Happy Holidays!

Disclaimer:  Sigh, not mine….

Chapter 16  The Eastern Lands

*scratch scratch scratch….* 

*tap*

*scratch scratch scratch….* 

*tap*

*scratch scratch scratch….* 

*tap*

*scratch scratch scratch….scratch…..scratch…….*

Cièdron and Merionè dully watched as Bratherond methodically sharpened the tips of each of his arrows and then lightly tapped the point with a small rock.  There was absolutely no point to this final tapping – in fact, there really was no point in the sharpening either - but it was a superstitious habit the elf now harbored for thousands of years and as his nerves tightened and coiled, the scratch and tap focused his mind and relaxed his senses.

It had been three days since Gandalf left the three elves. They had encountered no new adventures since their fight with the band of Orcs and thus spent the long days silently traveling and the long nights silently sitting cross legged around a fire, too anxious to sleep, too gloomy to talk, and too accustomed to the eerie moans and watchful eyes of Mirkwood to pay much attention to their surroundings either. Thus Bratherond busied himself with his idle sharpening and Merionè and Cièdron busied themselves by idly watching Bratherond's idle sharpening.

*scratch scratch scratch….scratch…..scratch…….scraaaatch*

*THUD*

All eyes stared curiously at Cièdron who had just inexplicably lifted a large rock and pounded it forcefully on the ground.  Cièdron looked up and shrugged.

"I was waiting for the tap. I couldn't wait any longer," he drearily explained.

Merionè nodded and Bratherond raised an eyebrow, clearly baffled by the other two elves' interest in his sharpening. The warrior elf listlessly tapped the arrow and put it away.  Having come to the end of his arrows, he put them away and sat silently for a few moments, gazing first at Cièdron, then at Merionè, then back at Cièdron, and then at the yellow eyes, and back at Cièdron.  Finally with a sigh he gazed at his own hands.

"I think I shall miss those eyes when we finally get out of here," Bratherond muttered.

"Mmm…Yeah…." The other elves responded lamely.

Bratherond gazed again at the yellow eyes peeking out of the dark shadows in the hissing, flickering light of the fire and he twiddled his thumbs. "I think there's a new pair tonight…."

The elf's voice trailed off as again the other elves responded with half hearted "yeahs" and "mmmm's." Bratherond sat quietly for a few more moments and finally decided to take out the arrows he already worked on and start the whole sharpening process again.

Cièdron, clearly irked by this, sighed and pounded his own rock simultaneously with Bratherond's *taps.*

*scratch scratch scratch….* 

*THUD*

Merionè involuntarily nodded his head and tapped his fingers in unison with the rhythmic drumbeat of taps and thuds. Even the eyes seemed to blink and move together with the tapping.  Indeed, the entire forest swayed and moved with the elves' cadenced tapping and thudding until Cièdron could not stand it any more.

"Is there a reason, Bratherond, that you sharpen the same arrows every night?" the elf prince finally asked, haughtiness tracing his light voice.

Bratherond cleared his throat. "To keep my arrows sharp," he answered bluntly, matching the prince's arrogance as he continued with his religious-like process of sharpening and tapping.

"But there will be nothing left of those tips for you will whittle them all away!" Cièdron cried. "And I fear your tapping and scratching will be stuck in my mind until the next age! Ai, everything I do will be in unison with it!"

Bratherond calmly continued with his sharpening, unaffected by the younger elf's apparent dismay about the state of his arrow tips or the rhythms to be singed into his mind for ages to come. "Look Master Prince," he began, sarcasm lacing his gruff voice, "First of all, none of us will probably make it to the next age. And as soon as you figure out a better way to keep these arrows sharp, let me know, and we will have your father pass an ordinance that all of his warriors shall follow."

Cièdron gaped at the elf. "But, Bratherond, they are elvish arrows! What elf ever sharpens his arrows?! Why, it is like eating ten lembas biscuits!"

Bratherond frowned, but still did not let up in his mechanical sharpening. "I have been sharpening my arrows for 3,589 years Cièdron. Do you think I care that they are elvish?"

"3,689," Merionè corrected. Bratherond and Cièdron now turned to the third elf who continued to tap his fingers in unison with the sharpening.

Bratherond furrowed his brows. "Nay, Merionè, 3,589."

Merionè sighed and enunciated each word as he spoke. "For 3,689 years you have been sharpening those blasted arrows Bratherond. Believe me, I know. Three thousand six hundred eighty nine long years…"

Bratherond placed down his arrows and began counting on his hand, mumbling the years as he did so. "That is rather odd, I could have sworn it had been 3,589…"

Cièdron raised his eyebrows and watched disbelievingly as Bratherond continued to mumble and count the years.

