The Hunting Trip
Chapter 31: The Quailing Silence

"Later, after Erestor found Elladan bedecked in only my cloak, it turned out it had all been for naught. Pickerelweed, it seems, does not come to fruit until the autumn. Amusing it may be now, but at the time, we did not know and were quite angered by it. Of that journey, all we had to show was a nice salad from the leaves we had plucked and a delicate bouquet with the flowers we had harvested. It was a mighty quest for so meager a bounty, and certainly not worth the loss of a fine pair of boots," Arwen said. Here again it had come out. Silly prattle. Yet she knew why she did it, just as certainly as she knew Estel understood her need to do so. She was filling the void of silence.

The mood between them had definitely turned dark as the hours passed. Their original frivolity and merriment had slowly decayed as their march wore on, and though they tried to keep a meager conversation going, it was hopeless to contend with the squelching oppression that crept in this dark place.

Arwen felt herself tremble as her steps followed those of Estel's in the deep, dark caves. They had conceivably traveled for miles in this underground maze, in and out, up and down, through tunnels large and small, bumping almost always into dead ends. The course of several hours they had spanned these halls, two dim lights bobbing about in the ebony hold. They had found nothing to indicate an outward-leading route, and fear was beginning to dominate.

The Elf's hand brushed the wall as they squeezed through a narrow passage, the knuckles grating against stone. The light sound of the touch carried loudly to her ears as the brush of pain reminded her of other aches to her body. A shivering chill dug into her spine while the heavy weight of apprehension hindered her breath. She was frightened and there was little to chase away that fear. All around her were the reminders of their current predicament.

She looked to her husband walking just ahead of her. The dim light cast by his lamp and hers did little to illuminate their surroundings, and her focus was upon him. Aragorn had sufficient enough things on his mind, and she knew she need not add to it by acting a burden to him with her worries. Their troubles were enough and she sensed from him a fear of their situation as well.

Cursed blackness. My mood follows its path! Ai, but for a breath of air, a whisper of sunlight. Or starlight. Alas, but I know not even the passing of time. How I despair for this plight and wish it were past.

Such inward dialogs were becoming commonplace, and Arwen was having difficulty maintaining her optimism. The trek through the caves had been an introspective journey, and a pleasant series of discoveries had not been made. The silent void of the dark tunnels, pierced only by the dim shimmer of their lamps, was a harbinger of the pitch that pressed in on her mind. The dark seemed to encourage dismal thoughts and retrospective perusals of her own flaws. There was little else at which to look but one's own thoughts, and Arwen felt lost in the folds of darkness. She was trapped and pressed to do only one thing, and that was to look upon herself to find courage and stamina. There was little to be found. Cold echoes of water droplets falling to stone added to the stilling madness she heard in her mind.

The darkness was astounding for its depth, and without the lamp in Aragorn's upraised arm, she could see naught of him, even with her Elven eyes. Her own lamp did little to help, though the alternative of doing without it was far more terrifying. As it was, the meager light gave them little, and it took far greater time to move forward because they could hardly see. Every wall of a new cavern had to be examined to find what paths lay available, and were it not for the marks Aragorn systematically and methodically placed within the entrance and exit of every tunnel, she knew she would have no clue as to where to they might be in relationship to where they had started. She was fortunate to have him, for he seemed to have skills in charting and planning their direction. Unlike her paralyzing loss of all assertion he seemed to have motivation and drive.

Aragorn would have chuckled had she admitted as much to him. He might have pointed out the similarities between she and Legolas for this claustrophobic trait and no doubt would he have alluded it was one shared by all her kin. And she might have told him it was an apprehension not limited to Elves, for there were many mortals too who feared confined spaces. That they were not there to strengthen her argument was moot, for she refused to divulge her dread to her husband. Still, it was probably valid to argue a propensity toward fears of deep spaces among the Eldar. She had never really experienced it before, but in this place, in this dark, cold hollow, vacant of sun and light and nature, silent in its deep, looming blackness, she felt the shadow eating away at her composure. She was ever grateful that the veil of darkness hid her appearance from her husband so he might not see her trepidation. She was even more thankful that he was there with her, for were he not, surely she would curl in on herself, so great was her fright.

She was certain, though, that he knew of her terror, for she had given many clues since their first fall into this hole. Temper tantrums, rage, unprovoked screams. All of these were a mask to what truly bothered her: the cave. She was also sure that he would do his part to help hold her fears apart from her sanity, for he must have noticed the obvious shift in her personality. Even now, in the fourth or fifth hour of walking, she had not exhausted her seemingly bottomless supply of inane topics about which she chattered. Mindless was the reasoning to her dialog, simple tales used in party conversation were her weapons, and on and on she went.

Never before had she regarded her spouse's quiet nature as so . . . annoying. Prior to this situation, his disregard for noisemaking had gone largely, and she found, as if in new discovery, that he could go on for long stretches barely letting loose the sound of footfalls, let alone words. In the darkness, that solitude was deafening.

Yet the flaw was not his. It was conspicuous evidence of her failings again. Disgusted at her shortcomings, she scolded herself inwardly for her flaw. It was disturbing to discover another facet of herself in this, for it seemed she had developed a mortal tendency to fill empty air with sound. It was decidedly un-Elven of her. Yet the silence was unsettling and Arwen had continually felt a compelling need to fill it.

