The Elf's footsteps were almost soundless against the leaf-strewn floor of Mirkwood. He moved like a shadow through the ancient trees, silent and watchful, leaving no trace of his passing. The air was cool and still, the dim green forest-light fading to gray as the unseen sun sank towards the horizon. Up ahead, he could see a clearing. The thick leafy canopy thinned slightly, allowing a few shafts of golden light to pierce the ever-present gloom.
Legolas stopped in place, his bow firmly in hand, and listened.
In the center of the clearing was a tunnel, opening into a small, asymmetrical hillock, not much taller than he was.The mouth of the tunnel gaped crookedly, the rough-hewn stones that lined it jutting like misaligned teeth. Wispy curtains of web hung across the entrance, lying still and motionless in the deepening chill. Legolas felt a faint unease as he gazed upon it. I have walked these woods for countless ages, he thought, yet have never seen this place before.
His expression darkened. Some new goblin-haunt, perhaps. No matter how many of the foul creatures he destroyed, his hatred of them never lessened. The power of the Enemy still spread through the forest like a sickness; despite the most valiant efforts of his people, the darkness seemed to grow stronger every day. And this tunnel...wherever it led...gave forth a distinct sense of evil.
He took a step towards it, silent and wary. Upon examining it further, he realized the tunnel could not have been newly dug. The stones that lined the entrance were worn, and the dangling spider webs were dusty and dry. Legolas heard a faint breath of wind coming from inside, like a quiet sigh. The tunnel almost seemed to whisper, dark voices on the edge of his hearing...
help us
Legolas raised his head, looking puzzled. What was that? He had heard something. It was barely there, the faintest, most distant whisper, but real nonetheless.
help us
He frowned. There it was again. It was definitely coming from the tunnel; or rather, from inside it.
Legolas looked around, glancing up at the shafts of golden sunset lancing down through the thick, concealing leaves. "The daylight fades," he told himself quietly. "It will be night soon." Perhaps it would be wisest to return in the morning, with others of his kind to aid him...
help us
The whisper was louder this time, more urgent. The voice was calling to him; calling for his aid. Suspecting a trap, but unable to turn his back on a cry for help, Legolas hesitated a moment more.
Then he turned his face towards the tunnel, and stepped inside.
--
The tunnel floor was treacherous, as the stone slabs beneath his feet seemed to conspire to throw him off-balance. But Legolas remained steadily upright as he made his cautious way downward. What little light there was faded to nothing before he'd gone more than a few steps. Now he walked in utter darkness, with only his other senses to guide his way.
He ran his left hand along the tunnel's stone wall as he descended, his every step cautious but sure. A faint breeze touched his face, whispering past his ear. He felt a dangling web brush his forehead as he continued on, but he merely moved it aside, unperturbed. His keen ears detected the sounds of tiny spiders scuttling away to avoid being trodden on. So, he thought, something in this place yet lives.
Thus far he'd heard nothing of the distant voice that had touched his mind when he'd discovered the tunnel entrance. A mortal being might have told himself that he'd imagined the whole thing. The Elf, however, did not have the luxury of self-deception. He had heard the voice, the cry for help. Thus, if there was any chance he could discover its source, he had no choice but to try.
There were more webs in the darkness, now, clinging to him as he continued sightlessly forward. He drew forth a blade, cutting through the webs with his right hand while continuing to run his left along the rough, uneven stone of the wall. Then he paused as a sound met his ears.
It was a whispery, rustling noise, like dry leaves in the wind, mingled with tiny patterings and faint, almost rodentlike squeaks. It came from the unseen blackness that yawned before him, growing louder, and closer. Legolas already knew what it was.
Spiders.
He drew his second blade and stood at the ready. He thought briefly of his bow, but dismissed the thought. The spiders would be upon him too quickly for that. He had barely finished the thought when he saw tiny pinpricks of red light in the darkness ahead; eightfold clusters of glittering scarlet eyes. They grew closer and closer, clinging to the walls and floor and ceilings, ringing the tunnel like obscene constellations in a pitch-black sky. The rustling of their countless legs was accompanied by the angry chattering squeaks of spider-speech. Legolas stood his ground as the horde rushed up to meet him.
A set of eyes launched itself at him from the darkness. An effortless flick of his wrist, and a spider the size of his head lay in two pieces on the ground.
Another came at him, and another, leaping at him with raspy, high-pitched squeals. He cut through them without mercy, whirling in place as the pack moved to surround him. One of the smaller ones, no bigger than a fist, dropped unseen from the ceiling and landed on his shoulder, hairy legs scratching against his neck. He gave a grunt of disgust and swatted it away. The spider squeaked pitifully as it dropped with a faint thump onto the scampering bodies of its comrades. Another spider, this one the size of a dog, tried frantically to wrap its webs around the Elf's leg, and was sent flying with a swift kick to its bulbous body.
