Chapter Eight

Myths And Monsters

Part 1

The young messenger made his way to the base camp. His gait was uneven and he pressed a hand to his side to brace a painful stitch. This runner was special. He had been between the main search party and the centre of operations several times, and the guards who had stood aside to let him pass were amazed that he was still on his feet. But the fact that he was still standing was not what made them look at him with rapt attention. There was a glimmer in his eyes – one of elation. Outside the Captain's tent he turned to them, briefly looked toward the heavens, and nodded. He had some good news to report.

He was ushered inside the tent without benefit of announcement or formality, and as he stepped inside, ducking his head under the tent's low flap to enter it, his eyes immediately lit on the intimidating form of the legendary Captain Alflocksom seated behind a huge table: spread out on the table were all known maps and charts of Gondor: on his right sat Aic, on his left Seigen, and opposite him Vedt – all three also of great military rank and legend. He waited patiently for them to glance up from their maps, and while he waited he looked first at the docile blond-haired, dark- eyed one with the rounder face, whose name was Aic. Then at the dark haired and dark-eyed man, from whom he sensed much doubt and anger. Vedt was his name. The third had a face that would have been handsome had his expression not been so anxious. His sky-blue eyes were really quite beautiful, and the lines at their outer corners hinted at his penchant for smiling. Seigen was his name. But it was the fourth that took the runner's full attention now. That one had eyes older than his years and his chiselled features almost masked the signs of a hard childhood. That one had seen death, battle, and more importantly, pain, and, it seemed, still wore that pain like an fresh wound. That one was his focus. That one's name was Alflocksom.

"...and what's more," Alflocksom was saying, "the trackers are finding nothing worth sending runners, so we should spread the search further. Lords know the mine's exits go on for miles in every direction; damn the dwarves and their stinking holes." There was no answering that statement, and after a pause he went on to the say: "Get the camp ready to pull out. We'll move more north."

"Of course," Vedt muttered. He looked up at the boy sharply, then down at the charts again.

"Still and all..." Aic mumbled, touching a spot of interest on the map in front of him.

"Where?" Vedt asked, leaning forward on his elbows and squinting over the map.

"Right there," Aic replied, his finger still on the spot. "We haven't tried that area yet."

Seigen glanced up. "We have company, gentlemen," he said, no real thought to the boy but more as a warning to the others at the table to keep their thoughts private.

Both Aic and Vedt glanced up and gave him a critical eye. Dismissing him as being likely just another runner in the endless parade of runners with more bad news, they lowered their gazes back to the maps. Alflocksom didn't, though. His head raised up slowly, only now noticing his presence with Seigen's words. He leaned back in his chair and tilted his head; his green eyes fixed solidly on him.

The boy met his gaze self-consciously, then lowered his head studying the tips of his boots.

/Thirteen, fourteen, but no more than that,/ Alflocksom thought with a quick assessment, and knew that the runner had traveled a great distance. The boy was panting softly and tendrils of steam were rising from his damp clothing. There was a steady, rhythmic tap-tap sound, much like a single finger tapping a table. The captain watched his face flush when he realized that the sound was sweat dripping from his hair onto his leather overtunic. When he nervously brushed back a wet, dark curl, Alflocksom smothered a grin.

"What news, lad?" Alflocksom asked softly, feeling sympathy for the boy.

"Driton the tracker has found something, sir," he reported, a smile gleaming in his eyes. He tried to sound less out of breath than he was and found it impossible.

"What?" Alflocksom asked; his eyes still fixed on him as he slowly rose from his chair. The other three who had previously dismissed him with scarcely a second glance instantly snapped their eyes onto him as though he suddenly had the answers to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. In the same instant he had the uncomfortable sensation of being a deer caught in four archers sights – one wrong move and they would fire on him. "Where?"

Overhearing the word easily enough through the tent's canvass, one curious guard drew the door's flap open and poked his head inside. After a quick glance in, and catching a hard glare from Alflocksom, he closed it again.

"I can't show you on a map...but I can point it out."

