimli shivered and gag, quickly ridding himself of the macabre appendix. Before his stomach lost its fight with the gross sight, he washed it in the running water.

And then the obvious hit him with force of a rockslide. Gimli looked from his wet hands to the direction the watercourse ran. He figured that the village stood to the west, taking in account the direction they had travel and the location of the surface river, but in that gloomy place, in the middle of the forest, with his heart pounding as it was, he wasn’t very sure about his sense of direction.

“What’s the direction of the village?” He asked, eager to prove his idea, afraid to see his castle of theories crumble under the woman’s next words.

Alumna looked at the hole with concern, thinking that perhaps the dwarf had hit his head with more seriousness that what he thought.

Gimli never answered her. He was too excited to hear any of her questions, deaf to all but one sweet sound.

A series of images came unbidden to the dwarf’s mind. Legolas’ reaction to the water the villager’s drank. Drunken youngsters taking water out of a large well in the village. The rotten body submerged in the water that ran to the village, turning it in to some sort of corpse soup. A soup all had unknowingly been ingesting, ever since this man had been killed. A soup he himself had drunk.

He remembered the faces of all the sick ones he had seen, pain filled and feverish, taking glass after glass of water to their lips, adding more of the very thing that was killing them.

He shivered, imagining what would have happened to the entire village’s people if he hadn’t chanced upon that hole.

Above the cave where truth was revealing herself to Gimli, Alumna was growing impatient.

“No!” Gimli said quickly enough to prove that the woman had guessed right. “I’m climbing already,” he added with less urgency.

In the excitement of his discovers Gimli had forgotten who that man had been and that he would have to tell everything to Alumna. He clenched the stolen ring in his palm and started his way up.

Alumna was waiting for him, to help him out. As she grabbed his hand, she felt the cold piece of metal between their hands.

Gimli left the ring in her hand, knowing that the woman would take her own conclusions. Her pain filled gasp, followed by a frail deep breath was enough for him to know that she had indeed recognized the ring.

“You’ve found him?” She murmured, her eyes captured by the white ring and its brown stone in her hand. Silent tears coursed down well-known paths.

“Aye,” Gimli confirmed, feeling poorly with the knowledge that they had no the time to allow her proper grieving, or else they would be grieving for two before the day ended. “And he was not all that I have found.”

It was dark and he had an odd taste of dust and copper in his mouth, things that made little sense to Legolas until he realize that his eyes were closed and that he was lying on the ground.

The pain of the impact of crossbow bolt was still too fresh in his mind for the elf to have forgotten what had happen, as was the frustration of having failed to escape once more.

Someone was watching him. He could feel unfriendly eyes traveling over his body. The gentle breeze whispered him that it was Samuel, but Legolas already knew that.

The elven warrior had experienced the bitterness of wounds before, so he knew how much it would hurt to move at this point, even if Samuel’s presence bothered him. He could feel the sun at his back, caring and warm as a father’s touch, and the lull of unconsciousness called to him, waiting to reclaim his awareness. The healer could wait for him to wake up all day long, if he chose so… Legolas couldn’t care less.

“Bronco and his friends have truly excelled themselves this time,” he said with a praising look, pulling Legolas’ hair back to have a better look.

The elf’s first reaction was to swat the man’s hand away, but as he quickly realized, he couldn’t. His hands were once again bound.

“Have you reached so low that you’ve resorted in to sending children to do your dirty work?” Legolas hissed, opening his eyes and glaring at the crouching man.

Samuel would have laughed, but thought better of it, as the pull of his mouth on his bruised face was too painful.

“So haven’t died after all!” The man said, facing the angry glare. “Bronco and his friends are well know for the troubles they create… I send them to do no one’s dirty work, I assure you.”

Legolas sighed, knowing perfectly well who was responsible for the boys ill behavior with him. However, the large bruise in the healer’s eye and the memory of Gimli’s angry expletives the night before were enough to bring a smile to his lips.

“Were I a healer as good as yourself,” he said with his voice laced in sarcasm, “ I would say that you’ve been touched by the Bruisenbite… that, or the heavy hand of one of Aüle’s sons”

The anger that rose red in Samuel’s face became one of life’ small pleasures, and Legolas was enjoying it greatly.

“Mighty bold words from the damned mouth’s leave” Samuel spat, his pride more bruised than his face, knowing all the talk that would happen behind his back, on account of the beating he had taken at the hands of the dwarf. He, a dwarf friend.

“Your friend talked too much as well,” Samuel said, his double-meaning words intended to play games with the elf’s mind. The dwarf had not been harmed after his insult and aggression because he had other plans for him. That, however, was something the elf had no need of knowing.

Legolas tried to mask the true impact of those words in his heart, but his body was weary and his mind too troubled to be playing games. What had he done to Gimli, he wanted to scream… but didn’t.

He had heard the dwarf’s shouts and angry words the past night, so he knew that part of what Samuel said was the truth. But how to know if Gimli had reached safety after that? The doubt ate at the elf’ spirit, stilling his strength further away and building up his despair.

“Why are you doing this?” Legolas whispered, closing his eyes to black out the images around. They were spinning too fast, making him grow dizzy.

“Because I can,” he murmured. “You and the dwarf were the best that could have happened to me,” he added with a smile.

‘Yes, the best that could have happened’ Samuel thought. His plans had been set in to motion a long time ago, but only now, with the timely arrival of these two strangers, could he risk completing them.

“People will turn against you when they realize that my death has solved nothing.”

Legolas felt the anger rising inside his chest. His suspicions that a situation as strange as this one could only be born out of chaos or someone’s planning were no longer mere suspicions. Samuel was manipulating them all; everyone serving as pawns in this devious game he was playing alone. Him, Gimli, the villagers… all caught in the healer’ spider web, twisting and twirling to escape invisible threads that they were not aware of even being there.

Scrapping the bottom of his energy reserve, Legolas let his anger boil and took his chance on Samuel.

For an elf’s usual agility and grace, having his hands tied up and a wound in his side, made Legolas lack severely on both. Still, he had the experience of many years on his side. In a quick, even if awkward, movement, Legolas squeezed his legs trough the hoop formed by his tied hands, effectively bringing them to the front and use them to punch Samuel out of balance.

Samuel was too late in realizing the elf’s actions, and soon found himself on the ground, with the rope that restrained Legolas’ hands around his neck.

“Someone older and wiser than me once told that one should not be too eager to deal out death in judgment… but I feel highly tempted to ignore his words this time,” Legolas hissed in to the man’s ears. He could feel the other trembling under his hold, the breathing faster but pointless as the rope squeezed tighter around the neck, the hands groping at the rope but unable of prying it away.

A certain degree of dark satisfaction filled the elven warrior at the sight of the man’s lips darkening and getting a bluish tinge. Samuel was no longer in control, in fact, control had slipped so far from his reach that Legolas felt with disgust the wet and warm sensation that ran down the man’s tights as he wet himself.

Samuel was scared, afraid for his life and cursing his foolishness for having underestimated the resilience of the elf.

“What have you done to Gimli?” Legolas asked in a tone of voice that had many times frozen his enemies in fear.

The man struggled against his hold in despair, mouthing the word ‘nothing’ in hopes of being released. The soundless word was enough for the elf’s ears.

The world started to run around again, like a nonsense leaf caught in the wind, and Legolas knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep his leverage much longer. While processing Samuel’s words, judging if they were truthful or just a survival trick, Legolas searched the square for a safe escape path. His blurring vision however, much to his fury, showed him nothing but shimmering images and the shadows of those standing around them watching, waiting for a false movement on his part to act.

Samuel wasn’t fairing much better. He gagged for air that failed to enter in sufficient amounts and panic rose as he realized that he couldn’t breath. Panic made his heart rush inside his chest, spending fast what little air he had left inside of him, bringing him closer and closer to the end.

In his desperate movements to free himself, just as consciousness was fleeing him, one of Samuel’s hands moved away from the rope and grabbed on to the first thing it felt.

Legolas screamed as he had ever screamed before when Samuel’s fingers, curled around the arrow’s shaft and pulled, bringing arrow and flesh out in the same movement.

Two bodies fell down, as Legolas legs refused to hold him upright any longer and Samuel’s semiconscious form was dragged after him.

For a few seconds of stunned surprise no one thought about moving or taking any action, the confused bystanders struggling to understand what had just happen. Healer and prisoner were both on their knees, struggling to catch their breath for separate reasons, fat drops of sweat running down both their faces.

Legolas was fighting an inglorious battle with darkness, closing blacker and blacker around him. Far too much blood poured, hot and sticky, down his side, soaking his leggings and pooling around his knees. By the time the first guard remembered to move, Samuel had regained his breath and the elf had embraced the pain free oblivion.

Gimli’s plan was as simple as it was ingenious. As certain as they were that the underground river was the same feeding Cottoncrow’s well and was making everyone sick, they were also sure that no one would take their word on it.

A way had to be found for them to show and prove to the villagers that they were speaking the truth, something tangible that every men and women could see and believe.

At the dwarf’s request Alumna had gathered as many of her red berries as she could find. Gimli had seen how easily those berries could change the water’s color and he was counting on that for his plan to work.

The water would turn red, but they needed that to happen only after they had reached Cottoncrow and explain everyone what they were about to see.

Timing those two events was the tricky part. A system to delay the flooding of old tunnels had been in use by the dwarves for as long as Gimli could remember and no dwarf could remember a time when that system had failed them.

Using a thin thread of cloth from Alumna’s long dress, they had stringed a pouch to hold the berries she had brought. Descending on the hole again, in a more controlled manner this time, Gimli hang their contraption from one of the lower roots, choosing carefully one that was the appropriated length for his plans, and let the bag balancing over the running water, almost touching it. In the water he placed two large rocks, directly in the path of the pouch.

Making his way out off hole again, cursing the lack of stairs, the dwarf set the old tree root on fire, killing it almost immediately, letting only a slow burn inside. When it burned itself too weak to hold the lightweight pouch, the berries’ laden trap would fall in to the water and gash open against the rocks, smashing the berries and tinting the water red.

Saying her goodbyes to the improvised grave of her lover, Alumna turned away and raced after her newfound friend.

Almost all had already arrived, even if the hour was still early. It was a matter of great importance, a life changing experience for then all, for their lives would indeed change after the sun had settled. The Bruisenbite would be gone from their existence and they would be able to breathe easily again.

It was the form of achieving such goal that disturbed some stomachs. Never before in Cottoncrow had there been a public execution of any kind. No hangings, no stonings, no eviscerations, no beheadings, nothing.

Practical things that had never crossed anyone’s mind had to be resolved in a moments’ haste and the worst of them all had been deciding who would cut the head. Samuel seemed the obvious choice, but the healer explained them that he couldn’t be involved directly in the process; he was just a messenger for higher designations. Bomieth was out question, as everyone knew his mind would not be strong enough for something like this. For a while David, the father of the boy who had died capturing the elf, was a possibility. The council, however, feared that with the amount of hate David had for the elf, the beheading might turn in to a too ugly show.

In the end, it had been Tom’s name the chosen. Tom was young, able, and the town’s butcher. Cutting flesh was part of his trade.

The young butcher had grown pale when the resolution was presented to him. He had no problem in killing animals, knowing that there would be many mouths fed by his killing… but a person?

The council argued that this would save many, as Tom was well aware of, but still, it was with a heavy heart that the butcher accepted the grim task of beheading the stranger.

The sun had long passed his highest point when they finally arrived at Cottoncrow. Gimli and Alumna passed unnoticed by those they met, as all villagers seemed far more interested on what was happening elsewhere on the village. Guessing what that event might be, the two followed the crowed, a cold feeling burning their stomachs. Gimli for his friend, Alumna for what she was about to do.

They pushed their way front, the dwarf anxious to see how his friend was faring. A few heads turned to look at who was so insistent to pass through. This turn it was the sight of Alumna that caused more confusion and surprise. None had seen or heard anything of her for months now. Most had thought her dead.

She paid them no heed. The same looks and whispers that had driven her away before, were now unable of affecting her. She had been younger then, not so much in years but in experience. What these people thought of her was of little consequence at this point. The only thing that truly mattered now was preventing Samuel’s plan from succeeding.

Alumna saw him before Gimli, and her heart skipped a beat, even if she had never actually met the elf. For one insane moment she considered the idea of turning back and blocking Gimli’s view. His heavy cursing seconds later told her that it was already too late for that.

The first time he saw him, Gimli wasn’t able to recognize his friend. During the most ferocious battles that both had fought side-by-side, it had always been a source of unending annoyance to Gimli the elf’s ability to endure all with hardly any dirt on him, not a hair out of line, without even breaking in to a sweat.

The elf he was seeing now had fought a hard battle and the evidence of that was, for once, very clear on him. Legolas was kneeling behind a gray stone that reached his lower chest, hands tied behind his back, wearing a black tunic that struck Gimli as odd and out of place. His face was a collection of smudges, going from the ashes’ gray to the blood’s red, and his hair… Gimli thought he looked almost human now, with that short length trends, dirty and with eyes that spoke of loneliness and lost. A very young and lost human boy.

The dwarf’s strong heart was taut with worry and guilt for his friend. Never before had he seen the elf looking like that, and the sight frightened him beyond words.

Legolas seemed to have sensed Gimli’s presence, for his clear eyes searched his friend from amidst the crowd. He found him in the far left, standing next to a tall woman, one Legolas hadn’t seen before. Her slender hand was resting on the dwarf’s shoulder, in a compassionate way. Her other hand was curled around the pendent in her necklace.

That gesture, he had seen before. In the forest, the day when all had started, the melancholic presence he had felt, the source of all the sadness he had felt. He sought her eyes, hoping to understand her relation with Gimli, but she was looking down, talking to the dwarf.

He closed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. When he reopened them, after what he thought to be a second later, Gimli was nearer, arguing with the guards in front of him.

“No one forbids you from speaking with the prisoner. Our orders are to not let anyone near him,” the guard explained again.

Gimli angrily agreed with their terms and the guards stepped aside, watching his every move. But Gimli wasn’t moving, he wasn’t even speaking. He just stared at the elf. Legolas looked positively worse from up close.

He had awakened to find himself chained to the stone block, kept upright by the metal around his back, able of moving little else but his neck. Not much time had passed since his last attempt to escape, but the square that had been barely filled then, was now alive with too many villagers.

Someone had changed his tunic for a darker one, an action apparently so futile that Legolas couldn’t understand it at first. When he started to feel the warm wetness, slowly cursing down his side, Legolas realized that the blackness of his clothing would never show any red stain. It was safer for Samuel if the villagers had no chance to feel sympathy for the prisoner.

He felt thirsty, tired, angry, frustrated and his head kept on spinning in the most dizzying way. His chances of escaping seemed dimmer and dimmer by the moment as the elf came to the sad realization that he no longer had the strength to get away on his on. And what angered him the most was the fact that Gimli, whom he had come to respect and held in high regard, was there, looking at him when felt more helpless and weak.

“You should’ve stayed away,” Legolas said, his eyes appraising his friend’s figure. “You look terrible.”

“Advantages of being a dwarf… I can look terrible and still look better than you.”

And then, as quickly as it came, the amusement was gone from his voice, “We are going to spring you out of here, don’t you worry, elf!”

“I’ve met a local, a woman that lives in the forest nearby,” the dwarf said, pointing to where he had left his ally. “Her name is Alumna, and she used to be Samuel’s wife,” he whispered.

Legolas looked in to his friend’s eyes, surprised by these news, and only then did he recognize the shinny glint in the brown orbs. Hope.

Somewhere, somehow, Gimli had discovered a powerful ally that could balance the odds at last.

“We discovered some interesting stories about our healer friend,” Gimli said, lowering his voice to barely a sound, knowing that Legolas would have no problem understanding him. “Your freedom is but a breath away, my friend,” the dwarf said confidante.

“Gather around, good people,” Gimli said louder, turning his back on Legolas to face the bystanders. The sight of the villagers’ grave expressions and unwelcoming moods made the dwarf dry-swallow and take a deep breath before continuing. His mouth had dried out and he struggled to speak clearly, “Good people of Cottoncrow, there has been some events that have been kept a secret from you,” he shouted. “Events that you aught to know about.”

The whispering crowd grew noisier and Gimli knew it was time to set their discoveries on the loose and see what damage they could achieve.

“Alumna, tell them all you know,” he said with a victorious smile on his lips.

The silence that followed his words was uncomfortable on so many levels that it seemed to never end. The smile on Gimli’s face turned in to an ugly sneer of unbelief as he searched the crowd for Alumna’s familiar face. The spot where the woman was supposed to be standing was now occupied by and old, curled up woman, holding a little boy by the hand.

“Alumna?” Gimli whispered, refusing to believe in her disappearance. In one terrifying moment, Gimli’s whole plan crumbled before his eyes, betrayed by its most important piece. He broke in to a nervous cold sweat, surrounded by angry words spat at him by anonymous voices that the dwarf couldn’t place. Rotten food, that unfortunately seemed to be always at hand in these situations, flew by him, missing his figure. Until an egg found its mark and woke Gimli from his panic.

“No! Listen to me!” He shouted back, trying to regain their attention and trust. “Samuel is not who you think him to be!” A rotten tomato flew dangerously close by. “HE IS A MURDERER!”

Legolas looked up, gazing Gimli’s back. Had his friend resorted to lie in order to rescue him? He knew that it was not in the dwarf’s way to deceive in such way, and he had sensed the evilness in Samuel’s heart… but to be able to take another life?

“He killed Bomieth’s son… I have discovered his murdered body!” Gimli pressed on, taking advantage of their momentary silence.

Gimli was shaking his head in denial, his eyes still searching for Alumna, in a faint hope that she might return. Had she lost her nerve and run away? Had this been her plan from the start? Feeling deeply foolish, Gimli cleared his throat to speak.

“We… I found the body of your leader’s son, not too far from here…I can show you the place where he was hidden. I can take there any who wishes to see it.”

“How can you tell with such certainty who killed him?” The man paused, “Or even if it is him?”

Muffled by the snickering and jest comments, Gimli’s silence spoke volumes. Truth was, he could not. Not without Alumna.

“Samuel spoke of a two-headed creature… it is his the second head, maybe he should die as well!”

“No, no, NO!” Gimli shouted. This was going horribly wrong. The dwarf quickly revised what he had planned to say and what he had actually said, trying to see where had he failed. He soon realized that he left out an important piece of information.

“Tis not a curse that ails you, tis the water you’ve been drinking,” Gimli added with haste, imposing his voice over the laughs that followed his words. “Bomieth’s body was lying in the spring, the same spring that feeds your village’s well.”

Although none seemed to believe him, Gimli could see that a few were, at least, starting to listen.

“I was there… I left a red mark in the water,” he pushed on. “You have only but to look at water in the well and see if the mark has followed the spring’s course and arrived here.

Most wanted to ignore the stranger’s words, but those who handle animals knew better. They oft lost cows and sheep because of the same problem, the animals falling sick after drinking filthy water. Two brothers, sheppards, walked to the well.

All others fell quiet, watching as the bucket was dropped and slowly pulled up again.

Gimli could feel his heart beating so hard that he was sure everyone around him would be deafened by the sound of it. A thousand doubts raced in circles inside his head, some reasonable, others only insane products of his insecurity.

“Tis red as he said!” One of the brothers said, emptying the bucket in front of all. Reddish, mudded water fell down and pooled in the ground before being slowed by the earth.

All around people were arriving to their own conclusions, and Gimli gave out a sight of relief. The may not believe his words for what they were telling, but the seed of doubt was at least planted.

His relief was a short lived one, interrupted by the arrival of the executioner.

The man’s large axe was appropriate to his large stature. He was an imposing figure with a black hood covering his face. He stood tall, as a grim reminder that their time had ran out.

