BRIGHT INTERVALLS

I.

Only someone watching very closely would have detected it; the small, crouched figure hiding in the mighty branches of the old beech in which it had taken refuge, almost invisible in his grey and green clothes it was wearing- Sam, the little hobbit, still held out patiently where Legolas had left him.

And like the forest around him changed it's nature in the course of the day, Sam's mood did.

Oh yes, in the beginning, after Legolas had left; leaving behind nothing but a pitying look and a short pressure from his right hand on the hobbit's shoulder – and the ring -when all the excitement, the mortal fear; and the horror about Saruman's attack and the pursuit through the orcs had evaporated, he hadn't lacked courage; and determination. Hadn't it been him, Samwise, the gardener from the shire, who had saved the life of an elf and had stood up to the mighty Saruman?

And the little hobbit had arranged his clothes; had searched for a more comfortable – and better hidden – crotch, mentally preparing himself for a long, long waiting time.

Occasionally he had taken the elf's ring out of his pocket, to closely examine him; only to carefully put it back an instant later. He had to admit it to himself: The ring was somewhat eerie to him, really eerie, and he felt it would be best to keep it safe for the time being. Yes, he would wait until Legolas Greenleaf would return, with the help he'd promised he would summon, and until then the ring would be safe with him.

Like the time confidence flew Sam's heart. When dusk came creeping in, it's cold, clammy fingers seizing the young hobbit, the forest surrounding him again changing it's face, turning into a dark and threatening place, Sam crouched himself more and more in his crotch. The excitement of the fight and their dramatic flight had long ago faded, the adrenalin was no longer running through his veins; and reality finally started catching up with him.

It was cold out here, if one sat there without moving, and his stomach told Sam with an occasional snarling that he had no food with him – a fact which unfortunately most likely would not change for a long time. The sounds of the night, so different from everything Sam had heard before, started to frighten the hobbit.

Had he ever witnessed a night as dark as this one before? And couldn't he hear, if he caught his breath, a silent creeping out of nowhere, over there, from under the trees? Did not the shadows around him summarise themselves to eerie figures; their menace growing in the same degree as did Sam's fear?

Sam was a very pragmatic hobbit  – on the one side.

On the other side he was full of mischief, as the old gaffer would put it when he alluded to Sam's passionate affectation for myths, stories, legends and the figures from which they told. Sam's fantasy, in this respect, was measureless, the worlds in his head and heart bigger than Middle-Earth itself; but still his hobbit-nature eventually came through, and then Sam's thoughts were filled with images of nice, comfortable hobbit-holes, food; Rosie, and gardens, in which he loved the trees most of all.

And this was good; or else Sam would hardly have survived the night in his uncomfortable crotch. The hobbit clearly lacked fantasy concerning the dark forces. He didn't know of the snares of evil and the thousands ways it found to enmesh others, to infatuate and finally destroy them. Fortunately he did not, for otherwise he would have started to ask himself where the black creatures pursuing them had gone – and if they weren't able, in one way or another, to find their traces.

Whether Legolas would reach Rivendell or not – he didn't waste one single thought on it. His confidence in the elf – in all elves – was blind and overwhelming.

So he sat in his crotch and wishfully thought of merrily burning fires, and cooked sausages and large quantities of beer, occasionally shuddering from the cold or wincing, when he thought he'd heard something.

Sam didn't belong here, in this situation where his brave heart had brought him, for his mind still was that of a child, he himself a lamb among wolves, but this would change soon enough.

The very moment Sam had prevented Saruman's attack on the elf prince, a stone had been loosened which would cause an avalanche; an avalanche of events which would forge the still coarse steel, deeply hidden in Sam's being and even unbeknown to himself, to a sword which would not have to fear any danger, and challenge.

Yes, many would consider Sam as easy prey in this world full of predators, but they were wrong, for Sam possessed the qualities of all true heroes: To accept everything life might dealt, patiently, bending, but never breaking, to then, in time, with the anger of the good against evil, strike back; without hate, without bitterness, but with the warm confidence that everything you did made this world a better place.

II.

