WINDOW OF THE SUNSET, Ch. 2, by Lizardbeth Johnson

Disclaimer: Based on 'The Lord of the Rings', by JRR Tolkien. This is a non-commercial work. No infringement of copyright is intended.

"Window of the Sunset" is the fourth in the Broken Fellowship Series. It is strongly recommended that you read the previous stories first.


The Broken Fellowship, Book IV:

Window of the Sunset

Chapter 2: Into the Entwash

by Lizardbeth Johnson


Legolas moved swiftly through the mist-shrouded, damp paths of the Entwash, heading unerringly for the village he could hear not far up ahead. The fog treated the sound oddly, so that to his ears it seemed sometimes distant and muffled, and sometimes clear, but he knew it was close. He walked with little fear of being discovered, knowing that even if the villagers had sentries posted, he would have to pass within arm's length for them to see him at all. His footsteps through the shallow water, splashed very little and what sound they made was likewise muffled.

Yet as the ground rose slightly so that it was drier, he moved with greater caution, using the moss-draped trees as cover. He found his surroundings unpleasantly similar to his scouting trips of southern Mirkwood, where the bare trees were also draped with hanging moss and creeping vines. There was less feeling of evil, but the similarity made him uneasy.

He smelled wood-smoke and the stench of spoiled fish. The mist seemed to turn grey and thick and somewhat oily as he drew nearer, and he knew his clothes would stink of it for days. The unpleasantness made him wonder. This was, as Sam had suggested, not a cheerful place for anyone to live. In these latter days of the Age, there was plenty of empty land for people to claim. So why would anyone purposefully choose a swamp?

Just as he began to see hints of torch-light ahead, the tree cover abruptly ended. He lingered beside to the last tree, trying to get a good view of the village through the billowing white mist. A group of primitive wooden huts stood in a loose circle around a central area, in which the dim figures of the inhabitants moved through like shadows. About fifteen paces of empty ground stood between him and the nearest hut, which was lit with two large upright torches. A large earthen mound sat in the center surrounded by crates and cut wood. He was fairly certain it was a large smokehouse, presumably for fish. But the house was far larger than it should be considering the size of the village.

He was suddenly extremely glad that he had rejected Sam's idea to trade with these people. He had the cold suspicion that this was an operation to provide foodstuffs for Mordor, else why hide the village in this place? All these people had to do was cart the supplies across the river. No one from Gondor or Rohan would ever look deep into the Entwash.

That meant he would have to be very careful here. Evil attracted evil, and Men were susceptible to the ring's desire.

Because he was unwilling to cross that open ground even in his cloak with the cover of mist, he began to sidle eastward, toward the Anduin to look for the village's boats, using the trees as much as possible.

The ground was soggy, and when he stepped he left shallow prints that filled with water. He was unaccustomed to leaving such a visible trail and it made him nervous. Anyone would be able to see it. He began to use some of the exposed roots of the trees as stepping-stones.

But soon the trees thinned and the water grew deeper as he came nearer to the river and he was forced to walk in the water, wetting his boots nearly to the tops.

A sudden shout ahead of him made him freeze and press against the nearest tree trunk. Someone was trying to get to the village from the shore but was lost. Someone else called back, and Legolas heard the lost man pass in front of him, heading hesitantly toward the village.

He waited, tempted to smirk scornfully at people who couldn't even find their way fifty paces, fog or no fog.

He continued moving forward cautiously, and finally found his reward by nearly stumbling onto a rope tied to a tree. Following the rope to the other end, he found a boat. It was a primitive craft, little more than a large raft, capable of holding a few people and some boxes. It was propelled by means of poles to cross the broad, shallow expanse of the river. Looking at it, Legolas was doubtful whether he and Sam alone could manage to control it in the central current.

Ducking under the rope, he continued on, looking for a smaller boat. There was a second raft.

And then... miraculously, a graceful curved shape emerged out of the mist.

He walked forward, gazing at it reverently and finally drawing close enough to touch the prow. It was the boat from Lothlórien -- the one he had released at Amon Hen. It had returned to him.

He could take the boat now. The paddles were in the bottom, waiting for him. He could cross the river now and make his way. Sam could stay with Dúlhach and go to Rohan or Gondor, somewhere far safer than this road.

He could make better time journeying alone. Faster to Ithilien, faster to Minas Morgul, faster to Orodruin...

He had reached for his knife to cut the rope and go, when he realized there was a new and different stench assailing his senses. He froze, wondering what it was, and his eyes darted around searching for the source.