"Ah yes! You are right Merionè! It has been 3,689. Well then, in that case, Master Prince, I have been doing this for 3,689 years.  All the more reason not to give an Orc's foot whether these arrows are elvish or not."

*scratch scratch scratch….* 

*tap*

Cièdron dropped his rock with an agitated thud. "Yes, I suppose so…"

Unable to stand the incessant scratching and tapping, the elf prince gracefully moved away from the fire and leaned against one of the gnarled skeletal trees, gazing straight at the blinking yellow eyes as if daring them to attack.  He had not told the others about his encounter with the Orc and what the Orc had said to him as it mercilessly kicked and beat him though it haunted his mind to the point where he thought he may very well go insane. Each additional day in Mirkwood brought on more dizziness, more hallucinations, and more weight on the young elf's shoulders. Chills raced up his spine and through his body and he often wondered if he would ever wake should he allow himself to sleep.

Tell me pretty elf! Do you have an equally pretty twin? Oh he was a fun one, a fun one indeed…

Cièdron shuddered.  It could not be true! Nay, Legolas would not be much fun at all for an Orc.  Valar knew, Cièdron suffered plenty in his fights with his brother – any Orc that met Legolas would not have a fun time at all! Therefore, it could not be true. No, any Orc that fought his brother would not have the strength to beat Cièdron later the way that Orc had… if it lived at all…

Unless Legolas was injured. Ai, if the Orc had met his brother, then why was it still alive?! Legolas should have killed it!

Cièdron stiffened at this thought and punched the tree in his frustration.  The movement however caused a fiery sting to race through his side and the elf doubled over in pain, grasping his wounded side and gasping for breath.

"Cièdron," a soft voice murmured. Merionè had followed the elf and now stood at his side, gently supporting him as he gagged and fell to his knees.

"Cièdron, dear Elbereth…" Merionè whispered as he slowly removed Cièdron's hand from his wound.  It was the same wound Cièdron received from the first warg attack days ago. Though it had mostly healed, the fight with the Orcs had agitated it and it had reopened, causing it to bleed on and off ever since.

As Merionè removed the hand his eyes widened at the crimson, sticky liquid that moistened the elf's side. "Ai, Cièdron… You must let me look at this."

"It is nothing Merionè. It bleeds for a while and then it stops. It will stop again soon," Cièdron breathed as he leaned back against the tree.

"But it should have healed completely." Merionè gently removed his cape and ripped off a section to press against the wound. "It is your heart that will not allow it to heal Cièdron. You do not wish it to, and thus it will not."

Cièdron turned and peered closely at Merionè. Then with a sigh, he looked away. "You are an enigma Merionè. You speak to me of wounds that will not heal because I will not allow them to, yet you spend your days in troubled dreams, never allowing yourself to be relieved of whatever it is that haunts you. I have watched you Merionè. You suffer."

"My suffering is my own business, Cièdron," Merionè answered curtly. "I will be relieved of it soon, I assure you."

The older elf placed a cold hand on Cièdron's cheek and turned the pale face towards him. "You do look an awful lot like Legolas.  I have never really noticed before…"

Cièdron wrinkled his brow, wondering what Merionè was getting at. Had he heard the Orc taunt him about his brother? Or was it just a coincidence that both brought up their similarities? Merionè certainly did seem to hear and know more than he let on to.

Merionè leaned in close to Cièdron and held the elf's gaze for several long moments. Cièdron nearly shuddered at the frozen blue eyes that gazed back at him. The light in them had gone, leaving two vacant holes, deep, icy, and opaque.  He started when he noticed he could not see himself in those eyes for they reflected nothing, not inner or outer light. Ai! What is happening to him!?

"You would know if he was dead, Cièdron," Merionè finally spoke, his soft voice low and matter-of-fact, barely even rising above the hiss of the fire or Bratherond's scratching and tapping.

Cièdron staggered. "What?" he whispered, his eyes widening ever so slightly as his entire body froze.

Merionè pressed against the wound even harder and repeated, "You would know if he was dead Cièdron. Your love is too strong for you not to know. Do not underestimate the bonds that can form between elves.  Our physical beings mean nothing.  It matters not whether Legolas is beside you or a thousand miles away. If he suffered you would know and he will know if you suffer. If he dies, you will know. And so shall he if you should. We are not such simple beings, young prince. The Valar have given us more than you know."

Merionè leaned back and smirked slightly. "Trust me. I have fought and traveled this earth for many years!" He laughed sadly at this and continued, "I have seen many an elf sundered from his loved one suffer as they suffered. I have been across the sea and have seen the elves there suffer for those they left behind. I have seen it all, Cièdron."

Cièdron remained silent for several long moments, taking in everything that Merionè had just said.  The other elf continued to press against the wound and examine it carefully when suddenly a violent shudder shook his body.

