There was no feeling any more; no redemption possible; no acceptable justification for his actions.  There was only despair.  He had killed his gwador.*   And, with Aragorn’s death, he had killed his own will to live.  But now death was too honorable.  Death was release from pain and heartache but there could be no relief from this agony.  There could be no salvation.   He was a murderer.  He was delos.**  

********

          ‘Can you do this for him?  Can you do this for him?’  The unwanted words echoed within Legolas’ insensate mind.  He lived, breathed, yet he drifted in darkness, alone, blinded by the blackness that surrounded him.  And still the troublesome words haunted him; hounded him; tormented him.  ‘Do not fail him.’

          “But I have…,” the Elf sobbed.  “I have failed him.”

          ‘You will have to chain him… Can you do this for him?’  The insistent voice shouted within his mind; relentlessly pursuing him and it would not go away.  He could not make it go away.

          Legolas looked up, disoriented, his dull and unfocused eyes unable to comprehend what they saw of the world about him.   He tried to recall where he was and how he had gotten here but the images were vague and distorted.   He had been fighting, fighting something evil….  He looked upward and saw the sky awash with brilliant stars and the darkness of the night.   He remembered the darkness, but why was he on his knees?  Why did he feel so empty, so bereft of hope?  Where was….

          “Aragorn!”

          The Elf’s tortured cry reverberated across the bleak and barren landscape and with the voicing aloud of Aragorn’s name, everything came rushing back to him with total clarity; slamming into his brain with the full force of his culpability.  The overwhelming grief stabbed through his heart and consumed his spirit like a plague ravaging an unwary populace.   His desolate gaze locked upon Aragorn’s pale and bloodied body, lying upon the ground no more than ten feet from him.   His lungs sucked in a horrified, revolted gasp of air and he was at once appalled and sickened by the repugnant image.  Now he vividly remembered what he had done and he could not tear his eyes from the twisted limbs and contorted body, proof of Aragorn’s last agonized moments.

          Another rough, choking sob convulsed his body and finally he turned his eyes away, no longer able to bear the sight of the slain ranger.  The tears he had shed still burned his eyes and he did not bother to wipe them away.  There would never be enough tears to wash away this last sight of his friend and brother.  And because of his deep sorrow and despair, the whispered groan might have gone unnoticed had it not been for the instinctive keenness of his hearing and the silence of the night that allowed the subtle sound to penetrate his mind.

          Confused and uncertain, Legolas raised his head again and then remained completely still, barely breathing, listening to the sounds of the hushed night.  Something had alerted his subconscious and now his eyes narrowed and his head slowly scanned the darkness about him.  Again, the ghostly moan drifted through the whispering of the night winds and he lurched to his feet.  He took several staggering steps and fell forward, stumbling across the hard, sere ground until he dropped to his knees at Aragorn’s side.  His shaking hand stretched out, afraid that his imagination was playing cruel tricks with his mind; afraid that he would only feel the cold and lifeless body of his friend; afraid – yet he touched the ranger – and found him breathing.

          “Aragorn!” he gasped and now placed both his tremulous hands upon the ranger’s bare chest, searching for the deadly arrow wound.  Aragorn’s body shook uncontrollably beneath his hands and the Elf’s long, sensitive fingers felt the congealed blood and deep gashes all along the man’s torso, but he could not find any wound made by an arrow’s point.  And then he saw it, lower upon the ranger’s body, a darker shadow high upon his hip and to the side of the bone.

          How did I miss his heart? How did I miss his ‘chest’ entirely and merely hit his hip? How could I possibly have missed at all from that range?

          Stunned, Legolas rocked back on his heels, his head spinning.  Aragorn should be dead, but by some miracle of the Valar he was not.  Somehow the Elf’s subconscious mind had overridden his warrior’s hand.  The arrow had struck the attacking beast that Aragorn had become, but the wound it inflicted was not life threatening.  As his mind slowly registered this new information, he was overcome with a sense of euphoria and new tears of joy sprang to his eyes.  However, his new found elation was short-lived.   A low, growling snarl startled the Elf back to awareness and Glîngroth’s prophetic words rang within his head.

          ‘There will come a time when you will have to chain him… for his protection as well as your own.’

          The Elf sprang backward and away from the prone form of the ranger.  The growls emanating from Strider’s lips became louder and his body began to shake with the same violent tremors and seizures Legolas remembered from the time he had found the ranger lying upon the rocky trail in Rhûn.

          He quickly pushed himself up off the ground and ran back to their abandoned campsite.  Once there, he went directly to the mound of bags and sacks near his bedroll and retrieved the heavy pouch containing the chains.  He tossed the pack over his shoulder and trotted back to the slowly awakening ranger.

