Fear Itself

By

Freddie23

Disclaimer: I own nothing created by Tolkien and I make no money from this story.

Author's Note: I am so sorry this has taken so long to post. I promise I won't give up on this story and I hope you will stick with me. Enjoy the next chapter and please bear with me.

Rating: K+

Chapter 14 – False Wisdom

The night in Mirkwood was so often thick, heavy, tense. Darkness closed around those who wandered beneath the boughs, almost suffocating at times, it was so intense. In the Forest, on patrol, he had become used to the ceaseless noise. The scuttling of creatures searching for food or places to hide, the shriek of night birds and foxes, the wind rustling the leaves high above. It was hard sometimes to keep cool, to remain focussed on whatever task was at hand. So many distractions. But time and practice had solved his problems, pushed aside his fears. When one looked at any situation coolly, rationally, it was not so frightening. The owls would not attack, the fox was more interested in hunting for its next meal, the wind was harmless.

Schooled in keeping calm, in how to deal with whatever situation might arise, the Prince of Mirkwood no longer feared the Great Forest, or the night. As a young Elfling, he had thought it amusing when others spoke of fear of the dark. The fear seemed silly to him. After all, night was inevitable. The arrival of the moon to him was as stunning as the dawning of the new day.

As he had grown older and the innocence of youth had worn off by harsh experience and hard lessons, his amusement at the fears of others had turned to understanding and respect for the night. Orcs, he had learned, thrived in the dark hours and that was reason enough to respect the darkness if not outright fear it.

Mirkwood held its own horrors that put the fear of night in the shade: Orcs, giant spiders that crept and nested amongst the treetops, wolves. All these things Legolas respected. Not feared. Fear was useless. It did not sharpen the senses, not in any helpful way, nor did it make him feel stronger. Trembling in a corner, or fleeing in terror, was not helpful.

Whenever he felt such twinges of fear, inevitable given what haunted his homeland, he remembered his teachings, relied on his skill and it had always brought him through. Hence, he had quickly risen through the ranks of the Guard – not gifted him by birth right as some had supposed. He was not granted position within Thranduil's forces simply because he was the king's son. He had had to earn his position, earn the respect of those who followed him. He had always led his soldiers well, giving them courage by displaying his own even when circumstances seemed at their most dire. And in turn they loved him for it.

For all its troubles, all the horror that dwelt beneath the boughs of those ancient trees, Legolas still saw the beauty in the Forest. He saw strength in the old trees, saw hope in the Spring's new arrivals, saw joy in the woodland creatures. More than anything though, he saw the potential for things to be better one day. He clung to the hope that those magnificent stories of when it had been Greenwood the Great would be reality once more.

Each creature of darkness he killed, each Orc den cleared out, each Spider nest destroyed was a small victory, one more step towards the salvation of the Forest that had been his home all his life. In his mind's eye, even at the darkest of moments (of which there had been plenty in his long, bloody life) he saw images of his children flourishing beneath the trees, playing in the streams that no longer flowed with deadly enchantment, wandering free of the fear of attack. In all his imaginings, he never once pictured his children picking up bow and arrow as he had been taught to do ever since he was old enough to hold the weapons. They would not be fighters, he was determined. They would be free to do as they pleased, to play in the Forest without fear of danger. Yes, that had ever been his goal.

Whilst others were dragged down by the Darkness that poisoned the lands, Legolas remained steadfastly optimistic. Even when Thranduil himself despaired, his son pulled him back from the brink, assuring him that the battle would be won and the bloodshed and losses would be worth it. And then strength would return once more to the King, and in turn to his subjects, dispelling the misery for a short time and bringing hope back once again.

Orcs and Spiders were creatures of flesh and blood though. They would bleed and they could be killed. What was happening now in Mirkwood, this new threat, so different from anything they had faced, could not be defeated with mere force. His sword was useless, his training meant nothing and, for the first time in a long, long time, he was frightened…no, terrified. Mirkwood was falling to the Shadow and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

OIOIOI

"Legolas."

