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Chapter Two
The Beginning Of The End
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1
That night Aragorn had a nightmare. He awoke from it near tears and shaking like a leaf in a wild wind. He was watching Legolas in the dream, except Legolas wasn't quite Legolas, and for the most part he was standing away from the elf and viewing it all as a spectator.
Legolas was walking down a hallway. But it wasn't just any hallway in any given home but a very familiar hallway in Elrond's home in Rivendell. The elf's steady footsteps echoed loudly on the marble floor – the sound as though a heartbeat to Aragorn's ears. Aragorn didn't like the echoing footfalls, and not just because they gave the house a cold and dead and empty feeling. He didn't like the echoing footfalls because they echoed. Legolas normally moved noiselessly, or close to it, no matter what he was walking on, so the noise simply shouldn't be there.
And because it shouldn't be there, it was wrong.
And because it was wrong, Aragorn had a gnawing feeling that Legolas was wrong.
Or something was wrong with him.
Strange how the addition of something so minor as an echo could cause such strong feelings of dread in Aragorn, but it did. And he'd remember it long after he awoke and some of the dream had faded.
The elf stopped at a end of the long hallway and faced two closed doors – one to his right and one to his left. He looked thoughtfully from one door to the other as though deliberating which one he should enter. Finally he chose the door on the left and closed it behind him. After a time he re- emerged, entered the door on the right, and closed that one behind him.
Aragorn waited for a few moments then cracked the door on the right and peered inside. He was stunned to see himself dressed in his former dark ranger attire sharing a joke with the elf and both laughing easily as they'd always had. Everything was exactly as it should be; what it had been before and what he had hoped would be now. But it wasn't. Things change. He had changed. So had the elf. He found himself reminiscing about the past and smiling wistfully as he watched and listened to them, then felt the familiar deep pang of loss and regret tug at his heart. He missed his absent friend and their past easy interactions so much that he found his thoughts drifting more and more to him everyday. With a heavy sign he quietly closed the door.
He moved to the door on the left and stepped inside.
It didn't open into a room as he expected, but into a massive mine tunnel. A torch burned from an iron standard on the wall beside him. Holding it before him, he began to make his way down the tunnel; all the while anxiety flooding him and growing with every step. Now he stopped, hesitating, wanting to turn and leave, but found himself drawn forward toward a heavy door at it's end as though like a moth to a flame.
A boy Aragorn judged to be no more than fourteen suddenly appeared beside the door and motioned him forward. The youth's featured were quite striking the ranger realized as he drew closer. The handsome lad had long, thick hair that swirled about his face and shoulders as though stirred by a light breeze although there was no breeze here to stir it. His large, dark eyes held a soft, insistent plea.
"This way," the boy said in a quiet voice.
"Who are you?" Aragorn asked.
"The who is not as important as the why," the boy replied mildly. "I am your guide, King Elessar. This path is both treacherous and well guarded, but I have cleared it for you and it is safe enough now. Tread carefully, though. Things change quickly here."
"My dream guide is no more than a boy?"
The young one grinned. "Looks can be deceiving. You of all people should know that, Ranger-King."
True, Aragon thought, but he frowned all the same and asked, "Are you here to give council as well?"
The young one shook his head. "Not now. Only when the time is right. First you must see and believe what is happening around you, for without belief there would be no point in council."
"You speak in High Speech."
"I do." He dipped his head then looked up at Aragorn once more. "Once you enter this room, you will have set your feet upon a path of sorts." He grinned, though it was a sad grin. "This is my path as well. Your choices will affect many, as did the choice of Isildur those many years ago. Small choices that seem to affect only one, affect dozens, and in turn affect all. Do you understand?"
Silence. Then, "No."
The boy smiled. "You will."
"You talk in riddles, lad," Aragorn said, folding his arms across his chest and looking at him with unblinking concentration. "Is this some kind of a test?"
The boy shrugged. "My words are a test of riddles to ears who do not understand their meaning. I assure you that soon you will understand. But first you must see. Then you must believe. The rest you must figure out for yourself."
A long pause. Finally: "Then lead me."
The boy nodded solemnly. "So it begins. And the answers start beyond this door. Brace yourself. You will not like it."
The door swung wide before Aragorn's hand raised to touch it. He heard a soft moan coming from the darkness within. Almost paralysed by the mournful sound, at first he didn't want to move but knew he needed to move.
He glanced back – but the boy was gone. He had disappeared. Aragorn knew that past this doorway was the beginning of something, something huge, something that was his alone to know...and, as the boy had eluded to, something that would trickle down to effect everyone.
Then Aragorn was in the room.
