IN THE LENGTHENING SHADOW

(I)

Gathering Shadow

Legolas knew they were lost when the ranger lay with his ear to the floor, a shadow passing the contours of his worried face. "I hear nothing Legolas" he claimed, "…naught, not even the river, and we should be close right now. How came we to be so far from our tracks." Legolas turned, resting his sharp eyes on the tracks behind them, willing his vision to trace through the mist and vivid leaves a way back to the road. Alone and in unknown woods, it did not bode well for the two. Even Legolas could not know every inch of the wiry paths that raggedly clung to the sides of the mountains and he cursed himself for not looking further, and for forgetting that acute awareness so essential to the core of his being. He had been enjoying the warm, life-giving sun, so rare a sight under the darkening eaves of Mirkwood that it would sometimes seem but a dream. But then the mist had come, swirling through the air like a swarm of bees, enfolding them, losing them within its ever widening darkness, absorbing them in its thick contours, like ice the trees melted into the grey and the land took on unfamiliar apparel.

Aragorn turned and leant his back against the tree that thrust its wiry curling branches through the darkness of the fog, leading the ranger's back to its wide trunk. A look of weariness and anxiety brushed his face and he leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes in thought, eyebrows locked in a worried frown. Legolas, perturbed by the dim sight of his friend deep in thought, made his way over, the sharp twigs under his feet clicking and snapping even under the weight of an elf. He felt as if he were announcing his presence to the entire forest. As he reached him, he laid his warm hand on Aragorn's shoulder, looked into his eyes, "What troubles you my friend." "I hear nothing," replied the ranger; a bemused smile, worked its way across his face, quickly to be replaced by the same dark look of anxiety, "not even the birds wish to continue nesting in this dark place today." The elf stood in the all encompassing silence and agreed, he could even hear the quickened sound of the ranger's uneasy heartbeat, and he clearly had a bad feeling. The silence worried him also, his all too sensitive hearing picked up nothing but the sound of the twigs that trembled under his friend's feet. It worried him, but there seemed nothing to do, where could they go if they were lost? What could they do if the woods had decided to turn against them?

"We should make camp now," advised the elf, as he felt the first drops of heavy rain on his tense shoulders, "There will be no finding our way in this foul mire." The rain felt like a burden, forcing his shoulders to uncharacteristically droop, or so it felt to him. The world seemed perpetually grey and they would get no further tonight. "It is strange," spoke the ranger, "It came upon us so fast, when all around us there has been sunlight." "Aye" whispered the elf and spoke no more but looked towards the heavens as his companion began to lay down his things in silence, his pointed ears gathering every suggestion of noise that surrounded them… but there was nothing. The sun seemed to have no place within this world of shadows. Aragorn thought sourly; perhaps this was a taste of things to come.

As the darkness became ever more oppressive the two sat closely huddled, fending off the cold night air and the looming dread of the starless sky. In their eyes their small fire reflected its flames and they could not warm themselves. Every breath of smoke that lifted itself from the distant orange glow seemed to them an invitation to orcs or raiders. Middle Earth, as it became slowly engulfed in the Shadow of Sauron, seemed the haven for evil, and under the dark trees and under the grey precipices of the mountains it grew in secret, a scar buried deep in the Earth. But as yet there was nothing, still nothing, the birds still hidden within their branches seemed to have forgotten to breathe, and the crackle of the fire seemed to deafen them with its cacophony.

Silently, they slipped into a dreamless void of night, hoping the morning might, however doubtful, bring with it light and life. Carelessly the fire droned on, lending a little comfort to the Ranger's shivering bones as he sat on watch, waiting for the slightest movement in the obscure black holes that represented the bushes that kept them hidden. The gnarled edges of the trees appeared stark, as though they would attack in the grey of his night-vision. Slowly, night crept around them, pushing into the crevices of the trees, and sinking into their pores. Legolas drifted unconsciously into a deep, well needed sleep, devoid of dreams and his mind as black and empty as the air around them. He heard nothing; he saw nothing.

