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World's End

Chapter 4: Valley of Dying Stars

Aragorn kept watch that night, staring relentlessly out into the dark. The howls continued throughout the night, and his sword never once left his hand.

Gandalf had broken the news to the hobbits that they were not going to be able to risk a fire for some time, so they had better enjoy this one. A few protests had made themselves known, but they were cut off by a chorus of wolf howls heard in the distance. Nothing else needed to be said.

There were no songs or tales after dinner this night. The hobbits and Gimli immediately fell into an exhausted sleep, stretched out wherever they could find the room. Boromir followed their example shortly afterwards. Gandalf exchanged a few, quiet words with Aragorn before going off to find his own resting ground. That left the Elves chatting amiably with one another, and the Ranger prowling around for a suitable look-out spot.

He finally decided on a rather large boulder that afforded him a good view of their campsite and the surrounding area. Once comfortable---as comfortable as one could be sitting on a rock in the freezing cold---he turned his eyes to his two friends sitting below him.

Ylana was obviously in the middle to some tale, gesturing emphatically, with Legolas laughing at whatever she was saying. The blizzard had subsided, and now the flakes were spiraling down in lazy circles once more. A few moonbeams managed to break through the clouds, turning the landscape into a glittering wonderland. It was enough to steal one's breath away.

But Aragorn's breath had already been taken.

As if he managed to somehow attract it, some of the Moon's light was shinning directly down onto Legolas. It highlighted his already-pale skin, set his eyes sparkling, and caused the snowflakes trapped in his hair to glitter like gems.

He's beautiful.

The Man couldn't keep that thought from running through his mind, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. He thought again of Arwen, the promise she had made to him ere the Fellowship was formed. But, even though he was desperately trying to think of his fiancée, he still could not take his eyes off of the male Elf that sat below him.

Ylana reached out to brush an errant lock of hair from the prince's face, and the Ranger felt his heart twist in jealousy. He finally managed to wrench his gaze away from the pair and return it to the surrounding darkness, though it was not without great difficulty.

There were very few trees scattered about, and these were painfully skinny. Aragorn knew that, after tomorrow, there would be no trees left at all. Boromir had voiced the clever idea of carrying wood with them in case they had to have a fire later. Gandalf had agreed that the idea was a sound one, sending the Elves racing forward once again. Tree branches and other odds and ends of wood now lay at the bottom of the packs bore by the humans.

A chittering sound to Aragorn's left suddenly demanded his attention. He watched the scarce brush anxiously, gripping his sword so tightly he could feel his heartbeat in his knuckles. Then he let out a sigh and relaxed when a rabbit bounded out, stopped, sniffed the air, then turned and ran right back into his protective covering. You are wound too tightly, m'friend.

Another airy laugh floated up to him from the area right below him. He gritted his teeth and went back to clutching the hilt of his sword, but did not look down. He didn't think he could. And it's no wonder…

Aragorn had always been completely content with his life. He was a Ranger, out in the wilds of Middle-Earth with those that were left of his bloodline. He would return home to Rivendell ever so often to visit his father, pull pranks with his brothers, and spend time with the love of his life. No one but the Elves knew he was the heir to the throne of Gondor, and while they encouraged him to accept his destiny, no one was forcing him. He was in love with Arwen, and his best friend was the prince of Mirkwood.

Now everything had been turned completely upside down. His destiny as the King of Men was slowly and inescapably creeping up on him, and he was now entertaining feelings for his best friend that he used to feel only by being around his lover.

He massaged the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh. Don't think about all of this right now. You'll only manage to give yourself a headache, and that's a luxury you can't afford.

He was beginning to feel very, very old.

Mirkwood was in an uproar. There was no better way to describe the atmosphere in the Elven kingdom. It seemed to King Thranduil that, every time he turned around, yet another Elf was being brought to the castle by frantic relatives, victims of the mysterious illness that seemed to be sweeping over the land.

Thranduil---though a proud man----would be the first to admit that he was at a complete loss. He'd always been told that Elves couldn't get sick, and had never seen anything to contradict that belief. At least, not until two days ago when Seridwyn, an old playmate of his younger son, had been brought in by her baffled father. She had a dangerously high fever, and could not be woken by anything or anyone. Another one had been brought in only hours later.

Now the palace was full of Elves, more so than usual. Sick ones, and those that were here to tend to them. He had brought back some of his guards from boarder patrol to place them around the castle. The king knew well that, if any of their enemies were watching and became aware of their situation, now would be the perfect time to launch an attack.

His advisors did everything they possible could to keep him from the main chamber, which had been turned into a sickroom. The last thing Mirkwood needed at the moment was for her ruler to fall ill as well. And, since no one had any way of knowing how this sickness was being spread, they didn't want to take any chances.

But Thranduil had brushed their pleadings aside. He was their King, dammit! He was not going to stay safely hidden away in the shadows while his people suffered.