The predators came close  that night. A pack of plundering orcs, striding through Rivendell's forests in greater numbers than ever before, had started hunting. What they actually hunted they didn't know, for they still were provided with sufficient food. But their temporary leader Saruman, whom they obeyed in expectation of rich prey, had commanded them to remain hidden, and this disturbed their black hearts. Oh, how the wizard had incited them with his words, of how he would feed them elf flesh, and provide them with objects for sports, as many as their hearts desired, but their anticipation, their greed to kill had been dampened little by little, when he had ordered them to gather themselves near Rivendell, but nothing more, and this for three endless days in a row now. Their hate of the elves made the waiting intolerable. Incapable to occupy themselves with something else than hunting, feeding, fighting and killing the orcs became unsettled, and some of them started loaming the woods. Saruman hadn't informed them of his plans, and in their narrowness they didn't realise they better should have gone unnoticed.

Perhaps they simply were all too aware of their strength, and thus  didn't fear a discovery, as little as they knew to fear Saruman.

Sam, fortunately, knew nothing of the danger he was in. In spite of his fears and the cold he had fallen into a heavy, haunted sleep, from which no roaming orc could have awoken him.

III.

Sweat was trickling over his brow, and burning in his eyes; and for a moment Aragorn reigned his horse to wipe his forehead with the back of his  hand, blinking; until his vision was not blurred anymore.

Arwen had directed her horse at his side. „Slowly, my love." She said in elvish, for she had seen the exhaustion around his eyes.

Aragorn shrugged his shoulders as an answer and sighed. He knew what he looked like – hairs dishevelled, sweaty from the swift ride, his eyes reddish from the efforts of reading Legolas' traces – and Arwen beside him still looked like the fresh morning.

The ride had lent her cheeks a delicate red, and a maple leaf had gotten stuck in her hair. She was beautiful like the first flowers in spring, and Aragorn realised another time, with almost brutal clarity, that he loved her with painful intensity – and still exposed her, at this very moment, to unnecessary dangers.

„What are you really searching, Aragorn?" Arwen continued. „The plants you need to heal Elwyne, or the old traces of your unfortunate friend?"

Aragorn sighed again. „You knew all the time that I was following Legolas' trail?"

She allowed herself a small smile, and her voice was full of tenderness when she said: "I know this look on your face. It's the one of a hound over a scent." Then she became more serious, repeated her question: "What are you hoping to find here?"

Aragorn turned himself so he could see her face. "I've racked my brain over Legolas' trail." he admitted. „After Elrond has told me about his pursuit through the wood and the Rivendell elves. They have followed his trail from the place where the killing took place to the north, and the imprints of his horse in the soft forest floor were easily enough to be found. But then they came to a point where another trail was crossing the one of the mounted Legolas, and it was the one of someone walking. Walking fast. And occasionally also orc's traces could be found...

The second trail, leading to the south, was fresher, and Elrond instinctively decided that it was more promising than the older one. Well, his success proved him right, and the elven king has haunted down his game, down at the river."

Arwen nodded. She knew the story, but she didn't want to interrupt him.

"I'm still puzzling over the fact that Legolas first rode to the north, to then leave his horse behind, in the wild, to fight back his way to Rivendell, walking. It's just not making sense! I thought, if we follow his old track, we might come across something that explains Legolas' strange behaviour. I mean, otherwise than Saruman does it… "

"Oh Aragorn." Arwen thought, but she didn't voice it. "Your loyalty will once break your heart. And you still haven't answered my question. I fear you can't."

Aloud she said, while urging on her horse: "Maybe we'll find the poisonous lady on the way."

They didn't found anything. They were found instead.

IV.

At the first signs of dawn Sam awoke from his troubled sleep, in which he had fallen despite of all his fears, and he cursed his aching back; for hobbits were not made to sleep on trees, after all. He yawned, blinked into the red sky, and found to his own surprise – and no small satisfaction – that the fears of the previous night had evaporated. 

Hobbits were not that different from men in this aspect - surveyed in the light of the day, their sorrows always were of minor importance than they had been, in the night, in the hour of the wolves.

If there had been something in Sam's stomach additionally, he would have felt almost cheerful.

But there wasn't; and so he sat, not scared, but increasingly hungry, in his crotch, fingered the ring in his pocket occasionally, and waited.