"Point it out, what?" Vedt said purely out of habit, his dark eyes gleaming dangerously.

He groped for the right answer, pushing away the tangle of nerves and the sudden stillness of his breath. And what came was what would have served his own commander, otherwise known as his father. "Point it out, sir?"

"Yes, so he is," Seigen agreed in a voice of wonder. Alflocksom kicked his ankle – hard – without taking his eyes from the boy's face.

"Nothing wrong with protocol," Vedt said irritably.

"Oh for the love of..." Aic muttered, and shook his head like he'd heard this one too many times.

Alflocksom shot Vedt a hard look. "Hang your protocol," he said sternly. "This is neither the time nor the place for it." His eyes re-fixed on the boy; the look soft and sympathetic. "Show me, lad."

The runner nodded and began to shuffle back the way he had come, all four men following in his wake. The knowledge that he was being watched by many eyes from the camp – eyes filled with both curiosity and question – added to his nervousness. He shivered as he walked, his body temperature dropping too quickly in the frosty air and the cold already starting to stiffen his sweat-damp clothes.

The four followed him to the bank of the step-cliff. As soon as they stopped on the edge, Alflocksom unclasped his thick cloak and draped it over the young runner's trembling shoulders. Too cold to refuse it, the boy smiled at the gesture and the extraordinary generosity and pulled the warm cloak tight around his shivering frame. The cloak was legendary. It had been formerly owned by the captain's late son, Brysom, who only the month before had been ambushed and slain while leading a contingent of guards against one of the few remaining pockets of Sauron's followers. Though mortally wounded, the young man had shown the superior strength of his bloodline – fighting bravely to his last breath. He lived just long enough to see the leaderless followers brought to a swift end; most sent to shadow by is own hand.

Alflocksom glanced at him and again urged: "Show me."

The young man looked over the surroundings, trying to get his bearings. He knew the captain's legendary temper, and rather than get wound up with frustration, he relaxed and let his mind retrace his path. "There," he said, pointing out the strange jut of rock looming out between the far hills like a monument. It had the strange shape of a hat with a fat feather stuck in the side. "The other side of that jut, sir."

"Good work, lad," the captain said. "Go and warm yourself with some hot soup." He paused. "And keep the cloak. You've earned it. When you're ready, can you lead us there?"

"Yes, sir." The runner smiled, his eyes sparkling with devotion. "Thank you, sir."

Alflocksom touched his arm before he could turn to leave. "Your name, son."

"Orome, sir."

Aic, Vedt, and Seigen were standing behind the boy now, and Aic and Vedt's eyes met. Both glanced at Seigen. In his eyes they saw laughter and shock in equal measure.

Seigen looked at the boy with his eyebrows raised. He pointed to him and then raised his forefinger to his temple and drew small circles in the air while giving a silent whistle.

Both Aic and Vedt nodded their agreement.

"Ahh, a strong name. High-elven isn't it?" Alflocksom asked, ignoring his three comrades.

The boy nodded.

"Yet you're no elf. Tell me, how did you come by it?"

The young man shrugged. "My father had a sense of humour."

"Indeed, young horn-blower." The captain smirked. "Or should I call you Aldaron?"

The lad's gaze lifted and he smiled an odd, slow smile that drew the captain to stare deeply into his eyes. After a moment the lad broke the gaze. Nodding once more, he pulled the cloak tighter around himself and walked away. An undefinable emotion flickered across Alflocksom's slack face as his eyes followed the departing young runner.

"Orome, huh?" Seigen said with a snigger as he watched the boy cross to the kitchen tent. "Sure he is. And I'm – "

"Shut up," Alflocksom said mildly, his eyes still firmly fixed to the departing lad's back.

The teasing smile tumbled off Seigen's face at once.

"Problem?" Aic asked, as he caught Alflocksom's odd look.

"Hmmm?" Alflocksom asked dreamily. After another moment he tore his eyes away, blinked several times, and stared at the other. "Uhhh... No." He rubbed his forehead as he came back to himself, then said more forcefully: "No. Have the camp packed and ready to go within the hour." He glanced once again toward the lad. "When he's ready, we'll leave."

