To Resist both Wind and Tide
Ch. Twelve
And that glimpse of evil riding aloft the canopy.
Just visible to the man's sight, the stark, slick black pinnacle of Dol Guldur pierced the dense cover of the treetops, the watchtower's design surprisingly elegant with great vaulted arches opening on each of its six faceted faces. An immense sculpture of a dragon perched upon the roof, its clawed talons gripping the stonework, its spiny tail wrapped round the tower, so long it was said to reach halfway down and provided an external stairway to reach the uppermost platform. Its fearsome head was crowned with a fan of bony plates and its gaping maw grinned with sabre-shaped teeth, the gargoyle so life-like its slitted eyes seemed to follow one's movements even from so great a distance. Aragorn shivered; he did not want to stay within sight of those lifeless orbs long.
He assumed there must be a great host arrayed about the Tower, though he could not detect any movement. Aragorn couldn't begin to guess what his mate could see and actually hoped it was only an army of Orcs and not the Nazgûl. They had not encountered any resistance thus far and while he hoped to keep it that way, experience warned they would not make it to Greenwood without conflict. The closer they came to the Gladden crossing, the more likely an attack became. The Wood Elf had been nervous and edgy all night and now he was still as a statue, staring across the expanse of marshy fens at the wall of trees on the opposite shore.
Legolas had not spoken, nor indeed blinked, staring as though mesmerised. It was unsettling. The man glanced to Gandalf only to find him doing exactly the same thing. He set a frantic hand on the elf's shoulder and tugged a bit. Legolas startled and gave a minimal nod when the man motioned silently for retreat. Cautiously the three travellers made their way to firmer ground, Aragorn assessing his mate and wondering if he could bear up under the strain of such proximity to the place of his imprisonment.
In truth, the passing days had proved his initial fears baseless. Legolas had not repeated his display of tormented guilt and madness, instead growing more confident and independent, more like the brash, proud Wood Elf with whom he'd journeyed in Rohan. Yet the man was wise and understood that swaggering, daring persona was mostly bluster, a shield to protect the archer's wounded soul from exposure. Aragorn watched him now, noting tension in his body, a subtle projection of strain, every sense alert, every nerve attuned to their surroundings.
Is this the response of a person bedevilled and browbeaten, or of someone justifiably cautious?
He was inclined to the latter view, accustomed to the innate wariness of the First Born. Indeed, it required no special gifts to comprehend the dangers inherent to being within sight of one's mortal enemy. Aragorn felt it, too, and wanted nothing more than to put the Tower behind them. Legolas, he decided, was showing remarkable self-control. He wondered how many elves could face so severe a threat with such graceful restraint and calm self-discipline. The names his mind supplied were all great heroes among the First Born: Gil-Galad, Glorfindel, Elrond, Fingon. His spirit swelled with pride to recognise the strength of his young mate's character and broke free in a smile of bright, soft eyes.
Legolas felt it, a sudden burst of warmth burgeoning within his heart, light dawning as clear as the sun, and spontaneously he made a running leap at his mate's back, arms and legs wrapped round him tight. Aragorn had to grab the calves of those strong legs as he pretended to stagger and groan under the elf's feather-light weight. "I love you," Legolas whispered ere he jumped down and paced beside the man, content as he could never recall being in all his life, and wondered that this could be so, here in the shadow of so evil a place.
The thought sobered him and a crawling sensation filled his belly. In spite of himself Legolas turned and peered at the pinnacle of the Tower, into the black dragon's eye. Malignant dread bloomed in his soul and instantly he looked away, but his very bones ached with the depth of the malice he'd felt. An encompassing need to hide the man swept through him, an urgent instinct to prevent the Wraiths from seeing him. Panic pricked at the frayed fabric of his feä. His heart turned to stone, overcome with certainty the Nazgûl knew they were here and merely waited until it suited them to swoop down and destroy this one last pure thing the archer still possessed: his love for Aragorn.
"No!" the elf hissed low, a single syllable crammed with abyssal hatred and absolute defiance. Terror seized him and cold sweat broke over his flesh.
"Melethen?"
"We need to get from here, now." He grabbed Aragorn's arm, hustled him toward the horses. "They know we're here; they'll kill you." He pulled against the man's resisting weight. "Hurry!"
"Legolas, be calm," Mithrandir joined the couple and pressed the palm of his hand against the ellon's racing heart. Of course the wizard had felt it, that putrid, garish beam of hatred that pinpointed the elf. A shaft of unadulterated evil that shot through the slender frame as surely as an arrow. He searched the panicked blue eyes deeply. "Be calm," he repeated. "They are not here; Estel is not in graver danger than any good man would be travelling past that Tower."
"No, I can't risk it. Don't you see? Now that he is with me, Kalrô is endangered. Because I escaped, because I thwarted their plans, they want to punish me." He shoved the wizard's hand off him and turned to Aragorn. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to put you in their path. Please, we need to leave here, go back to Lorien. You'll be safe there." In his mind he saw the man captive in the Tower, tortured as he had been, brutalised by the Wraiths' slaves, himself one of them. "No! I will not!" he shouted and suddenly turned aside and staggered, violently ill, doubled over and vomiting into the grass.
