The grey wizard Gandalf sat alone upon a broad stone bench, lightly dosing.  The huge and musty book he had been reading lay open upon his lap, the pages lazily stirring with the cool breezes that wafted across the glittering white stones of the palazzo.  The massive façade of the archives of Minas Tirith rose up behind the bench upon which he rested and nearby, the glistening spires and turrets of the many buildings within the Gondorian city shone brightly under the morning sun, a dazzling white against a clear blue sky.  His rumpled, pointed hat was pulled down over his eyes, blotting out the sun’s rays and his grey-haired head rested against his propped elbow and cupped palm.

          High overhead in the cloudless sky, a magnificently feathered hawk circled the various towers and minarets, gliding along on the thermals, its keen yellow eyes searching the city below.  When it spied the napping maiar, it tucked its wings to its sleek sides and began a plummeting dive toward the plaza.  As it dove through the skies it emitted a piercing, screech that echoed off the surrounding buildings.  Gandalf jerked awake at the bird’s shrill call and the heavy book slid off his lap and landed at his feet in a cloud of dust.  He tipped back his hat and brought a gnarled hand up to shield his eyes from the sun’s bright light as he scanned the skies above him.  He easily spotted the diving bird and slowly he arose from the bench to his feet and lifted up his left arm, stretching it out to the side.  The hawk gracefully spread its rust colored wings and broke out of its dive, floating down toward the awaiting wizard.  It extended its razor-sharp talons and then lightly landed upon the ancient Istari’s forearm, gently wrapping its deadly claws around Gandalf’s arm.  The predator’s regal head cocked to one side and it again voiced a raucous squawk.

          “Emmmmm,” Gandalf murmured.  “That is indeed disturbing news.”  He pursed his lips and whistled several chirps and screeches in reply and the hawk’s wings flapped back and forth with great agitation.  Its large claws flexed upon the wizard’s arm and it cawed loudly.

          “You must fly to Gwaihir at once.  You will find him atop the peaks of the Misty Mountains.  Tell him I am once again in dire need of his assistance.  Tell him what has happened and that I will meet him at Mount Mindolluin in three days time.”

          The hawk’s head bobbed up and down several times and then it lifted its wings and spread them outward.  With another loud and abrasive screech, it pushed off the wizard’s arm and took off into the skies, winging its way northwest toward the plains of Rohan.  Gandalf watched the hawk depart with sad and troubled eyes.  The news this messenger had brought him was dire indeed.  He only hoped they would be in time.  Slowly he bent down and retrieved the book that had fallen at his feet.  He glanced back up at the sky once again but the hawk was gone.  Muttering, he reached for his staff and then hastened back into the dim archival halls.  He had much reading yet to do.  

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          Legolas and Strider faced one another across a small fire, neither speaking.  They had stopped for the night hours ago and had silently gone about setting up a campsite on the flat, dusty plains.   Both were exhausted, bone-weary, and sullen and neither felt much like conversation.  Strider had gone through the dull routine of preparing a meal, yet neither had eaten much.   They were desperately trying to conserve water and therefore he had not used any to cook with, thereby limiting his choice of cuisine.  The dried strips of meat and berries that constituted their remaining stores had not been particularly appetizing and had only served to increase their thirst.

          The two had traveled a little over three weeks into the harsh, barren plains of the Brown Lands and for the first time since they had set out from Rhûn, Legolas thought they might not survive this trip after all.  The sun beat down upon them daily and the winds swept the arid plains causing blinding dust storms that covered them with a thin layer of grit.  It blanketed their hair and clothes, irritated their eyes and seemed to penetrate their skin.  And if they could not find a water source within the next few days, the horses would suffer.  After that…. he tried to put the thought out of his mind and once again he glanced over at the ranger.

          Strider’s physical health had deteriorated quickly and even though he drank the daily potion that Glîngroth had brewed for him, he was in the worst shape that Legolas had ever seen him.  There were great dark circles like ugly smudges of coal beneath his eyes and his once laughing silver eyes were sunken and over large and now totally devoid of life or energy.  Despite the daily pounding from the burning sun, his skin was pale and ashen; and he was so thin.  Legolas felt certain that Strider had not eaten much more than a bird since leaving the border town behind them and heading out into the plains.  He also knew that he had not slept in days, but then again, neither had he.  He had been afraid to rest; afraid that something might happen to Strider while he slumbered.  Across the flames from him, the ranger stirred and the Elf anxiously looked up.

          “What is it?” Legolas asked.

          Strider’s dead eyes looked over at the Elf and he slowly shook his head.  “Nothing,” he replied sadly.  “I was only thinking about the times we used to camp.”  He looked back up at Legolas and tried very hard to smile but somehow the muscles in his jaw would not cooperate.  “Do you remember those tales you used to tell me?”