Aic and Vedt's eyes met again. This time there was no trace of humour in either's eyes.

Part 2

Aragorn is such a fool it's a miracle he's lived as long as he has, Greenleaf shot at Legolas as he stacked the deadwood into a small pile to carry back. No wonder he needed our help so often.

Legolas considered arguing with him but he knew that the best thing do right now was to remain silent and keep certain information close to him. He didn't want to tip Greenleaf off to the fact that he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life: he'd underestimated Aragorn. And Legolas wasn't about to tell Greenleaf otherwise. He knew what he had to do – the only thing he could do – and even though he was terrified of the dark side and what he could do to him, he was even more terrified of the dark succeeding. He wouldn't let that happen, no matter what the cost.

What's the matter, Legolas? Cat got your tongue? Greenleaf chuckled softly. Don't worry. It'll all be over soon. Then it'll be just you and me. Doesn't that sound cozy?

/You don't have to kill them!/ Legolas shouted. /We could leave now and it would still be you and me. I'll...I'll give over freely. I swear it./

But you'd always be here, wouldn't you? Greenleaf thought, tapping his temple with a finger. That's not what I want. See – I figure that if you watch me gut your friends, odds are you'll shrivel up and die. Then I'll have it all. He chuckled. See? There's a method to my madness. He paused. Oh yeah, and I have a special surprise for you. I was going to save it for later but I've never been very patient, so... After we send Aragorn and Gimli to the void we're going to pay a visit to everyone else you consider a friend – if you have any left, that is. I wonder what would happen if we sailed to the Undying Lands? What do you think? Can the dead, die, Legolas? How about we find out?

/You can't do that!/

Why not?

He didn't have an answer.

Thought so.

Greenleaf was vaguely aware that his shoulder had started to throb again. It began lightly at first then grew steadily worse. He wondered how long it had been between the last time he'd satisfied the need and now. Bad timing right now, though, he reflected. With both targets sitting there watching him like two starving hawks watching a mouse, it's not like he could rip his shirt open and tear his shoulder to pieces without them asking questions...

...unless he lied...and told them that it's medicine for the infection. Medicine. Would that work? he wondered. Likely, considering Aragorn is so trusting it's not even funny, and Gimli's a flaming idiot. His face broke out into a huge grin. Why not? Do it right in front of them. What was that old saying? 'The best place to hide something is in plain sight?'

Besides, it's time to shut you up again, he thought, re-opening his thoughts and shooting them at the light side. You're starting to get on my nerves.

/Shut me... Oh lords, Greenleaf, please... Please, no... /

He carried the wood back and dropped it beside the small campfire inside the mine. He could feel their eyes boring into his back with every step. When he re-emerged, he dropped to a patch of frosty grass in front of them, drew his legs up to sit cross-legged, untied the pouch's string from his belt, and pulled the drawstrings open.

"What's that?" Aragorn asked.

"This?" Legolas, or rather, not Legolas, said. "Oh, this is likely why Gimli and I missed each other." His gaze lifted to the curious dwarf. "I apologize, Gimli. I did leave for a time. While I waited for you, I got a little bored, so I started to do a bit of exploring myself. I slipped and caught my shoulder on a broken branch. Stupid, really. I thought you'd be longer, Gimli, so I left to find a healer, and, well, I guess the rest is history." He shrugged. "Sorry."

Gimli didn't answer, but Aragorn noticed out of the corner of his eye that he did frown – not an angry frown, but more of a 'what-is-going-on' type of frown. The dwarf wasn't buying this for a minute, and neither was he.

Aragorn leaned forward to see and at the same time thought: /He thinks we're idiots. He must if he thinks we'd believe he'd caught himself on a broken branch. At the very least, a centuries-old wood-elf would never admit to that mistake. The ribbing would be Lords-awful./ "So..." he asked aloud.