“I see none in here with the authority to unsay Samuel’s words,” the man said, his voice deep and raising no doubts. None, except for Legolas’ keen ears, heard the slight tremor that lay under the man’s well-gathered composure.

“The Bruisenbite has taken enough from us already!” Another man said. “We can’t be risking our lives on the words of a stranger and some tricks in the water!”

“My husband fell ill yesterday,” a woman said with tears in her eyes, “and I will not see him die!”

“We have no reason the doubt Samuel’s words… he showed us the way to stop people from becoming sick!”

“No one will fall ill again, if you stop drinking water from that well,” Gimli said. “No one would have fallen ill in the first place, if your healer hadn’t left a body to rotten in your water!”

Some of the villagers, those who had come to that same conclusion, nodded at Gimli’s words. Others could not bring themselves to believe that Samuel would be able to take any life. How could water be anything but water, changed enough to turn in to poison and kill them?

Samuel, the healer that had never failed them, one of the most trusted men in Cottoncrow, their future leader if anything was to happen to old Bomieth, he had foretold that a creature with two heads should be relieve of one on this day, at this time. In a battle of words against words, could they ignore Samuel’s and throw everything to waste?

“Send someone for Bomieth and Samuel... we need their decision,” the man with the axe said. Two men set off running.

“We can’t afford to take ill chances... if word arrives in time, we’ll obey by it... if not...” the man said, leaving the last words hanging in the air like a vulture. “Time will not repeat itself for us, just because our hands wondered stray.”

The axe was, after all, in his hands. The decision, to a certain point, was in his hands too. The hands that were shaking so hard now that he could hardly keep his grip on the weapon.

He felt for their pleat, and in his heart he wanted nothing more that to cut the elf’s hands lose and tell them to be gone and never return again. If it was Cottoncrow’s fate to perish and disappear from memory due to this illness, then so be it. He was starting to wonder if, mayhap, that wasn’t what they deserved after all.

However, he didn’t think himself brave enough to master such decision and bare on his shoulders its consequences. And heavy they would be. If the dwarf was right in what he told them, then to spare the elf was the right choice, and he would be seen as a hero for taking it. But, if the dwarf’s tale were nothing more than an elaborate lie to save his friend, than his decision would condemn all to death. Blood would be in his hands either way.

Time is a titan, a giant that suffers the interference of no one. So great is its power that it toys with others, seaming to move at a different pace for different viewers. It slows down to a crawl when you wish it to run, it flies like the wind when you need it to stop.

If time couldn’t be stop, Gimli wished that at least the sun would. But the bright daystar seemed to care nothing for their troubles and Gimli realized that the sun would set before Bomieth arrived. He could hear himself shouting angry words at the guards, but he barely knew what he was saying. He could feel hands restraining him, but he could not remember the faces of the men to whom they belonged. Their fingers were nothing but claws, preventing him from reaching his friend. The one thing he would remember later was the peacefulness in Legolas eyes when he looked at him.

Gimli’s first reaction was one of anger. How could the elf remain so calm? Had he not realized the seriousness of his situation? Was he so selfish that he believed that his death would affect none? How would he face Thranduil later to tell him that his son was dead and that he, his friend, had stood there, watching as it happened?

But Legolas eyes did not waver or blink under the onslaught of Gimli’s questions. And, like a gentle breeze whispering in his ear, Gimli understood what Legolas had realized a long time ago.

Gimli had done all he could, Legolas had done all he would and now it was the villagers’ turn to act. Nothing more they could say that would affect them, for when fear rules people’s minds, they will listen to nothing else. Not to reason, not to common sense, not fairness, not even to pity.

Everyone’s hearts were pulsing faster, breathings forgotten, and all eyes trapped in between the two mountains that would hide the sun. When the moment came, the villagers turned as one to the hooded man behind the prisoner. It was time.

Tom, the man behind the hood that did nothing to conceal his identity, tightened his grip on the handle of the axe, feeling it slide away from his sweaty fingers. His eyes stole one more furtive glance the other side of the square, each time hopping to see Bomieth’s figure arriving. But only an empty street was there to be seen. The decision was in his hands and he would take no chances, even if that meant to never again have a restful night of sleep.

Legolas rested his head in the cold stone and closed his eyes. He was weary, hurt in more ways than one. He could not see, but every detail seemed to press against him despite his will, demanding to be acknowledged. The heart of the man behind him, beating faster and faster, the deep breaths he took to calm himself, the heat flowing from his body in waves, the sound of the axe’s blade cutting the air as he finally raised it.

Legolas looked around at the crowd of strangers. They had stopped cheering, no longer enjoying their stay. At some point their presence had passed from joyful to sorrowful. His eyes travelled from the faces that he did not recognize to Gimli’s familiar face. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Legolas believed that the dwarf’s eyes looked brighter than usual.

‘The harder you try, the more failure hurts’. That was one of the few dwarfish sayings that Gimli had taught him. How he wished to explain to his friend that this wasn’t his failure, that it was no one’s failure.

All had played their part exactly as they were supposed to and no one could complain of wanting to act differently because, given the chance, most would have done exactly the same.

He wanted to turn around and tell the man behind him that there was no guilty in the man's actions. Samuel had killed him already. He could feel life sipping away from his body. The beheading was just the accelerator. The fire had already been kindle hours ago.

Time resumed its usual pace when the axe started its short journey down and Legolas could almost feel its touch on his neck already.

Most had closed their eyes, not feeling brave enough to witness the actual contact between blade and skin. So, it came as a surprise for many when they opened their eyes and found the elf still alive, Tom seating on the ground and the axe no where near the prisoner’s neck. The guard that had pushed Tom was helping him off the dirt and the man that had shouted the order had just reached them, still a bit out of breath from all the running he had done.

Bomieth was no longer a young man, and his house was a bit far from the square, but if he hadn’t run, he would have arrived too late. The old man still wore his unkempt hair and dirty clothes, made worse by the large cut in his left shoulder that bled freely down his arm. His eyes, however, were no longer absent of life, but burning with concern.

“I’m sorry for the roughness, Tom, but we needed to avoid this terrible mistake,” the old man said, making his way towards Legolas. “Fetch me the keys to this irons!”

Bomieth seemed too embarrassed to look the former prisoner in the eyes, or even to speak to him. He would have rather put actions above words, but some words he could not avoid saying.

“Yes, and it is my blame that it took me so long to understand something so obvious. I have been selfish and blind ever since my son’s… disappearance. And as a consequence of neglecting my duties you almost lost your life... I must ask for your forgiveness, Master elf.”

Gimli, whom had ridden himself of the guard’s hands as soon as he had seen Bomieth scurrying away in to the square, had finally been able to reach Legolas. Bomieth’s words came as a surprise for him. The old man talked as if he knew all that he and Alumna had uncovered. Could it be that she hadn’t lost her nerve after all?

A boy arrived at a run, carrying the key with him. The presence of the two strangers offered him little confidence and his dark eyes trailed over them wearily as he delivered the key in the hands of Bomieth. The leader wasted no more time and released the prisoner with one turn of the key, wishing that such a gentle twist could have the power to erase all that had happen and redeem him of his actions.

Unfortunately for his conscience, it was just a lock, and its only power was to release Legolas’ hands. The elf rose to his feet, forcing himself to stay upright and avoid swinging at the rhythm of the pounding in his side.

“I allowed the wrong man to have too much power… and even so, the power he had wasn’t enough for his greed,” the old man told in confidence, almost forgotten of the presence of the two friends as he talked to the key in his hands. “Samuel went to my house today… he meant to kill me!” He said, looking up, “and he would’ve succeeded in this, had it not been for the arrival of my daughter and Alumna. They had always known Samuel for what he really was, as I have, even if I refused to believe it… they have told me everything.”

The old man’s voice ebbed away like wisps of smoke in a fire place as tears grew in his eyes. He could at last grieve for his lost son, for Alumna had confirmed to him what his heart had known all along.

Wincing, Bomieth moved his wounded arm to fish something out of his pocket. From the gentle way he held the small object, Gimli had no doubts that Alumna had returned the dead man’s ring to his father.

“They are…” the man started but forgot what he was saying next as his eye caught the drop of blood that fell to the ground beneath the two strangers. “Are you well?” He returned the question.

Gimli was confused for a second, until he followed the man’s eyes and saw the same he had. His stomach clenched as the answer to that question became clear. He turned to Legolas, looking for the source of the red liquid and in perfect synchrony, another fat drop hit the dirt.

“Legolas…” he called, touching the elf’s waist to catch his attention. His ungloved hand brushed against the dark tunic and instinctively recoiled as he felt the wetness. “Darn you, elf!”

Legolas, however, seemed little affected by his friend’s swearing. Small, crystalline pearls of sweat gathered in his forehead and his face looked paler than usual.

But the elf wasn’t answering. Though his eyes were open, they had the same glazed over appearance they took when he slept and Gimli realized that his friend might as well have crumbled to the floor like a sack of bones, because he was no longer conscious.

Ok, folks, finally managed an update… at last! To those of you patiently waiting for this, my thanks, my apologies and my hopes that it won’t disappoint you.

I’m hopping to finish this soon, but I confess that I will need time to dedicate to the final part… These last parts haven’t been quite to the quality I had planned for this fic, but a revision of it all is in my future plans, so don’t blame me much for the bad spelling and weak writing.

Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews so far, and PLEASE, keep on sending them ;)

Bomieth saw the panic that filled the dwarf’s eyes and, understanding that the elf’s condition was serious, quickly called two guards to help. Between them, Legolas was rushed to the nearest house.

The house’s owner, a small man with a balding head, came to door at Bomieth’s calling, but he seemed none too happy with what was being asked of him.

Today had been marked by all as the day that they would finally be able to breathe easier, free from the menace that had haunted them for so long. And Bomieth, smitten by some reason that none could venture to guess, had pushed that relief away.

For the past times, the man had been barely brave enough to step out in the street, afraid to be touched by the Bruisenbite. With his own well and growth of greens, he had little need of venturing outside but, when ever forced to, he would go about his business as fast as he could, trying to barely breath the very air that circled him.

Be it chance or a result of his care, the killer disease had yet to affect those in his house and for that the man was greatly thankful.

The events that had taken place in the central square had run from mouth to mouth all across Cottoncrow, reaching his ears as well, for he had been too afraid to join such a large crowd. From what he had heard, little sense could be made out of it. The only thing that he could be sure of was that the disease was a reality and that no amount of fairy tale, or elf tale for that matter, was going to make it disappear.

And now, Bomieth was at his door, with the elf in tow, demanding entrance. He could hardly deny such request, but it was with a heavy heart that he did so. His wife, standing behind him, covered her mouth in surprise, as she saw whom the guards were carrying in. She recovered quickly enough, directing the guards in to the house’s other room, where a cot stood near the fire place. The look of annoyed disapproval that her husband send her was carefully ignored as she set about feeding the hearth and lighting the room with candles.

Yes, she realized that that was their cot, reason why her husband seemed so disturbed, but it was also the house’s only cot, and the elf, evil or not, didn’t look too good. Her conscience was still heavy with the knowledge that, although old, she and her husband had been both healthy and able to land a help when the rest of the town had need of it. But forbidden by her husband of setting foot outside, the woman had passed her days in despair, hearing tales of family and friends meeting their demise at the touch of the Bruisenbite and doing nothing.

A person used to work her entire life, she had been mother of five boys, three of which now full grown men and responsible for families of their own. The other two she had lost, one to disease when he was a baby, the other to Mother Nature, while fishing. Since that day, she had questioned many things that others took for granted, for what Mother could kill her own children?

So now, as she looked at the form that the guards placed over the fern cot, she did not see an elf, good or bad, she did not see the two headed creature that all believe him to be, nor did she see the answer to end their troubles. All she could see was a living being, hurt and suffering, and Bomieth, whom she trusted above all, asking for their aid.

Gimli stood aside, not wanting to stand in the way of those helping his friend, and yet, behaving like a spectator while the woman kneeled next to Legolas and cut his dark tunic away, was becoming the hardest thing that the dwarf had ever done.

He looked outside through the window next to him. Night had settled gently and the first stars were already lit in the dark sky. With a tired sigh, Gimli realized that the hour he had spent the entire day dreading for, had come and passed without him even noticing.

“He’ll be need’n a healer,” the old woman stated, forcing Gimli to, once more, look at the events unfolding near the fire place. She had left the elf’s side only to fetch clean linens and water, since her husband refused to help her, and when she had cut away the rude bandage that had been wrapped around the stranger’s waist, she couldn’t avoid the gasp that escaped her mouth.

The flesh around the diamond shape cut was torn apart, bits of red tissue that should’ve been inside hanging from its opening in a grotesque way. Whoever had remove the arrow’s tip hadn’t surely been successful at first try, from lack of experience or lack of care, and when the weapon was finally pulled out, the damage had been impossible to control.

The woman shivered as she passed a water-soaked linen over the wound, cleaning cloth, blood and purulence away, imagining the amount of pain she was surely causing. She stole a glance to the elf’s face, noticing the stressed lines on his forehead and the tense muscles on his neck. He looked so young… some of her grandchildren were older than him! Somehow, it didn’t seem fair to her. She reached for the elf’s hand, which was unconsciously grasping and twisting the cot beneath him, in compass with her ministrations.

“He’ll be need’n a proper healer soon… tis a wound that would be need’n more than me poor knowledges in such arts,” she said.

The defeat in her voice felt like a slap in Gimli’s face. He turned his head in denial, as if that action would turn the woman’s words false. Surely there was something that could be done!

“Unless you have another healer in this place that I don’t know of, that maggot of a human isn’t coming near Legolas again… his done enough damage already!”

The dwarf’s face was red with anger and yet, as he kneeled by the elf’s side and grabbed his other hand, his motions were gentle and careful, as if touching his ailing friend would make him disappear.

“Be reasonable, master Gimli,” Bomieth ventured, aware that it was not his place to interfere. “There is no one else.”

“I’ll stitch him myself, if need be!” Gimli exploded, turning loaded eyes towards the villager.

The woman in front of him cleaned her hands on a dry piece of cloth and looked the dwarf in the eyes. She could recognize the frustration, anger and fear in them, try as he might to hide those feelings. She could also see how much care and friendship ran between these two.

“The wound is festering,” she told him quietly, hoping to call him back to reality. “I’ve seen many a men, strong men, dying from wounds lesser than tis. Not tended properly, I tell you, tis one will die too!”

“He’s an elf, that he is” the woman’s husband said, surprising all who hadn’t heard a word from him yet. “We can’t know if his kind dies of such things…”

Unconsciously all heads turned to Gimli, recognizing in him the only one with knowledge of elves. But on such matters, he knew little more than them.

He had heard the tales of elves dying of sadness and grief, Legolas had told him plenty of them on their journeys. And he had seen too many of them fall in battle, killed by Orcs and Uruk-hai. He knew that elven immortality only went so far, but never had he heard of a sick elf.

Gimli looked at his friend, wishing that he could provide him with an answer, but Legolas’ eyes were closed now, locking him in a private world where he answered to no one.

“There is no one else? An apprentice? A healer from a near village? Anyone?” The dwarf whispered, feeling cornered in his choices.

None present in the small room had the heart to say it loud, but words were not needed. Gimli wasn’t really expecting an answer. He knew Samuel was the only one and that he was too selfish to pass his knowledge to another, just as he knew that they were too far from everywhere for help to arrive in time.

The dwarf’s head dropped to his chest in defeat, as he gave his silent consent.

All that he had hopped for, all that he had planned so carefully, all that he had achieved so far… gone! Useless! Pointless! Wasted!

He looked at his tied up hands, trying to understand what had failed. None, in its sane mind, would believe that he had killed Bomieth’son; there was no proof of such deed, except for that woman’s word. His attempt to kill the old fool, now that was a different matter. It had gone terrible wrong. Ill time it had been, when those two women arrived, just as he was about to plunge the dwarf’s axe in to Bomieth’s chest.

His plan was flawless… No one was supposed to be there, all should’ve been at the elf’s execution. That was as it should have come to pass, that was what he had foreseen. The two strangers, the execution, the dwarf’s ill temper uncontained and Bomieth dead, with an axe in his chest.

Instead, the two women had come out of nowhere, screaming and calling him murderer even before he had a chance to finish the old man’s existence. He had failed, but he was not defeated.

Now they had come, asking for his help. The elf was ill and, although they knew that he must have had something to do with that condition, they had still come to him. The elf was wasting away, and they were clueless on what to do about it. Their undeclared despair amused him to no end.

Samuel’s first instinct was to spit on their pleas and laugh in their desperate faces. But instead, quickly realizing that such attitude would achieve him nothing, the healer swallowed his pride and showed his wiliness to help. Inside his head, a new plan was being forged.

When the guards arrived to fetch Samuel, no one took notice of the discreet look exchanged between the prisoner and one of his guardians.

Gimli had barely moved from his spot since Samuel had arrived. He stood, watching the healer like a hawk, his recently retrieved axe ready at hand, eager to be used on Samuel’s neck the minute he moved the wrong way.

“I would appreciate you not being so close when I’m treading with a needle,” Samuel said with annoyance, his eyes focused of the thin piece of metal in his fingers, its tip still glowing amber from the flames it had come out. Like an artifice working on a shoe, he inserted the needle from one side to the other of the open wound, leaving a blood soaked string between the two small holes. With steady fingers, he would then pull the string tight, securing it with a knot. “It is extremely annoying to feel your breath on my neck,” he said, placing the needle near the fire once more.

Gimli took extra care with his next breath, letting it out slowly and exclusively over the healer’s neck.

“You haven’t seen me being extremely annoying yet,” he said, not bothering to hide the menace in his voice.

The fact that he had no other choice but to suffer the healer’s presence in order to save Legolas’ life, didn’t meant that, by any means, this maggot was out of his to-squash list. The dwarf knew that, if the elf had a gapping hole in his side, then Samuel was surely involved in its making at some point. He could barely contain his anger as the man worked.

He had been counting the amount of threads the man already used to close Legolas’ wound. Six so far, and although it was only half closed at that point, it had already started to lose most of its gruesome aspect.

The elf had squirmed and moaned until about the forth thread, becoming deadly still after that, a development that had left Gimli somewhere between grateful and worried like a mother hen. As much as it was a relief for him see the end of his friend’ suffering, the dwarf couldn’t convince himself that the quiet and pale being in front of him was still among the living.

‘As long as you have a breathe to complain about it, it hasn’t killed you yet’, his father used to say, and Gimli soon discovered that holding his friend’s wrist and feeling the steady beat beneath his fingertips did wonders to calm his nerves.

The sturdy dwarf cleaned the sweat dripping from his forehead and looked longingly at the closed window. The air inside the small room was as hot as Mordor’s furnaces, laden with the smell of burned wood and blood.

Samuel picked another thread, looped it inside the needle and passed it through the wound, catching the dwarf’s hungry eyes towards fresh air.

“You can open it, if you will,” he said matter-of-factly, “or do you fear I might leap from my spot and escape through it before you notice?” He teased, pulling the thread and tying another knot.

Gimli snarled, puffing his chest full of air. The thought that Samuel might have used that window to escape had indeed crossed his mind, but never would he have a chance to do that, not while Gimli of the Three Hunters was watching him.

His knees popped like bottle’s corks when he stood up, making faces that Samuel could not see at the painful needles that prickled his legs after being so long in the same position.

‘You are getting old’ Gimli admitted to himself as he neared the window and opened it ajar, feasting in the cold, clean air that assaulted his nostrils.

“I will need the Arnica’s leaves now,” Samuel said, leaning his bent legs back until they were supported by his heels, looking patiently at the dwarf as he cleaned his bloody hands on a over used piece of cloth. “The wound is closed but I will need to apply the Arnica’s paste before wrapping it.”

