It's been 12 weeks, for my ‘real’ life has not been exactly understanding about my deep desire to write more of this story. But here at last is what I have managed to pull together.

I originally meant for this to be a single penultimate chapter, but it grew in the telling; and so I have to write it in two parts. This is the first. 

CHAPTER 30:  IN SHADOW REALM - ENCOUNTER

Never could the hand of Man have ever created as heartless and chilling a prison as the Shadow Realm.

An age ago, the twisted mind of a fallen Istari had brought it into being for one who bowed to him. He drew upon the Dark Arts he worshipped, and he breathed into the Realm the dark, bitter fumes of hatred and malice. He nurtured the Shadows within, feeding them with his foul thoughts and desires, injecting into them his love of torture, of power both merciless and dangerous – till the Shadows took a life of their own, seeking only to consume and destroy.

And so they tormented the souls that were condemned to their realm of death. They found fulfillment in the agony of the Living, depleting them of all feeling, sucking from them their essence, taking their will to live – till they lost all sense, all hope; and they gave up and died, knowing no comfort in their last, lonely days, lingering in misery and sorrow that no words could capture. And there their bones lay. Still and forgotten. Untouched, unknown – save by the swirling mists of evil that took delight in the demise of all things whole.

Such was the fate that awaited Aragorn, King of Gondor, Hope of Men.

Though he would leave no bones to line the stone floor of the Realm, he was to die nonetheless: he would be dead to the Living world, he would forget and be forgotten. He would remain an eternal captive of this eternal prison.

For Aragorn, the dying had begun.

His existence here was meaningless.

Deathly silent. Solitary.

Paralyzing.

For so long now, it seemed to the man, he had been numb with loneliness.

For so long now, he could remember nothing. Not his life. Not his name. Not who he was.

Once, it seemed, there had been flashes of something good. Something… someone he had known, had reached out and touched him lightly in the darkness. Called to him through cold, hard stone. But that presence, too – last of those who had known him – had left and had come no more.

Once, in this domain of sorrow…he had heard weeping and mournful wailing. It seemed to him that he had heard it before. The same cries of grief, the same resounding echoes. Once, not so long ago…

Where had it been? Had it not been here?

Such deep and painful sorrow had been in the voice. Yet, even that piteous sound had been welcome in this deprived nothingness.

Aye, even a heartbroken spirit was company in this lonely, lonely place. Who had it been that wept?

Desperately, he had tried to find this Other – a companion soul with whom to share the desolation.

But no companion did Aragorn find, for he had come to know – to his bitter dismay and regret – that there was no Other. And the wretched weeping he had heard had only been the cry of his own tortured soul.

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As soon as Legolas entered the Shadow Realm, the domain of the Cursed, he was swiftly struck by an oppressive flood of sensations.

Dense, solid darkness.

Powerful, stifling, choking night.  

Pitch black ink, swirling and churning in thick waves – loaded with vicious desire to consume, to overwhelm.

Legolas felt himself spinning, tossed about helplessly, till the elf, whose keen senses had rarely failed him, felt horrifyingly disoriented.

Suffocated and lost in the clutches of a wild fear, Legolas struggled desperately to latch onto something. But he could find nothing to grasp. Panic seized him, and for terrifying moments, he could not remember where he was.

What place of horror was this?

He struggled both for a physical hold and for awareness – and found neither.

Terror grew in him and tried to release itself in a cry – and it was then that the elf realized he was not drawing breath… no, no breath! No breath!

Yet… to his disbelief, he did not seem to be dying.

Ai, not dying – like the living Dead.  

The Living Dead. Like a tidal wave smashing onto shore, awareness returned to Legolas in a painful rush – and he knew. He remembered now.

The Realm - the Shadow Realm!

Here he had been sent; here he had freely chosen to come – to challenge the dark force of this unyielding domain, with Light undying and Life unending.

His life.

For one person.

Aragorn, he thought. Aragorn.

Aye… the elf knew now, he had borne the curse of Saruman and left his body behind, with no certainty of returning to it. It was a risk he had gladly taken for the chance to bring aid to his friend.

Aragorn, he thought again. And the very name gave him strength. 