An oddly familiar foulness underlay the fishy, smoky smell.

First, soft splashing noises of someone approaching from the south and then a hissing voice touched his ears. "Tricksy elvesses. We hates them. They stole it from us, kept us prisoner, hurts us..."

Gollum.

Did Gollum actually know he was there, or was he just generally muttering about the unfairness of an elf holding the ring? If the latter, Legolas should be able to hide.

Legolas shifted his grip on his knife slightly, his gaze fixed on where Gollum should appear through the whiteness.

Gollum's tone changed slightly, became softer and yet more chilling. "Yess, precious, nassty elvesses... Bright elves took the precious from us... It belongs to us."

Gollum knew he was there. Fingering his knife's blade, and equally softly, Legolas whispered back, "It belongs to me, Gollum. It will never be yours again."

The white fog roiled and Gollum emerged, creeping around a tree about ten paces away. Large eyes fixed on Legolas unblinking, as the creature squatted on the ground as pale as a worm under a stone.

Ragged teeth showed in a snarl. "Give it to us. You hurts the precious."

"No." His free hand rose to cover the ring that lay beneath his tunic. It felt warm against his chest.

He glanced uneasily in the direction of the village, wondering when someone was going to hear them.

Gollum crept a pace or two closer, and Legolas lifted his knife in threat. "Stop. You can not win. Do not force me to kill you, Sméagol ."

He felt the urge to kill welling up inside him like a strong, cold wind. Gollum wanted the ring. Gollum would try to steal the ring. But the ring did not want Gollum as its bearer. The ring wanted Gollum dead.

Legolas stepped back a pace and his left hand pulsed with pain.

Gollum hesitated and his head came up as though listening to something. But Legolas heard nothing.

"Sméagol ..." Gollum muttered, in seeming wonder. "Sméagol ."

There was something different about Gollum suddenly, as though the speaking of his name recalled the Sméagol that once had been, before the ring.

Legolas wondered if he could possibly take advantage of that momentary easing of the ring's grip. He spoke softly, "I know that was your name once. You were Sméagol. You were one of the small people who lived in Anduin Vale in the days before the Éothéod rode south. I remember." Sméagol 's attention was fixed on him, and it seemed even the noxious sense had abated. "They were a quiet, peaceful folk who fished the river. They did no harm to anyone. They traded with my people and the horse-riders. But they moved away to the west when the darkness of Dol Guldur tainted the valley, and wolves and orcs came out of the Misty Mountains. Do you remember living by the river, Sméagol?"

Gollum glanced away for a moment, and when he looked back, his eyes seemed sad. He admitted in a barely audible voice, "Yes." But the moment passed, when he twitched and the avaricious gleam returned. "None of its business, is it, precious?" he hissed. "Trying to tricks us, it is. Make it our friend," Gollum sneered. "But we have a secret, precious, oh yes we do. We know bright elves are thieves. Filthy, dirty, tricksy thieves."

The final word was said loudly and Legolas glanced toward the settlement in alarm. He heard a few people stir.

Gollum's large eyes were lit by malice. "What's the thief going to do, precious?" he asked in a low taunting voice. "Is it going to run away?"

Legolas didn't move, his hand didn't even shift its grip, but he knew suddenly with chill certainty that Gollum would die beneath his knife blade. Perhaps not at that moment, but someday soon. Foresight of the elves told him that Gollum's doom was already in his hand.

Gollum grinned slyly. "Tricksy elf wants boat. Wants to sail away. But no, precious, we can't lets him."

He tilted his head back and called in a gravelly but surprisingly loud voice, "Thief! Here! THIEF!"

The village came awake, and Legolas heard men milling in confusion, and shouting. Some were starting in this direction.

Contrary impulses tugged at him -- sharp, biting rage pushed him toward Gollum, seeking the creature's death; while fear urged him to cut the rope and escape in the boat; but his head wouldn't let him pursue either course. Both would take time he couldn't spare now that he had been found out.

His hand darted out and his knife sliced the rope that tied the boat. Though the water moved sluggishly, the craft was light and empty, and it had no desire to stay in this evil place. Silently, it slid off into the fog and disappeared.

Legolas looked back one final time at Gollum. It was a hard glance, and the blade of his knife glimmered palely blue with the strength of his anger. Gollum flinched back, covering his eyes.

