Note: Please bear with LONGER introductory notes this time.

REVIEWER RESPONSES

There was such a delightful number of reviews for Chap 18 that I wish to acknowledge everyone who wrote in:

Alison H, Ithilvalon (Faramir will survive the aging), Kelsey Estel, Yavieriel Tarandir, lindahoyland, Harrowcat, Red Squirrel and Tinnuial (welcome back, both): So glad you loved the ride in Chap 18. I've never had the privilege of riding a horse, but I hoped so very much to do that ride and Aragorn's emotions justice through my description, so I truly poured my heart and energy into this one scene, tweaking and rewriting it up till the very moment before I posted. Thus, all your votes of approval (including those from Shaan Lien, Black Squirrel and others, I suspect, although they were not explicit) mean more to me than you know. Thank you!

AM, Lyn, Shadowfax2931/Amanda: I wish I had a great horse too; heck, I wish I had a horse.

Slayer3, Deana, Kirsten: (Your eagerness for updates is always an amusing delight.) Sayre, Elvendancer, eliza61, blah blah, anon, kukumalu, Ruth, Sabrina, Jennifer: Thank you all so much for responding to my question about posting time, I was not teasing / kidding – I did have a genuine reason for asking. But you have convinced me to continue posting as I have done: I will post a chapter only when it is ready, and as soon as it is ready – I won't wait. Viggomaniac: Hope you get to #50 soon.

OBSERVATIONS ON LOTR CONTENT

On Galdor

Alariel: Thank you very much for your review and discussion, although I'm curious about where Galdor is mentioned as the representative from Mirkwood at the Council, as the FOTR (Book 1) identifies him as an elf from the Grey Havens, come on an errand from Cirdan the Shipwright. Also, the elf that Sam and Frodo met on the way to Bree was Gildor Inglorion, not Galdor. Two different elves, I think. As for my age, etc. – all I will say at this point is that I am no spring chicken (believe me, hahaha!). No other details will I reveal, except that I am not a native speaker of English, although it is the language with which I am most comfortable. Creative writing is a hobby, but one I have not engaged in for more years than I can remember. My love of it, however, has never faded. It gives me liberties with expression and structure which would be considered a deviation from prescribed rhetoric. (This, I think, is the one and only time I will include this boring information about myself in a chapter.) Don't worry about not being able to review every chapter – I appreciate just hearing from you.

On 'glowing' elves

Maverick: Since you are the second reader to wonder where the idea of glowing elves originated, I am including here the response I posted earlier in the review section:

…in Chapter 3 of the Fellowship of the Ring, Frodo and Sam come across High Elves who were bathed in starlight. Also, when Glorfindel (also a High Elf, and my other favorite) appears in Chapter 12, the chapter says: "To Frodo it appeared that a white light was shining through the form and raiment of the rider Glorfindel, as if through a thin veil."

So, in essence, these High elves either capture and reflect light, or they radiate it, i.e., they 'glow'.

Thus, whether or not it makes them an easy target at night, the concept was not created by a fanfic writer. The concept is based on our interpretation of the images Tolkien described. Perhaps we differ in how we visualise those book images, but I can safely say that for me, the concept was not a product of my imagination - I wish I were that creative! Neither did I copy the idea blindly. The image from the book has always fascinated me because it is such a distinctive attribute of elves; it would have gone into this work anyway. I actually would have preferred to use 'bathed in starlight' rather than 'glow', but I decided on the latter because of one reservation I have always had, i.e., I have often debated whether it was only the Eldar (High Elves) that possessed this attribute, or all elves. But since all elves are people of the starlight, I find it fascinating to imagine that all of them would have some degree of luminescence, even in the dark. My compromise was to use 'glow' rather than 'bathed in starlight' to mute the effect. But hmm... perhaps I should just go for the latter...

Anyway, this was an interesting point for discussion, so thank you for bringing it up.