"Merionè! Are you ok?" Cièdron asked as Merionè abruptly pulled away.

A stunned look haunted Merionè's eyes and the elf rapidly stood and backed away from Cièdron.

"Merionè?" Cièdron asked again, confused and even a little frightened by the elf's sudden strange actions. Merionè shivered again and shook his head as if trying to free it from some evil thought or dream.

"Nothing… It is nothing, Cièdron. You should rest." Merionè shook his head again and retreated back to the fire.

Cièdron cocked an eyebrow at this and leaned back again against the tree.

"I fear we will all lose our minds before this is done," he muttered as he pressed the ripped cape against his wound and searched the yellow eyes for the new pair Bratherond spoke of while also counting the old ones to make sure they were all present tonight.

"We're getting to know each other quite well now, aren't we?" Cièdron snorted and stretched his long legs in front of him comfortably. "Aye, I think I would be rather lonely without all of you watching me…"

In response, the eyes continued to move about and blink, seemingly disturbed that they no longer held the same fearful power over the elf as when he first entered Mirkwood and froze before those eyes.

"Besides," Cièdron continued softly, "You heard what he said. If you attack me, Legolas will know and you would have quite a bit to deal with later on. Trust me, he's a feisty one when he's mad."

A gruff voice behind him interrupted Cièdron's one sided conversation with the eyes.

"We should move on."

Cièdron gaped at Bratherond who was fingering his sword anxiously and scanning their surroundings with growing concern. "But Bratherond, it is the middle of the night!  We ought to rest until morning, don't you think?"

Bratherond dropped his hard gaze to Cièdron and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when his eyes fell on Cièdron's side. His tense features softened considerably and he let out a small sigh.

"Aye, Cièdron, I do think we ought to rest. You especially….But I do not like the feel of this place…"

"Did you ever like the feel of it?" Cièdron interrupted.

Bratherond ignored this and continued. "I cannot place it, but something is not right… All I know is that my mind screams to leave. Now."

Cièdron frowned and returned to his original position against the tree. Carefully, the elf removed the fabric from his wound and folded it into his belt.  A chill breeze suddenly shook the trees and a shiver danced down his spine. A sudden weight fell on his mind as the trees slowly began to sway and blur…

Bratherond too felt it and he bent down next to Cièdron. "It is Dol Guldur," he whispered. "The closer we get, the worse it will get. But as long as we know what it is, we can fight it. Those who do not know it often fall to insanity. They think it is their minds, or the wraiths – and perhaps it is. I do not know enough about those beings to say for sure. But whatever you do, do not let yourself give in to the blackness that calls you."

Bratherond straightened and turned towards Merionè who stared languidly at the ground.  Whatever evil it was that burdened Bratherond and Cièdron and laid siege to their minds had no affect on him, though he had felt it the last time he traveled to these areas several months ago. Bratherond grimly noted Merionè's calm, but did not say a word about it.

"Come Cièdron."

Bratherond helped the prince to his feet, taking note of the wound as he did so.

"You are too stubborn for your own good, son of Thranduil," Bratherond said as he gazed worriedly at the wound. "We will deal with this at our next stop."

Cièdron's eyes flashed and he pushed Bratherond off of him. "It is nothing! Leave me be, Bratherond."

He knew the elf did not mean any harm, yet Cièdron still could not get over his dislike for Bratherond. The story of his brothers haunted him. Had it not been for him, they'd still be alive. Cièdron shook his head of the thought. Nay, you cannot think of that now! But as much as the prince tried, he could not completely push the memory out of his mind… the memory of that fateful day when his sister ran into the throne room…

Shaking off any help from the others, Cièdron mounted his horse and followed the flickering light of Bratherond's torch through the cavernous forest.  Again, he turned towards the eyes, watching them as they watched him.  They twinkled and laughed at him and soon began to flutter ominously causing a wave of dizziness to wash over Cièdron. The elf began to shiver uncontrollably and as nausea overtook him, he forced himself to look away from the eyes.  As his shivering grew in its intensity, the elf doubled over and gripped tightly to his horse.  Looking down, he focused instead on a tiny purple stain that colored the tip of his felt boot and he wondered where the stain had come from – certainly he had come across no grapes or berries in Mirkwood. Another spell of dizziness claimed his mind before he had a chance to think back beyond his travels in the dark wood and remember the bright purple toes that were underneath that boot. 

The night swiveled and Cièdron had to use every last ounce of strength to control the vertigo that pulled on him and called to him like a siren. Finally, just when he thought he may tumble off of his horse, Bratherond ordered everyone to halt.