Although he usually was a patient hobbit, he soon was fed up to the teeth with his forced idleness, and still the nightmarish events of the night, although he quite successfully had managed to dismiss them, were still lurking in his subconscious mind...

So the hours of the early day were passing by, then the morning, the afternoon, and when the shadows already started to get longer, he could not stand it any longer on his safe tree. He'd done everything to disperse himself: Recited every poem he once had learned, pictured Rosies face in his mind, in detail, yes, he even had started to write a poem himself, in which he sang about his adventures. It was more the adventures of an elf, though, for Sam was much too modest to ascribe himself too big a role in a song, but still he was very content with his work.

But now thoughts of food began to sneak themselves into his head, in increasingly numbers, and after he had pictured out, in vivid colours, what he would polish off first after his recovery (which he took for granted in full daylight) and only songs of food had been emerging in his memory, he was finally done for.

He climbed down his tree, inspired from one thought only: To find something edible. In the beginning he was quite successful, and found some nuts that had been left from the last year, and some wood-garlic; and other herbs, that seemed rather eatable in his hunger.

But also to a hungry hobbit the forest around him had something conspicuous to it, and Sam noticed it quite at the beginning of his little excursion, although he didn´t want to acknowledge it: Something was wrong here.

It was noticeable if one was listening. Except the humming of thousands of insects, and the whispering of the leaves, and the padding of Sam´s feet on the forest floor, nothing could be heard. Not a single sound. It was as if the wood was sleeping, as if there was no life in him bigger than a butterfly.

Yes, one could not even here the whistled melody of one single bird, where normally at least a chaffinch warbled his monotonous song every fifth meter.

Sam stopped, lost in thoughts, and looked around with renewed mistrust. Did the forest really sleep, or had it been deserted because every life had fled him? His safe tree, the place at which the elf had promised to meet him again, had vanished from sight long ago…

Sam´s feet started to move on their own accord, when the fears of the night welled up in his heart again, but before he could think of returning to his shelter tree, he heard the breaking of a twig. Instantly Sam was paralysed with fear.

And if as to prove that the noise didn´t have it´s roots in the hobbit´s overwrought nerves, it was repeated, followed by a scaring grunting. The hairs at Sam´s neck raised. He knew what this meant. His pursuers of the previous night had – almost – caught up with him.

V.

It was a simple branch which snapped under the food of an orc too eager for blood, but still indefinitely more, for the noise of it´s breaking was heard by a ranger.

Aragorn turned his head, abruptly, all his senses alert, an almost scenting look on his face, and he saw the orcs the same moment they discovered their intended victims. Five, no, seven, eight of these ugly, horrible creatures stood, weapons at hand, eyes glistening in sheer bloodlust, only  a few meters away from him.

One of them hissed something in his evil language, which did not only hurt elvish ears. Then he howled, a triumphant sound, which sent a shiver down Aragorn´s spine, despite his iron nerves. He didn´t need to look at Arwen – the silent, metallic sound which rang out when she drew her sword said all that was needed to be said.

Instead his gaze was attracted almost magically from one of the orcs. The one which had calmly started to bend his crossbow. And he instinctively knew: Should he not be able to kill this dreadful warrior before he had his damned, far reaching weapon ready, either he or Arwen would be doomed to die with certainty.

Aragorn was an experienced warrior. He knew about the strange mixture of anxiety and aggression which awoke in a soldier immediately before a battle, and he knew that a good warrior – a warrior which did survive – forcefully had to bane every thought of physical injury and death, to avoid a trembling of hands, or a deadly panic.

Aragorn, as a born warrior, had never found this difficult, until today; for he had to admit to himself that not the usual anticipation of the fight filled his heart, but something else instead.

He pricked his horse, with his teeth clenched, and while he overrode the first orc and pierced the throat of another one with his sword, his eyes glued on the orcs with the crossbow all the while, there was this dull apprehension of defeat, of bitter loss in his chest, which he just couldn´t displace.