The prince startled awake as a hand clamped down on his shoulder, the book that had been balanced on his knee fell to the floor with a thump, making the others in the room jump at the noise, loud in the otherwise eerily quiet room. He blinked to clear his vision. It was dark outside but there were torches burning. A scream sounded in the distance, a common sound in these dark days, and he shivered.

"How long have I been asleep?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes wearily as he pulled himself up straight in his chair.

"A few hours." It was Thranduil who answered from his place sat at his desk, right where Legolas had last seen him. There were piles of books open before him, although from the blank look on his face, the prince knew there had been no big breakthrough whilst he had slept.

Sighing heavily, Legolas bent to retrieve the book he had been reading from the floor. It was a familiar one and he knew all the passages almost by heart. The healer's diary. He smoothed his hand over the front cover, remembering the chilly room where it had laid as its owner had been slaughtered along with the others in her town. It was tainted with history and he felt a wave of sorrow for its scribe.

"Anything?" he asked after a moment, just to break the tension and distract himself from his somber thoughts.

"No."

Thranduil sat up straighter, stretching his arms over his head to work out the kinks. Alassien was staring out the window into the night and didn't look around at the sound of his friend's voice. In fact, Legolas didn't think he had moved since they had first entered the library several hours ago, intent on finding some obscure piece of lore about the Wizards and their practices that might offer them some insight into how to halt the madness sweeping across Mirkwood.

"Where is Radagast?" he asked. He was sure the Wizard had been with them earlier.

Thranduil shrugged. "Hiding away in his rooms, I imagine."

Legolas shook his head. 'A great and powerful Wizard' was how Gandalf had described him. They had yet to see proof of that.

Suddenly Legolas frowned deeply, a cold seeping through him as though he had been suddenly dunked in ice water. Thranduil was settled in the chair at his desk and Alassien was by the window. Radagast was hiding somewhere in the Palace. So who had woken him? He looked turned slowly in his chair to look behind him, already knowing what he would find. Aside from the three of them, there was no one else in the room. And yet, he had felt that hand on his shoulder as surely as it had been his own father or friend.

Leaping up from his chair, he looked around. He half wished someone was hiding in the room in an attempt to scare him – foolish to be sure, but forgivable if it offered a reasonable explanation. But, of course, there was no one.

"Was someone else just here?" he asked, breathless suddenly from his attack of fear.

"No one but us," answered the King, looking up to frown at his son. "Why?"

"Did one of you just…wake me?"

Alassien looked around at long last, a stiff, almost unnatural looking movement, as though he had forgotten how to move. His expression remained blank.

"No," Thranduil said, shaking his head. "Why would we?"

"Someone just…" He reached up to grasp his shoulder re-enacting the feeling perfectly with his own hand. Shivering again, he fought the urge to race from the room.

"There's someone here with us," Alassien said after a moment, stepping away from the window, his eyes roving about the room, searching. His hand twitched towards the sword strapped to his belt.

"No," Legolas said, his voice shaky even as he tried to keep it steady. The thought of his friend panicking forced him towards sanity. If there had been something not of this earth in the room with them, it was gone now and it had caused him no harm. "No, I am sure it was merely a dream."

Thranduil mumbled, "A dream," to himself but was already skimming another book.

"Of course it is," said Legolas' friend in obvious mockery. "We're all going insane." And there was an edge of insanity to his voice that the prince had not heard there ever before. It chilled him more than the thought of phantom hands dragging him from his slumber. He would not allow his close friend since childhood succumb to some spell.

"It was nothing, I am sure. I am just tired, my friend. As are you. Take a seat and rest for a while." Legolas reached out to the guardsman, taking his arm to guide him towards the chair he had just vacated. He would have sent Alassien to his rooms to rest but he didn't want to let him out of his sight just yet. Not until he knew he wasn't going to do anything stupid. "Rest." The Elf settled into the seat, although he did not relax. Instead he sat upright, his eyes darting all around him, his fingers resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at the slightest provocation.