Legolas cast a look upon his own form then – and found himself as ethereal as moonbeams, whole but wraithlike. In wonder did he raise his arms, and a great awe took hold of him, for lo! like the moon – nay, brighter than the moon – there came light from the palm of his hand. The power of the Lady’s Lamp had breached the Door with him, and it brought to him comfort immeasurable in this chilling place.

Strengthened by the presence of the light, Legolas steeled himself to face a dark he dreaded, and looked around. Instinct, rather than plain sight, gave him awareness of his surroundings, but this was no handicap for an elf who had honed both abilities to a fine edge. What Legolas sensed was a space around him: an enclosure, and it was hemmed in by some unseen, hostile force waiting on the periphery, like the mouth of a dangerous predator from which there could be no escape.

In the far reaches of this shadowy place there lay vague shapes. Some force drew him towards them, and he could not turn away. Closer and closer to the shadowy forms he went, until he felt an odd familiarity… and after a while he understood why, for the obscure forms were the remains of once-living beings: the bones of the Twice Forgotten, their skulls grinning to the darkness as if in macabre defiance.

Then the elf who had never feared the Dead in his long years in the living world felt himself shivering.

What kind of place is this that even the Valar would forsake? he wondered. It was cold and bitter, and the lingering malice and misery shrouded him like an evil mist.

Oh, Aragorn, what agony it must be for you! he thought, strangely feeling sharp bolts of pity for his friend even in his spirit form. No more must you stay, mellon nin, he said in silence. I have come to take you home.

Legolas looked around, fervently wishing that Aragorn would appear before him that very moment. But wherever he turned, there was no sign of his friend – and it occurred to the dismayed elf that he did not know how to find the man in this bizarre dimension of deep dark.

Estel, where are you? Legolas wondered.

The elf was suddenly faced with two fears. His terror of the unearthly dark he easily acknowledged – but the other horror was, for Legolas, more crippling and worse than death: it was the fear that he would not be able to find Aragorn, or save him, or that his treasured friend was already taken from him, lost to the powers of two Dark Lords who could still haunt them from beyond their unmarked graves…

Pain hit the elf again like a hard blow.

Daro! he cried silently, halting those thoughts and chastising himself for even letting them surface. Quickly, he held up his hand and let the light shine forth, giving thanks yet again for the comfort it brought. He could almost hear the Lady of Lothlorien saying to him as she once did to Frodo: It shall be a light for you when all other lights go out.

Relief flowed through the elf. Let it be a light for Aragorn now, he beseeched. Guide me to him, my Lady.

With conscious resolve, Legolas began to move. But as soon as he did, he found himself wading through thick waves of a loathsome substance. A living sea it seemed to be, trying to drown him in its malevolence. As if it knew his purpose, the crushing power of the Realm closed in upon him, seeking to claim his essence.

Baw! Back, you vile thing! he cried voicelessly in anger, fending off the dense black tide. Back – depart from me!

As the elf swiped at the waves of darkness with his hands, marvel took hold of him, for his hand was as a scimitar of light – and with each sweep, it drew a wide, brilliant arc around him, cutting a path through the shadows wherever it touched the darkness.

Gratefully, Legolas watched the black vapors part before the Light of Eärendil and flow around his own form, like waves that break before the prow of the Mariner’s ship and close again in its wake, and soon he came to the glad observation that no matter how overpowering the Shadows felt, they had no claim on the Light, or on him.

With this assurance that he was indeed impervious to the Shadows, the elf continued to move forward in search of his friend. How he was able to do it, he could not tell, but he found that he was able to proceed in any direction he wished.

“Aragorn?” he called out, breaking the dead silence for the first time and surprising himself, for he had not thought that there would be substance to his voice in this unearthly domain. Yet there was. Tentatively, he called his friend’s name again, awed at the strange hollow resonance of the sound. It seemed only vaguely similar to the speech he knew – and for a moment, he was hesitant, wondering if Aragorn would understand him.

But this was no time to question, he decided. Something told him that here, no one truly heard with ears; one would simply sense and understand.

“Aragorn,” he called again and again, hoping and waiting for an answer. From where it would come, and in what form, or if it would be in some unknown tongue, the elf did not know. He could only place his trust in a bond that would transcend all speech.