Then the orc with the crossbow had his weapon ready, as he had anticipated it, before he even had had the slightest chance to reach the ugly creature. Like in close up the ranger saw the iron tip of the arrow, pointed right at his chest, without swaying, and the bitter taste of defeat was now in his mouth as well, as if he already knew that this encounter, useless as it was, would not only claim his, but also the life of the most precious he owned in this world; and that there would be no this cruel faith, neither with his life nor his dying.

The lids of the orc fluttered. Now, now he would release the arrow which would pull Aragorn down from his horse, tearing his chest, killing him…

The arrow indeed was released, the chord of the crossbow sang, but instead of imbedding itself in Aragorn´s chest it hit the chest of the ranger´s horse, at the left side, thus wounding it gravely,, but not deadly yet.

Already for the second time in just two days Sam, a little, harm- and guileless hobbit, had played a crucial role in a fight that would become the fight for Rivendell in the end, equipped with nothing but a brave heart and a stone, which he´d catapulted, blindly and without aiming, in the direction of the orc which stood within his reach. The orc with the crossbow.

The stone itself fell without effect, two, three meters away from it´s aim, but the noise of it´s fall was enough to critically divert the orc, making him miss his aim.

It was the last miss of his life. Although Aragorn´s horse, almost paralysed, it´s left lung fast filling up with blood, collapsed with a painful snore, the ranger had won enough time to slide from the back of the wounded animal; and to attack his enemy, sword arisen. He met few, and belated, resistance, and it took him only a few strikes with his sword until the orc stertorously lay at his feet. Life had not even deserted the fallen enemy when Aragorn, breathing heavily, the excitement of the fight still burning  in his veins, searchingly looked around for Arwen. Arwen. Everything else was meaningless to him…

VI.

Oh, how they had underestimated their assumedly easy prey, a human, an elf – and a female elf, that is – against eight orcs! Their lust for blood had, like their anticipation, clouded their senses, so they had been not anxious enough to slay their victims in an ambush, as they usually did, thus avoiding any significant resistance. They had attacked openly,almost careless, their faces distorted to grinning grimaces. They didn´t get a chance to learn from their mistakes.

Two of them fell through Arwen´s sword even before they had raised their weapons properly, and the others shrank back from the elf´s horse that was acting like mad.

The animal, elvish trained, hated the orcs with vehemence, and their presence was enough to push it to a bellicosity that exceeded even the one of the orcs themselves.

Eyes rolling wildly, prick-eared it reared up, kicked, pranced and neighed sharply – even Arwen, an exceptionally gifted horsewoman, was forced to mobilise all her horsemanship to remain on the back of her animal, and it was impossible for her – at least for the moment - to still use her deadly sword.

It was not necessary, though. The horse did the killing for her. One of the orcs died with a shattered skull, another fell with a shrill cry of pain and a broken thigh to the floor, where he, half hobbling, half creeping, tried to creep out of the reach of the horse´s flying hooves. His jagged sword lay forgotten beside him – at least for the moment – until Arwen´s horse staggered to the left, exactly into the direction

of the wounded orc. And this one – although almost mad from pain – knew to take a chance when he saw one. With a hateful noise he gripped the hilt of his sword and hacked against the exposed stomach of the raging animal. The cry of pain of the badly wounded horse mingled with Arwen´s cry of rage; when the horse slowly, like in slow-motion, fell to it´s knees, then, with a soft snort, to his side, thus burying both the orc and his sword.

Arwen skilfully skidded from the horse´s back, face distorted in pain over it´s loss, an expression which immediately was replaced by fiery anger, when she was confronted with still another orc.

She griped the hilt of her blade more tightly and hissed something in elvish. Hate was flashing from her eyes. As gently Arwen usually was, she still was of elvish blood; which meant that she´d been brought up with the hate of orcs, as well as she was capable of killing fast, skilful, and merciless if necessary.

Even the orc, with his constricted intellect, seemed to be aware of her cold hate, for he hesitated a split second before attacking her with his dagger; as if he knew already that this attack would claim his life. And he was right. He even managed to tear Arwen´s clothes at the height of her hips, with an uncontrolled strike, something she acknowledged with another angry hiss, but then he also fell, like his companions, pierced by an elvish sword.