Even still, she could not carry on for hours on end, mustering word upon word, simply because the threat of groaning earth made her quail. Not without some sort of help. And Aragorn, knowingly or not, had complied, feeding her questions and comments enough to keep her dialog less a monologue, for she was certain she would have continued rambling in free-flowing verbal discourse had he not. Instead he provided her company, and she wondered if, in some small way, her companionship were aiding him somehow.

"I cannot believe Elladan's trousers were torn from his body by the suction," Aragorn said.

She jumped at the sudden hail of words. The sound of his voice startled her senses and she nearly cried out at the abruptness. A gasp of breath betrayed her astonishment, and she admonished herself for her reaction. Words should not have been so unexpected. Yet the empty blackness was unnerving.

She had to laugh though, for the story had been an amusing account of younger days, and Estel had not heard it. Arwen was happy to know her brothers' shame had prevented them from gracing their foster sibling with the tale. It was a gem that she could reveal in layers and it had filled their time in this travel. Further, she did enjoy pointing out the flaws in her siblings while in good company, and it was most delicious to reveal them to her spouse, especially when the sons of Elrond were not near enough to retaliate.

"At the time, I had almost wished Elladan had been sucked whole into that vortex, clothing and all. After all, he had initiated the situation," she answered. And then the conversation died for a time more.

What followed was silence. Long silence. Silence of the kind where every heartbeat seemed to reverberate from the walls and every footstep echoes loud and heavy. It was silence where anything said, sung, argued, breathed, was a welcome balm to frayed nerves and wary emotions. Silence. No song, no natural drifting of wind, no clue to the existence of anything of the world was found. Silence. It was daunting. Harmful. Penetrating. Leaden.

"What did your father have to say when you finally returned?"

She visibly jumped and she wondered that her husband had not seen her reaction, or even how he maintained his composure. Yet, at the moment, the sound of his voice appeased her.

She pondered also how long she might go on this way, tethered to emotions she could barely contain. Yet she needed to go on, for her helplessness was doing little to sustain them. She was relying upon Aragorn in this darkness, and she could almost feel the weight she placed upon his bearing. This too was an affirmation of her failings. She was cowering in the shadows, content to merely follow his path. She had so little to offer in this place and she was almost hesitant to give more than her blind faith that he would somehow prevail. It was unfair, she realized, for she had already placed upon him guilt for his role in keeping her down in their outside life. Was that really true? A part of her cried for the validity of her part in her lesser post. As much as he tried to hold her back, she had done little to reproach him for it. In fact, she had likely allowed it.

Arwen was not a silent sheep. As a rule, she did not apathetically follow. She had long been graced with strengths that made her admired, even among her own kind. She was wise, considerate, compassionate and warm, but beyond that she had a talent with words, and the ability to see through puzzlements, to read the motivations of others. Yet when Aragorn had, in the past, softly pulled her back, delegating smaller tasks to her talents, assigning her projects that would keep her close to their home, she had not argued with him. She could understand what he did, but she kept her thoughts silently still. It was almost as if she agreed with him, so that she might better serve him at his side. And though it kept peace between them, it was a role that was not truly fitting for her. She was so much more than what she allowed herself to be, and she wondered if Estel had even been made aware of what she truly could do when allowed.

Mildly jealous, she had watched Faramir and Éowyn's marriage. It seemed founded on a basis of mutual faith and trust. Éowyn had been unafraid to offer counsel, sure enough in her opinions and thoughts to speak them aloud, undaunted whether they were rebuffed or embraced. She did not hold back anything of herself. If there was action she wished to pursue, she pursued it. Faramir did not protest. If anything, he offered her sage advice for success. As such, Éowyn flourished. She was respected among those lords who ruled these better lands. She was considered a peer and yet lady, and that had two-fold strength. With her skills she had admittance into nearly every council, every entreaty. No one questioned her presence in any of those places. She was treated as a man, but better, for she had also maintained her feminine guile, and she used that with deft skill as well.

Arwen, on the other hand, was treated as if she were made of porcelain. Praised for her beauty, she was admired from afar, but never was she allowed the rough and tumble of realistic encounter. This she had blamed on her spouse. His admiration of Arwen was blatantly obvious, and all the court and kingdom knew of their deep love. But never would it occur to Arwen to step into a council session uninvited. Never would she walk into a political discussion beyond the social course of action. Never would she venture away from Minas Tirith on any agenda beyond one of friendly campaign. Now, trapped in these dark halls forced to walk on with an end not to be seen, she felt the black depths whispering doubts into her head. She could blame Aragorn for her plight, but the truth was it had been of her own making.

She could have stood up to him far sooner. She should have done so. Perhaps then her unwillingness to be treated any longer as a treasured jewel would not have surprised him so. She really could not hold him responsible for this failing. The failing was hers.

And now she added to it. Hobbled by her silly fears of the dark, she was hesitant to act an aide to her spouse when she knew that role might now be appreciated, perhaps even wanted.

She realized she had not answered his question, and that fearful silence had been festering as the seconds ticked away. So locked was she in her thoughts, she had completely ignored it. Curse this darkness! Words to reply had not come to her, for she had nearly forgotten the conversational topic though less than a minute had probably passed. But then she remembered. He had asked of her fathers response to the journey in her tale.

It was a distraction he had offered, she knew. How kind was he to give her this, a means to chase away the shadows gloom. Therefore, it was only kind that she answer, for was she giving much the same to him in return? A mental picture to chase away the foul darkness? She greatly appreciated the effort, for it did what she supposed it was meant to do. It lightened her heart.

She did not want to think about her fear. She did not want to give it a place in her mind and so she thought about how she might answer his question.