He raised the torch to see – not wanting to see, but needing to see. The torchlight spilled onto a form lying on the floor; it's back against the far wall. He knew who it was and what he'd find before his eyes fully adjusted. Here was Legolas, curled in a tight fetal position, his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands tied behind his back. His head was down; long golden hair obscuring his face. Aragorn didn't want to see his face. He didn't need to. As he hadn't needed someone to tell him there was something wrong with the echoing footfalls, he didn't need to see Legolas' face to know the depth of pain that would be etched across it.
The elf's head began to rise.
/I don't want to see!/
Hair fell away revealing a battered face and glazed, pain-filled eyes.
Two, Legolas breathed, then his head dropped back to the floor.
Without thinking Aragorn leapt forward and grabbed his friend in his arms, wanting to get him out of here. The impulse was so strong it overrode everything, including the sure knowledge that it didn't matter, Legolas was moments away from death and already breathing his last, the best healers in Middle Earth could be standing in the same room and it wouldn't have mattered. Not to Legolas, anyway. Not anymore.
Aragorn slid his arms under Legolas' and locked his hands between his shoulder blades. When he lifted him, the elf's head lolled back. His eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, gaping mouth ajar, and his body gave a great shudder.
No! Legolas, NO! he cried.
With a final long rush of air, the elf fell
(dead)
limp in his arms.
Then the nightmare went south – a real hard turn south.
A torrent of blood poured from Legolas' open mouth. Skin turned dark and spongy. Brittle hair – lifeless as old dry straw – fell away in great clumps. The skin on his face began sloughing off, dripping like melted wax from some grotesque candle until spots of glistening bone shone through.
Aragorn recoiled backward in horror, overcome by a fit of violent, sort of visceral shaking inside that lasted almost a full minute. He was gripped in a panic so utter and complete that he was literally unable to function in any way. He was amazed that he was even able to breathe.
/It's as if time has sped up to claim him,/ he thought, horrified.
Before Legolas' body completely decomposed into a pool of waxy liquid, his head suddenly turned toward him. Sightless, bulging eyes locked onto his, cracked like thin ice on a lake, and shattered.
- help me – Legolas croaked. Aragorn, please –
Aragorn started to scream – in the dream and not real, thank the stars, or he would have awakened the whole palace.
Two, and yet one, the other Legolas said softly from somewhere behind him with a voice as cold as ice. One and the same. Two halves of a whole. Remember that.
2
Aragorn jerked bolt upright in bed, his face wet and his heart pounding furiously. Shaking from head to foot and glistening with sweat, he stared without thought into the darkness while he waited for the nightmare to let go.
/Oh Lords./
/Stop shaking. Calm down. Breathe... Breathe... /
/This will fade in the morning the way nightmares always fade,/ he assured himself as he ran his trembling hands through his hair.
But in the morning he still remembered the nightmare in all it's full, crisp detail – especially the echoing footfalls – and it didn't fade as days passed, the way nightmares usually do. This one stayed. Gripped him tight and covered him.
Covered him like a wet shroud.
3
Legolas' first thought upon awakening was that death wasn't quite as he had expected it would be. Then, as he came slowly back to himself, he recognized that he was alive. That wasn't quite as he had expected it would be either. He almost wished to try out the other choice before deciding between the two. Pain robbed him of being even remotely thankful of living; it felt as if every bone and muscle in his body had been torn out and put back wrong. The side of his head throbbed wickedly where he had been struck, and his shoulder burned as though it was on fire. He had no idea in this world why his shoulder burned, but he couldn't give it much thought right now – his head was pounding too badly to think.
He concentrated on forcing his eyes open. When he finally succeeded, he wasn't altogether sure he had.
/Either it's extremely dark in here, or my eyes aren't working...or won't,/ he thought. Then he had another thought – one much more frightening: /Or can't./
He heard footsteps. Close. He couldn't see anyone, but he could hear someone or something breathing. The sound seemed to drag on for hours, then was finally broken by a man's cold, even voice.
"Don't try to move. You can't. Just relax. You'll live longer that way."
Legolas slowly became aware that he was bound solid. He was lying on his side on a floor, his numb hands roped too tightly together behind his back and fastened to...something – something sturdy behind him. His ankles were bound together as well.
/It's a him,/ the elf thought. The voice was definitely a male, and no orc either. That answered one question. Now for the other thousand.
"You're here to learn, elf, and I'm your teacher," the cold voice said as though reading his thoughts. "Learn well and we'll get along just fine. Refuse, and ... well, let's just say I won't have any need of you."
Slowly, slowly, a shape – darker than the darkness – moved into the corner of his vision. He felt two instant emotions, one almost on top of the other: first – shock, and then fury. Shock evaporated almost as quickly as it came. Fury stayed. Burned.
"Who are you?" Legolas strained to focus his eyes but his thundering head stole his concentration. "What do you want?" His mind raced over the possibilities, but he refused to put words to visions. He heard the man breathe out slowly. It was a terrible sound.