"Well," the elf said as he opened his tunic and shrugged his left arm out of his shirt sleeve, "some of the splinters were deep, and the wound is infected." He began to unwrap the bandage. "It's not bad though. This liquid is clearing it up pretty well."

/A lie,/ Aragorn thought. /Elves aren't prone to disease and can't die of anything short of being mortally wounded or willing themselves to die. The only way he could get an infection is if his body is weak. Terribly weak. But he sure doesn't look weak to me. So what was this about an infection? And more importantly, why would he go against his sworn word and travel to a healer for something that wasn't life-threatening?/

It didn't make sense to him, any more than his own questions were making any sense right now. /I'm too tired to think clearly,/ he thought.

"Can I have a look?" Aragorn asked.

The elf nodded. "But don't touch it. It's still pretty painful."

Aragorn hunkered down in front of him with his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees and watched with a great deal of interest as Greenleaf, hissing, pealed back the bloody gauze. The wound was angry-red and badly swollen. A flap of skin hung from the top and yellowish puss oozed from under it in little trickles. The ripped, bloody channels on his shoulder began to bleed lightly; the normally dark blood now a strange pinkish colour streaked with yellow.

"Good Lords," Gimli muttered, but didn't move.

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged a single uncertain glance, and then Aragorn leaned closer to see. "It's bad," he agreed, and then stood to retrieve his own kit from the mine. "Whatever you're using isn't working. I have something – "

"No!" Greenleaf snapped, then back-peddled quickly. "I mean...uhh...you should have seen it before. It really is much better now than it was."

"I doubt that. This is serious. If you don't get it cleared up – "

"It'll be fine." Greenleaf uncorked the vial and tipped a few drops onto a clean gauze. "If it doesn't clear up in a few days I'll try your...whatever it is. Okay?" He placed the pronged – whatever it was – against the raw skin, punched it in as he'd done before, and yanked it out.

Aragorn looked utterly dumbstruck. Gimli looked like his eyes were about to fall out of his head.

Once the elf got his breath back he explained: "The healer told me to keep it open so it would drain." Then he pressed the gauze pad to it and began to re-wrap it tight.

/He's lying,/ Aragorn thought again. "Two days." His eyes flickered briefly to the elf's shoulder then returned to the his face. "Two days and then I want a go at it, alright?"

"That's what I said." Greenleaf smiled, but the smile was not for Aragorn but for the warmth spreading through him and the blessed silence returning. "Two days."

Part 3

Something less than three hours after breaking camp, Alflocksom and the others stood silently at the edge of another blocked entrance – one who's outcropping was in the shape of a hat with a fat feather in the side. A small flock of sparrows – no more than a dozen or so – stood on the top of the ruins staring cheekily down at the newcomers. Alflocksom pried a small stone from the debris and skipped it at them. The sparrows took to the air, twittering resentfully.

Gatherings sparrows are said to be the harbingers of the living dead, a distant part of Alflocksom's mind reminded him. Sparrows are said to be the outriders of the dead. It's their job to guide lost souls back into the land of the living.

Then he shook his head and scoffed at himself. /Don't be silly. Harbingers indeed. A dozen? Hardly. It's just a silly superstition./

He glanced over to the boy who was looking at him solemnly. He smiled a little and the boy returned the smile.

/See? Silly. And I'm a silly fool./

The boy turned away, his eyes following the darting sparrows. Alflocksom watched the lad watch them. Even though it was too unbelievable, he was starting to believe it...but just barely.

He shook his head as though shaking off a thought, and then turned back to Driton and dropped to one knee to take a closer look at what the tracker was pointing out. There, in the dirt was the distorted impression of boots and what looked like a flattened spot.

"He fell here, and he wasn't alone," Driton said, his finger circling over the spot. "There was another spot beside it," he said, his narrowed gaze lifting and he sneered at one of the guards in the crowd, "but someone walked through it before I could stop them."

"So there are two of them," Alflocksom said, stating the obvious, just for the record.

"Aye, two," Driton replied. "One is the king, I'm guessing, and the other is smaller but stouter. His impression is larger girthed."

