Strider angrily tossed the scroll he had been reading on top of an already precarious stack of papers and books and fell back against his chair.  Several muttered Dwarvish epithets followed as he rubbed his eyes in weary frustration.  They had been scouring the library shelves for books, scrolls and parchments for more than five hours and had yet to find anything useful.  After starting with the obvious tomes on herbs, medicine, cures, potions and brews, they had moved on to texts concerning the gaurhoth and other tales of shape shifting and morgul transformations.

          Most of the treatises were written in Elvish but a great many were in some esoteric runes or symbols that were surely of the Maiar and totally incomprehensible to him.  Glîngroth was able to read some of these mysterious scrolls, yet for the most part he, too, was at a loss as to their substance and meaning.  None of the material they had read so far referred to the aconite plant or where it might be found growing and thriving other than the old forests of Rhûn.

          Strider pushed himself away from the table and stood up, stretching cramped, taut muscles greatly in need of use.  Without thinking, he began to walk back and forth across the marbled floor, his arms behind his back, hands clasped together in a tight wad.  Disturbed by his movement, Glîngroth raised his dark head from the huge book he had been reading and glanced across the room at the ranger.  His eyes widened with apprehension as he noted the scowling, bestial frown upon the man’s face and his relentless pacing steps.

          “Strider?” he tentatively asked.  “Are you feeling… unwell?”

          At the Elf’s querulous voice, Strider halted and turned toward the large desk.  Glîngroth’s childlike body was dwarfed by the huge chair in which he sat and the massive, cluttered desktop before him.   This amusing sight brought a slight smile to his lips and the Elf’s tension eased as he saw Strider’s face return to one more ‘human’ in appearance.

          “I am fine, Glîngroth,” Strider assured him.  “I tend to pace about when I am angry or frustrated.”

          Then seeing the Elf’s skeptical expression and staring eyes, he hastened to add.  “Oh! You mean… no, no, really.  I am fine.”

          The Elf slowly nodded and then quietly returned to his reading.  Strider resumed his relentless pacing, but eventually he halted beside one of the tall, thin windows and looked out at the scene unfolding below the tower’s facade.  Silver-grey mists and clouds huddled about the rocks and crags of the mountain peaks, obscuring much of the land beneath and floated out before him in an endless, nebulous sea giving the vista an unreal, otherworldly appearance.  Gazing out at the clouds like this actually did make him feel as if he were floating among the heavens, and for a moment the truth of his ominous situation melted away like the fog outside the window.

          Glîngroth’s excited shout brought him back to the harsh reality of the present.  Strider turned back to the Elf and saw him frantically waving the ranger forward.

          “Strider!  This may be something.  Quickly.  Over here.”

          The ranger strode forward with eager steps and came around the side of the desk to look at the piece of parchment that the Elf held in his almond dark hand.  The writing was in a crude, simple form of Westron and the phrasing indicated one who was not fluent in the language.  If seemed to be a military dispatch of some sort.

          “What is it?” Strider asked.

          Glîngroth’s black eyes sparkled with glee.  “I found it tucked inside the pages of this book chronicling the invasions of the Easterlings and the migrations of the various tribes during the Third Age.  I almost tossed it aside, but the word “poison” caught my eye.”

          He glanced up at Strider and then pointed toward the letter.  “This message was apparently sent to the wizards seeking their assistance.  It says here,” he paused as his finger traced the words and lines, finally halting at the middle of the page.  “Yes, here it is.  It says that the incursion of the Easterling Warlord, Sûlgond, was thwarted by the unexpected deaths of his company’s war horses.  The animals had apparently foraged upon the leaves and grasses of the region and something they consumed caused their deaths.  When no replacements were forthcoming, Sûlgond was forced to retreat.”

          He scanned farther down the page, his dark eyes following the fading script and then he looked back up at the ranger, his face beaming.