“And you’ve already been told that you can’t go get it by yourself!” Gimli angrily answered, repeating the same lines of their initial discussion.

When he had arrived, Samuel had taken one look at the wound and declared that he could do nothing if didn’t had a specific kind of plant to treat the already present infection. A specific plant, a rare plant, that unlike most he used, had to be applied shortly after being collected.

The healer had offered to go in to forest to do the picking himself, but all had seen that offer as a mean for his escape and he had been ordered to treat the elf without further discussions. Now the matter had arisen again.

“Then you have a problem, master dwarf,” Samuel calmly said, “because without that plant, I can’t guarantee you that the elf won’t die all the same.”

It truly was a point that matter as little to Samuel as his voice made it sound. Weather the elf lived or died, his own fate was sealed and saving the elf wouldn’t necessarily mean that he would save himself.

“And tell me again why there aren’t any of these blasted greens in your storage?” Gimli asked with sarcasm, not having believed a single word of the longish explanation that the healer had given before. He clearly remembered seeing large cabinets in Samuel’s house, and what sort of healer would not keep the trinkets of his trade close to hand?

The look that Samuel had fixed upon the dwarf was something worth of keeping in the weapons’ room.

“As I told you before, the Arnica’s leaf is only of use for a short period of time after being collected… and impossible to grow,” Samuel added hastily, seeing that Gimli was ready to cut across his words.

Gimli’s gaze searched the healer’s face, looking for the slightest proof that this was some sort of trick to fool him, but the man’s features only spoke of treachery and betrayal. He had little chance of guessing to which point exactly those features were referring to. And he had little options, again.

“Very well, snake, tell me how this cursed weed looks like and I shall see that someone fetches it for you!”

Inside, Samuel smiled. He knew that, eventually, the dwarf would give in. The life of his precious friend dwarfed his senses and reasoning. And for that reason alone, Samuel was certain that the dwarf would never leave the search of such a vital thing in the hands of a stranger. No… the dwarf would go himself.

The mumbled words that hadn’t stopped coming out from Gimli’s mouth since he’d left the village, would’ve put a blush in the trees that surrounded them now, had trees had ears to hear them and cheeks to turn red.

‘A small, bulbous white plant, with blade-shaped leaves and a sweetly smell’

Samuel’s words rang like a bell in a large cave, inside Gimli’s head, as his eyes darted left and right, looking for anything that might be remotely similar to it. What chances did they have of finding such a small and hard to spot thing in a forest that big, in the middle of the night?

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the truly foolish thing, the one action that he would never forgive himself, was to do nothing, to not defy chance and believe that yes, they would indeed find such a tiny thing in the middle of the forest with barely no light to guide them.

Truth was that he had never seen the elf looking like that. He had been hurt before, but never like that. And that scared Gimli more than anything else, because Legolas was the immortal one, the one that would remain alive to tell their tale until the end of times. If anyone should die, that would’ve be him, a dwarf that by no terms was old, but that had already seen much and lived a full life.

So, Gimli decided to his own buttons, yes, he would’ve searched for a needle in a hay stack, if that was asked of him to do to get the elf back on his feet.

“Found any?” He called out to the four guards that reluntely accompanied him.

Behind him, Gimli could see four dots of flickering flames, answering him with four different voices, all empty of good news. Ahead, at the edge of his torch’s light, he could see that the trees gave way to a large patch of land, filled with bushes. Maybe their luck would change soon.

Gimli’s mood, however, would not change. He felt that something was wrong, but exactly what it was, he could not tell. The healer’s fortitude, his nonchalant behavior, his lack of resistance about losing such a good chance of escaping, his insistence in staying with Legolas, saying he didn’t wanted to waste all the work he had had…

The dwarf felt that he was being manipulated all over again, but without another healer nearby to safely call Samuel a liar; could he really risk not fulfilling that manipulation?

A new string of curses left his mouth as they reached the turf of land and spread to search more carefully amidst the low vegetation.

“Here! I found it!” One of the guards yelled, happy with the thought that he might still spend a part of this night in his warm bed. “There’s a whole bundle of them weeds in here!”

Following Samuel’s instructions on how to collect the plant, Gimli hurried back to the village, carrying the little white leaves as if mithril threads they were.

The torches that had lit Cottoncrow earlier that evening had, for most part, died out, leaving entire streets plundered in darkness. The smell of burned wood and oil still lingered in the air like an invisible ghost, waiting for the first rays of the sun to be chased away.

Though the hour was late, many was still outside or standing by their opened windows. None could sleep that night.

Most had by now understood that, believing in the resolution of all of their problems with the elf’s death had been a foolish, even shameful thing to do. The possibility that the dwarf had spoken the truth about the well’s water had slowly wormed its way in to their heads, helped by Bomieth’s reassurances that he believed the stranger’s word. The sight of Samuel tied up and surrounded by guards and the hammering of nails has the well’s mouth was closed earlier in the evening had secured the idea that maybe, just maybe, they might have a chance to survive.

The one thing that no one could truly explain, however, was the general feeling that swapped them all: the feeling that their survival was, somehow, connected with the elf’s survival. Like small children, placing bets on which way the wind would turn, or if a bird would land or not, and letting those bets decide if they would do their chores or not, most villagers had now their lives hanging from such game of chance.

No longer was it the death of the elf that would save them, it was his survival that would reassure them that all would be well, that they would have a chance to fight and have a life after all this darkness. If he, who was immortal, could not defeat the body’s weakness, how could they aspire to do the same? If that stranger that had, after all, done them no wrong, met his death because of them, how could they, that had done nothing to stop the wrong that had been done to him, aspire to be spared?

Each time that news of one more villager getting touched by the Bruisenbite was whispered in that night, it was like a herald of their doom, and those waiting felt without knowing why that if the elf’s passing was the next news they heard, then all of their hopes were forfeit.

Gimli wasted no time with manners or courtesy has he ran pass the guards posted outside the house where he had left Legolas. He barely even saw Bomieth and Alumna seating by the table near the room’s door, talking in quiet tones. He made straight for the room, his hand closing around the door handle unconsciously. As he opened it, a thread of clairvoyance, or as close as he would ever be of such things, flashed before him. And Gimli knew it before his eyes could confirm the reality of his ‘vision’…

Again, sorry for the huge amount of time between updates *bows humbly* but, as my degree is finally done :D I’ll be having a lot more time to dedicate to writing. The story is almost over, and a major re-editing of it is already planned, but only after I get to write those sweet words ‘THE END’

On request by many families, aka, Galimeril and Iteralday, I haven’t killed Legolas… yet :P

Gorath felt like one of those heroes from ancient times, those sang in the folklore songs, courageously facing foes much stronger than themselves.

He had told his family that he would be standing guard over Samuel, but silently he was telling them that they needed not worry, because he would make sure that no harm ever came to them.

His mother was sick, touched by the Bruisenbite little more than three days ago, and the idea of losing her was killing his father. If he was successful that night, both would be saved.

The cart and horse had been exactly where Samuel told him that they would be and the fact that most of the torches burning in the streets had died away, plunging the village in darkness, seemed like good signs. Mother Nature helped those who were rightfulness.

Silently he made his way to the back window of the house where they had allowed that creature to enter. The soft light inside the room framed the wooden closed windows in a halo of amber. He knocked only once, holding his breath until he was sure that it was indeed Samuel who would answer his call.

The window didn’t take long to be opened, casting a square of light in the dark alley.

“Aye,” the man whispered back. He had positioned the cart directly beneath the window and was now holding the horse, so that the animal wouldn’t move from that spot or make any noise. To be heard by the other guards at that point would be the end of their plans.

A pair of booted feet appeared through the window, quickly followed by the rest of the elf’s body, landing inside the wood cart with a soft thud. Samuel followed suit.

“Are you sure that your presence won’t be missed? They must suspect nothing, so that we can be far from here by the time that they discover us gone.”

The guard smiled, the gesture lost in the dark because the healer could not see his face. He pointed to the steps of the house nearest to them. The burning point of a smoking pipe flashed red every so often, like a beacon signalling the man’s inhalations.

For a fleeting moment, Samuel thought the man had betrayed him and had called the dwarf back from the forest.

“Me cousin will stand for me… in the darks, we look alike enough,” he reassured the healer.

Gorath nodded and, carefully whispering to the horse, guided him away from the house, waving goodbye to his cousin.

They moved like wraiths in the dead of the night, vanishing amidst the tree trunks as soon as they reached the forest’s edge. Once protected by the darkness of the foliage, Gareth risked climbing to the driver’s seat and speeding the horse’s trout. He knew that the group of guards the dwarf had led in to that same forest could return at any time, and he didn’t want to risk a chance meeting between them.

How the animal found his way through the forest’s paths the guard couldn’t imagine, for the darkness was so thick that he barely saw the horse in front of him. He was just glad that the animal knew his way well and had no need for his instructions.

Sooner than what he had calculated, they arrived at their destination. The ancient ruins.

Samuel pushed back the blanket that concealed him and the elf at the back of the cart and leaped to the ground. The guard, he could see, had already started to lid some of the hidden torches around the old stones, trying to push away some of the blackness of the night. Still, the air of imminent doom that seemed to pour from the structure itself refused to dim and in fact, seemed more pressing under the light than it had in the dark.

The healer smiled as he saw the man busying himself around the place. He had been so easy to fool. When that man had been left alone to stand guard over him, an escape plan had formed inside Samuel’s head. Playing with all the doubts that he knew the villagers were still bound to have about what had happened, the healer had made his move.

He told the guard about Bomieth’s lack of judgement, of how the dwarf, helped by the elf, had managed to trick the old man in to believing that fool’ story about him killing another man and about spoiled water. True, he had tried to kill the old man, but it had been a gesture that weighted deeply on his heart, one that he had been forced to take in order to safe his life and the lives of everyone in Cottoncrow.

“You see,” he explained the captive guard, “there is still a chance to save us all, but Bomieth wouldn’t let me act on it, blind as he is by these strangers. I can only hope, for the good of us all, that you are smarter than him, that you are not blind to the events happening in our midst… that you will help me save Cottoncrow!”

The guard had been mesmerized by the healer’s words, knowing deep inside that he was right, of course, and that, if left in Bomieth’s hands, their fate would be a grim one. He would save his parents, no matter the consequences for himself. And that thought alone made him feel like a hero.

Once he was sure that the guard was on his side, Samuel laid out the plan that he had quickly elaborated, explaining him that they would need to take the elf back to the place of his ancestors and there kill him. That alone would send the curse of the Bruisenbite away from their homes. Only that would save the lives of all that were infected.

The guard had no doubts of the importance of what they were setting out to do, but the how they would achieve it left him filled with dread. If the healer was being held prisoner in that house and the elf stood so far away from them, under heavy guard, how would they manage to snatch him away?

Samuel had merely smiled and assured him that all would be well. Soon, very soon, they would arrive to lead him to the elf. And when all happened exactly as Samuel had said, the guard saw in it a manifestation of the healer’s power of telling the future.

“Where should we put him?” The guard asked Samuel, easily carrying the unresponsive body in his arms.

“There, by that tree,” the other man said after awhile, pointing at a random trunk. His plan had worked so perfectly until now that he felt the need to calm his enthusiasm, or else he might ruin everything by rushing things. One small misstep at that point and all would be lost.

He patiently waited until the guard had secured the elf to the tree with the ropes he had carried there. Only then did he speak.

“Come… I need your help inside the tower,” he called to him. “Last I was here I left some utensils there that will prove of use now.”

Gareth followed obediently, making sure that the elf had no chance of running away. The creature had his eyes closed and a pale, sweaty look about him that made him look dead already, but even that was not enough to assure him that the elf wouldn’t attack him as soon as he turned his back.

He had been a guard for time enough to think that his senses were a little more tuned to danger than most people. An uncomfortable feeling at the base of his neck would not leave him be, telling him that something was not right. He looked around nervously, searching for the source of danger, but other than the unconscious elf, only Samuel was there.

“Aye, I come!” He ran to the healer, already waiting for him at the door of the single tower. Inside the darkness was heavier than any he had ever seen.

Time doesn’t seem to move at all when no one’s there to watch. Instead, it leaps from place to place, to wherever it has an audience, going faster or slower, depending of his viewers’ needs, having fun in contradicting them.

In the circle formed by the fallen walls of the ancient elven dwelling, time had stopped, for its only viewer was paying it no attention. Inside the tower, however, it was running faster and faster towards the raising sun. For one person in particular, time had reached its end.

A glom brightness that spread monochromatic shades all over the forest, had started to leap over the horizon when Samuel exited the tower, alone and wearing clothes that were not his own. Black smoke followed him, growing in intensity as his steps led him further and further away from his last murder.

Inside the old stones, the shadow of a man could be guessed at. A man that had compared himself to the ancient heroes, forgetting how often tragic those stories were.

The guard had served his purpose, to pass for a dead Samuel, his burned body too disfigured to be thought otherwise. In his hand Samuel had been careful enough to place the rune stones that all knew to be his, so that there would be no doubt left for those who eventually found the body. The change of clothes had been a mere precaution.

Samuel moved with determined steps towards the unconscious elf, wondering if it would be safe to just leave him there or waste more time trying to find someplace to hide him. The horse, still pulling the cart, was no where to be seen, most probably having wondered back to Cottoncrow once the smell of smoke had reach him.

The healer figured that the villagers and the dwarf would take some time to figure where they were, if they managed at all. A day, at most, giving him plenty of time to find another sort of transportation for the elf and him. Their final destination was at the bottom of the mountains and on foot it would take him too long. Plus the elf didn’t look like he would be moving on his own any time soon, and his presence was fundamental for Samuel’s plan.

The contingency plan that he had set aside, confidante that there would be no need for it. The plan that he was only to use if all else failed. The plan that was now his only guarantee that he would not walk away from Cottoncrow with empty hands.

Samuel could only smile at the brilliance of it. It was almost as if the future had indeed revealed itself to him.

Some of the fishermen dwellings weren’t that far from where he was, and he knew that most of them had either a horse or a donkey to pull their carts when they went to the market, to sell their fish.

No knowing how long it would take him to return, Samuel decided that it was best to leave the elf where he couldn’t be easily seen, in the far chance that a lost soul happen to pass those parts. It took him some time to untie the knots that the guard had fastened around the elf, so tight they were. If nothing, the man had been detailed in his obligations, Samuel thought with a sarcastic smile.

Free from the ropes, the elf’s body fell free to the ground. The healer grabbed him by the legs, dragging the elf further inside the ruins, where the opening of the old tunnel stood. He left him near the opening, covered by the foliage of the bushes and trees around.

With one last look back, to make sure that the elf was indeed well hidden, Samuel left to steal himself a horse.

Gimli’s first reaction had been based solemnly on instinct. He wanted to grab a few torches and go on pursuit the very instant that he found Legolas gone. The cart’s tracks found beneath the back window left no doubt about which had been Samuel’s escape rout. The depressions cutting deep in the dirt were still fresh, telling them that they had been made by a cart heavy with load and that they had been made not so long ago.

To the concerned filled mind of Gimli, that was more information than what he needed. He and a group of others followed the tracks through the village’s dark streets, but when the group of hunters reached to forest’s edge, the track was completely lost.

A wild idea of entering the forest anyway, and search it from one end to the other, played in Gimli’s head for a minute or two, until the reasonable arguments that both Bomieth and Alumna presented to him won.

He knew that it was too dark to go on, and that in a forest that big, they would need every clue and track that Samuel might have left behind to find them. Still, it did not seat well with the dwarven warrior to just let Samuel free to widen the gap separating him from his friend.

Forced to wait, he couldn’t, however, allow himself to rest. Over and over the same image played inside Gimli’s head. He could see himself opening the door and looking at an empty bed room, left only with a blazing fireplace and slept-in cot. Pieces of white linen, reddened by blood, lay discarded near the fire. Of the wounded elf and the man that had been there to heal him, there was no trace.

The dwarf knew that Samuel would try something like that and yet he had let himself be caught like a toddler. He also knew that the healer couldn’t have done it with out help from someone outside.

The first suspects to his eyes had been the owners of the house, but he had quickly discarded that idea. The woman had helped Legolas and had seemed truly affected by his suffering. Her husband, on the other hand, was not so fond of the situation, but the house was so small that he couldn’t have done anything without the old lady or one of the guards noticing.

Fuming with rage and frustration, Gimli persuaded Bomieth to gather all the guards that had been posted at the house. They were now facing him, lined up on the empty street, like a strange nocturnal parade.

“One of you knows something about what happened here tonight,” Bomieth started, looking each man in the eye. “Someone helped that villain escape and, either the lot of you are very poor guards to not have seen anything or you’re helping him and are traitors!”

Even with their pride as guards spiked, the men stood silent. Bomieth had never talked to them like that and they were not too happy that he had chosen this time to do it. They had been through very difficult times and their leader had been no leader of the sorts during that period. Their respect for his authority was now more of a formality than the real thing.

Still, they too were disappointed with themselves. The guard’s position in the village held some status with it, and each and every man that wore the guard’s robes was proud of it. It didn’t seat well with any of them to know that Samuel had so easily fooled them all and had managed to escape under their watch.

“Master Bomieth,” he started nervously, “don’t won’t to be pointin’ the finger on the innocent but… but Gorath never answered the call.”

“Gorath?” Gimli’s asked, looking at the guards and trying to recall a face that he we knew almost impossible to connect to that name.

“Where was this Gorath supposed to be?” Bomieth asked the guard that had decided to help them.

“Outside the house, master Bomieth. He’d been guardin’ the healer and when he brought him here he decided to stay and give us a hand…”

“Mayhap he went to his home?” Bomieth offered hopefully. Inside, however, he knew that they had most likely found their traitor, much as it pained him to acknowledge that it had been one of his trusted guards indeed.

The old man, Alumna and Gimli quickly covered the distance separating them from Gorath’s house. He, as they knew it would be, was not home. Gone to guard the healer, his father had said, even thought he could not understand why the healer would need guarding over in the first place.

He wasn’t pleased to know that his son was missing, along with Samuel and the elf.

The group tried, without success, to make the man tell them of any place to where his son might have gone, what reasons he might have had to do such thing, but the man didn’t knew the answer to any of those questions.

What he did know was that his wife was sick and that with no healer and no hope, she was mostly sure to die.

His son was a good boy, the pride of his family especially after he joined the guard’s lot, and if he had indeed done any of the things that he was blamed for, he had done it for a good reason, the father was sure.

The man closed the door on their faces, giving no more chance to further questions.

Gimli felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned to find a defeated looking Bomieth. Alumna didn’t look much better and the dwarf could only imagine his own expression. It had been a long day, a day that had seemed to last for weeks, and they were all exhausted.

“I have to leave you on your own, master Gimli,” the old man said, looking sincerely sad by the prospect. “There is much to do, now that we know what is making us ill, and people need to be warned about it, the sick must be taken care of…”

The man sounded so apologetic that Gimli couldn’t force himself to be angry at him. The old man had other obligations, he knew that. Obligations that would save lives. He was trying to save just one.

“I’ll leave a group of four guards with you, and any more that I can send away from their duties, but, for now, there is nothing more that I can do.”

The warm hand left Gimli’s shoulder and Bomieth hurried away, swallowed by the dark streets. For the first time in his long life, Gimli felt small.

He looked at his clenched fists. The right one was still holding a tiny blossom of the plant he had collected from the forest. The force of his closed hand had squash it beyond recognition, leaving a sweet, slightly fruity, smell on his palm. Somehow, it reminded him of his mother, of the way she smelled when she was cooking.

“I’ll stay and help you,” Alumna said, still at his side, conscious that one extra pair of eyes would do little difference.

Sacking away his insecurities, Gimli realized that a smaller group searching for Legolas meant only one thing: they had to search harder and longer.

