Hello, all! Firstly, many gracious thanks to my glorious reviewers! I thank you for reading and reviewing – it is you lot that provoke me to write *I've just come off of CoE having found four new reviews, with many a call for chapter fourteen, so here I am writing it for you!

Secondly, I'm glad that what Gríma did got you all so riled – I felt a bit iffy about that part, but it seems to have been well received, so – yeah - great!

OK, I'd just like to say that I've been a little naughty: there's a double time-scheme going on in here. I'm really sorry, but without it the story would not have worked, thus the whole playing with time thingy… My main excuse is that if Shakespeare could do it, then so can I *thinks of Othello and sighs as she remembers the joy of that particular play.*

To all who have begged me – nay, threatened me – to not kill Legolas, I give an evil grin: we shall see exactly how far this goes. He he he. *Does a little dance on high from Cadbury's chocolate with crunchie bits in it – favourite chocolate, I can't help it!* SUGAR RUSH!!

Anyway, onwards with the story! I'll not do a chapter summary, there's no point… here we go!

Chapter Fourteen – The Calm…

Hooves pounded at the earth, sending tufts of grass flailing into the air. Eight horses, all in all, with ten riders. The sun was setting, throwing the ominous shadows of the Misty Mountains out over the plains, the grass ablaze with the glory of the fired sky.

***

His feet sounded dully on the stone of the floor as he made his way to the heavy oak door, grating slightly in the wet dirt. He was alone, this time – really, no one was actually aware that he was down here at all: he had not consulted Saruman about it, nor any of his small Rohirric faction. Completely alone.

The key turned in the heavy lock stridently, echoing through the narrow corridor in an omnipotent manner, a din of a noise that resounded in his ears several times before he was done, finally pushing the weighty wood out of his way, watching the slither of torch-light widen on the floor of the dungeon, a stream of light fast becoming a river of orange glow.

The cold hit him in the face as he stepped in; but it was not just the degree of temperature… There was something missing from in here, something that had always been present when he had come down on numerous occasions to try and rile the Elf. What ever it was – or had been – it was gone, and he felt the loss of it deeply.

His pale eyes found the body of the Elf as the light lapped over the still form. Legolas was lying down now, no longer sitting, his shackled arm restrained high above his head. As Gríma approached the being, he was struck by the lack of response that he would normally have been greeted with – some resentful, derogative comment, formed within the space of a second. But there was no such reaction, and he thought instantly that he was sharing this room with a corpse. He advanced right over, looking down upon Orthanc's most important captive, and noted, after a time of observing, that the chest rose and fell. It was a shallow movement, a barely adequate breath to sustain a cat, never mind something so large as an Elf.

Gríma looked at the face of the other, hoping to see some kind of reaction. But there was nothing. The eyes were open. There were no tears in them any more; it was almost as though he had passed beyond grief, and so they were now unseeing, with deep, unfathomable pain clearly in them, and yet not so: it was as if they were dead. The blue orbs no longer glimmered in the flickering glow of the torch – which was now lying on the floor – but remained dull, lifeless. It was as if the Elf had lost total interest in the world about him, preferring the solitude of his mind to the company of reality.

He placed the jug he had had tucked under his arm in front of the Elf, along with the plate of dried fruit and salted meat. He admitted to himself that the trick he had played two days ago had been particularly nasty, getting that Orc he had come across to go down that tunnel and butcher a corpse for the purpose of disgusting the Elf so much. What had it achieved, in the long run? Actually, what had any of this achieved at all? Just another war for Saruman to play in, all for the sake of taking a piece of land that he was never going to get anyway.

"It has finally happened," he thought to himself. "Saruman has lost his mind to madness – how could he expect to take the Woodland Realm with no army?"

Yes, the letter that Saruman had composed could have taken down the King, but Gríma thought it more likely that it would only serve to stir the wrath of the Elves, more than anything else. And even if the King had died, there was always a lord to step in – it was the same with any other country. Whether or not the letter would have an effect like his own forgery was having on this Elf was something he was bound to never find out. He knew that father and son were extremely close, but exactly how far their attachment would take them he knew not.

Saruman had told him about elven grief, and it was something that had fascinated him to no end when he had been told of it: how was it that a broken heart could slay a being of such strength? But now he saw it first-hand, he was not so sure that he liked the idea. Not at all.

He extended his hands out to the shackle, and turned the key to it in the small lock in order to release the chain, just to give out more slack. He had to take the wrist of the other in his hand to steady it while he carried this task through, and it shocked him considerably when he found the flesh to be icy cold. This was one of the things Saruman had told him of, this cold. Elves did not feel the cold, and thus were never actually cold – unless they fell into a frozen lake or something of the sort, thus making bodily temperature-drop an inevitability. No, this was a sign: the sign that the Elf was dying, descending into the depths of extreme grief, the soul slowly drowning.

