Note: Thank you for the continued encouragement of all previously named readers / reviewers, Elf771 (far be it from me to think of this writing as anywhere near Tolkien's, but thank you) and Shaan Lien (whose own stories are inspirational).

I don't know how to rate this, but please note that there is some description of blood and death at the beginning of this chapter, just in case there are children reading.


CHAPTER 17: VOICES IN THE DARK

Sounds of battle, of yells and commands, of whistling arrows and clashing swords rent the foul air of Dol Guldur. Golden-haired and dark-haired elves with bright eyes and gleaming scythes and swords, a strange light illuminating their countenance and enveloping their every movement, assailed Sauron's forces with the fury of a lightning storm that dispelled the shadows of the dark forest stronghold.

Sarambaq watched his troops fall around him, their cries of pain and fear and death resounding in his ears. He was their leader, but he was powerless to keep his forces together.

Even as he desperately fended off the swords of two elves, he saw his son some distance away. His young face was a mask of blazing anger as he engaged in a sword fight with the elf king of Mirkwood. Their swords clashed as they parried and thrust. A surge of protectiveness welled up in him, and he tried to make his way over to where they were, but the elves around him thwarted his attempts to move from his position. In between warding off blows to his own body, his stolen glances told him his son was holding himself well. His youthful body dodging a swing of the elven sword, he swung his own sword fiercely at the mid-section of the king.

Youth, however, offers no surety of life, no certain protection against mortality, and the next scene played out in front of Sarambaq's eyes was one that would haunt him incessantly all the years of his life to come.

The litheness of elves, even in one as venerable as Thranduil, saved the king when he stepped back just in time from what would have been a lethal slash. But the momentum of the young man's movement as he crouched to evade the earlier swipe of the elven sword, threw him off-balance. The golden-haired king did not waste the chance. He swiftly drew his arm back and with a powerful stab, thrust his sword into the chest of his opponent who would have just as readily ripped open his own moments ago.

Like watching a series of images unveiled slowly behind a curtain of moving water, the father watched as his son stayed motionless at the end of the sword, then slowly crumbled to the ground even as the elven sword was withdrawn and his blood spurted forth. The elf king's head lowered for a brief instant before he turned and raced away to continue the battle for the woods of Dol Guldur.

A silent wail of depthless agony and grief rose and caught in Sarambaq's throat and stayed there; only the swish of an elven blade drawing blood from his arm brought him back to his own predicament. With the savaged fury of a bereaved father, he slashed out with greater ferocity than he thought possible and slew two astonished elves with one long sweeping arc of his sword. Before the elves could even sink to the ground, he ran like a madman to where his son lay, dropped to his knees and cradled the lifeless body to his chest, his eyes wild with shocked disbelief and his throat releasing the crazed cry at last.

With malevolence in his heart rivaling that of his master the Necromancer, he rose and sought his son's slayer. But the figure of the elf king was nowhere to be seen among the numerous elf fighters, no matter where he turned. And wherever he turned, there was only the death and destruction of the army he had built, the stronghold he had fortified and held for years. His dark master, vanquished, could aid him no longer. There was no hope, and for a moment, his thought was to surrender to death.

But service to the Necromancer had hardened his soul, so that it knew not remorse nor right and wrong. He cast a look at his lifeless son again, and from somewhere deep within him, the sheer will of a father bent on revenge mobilized him. He swiftly cut a lock of hair from his son's head and gripped it tightly. Calling upon all his cunning and stealth, and choking down his grief and bitterness, he crept among the dead and edged away from the battle. Whether by his own cunning or the hand of fate, he evaded notice and reached a spot where the fighting had ceased. He saw Ködil and a handful of others sneaking away in the same direction, fleeing for their lives, relinquishing the Shadows to the Light of the Firstborn. Behind the safety of a large tree, he stood and cast one last look upon the crippled remnants of his life in Dol Guldur before disappearing into the denseness of the forest, heading south and east to his refuge for the next ten years.


The first day of their journey passed uneventfully, to Legolas' relief. Guided by the directions and descriptions Brûyn supplied along the way, they rode slowly through woods that grew thicker the further they ventured from his home in Ithilien. They kept on the paths close to the foot of the mountain range that Brûyn and his companions had used to get to and from the borders of the elf settlement.

