At the Elf’s warning, Gandalf arose from his seat by the fire with a surprising speed and graceful agility that belied his ancient years.   The various scrolls and parchments within his lap fluttered to the ground and scattered about the hem of his robes as he moved close to the Elf.  His right hand rose up and his fingers gently touched Legolas’ rigid arm and firmly pulled it and the bow downward.

          “Lower your weapon, Legolas,” he whispered.

          The warrior prince glanced at the wizard out of the corner of his eye, a questioning frown clouding his features, but he acquiesced and lowered the bow nonetheless.  He did not, however, release the arrow from its nocked position upon the string and he held both bow and arrow loosely in his hands, ready to use them should the need arise.

          The wavering shadows surrounding their small fire came alive as the silent warriors stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the dancing flames.  Legolas quickly assessed the threat that their sudden appearance represented and counted at least fifteen in their number, but felt sure that many more were still hidden within the trees just out of their immediate circle of light.  The men were all dark-haired and beardless and wore hide trousers in varying shades of brown.  Their soft skin boots of leather and fur made no sound upon the stones as they cautiously moved closer to the Elf and wizard.  All were bare-chested and their powerfully muscled torsos bore intricate tribal markings and swirling black tattoos that were in stark contrast to their lightly tanned skin.  Many wore leaves and twigs interwoven with their long hair, and some bore the antlers of the stag or the skull of the wolf upon their heads.  Their faces, too, bore differing designs and complicated patterns in colors of black or red and their faces were framed with braided hair and interwoven bone and feather adornments.  Many wore copper bands and collars upon their arms and about their necks and all were armed with knives at their belts and held long, deadly spears within their hands.

          A strikingly attractive man that Legolas surmised must be their leader, stepped forward from the group and confidently approached the Elf and wizard.  His long, dark hair, braided at each temple, hung along the sides of his tanned face.   Feathers and teeth were woven into the braids framing his cheeks and a hammered copper collar of distinctive design and workmanship adorned his throat.  The rest of his thick mane of hair was tied with a leather thong and hung down his back to his waist.  An elaborate tattoo wound from his left temple, along his eye socket and over his high cheekbone.   Other designs decorated his upper arms and reminded Legolas of intertwined thorn brambles after winter had stripped bare the leaves.

          He held a long, sturdy spear in his right hand, but did not threaten the two strangers; he merely wrapped his hand about the upper shaft and held it upright at his side.  His curious gaze traveled over the Elf, lingering upon his pointed ears and ethereal features and then settled upon the wizard.  He appeared deferential yet unafraid as he spoke.

          “Én vagyok Dakmar, elsõ Boër.  Mivel szolgálhatok önnek, hírnök Légkör Isten?”*

          The words sounded harsh and foreign to Legolas’ ears and he glanced at the wizard who nodded slightly, letting the Elf know that he understood them, and then he turned and bowed to the warrior.

          “Hát te beszél Westron?”**

          The dark-haired Drúath nodded and his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the ancient maiar, but he made no further comment.

          “I am Gandalf the Grey and this is Legolas of the Woodland Realm.  We seek the aid of your wise man.  One of our company has been… ”

          His words were cut off as several of the forest men suddenly hissed and grunted and lunged forward toward the Elf and wizard with their spears lowered and threatening.

          “Farkasember!”±

          One of the dark warriors spat out the word; the hatred in his voice clearly evident and the meaning of his lowered spear plain.  Others of the band moved forward and closed in on the pair.

          Puzzled, Gandalf stared at the advancing warriors.  The word the man had uttered so harshly meant werewolf, yet how had they known of Strider’s condition before he had had time to explain their circumstances?    He had no more time to ponder the situation for Strider abruptly stumbled between them and then fell heavily against Legolas.  The startled Elf dropped his weapons and grabbed the ranger’s shoulders literally holding him upright.   Caught off guard by his friend’s sudden appearance in their midst, the Elf fiercely whispered hushed Elvish words into the man’s ear as he frantically righted them both upon their feet.

          “Estel! Mani naa lle nawien?”²

          Strider desperately clutched at Legolas’ tunic front, bunching the suede material in his fisted hand and tried to stand on his own feet, but his legs turned weak and wobbly and would not cooperate.  Legolas pulled the ranger closer to him and slid his right arm tightly around Strider’s waist and then one-handed, lifted him up and on to his feet.  Strider clasped the Elf’s upper forearm and held on until his spinning head finally allowed him to speak.  He rasped hoarsely, the words sounding deep within his throat, garbled and incomprehensible, and then he turned his pleading and pain-filled eyes up toward the Elf.

          “Legolas…. help me,” he gasped, even as his grip upon the Elf’s arm slackened and his eyes rolled up within their sockets.  The dead weight of his body began to sink toward the ground, pulling Legolas down with it.