Legolas' whisper floated like the fog itself, insidious and everywhere. "In the end, we will have a reckoning, little one. You will lose."

He turned and started back the way he had come, along the river for a little ways on the wooden paths and docks. He left no track on the wood and could move swiftly. The mist still cloaked the area, but seemed to have thinned so that he could see the dim shapes of the houses and dark figures moving within it, toward him. He was confident that the pale tones of his clothes would help hide him from their sight, and once he reached the trees, it would be nearly impossible for them to see him.

Though he kept listening cautiously for sounds of the blundering humans, not one of the villagers spotted him on his way back. He was, perhaps, ten paces away when he heard Dúlhach whinny in alarm and Samwise shouted Legolas' name.

"Hold, thief! Stop!" one man shouted. "Or we'll shoot!"

Alarmed, Legolas crept closer, listening as four voices talked about what to do with the beautiful horse and the odd little thief riding her.

Sam said nothing more.

Legolas rounded the last tree at the side of the road and saw four men surrounding Dúlhach -- two with bows pointing at Sam, and the other two with axes raised threateningly. Dúlhach stood still, twitching with the desire to rear and flee, but knowing if she did so, Sam would fly from her back.

Legolas unlimbered his bow from his back and touched the string in dismay. The tension was too loose. Despite his wax, the moisture had gotten to it. He needed to restring, but that would take too long. He put the bow back silently, removing both daggers and, at the same moment in opposite directions, threw them.

With lethal accuracy, the daggers plunged into the throats of both the archers, and they fell, choking on their blood.

Legolas followed after the knives immediately, drawing his sword. One of the remaining men was a bit quicker to notice what had happened to his companions, and turned to find the new threat.

He was a rough-looking man, with long, wet dark hair and untrimmed beard. His narrow eyes flared with surprise on seeing an elf then gleamed with pleasure. "Always wanted to test your kind, elf."

He swung his fighting axe, and Legolas swayed out of the path of the crescent-shaped blade. The man was strong and skilled with his weapon, but he was no dwarf or uruk-hai. His only advantage was in his reach, but it was not sufficient for victory. Legolas did not attack, only defend, letting the human wear himself out.

"You will not fight?" the human demanded, seeking to disembowel Legolas.

"You said you wanted a test," Legolas replied, blocking the axe haft with the blade of his sword. "So I am giving you one."

Vaguely he was aware of the fourth man, trying to sneak behind him, from Dúlhach's other side. Foolishly believing that the motionless horse would remain motionless, he passed too closely behind her hindquarters. Dúlhach kicked backward, striking the fourth man a solid blow to the chest with her hooves. He collapsed like a felled tree, unable to even gasp for breath.

Sam gave a panicked shout as the mare tipped forward. The sound pricked at the elf's awareness, and he realized that the noise of the battle would attract others. Legolas had no more time to play with his opponent. He and Sam still had to escape.

Changing the tempo of the fight abruptly, he darted in, taking advantage of the man's tiring and lack of control on his back swing. The human was wide open in that moment, and Legolas' blade moved as a silver blur to sever his head at his neck.

Breathing only slightly heavily, he turned. "Samwise, are you well?"

Sam was clutching Dúlhach's mane as if he would never let go, and his eyes were wide and terrified, but he looked unharmed. He nodded, seeming pale.

Legolas patted Dúlhach's flank as he passed to fetch his first knife. He cleaned it on the corpse's clothes and put it away. He moved to kneel at the other attacker's side and plucked his second knife free.

He was starting to clean it, when Sam stuttered in alarm and warning, "Legolas, watch out!"

Legolas jumped to his feet and turned, knife in hand to face the new threat -- but his movement only provided a bigger target. A knife struck him, thrown by the one Dúlhach had kicked. It slammed with surprising force in his abdomen, just below his ribs. He staggered back a pace, his hand going automatically to the hilt.

The feeling of it was slender twin blades of fire and ice, twisting in his middle. Breathing suddenly became something he had to do with conscious effort. That afterborn dog hurt me, the angry thought bubbled to the surface, He must die.

But before he could move, Dúlhach kicked backward with one leg and planted a hoof squarely in the attacker's face. Bone crunched, and the man slumped to the ground, dead.

"Legolas!"

Legolas looked up to meet Sam's gaze, saw that Sam was pointing, and swung sharply to see what he was pointing at, when he heard a large group of men approaching from the village. They would arrive soon. Wounded, he could not defeat them all. His time had run out.