As the day wore on, Legolas no longer felt the pleasant aura that had radiated from the elven realm where he and his kin dwelt in Ithilien. Tall trees were now part of a forest where bushes and undergrowth carpeted the floor, the fabric of leaves high above jealously guarding the muted dark below, leaving little space for needles of sunshine to penetrate its weave.

With a start, Legolas realized that the shadows in the forest reminded him of the woods on the fringes of Dol Guldur, as the dark shadow that seemed to cloak Brûyn did last night, and he shivered despite himself. Not with a little hatred did he recall the evil of that place on the borders of his home, evil that he and his kin had fought off for so long till his father and Lord Celeborn had overcome it, aided by the power of the Lady of Light, bearer of the Elven ring Nenya.

Those memories came to him now, uninvited and unwelcome, provoking him to ask himself again if he had made the right decision to undertake this scouting mission. But each time a note of uncertainty entered his mind, the thought of being able to present Aragorn with more information about his enemy's stronghold strengthened his resolve and banished his doubts.

Brûyn found his journey with the elf a lonely and rather tiresome one, for the elf, understandably, spoke not at all with him, other than to ask him questions from time to time, but they were all about the number of men serving Sarambaq, the lie of the land and what they could expect. He noticed that the elf quietly observed their surroundings; he was obviously familiarizing himself with the route. Worried thoughts assailed the man more than once.

He plans to return with more men. Blast him.

The elf did not trust Brûyn as far as he could throw him, but he did not think the man would dare to lead him astray after the repeated threat to introduce him to his knives at the first sign of anything amiss. The Adhûnian seemed intimidated by the intensity of a concentrated elven gaze, and Legolas used that to his advantage.

"You have seen the skill of elves, Adhûnian. If you attempt to cross me, I will not go down easily. If any of your companions crosses our path, you will be the first to taste my blade," he warned, "and should they desire to end my life, be assured that I will end yours first."

Brûyn swallowed nervously. "I do not wish to be seen either; my master will be furious at me for leading you there," he responded with partial truth.

Yes, I do not want to be there when you bring back your people as you surely will. If he sees me, he will not stop till he slits my throat with his own hands.

But, if fortune still smiles on me…

Legolas would have turned back immediately if he had known Brûyn's true intentions.

Thin lips sneered when the man greedily imagined the reward he would get for bringing the prince to Sarambaq. Last night, as this golden-haired elf questioned him about the route to Adhûn, he had recognized him as the prince they had been sent to take alive, the one Ködil had pointed out. He did not know why Sarambaq wanted him; it was enough to know he did, and that by some strange stroke of fortune, the quarry himself had asked to be brought into the jaws of his hunter.

But why was this prince being so bold? he wondered. He decided to risk a question.

"Are you not afraid to meet my master?"

The elf was taken aback at the sudden query, but gave a small derisive snort. "Why should I be afraid to meet someone who was too cowardly to come and perform his own dirty deed?"

And that was the end of the conversation.

Brûyn did not care much why the elf was being so foolhardy. His only concern was to lead the elf to the Table where he hoped his companions, or better yet, the Master himself would be there. If no one was there, he would have to lead the elf to Adhûn itself, but the longer journey posed a risk: the elf might not wish to complete the whole journey and end up escaping their clutches.

Sarambaq, you'd better be at the Table, he growled to himself.

Legolas' elven senses nagged at him that something was not quite what it seemed, but he attributed it to what surrounded him: the forest that reminded him of Dol Guldur, and his inevitable proximity to a servant of the man who had tried to abduct an innocent child.

So he had gone on determinedly, keeping his eyes and ears alert to every sight and sound they encountered. But the hours passed without trouble, and Legolas felt that they had made good progress, stopping briefly only twice to let the captive eat – under the elf's watchful guard – some fruit and lembas he had brought along. No matter how disgusting the man was, the kind elf would not let him bear hunger beyond his ability, having learnt about mortal needs from his long association with Aragorn, the hobbits, his dwarf friend Gimli and other human acquaintances. Nevertheless, the elf took care not to make any show of mercy obvious. The man, in contrast, growled about the lack of "proper food" and rest, not caring that his grouses fell on deaf ears. Legolas himself munched on a small portion of the waybread, which was all he needed for sustenance.