Legolas was surrounded by a sea of glittering red eyes and twiglike legs rustling in the darkness, engulfed in their overlapping chittery cries and shrieks. As he whipped his blades forward in a scissoring motion, cutting a fat spider into four pieces while stomping another's head into the ground, a strange realization came to him: not all the creatures were attacking. Many of them scuttled past as fast as their limbs would carry them, avoiding the Elf's slashing blades, gibbering to themselves as they fled into the darkness beyond.
The horde was thinning, now, the sounds of their cries growing fainter. Legolas kicked away another spider as it scuttled across the toe of his boot. It hit the wall with a dull thump like an overripe fruit and rolled to the floor. It righted itself, turned its tiny gleaming eyes to him and gibbered what sounded like a series of angry curses. But instead of attacking, it only scuttled past him, fleeing for its life.
His chest rising and falling from exertion, surrounded by still-twitching limbs and pieces of dead spiders, Legolas stood at the ready. He listened warily as the last of the creatures retreated into the distance. The rustling sounds of their movement grew fainter, fainter still, and disappeared entirely. All was silent, and Legolas was alone in the darkness once more.
The spiders were fleeing, he realized, lowering his blades but not re-sheathing them. They attacked because I stood between them and escape. He narrowed his eyes and peered into the blackness that lay behind him. What could have put them to such terror, that they would risk death to escape it? What could...
help us
Legolas gasped and whirled around. It was the same voice he'd heard at the tunnel entrance, a whisper of fear in the silence of his mind. He shook himself as if trying to shake off a clinging web. He risked the barest whisper: "Who are you?"
No reply came. He spoke again in his mind: Who are you?
Still no reply. The air grew warm and close around him, and he was conscious of the closeness of the walls, the blackness pressing in around him, the stink of the dead and dying spiders that littered the ground at his feet. Fighting down an irrational urge to flee, he steeled himself and started forward again, heedless of the wet crunchings underfoot.
He walked soundlessly through the pitch darkness, twin blades at the ready, every sense strained to its utmost. The tunnel sloped steadily downward, descending deeper into the earth. The ground grew damp beneath his feet, then muddy, clinging stickily to the soles of his boots as if trying to hold him in place. The warmth intensified, but it was not a pleasant feeling; it felt as if he was wrapped in the carcass of something recently dead. And the damp smell of earth and dust was slowly suffused by the smell of something else, something that made the Elf's shoulders tense as he walked on...
help us
help us
With a shudder, Legolas violently shook his head. The cries were louder this time, stabbing knives of fear inside his mind. Voices crying out in terror, and desperation, and inconceivable pain...
Heedless of the danger, he shouted into the darkness, "Who are you?"
No reply came. He heard a soft, thick sound of dripping liquid.
He felt his heart beating hard in his chest, and was infuriated by his own unaccountable fear. What is this place? he asked himself angrily. What evil power dwells here? The air reeked in his nostrils, smothered him in its heat. But he gathered his will to go on, and took a step forward.
With a faint splash, his step landed in a shallow puddle.
It wasn't water.
He stopped.
The air stank of blood.
He reached out blindly, and brushed the fingers of his left hand against the wall beside him. His hand came back wet, and sticky. Legolas raised his hand to his face, and the smell told him what it was, as clearly as if he could see the bright crimson staining his flesh.
So, he thought.
He hesitated one moment more. Then Legolas tightened his grip on his blades' handles, and charged forward into the darkness.
--
The tunnel took him deeper and deeper, twisting and winding until it seemed he must have passed into the very heart of the earth. Legolas ran blindly through the reeking darkness, the warm stench of blood like a hot, damp cloth smothering his face. The smell filled his nostrils, burned in his throat. Each running step was a thick splash in the obscene liquid that sloshed and roiled along the floor. The river of blood was up to his ankles, now. Every now and then a drop would fall unseen through the darkness, landing with a soft thap on his tunic, tracing a loathsome trail down his cheek.
The horrors of the blood hall only increased the Elf's resolve. The very walls cannot bleed, he told himself grimly as he ran on, undaunted. This...spectacle must have a source, and a purpose. Clearly something, or someone, was determined to frighten away unwanted visitors. But the Prince of Mirkwood was undeterred by such theatrics. No matter what terrors the unseen evil threw in his path, he would face them, and discover the source of the cries...
...the screams for help...
...help us...
Legolas shuddered, and his steps faltered...
...help us...
...help us help us help us HELP US HELP US!!
He gasped and stumbled, falling through darkness as the screams stabbed though his mind. Briefly disoriented, he let out a grunt of surprise as he landed on a floor of solid, dry stone.
His head spun as he carefully rose to his feet. He'd been caught off guard by the power and intensity of the cries, of the sheer terror they poured into his mind. Breathing deeply, Legolas fought to steady himself, angered by his brief weakness. The thoughts are not mine! he told himself. The fear is not my own!
