Glîngroth brushed gentle fingers across Strider’s brow, moving the damp strands of hair out of his eyes, and then resting his palm across the man’s forehead.  The human’s skin was still hot to the touch and he reached over to a side table and picked up another cool, wet cloth and brought it over to Strider’s head and wiped it over the ranger’s face.   At the soothing feel of the cold material, Strider’s glazed eyes closed briefly and then re-opened.  When once again he looked to his left, the dark-skinned Elf was still there, leaning over his bed.

          “You are real,” he whispered through fevered and parched lips.

          Glîngroth laughed softly.  “Yes, quite real,” he answered.  “And just who might you be?”

          Strider continued to study the Elf with unabashed curiosity and amazement.  “Forgive me,” he murmured.  “My name is Strider; I am a Ranger of the Northmen.”  His murmuring voice halted for a moment as a fever induced shudder rippled through his body, yet his eyes never left the Elf’s face.  “I do not mean to stare, but I have never seen an Elf quite like you before.”

          A short, derisive snort tinged with animosity escaped the Elf’s throat and he looked away.  “I am only half-Elven,” he stated bluntly.

          His hard, black eyes quickly turned back to the injured ranger lying upon the bed, but his face had lost the youthful innocence that Strider had first seen upon it.  Glîngroth’s expression now reflected a scornful and cynical hatred of his own questionable lineage.  He had no reason whatsoever to tell this human anything about his past, yet somehow he wanted to.

          “My mother was of the kindred of Finwë and favored of Aulë, sometimes called the Deep Elves.  My father was one of the Variags, a Warrior-Chieftain of Khand.”  He paused as he busied himself with wiping the dank sweat from Strider’s face and then he continued.  “She was given to him as a war prize; his reward for the annihilation of the enemies of Mordor.”  He looked away from Strider, his face anguished and ashamed of his father’s deeds.  “Happily he is long dead.”

          This last was spat out with a deep-seeded revulsion and Strider could hear the pain in the Elf’s voice.  He tried to concentrate on what the strange Elven being was telling him, but his head was spinning with jumbled and tangled thoughts.  His delirious vision still saw horrid, vile images of flashing teeth breaking Hodoer’s neck and gouts of blood pouring from the animal’s torn flesh.  And his heart sickened as he realized that for one moment he had reveled in the sensation of killing that these images and thoughts aroused within him.   Desperately he fought to drive these depraved thoughts from his mind and he focused instead on this strange and exotic Elf leaning over him.  He forced his lips to speak.

          “What of your mother?” he asked weakly.

          Glîngroth started at the ranger’s raspy voice, his mind obviously lost in the far distant past and the man lying on the bed momentarily forgotten.  “What?”

          Strider wearily turned his head to face the Elf.  “Your mother?” he repeated.

          The dark head lowered and his black eyes saddened.  “Dead.”

          The single word hung between them and Strider contemplated its meaning – ‘dead’ – not ‘gone to the Undying Lands’ or ‘sailed to the West’. ‘Dead.’  Very likely killed or murdered, he thought sadly.

          “I am sorry,” he murmured.  “Forgive me, I do not wish to intrude.”

            Glîngroth removed the cloth from Strider’s forehead and tossed it back into the bowl sitting on the small table next to his bed.  “It is no matter.  It was long ago,” he answered.  He placed his gentle hand over Strider’s tired eyes, drawing the fluttering eyelids closed.  “Rest now, ranger.”

          Strider tried to protest, but was just too weak.  He easily and swiftly sank back into the lunatic maelstrom of delirium caused by the fell poison coursing through his body.  He did not know what ingredients were mixed within the draught the Elf had forced him to consume, but it was quite evident that some drug had been included to make him sleep.  He was finding it more and more difficult to think and finally he gave up altogether and was left floating in a surreal world filled with blood and hunger, darkness and shadow.  