WARNING: Again, I don't know how to rate this chapter exactly, but some kind of PG rating is applicable here, in case there are children reading.


CHAPTER 19: THE REALITY OF A NIGHTMARE

The trail through the forest took Legolas, Aérodel and Brûyn along rough paths in depressing shadows that reached out to them with groping fingers. They had to dismount to hike over a woody rise and descend a steep grassy face before getting on Aérodel again. Finally, they emerged on the far end of the forest, on the threshold of another flat expanse. They were still on slightly higher ground, so Legolas could see the lie of the land.

This stretch of flat land was much less grassy than the plain they had crossed the previous night, and it was almost cloven in two by a curious formation: a gully shaped like a scythe, deep and wide, but Legolas was not high enough to see to the bottom of it, although he thought his elven ears could hear, just faintly, the sound of running water. The blade part of the scythe-like feature began near the edge of this forest and curved north for some distance before turning back south, then straightening in an easterly direction like a handle. On both sides of the handle-part of the gully were more forests, thick with tall trees, so that Legolas could not clearly see where the gully ended.

"How far does the gully run?" he asked the man in front of him.

"A fair distance," the man replied, "it ends somewhere in those forests yonder, out of sight from here. It is deep, and at the bottom there is a small river."

"And its course?"

"All the way to Adhûn and to the Sea of Rhûn."

The man spoke the truth; he saw no point in hiding this information. He would say anything to distract the elf from the fact that the flat rock of the Table lay not very far from them, hidden within the tall forests on the north side of the scythe's handle. That was where he was going to lead the elf, and he nursed the hope that his companions would be there. It would be an even greater stroke of luck if Sarambaq were there as well.

Legolas had not the slightest suspicion of this secret hope. Any uneasiness he felt, he attributed to the whole situation he was in. Instead, he pondered the man's description of the gully and river. Adhûn was a long way yet, but if the gully ended in the forests and the river went on…

"Do you mean the river goes… underground?" he asked.

"For a long way, aye, it comes out this end from a tunnel - you will see if you ride close to it – and it goes back into another. One league from Adhûn, it comes out from a big opening in the rock face."

Legolas imagined that the prospect of being trapped in that underground stream of water would not be a pleasant experience, even if one did not drown. Not wishing to dwell on more depressing thoughts, and expecting another long ride, he asked the man where they should head next.

Brûyn pointed to the northern end of the gully. "We have to go around that and then head for that patch of forest," he replied, keeping his voice as steady as he could and hiding a mounting excitement.

It was not quite mid-day yet, but Legolas felt like the shadows of the forest seemed to follow him into the open, for already the sun was hiding behind gathering clouds, unwilling to lift the strange gloom that had descended on his spirits.

Legolas was about to guide Aérodel toward the north when he suddenly paused and gave a small gasp. He had the strangest sensation that something was reaching for him, trying to find him. His mind went immediately to the mallorn leaf he had left between the roots of the great tree, and to the decision he had made several hours ago.


Wait for me, Legolas.

Those words were his first thought when the elf woke up at dawn. He sensed that it had been Aragorn saying them to him last night.

But why? Why ask me to wait? Is he… could he be… coming after me? Surely he could not have found out so soon.

The elf closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back against the tree trunk. Estel must have gone to Ithilien, he thought, but I never wished for him to come on my trail.

If you are coming after me, stubborn human – turn back. Do you not know how dangerous it is for you to come here? Sarambaq wanted your son; he will surely want to harm you.

Let me finish scouting the area. I will bring back the information soon enough. And…I am not ready to see you yet. Not till I have what I set out to find. I am not ready to face you yet. Go back.

Legolas sighed again.

He wanted nothing more than for his friend to turn around and return home, but if he was indeed on his trail… well then, the elf would rather the man find him and be at his side than wander the dark forests on his own. On his own… or was he with elves?

