Upon hearing the whispered name the huge silver wolf threw back its head, neck stretched upward toward the sky, and bayed.  A spine-chilling, mournful howl rose up from deep within its massive chest and the haunting sound reverberated off the mountain sides with an eerie echo.  Legolas felt his skin crawl with recurring shivers as the ghastly cry seemed to pass right through his soul.  When the wolf’s heart-wrenching wail ended, the monstrous animal leapt away from the Elf and bounded off into the mist covered rocks and was gone.

          Legolas lay flat on his back, still and immobile upon the stone pathway, too shocked and bewildered to move.  He was harshly roused from his mystified stupor when a second, terrible howl resonated through the dense fog and he hurriedly scrambled up off the ground and onto his feet, gathering up the Elven knife at his side as he did so.  He saw his bow lying a few feet away and quickly snatched it up as well.   The wayward arrow had been trampled beneath Astalder’s thrashing hooves and was shattered and useless and he left it where it lay and then started up the trail and into the rocks chasing after the wolf.

          “Aragorn!” he shouted.  “Aragorn!  Wait!”

          As he heedlessly ran through the mist and fog, Legolas’ mind was churning with confused and frightened thoughts.   He had no earthly reason whatsoever to believe that this large silver wolf was indeed his human friend, yet something in the beast’s eyes had called out to him, pleaded with him for help.  He knew it was insane to think that Aragorn had somehow transformed himself into a wolf; yet in his heart he knew it was true.

          He halted briefly, his blond head swiveling back and forth and his keen eyes skillfully scanning the crags and rock shelves along the trail, but there was no sign of the wolf.  Suddenly, he remembered the rest of the pack and cursed himself for a fool for blindly running through the thick fog unmindful of their presence.  He forced himself to stop and listen to the whispering winds and the sounds of the earth emanating from the mountain side but after a few moments of intense scrutiny, he felt certain that he was indeed alone upon the trail.

          He started forward once again, jogging lightly along the rocky path, his senses now attuned to pick up the faintest of sounds.  But his eyes were the first to discover the initial evidence of his friend’s passage.  Almost immediately he came upon what looked to be ripped and torn clothing tangled up within the thorny branches of a gnarled bush that was growing out of the rocks.  He stopped and reached his hand into the prickly twigs and freed the remnants of a man’s shirt.  He brought the cloth up to his nose and breathed in the scent.  It was unmistakably Aragorn’s.  Legolas knew well the distinctive smell of his long time friend, and although he immediately noticed that the shirt was much cleaner than usual, he was still confident that it had been recently worn by the ranger.

          He quickly looked around at the surrounding rocks and scraggly bushes and spotted more torn clothing a short distance ahead.   Somehow seeing these scraps of shredded cloth frightened Legolas more than the idea that somehow Aragorn had changed into a wolf.  From the looks of these rent and ravaged garments, it seemed more likely that Aragorn had been attacked by wolves, not turned into one; but if that was so, then where was he?

          “Aragorn!” he shouted again.  “Aragorn, please mellon nin.   If you can hear my voice, answer me!”

          The panic in his voice was evident and the melodious Elvish words rang off the stones in ghostly tones, but there was no answering reply.  Legolas threw the torn clothing to the ground and hurried forward, now suddenly very afraid of what he might find up ahead.

          The path he had been traveling now appeared to narrow and then ended abruptly in a gently sloping wall of rocks and shelves that formed a natural terrace going up the side of the mountain.  He slung his bow over his shoulder and tucked the knife back into his belt and began to climb up the rocks.  The disturbing fog and mist continued to roil about him in thick swirls and he had the distinct feeling that he was not alone upon the trail, yet he could hear no sound save his own breathing.  He rose steadily higher and higher, his gaze constantly looking from right to left, searching for the slightest bit of proof that Aragorn had come this way.

          As he pulled himself up and over the top of a slight overhang his breath came out in a sharp gasp as he saw a bare foot, undoubtedly human, protruding from the rocks in front of him.  Hurriedly he scrambled forward on his hands and knees until he reached the foot.  The rest of the man’s naked body was lying in a shallow cutaway within the rock wall of the mountain side, hidden behind a screen of boulders and Legolas knew that it was Aragorn even before he saw the familiar dark head and tangled hair.  