"It is still with me," he sighed as he anxiously eyed the trees around him. "But I suppose no matter where we go now, the shadow in my mind will remain as long as we are within the grasp of Dol Guldur. We shall rest here for the rest of the night."

Cièdron nodded, but did not respond.  The nausea ebbed, but the weariness did not. As he dismounted, Bratherond placed a hand on his shoulder, ignoring Cièdron's slight recoil.

"Sleep Cièdron. Merionè and I will keep watch tonight."

Though his eyes hardened, Cièdron nodded and slid down against a tree where he drifted off into troubled elven dreams. But before long, the elf found himself slipping in and out of his dreams as he picked up bits and pieces of a hushed fight that had erupted between Bratherond and Merionè. Though at first nothing made sense, he was soon able to tie the words together and his dreams receded as he fully awoke to a far worse nightmare.

"Nay, Merionè, I am not going anywhere! You said it yourself – for 3,689 years we have traveled together.  Do you really expect me to abandon you now?!" Bratherond hissed.

Some shuffling of feet as the other elf fitfully paced around the fire preceded his answer. "Bratherond, did you not hear me?! I swore an oath. I did not intend to keep it, but he does, Bratherond. He does! I cannot escape it!"

"How do you know that Merionè!? There are many who lightly swear oaths... Perhaps you did escape it…."

The shuffling of feet stopped and only the crackling of the fire remained. "How do you think I understood the Black Speech!?!"

Bratherond shook his head despairingly, "I do not know – you were always rather good at figuring out riddles… It just, it cannot be… your heart did not swear it, only your words…Words are nothing, Merionè!"

Merionè grabbed Bratherond and shook him gently, "Bratherond, you of all people should know that words are not nothing." There was a long pause before Merionè whispered softly, "I can feel him gain control over me.  As much as I try to fight it, I can feel myself slipping away. I felt him before when I was with Cièdron, Bratherond! I had never felt him so strongly grip me… Ai! It frightened me!"

Bratherond continued to shake his head. "Then we will all go back!" he insisted, forgetting all past promises to Mithrandir and Thranduil as his concern for his companion's well being overtook his mind.  For too long they had fought together, defending their wood and their King whom they loved and would easily give their lives for.  Though Bratherond never said it, he had developed an unfaltering respect for Merionè as the elf bravely sacrificed his one true love – the sea – in order to serve Thranduil.  Merionè also was one of the few warriors who knew of Bratherond's greatest vulnerability – his guilt over the fates of the King's sons. I should have gone with him. Ai! Why did I not go with him?! He does not deserve this! I deserve it more than he!  

Merionè sighed, "I already told you, I cannot go back."

Bratherond's eyes flashed wildly and his voice began to rise above the controlled hiss. "Yes you can! Of course you can! We will all go back and we will help you! Mithrandir will know what to do!"

Merionè's voice too rose above a hiss and he cried, "Bratherond, I betrayed Thranduil!"

"He will understand! You had no choice… you had to, you were tricked… You have served him loyally for centuries…He will help you, he will summon Lord Elrond, Lady Galadrial, he will find a way…"

Bratherond trailed off as Merionè gazed at him, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. "Nay, Bratherond, you do not understand.  If I go back, he will go with me. If I am let into Thranduil's palace, he will be let into the palace.  If I am left alone with Thranduil, he will be alone with Thranduil.  It is what he wants. He wants me to go back.  He is begging me to go back. Ai! He is torturing me to go back!"

"But we will be with you - I know now, and so I will not allow you to be alone with Thranduil until you are released….And we will be able to release you! I am sure of it!" Bratherond's voice trembled and his own eyes widened as he slowly came to realize Merionè's deteriorating state.

Merionè shook his head. "He would not let you return with me," he whispered.

Bratherond froze and fearfully retreated from Merionè as the troubled elf suddenly toyed unconsciously with his knife.

 "I do not know how much longer I can control it Bratherond. It only grows worse with each passing day. I do not trust myself and nor should you.  Please, I beg of you, you must leave."

Suddenly Merionè realized what he was doing and swiftly sheathed his knife.  "It is not only your own life you are putting at risk by staying with me," he breathed.

Bratherond never removed his eyes from the knife and the tremble that had laced his voice spread throughout his entire body. Neither elf noticed the third elf approach them quietly from his perch where they had supposed him to be sleeping.

Cièdron cleared his throat, causing both to jump in surprise.  Bratherond fell back and his steel eyes betrayed the anguish that claimed his heart as he took in the King's son whom he had sworn to protect. 

"Who did you swear an oath to Merionè?" Cièdron demanded. Though weakened and pallid, Cièdron still was able to exude the powerful, formidable presence of his father that neither Bratherond nor Merionè could ignore.

When no answer came, Cièdron's eyes flashed dangerously and he once again demanded forcefully, "WHO did you swear an oath to Merionè!?!"

