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Houseless  by PSW

They traveled through the evening and into the night, taking many more hours to retrace their steps than they had originally needed to make their way so deeply into the wood.  The silence was a living thing, heavy and hostile, broken only occasionally by terse whispers as Legolas checked their way or adjusted their course.  At times the looming sense of wrongness eased, at times it rose to a fever pitch that was almost a noise within itself.  Faramir kept tight on the Elf’s heels, breathing prayers of thanks that Ithil shone brightly this night.  He followed the hissed instructions without discussion or complaint, no matter that their deviations took them through briar patches and poison vines and into one knee-deep stream.  He was glad for the cool water, in truth—the tension sent sweat rolling into his eyes and dripping off of his nose, and a quick, silent splash on his face and neck went far toward relieving the discomfort from that source.  The night was half gone when Legolas halted.  He peered around them, then exhaled slowly through his nose.  “I believe we have left them behind—I have not sensed another for more than an hour.”

Faramir released a long, shuddering breath of his own, rested his hands on his knees, and shook his head vigorously, flinging sweat in all directions.  Legolas produced a hum of either amusement or disgust—perhaps both—and motioned to the northwest.

“We should continue on, in case of outliers.  Go.”

He might have recognized the ploy, had he not been practicing instant obedience for so many hours.  As it was, Faramir walked for nearly five minutes before it occurred to him that for the first time since the attack, Legolas had passed the lead to him.  Quickly on its heels came the realization that he had heard nothing behind him since their last stop.  Such silence was customary for Legolas, but not this night—tonight, the Elf’s distraction with other matters had shown in the odd scuffed footfall or rustle of clothing against branch.  Faramir pivoted and found himself alone in the moon-dappled forest.  Swearing, he pushed back toward the tiny clearing where he had last seen his companion.

Legolas was there still, standing with his face upturned to Ithil’s pale light, arms wrapped tightly about himself as though he feared flying apart.  He did not stir as Faramir approached, and for a moment Faramir wondered if their separation had been chance after all.  He would be required to keep a closer watch if his companion began to fall prey to such spells.  As he drew near, however, he heard the hushed song, his friend’s voice breathing a faint, liquid melody into the night.  Legolas looked around, noted his approach, then returned his gaze to the stars.

“You should not have returned.”

You should not have stayed!”  Faramir jabbed a finger at Legolas.  The Elf stepped back, avoiding the contact.  Faramir again closed the distance between them.  “It was all a pretense?  You had no intention of—”

“Stay back!”  For an instant Legolas’s control wavered, his forced calm replaced with anger and fear.  Then, just as quickly, they were gone.  “Do not approach, Faramir.  I do not wish to harm you.”  It was impossible to see eyes or expression in the shadowy moonlight, but the tone pleaded for understanding.  Faramir ignored it.

You would never do so.”

Legolas looked away.  “If you stay, I cannot promise your safety.  I grow weary already, and it has been only a matter of hours.”  His fingers scratched rhythmically, absently along his arms and across his palms.

A frisson of apprehension shook Faramir.  He shoved it away—this was not the time.  “You cannot promise my safety on any day, no matter what dangers we face.”  He circled slowly, placing himself again in his companion’s line of sight.  “If I do go, what will you do?”

“I will … I will fight it.”  The lifeless tone left little doubt as to Legolas’s expectations for such a contest.  “If I am able to drive it away, I will join you … after.”

“And if you cannot?”

“Do not make this more difficult than—”

“If you cannot?”

“Then my fëa will be lost and this … creature will wander endlessly in my body, wreaking mischief that I cannot even begin to guess!”  Legolas spat the words, careless for whatever dangers may be lurking near.  “But I will not allow you to stay and risk death at its hands!”

It was a welcome change from the calm despair.

“And I will not allow that to be your fate.”

The eyes that pinned him were black in the pale, shimmering light.  “You cannot stop it.”

“I have no …”  What a mad, ludicrous conversation.  “I have no control over the fate of your fëa, it is true—although it is not my belief that Mandos will allow such a one as you to be lost.”  Faramir stepped forward and caught his friend’s shoulder, grasping tightly when Legolas would have pulled away.  “But I swear to you, this creature will not wander one step in your body.”

Even as he said it, Faramir did not know if he could truly follow through that promise—his mind shied away from the horror, and stinging bile rose in his throat.   The words, however, produced the desired results.  Legolas blinked, and the tense carriage relaxed minutely beneath Faramir’s fingers.  For a long moment, both were still.

“And what will you do if the outcome is not yet decided when we reach Emyn Arnen?” Legolas finally asked.  “You must have some plan.  You cannot expose your people to … to this.”