Bright spots whirled before his eyes, then faded. He shook his head and looked around, surprised to see that the darkness had lessened. There was a faint orange light in the distance, just enough for his keen sight to make out his surroundings. The walls were rough-hewn stone, murky gray in the dim light. The descending passage turned sharply to the right some distance ahead of him; the vague, flickering light came from just beyond the bend.
There was no trace of blood anywhere in the tunnel. However, looking down at himself, Legolas grimaced in distaste at the crimson streaks and splatters that marred his garments and boots. He did not raise his hands to wipe away the stripe of blood than ran down his left cheek to his jawline, even though he could feel it drying and tightening uncomfortably against his skin. Blood-drenched as his hands were, it would only make things worse.
Darting a glance over his shoulder, he felt a moment's shock. There was a solid stone wall facing him. The passage leading back to the surface was gone, as if it had never existed. Legolas sheathed his knives and ran both hands over the wall, leaving red smears behind, peering intently at it in the flickering darkness. There was no trace of a door; not the faintest crack or seam.
The Elf allowed himself a grim smile, bending the line of blood along his face. "It is well, then," he said with quiet resolve, "that I have no intent to turn back."
He turned around, drawing his blades in one swift motion, and resumed his descent.
--
The orange-red light grew stronger as he came to the bend in the tunnel. It flickered and danced, casting strange shadows along the uneven stone of the walls. Torchlight, Legolas realized. Rounding the corner, his suspicions were confirmed. A pair of torches, mounted on each side of the hall, flared and guttered in the darkness. Up ahead, the floor of the tunnel gave way to carved stone stairs, leading down and to his right, vanishing into darkness.
Legolas was still, and listened for some time. It still seemed as if he was alone; he heard nothing but the sound of the torches, smelled nothing but their smoke.
He debated whether to risk making himself a more visible target by taking a torch, then concluded it was worth the risk. Whatever lay ahead, he wanted to see it clearly, and fire might be a useful ally against any unforeseen foes. He sheathed his left-hand blade, then reached out and grasped the torch's handle in his blood streaked hand. The torch pulled free of its holder with a scraping sound. Legolas gripped it firmly and held it before him as he proceeded down the stairs, placing one foot in front of the other, poised and wary as a hunting cat.
The tunnel gradually grew wider and higher, the ceiling rising away above him. The increased room lessened the stifling atmosphere of the place; however, he reminded himself, this left more room for any potential adversaries to maneuver as well.
Eventually, Legolas came upon a cavernous stone chamber. The stairs descended along one wall, spiraling down into an impenetrable darkness. On his left, a rough stone wall rose up beside him, vanishing into unseen heights, farther than his torch's light could reach. To his right, on the other side of the curving stairs, was nothing but a sheer drop into blackness. He looked over the edge and peered down. He saw nothing, and was not foolhardy enough to drop anything over the edge to see what became of it.
Something on the wall ahead caught his attention. Moving closer, he leaned the torch close to the wall, the flickering orange glow illuminating dark, irregular markings. It was writing; small, crude letters carved in shallow gashes into the stone.
help us
The Elf's eyes narrowed in recognition. The sight of the letters brought a flicker of memory, an unwanted recollection of the words he'd heard in his mind since his descent began. He frowned. These words did not come here by chance. If the letters and the voices came from the same source, then perhaps he would soon have an answer to this mystery.
Cautiously, he made his way down the steps, torch held aloft in his left hand, a single shining blade in his right. As he walked, the torch fire's glow illuminated more letters: uneven, haphazard scrawls, some higher than his head, some nearly down at his feet, their strange shapes shifting and dancing in the flickering shadows.
help us HELP US h e l p us
help US help us HELP US HELP US H e lP us HelP Us
Help Us HELP US
His hand gripped the torch handle tighter.
The further he walked, the more the writing increased, letters overlapping and running together. It had clearly been made by many different hands. Some letters were weak spidery lines, barely visible, while others tore into the wall in thick, angry gashes.
Words in the languages of Men were there, and the angular letters of Dwarves, even the uncouth scrawls of the Black Speech of Mordor. But it was the Elven letters that concerned him the most. My own kin were here, Legolas thought uneasily. Why? What had brought them all to this place, and what unknown terror had compelled them to write these words, over and over again?
The cavern grew colder. Legolas felt a faint whisper of air, a chill wind that brushed against his cheek. The torchlight began to sputter, dark smoke swallowed up by the encircling darkness. Legolas came to a narrow ledge, a flat stretch of stone before the stairs began again. He stopped and slowly moved his torch up along the wall, as high as he could reach. The writing covered the entire wall, higher than he could see; the letters were jumbled, overlapping, running over and through each other in a mad cacophony of terror.
HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US US HELP US HELP US HELP US HELP US
As he leaned in, holding the torch high, his left hand brushed against the wall.