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

          Strider was drifting within a calm, quiet dream world, not yet awake, yet not fully asleep.  The fever was gone from his body and he felt no pain.  Oddly enough, he felt invigorated, strong and robust.  A new freedom infused his being and he smiled slightly as he thought of running wild through the mountains, running with the wind… slowly his eyelids twitched and consciousness slowly washed away the dream of racing on swift, strong paws… Strider’s eyes flew open and a frantic terror gripped his heart.

          Paws! His mind screamed.  I have paws!

          His head thrashed wildly upon his damp pillow, crashing from side to side and his anxious gaze quickly took in his strange surroundings and then a new fear took hold of him as he realized that he was heavily chained hand and foot.   His chest, too, was constricted by thick metal links crossing over his torso and binding him to his bed.

          A frantic shout raced to his lips, but was stifled as a smooth brown hand gently settled upon his chest and the serene, dark beauty of Glîngroth’s face hovered above his own.  The Elf was studying his face with the critical eye of a healer, and despite being chained to his bed, Strider calmed at the Elf’s touch.  Glîngroth’s eyes sought Strider’s and he placed a cool hand upon the ranger’s brow.

          “Be at ease, Strider,” the Elf spoke softly and reassuringly as his gentle hands moved to the chains upon Strider’s chest.  “The chains were necessary.”

          The Elf clicked open the locking mechanism and the heavy metal fetters restricting his movement fell away and his breathing came easier.  Strider watched the Elf as he methodically moved from his feet up to his hands and released each of the manacles in turn.  When he had unlocked the last, he slid his strong arm under Strider’s shoulders and helped the ranger up into a sitting position.

          “Do you know what has happened to you?” the Elf asked.  His voice was neutral, yet Strider sensed a hidden meaning within the question.

          He stared at his enigmatic savior and nodded slowly.  “I was attacked by wolves,” he answered.  Instantly, Hodoer’s scream of agony echoed within his head and his chest ached with pain.  “They killed my horse,” he choked.

          “Yes,” Glîngroth confirmed.  He handed Strider a goblet of the foul, distasteful liquid he had forced the ranger to drink before and nodded his dark head.  “Drink this.”

          Something in the Elf’s tone made Strider obey without question and he swallowed the hideous concoction in a hurried gulp.  “What is that?” he asked as he handed the vessel back to the Elf.

          “Your life,” he tersely replied.  Then seeing the frightened expression upon the man’s face, he added in a much gentler voice.  “It is meant to counteract the poison.  But I am afraid I came upon you too late to prevent the change from taking hold.”  He dark gaze fell upon the heavy chains.  “It was necessary to restrain you.”

          Strider’s heart seized and his silver eyes widened in fear.  “What do you mean too late?”

          Glîngroth’s voice was calm and unemotional, yet his eyes were filled with great sadness and pity.   “You were bitten by one of the gaurhoth.  The poison has spread throughout your body.  Although I began giving you the potion as quickly as I could, I was still too late.  The change has already begun.  This brew will only slow the process for I lack the key ingredient for any lasting cure.” 

          He pointed to Strider’s leg.  “As you can see, your wound has healed.  Your strength is recovered; but it is a morgul power that now fills you with vigor.”

          Strider viciously threw aside the bed covers and looked down at his right leg.  As the Elf had stated, strong muscle and unbroken skin met his gaze.  He ran his hand along his thigh, touching the place where the wolf had bitten his leg.  There was no sign of any wound or bite, not even a scar.  Strider looked up at the dark face and his eyes filled with a pleading desperation as he spoke.  “You cannot cure me of this sickness?”

          Glîngroth’s eyes lowered and his dark head slowly shook from side to side.  “I am sorry.  I cannot.”  He looked back up at the ranger and his face reflected his utter sorrow and helplessness.  “I am not skilled in the ways of The Two.  Perhaps they could have helped you, but alas, they are no more.”

          Strider’s head whipped up at these last words.  “The Two?  Alatar and Pallando?”

