Chapter Three: Touched by Shadow

He was curious.

As usual, Feredir had done his job too well. There were others with him now. He could feel them, slowly but inevitably making their way towards the Heart. All paths led to the Heart. Once past Fen, there was no way out save through the Heart. No one save the Master knew the secret to the Heart.

His secret. One he did not know, so there was no escape for him, either.

He could only feel sympathy for the unfortunate souls who had wandered so unwittingly into Gardhnorn. More would come, now that Feredir was no longer restrained by the Master's will.

Perhaps one would find him. Find a way to free him.

No. Foolish thoughts. No escape for him, not even death. The doom of his kind ensured that. He would welcome death with open arms, rather than this pointless existence. He even envied the victims of Gardhnorn, and there had been many over the years, for they escaped his sunless world in the end.

The newcomers entered the Edrem.

May the price of entry not be too dear, hunted ones.

~*~

Faramir wondered why waking always had to be so unpleasant. It was almost as if the powers that be discouraged return to the conscious world. For a moment, he was tempted to return to the painless sleep, as memory of his earlier waking returned to him before he opened his eyes. By which time it was entirely too late, of course, so he gathered what wit he had and lifted his heavy eyelids.

Prepared for a fresh assault of his phobia of the dark, he blinked several times when he was greeted by a soft green light coming from a section of rock nearby. A closer look revealed that the rock was covered in a strange fungus that gave out light.

The first thing he did was look around for Aragorn, and found the man not far away. He grimaced at the sight; his King's face had an ugly gash that would leave him with a scar, and several places on his tunic and breeches were stained with blood. He examined their surroundings. They were in a large cave, though he could only just make out the ceiling in he dim light. Remembering the earthquake, he tried to ascertain where they had woken up originally. He was quite sure that it had not been in this cave, for what he could remember of the echoes in the first cave told him that it was half the size of this one, and it did not have the light-giving fungus. And the floor of the first cave had had the feel of soft volcanic rock, whilst this one was smoother, with a great deal more quartz and crystal. His blackened hands confirmed that the previous cave had at least some granite in it.

But he couldn't find a way leading out of the cave, or any clues as to where they might have woken up earlier. They couldn't have walked very far from it. Perhaps a cave-in had blocked up the way into the cave. Which brought up the idea that they might be buried underground until they run out of air or food and water. Something he most definitely did not wish to dwell on.

Faramir rolled to his side – only to discover that it was the one with the dislocated shoulder earlier, and was still tender – but when he tried to get up, or at least sit, he ended up on his back again. Finally looking at himself, he found out why.

Though he could not remember clearly the events that had brought them to their current predicament, he was sure that they had been attacked. Why, or by what, still remained a mystery, but he was becoming quite sure with each passing moment that it hadn't been human. His clothes were ripped in various places, all of which revealed torn skin underneath. The worst was a large section of skin on his left leg that looked as if it had simply been peeled off, and the sight of it made Faramir slightly sick. Another wound one on his torso, the one that he had felt earlier, seemed to vaguely resemble claw-marks. He actually begain wishing he had not found out how bad his injuries were, for only then did his body realise that pain accompanied wounds of any kind. Moving hurt. Lying still hurt twice as much, for he couldn't find a position in which he did not put his weight on at least one gaping wound. Little wonder he was weak; he didn't dare imagine how much blood he had lost through the wound on his thigh alone, and he had several others only slightly smaller. And some still bled, in places where the blood hadn't quite clotted properly. His initial attempts to walk had probably broken them open again.

A slight groan from his King told him that Aragorn was finally coming to.

"Faramir?"

"I am here." His throat was dry, and some dust had gotten into his mouth. Careful to not put stress on any of the major injuries – which meant that he was limited to using his left arm and right leg – he managed to crawl to the side of his King. "It seems that your skills are much needed now, my friend."

Another groan, and eyes the colour of storm clouds on a clear day snapped open. "Elbereth, why is it so dark? Have the tremors stopped?"

"Aye, it seems so" Faramir suddenly caught what Aragorn had said. "But I only just came to, and I know not how much time has passed." He took a closer look at the former Ranger. Aside from the wound on his forehead, he appeared to be in better shape than his Steward. Yet…

Instinctively, he passed a finger in front of Aragorn's face, though at a distance so as to not disturb the air. No reaction. He did it twice over. Not even a blink.

A cold fist wrapped around his heart.

Aragorn could not see.

~*~

"Now, lads, what have we here?"