"Elbereth! What has happened?" The man was alarmed at the drastic shift in Legolas' state and supported the elf through the sickness, helping him stand when it was done and then giving him a leg up onto Tuilelindô. "Mithrandir, hurry," he urged the wizard, mounting Azrûbel and turning back to Legolas. "All right, Meleth?"
"Yes, fine," Legolas lied, wiping his mouth over his sleeve, eyes stricken and pleading. "Let's go."
"Wait," insisted Mithrandir. "We cannot backtrack to Lorien. Estel, tell him."
"Tell him what? It is what I have counselled from the beginning."
"Please, quickly, we are vulnerable here," warned Legolas. He reached for Azrûbel's bridle but the wizard stopped him.
"Legolas, we are not under attack. Look around you, pen neth. Estel's freedom is not in jeopardy. Listen to me now; he must journey to Eriador, not Lorien. He would have passed here whether he ever met you or not." He turned to Aragorn. "Tell him!" he growled testily.
At last the man grasped an inkling of what was in his mate's thoughts. "That is true, Melethen. For my peril you can accept no blame. Having chosen to venture from Gondor on this path, I must come past this place to reach home." He reached over and set his hand on the elf's pale cheek. It was irrelevant now to explain he had originally planned to stop in Lorien; the Golden Wood was behind them and his reason for going there no longer pertinent. "There are no Orcs here, Legolas. We are across the river from them and many leagues separate us. I agree we should leave, but we cannot race haphazard across the valley. Caution is needed more than haste if we are to make it safely beyond this point. Greenwood first and after that Eriador, yes? We cannot go back only to turn round and face it all anew."
Legolas was quiet then, staring at his mate and hearing the truth in his voice, but it gave him little comfort to know Aragorn was as likely to be a target of his enemies as he. Now that the horrible vision was fading, he saw this clearly. Of course Aragorn would be hunted; he was Isildur's heir; his father had been killed by Shadow and now the archer believed he knew the reason those Uruks had come to Rhovanion. They were sent to destroy this man who meant so much to him, but so much to the future of all free men, too. Legolas sighed, covered the hand with his own, comforted by the roughly calloused palm, regretted when Aragorn finally removed it.
"No Orcs here, no Wraiths," he said, gazing about, and felt foolish, mortified to have shown such cowardice when there was no threat to fear. He dropped his eyes to the mare's withers. "What you must think." He shook his head. "I don't know what happened; it seemed they were…that we were already in the dungeons. I'm sorry; I…"
"No need for apologies," interrupted the wizard kindly. He had mounted his grey palfrey and steered the horse to Legolas' side. "It is perfectly natural to want to protect your mate. Estel tried to convince you to go to Lothlorien for days, did he not?" He chuckled as man and elf exchanged sheepish smiles. "We do need to move on, but let us choose our way carefully."
"Can we slip past without being seen?" Aragorn asked his mate. "Or is there a watcher peering down on us right now?"
"There is always a Wraith up in the Tower." Legolas shivered, an involuntary ripple rattling down his spine. "They have no sight such as you and I possess, but can feel darkness and perceive shifting patterns within it. Any absence of Shadow, this they can sense and that is the kind of eyes I felt upon us."
"Legolas, your words are not heartening," complained Mithrandir, "but it is no less than I expected."
Legolas shuddered again. "I want to be away from here long before annûn. Today we cannot spare the horses."
"So be it," nodded Aragorn. "Wait here; I'll scout ahead."
"No, Legolas will go," commanded Mithrandir. "He's better at it than either of us," he explained before Aragorn could voice the retort foretold by his indignant and defiant expression.
The man could not deny Mithrandir's assessment, but in light of the elf's abrupt loss of composure he was unwilling to let him out of his sight. He glanced at Legolas and then away, feeling guilty for having to allude to the archer's weakness, and confronted the wizard. "Perhaps we should remain together. A united front is less likely to be…"
"I can do it," snapped Legolas. "I am not enthralled, Kalrô. I would never betray you, never!"
"No more would I think it," insisted Aragorn, surprised. "I was worried but not about your loyalty. Beloved, if they come after you while you're alone…"
"Let them," Legolas said coldly. "That way no one else is endangered. I will send them to the Void where they belong. Isildur showed us how, did he not? Just like their vile Master, cut off their rings and they have no power." He drew the long knife and pointed it toward the eastern shore, sighting down the mithril blade, eager to prove to the man and the Maia that he was a worthy companion in arms.
"Never speak these words! Not even in jest, Legolas," Aragorn rebuked him, so upset he reached out and snatched the knife away. "Promise you will not challenge them, not for any reason."
"Give it back." Legolas tried to grab it but Tuilelindô, agitated by his fey mood, wheeled the other way.
"Your word first."
"It was Nana's; return it to me, Kalrô."
"Your solemn promise, Hervenn." Aragorn had suspected whose knife it was, but held his ground and as he'd hoped, Legolas responded to this title of endearment. Every hint of wrath fled from his eyes and the blue irises turned a vivid indigo. The promise already shone within them and Aragorn held forth the hilt even as Legolas opened his lips to speak.
"Aye, Besnô, given," he said softly, accepting the knife and sheathing it. Then he smiled and before anymore words could be traded he clicked his tongue and Tuilelindô bounded away.
