As promised, another chapter.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed.

Encroaching Darkness part 27

By Ecri

Saruman urged his recalcitrant steed to greater speed, fuming when he realized it still held back. Unwilling to allow the beast to defeat him, even in such a minor test of wills he removed a wicked looking short whip from his saddlebags and struck the animal's rear flank. He did not bother to hide his enjoyment at the surprised, pain-filled whinnies and snorts with which the sudden burst of speed was accompanied. When he felt the horse begin to slow again a few moments later, he struck several more times until sweat and blood mingled on flank as well as whip. He allowed himself a sinister smile as the speed of his mount finally increased–and was maintained–to his satisfaction.

He had been surprised when Celeborn, that half-wit consort to the elf-witch, had hinted that perhaps his time would be better spent searching the tomes of his own library for a way with which to help Mirkwood's Prince. He sneered remembering Celeborn's words.

"We would think you have access to more spells than any other, Saruman. If the Prince is to be restored, we would have need of the secrets you have hidden away in your tower."

Saruman recalled how he had felt his own eyes narrow at the suggestion as he searched for some hidden meaning. Initially, he had demurred insisting he would be of much more benefit with them on their long journey.

"I would ride the rest of the way with you, Lord Celeborn. What spells I might possess in Orthanc are ancient and of little use to remedy a condition none have ever before seen." He'd been proud of his reply until Celeborn clarified the situation.

"Nevertheless, My Lady and I believe it to be an elven matter. As such it is best attended by elvesand those accepted as family."

He had, in the end, been forced to agree with Celeborn when it became clear he was not welcome in Lothlorien.

What, Saruman wondered, did the silver-haired fool know? Was he guessing? Saruman had many secrets within the walls of Orthanc, and he doubted Celeborn could possibly know what they were. He thought of the orcs who had recently come to speak to him, but he was certain he had not been seen, and certainly not by the Elf Lord.

His mind raced through the conversations he'd had with the others as they traveled, but he could not have given anything away. No. He was certain his secrets were still safe. Celeborn must have believed he truly held some ancient secrets that could help the elf. Neither he nor his Lady suspected anything. Relieved, he again struck his horse denying it rest as he forced it to gallop to Orthanc.

Celeborn had offered a smile, a sickeningly elvish smile, but his words told Saruman that, though the Lord and Lady most revered by elves in Middle-earth were still unwilling to appear rude to him for no justifiable reason, they did not trust him. That revelation in itself was a shock. When, Saruman wondered, had they begun to see his duplicity? What mistake could he possibly have made?

He discarded such questions as soon as he'd conceived them. Their distrust could be no more than emotional. There was no mistake he might have made. There was no chance he had given himself away. They were clearly reacting by closing ranks. In recent centuries, elves had begun to sequester themselves from the mortal races, and certainly many still residing in Middle-earth believed their troubles were best handled away from those of other races. Saruman had little doubt they would dismiss Gandalf next, and the human ranger, for all they claimed to consider him one of Elrond's sons, would likely be sent north long before the group reached the Golden Wood.

Saruman had been astonished to be so soundly excluded. He'd saddled his horse quickly, and, adopting an air of wisdom, let it be known that he would search Orthanc and even Gonodor's libraries themselves for some way to help the prince.

He had little recourse, but a return to Orthanc would likely be better for his plans than remaining with the elves. He had ways of assuring his own goals were met though he could not be present to bring his plans to fruition. He would achieve more on this journey than the distrustful Elf Lord could imagine.

**

The group traveled more swiftly than it previously had done and Gandalf was not certain that this was not from the relief of Saruman's departure. Why he himself should feel such relief was obvious. He was concerned by what Haldir and Tauron had told him. He had thought he would have time to confront his superior, but when Saruman had announced he would be leaving, Gandalf had little time to decide a course of action.

Unwilling to act in haste, he did take a moment to consider how he might broach the subject of Saruman's conversation with an orc, and, in the end, decided it best to follow his heart. He had information that he dared not keep secret.

Realizing he must speak to his superior for his own peace of mind if for no other reason, Gandalf approached the White Wizard as he was securing his last pack to his saddle.

"Saruman, before you leave I would have a word with you." He noted the frown of dissatisfaction that crossed the other Wizard's face, but he did not dwell on it. Saruman had always been less sociable than Gandalf might have wished.