          The dark-skinned Elf looked stunned and stared back at Strider with sudden apprehension.  “You know of The Two?”

          “Yes!  That is why I journeyed to Rhûn.  I came to seek out the Blue Wizards.”

          The Elf’s head shook sadly.  “Then you are twice cursed, ranger.  The wizards of the Cloud Tower fled the darkness of Mordor centuries ago and have long since been absent from the halls of Barad-Fân.  Their gentle hearts despaired when evil spread over the Land of Rhûn and Shadow covered the earth, killing all that was living and beautiful.  When they could bear the anguish no more, they set sail northward upon the Sea of Rhûn, and were never seen again.  Only I, Glîngroth, Guardian of Barad-Fân, remain.”

          Strider’s head fell forward and his eyes shut tightly as the bitter disappointment and harsh reality of his dire predicament washed over him in a crushing, despondent wave.  Glîngroth’s light touch upon his shoulder made the ranger glance up and the pity and sadness within the Elf’s eyes only served to deepen his desolation.

          “What am I to do?” he whispered.  “If there is no cure, then my life is forfeit, for I will not turn to Shadow.”

          The Elf looked down upon the seated ranger and knowing that he could not help him, his compassion for the human tore at his heart.  For without the cure, Strider would surely become one with the gaurhoth.  Then suddenly the Elf’s face brightened and his eyes sparkled with excitement.

          “Wait!” he shouted.  “Wait!  Maybe I can help you.”

          Strider’s heart skipped a beat and he dared not breathe… or hope.  Glîngroth suddenly snatched the ranger’s hands and pulled him up off the bed and onto his feet and then began handing him his clothes.  “The scrolls… why did I not think of this before?  The scrolls and parchments; everything is still here.  I have kept everything as they left it, hoping for their return.”

          Strider was not sure that he understood what the Elf was talking about, but he hurriedly slid into his trousers and absently noted that they had been cleaned and mended, as had his other garments.  He neatly tightened his belt across his tunic and then pulled on his heavy boots and stood up straight, ready to follow the Elf.

          “What do you hope to find in these scrolls?” he asked.  “You said the potion you have been giving me lacks the necessary ingredient to affect a cure.”

          “Yes, that is true.  It lacks the needed gaurdagnir*.”  At Strider’s puzzled frown, he added.  “Aconite – from the buttercup family – it used to grow in abundance deep within the woodlands across the sea, but now the forest is dead and lifeless and everything in it as well.”  He paused; a sullen scowl shadowing his features, and then he added.  “Like the rest of this forsaken land.”

          Seeing Strider’s anxious face, he shook off his own cynicism and continued.  “I only knew of two places where this plant could be found:  Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves, now long vanished beneath the seas, and here within the forests of Rhûn.”  He looked up at the ranger with a hopeful yet tentative smile.  “Perhaps we will find something in the parchments left behind that will tell us of some other region of Middle Earth where the plant flourishes.”

          As the two started toward the door, Strider glanced down at the small, dark Elf, his mind churning with hundreds of unasked questions.  “Tell me, Glîngroth,” he said.  “If the wizards are gone, why do you stay here?”

          The Elf looked back at Strider as if he was a madman and a fool.  “I am the Guardian of Barad-Fân,” he stated with honor and pride.  “Should The Two return, I shall be here waiting for them and all shall be made ready for their magic, for I have kept the Cloud Tower hidden from unwanted eyes and have guarded its secrets throughout the ages.”

          Strider nodded slowly, not exactly sure how to reply to the Elf’s undying commitment and loyalty, even though the likelihood of the wizards ever returning to Middle Earth now seemed highly doubtful.  Instead he asked another question that had been nagging at his mind.

          “Just how did you get me up to this tower?” he asked.  “I was told that the Cloud Tower floated upon the mists covering the mountain peaks and there was no pathway up the mountain to reach it.”

