An hour after their harrowing escape from Moria, the fellowship straggled along toward Lothlorien. Gandalf, though still weary, had recovered enough to walk on his own, much to Elrond's relief. If he'd had to support the wizard much longer, his own strength would have failed him.
"Thank you for saving my life, old friend," said Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff. He was still weaker than he would have liked.
"There is no need to thank me. It is nothing against the sins I have committed," answered the elf, studying the ground as he walked, hands clasped behind his back.
"Ah yes," murmured Gandalf, "more of these mysterious sins. Often have you made mention of them, yet none can I recall. Pray, can you refresh my faded memory?"
Elrond's head snapped up, and his eyes hardened. "My sins, like my children, are my own and do not concern you. Much to my shame, you know of one already." He chanced a brief glance at Legolas, who was a little ways ahead in companionable silence with Frodo.
"The time for confessions, draws near, I fear," said Gandalf, following his gaze.
"Yes," said the king in a voice so unlike his own that Gandalf looked at him sharply.
"When do you intend to tell him, then?"
"We will reach the fabled exit to the Bog of Basylis in little more than an hour; if by then there is no sign of them, then our cleverly concealed truth must come to light." Elrond's voice was soft and distant, as though he were pondering other matters.
He was, actually, though his thoughts had not strayed far. He was considering the matter of confessions. Confessions. Even the word sounded accusatory to his ears. So like its close companion, consequences. He had been trapped between the two for far too long. Pushed by one and pulled by the other, the merciless pair had conspired to squeeze all joy and love from his life. Now, when he most needed his mind and heart to be free of distraction, they were threatening to undo him completely.
Yes, crowed the voice inside his head, and soon they will confront you once again in the hollow, dead eyes of your niece. Have you ever wondered, Elrond, in the dark of night where no one can see your thoughts, what things could have been like if your courage had not failed you all those years ago? If your much-vaunted honor had not deserted you in your hour of greatest need? How much better your life could have been if you had simply confessed everything all those years ago. Alas, you did not; for your lapse in judgment, we shall soon behold the consequences. Tell me, oh great king, how much will be left of her? Perhaps, for once in your miserable life, the gods will take pity on you, and there will remain nothing but a bit of bone and bloody gristle. Not enough to prove that you have sent two generations of innocent elves into the eternal abyss, surely. You could tell another falsehood, say they be the bones of an unknown wanderer. What's one more lie? After all, the whole
of your life is based upon them.
Elrond stomped furiously along, desperately wrangling with the thoughts inside his head. He had asked himself what things could have been every waking moment of his life since that fateful decision. Every breath he took, the idea of what might have come to pass haunted him. And now the voice in his head would give him no peace.
Up ahead, Legolas was enjoying a rare moment of contentment. He hummed as he walked, enjoying the cool air on his face. He rolled his silver joining pendant between his fingers and the palm of his hand, taking comfort in its familiarity. It was imbued with the essence of his wife; just as the one Saryn wore around her slender neck was blessed with a part of him. Each had been consecrated with a drop of the lovers' blood. Holding it brought snatches of cherished memories to his mind, like their cozy bower back in Mirkwood or the dizzying smell of her lavender perfume. Even its mere memory sent a shiver of longing and anticipation up his spine. When all of this was over, he was going to take Saryn on a long retreat. It didn't matter where, so long as they could be alone. His thoughts were interrupted by a small tug on the bottom of his tunic.
"Legolas," said Frodo in a timid whisper, looking up at him with his big, expressive eyes, "What is that object you cradle so lovingly in your hands?'
"This? Why, this is my joining pendant. It signifies my bond with my beloved." He smiled at the thoughts the word "beloved" evoked.
Frodo walked along quietly for a spell, considering. Then he said, "What is she like, your beloved?"
Legolas laughed, a hearty, merry sound that simultaneously gladdened Frodo's heart and wrenched it in two, for it carried within it the knowledge of her fate. "Her name is Lady Saryn, and she is the light and song of my heart. She is the most beautiful woman in all elvendom. The sun cannot compete with the brightness of her countenance."
"She sounds lovely."
"Your ears tell you truly, my friend," he answered. "And what of you? Is their no fair hobbit maiden who holds your heart in the palm of her hand?"