Aragorn could only watch, his throat aching with the strain to keep from calling him back. He could see now the many times he would send Legolas into danger alone, if they were both still alive at the end of this adventure. He sighed; it had never occurred to him that he would face such a prospect, his mate by his side through every hardship and menace he met, and could not deny it went against his instincts to allow it.
"He's doing quite well," said Mithrandir blandly, eyeing the man.
"Really?" The man stared, incredulous. "I had thought so until now. In fact, I was convinced he had mastered his sorrow." He recalled his optimistic comparison to the mighty warriors of old only minutes ago and shook his head. How could he have been so unrealistic?
"Too soon for that; we'll know his real status better after Greenwood." Mithrandir did not add that there was yet the possibility that Legolas would not survive what transpired there. "What happened just now was my fault; I should never have let him come so near Dol Guldur. I was lulled into complacency by his apparent strength, which I see now is mostly drawn from you. I'm not sure he's ready for what comes next."
"That is somewhat less than encouraging. You assured me love could cure him."
"And said it would be a difficult cure," chided the wizard.
"But what happened back there?" Aragorn had to know, remembering those accounts of elves who escaped the shackles of Angband only to be forever bound in terror to Morgoth, unwitting collaborators and instigators of evil among their own people.
"For lack of a better way to explain it, Darkness touched him."
"Ai Valar," moaned Aragorn, and found he had to fight a surge of sickness. "Nay, Mithrandir, it cannot be! Did you not assure me you had purged him of Shadow?"
"Take heart, Estel! He resisted, could you not see this? His only thought was to get you to safety. He is not enthralled," assured the Maia. "And see to it you do not give him cause to think you doubt him. I once saw Glorfindel cringe at the shriek of the Nazgûl, but he drove the Witch King from Carn Dûm all the same."
"I won't," promised the man. Then he grimaced and shook his head, convinced he could have prevented this episode somehow. "What can I do to help him?"
"What you are doing is sufficient. Don't discount your effect on him; you've restored his honour and his esteem if not his innocence."
"Would that this was behind us. I want to take him to Imladris for a time, give him peace and respite there."
"That will do him good," Mithrandir nodded, but didn't believe the couple would go so soon to Rivendell. Duty demanded Aragorn's presence at Fornost, and Legolas would surely follow no matter his mate's objections. And how will this union be received among the Rangers, I wonder? Here was one of the many incongruities in Galadriel's reading of the Mirror's reed. Men were not given to tolerance where such matters were considered. Yet, were Legolas female, the Rangers would still not want their chief's mate among them, judging so deep a connection would overshadow all other concerns.
In this they would be proved wrong. Mithrandir was impressed by Aragorn's ability to restrain his heart and conform his decisions to those demanded of a man who would lead others. At the same time, he was neither reserved nor smothering in his interaction with the archer, maintaining a delicate balance of mutual support and independence. He seemed to know exactly what Legolas needed, how much comfort, when to give it, when to encourage the elf to be strong and bold, when his heart was sore beyond bearing. Even if most of this self-assurance was pure bluff, Aragorn was managing the care of Legolas' broken soul with both remarkable skill and tender compassion.
"What did the Mirror show of our future?" Aragorn suddenly asked. He was thinking about the wizard's prediction that love could heal Legolas, wanting to believe it was possible, hoping for a proof he could believe.
"Not much I could understand," Mithrandir shrugged. "No details, just a series of images, an impression of time passing, years, of love shared, battles fought in many places, many times, hurts tended, a celebration in a great hall of men somewhere, things of that nature."
"And he was beside me through all this?"
"Yes, Estel, and do not even ask the next question. I did not see your death or his."
To this Aragorn grunted morosely. Legolas returned, suddenly materialising in the distance, striding toward them with his long, loose gait over the open fields, Tuilelindô by his side, a look of wonder on his face. The man was again struck by the shift in temperament. It was hard to reconcile the image approaching him with the frantic ellon of minutes ago. Aragorn tried to remember if Legolas had always been this way and found it difficult to bring up impressions of the elf prior to the breakdown. Even so, he was nearly convinced the Wood Elf had been rather volatile even before then. He decided this was comforting in an odd sort of way and smiled, pleased beyond telling to have him back, safe and sound.
"Your expression tells me you encountered nothing evil."
"Nay, just the opposite. I have seen a thing," he began and faltered, unsure of his words. "A herd of horses running over the land, sweeping near to the Gladden fields where the Tower looks down and back up toward the foothills. I did not know there were such herds apart from those in Rohan, and they had the look of those horses, too. They were not running from fear or from a predator. I would swear they were behaving like a patrol, guarding the land, looking for enemies. I called to them, but they paid no heed. Were they shape-shifters, Mithrandir?"
"Nay, I doubt that," chuckled the Maia, eyes twinkling at the elf's child-like amazement. "Most likely, those were Beorn's horses acting on his instructions, repelling incursions of Orcs into their realm. The animals of the shape-shifters are not like others and do patrol this area. The Beornings do not abide the creatures of Shadow to roam their lands at will."
"That is good news," Aragorn beamed and clapped the elf on the arm. "Now we can proceed with greater confidence. Between your eyes and the unusual soldiers of the Beornings, I doubt any Orcs could remain hidden."
