Thanks to everyone who tried to help me with my Word problems. I don't know what the actual problem was, but it was obviously more serious and widespread than I thought. My computer all but blew up a short time ago, and I had to reinstall everything when my system folder unexpectedlydisappeared or ate my programs. I'm not quite sure and neither are the tech support people.

Personally, I think it was Saruman, but try telling that to the people at Apple Care!

Here is part 30 and I do hope you enjoy it.

Your kind reviews have meant the world to me, and each one spurred me on to finish this each time the recreation of the pages I'd lost seemed overwhelming.

Forgive me for not responding to each review, but I'm in a bit of a hurry to post this and keep working on chapter 31. I will respond next time, I promise.

Encroaching Darkness part 30

By Ecri

Haldir had insisted on scouting ahead, and, though Tauron had accompanied him, neither had spoken. The March Warden had felt an uneasy dread since he and Tor had spotted the orcs trailing far behind them. He had seen them enter the caverns, so he was aware that they were no longer a problem, but the knowledge of their presence had colored his thoughts. He could not simply put aside the notion that they were, somehow, still being trailed.

He did not think Tor felt the same way, but they had not discussed it. He glanced at his friend, only to find Tor already looking at him.

"What is it?" Haldir asked wondering if he'd missed some sign that they were being followed.

Tor smiled. "It is nearly nightfall my friend, and you have yet draw an easy breath this day. I would say you are distracted, but I can see with what diligence you seek some sign of danger. What worries you?"

Haldir knew his actions that day had been transparent, but he was not yet able to express what had troubled him. "The orcs" he began but stopped before he could say more.

"The ones we spotted retreating to their caves at dawn?" Tor prodded gently, but, Haldir knew, would not push the other elf for answers he could not yet give.

"Yes." Haldir admitted it easily and glanced back behind him eyes narrowing as he sought some clue that they were being followed. There was nothing as there had been nothing all day aside from the unrelenting uneasiness that plagued him. He spoke softly, more to himself than to Tor. "I do not think they have slept this day away. They could have kept pace with us" He allowed his words to trail off as he really had not evidence to support his supposition.

"How could they keep pace with us?" Tor's question was sincere. "We have seen no sign of them. How can they hide themselves from us?"

Tor's question reminded Haldir that they had traveled at a much quicker rate today than they had before now. That, and the fact that orcs did not like daylight made it likely that the creatures had rested through the day. Every bit of reason and logic he possessed told him they would be in Lothlorien well before the orcs could catch up to them.

He shook his head slowly and looked Tor in the eye. "I know it makes no sense to think so, but I do believe there will be a battle before long."

Tor, who had been scanning their surroundings, turned startled eyes on the March Warden. "Battle? You believe they search for us to engage"

"Search? No. I believe they follow us even now. They do not intend for us to reach the Golden Wood." Haldir glanced towards Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. "They intend to leave none alive."

Tor followed Haldir's gaze, and, caught his breath at the thought of what the March Warden was suggesting. "How can you know this?"

Haldir shook his head. "I cannot say. I have only felt that there was some plot to keep us from reaching Lothlorien sincesince I saw Saruman with that orc" He had indeed felt there was some trouble on the horizon, and Saruman was somehow linked to it. There was little he could do to prevent such trouble, but he knew he would not be caught unawares. Motioning to Tor to follow, he gathered together a band of his best warriors. He himself would head the group that would defend the Lord and Lady, but he had assigned a small group to cover King Thranduil and his sons, and Lord Elrond and his sons. He would not allow a single one of the Elven Leaders to come to harm if there was the slightest chance he could protect them.

Darkness was just beginning to descend as Elrond watched daylight give way to night. The stars appeared slowly, but the one he sought was easy enough to find. Eärendil shone first and foremost every evening, and was always last to leave the sky each morning. It gave Elrond a measure of comfort to see his father again, even if only from this unfathomable distance.

Elrond contemplated his youngest son's plan to help Legolas, and couldn't help but think that Galadriel and Celeborncertainly Gandalf!would be able to find some other cure.

Of course, if no other way could be devised, he would not interfere, and would indeed help Aragorn in his desperate attempt to save his friend, but that did not keep him from hoping such an effort would not be needed. He had long known his son–his many times great grand nephew if he wanted to be precise–would one day wish to claim his birthright. It was simply that he had decided long ago that there was no more to it than appearing in Gondor with the Ring of Barahir and establishing that he was the rightful Heir of Isildur.

