Thank you to all you kind reviewers. You probably don't know how important you are in encouraging me and inspiring me to keep going. I thought I'd do shorter chapters more frequently as I am really pushed for time. Hope to post more often this way.

So, to cheer us all up: naked Legolas! It's been too long!

Quick reminder: *The Ghoul captured Legolas and let the Nazgul feed upon him in Sons of Thunder II: Where the Shadows Lie, and in Sons of Thunder, he was pursued by the Nazgûl. (There's a theme there!) It bit him to suck his blood and there is a suggestion that this might have left a trace of corruption- he's not quite himself as we have seen already.

A nod to Spiced Wine for giving me the line: A malice was beneath the earth, waiting. (Thank you. my dear) Go and read her stuff if you haven't. Oh my.

BETA: Anarithilien.

Translation:

Thorendaw: Detestable gloom (literally)

Chapter 19. Iaun-Gynd (Sanctuary of Stones)

Legolas tried to pull back, to turn away but he could not move. Gasping, he tried to force his legs to run, to flee this place but he seemed sunk into the earth, held there, and the trembling forms of the ghosts of the Men of Cardolan faded into the milky air as if afraid.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled like the hackles of a wolf and his pupils were blown wide in fear. The Úmaiar's Song of Undoing whined over the moor, between the Stones. He clenched his jaw and hunched over, clapping his hands over his ears for it was unbearable. The Song of Undoing pried and slid between the notes of his own Song, drove him mad, prising apart the threads that had already been loosened by the Ghoul's bite, deep beneath the Tombs of Kings and which had left a trace of corruption which dug deep.*

The Úmaiar's Song found that darkness now that lingered in his blood and pulled at it, picked at it like a scab. Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands harder over his ears and began to sing himself, scrambling for the notes coming loose, floating away. He caught at the green-gold threads loosened by the darkness, but they drifted between his fingers like beech leaves in the Autumn. Or fireflies. He sang louder so he could only hear his own voice, sang with all his heart and being, sang of the trees of the Wood, the great slow oaks digging their roots deep into the earth, stretching their limbs to the sky, soaking the sunlight through their leaves; he sang of the brown forest river leaping and gurgling through the mossy dells and pools, the grey granite and slate, the lush green ferns. He sang of the purple emperors that fluttered above the treetops, of his father.

But the Úmaiar slid its murmuring, whining chant between the notes of his Song. Like a cunning knife it slipped, and he knew it would cut the green-gold threads loose, faster than he could weave them back together. The Úmaiar was strong. Like Ólorin. Like Saruman. Like Balrogs…He was not powerful enough to fight it. The whining murmur dug into him, and he could not hold onto the melody of the Wood. His hands shook and he felt his teeth chatter like Pippin's had upon ice-peaked Caradhras. It unravelled him.

Cold.

Cold.

Never wake.

Sleep under stone.

His hands over his ears were not enough to block the Úmaiar and he heard his own breath coming in shallow, loud gasps. His lungs heaved. He started to tremble.

Eyes wide and frightened, he stared up at the tall grey stones, seven great grey megaliths, like stone sentinels from the ancient days; guardians that lined the way to the mouth of the barrow yawning hungrily. There were carvings on them, labyrinthine spirals that seemed to whirl inwards and outwards at the same time. A malice was beneath the earth, waiting.

Cold …. be heart.

And he felt how his heart slowed and slowed and slowed…

Sleep …. under stone.

Nevermore … wake.

His breaths came in little panting gasps, slower. Slower. Harder to take in. Was he sinking deeper into the earth? He thought he was and looked down at his feet. Mist swirled and he could not see them. He would be buried alive under stone, under earth! Struggling to move, he let out a little cry of horror, sang more loudly but it was hard to hold onto the Song of the great oaks and the forest river.

Never.

More.

Wake….

A tall grey stone loomed over him, and then he saw it was not a stone, for two pale lights blinked down at him, but it had no face; this was the Barrow Wight. Abruptly its whining, prying Song ceased and it was very still. Silent. His heart beat once…. Then again…Too long between gasps.

In the fog, there were more grey standing stones than he remembered. Tall. Silent. One seemed to shift, and two pale lights opened: a second Barrow Wight. It lifted its arm slowly, and mist trailed from it like a cloak.

Legolas despaired; this fog was the signature of Angmar. The Witch-King's sorcery. Eru, he prayed. Help me now.

An eerie, haunting cry drifted over the moor, from his left. The thickening grey mist billowed around Legolas, so he was sinking deeper, like he was caught in a marsh, sinking into the earth where malice and death awaited him.

Panicked and struggling, he sucked a breath into his heaving lungs but with that breath, the mist rushed into him like the Sea, or like some live thing trying to get into him, pouring through his mouth and nose and ears and eyes, suffocating him. He was drowning, being pulled down and down and the mist closed over him like the earth itself.