Darkness approaches

The Elf's bright eyes did not long hide the scene from him, as he awoke, fitfully, from his engulfing sleep. For a moment he felt he had forgotten all, his mind had been so empty, for it seemed as though the world and all his memories had been scraped from within. Coming back from so far his senses seemed dulled; the fog surrounding him entrenched in his thoughts. He remembered the silence first, but what was it he should have heard? There was nothing.

Stretching, then in panic, he realised he had slept too long, he should have begun his watch before this, knowing that Aragorn had not slept properly for days, and needed more sleep than he did. Yesterday exhaustion had hit the man and his body, so strong in comparison to those of his fellow men, filled with the power of the west of Numenor took much longer to succumb, but succumb he nearly had. Perhaps that was where they had erred, they had relied too much on the strength of the man to last, forgetting that though he lived alongside the elves, appearing much of the time indistinguishable his body in the end would fail him, as all human kind.

The silence, even in the eaves of the trees overwhelmed him as he realised he could truly hear nothing… not even…. no it was not possible… the ranger's heartbeat was missing, and he could not hear the regular breathing or slight movement, only evident to sensitive ears such as his. Even Aragorn, who could fade in silence into the shadows, and track for many miles appearing only as a gust of wind behind you in the sound he made could not hide like this, not from his friend. Now wide awake, his eyes searched out his friend's form in the mist and mirk but there was nothing. His heart, trembled and beat faster, giving him a slight feeling of breathlessness, and he was aware of how alone he was in the glade. But… the man could not have disappeared without his awareness… and surely if he had been taken he would have left his weapons. In the dim light, even Legolas eyes, tired as they were struggled painfully to part the shadows. He was gone and there was no sign.

Frightened though he was by the strange turn of events, Legolas, ever cautious, refused yet to leave, to run and panic. If his friend returned and found him gone he would be more concerned, he could not leave Aragorn to the wilds, to fend for himself, it was his job to protect hope, and he intended to do so. Besides it would be folly to move in this heavy, crushing darkness, he could be further lost and even an elf would see naught. He shifted, laid his back against the tree, which had served as the pillow of his friend, allowing the slight twinge of the roots in the back to force his mind to stay awake. His lamp like eyes watched the empty darkness and he listened, waiting for first, light. But he did not remember, he did not remember when they came.

Dawn

The world was black, then there were flashing, blurred colours, as though he had squinted for too long…. And then it was black again.

As a wave of conscious thought hit him Aragorn writhed with pain, thoughts shouldn't feel like this, but his brain seemed to have been shaken inside his head. His vision blurred and he felt as lost as he had in the forest; lost within his own motionless body. His head seemed to float somewhere detached from his spine and he could not orient himself. Trying to move his hands, he winced with pain, as he found them tied cruelly behind his back, the ropes burned and he let them droop. Somehow he forced his eyes to focus and found himself kneeling in the half light, his waist, hands and feet constricted tightly by ropes that ground into his skin and burned when he moved. His head was fuzzy and the pain pounded his brains until he saw only colours. His back ached viciously and there was nothing for him to lean against… where was his tree? Where was his friend? As he slowly focused through the pain, he found he could not recognise the hidden grove in which he now swayed. He was surrounded by menacing bushes that seemed to have crowded round him, but not for protection. Instead their thorns pointed menacingly into the centre of the thicket, forcing him into the middle. He was alone. Legolas was gone…. Had he left him, straining his aching head to remember Aragorn knew he had no recollection of whither lay his friend. Of one thing he was certain, Legolas had always vowed to protect the life of the hope of Middle Earth and Aragorn had placed the volume of trust in the protection and friendship of his loyal companion.

The pain in his head throbbed, as though he had been held under water for too long and he could not quite catch his breath. In thirst, his tongue explored his lips, hoping for any sign of moisture, what it found was the bite of cloth cutting off his breath, it tasted slightly of metal and he suspected the gag to be covered in blood.