Merionè shut his eyes and shook his head hopelessly.

"Sauron," he finally answered.

The blood drained from Cièdron's already gray face and Merionè slowly reopened his darkened eyes and repeated, his words falling like lead in the misty, sinister forest,

"I swore my loyalty to Sauron."

* * * * *

Having finally been released from the clutches of Mirkwood, Aragorn and Legolas decided to rest the remainder of the night at her edge, relishing in the cool, free air and endless land before them underneath the magnificent stars and moon floating within the crisp, clear sky.

After building a small fire, Aragorn leaned back against a tree and took out his pipe.  It had been a long time since the human enjoyed the sweet, soothing smoke and he felt he deserved it now more than ever.  As he slowly breathed in, he listened to the silence around him and released a small sigh almost feeling as if he were back in Imladris or Thranduil's realm.  Legolas' tall, slender silhouette created a long shadow in the moonlight as the elf stood gazing intensely at the desert land before them.

"Tell me what you see Legolas," Aragorn asked quietly, his voice carrying over in the soft, gentle breeze.

The elf stood silently for several moments before answering. "I see the land swim and quake. I see the stars dance to the Celduin's song."

Aragorn smiled at the elf's nonsensical, lighthearted descriptions, but his face dropped at the words that followed.

"I also see a shadow. It is gathering across the land like a dark mist. It is waiting, Aragorn."

Aragorn sighed and slowly took out his pipe.  He followed Legolas' gaze southward, but saw nothing but the shadowy deserted land.

"Mordor is awakening," Legolas murmured.

Aragorn stood and walked to the elf's side.  As clouds sailed leisurely across the sky they revealed the distant black mountains of Mordor, like small, jagged teeth jutting out of the flattened land.

"Alas I do not possess the eyesight of elves," Aragorn said as he placed a hand on the elf's shoulder and continued to strain his eyes to see the darkness that now clouded Legolas' features.

Legolas' eyes widened slightly, though he did not say at what, and he finally tore himself away, looking towards the east instead.

"I can describe to you whatever you wish to see Master Ranger to the best of my ability. But not all gifts are gifts always," Legolas faced the human and a sad smile tugged at his lips. "You do not need elven eyes to enjoy this sky and this view – you only need them to see the darkness beyond this land."

Again Legolas glimpsed towards the south, but quickly looked away as if the image there was too painful to bear, and he settled himself against the very tree Aragorn had been leaning against.  His eyes then rested lazily on Aragorn's pipe which lay innocently besides the ranger's pack.  Carefully the elf picked it up and studied the smooth, intricate carvings.

"These are lovely carvings, Aragorn, though I do not recognize these letters. Where did you get it?" Legolas asked as he held it closer to his eyes.

"The dwarves gave it to me when I traveled through the Misty Mountains some years back," Aragorn explained distractedly as he continued to gaze towards Mordor.

Legolas gaped at Aragorn. "Ai! Dwarves? You would accept a gift from them? Figures they would create an object capable of such putrid smells…"

But despite his apparent disdain for the dwarven pipe, Legolas raised it and curiously sniffed the contents of its barrel.  Aragorn cocked an eyebrow and wondered if the elf had completely lost his mind when Legolas then decided to suck on the pipe itself.

"UGH!!" Legolas' fair face puckered up as if he had just swallowed a lemon and he swiftly dropped the pipe as he gagged and choked on the thick, powerful smoke. Aragorn frowned as the pipeweed spilled out of the barrel and was momentarily torn between helping the elf and gathering the spilt pipeweed.  Though Legolas' eyes began to tear and the poor elf continued to cough uncontrollably, the ranger opted for gathering the pipeweed.

"You are not supposed to swallow the smoke my friend." Aragorn explained as he placed the pipeweed back into the pipe and relit it.  As Legolas continued to gag and choke, the ranger's eyes sparkled deviously and he comfortably leaned beside him, properly inhaling the smoke and puffing out graceful rings that floated quietly away amidst the violent coughing and caustic elvish grumbling.  A shame Gandalf is not here… Aragorn thought, imagining the old wizard's grumpy reprimand. Fool of a wood elf! Remind me to hide my staff from you before you decide to mimic the Istari!

When at last the elf's choking fit subsided, Aragorn calmly turned and grinned. "Recover yet Prince of Mirkwood? Or shall I slap your back to help you get rid of that hairball in your throat?"

Thranduil's glare shone through Legolas' seething bright eyes and had Aragorn not known better, he may have even cowered in the wake of the fiery glower.

"A curse on all dwarves and a curse on all pipeweed!" he spat out after one last cough.

Legolas' eyes widened angrily as the ranger began to snicker softly. "It is not funny Aragorn! That stuff, it is… it is poison!"