"What words would you exchange, Gandalf? Have you some thought on how to cure the Prince?" Saruman leaned slightly toward Gandalf as he spoke, and Gandalf thought he saw an emotion he could not name flicker across his face. Curiosity? Eagerness? Anticipation? Irritation? It was all of these and none of them.

"Some have seen you using the Black Speech in conversation with Mordor's minions. I wondered if you had aught to say of such a thing. Were orcs so close by our campsite that you could be obliged to speak to them in their own tongue?" Gandalf kept his voice laden with curiosity but with no hint of recrimination. He watched the White Wizard carefully knowing his nonverbal response would be as revealing as his verbal one.

"Ah!" Saruman offered a slight smile as if pleased with something. "I am glad you have asked. The orcs are indeed close by. I did run into one who seemed bent on the capture of one of our group. I can only guess he was charged with taking whomever of us fell to that spell so recently cast on Elrond's second son and the Balrog Slayer. A spell in his own tongue soon sent him away believing he had said elves in his possession. I imagine there will be little amusement over the ruse once he reaches Mordor."

Gandalf smiled at the ruse. It was indeed a clever thing. "What spells of the Dark Tongue have you found?" Gandalf's interest was quickly kindled at the mention of such a thing. "Have you seen mention made of Legolas' condition?"

Saruman shook his head. "I have seen nothing that I can now recall at all similar to such a situation. I go to search my records. Perhaps even Gondor's unless I hear that you and the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien have restored the Prince."

Gandalf nodded. "I would love to see the scrolls from which you have learned so much of the enemy."

Saruman's face soured. "That is not your affair, Gandalf. We each have a different task set before us by the Valar. Yours and mine do not overlap."

Chagrined, Gandalf nodded again. "Of course. You are correct, Saruman. Forgive me."

Saruman nodded in easy acceptance as Gandalf bowed slightly in respect. "I would see the Prince and the human before I take my leave. Anything I know of young Legolas' condition can only aid my search for a cure."

Gandalf stepped aside to allow Saruman to pass, taking the reins of the horse to hold him steady as the White Wizard crossed the camp to stand by Legolas and Estel. He watched as Saruman knelt by the Prince and took his hand as though checking his condition. Then, offering a word of two to Thranduil, he glanced at Estel, who slept uneasily. He hesitated as though he would learn more, but seemed to change his mind. Returning to Gandalf's side, he claimed his horse.

"They are as I expected. I will ride swiftly, Gandalf, and I will come to Lorien or send a message when I find something." Saruman leaped upon his horse's back and raced away without looking back.

Several days had past uneventfully and the certainty that they moved if not more swiftly than certainly more easily with Saruman gone remained with Gandalf. It was likely just a releaser of tension. He knew several of the elves present had never felt entirely comfortable around Saruman. Perhaps it was the White Wizard's rank and authority, which the elves would consider of a different, more holy authority than any wielded by Elf Lord or King. This made little sense, of course, but Gandalf could think of no explanation.

He shook his head. Such pondering was something he could concern himself with much later. Perhaps in Lothlorien after they'd seen to Legolas' condition.

Legolas. It worried Gandalf that the young prince seemed to be having a difficult time dealing with his ownactions. He had not yet been able to convince the young one that he had done no ill in killing Pallando or in participating in the death of Alatar. Legolas had been unable–or perhaps unwilling–to speak of it again. Indeed, Aragorn had mentioned to Gandalf earlier that he believed Legolas' nightmares were worsening.

They would reach the Golden Wood in less than a week, and Gandalf could only hope being within its borders would ease Legolas' burden, but the fact remained, his nightmares would have to be dealt with whether he was restored to his Elven nature or not. The form of the dreams might be unique to Legolas because he was now human, but the guilt would have been there regardless. Legolas took great pleasure in his connection to Arda, his devotion to Eru, and his joy in the Great Song. He now somehow believed he had done the unforgivable, and the sorrow Gandalf sensed in him would likely only increase if he were restored. If that were to happen, he worried for Legolas' life.

He watched the Prince cradled in the arms of his father as they rode on to Lothlorien and wondered what would become of Mirkwood should its youngest prince succumb either to mortality or to elven grief.

**

Evening fell quickly and Legolas took comfort in the silence of the slumbering camp. He had eaten what he could, and had seen Estel being fussed over by his father and brothers nearly as much as his own family fussed over him. It was a relief to him to be able to stare up at the stars and listen to the sounds of the night. He knew he would have heard much more if heno. He would not dwell on what he had lost. He could not bear it. It would be enough to try to avoid the nightmares this night.