"That's my business, not yours," the other said mildly. There was a long silence, and then the sound of another deep breath out. "I'm just here to teach, and you're here to learn."
/Learn? Learn what?/ But Legolas didn't ask questions. He felt for an instant as if his heart had stopped. Learn. He had heard that particular word more than once in his lifetime, and it never meant anything pleasant. Rage and confusion were wiped from his mind immediately. He stared, and as he did, he saw the dark form move closer and dropped down to a crouch far in front of him. He seemed to be considering him. Studying him. After what seemed like an age, the form rose and moved back into the darkness.
"You know, there are worse thing than death, Legolas Greenleaf. Much worse."
That caught the elf off guard. He stiffened at the mention of his name, and for a moment it felt as though he'd been punched. /How does he know my name?/ he wondered uneasy.
A small light – a candle – sputtered, then caught, illuminating the man's form. He turned and smiled – not really a smile at all but more like an icy grin. "Better?"
He was nothing like Legolas had expected, and everything, at the same time. Tall, well built, dark hair and grey eyes; well dressed in a white muslin shirt, dark tunic, and dark breaches. He brushed back a stubborn lock of dark curl which fell across his forehead. Legolas was sure of one thing: he'd never laid eyes on that face in his life. Still, it was not any face he'd expected. What he had expected was battle-weary, hardened face of some warrior or past enemy that would have sent chills through him. What he saw was a handsome, albeit slightly scruffy face of a stranger. And yet not a complete stranger, because stranger still, even to Legolas' keen elven eyes (although they were blurry at the moment), the man bore a striking resemblance to Aragorn – striking enough to be his brother anyway...if Aragorn had a brother...which he didn't.
Did he?
But to human eyes? He wondered if they would notice the subtle differences. Chancing another hard look, he doubted it. But it didn't really matter right now, he supposed.
The man hunkered down a few feet in front of him, his forearms resting on his thighs and one hand dangling between his knees. He set the candleholder on the floor beside him and seemed content to study him for a time. Finally he spoke again, and when he did it was with a steady, quiet voice.
"You're surprised that I know your name, aren't you?" The man paused. "Don't be. You're going to be surprised about a lot of things here. You see – I know everything about you, Prince of Mirkwood." His eyes held the elf fast. "And you'll learn that I don't take no for an answer. You'll learn to do whatever I tell you, or you're not going to live very long."
The utter confidence in the man's words struck the elf. Well he had news for him – confidence or not, he had never dealt with the likes of him before. It would take more than a few threats, overconfidence, and a bit of rope to get him to do anything. Experts had already had a go, and still, here he was, defiant as ever and alive and healthy to talk about it. He wasn't an elfling and he wasn't easily intimidated, especially by one human.
Legolas watched as the man picked up a wicked-looking, pronged (/What is that thing?/ he wondered, having never seen anything quite like it before) instrument from the floor beside him. The prongs seemed to be either painted or stained a dark colour. The man turned it over seeming to analyse it; his face showed no reaction one way or another about what he was looking at, he just...looked at it.
"And the lessons have already begun," the man went on gently. "Just a small start. Are you having trouble focusing your eyes yet?"
As the man put the pronged...something...back down, he did not take his eyes from his. The knowledge about Legolas' blurred vision struck a blow to the elf as hard as any solid punch would have, but the man shrugged as though it was a common fact. He kept up in the same quiet, rambling tone as if a friendly neighbour chit-chatting on a lazy summer's day.
"Don't worry about it, Legolas. They'll readjust after awhile. Just don't fight it and you'll be fine. If you fight, it'll only prolong things. Do you believe me?"
"No," Legolas said flatly, refusing to mince words with this stranger.
"That's a mistake. Lesson one – always believe me." As he spoke the last word he rose, took a step forward, tangled a hand in Legolas' hair, and wrenched his head up to look him in the eye. "By the way," he said in the same low, conversational voice, "don't waste your time thinking about escape. We're in a sealed room – "
He paused.
"- in a mine -"
He paused again.
"- seven – levels – underground," he said, emphasizing each word slowly and carefully to impart their full impact.
He waited for a moment, watching for the effect of his words to register on Legolas' face. It was instant and exactly as he'd expected, exactly as he'd counted on. Legolas stiffened. Face fell like a ton of bricks – as though someone had snuck up behind the elf and dumped a barrel of ice-water over his head. Looked like he'd been gut-punched with enough force to knock the wind right out of him. All colour abruptly drained from his face. Forehead shone like a lantern.
Legolas knew he couldn't hide the sudden terror that gripped him. It felt as if his heart had stopped in mid-beat. His fury vanished faster than one could snap their fingers.
The man let him go, stepped back, and grinned maliciously. "Feeling a little tight, are you?"