They set forth anew, Legolas still insistent on speed as much as stealth, and put the Tower behind them without further incident. As sundown neared, he led them to a deep bowl in the land with a screen of oaks on one side, situated near to the river, and there they camped the night. As had become his custom, the archer stood watch, insisting he felt no weariness and could not rest while they were still so close to Dol Guldur. Man and Maia grumbled and complained into their bedrolls, Aragorn settling at his young mate's feet. Few opportunities for intimacy were available to them with Mithrandir along, but they managed to pack every touch with an intensity of emotion and that essential light Legolas craved.
They gazed long upon one another, eyes warm with love and contentment, speaking of their relief for one another's safety silently, vowing to protect each other the same way. Legolas slipped off his boots and stood barefoot, wriggling his toes amid the cool grass, and the man's fingers loosely clasped him at the ankle. He could feel anxiety in his mate's feä and moved quickly to prevent the elf from voicing any self-derogation, guessing correctly that Legolas was revisiting his lapse into irrational dread.
"I must thank you, Hervenn," Aragorn murmured.
"For what?"
"For saving my life so often, for wanting to safeguard me from even the idea of harm. You have been doing this even before I knew you existed, yet I have not thanked you even once, not properly. My mother would box my ears."
"Would she?" Legolas laughed softly and ran his toes lovingly over the blanket bound form. "I would not let her; you've thanked me, Besnô, abundantly so."
"I would thank you more thoroughly but for our companion."
"No matter; we will have many years to express our mutual gratitude." He worked his foot under the blanket and nudged the man's chest.
Aragorn took hold and drew the slender appendage forward, kissed the elegant arch and then pillowed his cheek thereon. He fell asleep that way and Legolas felt a sweet and gentle ache build within his heart, wishing his mother could know of this unlooked for joy he had found.
"She would love you, not just for love of me, but because you and I are right together, though never could I have guessed such would be true," he whispered. "Her name was Ranak'lâ (Moon Light) and she would love you, but also she would hate you, for love of me and the pain losing you will cause."
Aragorn was sleeping and did not hear him, but that was as the archer intended. So Legolas sighed, resolved to enjoy this as though it was their last peaceful night, instinct foreboding they would see battle before long. He tipped his head, smiling, as his ear caught the faint ruffle of wings being aired and settled back in place. He heard the subtle scratchy clawing of tiny talons gripping a tall stalk of swaying wheat and beamed as the first notes of the night singer rang through the dense air. He following the song into reverie, back through the unfolding years of his childhood.
There reclined the woodland Queen, sprawled in a clearing, a meadow bathed in moonlight where stars looked down for a peek at life beneath the obscuring net of Greenwood's gnarled branches. There she lounged in the simple luxury of wild flowers and fragrant moss, propped atop an elbow, chin resting on that palm, long dark hair drifting when the wind lifted it, her silken skirts grass stained and frayed at the hem a bit, her slender bare feet just visible beneath the fabric. Beside her sat an elf child just six summers old, all eyes and compressed energy, yet quiescent beside her, attention fixed and focused upon her face.
'Hear now a Master Singer, iondo nduena, (second son) my favourite among all the birds, the one for whom our revered ancestor and the founder of our people was named. You think you are Kithwa Kwende (Grey Elf) like your Atu (father), Thranduil, so tall and strong?'
'Yes, Nana. Is it not so?'
'No, khînâ taurê (forest child) it is not so, for half of what you are comes through me, and that half is the half that will shape your whole. Onrônê kâra kwende. (The mother makes the person.) You are of Nôrê Domilindê (Nightingale Clan) like me.'
'But I don't have a Nightingale name.'
'The name you have is your father name. It is a tradition among the Kithwa Kwendi (Grey Elves); I did not mind to let him name you, since I gave you everything important, and at least he chose a name in the ancient tongue.' But her voice complained despite this disclaimer and her son heard it.
'Is that why you do not ever call me that name?'
'Oh! Such discerning ears my child possesses!' She laughed, the sound very like the song of the night singers so that the child laughed, too, though it was a serious talk they were having. 'Nay,' she went on. 'I do not speak that name because I do not want our enemies to learn it. The Shadow slaves do not know about you at all, tawarô, (wood sprite) and I pray they never will.'
'I will grow to be a warrior like my father and brother and then the Shadow slaves will learn of me, and they will fear me,' answered the child.
'Yes. You will wield the bow and the long knife, but never the broadsword. You will run through the trees as silently as a bird in flight, and sing to the stars at night. You will be the greatest of our people and your light will shine so brightly even those far beyond our trees will see it and rejoice. Now, khînâ taurê, (forest child) listen and learn Domilindê's Song, but know this: the song's beauty is also a ruse, for the singers are announcing their territorial bounds and inviting all challengers to make a counter claim, if they dare.
'We are like that: proud, bold, defiant. When the Kithwa Kwendi came over the mountains and across the great valley, Nôrê Domilindê greeted them at the borders and there was kwetta okta, war of words. We did not want them in our woods, but Kithwa Kwendi were ready to meet our bold song and sang their own right back at us, a song of tears and strife and great sorrow, of elves killing elves for a jewel. Yet there was also hope within this woeful dirge, a longing for a simpler life free of intrigues and greed for power, free of Noldorin Princes and the curses they brought.