Just as they were turning the corner in to another street, Bomieth’s angry shouts reached their ears.

Some believe that Nature possesses a pulse of its own, a dull pounding of undertones that few can hear.

Only once every so often do we get glimpses of its presence, like a well hidden secret slipping away from the shadows, revealed by chance by the flickering of a feeble flame.

Most of the times we see it, even if we do not know what we are looking at. The rustling of the leafs in the tree tops, sounding almost like whispered words that we can’t put together; the wild animal that crosses our path and stares us in the eyes with such intelligence, daring us to guess what he’s thinking; the fish deep beneath the water line that make no sound and yet manage to escape its hunters in flocks, synchronized swimmers of vacant looks; a whole world that exists beneath our perception, luring us in to believing that the pulse is never there and that the glimpses that we’ve had were mere illusions.

From the moment they stepped on the lands of Arda, the elves had learned to embrace and listen carefully to that pulse, knowing of its importance and value. Soon, they could no longer tell it apart from the beating of their own hearts, Nature’s pulse and theirs, pounding in the same tempo, sons of the same mother.

Because they were a part of Nature and Nature was a part of them, the first elves had no difficulty in understanding all the living things around them. From the breathing part of Arda they learned many things, and much knowledge they passed on as well.

Only rocks would not communicate with them and the elves could not tell if it was because they couldn’t or because they wouldn’t. All other could not hide their content and joy at having the First Born among them.

The trees in particular, for they were more bored than some, it had been as if spring had come to stay all year. Each elf was to them like a small, private sun, casting their inner light through every forest they walked. The trees tried the harder to communicate with the First Born and when some indeed learned from them how to speak, all the others rejoiced.

The trees surrounding the place where Legolas had been hidden by Samuel were old, older than those ruins, older even than the First Born sleeping over their roots.

They could only judge the passing of time by counting the coming and going of their new leafs. Even so they knew that many leafs had fallen since last time they had had an elf among them.

The last ones had been distant, paying them no attention at all. They had tried to talk with them, but they would not listen. Their hearts were black as the night and their minds filled with evil. Given the option, the trees would’ve preferred to leave than stand the presence of those elves.

At some point that neither could recall, they had stopped trying. They no longer wanted to understand what those elves were saying, because it often scared them to listen. They forgot how to talk and they lost all hope of ever finding another of the First Born to teach them.

When this one had wondered in to the forest, hope had been reborn anew. Hope and fear.

The trees had been so happy with the elf’s presence in the forest that the men’s planning had almost escaped their notice. They had tried to warn the elf about the danger, they all had shouted for him to escape, but they could no longer recall how to speak. The elf had sensed their distress, but by then it had been too late.

How hard it was, to be so ancient, to know so much and yet be able to do so little. When the elf and the dwarf had been taken prisoner by the men that lived now in those parts, the trees had whished that they were Ents and not just trees, so that they could rip their roots from the earth and use them as legs.

So much hate and cruelty they had witness in their midst. People had killed and been killed under their leafs. Men had bled over their roots and screamed in pain when no one but the trees could hear them.

And the trees had stood and bare all the events, silent witnesses that neither judge nor rule. Their silent protest went unanswered and all they could was stand and reach their branches to the sky in despair.

They had feared for the fate of the First Born then, but they had hoped to see him again.

The passing birds and wind had told them pieces and bits of what was happening in the homes of men, but the birds had little patience for ways of the two legged beings and the wind was always running, so the trees never heard much.

And now he was there again, brought to their midst by a killer. The trees had felt, more than witnessed, the hideous actions taking place inside the ancient tower. They feared that the elf would be next on the killer’s plans, but they could not guess.

The killer was gone for now, but they knew that he would return. They called to the First Born, trying to remember what they had once known and how to wake him.

He was as wood-elf, the trees soon realized, for his connection with them was stronger and easier to reach than with any other elf.

Inside this one they could see their sisters and brothers from a great forest far from there, bigger than their own, a green forest that had been in the dark for long but was now free once again.

They could sense the need of this elf to return to the forest he called home, how he longed to, for once, see his beloved forest shine with life and joy, free of the shadow of ancient evil things, free from giant spiders and necromancers. Most of all, they could feel his pain at the thought that he might never see his forest again.

If the trees possessed a heart of flesh, it would have bled for the sadness they could feel in this elf. And in the midst of their sadness, the trees realized that there was something they could do, just this one time.

To any watching it, it would have seemed as if the ground had opened and swallowed the elf. The trees opened their roots to the needs of the elf, offering him water and nourishment, allowing him to soak his being in to their essence. Together, they went back to the time before time, when they had indeed been just one and when the roots of the elf ran so deep inside the earth that they almost touched its core.

To any watching, it was as if a sudden wind had wiped across those trees, rustling the leafs and making their branches dance. Inside, the trees where exuberant, more alive than they had ever been, finally doing what they had always longed to do.

They were intervening, they were interacting, they were saving the existence of one of the First Born and they were assuring that he would return to his forest, to his home.

When the sun finally rose in the horizon, the trees bent out of the way of its rays, allowing light to reach the ground of the forest, to places it hadn’t shine on for the longest of times. The ancient ruins gained a different colour, stone highlighted by the greens of the moss along its walls, the yellow of the fungus and the white of a male figure that slept beneath the trees’ canopy. Slowly bathed by the sun, the figure begun to stir.

I can’t believe it has been 5 months since my last update! Life has been hectic, I can tell you. Wont make any promises about how long I will take to send the next chapter but, as things can’t get more complicated than they are now, I’m sure it wont take another 5 months.

To all of you that still have the patience to be reading this story, my thank you!

It’s almost 6 a.m. here where I’m posting this, so you can see that I’m making an effort here… please do the same and send me a review :D

When Gimli and Alumna reached Bomieth’ side, they were left a little confused. They could not see to whom he was shouting at, all that they could see was an old man acting like he had lost his mind.

Who ever it was that had made Bomieth lose his temper, it was a person that he hadn’t seen in a long time, and a person he wasn’t expecting to see ever again.

Looking with more care in to the dark corner where this person was supposed to be, the two newcomers managed to see the outline of a small figure, almost totally hidden in the shadows. As their eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, the figure took a step towards the light, a hand reaching out to Bomieth.

Gimli was the first to recognize her as a dwarf, a female dwarf, but even he had some difficulty. Had it not been for her white haired head, he would’ve mistaken her for a child.

She was shorter than Gimli, reaching no higher than Bomieth’s middle section. Her white hair fell over her shoulders in thick, tangled, grimy bundles. Her face betrayed her age more than her hair, covered with deep wrinkles as it was and her clothes seemed to be as old as her years. The air around her smelled of old fish and dirty socks. In her large fingered and callous hands she carried a wooden staff as tall as her, its headpiece carved in black stone in the shape of bear’s claw. She used it for support as she talked quietly to the old man.

“Bomieth,” Alumna called out. In his outpour of rage, the villager had yet to notice their arrival.

The old man’s dark eyes turned on the younger woman, immediately softening. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. There was really nothing that he could do now. He had imagined that this was a part of his life that would be able to put behind his back and forget. He was wrong.

The rags covered figure looked at him, judging his face, posture and clothes. Satisfied with what she saw, she smiled.

“I was looking for you, master dwarf,” she said, her staff rasping on the ground as she moved closer to him, her other hand reaching for the dwarf’s hand.

Gimli took a step back, confused by her actions, but with a speed that belayed her age, the female grabbed his hand just the same.

“Of course I must,” Gimli replied with sarcasm, forcibly removing his hand from her strong clasp. It seemed to him that that village had more than its share of idiots, and he seemed to be attracting them all. “What do they call you?” He asked her, unable to deny the homely feeling of talking to another dwarf after so long. Even if it was a crazy one.

“Her name is Khazam,” Bomieth said, his eyes never losing sight of the female. “She is an outcast… she should have never returned here.”

“I became an outcast because you lot were ashamed of me,” she replied with a deep voice filled with competent.

“You became an outcast because of your actions,” he exploded in her ears. “Do not blame others for the fate you brought upon yourself.”

“You are Bomieth’s mother, are you not?” Alumna whispered, her eyes round with surprise at her own connection. “He once told me about her… but he said that she had died given birth to him…”

The man pressed his hands inside the baggy coat he wearing and averted her gaze.

“It was for his own good,” he replied enigmatically. “What gave you the right to return now?”

“Am I some wild beast that feels nothing for its offspring? Have I no right to see my dead son?”

“H… How did you know?” Bomieth croaked, his mouth dry of all spit and his heart thundering inside his chest. It was too soon, the pain was too near and she was the last person he wanted to share it with.

“The forest has eyes and ears and I haven’t been that far away that the comings and goings of this village are strangers to me,” she explained with a shrug of shoulders. “Now tell me where I can find my son or I’ll leave at once.”

“But that is exactly what I want you to do… You are not welcome here, now no more than then.”

“I have been punished enough for my past actions!” She shouted, disturbing the peace of the quiet street. “You may want me far, but I assure you that feeling will not be shared by this master dwarf here,” she added in a more calm manner, her eyes once more travelling to meat Gimli’s.

“And I’m sure you have a good reason to believe that,” Gimli said, giving little credit to the woman’s ramblings.

That female dwarf was, in a matter of speaking, impossibility to him. Never before had he heard of Man and dwarf kind siring a child. Dwarf kind prided themselves in the purity of their ancestors and rarely, if ever, had unions existed outside their inner circles. To all of his knowledge it wasn’t an impossible deed, it was just… unheard of.

“Indeed, a good reason is what has brought me to you, master dwarf,” she replied, a sense of urgency dripping in to her voice. “That elf,” she said, capturing everyone’s attention with that single word.

“What about the elf?” Gimli jumped in, shortening the distance between them.

Gimli grabbed bought her shoulders, preventing her from leaving before he was told all he needed to know.

“Aye,” she confirmed. “I could not get too close, for fear of being caught, but I did manage a good enough look at them when they passed me by. At first I thought them to be just villagers, but then I realized that the one seated in the back of the cart was no man at all. I’ve not seen many, but I have seen elves before. We don’t see many of their kind in these parts so I imagined that this is the same one that everyone’s been talking about.”

“Were they alone? Was there no one else in the cart with them?” Bomieth inquired, intrigued by absence of the third member of the missing group.

“No, none that I could see… but as I said, I kept my distance.” She said with closed her eyes, silently reviewing the scene in her mind. “The elf didn’t look too well… his head kept dancing in flavour with the cart’s balancing, like he lacked the willpower to keep it straight,” she told, her eyes opening to look straight at Gimli’s pained face. “You would do best to hurry.”

Gimli’s heart clenched. They had been forced in to a position that gave Samuel power in the first place because the elf had been in need of a healer. It seemed highly unlikely to him that, somewhere during his escape Samuel had taken the time to help his friend.

“Like a man, for all I can tell,” she blurted out, her patience obviously coming to an end. Seeing the rage building up in Gimli’s face she quickly added, “It was dark, master dwarf… even with eyes as keen as our kind possesses, it was impossible to picture any details.”

Gimli was forced to hear the reason behind her words, even if he did not trust her motives.

“How do we know that it wasn’t Samuel himself that send you here?” He baited her, “Maybe you’re just here to play games with our minds while that no good son of an orc makes his escape!”

The idea had just come to his mind, and now that he had put it in to words, it no longer seemed that much farfetched to him. From what he had learned from his dealings with that man, he knew that it wouldn’t be above him to use this dwarf in such way.

A ghostly sense that this she-dwarf was not be trusted had settled somewhere between the nap of his neck and the pit of his stomach, and for all of her common sense attitude, he could not ignore it.

The warrior dwarf could not quite put his finger in what had cause such a reaction from him, for usually he would be quick to trust his own kind, but this one he could not bring himself to treat in the same manner.

Some part of his head reasoned with him that perhaps his past experiences with the Fellowship and the last days he had spent in this village had sap him of all of his ability to trust in strangers, whatever small amount he had possessed before. Another part, the one that sounded oddly enough like Legolas, reasoned with him to be cautious, but fair.

The female smiled, a gentle movement of flaccid muscles that made her face look even more ancient and mysterious.

“There is no way of you to know,” she quietly said, meeting his eyes, “and I’m certain that there’ll be no words coming from my mouth that will convince you otherwise, if that is what you truly believe.”

Gimli’s sharpen gaze held hers, unwilling to let go until he had a reasonably better answer than that. She had in fact, said nothing.

“I was outcast many years ago, master dwarf. The only Samuel I knew then was the goat keeper. Unless that it is him you’re talking about, I know nothing of this Samuel that you speak of.”

“Ah, the charlatan,” Khazam snarled. “I have heard of him, of his powerful and magical rune stones,” she said, not hiding the sarcasm in her voice. “Has he been stealing from your house Bomieth? Because I thought that the only rune stones around these parts were the ones I left there.”

The old man shrugged. She had left many things there, most of which he had never really paid attention too.

“I left them there so that our son could one day learn the language of his forefathers,” she explained. “Is it true that he was killed by this Samuel man?”

Old Bomieth was looking at his dirty shoes, not wanting any to see the hurtful tears in his eyes.

“Aye,” he whispered, knowing that he own at least the truth to that woman. “Our son died by the hand of the charlatan.”

But none could answer her. They all wanted Samuel back, so that he could pay for his many crimes.

“We all mourn his loss,” Alumna finally offered, knowing that no words would be enough to diminish the pain of that mother.

The she-dwarf looked up, eyeing the woman carefully for the first time. Her eyes never went beyond the almost hidden jewel in the woman’s neck.

Alumna’s hand went automatically to her necklace, for one insane moment fearing that the dwarf would ask it back. To touch it brought back such sweet memories of her lover that she could not fathom the mere thought of being parted from it.

Khazam, however, made no move to reach for it. Instead, the smile that blossomed in her face wrinkled her eyes in such manner that the tears trapped in them went racing down her face.

“Did he ever tell you what it meant?” She asked, seeing the young woman in a new fashion now. She had no idea, of course. The she-dwarf’s eyes turned to the old man, “did you ever tell him?” She asked, realizing that her son would have no idea either.

“I told him that it had belonged to his mother,” Bomieth offered, refraining from offering the longer explanation. The one that involve him telling his son that he had not been born of the same mother as his sister, the arguing that had evolved from him refusing to tell young Bomieth why his mother had been outcast from Cottoncrow, the fight between father and son that had eventually led to the two of them barely speaking and his daughter blaming him for those events.

How could he ever face his son and tell him of how he had found this dwarf, his mother, trying to choke him to death only days after his birth? How could he explain the glint of madness he had seen in her eyes then?

No, this creature had no right to know all that, or the way his heart ache with the knowledge that in the end, she had always been the victim in his son’s eyes, because he had refused him the truth.

“That necklace,” the she-dwarf said, the smile still playing in her eyes, “my mother got it from her mother the morning after her passage to womanhood.” Seeing the lost looks in everyone’s faces, Khazam wondered if they even knew what that meant for a she-dwarf. The redness that was gently spreading across Gimli’s face told her that he at least knew of what she was talking about.

“A she-dwarf reaches adulthood after spending her first night in a male’s bed. When I had my first, my mother passed in on to me.”

Gimli was shuffling his weight from one leg to the other, wondering on what twist of fate had they went from looking for an elf to this… talk! At least Alumna seemed as embarrassed as he felt by this whole conversation, which meant that young Bomieth hadn’t been that far from the necklace significance after all.

An uncomfortable silence had settled amidst them, each lost in their own thoughts. Gimli’s thoughts, however, urged him to action.

“Assuming that what you say is true,” he started, meeting the confused look of the she-dwarf, “about what you saw,” he clarified. “Can you take us to the place you saw them pass by? Can you put us on the right rack?”

The she-dwarf could not hide the pleasure that she felt seeing him come to this decision.

“I can do better than that, master dwarf,” she said with a glint in her eyes. “I shall take you to their destination.”

Legolas acknowledge his surroundings with the feeling of being twice his age. He had never felt this old. A smile graced his lips.

While for a man, because of the effects time has on their bodies, this could come across as an ill feeling, to an elf it was far from that. The passage of time added to their knowledge and wisdom, like the truck of a tree that grows thicker and stronger with each passing year, so felt the elves as well.

In fact, for one brief moment, the feeling of being as ancient as a tree was so strong in the elf’ spirit that he looked at his own legs in surprise, expecting to find roots in their stead.

He carefully rose to his feet, testing the strength of those new found limbs and smiled to himself. The trees were happy to see him up on his own.

Legolas closed his eyes and pressed an open palm to the rough bark of the tree beneath which he stood, feeling the life pulsing within it.

The old being was pleased with his words. But it was also worried for his new found friend.

The trees had already told him all that had come to pass in the time when he was not conscious. All of Samuel’s actions and planning had left an opened sore in the hearts of the trees, and even if the churning and acrid smell could not affect them, they knew it was there and what had brought it in to being.

The elf had no need to enter the smoking tower in ruins to know what lay in inside it. That man’s last cries of despair still lingered in the air around them.

Legolas could not know what Samuel’s plan were, nor could the trees tell him any more than what they had felt and sensed, but what ever the man had in mind, Legolas knew he could not allow it to come to pass.

The previous scheming of the so called healer had almost led to the extinction of an entire village and the mere thought that some unforeseen plan was still running its course was enough to send chills up the elf’s back bone.

As much as he wanted to return to the village and quench the worries of his dwarf friend, whom by now must be going insane with all the troubles they had managed to arrange themselves; and as much as he wanted to be reunite with his father and kin in the distant forest he called home, he could not.

Defeating Samuel had become personal. Making sure that that man would have no chance to hurt any others had grown in to necessity. He was an itch that the elf simple had to scratch.

The normal rustling of leafs gave place to a more urgent one, a panicked and errant movement of branches that warned Legolas that the man was returning. Two courses presented themselves to him. He could either let the man know that he was no longer helpless, battle him and easily win, but risk the chance of ever find what his plans were, or he could bide his time, pretend that nothing had changed and wait until the time was right.

Assuring the concerned trees that they had no reason to worry about his wellbeing, Legolas laid back down, trying to place himself more or less in the position that the man had left him before, hoping that Samuel wasn’t cunning enough to see through his ruse.

The heavy trotting of the farm horse that Samuel had stolen echoed through the ruins like drums long before either man or animal could be seen. The man smile in relief upon seeing that the elf was exactly as he had left him.

The longer he was away, the heavier his doubts had become. For some reason that he could not comprehend, an ill feeling that something was not right had take possession of his mind, speeding his actions so that he could speed his return.

But all was well now. The sun would soon reach its higher point and if he started now they could be at the caves by night fall.

Before he could be on his way, however, a more practical problem presented itself. How to put an unconscious elf on top of a horse?

The animal wasn’t particularly tall, for his former owner had been more concerned with the animal’ strength rather than the length of his stride, and the elf wasn’t particularly heavy that Samuel couldn’t carry him. The problem was getting a dead weight on top of the horse and then clime behind him fast enough before the elf started to fall over again.

He had thought about it for some time now, and still no answer presented itself. The prospect of hauling the elf and dropping him like a sack of potatoes in front of the saddle was as unappetizing for the man as, he was sure, would be for the elf.

To carry the elf in that position would leave little room for the man’s legs, as well as force the elf to spend the entire bumpy journey on top of his wound. For the pain that would surely cause, Samuel couldn’t care less, but the danger of, in his weakened state, the elf dying from the ride, was one that the man was afraid to take.

As he neared the unresponsive body and measure the distance from the ground to the saddle, Samuel realized that sack of potatoes it would have to be. Grabbing a fist full of the dark tunic and the hem of the elf’s leggings the man managed to bring the elf to a seating position. He took a deep breathe and then haul him up the rest of the way, on to his shoulder.

