Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

Wherever the Surge May Sweep

By Jame K.

Chapter Seven: The Bubble on a Fountain

Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou are gone, and for ever!
– Sir Walter Scott

Bartmelou's Inn and Pub was quiet that day. Men had not yet gotten off of their jobs and most of the women were inside starting the preparations for dinner that night. The school bell had not yet rung – so no children cavorted about the streets – but, despite that, little Estel sat one of the tall wooden barstools with a thick piece of raw meat draped over one eye.

"Are you sure this is supposed to help?" Estel's voice was sullen and one hand nervously fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "Where is Idella?"

Bartmelou folded his chubby hands and stared at the eight-year-old boy with consternation. "Of course, it'll work. The same thing my pappy did to me when I was your age and getting into little scraps."

The boy removed the meat and looked into the mirror over the bar, examining the purple and black skin that shone around his eye. "It doesn't look any better. And it still hurts."

"Stop complaining or I will send word to Legolas up at the house." Bartmelou sat back with a sigh of satisfaction when Estel obligingly put the red meat back over his eye. "Now, care to tell me what this little tussle was all about, my lad? You can tell ol' Bart anything and he won't tell nobody." The stocky man leaned closer and smiled. "Was it over a girl?"

"No!" Estel scowled at the innkeeper's belly laugh that followed his statement, tilting his head back to keep the meat in place. "What? There is no need to fight over girls."

Bartmelou laughed again then shook his head.

Estel groaned and rolled his one visible eye to look at the tubby innkeeper sitting on a stool much too small for his large girth a few inches away. "What do you know about Legolas?"

"Huh?" Bartmelou grabbed a cloth from the counter and began rubbing at a small tarnish in the glossy wood.

"How did you meet him? Where did he come from?"

"Now…let's see that's a funny story. One night about eight years ago, that elf rode into town with a wee babe that hardly looked to be over a day's old in his arms and the saddest expression on his face. Came right here to this very inn and bought that little house that you two live in now and took that little job helping me with the horses out back. And that was it."

Estel nodded. He had been told this story many times before by different townspeople – everyone knew some fashion of this same story. "Yes, but where did he come from?"

"That's a funny story, too… he never really did say much about it… but I have my own suspicions. Folks around these parts will tell that he fell in love with this female and the other elves didn't approve. They say your mama died in birth and then Legolas, well, he just struck out on his own with you to get away from them elves." Bartmelou leaned back. "And that's what the folks say."

"So Legolas is my father? But wouldn't that make me an elf?"

"Well…" Bartmelou dragged the word out as he scratched his chin. "I dunno. That's why folks say your mama was a woman – not an elf lady. But maybe you would have some of them elf features…I dunno."

Estel slumped dejectedly in the chair and the meat almost slid off of his face before he managed to catch it. "Oh."

"Was that what you were fight'un over?" Bartmelou leaned on the bar and shook his head. "No matter how much you don't know about that elf of yours, boy, remember this – every time you've been sick or in trouble, he's been worried about you. I dunno what happened to make you two come out here all alone, but he loves you to bits. I have not a single doubt about that."

The boy was quiet for a moment, his hand tugging at the linen shirt. "I know. Thank you for the meat." He took the raw meat off of his face and looked once more in the mirror with a wince of pain. "I should be getting home now. The school bell will be ringing soon."

Bartmelou waved in acknowledgement as he bustled back to the kitchen to begin preparations for the evening rush. "See you later, boy."

Estel approached his home with dragging steps. His eye stung mercilessly as the cool breeze swept across the tender flesh and the livid bruises he knew were decorating his legs throbbed with every move he made.

There was no way – he knew as he studied the dusty ground passing beneath his feet – that he could hide his injuries from Legolas. He might as well just face the elf head on and do his best to explain the situation. The elf never condoned fighting but perhaps if Estel explained…

Sighing heavily, Estel raised his eyes to look at the wooden house. Dark smoke drifted against the pale blue sky and the front door hung open. Estel furrowed his brow. Had Legolas gone out?

A gust of cool wind kicked up a plume of dusk from the road and caused the hinges of the door to creak ever so slightly. Estel thought he could detect the slightly bitter scent of Legolas's tea drifting from the opened doorway.

"Legolas?" His feet echoed hollowly on the steps as he peered inside the dim interior of the house. "Legolas?"

Silence met his query and Estel furrowed his brow in confusion, momentarily forgetting his bruised body. His gray eyes darkened as he looked around the deserted area.