Finding himself so totally alone, his body aching from his bonds, unexplainably sharply in his left side, Aragorn tried, in panic, to flee. All he felt; was a tightening of his constraints, the knots forcing themselves ever further into his skin, scarring his wrists and constricting his breathing. The heir of Isildur, a solitary ranger, had for most of his adult life wandered the Earth, searching for the spreading evil, the lengthening shadow released by the return of Sauron but this was a different kind of alone, he had no control, no power…, in this state what could he do? The surge of panic and jerked movement caused his vision to blur again, and the screen of pain within his head, slowly reclaimed his senses. He heard a noise behind him, tried to turn, gasped from the pain in his side and fell back into the void of darkness.

Lost

Pushing back the branches that threatened to carve his skin, the branches that seemed intent on hampering his movement, Legolas moved forwards, breathtakingly slowly. He had not been meant to find his way through these trees. Perhaps even they had formed an alliance against him, the stubborn branches refusing to be pushed aside.

The morning had arrived and there was nothing; no sign of his friend; no whisper in the trees of his movement. In the grim light of the haggard day (morn had not come without a struggle) he had seen for the first time the scars within the Earth; the scars that told the tale of a midnight struggle, yet one of which he had no recollection. He still felt slightly drugged from his sleep the night before and could not understand why he should remember nothing. And then he had seen it, the sight, which sank to his heart like a stone, the sight which had caused a cry of pain to be released from his lips: there was blood smeared on the roots and in the grass. The struggle, it seemed, had not come without its penalties. When the thought came that he had simply slept through this, a lump welled up in his throat of such magnitude, that he thought he might never breathe again. He swallowed hard and forced the lump away. A tear swam in the corner of his eye, threatening to leave a tell tale mark down his cheek and for a moment he stood in an awed silence unable to comprehend the sound.

As he tried to retrieve the events of the previous night from his mind, he realised, that his body had been carried, across the thicket. He had woken, finding himself behind the tree, against which the Ranger had begun his watch, a tree that stood on the far side of the thicket, forced into darkness by the shadow of its taller companions. He wondered how, he had been moved from one side to the other, tracing his steps he saw no sign that he had been dragged, but the footprints in the soft Earth were those of the ranger. But why should his friend move him? Had he felt himself in danger surely the man would have woken him, Aragorn was not foolish enough to face enemies alone, if he had help at his side. The elf also knew how strong loyalty ran in the veins of the man; time and again he had proved he would never leave a companion in danger.

Above his head, the sun, finally deciding to overcome the mist crawled sluggishly into the sky, illuminating the scene and the situation before the elf. Wandering across the thicket in disbelief and grief, tears threatened once more to blur his vision, when, underneath the tree, where began his night's sleep, Legolas spied a glint of glass, only visible in the new revealing light of the cold sun. For, this sun, offered no warming comfort to the traveller, but mocked instead those who stood under it at such an early hour as it slowly exposed before them the secrets of the mist and the night. Walking slowly over, Legolas discovered with surprise a glass vial, containing a dark liquid. Leaning against the tree, he noted in sudden wonder a pain in his right hand and looking down, noted a small cut, and around it, faint but visible; a dark smudge.

Now he ran, ran away from the light and the morning, following the trail the blood had began, his keen eyes no longer blurred and tired by sleep, he began his search…. He had already wasted too much time.

Bound

With a slight groan, Aragorn found himself, kicked backwards into consciousness, and the slicing pain in his side became more vivid. His knees, tied as they were, found themselves knocked out from underneath him and his head hit the hard ground, forcing the blurred vision back to his eyes. He had been untied from the tree it would seem, and he saw red. He focused through the grinding pain and noticed dark figures dancing before him, yet they seemed to have no features.