The two diminutive figures slowly turned to face a knot of gangly men looming behind them, one of whom threateningly waved a short sword. The men were grinning in a most unpleasant way, and their dark eyes glinted menacingly as they gazed upon their seemingly vulnerable victims, their greed evident in their eyes. They had robbed many of the little folk before, though not so far from the Shire, and usually the mere sight of a naked blade was enough to frighten their kind into handing over all their possessions.

Unfortunately for them, their prospective victims were not what one may consider ordinary hobbits. Before they knew what was happening, the hobbits had drawn their own weapons and stood at ready, alert but not openly hostile, despite being the ones threatened. Surprised, the leader reacted without thinking and clumsily slashed at the nearest one, only to feel his blade hit chain mail hidden underneath the cloak. With a quick glance at each other, followed by a fierce cry, the hobbits launched themselves onto the men.

As it was, such men had taken up their profession due to an ingrained cowardice, and these in particular were not very skilled with the weapons they bore, as they had never faced battle-hardened opponents before. Not that these hobbits had seen very much battle, but they had certainly experienced a great deal more than these men twice their size. Facing the Witch-King of the Nazgûl, or a troll in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, would teach even a hobbit something about warfare. Not to mention travelling with accomplished warriors such as the late High Warden of the White Tower, the current of the Reunited Kingdom, the Lord of Ithilien, and the Lord of Aglarond. Thus the end result was not unexpected: men groaning pitifully on the muddy ground, and their not-so-vulnerable victims sighing distastefully as they re-sheathed their swords.

"Pitiful bunch, aren't they, Merry?" said the taller one.

His companion nodded, looking a bit smug. "And they call themselves highway robbers. Well, now they know that us hobbits aren't as soft as we may look to be."

They turned to go. Unfortunately, it seemed that at least one of the men was more outraged at being beaten by a hobbit than fearful of the bite of metal – the hobbits, for the most part, had tried to hit them with flat side of their swords – and possessed some confidence in his daggers. Or perhaps he was simply drunk. In any case, his hand crept unseen to his boot dagger, and things might have turned out very badly indeed for the valiant Knights of Gondor and Rohan, had they not had a hidden guardian.

"Touch it, and this breath will be your last." At the same time, a boot pressed down hard between his shoulder blades.

He froze, along with all the semi-conscious men around him. Putting up his empty hands, he slowly turned his head.

Behind him stood a tall, lithe figure, his hood pulled back to reveal a fair ageless face, and more than one man gasped upon noticing the pointed ears that marked him out as one of the legendary elves. As the suddenly-not-so-confident man gaped, the elf's hands moved quicker than mortal eyes could see, and he found himself staring at the metal tip of an arrow.

"Were these men bothering you, Master Hobbits?" the elf asked casually. For that matter, he did not look the slightest bit worried. He was a little tense, but out of readiness to move rather than any fear of danger.

One of the hobbits grinned. "Why, I believe they were, Master Elrohir."

Merry scowled, and nearly talked over Pippin. "We were just disposing of them when you came along. Hobbits can take care of themselves, you know."

"I never doubted that, Master Meriadoc," the son of Elrond replied with a smile. Merry couldn't decide whether he was mocking them or not; nevertheless his irritation rose a notch. "But the question still remains of what to do with them. And as they are your rabble, I leave their fate in your most capable hands."

He was mocking them! Taking a deep breath – he had to keep reminding himself that the younger of Elrond's twin sons was more incorrigible than him, Pippin and all the inhabitants of the Smials and Buckland put together, according to Gandalf anyway – he directed the hobbit equivalent of an elven glare at the cowering men. Unfortunately, most them were still alternating between gaping and cringing at Elrohir, and were barely aware of anything else. Irritation rose to anger, and Merry became so disgusted with the 'robbers' that he was tempted to spit at them. The idea shocked him, but the shock didn't lessen the feeling.

"All of you, out of my sight in three heartbeats, or you'll wish that Elrohir here cut out your entrails first," he barked in a voice that he never knew he had, and was surprised at his own pleasure at seeing the jump.

What is wrong with me? A small voice in his head whispered.

The men took a hearbeat to blink, but all had the wits enough to scramble to their feet and run as if a Balrog's whip drove them. Fuming and not trusting himself to be civil with the elf, he turned to check on their ponies, and thus missed Elrohir's look of surprised admiration..

"In any case, thank you for coming to our aid," he heard Pippin say. He could feel the younger hobbit and the elf's eyes on his back, though they spoke to each other.