          Legolas nodded, a slight smile coming to his own lips.  “Would you like me to tell you one now?”

          Strider shook his head again, and then his sorrowful eyes gazed up at the Elf across the fire and the utter hopelessness Legolas saw within them ripped at his heart.  Strider’s head lowered and his voice could barely be heard as he murmured.

          “I fear I shall become one of your tales, Legolas…. and you will be telling it to someone else.”

          Legolas shut his eyes tightly and his breath caught within his chest as the deep hurt these words brought to his soul enveloped him like a shroud.   Those few simple words, spoken so calmly, held a truthful reality that was cruel and brutal.  His only solace came from knowing that he probably would not live to tell the tale either; for he very much doubted that either of them would reach Druadan.  Before he had a chance to answer, both froze as the quiet stillness of the night was replaced by the ghastly howls of the gaurhoth.  Legolas leapt to his feet, his bow already within his hand.

          “They have found us!” Strider shouted as he, too, reached for his bow and quiver.  “Can you see them?”

          Legolas swiftly scanned the open wastelands with his sharper Elven eyes and finally spotted the large, dark shapes loping toward them.  “There!” he pointed.  “Eight of them.”

          By now the horses had caught the scent of the gaurhoth and were frantically pulling at their tethers.  Legolas ran to Astalder and pulled the rein free of the stone weight and leapt upon his bare back.  He wheeled the Elven steed about and stringing an arrow, rode out into the darkness to meet the oncoming pack and quickly disappeared into the night.  Strider slung his quiver across his shoulders and ran for his horse.  The black steed pawed at the ground, its eyes wild and glaring, but it allowed Strider to mount and soon the ranger, too, sped off, chasing after his Elven friend.

          A piercing yowl reached his ears as he headed toward the charging pack and Strider hurriedly grabbed an arrow from his back quiver.  Before he could set arrow to string, the horse swerved madly and he lost his balance, sliding sideways across the horse’s bare back.  He clumsily caught hold of the steed’s neck and mane and pulled himself back upright, but as he made the desperate grab for the horse’s neck, he dropped his bow and the arrow.  Cursing, he turned the animal back around and started to go back for the fallen bow.  Before he had completed the turn, a wolf-man jumped out of the darkness and knocked him completely off the horse and onto the ground.

          The ebony steed neighed in panic and bolted, leaving Strider and the werewolf wrestling upon the hard ground.  Strider held the wolf’s frenzied and snapping jaws away from his face and realized that his combatant was not actually a real wolf at all, but some sort of distorted man with a wolf’s head and misshapen body.  The beast had its clawed fingers upon his throat, choking him and Strider rolled back and forth in a vain attempt to escape, but the monster was quickly cutting off his air.  Strider drew his knee up to his chest and managed to get his boot under the werewolf’s abdomen and pushed upward with a sharp, swift kick.  The wolf-man atop him grunted and momentarily loosened his hold upon his throat, but it was not enough.

          Strider relinquished his grip upon the wolf’s jowls and tried again to roll out from under the beast, but the animal’s head came down and savagely bit into his shoulder.  Strider screamed in pain as the werewolf’s long teeth sank deep into his flesh, burning like fire, and to Strider, the next few moments seemed to pass by in a slowed and unnatural state of consciousness as the blazing poison coursed through his veins.   A surging power seemed to erupt within his body and suddenly he felt consumed with raw hatred and the maddened desire to kill.  Strider’s eyes turned from silver to red and his lips drew back from his teeth in a leering snarl.  The attacking werewolf hesitated and in that brief moment Strider shoved the beast away and rolled out from under the wolf-man.  He instantly regained his feet and then lowered his body into a hunting crouch; a low, nasty growl issued from his throat.  As the opposing werewolf turned to face Strider, the ranger’s body completed the morgul transformation and his human face was replaced by that of a wild beast.

          The two clashed together in a flurry of teeth and claws and grappled with one another upon the dusty plains.  Strider’s sharp teeth sank into the throat of his attacker and bit down hard.  He could taste the hot, coppery blood and his lust for killing grew manic and rabid.  He torn his clawed hand across the chest of the beast beneath him and the wolf-man gurgled in pain, his ruptured throat bubbling with blood and expended air.  His opponent raked his claws down Strider’s back, momentarily causing the ranger to release his grip upon the werewolf’s throat, but it was too late.  Strider’s wolf-strong jaws clamped back down upon the gaurhoth’s neck and the bones cracked and then he lay still.  Strider lifted his massive head from the kill, blood dripping from his mouth, and he glanced about the darkened flatlands for a new challenger.  Now that he had tasted blood, he wanted more; needed more.  His glowing red eyes scanned the barren lands and he spotted the blond head of the Elf.  A low, menacing growl rose from within his chest and he set off toward this new prey.