Golden leaves whirled down from the nearby trees and Estel began to trot to the back of the house. Perhaps Legolas was at the small stable with his horse… The elf had been known to do that after all. Or perhaps he was in the forest and had lost track of the time as he communed with the trees.

As Estel rounded the corner of the house, his ears picked up the sound of hushed conversation – one of the voices sounding like Legolas. Quickening his pace, he brushed back the dark hair that had fallen into his face and tried to peer into the dull forest light. "Legolas?"

The conversation ceased and trees rustled in the wind.

"Estel?" Legolas stepped from the trees. Concerned lines marred his delicate features and his blue eyes were deep with questions. His gaze darkened even more when he caught a glimpse of the livid bruise around Estel's eye. "What happened?" The elf hurried forwards and knelt in front of the small child, one cool, soft hand touching the tender skin gently.

"I…" Estel swallowed and looked over Legolas's shoulder into the shadows cast by the trees. "Who is that?"

Legolas turned and looked at the tall dark-haired elf standing a few steps behind him. His voice seemed to falter for a moment and the hand laying on Estel's shoulder tightened.

Dark lashes contrasted against flawless skin and framed bright green eyes that were now boring into Estel. A prominent nose and a high forehead gave a regal bearing to the face even as the round mouth formed into a decrepitating smile. "Quite the little ruffian you have there, mellon nin."

"I think you should go now, Elrohir." Legolas stood, his movements almost seeming slower than normal. One hand remained on Estel's shoulder. "I thank you for bringing me the news."

"Of course," Elrohir sketched a quick bow at the waist and threw another scathing look at Estel. "I shall be sure to inform my father that young Estel is turning out wonderfully."

"Elrohir…" Legolas stepped away from Estel and stood directly in front of the darker elf, forcing the green eyes to lock with his own blue ones. "Please do not do this. You are my friend but I thought you understood that this was the path I had chosen. I cannot depart from it now."

"I understand." Elrohir turned to stride back into the woods. "I just wonder when we will receive news of your doom."

Then he was gone and Legolas was left standing at the edge of the trees. Proud shoulders had hunched over slightly and Estel thought he could detect a minute trembling in the long fingers.

"Legolas," Estel murmured as he stepped closer, leaning into Legolas's side. "Who was that?"

A cloud drifted across the cover the bright yellow sun and the air around the pair grew dull.

Legolas sighed heavily and weariness filled the space around the elf. "He was an old friend, Estel. Very old. I would not worry about him, Estel," the elf continued, seeing the boy's thoughts written plainly across his face. "Elrohir left his horse in the woods. He will have no trouble returning to his home."

A wry smile twisted across the pale features and Legolas seemed to lose himself in his thoughts for several long breaths. "Now," the elf said, starting slightly as if awaking from a particularly unpleasant dream, "what happened to your eye? Have you been fighting?"

"I am sorry." Estel hung his head and fished in the dirt with his big toe. "I know what you have told me."

"It does not look too bad." The elf firmly grasped the child's chin and moved the face back and forth so he could see the black eye more clearly. Cheeks dimpled in a tender smile that did not reach the clouds of sadness lingering in the blue eyes. "How does the other boy look?"

"Uh…" Estel hesitated unsure of what to say – would he punished if he said the boy did look worse? "I split his lip – probably gave him a couple bruises too." Then he winced as the elf prodded a particularly painful place on his mid-section with cool fingers. "He was… um... bigger than me," he said, anxiously watching Legolas's face for any signs of anger.

"I can imagine," Legolas patted his shoulder encouragingly and then turned towards the house, his stride slowed to accommodate for Estel's tender, limping gait. He cast a sympathetic glance over his shoulder when Estel moaned softly as his bruises protested. "I have some salves that will work wonders on those bruises. And a cool cloth for that eye of yours."

A puzzled expression stole across the youthful cheeks and Estel forced himself to catch up to the elf's slightly longer stride. "Are you not angry, Legolas? It is against the rules to fight."

Legolas sighed and his dull eyes turned to the slowly descending sun. "I am too weary to be angry, Estel. My heart has been grieved by the news that elf brought and now all I wish is to be left in silence with my thoughts."

Stunned by the honesty, Estel nodded and fell into quiet for the remainder of the journey to the house. He sat at the wooden table and watched Legolas pour him a cup of tea. The cool cloth that Legolas had fetched for him felt heavenly on his eye – much better than the odd sensation of the cold, slimy meat.

But all of this was passed in silence and Estel was dreadfully aware of the cloud of misery that had come to hang over Legolas.

"Take off your shirt."