          “The writer of this missive was asking the wizards if the poison could be used upon humans as well, but that is not what is relevant to your situation.”  He turned back to the letter.  “They were finally able to determine which plant was the cause of the poisoning and the soldier making the initial report to his commander described the plant in great detail as ‘a trailing vine with deeply cut leaves and hooded blue flowers growing wild among the trees.’”  The Elf looked back up at Strider.  “He is accurately describing the aconite plant.”

          Glîngroth set the letter down upon the desk and a smug grin spread over his darkly handsome face.  “The plants found here in Rhûn had white flowers, yet I believe that the aconite varieties range from white, blue, violet as well as yellow, depending upon the soil and climate.”

          Strider reached across the desk and picked up the piece of yellowed parchment and his gaze hurriedly scanned the lines.  “It does not say where they found these plants,” he stated as a frown of consternation drew down his lips.  “This helps me naught without a place in which to begin.”

          “Ahhh,” the Elf grinned.  “The author of this note refers to a battle with the Warlord Sûlgond in command.”  He returned to the large book he had been studying previously and ran his lithe brown fingers across the pages until they halted abruptly.  “Here it is.  2910, the Easterlings invade Gondor.  Sûlgond was forced to retreat from his position near the ancient watchtower of Amon Dîn.”

          Strider’s face completely crumbled with disappointment and despair.  The Elf might as well have said the face of the moon for all the good it did him.  Amon Dîn was located within the southeastern region of the Druadan Forest well over six hundred miles from Rhûn, if he flew like a bird straight over the lands.  He would have to travel through some of the most dangerous and barren regions of Middle Earth.  A journey to Druadan would take at least several months non-stop on horseback and even if everything went smoothly and there were no perils to overcome, the bleak lands he would have to pass through offered little in the way of food, water or shelter.  Not to mention the fact that he no longer even had a horse to ride.

          Upon seeing Strider’s desolate face, Glîngroth’s enthusiasm deflated like a sail that has lost the wind.  He turned his sad, black eyes upon the ranger and lightly touched Strider’s arm.

          “Why do you despair?  I thought this information would please you.”

          Strider tried to smile, but a slight jerk at the corner of his lip was all that he could manage.  “It is a very long way to the Druadan Forest.  On foot,” he paused.  “I cannot imagine how long it would take me to reach it, even if I could somehow survive the journey.”

          He sank heavily into a nearby chair with a dejected sigh and covered his face with his hands, fingers gouging at his tired, strained eyes.  He suddenly felt utterly alone and bitterly defeated.   Any hope he might have had; any chance he might have allowed himself to believe in was now gone, cruelly snatched out of reach and yet still taunting and dangling just outside his grasp.

          Glîngroth carefully replaced the letter within the huge book and then moved over to Strider’s side.  His strong hand grasped the ranger’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze and he spoke his encouragement.

          “All is not lost, Strider,” he said quietly.  “I can give you enough of the potion to last at least a month and after that you can mix the ingredients yourself along the way.  I shall give you the needed herbs and write out the measures for you.  You’ll see; once you reach Druadan you have but to find the aconite plant and add that vital ingredient to the potion.  I shall give you the spells required to rid your body of this foul darkness.  You need only find a powerful sorcerer to conjure them for you and… ”

          Strider quickly glanced up at the Elf as this last was spoken.  “Spells?” he interrupted as the words finally sank into his clouded mind.  “You did not mention anything about spells before.”

          Glîngroth guiltily turned away from the ranger, his slender hands twisting with nervous agitation.  “I… I did not actually believe we might find the aconite growing anywhere else.”  He turned a chagrined face back toward the ranger and then quickly lowered his eyes from Strider’s hard stare.  “I did not think it necessary to mention the spells, for I truly thought there would be no need.”

          Strider shook his head at the sheer folly and desperation of it all.   He abruptly stood up from his chair and angrily stomped away from the Elf.  He could not believe this was happening to him.   He stopped and turned back to Glîngroth with a glowering snarl.  “And just where along the way was I supposed to find a ‘sorcerer’ to conjure these spells?”

