The forest seemed eerie in the middle of the night. All around the elves and the two humans riding in between, shadows crept and fell, the leaves rustled, and the branches seemed to reach for the riders travelling briskly through the perilous forest.
"Maybe I put too much faith in this," Legolas thought to himself, keeping his eyes trained on the trail before him. He called for one of the elvish guards behind him to ride ahead to the forest's edge. He knew they could only be a few hours out, the speed they were travelling. It would take over a day to reach the location where he thought Aragorn would have been taken, but it was worth it.
"I am not going to give up on you," Legolas promised himself. He knew somehow that Aragorn would understand. He had always understood before, even when Legolas had been mortally wounded through the caves of Moria. But he knew that as far away as Aragorn was, there would be no way to reach him if he had been taken inside the Black Gates. Aragorn would have to fight to stay on their side of Mordor.
"You will have to fight, my friend," Legolas whispered, bringing a fist to his chest. "I know you can hear me, and I know that you understand. You have to fight."
And somehow, he knew Aragorn did understand.
--
It was even more frightfully cold than the previous evening had been. Aragorn huddled by the fire they allowed him, trying to converse what little body heat he had left.
He had tried to persude the head of the Uruk-Hai to give him water and fire. His reasoning was that he would be no good to Sauron dead. During the long walk to the north and east, he had realized that the only reason he was still alive was because he was an asset to Sauron. He knew the Ringbearer. And as long as Frodo still held the ring and stayed away from Mordor, Sauron could not afford to kill him.
It was only a small blessing built into an entire day of torture. Without water, he would be near death by nightfall.
Night had come, indeed. With a small cup of water between his tattered hands, he drank greedily. His breath was cold on the metal, but he tipped his head till it rested on the cup. He was quite tired from that day's journey, being prodded and pushed through the barren, desolate landscape.
He had spied the river more than once, however, and knew they were gaining ground toward the Black Gate. It was less than a day's journey ahead. The smoke rising from the river towns was blackening, blotting out what little remained of the sunlight.
As he thought harder about his predicament, an overwhelming sense of calm filled him. He glanced up. It was almost as though he had stepped into a warm bath. He blinked and let out a breath, the cold blue stream lifting away. It was almost terrifying to feel this way.
It was almost as if he knew he were going to die.
He pushed the thought roughly from his mind. He had come to accept death too quickly, losing the little ounce of faith he had left to whatever feelings of dispair he had. He almost laughed at his oafishness.
"I have to get out of here," he muttered to himself, dropping the empty cup near the fire. He rested his bare hands slightly above the fire and glanced around. It was as though the fire were feeding him strength. He could feel the rage, the anger, and the hostility toward the mutilated, tortured elves growing with every breath.
He rose to his feet. The small number of orcs behind him grunted and quickly moved to quell him if he tried anything. He turned, his dark eyes sparkling maliciously in the deepening glow of the fire. There were less than a half dozen orcs between him and the rolling hills, where he could hide himself in the plateaus along the river for days. The orc would eventually stop looking for him.
He pressed his warm hands together, using them as strength as his fingers locked. Two orcs were approaching, their jagged blades raised, their voices calling out.
Aragorn attacked them first, striking hard and fast. He used his strong arms to knock one orc into the other and as they tumbled over, he grasped the jagged knife the first had carried. He lifted the knife, holding it to his eyes, amazed by the glow of the fire, still fueling his desire for escape.
He lifted the knife and with several powerful strokes, the orc fell off one by one. They had no time to call for the others, still hunting in the hills.
Finally, the carnage lay around him, foul, stinking bodies of orc. He stared at the knife before using what was left of the cloth used to bind his hand to wipe the jagged knife free of blood.
Then he turned toward the river, his eyes narrowing dangerous as he moved steathily through the hills.
A cry sounded behind him. Turning, he whipped the knife, cutting off the cry as the knife twisted, beheading the orc with a stream of black. Aragorn quickly recovered the knife and glanced both ways to spy any more of the enemy that might be drawing nearer.
He then turned and fled into the night.
--
Legolas could hear the sounds of voices ahead before they left the forest. Something was amiss. He quickly waved his arm, beckoning the elves and the two humans closer. "I will ride out first and the rest will follow in a group," he ordered. The group nodded quickly and Legolas turned to the pre-dawn light and rode his horse out.
He was surprised to see an arc of arrows flying gracefully across the air. At the same time, the feeling in the pit of his stomach alarmed him to the fact that orcs were attacking. He turned to grab his knife when a body crushed into his, knocking him from his horse to the wooded taiga below.
With a small cry, Legolas fought the orc, the two rolling over logs and ash until finally an arrow pierced into the back of the orc, sending a shooting stream of black, which draped across Legolas' cloak. He quickly sprang to his feet, grateful to see his own group had rescued them.