Legolas did not know, but he did not want to wait or turn back to check, for if he was mistaken, he would lose precious time. That was when he made the decision to leave a clue that only Aragorn or one of the elves would notice. If they were indeed looking for him, they would find him. If they were not, the leaf would hold no meaning for anyone else.


Legolas came back to the present. This sensation he had now… were his friends trying to find him? Should he wait?

Again, he decided against it. But in turning his head back toward the forest, he missed the look of suppressed and nervous excitement on the face of the Adhûnian.

Legolas was not particularly keen to ride in the open in broad daylight, but it did not seem he had a choice. He would try to reach the next patch of trees in the distance as swiftly as he could, and get under the cover of woods again.

Keeping a firm grip on Aérodel's reins, he began the ride down to maneuver around the curved gully.


Sarambaq stood on the edge of the flat rock looking down at his men moving about below. He had decided to move the bulk of their equipment and supplies back to Adhûn and leave some behind so that men could move more quickly; it would be a long trek back, and not all of them could go on horseback as the horses would be needed to bear the equipment.

He cast a look over his shoulder at Dárkil, which was basking quietly in whatever sunlight was available. Soon, it would have to fly him home.

Suddenly, the beast stirred and raised its head, listening. Sarambaq noticed the movement but was not unduly alarmed. The beast sometimes reacted to large birds flying overhead or creatures within reach of its powerful jaws, excited at the possibility of a meal. Or, perhaps it was just curious about something in the forest nearby, in which case Sarambaq would not be able to see what it was through the thick foliage.

He turned his eyes back to the men below, but spun back to face the beast a second later when it emitted a small screech. Its eagle-like head was raised even higher on its long neck now, the serpentine eyes roaming.

Sarambaq's brows furrowed. What had disturbed the beast from its quiet reverie?

As if in answer, Sarambaq's own senses tingled. He had been Sauron's minion for many years and had gained some of his black powers of perception. Something was coming this way, something that was not there earlier, something – or someone – that was not part of this little domain he had staked.


Reaching the head of the gully, Legolas saw that there was indeed a river at the bottom. It flowed out quietly, almost languidly, from a tunnel framed between surprisingly gentle slopes, which soon turned into steep walls on both sides of the chasm. A strange feature indeed, the elf thought, wondering from which distant snow-capped mountain the river began.

They had now ridden around the northern curve of the gully and were headed straight toward the forest of tall trees as Brûyn directed. They were not far from the edge of the woody area now.

But, where he had hoped to reach the cover of the forest as soon as he could, Legolas now sensed some shadow, an uneasiness, gather in the forest ahead and reach toward him like an unseen hand. It was not Brûyn. And it was not from Brûyn. Yet… now he could sense some tension and nervousness from the man.

"That is where we need to go?" he asked the man, and realized that he was speaking through slightly clenched teeth.

"Yes, yes. That is the path we have to take, that forest there."

He sounded just a little too eager.

The elf tensed and focused his elven senses. Brûyn sat stiffly before, careful to keep his face away from the elf the whole time, his eyes trained on the forest ahead.

Not long now. Keep going, elf. And if you are there, Sarambaq, let there be nothing to give it away.

Legolas looked to the right and left, but he kept turning back to the front. To the forest.

The forest.

Legolas felt his breath stifle.

What is happening?

Aérodel sensed his unease and slowed down without being told to, trotting cautiously and whinnying softly.

Clip. Clop. The sound of its steps tapped a hesitant rhythm.

Clip clop. Clip. Clop.

The elf stiffened.

What is wrong with that sound? Legolas asked himself, puzzled.

Clip clop… clip clop.

It is the sound of Aérodel's steps. What could be wrong with it?

Clip. Clop.

Then Legolas grew rigid and he sucked in a breath. That sound.

Clip clop.

There was nothing wrong with the sound.

What was wrong was that – besides his breathing, the lazy flow of water, and the slight friction of the man's clothing against the saddle as they moved – it was suddenly the only sound he could hear.

All other sounds of life had stopped.