'My Atu, who was Taurê Târo, (Great Wood King) listened. He heard truth and honour in Turô Oropher's (Lord Oropher) speech. He looked and saw that Oropher brought warriors with long swords and mighty bows, even armour and horses. Here were folk whose strength would serve us well in our struggle against the Servants of Darkness. My Atu also saw that Oropher had only sons and no daughters, while Atu had only daughters and no sons. These sons and daughters became husbands and wives. Our families were joined in this way and so our people became one people. Do you see?'
'Yes. Onrônê kâra kwende. I am Taurê Kwende of Nôrê Domilindê. (Wood Elf of the Nightingale Clan) But how did my Atu become Taurê Târo?'
'That is a story for another night, khînâ ndakô (warrior child).'
When Aragorn rose to take over the watch, he found Legolas in reverie, that elvish state of removed but alert consciousness he always found so intriguing, even more so this night. The Wood Elf was standing motionless on one leg, the other bent at the knee, its foot propped atop its counterpart's calf, stork fashion, his bow planted before him, both hands wrapped round it, head bent in a listening pose. The man smiled to see this stance, wondering if this was typical for sylvans, and he took his place beside his mate, hearing the nightingales singing. He did not want to disturb the elf's rest and did not need to, for he knew Legolas was aware of his presence. In truth, Aragorn was glad to know Legolas could enter this normal phase of subdued awareness. He had worried the archer would see only memories of his torment if he subsided into dreams.
Aragorn inhaled a deep breath of contentment, for though no words passed between them he felt the distinctive warmth of his beloved's faerlim surround him, joy and amusement infused in the invisible radiance. He wished he could share this dream that gave his mate such happiness, and immediately felt Legolas' hand grip his. Just then, far away in the distance, Aragorn caught the sound of childish laughter drifting amid the notes of the night singer's song.
Dense fog clung just above the ground, sticking to the scraggly grass and weeds like ephemeral moss, thick, white, and cottony; Legolas had to wonder how it was that clouds, usually confined to the highest reaches of Súlimo's realm, could be brought low like this and made to serve so base a master. He had seen mist in the morning many times, but never like this. Even his piercing blue eyes could not penetrate the strangely opaque and motionless air, the haze insubstantial to touch, though cold and damp, and murky enough to obscure his sight less than an arm's reach away.
Blobby shapes in ashen shades loomed and then retreated: a herd of deer moving through the meadow. Rolling balls of shimmery fluff parted to expose an unexpected bush. Swirling white curtains writhed away in a ragged, clapping cloud: a covey of quail bursting out of the grass at their very feet.
The valley was both gloomy and bright at the same time as though Anor was high in the sky but too many clouds had fallen between her face and the earth to permit her glory to shine through. It was not the same as being under the canopy of the trees, even, for there nothing filled the space between the bolls and it was only a matter of adapting to lower levels of illumination. Here, though the way was open before them for leagues ahead, Legolas trod carefully, delicately, and strained to see the way.
If there were to be an attack by day, this would be the day.
It was not a comforting thought and he gripped the bow tighter, hearing the sound of his skin drawing taut against the leather wrapping. Everything was louder and yet each noise receded from him, muffled and hollow, bouncing on the unusually thick atmosphere so that it was difficult to tell from what direction it originated, or what had caused it. A dull thud and abrupt, urgent shuffling preceded a hissed expletive and Legolas smiled, reaching out automatically to steady Aragorn trudging through the mist beside him. At least there was no mistaking that sound or the man's whereabouts, though Mithrandir, true to his name, had virtually vanished in his grey robes with his grey beard, his grey hat, and his pale, pearl-coloured horse.
Rohan was far behind while Lorien's borders had slipped into obscurity and Dol Guldur was four days back, though he still felt its presence like a lingering blight upon his heart. Four days with only a brief sighting of Orcs, one small band tramping hastily away through a starlit morning dusk. To what havens they were hurrying he could not guess for there were few trees in the valley to shield them come dawn. For the first time in his life, Legolas decided to shy from trees. They were nearly to the Gladden crossing, still so far from his father's halls, a journey of long leagues under the lengthening Shadow.
So many towers, he thought, a prodigious line of them stretching from here to Mordor: Dol Guldur, Orthanc, Minas Morgul, Cirith Ungol, Barad Dur. All of them menacing, ominous, evil; all of them somehow combining their heights, stretching their shadowy reach, extending the limits of their scope until it seemed the Dark Lord glowered down directly on Anduin and Greenwood. If one on either end could be toppled, then his home would have peace, but the Wood Elves had failed to deter the Necromancer, and though he was gone, his lieutenants remained to carry on his reign of terror. Now, the sylvans could not even chase off a trio of Shadow slaves.
They had tried to budge the Lord of Barad Dur and failed at that, too, even with all the free peoples to aid them in the task. A bold stroke, a stroke of luck by a broken sword in the hand of a desperate man, that had defeated Sauron and even so his towers remained, all of them, filled with wickedness and cruelty. From them an insidious infection spread through Arda, corrupting and perverting everything it encountered, a diseased lust for power creeping into the minds and marrow of men and lesser beings. What hope could there be to ever know peace while these towers stood?