          “Mithrandir!” Legolas shouted as he caught the ranger in his arms and then both awkwardly dropped to the ground and landed upon their knees, facing one another.  Strider’s head fell limply onto the Elf’s chest and his arms hung slack against his sides, and if not for the Elf’s supporting hands, would have fallen face forward onto the stones.  Legolas’ knees slammed into the hard stone when he landed and he winced as the sharp pain jolted up his thighs and along his backbone, but he would not relinquish his hold upon the ranger.   Slowly he maneuvered the man down to the ground and rolled him onto his back.  He looked down into Strider’s strained and pale face and gasped as he saw the man’s eyes glowing with a faint red sheen.

          “Strider!” he shouted.  “Hold on, mellon nin.  Fight it!”

          More of the Drúath converged upon the frenzied scene, their spears and knives ready to strike, but Dakmar silently lifted his forearm and they immediately halted, all eyes looking toward their leader.  The Drúath warrior watched intrigued as the strangers before him hovered over the stricken form of this doomed wolf-man.  A decision made, he turned to one of his men and issued hurried instructions to him.

          “Quickly, get my father and bring the varázslatos.”^

          The forest man nodded his understanding and swiftly disappeared into the darkness of the woods.  Dakmar cautiously stepped closer to the strange ones kneeling upon the stones.  They were obviously attempting to aid the vile demon lying between them; therefore he must be one of them and all three had been sent to the Drúath by the great Sky Gods.  He knew that he should not go near them; the risk and danger of being attacked by the farkasember was great, yet his curiosity was stronger than his fear and slowly he edged closer.

          Strider’s agonized scream rent the still night air and everyone froze.  Legolas’ stricken eyes pleaded with the wizard to do something and Gandalf jerked to his feet.  At the wizard’s movement, the warriors in Dakmar’s troop also came back to life, but now they hastily backed away from the accursed threesome.  The wizard snatched up the flagon of potion lying near Strider’s discarded blanket and brought the flask back to the ranger’s side.  He lifted up Strider's head, placing the flagon to his lips and turned the container upward, pouring the last of its precious contents into Strider’s mouth.  The ranger began to fight and tried to push the flask away from his face and Legolas quickly moved behind him, pulling his arms back and his hands away from the container as Gandalf emptied the last drop into Strider’s mouth.  Legolas forcibly held the struggling human, gripping his arms and restraining his attempts to rise.  Strider growled and bucked within the Elf’s grasp.

          “Hurry, Mithrandir!” Legolas shouted as he fought to hold onto the ranger.  “Get the chains!”

          Strider screamed again, his back arching away from Legolas and his head stretched painfully backward until the tendons along the sides of his neck bulged outward, rigid and hard along the taut expanse of his neck.  His dark hair brushed Legolas’ face and the Elf wrestled with the human trying to maintain his grip upon his forearms, but Strider’s strength increased.   The morgul poisons surged beneath his skin, roaring to be released, and made Strider unnaturally strong.  Legolas felt his hold upon the ranger rapidly deteriorating.

          Unexpectedly, the tattooed arms of Dakmar appeared within Legolas’ peripheral vision, as the young warrior reached down and gripped the ranger’s arms as well, lending his strength to that of the Elf.  Together they were able to subdue Strider until Gandalf reached them with the heavy chains.  The wizard swiftly locked the wrist cuffs in place and then moved to Strider’s feet as the Elf wound the longer chains about the ranger’s chest.  Moments later the chains were in place and Legolas fell away from the struggling human.  He landed hard on his elbows and backside and scuttled a short distance away from the convulsing human as Strider jerked and bucked, fighting against the chains.  His angry growls and snarls increased and Legolas turned his pained face away, unable to watch as the terrible affliction tortured and tormented his friend.  He felt strong arms helping to lift him off the ground, but he took no notice until he found himself being pulled away from the writhing form of his friend.

          “Come,” Dakmar said quietly.  “You can do no more for him.”

          Legolas turned upon the voice with an angry scowl, but upon seeing the compassion in the dark man’s eyes, his unvoiced words quickly died upon his lips and instead his shoulders slumped forward in defeat.  His head lowered and his eyes misted with angry, frustrated tears.  This had to end.  He could not endure Strider’s suffering any longer.  It was tearing apart his very soul.

          Gandalf quietly appeared at his elbow and gently guided Legolas away from the wildly ranting and raving cries of the ranger.  As they walked toward the fire, Legolas vaguely became aware of the large crowd of people that had gathered atop the ruins.  More of the Drúath had arrived while he had been fighting with Strider and now they stared at the chained figure of his friend as if he was some wild beast that needed putting down, yet no one ventured near him.  His mind seemed to shut down and he sank to the stones beside the fire.  Wearily, he laid his head down upon his forearms as they crossed over his knees, and he tried to shut out the terrible screams still coming from Strider’s throat.   It sounded as if the ranger was being ripped apart from the inside out by some horrid monster with long, sharp tearing claws – and then abruptly the screams ended.

          Legolas’ head whipped up and his gaze turned immediately to the ranger.  An older man wearing an elaborate headdress fashioned from a wolf’s skull, the skin and fur still attached, and dark, exotic markings upon his face knelt beside the still form of the ranger.  He had his hand upon Strider’s forehead and spoke to him in the strange tongue of the Drúath.  The Elf did not understand the words being spoken, but he quickly leapt to his feet and moved toward his friend.  Gandalf’s strong hand clamped down upon his arm and stayed his progress.