"I wish Gandalf would hurry in his return," said the prince, looking out the window. It had only been a day since the Wizard had left and he was uncertain of how much longer they could hang on.

OIOI

Saruman's home was characteristically dark. So different to the simplicity of the abode of Radagast. He himself had no place he could really call 'home' but he knew that should he ever choose to settle down it would not be someplace like this. Orthanc was an ancient Human stronghold in the realm of Isengard, gifted to Saruman by the world of Men for the kind deeds he had done for them. A towering pillar of black obsidian, it was a dramatic statement that could be seen from far and wide. Foreboding, was the word Gandalf most associated with it.

As he climbed the numerous steps leading up to the entrance, leaning heavily on his staff for support, he glanced up to the spiked tower and shuddered. Saruman certainly knew how to be dramatic and Orthanc was that.

The few times he had visited before had been on official business only, when the White Council gathered together. Twenty-five years has passed since the last gathering, which as he recalled had not gone as planned. Whilst all five Wizards had been summoned, the two blue had once again been missing and so he Saruman and a reluctant Radagast – who despised Isengard with such passion that he had had to literally be dragged inside – had gathered around the enormous black table in the conference hall and discussed the happenings of Middle Earth between them, all the time silently cursing their missing cousins.

As he approached the final few steps, his legs burning with the effort of climbing them, he heard the great doors swing neatly open and he lifted his head in time to see his old friend and mentor, garbed as ever in his white robes and clutching his thin staff, come to greet him.

Saruman's smile was slightly cooler than usual, but he spread his arms wide in welcome. "Gandalf," he greeted as the Grey Wizard finally reached the top, wondering how on earth Saruman managed the climb regularly. They embraced briefly, a quick pat on the back, and then stepped back a pace each as though to examine each other's features. "What brings you back to Isengard so soon?" he asked a little gruffly.

Soon to Saruman actually meant seven years. Long in the lifespan of Men but a blink of the eye to the Immortals.

"I come to seek your counsel," Gandalf said once he had caught his breath.

"Then come inside and I will attempt to be of use to you."

Gandalf followed the White Wizard into the Tower, his footsteps echoing loudly on the floor. Orthanc was like a maze. Corridors wound all the way to the top, dozens of rooms behind numerous black doors. Torches blazed every few metres as very little natural light was able to filter in through the small slits that passed as windows. Men had built Orthanc as a fortress and it served its purpose well.

The two Wizards did not speak as they walked and Gandalf did not see another soul as they headed upwards into the heart of the Tower. There were people working here, Gandalf had seen them before, friendly Men who had been honoured to work for the mysterious but benevolent Wizard who had come to watch over their lands. Never had he seen the place so deserted. No one to take his cloak or offer a glass of Saruman's famous wines. A shiver racked him.

Saruman led him to his office, a room so filled with books and scrolls that there was barely room to move. They were piled in every corner, on his desk, even on the chairs. This brought a shadow of a smile to Gandalf's lips. This felt like Orthanc.

"Sit," the White Wizard offered – or commanded – gesturing with one thin hand to a free chair.

He lowered himself into his armchair and leaned back, fixing Gandalf with a blue stare that would have struck fear into the heart of anyone else but which the Grey Wizard found rather reassuring.

"Well," Saruman said, spreading his arms, "what brings Gandalf the Grey to my humble home?"

'Humble,' Gandalf thought, glancing around at the fine furniture, drapes and rugs. What would Saruman have thought if he saw the conditions the Grey Wizard normally stayed in or the rugged home of Radagast?

"Mirkwood," Gandalf said simply, cutting to the chase. He watched the White Wizard for any reaction but Saruman's response was not what he had been expecting. Smiling widely, Saruman asked lightly, "What has King Thranduil gotten himself into this time?"