"No," he admitted, blushing.
"Why not? Your face is not displeasing, and your manner is of a most agreeable sort," said Legolas.
"I do not know. There are none who speak to my fancy."
"Ah, well do I remember being in a similar quandary," mused the elf.
"And then?" queried Frodo.
"And then my eyes fell upon Saryn, and all silly notions about the invulnerability of my heart to feminine wiles evaporated like morning dew. Mark my words hobbit, love will ensnare you when you least expect it."
"What are elf weddings like?" asked Frodo.
"So many questions today, my friend," chortled Legolas, not displeased. "Joinings are a grand occasion in my culture. All the village is invited to a grand feast. There is an endless day of preparation for the festivities to follow. For nearly a week beforehand, the shops and bakeries are abuzz with activity. The air is redolent with the smell of spicy cakes and pies. The day before the joining ceremony, the betrothed couple must spend the day apart so that they can reflect on their future of eternity together."
"When do they get to eat?" asked Frodo, entranced by the visions of endless culinary delights.
Legolas laughed. "There is a night of joyous merrymaking after the joining, but first the joining must take place. Lord Elrond officiates all royal joinings in the three elven kingdoms. The betrothed pair are led to the altar over which he presides from opposite sides of the clearing, each accompanied by a relative. After bowing to the official joiner, the couple faces one another and joins hands. Thusly, connected, they avow publicly their love and loyalty to one another and swear before all to forsake all others. Then comes the most important part. A friend of the groom, called the Guardian of Virtue, steps up with the joining necklaces. In my case, it was Haldir, whose acquaintance you shall surely make. The joiner orders the couple to extend their upturned palms, which he pricks with the joining blade. Three drops of blood are dripped onto the joining necklaces, completing the sacred bond. Once the necklaces are fastened around the couple's neck, no man or beast can
divide them."
"Are all necklaces the same?"
"No, Master Frodo. Each pair of necklaces is different. The design is chosen by the groom unless he chooses to defer the honor to the bride. I chose the image of the phoenix because like this noble bird, our love is reborn with the dawning of each new day."
"Your joining must have been a grand affair," observed Frodo.
Legolas nodded. "The grandest in a thousand years. Untold gildnar were spent in preparation. The feast alone required one hundred of the finest elven chefs to cook around the clock for three days. The laughter and merriment lasted until dawn the next day. It was the happiest day of my long life, though it should have been happier still."
"What could have troubled you on so blissful a day?"
"My father," sighed Legolas unhappily, "did not approve. It was only because of the forceful persuasions of my mother that the joining happened at all. My father had fixed in his mind that I should be paired with a lady more befitting of my station, a duchess name Gerlise. When he saw that it was not to be, he flew into a rage. He accused me of being seduced by the charms of a wanton harlot. Only my mother's threat to take leave of the castle changed his mind. Even so, he sulked for the duration of the feast, refusing to give the traditional blessing for prosperity and fertility. King Elrond did it in his stead, mightily vexed by my father's rudeness. Still, he did not ruin my happiness, nor Saryn's."
"I'm sorry for your father," apologized Frodo.
"So am I," agreed Legolas ruefully.
They continued along in comfortable silence. Though Frodo seemed calm, his sweet hobbit nature was wracked with guilt. Legolas spoke so lovingly of his life with Saryn, yet Frodo knew she was probably dead. The Ring he carried around his neck had already caused so much hurt to his friends, and soon it would bring insufferable despair crashing down on Legolas' head. How much more damage would this unholy instrument do before it was pitched into Mount Doom? It had destroyed his life, torn him from his home, his security, and all he held dear, and still it toiled for their destruction. He hated the Ring, and a dark seed if bitterness was planted in his heart.
"What is this place?" breathed Strider, seeing the festering new wound in the previously pristine landscape. "I have never seen it before."
Gandalf and Elrond pushed their way forward, unconsciously holding their breaths.
"So they did come this way," muttered Gandalf.
"Yes, and if the exit is open, then Basylis must have fallen," said Elrond.
"That cannot be," insisted Gandalf, shaking his head vigorously, "a woman in her condition could never manage such a feat."
"Nonetheless, the proof lies before our eyes," countered the king. His voice had gone curiously flat.