A jolt ran through him, and even as he jerked his hand away, something leaped into his mind...
...his knees scraped against the stone floor, bleeding and raw as he was dragged forward, the cold steel of the heavy manacles digging into his throbbing wrists, the sound of orcs' laughter rough and harsh in his ears as they flung him into the cell...he heard a loud CLANG behind him as the door slammed shut, never to open, he would never see daylight again...
...he lay curled up on the floor, his vision blurred, stomach wracked with hunger, every inch of his body throbbing in pain...the beatings grew worse every time, and he knew he would not survive another...
...the barbed cords of the lash tore into his back, ripping the flesh from his bones, again and again and again, until his blood coursed down his legs and his throat was raw from his own screams...
...the cell was dark, and cold, and stank...he couldn't remember when he'd last seen the sky, he could no longer picture the faces of his friends, or his family, he could barely remember who he was...the days ran together in endless stream of darkness...days, weeks, months, years...
...the stone slab was rough against his back, damp and sticky with his own blood and the blood of countless others...he was staring up at the ceiling, his mind destroyed by agony, welcoming the sight of the axe as it swung down, down...
..."NO!!"
With all his will, Legolas fought against the memories, forcing them away, casting out the other minds that had invaded his. His legs buckled and he fell, hitting the ground hard. The dagger and torch fell from his nerveless fingers. The blade clattered on the ledge before him, and the torch tumbled away and came to rest on the stairs some distance below, an island of light in a sea of endless dark. He lay face-down on the ledge, gasping for breath, clutching at the stone beneath him. His sight wavered and his mind reeled, fighting to recover from the onslaught. He was distantly aware that his knees hurt; he must have struck them when he fell.
For a moment, he lay dazed, struggling to return to himself, to sort out his own thoughts and memories from those that had overtaken his mind. Slowly, gradually, the images began to fade. Numb with shock, Legolas forced himself up to his knees, but still wasn't strong enough to stand. He gazed down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them as if he'd never seen them before.
I remember, we were captured...the orcs took us below, to... He shuddered, and shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I was not..." His voice trailed off into silence. What had entered his mind had been far more than the ghost of memories, traces of those long dead. Whoever they had been, he had seen through their eyes, seen and heard and smelled and tasted everything that they had. He had felt their agony, their terror, their despair. He had tasted age and weakness and death, and now felt tainted by mortality. It felt like a foul clinging mist wrapped around him, seeping into his very bones, as if his life was being slowly leached away.
So, he thought, as his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a tight line. This is how it feels to be mortal. He raised his eyes and concluded, flatly, "It leaves much to be desired."
He glared at the spot on the wall he'd accidentally touched. The writing in that place was gone, wiped clean. The unmarked stone was still surrounded by the frantic, maddened scrawls.
Painfully, Legolas rose to his feet. He stood for a moment, regaining his balance, slowly growing calm again. His knees ached, but they didn't seem badly injured; he would recover quickly. Stilling his mind, he tried to reason through what had happened to him.
Prisoners, he thought, carefully stooping to pick up his fallen dagger, never taking his gaze from the wall. We... He checked himself. They were all prisoners of the Enemy. The presence of orcs in the memories, as well as the cruelty the victims had suffered, was more than enough to confirm that. They all...died here, he remembered, shivering at the recollection as he grasped his blade in his hand. He glanced at his reflection in the metal of the blade, barely visible in the darkness. Yet even in death...they found no escape.
His strength and balance returning with every step, Legolas made his way down to where the torch had fallen. Carefully, he picked up the guttering torch in his left hand. He raised it and gazed back at the wall, careful not to touch it this time, running his gaze over the endless morass of writing, the same words over and over. Each hand was different, he realized. Each represented a different being. There had to be hundreds, perhaps even thousands.
Slowly, his anger subsided, and was replaced by a deep sorrow. These words... he thought. Each one belongs to a mind, a soul, trapped here upon death. And they seek release...
...through me.
Legolas stared at the wall for a long time.
Help us, the words pleaded silently.
I cannot, his thoughts replied. Then he spoke aloud, his voice a sorrowful whisper. "I cannot free you. It would destroy me."
No answer came. He hadn't expected one.
The Elf stood for a moment, a torchlit figure surrounded by blackness. Then he lowered his head and turned away, resuming his descent down the winding stair.
He never saw the blow coming.
His head snapped sideways as he was struck from the left. As he fell, he was already twisting in mid-air. He grabbed the edge of the stairs with his left hand, letting out a grunt of pain as his body slammed into the stone. The torch fell away, spiraling down into the void beneath him. His body dangled over the edge, tiny bits of rock crumbling away and tumbling down into the darkness.