“No,” Faramir agreed.  “But remember, my friend.  The King is coming.”  Although he was not certain what Aragorn might be able to do against a threat such as this, he believed in his King as he did in no other—and it seemed that Legolas felt the same.  The Elf’s head came up quickly, and for the first time in hours, a glimmer of hope entered his eyes.  “Given our slower pace this night, it is very likely that he will be waiting there at our arrival.”  Faramir shook the slender body gently.  “If anyone can aide you in this, is it not Elessar?”

“Yes,” Legolas whispered, his voice little but a sigh in the night.

“Then let us go to him.”  Faramir nodded, offering such encouragement as he could with his tone and firm grip, then released his friend and backed away.  Legolas hesitated, gaze roaming the forest around them with quick, sharp movements, then nodded slowly.

“Very well.  But beware—you may find yourself responsible for both of us ere the end.  I must put forth much of myself against this creature in the days to come, if I am to undertake such a journey with any hope of victory.”

“Agreed.”  Faramir let out a silent, relieved breath.  He had won this bout—likely only one of many over the next days.  Practical matters rose to the fore.  “So.  To that end, it seems to me that you will be better served by a less physically taxing road than our planned path.”  He lifted a questioning eyebrow, and Legolas nodded reluctant agreement.  “I know other ways.  The one I have in mind is longer by half a day, but flatter by far—fewer hills, shallower ravines.  It will require little of your attention, beyond ensuring that you keep upon the trail behind me.”

Legolas rocked slowly, scratching at his palms.  “I begrudge the extra hours, but I see little hope if I am required to expend effort on the terrain.”

“One problem at a time, my friend.”  Faramir clapped the Elf briefly on the shoulder before moving to turn away.  “Let us not beg trouble before it forces itself upon us.”  Legolas scowled at the contact, but Faramir shook his head.  “Legolas.  I do not fear you.”

The blond brows drew together.  This time it was Legolas who gripped his arm, the slender fingers digging into skin and muscle.  “Faramir.  You should.”

The swirling tumult of shadow in the Elf’s eyes was visible even in Ithil’s pale light, and Faramir’s mouth suddenly parched as dry as sun-baked clay.   He ignored it and forced a grin, deliberately mimicking his companion’s careless humor of … was it truly only a few hours ago?  Gently, he extricated himself from Legolas’s grasp.  “Perhaps.”  He could not allow his own fear to show—not when his friend’s was so very near to the surface.  

“Faramir …”

“I hear you.”  Faramir returned the dark gaze with his own, then deliberately turned his back and strode west into the wood.  An instant later, his companion followed.

“Remember it.”

“There is utterly no chance of my forgetting.”

Silence dropped like a heavy curtain as they entered the dark mass of the forest, the only sounds the rustling of wind in the branches and the strangely loud echo of the Elf’s usually silent footfalls.  The hair on the back of Faramir’s neck rose, and he forced down a shiver of unease.  This was Legolas behind him, and he trusted his friend.  He must.  If the Elf began to lose control of his situation, they would take some other action.  Until that time (Valar, may such a time never arrive), Faramir was the most logical choice to lead them through the wilds of Ithilien.  He could not begin to second-guess himself or his decisions.  It was a lesson he had learned well and painfully during his years of command, and he would not abandon that training now. 

They pushed on.  The sound of his own breathing grew in Faramir’s ears.  Each broken acorn was as the blast of a horn, each rustling branch the attack of some fresh terror, until his every nerve seemed on fire with tension.  Just as he feared he might go mad before the dawn, Legolas began to sing again.  His voice was so faint that Faramir could barely hear it, and yet the fluid tones wrapped around him, settling and refreshing him.  He breathed in deeply and wondered if his friend sang merely for comfort, or if the Elvish melody actually held some power against the foul creature inside of him.  Either way, Faramir was glad of it, and drew on it for strength as they left behind the night and the looming bulk of the Ephel Dúath, continuing on toward home and help.


They did not halt with the coming of day, or even pause beyond a brief rummage in Faramir’s pack for bread and apples.  The deep red welts that scored Legolas’s hands and arms and neck spoke of a night of mindless, repetitive scratching, and Faramir attempted not to stare as he passed over his friend’s share.  The Elf was either unaware or uncaring of the damage—he looked at neither Faramir nor his own skin as he bit into the apple and continued on.  Faramir swallowed his horror and forced down a bite of the heavy, dry bread.  His appetite was lacking to the point of nausea, but it was necessary to keep up his strength if they were to continue on without rest.

Faramir had no intention of resting at any time soon.