          “Aragorn!” he cried as he reached his friend’s side and quickly knelt down beside him.  He lightly touched the cold, bare shoulders and could feel the violent shudders radiating outward from beneath the ranger’s icy skin.  Aragorn moaned as if in pain and his legs drew up to his chest as more racking seizures shook his body.   Legolas reached to his throat and hastily unfastened the brooch that was holding his heavy cloak upon his shoulders.  He awkwardly tugged it off and around his back and hurriedly placed the woolen garment over his friend’s shivering, naked form, pushing it up under his back and wrapping it around his shoulders and chest.

          “Aragorn!” he cried again, but the ranger did not seem fully conscious or aware of his surroundings.  His sweat tangled hair fell into his face and his head rolled back and forth across his chest, yet his eyes did not open.

          Legolas drew Aragorn’s torso up off the ground, holding his shaking body within his arms.   He clumsily drew the cloak tighter about the man’s shoulders and back and tucked the remaining length of the warm cloth about his friend’s bare legs.  Aragorn’s head fell to the side and another painful moan escaped his blue-tinged lips.   His eyes remained closed and he looked to be dazed or heavily drugged, but Legolas had seen no life-threatening wounds upon his body, only numerous shallow scrapes and scratches.

          “Aragorn!  Aragorn! Wake up!” Legolas pleaded.

          Legolas continued to hold the unconscious ranger upright and began to vigorously rub the human’s numb hands and fingers trying to get the blood circulating within Aragorn’s frozen limbs, all the while murmuring his name and talking to him in soft Elvish whispers.  Yet even as he did this, his gaze scanned the surrounding area in search of some sheltering place where he could move the ranger and get him out of the elements and near a warming fire.

          But his survey of the rock shelf turned up no such refuge and he held on to the ranger even tighter as he realized that there was no spot within these rocks that would offer them adequate shelter.  His golden head suddenly whipped around as he realized that they were no longer alone upon the rocks and his hard gaze fell upon a dark Elven being who had seemingly materialized out of the thin air.  A knife appeared out of no where and into Legolas’ right hand and his left arm drew the ranger protectively closer to his chest.

          Glîngroth took in the scene before him at a glance, and ignoring the threat of the weapon, hurried toward the fallen ranger and the golden Elf guarding him so fiercely.  He dropped the numerous bags and bundles that he was carrying and brought forth a leather flagon.

          “Quickly,” he ordered in a quiet yet commanding voice.  “We must get this potion down him at once.  For whatever mad reason, he has made the transformation.  They will call for him now that they know he is one of them.”  His intense, black eyes bored into the deep blue gaze of the Mirkwood prince.  “He is in great danger, pen ned malthen*.”

          Legolas stared at the small, dark Elf, completely taken aback by his sudden appearance and extremely reluctant to allow him to administer this unknown brew to Aragorn.  The Elvish dialect he spoke was odd, yet somewhat similar to the ancient language of the Wood Elves that Legolas remembered hearing as a small child.  However, he was still unwilling to trust this peculiar little being.

          Glîngroth opened the leather flask and brought it closer to Strider’s lips.  His eyes continued to focus upon Legolas.  “If you value Strider’s life, you must allow me to do this!”

          When the dark Elf uttered Strider’s name with such familiarity, Legolas relented and his head bobbed forward in a curt nod of acceptance and the knife lowered.  He would not, however, relinquish his strong hold upon the ranger’s body.  He was deeply perplexed by this situation and had no idea what was truly happening, but apparently this curious Elven creature did.  For the moment, at least, he would allow the Elf to treat Aragorn with his noxious brew, but he would have answers to all his questions.

          Glîngroth gently brought the flagon to Strider’s mouth and upended the skin, pouring the smelly potion into his mouth.  Strider gagged and coughed as the liquid slid down his throat and then began to flail his hands and arms about in an attempt to push the flask away.   Legolas was forced to grip his upper biceps and pressure Strider into remaining still until the small creature finally removed the container from the ranger’s lips.  As Legolas watched him, Glîngroth grabbed another of the leather bags and quickly drew out a length of heavy metal chain.  When he started to secure the thick cuffs about Strider’s wrists, Legolas angrily knocked his small brown hands away from the human’s body and snarled at the diminutive Elf.

          “I will not let you bind him like some criminal!”

