Legolas finished filling his water skin and then brought it upright and securely fastened the sealing cap.  He slung the bag over his shoulder and started up the steep riverbank, heading back to his small encampment alongside the river.  He had almost reached his simple bedroll and camping gear when, without warning, his right leg collapsed out from beneath him and he fell heavily to the ground gasping and wincing as a terrible, burning pain shot through the muscles of his thigh.  He bit down on his lip to stifle the moan that rose from his chest and his hands instinctively reached out for his tortured limb as he rolled off his side and struggled up into a sitting position.  He looked down at his leg fully expecting to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his upper thigh and his hands covered with blood.  But to his astonishment, there was no arrow, nor was there any blood staining the green material of his leggings a muddy brown.  The pain, however, was very real.

          Another intense jolt of searing agony stabbed through his upper thigh and the Elf groaned, clutching helplessly at his seemingly untouched limb.  His ragged breaths were coming in short, rapid gasps and Legolas knew that he needed to slow down his breathing or he would soon start to hyperventilate.  He forced his mind to concentrate on steadying his breathing to slow measured intakes of air, but the pain was so intense that he could barely keep from screaming aloud.  And then, suddenly, just as quickly as it had come upon him, the pain vanished and he was left panting and shaking, but otherwise unharmed.

          Legolas drew a tremulous hand across his mouth, wiping away the fine mist of sweat that had formed over his upper lip.  His skin felt clammy to the touch and he fought down a roiling wave of nausea.  He remained seated upon the ground, afraid to move lest the awful pain in his leg return, but after several minutes had passed without any reoccurrence, he chanced moving his limb and found that he was indeed unharmed and whole once more.

          “Aragorn!” he whispered.  For this freakish, unseen wound could only mean one thing.  Aragorn was injured; somewhere out there in the unknown lands of Rhûn, his friend had actually sustained such a wound to his leg and somehow he had felt that pain as if it were his own.  “Aragorn!” his anguished moan came again as he tried in vain to reach the ranger with his thoughts, but all was darkness.

          Legolas scrambled to his feet and hurriedly began gathering up his belongings.  Astalder sensed the Elf’s alarm and raised his head expectantly.  Legolas tossed his gear over the stallion’s rump and secured his bags to the light saddle harness that was draped over each side of the horse’s flanks.  He swiftly mounted the stallion and urged the steed into a swift canter as they returned to the riverside and once again sped southward.  The sun was lowering toward dusk, yet Elf and horse raced on, desperation now spurring them forward.  As the evening wind ripped through his long, blond hair, Legolas gazed upward at the darkening skies and silently prayed to the Valar that he was not too late, although deep within his heart, a nagging, ugly fear raised its loathsome head and filled his mind with doubt and terror.

          I am coming, Aragorn!  He willed his thoughts into the ether of the Shadows, sending them out to his friend, hoping they would somehow reach the ranger and sustain him.  Do not despair! I am coming!  

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          A short, dark arrow hissed through the murky curtain of mist and struck the grey wolf gnawing upon the fallen ranger’s upper thigh.   The beast immediately let out a surprised yelping squeal and released the human’s ravaged leg.  The shrill sound shattered the still air and the wolf fell dead, landing beside the ranger’s prone and motionless body.  The remaining wolves rose up, growling and snarling, and they turned as one toward the rocks along the pathway where the arrow had been let loose; their red eyes glowed with hatred and vengeance.   The huge wolf standing upon the human’s shoulders bared its sharp teeth in a fearsome grimace and stepped off Strider’s body as it boldly moved to the head of the pack.

          A second arrow flew out of the foggy screen with a high pitched whine and struck another of the wolves. The stricken beast screeched with pain as the arrow embedded itself in his hindquarters and he snapped and bit at the protruding shaft, as he limped to the safety of the covering rocks.  The others in the pack kept their eyes focused upon their as yet unseen attacker, but they slowly began to back away, wary and alert.  When a third arrow flew into their midst, the leader barked an alarm and the pack wheeled about and fled in the opposite direction, leaving the carcass of the dead horse and wounded human behind.