Tight? No, definitely not tight. He felt like his lungs were being yanked out of his chest. His eyes widened. Trembled against his bonds. Mind began flooding with panic. All strength flowed out of him. The room spun wildly. Hazed. Fogged. He felt panic washing over him like a great, icy tidal wave, drowning him in numbness – bone-cold numbness.
He was going to pass out. No, he was going to be sick. Violently sick. He swallowed the huge lump that had formed in his throat, tightening it. His stomach suddenly heaved. Bile rose in a wild rush.
Suddenly the man yanked him up off the floor and pull him backwards into his chest then clamped one hand tightly over his mouth and pinched his nose closed with the other. "Hold it. You can do it," the man said in his ear.
Choking! His lungs burned, screaming for air. He twisted, trying to pull away from the hands, but they remained firmly in place.
"Swallow!" the man commanded.
Legolas struggled wildly. His vision swam; greyed; darkened...
"Swallow! Do it! Listen to me!"
Legolas swallowed airlessly. His ears popped.
"Good. Again."
Dizzy... So dizzy... Flashes of light danced and sparkled before him like tiny flecks of steel glittering in bright sunlight. He swallowed again, then over and over.
The man let go.
Legolas gasped long and hard, pulling in a huge breath and filling his screaming lungs as would a drowning man who's head had just broke the surface of the water. He sputtered and coughed as the man lowered him back to his side on the floor then moved back to his former position: dropping back down to a crouch and then patiently waited for him to catch his breath. When it eased, the man disappeared from his sight. A moment later he returned and dropped down again, this time with a dampened washcloth, and began to pat Legolas' face and forehead with it. He kept this up as the winded elf slowly gained a grip on himself. Legolas concentrated on the sensation of the cool cloth against his skin, trying to be aware of any sign of something more to come. There was nothing.
"Isn't it funny," the man said quietly, as he patted his brow, "that we can find so much relief from something as simple as a wet cloth."
Legolas nodded. He didn't want to, but he did all the same.
"Of course, this same wet cloth you find relief in could smother you, and you couldn't lift a finger to stop it. You know that, don't you?"
Legolas nodded again, this time fastening his gaze on the man's eyes.
"Do you know what I'm trying to tell you? I could kill you," he said quietly but matter-of-factly, and shrugged as he continued to gently wipe his face. "I may yet. I haven't decided. That part will be up to you."
Legolas maintained the locked stare. Even though he felt his muscles begin to relax, he fought to maintain rigidity, fully aware that he had to be prepared for anything. The man may flip again and try to smother him at any moment. But the sensation of the cool cloth on his skin and the man's soothing tone had a strangely hypnotic effect. He became aware that the discipline of his mind over his body was surrendering; that he could no longer order his body to listen to him; that somewhere during the wild up and down ride of intense fear and intense relief he had given up part of his self-control.
"Relax," the man said softly. "Breathe in and out slowly."
Legolas closed his eyes and let the sensation of the cool cloth soothe him. If the man truly wanted to kill him, he reasoned, there wasn't anything he could do about it anyway.
"Seven levels, elf," the man repeated evenly, as casually as though he were talking about the weather. "It must be more than six-hundred feet to the top from here."
Legolas felt the panic beginning to crawl back up his spine again. He swallowed the lump that began to form in his throat again – tightening it again. His heartbeat pick up again. Began to race again. Stomach knotted again. The down ride was going up again, on purpose.
The man gave a long, low whistle. "Just think about it. More than six- hundred feet of rock and dirt sitting right above your head. Tons and tons. That's an awfully big load for four small walls to hold up. And six- hundred feet is awfully far from your precious sun and stars. If you don't behave, I'll leave you in here."
/He's just trying to keep me off balance,/ Legolas thought. /Trying to rattle me...keep me spinning...and he's doing a fine job of it./
The man noted the instant change and smiled lightly as he climbed to his feet. "I just thought you should know where you are, knowing how much you love mines and all."
/He's lying,/ Legolas thought. /He has to be lying. Isn't he? Isn't he?/
"I know; it's a bit much to take in all at once, isn't it?" He moved away. "How about I leave you alone for awhile and give you some time to absorb all of this? Let's say I come back in... oh, I don't know... maybe a day or two? How about a week? Will a week be enough time? Then we can talk again."
The fear returned, only now it had become outright terror. /A week?/ he thought. /HERE? Oh...my... /
/Calm down,/ he cried to himself, fighting to get control. /Calm down! He's just saying that./ His mind ran frantically over the same thought: /You're in a room, you're in a room, you're in a room... /
The man turned to leave.
"You're lying," Legolas said, already knowing he wasn't – the shudder crawling up his back told him so.
"Am I?" The man snorted with laughter. "No, Legolas, I assure you I'm not. Lesson one – always believe me; me and only me."