In the late afternoon, they rounded the northernmost point of the Mountains of Shadow. Through a break in the woods, Legolas' elven sight could see the Reclaimed Lands to the north-west. By the time the sun had set, they had covered many more miles east. Brûyn told Legolas that they would have to leave the forest soon and ride across a flat plain slightly north and east. The old battle plain of Dagorlad, Legolas thought with fleeting satisfaction;he and Faramir had guessed correctly, and Arwen had pointed them in the right direction.

As night fell, the Adûnian thought Legolas would finally call a halt to the journey, for sitting sideways on a horse and trying to avoid the eyes of your captor, he found, was very tiring. But halting was by no means the elf's intentions. Their arrival at the edge of the plain pleased Legolas because the cover of night would allow them to ride in the open at a quick pace with much less danger of mortal eyes seeing them. As soon as the elf saw that the faint moon would cast just enough light for him and his elvish horse to see the features of the land ahead of them, he swiftly guided Aérodel out of the trees and onto the even, grassy ground. After ascertaining the direction in which they were to proceed, Legolas spoke to his elvish steed and trusted it to pick a safe path where it would not stumble. Although the horse did not run as swiftly as it would have in the light of day, it still managed to leave the forest from which they had emerged just a blur behind them before long.


Sitting outside one of the caves hewn out of the Table by forces of Nature, Sarambaq sat sullenly watching his people moving their supplies and equipment out of the dark storage spaces. The trees around the Table provided an effective screen against the curious eyes of intruders.

He was in a foul mood, having spent a restless night fuming over the failed attempt to abduct the son of Thranduil. Worse still, they had taken two of his useless people captive. In the deepest part of the night, he had thrashed about in his sleep, overwhelmed by a feeling that he had not succumbed to in all his grown years: panic.

What if they talk? What if Thranduil's armies come after me? Where would I flee?

He had schemed and planned for so long with a coldness born of hatred and bitterness, that he felt little else.

Then his son's face had appeared, bloodied and pale, haunting him, calling for his father.

Help me…help me…keep his sword from me… help me.

He had been powerless to render that help. Sorrow and anger had poured over him, and he had awoken in the cold dark cave beneath the Table, sweating. With the image of his son's face, the wave of panic had passed, replaced by the familiar emotions that had fueled his every act for ten years.

Now, in the evening sun, he took out the small leather pouch he always wore around his neck, unfastened it and fingered the contents: a lock of hair from his dead son's head. Bitterness marred his already hard features.

No, he would not give up so easily, but he needed time to think of another plan; he would live for nothing else.

It would never be as timely as this last one. Thranduil's other sons had sailed to the West long years past; only the youngest remained – Sarambaq's last hope of inflicting the same pain upon the elf king who had robbed him of his son. The prince's move to Ithilien, away from the protection of his father's formidable forces, had been a stroke of fortune in Sarambaq's favor. The time had been so right – how could his useless men have failed?

Sarambaq gritted his teeth. Just as there had been no point in lamenting his losses ten years ago, he hardened his resolve to put the failure behind him and devise another plan. No ideas had come to him yet, but in the meantime, he would move everyone and everything back to his halls in Adhûn where he would be more secure.

He cast a look upward in the direction of the flat top where he knew his flying steed was tearing some carrion to bits for his late afternoon meal. Should the elf army seek him out, he would put up a fight, and if he failed, Dârkil would provide his last means of escape.

Where he would go next, he could not think, he did not want to think. He lived only for retribution. Beyond that, there was nothing.

For the present, he would just focus on moving his people away from the Table. He looked at the work going on and at the darkening sky.

We will be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon, he decided as he watched the sun set.


As night fell, a former Ranger of the North – and to all intents and purposes, a Ranger at this moment – was setting up camp in the midst of the forest the elf had traversed.

Since leaving Ithilien earlier in the day, he had used all the hours of daylight and called upon all his skills to follow the tracks of the elvish horse and its rider, thankful that no rain had washed away any tell-tale signs, for it was hard enough to track the light footsteps of an elf. But the heavier footprints of the horse and the Adhûnian, as well as the broken twigs, dislodged stones and other signs only Rangers could make sense of, were easy enough to follow. There were numerous other prints as well – heavier and older ones – that Aragorn guessed must have been left by Sarambaq's men earlier. There were none fresher than the prints of Legolas' horse, and there were no signs of any struggle, so at least his friend did not seem to have encountered unfriendly resistance, the Ranger thought with relief.