In that moment, everything that had bothered him throughout the journey hammered against his chest like a sharp blow.

The forests, the shadows, the darkness. Dol Guldur.

The shadow, the furtiveness, Brûyn, those eyes, so like… Sméagol's. Sméagol, hiding in Dol Guldur before the Quest, before Mithrandir and Aragorn brought him to Mirkwood, before he escaped from the elves. From his own hands.

His nightmare. Dol Guldur. Sméagol.

This nervous captive in front of him. This place. That forest looming before them.

His nightmare.

They were all related.

Legolas shuddered as a light pierced his mind. This was what the nightmare had been about. It had been a warning. A foreshadowing of what would happen.

Here. Now.

He would be attacked again, and he would lose another captive. Sméagol then. Brûyn now.

And all his elven senses told him to flee.

Flee!

"We will turn back here," he said abruptly, urgently, and tugged at Aérodel's reins to turn him around.

To his surprise, and yet not totally unexpected, Brûyn protested, his hands clutching at Legolas.

"No, no! Keep going, this is the right way."

Now Legolas' senses screamed in warning. "Why? Why that way? What are you up to? You have some foul plan!"

Cowering under the elf's acid tone and icy stare, Brûyn replied weakly, "No…"

Suddenly, Aérodel's hooves and their voices were no longer the only sounds Legolas could hear. Now, from somewhere in the dark of the forest and above the forest, there came a screech, unearthly but of this earth, the proud screech of an eagle and the fearsome one of a demon, a screech that stopped the heart but drove one to flee.

And there launched from some unseen perch behind the tops of tall trees something Legolas could not earlier see but now beheld with wide, startled eyes: Dárkil, spawn of a vile mind, sprung from the seeds of twisted creatures. A dark beast that spread its huge wings and shoved the elf's fear down the paths of his memory as if he was seeing again – reborn and welded with the power of the Windlord – the foul steed of Sauron's Ringwraith.

And on his back was a huge, dark figure, slighter than the Witch king had been, but just as malevolent in the aura and the cry he sent forth. From his eyes radiated both hatred and joy at what the day had brought him, for as he approached to see what had riled his steed, his eyes – in which remained still some remnant of the power bestowed by the Dark Lord – had recognized, beyond all hope and expectation, the very prize he had sought and failed to ensnare, but which was now offering itself to him at his doorstep.

As the beast flew up and toward them, Aérodel reared and neighed in terror as it had never done before, and only his bond with the animal kept the elf from falling off in the sudden movement. But the bond did not hold Brûyn, who slid and fell against the elf before plummeting sideways to the ground.

Before Legolas could retrieve him, another screech came from the beast, and the rider urged it onward, shouting to the figures of men who emerged from the depths of the forest with swords and with arrows, some yelling as they ran, some riding after him, men very much like the one who had been Legolas' captive just moments ago. Brûyn picked himself up and started hobbling toward them, shouting: "It's him! It's him!"

It's him?

Legolas' heart thudded within him. It's him?

But the elf could wonder no longer at the strange meaning of the words. The attack had come, and the captive had found escape. Once again.

And once again, the life of a Mirkwood elf hung in the balance.

Aérodel needed no command to take flight; still, Legolas shouted, urging him, just as Glorfindel had done ten years ago, when upon the back of Asfaloth Frodo had fled to the Fords of Bruinen: "Noro lim, Aérodel. Fly, the enemy is upon us!"

Even as Legolas headed back toward the way he had come, he knew his desperate attempt to return to the cover of the forest would be in vain.

Closer now came the foul reek of Dárkil, the wind of its wings rushing above and behind the elf rider. Legolas turned his head for a sight of the beast and was horrified by the proximity of it. There would be no escape, no possible evasion, and a thousand images of loved ones and treasured places raced through his mind as he tensed for the stabbing thrust of sharp talons through his back and chest.