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He remembered nothing after that until he awoke, first with intense relief that he had awoken at all and had not drowned, and then with a sense of utter dread.

Darkness pressed against his eyes as if he were in one of the coffins or tombs that he had seen in the crypt beneath the White City. Cold stone was beneath him, and his hands were folded over his breast. He felt his own skin cold under his hands, but he felt his boots upon his feet still and his breeches. Panic gripped him then and he tried to lift his heavy hands, feeling like he had been pummelled and battered. Slowly, he pushed one hand upwards and met only air. A sob of relief burst from him that he was not entombed, and he felt his pupils widen like a cat's. He dared not make another sound. If he was not hunted yet, the Úmaiar would be here soon, he thought. They would hunt him like the Ghoul that had chased him through the empty passages and chambers of the tombs and beaten him, dragged him back to the cell. He had to move now, to escape. But he could not. He felt weighted down as if he wore a coat of lead.

Tears squeezed from his eyes, and he felt himself crack. No. No. He could not endure it. He managed to lift one heavy hand and pressed it over his mouth with great effort, to stifle the scream that wrenched and fought its way out of him. Quiet, quiet, he told himself; don't let them know you are awake. With the other hand, he groped the stone beneath him and unbelievably, he brushed against the hilt of one of the Ale Gezên-aozh.

Gasping, he clutched at the hilt like a prayer. How did it come to lie here with him? He heard its sharp little whisper of protection and felt a warmth steal over him, a warmth of the forge, of earth-brown eyes and the most steadfast of hearts and he knew that Gimli would find him. He was not abandoned. His breathing slowed and he rubbed his wrist over his eyes, to feel something, to ensure there really was no tomb. He felt around him, his hands heavy and clumsy, and found that the second Ale Gezên-aozh had been laid out also, on either side of him as if part of a sacrifice. They gave him sudden hope.

I am a warrior of the Woodland Realm, he told himself sternly. I am the Danedh-Amlung. I have looked Smaug in the eye and compelled him to swear the King's Peace.

Yes, he told himself. I have done that. And I have stood before the Morannon and witnessed the fall of Sauron. I have…I have…But he could not speak of the Ghoul. It still filled him with horror. I am beloved of Elrohir, he reminded himself instead and that gave him courage. And Gimli Gloinsson is my friend They will never leave me. Gripping the knives, he thought how he would fight and fight and cut his own throat with Gimli's knives rather than be a captive again like he had been of the Ghoul.

Reaching out with one hand, he felt an edge to the stone. It was the same on the other side. He had been laid out, half-naked upon a stone altar. The imperative to move surged through him and he lifted his heavy head and tried to curl forwards, to rise, but his body felt battered as if he had fought a long battle and lost.

And then he saw them coming. A glowing light grew from somewhere to his left and three tall palely luminous shapes glided through the absolute darkness. And as they did, their eerie light shimmered over something that gleamed metallically. First, the glow was bronze and copper, then white-silver and then gold, back to bronze. It was in the chamber with them whatever it was, thought Legolas, though he did not know what it could be. But he could think on it no more for the awful, maddening murmur began.

Sleep.

Upon cold stone.

Nevermore wake.

A press of cold was on his chest, and he was slowly pushed back down upon the stone altar. The luminosity of the Úmaiar's light was unearthly and gleamed over his pale skin, fingered the rich colour of his yaré-carmë. The three tall Úmaiar gathered about him and he could not move. A gleam of steel flashed across his vision, and he knew they would kill him now. Ceremonially. It was for this that they had brought him here. Was he a sacrifice? But to what?

You are nothing.

Only bones.

We are Úmaiar.

Legolas' lips were numb and his tongue in his mouth felt swollen. 'You will not enslave me, Thorendaw,' he slowly ground out, gripping the hilts of his knives. 'Your master is vanquished… thrust into the Dark…' He let out a cry of anguish as the press crushed him and he lay back onto the stone. 'They will come,' he whispered hoarsely. 'My friends. They will empty these tombs of you.'

The pain was incomparable. He felt his bones crack.

You are nothing.

Your blood will spread over this stone of sacrifice.

Your flesh will melt from your bones.

The Úmaiar's pale shapes gathered about the altar, eyes gleaming. One reached for him with a long arm and the knife flashed in its other hand. The Ale-gezên-aozh glittered in response but it was so hard to move. He strained again, gritting his teeth and a cry of furious anger burst from him as they crushed him down.

We will have your bones.

Your own hand will take Elessar.

He will never have Arnor.

It belongs to us.