"One elf's poison is another man's elixir," Aragorn muttered through a smirk.

Legolas let out an aggravated sigh and grumbled rather arrogantly in elvish about the absurdity of the other races which Aragorn decided to ignore. "Though I should like for Cièdron to try it," the elf continued mischievously.

As he mentioned his brother, Legolas suddenly remembered the circumstances under which they were separated and he fell silent, the mischievous thoughts and previous irritation giving way to gloomy concern.

Aragorn dropped a hand on the elf's shoulder and rubbed it reassuringly. 

"I am sure he would figure out immediately the proper way to smoke it Legolas… or be wise enough not to try in the first place," the ranger teased.

"I was only curious as to what it was that so ensnares humans, dwarves and wizards…" Legolas half heartedly tried to explain.

"And hobbits," Aragorn added.

"Aye, and hobbits. Though they are queer creatures indeed." Legolas smiled as he briefly remembered the Halfling that had wondered into Mirkwood many years ago. He had seen him in the wood not far from the palace, but then the little hobbit had disappeared like a phantom and despite the elf's best efforts, he could not find him again. Not soon afterwards, bizarre occurrences spooked the guards, agitated his father and brother and confused the rest of the wood elves.  Legolas had found it all rather amusing, though he hid his mirth well – especially when the dwarves that originally accompanied the hobbit escaped his father's dungeons.  Surely, he would have been locked away for a thousand years had his livid father or humiliated guards caught merely an inkling of a twinkle in his eye.

"No more queer than those who walk on snow, treetops and furniture," Aragorn countered.

Legolas shrugged and slouched against the tree "You're just jealous," he muttered wearily.

The ranger snorted at this and put out his pipe. "I am perfectly happy with both my feet firmly on the ground."

The two fell silent and awaited the sunrise, each hoping that the other now slept peacefully as each desperately needed to do, but knowing in their hearts that neither would allow the comforts of sleep to overtake them. When the sun did rise, she did so amidst a fanfare of reds, oranges and pinks, lighting the brown sea on fire. Legolas and Aragorn gazed in wonder at the trembling pink and orange landscape.

The human's eyes then fell on Legolas' shoulder and as if just realizing he had a cast at all, the elf looked down at it also, frowned and squirmed out of it, gingerly stretching out his arm and wiggling his fingers.

"It is a little stiff, but I believe it has healed much over the night," Legolas answered Aragorn's unasked question as he beckoned for his bow and quiver. Aragorn tentatively handed them back to Legolas, warning him to be careful not to strain his shoulder as he did so.

Legolas smiled as he grabbed the bow. He felt almost naked without it and the feel of its smooth wooden arch in his slender hands comforted him like a blessed charm. In one swift move he lifted it and released an arrow which shot out like a rocket to no target in particular. Though he rubbed his shoulder, he made no other sign of pain and Aragorn decided not to press him. Besides, as he shook the nearly empty canteen, new concerns flared in his mind.

Legolas watched the ranger and then gazed to the East. "The Celduin is but twenty leagues from here. If Neila can take it, we can make it before the sun sets." 

Aragorn nodded and poured some water into the horse's mouth. "She will need it more than us today," he murmured. "Shall we?"

When Legolas did not answer, Aragorn turned towards the elf who now stared intently at a distant spot. "Legolas?"

"There is someone out there Aragorn," he replied. "I cannot tell who or what it is…"

Aragorn nodded and mounted Neila. "Then we shall find out." 

Legolas agreed and mounted in front of Aragorn and the two swiftly rode away from Mirkwood and into the Eastern lands.

For a little less than an hour they stayed on course, Legolas never removing his eyes from the lone traveler who remained invisible to Aragorn's human sight.  They traveled through a barren landscape under the glaring yellow sun, which was something of a shock after emerging from the claustrophobic tunnels of the forest.  Instead of the withering trees of Mirkwood, scraggly, dry bushes and stunted Joshua trees peeked out of the cracked ground.  Large bugs and tiny rodents scurried over and hid under small rocks that dotted the earth. Dry, cool breezes whisked the riders' hair and chapped Aragorn's lips. Further south, this land would become a vast, scalding desert and further north, a stormy, frigid valley. But here, it remained just an endless plain of nothingness, neither desert nor valley, hot nor cold, welcoming nor forbidding.

"It is an elf, Aragorn!" Legolas exclaimed suddenly as he lightly hopped off Neila and ran ahead to get a better view.  Aragorn shielded his eyes from the searing white sunlight and focused them on the tall, slender figure perched on a dark, magnificent horse still at least a hundred yards away from them. 