He picked up the candle and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Two
The Beginning Of The End
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1
That night Aragorn had a nightmare. He awoke from it near tears and shaking like a leaf in a wild wind. He was watching Legolas in the dream, except Legolas wasn't quite Legolas, and for the most part he was standing away from the elf and viewing it all as a spectator.
Legolas was walking down a hallway. But it wasn't just any hallway in any given home but a very familiar hallway in Elrond's home in Rivendell. The elf's steady footsteps echoed loudly on the marble floor – the sound as though a heartbeat to Aragorn's ears. Aragorn didn't like the echoing footfalls, and not just because they gave the house a cold and dead and empty feeling. He didn't like the echoing footfalls because they echoed. Legolas normally moved noiselessly, or close to it, no matter what he was walking on, so the noise simply shouldn't be there.
And because it shouldn't be there, it was wrong.
And because it was wrong, Aragorn had a gnawing feeling that Legolas was wrong.
Or something was wrong with him.
Strange how the addition of something so minor as an echo could cause such strong feelings of dread in Aragorn, but it did. And he'd remember it long after he awoke and some of the dream had faded.
The elf stopped at a end of the long hallway and faced two closed doors – one to his right and one to his left. He looked thoughtfully from one door to the other as though deliberating which one he should enter. Finally he chose the door on the left and closed it behind him. After a time he re- emerged, entered the door on the right, and closed that one behind him.
Aragorn waited for a few moments then cracked the door on the right and peered inside. He was stunned to see himself dressed in his former dark ranger attire sharing a joke with the elf and both laughing easily as they'd always had. Everything was exactly as it should be; what it had been before and what he had hoped would be now. But it wasn't. Things change. He had changed. So had the elf. He found himself reminiscing about the past and smiling wistfully as he watched and listened to them, then felt the familiar deep pang of loss and regret tug at his heart. He missed his absent friend and their past easy interactions so much that he found his thoughts drifting more and more to him everyday. With a heavy sign he quietly closed the door.
He moved to the door on the left and stepped inside.
It didn't open into a room as he expected, but into a massive mine tunnel. A torch burned from an iron standard on the wall beside him. Holding it before him, he began to make his way down the tunnel; all the while anxiety flooding him and growing with every step. Now he stopped, hesitating, wanting to turn and leave, but found himself drawn forward toward a heavy door at it's end as though like a moth to a flame.
A boy Aragorn judged to be no more than fourteen suddenly appeared beside the door and motioned him forward. The youth's featured were quite striking the ranger realized as he drew closer. The handsome lad had long, thick hair that swirled about his face and shoulders as though stirred by a light breeze although there was no breeze here to stir it. His large, dark eyes held a soft, insistent plea.
"This way," the boy said in a quiet voice.
"Who are you?" Aragorn asked.
"The who is not as important as the why," the boy replied mildly. "I am your guide, King Elessar. This path is both treacherous and well guarded, but I have cleared it for you and it is safe enough now. Tread carefully, though. Things change quickly here."
"My dream guide is no more than a boy?"
The young one grinned. "Looks can be deceiving. You of all people should know that, Ranger-King."
True, Aragon thought, but he frowned all the same and asked, "Are you here to give council as well?"
The young one shook his head. "Not now. Only when the time is right. First you must see and believe what is happening around you, for without belief there would be no point in council."
"You speak in High Speech."
"I do." He dipped his head then looked up at Aragorn once more. "Once you enter this room, you will have set your feet upon a path of sorts." He grinned, though it was a sad grin. "This is my path as well. Your choices will affect many, as did the choice of Isildur those many years ago. Small choices that seem to affect only one, affect dozens, and in turn affect all. Do you understand?"
Silence. Then, "No."
The boy smiled. "You will."
"You talk in riddles, lad," Aragorn said, folding his arms across his chest and looking at him with unblinking concentration. "Is this some kind of a test?"
The boy shrugged. "My words are a test of riddles to ears who do not understand their meaning. I assure you that soon you will understand. But first you must see. Then you must believe. The rest you must figure out for yourself."
A long pause. Finally: "Then lead me."
The boy nodded solemnly. "So it begins. And the answers start beyond this door. Brace yourself. You will not like it."
The door swung wide before Aragorn's hand raised to touch it. He heard a soft moan coming from the darkness within. Almost paralysed by the mournful sound, at first he didn't want to move but knew he needed to move.
He glanced back – but the boy was gone. He had disappeared. Aragorn knew that past this doorway was the beginning of something, something huge, something that was his alone to know...and, as the boy had eluded to, something that would trickle down to effect everyone.
Then Aragorn was in the room.