Being an Elf, her memory of the event about which he had asked was fresh to her mind. There would be no struggle to recall the circumstances. She remembered everything of it. As one of the Firstborn, her mind was geared this way, gifted to recollect as if the event were current, not one that had taken place centuries before. Now she amused herself by pondering how she might sway his response when she did reply, by giving words that might pique his curiosity further. She desired to keep their dialog alive, for her own preservations sake if nothing else.

What a contradiction she was. Fearful of laying upon her husband the burden of her anxieties, yet attempting manipulation to have him carry it further. If not careful, such considerations would present her as an enigma. Well, she was that. Nay, not just her all Elves. Flittering amusements tangled with stoic consideration and emotional wariness. Those were indeed Elven traits. Given that Elves were an emotional folk, it was easy to see how these qualities might be misconstrued. The fact the Elves tried to mask their tendencies for emotional wrought was what confused outsiders. It was borne of necessity. To live eternally with ones heart exposed was tantamount to suicide. It was this weakness, their open spirits, that harmed Elves most, and therefore it was regarded by their kind as something that must be hidden. Long centuries helped hone it, and a young Elf was easy to identify given their zealous openness. Poor Legolas battled this difficulty often, though she was certain his friends were unaware of how youthful he was considered among his own people.

It was also a trait given to those who lived long lives: the ability to learn and anticipate through signs other than words. The propensity of Elves to cause others consternation with their glance or stare was a good example of how this quality was observed outside the family of the Eldar. Humans, Dwarves, Hobbits the reaction was identical. Under Elven scrutiny they grew uncomfortable. It was laughable, but they usually thought Elves could move moods with their gaze. Hardly. The truth was, if Elves were capable of anything, it was in reading mood through the study of body language, tone and carriage. It was a simple tool to use, given enough practice; certainly it was more useful than asking for and receiving deceptive answers, for mortals often said one thing and meant another. As such, humans were commonly bewildered by Elves and their ability to know much with a glance. Elves were superior only in that they read more than what was actually spoken.

Estel, however, was a challenge, for he had lived many years among Elves. And though he had not had centuries to learn this skill, he had certainly perfected it enough to mask his emotions, much like an Elf, and to read those of others with adequate ability. She knew he often fell into this neutral façade, even when alone in her company. Still, she could read him. So when her eyes traveled to gaze upon him, she realized his mood. It seemed her desire to maintain their conversational stance would not be granted. Whatever she might say in answer to his question would be lost to his ears. A heavy sigh of resigned defeat came deep from his throat, and she knew something was wrong.

Simultaneously she saw what troubled him. Taking steps ahead, she moved even to his side, no staying in his wake. The small circle of lantern light illuminated the dreadful scene before them. A great grey pool of water directly blocked their path. A familiar, great grey pool. In fact, the same great grey pool they had passed four times before.

She winced at the discovery, and at her side she could feel his deep disappointment. Sour anger and defeat marred his already scruffy appearance. His composure was downed, shot from existence by this hateful repetition.

She longed to console him then, a tear slipping from her eye as she turned. "Ai, Estel," she whispered.

"I will find it, Arwen. I will find our path out of here," he said in response, regret shaking his words and desperation tainting his countenance. Still, there was yet determination.

She felt remorse for his words. It seemed he was putting responsibility for their fate entirely upon his own shoulders once again. Though she may have allowed that before, she no longer wished it to pass. It was unfair to make this burden his entirely, and so she spoke. "I would help however I may. Tell me what I might do." It was not entirely a relinquishment of duty she offered, but she had nothing else to give. She was as lost in this system of caves as he was.

A small smile creased his lips then, a lightening of mood, and she felt heartened. But his words belied the softened mood he shared. "I know not else what you may do beyond what you have," he said in grave admission.

She sighed, frowning, asserting what she already knew of herself. "But I have done nothing beyond carry on mindless banter," she argued.

"It was not mindless, melleth-nin. It was charming. It was entertaining. It was distracting. Believe when I say, you have been a great help," he said, but his words did not help. She felt terrible disappointment that she had not given more.

"This is nothing. This is noise. Nothing more. I would rather I had something more to offer, some counsel I might give. I would provide that, if I could. I would give you what I know." Her words sounded weak, and she knew they were founded on little.

Aragorn seemed not to care. He carefully folded her into his arms, tucking his chin into the curve of her neck. "You smell wonderful," he said. "Immersed in mud, clothed in filth, and yet you emanate the odor of a fresh garden."

She laughed, appreciating the change in subject, though despite them she felt incredibly filthy. "I bathed the last time we passed this way, as youll recall," she chided.

"You splashed water on your face and neck. Unless you have changed the terminology, that would not be a bath," he chuckled.

"Perhaps not by definition, but it was a close as I would come. That water is chilly, even by my standards. I dared not immerse myself further," she admonished.

"And yet you are scented in lavender and pine," he said, his breath brushing her cheek. His arm slipped behind, his hand grazing her waist as the lamp was lowered.

She smiled softly, sadly, exposing her throat to his kisses. "Does it soothe you then? My scent? For it appears I have little else I might offer." She would give him this, if he asked it.

He leaned back, as if to absorb the vision of her. His eyes sparkled in the dim light. "You do not know then. You do not see. What you give is a bounty to a hungry soul." She shook her head, denying it, but he would not be persuaded otherwise. "Ai, but my dearest one, your presence alone is a comfort to me. Can you not know this? If I had not your companionship, I would be fretful and dangerous, fearful for you and apprehensive for what I would not know."