He guessed that his friend must have gone first north, then east, but he could not afford to miss any signs that might suggest a different route. At sunset, Aragorn came across – and almost missed – the only sign that Legolas had ever been along the route, something only a Ranger or an elf would have noticed: a tiny fragment of the mallorn leaf the elf had used to wrap his lembas in, and a few fine crumbs nearby. Of the rest of the leaf there was no trace; Legolas had discarded it carefully.

Lunch, Aragorn thought, an amused smile lighting his face.

He placed an ear to the ground, keeping very still. Nothing of the one he was following could he perceive. It was getting darker under the boughs, so Aragorn lit a torch and continued to follow the signs till he grew too tired. Knowing he could not afford to miss any clues in the dark, he decided to rest for the night and set off again as soon as there was enough light filtering through the foliage the next day. After lighting a small fire and consuming a quick meal of lembas and water, he eased himself on to a blanket laid out between two large roots and closed his eyes.

He breathed a silent goodnight to his two loved ones he had left behind in the White City. Then, as it had throughout the day, his mind turned once more to Legolas.

Do not go too swiftly, my friend. Let me find you, he thought just before he fell asleep.


Brûyn sat tensely in front of the elf prince, bewildered at how in Middle Earth the rider and horse could ride so confidently at this speed in the dark when he could not discern anything more than eight feet in front of him. He wondered when his body would feel the jarring impact of the ground and his flesh separate from his bones if he were to fall, for his hands and feet were bound, and he had nothing to hold on to while the horse sped across the plain.

Yet he did not fall, he did not even pitch dangerously in any direction, but remained awake and upright all through the ride, too numb with fear to realize how much his flesh owed its continued union with his spirit to the skills of the elvish horse and rider. His teeth chattered a little both from the wind of the horse's speed and from terror, but he was too nervous to even ask for a cloak or blanket.

Late into the night, more trees came within sight of the elf's incredible vision, and he asked the man whether they should be entering another forest. Brûyn, when his mouth could steady itself enough to speak, gave an affirmative answer, although he could not see the trees Legolas referred to until the horse slowed down and stopped at the edge of the forest.

"I cannot see well enough to know where we should go," Brûyn responded when Legolas asked for directions.

The elf had to concede that it was difficult for the human to identify landmarks at this hour, so he decided that it would be a good time to rest. He stilled the horse, lowered his head slightly, and closed his eyes, focusing. The elf held this position for many moments, till Brûyn began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. Just as he was about to take the risk of interrupting the trance-like state, the elf lifted his head and spoke to the horse. The elven ears had been listening for the sound of nearby water that would indicate a site where the horse could drink and graze on the grass as well. They also needed to fill their water skins.

As they entered the darkness of the forest, Brûyn again marveled at how the elf could see where to guide his horse when he himself could not see the end of his own nose, let along past it. The faint sound of trickling water, perhaps from a brook, came to him. Not far in from the first line of trees, the horse stopped and they dismounted, still in the dark. Brûyn heard the elf remove some things from the saddle and speak softly to the horse, after which the creature moved off. The man was suddenly and intensely fearful that he would be left alone, for he could see nothing. But then he heard Legolas' voice.

"Stay, do not move from here. I will be back."

The man swallowed and wondered how he could have moved even if he wanted to, for he was bound, and he felt stifled and incapacitated by the deep darkness of an unfamiliar place. He did not hear when the elf walked away from him, for the fair being's steps were almost noiseless, but now he thought he saw – or were his eyes deceiving him? – he thought he saw the outline of the elf walking away from him, and it was glowing faintly. He stared.

What kind of being is he? He asked silently. Do elves glow? Did I notice this in Ithilien?

The elf had abilities and qualities the human had never seen or experienced before, nor ever imagined. But however much he felt intimidated by the elf, he would still feel much better if the latter would not leave him alone, and he had to stop himself from whimpering and begging him not to leave. All he heard after that were the water and the night sounds of some scurrying forest creatures.

