CHAPTER 16:  A FACELESS FEAR

Much of the next few days passed in a daze for the King of Gondor. Never had Aragorn made such a strange ride: with a host of unseen, angry ghosts ever on his tail, a group of otherwise valiant Gondorian guards who were terrified by them, two elven companions who were not, and he himself the only one whose commands the specters would obey.

The company rode over hills and plains, and as fast as they could, but the country roads were rough and rocky and often winding, and the way was not easy. The outriders who went ahead did an efficient job of keeping the townspeople and village folk indoors whenever the company was forced to pass in the vicinity of homesteads. Indeed, their task was not a difficult one, for in many places the news that “the Dead of the Mountain have been released, and the King leads them!” spread like wildfire from tongue to tongue ere the guards ever had the chance to sound the warning.

And the people bolted themselves in, although the bolder and more curious dared to peep out from behind window shades. If it was day, they saw nothing but the King and his shining elven companions, followed by his guards in the livery of the Citadel, and they were oddly disappointed. But if the King passed by night and the waning moon was not veiled by clouds, the keener-eyed perceived the constant luminous haze behind them. And that scene became the stuff of stories told around fires, mugs of ale in the inns and taverns, and market-places the next morning and for days afterward.

Too thrilled with what they were witnessing in their day and age, they spared little thought for what their King was going through, and knew not his consideration of their welfare by choosing to avoid the easier open roads and to ride instead along less-traveled paths – sometimes overgrown and rocky, sometimes steep and narrow – that slowed their progress. 

Aragorn and his guards ate and slept little, and their mortal spirits were low, but the men of Gondor held on to the strength and will of their King, and did their best to ignore the Host that they knew were constantly lingering around them. Some men were always awake lest the spirits suddenly decided to turn treacherous as they once had, till utter weariness seeped under their skins so that they became as walking Dead themselves.

The elves slept even less, for they had not the relief of mortal eyes that could choose to overlook the Dead and leave them forgotten for a little while. To the elves, the ghosts were ever-present, ever within sight, a constant reminder to Legolas to be vigilant – not for himself – but for his mortal friend.

Tonight, the elf prince could see their pale shapes hovering beneath a tall tree a little distance away, always not far from the King on whose mercy they depended. The company was camped in a grassy area beneath an unusually large outcrop of rock that jutted out from a cliff face like a roof, and even though the sickle of Ithil had thinned to a sliver over the past few nights, and was now hidden behind unfriendly clouds so that the area was in deep darkness, Legolas and Hamille could still perceive the ghostly figures. Hamille had indicated the location of the Host to the Gondorians so that they would not wander near them with torches and inadvertently kindle a sudden blaze of fierce red eyes. The men did not need a second reminder and camped themselves a fair bit away.

Aragorn lay himself down in one corner of the dark space under the rock canopy, and soon fell asleep, exhausted beyond awareness. Under the feeble light of a small torch someone had lit and wedged in a large fissure, Legolas eyed his friend with concern, noting how – despite his stoicism – the man seemed to grow a little more listless with each passing day, and his face sometimes took on a wan hue.

“This drawn-out task is taking a terrible toll on his body and spirit,” Legolas observed as he and Hamille seated themselves nearby, leaning against the rock face. “I am compelled to feel pity for the Twice Forgotten, but I loathe them no less for what their presence means to Estel. I would that his agony were ended this instant!”

Hamille turned to eye the Host, sharing Legolas’ sentiments. Then he spoke quietly to his prince.  

“You have hardly taken any rest or sleep either, bridhon nin,” he said. “Even elves need it at some point, and since nothing is likely to happen, may I suggest you find some reverie tonight?”

Legolas shook his head wearily, but before he could voice an argument, Hamille spoke again. “Saes, Legolas,” he pleaded, knowing that his prince found it hard to refuse him when he reverted to the use of his name. “Lord Elessar will need your strength, not your fatigue.”

Legolas sighed at the truth of his friend’s statement, but returned a challenge: “And what of yourself, Hamille?”