          The dark Elf was visibly distraught and frightened by Strider’s reaction and hastened to the tall ranger’s side.  He looked up at the human and his black, shining eyes reflected his dismay.  “Forgive me,” he pleaded.  “I should have told you everything from the beginning.  I just never believed there was any real hope that you could rid yourself of this fell sickness.  I do not know of anyone who ever found release from the curse of the gaurhoth – save in death.”

          As angry and despondent as he felt, Strider’s face slowly softened as he looked down at the strange little being standing before him and suddenly the whole retched state of affairs seemed insanely funny to him.  Strider shook his head and wild, maniacal laughter issued from his lips and then abruptly cut off as he slowly sank to his knees.   His shoulders slumped forward and his hands pressed into the tops of his thighs, balling into tight fists as his head hung forward and his crazy laughter turned to brittle sobs of defeat.

          Glîngroth stood frozen, staring at the stricken ranger; certain that the human had gone mad.  Now he found himself fearing what might happen next and he realized that he was too overcome himself to speak further.  After a very long time, Strider finally lifted his head and looked up at the Elf with eyes that were dead and now without hope.

          “It matters not, Glîngroth,” he murmured softly.  “I shall never reach the Forests of Druadan.”

          The Elf lurched forward and then rushed to the kneeling ranger.  He placed his gentle hands upon the man’s shoulders and stared down at his ravaged face.  “Do not lose hope, Strider,” he exhorted.  “You will reach Druadan.  Your will is strong; I feel it surging within you.”  His bright eyes glittered as he held the ranger’s silver gaze.  “You will not fall to Shadow.”

          Strider looked back at the Elf and a great sadness overcame him.  “I wish it were so, little one,” he said.   And then seemingly out of nowhere, he thought of Legolas and the stubborn determination the Elf always displayed no matter what their dilemma; even when there seemed no hope left at all, he never gave up and a short bemused chuckle escaped his lips.

          Legolas, he thought.  You are my driving force even when you are not at my side.  Hannon le, mellon nin.  And with that one heartening thought, a new resolve slowly began to seep back into his soul and he looked back up at Glîngroth with renewed vigor.

          “I will need a horse,” he stated.

          A broad smile creased the Elf’s face.  “If you have gold aplenty, there is a border town on the other side of the mountains.  It is a rough place filled with dangerous and ruthless men.”  He gave Strider a sardonic grin.  “But I think you can handle yourself easily enough among them.  I feel certain you can acquire a horse there.”

          Strider quickly rose to his feet.  “All my supplies were strapped to Hodoer’s saddle.”

          “I very much doubt that they have been disturbed,” Glîngroth replied.  “The gaurhoth may have returned to scavenge the horse’s body, but they would have no use for your supplies.”

          For the first time that day, Strider felt a small sliver of real hope return.  “Very well my little friend,” he smiled.  “Gather together these spells of yours and as much of this potion as you can brew.”  His silver eyes now held a glitter of their own.  “I travel to Druadan.”  

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

          As soon as the first of the wolves emerged from the mists, Legolas steadied his stance and released his fingers from the bowstring.  The arrow sang through the air and struck the lead wolf squarely in the chest as it lunged toward him.  The beast shrieked as the shaft penetrated its heart and then it dropped to the stones in a lifeless heap.   Legolas had already strung another arrow and let it fly toward a second wolf circling around to his left.  The arrow slammed into the grey hindquarters of the animal and the wolf yowled in pain and awkwardly limped away.

          Astalder whinnied in terror, rearing upward, hooves pawing wildly at the air as the wolves charged toward him.  The horse’s feet thudded back to the ground and he spun about, crazily bucking and kicking his hind legs until one forceful kick of his sharp back hooves caught one of the wolves broadside.  The beast grunted painfully as it was violently tossed into the air and thrown across the jutting rocks beside the trail; and then it fell to the ground, its back broken upon the hard stones.