Gandalf saw with dismay that the king had drained of all color. He looked like a
paper doll inside his velvet coat, and he was trembling uncontrollably. Something was consuming him bit by bit, and it was obvious the great king had all but given up.
Legolas brushed past the two morose men to investigate this strange new landscape. The small hole in what had been a dense thicket was ringed with vicious, snarled thorns and brambles. A foul, fetid odor wafted from the opening. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned to go. A silver gleam caught his eye. Intrigued, he bent forward and gingerly manipulated the angry briars until he could free the light object from the brambles' grasp. Lifting his hand, he raised the chain into the moonlight.
All the color ebbed from his world as he gazed at what the lighted had revealed. He looked, seeing but not seeing, the forlorn object that lay in his numb hand. The dainty phoenix stared impassively back at him. He turned around on frozen, disjointed legs.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked in a low, deadly voice, holding out his cold hand toward Elrond.
"I-I," stammered Elrond. Whatever else he had planned to say was lost in an unintelligible garble as a miserable sob escaped him.
"Well you should know it," Legolas snapped, his voice rising. "You were there two hundred years ago as I fastened it around Saryn's lovely neck. It is her joining pendant." He clutched the broken, mud-caked chain in his white fist and was waving it fiercely in Elrond's face.
Legolas was now nose to nose with the pale, wet-faced Elrond, who cringed but did not retreat. "What is such a sacred, beloved object as this doing lying forgotten in this forbidding place when I know that my Saryn lies sleeping peacefully in Mirkwood? I ask you, dear uncle, because you know all."
Elrond could make no answer in the face of such seething, hysterical anger. His mouth worked, but no sound came. "My sins have come for me at last," he said in a grating whisper.
Tears welled in Legolas' eyes, and he dropped all pretense of self-control. "That's why you came here isn't it?" he screamed, spittle flying in all directions. "You knew she was here! You deceiving bastard! Tell me how you knew!"
"She came to Rivendell in search of you. When I would not tell her whither you had gone, she flew into a rage. Thinking to protect her, I had her locked in the tower, but she escaped and fled here."
"Why? Why did she come in search of me?" he growled, grabbing Elrond by his thin shoulders and shaking him. He was weeping now, tears spilling down his frantic face.
"Upon my word, I do not know," choked Elrond, his voice thick with unvoiced sorrow. Even now, he was reluctant to reveal to the young elf the magnitude of his loss.
"Your word holds no honor for me. I know you still practice to deceive me," he yelled, shoving Elrond away from him.
He turned and ran toward Lothlorien, drawing his sword. He was dizzy with grief. He looked around him, praying for any sign of her, but there was none. "SARYN, SARYN, PLEASE COME TO ME!" he screamed his throat straining with the effort. He listened, but there was no sound. "SARYN, PLEASE ANSWER ME!" Again there was no response. He was dimly aware that the others were watching him, but they were unimportant. All that mattered now was finding Saryn. "SARYN, IF EVER YOU LOVED ME, COME TO ME NOW!" he begged, his imploring voice drifting far into the starless night. Silence.
He sank to his knees, his sword falling from his hand. He had no more strength, no more will. The bottom dropped out of his world. For a moment his mouth worked soundlessly, and then he uttered a heart-rending sob. Even Gimli flinched away from the force of Legolas' terrible grief. The prince lay in the grass, his body wrenching with the power of his wails. Never had he felt such an all-consuming pain. It felt as though an enormous spoon had come and hollowed out his insides leaving only unbearable agony behind. "Nonononono," he chanted, slapping his hands on the dry earth.
The rest of the fellowship stood in numb horror. Gandalf hung his head in shame. Three of the hobbits were goggling at him in slack-jawed misery, their lively eyes muted with anguished sympathy. Boromir was studying the surrounding landscape, his face a pale bruise. No one saw Frodo scurrying curiously toward a distant lump.
"I stand to lose just as much as you, perhaps more," muttered Elrond, reeling drunkenly where he stood.
Legolas did not hear him; grief had smothered his senses. Boromir did, however, and he regarded Elrond as though he were an uninvited substance on the sole of his boot.
"Even in the midst of your nephew's grief, you consider only yourself. Arrogant bastard," he spat, and stalked away.
Elrond's retort was cut short by a shrill cry from the distance.