He raised the torch to see – not wanting to see, but needing to see. The torchlight spilled onto a form lying on the floor; it's back against the far wall. He knew who it was and what he'd find before his eyes fully adjusted. Here was Legolas, curled in a tight fetal position, his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands tied behind his back. His head was down; long golden hair obscuring his face. Aragorn didn't want to see his face. He didn't need to. As he hadn't needed someone to tell him there was something wrong with the echoing footfalls, he didn't need to see Legolas' face to know the depth of pain that would be etched across it.
The elf's head began to rise.
/I don't want to see!/
Hair fell away revealing a battered face and glazed, pain-filled eyes.
Two, Legolas breathed, then his head dropped back to the floor.
Without thinking Aragorn leapt forward and grabbed his friend in his arms, wanting to get him out of here. The impulse was so strong it overrode everything, including the sure knowledge that it didn't matter, Legolas was moments away from death and already breathing his last, the best healers in Middle Earth could be standing in the same room and it wouldn't have mattered. Not to Legolas, anyway. Not anymore.
Aragorn slid his arms under Legolas' and locked his hands between his shoulder blades. When he lifted him, the elf's head lolled back. His eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, gaping mouth ajar, and his body gave a great shudder.
No! Legolas, NO! he cried.
With a final long rush of air, the elf fell
(dead)
limp in his arms.
Then the nightmare went south – a real hard turn south.
A torrent of blood poured from Legolas' open mouth. Skin turned dark and spongy. Brittle hair – lifeless as old dry straw – fell away in great clumps. The skin on his face began sloughing off, dripping like melted wax from some grotesque candle until spots of glistening bone shone through.
Aragorn recoiled backward in horror, overcome by a fit of violent, sort of visceral shaking inside that lasted almost a full minute. He was gripped in a panic so utter and complete that he was literally unable to function in any way. He was amazed that he was even able to breathe.
/It's as if time has sped up to claim him,/ he thought, horrified.
Before Legolas' body completely decomposed into a pool of waxy liquid, his head suddenly turned toward him. Sightless, bulging eyes locked onto his, cracked like thin ice on a lake, and shattered.
- help me – Legolas croaked. Aragorn, please –
Aragorn started to scream – in the dream and not real, thank the stars, or he would have awakened the whole palace.
Two, and yet one, the other Legolas said softly from somewhere behind him with a voice as cold as ice. One and the same. Two halves of a whole. Remember that.
2
Aragorn jerked bolt upright in bed, his face wet and his heart pounding furiously. Shaking from head to foot and glistening with sweat, he stared without thought into the darkness while he waited for the nightmare to let go.
/Oh Lords./
/Stop shaking. Calm down. Breathe... Breathe... /
/This will fade in the morning the way nightmares always fade,/ he assured himself as he ran his trembling hands through his hair.
But in the morning he still remembered the nightmare in all it's full, crisp detail – especially the echoing footfalls – and it didn't fade as days passed, the way nightmares usually do. This one stayed. Gripped him tight and covered him.
Covered him like a wet shroud.
3
Legolas' first thought upon awakening was that death wasn't quite as he had expected it would be. Then, as he came slowly back to himself, he recognized that he was alive. That wasn't quite as he had expected it would be either. He almost wished to try out the other choice before deciding between the two. Pain robbed him of being even remotely thankful of living; it felt as if every bone and muscle in his body had been torn out and put back wrong. The side of his head throbbed wickedly where he had been struck, and his shoulder burned as though it was on fire. He had no idea in this world why his shoulder burned, but he couldn't give it much thought right now – his head was pounding too badly to think.
He concentrated on forcing his eyes open. When he finally succeeded, he wasn't altogether sure he had.
/Either it's extremely dark in here, or my eyes aren't working...or won't,/ he thought. Then he had another thought – one much more frightening: /Or can't./
He heard footsteps. Close. He couldn't see anyone, but he could hear someone or something breathing. The sound seemed to drag on for hours, then was finally broken by a man's cold, even voice.
"Don't try to move. You can't. Just relax. You'll live longer that way."
Legolas slowly became aware that he was bound solid. He was lying on his side on a floor, his numb hands roped too tightly together behind his back and fastened to...something – something sturdy behind him. His ankles were bound together as well.
/It's a him,/ the elf thought. The voice was definitely a male, and no orc either. That answered one question. Now for the other thousand.
"You're here to learn, elf, and I'm your teacher," the cold voice said as though reading his thoughts. "Learn well and we'll get along just fine. Refuse, and ... well, let's just say I won't have any need of you."
Slowly, slowly, a shape – darker than the darkness – moved into the corner of his vision. He felt two instant emotions, one almost on top of the other: first – shock, and then fury. Shock evaporated almost as quickly as it came. Fury stayed. Burned.
"Who are you?" Legolas strained to focus his eyes but his thundering head stole his concentration. "What do you want?" His mind raced over the possibilities, but he refused to put words to visions. He heard the man breathe out slowly. It was a terrible sound.