"The dwarf." Alflocksom sneered.

"Could be," Driton said thoughtfully, looking at the all-but-obliterated spot. "A dwarf would fit the mark. See?" There were two sets of footprints in the rock-powdery dust – one normal and one small. Alflocksom started to get up, looked again and squatted on his hunkers once more. Not two sets but three, the third marking the footprints of someone smaller than the two. Someone younger?

"Good job, Driton," Alflocksom said, climbing to his feet. "And good job sending your runner so quickly."

The man looked startled for a moment. "My runner?" he said. "I didn't send my runner." His eyes searched the faces and came to rest on a heavy- set, red-haired man sitting well back from the rest. "The runner I got saddled with is sitting over there. That's him. The red-haired ox on his rump," he said, pointing him out with a small nod of his head. "I just found this track not two minutes ago and was just about to send him out when you showed up." He smirked. "And lucky you came when you did. That great chunk can't get out of his own way without loosing his breath. It would have taken him half a day to get to you, the fat lout, but I'll wager good money over bad that he could outrace all the others if there was reward of a feast at the end of his journey."

Alflocksom frowned. "But..."

The captain's gaze lifted at the sound of feathers ruffling overhead. The sparrows were fluttering down and reassembling on the top of the ruins above them. There were more this time – a good three dozen. They weren't looking down at him though, he noticed, but over him. Their tiny, coal- black eyes were locked onto the boy...and his onto theirs.

/Harbingers,/ some distant part of his mind thought. /Forerunners. Omens. The very idea is stupid, isn't it?/

/Is it?/ the distant part of his mind asked...except it was rising now, more insistent, nudging urgently. /Orcs, dwarves, trolls, Sauron, wizards, demons... After all that's happened before and since the One Ring, and all the mysteries between heaven and the void yet to be revealed, isn't it safe to say that anything's possible? Even this?/

The others didn't know. Didn't suspect. Didn't give the sparrows so much as a quick glance. Why would they? But Alflocksom knew something the others didn't – he had seen the boy's eyes. And not just seen them, but had seen inside them. Perhaps later he would tell them...but for now he would keep the knowledge to himself a little while longer. Besides, who'd believe it anyway?

And there was the name. He didn't usually remember names well. It was Seigen who took care of names, and it was a rare occasion when he dropped one. But this one...not even he could forget this one. In Common Speech, most names mean many things as well as to provide a link to fathers and ancestors. The name Orome, however – Orome as in High-elven for Vorondil, but also known as Aldaron – had only one. Aldaron meant Lord of Forests. Seigen, Aic, and Vedt knew those stories, and right now they merely thought it a bit peculiar and quite humorous that the boy had that particular name. But to dare tell them the rest – tell them what he'd seen in the boy's eyes? He could almost picture it now...

"Gentlemen, I have something to tell you. Guided by the sparrows – the harbingers – the Huntsman of the Valar, Steward of Gondor from the Elder days...days of the First Age and the Great Battle of the Valar when the world was young...the hunter of evil beings and monsters... original owner of the wild-ox horn bound with silver that had been passed down through the years to Boromir: the mighty horn of Gondor – Valaroma, has returned from the Undying Lands. And he's returned in the form of a fourteen-year-old boy."

Friends or not, they'd laugh themselves sick...just before they would hog- tie him, throw him in the back of a wagon, and cart him off to the nearest mad house.

Part 4

That night, Gimli jerked bolt upright. He hadn't meant to fall asleep while on watch, it just...happened.

He felt a crippling jolt of pain and knew what it was. Fear. Pure, raw, sickening fear. His eyes flittered about wildly. He just needed to make sure. He had an overwhelming urge to make absolutely certain that he was still here. Movement ahead. He saw a dark, lithe form hunch down by the fire. He heaved a huge sigh of relief and felt his panic slowly release it's tight stranglehold on his throat.

The face slowly turned to him.

Legolas.