          Glîngroth’s dark face turned hard and brutal and he glared back at the belligerent prince.  “If you want him to live through this, you will leave off.  We have no time to argue.”  His expression softened slightly as he saw the deep pain within Legolas’ eyes.  “I will explain everything to you; but now you must help me to restrain him.  We are running out of time!”

          Legolas was torn by conflicting emotions and fearful uncertainty and his mind simply refused to function leaving him speechless and numb.  Glîngroth did not wait for the fair Elf’s consent and swiftly and efficiently began to secure the chains about Strider’s wrists and ankles.  He then wrapped the chains tightly about the ranger’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides and then he pulled the metal links tight, locking them in place.  He was barely in time, for no sooner had he leaned back upon his heels, than Strider’s lips emitted a horrid growling snarl and both Legolas and Glîngroth instinctively leapt back and away from the wild and viciously struggling man turned beast.

          Legolas gaped at his friend in horror, appalled by what he saw unfolding before him as the ranger’s face melted and twisted and then wavered between his own strong features and the fearsome snarl of the silver wolf.  His reeling mind refused to accept what it was plainly witnessing as Strider’s body writhed and jerked upon the rocks of the ledge, altering back and forth with the shifting of each transformation.

          Legolas unthinkingly reached out his hand and started to move back toward his friend, but Glîngroth grabbed his upper arm and forcefully held the Elf back and well away from the ranger.

          “Do not touch him!” he warned.  “You must stay back until the seizures have passed.”

          Legolas’ anguished eyes pleaded with the smaller Elf to allow him to reach Aragorn and he tried to pull away from the creature’s tenacious grasp, but the dark Elf was hardhearted and relentless and would not allow Legolas any closer.  Helpless, he was forced to watch from afar as Aragorn screamed in agony and twisted within his constrictive chains as the unrelenting waves of morgul poison coursed through his mind and body.  And then mercifully, it was over and Strider lay still.

          With a satisfied grunt, Glîngroth began to gather up the bags and bundles that he had earlier dropped upon the stones.   He looked at Legolas and tilted his head toward Strider’s quiet form.

          “Hurry!  You will have to carry him.  We must get him inside before the others can call for him.”  He headed toward the face of the cliff and then magically the rock wall melted in front of him and a cavern entrance could be seen.  He glanced over his shoulder and back at Legolas with an exasperated frown.  “Now.”

          Legolas jerked into motion and hurried to Aragorn’s chained and limp body.  He easily picked the ranger up off the stones and carried him the short distance to the cave’s opening; silently, he followed the childlike Elf inside.  As he followed Glîngroth past the enchanted opening he anxiously glanced back out at the trail below.

          “My horse,” he said, looking back at the dark Elf.  “My horse is still out there.”

          Glîngroth nodded.  “Worry not; I shall collect him later.”  He looked up at the taller Elf, his expression grim and determined.  “Right now, we must get Strider inside the Tower.”

          “But the wolves,” Legolas’ concerned voice trailed off as he glanced back at the now concealed entrance.

          “They will not return for a time.”  He gave Legolas a begrudging smirk.  “You managed to kill their leader.  It will take them some time to sort out who will succeed him.  Until then, your horse should be safe enough.”  He quickened his steps and started up a broad, stone stairway.  “This way, Legolas.”

          The prince’s head whipped about, his sharp eyes narrowing suspiciously.  “How do you know my name?”

          The dark Elf laughed gleefully.  “You are surely the Elf of Strider’s fevered dreams.  He called for you many times throughout his ordeal.  He said you would come for him.”

          He laughed again at the astonished expression on the fair Elf’s face and then a wry, twisted smirk creased his lips.  “He did not say you would be so obstinate.”

          And with that last biting remark, he scampered up the stairs leaving Legolas to stare after him, a baffled and irritated frown marring his serene features.  Slowly his gaze lowered to the innocently sleeping face of the unconscious ranger in his arms and his expression turned to one of mild annoyance.

          “Obstinate?” he repeated indignantly.  “I am not obstinate.”  