Grimacing he tried to lift himself, the agony in his side slowing him, his vision swam and he felt a boot on his cheek holding him down. Aragorn found his face on the floor, and blood in his view. The voice that spoke from his faceless tormentor, sounded foreign, cold and harsh. "Try to move, and I will cut you even deeper, I never run after a prisoner twice. I do not think you will move far today." The laughter which followed was cruel and mocking, the ranger's throbbing head forcing it to a distance, like an echo, or perhaps that was merely his wishes. The foot left his face and moved back into the crowd. Fighting to cling to consciousness, Aragorn bit his lip and looked around him as far as his position would allow. He inched himself forward, but the pain in his side stopped him, as he hit a merciless twig, which dug into the obvious wound. He gasped once more, as another wave of spiking, piercing pain, thrust itself through the wound. In fear he tried to stop himself, but now, at least for a second he seemed to have lost their attention.

For the first time in two days he seemed surrounded by the flurry of noise, but the absence of nature's song remained a constant. The men, as men they seemed to be, were clothed in black and around their faces were wrapped cloths of dark material. All that could be seen was the violence of their eyes. Aragorn shivered and remembered the eyes that he had found looking down on him, dark and empty they seemed, yet, what was a man without a soul?

In the centre of the bush circle, there seemed to be a debate, a fierce one – and knives were raised. Who knew what was happening? Aragorn would have understood little of the language, even had he been able to concentrate through the pain. He knew that fear could not help him now and vowed to be bold, and yet he feared for the fate of his friend, but had no recollection of how he had been captured.

Thirst now overwhelmed the ranger. The sun, hidden for so long, had now come upon them with full force and its effects poured over the prisoner as he drifted between unconsciousness and waking. The heavy blood loss which seemed to pour unrepentantly from the wound in his side, was slowly stealing his thoughts, numbing his mind, soon he would remember nothing.

From his stale slumber, Aragorn felt the foot return. "Untie him," spoke the voice, but not to him. His face pushed to the floor, he saw yet nothing of his captor apart from the cruel black leather of his boots. Forcing his eyes to focus on the folds as oblivion and painless sleep threatened once more to take him Aragorn tried to speak, only to find a foot pressed on the wound in his side. "There will be time enough for weakness and speech later." Pain welled through him, and Aragorn jerked in pain, and drew his knees towards himself. He could feel himself becoming weaker as the blood loss became more intense. He did not wish to die today.

The foot was removed and the face came into focus as the bonds around he knees were cut. He looked up and noted several pairs of boots now surrounding him. "It will not do to have him collapsing on the journey," spoke one faceless form. So they did not mean to kill him? (At least not yet) Carefully one of them knelt down, lifted up the man's tunic and removed something from his side. Aragorn felt another gush of blood, greater than before. He strained to view what they had removed and saw that in their hands lay a small dagger coated in his blood, which had been left within his side. In panic he realised it must have been there for quite some time, if he was not to die he should be treated at once, for infection would set in fast. He already felt the first shivers of a fever within his tired frame.

Within minutes he felt cold hands on his skin, skin that burned with the fever of his injury. Aragorn lay frantic in the knowledge that they intended to move him… and infuriated by his weakness in the face of the injuries he had sustained. He wished to fight, but knew neither where his sword lay, or wherein lay the strength to move His mind, still battling for consciousness, worked only within and he felt powerless in the face if this opposition. The cold hands began to quench the bleeding. Aragorn closed his eyes through the sting that followed. He felt a salve being added and then he was rolled over to apply a bandage.

Whilst in great discomfort, he realised at least this temporary healing might give him a chance to regain some power… shifting himself between their feet he tried to role. The boot came back sharp and fast. The foreign and harsh language began again, merciless in the ranger's ears. Then he felt a scratch on his hand and the pressure of cloth... and the world returned to darkness.

Nowhere left to hide:

Legolas had run, following the trail of slightly trampled grass and smell of fear for many hours now, yet was certain he was no closer to finding them. All of a sudden he noticed a green glint under a tree, in the sunlight it shone like the grass. He knelt down to look. It was the ring of Barahir, the ring given to Aragorn, by Lord Elrond when he had told him of his past; the ring which proved Aragorn's identity as the heir of Isildur. A sob escaped his mouth, as he realised the meaning of this; he knew his friend would not let the ring go unless, he was in mortal danger, or it had been stolen from, him. On the roots of the tree, next to the dent where had found the ring, there lay a small smattering of blood. Perhaps he had rested here? Perhaps he had died here, Legolas knew not. He cursed the lack of memory from which he still suffered. In his mind the gap lay like a void, he could see it vast and empty between the pattern of the night before, and he seemed caught up in the fog. He had run for many miles and was exhausted, seeming no nearer to achieving his aim.