The elf was watching him with flat, dead eyes, his face utterly devoid of expression. It struck Gimli as ominous, stone, unnerving.

/But am I only unnerved because the fire is backlighting Legolas' form and casting his face in shadows?/ the dwarf wondered. /Or... /

No – there was no denying that there was something more that was not right there, and it had nothing to do with any shadows. He hadn't wanted to admit it and had called Aragorn a dim-witted fool for saying it when they had a moment alone, but now it was a clear as the markings on his axe: Aragorn was right – Legolas was insane.

And dangerous.

That realization and the indefinable look on the elf's face frightened the dwarf. He drew back as far as he could, pressing his back tightly against the mine's wall, and gripped the handle of his axe a little tighter.

Legolas' eyes seemed to slowly clear as though he'd been in a walking dream.

/Or am I the one dreaming,/ Gimli wondered. /Is this some nightmare within a nightmare?/

/No,/ he thought. /This is definitely a nightmare, but I'm wide awake. I wish I was caught in a nightmare. Then when I wake up Legolas would be alright and would make some smart crack about how I shouldn't eat heavy food before going to bed./

The elf slowly turned away. He remained hunched, squatting on his heels in front of the campfire. Light flashed across his face. Reflections of the fire, the dwarf knew, but also more than that – reflections flashing off steel. The elf was holding a knife and staring at it like his life depended on it. Unnerved, Gimli squeezed in tighter to the rock wall and pulled his blanket up to his chin. His eyes remained fixed on the elf for hours afterward until sleep finally took him when exhaustion overrode reason.

Though Gimli didn't know it, he was perfectly safe, because his weren't the only eyes fixed on Legolas – Aragorn's eyes were also fixed.

And his hand was fixed to the hilt of his sword.

Part 5

Legolas – pinned tight to the frozen floor in the black room – heard a voice. An unfamiliar voice. A voice not from a mouth or from Greenleaf, but one whispered into his mind. It asked one simple question: What are you willing to sacrifice?

"Why?" he asked timidly. "Who is this?"

The question came again: What are you willing to sacrifice?

"For what?" he asked. "For myself? For Aragorn?"

There was no answer. He didn't expected any. After all, he was insane. The insane don't get answers, just more questions.

He was silent for a time, then said, "For me? Nothing. For a chance to save Aragorn? Everything. I'll sacrifice everything. Is that enough?"

There was no answer, again. He didn't expected any. After all, he was insane. The insane don't get answers, just more and more and more questions. That strange voice likely wasn't real anyway – was it? It didn't matter, he supposed. He couldn't trust himself to know if it was or wasn't. Even if he knew, he still wouldn't know for sure. His thoughts were so jumbled that he didn't believe anything, anymore.

He lay in the darkness, listening, waiting, when out of nowhere he had a strange feeling that something had changed. The weight – the iron grip that had held him down – lifted. Something was different. What? Then he knew, and it was almost too good to believe. Greenleaf's raging voice had stopped. Everything had stopped. It wasn't gone forever, he somehow knew, but for the moment it had stopped. The question was, why?

He sat bolt upright – finally able – looked around wildly, and was instantly afraid. Afraid to ask. Afraid to question. Afraid to think. Afraid to move.

Still, nothing.

Silence.

Merciful, blessed silence.

Finally.

Asleep? Could Greenleaf be asleep? Could he dare hope it was as simple as that?

He waited. Listened. Barely dared breath. Still nothing.

The darkness of the room started to lighten. Slowly at first, then faster. Blackness greyed...then grew brighter still. He saw the dim outline of what looked to be some sort of a doorway. He struggled to his unsteady feet and stumbled toward it. Before his trembling hand could raise to touch it, it swung open. Blinding orange light spilled through from the other side. He felt half-mad with joy and relief.

He had an opportunity.

A chance.

And fearful or not, he would take it.