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I have forgotten all, Aragorn thought. I am forgotten. I am no more.

And the shadow sank deeper into his soul.

Then – he felt something, or thought he did. A presence.

Briefly, it seemed, something from a happier place touched him…

Aragorn wanted to call out, yearned to do so. Yet he remained fixed where he was, numb and hapless, for he found that he had no names to call.

To his even greater dismay, he found that he had forgotten what to say.

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Doggedly, Legolas waded through the thick, black mass, fighting it. Darkness rolled back wherever the elven presence touched it, parting like curtains for him to peer beyond, but only for a few moments before gathering close again.

As time passed and he encountered nothing, nor received any response to his calls, he grew troubled. He worried that his strength would eventually be worn down by the stifling dark of the Realm, or that he would drown in his own despair.

Yet, the purity of the elf’s purpose shone brighter than the shadows around him. Consciously, Legolas began to release his doubt and fear, to let himself feel without restraint. He bent all his thought towards his friend, letting his senses and the Light of an Undying Star guide him. He no longer took stock of where he was in the Realm, or how far he had gone, but plodded on, seeking, suppressing the tension that simmered somewhere within him, and grimly holding on to hope.

Estel, he said in thought. Help me find you, my friend.

Then, as if in answer to his plea, the arc of light from one long, fervent sweep of his hands revealed to him a welcome sight.

It was merely a fleeting glimpse, but there he was at last: the one Legolas had come to find through storm and stone, and the turbulent curse of an ancient evil. For a brief moment the forlorn form of Aragorn appeared. Wraithlike he appeared, and his head was bowed in clear despair, but he was instantly known to the elven soul whose love a realm of death could not overcome.

“Aragorn,” Legolas breathed, hardly believing what he saw.

The deep black closed cruelly between the friends again. But in an instant, Legolas was moving forward, and the darkness streamed aside as the fervor of a Firstborn burned through the shadows like a torch through molten metal.

Then finally – Legolas was before the man himself.

The elf could not tell if joy had a place in this forsaken realm, but he could not remember a time – fair or foul – when he had been happier to see his friend. Eagerly, he moved towards Aragorn and greeted him.

“Aragorn!” the elf called out hollowly. “No words can tell how glad I am to have found you, my friend.”

No answer came from the King of the Dead, but at Legolas’ greeting, he lifted his head and turned towards the elf.

Shock replaced joy as Legolas froze, fighting not to recoil from what appeared before him. “No,” the elf whispered, staring at Aragorn.

The features of the man’s face were like an image seen through moving water: now bright…. now dark… vague… and on the brink of vanishing altogether. Legolas felt a spasm of alarm as the horrifying visions from his nightmare – no longer so distant – came back to him.

Aragorn’s head lowered again, and Legolas – still reeling from shock – found that he was content to let it remain so for a while, for it had been painful to have seen the fate that had befallen his friend. Yet, hardly had moments passed before the elf’s discomfort vanished, and he was once more filled only with compassion for the man.

Legolas approached Aragorn once more, the light of his presence keeping the darkness away from both of them.

“Estel, my friend,” he said to the bowed head with all the fondness he could project through his hollow voice. “Estel, I have come.”

Aragorn raised his head, and Legolas felt the man looking at him, though no clear outline of eyes could he see.

Staying the sickness he felt, the elf kept his own vision focused on Aragorn and called to him again. But when Aragorn continued to offer no response, nor show the slightest acknowledgement of his presence, Legolas began to feel anxious.

Even the Twice Forgotten could talk, he thought. What has the Realm done to you, Aragorn?

Then Legolas sensed a response from the man before him. No words came, but the elf felt Aragorn struggling to say something. A thought formed somewhere in the space between them: a mere thought, but it was a response nevertheless.

A spark of hope kindled within the elf. “Aragorn, I am here,” he coaxed. “What do you wish to say to me, my friend?”

Still, no words were voiced. But as Aragorn looked at him again, Legolas suddenly understood. In horror, the elf watched the man’s features fade even further – on the brink of disappearing altogether. It was a horrible nightmare coming to life. The elf knew now what Aragorn was trying to say even before the thought reached him: they were words from that nightmare, words that told him just how nearly complete the curse was that had taken his friend:

I know you not, said Aragorn.

