Soul of Elves
By Solara
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize right off the bat weren't created by me; they are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, with whom I claim no equity. Any characters you *don't* recognize right away, though, are mine.
A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! For those who are wondering, here's a small announcement: I don't plan to make this story a romance in any way. Legolas is *mine*! (Hee, okay, no. But I wish.) In all seriousness, though, I really don't expect that this will be a romance of any kind, unless the characters truly pull me in that direction, which I don't see happening. No, no slash, no LegsyRomance, and NO Mary Sue. Lots of O/Cs, though. Okay, enough from me, here's Chapter Three!
Asterisks (*) denote thoughts; double slashes (//) denote flashbacks.
Setting: Ten years after RotK.
*****
Chapter Three- A Cry in the Night
-----
They were well down the road by midday; Legolas had tried to set a regular pace, but the tension in his muscles would not allow it, and Arod had sensed his master's urging to go faster. Faster he went. His hooves pounded on the dirt road and sent up small clouds of dust behind him.
Aragorn matched Legolas in pace, but not in eagerness. While he was definitely concerned about the captured elf they were supposed to be looking for, he was more concerned for the safety of his friend; Frodo and Sam had looked quite frightened of the so-called Grey Men, and Aragorn was troubled by the description.
*Grey skin,* he thought wildly. *Grey skin. How is that possible?*
The news of the three dead elves, and now the one captured, had set a small stone of worry growing in his gut. Legolas had been speaking the truth when he had reassured the hobbits about his safety; Aragorn knew for a fact that Legolas had indeed kept himself alive and relatively unscathed, through many battles and a harsh war, for more than a thousand years. While the golden-haired Mirkwood prince was still considered young by elf standards, Aragorn tended to think that ten centuries was more than enough time for a warrior to prove he could take care of himself.
Still... this was no ordinary enemy lurking somewhere in the Old Forest near Bree. These were men, unearthly men by the sound of it, and the dead elves had been likewise changed. Grey skin. That was what troubled Aragorn most of all- no fatal wound, and grey skin.
He glanced at Legolas, his own face safely shadowed by the sun beating down on his head. Only someone who knew the elf well would be able to read those finely sculpted features; Aragorn could see confusion and worry written all over it, and a distinct darkness. It was a stark contrast against Legolas' fair face and shining hair, which fluttered gently in the breeze created by the horses' gentle gallop.
He felt a sudden surge of protectiveness. *If anything happens to him... I will never forgive myself.* To deprive the world of such a beloved, essential creature would be unthinkable.
*No,* he thought. *Perhaps we will not tarry long in Bree, and simply deliver the news to Rivendell.*
But he had a sneaking suspicion that Legolas would never allow the mystery to remain unsolved.
---
Aragorn had been watching him for nearly five miles now. They were reaching the Old Forest, and Legolas thought he would explode if his friend did not stop staring at him.
"You know, for someone who grew up with elves, you have surprisingly little esteem for their senses," he finally said through clenched teeth.
He heard a small chuckle and looked at Aragorn, who was now looking out at the road. "Forgive me," the dark-haired king replied. "I was lost in thought."
"I know what you were thinking." This time he sensed Aragorn's head fairly whip towards him, but he continued anyway. "You were thinking about how I am in danger, and you would rather spend less time in Bree and go quickly to Imladris."
From the way Aragorn's silver-blue eyes dropped, Legolas knew he had hit the mark. "Aragorn," he said, exasperated. "I do not feel any fear. These Grey Men pose little threat to me."
"You *never* feel fear- that is why you are so often in peril," Aragorn retorted, half-joking. Legolas shook his head.
"You are wrong. I just feel fear differently than you do." His voice quieted. "I fear for the elf who is lost, and I fear for Imladris. This is all happening much too close to your childhood haven."
Aragorn was silent, and Legolas looked sideways at him again, knowing his words had hit home. "Do you not realize that if one elf is in danger, all elves are in danger? I see little choice but to do as much as I can to help this lost elf-maiden, and find out exactly what breed of man is capable of such an atrocity."
This time, Aragorn did look up. "I will not try to alter your resolve," he said softly, his rough voice tight. "But we must be careful."
Legolas laughed, and it lightened the mood considerably. "When am I not, Elessar?"
---
They made camp on the outskirts of the Old Forest that night. Their campfire had grown to a pleasant blaze and they were unwrapping their stores of cheese, lembas, and dried fruit when Aragorn spoke. "So, Elladan is to marry."
Legolas grinned. "You're still coming to terms with it, aren't you?"
"I just find it hard to believe that the same Elladan who made a career out of pulling practical jokes on every elf in Rivendell- and me, no less- would be able to find a maiden who would have him." Aragorn took out his knife and began slicing his chunk of cheese, matching the strips with bits of the lembas.
Legolas watched him amusedly; the former ranger had not been so dainty about his food ten years ago. "Aiwendil is a close friend of mine," he replied. "She and I trained in Lorien together when we were much younger. She is as formidable a warrior as Elladan, and has a mischievous side that nearly rivals his- also a temper that will keep him in line. And she is very beautiful."
He paused, remembering his friend's long, white-blonde hair, perfectly straight without a single wave, much like his own and so rare for elf females. In fact, it was often said in Lorien that Aiwendil and Legolas looked like brother and sister, so close in looks were they; even Aiwendil's eyes were the same silver-gray of the Mirkwood prince. *She nearly matched me in skill with a bow, too,* he thought ruefully.
Aragorn caught his friend's sidetracked look and chuckled. "You wouldn't be feeling any regret over her match with Elladan, would you?" he said with a wink.
Legolas shook his head. "No, no. Aiwendil is too close to me- in fact, I was just thinking about how people often mistake her for my sister. She and I... would not make a good match." His nose wrinkled slightly. "But she and Elladan are quite perfect for each other. I am glad they discovered their feelings."
Aragorn shrugged and moved to stir the fire. "Well, Arwen nearly fell over when she heard the news, as did I. It will be interesting to meet the maiden who was able to tame one of the twins."
"Tame, indeed." Legolas found the word humorous, and an apt description for Aiwendil's hold over Elladan.