"That's my business, not yours," the other said mildly. There was a long silence, and then the sound of another deep breath out. "I'm just here to teach, and you're here to learn."
/Learn? Learn what?/ But Legolas didn't ask questions. He felt for an instant as if his heart had stopped. Learn. He had heard that particular word more than once in his lifetime, and it never meant anything pleasant. Rage and confusion were wiped from his mind immediately. He stared, and as he did, he saw the dark form move closer and dropped down to a crouch far in front of him. He seemed to be considering him. Studying him. After what seemed like an age, the form rose and moved back into the darkness.
"You know, there are worse thing than death, Legolas Greenleaf. Much worse."
That caught the elf off guard. He stiffened at the mention of his name, and for a moment it felt as though he'd been punched. /How does he know my name?/ he wondered uneasy.
A small light – a candle – sputtered, then caught, illuminating the man's form. He turned and smiled – not really a smile at all but more like an icy grin. "Better?"
He was nothing like Legolas had expected, and everything, at the same time. Tall, well built, dark hair and grey eyes; well dressed in a white muslin shirt, dark tunic, and dark breaches. He brushed back a stubborn lock of dark curl which fell across his forehead. Legolas was sure of one thing: he'd never laid eyes on that face in his life. Still, it was not any face he'd expected. What he had expected was battle-weary, hardened face of some warrior or past enemy that would have sent chills through him. What he saw was a handsome, albeit slightly scruffy face of a stranger. And yet not a complete stranger, because stranger still, even to Legolas' keen elven eyes (although they were blurry at the moment), the man bore a striking resemblance to Aragorn – striking enough to be his brother anyway...if Aragorn had a brother...which he didn't.
Did he?
But to human eyes? He wondered if they would notice the subtle differences. Chancing another hard look, he doubted it. But it didn't really matter right now, he supposed.
The man hunkered down a few feet in front of him, his forearms resting on his thighs and one hand dangling between his knees. He set the candleholder on the floor beside him and seemed content to study him for a time. Finally he spoke again, and when he did it was with a steady, quiet voice.
"You're surprised that I know your name, aren't you?" The man paused. "Don't be. You're going to be surprised about a lot of things here. You see – I know everything about you, Prince of Mirkwood." His eyes held the elf fast. "And you'll learn that I don't take no for an answer. You'll learn to do whatever I tell you, or you're not going to live very long."
The utter confidence in the man's words struck the elf. Well he had news for him – confidence or not, he had never dealt with the likes of him before. It would take more than a few threats, overconfidence, and a bit of rope to get him to do anything. Experts had already had a go, and still, here he was, defiant as ever and alive and healthy to talk about it. He wasn't an elfling and he wasn't easily intimidated, especially by one human.
Legolas watched as the man picked up a wicked-looking, pronged (/What is that thing?/ he wondered, having never seen anything quite like it before) instrument from the floor beside him. The prongs seemed to be either painted or stained a dark colour. The man turned it over seeming to analyse it; his face showed no reaction one way or another about what he was looking at, he just...looked at it.
"And the lessons have already begun," the man went on gently. "Just a small start. Are you having trouble focusing your eyes yet?"
As the man put the pronged...something...back down, he did not take his eyes from his. The knowledge about Legolas' blurred vision struck a blow to the elf as hard as any solid punch would have, but the man shrugged as though it was a common fact. He kept up in the same quiet, rambling tone as if a friendly neighbour chit-chatting on a lazy summer's day.
"Don't worry about it, Legolas. They'll readjust after awhile. Just don't fight it and you'll be fine. If you fight, it'll only prolong things. Do you believe me?"
"No," Legolas said flatly, refusing to mince words with this stranger.
"That's a mistake. Lesson one – always believe me." As he spoke the last word he rose, took a step forward, tangled a hand in Legolas' hair, and wrenched his head up to look him in the eye. "By the way," he said in the same low, conversational voice, "don't waste your time thinking about escape. We're in a sealed room – "
He paused.
"- in a mine -"
He paused again.
"- seven – levels – underground," he said, emphasizing each word slowly and carefully to impart their full impact.
He waited for a moment, watching for the effect of his words to register on Legolas' face. It was instant and exactly as he'd expected, exactly as he'd counted on. Legolas stiffened. Face fell like a ton of bricks – as though someone had snuck up behind the elf and dumped a barrel of ice-water over his head. Looked like he'd been gut-punched with enough force to knock the wind right out of him. All colour abruptly drained from his face. Forehead shone like a lantern.
Legolas knew he couldn't hide the sudden terror that gripped him. It felt as if his heart had stopped in mid-beat. His fury vanished faster than one could snap their fingers.
The man let him go, stepped back, and grinned maliciously. "Feeling a little tight, are you?"