Training. Aragorn needed training in this even as he had needed training in all the skills he now possessed. Certainly, he'd possessed an innate talent for these skillshunting, tracking, swordplaybut without proper instruction, his talents would have wasted away.

This was no different. This was a skill that could be learned, but only if the latent talent was there to be honed. It might prove to be a moot point, however, if Aragorn did not possess the talent. Oh, he was skilled enough in the healing arts Elrond had already imparted, but there was a chance that he had not the skills he would need to do as he suggested. Not all healers did.

He knew it would be best if Aragorn did indeed possess the skills, the innate talent he would need to achieve what he proposed. It would be better for Aragorn, for Legolas, and perhaps, if he dared hope it, it would be better for all of Middle-earth.

Of course, even if he possessed such talent, it would be a difficult way to find out about it. Such a healing as he proposed would be difficult for the most experienced of healers. Aragorn was not experienced. He was at mostenthusiastic.

Elrond was certain that Aragorn would give everything he possessed to save Legolas. What he was less certain about was whether all that Aragorn possessed would be enough to save Legolas.

Aglarelen kept one eye on his brother as the group pushed forward intent on reaching their destination before dawn. They would not stop for their evening meal. Those requiring it would eat as they traveled. Many of the elves would likely forego eating until they reached the Golden Wood. Estel and Legolas were the only two who would likely require something.

The Crown Prince of Mirkwood wished there were more he could do for his brother. That Legolas had begun to open up to him and to their father was surprising, but his words, his heartbroken admission that he was forgetting thingstheir mother, details of past celebrations, even some of the songs that he had once delighted in singing

Aglarelen shook his head. He had wondered why Legolas seemed hesitant to sing lately, and his brother's hesitant words gave him a reason he had never suspected. He wasn't hiding the change to his singing voice but rather he was hiding the change in his memory. Songs he knew as well as he knew his name were gone. Not all of them, but he did not wish to be in the middle of some Lay and find he had no idea what words came next.

He knew Legolas had always found solace in singing and that this solace was denied him now when he most needed it both saddened and infuriated the Crown Prince. More than anything he wished to know whatwas responsible for this. It could not be natural. If it be a spell, then someone had to cast it. Whoever had done it, Aglarelen wished only for a moment alone with the being. That would be more than enough time to make the evil creature–for evil he must be to do such a thing–pay for this.

He glanced towards his father suddenly ashamed of such thoughts and certain as only an errant child might be that his father knew what revenge-centered schemes raced through his mind. Thranduil was, of course, preoccupied with Legolas. Relieved that he had been spared the disapproving glower he was certain was his due, Aglarelen's gaze unconsciously followed his father's line of sight to see Legolas, easily keeping up the swift pace they'd all adopted as they neared Lothlorien.

As Aglarelen watched his youngest brother, he saw Legolas stiffen suddenly, turn to look behind him and peer intently to the rear of the company. The Crown Prince was astonished when, with a speed he doubted he himself could ever have matched, Legolas' bow–seemingly with an arrow already notched there–appeared in Legolas' hands. "Yrch!" Legolas cried loudly by way of warning at precisely the moment when Haldir's voice spoke the same word calling all warriors to prepare for the battle.

Wondering how he could possibly have missed signs even his now human brother had easily read, Aglarelen turned to face this newest threat.

Arrows flew through the air with a speed no human could match while elven swords met orc blades in a macabre cacophony. Most of the elves had dismounted to assist in engaging the orcs. Legolas, Thranduil, and Aglarelen followed suit. Legolas, Aragorn saw, was well protected. His father and his brother on either side of him, Aragorn saw him twice stay his arrow with great effort as his family seemed to drift in front of his weapon in their effort to protect him.

Frustration was not a thing the proud archer bore easily or well, but he made no comment and merely seemed to take slightly more care to shoot in the opposite direction from both of them. Certainly, there was no shortage of targets.