Legolas forced his body to relax as the world spun around him, carefully opening his eyes when he felt that he was partially up side down. He could feel the man nearing the horse with unsteady steps and soon realized what Samuel had in mind. The prospect didn’t attract him much.

As soon as Samuel paused by the quiet animal, gathering his strength for the next exercise, Legolas grabbed his chance and reached one hand to touch the horse’s leg nearest to him.

The horse’s large brown eye starred at him blinking in surprise to find that the first born was alive. He moved his head to touch the elf, wanting to offer his comfort, but Samuel had secured his reins to a near branch and he could not reach that far.

Barely moving a muscle, Legolas tried to make the animal understand that he needed help. The horse looked from him to the man holding them both and voicing his agreement, startling the man in the process.

Surprise poured in to Samuel’s face as, out of nowhere, the horse graciously started to kneel where he stood. Quickly releasing the reins from the tree, so that the horse wouldn’t suffocate himself, the man silently patted himself in the back. He had managed to steal the only smart horse of all of Cottoncrow.

The horse’s urge to kick the man senseless, an idea that he had entertained since he had been taken away from his home, was once again postpone due to his wiliness to help the elf. The pride of caring one of the first born on his back would be enough to compensate the uncomfortable presence of that man. So, when the man finally settled behind the elf, grabbed the reins and kicked his side to move, the horse obeyed.

The sun had finally rose high enough to chase some of the darkness of the night away.

Despite everyone’s insistence for him to take some rest, Gimli had been unable to close his eyes for long enough to allow sleep to come. Every time his lids would close, his mind would rebel and insist on filling him with bubbling and chaotic images and thoughts, making his insides feel like boiling water.

Different scenarios and explanations for the healer’s actions challenged him to pick the right one, but none seemed reasonable enough to justify the man’s intents.

For the sake of his sanity, Gimli had promised himself that if, no… when he found them and Samuel’s neck lay between his hands, he would peel the truth out of that weasel’s skin, right before he peeled the flesh off his bones.

When he at last gave up on any pretence of rest and joined the others, Gimli could see that their night had been every bit as troubled as his.

Old Bomieth had dark circles of fatigue under his bloodshot eyes and every single year of his age seemed etched deeply in the curves of his face. Even the rebellious hair, that Gimli had come to associate with the man, had lost its battle, resting flat against the man’ skull.

“I believe we’ve managed to talk with everyone,” the old man said as a way of greeting. “They find it hard to believe that the monster painted by Samuel is naught but spoiled water.”

Alumna agreed, her looks not much better than the old man. The unnatural pallor in her face made her eyes stand out like a bright beacon on a pasty landscape.

“We’ve lost three more during the night,” she confided in a voice that spoke of the harshness of the battle. “It makes it hard for those who want to believe that a single poisoned well could have caused this, not when their family and friends still perish without aid.”

Gimli nodded. He knew it would not be easy and that a long path still lay ahead of every soul in that village, but the first step, the most important step, had already been accomplished. His gaze fell over the sealed well and a sight of relief escaped his lips. That battle, at least, had been won.

“I’ve arranged for a group of willingly soldiers to accompany you,” Bomieth said, running a hand through his hair. “There ain’t many, but they’re all good lads.”

The group of five young men that Bomieth pointed at looked anything but willing. Gimli could recognize some of the faces, soldiers that not so long ago had stood guard over him and Legolas. It troubled him to think that, what to him was a rescue quest could be seen by these guards as a hunt.

He just hoped that when they reached his friend, the rescue could overpower the hunt.

Looking around for their guide, he found her already at the end of the street, apparently eager to get their journey to a start.

The strange group of two dwarfs, a woman and five men made their way out of Cottoncrow under the watchful eyes of the villagers, aware that all knew what their purpose was, but few believe that they would be returning with the missing men and elf. Some of the rest could bet that they wouldn’t be returning at all.

Though the sun was up in the sky, none of the warmth of its presence reached the party of eight travelling through the forest.

Gimli pulled the edge of his cloak closer to his neck, trying to chase away some of the chill from his bones, his gaze never wandering from the stony path beneath his feet.

The group had travelled a fair amount of path since leaving at dawn, but still all that they could see were trees and moss. The she-dwarf had assured Gimli that the path that the cart had been travelling could lead to no other place but the caves that stood at the bottom of the mountains. He had little choice but to hope that her words and her sense of direction were true.

But, even with her certainty about their final destination, Gimli would leave naught for chance, continually searching for signs of their passage.

Every so often one of the guards would call out that a cart’s wheel mark had been found, but soon the ground became too rocky to allow for any track to be found. The tracks, however few and scattered, still offered some sense of relief that the she-dwarf wasn’t leading them on some fool’s errant.

By some unspoken agreement all knew that Gimli was leader of their small group, and as midday came and went and no stop to rest was called for, the dwarf could feel the eyes of everyone burrowing in to his back. For his part, he would not stop so soon, not when the mountains still looked so far away in the horizon.

The whispers and subdue annoyance of the guards at being forced to walk for so long reminded him of the hobbits and for an instant Gimli whished that those brave little guys were with him now, and not some bigger, complaining humans.

Finally giving in to common sense and the onslaught of their collective plea, Gimli called an alt for rest and some food.

A collection of relieved sighs echoed through the small clearing, quickly followed by soft grunts and solid thuds as bottoms and packs collided with the hard ground with little grace.

“Don’t let yourselves become too comfortable,” he warned, easing his body to rest against the bark of a sturdy tree. “We won’t be h…”

No one managed to understand the rest of the dwarf’ sentence as it died in his lips when he found them surrounded by sharp arrows aimed at their throats. The green clad elves holding the bows had appeared out of nowhere and not one member of their small group doubt how deadly they were.

“I advice all to hold very still,” a deep voice filled the clearing, sounding like dry thunder. It seemed to held as much power as the thunder would. “Do so much as blink and my guards will bestow you ere you stand!”

Gimli couldn’t contain one surprised blink, as his eyes went from elf to elf, desperately trying to determine which had spoken. The elf guard nearest to him gave him a sharp look, warning him that the spoken order was to be taken very seriously.

As far as the dwarf could tell, none of them had opened their mouths, and yet that voice was still vibrating thought the closed leafs.

He remembered feeling like this one single time before, in the presence of the lady Galadriel, but wears her voice had been smoothing inside his head, this one was menacing. If she was a peaceful lake, this elf was an angry sea.

When he was beginning to think that maybe they had all imagined the words, the speaking elf moved away from the shadows, allowing the prisoners to see him.

Dressed in fine robes of silver and green, the elf sat regally on top of a magnificent black horse. The animal’s head kept turning from side to side, as if assessing and judging the ones his master held prisoner. Something in its gaze made Gimli feel that they had been found lacking.

The age of the elf was impossible to determine, as it always was with their kind, but the strong, defined lines of his fair face reminded Gimli of Glorfindel, whom he had briefly met in Rivendell. Like him, this elf too had golden hair, only his was adorned with a crown of ruby flowers and emerald leafs.

The ‘royalty’ elf had, meanwhile, jumped graciously to the ground, keeping a hand on the neck of his horse. The animal gently nudged him in the side as the elf made his way towards the guarded group. He stopped in front of the dwarf, sniffing the air with a sour face.

“I should have guessed that the hand of the naugrim could be found at play in these foul deeds!”

“What a terrible burden it must be to be all-knowing and master of the truth,” Gimli said, his voice dripping with ill hidden sarcasm.

The elven arrow tips surrounding Gimli pressed closer, supported by stone-faced warriors whose grim expressions told of a painful near future for the offending dwarf.

“Were it be anything of worth between your ears, dwarf, and you would have by now understand that your life is in our hands,” the leading elf said, “it would be healthier for you all not to aggravate our sore moods.”

While his actions were both gentle and pleasant, the menacing tone of his voice brought involuntary shivers to the whole group of prisoners.

With Gimli, however, the elf’s menaces managed to produce the exact opposite effect. The more the elf talk, the more the dwarf felt compelled to ‘aggravate’ him. Something in his voice and manner of speak brought deep annoyance and irritation to every pore of Gimli’s body, in such a way as he had not felt in a long time.

In fact, the last time he remembered feeling such an urge to snap an arrogant elven neck was at Elrond’s council, back in Rivendell, when Legolas had spoken to defend Aragorn.

Gimli’s brain did a mental double take. His head tilted at a slight angle, trying to catch a different perspective of the elf’s face. He blinked. It couldn’t be, could it?

He made an effort to look discretely at the elven warriors surrounding them. Things, like the colouring of their clothes and their stance, things that had been dismissed at first hand, now brought sense to his theory.

Wood elves, bearing the same colours that Legolas seemed to favour. This meant that the ‘royalty’ elf that had been so greatly grating on his nerves was somewhat related with Legolas. Could he be Thranduil?

Gimli could not deny that there was a certain resemblance between this elf and his friend, but the same could be said between Legolas and Glorfindel… or any fair haired elf that he had ever seen, for that matter. They all looked alike to him, even if Legolas managed to be ‘less-elven’ about his manners than most of his kind that the dwarf had met.

The eyes, however, left room for no doubt. How many other times had he seen that same look in his friend’s gaze? The same hard and yet caring look that Legolas had so often supported when one of their fellowship was in trouble or pain, was plain to see in this elf’s eyes. Gimli was sure.

“You will tell me where Legolas is, or none of you will leave this forest alive!” The king said, oblivious of the newest findings inside Gimli’s mind. And because of that, the dwarf’s next words were anything but what he had expected.

“King Thranduil, we must place our divergences aside and work together on this matter,” Gimli said, printing in to those two words all the urgency and seriousness of his request. “Your son’s life depends on it.”

Unlike Galadriel, the king of Eryn Lasgalen, the Mirkwood of dark days, was not blessed with the sight of days to come. Usually.

The dream had set itself apart from any other he had ever had in his life because of two simple facts: that he could not control his actions in it, as it normally would happen in elven dreaming; and that he would never willingly dream of such hideous things upon his own son.

In the dream, he could not see exactly what had befallen Legolas, but the feeling of pain and betrayal had been enough to make his heart bleed. Even after waking up, Thranduil could not chase away the feeling that his son was in danger.

For more than one year, when he had last seen Legolas, the king had managed to go through his days not knowing if his son, in journey to the very heart of evil in Middle-Earth, was alive and well. His own struggle for survival and protection of Mirkwood and the knowledge that his youngest son was a powerful warrior had made those days manageable, if only barely.

But now he knew that that danger had passed and, thank Ilúvatar, Legolas had lived to tell the tale. This new sense of dread and this heavy weight upon his chest were not welcome by the king of the forest, for it clashed with the joyful feelings that had enveloped the forest after the defeat of Mordor.

Not knowing if his dream had showed him images of what might come to pass or of something that had already happen, Thranduil decided that he’d been apart from his son long enough and, telling no one of his dream, had left the sunny caves of his palace to met Legolas on the way.

The group of elven warriors that went with him had travel for three days when they encountered the two human boys. And the message they had for him had placed an ice grip around his heart.

The sun could no longer be seen behind the mountain tops, but there was still enough day-light to see the dark clouds looming in the near horizon. The charged air of thunder and the humid smell that often arrived before the actual rain had started to descend over the forest.

Large and small animals, by nature used to read even the faintest of signs of a weather change, wasted no time in search of a save heaven from the downpour that they were sure to follow soon.

The trees and the rest of plant life rejoiced in the prospect that, even though the season of the rains was still a long way to come, tonight their roots would feast on abundant water, that both stilled their thirst and stirred the food in the quiet earth.

Samuel, not familiar with the signs around him, could not tell if the darkness that soon surrounded him was due to the late of the hour or a change in the weather. Nor did he cared, for that matter, for the caves were already at seeing distance and he was glad to have made it there before the night had fallen.

The bottom of the tall mountains was teeming with small holes, some giving entrance to large caverns, others so small that a man could barely stand inside them. Guiding the horse alongside the steep mountain face, Samuel soon found the cave he was looking for.

From the outside it looked no different from any of the others thousand more. The man smiled, once more marvelled at the ingenuity of the plan.

Halting the horse, Samuel was not surprise when the animal, on his own accord, gently lowered his front legs, allowing both man and elf to dismount at the same time.

Soon at the beginning of their journey he had discovered that he barely had the need to guide the animal at all, for the horse seemed to know the path better than him, choosing such smooth trails that the journey had been almost pleasant. And now this.

He had often heard tales of ancient men who, curse by this or that matter, had been turned in to beings that were neither animal nor sentient. More and more he suspected that this horse was one of those beings. It was the only reasonable explanation.

Putting those theories behind, Samuel focussed on what he now needed to do, for he could not tell how long he would have before his prey arrived. Making sure that the elf was still unconscious, the man took a flint from his robes. Soon, the strategically placed torches inside the cave were all lit.

Samuel had just finished dragging the elf’s body inside the cave when the first drops of rains started to fall outside.

Legolas could not bear the touch of that man any longer. How tortuous it had been the entire journey there, even with the gentle horses’ help.

Being forced to lay still and lean over Samuel’s chest, the elf could not remember a more unpleasant moment in his entire life. The man’s evil intentions poured out of his body like a bad smell, and it had taken all of Legolas self determination not to gag each time the horse walked faster and the man wrapped his arms around him and pressed him harder against his chest. To feel the killer’s heart beating strong against his back and remember all the lives that he had stolen, the lives he could still be planning to steal.

Like most men, Samuel could not bear the pressing silence around him for long, needing the sound of his own voice to ground himself and believe that the ominous trees would not swallow him out of existence.

For the elves, a forest was anything but silent, filled with the chatter of leaves and animals, so Legolas could understand the man’s need for sound and he welcomed such need , for it had been on those rare moments of self indulgency that he had started to learn of the plan that Samuel was about to execute. Piecing together the random sentences that occasionally escaped the man’s lips, Legolas had come to understand that Samuel was expecting someone to join him at the caves. Who it might be he could not tell, but the tone of the man’s voice assured him that his intentions were not the best. The fact that his presence there was also crucial for the man’s plan only added to the feeling of unease in Legolas’ heart.

He allowed himself to be pulled inside the lit cave, praying to Ilúvatar that these caverns were shallow and he wouldn’t be dragged too deep inside.

As it turned out, Ilúvatar had decided that the fates had punished this elf enough and when Legolas felt Samuel stop and push him against a wall, he could still feel the cold, wet breeze from outside.

Sensing that the man was once again busy with something inside the cave, Legolas risked opening a small slit of his eyes. Patiently waiting for them to adjust to the feeble light, soon the elf could see the man pushing something heavy that stood at the far end of the cave.

The cave, in itself, wasn’t very big, but Legolas could see a darker area, opposite of where Samuel stood, that could well be a passage way to the following gallery. Gimli had once told him of such caves, the ‘beehives’ he had called them, because like the bees’ constructions, these sort of caverns were all linked to one another by small passageways, making them perfect to hide. The dwarves, however, didn’t like to use them because, due to their structure, the danger of a cave-in was almost certain.

Legolas wandered if Samuel was even aware of that fact, as he rolled a heavy round stone that covered a large hole in the wall.

AN: For all of you that thought they had already seen chapter 15, look again. This is the better, longer, final version of the thing. Chapter 16 and the epilogue will be up by this coming week-end J

The king’s first instinct would always be one of distrust towards the dwarven kind. It wasn’t even personal; it was merely something that, by now, was part of his inner being. To struggle against it would be as difficult as preventing the sun from setting. It just was.

However, word of this particular dwarf’s kindness and bravery, had reached him even as far as Mirkwood. And in deference to his son, the king had fought his own instincts.

Thranduil’s hand closed around the piece of parchment that he carried close to his heart, inside his tunic. Legolas had not been able to return to him immediately after the end of the war, but his words of comfort had been swift in easing his fatherly concerns.

The tales Legolas spoke of in his long letter were nothing short of extraordinaire. However, the gentle manner in which Legolas referred to his dwarven companion had left the king wandering what sort of madness had taken possession of his son’s mind.

But the further he read, the deeper grew his understanding of the friendship formed between the two warriors.

With the situation in his homeland under control, the king’s duties had submitted to the father’s longings and, unable to wait any longer for his son’s long return, Thranduil had gathered a group of warriors and had left to meet Legolas half way.

The two human boys, children even by human standards, had been in search of him. They were messengers, bearing a ransom bargain from their master. Their master, of whom they would only refer as The Dwarf, claimed to be holding Legolas. He demanded a horse’s weight in gold and fine jewels, or else the king would find himself short of one son.

The mere idea had sounded ridiculous to the elf’s ears. His son was one of the best warriors that Mirkwood had ever seen and there was absolutely no chance that he would have fallen prey, to a dwarf of all beings.

The golden lock of hair that the youngsters had presented to him as proof of their words had sipped all laughing matters out of the situation.

Many were the elves that had hair of the same golden shade, but a father would recognize a part of his son anywhere. The idea that Legolas was indeed prisoner of these people began to take shape in the king’s mind and with it came the fear of losing his son and the anger that one of the dwarven people would have the audacity of playing such game.

Running thoughts of Legolas having been double crossed by his new found dwarven friend passed through the king’s mind, making his blood boil.

From the way his son had spoken about Gimli’ strength of character, Thranduil could tell that Legolas would’ve easily trust his own life in the dwarf’s stout hands. Elves, and his son in particular, were not easily fooled about another’s heart. And his son knew that that dwarf’s heart was in its right place.

The boys’ claims made little sense to the elf. It was highly unlikely that his son would be so mistaken about Gimli that that dwarf had been able to catch in such trap; it was also very unlikely that another dwarf from the lonely mountains would busy himself, in these trouble times and after so long, with acts that could only be seen as revengeful and greed. Yes, greed was not a stranger to the dwarves that Thranduil knew, but if he would admit a quality to such beings, it would be their sense of practicability.

Clenching his son’s lock of hair in his hand, the elf had turned his full attention to the young men who had brought it. The playfulness present in Thranduil’s eyes in the beginning of their conversation had vanished and in its place a cold, controlled fury had taken residence.

The two young boys had never witnessed such a terrifying change. The only elf that either had ever seen before had been on his knees, bound to a rock. Only then, when they found themselves surrounded by the imposing creatures, did the two boys from Cottoncrow realize that they had made a mistake. A mistake that could cost them their lives.

Before Thranduil could even open his mouth to demand the truth out of the boys, they were already confessing the felony, lips trembling in fear and pants wet in shame.

The second tale that they spit sounded so preposterous to Thranduil’s ears that it could only be the truth. The king stood, solid as a rock, listening to all that had happened to his son and his dwarven friend since their unfortunate arrival in Cottoncrow, his composed manner frightening even more the two young men.

He learned of the deceiving actions of one man, and of the consequences they had brought upon an entire village of innocent people.

He learned of his son’s actions and honoured behaviour in face of such evil man and he learned of the dwarf’s actions and cunning in both discovering the man’s plan and helping Legolas.

And he finally learned what that man had in mind when he had sent those two boys to spun lies in to his ears.

Now, alone with Gimli and away from prying ears, the king told the dwarf all that he had learned about Samuel’s plan and how they would proceed to make sure that the man was caught and made to pay for his actions.

The water fell gently upon the broad tree leafs, making them sound like a choir of fine tuned singing voices. Deep voices entranced in a sweet melody played by the rain, one that only the elves could fully understand.

Gimli, as his human companions, was wet to the bones, feeling miserable and failing to understand why the elves looked so darn pleased with the weather.

They had been walking all afternoon with little to no rest but, unlike what had happened when he was in charge, no human dared to make a sound of protest against the elves to claim for rest.

Gimli, although he too felt the cold and tiredness of the past few days weighting him down, had to admit that this pace had brought them much closer to the mountains.