Without hesitation, Legolas reached up with his right arm, his hand still clenched around the dagger's hilt, and got his forearm up onto the top of the stairs. In a single fluid motion, he vaulted back up to the stairs and drew his second blade. His instincts warned him a split-second before the next blow came, and he ducked it and whirled away, dancing on the crumbling edge of the stair, his boot sending another shower of loose stone down into the abyss.
There was blood on his face; his own, this time. The stone of the wall rippled and bulged, like worms burrowing through the skin of a rotting carcass. Sharp bits of stone flew out in explosive bursts as an unseen force ripped out from the wall, lashing out at him. He could sense its desperate panic, the blind terror and rage of countless imprisoned souls. He ducked and leaped away as their combined force slashed out at him. Whether they were trying to push him over the edge or draw him bodily into the wall, he couldn't tell. And neither was something he greatly desired.
"It would seem," Legolas observed in dry tones, poised on the edge of the stairs, "that you do not take no for an answer."
He ducked another vicious swipe that sent shards of rock hurtling through the air, and considered his situation. His attackers were intangible; neither arrow nor blade could harm them. He was vastly outnumbered, and even with his Elven endurance, he would be worn down, and would fall. When that happened, the imprisoned souls would invade his mind in a vain, desperate bid for freedom, and they would destroy him.
Legolas realized there was only one thing he could do.
He sheathed his blades, turned, and ran.
--
Legolas nearly flew down the stairs, leaping them two and three at a time, mere steps ahead of the explosive force blowing out the wall behind him. He ran blindly through the dark, by instinct rather than sight, down and down the spiraling path. He sensed a gap in the stair mere seconds before he reached it, and leaped like a deer, crossing the break with inches to spare. He heard the wall collapsing behind him, great chunks of stone crashing down, choking the air with dust. Still he ran on through the blackness, his chest heaving with exertion, eyes straining for any hint of light.
He sensed a yawning gap ahead, with nothing beyond. The stairs ended in a drop into oblivion. He had no idea how deep it was, or whether he would survive the fall.
He jumped anyway.
Arcing gracefully from the edge, he spread his arms wide as he fell, then tucked into a ball, hoping to gauge the distance properly. He twisted and hit the ground with his left shoulder, the impact ripping his tunic, sending a hot flare of pain through his shoulder. He tumbled over and over, slowing his momentum, finally uncurling and coming to a halt against a stone wall. The fall would likely have killed a human; as it was, the impact had wrenched his shoulder badly, and the rest of him felt fairly battered as well.
A final shower of stone fragments rained down from above, stirring up thick clouds of dust, then gradually slowed and ceased. All was quiet once again.
There was light here. He could see the torch he'd dropped earlier, lying on its side only a few feet away, flames burning low but not extinguished. The stone floor was rough-hewn and dirty, littered with rock and debris. A few old, yellowing bones lay strewn here and there.
Legolas gave an involuntary grunt of pain as he sat up, reaching back and feeling where his shoulder hurt. The leather and cloth of his garments had been ripped in a long gash, and hung in a limp flap beneath the wound. The shoulder itself felt scraped and bruised, but not badly. Still, his mounting injuries and the lingering trauma of his mental ordeal were beginning to take their toll.
Rising to his feet, he listened carefully, but heard no further sound of pursuit. He walked over and retrieved the torch, then gathered up a few of his arrows, scattered where they'd fallen during his escape. The space he was in now seemed roughly circular, and not all that big, as if the stair chamber narrowed towards the base. Looking up, he could barely make out where the stairs ended abruptly high above. Beyond that, there was only darkness.
A clever trap, indeed, he thought, with a grim half-smile. There were few who could have survived the ordeal. As he walked around the chamber, exploring every inch of it, he still wondered as to the purpose of it all. What was the reason for the hall of blood, the chamber of words? Were they warnings to keep away intruders, or a trap to ensnare them? Or was there some larger purpose that he could not yet see?
He came upon a rusty metal gate built into one wall. It hung askew, dented and battered as if blasted aside by some powerful force. Beyond it was a narrow passageway with an arched, pointed ceiling, lined along the walls and floor with carefully fitted rectangular stones. Walking over to it, Legolas realized, The gate was breached from this side. Someone--or something--had broken in from where he now stood.
Cautiously, Legolas picked his way over the stone rubble that littered the entrance, and examined the inside of the passage. On his left was an unlit torch, still in its holder. And on his right was a metal mount for a second one, but the torch was gone. Below it was a small mark carved into the wall. Considering his recent experience, the Elf was rather cautious about writings on walls, but held the torch close to examine it anyway. It was a single rune, carved with hasty strokes into the stone: the letter G.
Gandalf? he wondered, scarcely believing his eyes. The G-rune was Mithrandir's mark, but what was it doing here? Had Gandalf himself passed through this place? Legolas glanced back at the breached gate, hanging forlornly against the stone wall; the wizard certainly had power enough for such a deed.