Arwen was not sure how she felt for that admission. One part of her thought it a wonderful testimonial for how deeply he loved her. But another recalled his possessive guardianship and knew it had been a source of trouble between them. She frowned, not knowing how to respond, but he saw it, and his answer came quickly. "I know your thoughts, and I will not hold you to me. I am merely saying it comforts me to know of your presence."

She breathed a sigh of relief. There was a great deal of difference between the two thoughts, and she was glad there was no backwards progress to be had in them. "Then let me offer it again. How might I help?"

He released her then, turning away, his eyes returning to the water. "We have at least made some progress in traveling this," he said, gesturing to the lake. "Not yet have we come out at the same place twice. That means we at least know there are multiple routes circulating this root cavern place."

Arwen squinted her eyes, using what little there was of light to read the markings they had made on the far walls in their previous passing. She also looked ahead so that she might see other entrances and exits into this hall they had not yet explored. If the other caverns led off this one in the same way the others had, they might be exploring for days to come. She sighed without meaning to do so. She felt tremendously discouraged.

It was Aragorn's turn to offer her encouragement. "You might help, if you think you are up for the task."

Small joy radiated from her heart. Indeed did she wish to aide him, for many reasons, but most of all to remove the worry creasing his brow. She nodded in answer and he gave her his thoughts.

"I thought perhaps we might split this path, each of us going in a different direction. It might quicken our progress."

Arwen's eyes widened at the request. "Separate ways?"

Her worry was plainly written upon her features, and Aragorn spoke rapidly to alleviate her uncertainty for the wisdom of such a request. "We would tether ourselves with the rope, going only so far as the length would reach. You have seen how I've marked our way. You would do the same, so we would not repeat our paths, and hopefully between the two of us looking we might find the way out sooner."

His idea did make sense if they were to hurry their exit, but her fear held her locked in indecision. Then realizing just how much she would delay them by not conquering her frets, she pushed it back.

"How will I recognize a way out if I reach the end of my cord before I reach the end of a tunnel? How will I know if I have found the passage that leads to an exit?" she asked.

"Look for any outward changes. The stirring of air would be a very promising one. A temperature change is equally beneficial. And if not, even an alteration in the stone or the moisture or the texture of the ground are telltale signs."

She nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat as she took the end of the rope he offered her and tied it about her waist. He put his hands over hers when the knot was tied, and forced the rope into her fingers. Several hundred feet of the silvery Elven cord lay between them. "Keep the rope between us taut, even in walking. That is important. One hard yank if there is danger or need for me to come and I will be there instantly, I promise. Two short tugs if you have reached the end yet you wish more lead to go on. Three tugs if you have found nothing and are turning to another tunnel."

She nodded again, afraid to speak, knowing a tremor would mark her voice if she did. He handed her a marking stone which he drew from a pouch at his waist then pointed to the path. Her eyes followed. "I will take this tunnel. You take the next. Likely it is that we will find more dead ends, but mayhap Aulë will intervene and one of us will find our way through his direction. However . . ." His thought was finished in a motion as he reached to his boot and drew his hunting knife. He turned it over in his hand and held it out to her, hilt up. "Just in case you should need it."

Suddenly all fears came free and Arwen felt tears flood her eyes as she sobbed. She looked up to see he was studying her and his expression was compassionate as he pulled her to his breast. He knows of my fear, she thought.

"You can do this," he said, assuring her. "You are as strong in mind and body as any of us, Arwen. Any of us," he repeated. "Keep your eyes to the path and know I am only as far as this rope can take us. But do not be afraid of our separation. I will always be there to help you should you need me."

She gulped a shuddering breath. He was right. She would find it somehow within her to do this. Further, she was eager to prove to him something of herself. "And I shall always be here to help you," she said, convincing herself in the saying. "I can do this."

He smiled, and then took a small step away. The emptiness around her body, of not having him about her, was already keenly felt. But she steeled herself to it and gathered her courage. Then she too turned away, leaning to put the knife to her boot and to bend for the lamp that she had placed to the ground. She was ready. She started into the tunnel.

Without his lamp, the darkness was ever more mired and she found she used her hands to guide her almost as much as the light. She lowered the lantern, letting its circle dimly mark the floor so she might see if there were holes or dips she should note. It was tedious work as she progressed for the tunnel widened as she went, and after awhile she could not reach the opposite wall. She held up the light, willing it to shine brighter so that she might see better, but the light was little more than that of a candle. She would need only a dozen torches to illuminate her surroundings with the brightness she so desired. Still the far wall was not so far that she could not track it, and after going so far, the tunnel quickly narrowed again and she realized she had reached an end. It trailed off into nothing more than a few desperate cracks in the wall, and she worried that this was all they might ever find; small fissures at the end of every trail. It was not a means of escape for them.

She fretted. Water was in evident in the main area of this cave, for the underground lake most certainly existed. The walls and ceiling also showed signs of having been hewn by watery motion. Clearly there had once been a great deal more of the fluid here; an underground river it had been. Obviously, the new waterfalls they had been talking about had robbed these spaces of their prior table. But how had it escaped? Where had it all gone? Had it seeped through the cracks and spilled out somehow? Surely these fissures were not new, and likely they had been here all along, even when this had been a region covered in water. Surely all that water had not been lost through these small leaks.