He had been dwelling recently on what he had done. Gandalf tried to assure him that he had done nothing wrong, but he found that almost impossible to accept. When it had happened, his instincts had taken over. Estel's life had been in danger. He'd done what he'd had to do. The certainty that Estel would have been killed had he not intervened made it impossible to regret what he'd done. He would trade his life for Estel's without question, without thought. Taking a life had always seemed unnatural to him, for destroying any part of Eru's creation seemed in itself almost blasphemous. Of course, Orcs were mockeries of Eru's creation, and taking the life of a wolf or warg or even one of Mirkwood's spiders was often a matter of self-preservation or of protecting someone else.

Was this any different?

He knew Estel and Gandalf would not have him think so. In truth, it was almost too easy to convince himself that he had acted rightly. Imagining the alternative–Estel's life cut short or perhaps twisted even as orcs were twisted forms of elves–seemed to justify what he had done. Seemed to.

It was, Legolas knew, a seductive and false reasoning. It was too easy to justify almost any action with such logic, and, if the ends were to justify the means, than the most hideous, horrendous acts would be much too readily acceptable.

He almost sighed but restrained himself. His father and brother had grown too sensitive to any sound or sign of discomfort or fatigue from him, and he had not the strength to deal with their concern right now.

His eyes, still focused on the stars above, brought his awareness to the sight. He too easily lost himself in the twists and turns of his own thoughts. Waking was as different for a human and an elf as sleeping, and he found his memory was not as sharp as once it had been. He had been speaking to his brother just this morning as they rode and Aglarelen had mentioned in passing several things they had shared once long ago. From the way he spoke of these memories, they had often spoken of them, reveled in themyet Legolas could not recall anything about what he had described. He had pretended though falsehood came not easily to him and he was certain his brother had seen through him.

He had always relished the keen memories of his kind. He'd once heard a man who'd come to Mirkwood as part of a group representing Dale remark to one of his companions that a man was the sum of his memories. He'd thought it an odd thing to say, since he was well aware that human memory was not as sharp as elven, though he did not know how greatly they differed. It had immediately occurred to him that if a man were the sum of his memories, an elf must be more so.

Now, he was losing those. His memories were all he had of some of his family and friends who had succumbed to either the call of the Sea or to orc arrows or elven grief. If his memory failed him, would he lose them all? His heart constricted as he though of his mother, his sister. His love for them, and theirs for him was still with him. That, he somehow knew, he would never forget.

The relief that flooded him at that realization almost distracted him from something else. His heart skipped a beat. His mother's faceher voicetreasured memorieswere leaving him. He stared at the night sky, watching the stars in their inexorable journey across the curtain of night, but he could not bring his mother's face to mind.

So lost was he in the terror and grief of it that he did not notice the first tears as they fled the corners of his eyes.

**

The days passed more quickly than any expected, and, though a few of the scouts and rear guards had seen orcs, none had come close enough to the travelers to cause concern.

Aragorn felt his own strength returning, though his father and brothers, and to a lesser extent, Legolas, still insisted upon more rest than he felt he needed. It was both heartening to be so loved, and frustrating to be so restricted.

He had noted Legolas' increasing silence over the last few days. Always somewhat more inclined to enjoy the quiet of a peaceful morning, his friend had begun to stretch his usual morning stillness until it lasted much of the day. Aragorn had seen Legolas responding to questions from his father and brother, but in as few words as possible. He did not seem inclined to converse with anyone for any length of time, and was often lost in his own thoughts. Aragorn knew how his friend's mind worked. He was brooding over something, and if his talent in that area had been formidable when he had been an elf, it had grown exponentially since his transformation.

He pulled his thoughts forcibly from such considerations. He had spent the last several days–near a week since Saruman had left–attempting to find a way to help his friends. Lost in his own thoughts, he knew his own father and brothers thought him as unnaturally silent as he thought Legolas had been.

He knew there was a way to cure his friend, if cure it could be called. He was certain of it. He'd dreamed last evening, and the images, when he'd been able to decipher had seemed to be telling him something.

Unable to decipher his own jumbled thoughts, he sought advice where he always did. He glanced to his left where he knew his father had been riding earlier in the day. The Lord of Imladris had taken to positioning himself close to Aragorn even though the young man was well enough to ride unaided. "Ada," Aragorn called softly hoping his voice would not carry to every other elf in the company.