He studied the others, realizing that they looked as tired as he. However, other than him, only Alumna seemed ready to go on until she drooped to her side. Given the choice, the others would be more than happy to turn tail and go home. Gimli figured that at this point, only their fear of the imposing elves was preventing them from doing just that.

He felt a deep respect for the woman. Like the other humans, she barely knew Legolas, but unlike the others, she was truly concern for the elf. Her commitment in to helping a perfect stranger was, for Gimli, a good sign that not all was lost for the race of Men.

She was the only to whom Gimli had felt obliged to share his conversation with Thranduil, even if he had refrained from doing so. To tell her was to risk arousing the suspicions of the others, and that was something that, as he had greed with Thranduil, they could not afford to do. They needed the element of surprise on their side and, to be true, Gimli could not vow for the honour of any of the men present. He couldn’t vow even for his fellow dwarf, and that was saying a lot, for dwarves had a natural trust in each other.

Gimli had not spoken a lot with Kazam, but something in the she-dwarf made him feel uneasy. Mayhap it had been the way in which Bomieth had reacted to her, leading Gimli to think less of her, mayhap it was nothing at all, just lack on trust in her manner and pose. Whatever it was, Gimli found himself struggling hard to not flinch whenever the she-dwarf came near him.

Gimli’s only recollections of such elf were those of his father, and from Gloin’s recount, the king was nothing but a greedy monster with a mind made only for his treasures and treachery. Now, however, the elf that he was seeing was cunning and gentle, and as far as Gimli could understand, the only thing on the king’s mind was the safety of his son. And that was something that Gimli deeply respected.

From the tale Thranduil had shared with him and the portion of Samuel’s devilries that Gimli had been witness of, the two had managed to obtain a good idea about what the man’s plans were.

It was now clear to Gimli that, the moment he had shared his and Legolas’ name to Samuel, the man had known who they were. He probably had started to imagine ways of gaining profit from that knowledge that same second.

The boys that he had sent to fetch the king had left Cottoncrow two days ago, well before the deadline for Legolas’ execution. Samuel had probably planned the ransom all along, not caring if Legolas was alive or dead when the king arrived. Whatever the case turned out to be, the man thought that his precious stones were guaranteed, as a father would do anything to save his own son.

How Samuel planned to explain a dead Legolas had his father had the plan to kill Bomieth had succeed was something Gimli could not venture to guess, but he suspect that the man would have find a way to blame someone else for those actions. The village would’ve been raised to the ground when the king arrived to find his son dead, but Gimli was certain that that had never been a concern to Samuel.

The man had, after all, tried to blame all of his sins on the dwarf. Who was to tell if the same would not have been true, had everything gone according to plan?

The elf that Thranduil had sent to scout the path ahead of them returned with good news. He had found the caves, along with a single horse lazily nibbling grass by the tree line. Of Legolas and Samuel he had seen no sign.

“And I will go with you,” Gimli added, without bothering to look at the king. His axe was held tight on his hands, blade ready to taste Samuels’ neck.

“Samuel’s message was very clear on this matter. He must see me arriving alone,” the king elaborated, much to his subordinate confusion. King Thranduil never explained his reasons to any other, much less a dwarf.

“He won’t be seeing me, do not worry,” Gimli said, a look of defiance entering his eyes.

“I will not entrust my son’s safety in the hands of a dwarf that I barely know!” Thranduil’s voice thundered across the trees.

The Gimli’s angry retort was cut short by Kazam, who placed herself in front of her fellow dwarf.

“Take sense in what you’re about to say and remind yourself that the elf is surrounded by his guards,” she said, her eyes burrowing in his face, asking him to calm himself. “Let the elves deal with Samuel.”

“Those are caves you’re heading in to,” he reminded the king. “I’m a dwarf, I can help you.”

“I too know a thing or two about caves myself, worry not,” the elf informed him. “And you, from what I have heard, have already done enough,” Thranduil said, not hiding his displeasure about Gimli’s involvement in his son’s troubles.

A myriad of emotions crossed Gimli’s face. Surprise, bafflement, anger, rage, sadness. In the end, the dwarf settled for defeat, as he turned his back on the king and left.

Thranduil dismissed his departure and the presence of the remaining humans and called one of the guards, Anuidas, to give his final orders. The two elves talked quietly, far enough that not even the strong ears of the other elves or the she-dwarf could hear their words.

The men that had come from Cottoncrow were vaguely aware of the dwarf and the king’s fight, or of what was being discussed by the whispering elves.

They had taken their chance to rest when all had stopped at the base of the mountain and, faced with the prospect of going against Samuel, to who most still attributed unholy powers that they could not comprehend, none could bring himself to disagree with the king’s intents of going alone.

The two women were much more interested in the events unfolding in the cleary. Alumna and Kazam silently watched, each for very different reasons, carefully analysing the parts that each of the others were about to play.

And then the conversations were over. As if hearing a hidden sign that had escaped the mouths of the trees, the elves parted ways. Thranduil took the path that would lead him to Samuel’s arranged meeting place and Anuidas, along with the remaining elves took the opposite, soon disappearing from sight. A sharp command of ‘remain here’ was thrown back at the humans before the last of the elves disappeared, giving no room to argument.

Alumna’s eyes had searched Gimli’s before he left, unsure of which path should she chose. She had considered following him, for she knew that the dwarf would not so easily abandoned his friend and would surely try to help Legolas on his own. However, when the dwarf’s brown orbs captured hers for that one brief second, the message could’ve filled pages upon pages of words.

There was a plan, and for what ever reason that she could not guess, he had not told her what that plan might be or what chances he believed it had of succeeding. What she knew was that, if they were to succeed, she would have to remain there, be alert and be ready to help them when the right time came.

The sun had yet to set, but the shadow of the looming mountains had already covered the forest in the dark colours of the night. These shadows, for once, were welcome ones, for they were helpful for their plans.

When Thranduil arrived at the bottom of the indicated cave, Samuel was already there, waiting for him.

“I see no treasure, elf-king,” the man stated, reassured that the elf had followed his instructions and arrived alone. The absence of his future fortune was the only thing leaving him uneasy.

“And I do not see my son,” the king answered back, his tone casual and controlled.

Samuel smiled knowingly. Somewhere in the trees behind the king, the rest of the elves that Thranduil had brought with him were surely hidden away from view, awaiting only one signal from their king to attack. But the king would not give such signal before he was sure that his son was safe. Samuel was counting on that to assure that his plan would work and that he would be left alive to savour it.

“You have only yourself to blame for that,” he finally replied, pointing up.

Thranduil looked up, searching the dark grey rock for a sign of Legolas. Up above, many heads above the place where Samuel stood, he saw a faint waving of fabric and light hair, tightly roped to the rocks. His heart skipped a beat, remembering the dreadful tales of Maedhros, hanging from a cliff by his right wrist, trapped by Morgoth.

“Does he live?” Thranduil forced himself to speak past the lump in his throat.

“My guards will bring them to you as soon as you return my son to me,” the king replied. In truth, he had brought no stones, precious or otherwise, but the vile man needed not know that.

“That was not what was arranged, elf-king. Tell your elves to bring the stones and I shall release your son,” Samuel demanded. “Fail to do so and you will not enjoy the consequences.”

Thranduil’s ears were paying attention to what the man said, while his eyes covertly searched the surrounding area. The dwarf’s performance had been flawless, managing to convince even the king of the sincerity of his anger. Thranduil, however, knew better.

Deciding that they would not know in whom to trust, the elf and the dwarf had thought better to keep hidden Gimli’s part in their plan, forging a discussion that would leave no doubts about the dwarf’s reasons to disappear.

Now, in cover of the dark, the dwarf was almost impossible to spot as he quietly made his way to the high place where Legolas seemed to be trapped.

“They will bring them, but I can assure you that if my son was harmed in any form, you will not live long enough to enjoy them!”

Gimli was sweaty and cold, a combination that was paramount amongst his least favourites. He looked down, measuring up the distance that separated him from the ground and cursed. Dwarves were not made to fly or chance their lives so high above. Only extremely extreme matters would ever force a dwarf to go against those beliefs.

So, the brave dwarf pushed his body higher and higher, until he reached the small, rocky alcove where his friend lay trapped. All of his thoughts of fatigue were quickly pushed aside as he neared the elf only to find, instead of Legolas, an old scarecrow.

A straw-built body had been bundled together and dressed with Legolas’ cloak. A rope held together the locks of blond hair to the head of the scarecrow, hair cut from Legolas that was long enough to dance in the night’s wind, creating a good enough illusion that it was indeed the elf.

On pretext that it was the arranged signal for his guards to bring the treasure, Thranduil had whistled a long musical note, letting the wind carry it towards the forest. And then he and Samuel had settled for the wait. One waiting for the precious stones that would never arrive. The other to have his son back and give his guards the real signal, the one that would unleash their anger upon Samuel.

Once again Thranduil’s eyes escaped to gaze upon the imprisoned figure high above. Apart from the erratic movement imposed by the strong wind, he had not seen his son move. His heart felt heavy with worry.

His son, the brave and astute Legolas, who’s adventures and deeds in the Quest of the Ring would be sung for many generations, had allowed his life to be left hanging in balance by the villainy of one man.

The thought had barely registered in his mind when Thranduil saw his worst fear become reality. The figure upon which his eyes had been resting came suddenly crashing down, bumping time and time again on the harsh rock side, like a rag doll. The king’s breath caught in his chest and his heart stopped, afraid that on the next beat his son would be dead.

When it finally hit the ground, it took the elf a moment to realize that it had made no sound, like it was made of rags.

Daring his eyes to focus on the figure that had fell, Thranduil found himself looking not at his son’s crushed body, but at a sorts of scarecrow, fashioned in a way that would make it similar to Legolas.

A crude scarecrow figure wrapped in a grey cloak with several locks of blonde hair strapped to its head. Nothing more.

Looking up, Thranduil caught a quick glimpse of Gimli, already making his way down to look for the real Legolas in the other caves.

Proven as it was Samuel’s deceive, Thranduil cast his angry eyes on the man in question, demanding answers.

Samuel too was beside himself with anger, not knowing how the scarecrow could’ve fallen on its own. Either he had been betrayed, or the king had been distracting him while his guards searched the caves for the elf. Either way, his game had been found.

“There are no stones, are there?” Samuel asked the king, ignoring the fire burning in the elf’s eyes.

Any man with a measure of common sense would’ve chosen that moment to escape. Samuel, however, seemed to lack that sense.

“There is a room filled to the top with precious stones, the finest that you could ever imagine,” Thranduil said quietly, raising his hand to signal his guards, “but none of them will ever be yours, for you will be dead.”

Silently, the elven guards that Samuel knew to be hidden somewhere in the trees became visible to him. As well as the arrows poised on their bows, aimed at him.

“So it is true then,” Samuel started to talk, apparently unfazed by his imminent death. “You do love your stones more than your own flesh and blood.”

The calm manner in which the man said those words send a chill up Thranduil’s spine. Samuel sounded like someone who had expected these actions, someone who had prepared for them.

The king’s eyes once again travelled up and down the rock side, searching for a sign that Gimli had found his son. The dwarf, however, was no where to be seen.

“It is too bad that I can not become rich over this matter, but even still,” Samuel kept talking while he grabbed a string from the ground, “I will enjoy the look on your face when you realize the graveness of your mistake.”

Thranduil could not believe his eyes when he saw the man lit the string, a small dot of fire, travelling alongside the rock wall, like a fuse. Understanding of Samuel’s words’ true meaning stroke the king like lightning, but by then it was already too late to take action.

Samuel was about to blast the caves and the only elf that could possible hit the fast moving fuse, was still trapped inside the mountain.

Gimli could hear his own heart, beating wildly inside his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that tired, but he couldn’t bring himself to slow down.

The sight of that would-be-Legolas doll, hanging in the cliff, had robbed years out of his life, so intense had been his fright. Without thinking much about it, the dwarf had pushed the scarecrow down, knowing that Thranduil would catch the scare of his immortal life, but would probably thank him later.

Gimli quickly made his way out of the cave. These caves were the most unstable place that he had ever set foot in and the thought of his friend still trapped somewhere in them, tormented by sickness, was one that pushed the dwarf to move even faster. He had to find Legolas soon and put an end to this long and painful matter.

The sound of his father’s voice had come as a surprise to Legolas. Of all the people he would expect to find in this place, at these times, Thranduil was amongst the last.

His presence, however, answered his previous question about whom was Samuel waiting for and why his presence there was so important. He was planning to use him against his father. His life for his father’s treasure.

Since their arrival at the caves, Samuel had been busy laying his trap. Legolas had silently watched, waiting for the right moment. Now, as he listened to the man talking to his father outside, Legolas acted.

Rolling the stone that he had previously seen Samuel dislodge from the wall, Legolas found himself looking in to another dark cave. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light, the elf was surprised to find it filled with explosives.

How Samuel had managed to find them, and in such large quantities, Legolas couldn’t tell. But from their proportions and from what he knew about those caves, he was sure that if lit, those charges would have no difficulty in bringing half of the mountain down.

With one ear tracking his father’s conversation outside, Legolas searched the ground of the cave. He knew that somewhere in there would be a piece of string that Samuel needed to ignite the powder from a distance. If he could find it and disconnect it from its destination, the explosion would never happen.

Despite the elven arrows best efforts, the last of the string disappeared inside one of the caves bellow Samuel.

The silence that followed was eerie. All cringed, expecting the harsh sound of the blast to explode in to their ears. But the sound did not come and after a while it became clear that it wouldn’t be arriving.

Samuel’s face turned so white that he seemed to be made of milk. The explosives were supposed to have worked. The orc he had tricked in to selling them had assured him that the mysterious black powder would work. The vile beast had explained to Samuel how to make the fuse and where to connect it. He had tested it before, just to be sure. It had functioned perfectly.

Samuel was certain that he had made no mistake. He had seen the fuse disappear in the cave where he’d left them. They would’ve exploded when the fire reached them. They should’ve exploded.

Sweating in the cold night, the man tasted fear for the first time. He no longer had the upper hand and his partner, his hidden card, was no where to be seen. Samuel cursed the woman and her treacherous mind.

The imminent threat of explosion had distracted the hands of the elven guards until then, but Samuel knew it was now only a matter of seconds before the arrow that would kill him finally flew away. He flinched in anticipation for the pain.

In his despair the only thought that entered Samuel’s mind was to escape. He quickly turned around, intended on losing himself in the maze of small caves, disappearing in such way that even the elven couldn’t find him. His face raced straight in to Legolas’ closed hand.

For a moment, Samuel saw a bright light. Then came the delayed pain, caused by the impact of the elf’s fist against his nose, with such force that his brain rattled.

When he recovered his senses, the man could fell Legolas’ hand around his neck, lifting him from the ground.

“There comes a time when all must pay their dues,” Legolas’ ominous voice, even though he seemed to be almost whispering the words, filled the entire cave, reaching Samuel’s ears from every possible angle. “Your time is now.”

The man saw the cave walls moving around him, but he was not sure if that was because the elf was dragging him nearer to the cave’s entrance, or because his eyes were playing tricks on him. When he felt the wind’s breeze on his back, Samuel whimpered, sure that the elf was about to throw him to his death.

Down bellow Thranduil watched carefully, not understanding the whimpers that could be heard from above, until he realized that someone had grabbed the vile man by his neck with such vengeance that his feet stood clear off the ground and that Samuel was in fact begging for his life.

From his stand, it was impossible for the elf to see who it was, but he imagined that Gimli, with his small stature, couldn’t be the one responsible for such deed.

As if to strengthen his belief, Thranduil spotted the dwarf, making his way down, still searching the remaining caves, oblivious to all that was happening bellow.

The wind carried the frightened man’s words to those who watched from the ground. Unconnected sentences, broken by his own sobs and the twirl of the wind.

The stream of words was suddenly interrupted and, before any could understand what had happened, the man fell, bumping against the mountain side like the scarecrow had done before.

In the flashing moments between realizing that there would be no stopping to his fall and hitting the ground, a high pitched scream left Samuel’s mouth, a sound so tormented and disturbing that it resembled the call of a Nazgul beast.

And then there was the resounding crack of broken bones as Samuel’s body hit the base of the mountain and in the cold silence that followed there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the man was dead.

Legolas had long realized that Samuel was a coward. The extent of his lack of spine was now crystal clear to the elf, as the man pleaded without room to take a breath, for the elf to spare his life.

The elven warrior lifted the man by his neck without effort, dragging him to the edge of the cave. The drop would surely kill the man, and Legolas could see in Samuel’s eyes that he too had already realized that.

The sum of all the foul deeds committed by this man was more than enough reason for Legolas to end his life. And yet, the elf hesitated.

“It was not my idea, I assure you,” the man talked without pausing for breath. “She was the one who thought it all up... she is the one who deserves to be punished!”

Legolas was about to ask Samuel of whom he was talking about when he felt the man jerk from his grasp, in pain. Looking down, for a fleeting moment he saw the end of the arrow that had pierced the man’s chest, before losing his grip all together and watch Samuel scream and tumble for his death.

“Who fired?” Thranduil demanded of his guards when, approaching Samuel’s body, he saw the arrow in the man’s bloody backside. “I had not yet order to fire!”

The elven guards surrounded their king and the dead body, looking as angry as their lord.

“None of us took that shot, my lord,” one of the guards said, grasping the end of the deadly bolt. “Look... it isn’t one of our arrows. It is a crossbow arrow.”

The king looked more carefully to the piece of wood and arrived to the same conclusion as his guard. Anger had clouded his eyes, for the difference between the two kinds of arrows was plain to see.

The elven king hung his head in defeat. With Samuel’s demise, Thranduil had been robbed of both Legolas’ location and revenge.

He looked up, trying to judge the amount of caves in those mountains and guessing in which his son could be, assuming that Samuel had been true to his word and Legolas was there at all.

The dwarf had told him about the condition in which he had last seen Legolas, wounded and without senses, and the king feared that the longer he took to find the younger elf, the less were his chances of finding him alive.

Gimli was no where to be seen and neither was the mysterious person who had overpowered Samuel in his last moments. As to who ever had ended the vile man’s life, Thranduil was sure that he was, by now, long gone. His priority was his son.

“Scatter yourselves through these caves,” the king commanded his guards. “Legolas is bound to be in one of them. Gimli, the dwarf, is also there searching for him. Help him.”

A fleeting moment of confusion crossed the elven guards’ features, for most of them believed the dwarf to be far away by then, but none question their king. It didn’t take long for their astute minds to realize that the entire argument between the king and the dwarf had been a ruse; one that they hope had bared its fruits.

However, before any of the guards could have time to begin their search, a low rumble, like a distant thunder, begun to sound.

The deaf noise, slow and gentle at first, started to grow in level and magnitude, until all realized that it wasn’t thunder at all, but the mountain itself.

Like a giant disturbed from its sleep, the mountain had awoken and sounded angry at those who had interrupted its rest, bound on taking revenge.

The first falling rocks seemed innocent enough, leading to believe that the giant’s anger wouldn’t do much damage. Until the mountain showed its true colours and a sound, louder than any explosion could’ve sounded, filled the entire valley.

The ground shook and all that surrounded that side of the mountain was covered in such cloud of dust that all believed that they had met their end.

Gimli would never admit it to a living soul, but he was growing to dislike these caves. Unlike the caves at his home, that were strong and well formed, or Aglarond, the Rohanian Glittering caves, whose beauty was enough to amaze all that lay eyes upon them, these caves had neither the strength nor the beauty to amaze anyone.

Their walls were weak and their lay made no sense, like a piece of parchment that someone had filled with holes. Only Gimli’ strong sense of direction and general knowledge of cave structure prevented him from becoming utterly lost, for each cave was connected with two or more others, making it almost impossible for him to search them all.