She felt at her waist three small tugs, and she remembered the meaning of the message. Aragorn had found nothing, much like she, and she returned the signal to him. Proudly she smiled. She had been so caught up in her task she had forgotten her fear. Confidence straightened her spine, and she knew then she could do this. Aragorn had been right. It was within her to carry this out.

She began the trek back realizing as she walked she had only made one entrance mark as she had entered. There had not been any other tunnels to follow, none branching off this main vein. It was a relatively straight course back (straight in that the path meandered and curved, thickening and thinning in width as it had gone, but with no other limbs breaking off from it). That seemed to be the general pattern they had found in the other caves, and even when they had encountered paths that entangled the one they were on, eventually they all led back to the same place. The lake.

She came upon it again as she exited the tunnel. Its surface was like that of an unbroken sheet of glass, so smooth, so tranquil.

She walked past the next tunnel, seeing Aragorn's rope traveling that route. It was amusing, she realized now, how comfortable she felt outside of his vision. Just the rope alone was enough to ease her wary thoughts and allow her to focus on the task at hand. She was surprised at herself for how well she had adapted in such a short time, once she had set her mind to it. She was being of aid.

She moved to the next tunnel, marking the exit as she had before with the last tunnel. Then slowly, tenuously, she began to explore. Much like the other cave, she carried herself down this path without interruption of other courses. This one ventured downward. Eventually, another path cropped up, and she marked her entrance again before following that route to the end. It was the same as the other. Tugging thrice at her line, she followed the rope back, scooping it up as the traveled to keep alive her communication with Aragorn.

It bothered her. The familiarity of the path to all the others simply felt common to her, as if they were a clue to a greater solution. A puzzle. There was something in them. Something that felt . . . she could not place it. This perplexity over how to remove themselves from the caves was a mystery, and she began to suspect that the answer might not be in the tunnels. It might be. . . She gasped.

"Trees," she whispered, suddenly realizing what she had missed. Like the trees. How obvious!

She raced to the main hall, nearly tripping over a rut as she exited the tunnel where it widened. As it was, her balance was compromised, and she stood near the edge of the lake, barely maintaining her stance as she twisted to stay in place. The lamp dipped as she swung, flashing brightly on the water. She knelt, bringing it low over the water. She put her fingers into the icy coolness. It was likely the same temperature as the air, which was to say quite chilly, and not one that their bodies could take for long. Still, she lowered her hand, feeling for that thing she suspected was there. The crystal clarity hid the water's deceptive depth and she lowered her arm to her elbow before pulling free. It was there, though very small indeed. Yet further exploration was needed.

She frowned but she did not give up. She raised the lamp again, looking at tunnels leading off this main route. Her clue was there and she sought to know their direction, the angle of their path. There was something of consistency in their openings, from what she could tell in this light, and she smiled. She nearly laughed.

Picking up the rope she had dropped at her feet, she pulled it taut so that she might make her message clear to Aragorn. When the slack was little but she could still feel his slow progress with the pull of the rope, she yanked. One long hard pull on the cord she yanked, so hard in fact that she nearly fell backwards into the transparent pool. Had she fallen, however she might not have wailed, that great was her joy.

His footsteps were like thunder in the gloom and easily gave away his position. She made note in her mind that she must mention that fact to him at a better time. She knew Aragorn would want to improve on his stealth, but at the moment he was focused on reaching her with speed. A dim shimmer of light bobbed at the edges of one of the tunnels ahead, and she could tell he was coming. The rope was a channel of communication, and she could feel his panicked motions, picking it hand over hand so that it might lead him to her. At last he emerged, a second knife drawn, racing on hurried feet to where she knelt.

"Arwen! What is it? Are you well?"

Vaguely she wondered where he had procured the second knife, for she did not recall seeing it in their possessions, but she easily brushed the thought away. Aragorn was a former Ranger, and had she within herself to strip him away of his outer clothing, she might be surprised at the wealth of goods she would find tucked into the folds of his undergarments and person.

Instead she rose, bringing the lamp up so she might see better his face and his expression as she delivered news of her find.

"I have found it, Estel," she answered happily, gently, her eyes seeking his with the light of her suddenly lifted spirit. "I have found it! I know the way out!"

****

Red tipped the edges of the clouds as the sun prepared to part the sky. Red. It had become the color of his pain. Throbbing, aching, pulsing like fire, tendrils of merciless agony ran the length of his torso and through his limbs and head; discomfort rode over his weary soul. The world was tainted by it, and he could feel it touching his body, scenting the air, flavoring his tongue. How very appropriate that this color would draw across his vision and cover the sky. Red. Like blood. Deep, rich, the essence of life, beautiful and terrifying for the worth of fears it embraced. The clouds, in their cottony form, were tinted in the essence of that hue. They were soiled by his agony.

A sob passed his lips, and he could not help its utterance. It seemed so much of him was involuntarily acting groaning, trembling, drifting away all done without the pleading of askance, and Legolas realized he had lost any semblance of control.

Éowyn neared him, bending low so she might make contact and offer comfort or aid. She cooed hushing words, but it did little to soothe him. The pain was beyond anything he could choke back, urged on by even the slightest of movements. He felt his face screw up in the misery of his hurt as coils of jabbing spikes rushed through his body like the prod of an exposed nerve being jarred again and again. He could not find himself free of the pain. It was everywhere at once.

Memory skirted his thoughts in a fuzzy whirlwind. He was living in the moment and he could do nothing to push his mind beyond it. He kept trying to find a dream of the past, a face, a friend, a memory, something to help him through this ordeal. But he could not venture beyond this event. He knew everything about him, everyone he should know among these people, yet small thoughts, such as trying to recall other injuries or who would have cared for him in those times were vague recollections, faded, remote, somehow unconnected to him.