“I slept as we rode,” the brown-haired elf replied immediately, and Legolas had to smile, knowing that it was indeed possible for elves to find rest and wander in dreams even as they walked open-eyed on the paths of this world. “I told my horse to follow Rallias’ lead, and left it to him,” Hamille added. “You should have done the same with Amel, but you did not.”

His prince smiled again, amused at how well the elf knew him. “Nay, I did not,” he confessed, “and I do not know if I shall be able to find sleep now, but let me sit here in silence and rest, and if I should fall into reverie, then consider your counsel taken.”

The brown-haired elf nodded, settling for the answer given, but now it was his prince who looked askance at him. “And when were you going to tell me about it, Hamille?” he asked quietly.

A pair of eyebrows rose in surprise, and brown eyes locked with blue in an unblinking gaze before Hamille sighed and hung his head resignedly. “I could not hide it, could I?” he asked, bending over and crossing his arms over his stomach as he abandoned his pretense.

“From other eyes, perhaps,” Legolas replied, draping an arm over the elf’s shoulders, “but not from me, dear friend, not from me. It has been clear to me for the past two days, though you have borne it well.”

“And it is not even anywhere near the Sea, bridhon nin,” Hamille lamented, smiling sadly.

“It is still new to you, Hamille,” Legolas said consolingly, though he shared the elf’s distress. “You feel the keenness of a fresh wound… but it will dull in time, mellon nin. Ai…I wish I could bear this longing for you…”  

Hamille stopped him with a light touch. “Say not another word, Legolas, you have your own to manage.”

A few moments of silence followed before the elf prince spoke again. “Hamille, I do not want you to follow us into the Black Land,” he said. “Leave the road and return to Ithilien at the earliest chance.”

The brown-haired elf looked quickly at his prince, a tiny crease forming between the fine eyebrows. “You cannot – ”

“I can and I do insist on it,” Legolas stated in a firmer tone than Hamille had heard him use in a long time. “Being among our kin will take your mind off the Sea-longing, and our fair woods will be a better balm than anything else you may find. Saes, listen to me this time, Hamille – please.”

An objection was obviously on the tip of Hamille’s tongue, but he bit it back. “We shall see when the time comes,” he said instead. “But let us now seek some rest ere this night passes, and while our Dead companions over there are quiet, for who knows when they might decide to turn violent.”

And so the two Firstborn sat side by side, ever aware of the pale shapes nearby that were speechless but shifting, and always waiting. The elves trained their keen eyes elsewhere when they grew tired of the sight of them, but they never abandoned their caution. Neither elf felt like singing or speaking, but each was glad for the company of the other.

One hour passed or two, Legolas did not know, but as the night grew older, tiredness crept upon him as well. The moon remained hidden, and all was still in the camp, till even the crickets ceased to chirp, as if they had all fled from the presence of the Dead.

Then, in the deepest part of the night, when Men should long have been drifting in dreamscape, the skin on Legolas’ neck tingled… and when he looked up, his elven eyes beheld a dark shape. It was tall and straight, and it emerged from nothingness to stand before him in the blackness.

A startled gasp escaped the elven throat, and in mute astonishment did Legolas stare at the figure. Phantom-like it seemed… yet it did not waver nor vanish. For some reason, it felt both familiar and strange.

The figure continued to stand still before the elf, appearing lost and forlorn, and as Legolas locked his eyes on it, he was assailed by a great sense of sorrow emanating from it, and so keen was its despair that it drew tears from some unknown well within his elven heart. Yet, it was not mere sorrow that the elf prince felt, for he found, to his own shock, that he was also suddenly cold and frightened.

Then the dark shape turned slowly, and after a moment of hesitation, began to walk away, leaving the refuge of the rock canopy. As it walked, recognition flared suddenly in Legolas’ heart. That gait… that stride!

“Aragorn?” he breathed, hardly believing that his lips had formed that name. But the figure did not turn. “Aragorn!” he called again, to no avail, for the figure kept moving away.

Quickly, the elf turned to rouse Hamille at his side, but to his utter shock, where his friend had been moments ago – he found only dark, unoccupied space. Hamille was gone.