          With the departure of the wolves an eerie stillness fell over the rocky trail and it seemed that time itself had stopped; and then, out of the grey mists, a short yet lithe, dark-skinned being emerged from the boulders and crags along the side of the path.   His long, thick raven-colored hair hung to his waist and he held a short bow with a nocked arrow out before him, ready to shoot should the wolves decide to return.  His jet black eyes quickly scanned the area searching for any straggling members of the wolf pack and seeing none, he cautiously stepped forward along the trail toward the fallen ranger.

          The creature seemed Elvish in appearance and when he knelt down beside the human and drew his long, ebony hair aside to better see the man, the graceful tip of an Elven shaped ear emerged from beneath the thick mane of dark, straight hair.  He laid his bow and arrow aside and placed a slender almond-brown hand upon the human’s neck, fingers feeling along the pale skin for a pulse.  It was there, steady and slow.  He shoved the ranger’s body over and onto his back and stared down into the face of this strange being, his own dark head shaking as he muttered unknown words in a soft, lilting murmur.

          The savage wolf bite marring the human’s leg appeared to be the only outwardly visible wound that the being could identify and he agilely rocked back upon his heels and looked down upon the man lying before him as if contemplating what he should do next.   Finally he gathered up his bow and shouldered the weapon, replacing the unused arrow in his back quiver and then he stood over the large human and straddled the ranger’s legs with his own.  Reaching down, he grabbed Strider’s wrist and pulled his body forward into a sitting position.  Strider’s dark, limp head came up and over and his chin smacked down upon his chest.   Although the creature appeared diminutive in size, he easily hoisted the much larger human up and over his shoulder and then turned about and headed toward the rocks.  He carried the still form of the human into the mists and fog from whence he had first appeared and vanished into the clouds.  

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          Legolas stood beside the River Running and stared across the swiftly moving waters to the small wine valley on the opposite banks.  The moon was high in the skies and shed a soft, blue light upon the waters and the surrounding landscape giving the entire area a cool, soothing luminescence.  This small town was apparently the final destination of the River Rat and the last place that he felt certain Strider had reached.

          As he had traveled along the riverside yesterday morning, Lund’s barge had passed by upon the river heading back toward Lake Town and Legolas had observed the Riverman from the concealment of the low-hanging fogbanks at the river’s edge.  Tonight he planned to swim to the opposite shore of the river and spy upon the men in this tiny community.  If he was lucky, he hoped to learn of the ranger’s fate.

           Deciding that now was as good a time as any to start out, he began shedding his outer garments and soft Elven boots.  He gathered his long hair into a thick ponytail at the back of his neck and secured it with a leather thong.  Then, clad only in his leggings, he withdrew a short, keen blade from one of his packs and clamped it between his teeth.

          He made his way down to the water’s edge and easily slipped into the cold river.  The water flow was swift and strong, and he had to concentrate all his strength and energy upon battling the current and reaching the dock on the opposing shore.  The swim took him almost a quarter of an hour of arduous concentration, but he finally reached the far shoreline and slowly and cautiously made his way up the bank and into the shadows of the buildings along the pier.

          His sharp ears immediately detected human voices coming from the largest of the buildings within the center of the community and Legolas surmised that this was the local inn and tavern.  It was also the place most likely to offer up any information on the ranger’s whereabouts.  The Elf removed the dagger from his mouth and held it loosely within his right hand as he silently made his way along the structures toward the inn.  No lights could be seen in the majority of the buildings along his path, and he felt sure that he would remain undetected and unseen by any of the townsfolk.

          When he was no more than a hundred feet from the inn, he halted and scanned the surrounding area to be sure that no humans were walking upon the street or lingering about the outside of the tavern.  When he was certain that the lane was empty, he dashed across the space between the buildings and flattened his back against the wall of the tavern.  The overhanging eaves of the building threw deep shadows across the walls and Legolas melted into the darkness, listening to the mixture of laughter and murmuring voices issuing from within the public house.