As they drew closer to the figure, Aragorn too hopped off Neila and caught up to Legolas, lightly touching his sword under his cape, but not yet daring to reveal it. "Let me speak. He may be suspicious of your language and accent," Aragorn hissed. Legolas nodded and also fingered the dagger at his side.

"Hello," the ranger called out. "We are travelers of the Rhun. Can you tell us who you are?"

Only the gusty wind answered Aragorn as the elf remained as still and alert as a cat. Underneath his hooded cape which billowed in the wind, Aragorn glimpsed fair hair and shadowy green eyes which warily rested on Legolas' bow.  When Aragorn and Legolas finally stopped in front of him, he still made no movement, and revealed no emotions.  Legolas calmly returned the icy, even stare, but made no greeting of his own. The horse remained as still as the elf, watching the travelers with the same frightening intensity as her master. Aragorn's eyes rested on the half dozen water canteens the elf had tied to his horse and again he attempted to encourage him to speak.

"I am Strider and this is my companion…." Aragorn hesitated for a split second. Would the elf recognize Legolas' name as Sindarin? Would it even care?

"Laiqualassë," Legolas quickly interceded, using the Quenyan form of his own name.

The reticent elf, who had been watching Aragorn as he spoke, snapped his head towards Legolas, his eyes gleaming with curiosity and a hint of mirth. Legolas groaned inwardly. He had hoped perhaps that the elves here spoke a language similar to primitive elvish, which in turn he had hoped was similar to the ancient language of the high elves, Quenya. It was a stretch, and Legolas doubted his pronunciation (and even the accuracy) of his translation.  But then again, regardless of the fact that Legolas may have spoken nothing more than gobbledygook to the elf, at the very least it was not Sindarin.

But Legolas did not reveal this self doubt and he continued to hold the stare to the point where Aragorn seriously thought they may remain there for days if he did not speak up. Soon, even Legolas began to grow uncomfortable in the wake of the unwavering emerald eyes. Sensing this, Aragorn cleared his throat and reached his hand out in a sign of peace.

"We are trying to reach the Celduin. We need water…" he continued. "Do you have any you could spare?"

The elf did not remove his gaze from Legolas and ignored Aragorn's question. His searching eyes moved from Legolas' face to his hair, and then to the prince's garb, finally lingering on Merionè's bare knife which was sheathed at Legolas' side.

"Teler,"  the elf finally said triumphantly as a strange light shone in his eyes.* With an eerie smirk, he turned his horse and raced away, carelessly tossing a canteen at Aragorn as he did so. 

Aragorn easily caught the canteen, but he did not look at it, nor move at all for several long moments as he watched the elf disappear into the dusty wasteland.  Legolas too did not utter a word nor move a muscle as his intense stare remained firmly attached to the solitary elf.

When the elf finally disappeared into the bright sun and dusty wind, Legolas furrowed his brows and slowly pulled out his knife. He delicately traced his fingers lightly on the handle when suddenly his face darkened and his hand froze.  Aragorn watched the elf and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"The handle is birch," Legolas stated simply. "Ai, only the Silvan people would carry a knife made of birch. That is how he knew." 

Aragorn frowned, but did not respond as he carefully studied the markings on the canteen.  Intricate dwarven letters, different from those carved into the ranger's pipe, accompanied by strange elvish drawings depicting the night sky marked the deep red animal skin.  He then shook the canteen suspiciously only to find that it was empty.

"Generous fellow," he muttered sarcastically.

Legolas' eyes fell on the canteen and then met the ranger's steely gaze. With a silent agreement, the two remounted Neila and continued towards the Celduin.

Whatever relief they felt at having escaped Mirkwood began to ebb as they continued deeper into the strange empty land.  No sound, no trees, no animals, and no more people traversed their path.  Neither Aragorn nor Legolas knew what to make of their fleeting encounter with the elf.  Did he not trust them because they were strangers or because he recognized Legolas to be a descendent of the Teleri tribe? Or perhaps it was only natural for travelers in this realm of Middle Earth to be suspicious and independent, trusting very little in anyone they encountered.  He must have understood the common tongue since he responded to Aragorn by throwing him the canteen (albeit an empty one).  Thus he must have had contact with peoples of the West…or the Easterlings. The canteen itself offered its own mysteries with its blending of a strange form of dwarvish and archaic elvish images.

The late afternoon sun sank and faint stars began to peak out of the darkening sky before the gurgling of the Celduin's rapid currents greeted Legolas' and Aragorn's ears.  Exhausted from the ride and from dehydration, the river's music lightened Neila's spirit and the horse quickened her pace towards the water. When the river finally came within her view, she sprinted even faster much to her riders' delight as they too were anxious to reach the water.  

As they rapidly approached the river, Aragorn stiffened when he noticed a gray figure standing patiently at its bank, still too far for the human to make out who or what it was.  A horse stood beside the figure, and it almost seemed as if the two of them had been expecting Aragorn and Legolas.