"Strider, there are people here," called Frodo.
Legolas stood up and took off like s shot, ruthlessly shoving Gandalf to the ground. He dropped to his knees beside the three inert forms Frodo had found. They were not humans, but elves. Hope flickered in his chest. He gently examined them. The first was a male elf he did not recognize, and he was delirious with fever. The second male has a badly arm. The third lay facedown on the ground. A little prayer on his lips, he rolled the body over. Saryn.
His wife, his life, his world lay sprawled bonelessly on the cool ground. An anguished whimper tore from his lips as he beheld her pale, filth-streaked face. She was pitifully thin, her bony arms like matchsticks. Her stomach was swollen, probably from starvation. She had paid a heavy price to reach him.
He gathered her lifeless form to his chest and crooned desperately in her ear. "Wake! Wake, my love. Please..."
There was a slight stirring in his arms, and he was greeted by the sight of his beloved's deep blue eyes staring vaguely up at him. "Legolas," she gasped. "My love." The effort was too much, and oblivion claimed her again.
Legolas scooped the body of his unconscious wife from the ground. Her frail arms dangled limply at her side. Without another word, he turned and sprinted toward the haven of Lothlorien, his duties to the fellowship forgotten.
Hold on, my love, he thought. Lothlorien is near. Galadriel will know what to do. Lords of Elbereth, do not take her from me. I cannot survive without her. He was sobbing, hot tears dripping onto her uptilted chin. He had never considered life without her, and now that it was a real possibility, he was insane with grief. She was so pale, so still. Why didn't she move?
He had no memory of how long he ran. He kept going until he crashed into Haldir's stern back. He staggered back, struggling not to drop his wife onto the hard ground.
"Wha-?" began Haldir, but he stopped when his gaze fell on Legolas' terrified white face and the slack form he cradled in his arms.
"Haldir, help me," he begged, choking back sobs.
"This way," Haldir snapped, concern stamped on his haughty face. They both turned and began running toward Galadriel's castle.
Back at the stunned remnants of the fellowship, only Frodo noticed King Elrond weeping softly in the dark. These tears were different than the ones he'd shed before. These were more like cleansing tears. Not quite. Then understanding smoothed the young hobbit's face. They were tears of relief.
11
"Thank you for saving my life, old friend," said Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff. He was still weaker than he would have liked.
"There is no need to thank me. It is nothing against the sins I have committed," answered the elf, studying the ground as he walked, hands clasped behind his back.
"Ah yes," murmured Gandalf, "more of these mysterious sins. Often have you made mention of them, yet none can I recall. Pray, can you refresh my faded memory?"
Elrond's head snapped up, and his eyes hardened. "My sins, like my children, are my own and do not concern you. Much to my shame, you know of one already." He chanced a brief glance at Legolas, who was a little ways ahead in companionable silence with Frodo.
"The time for confessions, draws near, I fear," said Gandalf, following his gaze.
"Yes," said the king in a voice so unlike his own that Gandalf looked at him sharply.
"When do you intend to tell him, then?"
"We will reach the fabled exit to the Bog of Basylis in little more than an hour; if by then there is no sign of them, then our cleverly concealed truth must come to light." Elrond's voice was soft and distant, as though he were pondering other matters.
He was, actually, though his thoughts had not strayed far. He was considering the matter of confessions. Confessions. Even the word sounded accusatory to his ears. So like its close companion, consequences. He had been trapped between the two for far too long. Pushed by one and pulled by the other, the merciless pair had conspired to squeeze all joy and love from his life. Now, when he most needed his mind and heart to be free of distraction, they were threatening to undo him completely.
Yes, crowed the voice inside his head, and soon they will confront you once again in the hollow, dead eyes of your niece. Have you ever wondered, Elrond, in the dark of night where no one can see your thoughts, what things could have been like if your courage had not failed you all those years ago? If your much-vaunted honor had not deserted you in your hour of greatest need? How much better your life could have been if you had simply confessed everything all those years ago. Alas, you did not; for your lapse in judgment, we shall soon behold the consequences. Tell me, oh great king, how much will be left of her? Perhaps, for once in your miserable life, the gods will take pity on you, and there will remain nothing but a bit of bone and bloody gristle. Not enough to prove that you have sent two generations of innocent elves into the eternal abyss, surely. You could tell another falsehood, say they be the bones of an unknown wanderer. What's one more lie? After all, the whole
of your life is based upon them.