The tunnel, however, showed no signs of recent use. The air was musty and stale, and the thick layer of dust on the floor was undisturbed by any footprints. If Gandalf had indeed come this way, it had been a long time ago.
Since his torch was burning low, Legolas turned and lit the one that remained in its holder on the wall. Discarding the old one, he took the new torch from its holder and started cautiously down the hallway. As he made his way down the silent passage, he tried to recall if Mithrandir had ever mentioned a place such as this. Granted, the wizard could be closed-mouthed about his journeys. Although always friendly with the Elves and free with advice to whoever asked it, he still kept his affairs very much to himself.
What errand brought you here, Grey Pilgrim? Legolas wondered. Did you face the same trials? And what did you find upon your journey's end?
A short distance ahead, the passage opened into darkness. Legolas could sense a great space beyond, and a lingering presence of great evil. A foul smell wafted towards him; a stench of blood, and fear, and death. The Elf knew that his journey through this place had reached its end; whatever the answer was, he would know it soon enough.
Legolas reached the end of the passage, stopped at the edge, and looked out.
--
The space inside was vast, far too big for his torch to illuminate. Beyond where he stood was a wide, circular chamber, its roof too far off to see. From where he stood, Legolas could see four other identical hallways opening up into the central space, evenly spaced around its perimeter. And all around him, draped with the wispy ghosts of old webs, were instruments of torture and death. Swords and pikes and cruel, hooked knives lay abandoned and rusted, scattered on the floor, stacked in disordered rows along the walls. Brick-lined firepits lay cold and empty, long pokers and iron rods still propped along their edges. There were stone slabs like long, low tables, stained and discolored with rusty shades of dried blood. And there were hulking iron monstrosities, distorted and sharp-edged machines of torment, that he truly didn't care to speculate on the purpose of.
Legolas stood in silence, listening, watching. The air still reeked of orcs, but the smells were old and stale. He heard no sound beyond the quiet guttering of his torch, and a faint drip of water, far distant. Nothing moved, not even the tiniest spider; besides himself, nothing here yet lived.
His steps measured and cautious, he walked out to the center of the chamber. Above him, long, heavy chains hung from the distant ceiling, vanishing into the blackness high above. Crude wooden ladders, lashed together by leather thongs, stood against the walls or lay abandoned on the floor. And all around him, reaching up into the unseen distance, lining the walls of the circular chamber for as far as he could see...
...were cells.
They were empty and cold, their heavy iron doors hanging open in the thick, lifeless air. Countless cells, cramped and windowless and filthy, all around him, everywhere he looked...
He remembered the inside of his cell, dark and damp and cold, remembered the sound of spiders scurrying in the filthy straw on which he lay...
No...
Legolas shook his head, and averted his gaze. His eyes fell upon one of the firepits, covered with a metal grate, containing a long poker with a hooked, serrated edge.
He remembered the smell of the burning metal, glowing white-hot as the orcs lifted it from the flames, laughing at their sport as they brought it closer to him, closer...
"No!" Legolas forced out through clenched teeth. The memories and sensations clung to him, digging into his mind, refusing to be dispelled. They are not real, they are not mine...!
Now, with a dark certainty, he knew where he was. There could only be one answer. This was the source of the evil that had tainted his woodland home for ages, the northern stronghold of the Enemy himself.
Dol Guldur.
The Elf's mind reeled at the realization. It cannot be...I cannot have come so far... The fortress of Dol Guldur had been miles to the south of where he'd begun his journey. How could he have traveled so far without knowing it? When the hall of blood ended, he remembered, he had suddenly found himself in another place, and felt shaken and disoriented. Perhaps there was some magic at work here, that connected one place to another regardless of distance.
He realized, a cold anger running through him, that the fortress might have countless such passages, riddling the forest of Mirkwood like termites in a rotting tree. And if this was so, then the Enemy's forces could emerge anywhere, even beneath the very halls of the Elvenking...
Gandalf came to this place, Legolas thought, remembering the carved rune in the inner hall. It had been nearly a hundred years since the wizard had braved the dangers of the Necromancer's stronghold, and discovered the Dwarf-lord Thrain within these very dungeons.
And then, ten years ago, the White Council had laid siege to Dol Guldur, driving the Necromancer--Sauron himself--from his fortress. It had lain empty and abandoned ever since...or so all had thought.
Legolas slowly turned in a circle, suppressing a shudder as he looked upon the empty, gaping cells, the abandoned, rusty weapons and implements of torture, the stone slabs stained with old blood. The darkness seemed to deepen, as if some unseen evil was closing in around him. What if Sauron had not truly been driven out, Legolas wondered, but had abandoned the fortress of his own accord? What if he had known of the impending attack, and withdrawn his forces deliberately, escaping through the tunnels that ran beneath the woods? If there was magic at work within them, anyone could emerge from them at any point, and would be impossible to follow or track.
And when the cruel master of the fortress had given the order to flee, what would have become of the countless prisoners held within the dungeons?