          He knelt beside Aragorn’s body and dumped the chains out onto the ground.   He hastily snatched up the heavy cuffs and placed them around the ranger’s ankles and then he reached for the wrist restraints.   He had them ready to secure the ranger’s hands when Strider suddenly sat upright, his red eyes gleaming.  Without hesitation, Legolas slammed his fist into Strider’s jaw, knocking the human backward and flat upon his back.  A strangled, surprised grunt escaped Strider’s lips and then his eyes closed as unconsciousness swept over him.

          Legolas grabbed the chains with trembling hands and set the manacles about the ranger’s hands.  Once secure, he picked up the longer chains and with one hand pulled Strider’s upper body up off the ground and with the other began to wrap the metal links tightly about his chest, pinning his arms flat to his sides and crossing the chains over his ribcage.   When he was certain they were secure, he placed the sturdy lock through the links and slammed it shut.  He tucked the empty bag under his belt and then picked up the ranger’s limp body.   He swayed slightly under Strider’s dead weight and then after his feet steadied beneath him, moved back in the direction of their camp.

          Legolas stumbled past the long dead fire pit and then sank to the ground near Strider’s unrolled sleeping pallet, the insensible ranger still held within his arms.  Carefully and gently, he lowered his friend down onto the bed and quickly covered him with several thick blankets.  He was about to search for dried grass or scrub to restart the fire when he recalled the dark Elf giving Strider a dose of the potion the last time he had transformed from wolf back into human form.  He moved over to the pile of gear near Strider’s head and began to rummage about for the leather flagon containing the potion.

          Upon finding the flask, he returned to Strider’s side and slowly lifted his friend up into a sitting position.  He eased the ranger’s head and shoulders back and rested them against his chest, and then uncorked the container and tipped the opening to the ranger’s lips.   After the first initial sip, Strider started to rouse and tried to struggle against the Elf’s administrations, but Legolas was the stronger and he forced the liquid down Strider’s throat.  Once that chore had been completed, he lay the ranger back down upon the bedding and set the flagon aside.  Strider drifted in and out of awareness, and after a time, his breathing slowed and became less labored and sleep finally settled over him.  

          Once he was sure that the ranger truly slept, Legolas rose and began to gather what fuel he could find for the campfire and a short time later had a small but warm fire burning next to Strider’s sleeping form.  The Elf collected his bedding and placed it alongside that of the sleeping ranger.  Wearily, Legolas sat down next to his friend and prepared to wait out the night and the lengthy vigil ahead.  

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          Legolas dreamt of cool, soothing waterfalls and crystal clear pools of blue-green water.   Misty sprays wet his face as he lazily floated atop the rippling water and a quiet serenity gently cradled him within its protective shell.   He lifted his face up to the cascading water and he could feel the sun-kissed droplets splashing upon his eyelids, the water sparkling like stars as it ran down his cheeks.  He could taste the clear, cold water…. and then he was jerked upward; the idyllic pool vanished.   He was being shaken, hard and someone was shouting his name.

          Legolas’ eyelids fluttered and water dripped off his long, thick eyelashes as another handful of liquid poured over his face.  Water blurred images floated in front of his eyes and his mind struggled to sort out the dream from reality.

          “Legolas!  Legolas Thranduilion!” the voice boomed.

          The Elf’s eyes opened completely and his head turned toward the sound of a familiar voice.  “Mithrandir?”

          The wizard roughly pulled Legolas up from his bedroll and handed him a large flagon of water.  “Yes, young prince,” he smiled.  “You seem to have had quite an ordeal.  You gave me some cause for alarm.  I feared I would not be able to rouse you from your sleep.”

          Legolas stared at the maiar in dazed bewilderment.  Sleep?  When had he fallen asleep?  He quickly glanced to his left, reassuring himself that the ranger was still there and then Mithrandir’s firm hand upon his arm drew his attention back to the wizard.

          “He is sleeping,” the Istari stated.  “For now.”

          Legolas continued to stare at the grey wizard as if he were seeing a ghost, his mind not yet accepting the fact of his presence.  He finally managed to babble out.  “How did you get here?  How did you find us?”

          Mithrandir chuckled softly and pointed toward the container of water Legolas still clutched within his hands.  “Drink up, young prince.  The water will help to revive you.”  When he was sure that Legolas would indeed heed his request, he continued.