The chain released, the weight of the arm dragging it down as it fell heavily to the side of the still body. The Elf had not even restrained the speed of the drop of his limb, allowing it to make a sharp impact with the floor without batting an eyelid.

Gríma stared for a time at the Elf, and there was still no movement, no sign of life besides the fact that shallow breaths continued to be taken in every now-and-again. He headed off towards the door, leaving the torch – but he stopped, just before the threshold, glancing back at the ageless face. Finally, the Elf gave a sign of life, lifting his blue eyes up to Gríma's own. The glance held no interest in it what-so-ever; all Gríma could see was an unbearably intense misery, before the previously brilliant blue eyes lowered slowly down again.

He left.

***

Thranduil rode at the head of the column, his captains at his side, with, of course, Daerahil. Their grey steeds, so white they shamed fresh snow, galloped with all speed, their endurance far greater than any horse reared by Men, and the Elves were well aware of this. Combined with the last factor and the fact that the horses' riders were of such a light weight, the animals ran with the swiftness of a rather huge free herd.

Three-hundred men, all fully armed and ready for battle, prepared for Death to take them if that was what was required to save their prince. Thranduil knew this perfectly well as they took the roads south, having parted with the dark eaves of Mirkwood two and a half days ago – they had wasted no time, the King not willing to allow the demise of his son thanks to the fact that they did not hold a swift speed on the long journey.

The Great River Anduin had presented a brief problem for them when it came to crossing it: if they had gone on foot, the matter could have been simply solved by shooting an arrow with rope tied onto it into a tree and then tying the other end, providing them with a walkway that only one of the Eldar could step. However, that was not an option that their current situation held open, and so it was necessary to find a shallow and calm enough stretch of river to swim the beasts across. This they had eventually found, having to ride steadily down a steep ravine to get to the water itself, and then riding out into the cold depths after a scout had declared it safe.

Now they were cutting through roving, immense plains of grass, spanning for almost as far as the eye could see. But, to the west across the land of Rohan that they now traversed, lay Fangorn and the end of the Misty Mountains, their destination, and, ultimately, where Legolas was.

"By the Valar, I pray that we get there in time," Thranduil thought, once again rousing the horrible dread that had niggled at him for so long, temporarily put to sleep by the requirement to focus his energies on carrying the journey through rapidly and efficiently.

'He will be fine, mellon nin.'

Thranduil started at Daerahil's words, drawn out of his reverie by their statement. Had it been that obvious what he was thinking?

'I hope you are right,' the King sighed.

'Of course I am right: Legolas is far too stubborn not to be – something he gets from you, may I add.'

Thranduil gave a brief smile at his life-long friend, who returned it, confidence gleaming in his bright green eyes.

Daerahil's attention was drawn away suddenly, his eyes to the east. Thranduil saw it too, a sight that made his breath catch.

'Isn't it beautiful?' asked the Lord.

'That it is, my friend. It has been at least half a millennium since I last saw a sight like that.'

Wild horses, free spirits of Rohan, galloping through the lands, owned by no man and not permitting themselves to be. A herd of magnificent animals, all different coat colours, parting the land that they in truth owned, not the King of Rohan. A large black stallion headed them, mane flowing regally, tail held almost as high as his proud head, socks of white showing themselves one occasion when the horse stopped ahead of his charges, rearing and prancing in the sun.

'Rohan knows not how lucky she is,' stated Daerahil, his voice filled with awe at the display set before his bright eyes.

Thranduil diverted his gaze back to their destination, a black spike against the greys and whites of the mountains: Orthanc, and, more importantly, Legolas. He spurred his own horse to even greater speed, feeling the animal respond beneath him with magnificent power blooming from the muscles as though his horse was actually trying to match the black stallion in his masters' eyes. Thranduil gave a few murmured words of praise as they charged on, some fifteen leagues still to traverse before this was over.

***

His black eyes were fixed on Gríma as he entered the study, having passed Saruman a dark look before reaching for a bottle of wine that sat on a side table. It was one of the few left, though Saruman refused to drink it, saying that it was 'eastern tripe'. Gríma had pointed out dryly that it was fermented grape juice, not sheep stomach lining, to which the wizard had responded by shattering his goblet with a quick swipe of his staff. Because of this, Gríma was now forced to swig from the bottle.

'I know where you have been,' the wizard stated in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Gríma ignored him, taking a couple of gulps.

'There is no point, you know,' he continued. 'The Elf will die.'

'It was the wrong thing to do.'

'But you did it all the same, didn't you?' the wizard hissed as he rose from his chair. 'You knew what would happen, because I told you. I trust that he took all to heart that was in the letter?'

Once again, Gríma failed to answer, yet Saruman was able to read the silence as a 'yes', and gave a malicious chuckle.

'Good. It will be interesting to see how Daddy reacts to his little boy's doom.'

"'Daddy' will not be very happy," Gríma reasoned in his mind. "In fact, I would not be surprised if he was rather upset." That was an understatement, and he knew it was, but it did not make him care.