So it was that he found himself in his main Audience Hall, now home to thirty sick Elves. Thranduil felt himself fall into what could only be shock. As his eyes fell on each unnaturally pale face with closed eyes, a name sprang easily to his mind. Sirithwethien, Alcbelethiel, Calenbelethiel, Mortur…I've known them all of their lives!

His heart suddenly felt very heavy, and it took every ounce of royal pride he possessed not to flop down in the nearest chair, bury his face in his hands and cry.

Not for the first time---and he doubted it would be the last---he desperately wished that his younger son was here as well. Oh, it wasn't that Annolir was standing idly by and letting commoners do all of the work. The Crown Prince would gladly fetch water, herbs…Anything that the grim-faced Healers needed. But Annolir, having spent most of his time locked away alone so that he could study, was a bit cold around others. He was not used to dealing with people, especially on an emotional level such as this, and wasn't sure how to comfort the family and friends that kept vigils at bedsides.

But Legolas…No matter the situation, the younger prince seemed to know exactly what to say and when. If he looked hard enough, Thranduil could just see him now, threading his way through the room, touching a shoulder here, a hand there, whispering words of comfort and hope into distraught ears.

A smile found its way to the king's lips. Ah, Legolas. Even when you are not here, you are not far from my mind and heart, neth pen-nin. (1)

"Ada?" (2)

He blinked as the sound of the soft voice reached his ears, and his vision went from the ghost of his younger son to the sparkling green eyes of his elder.

Thranduil's smile grew wider, assuring his son that there was nothing wrong with him. "Forgive me and my absent-mindedness, Annolir. I must admit that I find myself in a bit of a shock over all of this." He reached out and gently touched his son's cheek. "How are you faring?" His voice was soft, tinged with concern. Oh, Annolir was physically fine. But matters of the soul were often a far cry from that of the body.

Annolir let out a sigh. "I must admit that I am a bit weary, and heartsick as well. I have seen many friends here, and not all of them have fallen ill. But I will push my feelings aside to do what is best for my people."

Thranduil was aware of a little warning bell going off in the back of his head as his son's words registered in his brain, but he had too many other things to worry about at the moment.

His hand moved down to find a place on Annolir's shoulder, which he squeezed. "Then you will make a much better ruler than I could ever hope to be."

Annolir ducked his head as he flushed under his father's praise. "Thank you, Ada."

With a sigh, Thranduil turned to stare out of one of the many windows that lined the chamber with troubled eyes. "I can only pray that your brother is well," he said softly.

He was so busy trying to puzzle through his thoughts that he never saw Annolir's emerald eyes flash dangerously at the mention of Legolas, or his hands curl into fists. No, the king of Mirkwood had too many other things on his mind at the moment.

Spotting one of the Healers trying to carefully pick her way across the room, he quickly hurried to her side. "Amalyn," he said quietly to get her attention without starling her.

The Healer in question gave him a quick nod. She would have offered him a proper, respectful bow, but she was inhibited by the stack of towels she currently held in her arms. "My Lord."

"Is there somewhere we can talk?"

The young Elf bit her lip and looked around. There were Healers begging for the towels, but she couldn't just leave her king when he obviously needed her! "My Lord, I'm not sure if I---"

He held up a hand, and she immediately fell silent. But she was still biting her lip. "I understand, and I promise that I will not keep you from your duties long. I have questions to ask about this…sickness"---he was still having trouble even saying the word---"and a Healer seemed the most logical person to ask." He flashed her a grin, hoping to set her obviously taut nerves at ease.

Amalyn let out a sigh, but at least she put her stack of towels down. "As you wish, my Lord. But do try to make it quick."

Thranduil offered a nod of thanks, not knowing how he could even begin to express of how relieved she suddenly made him feel. He grasped her elbow gently and led her to a relatively quiet corner of the room. "Tell me, Amalyn. Is there anything you or the other Healers can do?"

The Healer let out a sigh that seemed as heavy as his heart and passed a weary hand over her eyes. "We've tried everything that we safely know how to. But they're not responding to our treatments. This is disease, a mortal sickness, and we are not used to dealing with mortals. Well, except for your son's Ranger friend, that is."

Thranduil nodded, as though this had been what he expected to hear from her. An idea had been forming in his head ever since his initial shock had worn off and, with the Healer's words, he knew that it was probably his best course of action. "Get the Healers to pack all of the things they think they will need for a five-day journey. Herbs, towels…anything and everything. Get the sick prepared to travel as well. We shall leave with tomorrow's first light."

Amalyn frowned, not understanding a bit of what had just been said. "My Lord?"

He had already turned away and was striding purposefully towards the door. He couldn't stop to explain. He had too much to do before morning. But, as he disappeared into the throng of people, he called back over his shoulder and she was able to catch his words clearly.

"We make for Rivendell."