Elrond's attention shifted to Aragorn immediately, a slight frown painting his features with a fatherly concern. "Estel? Are you well?"

Aragorn smiled. "I am well, Ada. Ihave something to discuss with you" He hesitated, unsure how exactly to discuss the vague thoughts and passing dream images that had raced through his mind during the last few days. Finally, he looked at Elrond. "I've been thinking about Legolas"

When he paused again, Elrond smiled. "That is hardly surprising news, my son. I've seen you watching him."

Aragorn returned the smile. "I need to help him, and I am sure that I canthat there is something we've overlooked" He groped for the words he needed. "I don't know how I know it, but I'm sure there is a way to reverse thisto restore him to himself."

Elrond nodded. "We all hope this is so, Estel."

"U-estel. Iston." (Not hope. I know.)

Elrond appeared slightly startled by the vehemence, the conviction in his son's words, but Aragorn rushed on with what little he could explain. "My dreams are haunted by images of him fighting somethingand losingit's as if he doesn't know how to fight it. It's as if he's doubts he can fight it."

"Fight what, my son?" Elrond's voice was soft, soothing, almost coaxing, and Aragorn looked into those ancient eyes wishing he had some answer.

"I don't know."

**

Elrond had not expected such a conversation with his son, though he had long been aware that Aragorn was tormenting himself about something. That he had some notion of being able to cure his friend did not surprise him in itself, but the certainty that he could do it was harder to explain away.

The Elf Lord had long told himself that there was something special about Aragorn, and it was not only that the young man was Isildur's heir. Elrond had, after all known all of Isildur's heirs in the long line of descendants that stretched from that Age to this. Aragorn was unique in the long line of Elros' descendents in his unwillingness to accept his destiny. Elrond recalled Arathorn's wholehearted embrace of the notion that he would be the one to reunite the Kingdoms of men and rule as King of Gondor. Though the man was a good man, an admirable leader, Arathorn had also become restless. Though all who knew his identity as Isildur's heir had cautioned secrecy, Arathorn had argued, quite eloquently, that he should return to Gondor and claim his birthright. After Aragorn's birth, Arathorn had, by turns, embraced the hiding and secrecy for his son's sake and yet also railed against in his restlessness.

Elrond believed the restless, unsatisfied nature of the man had been what had driven him to hunt orcs almost as relentlessly as Elrond's own sons.

Certainly, Arathorn had no intention of dying on such a hunt, and he had been a devoted if somewhat distant father for the two years he'd had a son, but his passing had left his child in a dire predicament.


Elrond had taken the boy and his mother into his home–into his heart–with no hesitation. He had seen at once that this boy would be the one his father had hoped to be.

Now, watching his son's insistence that Legolas would be well, Elrond wondered if it was his heart, his mind, or something else that was only now awakening–in time of great need–which told him such. It was, he knew, much to expect from one who–though he would rail at such a thought–was quite young. Still, Elrond had known for all of Estel's life–since the moment he'd hung the Elvish name on the frightened child who'd looked up at him with tears in his eyes–that this was a part of his nature even as it had not quite been present in Arathorn.

Elrond reached towards his son and placed one hand on his shoulder and with the other took his son's hand. "How is it you are so certain, my son. What have you seen?"

Aragorn looked away for a moment and Elrond wondered if he were groping for words to explain or simply sorting through his emotions so as not to speak with only that to support him.

He watched Aragorn take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Then the young man's eyes locked onto his father's. "I don't know." His voice seemed helpless and uncertain for a moment, but it took only another moment for that to fall away to reveal conviction and certainty once more. "I only know he is whole and hale and can be what he was"

Elrond took both his son's hands in his own. "Estel, tell me what you see. What images haunt your dreams?"

"It is not my dreamswell, perhaps it isor wasbut the images come now when I am awake"

"What images?" Elrond's patience with his children was very nearly limitless, and he exuded a sense of calm confidence in Estel in hopes that knowing Aragorn would see how great was Elrond's belief in him.

To Elrond's surprise, Aragorn smiled and his anxieties, which he had admirably controlled, seemed to flee. "Legolas will be well."

"So you say," Elrond said as his son failed to elaborate. "Will you not tell me more?"

Aragorn nodded and began to explain what he had begun to suspect.


To Be Continued