The Wood Elves have dwindled and diminished like all the First Born. It is this Shadow! It poisons everything it touches. Soon, there will not be enough light to sustain us and we must leave our forest forever.
These were not his words, but he could not deny their truth anymore than he could recall who had told him this. Mithrandir, perhaps. He felt helpless and vulnerable and it rankled. He was both eager for battle and dreaded it, needing to prove himself after the incident at the Tower but fearing what would happen once confronted by those black, empty cloaks so full with hatred. Legolas forced his thoughts to reject this doubt, but the idea was already there, pricking at his brain like a sliver of wood pushed under the skin. Was he forever marked by the evil that had possessed him and used him so totally? Would the darkness grow in him anew and devour his soul?
No! I killed servants of Mordor; I saved the life of a mighty captain among men. Creatures of Shadow do not do these things.
They were Aragorn's words and he clung to them tenaciously. The man believed in him, trusted him, kept him at his side even knowing the worst of his crimes. Legolas inhaled a slow, steadying breath, exhaling a silent prayer of thanks for whatever had placed him in the path of the Ranger, be it Vairë's fate, Manwë's grace, or Mithrandir's scheming. With Aragorn at his side, he could face anything and not fail. Again he wished for an end to the suspense. He had no wish for Aragorn to be endangered, nor the wizard either, but since they must fight he would rather it be on his terms, when he had the advantage.
Three Wraiths against three heroes and one of those a wizard. Perhaps we can do it.
Yet, he had already been tested against the Nazgûl and knew the truth: his only advantage lay in a superior gift for sneaking and hiding. That was what had got them this far. He took another woebegone breath; the waiting was unbearable. He was moved to sing and ease his conflicted mind, but repressed the need. Mithrandir had cautioned him against it, saying the sound of an elvish voice here in the open meadows could spell their doom. He wanted to ask if there was any way to make this fog clear, but while the wizard was unseen, his presence was strongly felt as a bristly impatience just ahead and the archer was reluctant to disturb him.
Perhaps it is just the mist dulling my senses that prompts this foreboding.
High above, Arien crept along her daily trek but the cloying vapour remained. A muted splash told Legolas the distance to the river and he wondered if the others heard it, too. Another league passed beneath their feet as the silent march went on, each isolated in his own thoughts, and with every step tension built within his heart. Abruptly Legolas halted, snatching Aragorn's arm to stop him and calling out to the wizard.
"What is it?" the man asked anxiously. "Did you hear something?"
"Nothing specific, but I'm going to run ahead for a time. Stop here until my return," he said and jogged off, vanishing before he'd gone two strides.
"Wait!" hissed Aragorn, making a grab for the headstrong Wood Elf that was several seconds too slow. It was the wizard who replied.
"I am sorely tempted to disperse this murky cloud of…"
Mithrandir's comment ended abruptly when they heard Legolas give a surprised cry, the distinct sound of his bow following as he fired into the fog again and again. There was no time to ask what was happening nor any need; the wizard set loose his horse and drew sword. Beside him, the man did the same and the chargers bolted beyond range. Now, they could but pray Legolas' skill would aid them and in seconds they could not even do that as the lumbering forms of Orcs appeared leering out of the mist, popping up like marmots from their burrows.
They battled in a blurry sea of grey and white shadow, of frantic cries and the clash of sword against sabre. Aragorn sought for his mate but there were too many foes and he could not afford to accommodate his fears. He and Gandalf fought back to back, desperate to keep from being overwhelmed. He tried to count their assailants; got a rough estimate of more than ten then gave up as he hewed through the bony breastplate of a tall, misshapen creature. It toppled and another took its place. Aragorn roared as its blade crossed his and locked. He feinted back and left, under the fused weapons, felt the beast falter, shoved it away in a screech of metal and cut it down, a deep laceration through the back that severed the spine.
They were all Orcs, no Uruks, no wargs, and this was about the only good he could conjure. He heard the wizard call out in pain and hiss an ugly curse. He wished Legolas would curse so he would know where the elf was, but the sylvan fought in silence. It had to be that; had to be. The only other reason for the absence of his voice was not a thing Aragorn could entertain. Two blades came at the man at once and he had to choose, unable to duck low without exposing Mithrandir to injury.
He parried the one on the left with his dagger, danced a side-stepping bluff, and gained enough advantage to hack off the second one's sword arm midway between wrist and elbow. The creature's lurching body crashed against him and he nearly went down, managed to stab it through the neck and shove it back. A black sabre whistled by his nose close enough for him to catch a whiff of ichor on it; he jerked his head back and slashed at the face dominating his field of view, removed most of its right eye. Because he was merciful, the man jabbed his dirk through the other eye, deep into the brain, already focused on the next black shape coming at him. In mid-stride it staggered, bellowing, and collapsed in groaning agony. Another leaped over it and charged, eyes wild and filled with hate, but a subtle flash of silvery light attacked it. The beast was felled before it could get within striking range, the expression on its face one of shock, a fountain of black blood spurting from its neck.
Legolas!