"What makes you think Thranduil has done anything?"

"It is usually the way, isn't it?" Saruman shrugged. "The King does something irresponsible that puts his entire kingdom in danger, and leaves it to the rest of us to clean up after him. Which Dwarf has he annoyed this time?" chuckled the old man.

"None," Gandalf replied tightly. Even though he knew Saruman to be ignorant of Mirkwood's troubles, the levity grated on him. "Mirkwood has fallen to the darkness once more."

Saruman was silent for a long moment, his dark gazed fixed on Gandalf as though he could read what his fellow Wizard was thinking. "How so?" he said eventually.

With this invitation, Gandalf launched into a detailed explanation of all that had been happening in the Great Forest. He left nothing out. Shared all his knowledge with the head of his Order. Knowledge was power, Saruman had always asserted so he wanted to impart as much knowledge as possible in the hope that the answer could be found. Once he had finished speaking his mouth was dry and he felt both wearier and lighter of heart than he had in a while. Sharing this burden with another – one wiser than himself was a relief.

If he had expected a sudden enlightenment as to what was going on – or confirmation of his worst fears that history was repeating itself – then he was to be disappointed. Saruman sat silent for a long time. He appeared deep in thought, his eyes almost glazed, so fixed in concentration were they. Gandalf was not fazed. He has seen this before. In fact, he felt relieved that the matter demanded consideration.

"No evidence of some kind of poison?" Saruman said after a long silence, startling Gandalf from his own reverie.

"None." An odd question, for what poison could cause such madness as now reigned in Mirkwood?

"The Elves are clueless."

"Yes." Gandalf straightened out his robe over his knee and continued without further prompting, "They have ruled out all physical possibilities."

"The only the impossible remains," muttered Saruman, his eyes darting to the book-lined shelves all around him.

"When I entered Mirkwood, I felt something. A malice I had not felt for a long time. It was not the Shadow as one might expect. It was something else. Something…familiar. Ancient."

Saruman cocked his head to one side in question and Gandalf could have sworn he'd seen something odd flash through those dark eyes for the briefest of moments. "You know what this is," the White Wizard asserted, shifting in his seat.

"No. But…" Gandalf shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "But I remember it, Saruman. I remember this feeling, this magic. These events…they have happened before. You know when." He had been surprised that Saruman's sharp mind had not immediately leapt to the events of Ages before when they were still young. Granted, it had not immediately occurred to him in Mirkwood, but the Forest was full of tricks and his mind had been clouded by other matters at first…he had not wanted to believe. But Saruman had always prided himself on being the more pragmatic.

The White Wizard stared at him blankly for a minute then a small smile stretched across his thin lips. "I know of what you speak, Mithrandir. Our…experiments in our youth. But this is clearly different." He climbed stiffly to his feet and headed towards the bookshelves, browsing calmly the volumes contained there.

"An entire town thrown into chaos, into madness by our childish games, our experiments. It is the same, Saruman, I felt it."

"You are wrong."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Have you been torturing the Elves of Mirkwood?" asked the white-robed Wizard calmly as though asking his favourite beverage.

"Of course not."

"And I have not. Radagast you tell me is squirrelled away in the Palace, lost in his own mind as usual so clearly he is not to blame." Saruman shrugged, having made his point.

"We number more than three."

Now the Wizard scoffed before bursting into laughter. "Our two blue cousins have been lost to us for centuries. Tell me, Gandalf, do you even remember their names?"

Reluctantly, Gandalf muttered, "No. But that does not mean…"

"This is not the work of the Istari."

"But…"

"Gandalf! This is not our doing!"

He could have sworn the room had grown darker. There was something else. Coldness. Defensiveness. Gandalf was not a skilled interrogator. But he knew when someone wasn't being truthful. He had studied the nature of people long enough to know. Saruman was lying.

To Be Continued…