Tight? No, definitely not tight. He felt like his lungs were being yanked out of his chest. His eyes widened. Trembled against his bonds. Mind began flooding with panic. All strength flowed out of him. The room spun wildly. Hazed. Fogged. He felt panic washing over him like a great, icy tidal wave, drowning him in numbness – bone-cold numbness.
He was going to pass out. No, he was going to be sick. Violently sick. He swallowed the huge lump that had formed in his throat, tightening it. His stomach suddenly heaved. Bile rose in a wild rush.
Suddenly the man yanked him up off the floor and pull him backwards into his chest then clamped one hand tightly over his mouth and pinched his nose closed with the other. "Hold it. You can do it," the man said in his ear.
Choking! His lungs burned, screaming for air. He twisted, trying to pull away from the hands, but they remained firmly in place.
"Swallow!" the man commanded.
Legolas struggled wildly. His vision swam; greyed; darkened...
"Swallow! Do it! Listen to me!"
Legolas swallowed airlessly. His ears popped.
"Good. Again."
Dizzy... So dizzy... Flashes of light danced and sparkled before him like tiny flecks of steel glittering in bright sunlight. He swallowed again, then over and over.
The man let go.
Legolas gasped long and hard, pulling in a huge breath and filling his screaming lungs as would a drowning man who's head had just broke the surface of the water. He sputtered and coughed as the man lowered him back to his side on the floor then moved back to his former position: dropping back down to a crouch and then patiently waited for him to catch his breath. When it eased, the man disappeared from his sight. A moment later he returned and dropped down again, this time with a dampened washcloth, and began to pat Legolas' face and forehead with it. He kept this up as the winded elf slowly gained a grip on himself. Legolas concentrated on the sensation of the cool cloth against his skin, trying to be aware of any sign of something more to come. There was nothing.
"Isn't it funny," the man said quietly, as he patted his brow, "that we can find so much relief from something as simple as a wet cloth."
Legolas nodded. He didn't want to, but he did all the same.
"Of course, this same wet cloth you find relief in could smother you, and you couldn't lift a finger to stop it. You know that, don't you?"
Legolas nodded again, this time fastening his gaze on the man's eyes.
"Do you know what I'm trying to tell you? I could kill you," he said quietly but matter-of-factly, and shrugged as he continued to gently wipe his face. "I may yet. I haven't decided. That part will be up to you."
Legolas maintained the locked stare. Even though he felt his muscles begin to relax, he fought to maintain rigidity, fully aware that he had to be prepared for anything. The man may flip again and try to smother him at any moment. But the sensation of the cool cloth on his skin and the man's soothing tone had a strangely hypnotic effect. He became aware that the discipline of his mind over his body was surrendering; that he could no longer order his body to listen to him; that somewhere during the wild up and down ride of intense fear and intense relief he had given up part of his self-control.
"Relax," the man said softly. "Breathe in and out slowly."
Legolas closed his eyes and let the sensation of the cool cloth soothe him. If the man truly wanted to kill him, he reasoned, there wasn't anything he could do about it anyway.
"Seven levels, elf," the man repeated evenly, as casually as though he were talking about the weather. "It must be more than six-hundred feet to the top from here."
Legolas felt the panic beginning to crawl back up his spine again. He swallowed the lump that began to form in his throat again – tightening it again. His heartbeat pick up again. Began to race again. Stomach knotted again. The down ride was going up again, on purpose.
The man gave a long, low whistle. "Just think about it. More than six- hundred feet of rock and dirt sitting right above your head. Tons and tons. That's an awfully big load for four small walls to hold up. And six- hundred feet is awfully far from your precious sun and stars. If you don't behave, I'll leave you in here."
/He's just trying to keep me off balance,/ Legolas thought. /Trying to rattle me...keep me spinning...and he's doing a fine job of it./
The man noted the instant change and smiled lightly as he climbed to his feet. "I just thought you should know where you are, knowing how much you love mines and all."
/He's lying,/ Legolas thought. /He has to be lying. Isn't he? Isn't he?/
"I know; it's a bit much to take in all at once, isn't it?" He moved away. "How about I leave you alone for awhile and give you some time to absorb all of this? Let's say I come back in... oh, I don't know... maybe a day or two? How about a week? Will a week be enough time? Then we can talk again."
The fear returned, only now it had become outright terror. /A week?/ he thought. /HERE? Oh...my... /
/Calm down,/ he cried to himself, fighting to get control. /Calm down! He's just saying that./ His mind ran frantically over the same thought: /You're in a room, you're in a room, you're in a room... /
The man turned to leave.
"You're lying," Legolas said, already knowing he wasn't – the shudder crawling up his back told him so.
"Am I?" The man snorted with laughter. "No, Legolas, I assure you I'm not. Lesson one – always believe me; me and only me."
He picked up the candle and closed the door behind him.