He had thought about calling out for Legolas, hoping that the elf was conscious enough of his bearings to answer him back. The feeble steadiness of the caves, however, wouldn’t allow him to do so. Too much noise inside the wrong cave and he would risk a cave in.

Outside, in the silence that had followed Thranduil and Samuel’s conversation, a scream pierced the night. Gimli could not recognize the voice behind such a sound, but the effect it had on the caves walls was immediately clear for him.

There was no particular sign or sound, but Gimli could feel it inside him as well a beat of his own heart. Years and years spent inside caves, mining them, sculpting their walls, searching their hidden treasures, had taught him well in the lure of deep places’ behaviour. These caves were mourning their own end.

Hating himself for abandoning his missing friend in such a cowardly manner, Gimli raced outside. His feet had barely cleared the entrance of the cave where he was when the whole place come tumbling down.

The scream seemed to have a life of its own, soaping in to the very walls of the cave, a weak man’s anguish lament carved in to weak stone.

Legolas had no need to look down to know what fate had met the falling man. In all honesty, the elf could not feel pity for Samuel’s demise, even if he would’ve prefer to take him back to Cottoncrow and there see that he faced justice at the hands of those he had done wrong.

As it was, Legolas found it strange that one of his father’s guards would’ve taken such decision in to his own hands, killing the trapped man. The elf would not doubt that his father would command that, but he had not heard him speak.

Thinking of Thranduil, Legolas realized that his father was just a few paces away, after so long being apart, both of them facing their own sets of dangers. Although, by elven standards, father and son had not been apart for a very long period of time, a life time worth of events had occurred during their separation. Too many had been the occasions when the elf had thought he would never see his father again, and too many of those occasions had occur in the last few days.

There was no more room in his mind for Samuel’s actions or to worry about the mysterious character that he had accused of being his partner. The only thing Legolas could think of was to embrace Thranduil.

He was eager to share with his king all of his experiences, as well as hear from his father’s mouth all that had happened in their beloved forest.

To the weary elf it seemed only fair that he was allowed to feel his father’s arms around him once more, to lift the heaviness that had settled in his heart over the last few days. Good things supposedly happen to those you’ve earned them.

Legolas could not believe his own senses when he felt the mountain starting to shake. He could not believe that, after all the wrong that Samuel had cause in life, his last act before dying had been to cause such a disaster.

The elf barely had time to throw himself out of the cave, before it collapsed behind him in a loud puff of dirt.

The symphony of coughing fits was a welcome sound as any had ever been heard. Thranduil had, in the anguish moments of silence that followed the series of cave-ins, feared that he had lost all of his guards, elves that had been his personal escort for so long that they had grown close to his heart.

When the dust finally started to settle and the king was able to do a quick head count, he was reassured to find that all were up and about. Other than some minor scrapes and dirtier clothing, luck had been on their side.

It wasn’t until he looked up, that Thranduil realized just how gracious lady luck had been towards them. The face of the cliff had changed drastically, becoming unrecognisable from the mountain that had greeted them just moments before.

Gone were the numerous caves and what before had been a serious of narrow paths that run alongside the mountain side were now rock steeps and sharp angles.

The king’s heart twisted inside his chest. Unable to accept even the thought that his son now laid dead and trapped inside one of the collapse caves, Thranduil’s mind quickly grabbed on to the only idea that his heart could accept, that Samuel had lied and that Legolas had never been inside those caves.

“My king?” One of the elven guards approached him, his fair face covered in a dark grey dust that made his bright eyes stand out in the light on the moon. “What do you command?”

For a moment Thranduil was unsure of what to answer the elf. A part of him wanted to turn each of the mountain’s rocks upside down until he saw proof that his son wasn’t underneath any of them. Another part of him, the logical part, told him that would be a waste of time and that he had to focus his energy and resources first on the living and on the known facts that he had.

Ages of being in command and ruling for the best of all and not to satisfy his own interests and ages of watching his father ruling in the same manner before him, made Thranduil’s choice an easy one.

“Gather two others and return for the humans. We will need their help in searching the forest,” he finally said, a new resolve lacing his voice. “The rest of you help me search the debris. Gimli was somewhere up there searching for Legolas. I owe it to my son to make sure that the dwarf is still alive.”

Torches were lit up to help the sharp elven eyes to search in the dark. From a bird’s point a view, it looked as if the stars had fallen from the sky and had decided to walk about the land.

None of the guards searching for the dwarf had much faith in finding the creature alive, but still they were meticulous in their quest. To know that this dwarf had the confidence and friendship of Legolas was enough for any of them to deem him worthy of their efforts.

Samuel’ stolen horse, spooked away by the roar of the collapsing rocks, had returned. The elven guards could see him, gently pocking at something in the ground by the tree line. Intrigued by the horse’s actions, one of the elves went to his side.

In the distance, the flickering flame of the torch’s light danced upon white flesh. Up closer, the guard could see that the horse was in fact licking a hand, gently nudging whom it belonged to wake up. Whoever that person was, its body was hidden by the short bushes.

Thranduil absorbed himself in the search at hand, never allowing his mind to wander to far in to its darkest paths. Search for the dwarf, search for a clue of where Samuel might’ve hidden Legolas. Do not give reason the room to plant the seed of doubt in your mind. Do not imagine your son’s lifeless eyes.

At the edge of the tree line a hooded female figure came rushing out, waving her arms around.

Thranduil and the remaining guards who had stayed with him hurried to her side. On closer view, the king recognized her as the woman who had accompanied Gimli and the others.

“I caught her,” Alumna told them, her breath coming in sharp gasps, the rush of excitement preventing her from breathing properly. “I caught her!”

“You caught her?” Thranduil asked looking around, clueless about what the woman was talking about.

Alumna took a deep breath, realizing that her speech wasn’t making much sense.

“Kazam, the she-dwarf,” she started. “I saw her steal a crossbow from one of the guards from the village and sneak away after you left. Bomieth had warned me about her and so I decided to follow. She came straight here.”

At the mention of the crossbow Thranduil stood straighter, realizing that this woman had possibly caught Samuel’s killer.

“She was hidden behind the bushes, watching you and Samuel talk. When Samuel was grabbed from behind, she used the crossbow. I was too slow to stop her shot, but I managed to secure her before she could shoot again.”

Amongst the long list of Samuel’s wrong deeds, Gimli had told the king that he had killed the she-dwarf’ son. Thranduil could easily understand her need for revenge. What he found curious were extents that the she-dwarf had gone to kill Samuel, knowing that he would be made to pay for his crimes either way.

The trek to where Alumna had left the unconscious she-dwarf was not a long one. Kazam had yet to awake, her small body lying sprawled on the ground near the bloody rock that the woman had used to rob her of her senses.

Alumna saw the rock too and unconsciously wiped her hands on her cloak. It was clear to the elves that such violence had not seated well with this woman’ spirit. Such simple and absent minded act was enough to strengthen their trust in her.

“Restrain the she-dwarf,” Thranduil commanded. “I wish to speak to her when she regains her senses.”

Gimli stumbled out of the rocks where he had landed, not sure if he was alive or dead. The loud ringing in his ears was making him dizzy and the darkness of the night had left him disoriented. The few lights at a distance were his only guiding point as he made his unsteady way towards them.

The elven guards worked hard and fast to clear the debris that covered half of the body discovered by the gentle horse. From the clothing that they could see so far, they figured it was one of the humans, a tall man by his built. What he had been doing that far from where they had left them, the elves couldn’t guess, nor could they guess if he was still lived or not.

When the rocks were cleared enough for the torch light to shine upon the face of the stranger, a surprised gasp left each elven mouth almost at the same time, turning in to a collective choir of incredibility.

All knew the king’ son very well, having lived much of their longs lives in Mirkwood. Many of them had served under Legolas’ command on more than one occasion. The dirty features uncovered by their efforts were unmistakable for all, even changed in appearance as they were.

Though they had just met a few hours ago, Thranduil had no doubt that the stumbling figure that was approaching their group was the dwarf, Gimli. As he waved for his guards to go and help the struggling dwarf to walk, the king was surprised by his genuine sentiment of relief over his son’s friend.

“How fare you, master Gimli?” The king asked as soon as the dwarf was comfortably seated against a tree, drinking the water that the elves had offered him.

Gimli waited for the cold water to wash away all the dust in his mouth before trying to talk. Swallowing away the rest of his discomfort, he finally answered the king.

“We will,” he said with all the conviction that he could master. “We will.”

Upon hearing Gimli’s voice, Alumna had neared the group, wanting to make sure that her friend was truly alive. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing of importance,” he downplayed the events. “You left the others?”

As she was about to launch herself in the long tale that had brought her to elves, when one of the elven guards arrived, racing from the opposite direction.

“My king! My king!” He called, his breath as easy as if he had just wakened from a nap. “We found him, my lord!”

Gimli and Alumna listened to words exchange between the two elves, not understanding their meaning but seeing the way the elves’ faces lit with joy. Needing no knowledge of the language of the elves, both immediately knew that only one thing could bring that sort of expression to the king’s face.

“You found him? Where is he? Is he well?” Gimli fired the questions in rapid succession, ignoring the surprised looks in the elven guards’ faces to the fact that he had understood what they were saying.

Gimli just snorted, as if the elf had asked the most insane question in the whole of Arda.

Gimli had almost forgotten how different Legolas looked. When they reached the small group gathered around the prince, Gimli saw the small falter in Thranduil’ steps when he took a look at his son.

Apart from the man’s clothing and the shorter hair, Legolas was in whole a monochromatic figure, covered in greyish dirt, worlds apart from the elf that Thranduil had last seen.

The only spots of colour in Legolas semblance were the red, from the bump on his head and the scratches on his face, and the blue from his eyes. Eyes that had already spotted his father.

“Calen lin,” Thranduil replied warmly, embracing his son. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Lost in each other’s arms, the two elves savoured the moment that both had waited for so long, none wanting to be the first to break contact.

Gimli waited as long as could, but when he realized that the two elves wouldn’t be parting ways that soon, impatient as all good dwarves, he decided to settle the matters himself.

“It is good to see you again, lad!” He said, barging in and clasping Legolas’ wrist in greeting.

What for the other elves was considered offensive, Legolas welcomed, used as he was to the dwarf’s manners. To Gimli, however, it wasn’t only a matter of greeting his friend. Last he had seen him, Legolas had been unconscious, fighting the results of an arrow wound to his right side. The elf he was seeing now had nothing but a few scrapes on him, looking healthy as a newborn.

“What on Eru’s name happened to you?” He asked, knowing that only his friend could understand the full meaning of his words.

When an elf arrived, warning Thranduil that the dwarven female had finally awaken, the king was more than reluctant to leave his son’s side.

After taking a more careful look at Legolas’ semblance, Thranduil realized that the tale told by Gimli about their troubles had been the mild version of the actual events.

The dwarf had told him that he and Legolas had been prisoners at the village, but he had left out the part about what had happened to his son’s hair, surely because the dwarf had no way of knowing the true meaning of a short mane for wood-elves. He would have to wait until he was alone with his son to question him about that.

The dwarf had told him that Legolas had been hurt even before his execution almost happen, but he had left out the seriousness of such wound. From what his son had told them, if it hadn’t been for the forest’s help, the elf would be dead by now.

The dwarf had also failed to mention the sadness in Legolas’ eyes, as well as the sorrow that the king could feel in his son’s heart. The cause of both was something that the king planned to discover soon.

“I wish to go with you,” Legolas’ voice interrupted Thranduil’s thoughts. “Samuel mentioned another, responsible as he was for all that had been happening to these people. I want to know if it is this she-dwarf.”

Kazam looked around, not recognizing the darkness that surrounded her. In her still confused mind, sleepy eyes focused on the glowing creatures that were nearing her. The she-dwarf’s heart pumped like mad inside her chest, frightened by such ghostly, ethereal figures.

The one in front had the bearing of a king, his light hair crowned by a dark mess of leaves. Inside her mind, Kazam was back to the last place where she had see such imposing figure, in the battle of the Five Armies.

She had made a deal with the orcs, to gain some of the precious stones guarded by the dragon Smaug. Her father and older brother had left to fight in the coming battle, not knowing of her schemes.

In the end, the orcs had not respected their part of the deal, she had betrayed her people and her kin never returned home. The greedy king of Mirkwood had been the one to blame for that battle. And it was in his palace that her stones were stored.

She feebly tried to run away now from such vision, by the elf came nearer and nearer, and she could not escape his presence.

“Why did you kill Samuel?” He asked, not bothering in greeting her or introducing himself.

“Are you real?” The she-dwarf asked, her eyes crossing and her speech rolling like pebbles from her mouth.

Thranduil exchange a look with the rest of the group, wondering how sane of mind the prisoner actually was.

The she-dwarf gave no outside warning, as she launched herself in rage towards the elven king. The ropes around her legs and the quick reflexes of the elven guards and Legolas didn’t allow her for much damage. She went limp in the guards’ arms, consciousness stolen away from her once more.

“I am afraid I hit her too hard,” Alumna whispered, concerned by what her actions could mean to the dwarf’s health.

“Had you met her before?” He asked, intrigued by the manner in which Kazam had reacted to the older elf.

“Aye, saw her shoot him myself,” Alumna assured him. “Think she wanted to take revenge for young Bomieth’s death?”

“It is possible,” Thranduil said. “A wounded mother’s heart can turn the mind of even the kindest of souls.”

“She was no grieving mother,” Alumna said with hard eyes. “Bomieth was not a son that she loved, or so his father told. No, if she took Samuel’s life on revenge, it was on some other matter other than Bomieth’s death.”

“I wish to believe otherwise,” Legolas said, “but if there is one time when I believe Samuel to be telling the truth, that time was when he said that another had helped him in his deeds, just before he died.”

“And you believe that person to be Kazam?” Gimli asked in suspicion, part of him falling in to the old habits of defending his people over anything else.

“Peace, friend Gimli,” Legolas pleaded, knowing the dwarf’s hot temper. “I am, of you all here, the one that knows her the least, and Samuel did not put a name to his claims, but what if that arrow was not meant for Samuel’s back?”

From the frown on Thranduil’s eyebrows, the absent minded way in which Gimli was composing his beard and the silent gasp that Alumna muffled with a hand over her mouth, it was clear to see that such thought had never entered their minds.

“It was a very difficult shot, even for the sharpest of archers,” Legolas went on. “Consider for one moment that revenge was not what she had in mind, but instead, it was her goal to help Samuel what if, in her lack of skill, she ended up killing her own partner?”

“She had no way of knowing, not from such distance,” Legolas dismissed the notion. The more he presented his idea, the stronger it become in his mind.

“If revenge was all that she wanted, why wait that long to shoot him? Why wait until it became clear that the powder would not explode and that Samuel had been caught?”

Even not wanting to, even Gimli was starting to see Legolas’ logic. Kazam had appear out of nowhere when they had no idea where Samuel was, having coincidentally spotted him in the forest, even when she did not know that they were searching for the man. She had led them there and she would’ve led them straight to the caves had they not encountered the elves.

The last remains of will to defend the she-dwarf left Gimli’s body and he could feel himself starting to hate her. If she had truly been aiming to shoot Legolas and had shot Samuel by mistake, she would pay dearly. No dwarf that Gimli met would disgrace in such manner dwarven kind and be left unpunished.

With their backs turned to the she-dwarf as they talked, none saw as she stirred and closed her eyes.

The night was slowly turning in to dawn when Kazam opened her eyes again, carefully searching for the elf that she knew would be guarding her. A fire was burning at a distance from her and the she-dwarf could see a number of elves and men dancing around it.

Her guard, a green clad elf, was resting against a tree, his opened eyes looking at the sky, his posture relaxed but alert, she was sure.

If there was one thing that she remembered about the woodland elves was their kind hearts and the gentle manner in which they treated their prisoners. Sure enough, as she tested her restrains, Kazam realized that, although secure, they were loose enough for her to free herself. Free to try again.

The plan had begun to form in her head soon after Bomieth, her husband, had expelled her from Cottoncrow. In those days, rejected by her kin and kindred, revenge had been the only thing that had kept her alive in the forest.

Never for once entering her mind that her actions were justification enough for what had befell her, Kazam plotted for a way to make Bomieth suffer. They would all be made to pay for every wrong turn that her existence had taken.

When she met Samuel by chance, she saw in him the way to put her plans at work. He was greedy and unscrupulous enough to do what was needed, obedient enough to do it without rising to many questions.

She taught him much of the dwarven lure, enough to make all believe that the man had indeed spend time with the dwarves, sharing with him all that she knew up until the Battle of the Five Armies.

She taught him enough of leaves and herbs for him to pass as healer and she fed him her plan, small piece by small piece.

How to insinuate himself in to Bomieth’s house, how to gain the village trust, how to place himself in a comfortable position to take Bomieth’s power. How to gain for her all that was rightfully hers, even if she could not enter Cottoncrow to claim it.

The death of her own son had come has an unforeseen fortitude, one that she wasn’t particularly sorry about, and one that had, in the end, helped them plenty.

The same had happened with the arrival of the elf and the other dwarf. Their timing had been perfect and the fact that the people in the village weren’t used to such creatures had made things even simpler.

The fact that one of the strangers was the son of the elven-king that she had learned to hate, had only made things sweeter.

What she had not foreseen, what she could not compensate or plan around, was the chance encounter between Gimli and Alumna, or the way in which both had joined forces to frustrate her plans.

In the end, Samuel had paid the price for his own stupidity and she, foolish enough to try to help him, had become a prisoner herself.

Contorting her fingers enough to reach inside the many folds of smelly cloths, Kazam produced a hidden blade that had escaped the eyes of her captors. She made haste of cutting away the ropes that restrained her and with a quick glance to make sure that the guard was still looking away, she ran in to the forest.

“May I join you?” Thranduil asked before taking a seat on the ground, next to his son.

It had become a sort of game between father and son, to call each other anything but ‘father’ and ‘son’, for both enjoyed the looks on the others’ faces when they caught them doing so.

“Even when your thoughts occupy you in such manner that you do not join our merry making?” Thranduil asked, pointing to the fire that the elves had built and around which some were still dancing. Some of the men from Cottoncrow, having surpassed their initial distrust and shyness around the elves, had also joined them.

Gimli had watched them bemused at first, before grumbling that there was no party without ale, turning to the other side and promptly falling asleep.

“I shall celebrate when I walk beneath the tree cups of Mirkw… Eryn Lasgalen, is it now?”

Thranduil smiled, remembering the spring’s deep greens and the golden autumn tones in the woods of home.

“Yes, Lasgalen, the wood of greenleaves it is called now, free at last from the shadow. You will fall deeper in love with her now.”

Legolas closed his eyes, in his mind seeing with no difficulty all of the wonders that his father was describing. He could see the light bouncing from leaf to leaf; he could smell the scent of dew in the mourning and hear the calls from every bird that, like them, called the forest home.

“I can not return there,” Legolas said with his eyes still closed. He could not face the disappointment in his father’s eyes. “I am not the same elf that once left those woods.”

The king sighed deeply, for he had already guessed that his son was troubled. Thranduil reached out, grasping a string of the short golden hair. The long mane that had for long covered Legolas’ shoulders wasn’t enough now to cover even his pointed ears.

“More has changed, other than the way others see me. The lady Galadriel was right in her warnings… I can find no rest under the trees, not like before,” he confessed.

“You know that no Lasgalen’s elf would ever think differently of you because of the way you look, Calen Lin. I understand what it may seem for those who don’t know you, who don’t know your strength of character but…”

Thranduil stopped when he saw the sadness in his son’s face and realized that it wasn’t others’ opinion of him that was bothering Legolas.

“I was foolish enough to venture too close to the sea and could not resist the lull of the gulls.”

“Will you answer the call?” The king asked, afraid of what the answer might be. It had been hours since he had reunited with his son and already was he on the brim of losing him again.