"Do you think that you will ever marry?"
The question had come out of nowhere, and Legolas was a little shocked at Aragorn's boldness; it took him a moment to recover his senses and find his tongue. Aragorn sat patiently, watching the surprise fly across his friend's face.
"Well-" Legolas truly had no answer. "I do not know. That is the truth." He looked sideways at Aragorn. "Why the sudden curiosity?"
Aragorn popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before answering carefully. "You have never spoken of a lady, nor given a second look to any of the maidens of Mirkwood or Imladris, as long as I have known you," he replied casually, by way of explanation. "And there are many, especially in Mirkwood, who warrant a second look." His words were heavy with meaning.
Legolas looked at the fire and thought for a moment. "I have always seen beauty in the maidens, and even have I noticed it in human women," he said, watching as Aragorn's brows raised ever-so-slightly. "But I have never had the desire to take a wife." He grinned. "I also would not want to inflict myself upon anyone- I seem to be too good at getting into trouble."
His friend chuckled and shook his head. "Too true. But you must know that there are maidens in Imladris who refuse to look for a match, so certain are they that once you come to your senses you will choose them."
This was news to Legolas, who had always infuriated Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir with his obliviousness to the she-elves fawning over him during his visits. As far as the opposite sex was concerned, to Legolas, females like Aiwendil and Arwen and his sisters were great companions and sometimes admirable beauties, nothing more.
"My father was never worried about it," Legolas mentioned. "I remember how he used to hound Arafail and Losilad incessantly about taking wives... but I am so much younger than they, and so far from the throne. I think my father considers it unnecessary to find me a match." He smiled. "To my great relief."
"Relief?"
Aragorn's eyebrows were raised yet again. Legolas looked at him plaintively. "Perhaps I am not meant for marriage," he said with a shrug.
Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sound of something moving through the woods quickly to their left. Sword and bow were drawn and raised before the pair had even gotten fully to their feet.
Legolas squinted through the trees in the darkness. He did not see anything, but he felt a definite presence; something was there, beyond a doubt.
"What do you see?" Aragorn whispered, his own eyes straining in search.
Wind whistled through the trees. The fire crackled. Besides those sounds, all was silent.
Legolas let out a slow breath. "I see and hear nothing," he said. "But-"
A sudden movement, and he and Aragorn were thrown apart with a cry when a magnificent stallion ran into the camp, right at Aragorn, rearing back on its hind legs. The horse was a most unusual color, a dark red, and in the glow of the firelight it looked like the color of blood.
"Get down!" Legolas yelled at Aragorn, who was trying to dodge the horse's flailing hooves.
A powerful whinny came out of the horse, and Legolas ran forward; its front hooves were inches away from coming down on Aragorn's head-
"Tulin, tulin!" he cried. "Mellonro! Mellomme, hautalye!"
The horse's legs came down and Aragorn kneeled, flinching away as the hooves whistled past his head. He breathed a sigh when he saw Legolas stroke the horse's head.
He rose. "Where did he come from? He understood you!"
Legolas' brows were knit in confusion. "He must belong to an elf."
"I have never seen a horse this color, not even among the Mearas," Aragorn said quietly, moving to touch the magnificent red stallion.
It shied away with another menacing whinny. "Mellonro," Legolas soothed, but the horse still would not allow Aragorn's touch.
Legolas frowned. "Perhaps he has had a bad experience with men," he reasoned, seeing the bewilderment on Aragorn's face.
Interrupting them again, the horse suddenly turned and walked away into the trees. "Ava linnalye!" they both cried.
The horse turned, then flicked its head in the universal request to follow; the two friends looked at each other, both equally confused.
"I suppose we should see what he has to show us," Aragorn said with a shrug.
---
In the dull thrum that was unconsciousness, she felt safe.
*Miliar?* she thought. *Where are you? Am I dead?*
But Miliar did not come; oddly, she was not distressed in the slightest. Rather, she was aware only of floating gently on a cool breath of painlessness. Light flickered past her, waving and splintering through her vision like tiny candles in a strong wind- yet her eyes were closed.
*My eyes are closed.* The lights must be in her mind. *That makes sense- why am I uneasy? I'm dead. I fell off a cliff into a river and I died.*
Something else had begun to grip her, though, a tight fist, closing around her chest and waist and head. It wasn't painful; however, she knew somehow that it shouldn't be there.
Her hands and arms were very heavy. The lights flashing in her mind started to go away. *By the Valar, what is going on?* she thought impatiently, and then a picture of Celeborn rose in her head, shaking his head.
"You never were able to wait for things to explain themselves," he told her, a familiar glint in his eyes.
Galadriel was suddenly there as well. "Where am I?" she tried to call to the Lady of Lorien, the formidable-yet-gentle elf queen who had been like a mother to her.
But Galadriel put a finger to her lips; she looked serious. "You must open your eyes, Caranna," her soft, commanding voice came.
Celeborn and Galadriel were growing dimmer. "Wait!" she called, trying to reach out to them, and in that moment, her hand touched air.
Her eyes flew open.
She was underwater.
*Manwe, I'm underwater,* she gasped in her mind, horrified, and scrabbled with her hands to reach the air. The tight fist around her chest became a vise of fire; what sounded like a thousand dwarven hammers clanged noisily in her head. Her lungs felt very heavy, and as she moved up towards the air and the light, she felt blackness begin to cloud the edges of her senses-
Caranna burst out of the river like a geyser shooting out of the ground. Her battered lips parted and she sucked in air; oxygen flowed down through her throat.
Immediately, she was coughing and spluttering. There was nowhere for the air to go; her lungs were full of water, which wrenched out of her body like knives carving up her windpipe. She spasmed violently, stars flying through her still-cloudy vision, as her body desperately tried to rid itself of the ill-placed liquid.
Once she had spit out the last of the water and her breathing had slowed to a halting, raspy wheeze, she attempted to move.
Mistake. Pain sliced through every pore of her being. The dwarves in her head started pounding away again, and the stiff vise around her torso threatened to choke her anew. Gasping, trying to stay conscious, she concentrated on compartmentalizing the pain and figuring out exactly where she was injured- and how badly.