"Daddy" was leading his men through a peculiar wooded area, which spanned about three miles around the outer walls of Isengard.

They had come to a halt outside the gateway into the circle of rock, the only entrance into Isengard that they knew of, and Aragorn watched it with a sceptical eye. They had formed no plan, had no means of entry, and no men. "Right now," he thought, "would be a very good time for a captain to ride past with a willing, no-questions-asked squad."

'What are you thinking, Strider?'

Merry's quiet question brought him out of his pointless fantasies with a start, and he looked down to see the face of the other looking right back, eyes deep and serious.

'That we are set to have a very interesting time before us, my friend.'

Merry nodded to this, turning his gaze around to eye the gate suspiciously.

'This is the only means of entry there is,' he commented. 'Believe me, I know. The Ents broke parts of the wall down, but not enough to be able to get a horse through – there's no point in trying to remain inconspicuous, because Saruman has windows all round the tower, so he'd see. He could just – I don't know – blast us with his staff, or something. He'd be able to pick us off, one by one, like we were rats in a barrel-'

'-You certainly live up to your name, don't you?'

Merry shrugged his shoulders at the Rangers' wry comment. 'I try my best.'

A loud noise echoed through the still air, proud and shrill, regal and oddly stirring. It was a solid three weeks since Aragorn had heard a sound like that, and it caused him to sit up in the saddle. It was answered by more, the harsh cries of birds. To his even greater surprise, it was responded to by a deeper, fuller, much louder cry, and he turned to see Éomer with a horn to his lips in answer to the horns that Aragorn knew belonged to Elves.

The man laughed grimly at Aragorn's amazed stare as he set the horn back down to his side.

'We are in need of allies,' he shrugged.

"Indeed we are," Aragorn thought.

'I don't understand,' muttered Merry. 'Whose horns are they?'

'They are those of the Elven King of Mirkwood,' Gandalf informed him.

'The one that Bilbo used to tell us of in his stories? That Elven King?'

'The very same,' smiled Aragorn. 'And he will not be very happy when he arrives.'

Thranduil had been shocked to say the least when someone not of his own kindred had responded to his horn. It was a horn of Rohan; he knew that from five centuries ago when the sound had last reached his ears. And it had come from not a mile before them, which was something that puzzled him considerably. How many were there? Would they hinder him? Why had they responded to his horn? Actually, why were they there in the first place? He hardly thought that they were there for the fun of it. Still, they were due to find out in less than ten minutes, that he was sure of.

Daerahil was having the same premonitions himself, watching the path that they were treading, carefully guiding his horse over roots and rocks that jutted out in their way as though he trees really did not wish for them to pass without breaking a few limbs first.

'I would dearly love to know who sounded that horn,' he passed to his King. 'And I would more than love to be out of this forest.' That, he knew, was the first time he had ever said anything like that about a forest before. He loved trees and, ultimately, forests – but this one gave him an odd feeling, and he was not quite so struck on it. It was as though a heavy air of malice hung about the place, dominating both himself and his animal, who shifted nervously under him, though he soothed his mare as much as he was able. The fact that she was not responding to the reassurance of an Elf was certainly something that Daerahil took note of.

'We are set to find out.'

Horses were visible before them now, eight in total, all of different hues, all with an interesting variety of riders. Actually, Thranduil was able to see all of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth barring his own in front of him.

One of the Men jumped from his mounts' back, bowing to him in an Elven fashion as the King halted his horse, dismounting himself.

'Mae govennen, Thranduil.'

Thranduil returned the bow and gesture.

'It is long since our paths have crossed, my Lord Aragorn, yet I believe that we are both here of common purpose.'

'That we are, my Liege, though I know not how it fares in the Tower.'

'Yes, that is a piece of information that I am somewhat keen to hear,' replied the King. He turned to Éomer, recognising the garb of the other as being grander than that of the others dressed akin to him as being a Third Marshal – nay, the Third Marshal. It stunned him that he remembered this from so long.

'It was your horn that answered mine, was it not?'

Éomer came to the ground, bowing low to the Elf, startled by how very different and at the same time how very much the same the King was to his son.

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Yet you are not the King of Rohan – tell me, why has he not deemed it appropriate to accompany you on this quest to recover my son?'

Éomer blinked at the Elf once, taken aback by this quiet question. The voice had been polite enough, but there sounded a dangerous undertone, and he was intelligent enough to guess that relations between the two realms – though never strong at all – were under threat.

'He sent me in his stead,' the Man replied, not allowing his eyes to blink or falter as he looked the other in the face, knowing full well that the Elf would be able to detect the lie if he gave him even the slightest clue.

But Thranduil nodded, clearly convinced that Éomer was not being false of tongue.

'Very well,' he said evenly. 'I have three-hundred men accompanying me, and I think that it is high time that we used them.'

TRANSLATIONS

Mae govennen – Well met