Legolas looked up at the hundreds of empty cells. They were slaughtered, every one, he realized. The dungeons ran red with blood...
With blood...
Orcs moving from cell to cell with mechanical precision, slitting throats one by one, one after another, till all the screams fell silent...
No. He shivered in the deepening cold, forced himself to concentrate on the present time, absently rubbing his throat. He had made his way to the heart of the fortress, but questions still lingered in his mind. If this place had been deserted for years, what had suddenly caused the spiders to flee? What new evil caused the walls to yield up their store of blood, and the voices of the dead to cry out in terror...?
The flame of the torch guttered. A cold wind whispered around him, carrying a stench of death.
Every muscle in his body tensed. His keen ears heard the rustle of heavy cloth, as a dark presence closed in around him.
Legolas darted his gaze around the chamber, his eyes narrowing.
I am no longer alone.
He sensed their presence before they appeared at the mouths of the passages that surrounded him. Standing alone in an island of firelight, Legolas could see the ragged edges of black, rotted fabric whispering in the wind, hear the metallic rasp of ancient swords unsheathed, their edges gleaming in the crimson light.
Nazgûl.
There were three of them, encircling him. They moved in deadly silence, formless black shapes in the void, swords extended in perfect unison, pointing straight at him. They seemed almost contemptuous of the Elf's presence, dismissing him as a threat easily dealt with.
Legolas was calm, and stood his ground as the specters approached. The Elves did not fear the Nazgûl.
No... a mocking voice seemed to whisper in his mind...
...but mortals do...
The fear hit him like a hammer, driving him to his knees. Legolas cried out as the torch fell from his grasp and clattered away, out of reach. A freezing cold overtook him, turning his bones to ice. Fear drove away all thought and reason, even as some part of his mind fought to assert itself, to regain control. The clinging terror of mortals long dead held him pinned and helpless as the wraiths approached, drawing back their blades as one, preparing to strike.
This was the purpose of the hall of words, he realized distantly, struggling to throw off the unreasoning fear that paralyzed him. Anyone who survived the ordeal--even an Elf--would be tainted by the souls trapped there, taking on their mortal terror, magnifying it a hundredfold. Even in death, the victims of Sauron still served their master's will...
Legolas struggled to rise, tried to unclench his hands as they gripped the stone floor, his heart hammering against his ribs, his breath stopped in his throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't move. I cannot...it is too strong...
The wraiths stood over him, now. He could smell the rank stench of the cloaks that gave them form and substance, hear their hateful voices whispering words of terror and death. No... His forehead was pressed against the stone, his eyes squeezed shut, every muscle taut and quivering. He would die here, he knew. They will kill me, I cannot defeat them, I...
I am...
Something within him grew very still, and calm.
The Nazgûl, blades raised high, stopped, and hesitated.
I am Elf-kind, he told himself.
His eyes snapped open.
I do not fear them.
He launched himself into a forward roll as the swords came down, striking the stone inches behind him, sending up sparks in the darkness. In one effortless motion, Legolas grabbed the handle of the fallen torch, leaped to his feet, whirled around...
...and thrust it full in the face of the nearest wraith.
The creature's scream was deafening. It jerked away, flailing in pain and terror as the flames coursed over it, setting it alight like a beacon. The other Nazgûl recoiled as the Elf whipped the torch back and forth, driving them back. One wraith, bolder than its comrades, shrieked in fury and lashed out at their intended victim. The sword cut a wide horizontal arc through the air, aimed to cut its target in two. Legolas leaped back and up, landing surefooted on a wide, bloodstained stone slab. He watched impassively as the flaming Nazgûl fled into a side tunnel, still wailing in agony, as the others converged on him.
He spun in place and leaped away, grabbing hold of a rickety wooden ladder propped against the wall. Still keeping hold of the torch, he used his free hand to grab the ladder's rungs, one after the other, climbing as fast as he could as the rotting wood snapped and splintered beneath him. He made it to one of the cells that opened out on the circular chamber, and kicked the remains of the ladder away. It fell and shattered on the stone below as the two wraiths closed in below, dark cloaks rippling as they advanced, inhuman voices rasping in triumph as they cornered their prey.
Legolas glanced over his shoulder, and recognized the cell as one he...no, another...had been imprisoned in. You died here, he thought. He looked around. You all died here. His expression turned grim. But, Valar willing, I shall avenge your memory.
He dropped the torch to the floor of the cell, near his feet. Legolas stood straight and sure, gazing down at the Nazgûl with impassive eyes. Then he reached over his shoulder and drew forth his bow, and reached back again towards his quiver...
Once again, an icy torrent of fear poured through him. The hated voices whispered in chilling tones, soothing and mocking at the same time, echoing within his soul. You cannot escape, they whispered. Your cause is futile. You are doomed to die. You cannot defeat us...