          “No, Legolas,” the wizard murmured.  “You can do nothing now.”

          The Elf tried to pull his arm free, but the wizard’s grip was tenacious.  His blue eyes bored into those of the wizard and several overpowering emotions washed over the Elf’s sensitive face contorting his beautiful features into a marred and stricken mask of anguish.

          “Mithrandir, please!” he begged.

          The wizard’s arms wrapped around the Elf’s shoulders and he held him tightly, speaking softly into his delicate, pointed ear.  “There is nothing you can do now, young prince.  We must trust in the Gûladan to weave his magic.  He will do battle with the spirit that has taken control of Strider.”  He turned Legolas’ body around to face him directly.  “Your time to help will come, but for now you must wait.”

          The Elf nodded stiffly and reluctantly relaxed within the wizard’s grip.  Gandalf slowly released his hold on the Elf and lowered his hands to his sides.  Legolas straightened and when he once again gazed upon the maiar, his eyes were steady and resolute.  Gandalf nodded his approval.

          “They will take him to the sorcerer’s lodge.  It is hidden within the forest and there the Gûladan will treat him until he can perform the spells and rituals needed to rid Strider of this curse.  Come.  Dakmar and his father have generously offered to share their abode with us.  Gather your things.”

          Legolas nodded numbly and methodically began to gather up what few possessions they had brought with them and was surprised when Dakmar silently picked up several of the sacks and swung them over his back, offering to help.  Gandalf retrieved the scrolls and parchments and the remainder of the bundles were retrieved by the remaining warriors of Dakmar’s band.

          A sturdy litter had been brought to carry Strider and the magic man was personally seeing to his care and transportation.  Whatever the sorcerer had said or done to Strider had calmed the ranger and he no longer struggled within his restraints, and his terrible, anguished screams had not resumed.  Legolas was loath to have Strider out of his sight even for a moment, but was forced to comply with the wizard’s decision and allowed the ranger to be taken away by the Gûladan’s acolytes.  With Dakmar leading the way, both Elf and wizard headed into the deep Forests of the Druadan to face their fate.  

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

          Legolas could not sleep or rest and had finally decided to leave the large wooden building that comprised the lodge of the tribal chieftain and his family.   While the humans slept all about him, Legolas walked the few paces it took to step out into the small village and then his eyes turned to the tall and ancient trees that surrounded the forest dwellings of the Drúath.   On feather light feet, he walked through the shadowed clearing and then leapt up into the branches of the nearest tree.  The great oak sighed at the Elf’s touch and its leafy branches swayed as it eased his passage upward through its limbs and boughs to the topmost covering of its leaves.  Here Legolas halted and perched upon a strong branch, leaning his back into the trunk of the tree.   He turned his face up to the night skies, letting the starlight gently wash over his being.

          As he listened to the quiet sounds of the forest, his aching heart began to calm and he drank in the much needed energy of the stars.  And although he did not think it possible, he slowly began to believe that these people might indeed be able to help Aragorn.  They were not like the other gatherings of men he had encountered in his past.  These gentle people were highly attuned to nature and the earth and sky above them.  They were quiet and reserved and did not take from the forest more than they required.  They had no desire for wealth or power like so many of the corrupt men he had known and they seemed to genuinely want to help Aragorn heal.

          After they had reached the chieftain’s lodge, they had been offered food and a sweet wine and he had barely listened as Mithrandir related their tale to the tribal leader and the enigmatic Gûladan while they ate their simple meal.  For the most part, the wizard spoke in the strange language native to the Drúath and he had not been able to understand what was being said.  And so, his mind drifted.  He tried to reach Aragorn’s mind with his thoughts, but found only emptiness and his anger and frustration returned as he thought of the ranger alone and held in some hidden forest retreat.

          Mithrandir’s decision to allow this still rankled within him and he could not help but feel anxious and concerned for his friend’s treatment and welfare.  Even Dakmar’s calming words had not convinced him that the ranger was safe.  The Drúath had immediately recognized the vicious beast residing within the ranger and had been ready to defend themselves against its evil nature; but once they realized that Aragorn was a victim of this fell demon, they had been determined to help him in any way they could.  He only hoped it would be enough.

          It was obvious now that the potion could no longer hold the demon at bay and they stood upon the fine edge of a deadly sword with Aragorn’s life hanging in the balance. Yet now, as he sat amid the topmost branches of the trees, peace had finally come to him.  He closed his eyes and let the cooling night breeze caress his face and his lips slowly turned up into a tranquil smile.  Tomorrow would bring with it a life and death struggle, but right now, in this one brief moment in time, all was serene.

*I am Dakmar, first son of Boer.  How may I serve you, messenger of the Sky God?

**Do you speak Westron?

²Estel!  What are you thinking?

±Werewolf!

^wizard, magician