Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

Wherever the Surge May Sweep

By Jame K.

Chapter Twenty: Swelled with Tempests

Bursts as a wave that from the clouds impends,
And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends;
White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud
Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud:
Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears;
And instant death on every wave appears.
- Homer

"You must send aid!" Legolas's face was bleached white and his hands were clenched at his side, pressed against the crushed velvet of his robe. "There is a great darkness in my mind and it grows stronger with each moment. Something dreadful has occurred and I will not allow you just to stand by and let it happen." He stepped, leaning forward to hiss across the stone floor. "If Estel dies, Middle-earth will never have a chance of recovering."

He had awoken only moments after his collapse, panicked and lashing out at Elladan who had knelt by his side to help him. There was no murmur across the bond, just earlier echoes of the pain – Estel was hurting and now he was gone from Legolas's mind.

Elrond regarded him impassively, an expression that goaded the panic rising up through Legolas's lungs. "Mithrandir will meet the elves at the Last Bridge in a day's time. He will instruct us."

"And then it will be too late. Estel is at the camp of the rangers. If Saruman has penetrated the camp of the Dunedain, time is of the essence." Legolas twisted his foot, robe swishing across the smooth stones of the courtyard as he walked towards the edge and the light dappled trees beyond.

Vaguely, he was aware of the mildly surprised faces around him. He paused at the edge of the circular platform, mind drifting over the landscape, seeking that elusive bond he held with the man, stretched thin by the miles – and blocked by an indefinable blankness that terrified Legolas.

"Estel is not at the camp, Legolas." Elrond's rich voice thudded against Legolas's chest, pounding against frazzled nerves.

Legolas waited, uncomprehending, for several moments; waited for Elrond to say something else, to explain. "What?" his voice was stolen by the breeze. "What do you say?" There was something deadly and something afraid in his voice – a small child awaking from the nightmare to discover the monster before her.

"A message came to me four days ago. Estel traveled with the rangers to meet Gandalf – to escort a hobbit to Rivendell for this council." Elrond's voice was calm, soothing, as if he thought he could divert the storm.

Connections burned through Legolas's mind, devastating in their magnitude. He understood and the knowledge seemed to tear something vital in his soul. The urge to weep rose in his throat – followed closely by the desire to scream, but he did neither. A calm fervor shone brilliantly in his eyes as he gazed steadily at the elven lord. Then his eyes faltered, staring at the white smooth stone. Words overlapped within his brain and he swallowed, one hand raised to ward off an invisible foe.

"He went…" The dream, his mind seemed to murmur, unable to form a true thought. The dream… Estel will die and then you will fade from the grief… "You did not tell me…" He swayed lightly and then turned, eyes only seeing one face out of the many. "Glorfindel – did you know?"

The older elf mutely shook his head, standing and reaching for him. Warm hands closed about Legolas' shoulders and held him steady.

Blue eyes burning painfully, Legolas grasped his friend's wrists and bored his gaze deep into the other elf's eyes. "It has come undone," he said wonderingly, gaze drifting and growing long but still febrile in its contemplation. "I had dreamed of this just a few nights ago. I did not think it would be so soon." He moved away, staggering just a little.

Glorfindel reached for him but Legolas gently pushed the hands aside.

"We must try, Elrond," he said at last, the words coming from a vacant, clear face. "We must at least try to save him." He sensed the two older elves meeting each other's gazes over his head. But there was no emotion to summon up.

Finally, Elrond nodded, face grave. He looked repentant, Legolas managed with a tinge of hope. Gray eyes hardened just slightly and the pale mouth moved slightly as the elven lord swallowed. "I will send dispatches. They will look for them."

Legolas exhaled, pulse throbbing in his throat. "Hannon le," he murmured and then walked away. It would be enough – it would have to be enough.

Estel ran because if he stopped, he would not start again. He ran because while there is life, there is hope. Hours ago – when the sun had been high and the orcs whips had been cruel as the prodded him to run – he had shut his mind to the warm blood seeping from the halfling's wounds and into his shirt. He had forced himself not to listen to the gasping breaths and pained moans – or to feel the scratchy ropes that hobbled his ankles tightly. They had left his arms free to carry the wounded hobbit – and for that he was immensely grateful.