"He is in shock." These were Éowyn's words. Was she speaking of him? He could not tell, for her attention was divided between the ministration of his wounds and that of Mattias. He had to consider for a moment before he could parse meaning from what she had said. She was indeed speaking of him.

Shock. Was that what causes this pain?

Somehow, he knew that was not right. He was injured. Badly. But of the battle he had fought, or the felling blow he had taken, he could remember nothing. There was so much of his present location and condition about which he was unsure. He was lying on the ground, twisted to his side; that he knew. He remembered a fight, dogs snarling and yelping, swords clanging, and the whipping of the air as an arrow flew. But this occurrence was merely a condition of fancy. He could not remember the details or his place in the fight. So much was missing, and the nagging of what was lost made him feel great apprehension.

He could not tell the position of his legs, and were he to be queried, he might guess that they had been lobbed off, for he could not feel them. At the moment, however, that was secondary to the wary hold he had to consciousness and the horrible torment he was enduring. What he could feel was heinous for its agony, and that above all else was what anchored him to awareness. He wished it to end.

"Help me," he whispered to Éowyn, between gasped breaths. It was all he could say to express the depth of his hurt and his longing to end it. It was not too great a thing to ask, for those loathsome words seemed frivolously small compared to his need. End this! Please end this! His heart was racing, and his lungs seemed to be having difficulty taking in air. He could feel his body shivering as if he were dwelling in a place of great cold. And the pain continuously pounded at his skull, his shoulders, his neck, his chest, his fingers. Nothing was real to him except this agony.

He looked at the world from within his cocoon of suffering. He watched it apathetically, feeling nothing for the sounds and faces and movement around him. It was easiest to simply stay within this womb of discomfort, for it seemed to be a more sure place than the surreal stage about him. Had he wanted to escape, he was uncertain how such a thing could be accomplished, for he felt detached from all he saw and heard, numb to everything but his own torment.

Éowyn's eyes looked up, past where he could see, and her fear was visible upon her features. Pleading cries rang out. "Have you not anything we might give him to ease his pain? Please! He is in agony!"

"I have told you already that I did not bring my kit!"

That voice!

The answering call made Legolas freeze in remembrance. Suddenly where he was and what had happened was centralized and rapidly becoming clear around the owner of that voice. He remembered with a sharpening focus to what had occurred.

Bregus.

Still, it was jumbled, the many parts of this story, and he still could not recall his own role. Like a dizzy whirlwind, his place was scattered and confused within the dream-like memory. Vacant words filled the void of his lost recollections.

Éowyn was again speaking. "You are a healer among your people. Surely you know the leaves and herbs of the forest. Can you not go now and procure something that would aid him, and your son as well?" A pause followed, and Legolas could see anger taking over Éowyn's features where fear had seconds before reigned. A moment after, she spat, "If you will not do so, then free me long enough that I might take this task!"

Her answer came a split second later from a wicked tongue. "You shall not! We should leave now! The day is nearly drawn to a close and the Protected Place has not yet been secured! Everyone move."

The Rohirric woman's face was taut with anger. "What?! NO! Of what are you speaking?! His back is broken! He cannot be moved!"

The other voice retorted, "He is a deceiver! His agony is a ploy that we might drop our guard!"

"HE WILL DIE if you move him! Would that be convincing enough? Would that make you see that his harm has been real?" Éowyn asked with a lashing tongue.

"But the sun . . . " It was almost a whimper, and the cry was poignantly clear. Though he could not see her, the old woman seemed lost in the sorrow of that plaintive plea.

The camp was silent in the wake of her words. Legolas could hear the chirp of the crickets begin their mating call for the night. It was the only interruption to the stirring silence.

"Tomorrow will do."

The voice was not of the two women and Legolas could not place the direction of its speaker. However, Éowyn was kind enough to direct him by turning her own head. With the shift of her body, Legolas could see the form of Mattias as he leaned against a tree.

"Your magic will work tomorrow as well," he phrased again as he gazed up with a sense of certainty, meeting eyes Legolas could not see. He supposed the man was gazing at his mother.

A long silence followed, as if words were being weighed, and then the old woman said, "Tonight would be better. My power will be greater if I do it this night."

Mattias merely looked away in disgust, and then turned again to face her. Vexation painted his features as he snidely remarked, "Isn't it beautifully ironic then, Mother? You have long plotted and planned to procure what you need to make your spell work for this night. And it has not been easy simple, has it? All these real people with minds of their own. Not so easy to bend strangers, is it, Mother? They are not so gullible as your own kind, are they?" His voice was thick with hatred. "They keep twisting away. Luckily for you, though, for as one slips away, another keeps falling into place to substitute for the part lost. Is that not ideal? Yet you are missing one ingredient. One ingredient among them all that was never yours to claim, only to conquer. The cave. You need the Protected Place so the magic will truly come to life, don't you? Yet if we move to that place, that fortress to bear witness to probably the greatest of all magical feats you have contrived, one of the other components will be lost to you. Your Elf will have died in the transport. There is a great deal of irony to be found in the circumstances, don't you think?"

Legolas could tell by the returned stare of the man that Mattias faced Bregus' wrath. The old woman spoke with a terse voice. "You know not of which you speak."

"I know the truth, Mother. The truth as it was revealed to me by Kattica," he answered as he rose, wincing with the pain.