The Elf gasped and went to his knees, curling up as if in an agony of terror. Arrows spilled from his quiver and over his back, scattering around him. Yes, the voices of the wraiths assured, it is useless to fight. Give in to us, and your death will be quick...
Some of the arrows, fallen too near the torch, began to smolder and flame.
The Elf's head snapped up. He looked down at the wraiths, who paused in confusion below him.
His eyes narrowed.
He smiled.
His movements almost too fast to follow, Legolas grabbed up a handful of flaming arrows, leaped to his feet, fitted them to his bow, and fired.
The arrows struck home, burying themselves deep beneath the cowled hoods with a dull thwock. Twin screams rent the air as the wraiths' heads jerked back, the flames spreading across their featureless faces, lighting the frayed ends of their cloaks. Legolas set more arrows alight, and fired again and again, without mercy or pity. The arrows whizzed through the air, embedding in his enemies' chests, in their limbs, in their heads. The Nazgûl whirled and thrashed, shrieking so loud the very walls of the fortress seemed to vibrate. Shadows whirled and danced along the stone walls and twisted hunks of metal as the flames spread, growing higher. The foul air grew thick with rancid smoke.
His arrows spent, Legolas slung his bow across his back, then crouched and launched himself forward in a flying leap. With both hands, he grabbed hold of a thick, heavy chain that dangled from the ceiling, his body snapping back and around in a circle as he wrapped his leg around it and began to climb down. As his feet struck the ground, one of the flaming wraiths, maddened with agony, stumbled blindly in his direction, slashing the air with its blade. Legolas ducked the blow and cast his gaze around the fortress, now lit with a brilliant hellfire. He saw the five passages that led into the interior dungeons. One he'd already come through, and knew he could not return that way. Three the Nazgûl had used to enter, and he had no wish to follow those back to their source.
That left one.
He whirled in place and sprinted for the door, leaping over obstacles that barred his way, his lungs burning from the smoke and stench. As he ran through the tunnel, the light of the inferno grew dim behind him, fading to black. The crackle and roar of the flames, mingled with the hideous shrieks of the Ringwraiths, faded into silence. He heard only the beat of his own footsteps, striking a rapid rhythm against the stones of the floor, and the sound of his own breath, coming fast and heavy as he ran through the darkness.
Legolas ran for what seemed like an eternity, the tunnel gradually sloping upwards. The close-laid stones beneath his feet grew uneven and jagged, catching at his ankles, threatening to trip him up. He could barely make out a faint light, far ahead.
Dangling spiderwebs brushed against him, clinging to his skin. He drew his blades without pause and cut them aside. The light was closer now, a pale, dim radiance. He was almost there...
Almost before he knew what was happening, Legolas was out of the tunnel, out in the open air, beneath the trees. He gasped in relief and joy at his freedom, slowing his pace, then stumbling to an exhausted halt.
Legolas sheathed his blades and drew a deep, grateful breath, gazing in relief at the trees that surrounded him, then turning his gaze towards the sky. The light from above the spreading forest canopy was faint, a dim blue radiance. The air was cool and filled with the scents of green, growing things. Night has passed, he realized. It is nearly dawn. He'd never been so grateful to see the sky and the trees, to breathe the free air.
Wearily, he rested the palm of his hand against the nearest tree and leaned against it for support, his head hanging in exhaustion. Rather dryly, he thought, I should look a fair sight, were anyone here to see. Here was the Prince of Mirkwood, his garments rent and dirty and bloodstained, his face and hands spattered and streaked with blood. Picturing the looks on the faces of his kin should he return home in such a state, Legolas almost laughed out loud.
He could hear the soft murmur of a stream, not far away. Although uncertain of where he was, it would be easy enough to follow the water upstream until he came to more familiar surroundings. He felt a sudden longing for home. The night's ordeals had tested him beyond all reason. His knees and shoulder ached, his muscles throbbed with pain, and he couldn't recall a time he'd last felt so weary.
But at least he knew the pain was his own, and no one else's. The memories that had assaulted him were fading away, vanishing like morning mist in bright sunlight. Legolas was grateful to know his thoughts were his own again. But still, he was saddened by the fate of those he'd left behind.
He turned and looked back at the mouth of the tunnel, shadowy and vacant in the dim morning light. His eyes were sorrowful as he asked himself, Could I have done more to save them? Although he knew in his heart that he could not, the knowledge brought him little comfort.
He bowed his head. Perhaps, someday, one mightier than himself might come to throw down the walls of Dol Guldur for all time. But for now, he could only continue the fight against the evil of Sauron, as best as he was able. He raised his head, and his gaze was clear and sure.
"When the Enemy is destroyed," he promised softly, "then you will be freed. This I promise you."
As if in answer, a faint breeze stirred the leaves overhead, then was still. Legolas stood in silence for a moment longer. Then he turned away, and headed for home.