Her ribs were ruined, she surmised with a groan; she'd be surprised if there remained more than three unfractured ones. The heavy beatings she had taken had focused in on her torso, so it came as no surprise. And she had obviously given her head quite a whack when she fell off the cliff. A stinging on her forehead alerted her to the gash that oozed blood into her eyes; another sting, and, looking down at her arm, she remembered the wound her captor's knife had made just before she jumped. With a groan, she identified the stabbing, shooting ache in her left shoulder as a dislocation.
*A Elbereth, how in the world am I still alive?!*
She should have been dead. She had expected to die when she jumped, had been perfectly prepared for it- and yet here she was, by all rights alive.
She heard Galadriel's voice again suddenly. "You are still in danger... you must get to the shore..."
*The shore?* She craned her neck, wincing as the bruised flesh rubbed against the wet collar of her tunic. It was night, early night by the position of the moon; stars shone in the sky without a single cloud to cover them. She looked around. Rocks surrounded her, and through a gap in the stone formation, she could see the pebbly bank of the river she was in, less than ten feet away.
Next she tried to figure out where she was in comparison, careful not to move any more than was absolutely necessary. She was still in the water, that much was clear, but she was stationary, and resting against something hard-
Ah. A log. *So the trees come to my rescue once again,* she thought. *Oh, I wish they could hear my thanks.*
She lifted her right hand. It shook, and the effort sent stars shooting past her eyes again, but with gritted teeth, she managed to push off from the log; as she had suspected, it was held securely among the rocks surrounding them, and her action caused her to roll over in the water to another, larger rock. With her good hand, she grabbed it.
*Progress.* She gripped the rock as tightly as she could, aware of the weak but still-present current that pulled at her constantly. After a few minutes, when she had wheezed enough air into her lungs, she set her sights on the next stone over and pushed off.
Again, she rolled over in the water, the cool liquid sloshing around her gently as she careened towards the next rock. She hit and grabbed on tightly, the effort again expending all of the energy she had built; she stopped and gasped for air, waiting for the trembling in her muscles and bones to subside.
For the next ten minutes she pushed off, rolled, grabbed, and recuperated her way to the edge of the outcropping. Her arm was beginning to seize up, and the knife wound was now streaming blood at an alarming rate. As she clung to the last rock before she shore, gasping in huge, choked breaths of air, she tried to guess the distance between her new position and the shore.
It lay but five feet away- but to her, it was an impossibly wide, yawning gap.
She could barely breathe, and she was dimly aware that, above all else, she had to twist her torso as little as possible; one of her broken ribs puncturing a lung would mean a certain, painful, slow death, drowning in her own blood.
"Grace give me strength..." she whispered aloud, then, gathering every last bit of resolve, she pushed off with all her might.
She rolled over in the water and was moving along quite smoothly when, suddenly, she stopped. In the millisecond it took her to realize that her foot was caught on a plant, her head slipped beneath the water.
*No!* She struggled wildly for a moment, adrenaline pumping through her, as she grew lightheaded. Her foot came free and she kicked out-
A sickening crunch somewhere in her torso made her flinch. Then the pain receptors, previously numbed by the adrenaline, came back to life.
She couldn't help a scream. She was back above water now, her back resting on the shore, sideways against the gentle current of the riverbank; she had reached her destination and was safe but for the fact that her ribs had scraped soundly against each other in her chest.
The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Not even when she was being whipped by those horrible grey men had she felt such pain as this. Tears ran down her face and she sobbed, wheezing harder, trying to take in air but hampered by the red-hot knife twisting round and round in her chest-
Blood.
She tasted it in her mouth, a small amount at first, and then a steady trickle. "No," she whimpered. "No, no..."
Breathing was becoming more difficult. She realized, sickened, that she had indeed slashed a hole in one of her lungs with her movement. She realized further that her death would not be quick. It could be as much as a full day before her lungs would finally be full and she would not be able to draw any more breath... and she would suffocate, alone.
Galadriel was not there anymore. Caranna was utterly isolated.
*Someone, be here,* she prayed. *Please. Let someone find me.*
---
They had followed the blood-red stallion on their own horses for what seemed like several hours; Legolas could sense Aragorn's weariness from a few feet away. They still had not slept, and as their supper had been interrupted, this wild chase was getting quite tiresome. They were well into the Old Forest now, winding along through the trees, the sky black and the woods dim. The pale moonlight set every leaf shining gloriously. Legolas would have been almost enjoying himself if not for the strange circumstances.
"Where on Earth is he taking us?" he heard Aragorn grumble, and he looked to his right. Roheryn's chocolate coat gleamed in the moonlight, while Aragorn himself seemed to soak up all light; his dark clothes, hair, and cloak, inky black and depthless in the night, made him look almost like a Nazgul.
*Hidden*, Legolas thought ruefully. *He's camouflaged.* He could only imagine what the moonlight, by contrast, was doing for his golden hair, pale skin, and white horse. *I never was able to hide from the light.*
"Really, Legolas, I must question our current course of action," Aragorn said more loudly, an edge to his voice. "We're going in the opposite direction from Bree. Who knows whose horse this is?"
"Maybe it belongs to her," Legolas replied, no question as to whom he meant.
Aragorn sighed. "Even if it does, we are so far into the forest that we are, if anything, moving away from her trail-"
As soon as he had spoken the words, he stopped, halting his horse and staring at a spot on the ground.
"What is it?" Legolas began, but his friend held up a hand as he slid almost silently from Roheryn. He stooped and picked up a broken branch.
"Why do you-" But he was cut off again as Aragorn held the branch out to him. Legolas peered at it in the moonlight. It had been freshly snapped, that much was clear, and there were streaks on it...
"That's blood," he whispered, and Aragorn, who had already begun to look around through the trees, nodded.
"Something's here," the former ranger said warily.
What happened next was so startling that Legolas could not help a cry. Something fell over him, something wet and cold and dark, like a massive piece of soaking cloth over his senses; he couldn't see or hear or sense anything but the pounding of his own heart and the sudden sick chill that swept over his skin.