"You are welcome, Master Peregrin, though as Merry said, my help was barely needed." Elrohir's voice had no mockery in it now, and Merry wondered if he had not been imagining things earlier. He wouldn't have been surprised if he had- he hadn't been himself for days. "Though, if you don't mind me asking, where are two such esteemed hobbits be journeying to? I see from your supplies that you plan to go somewhere far."

Had Elrohir been making fun of us? Or did his words just rub me the wrong way? Deep in his heart he regretted his rudeness to the elf, for Elrohir had been kindly to them during their stay in Rivendell after journeying there with Frodo, and later when he and Elladan joined them in Rohan.

"Actually, we are heading for Gondor, though we may stop by Rohan on the way."

Of course, there had been a few harmless pranks, but Merry could hardly pretend that he himself was innocent. He had actually enjoyed most of them, even ones where the joke was on him.

"Then it is quite fortunate that I found you, for that is where I head also. I have not seen my sister and brothers for a long time. I would like to accompany you, if you would have me."

In fact, Merry had taken more of a liking to Elrohir than Elladan, because the elf and he shared a similar sense of humour- though Elrohir was quite a bit more innovative than Merry, and that the hobbit had attributed to several centuries worth of practice,

Pippin's voice brightened considerably. "Of course! That is, if Merry doesn't mind?"

Would it matter? That accursed voice was back again! Does anything Merry says matter? Coming here to save us! As if we couldn't take care of ourselves! Do not trouble yourself with such useless baggage, master elf!

He grimaced, and struggled vainly to quash the incessant buzzing in his head. This sulky, irritated hobbit was not Merry. Merry chose a good tankard of ale and good rich food over any sort of violence, yet at that moment he felt more like bashing Elrohir's head in. And for what? For helping them, when help was needed? It was likely that he had been following them for some hours, if not days, and he had not interfered until he saw a danger they hadn't.

Merry knew all this, and clung on to this reasoning like a drowning hobbit. He suspected that it was the reason he managed to smooth his flushed face into a semblance of calm. Elrohir desrved that much, at least, though more likely a full apology would have to be delivered when Merry could actually do it sincerely.

"Merry?"

"Hmm? Oh, of course I don't mind." He made himself look at Elrohir, who studied him with eyes that seemed to look through his soul. He wanted to cringe. "You're always welcome to journey with us, Elrohir. I… apologise for my behaviour. I'm not feeling myself today."

Once Elrohir nodded, Merry turned away and busied himself with re-arranging the packs on the ponies, unable to bear the elf's intense scrutiny any longer. He did not see the questioning look Elrohir gave Pippin, and the hobbit's troubled glance.

~*~

Night had settled on the White City. The streets gradually emptied as even late-night drinkers stumbled out of the taverns and sought their beds, though they didn't necessarily make it that far. So the world was relatively silent, and not a breeze stirred the cool air.

It was, overall, a good night for contemplation. Gimli would have liked to smoke some leaf to aid his relaxation, but Legolas hated the smell of pipe-weed, and the elf still looked so frail that Gimli worried that a pin dropping would be enough the break what feeble hold on life his friend held.

For the umpteenth time that hour, he glanced over at the elf, checking that his chest rose and fell. He had a feeling that he was getting a bit paranoid, but he felt that he had reason enough to be. Besides, no one was around to witness an open display of concern, though earlier in the day he had determined that this no longer mattered to him. Two Guards passing by the street below had been talking and jesting loudly, taking advantage of their break from duty with a tankard of ale. Gimli, high-strung after having to watch Ioreth sew together his best friend's gruesome injuries, strode down to the Guards and delivered an ultimatum that only a dwarf could, though he was careful to keep the volume of his voice down. It seemed that word had gotten around, for no more drunk Guards passed, and the street actually seemed quieter than it should have been.

Unable to help himself, his eyes traveled back to the elf. At least the blood was gone, the wounds were expertly dressed, and his breathing was fuller. But Legolas was still as pale as death, bruises covered two-thirds of his body, and the amount of blood he must have lost clearly worried Ioreth. And there was a possibility that Legolas had sustained a major head injury, for he sported a deep cut down one side of his head. But that would have to wait until the elf woke up.

If he wakes up at all.