He did not flinch when the sharp whip cut into his back – when they laughed cruelly and made him go faster – when his own blood dripped down his legs and bloody footprints were left behind him on the ground. His head spun occasionally and his steps swaggered and he swayed as his blood dripped from his body. But he did not stop – he could not stop.

They stopped in a clearing, white sunlight fading on bare rocks. The sky had been golden as the sun slowly dissipated, leaving only remnants of warmth behind. Brown, yellow grass had bristled against the rocks, gathering in clumps over dry, flaky dirt that gusted up into Estel's eyes as the cool, evening breezes began to sweep across the long, dry plains.

He staggered when the command to halt came, hands flexing across the small hobbit as he fought to hold his grip in the midst of the overwhelming relief that they were stopping. He breathed deeply, feet aching, and tumbled soundlessly to the ground, rolling at the last moment so that he landed on his back, Bilbo safely cradled against his stomach. The young man did not even notice when they came to tighten the bindings around his feet, making it impossible to walk – he was just grateful that his hands were once again left free so that he could tend to Bilbo.

For a long time, time faded and stretched, as Estel stared up at the silver sky, his own gray eyes dull and brittle. He blinked once, twice; swollen, parched moving achingly across his lips and throat working as he swallowed. The blood streaked across the dirt, his blood merging with the hobbit's as they both bled their life away.

The orcs left him there, knowing he was too weak to run any more. They had thrown several scraps of bread in his directions and made bets on if he would crawl to the dirty slices or go hungry in deference to his pain.

When the sun faded and the orcs started a roaring blaze, Estel roused, hand drifting over the springy curls of the hobbit.

"Bilbo?" he murmured as his hand fell down to touch the side of the soft neck. "My friend?" A soft pulse throbbed just beneath his fingers and he sighed. "Awake," he whispered as he sat up slowly, cradling the small body against his chest as his hand stroked the sweaty forehead.

The small eyes blinked and the mouth turned downward in a frown of pain. "Estel," he murmured. "My, all adventures are not exciting, are they?"

"No," Estel agreed shakily. "They are not. Do not worry. The elves will come for us. Legolas will come for us."

Bilbo nodded and his hands played across his stomach, ghosting across the bloody wound there. "I will not be there to see them come."

"Yes, you will." Estel smiled warmly. "You are strong and the bleeding slows." And he did not mention the organs that he knew had been pierced by the orc's blade, he did not mention the rigidity he had felt in the small creature's midsection when he had pressed to stem the flow of blood. "The elves will come soon."

"Listen." The hobbit fumbled at his scarlet waistcoat, just next to the gaping wound. "There is something I must give to you. It was my prize possession – I found it up in the hills. But I know it must go to you now. You must keep it safe. I fear that there is an evil in it that will not be conquered easily." He coughed and Estel saw his fingers close over a small object hidden deep in his pocket.

"No," the young man said. "Do not give it to me now. It is yours…"

Bilbo smiled bloodily. "No – it is yours." He drew a gold chain from his pocket, slowly so each link seemed to slip one by one across the brocaded material. And, then, a gold ring emerged, just catching the glint of the orcs fire.

Estel glanced up sharply and sighed in relief when he found that no orcs were looking in their direction. They danced around the fire, sharp fangs flashing as they tore into raw meat, and laughing loudly as they talked in their own coarse, guttural language. Mead was passed around freely and Estel knew they would not be coherent for long. If Bilbo could hold on a little longer, perhaps they could run…

"It is yours," Bilbo repeated, bringing Estel's gaze back to him. "I think I knew from the first time I saw you that the ring belonged with you. I did not want to let it go – it was precious to me – but now I know." He sighed and one small hand grasped Estel's larger one, gripping with surprising strength. "You must take it – keep it safe," his head rose a little from where it rested in the crook of the man's elbow and the fingers flexed tightly. "Destroy it."