The astonished elf swept his eyes over the camp, urgently seeking his elven companion and Aragorn’s guards – but his mouth went dry as he realized, to his utter dread, that he could see no one. Not a single soul. The camp was empty, bereft of life but for himself and the figure walking away.

He swiveled around to the place where the Host had been – but they too were gone.

How can this be! the elf screamed inwardly, peering into the deep dark.

Panic now arose in him, and he jumped to his feet. He did not know where everyone else was, but he could care for nothing else now save the figure walking away, leaving…

“Aragorn!” he cried once more, and ran after the man, taking only a few moments to reach him. He grasped the man’s arm and spun him around roughly. “Aragorn, where are you going?” he demanded.

Legolas knew the feel of his friend’s arm and the shape of his shoulders, but when the figure faced him, his face was covered by a curtain of dark, lank hair, and the black of the night further hid the features from view. Fear flowed like ice through the elven veins.

“Aragorn, why are you here?” he asked hoarsely, gripping the arm.

The voice that replied was known to him. It was indeed that of Aragorn, but the words – slurred and deliberate – were not, for it seemed to come from a lost, empty soul.

“Who are you?” it asked.

The question stabbed at Legolas’ heart as sudden terror assailed him, and his hand fell trembling from the man’s arm. He swallowed and answered shakily: “It is I, Aragorn… it is I. What is happening?” 

No response came from Aragorn. He remained standing before Legolas with his arms at his sides, unmoving and silent. Then it said limply: “I know you not,” and turned away again to continue its journey.

Legolas’ eyes widened in shock as tears stung them.  “Aragorn!” he called again. Clamping a vice-like grip on the man’s arm, he spun him around again, and this time, the elf swept aside the curtain of hair from the face so that he could look into his friend’s eyes.

The elf gave a cry of horror, and his hands snapped back from the figure before him as if scorched. Legolas felt the blood drain from him and his legs grew weak, for, before him – where his elven hands had brushed aside familiar dark hair and touched flesh – there stared back at him a blank face with no features.

Blank. It was blank, like a pale, empty canvas, a flat plane of flesh devoid of eyes and nose and mouth that made a Man a Man.

From whence Aragorn’s voice had emerged, Legolas could not know. But greater than the confusion that had him in its clutches was the pain that seared his heart: for, the friend he held dearer than life had, by some cruel, confounding act of fate, lost his face. And robbed of who he had been, the faceless being had denied knowing him.

The elf stumbled backwards, almost senseless with shock. “Aragorn…” he rasped, choking on his own tears of fear and grief. “Aragorn, what is this? Aragorn? Aragorn…!” 

“Legolaaaaas…” he heard his name being called as from a distance. He stared at the blank canvas before him, trying to understand how a mouthless face could be talking to him. “Legolaaas,” it called again. “Legolaaas…”

The elf shut his eyes in terror, but he felt his shoulders being shaken, and a voice was speaking into his ear. “Legolas! Oh Valar, Legolas, please wake!”  

His eyes snapped open, and he felt as if his self was rushing back from a different time and space. He found himself staring into anxious eyes: not those of Aragorn, but of Hamille kneeling before him, grasping his shoulder with one hand and cupping his chin with the other.  “Legolas, what is wrong? What ails you?” the elf asked worriedly, alarmed by the tears on the fair cheeks.

Blinking, Legolas reached out and ran his hands over his astonished friend’s face, making certain the elf was real, before he looked around in a daze. He found himself seated where he had been before, and a quick look around him convinced him that Aragorn’s guards were where they had been some distance away, and the Shadow Host was still lingering beneath the tree where he had last seen them.

Legolas exhaled and rested his forehead on Hamille’s arm. “A nightmare, mellon nin,” he breathed. “I fell asleep… only a nightmare…”

And before Hamille could ask further, the prince stood in one urgent, fluid motion and strode purposefully to the dimly lit area under the rock canopy where Aragorn had retired. His heart leapt with gratitude when he saw the figure under the blankets; Aragorn was lying on his stomach, his head turned to one side, still sound asleep from weariness.