Drawn by the loud screeching of a demonic creature, a Ranger's head snapped up. One moment was all he spared to listen, and then he was spurring his horse on, crashing through trees and undergrowth in a desperate ride to exit the forest. The terrified neighing of a horse made his heart clench, forcing a cry from his throat. In ignorance, fear ruled, and the name of his friend was on his lips as he sought wildly and urgently the first sign of a way out.
Legolas did not feel sharp claws rend his flesh, for Dárkil passed over elf and horse, and flew a little higher, surprising the elf for a moment. But his bewilderment was short-lived when he saw what the beast was doing.

It turned in mid-air high above them and came back down in a deadly swoop straight at them, emitting from its throat a harsh screech that made the very air shudder with its ferocity. It was close enough now for the elven eyes of Legolas to see the merciless malice both in the eyes sitting in the hideous head of the beast and in the snarl on the face of its rider.

The terror of the brave elvish horse was grievous to see as once again, it reared fiercely at the sight and sound of a beast it had never encountered. This time, the movement caught the rider off-guard, and Legolas fell backward and off, landing on his back.

A second later, before the horror-stricken eyes of the elf, the talons of the beast sank into the neck and body of his faithful horse, wrapping around it and bearing it straight into the air.

With a cry of deep sorrow and shock, Legolas leapt to his nimble feet and fitted an arrow from his quiver before the eye could even discern what he was doing, and he tracked the flight of the beast as it swept over him. Then, standing tall as he had done so on a night ten years ago, when the Fellowship had also been threatened by the flight of a Nazgul on the banks of the Sarn Gebir rapids, he sighed "Elbereth Gilthoniel!" and released an arrow from the powerful bow of Lothlorien, which was even now held in his strong hands. Singing, the arrow found a mark in the chest of the flying beast, and before the song of the first arrow was finished, two more arrows joined it. The second struck the space between one wing and the body, and the third reached the other wing.

With a mighty screech of shock and pain, the beast released the horse from its talons and flew in a jagged flight path back to the forest, with its rider screaming desperate orders in anger to the men below.

Eyes wide with horror, Legolas watched the elvish horse fall through the air to land on the hard unyielding ground with a sickening thud, and he knew even without seeing that it could not have survived a drop from that height. Choking on his anger and his tears, he fitted more arrows and started shooting at the approaching men through blurry eyes. Even so launched, fifteen arrows found fifteen targets, leaving an empty quiver and a mighty bow bereft of song.

Twin elven knives left their sheaths in a deft twirling movement. With breathtaking grace gifted by elven blood and an unrivalled speed acquired through a thousand years of training, Legolas began a deadly dance, his deceptively slender arms dealing out death and injury with each step of his limber feet as furious men swarmed upon him with brutal yells.

Never had they encountered such fierce resistance, not even when they had been in Ithilien, for this was a single elf fending off foes outnumbering him by scores. This day, they tasted the sharp bite of lethal blades as a lone Firstborn fought for his life, golden hair swirling and lithe body leaping, twisting and turning – a vision so beautiful and captivating it belied the desperation and deadly purpose of the movements.

But even as the elf added to the growing pile of wounded or dying bodies that had fallen at the ends of his knives, more came, not lifeless, but very much animate, with viciousness in their eyes and their yells. Legolas recalled the words he had imparted at the Council of Elrond:

When the battle was over, we found that Gollum was gone, and his guards were slain or taken.

Slain or taken.

Blue eyes filled with fear and the fury of betrayal took in the futility of the situation before them as they forced back silent tears, but the fair face was resolute: he had lost his captive, but he would not be taken easily and he would not give in to aggressors. If his life was to end today, he would make his last stand with honor and go down fighting those who had violated the peace of Gondor and the safety of Aragorn's family.


Barely discernable were the sounds of battle that reached his ears, but they were enough to drive Aragorn furiously forward, fighting each obstacle in his way, till at last, with a surge of gratitude, he saw a lighter patch of sunlight ahead, at the top of a rise. He leapt off the horse and hauled himself up the steep incline, trusting Rallias to find his own safe path. Feeling a sudden rush of fear, and impatient to get to the top, he felt not pain as he used his hands to grab at whatever was in sight to hasten his climb.