Estel nodded wordlessly, breath coming harsh and fast, and blood tingling across his inner cheek where he had bitten down.

With a great amount of effort, Bilbo slid the chain around the man's head and then fell back, his back hit the wide part of the man's thigh and he deteriorated into panting. "Promise," he said again after he had calmed, "promise that you will conquer the evil and destroy it. I was not strong enough – I did not want to destroy it. But now I see – oh, how clearly I see! – and it must be destroyed. You must do this." His grip tightened around Estel's fingers, voice nothing more than a harsh whisper just underneath the carousing of the orcs. "Promise me."

"I promise." And the weight settled about Estel's neck – and for a moment, he could not breathe, caught up in the feeling of the metal around his neck and the heavy ring against his chest. It seemed to throb in time with his heart.

The hobbit relaxed, tiny face easing into tranquility. "It is good then," he said. "Very good." He choked a little, face turning aside as his breathy huffs brought up a splattering of blood. Hushed whimpers eased past his white, scarlet lips and Estel knew the end was near.

He crooned softly, shifting to lie on his side so that the hobbit was spooned against his chest. "Hush, soon you will be in Valinor. Legolas tells me it is a green land – like the Shire, rolling hills and flowers. You will be happy. There is no more pain or tears or suffering."

Bilbo's face creased and he struggled for breath – struggled for life.

"No, do not fight it. There is no need to fear. The pain will be gone soon. No, do not be afraid." He pulled the curly head against his chest. "I am with you. Do not be afraid. Just rest."

The almost translucent eyelids fluttered closed and the breaths evened out. He was not dead – but it would not be long.

Estel held the hobbit tightly as the orcs fell slowly into a drunken stupor, not caring that they had left their captive poorly bound. But, Estel did not notice as his attention was focused on the dying creature in his arms.

The stars were shining brightly and one lone orc was standing guard when Bilbo opened his eyes one last time, eyes burning fiercely in the starry darkness.

"Go, Estel," he said as if a revelation had come to him while he had slept, "go to the elves." And, his chest stuttered painfully and fell still; blue eyes still gazing at the young man – though the bright gaze was now dull and blank like two glassy baubles in the lifelike face of a child's doll.

Estel sobbed just once, feeling very much like a little boy instead of the young man he was. He kissed the chilled forehead and ran a hand over the small face, closing the staring eyes. "Be at peace, hafling," he murmured under his breath even as his fingers went down to work the bindings at his feet.

He grieved. Deep inside where there was peace, he wept for the cool body leaning against his thigh. His mind, his soul, seemed to be divided into two parts – the ragged, firm thoughts directing his escape – the muddled, blurred grief permeating his emotions. He functioned.

The hemp fell from his ankles and he blew a cool breath across the underside of his nose. He held still, dreading a twitch of movement from the bulges of ratty clothes that darkness made the sleeping orcs. Then, he shifted the tiny body from across his lap to the ground.

Moonlight caught the pale lips as the face rolled gently to one side, cheek pressing against the dirt. A bit of blood sloshed from the partially opened mouth, spilling down to puddle in the dirt.

Estel noted all of these things with a clinical detachment. His hand only lingered on the cool chest a moment as he slowly gained his feet, and looked once more at the single sentry.

Then he ran.

Later, he would imagine all of the paths he could have taken from the camp. He had looked to the sky, seen the shining light of Polaris, and had set out towards the east once again. He had not attempted to skirt along the cliffs to the north or perhaps move subtly through the shrubbery to the south. Instead, he had forced his aching body into a run across the wide plains, desiring just to be home once more.

The night was clear, cool breezes skirting over the tall grasses and drying out his mouth. For blessedly clear, silent moments, there was only the sound of his feet on the soft, dried dirt. He controlled his breathing and he ran – for a few silent moments.

Drifting on the night breeze, the sounds of orcs reached his ears. Not lethargic orcs awaking out of slumber to find their prisoner gone – but marching orcs with quick, hungry steps and loud voices.