          “Gwaihir brought me to you.”  He waved his hand toward the brown, dusty plains and indicated the giant eagles calmly roosting upon the parched land; their majestic heads erect and proud as they surveyed the wastelands around them.  “Mângwaew and Menellach have come to help as well.”

          He turned back to the Mirkwood prince and continued.  “While at Minas Tirith, I was sought out by a curious messenger.  He told me that a valiant warrior and a proud Elf had set out upon a desperate journey through the barren wastelands, traveling to the Forests of Druadan.”

          “What messenger?” Legolas asked.

          “A fine hawk,” answered the wizard.  “Sent to me by one Glîngroth of Barad-Fân.”

          The Elf’s eyes widened with astonishment.  “Glîngroth?

          The wizard cocked his head to the side and studied the Wood Elf with interest.  “I see that you know of him.”

          Legolas’ eyebrow arched and his lip twisted into a condescending smirk.  “He is an impertinent little peredhel†….” he paused and the words trailed away, and then the sarcasm vanished and his voice was quiet and deferential. “But we owe him our lives.”  His glance fell to the sleeping ranger and Mithrandir’s questioning gaze followed.  “If not for his help, Aragorn would now belong to Sauron and the hope of Middle Earth gone forever.”

          The ancient maiar’s sad eyes turned to study the face of the troubled Elf and his soft, calm voice filled the air.  “There are eight bodies lying not far from here; some bearing your arrows.  The others appear to be mutilated and despoiled by wild beasts.  Perhaps you should tell me what has happened here.”

          Legolas shuddered and his hand reached out, protectively covering the ranger’s chest.  An involuntary sob momentarily choked off his speech as his fingers touched the cold metal and then he whispered.  “Ai, Elbereth!”

          Legolas lifted his hand and gently pushed aside the stray strands of hair that clung to Strider’s damp forehead and then his hand slid back down to rest upon the ranger’s gently rising chest.  When at last he turned his pain-filled eyes back to the Istari, he could barely keep his voice from quavering, but he forced himself to speak slowly and distinctly.

          “Aragorn has been bitten by the gaurhoth.  We were on our way to the Forests of Druadan to seek out a plant or weed of some kind called aconite. It is the vital ingredient needed for the curative potion he must consume to rid him of this evil.  However, the spells also needed to affect this cure must be conjured by a Gûladan of the Drúath.”

          He again looked to his friend.  “His time is running out, Mithrandir.” 

          Legolas’ desperate eyes once again fixed upon the wizard’s face.  “He has already transformed into the wolf – once to protect me and then again last night when we were attacked by the gaurhoth.  The first time he shape-shifted it took a great deal of strength and energy from him, yet he was able to fight the beast within.  Last night, the demon took control.  He attacked me and I…. I shot him.”

          At this terrible admission, Legolas’ head lowered and he turned his face away from the wizard, too shamed by what he had done to meet the Istari’s questioning eyes.   Mithrandir continued to watch the young prince, patiently waiting for him to go on with this dreadful narrative, his own compassionate heart sharing in the Elf’s pain and misery. 

          Legolas eventually turned his aggrieved eyes back to Mithrandir.  “Should he make the transformation again, I fear that he will succumb to the beast and will not be able to return.  The morgul demon that wishes to claim him will prevail and Aragorn will cross over to Shadow forever.”

          The ancient wizard nodded and then stiffly rose to his feet, his hand reflexively supporting his tired back as he straightened his old bones.  “Then we have no time to spare.”  He looked down at the distraught Elf and continued.  “Quickly, gather together your supplies; take only what is necessary.  Leave the rest.  You will have to carry Strider.  In his present condition, he cannot ride himself and we cannot afford to wait until he regains his senses.”

          Legolas looked toward the eagles and understanding suddenly dawned upon him.  The three eagles had come to transport them to Druadan.  “But what of the horses?”

          “Mângwaew will see that they reach Mirkwood safely.  He knows where to find water and will see them through the Brown Lands to your homeland.   He will also deliver a missive to your father, should you care to send one.”

          Legolas nodded his desire to do so and then rose gracefully from his seat beside the sleeping ranger.  He methodically began to sort through his gear and possessions, making sure to collect the scrolls that contained the spells and the ingredients specified for the various potions and brews that would be needed to cure Aragorn.

          “Quickly then,” the wizard smiled his encouragement and reassurance.  “I will tell Gawihir of our plans.”

          Legolas nodded his blond head and returned to his packs, culling out those things that could be left behind.  For the first time in several months, he actually felt like singing.  A brilliant smile spread over his face and unhindered, the melodious notes burst forth from his lips and he sang an old Avari song of victory and courage.

*brother in spirit

**anathema

†half Elf