"Kattica is a fool!"

"Kattica is gone! Set free at my hand, as was Anborn!" Legolas could hear Éowyn's gasp as the name given to her husband was spoken.

"The only thing she did not tell me," Mattias continued, taking a step forward, "was that your plan would fall to me if Anborn was not available."

"Mattias " the old woman began.

"It sickens me," he said in a disdainful voice, nearly spitting in her direction. "You sicken me."

"Do not say such words to her!" It was Curtik this time, charging into the scene and butting his fist into Mattias' harmed shoulder. Mattias groaned. Legolas tried to watch the scene but a cry crossed his lips instead. His eyes creased shut for the pain and he kept them sealed tight, though the words kept the scene alive in his mind. His ears rang, adding to the surreal quality of the event.

Éowyn barked out a repeat of her earlier request. The words sounded far too loud, unregulated by his senses. "This cannot wait! Find something to ease him! His pain is too great!"

Legolas then heard Mattias' taunt. "Perhaps the drug makes it worse. Eh, Mother, what say you? You know of the properties of the medicine to which you doused him."

"It was not a large dose!" the elder protested.

Éowyn spoke again. "He should have slipped into unconsciousness of his own by now. He has not. Even now there is no ease to his mind. Old woman, I will tell you of what I know though I am certain you are already aware. Men can die from shock! It happens. The pain . . . they succumb. Is that to what you will subject to him?"

"He is an Elf," Bregus answered. "He is immune."

"He is NOT! If anything, he is more susceptible! He can choose to surrender his heart, if he should no longer wish to live, if his grief is too great. Can you not see? We need to ease his pain so such a choice is not availed him," Éowyn said.

"Tomorrow night will do for your plans. It will work then too," Mattias reminded in a soft voice.

Legolas could hear Bregus sigh, and he knew a battle had been won. The ringing ebbed and faded, but he had difficulty making out the words that followed. "I shall seek what I need of medicines to aid him. And Mattias. Curtik, watch them carefully. See that they remain where they are. Do not allow the Elf to fool you."

Immediately Legolas heard a rustle of motion and then Éowyn's voice. "Your shoulder! Let me help you."

Protested words met hers. "The wound is not so bad. My ill-fortune will not overwhelm me. What of Legolas? Let us tend to him first. Is there anything I might do?"

"Blankets. We must try to keep him comfortable. He quakes with a chill."

Legolas felt a cool hand to his brow and a whisper of comforting words. A moment later he felt heavy cloth draped over and about him, bolstering him, warming him. It was a small thing, but he felt his mind relax its taut grip to the soothe it offered. He gave in to the warmth and the comfort of having firm pressure holding him in place. The ringing sound in his ears took over his mind, and he melted away into it. In the back of his awareness, he could hear voices speaking, but they made little sense to him.

"She would not have killed him, would she? I should not have surrendered." It was a woman's voice that said this.

Whispered male words answered her. The answer was confused by other noises in the camp. ". . . schemes to rid his body of his heart. But not yet. Not until she has reached the Protected Place and the sun is aligned in the sky. We have that to use to our advantage."

Another exchange passed, but he could not make it out. Then he heard Mattias say, "She is afraid of the soldiers in your camp."

"There are no soldiers in our camp. They are positioned many miles downstream. I was going to them when I came across your party."

"She does not know this! She thinks there are many within your cave."

"We must use that against her then. We must try to keep her from fulfilling her plan."

Another buzzing flurry went by. The world faded to red. Time lost meaning to him and when he next came to awareness the two voices carried on, as if they had never stopped their discussion, though it felt like much had already passed.

"You are with child, are you not?"

"How . . . how do you know this?"

"She would not be so adamant in trying to keep you alive were you not also a part of her plan. She will kill you when she kills Legolas."

"That cannot happen!"

"Mattias, should we build a fire? It grows dark. Will we camp here?" a voice from the surrounding group asked.

"Yes"

"No! Do not ask him! He is no longer our leader. He is a traitor to us, to Mother. Gordash and I will make the decision!" That was Curtik's voice again, though it was distant, as if many yards away.

Murmurs of confused voices echoed around him. Then the ringing again grew loud in his ears as the pain ebbed. Again, Legolas moaned. He felt Éowyn at his side once again. Her words were above him, spoken not directly to him. "Where might she be? He suffers."

"He seems to sleep."

"He does not. His eyes are closed. An Elf's eyes do not close in rest. He is in pain. See his brow. See his body. He is rigid in his agony. His pulse quickens because of it. His breathing is shallow and rushed. When he is at ease and no longer suffers, these things will normalize and we can know he is comfortable and his body may begin to heal."

A whisper tickled his ear as another body bent over him. He could feel the fleeting touch of hot breath against his skin as the words came into his mind, "You must survive this, Elf." And then the presence was gone and Legolas was unable to place the speaker.

Curiosity pried his eyes open. The voice was familiar to him. "Who . . . ?" he asked in a timid voice. In the dim light he could make out the shape of one he felt sure he knew. Just behind Mattias he stood and Legolas called out to him. "Faramir?"

Mattias leaned in to him, as did Éowyn. The shadow merely remained. "Legolas, it is I, Mattias. Do you recall? Faramir is gone. He is safe."

But Legolas ignored this, intent on the shadow behind Mattias. "Faramir?" he called again.

Mattias exchanged a glance with Éowyn, and the woman looked fretful. "I have an idea of what to do, but I dare not try. It could harm him more in the end."