The Ranger had little time to wonder at his friend's state of mind, since he immediately found himself battling an orc of immense size and particular repulsiveness. The orc howled as its blade sliced the air. Aragorn's own blade lashed out and struck the orc's with a ferocity that the Ranger was certain would have shattered a lesser blade. With a howl of his own, Aragorn returned the blow and after a flurry of such strikes, managed to hit orcflesh. Black blood spurted high in foul arc as Aragorn's blade severed the creature's head from his shoulders. The body stood a moment, swaying, as though unsure if it should fall over or if it might continue the battle without benefit of the hideous head that once commanded it. A moment later, it fell to the ground.

Aragorn turned searching for another opponent just in time to see Elladan, already fighting two orcs, beset upon by a third. With a speed born of desperation, Aragorn made his way to his brother's side, blindsiding the minion of Mordor and forcing his blade to intercept a blow meant for Elladan. The orc was more than startled by the sudden appearance of a human between him and the elf he had targeted, and drew his sword back, enraged that it had not struck where he had intended. A deep growl was all the warning Aragorn was given, but it was more than enough.

In a move as crude and unelflike as it was effective, Aragorn nimbly twisted aside stepping backwards and to the left and bringing his sword down to strike a fatal blow at the hapless orc's neck. Sparing time for neither relief nor triumph, Elrond's sons continued fighting, and Aragorn could not help but wonder how–and from where–so many orcs had appeared.

Glorfindel pulled his sword from the dead orc's chest, his senses already scanning the area for any elf in need of aid. Before the orc he'd slain hit the ground, Glorfindel's sword was already raised in protection of Lord Elrond. The Lord of Imladris fought on, unaware that his life had just been saved, and that Glorfindel now positioned himself at Elrond's back to keep another of Mordor's creatures from taking the Elf Lord unaware.

It took much to terrify Glorfindel, but the current scenario was close to doing it. He and the others, he knew, would fight bravely, but if they should be overwhelmed, the leadership of the elves of Middle-earth would be gone. He had no misconceptions about the fate of King Thranduil and Mirkwood's Royal Line. The Orcs would take great pleasure in destroying those who had so hindered their progress in turning Mirkwood to the Shadow.

Elrond would certainly be a prize to the fell creatures as well. He who had protected Rivendell for so long and so well would be dismembered or worse.

It was with the final pair that Glorfindel's dark thoughts took a darker turn. The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood at the mercy of orcs and goblins was a thought he could not bear. Not that it was an easier burden to think of the others at the hands of such evil, but the Lady of Light should not be touched by such darkness. It would somehow make the defeat of all elvendom seem inevitable.

Glorfindel did not think his people would survive such a loss

As his thoughts swirled in their dark maelstrom, Glorfindel's blade sliced through air and orc. He felled orc after orc, his movements a very dance in their rhythm, yet deadly in their purpose. The Balrog Slayer attacked another that would have taken the head of his Lord's second son with barely a blink when another thought assaulted him. They had come so far on this quest to cure the young prince. He could not allow them to fail. He could not allow these dark beasts to prevent them from saving Legolas. With renewed vigor and an intensity that should have been beyond increasing, Glrofindel stopped defending and attacked.

Gandalf swung both sword and staff in a dance of his own making, striking orc after orc with a ferocity belied by his appearance. Battling amongst elves was both heartening and disturbing. Heartening because no creature in all of Iluvatar's Creation fought with such skill and intensity. Disturbing because the frenzied grace of an elf in battle made one wonder how a creature so fair and light could become so hard and dark–even briefly.

The battle itself was more of a puzzle than he cared to admit. He'd known the orcs had followed, but he had assumed they would not attack so large a company. He had not considered that they would have a company even larger.

He cracked an orc skull with his staff even as Glamdring deprived another orc of the use of his arm.

How long the battle raged, Gandalf would not have guessed, but the tide seemed to be turning. He spared a glance at Galadriel. Upon her face alone, of all the elves present, there was no hint of ferocity or battle frenzy. An infinite sadness emanated from those eyes, mesmerizing, haunting, and compelling. The Grey Wizard recognized the look. Galadriel, bloody sword in her hand, had paused in battle, trusting to her husband and her March Warden to keep her safe while the vision overwhelmed her. She saw something, and from her reaction to it, it was not a pleasant sight.