          As the others closed in, Legolas swung his bow around and prepared for another assault.  But before any of the remaining wolves could leap, a huge, silver-grey wolf materialized out of the mists and launched itself directly at Legolas.  The Elf turned to meet the animal and stared directly into its shining silver eyes.  In that one millisecond of time, Legolas did something he never did under any circumstances – he hesitated in his shot – and when that unthinkable momentary fugue was broken, the beast was upon him.   Its massive paws struck him high on the shoulders and knocked him completely off his feet.  The bow jerked from his hands with the force of the collision and the nocked arrow slipped from his fingers and went spinning off into space.  He landed hard upon his back and his blond head roughly smacked the stone pathway and bounced back up.

          Legolas winced as his vision spun with dancing, flashing lights and he instinctively raised his left arm up to ward off the sharp teeth that he knew would be coming for his throat.  He snatched Aragorn’s blade from his belt and tried to strike up at the beast, but the animal pounced upon his arm and chest, pinning him to the ground.  Legolas squirmed beneath the wolf, but could not get his weapon hand free.  The wolf snarled into his face and Legolas quickly turned his head aside to avoid the glistening, white teeth.

          The other wolves rushed forward, eager to join in the feast, but the big grey male bared its jowls and snapped at those of its kindred who got too close, claiming this prize as his own.  The hovering wolves reluctantly backed away, growling their anger and resentment, but they did not challenge the lone wolf as he stood atop the fallen Elf.

          Astalder shrieked wildly, still kicking and bucking, and finally he wheeled about and ran back down the trail toward the sea.  Legolas watched the horse flee and prayed that it would escape as he once again tried to bring the blade up to strike.  The wolf snarled again and its teeth clamped upon the leather of his bracer, crushing his wrist hard enough to cause pain yet not breaking the bone and the knife fell from his numbed and useless fingers.  Legolas chanced a look up at the wolf and for one idiotic moment thought that the beast was actually grinning down at him.

          The remaining members of the pack once again pressed forward, not wishing to be deprived of this kill, but again the monstrous beast warned them back.  Legolas brought his knees up and dug his heels into the pathway, trying to lever the beast from off his chest, but the animal would have none of it.  The massive head swung back around toward his face, and he felt the hot breath of the wolf as its teeth gnashed together an inch from his chin.

          Legolas grunted and writhed, frantically trying to escape, but the beast held him fast.  While it was distracted by the Elf’s struggles, a large, black wolf chanced coming near and tried to take a bite out of the Elf’s kicking leg, but the silver beast quickly turned and snapped at his muzzle, drawing blood as he ripped into the soft fleshy cheek of the impudent black creature.  The bitten wolf squealed in pain and hastily retreated, and shortly thereafter the others faded away into the mists, ceding the prey to the dominant silver-grey.

          When the last of the wolves vanished into the fog, the huge beast standing upon Legolas turned once again and looked down at the sprawled Elf.  It slowly lowered its massive body until it was half lying across the Elf’s torso and then it casually draped its front legs over each of Legolas’ shoulders.  The weight of the beast was crushing and Legolas could hardly breathe.  He turned terrified, blue eyes upward as the wolf’s large head lowered and the muzzle of the beast inched its way toward his nose.

          Legolas let out a strangled groan as the animal’s body shifted and squashed his ribcage further and he found himself staring directly into the silver eyes of the beast.  Legolas gasped what he felt sure was his last breath and then the wolf’s long, pink tongue flicked out and lapped across his flawless cheek.  At Legolas’ surprised and wide-eyed stare, the wolf drew back its black lips in a wide, toothy lupine grin.  Legolas froze; stunned by the animal’s erratic behavior and then his brow slowly creased as his incredulous gaze locked with that of the wolf.

          “Aragorn?” he whispered.