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

          Legolas dosed lightly, his eyes half-lidded and his head tilted back and resting against the chair’s soft cushion.  He was seated near Strider’s sleeping form, his slender palm gently lying atop the ranger’s chest, monitoring his breathing and sensitive to any change in his condition.  A slight rasp brought him to full wakefulness and he leaned over to look closely at his friend’s face.   Strider was still unconscious, although his lips were no longer blue and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.  Satisfied, he sat back into his chair and began once again to mull over the incredible tale that Glîngroth had told him.

          Aragorn had been headed back to retrieve his supplies and was then planning to travel to some distant forestland south of Rohan.  When he had failed to return to the tower for the potion and herbs needed for his very survival, Glîngroth had gone looking for him, fearing that he had been waylaid by the werewolves.   Instead he had found Legolas, as well as the ranger, when he had emerged from the secret passageway to the Cloud Tower.

          That had been many hours ago and the dreadful chains were still wrapped about Strider’s chest.  Legolas was heartsick at the sight of them.  The dark Elf had explained the necessity of keeping Strider constrained until the morgul poisons within his body had been neutralized, but he could not bear to see him chained thus.  He knew all too well the humiliating feel of chains upon his own body and he was loathe to have Aragorn suffer this same fate; yet he was helpless to prevent it.

          The strange little Elf had told Legolas everything that had occurred since first finding Strider upon the trail and under attack by the gaurhoth.  Yet even now Legolas found it hard to accept that this terrible misfortune had befallen the ranger.  But he could not deny what he had plainly seen for himself.  The only thing he knew for certain was that he would never leave Aragorn’s side and together they would somehow see this grisly dilemma through to its end – whatever end that might be.  But he feared Aragorn was swiftly running out of time.  Soon even that foul potion would no longer be enough to prevent the transformations from occurring.  Simply getting to the Forests of Druadan would be a gargantuan task, especially when they were this close to Mordor and the call of the werewolves so seductive.

          And even if by some miracle, they found this much needed plant, he was still not convinced that the supposed spells and rituals would work.  Glîngroth had gone into lengthy detail with him about exactly what would be required and a great deal more than a weed would be necessary to complete these spells.  Legolas had thoroughly read through the ancient parchments several times and knew that not only would they need the aconite but also the blood of a close relative.  Aragorn had no blood kin living that Legolas knew of and although theoretically Lord Elrond could be considered a blood relative, he was a thousand miles away in the Elven haven of Imladris.

          Legolas held no real hope of Aragorn even reaching the Druadan Forest let alone Rivendell and he had firmly decided not to tell Aragorn about this ill-fated requirement.  Should they both somehow live to reach the forests northwest of Minas Tirith, he would worry about the needed blood at that time.  Some solution would eventually present itself to him; he had found that if he waited long enough, something always happened.  He would wait for that ‘something’ and pray that it would be sufficient.

          He had initially believed that once they found the grey wizard, Mithrandir, all would be as naught and the ancient Maiar would simply lift this curse and the problem of the blood would become moot, but Glîngroth had told him that the Istari would be of no use to them for the conjuring of these mystic rites.  Aragorn would need the sorcerous powers of an ancient Gûladan of the Drúath to rid his body of the treacherous wolf spirit that now claimed it.  But much like the Drughu Witch-Woman who had protected him in the Shadow Lands, finding such a magic man of the Woses might prove insurmountable, if not impossible. 

          So many obstacles, he thought bleakly.  How can we possibly prevail against these odds?

          He sighed wearily and glanced back over at the sleeping ranger.  There was no change in the man’s condition and suddenly, without warning, he was overcome by the terrible sorrow and agonizing pain of his own self-doubt and guilt.   He choked back a ragged breath as stinging tears unexpectedly came to his eyes.  He could not rid himself of the tormenting remorse that threatened to tear his soul apart.   How could he have allowed Aragorn to make this journey alone when he could have pressed the ranger to remain in Mirkwood; or at the very least, gone with him.  But he had not, and now this unspeakable evil had befallen the only man he had ever trusted.

          “Legolas?” the raspy whisper sounded from the bedside and he jerked up out of the chair and quickly moved to the bed.  He leaned down over the ranger and tried to smile as he placed his elegant hand upon Strider’s arm.

          He gazed down at the man’s tired, silver eyes.  “Aragorn,” he murmured.  “I am here, mellon nin.”

          Strider smiled weakly and then his eyes closed again.  “I knew you would come,” he gasped and then fell back into darkness.

*golden one