Part 6

It had taken almost three-quarters of the night but finally the elf lay down on the far side of the fire and pulled his blanket up to his chin. After a few moments his eyes half-lidded and his breathing steadied – a sure sign that he was asleep. Aragorn breathed an inward sigh of relief and relaxed a hair, but no more than that. He was fully aware of how lightning quick the elf was and refused to let his guard down more than a tiny shade. Especially now. Something was so wrong that if he wasn't seeing him with his own eyes he would never believe that this was Legolas. Whatever had happened was far worse than any injury or some strange sickness.

/Two,/ Aragorn's mind whispered, replaying the words of the dream. /We are nothing alike./

/You got that right,/ he thought.

Something flashed. It struck his bedroll (which was currently doubling as a pillow) with a soft snick less than three finger-widths above his head. He craned his neck to see what it was. A knife hilt stood quivering just above him, its blade buried deep. His eyes cut back to Legolas. He had shifted and was lying on his side facing him, staring at him, his eyes wide and sparkling in the firelight. The gaze grabbed Aragorn's and he had the sensation of being tugged forward, helpless, held fast by the rigidity of the gaze. Legolas' face seemed different; gone were the hard edges and angles. It seemed...frightened, looser. He was licking his lips over and over again as though terrified to speak yet desperately needing to.

"Legolas?" Aragorn said quietly, lifting his head off his bedroll to watch him.

"Take it," Legolas whispered so quietly it was as if the words were as a breath on the air. "And these." Without rising he lobbed the bow, quiver, and second knife bound together as one ungainly package over Aragorn to land behind him. "Hide them." Legolas listened to himself speak as though from miles away. The words simply emerged, unbidden, mournful, powerless. "He sleeps now, but not for long."

Legolas paused.

"Send Gimli away with my weapons at first light. He plans on going for him first. Then you."

"Who, Legolas? What's going on?" Aragorn whispered back while reaching up and pulling the dagger from the bedroll and adding it to the collection of weapons behind him.

"Greenleaf. Me. The dark me. He wants to destroy everything I love, everything I hold dear."

"Why?"

"Hate. Not hate for you, but hate for me."

Legolas hesitated again. Then he reached beneath his blanket and untied the small drawstring leather pouch from his belt. He held it up and tossed it before the ranger / king.

Aragorn didn't make a move to take it. "What is it, Legolas? I know it's not medicine."

"It's not. Take it. The liquid in a vial... He draws his strength from it, and my strength from me."

Aragorn reached slowly for it. His hand closed around it, and without looking inside he drew it under his blanket. "What can I do? How can I help you?"

"You can't stop him and I'm not strong enough." Legolas paused, nervously licking his lips again, his eyes flittering as though straining to listening. After a moment his gaze refastened on Aragorn's and he continued. "He means to kill you, and he will if you don't stop this."

"How? How do I stop this?"

Silence. Then, "I have to die, Aragorn. I'm ready." Legolas locked Aragorn's eyes. The shine had left his, and now looking at them was like looking into twin pits of hell and despair. Aragorn shivered, more because of the heart-rending stare than because of what Legolas had said. But the words...they were the same words from the premonition.

Aragorn was wearing a small frown. Now it faded. "Ready to... No." He blinked. Swallowed, hard. "No. I-I can't."

"There's no other way." Breaths of words came out of Legolas' mouth as if spoken by someone else, some lost, frightened little child. "You have to do it. Aragorn, I can't stop it. Please. You don't understand – you can't save me. He'll lock me away in that black prison again, and next time I'll never get out. For pity sake, don't do this to me."

There was a long silence. Legolas knew Aragorn was not considering his request.

"Please," he said again. He was struck the how hopeless, how pitiful the very sound of the word was. "Don't leave me like this. I'm lost. I'm nothing. Please."

He hesitated again.

"Aragorn, I'm dying. We both are. It's already begun." His pleading eyes were bright with pain and weariness. Pity tugged at Aragorn's heart. Pity and his own personal pain. "As my friend, my brother, if our friendship meant anything to you, you will strike true and end this nightmare."

Aragorn couldn't answer; the pain in his heart was as a great lump in his throat, cutting off all words. He did the only thing he could do - he nodded.

Tbc...