Elrond stomped furiously along, desperately wrangling with the thoughts inside his head. He had asked himself what things could have been every waking moment of his life since that fateful decision. Every breath he took, the idea of what might have come to pass haunted him. And now the voice in his head would give him no peace.
Up ahead, Legolas was enjoying a rare moment of contentment. He hummed as he walked, enjoying the cool air on his face. He rolled his silver joining pendant between his fingers and the palm of his hand, taking comfort in its familiarity. It was imbued with the essence of his wife; just as the one Saryn wore around her slender neck was blessed with a part of him. Each had been consecrated with a drop of the lovers' blood. Holding it brought snatches of cherished memories to his mind, like their cozy bower back in Mirkwood or the dizzying smell of her lavender perfume. Even its mere memory sent a shiver of longing and anticipation up his spine. When all of this was over, he was going to take Saryn on a long retreat. It didn't matter where, so long as they could be alone. His thoughts were interrupted by a small tug on the bottom of his tunic.
"Legolas," said Frodo in a timid whisper, looking up at him with his big, expressive eyes, "What is that object you cradle so lovingly in your hands?'
"This? Why, this is my joining pendant. It signifies my bond with my beloved." He smiled at the thoughts the word "beloved" evoked.
Frodo walked along quietly for a spell, considering. Then he said, "What is she like, your beloved?"
Legolas laughed, a hearty, merry sound that simultaneously gladdened Frodo's heart and wrenched it in two, for it carried within it the knowledge of her fate. "Her name is Lady Saryn, and she is the light and song of my heart. She is the most beautiful woman in all elvendom. The sun cannot compete with the brightness of her countenance."
"She sounds lovely."
"Your ears tell you truly, my friend," he answered. "And what of you? Is their no fair hobbit maiden who holds your heart in the palm of her hand?"
"No," he admitted, blushing.
"Why not? Your face is not displeasing, and your manner is of a most agreeable sort," said Legolas.
"I do not know. There are none who speak to my fancy."
"Ah, well do I remember being in a similar quandary," mused the elf.
"And then?" queried Frodo.
"And then my eyes fell upon Saryn, and all silly notions about the invulnerability of my heart to feminine wiles evaporated like morning dew. Mark my words hobbit, love will ensnare you when you least expect it."
"What are elf weddings like?" asked Frodo.
"So many questions today, my friend," chortled Legolas, not displeased. "Joinings are a grand occasion in my culture. All the village is invited to a grand feast. There is an endless day of preparation for the festivities to follow. For nearly a week beforehand, the shops and bakeries are abuzz with activity. The air is redolent with the smell of spicy cakes and pies. The day before the joining ceremony, the betrothed couple must spend the day apart so that they can reflect on their future of eternity together."
"When do they get to eat?" asked Frodo, entranced by the visions of endless culinary delights.
Legolas laughed. "There is a night of joyous merrymaking after the joining, but first the joining must take place. Lord Elrond officiates all royal joinings in the three elven kingdoms. The betrothed pair are led to the altar over which he presides from opposite sides of the clearing, each accompanied by a relative. After bowing to the official joiner, the couple faces one another and joins hands. Thusly, connected, they avow publicly their love and loyalty to one another and swear before all to forsake all others. Then comes the most important part. A friend of the groom, called the Guardian of Virtue, steps up with the joining necklaces. In my case, it was Haldir, whose acquaintance you shall surely make. The joiner orders the couple to extend their upturned palms, which he pricks with the joining blade. Three drops of blood are dripped onto the joining necklaces, completing the sacred bond. Once the necklaces are fastened around the couple's neck, no man or beast can
divide them."
"Are all necklaces the same?"
"No, Master Frodo. Each pair of necklaces is different. The design is chosen by the groom unless he chooses to defer the honor to the bride. I chose the image of the phoenix because like this noble bird, our love is reborn with the dawning of each new day."
"Your joining must have been a grand affair," observed Frodo.