He felt like he was drowning in fear and agony. He clutched at his head, his dark isolation terrifying and painful; with a gasp, he slid from Arod's back and crashed to the ground.
"Legolas!"
But the elf couldn't hear his friend's cry; he was sliding back into darkness, the freezing cold of the wet cloth seeping into his mouth, choking off his very breath. A dull roar began in his ears, fuzzy, then grew suddenly in magnitude until it was deafening. Legolas cried out anew.
And then, abruptly, it ended. Legolas lay on the ground, gazing up at the stars, gasping and shaking more violently than he ever had in his life.
Aragorn was kneeling beside him, looking quite desperate. "Legolas! Can you hear me?" he shouted. Legolas winced.
"I hear you," he replied quietly, then sat up. He was vaguely aware of Aragorn's hand on his back as he did so. The cold had left him, but a chill remained in his nose and throat, and the roar in his ears was now a dull hum.
His bow was on the ground next to him, and he picked it up as he got to his feet. "There's someone here. Something just happened- I don't know exactly what, but there is a shadow nearby," Legolas murmured hoarsely.
Aragorn looked more concerned about his friend's disheveled, shaken appearance, but he drew his sword alongside Legolas. They listened, standing back-to-back, a hundred times more tense than they had been mere seconds ago when Aragorn had first jumped off of Roheryn's back. It was all too reminiscent of their first trip to Fangorn, when they had been sure the White Wizard was lurking to cast a spell on them...
The trees were still. Insects chirped and the wind sighed around the leaves and limbs of the plants. The moonlight was brighter now, and Legolas began to see more blood, streaking against the bark of the silvery trees. He took a step forwards.
"Legolas!" Aragorn whisper-shouted, but the golden-haired elf continued into the forest, illuminated silver by the moonlight. He had no choice but to follow, beckoning to the horses.
The forest was growing thicker; the undergrowth was perilous enough to trip them if they were not careful. Aragorn noticed the blood on the trees as well, and followed Legolas' slender form through the brush, moving errant branches and leaves out of his way and frowning at the blood that smeared his hands when he did so.
"Something terrible happened here," Legolas said, more to himself than Aragorn. More broken branches littered the ground, and it looked distinctly as if someone had run through the path recently at a wild pace.
"There was a chase," Aragorn murmured. "Someone was being chased-" He sped up slightly, coming up to Legolas, and staring at a bloody handprint on a tree. "Someone who was wounded."
They were close to jogging now, the path even clearer, as if a sword had slashed through the very spot; Legolas spied a scrap of cloth clinging to a bush and grabbed at it. The cloth was soft but dirty, and stained with blood; even through its soil, he could discern its make and color- and its distinct fine weave.
"An elf!" he exclaimed, breaking into a run over the trail that had been cut. The ground was growing grassy, the moonlight brighter... they ran into a clearing.
The horses whinnied nervously, having come this far with no explanation; Legolas and Aragorn stood still, trying to put together the scene. There was blood in the grass in one set of tracks, and the other tracks were larger and much heavier. Both sets led, twisting, to the edge of a cliff.
"Oh, no." Aragorn, whose tracking abilities were sharper than his friend's, ran quickly to the edge of the cliff and looked down.
A river rushed below, though not incredibly far down- certainly not as far as Aragorn himself had once fell. "The elf fell from this precipice," he told Legolas. "Come. I can see a way down."
They moved to the horses. "Do you think it wise to lead them down?" Legolas asked absently, eyeing the dark path, which he now saw wrapped around the cliff and led down to the water.
"The other option is leaving them here, but I do not like the feeling of this wood," Aragorn said. "And judging by what we have found, and what just happened to you..." He trailed off.
Legolas shook his head, still feeling a chill from his ordeal. "I know not what it was that attacked me; it felt like I was drowning. My senses were completely smothered." He shivered involuntarily, then drew himself up when he caught Aragorn's worried glance. "But I am fine now," he added. "It passed as suddenly as it came."
"I think there was someone there," Aragorn replied, his voice quiet. "I'm almost glad for the blood on the trees, leading us away from that place."
They picked their way down the trail in the dark, taking care with their footholds and holding tightly to their horses. Legolas was struck suddenly. "That horse," he cried, "the red one. Where did it go?"
As if in answer, a whinny in the distance sent them hurrying down the trail at a quicker pace than before. The moss slid beneath their feet, growing ever damper, and rocks began to jut out of the soil; they could hear the lapping of water.
They came to solid ground at the end of the downhill trail and saw the blood-red stallion near the edge of the water, its head behind a rock. Legolas and Aragorn left their horses and ran across the sand to where the distressed horse stood.
Aragorn saw the glint of gold in the moonlight before Legolas did; wet red- gold hair, spilling out over the rocks. They rounded the corner of the huge stone and stopped.
There, with her body half-submerged, lay an elf-maiden, her eyes closed. Her skin was deathly pale and she was fairly covered in blood. Harsh bruises stood out on every inch of skin that was exposed, which, owing to her torn clothing, was quite a bit.
"Manwe!" Legolas cried softly as they kneeled beside her. The gentle tug of the current pulled her hair out onto the water and rinsed the blood from the very bottom of her cheek and chin. Aragorn reached a hand down to her neck and felt for a pulse.
"She's alive," he murmured. "I do not know how, but she is."
"Not for long," Legolas said, noticing the thin ribbon of blood that leaked from her mouth. Something told him that it was no mere split lip.
The red horse nudged the she-elf gently, it whinny softer and worried. "I guess this is where he was trying to lead us," Aragorn said gravely. "We'll need to make a camp. Come, let's get her out of the water."
-----
So what's up with this chick? More in Chapter Four! PLEASE REVIEW! Oh, and, if any Elvish officiandos want to help me out, I've got something coming up that's going to take waaaay more than the meager skills I have. Also, I hate the way that beautiful language looks without the accents... does anyone know how to do them? And italics? That would really help me out. Thanks!
Elvish translations:
Tulin, tulin! Mellonro! Mellomme, hautalye! = Come, come! He is a friend! I am a friend, calm yourself! Ava linnalye! = Don't go!