Gandalf shuddered at the thought, but he knew as well as she did that the foresight was not always accurate. The future was not so set in stone that it could not be altered. It was more than a curiosity, however. Galadriel had not–would not have–called forth this vision. The Lady of the Golden Wood might be no longer the warrior she once was, but she was experienced nonetheless. She would not encourage such distraction in the midst of battle. Something had come to her unbidden. Something that even now, if he could judge by the look on her face, saddened her beyond words.

He dispatched two more orcs, quickly if not cleanly, and fought his way to her side. He noted Celeborn's eyes darting in her direction as he fought to keep safe the Lady of his Heart. His eyes locked then on the Silver Lord's, and, without the need for words, a vow to keep Galadriel safe passed between them.

With a great shiver and a sharp intake of breath, Galadriel came back to them. Her eyes, still focused on the memory of her vision, searched through the battle as though seeking something–or someone. Her eyes stopped roaming, and Gandalf noticed the minute trace of relief as it flooded through her.

Disturbed, Gandalf stepped closer. Had she expected–or perhaps feared–that one of their number had fallen? He followed her gaze and saw it resting then on a small knot of elves, but he could not tell which it was whose presence she had doubted.

She glanced toward him then, her eyes wide and still pain-filled. "Go, Mithrandir. Go to his side, for he may well fall."

"Who? What have you seen?" Gandalf's eyes searched her face as though he might read the answers to his questions there.

Her words were a whisper. "Hope must not fail."

In surprise, he turned to look towards the knot of elves that had taken her attention and saw one human fighting in their midst. Orcs were nearly overwhelming the Imladris elves as they struggled against the horde. Gandalf saw Lord Elrond block a blow meant for his youngest son even as the Elf Lord moved to position himself back to back with the young Ranger. Without seeming to be aware of it, Aragorn's fighting style altered slightly as he kept in step with his father move for move protecting as much as he himself was protected.

Galadriel called again to the Wizard. "Go to his side, Mithrandir."

Without acknowledging her words, he moved at once to follow her orders only slightly surprised to see Haldir fighting at his side.

Aragorn knew his father had moved to stand by him, but did not allow himself to feel any relief at the Elf Lord's proximity. Relief could lead to sloppiness in battle, and, though young in the eyes of those he loved most, Aragorn was experienced enough to know that sloppiness could lead to death–for himself or for others. He would not risk those he loved.

He managed to fell another creature of Mordor when he became aware of the arrows flying around him. They were dark arrows hastily fletched in black feathers where they were fletched at all. Even the sound they made as they flew to their targets was nothing like the quieter yet more musical sound their elven counterparts made. He followed the flight of one backward to try to locate the orcs who used them, but they were hidden among the dense foliage to his left.

Elven arrows sailed through the air in answer to the orcs challenge, and Aragorn did not hide his smile of grim satisfaction as he heard the screams and thuds as they found their mark. Though raised among elves, he could not help but marvel at such skill. No human could have done such except by chance.

He stepped back in surprise as an orc twice his size loosed a battle cry and struck with strength unmatched. Aragorn raised his blade, blocking the blow. Spinning slightly towards the right, he managed to bring the blade around and under the orcs defenses striking with deadly accuracy.

Even as the corpse slid to the ground, Aragorn's felt himself propelled backward as something struck him. No blade or stone or arrow, this something forced him to the ground. The flash of golden hair in the familiar braids of Mirkwood warriors told him who it was, but his recognition became horror at the sight of the black flectched arrow protruding from his friend's back.

Aglarelen kept one eye on his brother throughout the battle. Though, if Legolas had caught him, the younger prince would be utterly convinced that Algarelen did so because he did not trust his brother's human abilities, Aglarelen had been doing the same since Legolas' first battle. It was not that Legolas was less of a warrior or that he had given Aglarelen any cause to believe that he could not hold his own in battle. No, Aglarelen was certain of his brother's prowess. No Archer in all of Mirkwood could equal Legolas. Yet Aglarelen's fear for his brother's safety was unequaled. He had fought with his other brother's many times, and his anxieties for them were real enough, but he had been surprised at the depth of his fear for Legolas.

After Legolas' first battle, Aglarelen has assumed it would be dispelled, but when it was not, he had spoken to his father of it.