He decided to distract himself from his nervousness by thinking about how close they were to the place he wanted to reach. Unknown to the elf, they had only this forest to go through, a gully to ride around and another flat area to cross, and they would be at the Table. For the first time since they left, the Adhûnian was glad they were riding. The elf would not stop for long, he knew, and at the pace they were going, he guessed they would reach the forest surrounding the Table before the next mid-day sun was high above their heads.

After what seemed like ages to the nervous man, who was still rooted to the spot, he saw a light approaching him. The faintly glowing outline of the elf again appeared, and he was holding a small burning stick in one hand. Legolas beckoned to him and said, "Follow me."

The elf turned and walked slowly deeper into the trees. Brûyn, his ankles tied to each other with a length of cord so that he could still walk, stumbled along behind him, making his way by the glow of the torch and the elf's body. But soon, he saw another, brighter glow in the distance. As they drew closer to it, the man saw that it was the brilliance of a fire at the mouth of what looked like a cave. The elf's pack sat against a wall, and a blanket and cloak had already been laid out further in the cave.

"We will rest here," Legolas said, and indicated the blanket where the man could sleep. The elf made no move to untie the man's hands and feet, so the latter resigned himself to sleeping in restraints. He gave a disgruntled snort as he thought fleetingly about how unnecessary the cords were, for he had no plans to run anywhere in this dark forest, nor was he able to keep his eyelids open any longer. As soon as he lay himself on the blanket and pulled the cloak over himself, he fell into the oblivion of sleep.

Legolas, standing at the mouth of the cave, looked at him till he was assured that the man had fallen asleep. He was not particularly worried; he did not think anyone would have followed them or even known they were here.

But the elf suddenly felt very alone.

He was in a strange place, heading for a stranger destination. He was far from home and far from friends.

These woods were unfamiliar to him and he was not sure if he was welcome here, even though he was a Wood elf. He looked at a gnarled old tree nearby and walked over to it. Respectfully, he stood before it, sharing its space, letting it sense his presence. Then he approached it and gently ran his hands over the rough surface, trying to feel its aura. After some moments, he felt its hum, and he pressed his hands against the trunk. Missing was the close communion he felt with the trees of the Greenwood and Ithilien, but despite the shadow that seemed to shroud the forest, the trees themselves did not harbor resentment for the elf. They simply felt… wild. Aloof. But Legolas understood. He was the newcomer, the intruder, and it would take time for the forest to open its thoughts to him. It was enough that they accepted his presence for the night. It knew that he too was one with the earth and meant no harm.

Reassured, Legolas climbed onto one of the lower branches where he still had a good view of the cave and the small fire. Placing his weapons carefully where they would be in his hands in an instant should he need them, he leaned against the tree trunk. He turned his bright eyes to the sky hidden by the thick canopy above, not seeing the starry expanse beyond the leafy opacity, but reaching it and touching it as only an elven heart can. He offered a silent song to the Queen of Stars as he waited.

Dawn was still far off when his horse returned from grazing and drinking his fill from the brook. He called softly to it, promising to brush it down in the morning. Only then did the elf relax and turn his thoughts to sleep.

"May the new day bring us what we seek, Estel," he whispered and allowed himself to drift out of wakefulness, completely unaware just how aptly his wish had been expressed.


May the new day bring us what we seek, Estel.

The Ranger awoke with a start, his slow, steady heartbeat just a little more rapid than usual. His hand had instinctively closed around the dagger at his side.

"Legolas?" he called out softly, eyes still sticky with sleep peering into the dark around him.

Nothing. No one was there. There was only the steady chirp of crickets, the soft harrumph of his horse, and the almost imperceptible sounds of sleepless creatures foraging for food. Beyond all that, there was only the stillness of the night.

He leaned back and sighed. It was as if he had heard the voice of his soft-spoken friend, a fair voice he missed and was desperate to find. In a few hours, it would be time to get up and resume his search.

"Wait for me, Legolas," he whispered.


In the arms of a tree, a Wood elf who had just begun to enter a dream world snapped his blue eyes open again as he heard – or thought he heard – the voice of a beloved friend:

Wait for me, Legolas.

Puzzled by the significance of the words, he drew a deep breath and exhaled before slipping into a light, watchful sleep.