Without stopping to consider what it might cost him, he vaulted up one-handed behind Sam.

He landed with graceless force, jarring the knife. Pain welled up through him, paralyzingly intense. "Oh, Valar," he whispered, closing his eyes and trying to fight the darkness that threatened.

Sam twisted around, "We should bind --"

"We must ride," Legolas told him harshly. "More humans come. Dúlhach, noro lim, noro sui sûl!"

Dúlhach launched herself into a run down the road.

Every slam of hooves on the stone sent a frisson of pain through him. Legolas kept one hand on the knife, trying to keep it still and slow the bleeding, but it helped very little, especially when Dúlhach jumped. His tunics and hand soon were both wet with warm blood.

DD>But when Dúlhach slowed too soon, he forced himself to order her to continue. They had to pass through the Entwash, and find clearer, greener land. Forest would be preferable, but he knew he could never heal in that tainted swamp.

He felt dizzy as the ride continued, and had to clutch onto Sam with his other hand to keep from falling.

His whole body suddenly felt insubstantial. Had he turned into mist? His mind seemed free of its confines, rising toward the heavens and seeking the end of the fog. But he couldn't find it, just ever more gray nothingness... He was fading.

He reached out for help, for strength -- anything to find a path back to the light. Elbereth, please, save me...

But it was not Elbereth's power he touched. Fire suddenly rose up around him, warming the chill that seeped into his bones, but the flames did not burn. Within the fire, a deep voice whispered, striking like an adder, You are dying, Prince of the Firstborn. Only the power of the ring will save you.

The ring. Sauron.

Put on the ring and submit to its will. Only then will you live.

No. No. He couldn't...

It is fated, Son of the Forest, the Ring whispered. You and Sauron were always meant to be one. Your birth came the same year his spirit settled in the great wood, seeking its vessel.

No. That was a lie. He was edhel, and would not serve Sauron, captain of Morgoth, foe of life.

You will not serve. You will rule, the insidious whisper echoed in his mind. It was inescapable, no matter how Legolas tried not to listen. All of Middle-Earth will kneel at your feet.

An image formed within the flames: He saw himself standing on the ramparts of a high, dark wall, shining with a radiance that lit a vast field of kneeling figures, rank on rank of armored men and orcs, dwarves and elves. Nine figures cloaked in black stood arrayed behind him, their shadow deeper by comparison with his brilliance. He was wearing white, with silver armor, and the sapphirine eyes glowed with the light of the Ainur.

That could be him. For just one moment, he wanted to possess that power and beauty with everything in his soul. If he just reached out, he could become...

Put on the ring and submit, Firstborn. Accept your fate.

"No!" He jerked violently and came out of his daze, eyes opening to see Sam twisted around to face him. The hobbit's kindly face was afraid, and he had one small hand wrapped around Legolas' trying to keep him from closing his fingers on the ring.

Legolas blinked and tried to speak. His voice was weak, for he seemed to have little breath. "Sam?" He dropped his hand, realizing what he had been about to do.

"Legolas? Are you with me?"

Legolas nodded a tiny bit, feeling oddly better. The pain had diminished and now he merely felt cold, as if his blood had turned to ice.

"We've stopped," Sam explained unnecessarily. He spoke slowly and patiently, as if to someone half-witted. Legolas decided absently that he must truly look terrible, for Sam to be so concerned. "We need to get down. Do you think you can do that?"

Looking around, Legolas realized they had cleared the main Entwash. Dúlhach had left the road and brought them to the lee-side of a rocky ridge. There were no trees, but the grass was high and bright green in the afternoon sunlight. The ground seemed very far below, and he suddenly understood more of Sam's fears.

Dúlhach very slowly and carefully folded herself to the ground so her riders could dismount without falling. Sam scrambled off, dumping his pack, and turned to unbuckle Legolas' weapons harness and ease it off. Legolas wanted to help him, but could find neither the will nor the strength.

Sam balanced him so he could move, despite his shivering, and let him roll onto his back on his cloak.

"Oh no," the little hobbit's paled in dismay seeing the blood-stained tunic and knife. "What do I do, Legolas?" he asked, a desperate quality to his voice. "What should I do?"

It was an effort to focus, but Legolas did, looking up at Sam. "Take the ring, Sam," he whispered. "And go."

He could no longer hold the darkness at bay, and it smothered him in its deep, velvety embrace.



noro sui sûl = 'Ride like the wind!'

Continued in Chapter 3: Master and Servant