Legolas nodded. "The grandest in a thousand years. Untold gildnar were spent in preparation. The feast alone required one hundred of the finest elven chefs to cook around the clock for three days. The laughter and merriment lasted until dawn the next day. It was the happiest day of my long life, though it should have been happier still."
"What could have troubled you on so blissful a day?"
"My father," sighed Legolas unhappily, "did not approve. It was only because of the forceful persuasions of my mother that the joining happened at all. My father had fixed in his mind that I should be paired with a lady more befitting of my station, a duchess name Gerlise. When he saw that it was not to be, he flew into a rage. He accused me of being seduced by the charms of a wanton harlot. Only my mother's threat to take leave of the castle changed his mind. Even so, he sulked for the duration of the feast, refusing to give the traditional blessing for prosperity and fertility. King Elrond did it in his stead, mightily vexed by my father's rudeness. Still, he did not ruin my happiness, nor Saryn's."
"I'm sorry for your father," apologized Frodo.
"So am I," agreed Legolas ruefully.
They continued along in comfortable silence. Though Frodo seemed calm, his sweet hobbit nature was wracked with guilt. Legolas spoke so lovingly of his life with Saryn, yet Frodo knew she was probably dead. The Ring he carried around his neck had already caused so much hurt to his friends, and soon it would bring insufferable despair crashing down on Legolas' head. How much more damage would this unholy instrument do before it was pitched into Mount Doom? It had destroyed his life, torn him from his home, his security, and all he held dear, and still it toiled for their destruction. He hated the Ring, and a dark seed if bitterness was planted in his heart.
"What is this place?" breathed Strider, seeing the festering new wound in the previously pristine landscape. "I have never seen it before."
Gandalf and Elrond pushed their way forward, unconsciously holding their breaths.
"So they did come this way," muttered Gandalf.
"Yes, and if the exit is open, then Basylis must have fallen," said Elrond.
"That cannot be," insisted Gandalf, shaking his head vigorously, "a woman in her condition could never manage such a feat."
"Nonetheless, the proof lies before our eyes," countered the king. His voice had gone curiously flat.
Gandalf saw with dismay that the king had drained of all color. He looked like a
paper doll inside his velvet coat, and he was trembling uncontrollably. Something was consuming him bit by bit, and it was obvious the great king had all but given up.
Legolas brushed past the two morose men to investigate this strange new landscape. The small hole in what had been a dense thicket was ringed with vicious, snarled thorns and brambles. A foul, fetid odor wafted from the opening. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned to go. A silver gleam caught his eye. Intrigued, he bent forward and gingerly manipulated the angry briars until he could free the light object from the brambles' grasp. Lifting his hand, he raised the chain into the moonlight.
All the color ebbed from his world as he gazed at what the lighted had revealed. He looked, seeing but not seeing, the forlorn object that lay in his numb hand. The dainty phoenix stared impassively back at him. He turned around on frozen, disjointed legs.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked in a low, deadly voice, holding out his cold hand toward Elrond.
"I-I," stammered Elrond. Whatever else he had planned to say was lost in an unintelligible garble as a miserable sob escaped him.
"Well you should know it," Legolas snapped, his voice rising. "You were there two hundred years ago as I fastened it around Saryn's lovely neck. It is her joining pendant." He clutched the broken, mud-caked chain in his white fist and was waving it fiercely in Elrond's face.
Legolas was now nose to nose with the pale, wet-faced Elrond, who cringed but did not retreat. "What is such a sacred, beloved object as this doing lying forgotten in this forbidding place when I know that my Saryn lies sleeping peacefully in Mirkwood? I ask you, dear uncle, because you know all."
Elrond could make no answer in the face of such seething, hysterical anger. His mouth worked, but no sound came. "My sins have come for me at last," he said in a grating whisper.
Tears welled in Legolas' eyes, and he dropped all pretense of self-control. "That's why you came here isn't it?" he screamed, spittle flying in all directions. "You knew she was here! You deceiving bastard! Tell me how you knew!"
"She came to Rivendell in search of you. When I would not tell her whither you had gone, she flew into a rage. Thinking to protect her, I had her locked in the tower, but she escaped and fled here."
"Why? Why did she come in search of me?" he growled, grabbing Elrond by his thin shoulders and shaking him. He was weeping now, tears spilling down his frantic face.