Another cry rose behind him as Legolas rose from the pit, taking his two long, curved knifes and jumping into battle.
"Maybe I put too much faith in this," Legolas thought to himself, keeping his eyes trained on the trail before him. He called for one of the elvish guards behind him to ride ahead to the forest's edge. He knew they could only be a few hours out, the speed they were travelling. It would take over a day to reach the location where he thought Aragorn would have been taken, but it was worth it.
"I am not going to give up on you," Legolas promised himself. He knew somehow that Aragorn would understand. He had always understood before, even when Legolas had been mortally wounded through the caves of Moria. But he knew that as far away as Aragorn was, there would be no way to reach him if he had been taken inside the Black Gates. Aragorn would have to fight to stay on their side of Mordor.
"You will have to fight, my friend," Legolas whispered, bringing a fist to his chest. "I know you can hear me, and I know that you understand. You have to fight."
And somehow, he knew Aragorn did understand.
--
It was even more frightfully cold than the previous evening had been. Aragorn huddled by the fire they allowed him, trying to converse what little body heat he had left.
He had tried to persude the head of the Uruk-Hai to give him water and fire. His reasoning was that he would be no good to Sauron dead. During the long walk to the north and east, he had realized that the only reason he was still alive was because he was an asset to Sauron. He knew the Ringbearer. And as long as Frodo still held the ring and stayed away from Mordor, Sauron could not afford to kill him.
It was only a small blessing built into an entire day of torture. Without water, he would be near death by nightfall.
Night had come, indeed. With a small cup of water between his tattered hands, he drank greedily. His breath was cold on the metal, but he tipped his head till it rested on the cup. He was quite tired from that day's journey, being prodded and pushed through the barren, desolate landscape.
He had spied the river more than once, however, and knew they were gaining ground toward the Black Gate. It was less than a day's journey ahead. The smoke rising from the river towns was blackening, blotting out what little remained of the sunlight.
As he thought harder about his predicament, an overwhelming sense of calm filled him. He glanced up. It was almost as though he had stepped into a warm bath. He blinked and let out a breath, the cold blue stream lifting away. It was almost terrifying to feel this way.
It was almost as if he knew he were going to die.
He pushed the thought roughly from his mind. He had come to accept death too quickly, losing the little ounce of faith he had left to whatever feelings of dispair he had. He almost laughed at his oafishness.
"I have to get out of here," he muttered to himself, dropping the empty cup near the fire. He rested his bare hands slightly above the fire and glanced around. It was as though the fire were feeding him strength. He could feel the rage, the anger, and the hostility toward the mutilated, tortured elves growing with every breath.
He rose to his feet. The small number of orcs behind him grunted and quickly moved to quell him if he tried anything. He turned, his dark eyes sparkling maliciously in the deepening glow of the fire. There were less than a half dozen orcs between him and the rolling hills, where he could hide himself in the plateaus along the river for days. The orc would eventually stop looking for him.
He pressed his warm hands together, using them as strength as his fingers locked. Two orcs were approaching, their jagged blades raised, their voices calling out.
Aragorn attacked them first, striking hard and fast. He used his strong arms to knock one orc into the other and as they tumbled over, he grasped the jagged knife the first had carried. He lifted the knife, holding it to his eyes, amazed by the glow of the fire, still fueling his desire for escape.
He lifted the knife and with several powerful strokes, the orc fell off one by one. They had no time to call for the others, still hunting in the hills.
Finally, the carnage lay around him, foul, stinking bodies of orc. He stared at the knife before using what was left of the cloth used to bind his hand to wipe the jagged knife free of blood.
Then he turned toward the river, his eyes narrowing dangerous as he moved steathily through the hills.
A cry sounded behind him. Turning, he whipped the knife, cutting off the cry as the knife twisted, beheading the orc with a stream of black. Aragorn quickly recovered the knife and glanced both ways to spy any more of the enemy that might be drawing nearer.
He then turned and fled into the night.
--
Legolas could hear the sounds of voices ahead before they left the forest. Something was amiss. He quickly waved his arm, beckoning the elves and the two humans closer. "I will ride out first and the rest will follow in a group," he ordered. The group nodded quickly and Legolas turned to the pre-dawn light and rode his horse out.
He was surprised to see an arc of arrows flying gracefully across the air. At the same time, the feeling in the pit of his stomach alarmed him to the fact that orcs were attacking. He turned to grab his knife when a body crushed into his, knocking him from his horse to the wooded taiga below.
With a small cry, Legolas fought the orc, the two rolling over logs and ash until finally an arrow pierced into the back of the orc, sending a shooting stream of black, which draped across Legolas' cloak. He quickly sprang to his feet, grateful to see his own group had rescued them.
Another cry rose behind him as Legolas rose from the pit, taking his two long, curved knifes and jumping into battle.