Legolas winced.

I know you not.

And even though the elf had expected the words, he still felt as if a sledgehammer had struck him.

“Nay, Estel, it is I!”Legolas protested. “You know me, my friend, you know me!”

Aragorn hesitated before he formed another speechless thought. What is a friend? came the listless response. I know no friend.

Pain seared Legolas again.“Aragorn, you cannot mean that,” he said. “You are rich with friends, and few have been as close as you and I. Even to this destitute place I have followed you, for I would not leave you.”

Legolas’ impassioned declaration was to no avail. You are here, Aragorn replied in thought. But I know you not.

The elf could not help a sharp pang of disappointment. Ai, you have truly been cursed to forget all, Aragorn, he lamented speechlessly. But you must fight it with me. You cannot remain a victim of Saruman’s malice. 

“Aragorn, remember us!” the elf begged. “Arwen, Eldarion, your family, your friends who love you – they all wait for you. Remember Gondor, where you belong!”

Aragorn lowered his head again. I know them not, he thought. I belong nowhere.

And thus began a debate between the elf, who tried repeatedly to remind Aragorn about who he was, and the King, who continued to deny him. Legolas felt increasingly distraught, for the more Aragorn rejected him, the more inscrutable the man’s features became. And Legolas grew ever fearful that there might come the moment when Aragorn would lose his Self completely and utterly. If that moment arrived, Legolas knew, Aragorn would truly be lost to them all, doomed to remain in the realm of the Dead, and to fade from life itself.

The elf grew more desperate. With his hands, he strove to lead Aragorn away from where they were, to seek a means of escape. But to his dismay, the elf found that he could not move the man, not by force. In despair, Legolas wondered how he would free Aragorn from the realm.

Estel, you have no love for these Shadows; leave them with me, he pleaded. Come – we shall seek a way out!

Aragorn remained impassive, and in the absence of a direct refusal from the man, Legolas’ hopes flared again. But those hopes were short-lived.

What shadows? Aragorn asked.

The unbuffeted words took Legolas aback, for they bluntly told him that his friend had not only lost all he remembered, but also all sense of light and dark. It greatly saddened the elf to think that they were now all the same to Aragorn, a sensitive man who had lived through much contrast in his life: he who had tasted both bitterness and deep joy, who could be hard and gentle, and who had suffered the struggle between those who honored life and those who sought to bring death and destruction. 

How could the Realm have blinded him, how could it have taken so much from him! the elf lamented, grieving.

In anguish, Legolas wondered how a lone elf could battle such loss. A cold fear took hold of him again, for he and Aragorn had been through many deadly battles, but he had never come this close to losing his friend, nor felt so powerless to help him.

And as Legolas’ hopes sank, the light he bore in his hands dimmed with them.

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Outside the Shadow Realm, elves, hobbits, men and one Dwarf waited in hushed anxiety, silently agonizing over the fate of two souls trapped in a cruel prison on the other side of a mute, unyielding stone wall.

After Legolas had entered the Realm, the elves had spoken together, then bowed their heads and begun speaking very softly in the musical tongue of the elves. The mortal beings could only assume that the Firstborn were praying, for every now and then, they could hear the names of the Valar, and from the little he could recognize, Gimli guessed that Lord Celeborn was leading them in the High Tongue.

What length of time had passed since then, Gimli could not tell, but the elves were still seated now as they had been then: Hamille and Lanwil next to Legolas, their cloaks laid protectively over their prince, while Elladan was on the other side of Aragorn. Lord Celeborn sat before the heads of the prone forms, grave and unmoving save for the gentle movement of his lips.

“Look!” Merry suddenly whispered in alarm, prodding Gimli in the side and earning a low growl in response.

“What, pesky hobbit?” the dwarf muttered.

Undeterred, the hobbit pointed to the Phial clasped in Legolas’ inert hand. “Look, Gimli, see how the light has gone duller,” he hissed. “What’s happening?”