          Legolas skillfully rotated his torso to the right and let fly another arrow and a third creature dropped dead in its tracks.  The remaining wolves began to circle the Elf and horse and although they made no overt attempt to draw nearer, they continued to watch the Elf with their fiery eyes.   They were much too close now and Legolas knew he could not kill all of them before at least one broke through and reached him.  Astalder was spinning about on his hind legs, pawing the air with his front hooves, but he was tiring and could not continue to prevent the wolves from closing in.  

          Finally one of the werewolves lost patience and made a bold leap, launching itself directly at Legolas.  The Elf swung his bow to meet the attack and released the shot, but the remaining wolves jumped forward as one and brought both horse and rider to the ground.  Legolas was thrown several feet from his horse by the force of the blow and rolled quickly to his feet.  The wolf-man that had attacked also rolled as he landed and sprang easily to his feet and turned to face his prey.  The others, spying the isolated Elf, immediately lunged forward.  Legolas reached his arms up and over his head and both of his Elven long knives appeared within his hands as he pivoted back and forth to face the attacking wolves.  Astalder awkwardly kicked back up to his feet and then fled into the darkness, leaving the Elf to stand alone against the three snarling wolf-men.

          The thudding sound of pounding feet coming fast, made Legolas turn to the left and he ducked and then rolled as a furred body sailed over his head.  The knife blade flashed up and bit into flesh.  The creature shrieked and landed heavily upon the ground several feet from him, but a second beast wasted no time and hit Legolas squarely in the back, knocking the Elf to the ground.  Its vicious jaws snapped at the prince’s head and Legolas winced as the wolf yanked a mouthful of his long, blond hair, digging to find the soft flesh of his neck.

          The wolf upon his back suddenly grunted in pain and his weight disappeared from Legolas’ back as a large silver-furred mass rammed into it and rolled it off the Elf’s prone body.  Legolas scrambled to his feet and snatched up his knives and then whipped around to stare at the battling wolves, but had no time to waste as the last member of the pack charged at him.  Legolas turned to meet it.  The Elf spun and whirled in a deadly blur, keen blades flashing, and ultimately the creature lay dead at his feet.  Panting and gasping for breath, Legolas at last turned back to the two battling wolves and stared in helpless panic as he realized that the silver wolf-man was unmistakably Aragorn.

          He quickly glanced about at the surrounding ground and his highly sensitive eyes finally caught sight of his dropped bow.  He ran toward the weapon and snatched it up off the ground.  Hurriedly he re-sheathed his knives and drew out an arrow, nocking it to string as he ran back to the fiercely struggling werewolves.  When he reached the two, he lifted the bow and prepared to shoot, but the beasts were too entwined and constantly moving and shifting position.  Frustrated, he kept the bow aimed at the two wolves, forced to wait for a clear shot.

          When at last the silver-grey beast tore the throat out of its assailant, Legolas cautiously lowered his bow and waited.  The great silver wolf threw back its head and howled a triumphant call to the skies above.  Its red eyes glowed with conquest and blood lust and finally it swung it’s dripping jaws toward the Elf.  When the hideous beast turned to face him, Legolas froze.  The monster now standing before him was not his friend.  There was no trace of Aragorn left in the wolf’s glittering and evil eyes.  Its bared teeth and deadly snarl were now directed toward him and the creature’s intent was plain.  Legolas slowly backed away, lifting his bow as he did so, his eyes never leaving the beast’s face.

          The silver wolf crouched down, its red eyes following the Elf’s every move.  A low, threatening growl rumbled within its throat and then it took a cautious step toward the retreating Elf.  Legolas’ pained eyes watched the creature stalk him and could see nothing of his friend within the wolf’s terrifying visage.

          “Aragorn!” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes never leaving the wolf.  “Please mellon nin!  Do not force me to shoot you.”

          The wolf growled again, and then lunged through the darkness toward the Elf.  The arrow sang as it flew from the bow and the silver wolf-man yowled in surprise and pain as the shaft penetrated its flesh.  The beast fell heavily to the ground, snarling and howling, jaws snapping, as it grasped the offending arrow and viciously yanked it from its side.  It let out a terrifying yowl and writhed on the ground for several minutes more and then lay still.  Horrified and sickened by what he had done, Legolas dropped to his knees, his eyes shutting in pain and sorrow.  His arms hung loosely at his sides and the loathsome bow fell to the dust beside him.

          Hot, anguished tears sprang to his eyes and a keening wail issued from his lips.  His ravaged face turned toward the stars above and his eyes sought Eärendil; a bitter, ragged sob shattered the stillness as he choked.

           “Díheno nin*!”

*Forgive me!