By Solara
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize right off the bat weren't created by me; they are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, with whom I claim no equity. Any characters you *don't* recognize right away, though, are mine.
A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! For those who are wondering, here's a small announcement: I don't plan to make this story a romance in any way. Legolas is *mine*! (Hee, okay, no. But I wish.) In all seriousness, though, I really don't expect that this will be a romance of any kind, unless the characters truly pull me in that direction, which I don't see happening. No, no slash, no LegsyRomance, and NO Mary Sue. Lots of O/Cs, though. Okay, enough from me, here's Chapter Three!
Asterisks (*) denote thoughts; double slashes (//) denote flashbacks.
Setting: Ten years after RotK.
*****
Chapter Three- A Cry in the Night
-----
They were well down the road by midday; Legolas had tried to set a regular pace, but the tension in his muscles would not allow it, and Arod had sensed his master's urging to go faster. Faster he went. His hooves pounded on the dirt road and sent up small clouds of dust behind him.
Aragorn matched Legolas in pace, but not in eagerness. While he was definitely concerned about the captured elf they were supposed to be looking for, he was more concerned for the safety of his friend; Frodo and Sam had looked quite frightened of the so-called Grey Men, and Aragorn was troubled by the description.
*Grey skin,* he thought wildly. *Grey skin. How is that possible?*
The news of the three dead elves, and now the one captured, had set a small stone of worry growing in his gut. Legolas had been speaking the truth when he had reassured the hobbits about his safety; Aragorn knew for a fact that Legolas had indeed kept himself alive and relatively unscathed, through many battles and a harsh war, for more than a thousand years. While the golden-haired Mirkwood prince was still considered young by elf standards, Aragorn tended to think that ten centuries was more than enough time for a warrior to prove he could take care of himself.
Still... this was no ordinary enemy lurking somewhere in the Old Forest near Bree. These were men, unearthly men by the sound of it, and the dead elves had been likewise changed. Grey skin. That was what troubled Aragorn most of all- no fatal wound, and grey skin.
He glanced at Legolas, his own face safely shadowed by the sun beating down on his head. Only someone who knew the elf well would be able to read those finely sculpted features; Aragorn could see confusion and worry written all over it, and a distinct darkness. It was a stark contrast against Legolas' fair face and shining hair, which fluttered gently in the breeze created by the horses' gentle gallop.
He felt a sudden surge of protectiveness. *If anything happens to him... I will never forgive myself.* To deprive the world of such a beloved, essential creature would be unthinkable.
*No,* he thought. *Perhaps we will not tarry long in Bree, and simply deliver the news to Rivendell.*
But he had a sneaking suspicion that Legolas would never allow the mystery to remain unsolved.
---
Aragorn had been watching him for nearly five miles now. They were reaching the Old Forest, and Legolas thought he would explode if his friend did not stop staring at him.
"You know, for someone who grew up with elves, you have surprisingly little esteem for their senses," he finally said through clenched teeth.
He heard a small chuckle and looked at Aragorn, who was now looking out at the road. "Forgive me," the dark-haired king replied. "I was lost in thought."
"I know what you were thinking." This time he sensed Aragorn's head fairly whip towards him, but he continued anyway. "You were thinking about how I am in danger, and you would rather spend less time in Bree and go quickly to Imladris."
From the way Aragorn's silver-blue eyes dropped, Legolas knew he had hit the mark. "Aragorn," he said, exasperated. "I do not feel any fear. These Grey Men pose little threat to me."
"You *never* feel fear- that is why you are so often in peril," Aragorn retorted, half-joking. Legolas shook his head.
"You are wrong. I just feel fear differently than you do." His voice quieted. "I fear for the elf who is lost, and I fear for Imladris. This is all happening much too close to your childhood haven."
Aragorn was silent, and Legolas looked sideways at him again, knowing his words had hit home. "Do you not realize that if one elf is in danger, all elves are in danger? I see little choice but to do as much as I can to help this lost elf-maiden, and find out exactly what breed of man is capable of such an atrocity."
This time, Aragorn did look up. "I will not try to alter your resolve," he said softly, his rough voice tight. "But we must be careful."
Legolas laughed, and it lightened the mood considerably. "When am I not, Elessar?"
---
They made camp on the outskirts of the Old Forest that night. Their campfire had grown to a pleasant blaze and they were unwrapping their stores of cheese, lembas, and dried fruit when Aragorn spoke. "So, Elladan is to marry."
Legolas grinned. "You're still coming to terms with it, aren't you?"
"I just find it hard to believe that the same Elladan who made a career out of pulling practical jokes on every elf in Rivendell- and me, no less- would be able to find a maiden who would have him." Aragorn took out his knife and began slicing his chunk of cheese, matching the strips with bits of the lembas.
Legolas watched him amusedly; the former ranger had not been so dainty about his food ten years ago. "Aiwendil is a close friend of mine," he replied. "She and I trained in Lorien together when we were much younger. She is as formidable a warrior as Elladan, and has a mischievous side that nearly rivals his- also a temper that will keep him in line. And she is very beautiful."
He paused, remembering his friend's long, white-blonde hair, perfectly straight without a single wave, much like his own and so rare for elf females. In fact, it was often said in Lorien that Aiwendil and Legolas looked like brother and sister, so close in looks were they; even Aiwendil's eyes were the same silver-gray of the Mirkwood prince. *She nearly matched me in skill with a bow, too,* he thought ruefully.
Aragorn caught his friend's sidetracked look and chuckled. "You wouldn't be feeling any regret over her match with Elladan, would you?" he said with a wink.
Legolas shook his head. "No, no. Aiwendil is too close to me- in fact, I was just thinking about how people often mistake her for my sister. She and I... would not make a good match." His nose wrinkled slightly. "But she and Elladan are quite perfect for each other. I am glad they discovered their feelings."
Aragorn shrugged and moved to stir the fire. "Well, Arwen nearly fell over when she heard the news, as did I. It will be interesting to meet the maiden who was able to tame one of the twins."
"Tame, indeed." Legolas found the word humorous, and an apt description for Aiwendil's hold over Elladan.