"Elf, if there was ever a good time for you to challenge the stubbornness of a dwarf, now will be it," he said gruffly. Once they saw that Legolas' condition was more or less stable, Éomer and Elladan had departed for the Citadel. They tried to get Gimli to go with them, of course, but Aulë wouldn't have been able to persuade the dwarf to leave his friend's side. Occasionally, Ioreth or one of her healers would come by and check on the bandages, and had brought dinner up to him, but for the most part of the day Gimli had been alone with his unconscious friend.

A sharp lance of pain through his head reminded him of his lack of sleep. He had not slept for four days, since his fateful dream, and he realised that for all the hardiness of his race, he could not keep it up for much longer.

I must sleep sometime, he tried to reason with himself. Where better than in the Houses of Healing, when even an elf rests?

He shifted to a more comfortable position. He was in a stout wooden chair, lined with soft cushions, right next to the elf. He suddenly had the oddest desire to possess the fair voice of the Eldar, if only for an hour, so he may sing a song to draw Legolas from the brink of death, just as the elf had done for him countless times in the past. He dismissed this thought with a good measure of embarrassment. He imagined that all the dwarves that have ever dwelt in the Lonely Mountain would be struck down by apoplexy upon hearing of such a wish coming from a dwarf. Besides, any singing he attempted would probably push Legolas over the brink into death, if not bring down every building in Minas Tirith as well.

But as tired as he was, he could not convince himself to sleep. What if Legolas woke? Or his attacker returned? Even worse yet, what if Legolas too his last breath, and Gimli was not awake to see it? Would he wake in the morning, and see the once-lively child of Iluvatar cold and lifeless? He was not sure his sanity could survive that.

Breath, Prince of Mirkwood. Breathe for me.

Not knowing what else to do, he reached out and touched the elf's hand. He had done this every hour also, if only to assure himself that his friend was still there. The smooth skin was cold, but not the clammy ice of before. He imagined that he was imparting some of his strength into his friend, silently encouraging the immortal body to regenerate itself, to mend torn flesh, to stop the spill of precious blood. He hoped that Legolas could at least feel his presence, and be comforted by it.

"I will not sleep until you assure me that you will not slip away once my eyes are closed," he mumbled.

As if in response, the fair hand beneath his coarse one moved slightly. It was the smallest of movements, a tiny contraction of the fingers.

Could Legolas have heard him?

"Come, Legolas. The battle is not over yet. Come back to us." The elf did not move again, but the small movement heartened the forlorn dwarf, and he took it as a sign that the stubborn son of Thranduil would not be giving up his struggle any time soon.

"I am here, my friend. I will not leave you."

He remembered all too well his horror that morning. Guilt, over failing to reach his friends in time. Shock, for he had not actually expected Legolas to be there; the White Tree in his dreams had only told him that Aragorn would be involved. Pain, faced with weeping for two, both his dearest friends in life. If only he gotten there sooner. Foolish thought, for he doubted that a lone dwarf could have changed the outcome of the battle But what if it could have? Perhaps the aid of the Rohirrim would have been enough. If he had pushed Eomer harder, or had heeded his dreams earlier... So many ifs.

Yet it was a measure of how close elf and dwarf had become that though Legolas was lying unconscious on the bed before him, Gimli could almost hear the elf's disapproving voice in his head, muttering about the stiff neck of the dwarves and their inability to take care of themselves. Gimli mentally countered that by pointing out the many occasions where the elf had ignored his own injuries as he saw to everyone else's.

Foolish dwarf, Legolas would say. At least admit to yourself that it is not purely for my sake you stay awake.

"Aye, yet I would gladly listen to your scoldings for ten years and a day if that is the price for your waking."

He knew he was running, hiding from the true fear in his heart. He feared for his friend's life, dearer to him than his own. At a deeper level, he feared for Middle-Earth, now that the Firstborn were departing, trusting Men to take care of the world. But the most immediate fear in his heart at that point in time was the dreams.

If he slept, the dreams would come. He had been uneasy with themto begin with, and a part of his urgency in riding to Gondor had been in hope of discovering that the dreams were little more than an elf's bad influence. Now Aragorn was captured, left to a fate that could be worse than that of his men, and Legolas lay near death beside him. What would his next dream tell him? He was ashamed to admit that he feared what message would be in his next dream more than the actual dreaming itself. Perhaps he would not be so lucky next time. He had been fortunate, after all, for Éomer trusted him and his instincts. Next time… he shuddered. He would go mad, if he knew that something akin to this would occur again, and be unable to stop it.