“There is a wooden area outside of Gondor. Too long under the shadow of Mordor, it begins now to fade away,” Legolas said, in a way pleading for his father’s understanding. Like the forest, he too felt himself fading away.

“Aragorn and I have talked about it, and we believe that under the care of the elves, those woods might once again flourish.”

Legolas had planned to speak to his father about these matters once they arrived home. However, a part of his heart that needed the older elf’s approval could wait no longer.

“It is far from Lasgalen,” Thranduil confessed. Although ages had passed since Legolas could be called elfling, in Thranduil’s eyes his son was still as small as tree sampling, running barefoot around the halls of the palace. “It is far from me.”

Legolas turned to Thranduil, embracing his father’s shoulders. He looked deeply in to the other elf’s dark blue eyes before answering.

The king nodded, for in the end, he knew that there was nothing he could do to change his son’s mind without causing him more pain.

There was a sense of easiness and relief in Legolas voice when he replied his father.

“You are very dear to all in Lasgalen. This should not surprise you,” the king told him. “In some ways, they love you more than their own king.”

Legolas was about to tell Thranduil that he was being foolish when both heard the commotion. The elf who had been guarding the she-dwarf was calling all to arms, for the prisoner was no where to be seen.

“What happens?” A still sleepy-eyed Gimli asked. “What’s with all the shouting?”

“Kazam has run away,” Legolas translated for him. “A party is being formed to chase her.”

The she-dwarf’s trail was easy one to follow. She was in a hurry and wasted no time in trying to conceal her passage. Her mind, still confused from the blow received, had only one coherent thought running through it. To escape, to gather her bearings, to be free to extract her revenge later.

Legolas and Gimli were joined by three other elves in their search. Gimli had to make an extra effort to keep up with the long legs of the elves, but he did not complain. In a way, it reminded him of the great chase he had taken part with Legolas and Aragorn and that thought alone was enough to warm his heart.

Straight ahead, soon all others could see what Legolas’ keen eyes had spotted. The she-dwarf was nearing the ruins where all of their troubles had started. As far as Gimli, she was trying to reach the under passages that ran beneath the ruins, intended on disappearing from view. From the way the men from the village had spoken about them, it would be next to impossible to find her after that.

“We must hurry, or risk the chance of losing her!” He warned the elves, unfamiliar with those grounds.

None of the elves had taken their bows, their goal being to recapture the creature without harming her. Now, however, facing the chance of failure, they wondered if that had not been a mistake.

Legolas suddenly stopped, as if for the first time realizing where they truly were. He let the others race ahead and, instead of following, neared one of the ancient trees and rested his hand against it.

For anyone taking notice of the elf’s actions, he looked as if he was resting against the tree bark, his eyes closed and his body supported by the wood being. Nothing, however, could be farther away from the truth.

The glow started softly, a mere trick of the morning light, something that one would miss if not looking carefully. And then it grew stronger, brighter, like a burning star trapped to the ground.

The others ahead stopped too, not because they had caught the strange events happening behind them, but because of what they saw ahead.

The she-dwarf, who had almost succeeded in disappearing in the maze of under tunnels, had been lift up in the air by some unseen force. They all watched in awe as her small body floated for a second above the ground before tumbling down. She vanishing before their eyes, consumed by the roots of a giant tree.

“Did that tree just...” Gimli tried to voice what he had just seen, but found out that he couldn’t find the words to describe it.

He was relived to see that the elves looked as amazed as he was. It would worry him much if this was a common occurrence in Mirkwood. Legolas had invited him to visit his woods, and the dwarf wouldn’t dare to set foot in a place where the trees ate people.

“It did,” one of the elves remembered to answer, knowing exactly what was on the dwarf’s mind. The elf looked back, waiting for Legolas to rejoin them. “What did you tell them?” He asked in their tongue when the prince was near enough.

When they had noticed that Legolas was no longer running by their side, the elves had looked back, seeing him near the tree. It was common for all woodland elves to communicate with the trees of their home, and none could do it easier than the son of Thranduil.

In these woods, however, they could not hear the voices of the trees. That Legolas had stopped to talk with one of the ancient beings, and be successful in it, came as no surprise to any of them.

“I told them of our suspicions. They told me of what they had witness time and time again. Kazam and Samuel were responsible for more fell deeds than what we were aware of,” Legolas said, his eyes sad at the recollection of the images of pain and suffering the trees had showed him. “Long had these woods sought to be read of the evil these two brought to their lands. The trees decided that it was time for that to come to an end.”

“Of whom do you talk?” Gimli asked, looking suspiciously around him. All he could see were trees and bushes.

As they neared the place where Kazam had disappeared, Gimli understood what he had been trying to deny. They stood at the rooted base of a giant tree, it’s trunk so large that four elves and a dwarf could stand side by side in front of it and not see behind it. Alas, what they were looking for was right in front of them.

Where the roots met the trunk there was now a new mass of deep indentations on the wood. And they only knew that it was new because it bared a frightening resemblance to the she-dwarf.

Trapped by the ancient tree, Kazam had become a permanent part of the woods, forever sculpted in their roots, watching as they did the passing of time.

Like a careful mother, treading on tip toes, the day came slowly and smoothly, not wanting to frighten away too harshly the dwellers of the night.

The sun lazily stretched out its bright arms, at once seeming to want to embrace all of Arda. To Cottoncrow too, this day, its warmth reached.

Of the four elves and dwarf, three elves had already taken the path back to the mountain, intended on retrieving the remaining group of elves and men. Together they would make their way back to Cottoncrow, before the elves returned to Lasgalen.

When Legolas had asked Gimli to remain with him at the ruins, the dwarf could not guess the grim task that the elf had reserved for them both, as they waited for the others.

Legolas had not yet seen him, but he had not forgotten the murdered guard that Samuel had hidden in the ruined tower. That man, like so many others, had been fooled by the fake-healer. The price to pay had been his own life and Legolas would not allow the man’s passing to go unmourned.

Silently, the two friends worked as they extracted the scorched body and laid it to rest. The man’s father, Gimli remembered, would be devastated by the news of his son’s demise, either his grave was near the village or in the middle of the forest. To take such a disfigured body back with them would’ve been cruel to the poor man.

“Are they listening to us now?” The dwarf asked after a time, breaking the silence in which they had been working.

Legolas looked at his friend, confusion marring his face for a moment, before he realized that Gimli was referring to the trees.

“What has you so worried, my friend?” The elf asked when he noticed Gimli’s concerned actions.

“Think you that they might have developed a taste for dwarven flesh?” He whispered, apparently not wanting to incur in the wrath of the surrounding forest.

Legolas would’ve laughed, had he not realized how serious this was for the shorter warrior.

“You need not worry mellonin. I suspect their appetite is only for those who have wronged them.”

“They were very kind to me,” Legolas went on, not wanting the dwarf to develop any ill feeling towards such gentle beings. “They gave me back my strength and health.”

“Great comfort that brings me,” he finally said. “You’re a wood-elf, of course they’ll be nice to you!”

“You remind me of Salmadras, the son my father’ sister,” he explained. “When he was very young, Salmadras firmly believed that the eagles were bad, because he had once seen one of them hunting smaller birds in the fields near home.”

“Nonsense!” Gimli was quick to react, remembering the great help that the kind eagles had been to their fight near the gates of Mordor. “They are gentle beings that, like all of us, need to eat.”

“Yes, we explain that very thing to him. But, like you, he was slow to see that which was obvious to all others,” Legolas said with a teasing smile.

Gimli cursed and was tempted to use his axe on the elf’s neck, before bursting out laughing.

“I see your point, crazy elf, but I’m sure I’m a little older than that cousin of yours.”

“Actually, I believe you are about the same age as he was then,” the elf managed to say between laughs, seeing the reddening of Gimli’s face.

The elf ducked with easy the pebble thrown by Gimli, the dwarf’s reactions by now familiar an expected. Legolas’ laugh died in his lips as his hand moved to push away phantom hair out of his face, a gesture born out of habit that he had taken to do without thought for ages. Now, he realized, there was no point in doing it.

Gimli noticed the silence and recognized the look of lost in his friend’s face.

“It matters not,” Legolas said, dismissing the subject. “As you’ve said, it is only hair.”

A year ago, when he knew little about elves and did not count Legolas as a friend, Gimli would’ve wholehearted agreed with the elf. Now, however, something told him that there was more to the matter than that.

He had seen the pained surprise in Thranduil’s face when he had first looked at his son. He had seen the manner in which the other elves looked at Legolas, staring, as if to make sure that he was indeed the same elf.

Legolas, however, was making clear that he would rather talk about anything else but what had happened to his hair, so Gimli indulged him.

“For the better, I must say. He is nothing of what I’d expected,” the dwarf confessed. “My father saw a side of Thranduil that I have not yet met, and I, on the other hand, witnessed a side that my father would never believe yours to have.”

Legolas couldn’t help but agree with the dwarf. He, better than any one, knew how difficult his father could sometimes be. But, given the darkness that had for so long surrounded them, the king of Mirkwood had had no other choice but to command his lands with a strong wrist.

If that led him sometimes to be seen as harsh by some, it was something that Legolas lamented, but did not condemn his father for.

“My father can be very stubborn when he feels that someone is wrongdoing him. Gloin was most unfortunate in that aspect,” Legolas explained Gimli.

“Aye, I often wondered where you’d pick that particular trait,” Gimli jested, enjoying himself when he saw the tip of Legolas’ ears reddening. He guessed that those were words that the elf often heard.

Gimli was just searching for a stone to mark the man’s grave when Thranduil, his elves, the men from Cottoncrow and Alumna joined them.

The group that entered the village at the night’s fall was a grim one, despite their victory. A deep sentiment of loss and waste had started to overcome men and elf alike.

The guards that had, at first, been forced to escort Gimli in his search, finally understood the madness that had overpowered Samuel’s mind. The dead healer’s words were still fresh in everyone’s heads and they could now truly understand their meaning.

Samuel had warned about a two-headed monster that would arrive to send them all to their graves. They could now understand that the two-headed monster had, in fact, always been amongst them. And every family that had lost someone to the Bruisenbite had felt that monster’s venomous bite.

The Lasgalen elves, used as they were to confront evil every day in the forests of their home, used as they were to fight spiders and orcs, found it hard to understand how, so far from the influence of Mordor or the Necromancer, could exist two beings that caused such pain and sorrow.

Like the sudden arrival of winter, the wood-elves could feel the cold of death inside them as they left the protection of the trees and entered the village.

Bomieth, alerted by the frantic reports that an angry party of elves was moving to take siege of Cottoncrow, had raced to meet them. Fearing that the search group had failed in their purpose and that a revengeful throw of elves had finally arrived to claim their lives in pay for the demise of the elf Legolas, Bomieth jumped in joy and relief when he saw Gimli and Legolas at the head of the group.

From what they had heard tell about the elf-king of Mirkwood, who they now knew to be Legolas’ father, every person in Cottoncrow had expected to be killed by the enraged elf. The fact alone that the elves, armed as they were, had entered peacefully in to their village, had gone a long way in to changing their view of the elves.

In a place where the entire elven race was feared and associated with evil, all could see now that maybe their ancestors had been unlucky in their meeting of the elves. The beings in their midst now were nothing like the ones in the tales of Caranthir and his elves. Fair of face and heart, these elves brought with them a brightness and peace that calmed and gave hope to the tired souls of the people of Cottoncrow.

It was with a mix of sorrow and sense of fulfilment that the arriving group explained to a gather mob of villagers what had come to pass and what were the fates of those who were missing.

The only one able to cry Samuel’s demise had been his defeated wife. Mistreated as she had been, the poor woman was probably the only soul in the whole village that could feel anything but hate for the man.

Her father held her in his arms as she cried bitter tears of release. Old Bomieth had lost a son to Samuel’s devilish, but now that the man was dead, he could at least reclaim his long lost daughter.

The elves made their own camp outside of Cottoncrow, politely refusing all offers to stay with the villagers. Like they tried to explain, the grief emanating from every corner of the village was too much for them to stand, and they would much prefer to stay under the stars.

That night, lulled by the sound of melodious voices that could be heard coming from the elven camp, most hearts in Cottoncrow found themselves lighter and starting to fill with long lost hope.

When the morning arrived, none could really blame the elves’ for their eagerness to leave. The place had suffered at the hands of the elves and had paid in kind.

These elves could do nothing to emend the wrongs their kin had committed against Cottoncrow, no more than Cottoncrow and his people could really take back what had been done by Samuel, what they all had allowed to happen to Legolas.

A silent agreement was common to all. Leave the past be passed and allow the present to become deluded in the passing of time. The elves were leaving as friends and Legolas and Gimli would always be remembered in Cottoncrow as heroes.

For ages they had lived in fear of the elves’ return, and now that they walked in their village’s streets again, they felt sad to watch them leave.

Bomieth, with an uneasiness that seemed out of character for him, approached Legolas and the elves surrounding him. He stole a guilty look at the imposing king, before presenting Legolas with the shrouded parcel in his hands.

“I fear some of your things might have been displaced by the guards, but we have managed to retrieve these,” he shyly said.

Legolas looked at the large parcel and smiled. Of the few things that he had carried with him, only two he deemed irreplaceable and had lamented their lost. Holding the parcel in his hands, the elf dared to hope that they were once again in his possession.

Carefully peeling away the cloth in which they were wrapped, Legolas discovered some of his clothes, the grey cloak offered by the Lady and beneath them, the items he had hoped for.

“Thank you for find them, master Bomieth,” the elf said sincerely, as he caress the soft wood of his Galadhrim bow like it was a long lost lover. The blades of his white knives were inspected next, before Legolas remembered that he no longer possessed the twin back scabbards where he used to keep them.

“We cleaned them to the best of our knowledge,” Bomieth ventured, looking at the shiny blades. “We didn’t wanted there to be any sign of…” he was about to say ‘your blood’, but restrained himself as he looked at the elven-king. Though the older elf had said little since his arrival at the village, Bomieth could see in the ancient being’s eyes the restrained anger.

In all truth, the old man could not bring himself to resent the elven-king for his sentiments. He too was a father, and none better than he could understand the pain of losing a child.

“They are very well kept, master Bomieth,” Legolas said with a bow. “I thank you.”

Legolas was still holding his twin knives, thinking where he could store them, when a pair of scabbards was pushed in to his hands.

Accepting the items with a quick thank-you glance to the dwarf, Legolas almost dropped his precious weapons to the ground when he looked back at Gimli’s face.

At the surprised gasp of the elf, all others turned to look at the dwarf too. Gone was Gimli’s long, trimmed and braided beard, leaving behind a smooth face to the likes never before seen in one of the dwarven kind.

“What happened to you?” Legolas asked with concern. Knowing how much Gimli appreciated and praised his long beard, the elf was sure that such strange occurrence could have nothing less than a horrendous explanation. “Were you attacked?”

“Nonsense, crazy elf,” he said amused. “Although we chose not too, we dwarves do know how to use a shaving blade!”

“I’m certain you do,” Legolas said, still taken aback by the dwarf’s appearance. “But why would you do such a thing?”

Gimli seemed reluctant to confess his reasons. He looked at his boots; he looked at Bomieth, searching for a way to escape answering.

At the time, and after a few drinks, it had seemed the reasonable thing to do. Now, sober, in front of all others and under the watchful eyes of Legolas’ father, he felt foolish.

Sensing the dwarf’s discomfort in sharing his reasons in front of so many, Legolas placed a friendly arm around Gimli’s stout shoulders and effectively dragged him away from the crowd.

The dwarf looked back, making sure that none was taking interest in their conversation. He passed a hand through his unfamiliar smooth face, much like he used to do with his beard and, with a sigh, finally answered Legolas inquisitive eyes.

“I was talking to one of the other elves last night,” Gimli started, avoiding his friend’s look.

“He told me about that nonsense of you Mirkwood elves’, the one about marking banned elves,” he said, venturing a look at his friend face, only to discover that it was now Legolas who could not face him.

“I will not claim to understand the ways of your people, for they make little sense to me, but it seemed to me unfair that you’d be taken for a criminal just because your hair now looks different from the other elves.”

Legolas blinked, his heart touched by Gimli’s gesture. Truly a friendship to treasure, never had it crossed the elf’s mind that the dwarf would show such compassion and understanding for ways that, as he had so well put it, was so strange to him.

Gimli, seeing the way his friend’s eyes were beginning to shine a little too brightly, place his rough hand over the elf’s one, still resting on his shoulder.

“Now, I figured, at least there will be two of us with funny looks about them.”

“Funny looks indeed,” he teased the dwarf. “Have you yet looked upon a mirror?”

“Aye, laugh all you want, Calen Lin,” Gimli said, carefully pronouncing the elven words that he had so often heard being used by Thranduil to refer his son. “Hairy stories were not all that your elven friend shared with me.”

“He would have not!” He spurred, searching the faces of the surrounding elves for the ‘traitor’. Many were the ones avoiding his gaze, leading Legolas to believe that there was more than one guilty party.

“Indeed he would,” Gimli said with a chuckle that came from deep within his belly. “And here was I thinking that the hobbits were the most mischievous creatures that I knew. An impressive attire for singing, I must say, although I can not understand how you manage for the leaves to stay on…”

“Bee’s honey,” a deeper voice, belonging to Legolas’ father answered the dwarf. From the older elf’s imposing face, none could guess how much fun he was having with Legolas embarrassed poise.

Sharing a look that promised painful retribution with both his father and Gimli, Legolas gather as much composure as he could muster and turned to say his goodbyes to Bomieth and the rest, hoping that the conversation would end there.

For each that had died at the cruel hands of the Bruisenbite, the people of Cottoncrow had decided to raise a coloured banner to the skies. When they were finished and looked at their work, the eyes of many filled with tears, as they realized just how many had been lost.

As they finally left the village, leaving behind well-wishers and tears, Gimli and the elves of Lasgalen passed through the field of flags, waving like a sea of silk. They too felt their eyes water for each red, yellow, blue, green and purple that they saw. For each banner they passed, they felt the touched of sorrow and grief that was associated to it, like a particular smell was associated to a particular flower.

In the midst of the waving field, Gimli spotted Alumna, standing by a red banner, strapped to a pole as tall as she. The pendant in her neck shone as brightly as it had when he had seen her for the first time.

The dwarf had already said his goodbyes to his newest friend, so he simply bowed his head to her when her gaze fell upon the departing group. Neither Gimli nor Legolas had the need to ask for who her flag was.

The death of young Bomieth had been the start of all the others that had fallen. It was only fair that his flag should be remembered alongside the other victims.

Alumna placed her hand above her heart and wave them goodbye. At last she had the closure she’d been searching for, and a life back at Cottoncrow.

Where once stood nothing but parched bushes and yellowed grass, now flours bloomed under a tombstone. And under a the tree that once had no name and was now, bearing the carved face of strange looking female, called of the Guardian, the people of the nearby village tried to overcome their past and look forward to a brighter future. Cottoncrow was still healing, but it would cry no more.

A.N. – Well, it’s finally over. And now that I no longer have it pending over my head as an unfinished story, I’m sorry to watch it end. It’s been over two years since I had the strange idea of starting a story with Legolas’ impending beheading, and now, all this time later and over 200 pages after, I can finally write The End.

To all you brave souls that started reading it then and were able to withstand my erratic updates, my deepest thanks, you are all my heroes.

To all of you that only now started to read it, count yourselves lucky, you’ll wait no more :o)

As to my reviewers, thank you! Thank you! Thank you many times for all of your kind words. They kept me going when nothing else would.

Another A.N. - Calen Lin, according to what I’ve read, means Green Song. Between the singing, the honey and the leaves, I leave the rest of Legolas’ embarrassing tale to your imagination. I know it will serve you all right ;o)

Cottoncrow's Cry by Ophium