The hills of the Outer Fence receded but slowly, despite their ground-eating pace.  They strode on through noon and into dusk, stopping but long enough to refill their canteens or make use of a convenient trunk.  Faramir was relieved when they passed before dark from the forest into a wide, overgrown plain scattered with patches of scrub and only the occasional copse of trees.  He had little wish to spend another night in the wood.  Time and long familiarity had gifted Faramir with a deep love of Ithilien’s lush, unkempt wilderness, but never before had he passed so long in its trees without any sound of bird or beast.  The forest’s inhabitants, it seemed, sensed the spirit that had taken residence within the Elven prince and fled from all chance of contact.  At least, Faramir knew of no other explanation for their palpable silence.  The long, eerie absence weighed on him, and he clung as tightly as Legolas to the Elf’s soft, steady song.

The midnight hour was nearly upon them when Legolas spoke, his first words in the Common Speech since their long trek had begun.  “Will you not require sleep this night?”

His mind had become accustomed to the flow and cadence of the Elvish music, and it was a moment before Faramir registered the question.  He shook his head, keeping his focus on the moon-washed ground before them.  “No.”

Legolas hummed doubtfully.  “You cannot continue for three days without rest.”

“Perhaps.”  Faramir had been hoping to avoid this particular conversation for a while longer.  Still, it was just as well to have it out now.  “The timeframe I provided for this route did not account for sleep.  I do not intend to stop unless you require it.”

The Elf’s voice took on an edge.  “That is folly.  I need not tell you this.”

“I have gone without for such a time in the past.”

“And yet, you have need now of great attentiveness.  Fatigue will only hinder your response if something should—”

“Do you wish me to sleep in your presence?”  Faramir swung around, stopping Legolas in his tracks.  His friend froze, and the black eyes flickered in Ithil’s light.  Faramir nodded.  “One problem at a time, my friend.  I do not yet require sleep, and it is my hope that we may reach Emyn Arnen before it becomes a necessity.”  Legolas looked away, and Faramir caught at his shoulder.  “I trust you, even if you do not trust yourself.”  He must trust him, despite the foul spirit that swirled close to the surface of the familiar eyes when Faramir but looked too closely.  To walk for days with Legolas immediately at his back was otherwise unthinkable.   “You require the King’s aid as soon as may be, however.  I would not willingly delay it for even an hour.”

Legolas was silent for another long moment, then nodded.  Faramir turned back toward the west, and they continued on.


Dawn found Faramir chewing the leaves of a mild stimulant along with his breakfast of increasingly stale bread.  It was perhaps not yet necessary, but he was beginning to feel the heaviness in his limbs and eyelids that spoke of long days without rest and two sleepless nights.  Legolas’s urging of attentiveness was well spoken, and Faramir wished to take no chances.  The herb, native to Ithilien and long carried by Gondor’s Rangers, was safe enough when used in moderate doses and helpful for an extra mild burst of energy at need—and there was indeed great need.  Legolas’s state in the morning light—the bruising scattered across pale skin, independent of the fresh scratch welts, and the thready, breathless tone lurking beneath the liquid song—proclaimed it louder than any words.

Faramir picked up their pace, intent on making up the extra half day that hung over them.  He may not earn for himself any name such as Wingfoot, but he would see to it that their crossing of Ithilien was one for Minas Tirith’s record books.

The day grew darker as it progressed, and with noon came a brief but heavy downpour that thoroughly soaked them and turned the firm earth to soft mud beneath their feet.  Faramir ignored both the rain and the questionable footing—Legolas’s voice behind him had been flagging throughout the late morning, the song drifting and thin and at times halted altogether.  He drew his hood down over his forehead, hunched his shoulders, and grumbled silently, unwilling to distract his companion’s attention with any unnecessary conversation, no matter how brief.

As the afternoon progressed and the first hints of the rising land leading to the hills of Emyn Arnen began to make itself known, Legolas’s voice grew rough, such as Faramir had never heard from an Elf.  He was silent more often, his tone louder and increasingly desperate even during its stronger periods.  A glimpse when Faramir handed back the evening bread and apple revealed full-blown pupils, dark and strange in the fair, pale face.  Deep-set creases painted the Elf’s forehead, and the hand that reached for the food trembled.

“Are you in pain?”

Legolas blinked sluggishly, turning unfocused eyes on him, and something in the gaze caused Faramir to shiver.  “It is … it is painful, yes, but not in any way that I am able to describe.”

Faramir pursed his lips.  “Would a pain herb help?”  He knew what the Elf’s answer would be before the words were spoken, but it would be cruel not to make the offer.

“No.”  Legolas tore off a small piece of bread and chewed carefully.  “I will not take the chance that even the smallest dose may dull my … what is left of my resistance.”