Joy burst through the man's heart and poured strength into his arms. The assault was thinning and now as he fought Aragorn saw numerous quick, bright bursts winking in the boiling vapour. It had to be Legolas, but he did not dare call out lest he distract the archer. Another Orc charged and he engaged it, catching it on his blade where a deep nick was gouged into its sabre. With a twisting thrust he pulled the sword out of the clawed hands and then spun, severing the head from the torso as he came round. He heard the wizard's sword bite through leather armour into flesh, heard the grunt of effort as the Maia shoved the corpse off his blade. Aragorn duelled briefly with a last opponent and dispatched it, then stood panting, sword ready, watching the silver streaks darting through the thick air like a needle darning cloth, stab-stab-stabbing through the mist. There was rough scuffling of booted feet, a garbled cruse in Black Speech fraught with terror, and he realised the enemy was retreating.
"Are you hurt, Aragorn?" Mithrandir asked between wheezing breaths, forgetting in his anguish that he had forbidden the use of the man's true name until they were safe in Thranduil's halls.
"Nay, but you are," answered the man. He turned to tend the Maia's wound but before he could start a sudden gust of air sent the white vapour dancing. For an instant Legolas appeared out of the fog, running, but he was racing away over the plains. "Legolas! Wait!"
"I must catch the last two before they spread news of our whereabouts and bring reinforcements," the elf cried, his words dwindling as he sped off. Then there was another vibrant glitter of lightening through the haze, a harsh expletive in an Orcish voice, and only one foe left.
"Nay, stubborn sylvan, come back! We need to stay together!" Aragorn called after him in vain.
"Leave him to it," commanded Mithrandir testily. "I've greater need just now than he."
"I cannot let him run off alone. What if he stumbles on another trap like this?" The man whistled for Azrûbel.
"Then hurry and we'll follow," snapped the wizard.
Aragorn nodded, uneasy for his mate, as he examined the injury. There was a chunk of muscle sliced off the wizard's forearm and it had bled profusely, but was not life-threatening. As he worked to bandage the Maia, he berated himself silently, deciding he should have taken a firmer hand with the headstrong archer from the beginning. All this over-blown sylvan pride. He resolved to mentor Legolas with more consistent authority henceforth.
Legolas wanted to prove himself, needed to do so, and the man realised why. His desire for revenge was understandable, but the archer was reckless, driven by rage and perhaps even madness. If someone did not teach him restraint, he would be killed in battle before he reached his hundredth summer. That thought made Aragorn speed through the treatment and he verily shoved Mithrandir up into the saddle before mounting Azrûbel.
"He should have returned by now," the man worried. "Can you ride?"
"Strange thing to ask me now that I'm already seated," complained the wizard. "Go! I am right behind you." He watched Aragorn kick his horse into a gallop and smiled. The bond was strong and growing stronger daily. A formidable pair, indeed. He urged his horse into a casual canter.
The land rose as a series of rolling hillocks pimpled the deep valley, a cluster of softly rounded humps that stretched from the bottom lands to the interior, becoming steeper as Hithaeglir neared, but here the hummocky land was only high enough to create a natural boundary that contained the loosely defined delta of the Gladden river. It was also the limit of the fog and as his horse climbed higher the mist thinned and then abruptly vanished. Mithrandir paused at the top of the hill and looked down over a field of carnage that made him catch his breath, and there on the far fringe of it, Legolas and Tuilelindô chasing down the last of the foes.
He could see Azrûbel racing toward the mare, weaving and leaping over the dark slumped bodies strewn over the earth. He heard Aragorn's shout, muted, unintelligible, and urgent. The Wood Elf had indeed run afoul of another ambush, but it was the Orcs who had been taken by surprise. As the wizard watched, the elf leaned out with his long knife and beheaded one of the fleeing Orcs, a crisp, blinding stab of light preceding the stroke, like a stolen beam of sunlight. Mithrandir's brows rose, the cutting brilliance was the very antithesis to the black lance of darkness with which Legolas' had been touched just days gone by.
The last Orc turned and made a stand and Legolas leaped from the mare, fought it blade to blade, and such was his speed and the strength of his anger that the creature was dead before Aragorn could reach them. Legolas raised his knife above his head and gave a shout, a long echoing cry of both triumph and challenge. He leaped aboard Tuilelindô and guided her back to his companions. Mithrandir hastened to join them, arriving at Aragorn's side even as Legolas came trotting up. The Wood Elf was all fire and fury and victorious glory, fell and fey, spattered everywhere with black blood, eyes shining and head high. He smiled at them as he drew rein beside Aragorn.
"Got them all. Hiding in pits," he snorted. "I was able to shoot most of them before they could get out. Stupid things! I killed their archers first, then took the arrows and felled the rest with their own bolts."
"You are not hurt?" asked Aragorn, reluctant to say too much. He had never actually seen Legolas in battle before now and it was stunning. He'd come over the rise to find the elf sweeping back and forth round the pits, firing off arrows quicker than he would have believed possible. This explained how he'd been saved in Baran Dalf. The man counted twenty Orcs between here and the fog-bound fields behind them, killed literally as fast as the elf could arm his bow.