He took the ring and placed it carefully within his tunic, close to his heart. If it was all that remained of Estel he would return it to Lord Elrond, though hope might be gone. Finally, fatigue would allow the elf to move no more. He still remained slightly sluggish, from what he now believed to be a drug induced stupor. He sat at the base of the tree where he had found the ring and rested his eyes.

The silence in the air once again overwhelmed him, he did not understand these woods, it seemed as though nature had been drained, and all that was left was the trees. And then… then there was something. He heard a drumbeat in the distance, the sound of orcs rapidly approaching. The bare branches of the trees would barely hide him, and the elf felt he had nowhere to run. Doing therefore, all that was left to him, Legolas strung his bow, and waited.

Suddenly they burst upon the grove, wherein the elf was hiding. He knew he could not long conceal his hiding place, and it was his duty, if he could to rid Middle Earth of the foul creatures, who once upon a time might have been his brothers. Seeing the debased creatures always brought with it a pang of sorrow for Legolas as he remembered from whence they had come. They moved, slowly and noisily across the ground, their feet gouging holes in the soft Earth, scarring the land with the evil of Sauron, they none of them cared for living things.

Finally one began to move towards him. With a twang, Legolas released his first arrow, finding the temple of the Orc and hitting true. There was no place left to hide now. Running forward, his knives ablaze, the elvish warrior had only one end in mind. He sliced through skin like leather, releasing the dark blood from the prison like bodies. Within half an hour, he was fatigued almost to a faint and all the orcs lay dead. Turning from the bloody scene Legolas turned to walk away. He felt a knock on the back of his head, and his last thoughts were of the death of his friend.

Beyond the End of my world

Christina Rosetti

All he seemed to remember now was pain, the trampling of feet and the bumps in the road. The daily drug administered to the ranger, left him fighting for memory. Most of the time there were shapes, some he recognised and thought he trusted, others seemed memories of darkness, of thrashing pain. Having proved that he would not remain obedient when trusted to walk, the dose had been increased, and he spent most of his time in a deep and dark oblivion; a hell, created by his own mind, and the pain that was thrust upon him. He woke only to find himself slung across the back of the horse. The pain in his side was still unbearable. His captors seemed to have realised that blood loss weakened the will and sapped his strength. The wound was now openly infected again, being deep and harsh and given no chance to heal. The ranger was running out of time and his body knew it. His hands, still bound behind his back could do nothing to quench the blood flow, with which drained also his life. As life ebbed, so did his will to live and even in his darkened dreams his body begged for release.

When Aragorn awoke the land had changed. No longer was he surrounded by the lush green, darkness of the forest shade. Here there were few trees; they seemed to fear to grow. The land was barren; almost sunless, almost lifeless in its extremity. It was a view that Aragorn would not forget, although he was to claw for all other memories. This was the bare and ruined land of the Morannon, the gate of Mordor, although the ranger did not know it yet. But he did notice the heat, the stifling air, and the sense of evil that seemed to emanate from the ground itself. Even in his stupor he sensed a world at odds.

Summoning his strength and raising his head slightly, Aragorn looked into the gloom of the distance and was shocked and horrified by what he saw, there ahead of him stood the black gate, beyond lay Ered Gorgoroth, the 'Mountains of fear', and the dread land of Mordor, even within his daze Aragorn's wrecked body shivered and pleaded to be taken no further towards the darkness and the evil that began to encroach upon his soul.

As they marched towards it, towards oblivion and death, the great gate started to swing open; Aragorn could hear the creak of the unused hinges. Beyond stood darkness and death, and yet the group of corsairs marched ever onwards, towards the night and the might of Sauron. Finally they stepped through it…. And slowly the great gate began to swing closed.