"Upon my word, I do not know," choked Elrond, his voice thick with unvoiced sorrow. Even now, he was reluctant to reveal to the young elf the magnitude of his loss.
"Your word holds no honor for me. I know you still practice to deceive me," he yelled, shoving Elrond away from him.
He turned and ran toward Lothlorien, drawing his sword. He was dizzy with grief. He looked around him, praying for any sign of her, but there was none. "SARYN, SARYN, PLEASE COME TO ME!" he screamed his throat straining with the effort. He listened, but there was no sound. "SARYN, PLEASE ANSWER ME!" Again there was no response. He was dimly aware that the others were watching him, but they were unimportant. All that mattered now was finding Saryn. "SARYN, IF EVER YOU LOVED ME, COME TO ME NOW!" he begged, his imploring voice drifting far into the starless night. Silence.
He sank to his knees, his sword falling from his hand. He had no more strength, no more will. The bottom dropped out of his world. For a moment his mouth worked soundlessly, and then he uttered a heart-rending sob. Even Gimli flinched away from the force of Legolas' terrible grief. The prince lay in the grass, his body wrenching with the power of his wails. Never had he felt such an all-consuming pain. It felt as though an enormous spoon had come and hollowed out his insides leaving only unbearable agony behind. "Nonononono," he chanted, slapping his hands on the dry earth.
The rest of the fellowship stood in numb horror. Gandalf hung his head in shame. Three of the hobbits were goggling at him in slack-jawed misery, their lively eyes muted with anguished sympathy. Boromir was studying the surrounding landscape, his face a pale bruise. No one saw Frodo scurrying curiously toward a distant lump.
"I stand to lose just as much as you, perhaps more," muttered Elrond, reeling drunkenly where he stood.
Legolas did not hear him; grief had smothered his senses. Boromir did, however, and he regarded Elrond as though he were an uninvited substance on the sole of his boot.
"Even in the midst of your nephew's grief, you consider only yourself. Arrogant bastard," he spat, and stalked away.
Elrond's retort was cut short by a shrill cry from the distance.
"Strider, there are people here," called Frodo.
Legolas stood up and took off like s shot, ruthlessly shoving Gandalf to the ground. He dropped to his knees beside the three inert forms Frodo had found. They were not humans, but elves. Hope flickered in his chest. He gently examined them. The first was a male elf he did not recognize, and he was delirious with fever. The second male has a badly arm. The third lay facedown on the ground. A little prayer on his lips, he rolled the body over. Saryn.
His wife, his life, his world lay sprawled bonelessly on the cool ground. An anguished whimper tore from his lips as he beheld her pale, filth-streaked face. She was pitifully thin, her bony arms like matchsticks. Her stomach was swollen, probably from starvation. She had paid a heavy price to reach him.
He gathered her lifeless form to his chest and crooned desperately in her ear. "Wake! Wake, my love. Please..."
There was a slight stirring in his arms, and he was greeted by the sight of his beloved's deep blue eyes staring vaguely up at him. "Legolas," she gasped. "My love." The effort was too much, and oblivion claimed her again.
Legolas scooped the body of his unconscious wife from the ground. Her frail arms dangled limply at her side. Without another word, he turned and sprinted toward the haven of Lothlorien, his duties to the fellowship forgotten.
Hold on, my love, he thought. Lothlorien is near. Galadriel will know what to do. Lords of Elbereth, do not take her from me. I cannot survive without her. He was sobbing, hot tears dripping onto her uptilted chin. He had never considered life without her, and now that it was a real possibility, he was insane with grief. She was so pale, so still. Why didn't she move?
He had no memory of how long he ran. He kept going until he crashed into Haldir's stern back. He staggered back, struggling not to drop his wife onto the hard ground.
"Wha-?" began Haldir, but he stopped when his gaze fell on Legolas' terrified white face and the slack form he cradled in his arms.
"Haldir, help me," he begged, choking back sobs.
"This way," Haldir snapped, concern stamped on his haughty face. They both turned and began running toward Galadriel's castle.
Back at the stunned remnants of the fellowship, only Frodo noticed King Elrond weeping softly in the dark. These tears were different than the ones he'd shed before. These were more like cleansing tears. Not quite. Then understanding smoothed the young hobbit's face. They were tears of relief.
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