"Do you think that you will ever marry?"
The question had come out of nowhere, and Legolas was a little shocked at Aragorn's boldness; it took him a moment to recover his senses and find his tongue. Aragorn sat patiently, watching the surprise fly across his friend's face.
"Well-" Legolas truly had no answer. "I do not know. That is the truth." He looked sideways at Aragorn. "Why the sudden curiosity?"
Aragorn popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before answering carefully. "You have never spoken of a lady, nor given a second look to any of the maidens of Mirkwood or Imladris, as long as I have known you," he replied casually, by way of explanation. "And there are many, especially in Mirkwood, who warrant a second look." His words were heavy with meaning.
Legolas looked at the fire and thought for a moment. "I have always seen beauty in the maidens, and even have I noticed it in human women," he said, watching as Aragorn's brows raised ever-so-slightly. "But I have never had the desire to take a wife." He grinned. "I also would not want to inflict myself upon anyone- I seem to be too good at getting into trouble."
His friend chuckled and shook his head. "Too true. But you must know that there are maidens in Imladris who refuse to look for a match, so certain are they that once you come to your senses you will choose them."
This was news to Legolas, who had always infuriated Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir with his obliviousness to the she-elves fawning over him during his visits. As far as the opposite sex was concerned, to Legolas, females like Aiwendil and Arwen and his sisters were great companions and sometimes admirable beauties, nothing more.
"My father was never worried about it," Legolas mentioned. "I remember how he used to hound Arafail and Losilad incessantly about taking wives... but I am so much younger than they, and so far from the throne. I think my father considers it unnecessary to find me a match." He smiled. "To my great relief."
"Relief?"
Aragorn's eyebrows were raised yet again. Legolas looked at him plaintively. "Perhaps I am not meant for marriage," he said with a shrug.
Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sound of something moving through the woods quickly to their left. Sword and bow were drawn and raised before the pair had even gotten fully to their feet.
Legolas squinted through the trees in the darkness. He did not see anything, but he felt a definite presence; something was there, beyond a doubt.
"What do you see?" Aragorn whispered, his own eyes straining in search.
Wind whistled through the trees. The fire crackled. Besides those sounds, all was silent.
Legolas let out a slow breath. "I see and hear nothing," he said. "But-"
A sudden movement, and he and Aragorn were thrown apart with a cry when a magnificent stallion ran into the camp, right at Aragorn, rearing back on its hind legs. The horse was a most unusual color, a dark red, and in the glow of the firelight it looked like the color of blood.
"Get down!" Legolas yelled at Aragorn, who was trying to dodge the horse's flailing hooves.
A powerful whinny came out of the horse, and Legolas ran forward; its front hooves were inches away from coming down on Aragorn's head-
"Tulin, tulin!" he cried. "Mellonro! Mellomme, hautalye!"
The horse's legs came down and Aragorn kneeled, flinching away as the hooves whistled past his head. He breathed a sigh when he saw Legolas stroke the horse's head.
He rose. "Where did he come from? He understood you!"
Legolas' brows were knit in confusion. "He must belong to an elf."
"I have never seen a horse this color, not even among the Mearas," Aragorn said quietly, moving to touch the magnificent red stallion.
It shied away with another menacing whinny. "Mellonro," Legolas soothed, but the horse still would not allow Aragorn's touch.
Legolas frowned. "Perhaps he has had a bad experience with men," he reasoned, seeing the bewilderment on Aragorn's face.
Interrupting them again, the horse suddenly turned and walked away into the trees. "Ava linnalye!" they both cried.
The horse turned, then flicked its head in the universal request to follow; the two friends looked at each other, both equally confused.
"I suppose we should see what he has to show us," Aragorn said with a shrug.
---
In the dull thrum that was unconsciousness, she felt safe.
*Miliar?* she thought. *Where are you? Am I dead?*
But Miliar did not come; oddly, she was not distressed in the slightest. Rather, she was aware only of floating gently on a cool breath of painlessness. Light flickered past her, waving and splintering through her vision like tiny candles in a strong wind- yet her eyes were closed.
*My eyes are closed.* The lights must be in her mind. *That makes sense- why am I uneasy? I'm dead. I fell off a cliff into a river and I died.*
Something else had begun to grip her, though, a tight fist, closing around her chest and waist and head. It wasn't painful; however, she knew somehow that it shouldn't be there.
Her hands and arms were very heavy. The lights flashing in her mind started to go away. *By the Valar, what is going on?* she thought impatiently, and then a picture of Celeborn rose in her head, shaking his head.
"You never were able to wait for things to explain themselves," he told her, a familiar glint in his eyes.
Galadriel was suddenly there as well. "Where am I?" she tried to call to the Lady of Lorien, the formidable-yet-gentle elf queen who had been like a mother to her.
But Galadriel put a finger to her lips; she looked serious. "You must open your eyes, Caranna," her soft, commanding voice came.
Celeborn and Galadriel were growing dimmer. "Wait!" she called, trying to reach out to them, and in that moment, her hand touched air.
Her eyes flew open.
She was underwater.
*Manwe, I'm underwater,* she gasped in her mind, horrified, and scrabbled with her hands to reach the air. The tight fist around her chest became a vise of fire; what sounded like a thousand dwarven hammers clanged noisily in her head. Her lungs felt very heavy, and as she moved up towards the air and the light, she felt blackness begin to cloud the edges of her senses-
Caranna burst out of the river like a geyser shooting out of the ground. Her battered lips parted and she sucked in air; oxygen flowed down through her throat.
Immediately, she was coughing and spluttering. There was nowhere for the air to go; her lungs were full of water, which wrenched out of her body like knives carving up her windpipe. She spasmed violently, stars flying through her still-cloudy vision, as her body desperately tried to rid itself of the ill-placed liquid.
Once she had spit out the last of the water and her breathing had slowed to a halting, raspy wheeze, she attempted to move.
Mistake. Pain sliced through every pore of her being. The dwarves in her head started pounding away again, and the stiff vise around her torso threatened to choke her anew. Gasping, trying to stay conscious, she concentrated on compartmentalizing the pain and figuring out exactly where she was injured- and how badly.