Arwen took a deep breath, placidly pulling her sword out of the orc´s body. Then she gave a quick, anxious look into Aragorn´s direction. She allowed herself a relieved, shining smile when she saw how her lover just slew their last enemy; and she went to  bend herself over the little creature she´d spotted behind the ranger.

It looked up to her, eyes wide open, his face marked with astonishment and admiration. She smiled again.

VII.

She knelt beside a small creature which had been introduced to Aragorn as a hobbit, and Aragorn had reached her in less than a second, gripping her shoulder almost roughly in his concern. "Are you hurt?" His voice was hoarse, all anxiety of the world resounding in it, and she covered his hand with her own, squeezed it and smiled at him tenderly. "I´m not hurt." She answered in elvish. "And the little hobbit isn´t, neither."

Aragorn again squeezed her shoulder, almost boyishly in his relief, and sheathed his bloodied sword; before he finally directed his gaze on the hobbit standing in front of him, pale, dirty, exhausted, but still with his jaws firmly set, returning his questioning look.

"Did Legolas send you?" Sam asked, eagerly. Relief was written all over his round face. "Where is he, then? It was fortunate you arrived this very moment, or…" he didn´t finish his sentence, nor the thought, and shuddered. Arwen moved a little closer to him, thus blocking his sight on the orcs´ bodies.

 "Luck was also on our side." Aragorn dryly replied, and the hobbit knew exactly what he meant, for he averted his eyes and blushed. Then looked up again, searching Aragorn´s face, and he repeated his previous question, in his high, clear voice: "But where is Legolas? Are we going back to Rivendell now?"

Arwen and Aragorn exchanged a short glance. Then Aragorn stepped back, while Arwen, her voice almost singing, asked: "Why did you expect Legolas to meet you here? How did you come here, anyway?"

Her sympathy seemed to open Sam´s floodgates, for now the little hobbit started to give an account of his adventures, sputtering, gushing forth one event after another, but as the faces of his listeners became increasingly dark he knew that his story did make some sense to them, and that they did believe him.

 "He said he would come back to get me." He finally said and looked down on his toes. "And now you´re here."

Arwen instinctively reached for Aragorn´s hand, and the ranger, cold to the heart, searched her face. His dismay was mirrored in her eyes. "We must go back." she finally said, in a small voice, her left hand gripping her throat, as if something suddenly threatened to choke her, as if it was difficult for her to breathe. "May the graces of the valar protect my father and his house until we´re back."

VIII.

There it was again, this bitterness, the paralysing presentiment that they would be too late, despite of all their efforts, and Aragorn felt like crying out in frustration and desperation that they didn´t get ahead faster. Only the presence of Arwen and the hobbit held him from doing so. It would not help them to advance faster, after anyway.

No, nothing in this world could change the fact that they were still very, very far from Rivendell, and that the horse he led by it´s reigns, foundered heavily. They had sat the hobbit on the horse which had carried Legolas and Sam during their flight from Saruman, but the poor beast was in a bad shape still; and it would not last much longer, that much was clearly visible, and it would soon force them to slow down their pace even more, or the hobbit would not be able to keep up with them.

 "And even if you WERE faster…" the bitterness, poisoning his thoughts, jeered. "Saruman has probably already prepared his next move. Maybe it´s long too late to stop him… Maybe…"

He sighed and stole a glance at Arwen, running at his side. She didn´t notice. Her eyes were directed straight ahead, her face almost translucent pale, and her detached hair framed it like dark snakes. Her mouth was opened, and from time to time she breathed out with a small sob, a sound which constricted Aragorn´s heart with pity. The fear for her father – and her people - must lacerate her heart…

Oh, how he longed to take her into his arms, to cradle her like a frightened child, to murmur soothing words into her head of hairs, although she, every inch a proud elf, wouldn´t allow this for long. And they were running out of time…

Aragorn ran, while his pulse was hammering in his ears; and he gave a quick glance back to ensure that the hobbit still sat where he ought to be.

The little fellow got pretty shaken, but he held himself bravely; and Aragorn´s respect for the halfling´s tenacity grew.

On Sam´s face there was an odd mixture of sheer determination and the strange self absorbed expression of a dreamer which didn´t know what was happening to him, or whether he was still sleeping or wide awake.