          Glîngroth laughed heartily and the melodious sounds echoed through the halls of stone.  “That is true.  There is no path along the side of the mountain.”  His black eyes twinkled brightly.  “The stairway to the tower lies inside the mountain.  The stone pathway is well concealed by an enchantment and the cavern entrance is unknown to all save me.”

          The Elf laughed again, but cocked his head to the side and stared up at the dark ranger.  “But that, I fear, is not our most pressing concern.  While the brew I have given you will arrest the change, it will not prevent it.  You must keep taking the potion each day; for if you do not, the poison within your body will cause you to shape shift into the wolf; and once you do, the blood pack will call you to their ranks, and like a siren’s song, you will be powerless to resist them.”

          He stared at Strider with a deep sadness and sorrow.  “If that should occur, you would be better off dead, for your mind and body will no longer be yours to control.  You will become a slave to Sauron and a mindless killer.”  

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

          Legolas knelt upon the cooling sands, his long, slender fingers tracing the deep impressions that were unmistakably made by a horse’s hooves.  He looked out over the vast, lonely expanse of the grey sea and then slowly rose to his feet.  His gaze followed the hoof prints along the sands until they vanished into the rocky hills up ahead and he looked up at the towering black mountains, clouded in fog and mist.  He reached over his shoulder and retrieved his bow from off his back and then slid an arrow from his quiver.   He held both bow and arrow loosely within his left hand and ran his right palm along Astalder’s grey neck, whispering encouraging Elvish words to the horse and then slowly moved forward in the direction of the tracks.

          “Stay close, Astalder,” he murmured.

          The grey stallion gave a low whicker in response and moved to follow the Elf.  Together they walked from the desolate seascape toward the foothills and started up the narrow trail into the mountains.   As they traveled farther and farther along the pathway, the low-hanging fog began to thicken about them and eventually the sea vanished from sight to be replaced by the swirling mists.  Astalder’s ears suddenly flattened and his nostrils fared wide.   A nervous chuffing sound issued from his chest as his soft nose butted into the Elf’s shoulder.

          Legolas stroked the animal’s neck in an effort to soothe the frightened horse.  “I know,” he said softly.  “I smell it, too.”

          He carefully nocked the arrow and held the bow ready before him as he stepped lightly forward.  Up ahead something was most assuredly dead.  The intense and noxious odor of dried blood and putrefying flesh assaulted their noses, but the obscuring mists prevented Legolas from seeing the path in front of them.  He turned his head slowly, listening to the sounds about him and then cautiously took another step along the rocky path, his bow moving slightly to right and then left as his gaze scanned the path before him.  And then he saw it.  The carcass of Strider’s horse lay across the stones, its throat ripped out and blood covering its neck and head.

          “Ai, Elbereth!” the Elf hissed, lowering his bow and quickly moving forward, his eyes rapidly searching the surrounding area for any signs of Strider.

          Just past Hodoer’s body and a few feet farther along the trail, Legolas could see the shape of a body, dark haired and apparently human.  The man’s face was hidden from view, covered by dirty, matted hair and his naked body was smeared with blood and grime and covered with cuts and bruises.  The body was resting upon its side and a short, dark arrow protruded from the man’s chest.   Legolas let out a deep, anguished cry and ran to the fallen human, quickly falling to his knees beside the man’s body and pulling him over onto his back.   The lifeless head lolled sideways, the hair falling away.

          Legolas’ breath rushed out in a flood of relief.  It was not Aragorn.  Who it was, he had no clue, but the man was dead and had been so for some time.  A bright flash caught the Elf’s eye and he moved away from the corpse and over to the edge of the trail and knelt down, picking up the Elven blade that was lying there.  The knife was Aragorn’s; he was sure of it.  He rose up again, sliding the knife into his belt, and his gaze swiftly traveled over the rocks and crags, searching for any sign of his friend.  Astalder’s alarmed whinny coincided with his own awareness of the sound of an animal running and his bow swung up before him.  An instant later the wolves leapt out from the mists.

*wolfsbane