His frenetic brain registered the noises; he turned; and was pinned by a great beam of light. White, piercing and painful, the pillar of light surrounded him, laying him out before his predecessors – a bearskin laid out on the tanning board. He could see nothing beyond the brightness, just dark puddles of sound coming closer. Thick, cooling blood slid down his back as the wounds from the whip tore and re-opened.

A thick, dark, hairy hand reached from the blackness, looking grotesque in the clear light. Instinctively, Estel tried to jerk away, tried to flee, but found that he was held immobile.

Despair bubbled up as the hands closed about his wrists and another pair of arms wrapped around his waist, dragging him into the darkness.

"A prisoner?" a deep voice said, echoing around Estel's ringing head. "Escaping?"

Through blinded, spotted eyes, Estel could just see the bulky blob of the orc who had led in his first capture, groveling and sniffling before a tall man in white.

"Silence!" the voice barked. "You have allowed a prisoner to escape because your were reveling in drink and blood. Kill him."

A soft thump immediately followed the words – and silence reigned as the orc's head rolled across the white-yellow grass. It came to rest, severed neck pointed towards Estel with one huge, glassy eye staring at the heavens. The heavy body lay several feet away, crumpled like a worn-out horse.

"Now, what manner of human is this?" The brilliant, blinding light vanished as swiftly as it had come. A moment later, a gentle glowing light filled the plains, illuminating the ugliness of the orcs and the hook nose of the man bending close to him.

The light, Estel noticed absently, seemed to be emanating from the old man's staff. He quickly forgot the oddity of this even when he was pulled up straight, his hair nearly ripped from his scalp by his over-enthusiastic captors. He blinked sporadically and found himself staring at a bearded face surrounded by flowing white hair.

Dark eyes peered out from behind a large nose, boring into Estel's mind, and the small pale lips were twisted angrily showing grayish teeth. "Just a ranger…" he began, voice irritated and condescending as he dropped Estel's head, long, white robes swishing around him. "Kill him now and spare us the trouble of carrying him. He is not the one we are seeking."

The orc holding Estel's hair snuffled happily and the young man could hear metal drawn out of a scabbard. His gaze dropped downward as the sharp point of a blade came up to touch his stomach.

"I will pull your entrails out," a gnarled face informed him. "Slowly."

Estel huffed a breath and cleared his mind, not quite accepting his imminent death but knowing that denying the reality of steel was futile. He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind, seeking the warmth of the bond, stretched thin by space but still there. "Legolas," he murmured as a resonant bit of Legolas glowed from the bond. No pain could – or would – touch him.

Here, he could slip into death wrapped in peace and love – unfeeling of the agony that he knew would come when the orcs fulfilled their promise to rip his innards out. Vaguely, the memory of when he had felt Legolas's death arose in his mind. The absolute pain and fear and the knowledge that came with the severing of the bond – part of him hoped that Legolas would not feel that. Then he felt only the chilliness of the blade touching his bare skin and…

"Stop!"

The blade was dropped and Estel's head was once more jerked upward.

Dark glaring eyes peered at him, stealing his breath. Several moments passed then a long-nailed hand shot forward, gripping the chain Bilbo had dropped about Estel's neck only moments before.

"A ring," the man whispered. "A young man who calls upon the name of Legolas and a golden ring that murmurs to my mind. Coincidence?" He dropped the trinket and scowled at Estel. "What is your name?"

Estel glared back, unwilling to answer.

The man's gaze was calculating as his eyes swept over the young man's face in a way that made Estel distinctly uncomfortable. "Who is your sire?"

When Estel did not answer again, the man stepped away.

"Set up camp and then bring him to my tent. I will kill the one who lets him escape."

Legolas sat among the irises, bare feet tucked beneath him and hair unbound. A strange melancholy was settled over his white face. He blinked and drew a long breath. Elrond had reassured him all would be well. Glorfindel had promised to die if it was necessary to bring Estel back to him.

But – a breeze swept through the trees sweeping Legolas's hair around his face – there was a foreboding deep within his mind. Estel was not dead. The bond had eased open and when Legolas focused his considerable mental power on the bond, he could feel the soft echoes of the young man's presence – just teasing of the young man's presence deep within his mind.