Walking swiftly over to him, he knelt and first ran a hand lightly over the Ranger’s form from top to bottom, needing to reassure himself that his friend was there, warm and solid. Then he sat in front of Aragorn’s turned head and studied it. Dark hair had fallen over his face, hiding the features from view, and the limp strands lifted with each gentle breath from a nose that could not be seen.

Legolas felt his heart flutter like the restless shadows cast by the flickering torch. With the grotesque images from his nightmare still haunting him, the elf held his breath and reached out a shaking hand to gently brush the strands of hair aside, bracing himself for whatever he might encounter. 

But there it was: the face of the friend he loved. It was lined with exhaustion and a little grimy from the long journey, and the finer aspects could not be completely discerned in the dark. But it was whole and familiar, and every feature was in place.

Legolas exhaled and stifled a sob, and without a second thought, bent to place the lightest of kisses on the forehead. Then he whipped out the Phial from beneath his tunic and placed it on the ground a little distance away, letting the Light of Aragorn’s ancestor illuminate the kingly face – now innocent in slumber. His fears barely eased, the elf yearned to run his trembling fingers over the brow and eyelids, and the high bridge of the nose, and the lips that could be firm and brooding or quick to laughter – just to convince himself they were surely there: each curve, each crease marking worry and laughter, and every undulation of bone and flesh – but the elf clenched his fists and refrained from disturbing the much-needed rest. And he allowed himself only the consolation of visual affirmation.

Then he rose and left briefly, but only long enough to assure a bewildered Hamille that he was well, before he returned to sit next to the sleeping figure once more. He leaned against the wall, content to watch the rise and fall of the man’s back as he breathed, while his own breathing slowed and his tears dried.

For a while, he agonized over what the nightmare meant: was it mere dream… or a foreshadow, a glimpse into some unimaginable fate…?

The question weighed heavily on the elf’s mind, but he found no answer, for it remained as faceless as the frightening vision he had confronted. In the end, he chose not to dwell longer on the horror but drew comfort from the fact that he had not lost the friend most precious to him.

Yet, minutes later, the elf’s heart could not help its painful lurch when Aragorn stirred slightly and his dark hair fell forward again to erase his face from view. Legolas bit back a cry. Without hesitation, he pulled out several strands of his own long hair – golden elven silk strong enough to string a bow with – and with slender fingers that worked deftly even in the dark, wove it into a little cord. Bending down, he gently lifted the errant hair from Aragorn’s face and gathered it behind his ears, using the fine cord he had made to tie the dark hair into a loose pony tail at the back, and so light was his touch that the sleeper did not wake.

Then Legolas sat back and looked at the face in satisfaction. Now, he could see it clearly, and no matter how the sleeping figure turned, it would remain visible to him for the rest of the night. On the morrow, he would have to explain everything to Hamille, and then – because he was determined that the awful nightmare would remain unknown to Aragorn – he would have to provide some reasonable explanation when the man asked why his hair had been bound in threads of gold as he slept.

But for tonight… tonight, the elf would follow his heart.  He would do whatever it took to find comfort in the reassuring sight of a countenance he never wanted to lose.

He kept his blue eyes on the face for the remainder of the dark hours, imprinting every feature of it upon his memory with each passing moment. Patiently, he waited for the dawn to come so that he could put away the Lady’s Glass and watch the rays of the sun kiss the King awake.

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Aragorn rose from the depths of drowsiness that morning to find himself greeted by a nervous smile and somewhat troubled expression on the fair face of Legolas.

Surprise turned to bafflement when he saw a hint of dried tears on the elven cheeks, and even more so when the elf held him in an unwavering gaze and said testily: “Estel… I am pleased to see you again, my friend.”

The King could not understand why his companion seemed to wait tensely for a response.

And then, when the cobwebs of sleep had parted enough for the dazed man to reply: “And I you, Legolas – as always,” he could only wonder at the sigh of relief from the elven lips, the radiant smile that appeared beneath moist blue eyes, and the depth of love in the embrace he received. 

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