King Thranduil leaned back into his ornately carved oaken chair and with a critical and discerning eye, studied his son, now seated across the expanse of the massive conference table.  His crowned head rested lightly upon his opened palm and a slender, elegant finger stroked at his temple as he continued to contemplate Legolas’ blatant inattention to the meeting going on around him.  Numerous scrolls and parchments littered the table top in front of his son and the king felt sure they were still as yet unread and unsigned.

          Several of his ministers were still heatedly arguing some trifling point of which the king himself had lost track some time ago and he finally leaned forward in his chair and placed his hands upon the table top before him.  At his movement, the counselors grew quiet and all eyes turned toward their king – save those of one Legolas Greenleaf.

          “We have discussed this matter at length and overlong,” the king stated.  “I shall reflect upon your words this eve and give you my decision tomorrow.  This council session is concluded.  You have our leave to go.”

          There was much grumbling and murmuring among the Elf Lords as they gathered up their documents and books, and those who had been hopeful to gain a judgment upon the aforementioned discussion involving the proposals coming from Lorien, were annoyed that the king seemed to be delaying any ruling on this subject and was intentionally withholding a verdict.  But all arose and eventually the room cleared of all save the king and his entranced son.  When the doors to the chamber closed upon the last of his ministers, Thranduil rose from his chair and moved down the length of the table to stand before his son.

          Legolas subconsciously felt the close proximity of another being and visibly jerked as the towering figure of his father loomed over him.  Taken aback, he quickly glanced about the now vacant conference chamber and the untidy pile of parchment still lying upon the table in front of him.

          Thranduil’s hands rested lightly upon his hips as he stared down at his flustered son.  “It is the ranger, is it not, that makes you worry so?”

          Legolas flushed a rosy crimson and nervously began to straighten the haphazard stack of papers lying before him.  He was utterly mortified that he had been caught so conspicuously remiss in his duties as a council member and that his father was now compelled to voice his consternation and forced to reprimand him for his negligence.  Yet when he glanced up at the king’s face he saw no trace of anger or disappointment in his father’s expression, only worry and concern.  Relief flooded over him like a dam broken and the unvoiced thoughts tormenting his mind formed themselves into words and tumbled from his lips in their rush to be released.

          “Yes, Adar!” Legolas nearly shouted in his eagerness to relinquish these voiceless uncertainties.   “I know Aragorn has only been gone for several weeks, yet I cannot stop feeling that he is in grave danger.  I cannot sleep.  My thoughts are in a constant vortex of fear and anxiety, robbing me of rest until I can think of nothing else.  It is driving me mad.”

          The king gracefully seated himself in a nearby chair and turned slightly to face his son, his strong yet elegant hands clasped upon the table in front of him as he studied Legolas’ agonized face.  Both father and son sat motionless and mute, their eyes locked in a silent dialogue of complete trust and love, and then the king quietly spoke.

          “Then you must find him and lend him what aid you can.”

          Legolas’ face literally glowed with radiance, mirroring the inner respite he now felt as he heard his father’s encouraging words.  He reached across the short expanse of the tabletop and clutched his father’s right hand within his own, squeezing it tightly.  “Thank you, Adar.”  He choked slightly as an unexpected lump rose within his throat as the fierce emotions of love and hope flooded his mind and heart.  “Thank you for understanding.”

          Thranduil smiled slightly, eyes suddenly bright with the threat of tears, as he realized that deep within his heart, he knew he would do anything just to see his bright green leaf happy and free of such misery and sorrow.  His left hand wrapped over the one his son now held and he looked down upon their entwined fingers, his own and his son’s, and holding Legolas’ slim hand between his own two palms, his smile saddened.  He gazed up into his son’s face and a resigned sigh escaped his lips as he said.

          “I trust you will depart at dawn?”

          Legolas nodded, eyes bright and feverish in their excitement.  “If you will allow it, Adar.”

          The king nodded his assent and then rose from his chair, pulling Legolas up and drawing his son into a strong embrace.  As he looked over the top of his son’s golden head, his eyes closed and silent tears slid slowly down his face as he rubbed his hand gently across Legolas’ slender back, pressing his son’s shoulders closer to his chest.

          “No band, ion nin,”* he whispered as his fingers softly stroked the silken, blond hair atop his son’s head.

          Legolas drew back slightly from his father’s encircling arms and gazed into his timeless eyes.  “Im náuva, Adar,”**

          Thranduil nodded, eyes lowered, and then hugged his son to him once more before finally releasing him and watched with a heavy heart as Legolas silently left the council room and hurried to his private suite to pack and collect his weapons.  The king swept up the forgotten parchments and unsigned scrolls and gathered them up under his arm and then he, too, left the quiet chamber behind.  

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

          Strider sat at a small table in front of the warming fireplace inside the Land’s End public house, a cup of honeyed wine clasped between his hands, and thoughtfully watched the flames waver and dance within the pit.  Those few men also within the tavern were now ignoring him and talking among themselves in hushed and quiet whispers, furtively glancing in his direction as if they thought he was some demon come to ravage their isolated valley.