There was a change, however. Something indefinable, like the difference between identical twins, mutated Estel's presence in his mind. The beginnings of evilness, Legolas thought and then snapped a twig in his hand when the magnitude of the thought struck him.

Estel was not evil. The white face scrunched, blue eyes turning to flint, and mouth hardening as he shook his head in vehement denial. His Estel would never surrender to the wickedness – Estel was not like his father.

Legolas dug his hands into the dirt, taking comfort in the warmth. There could not be another failure on his part. But there was nothing else he could do now.

White irises blurred before him. He was not crying but his vision swam as he would faint. He paused, staring at the blue sky and the sunlight splotched leaves. Finally, he turned his head to the side, aching eyes going to the trees. "You can come out. My composure will not shatter with your presence."

Elladan emerged, red-faced. "I thought I had hidden myself well."

Legolas smiled mildly. "You had – I only just noticed you." He scooted against the trunk of one tree, fingers splayed against the soft petals of the iris. "Come, sit beside me. You have been quiet, my friend."

"I live in thought. Burdens weigh upon my mind and they show no sign of lifting." Elladan glanced down, the sun glimmering dully on his dark hair. "Forgive me for mentioning my troubles when yours are so much greater."

Pale hands squeezed the delicate flower. "Do you believe he is evil?" he asked, seemingly addressing the irises. "I cannot think of him like that. But, perhaps I am blind? I did not notice the iniquity creeping into Arathorn until the very end."

He cast his eyes to Elladan and found him listening intently, head bent and long fingers playing with the grass.

"Perhaps I do not see what is right before me." Legolas caught his breath, blue eyes turning foggy with thought. "Perhaps Estel is gone from me even now."

"You are not blind." Elladan's voice was slightly rough and he inclined his head close to Legolas's, breathing into his nose. "You are the… most remarkable elf I have ever met. My father once told me if anyone could save the Isildur's heir – it would be you. You are stronger than most." His words hitched. "Stronger than me."

Legolas turned, frowning and genuinely puzzled. "You have been my strength for many centuries, my old friend. Why do you doubt yourself now?" Elladan's face seemed worn, he noted, for the first time truly looking at his friend. Wrinkles clung just around the warm gray eyes and his pale skin seemed to be stretched translucently over his prominent bones. "Elladan?" He reached out and smoothed the wrinkle next to the right eye, thumb lingering just inside the dark hairline.

Elladan bit his lips, white teeth contrasting sharply. His eyes closed and he breathed quietly for several moments as Legolas's thumb continued to smooth over the skin next to his eye. "I am weak because I do not tell my oldest friend what lies in the depths of my heart."

Legolas's mouth turned downward and he leaned closer to the dark head. "Speak your mind then and I will listen. Have I ever judged you in any matter before I heard it in its entirety?" He watched as Elladan's face almost crumpled, emotions held in place by the delicate strings pure willpower.

The gray eyes peered intently at him, scouring Legolas's mind and soul.

Legolas flinched, flower crushed in his hand. "Elladan," he murmured softly, gaze dropping to the ground. The bond was tingling. He jerked, iris falling into the ground, and one hand going to his head. "Elladan," he said again, this time a plea as a pain grew deep within his brain, blossoming to consume all other thoughts.

Estel was there, just beyond the grasp of his mind. If he just stretched a little farther perhaps he would find the soul of the boy once more… Legolas battered against the bond, stretching and reaching in the direction of Estel.

Then the feeling was lost – the tingling fading into a strange numbness that ached within Legolas's bones. He was so weary and the melancholic tidal wave was back, dragging him deep into despair.

He opened his eyes and found Elladan's gray eyes close to his own – and the other elf's warm hands on either sides of his face.

"Legolas? Are you well? You would not respond…"

Legolas jerked slightly, falling back from the support and landing on the palms of his hands. "I need," he dry swallowed and quailed a moment before continuing. "I need to go to the house. Perhaps they have news of Estel." He stood, staggered just a bit, and hurried in the direction of the main houses – never looking back.

To be continued.