The snow had finally stopped by the time the Sun began to splash color onto the otherwise white world. The clouds had parted, and the sky revealed itself to be a sparkling blue. They ate a meager breakfast---though no one complained---then were on their way once again.

Legolas wasn't near as cheerful as he had been the day before, and Aragorn didn't know whether to be happy or worried about this. He missed hearing his friend's infectious laughter and seeing his eyes sparkle with the same light that had been there when the human was a child, but he couldn't forget what Gandalf had confided in him the night before.

The fact that someone was casting spells on Legolas, and that Gandalf had no clue as to whom…Well, 'worried' was an understatement as to how Aragorn was currently feeling.

Is someone trying to hurt Legolas? Is this another trick of Annolir's? If so, why didn't he just get Saruman to do it? Would he be afraid that Gandalf was recognize the magick signature of another Istari? But who besides an Istari would have that kind of power?

And what can we---what can I---do?

Aragorn absolutely could not stand to feel helpless. He knew fear well and welcomed her with open arms. It could be an asset at times. Fear kept you from over- or underestimating your enemies. He had known what it was like to lose hope, to completely give up. All of these emotions he gladly took into stride.

But helplessness? Sitting back and watching something happen to your best friend and knowing that there was nothing---nothing at all---you could do to help him? It went against every moral Aragorn had ever been taught.

Then again, he had to remember that Gandalf had never said anything about it being bad. He just said that he could sense the crackle of magick around the male Elf, and that it was no wizard who was behind it.

So maybe someone is trying to help him.

But Aragorn seriously doubted it.

He was brought from his thoughts quite abruptly by Frodo, who had chosen that moment to trip and begin a wild tumble down the mountain.

"Frodo!" Aragorn called as he ran forward to catch the poor hobbit before he could roll off into a ravine.

Frodo grunted as he crashed into the Ranger's boots, but was more than grateful for the soothing hands that pulled him back to his feet. As Aragorn brushed the snow from his shoulders, he instinctively reached for the chain around his neck.

And immediately began to panic.

The Ring! He started to blindly grope around, hoping that it had simply slipped off of his neck and fallen into his shirt.

Then his eyes caught a glint of gold lying a few feet away, where he had began his tumble, and he let out a sigh of relief. Before he could move to retrieve it, however, another hand reached down to lift the chain from the snow.

"Boromir," Aragorn called out in a cautious tone of voice.

A deadly silence had descended on the Company as they all turned to stare at the human warrior, who had brought the Ring closer to his face as though for inspection.

"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing," he said, seeming to speak more to himself than anyone else. "Such a little thing." Still staring at the golden object before his eyes, his other hand began to reach for the Ring.

"Boromir!" Aragorn called again, his voice sharper this time. The man gave a slight jump as though he had been startled, then turned to the Ranger. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

Boromir looked torn for a moment, then begin walking forward, holding the Ring out in front of him as though it were an offering of some sorts. "As you wish," he said, his tone slightly mocking. Frodo quickly grabbed the Ring from him, eying him suspiciously. "I care not." He exchanged a glance with Aragorn---Gimli could have sworn it was one of challenge----then, with a laugh, ruffled Frodo's hair before moving on.

Moving slowly so that no one would notice, Aragorn released his grip on the hilt of Anduril.

Elrond was beyond being exhausted. He hovered around Glorfindel's bed, a very fidgety Erestor not far behind. Normally, the Lord of Rivendell would have said something teasingly to his councilor, but he couldn't have thought of anything to say at the moment even if he had wanted to. He had matters more pressing than Erestor's hidden feelings for the blond Elf.

Like the fact that twenty-odd Elves had somehow fallen sick, and Elrond had no idea how to heal them.

With a profound sigh, he pulled the blanket up to Glorfindel's chin and turned to leave. "I've done all I can for him now," he said in a quiet voice, averting his gaze so that he wouldn't have to meet Erestor's anguished eyes. "I've got to go see to Lindir. He---"

"Lord Elrond!" came a cry as someone burst into the room. Elrond quietly groaned as he closed his eyes, knowing exactly why the messenger had come. "My Lord, there's been another…"

"Take me to him," he replied in a tired voice, wondering who it could have been this time. "After that, I want you to ready more rooms."

The messenger looked at him quizzically, hoping that he did not expect too many more to fall. "My Lord?"

"I have a feeling that Rivendell will not be the only Great Kingdom to fall to this…" He waved his hand in the air, too tired to think of a proper term. "Whatever this is" He managed a tired smile. "We've become the valley of dying stars, so it would seem."

The messenger nodded, and continued down the corridor, Elrond falling him closely. Elves aren't supposed to get sick. Yet I've already had twenty fallen, apparently with more to go. And, if I'm right, we're not the only ones suffering such losses.

What on Arda is going on?

(1)neth pen-nin-----------------my young one

(2)Ada---------------------------Father