Her ribs were ruined, she surmised with a groan; she'd be surprised if there remained more than three unfractured ones. The heavy beatings she had taken had focused in on her torso, so it came as no surprise. And she had obviously given her head quite a whack when she fell off the cliff. A stinging on her forehead alerted her to the gash that oozed blood into her eyes; another sting, and, looking down at her arm, she remembered the wound her captor's knife had made just before she jumped. With a groan, she identified the stabbing, shooting ache in her left shoulder as a dislocation.
*A Elbereth, how in the world am I still alive?!*
She should have been dead. She had expected to die when she jumped, had been perfectly prepared for it- and yet here she was, by all rights alive.
She heard Galadriel's voice again suddenly. "You are still in danger... you must get to the shore..."
*The shore?* She craned her neck, wincing as the bruised flesh rubbed against the wet collar of her tunic. It was night, early night by the position of the moon; stars shone in the sky without a single cloud to cover them. She looked around. Rocks surrounded her, and through a gap in the stone formation, she could see the pebbly bank of the river she was in, less than ten feet away.
Next she tried to figure out where she was in comparison, careful not to move any more than was absolutely necessary. She was still in the water, that much was clear, but she was stationary, and resting against something hard-
Ah. A log. *So the trees come to my rescue once again,* she thought. *Oh, I wish they could hear my thanks.*
She lifted her right hand. It shook, and the effort sent stars shooting past her eyes again, but with gritted teeth, she managed to push off from the log; as she had suspected, it was held securely among the rocks surrounding them, and her action caused her to roll over in the water to another, larger rock. With her good hand, she grabbed it.
*Progress.* She gripped the rock as tightly as she could, aware of the weak but still-present current that pulled at her constantly. After a few minutes, when she had wheezed enough air into her lungs, she set her sights on the next stone over and pushed off.
Again, she rolled over in the water, the cool liquid sloshing around her gently as she careened towards the next rock. She hit and grabbed on tightly, the effort again expending all of the energy she had built; she stopped and gasped for air, waiting for the trembling in her muscles and bones to subside.
For the next ten minutes she pushed off, rolled, grabbed, and recuperated her way to the edge of the outcropping. Her arm was beginning to seize up, and the knife wound was now streaming blood at an alarming rate. As she clung to the last rock before she shore, gasping in huge, choked breaths of air, she tried to guess the distance between her new position and the shore.
It lay but five feet away- but to her, it was an impossibly wide, yawning gap.
She could barely breathe, and she was dimly aware that, above all else, she had to twist her torso as little as possible; one of her broken ribs puncturing a lung would mean a certain, painful, slow death, drowning in her own blood.
"Grace give me strength..." she whispered aloud, then, gathering every last bit of resolve, she pushed off with all her might.
She rolled over in the water and was moving along quite smoothly when, suddenly, she stopped. In the millisecond it took her to realize that her foot was caught on a plant, her head slipped beneath the water.
*No!* She struggled wildly for a moment, adrenaline pumping through her, as she grew lightheaded. Her foot came free and she kicked out-
A sickening crunch somewhere in her torso made her flinch. Then the pain receptors, previously numbed by the adrenaline, came back to life.
She couldn't help a scream. She was back above water now, her back resting on the shore, sideways against the gentle current of the riverbank; she had reached her destination and was safe but for the fact that her ribs had scraped soundly against each other in her chest.
The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Not even when she was being whipped by those horrible grey men had she felt such pain as this. Tears ran down her face and she sobbed, wheezing harder, trying to take in air but hampered by the red-hot knife twisting round and round in her chest-
Blood.
She tasted it in her mouth, a small amount at first, and then a steady trickle. "No," she whimpered. "No, no..."
Breathing was becoming more difficult. She realized, sickened, that she had indeed slashed a hole in one of her lungs with her movement. She realized further that her death would not be quick. It could be as much as a full day before her lungs would finally be full and she would not be able to draw any more breath... and she would suffocate, alone.
Galadriel was not there anymore. Caranna was utterly isolated.
*Someone, be here,* she prayed. *Please. Let someone find me.*
---
They had followed the blood-red stallion on their own horses for what seemed like several hours; Legolas could sense Aragorn's weariness from a few feet away. They still had not slept, and as their supper had been interrupted, this wild chase was getting quite tiresome. They were well into the Old Forest now, winding along through the trees, the sky black and the woods dim. The pale moonlight set every leaf shining gloriously. Legolas would have been almost enjoying himself if not for the strange circumstances.
"Where on Earth is he taking us?" he heard Aragorn grumble, and he looked to his right. Roheryn's chocolate coat gleamed in the moonlight, while Aragorn himself seemed to soak up all light; his dark clothes, hair, and cloak, inky black and depthless in the night, made him look almost like a Nazgul.
*Hidden*, Legolas thought ruefully. *He's camouflaged.* He could only imagine what the moonlight, by contrast, was doing for his golden hair, pale skin, and white horse. *I never was able to hide from the light.*
"Really, Legolas, I must question our current course of action," Aragorn said more loudly, an edge to his voice. "We're going in the opposite direction from Bree. Who knows whose horse this is?"
"Maybe it belongs to her," Legolas replied, no question as to whom he meant.
Aragorn sighed. "Even if it does, we are so far into the forest that we are, if anything, moving away from her trail-"
As soon as he had spoken the words, he stopped, halting his horse and staring at a spot on the ground.
"What is it?" Legolas began, but his friend held up a hand as he slid almost silently from Roheryn. He stooped and picked up a broken branch.
"Why do you-" But he was cut off again as Aragorn held the branch out to him. Legolas peered at it in the moonlight. It had been freshly snapped, that much was clear, and there were streaks on it...
"That's blood," he whispered, and Aragorn, who had already begun to look around through the trees, nodded.
"Something's here," the former ranger said warily.
What happened next was so startling that Legolas could not help a cry. Something fell over him, something wet and cold and dark, like a massive piece of soaking cloth over his senses; he couldn't see or hear or sense anything but the pounding of his own heart and the sudden sick chill that swept over his skin.