The shape behind them moved, and somehow the shadows lifted. Remarkable was his appearance for it looked incredibly like that of Faramir. And almost of Mattias. "I am Bäla," the shadow spoke.

"He grows delusional. This is not a good sign."

"Where is she?" Éowyn asked, turning her head from side to side, seeking.

"Bäla?" Legolas asked. The name was familiar but he could not place it in his thoughts.

"Bäla!" Mattias exclaimed.

"This is a name that you know?" Éowyn asked.

"He was my father. He is dead. He . . . Bregus believes in his return. She fosters the hope she may bring him back from the dead." He bent low to Legolas and spoke directly to the Elf, a light hand upon his shoulder. "Bäla is not here, Legolas."

"But I am," the shadow said, leaning closer.

"No!" Legolas cried, remembering who this character was meant to be and wincing with the pain this outburst caused him.

"You must try it!" Mattias was saying as he pulled away, staring at Éowyn. "Whatever it is, he cannot go on like this."

"But the aftermath. He is eternal. What I do could affect "

"He may well die! Do it!"

The shadow of Bäla stepped back, drawing away. "Rest well, Lord Elf. Your time is soon to come."

"No!" Legolas cried, squirming in what little way he could. He understood the implication of the message. He had to find a means to escape it.

"Oh, Legolas!" The woman cried. "I will do it! I will do it! Alas!" Éowyn bent closer, crying for Legolas' pain, stroking his brow, attempting to draw him away from his terror. "Legolas, please, look to me!"

"They will kill us," he managed to say, trying to warn her of Bäla's meaning. He gasped out, ". . . must go! She will . . . kill you . . . kill your baby."

Éowyn gasped. "How did you . . . " she began, then stopped herself, changing thoughts mid-stream. Shaking her head she said, "Legolas, I have a way to ease your pain. I I do not like using it, but I can think of no other way. You are dangerously ill, and we must find a way calm you enough so that the healing process may begin."

He shook her off, trying to remain focused on his thoughts of escape. This was real! No longer could he idly fall back into sorrow. No longer would red be the only thing washed over him. He tried to gain her attention. "There is a knife . . . Mattias' knife . . . in my boot . . . Cannot reach it. You . . . you must take it. Kill her!"

Éowyn paused, glancing down to his feet. She seemed to hear him at last. Frozen, she digested his words. "I " she stopped again. She stared solemnly into his eyes, the message of his fear passing to her. She nodded. "When I may manage it, I will do it," she vowed.

Legolas relaxed with her pledge only to find a rush of hurt coming freshly at him. He cried out to it, wishing it might pass without his notice.

Éowyn's face squared over his vision, and he knew in doing so that she had intentions to gather his attention. "Listen to me, Legolas. You must hear my words. I would call upon cuivëar* to aid us."

"No!" It was all he could say, for he had no desire to fight off the sea-longing too in this state.

"We must! We must, my friend, for I have no other way!"

"No," he sobbed, trying to find strength to tell her through the many ways of his unspoken mind why this was wrong.

"I know," she said, as if reading his thoughts, "But it calms you, I have seen it. It releases you from this world. You feel or know nothing of what is real when it is upon you. And for the moment, that is what you need."

"No," he said adamantly, trying to tell her. "I cannot . . . After . . ." he began.

"We will deal with it then, when we come to it. For now we have this. It may well save your life."

"Please," he asked, though from looking into her eyes he could see it was a senseless request. Her mind was made up.

She began, without his consent.

"Can you hear their call, Legolas? They ride on the air. The flap of their wings is noiseless, effortless. They glide, like the wind. They hover with ease. They fly overhead. Can you hear their call?" Tears flowed from her eyes and her voice was jagged as she tried to utter these statements.

Legolas tried to push her from his thoughts, but his addled mind could not fathom a way to make the narrative cease.

"Salt flavors the air, and this is what the gulls seem to cry as they beckon you forward. A whipping wind tangles with your hair. Tendrils of golden fly across your vision. The wind stirs. It brings all of your senses to life. The air is like you. It is you. Can you see its play along the shore? Caressing the boundaries of all living things."

He could see it.

"And can you feel how the sea bursts with her joy at greeting you. The waves roll and thunder, inviting you to join them, to dodge and run in their rhythm."

He could feel it.

"The waves carry thunder in their emerald-colored peace. And yet, they are peaceful and calm from the distance and above. Can you feel them carry you?" Legolas did not answer. His strength was waning, and he was unaware he was drifting into this vision.

He could hear it and be it.

No longer did words prod for his cooperation. He was carried away to that place of comfort on his own. He noticed nothing of pain, nothing of the harm done him. He was free of the witch and the infliction of her horror. Only the clap on the waves buffeting the shores, the cool press of the sand between his toes, and the frothy lick of tickling liquid bouncing over the edge where water and land united were companions to his mind.

This vision replaced all that he knew, and came into his heart where it firmly became lodged. Without asking, it filled an empty facet of a lonely part of his soul, and it coarsened him, shutting off the return path of denial by giving him a fruity taste of that elixir he so often pushed away. He was tarnished by it, drunk on the euphoria and wanting more of its intoxicating effects.

He was free.

Free. Free. He was drifting away on the ease and comfort of something that, in the end, could only bring him more harm. But that was later, and Legolas' thoughts were only on the happiness he felt now as he slipped into a state of blissful forgetfulness. Floating, floating, lolling on a hapless somersault of ecstasy. The world, as he knew it, faded away, and was replaced, at last, by the soothing whisper of dreams.