'I will not…' he cried. But he could not remember what it was he would not permit. His mind blurred, and he reached for the memory of Elrohir, the familiar and beloved refrain that was Elrohir's Song: the scent of snow, clean and cold on the mountains. And high high above, an eagle's cry... a deep rhythm pounding, drums beating like a heart, a strong heart, noble. With it, he beat back the dreadful searching fingers of the Úmaiar's whining, piercing Song. He reached again for Elrohir as if he dipped his hand in a pool of light, calling upon the powerful memory of his very first sight of Elrohir that evening in Imladris: a glorious warrior striding towards him it seemed out of the setting sun - long raven-black hair like silk, worn loose and flowing, clad in black leather close to his skin. Elrohir turning his head after he had passed, to look as if Legolas had called to him, and his eyes were wide and starlit grey.

A flood of crimson power surged through Legolas as if his beloved was standing near him and lent him strength and he gripped the hilts of the Ale Gezên-aozh. The blades glittered blue, like lightning flashes in the mist and he surged upwards.

'You are not the Nazgul,' he hissed, barely managing enough breath to speak. 'They are gone. We vanquished them. And I WILL vanquish you!'

The Úmaiar leaned down over him, crushing him back down, a cold, cold knife in its hand. A morgûl blade, Legolas thought with horror. A blade to cut his fëa from his body.

You will do as we command. Kill Elessar, and then you will tear the flesh and spill the blood of your Ravéyön.

It lingered over the name and Legolas almost choked; they knew of Elrohir. They knew his name. They would use Legolas to kill Elrohir.

Legolas felt something stir in his blood; the corruption, the violence that he had felt in Tharbad, that had made him kill the prisoners in a cold malice. It matched that of the Úmaiar. The hair on the back of his neck, on his scalp, lifted, stiffened like the hackles of a wolf. A smile stretched over his lips, unfamiliar and frightening. He heard himself hiss words that he did not recognise as coming from himself. 'I will tear YOU, rend you. I will send you howling to Him.' He felt a surge of preternatural power and pushed against the crushing pressure. It gave, just a little, and he shoved harder.

At the same moment, from far away beyond the earth-covered barrow came a long trail of sound, like a howling of wolves, and then it dissolved into silence.

The Úmaiar leaning over him paused. Its pale lamp-like eyes turned slowly to the East, and it straightened, pulled itself up as if listening. Another and then the third lifted its head and turned, like a questing hound.

No wolf was that; it was a summoning.

The Úmaiar turned towards the sound, leaning eastwards as if drawn on that string of sound, Legolas forgotten.

Legolas stared up at their glimmering shapes. Their power wavered briefly in their distraction, and he did not wait; with a sudden surge of preternatural strength, grabbing the Ale Gezên-aozh, he heaved himself up and threw himself away from under them, landing with a thump on the earth floor and rolling away into a dark corner.

He lay there for a moment, breathing hard and his heart gave one loud thump and sent blood rushing through his veins. He felt the prickling in his fingertips and toes as the blood reached his extremities and he flexed his fingers. The dreadful Song of Unbeing had ceased and he felt the green-gold thread of his Being reasserting itself and weaving back together; sunlight on newly unfurled beech leaves, bright green in the springtime, brown river water gurgling over moss rocks and ferny dells.

Peering through the darkness, he saw that the Úmaiar seemed completely unaware that he had gone; their tall shapes glimmered and shifted, turning towards the East, straining towards some unheard sound like hounds waiting to be unleashed.

Legolas felt the weight of the Ale Gezên- aozh in his hands, felt his muscles strengthen and his sinews stretch, wondering if he should run or fight. Quickly he decided that even with their attention elsewhere, he could not fight. The morgûl blade gleamed dully, still clasped in the Úmaiar's hand. He dared not risk a cut to his flesh, weakened and slow as he was. Shifting slowly as the blood rushed back through his veins, he looked around the chamber, seeking a way out, somewhere to hide. Then he saw that the glimmer of light was from a hoard of silver and jewels, burnished bronze shields, chalices and goblets set with precious stones. Gold. Necklaces draped carelessly over chests thrown open and filled with rubies, sapphires. Legolas blinked in astonishment. It might not be Smaug's horde, but there were riches here beneath the earth and he wondered if these belonged to the Last Prince of Cardolan.

Glancing again at the Úmaiar, drifting and swaying like reeds in the wind it seemed, he strained and tensed his muscles. Although he had managed to tear himself away from the Umair's crushing grip, he was still feeling weak and feeble. He could not stand, but he could crawl he thought.

A cold hand grasped his shoulder and he looked up in horror.

A ghostly face looked down on him, the fine bones of Aragorn's face.

Come.

No. Not Aragorn. But so like. The Man was older and his face very pale. His eyes were haunted and desperate and the grip on his shoulder tightened so it felt like bands of steel. He looked down to see bones gripping him and he almost cried out in horror, but the voice came again.

Quickly. Come now.

He paused and looked up, that face, so like Aragorn. He could see the skull beneath the veneer of the face, but it was still Aragorn's. The ghost of the Last Prince.

He struggled clumsily to his feet, feeling the pins and needles spiking his toes and fingers and he lumbered clumsily after the ghost as they fled.

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