          The town folk had been pleasant enough upon his arrival, gladly granting him a clean room and stabling for his horse, and at first, had readily spoken to him about their tiny valley and the wines that were their livelihood.  However, when his questions had turned to Rhûn and what he might find in that unknown land, the villagers had clammed up tighter than the oysters found in the Gulf of Lune.

          From that point on, they had avoided any contact with him; refusing to even acknowledge his initial probing and he had wisely refrained from pressing the issue.  Now, as he watched the fire’s mesmerizing movement, he began to wonder if this trip would yield any useful information at all or merely cost him his life.  

          Perhaps Legolas was right, he mused, as dark thoughts clouded his mind.  I should have listened to his wise counsel and remained in Lasgalen instead of traveling into this hostile place.

          Gandalf’s deep voice suddenly whispered within his mind, driving the doubts and sinister worries from his head. ‘If there is even an outside chance that the Blue Wizards might still be alive and still dwell in the East, it is crucial that we take this gamble…’  Yes, he thought, his resolve renewed.  I must do this.  Gandalf would not send me to this forsaken realm if it were not vital to the survival of all Middle Earth.

          He glanced up from the fire and his gaze swept the hushed room.  The few remaining men were still engaged in their quiet conversations and surreptitiously observing him over their wine cups.  The owner of the inn was behind his cluttered bar, busily twisting the cork from a dusty wine bottle, yet his eyes were fixed upon the ranger.  Strider slowly rose from his seat and walked to the bar, placing his empty cup upon the stained wooden top.  He withdrew several coins from his pocket and placed them upon the bar and nodded slightly to the owner.  The man quickly pocketed the silver pieces and then tossed the cup into a wooden wash tub filled with dirty, greasy water and the cups and platters from the evening meal, but said not a word to the departing ranger.

          Strider suddenly halted and turned back to the man, as if he had only just thought of some insignificant matter, and gazed back at the innkeeper with his steady, silver eyes.

          “Perhaps you could direct me to a merchant within your town who might sell me some supplies for my journey?” he asked with a quiet, yet commanding voice.

          The barman appeared nervous and uneasy, but he nodded his head toward the table of men seated behind Strider.  “Forras handles the trade for our town.  Maybe he can help you.”

          At the mention of his name, a dark haired man looked up and his eyes met Strider’s.  The ranger nodded to the trader and walked toward the table, halting before the man and extending his hand.  Forras did not take the proffered arm, but slowly set his wine cup down and rose from his seat, his stance challenging.  Strider raised his hands in front of his chest in an effort to ease the man’s disquiet and smiled slightly.

          “I am in need of supplies for my journey,” he stated.  “The innkeeper tells me you have goods to sell?”

          The man nodded, his eyes cautious, yet the prospect of a large sale overcame his fear of the stranger.  “Aye.  If you have the money to pay.”

          Strider nodded.  “I do.”

          “Very well then, come to my shop in the morning.  It’s not far from the river docks.  I’ll see what I can do for you.”

          Strider touched two fingers to his temple and nodded at the man.  “Gentlemen,” he nodded to the others about the table, and then he turned and left the men of Dorwinion staring after his departing back.

          Forras shakily returned to his seat and hastily gulped down the last of his wine.  “He really means to travel to Rhûn,” he stated, his anxious glance falling upon each of the men in turn.  “Maybe we should tell him what’s out there.  He seems decent enough.”

          “He’s a fool,” grunted the man across from Forras.  “Only fools go lookin’ for trouble.  Let him find out for himself.  We warned him.”

          “Aye,” the others chorused.

          Forras reluctantly nodded, his gaze drifting to the closed doorway where the dark-haired ranger had only just left.  Mixed emotions churned within his mind and an uneasy cloak of guilt draped itself along his shoulders.  Damn what they say, he decided.  I will tell him tomorrow before he leaves.  He does not deserve to die without knowing what he will face in those mountain passes.  

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////

          Legolas raced along the riverbanks following the River Running on its southeasterly course through the barren plains.  He had learned from the Rivermen in Lake Town that Lund’s barge, the River Rat, had not yet returned and was not expected for another week and a half at the very least.  No other boatman was willing to make the long journey that far south and he had been forced to accept passage only as far as the outskirts of the dead plains.  From there he had ridden Astalder along the river, stopping only to rest and water his horse.

          Being Elvish, he had no real need to stop for sleep or even food, but his horse needed rest and nourishment if he wished to keep up this reckless pace.  He had taken more provisions than usual for this journey and had himself become a walking armory, secreting Elven blades throughout his clothing, within his boots and inside his bracers.   His quiver was full and he had strapped several more bundles of arrows to his packs and supplies.  He had no idea what he might find when he reached Rhûn, but he wanted to be sure that he was adequately armed for any contingency.  It was sheer insanity for one of the Firstborn to travel alone to Rhûn, but his fear of the Easterlings was as naught to that of his terror for Aragorn’s safety.