"Nay, nor is Tuilelindô. They are so slow in daylight. I think it blinds them or burns them, or both perhaps. But for those Wraiths, we could clear these misshapen monsters from our woods for good."
"I do not doubt you," nodded Mithrandir, and he didn't.
"Nor I," averred Aragorn. "Is this how all Wood Elves fight?"
Modesty prevented Legolas from admitting it and he just shrugged, grinning. "Did you see how I caught the last one before it could raise the alarm?"
"I did," said the man, smiling faintly, and shared a look with the wizard, glad to see he was not the only one being enlightened this day. Mithrandir could no longer question Legolas' ability to overcome the limitations of an inferior bow with speed, accuracy, and sheer, tenacious hatred for the accursed Orcs. "I already feel guilty for taking you away from Greenwood."
A soft golden glow filled Legolas' aura even as a rosy flush stained his cheeks, and if anything he sat even taller, trying hard to behave with insouciance as he carefully wiped the gore from the elegant knife and sheathed it. "I thank you," he murmured softly. "I felt honour bound to clear our path after my carelessness earlier."
"What carelessness?" asked Aragorn, no idea what the elf was talking about.
"In the fog." The elated gleam left Legolas' eyes. "I am sorry, Kalrô; I should have detected the trap sooner. I will not fail again."
"Nonsense, you could not know any more than we," objected Mithrandir. "Even I have not heard of Orcs using such a tactic before."
"Nay, Mithrandir," the elf said seriously. "I was careless."
"That isn't so," Aragorn disagreed. "I did not think they would plan out so elaborate a scheme, either. Your skill spared us and only Mithrandir took injury, a flesh wound, nothing more." Yet now that the initial amazement had passed, Aragorn recalled his earlier concerns. What Legolas had done was impressive, but still reckless. Had the force hidden been greater, had there been Uruks or warg riders, then the ellon would have been overwhelmed and either killed or captured. He renewed his resolve to temper his young mate's zeal, but wisely decided this was not the time to begin.
The Wood Elf met the wizard's eyes, which were smiling but showed the discomfort he was suffering. "Nín gohenach, Mithrandir?" (You forgive me?)
"What a question. Alnad gohenach, pen neth." (Nothing for me to forgive, young one.) He reached out and patted the archer's arm. "You did well."
"Aye, this was an incredible feat of daring and courage," said the man. "Yet we need to move on. If we were ever hidden, our presence is known now."
"Agreed. We are near the meres now; once we cross I can try to signal my people for aid," announced Legolas.
"Among the messages I sent, news flew to Greenwood that we would be returning, but I did not know how long it might take," added Mithrandir. "I gave no directive as to when to begin watching for us; a good thing, too, since I was not expecting you two to end up in Rohan. Valar willing, Thranduil has troops positioned along the woodland borders by now."
They turned from the pitted battle ground and set the horses trotting toward the Gladden, continuing the discussion as they rode.
"There will be war at Gladden; I see no way to avoid it," opined the wizard. "The Wraiths will know we'll try to cross there. That being so, I must ask that should we have to fight between now and then, you do not expend any light, pen neth."
"What do you mean? I burn light just breathing, Mithrandir," laughed the elf.
"Not that kind of use. I am talking about infusing every thrust and parry with faerlim."
"Aye, he's right, Melethen. You must hold back, the same way you dim your aura at night, reduce the strength you give to every blow," nodded Aragorn.
"I don't know what you two are talking about," said Legolas bemused.
Man and Maia looked at one another in consternation, then at the elf in wonder.
"Explain," insisted Legolas.
"If you cannot, how can we?" laughed Aragorn, shaking his head.
"Never mind, no time to investigate now," grumbled Mithrandir. "Perhaps it is some residual of the Song with which I cleansed you. Now come, we've leagues to cover yet."
It was true and both man and elf experienced a sudden, sinking dismay to hear it, feeling they had been struggling so hard for so long. Rohan seemed an Age ago; the battle at Baran Dalf ancient history. The fire of the fight cooled and the elation of victory gave way to morose melancholy. At the end of this harrowing journey more tribulation awaited them and they did not need to speak to know each dreaded the encounter with the Woodland King. With heavy hearts they turned the horses north.
TBC
NOTE: These last chapters have had the benefit of careful and thoughtful beta-reading by Aralas. With her help, there should be far fewer errors and things are hopefully clearer and for this I am grateful beyond words. It has been such a gift to have someone to listen to me think and give me a response that tells me whether I am coherent or not lol! Because of Aralas' remarks, things I had glossed over are now fleshed out and things I had omitted entirely have been brought forth. Not only that, but she offered encouragement and bolstered my confidence when I was quite ready to toss the whole thing out. Thus, if you liked this stuff, thank her, for I was going to cut nearly all of it, and some of it would never have been written. Anything still incorrect, or anything you just can't stand, well, that's all on me, folks.
I want to thank everyone who stuck with me even when this became so dark. Special thanks to An and Ch (not their real names) who have sent me positive feedback off-site, even on the dark chapters, and encouraged me to finish the story so everyone could have closure. Extra Extra Special Thanks to Ch for recommending the story to friends :D Hope the ending meets everyone's expectations. No, this is not the end, there is more to come, but some things will deliberately NOT be explained because a sequel is pending :)