Aragorn spat out grimly. He almost believed himself in a dream, too, a bad one, in one of these nightly afflictions in whom one ran and ran, to no use, only to be hunted down by some lurking evil in the end.

He cursed silently when a groping twig of a barberry tore the skin of his right cheek, thus bringing him back to reality rather ruggedly.

But their situation was real, only too real, and now he, Aragorn, had just one duty in this world: To bring back Arwen and the hobbit back to the –relative- safety of Rivendell; and to warn Elrond.

And although he didn´t know it, his thoughts still mirrored those of his friend Legolas, from the previous day, and in his heart there was the same wild mixture of conflicting feelings, fear and despair, but also hope and determination; the determination to give his best, no matter what would happen. Legolas´ mantra became his just as it died away in the elven prince´s heart.. "You have to warn Elrond…"

IX.

The darkness finally claimed him, after it had slowly suffocated every flicker of vitality that had been left in him. He still had fought it, in desperate, even heroic efforts, by using his hatred of Saruman – and the thought of his duty against Elrond – to rouse his fading strength once more.

"You have to warn Elrond". Yes, it still controlled his thinking, his  old mantra from his desperate flight to the northern woods of Rivendell; and it had enabled him to grope his way to the door of his prison in the dark; to pound against it until his fists hurt; and until he again felt the nauseous sweet taste of his own blood in his mouth.

Then desperation had seized him again; and he lost all hopes that someone would come finally; if only to order quiet. He lowered himself to the floor where he stood, now there was no bright spot in the cell which offered at least some small comfort, and he embraced himself, as if he would be able to warm, or to comfort, himself this way. As if there had been anything which could have warmed, or comforted him...

At first occasional shudders had seized his body; and he´d trembled uncontrollably, but when the cold overwhelmed him in the end, his muscles all went rigid; and he sat motionless, his gaze unfocussed; the eyes shining with fever.

"You have to warn Elrond... Elrond..." His mantra´s almost magical significance was increasingly lost to him. A small part of Legolas' rational mind knew this and still fought the crushing hopelessness which threatened to overwhelm him.

But there was another voice, full of evil triumph and malice, another mantra. It became louder and louder and finally drowned out everything else: "You've lost, elf. You've lost."

Legolas hadn´t wanted to sink into feverish dreams; dreams of fire and snakes; evil old eyes and orcs; dreams whom's horror sprang in their reality; he hadn't wanted that his mind was no longer able to distinguish between waking and dreaming; and surely he hadn't  planned to remain silent, when the door to his cell finally swung open, but he just felt too apathetically to fight it.

He didn't even know if he really wanted to drink the water someone held to his lips surprisingly gentle, while almost carefully supporting him. Water only would prolong his agony...

Then he felt the taste of clean, cool water on his lips; his nostrils widened with the memory. He drank. Thirstily. The water had the taste of freedom.

To be continued…

Author´s note: No, I surely won´t beg for any reviews…I have my principles after all…it´s a matter of pride, you know… and I surely won´t blackmail my dear and precious readers to write some comments or I won´t finish this little story… No I would never do that ….

Oh confound it, forget everything I wrote thus far… I would sell my grandmother to get any reviews… so pleaaaase review!!! One or two words only… I implore you…

To Anon: Don´t be afraid, I won´t stop writing soon. After all, I´m wondering myself how the story will end…

To Hypy: Here you go with another chapter…

To Salak: Of course every author is happy if he gets a lot of reviews (and I´m making no difference! When I have posted a new chapter, I check every five minutes if a new one has popped up!) But as long as I get some NICE rewievs – like yours – I will continue writing.

To blue4dogs: You´ve made me one of the most charming compliments I´ve ever heard!!! For I write my stories to bring ME into another world, and I´m very content to hear that it works for other people, too.

To SpaceVixenX: Adding to my favourites… these magical words did really encourage me to continue my little story faster. I think it took me "only" three weeks to update… that´s a new record!

To Leg-less Harry: No I wouldn´t dare to do that. I wait until I have written a real cliffhanger, like in this chapter, for example (evil grin all over my face!!!)…