          He guessed that Aragorn was by now at least two weeks ahead of him on his journey and would shortly be entering the Land of Rhûn, but he had made good time sailing along the river and now racing through the barrens.  If Astalder could keep up this mad dash, he might be able to narrow the gap to a week or less.  Only time would tell; however, the dark cloud of fear that hung over his mind seemed to increase the farther south he traveled and he dearly wished that he had Lord Elrond’s gift of the sight.  This horrid “unknowing” was eating at his heart and his fear for Aragorn was a daily companion, taunting him until he thought he would scream.  An unbidden and unexplained sense of desperation had crept into his mind as well, adding to his already troubled thoughts.  Above all else, he feared that he would arrive too late; that his friend would be beyond his aid and forever lost, and that it would be his fault for allowing Aragorn to go on this trip alone and unprotected.

          “Hurry, Astlader,” he whispered the Elvish words into the horse’s flattened ears.  “Our time is running out.”

          The grey Elven stallion sprang forward, urged onward by his rider’s pleas.  The landscape swept by in a tawny blur as horse and Elf sped down the riverside as if the fires of Mordor were raging behind them.  Together they would traverse the empty plains until they reached the Sea of Rhûn.  He would find Aragorn; he had to.  

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

          Strider rode up to the trader’s shop near the boat docks and leisurely dismounted from Hodoer.  The sun had barely risen and the morning mists off the river were still hovering inches above the water, but it looked to be a mild, pleasant day once the sun had fully risen.  He secured Hodoer’s reins to the post alongside the cluttered walkway and stepped up and into the shop of the river trader and quickly glanced about the confined and disorderly quarters.

          The tiny building was crammed with all types of fishing and hunting gear, bags of feed, farming tools and a small compendium of miscellaneous items from baubles and finery for the women, to finely crafted knives and short blades.  Forras was standing at the back of the shop, emptying a bag of grain into an open bin when he spotted Strider and slowly nodded.  When his task was completed, he tossed the empty sack aside and, dusting his hands along his breeches to remove the chaff, moved to the front of the shop.

          He nodded curtly to the ranger, and slid his hands into his back pockets with a nervous twitch.  “So,” he began.  “What can I sell you?”

          Strider had come amply supplied for this journey, but felt that from here to Rhûn he might not come upon any human settlements and thought it prudent to add to his cache of goods.  He gestured toward some dried meat strips hanging from the wall behind Forras and began his list.

          “I’ll need some of that dried meat; grain for my horse; a large water skin; a bundle of those arrows,” he paused as his silver-eyed gaze traveled over the shelves and piles of items within the store, alighting upon a bolt of crisp linen cloth.  “And several yards of that cloth.”  He glanced around the room again.  “Do you carry any herbs or medicines?” he inquired.

          “I’m afraid not,” Forras answered as he gathered together the items that the ranger had requested.  “Not much grows around this valley, save the vines for the grapes and the grains for the livestock.”  He placed the folded linen cloth on top of the grain sack.  “We must depend on Lund to bring us medicinals from Lake Town and the Woodland Realm.”  He looked at Strider with a new, appraising glance.  “Are you a healer then?”

          Strider chuckled.  “Of sorts.”

          Forras nodded, still staring at the dark stranger before him.  The words he wished to speak were there on his tongue, yet he could not summon the courage to voice them.  The ranger was gathering up the various bundles and reaching for his money pouch to pay him for the goods, yet he still could not find his voice and Strider glanced up at him expectantly.

          “How much do I owe you for these supplies?”

          “T-two gold pieces s-should do,” he stammered, palms suddenly sweaty as he wiped them along the legs of his pants.

          Strider eyed him curiously as he drew out the necessary coins from his sack.  “You are sure?”

          Forras nodded hurriedly, accepting the payment; and avoiding the ranger’s eyes, he suddenly gathered up a pile of leather hides lying upon the counter in front of him.   He quickly turned as if to stow them away, yet the shelves behind him were full and no space was left to place the leather skins.  He stood there a moment, hides held before him, and stared at the wall, unsure exactly what to do with the goods he held.  Strider leaned forward, staring at the man with growing concern.

          “Are you all right?” he asked.  “You seem frightened.”

          Forras whipped about to face the ranger.  “No!” he cried much too quickly.  “No, I… just.”  He dropped the leather skins and they fell to the counter top and then slid to the floor in disarray.  He ignored them.

          The Dorwinion trader stared at Strider with an almost wild expression and then frantically blurted out.  “You cannot go any farther!  You don’t know what’s in the mountains.”

          Strider’s eyes narrowed as he studied Forras.  He noticed now that the man was older than he had first assumed, and there was a terrible pain within his eyes that told of some agony he had recently experienced.  Strider stepped forward and touched the man’s arm as his eyes sought and finally held the man’s gaze.

          “Why must I travel no further?  What is it you fear?” asked the ranger.

          Forras’ face had gone ashy white and there was real fear in his eyes as he looked up at Strider.  When he spoke the single word, it came from his lips as a whisper and yet it made the nape of Strider’s neck tingle with an icy chill.

          “Gaurhoth.”

          Striders eyes widened with apprehension and misgiving.  “Gaurhoth,” he repeated almost as quietly as had Forras.  “Werewolves!?”

*Be safe, my son.

**I will, Father