Up this face of the rise, and he was at the crest. The next instant, he was descending. Down he sped, running, sliding, without a thought as to when he might slam headfirst into a tree; he had to get there – out of the forest. Where the sounds were and what might be happening, he did not want to imagine, yet he had to know.


Legolas ignored the multitude of small cuts he had received all over his body, standing proud and defiant as the men hemmed him in from every direction, on foot and on horseback.

As he wearily warded off two blows from the right, he felt something sharp pierce the left side of his neck, and something else penetrated his thigh. He had no time to wonder what was happening as he fought off more blows and dodged a swing from a sword that narrowly missed his head.

"Take him alive, you fools! Alive!" came a shout.

A burning numbness quickly assailed his flesh in both places where he had felt the sting, and he reeled from a strange lightheaded sensation in his head. Before Legolas could grasp what it meant, someone attacked him with a club from the front, and as he lifted his arm to fend it off …

"Noooooooooooooooooo!"

…there was another angry yell from someone, but a blade had already been brandished by a rider on horseback, finding its mark on the elf, ripping brutally into his side, drawing forth a pitiful cry of agonizing pain as the slender form flinched sharply and bent over. Gasping torturously, Legolas swiftly straightened himself again, knives gripped tightly.

But as suddenly as they had begun, the attacks stopped.


Almost there, almost at the edge of the forest now.

But then the sounds of battle stopped, and Aragorn felt his breath stop with them.

He felt detached from his feet as they frantically raced to complete the last few yards.


In the lull that followed, Legolas stood still and looked around him, dazed. The Adhûnians were no longer moving toward him; they just stood tensely and stared. The horsemen had slowed to a halt.

Even as he wondered at the cessation of the assault, Legolas realized with a shock that feeling was quickly abandoning his body, leaving his neck and chest and arms, his legs becoming more like lean wooden poles. Panic swept over him, and he struggled to retain his senses.

The elf brought his eyes down to his side and watched deep crimson liquid spread across his tunic. The knives fell from his now numb hands and dropped uselessly to the ground. He kept standing through sheer force of will.

For the second time since he heard the screech of the demon beast, the thoughts of his father and his loved ones raced through this mind, till two images remained and swam before his wide, moist, frightened eyes.

Hold on, hold on, he willed himself. I need to see. I need to tell them.

His breaths came in short spurts. He lifted his head and looked past the hostile faces around him, desperately seeking something on the ground in the distance. The rapidly failing blue eyes found what they were looking for and focused on it. Fixing his sorrow-laden gaze, he whispered weakly:

Namárië, Aérodel. Farewell, faithful friend.

Swaying on his feet now, he again looked past the faces of his foes, all traced with curiosity as they watched the forlorn figure turn his ashen face and unfocused, pain-filled eyes to his right this time, to the forest beyond the gully, from which he had come.

His tears came at last as his pale lips moved to form voiceless words: Turn back, Aragorn, I've failed.

The beautiful blue eyes closed.

Forgive me, he breathed, and fell.


From the shelter of the trees at which he had arrived barely moments ago, panting with the strain of the hurried ascent, the Ranger strained his sharp eyes across the expanse of land. Frozen with shocked disbelief, his ragged breathing turning to sudden chokes, he saw the slender, bloody figure of a golden-haired elf turn his way, heard with his mind rather than his ears the tearful warning and apology whispered by the fair lips, and felt his own life drain from him a moment later, as he watched the friend who held part of his heart crumble lifelessly to the ground.
The author is not responsible for any damage inflicted upon vocal cords, cardiac muscles, or other body parts; furniture, coffee mugs (that's you, Red Squirrel), or any other object close at hand to the reader – as a result of having read this chapter to its conclusion.