What is left.  Faramir nodded and rummaged again in his pack, dropping what remained of the crumbled stimulant herbs into his waterskin in preparation for the push through the nighttime hours.  He grimaced against the bitter taste, wishing for a good swallow of hot strong tea instead.  Well.  There was a reason the Rangers carried this herb—a fire and a mug of tea were simply not always possible.  He re-secured his waterskin and started off again, ignoring his aching feet, trembling knees, and dry, gritty eyes.  He could not be grateful that the spirit had chosen Legolas over him—such an attitude would be unseemly.  There was no question, however, that he would not have lasted so long in his friend’s place.  The Elf’s constitution gave his friend an advantage against both the foul creature and the long, sleepless trek that he as a Man simply did not possess.  It was obvious, however, that Legolas was slowly losing the struggle, and that they had very little time left to them.

Faramir spent the long nighttime hours muttering fervent requests to the Valar and to Ilúvatar Himself that their time would be enough, and that they would find Elessar in Emyn Arnen upon their arrival.  If the King was not there, if their entire desperate trek had been in vain …  He forced his weary mind away from that terrible possibility.  It did not bear pondering.


The rising sun found them scrambling up the rocky incline of the path that would take them through the eastern hills of Emyn Arnen and then on to the home that Faramir and Éowyn had made and now shared with their people.  It was unfortunate, Faramir thought, that this most taxing road of their trek fell at the tail end of their journey, but it was not to be helped.  In any event, Legolas seemed to have regained a measure of strength and speed as the early hours waned, and spent the morning flitting ahead up the steeper, rocky inclines.  Faramir followed reluctantly, unsure what to make of this second wind and afraid that it could mean nothing good.  He reached the top of the current rise and joined the still, silent Elf, who stood gazing west across the next rise of hills.

“Legolas?”  Faramir reached for his pack, intending to offer a meager early lunch, but his hand stilled as the black eyes turned his way.  They swirled slowly, glinting with a light not of the late morning sun.  The blond head canted to one side, considering, and a tiny, odd smile touched the corners of the Elf’s mouth.  Faramir’s breath left him in a rush, his mind shrieking an angry denial.  We are so close!  He stumbled back, away from the thing viewing him through his friend’s eyes.  “Legolas!”  The dark eddies continued their sluggish dance.  His companion turned slowly, the grin widening.

Suddenly, Faramir no longer desired any response.

Instinct took over, leaving behind his tired mind.  He lunged forward and struck Legolas a solid hit across the jaw, snapping the blond head back, then fumbled for his sword as the long, thin body glanced sharply off of the nearby rock face.  It was now or never … now or never …  “Legolas!

The Elf’s knees buckled, and loose rock scattered as Legolas scrambled for balance.  He threw up one arm as Faramir’s sword swept overhead, gasping, “Faramir!”

He could not stop the sword’s arc, but he deflected it against the rock instead.  Sparks flew and a loud snap signaled damage to the blade, but Faramir’s full attention was focused on his companion.  Legolas crouched on the dusty trail, terror and desperation playing across the fair features.

“Faramir.  Run!

Faramir jammed the battered blade back into its sheath, ignoring the revulsion and horror that coursed through him.  “Come.”  He could barely hear his own words over the ringing in his ears.  “We are very near.”

“No.”  The blond head shook vigorously.  “No, I cannot—”

Move!”  Faramir gripped the Elf’s upper arm and hauled him to his feet, shoving him down the path.  “We are close, do not give up now!”

Legolas wasted no effort in further argument, but fled on swift feet down the narrow trail.  Faramir followed, his heart beating fiercely, bitter fear flooding his mouth and driving the weariness from his limbs.  Together they raced across the uneven terrain, heedless of loose stones or drop-offs or the jagged rocks that blocked their way and pummeled ribs and arms unprotected in the frantic flight.  The slope evened out and rose again, but less sharply, and they plunged along with little care for anything but the path that stretched before them.  Faramir’s legs were numb, and he could feel neither his feet nor his hands.  His body had taken control for both of them, an iron grip dragging the Elf with him when Legolas stumbled or hesitated.  Their pace was fearsome—unplanned and unwise in such hills as these—but Faramir could not have slowed himself, and in truth had no wish to try.  There was, in any case, no need.  The trail passed through a narrow opening and then thinned away into wide, sloping grassland.  Faramir and Legolas staggered on for a few feet more and then as one fell to their knees, staring ahead over the outer pastures of Emyn Arnen.


A/N:  In speaking of the houseless spirits, various internet sources quote HoME vol. 10 as follows: “ … in the contest for mastery the body may be gravely injured, even if it be not wrested from its rightful habitant.”  This line leads me to think that there must be some sort of physical consequences to the struggle against a houseless spirit …

Thanks so much to everyone for your comments and encouragement.  I really appreciate it, and it’s definitely helped me move on with this story.





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