          Most of the overriding conversations were mundane and of little interest to the Elf; however, the hushed voices near the popping crackle of the fireplace caught Legolas’ attention and he concentrated on the words being spoken between these two men.  Apparently the man named Forras was the last to have seen and talked with Aragorn before the ranger departed the small village and he was now arguing with another about having told the stranger about what had happened to his son.  Legolas leaned closer to the wooden boards of the wall and upon hearing the next few words spoken, his lungs unconsciously sucked in a startled gasp of air and his body tensed with fear and disbelief.   This man was talking about the Wolf-Men of Sauron and that he had warned Strider about their presence in the mountains of Rhûn.

          Legolas pulled back away from the wall, unwilling to believe what he had just heard.  He knew of the Wolf-Men.  Sauron himself had taken up the mantle of the wolf on many different occasions during the dark times of the First Age; he had even battled the Great Hound of the Valar, Huan in this wolf form.  A shudder rippled through Legolas’ body at the memory of the searing pain that had pierced his thigh several days ago.  Was he too late?  Had these werewolves already attacked Aragorn?  Killed him!?

          The muffled voices of the two men inside the tavern distracted his panicked and unsavory thoughts and he once again leaned toward the wall to listen.  From the fragments of their conversation, Legolas learned that Strider had left the small valley almost five days ago.  So close! his anguished mind cried out upon hearing this news.  He lingered a few moments longer, but learned nothing further and quietly pulled back from the building’s side.  His determination to find Aragorn was now almost an obsession.  Quickly glancing along the deserted street, he ran across the dirt road, his bare feet scarcely disturbing the dust and leaving no imprint of his passage.

          The Elf sped through the sleeping township and headed for the dark river at the edge of the village.  He reached the dock and raced to the end, launching himself through the air and plunging into the water with a graceful dive.  The surface of the water hardly made a ripple as the Elf’s lean body sliced through the surface of the water and he swam beneath the river until he was well out into the waterway and away from the town.  His blond head, turned silver by the light of the moon, broke through the water and he took in a lungful of clean, crisp air as his strong arms churned through the swiftly flowing current and he began the lengthy swim to the far side.  

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          Strider wildly thrashed about in the fever dreams of delirium and cried out at the endless and agonizing pain tormenting his entire body.  Distorted visions of monstrous pointed teeth and rivers of blood swam before his eyes, intermixed with the bizarre image of a bronze Elven face and fathomless black eyes.  Waves of burning pain shot through his leg, throbbing with every beat of his heart and the ghostly howls of the wolves echoed within his ears.  His dark, tangled hair was plastered to his damp forehead and his pounding head tossed from side to side as he fought to escape the delusions and phantoms of his haunted dream world.

          The dark Elvish being standing beside his bed placed another cooling cloth upon the human’s forehead and wiped away the fever sweat from his brow, all the while murmuring quiet, soothing words in an Elvish dialect that was foreign to Strider’s ears, yet somehow comprehensible to him, even in his disoriented state.  Through glassy, fever-filled eyes, he stared up at an alien profile that was graceful and elegant; a face with skin the color of dark honey and as smooth and flawless as a child’s.  He struggled to find his voice, but could not choke out the words necessary to communicate.

          When the creature noticed that his charge was attempting to speak, he produced a goblet in his left hand and using his right to raise Strider’s head he brought the cup to the ranger’s lips and tilted the vessel so that its contents slid into his dry, parched mouth.  Strider coughed and gagged as the foul concoction drained down his throat, but the creature would not allow him to pull away until the entire goblet was drained.   When the cup was empty, he gently lowered Strider’s head back down upon the pillow, and placed a smooth, cool palm atop the ranger’s forehead.

          “Who are you?” Strider whispered with a hoarse croak.

          The creature smiled, his ebony eyes shining in the candlelight.  “I am Glîngroth of the gódhellim*,” he replied.  “Guardian of Barad-Fân.”

*deep elves