Was this what was termed foresight? It was a gift Aragorn and Elladan possessed, yet Gimli had always taken it for an ability to piece together bits of information to reach a reliable conclusion, rather than a somewhat heightened form of intuition. That was the best he could describe the feeling. Similar to instinct, yet… less distinct, and at the same time more powerful. That morning – had it only been four days ago? – he had woken up, and had known. No solid evidence, nothing to even suggest how he knew of the attack. He simply did. He knew that Aragorn was going to be attacked. He knew that there would be killing, but if Aragorn was not found amongst the dead, he would live for some time yet. There would be another purpose for him.

"You will go mad, elvellon, if you do not cease this endless circle of 'what-ifs' and seek the rest your body requires."

Abruptly realising that his eyelids had drooped to half cover his eyes, he forced them open. Legolas had not moved, but Gimli could have sworn he had heard the elf's voice. He scowled at the elf, and almost heard the familiar musical laughter of the Lord of Ithilien. That is it, this lack of sleep is driving me mad.

Only… he did not wish to dream again. He briefly considered asking Ioreth for a sleeping draught that may prevent him form dreaming, but dismissed the idea. He did not wish to let anyone know of how much even the thought of dreams sent a sliver of fear into his heart. And as much as he feared what he would learn, one look at the elf's battered face reminded him that his dearest friend in Arda would be dead if not for the warning of his dream.

He let out a frustrated growl. He feared the knowledge in his dreams, lest he be helpless to do anything about it. Yet if a similar attack occurred again, he would wonder if he could have prevented it, had he had the courage to face his dreams.

So engrossed in the mental debate was he, that before long his body finally surrendered, and he unknowingly drifted into the realm of Lórien, who smiled at this strange child of Aulë on whom he had bestowed a special gift.

~*~*~

High Warden of the White Tower was one of Boromir's titles (from The Window on the West, Book !V, The Two Towers)

Lórien – the Vala who is master of dreams and visions.

Author's Notes:

In case anyone's noticed, even though this is essentially a post-ROTK fic, I like lacing in some things from the Silmarillion. LOTR, after all, is but the tip of an iceberg, and I like acknowledging the incredible depth of Tolkien's world with brief glimpses into the history of Middle-Earth.

A huge THANK YOU to all your kind reviews! Exams are coming up, and it seems that a teenager's main priority is sleep, so I guess you can say that your words are the only thing fueling this story at the moment (I'm reciting French verbs even as I write this). And as a token of my appreciation and immense gratitude, I'm going to try thanking each reviewer personally (since the last update). Really sorry if I miss someone out, but it's probably because it didn't appear on the review page on time, so I'll be slotting it in with the next update. Now, on to the reviewers!

Thundera Tiger – thank you SO much for the kind words and good advice! I nearly got a heart attack when I saw that you've reviewed my story, as I am a great follower of your stories. I'm trying to follow your advice, and I've discovered that following one's instinct is a good way to get around writer's block, so thank you for that.

I ask that you wait for more scenes with Merry and Pippin, though, as I've barely touched my characterization in this chapter. The next chapter will (hopefully) have more of Merry, Pippin and Elrohir in it, as well as an insight into why Merry is acting as he is.

catwil – glad you like Gimli's dreams, and Faramir is most definitely not alone!

Guardgirl1 – My apologies, that is actually a result of a characterisation of Elladan I made for another of my stories. Basically, though the children of Elrond all know healing to some degree, Elladan was the worst at it. Aragorn (who was Elrond's foster-son) was the best, of course, followed by Arwen, then Elrohir, then Elladan, who can manage the basic battlefield treatments, but little more. You may not agree with this, of course, but keep in mind that such relatively minor characterisations come from my own imagination; so far as I know, there nothing in the books that say Elladan had the skill of his father.

In this story, he lacked necessary medecine for improving Legolas' condition to any significant degree when they first found him, then later in the Houses of Healing he decided to let someone else with better skill handle Legolas' fragile condition. Hope that is a satisfactory explanation, and I'll see to answering your questions ;-)

Acacia – Glad you like the characterisations, it took a whole notebook to get a clear idea of everyone's personalities. And congratulations on guessing Merry and Pippin!

cm – In case you're wondering, it'll get pretty complicated in a couple of chapters, so hang on tight! A bit of a clue: I'm going to be pairing some people up (no-slash!). Think Survivor, only we all want them to survive, don't we?

Silian – Go ahead, please! I'll revise the chapters in due time, just to clean up some typos, and you pointing out even the smallest errors will make my job a lot easier, so thanks a bunch!