Suddenly alert, the dwarf peered at the Lamp from where they were seated at Legolas’ feet, and his brows knitted. “I wouldn’t know,” he replied worriedly. “But it can’t be good.”

“Well, can’t we ask Elladan or Hamille?” Pippin suggested.

Gimli cast a look at the elves and contemplated their choices before he answered. “No,” he said. “Let’s not interrupt them. They must have seen it too, and if they had anything to tell us, they’d do so.”

Little eased by the dwarf’s assurance, but unable to offer an alternative course of action, the hobbits exchanged a look of resignation and lapsed back into speechless observation. Cold, wet and hungry they all were, but men, dwarf and hobbits alike could only listen and say silent prayers of their own, turning all their thoughts to two friends who were still lost to them.

And throughout the long hours, doubt and fear strove with faith within many hearts. 

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Legolas was no less shrouded in dark uncertainty. Confronted with a friend who no longer knew him as one, the elf did not quite know how to proceed, and weariness seeped through his spirit form.

He ceased trying to fight the darkness, and for the first time in the Realm, reached out to Aragorn to touch him. To his own surprise, he found that he could. Slowly, he moved closer to gently wrap his arms around the form before him. With affection, Legolas held the presence he had missed, and he allowed himself a moment of joy at having found that which he had lost.

I am here, Aragorn, the elf said, clasping his friend close and speaking soothingly to him. I promised you that wherever you are, I would come to you. Here I am.

Then for a while, the deathless elf said no more, but kept the darkness at bay, kept it from enshrouding Aragorn in its cloak of evil. It gave him some measure of solace that he could do this for Aragorn: to bring comfort to the lost soul. Yet, his own agony was excruciating: for here he was, having brought light to the friend he loved most, but unable to bring him to salvation. He did not know how to begin helping someone who had been taken so completely by the Shadow. It had not only robbed the man of his memories but also his spirit, for though there was no resistance from the man, neither was there a favorable response. Aragorn was simply limp, silent, adrift in a sea of dark oblivion, his featureless face hidden from sight.

“Estel?” Legolas called hopefully after some time, but not the slightest acknowledgment was offered. Sadly, Legolas spoke to his friend again. “You know my soul, Estel, and I know yours. Deny me no longer, come home with me.”

So saying, Legolas tried once more to make Aragorn follow him, but once again, he failed to shift the wraith form. Aragorn would have to come of his own will, or not at all, the crestfallen elf realized.

“Our spirits are one, Estel – can you not remember?”he coaxed gently.“Our bond is stronger than this darkness. Let me lead you away from this vile place.” 

But Aragorn remained immobile, and only from his lipless mouth there came words Legolas both dreaded and loathed to hear again:

Leave me. I know you not.

Sorrow flooded the elf again, and he tightened his hold on Aragorn. What am I to do? he thought, feeling despair creep over him. Is he truly taken from us? Have we truly lost him to this darkness?

The thought flitted through his mind that if he and Lord Celeborn failed to draw Aragorn out of the Shadow Realm, the man would be condemned to this darkness. The greatest, the most honorable of the line of the Edain, would pass from the World and be lost to the Living as the Twice Forgotten had been. He would be cursed to wander in a meaningless void till the end of Ages.

The very existence of the possibility was as a physical hurt, cutting keenly into Legolas’ spirit. Yet – failure was a possibility he had to face; he had known it with each syllable of the curse uttered by Lord Celeborn.

Keeping Aragorn in his embrace, he made a promise – one that filled him with both dread and calm.  

“I will not cease my fight to save you from this fate, Aragorn,” he said quietly. “But if all should fail, and you are cursed to remain here, so will I. In Light or in Shadow, in life or in death, I will be with you. You may have lost everything else, my friend – but you will never lose me.”

From Aragorn there was no answer to the impassioned vow.

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Outside, the Light of the Phial - like a setting moon – waned with each passing hour.

And the hope in the hearts of Elves and mortals followed suit.

Note:  This has been my least carefully checked chapter to date – but it’s the best I can do for now. I dread to think of the mistakes in it, so please point them out to me or chuck them into the Shadow Realm to shrivel.  :–)  

Thank you to all who waited patiently, and to all who sent in reviews and/or private messages to let me know they still remembered me.