Thranduil had listened to his words and admitted that he himself was fearful for all of his children. "Perhaps your bond with Legolas is stronger than you yet imagine," his father had suggested. He'd had to accept that answer then, and in the intervening years, he had seen that it was true, He and Legolas depended on each other much as Oropherin and Tarmathalion depended on each other. Why that should be so he could not tell, but it was enough that it was so.

Aglarelen watched as Legolas pulled an arrow from his quiver and plunged it into the soft throat of an advancing orc and pulled it from the bleeding corpse before nocking it and firing it at another a distance away. Where did he learn that trick? Aglarelen wondered.

He had little time to ponder the question as his blade found another mark and another. By the time he turned from the pile of dead orcs he'd collected at his feet, Legolas, caught in the ebb and flow of battle, had moved a distance away. Aglarelen headed towards his brother, glad to see that he was not alone. He'd managed to move closer to Aragorn and Lord Elrond.

Aglarelen's satisfaction deteriorated in moments. He saw, as though time itself slowed to allow him a better view, an arrow heading towards Aragorn. Just as he would have shouted a warning, he saw his brother, determination set upon his face, as he hurled himself at the Ranger. The burst of fear overwhelmed him, and Aglarelen felt his heart beat erratically in response. He heard nothing but saw the macabre and chilling image of his brother screaming silently as he fell, the dark arrow protruding from his back.

The fear unloosed him even as time itself resumed its normal march, and Aglarelen heard his own voice as his anguished scream echoed across the battleground.

Legolas had long been accustomed to fighting side by side with Aglarelen, but it had not always been so. It had been, when Legolas was a novice, a goal so unattainable in his young thoughts, that even now, he was sometimes surprised at having achieved it.

He knew he was considered a skillful warrior in his own right, and he was confident in his own abilities, but he had long held his brother as the best of the best and would not–could not–conceive of being as able as he. Especially now. He knew he was holding his own, but he felt his reflexes were not what they should be. His ears could not identify the numbers of orcs by sound alone. His eyes could not penetrate the shadows to single out the menace. His soul could not heed the warning of the trees themselves, nor touch the melody of Eru's Song. It was a burden even now in the height of battle.

Legolas did not long consider such things. He had not the time. He compensated as well as he could for what he now lacked as he would have done for any physical injury if circumstances required that he fight while in less than peak condition. In some moments, in a blissful instant that would pass so quickly he could not be certain he'd felt it, he could almost recapture it. He could almost see, hear, feel what had been stolen from him. Like moments of clarity within a befuddled mind or a second or two of clear vision after hours of blindness he would feel his body want to move as it once had, feel his senses almost meeting his expectations.

He was not quite sure if those instants should bring him despair or hope.

The crush of the battle moved him gradually from his brother's side, and before he'd been quite aware of it, he was engaged in knife work with a gnarled old orc. This particular orc seemed to have a fire in his eyes so bright did his hatred of the elf he faced burn in them.

Legolas slashed with both knives, slitting the orcs throat. Before it hit the ground, he'd already sheathed one knife, plucked an arrow from his quiver, and sunk it deep into an approaching orc's throat before fitting it to his bow and letting it fly. Though he did not watch it, he knew he'd struck his target.

Fatigue was something all archers felt, and, now that he was human, he believed it came much more quickly than it should. He paused as he searched for another target, another ally in need of aid, when he noticed Aragorn. The Ranger was holding his own against the orcs he fought, but it was the threat his friend could not see that gripped Legolas' heart with an icy touch and a surge of fear.

An orc across the clearing drew an arrow from his quiver. Its hideous oily lips were drawn back in a grimace as it sighted down the arrow and let fly. Legolas reached instinctively for his own arrow, looking fearfully over his shoulder as his fingers enclosed only empty air. He'd used his last arrow. He had no time–and certainly no opportunity–to search for another. Knowing a shout would not help, knowing instinctively that the arrow would hit its target simply by the path, he did the only thing he could.

All of this had taken only seconds within Legolas' mind, though time seemed stretched before him as though he had minutes rather than seconds. Legolas turned towards Aragorn, desperate to save his friend, and sprinted towards the Ranger. Within the instant of physical contact, time reasserted its familiar pattern and he felt every moment as he plowed into Aragorn. The bite of the orc arrow stole his breath away even as he struck the ground. He did not hear Aragorn call his name.

To Be Continued