He felt like he was drowning in fear and agony. He clutched at his head, his dark isolation terrifying and painful; with a gasp, he slid from Arod's back and crashed to the ground.
"Legolas!"
But the elf couldn't hear his friend's cry; he was sliding back into darkness, the freezing cold of the wet cloth seeping into his mouth, choking off his very breath. A dull roar began in his ears, fuzzy, then grew suddenly in magnitude until it was deafening. Legolas cried out anew.
And then, abruptly, it ended. Legolas lay on the ground, gazing up at the stars, gasping and shaking more violently than he ever had in his life.
Aragorn was kneeling beside him, looking quite desperate. "Legolas! Can you hear me?" he shouted. Legolas winced.
"I hear you," he replied quietly, then sat up. He was vaguely aware of Aragorn's hand on his back as he did so. The cold had left him, but a chill remained in his nose and throat, and the roar in his ears was now a dull hum.
His bow was on the ground next to him, and he picked it up as he got to his feet. "There's someone here. Something just happened- I don't know exactly what, but there is a shadow nearby," Legolas murmured hoarsely.
Aragorn looked more concerned about his friend's disheveled, shaken appearance, but he drew his sword alongside Legolas. They listened, standing back-to-back, a hundred times more tense than they had been mere seconds ago when Aragorn had first jumped off of Roheryn's back. It was all too reminiscent of their first trip to Fangorn, when they had been sure the White Wizard was lurking to cast a spell on them...
The trees were still. Insects chirped and the wind sighed around the leaves and limbs of the plants. The moonlight was brighter now, and Legolas began to see more blood, streaking against the bark of the silvery trees. He took a step forwards.
"Legolas!" Aragorn whisper-shouted, but the golden-haired elf continued into the forest, illuminated silver by the moonlight. He had no choice but to follow, beckoning to the horses.
The forest was growing thicker; the undergrowth was perilous enough to trip them if they were not careful. Aragorn noticed the blood on the trees as well, and followed Legolas' slender form through the brush, moving errant branches and leaves out of his way and frowning at the blood that smeared his hands when he did so.
"Something terrible happened here," Legolas said, more to himself than Aragorn. More broken branches littered the ground, and it looked distinctly as if someone had run through the path recently at a wild pace.
"There was a chase," Aragorn murmured. "Someone was being chased-" He sped up slightly, coming up to Legolas, and staring at a bloody handprint on a tree. "Someone who was wounded."
They were close to jogging now, the path even clearer, as if a sword had slashed through the very spot; Legolas spied a scrap of cloth clinging to a bush and grabbed at it. The cloth was soft but dirty, and stained with blood; even through its soil, he could discern its make and color- and its distinct fine weave.
"An elf!" he exclaimed, breaking into a run over the trail that had been cut. The ground was growing grassy, the moonlight brighter... they ran into a clearing.
The horses whinnied nervously, having come this far with no explanation; Legolas and Aragorn stood still, trying to put together the scene. There was blood in the grass in one set of tracks, and the other tracks were larger and much heavier. Both sets led, twisting, to the edge of a cliff.
"Oh, no." Aragorn, whose tracking abilities were sharper than his friend's, ran quickly to the edge of the cliff and looked down.
A river rushed below, though not incredibly far down- certainly not as far as Aragorn himself had once fell. "The elf fell from this precipice," he told Legolas. "Come. I can see a way down."
They moved to the horses. "Do you think it wise to lead them down?" Legolas asked absently, eyeing the dark path, which he now saw wrapped around the cliff and led down to the water.
"The other option is leaving them here, but I do not like the feeling of this wood," Aragorn said. "And judging by what we have found, and what just happened to you..." He trailed off.
Legolas shook his head, still feeling a chill from his ordeal. "I know not what it was that attacked me; it felt like I was drowning. My senses were completely smothered." He shivered involuntarily, then drew himself up when he caught Aragorn's worried glance. "But I am fine now," he added. "It passed as suddenly as it came."
"I think there was someone there," Aragorn replied, his voice quiet. "I'm almost glad for the blood on the trees, leading us away from that place."
They picked their way down the trail in the dark, taking care with their footholds and holding tightly to their horses. Legolas was struck suddenly. "That horse," he cried, "the red one. Where did it go?"
As if in answer, a whinny in the distance sent them hurrying down the trail at a quicker pace than before. The moss slid beneath their feet, growing ever damper, and rocks began to jut out of the soil; they could hear the lapping of water.
They came to solid ground at the end of the downhill trail and saw the blood-red stallion near the edge of the water, its head behind a rock. Legolas and Aragorn left their horses and ran across the sand to where the distressed horse stood.
Aragorn saw the glint of gold in the moonlight before Legolas did; wet red- gold hair, spilling out over the rocks. They rounded the corner of the huge stone and stopped.
There, with her body half-submerged, lay an elf-maiden, her eyes closed. Her skin was deathly pale and she was fairly covered in blood. Harsh bruises stood out on every inch of skin that was exposed, which, owing to her torn clothing, was quite a bit.
"Manwe!" Legolas cried softly as they kneeled beside her. The gentle tug of the current pulled her hair out onto the water and rinsed the blood from the very bottom of her cheek and chin. Aragorn reached a hand down to her neck and felt for a pulse.
"She's alive," he murmured. "I do not know how, but she is."
"Not for long," Legolas said, noticing the thin ribbon of blood that leaked from her mouth. Something told him that it was no mere split lip.
The red horse nudged the she-elf gently, it whinny softer and worried. "I guess this is where he was trying to lead us," Aragorn said gravely. "We'll need to make a camp. Come, let's get her out of the water."
-----
So what's up with this chick? More in Chapter Four! PLEASE REVIEW! Oh, and, if any Elvish officiandos want to help me out, I've got something coming up that's going to take waaaay more than the meager skills I have. Also, I hate the way that beautiful language looks without the accents... does anyone know how to do them? And italics? That would really help me out. Thanks!
Elvish translations:
Tulin, tulin! Mellonro! Mellomme, hautalye! = Come, come! He is a friend! I am a friend, calm yourself! Ava linnalye! = Don't go!