Just as Aragorn was about to ask his companion what he saw, Legolas let out a small cry and leapt off Neila's back, impressively landing on his feet despite the horse's increasing speed. Aragorn narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out the face of the figure that had so excited the elf, though in his heart he knew it could only possibly be one person.

"Mithrandir! Mithrandir!"

TBC

*Alright, I don't know what language any elves out in the Rhun would speak, but since these are the guys who never made the journey to Valinor in the first place, I'm thinking their language evolved from the really primitive elvish language which in turn might bear some resemblance to Quenya (and conveniently Legolas is thinking this as well). And as for "Teler" - I don't want to go into too much detail because I'll only mess it up, but Teler is the singular form of Teleri, the last tribe to make the Great Journey (the other two being the Vanyar & Noldor) & the Sindar & Silvan descended from this tribe. (and as for whether Legolas is Silvan or Sindarin –his blood is Sindarin, but he refers to himself as Silvan – if anyone cares, this is all in the Encyclopedia of Arda)

Another thing, in case anyone is as anal as I am, in the books, Gandalf never actually did go to the Rhun (or so he said), but oh well..

REVIEWERS!

First of all, thank you so much for being patient (of course I cannot see you all on the other side of this computer land, but I'll just pretend you are not actually cursing me for lying about when I may update).  Second of all, I made it to 100,000 words which for me is the most unbelievable accomplishment & there is no way I would have ever made it past Chapter 3, let alone 100,000 words (100,000 ohmygoodness!), without the encouragement of you guys.  And lastly, it is sooo nice to get back into this & such a pleasure to see some familiar reviewers & some new ones in my inbox.

Alexa: Hellooo there! I'm glad you liked the flashback! I love Gandalf-Legolas interactions, especially since we really get so little of it. You know, if there is one thing I absolutely love, it's when reviewers point out things that I don't even notice while I'm writing. "between the hope of Mankind and the hope of a failing wood." It seems very obvious now that that was the choice, but honestly I was just thinking of a narrower choice – the actual people, but you are very right & I like that much better. I did have some trouble with that part & you just made me feel a hundred times better about it. Thank you again for your wonderful review!

Daw the Minstrel: Thank you!!! I always freak out when I get a review from someone whose fanfic I have read long before I started writing & you are one of those people (I enjoyed The Novice & A Question of Duty) so thank you so much for your very kind reviews. I am not worthy!! But thank you ;)

Deana: Wow, thank you! I'm amazed by people who have the patience to read all the chapters at once – that alone is definitely a huge compliment, so thank you!

Ecri: Thank you very much!  Glad you liked the horse bit ;)

Fliewatuet: Yup, the DG group, as of now, probably is worse off. I'll probably go more into Merione's experience in the next chapter.

Gwyn: Ah, patience my dear! ;) See! Gandalf found them. It may have taken a while, but he got there… Thank you for the review!

HyperCaz: Thanks! Don't know what's going to happen to the Orcs….

Irish QT: Thank you! And give my thanks to your army of 6 inch dwarves as well!

Kyra: Thank you! I hope you didn't leave! I'm on break now, so the wait between the next few chapters shouldn't be too long

Leanaunsidhe: Thank you! The updates are here, and I'll try to get 2-3 more over winter break.

LOTRFaith: Yeah, they do need hugs. A lot of hugs….  (and I'd be more than happy to give it to Legolas)

RainyDayz: Hello! Ack! The spinning again – you're always spinning me! ;) But thank you anyway.  Yes, I finally did see Return of the King and I will probably be seeing it again soon. It was amazing and sentimental wuss that I am, I cried like nobody's business at the end – all through the coronation, the goodbyes, the closing credits...just a sobbing mess. Legolas' outfit was lovely, oh yes, very lovely. I think I may have even gasped when they showed him at Aragorn's coronation at the end – and before that when he walked into Frodo's room. How can anyone be so beautiful???? God bless you Orlando Bloom, wherever you are.  I can't wait for the extended version – I saw a tiny little clip of a drinking contest between Legolas & Gimli which was cut, but should be on the DVD & it looks hilarious.  God bless extended DVDs for die hard fans who have no problem at all sitting through 15 hours of lord of the rings.

Sirithiliel: Understanding the Black Speech is a useful talent! Unfortunately, I don't think it'll help much in this story…

Tainted Fortune: Thank you very much!

Viktoreja Rose: I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying! ;)

WeasleyTwinsLover: I hope the hell for you has gotten a little better & you're enjoying a nice break now! I have to say, all of last semester was hell & I'm dreading the next one. But at least for now we could rest….

Wildfire: Thank you!!