Estel started at the soft words but quickly obeyed, discarding the shirt to the floor. "They are not as bad as they look," he offered when Legolas winced in surprise. "And they do not hurt nearly as much as they did."

Legolas nodded and dipped his fingers in the small jar he carried. Tender hands spread the cool, white salve across the purple and blue skin. "I am surprised that your ribs are not broken," the elf said his hands moving over the outlined bones. "It seems as if he kicked you quite heartily." He fell quiet and when he spoke again his eyes were fixed on the boy's faced. "What was the fight over?"

A flush started at Estel's neck and stretched up over his ears. "They said my mother was a…" the boy turned a brighter color and murmured the word under his breath, unwilling to say it aloud.

There was a quick indrawn breath and Legolas's hands stilled on Estel's chest. His blond hair covered his expression.

"Legolas?" Estel asked and his voice was tinged with childish concern. "She wasn't one, was she?"

"No, Estel." Legolas turned his face upwards and the boy was surprised to see tears shimmering in the bright eyes. "She was a truly honorable and noble woman – beautiful in mind and in features."

"Did you love her?"

Legolas looked surprised by the question and he blinked several times in uncertainty. "I suppose… in a way." He breathed slowly through his mouth. "I knew her for a long time by mortal standards and she became very dear to me. A close friend and a companion."

Estel nodded. "I am sorry that you are sad."

There was a silence as Legolas picked up Estel's shirt and helped him put it on. "Someone," he said with some difficulty, "someone that was very dear to me died a few days ago and I feel that I had wronged her in some way." His eyes found Estel's and held them in a steady gaze. "I took something very dear from her a long time ago. There was no other option at the time – but I wonder…"

His gaze dropped away and his hands busied himself with the dinner preparations. A frenetic haste seemed to come over him and his hands trembled with seemingly suppressed emotion.

Then, Legolas abruptly stilled and turned back to Estel. "I wished I could have told her how sorry I was for all that occurred. There is much I regret," and he drew near the boy, "but the one thing that I do not regret is our life together. You have been a blessing unto me, Estel."

Estel nodded and smiled at the elf – glad for the expression of love but unsure of how to address the heavy sorrow glistening in Legolas's eyes. He wondered if he should broach the burden weighing on his own spirit. Had his mother – this person Legolas claimed was beautiful inside and out – loved Legolas as well? Had they together sired him? Was Legolas his father?

The rest of the night was passed in silence until near the midnight hour when Estel had awoken to muffled sobbing.

Silently, the boy had slipped from his bed – bringing with him his knit blanket – and found Legolas in the small sitting room, knees tucked up to his chest and head buried in folded arms. He had snuggled up against the elf, wrapping the blanket around both of them. His small hand had gently stroked the soft hair even as his eyes had grown heavy with sleep. He had just about drifted off completely when a warm, strong arm stole about his shoulders and pulled him close.

As sleep softened Estel's features, the boy smiled as realization crept across his weary mind. It did not matter if Legolas was not his blood sire. Legolas loved Estel and Estel loved Legolas. That would never change.

And when the pink morning dawned, they were in the same position.

"So," Saruman's voice was oily and his mouth tightened, "Gandalf the Grey once again seeks the power of the One Ring. Fool!" The last word was spat from his twisted mouth and spittle landed on the smoothness of his throne. "He cannot hide his movements from me with simple spells and conjurations. My power is so greater than his… so much beyond his."

The bottom of his staff clicked against the marble floor. "He thinks he can triumph against the combined might of Saruman and Sauron – the united force of the two strongest beings of Middle-earth." His white cloaks whirled around him. "He deceives only himself."

His gaze swept across the dark room and landed critically on the cowering figure in one dim corner. "You will stand and face me." His deep voice echoed in the circular chamber.

Tremors shook the lean frame as the man (more of a boy, really) stretched to his full height. Dark, stringy hair fell over a painfully white face with bruised lips and empty, colorless eyes. "Yes, my lord."

"You will attend to me."

Fairly tripping over the ragged robe he wore, the boy stumbled after the Istari. His eyes darted about the darkness as he skirted around the lengthening shadows. "What will you have me do, my lord?"

The steps were too long and too wide for a single step but Saruman swept down them with graceful ease. "Stay behind me. We go to check on the progress of my armies. And keep your tongue behind your teeth. I have no desire to hear your inane babble at this time."

Two orc sentries stood at either side of the great entrance to the wizard's stronghold of Orthanc. When they caught side of the wizard, they quickly ceased talking as the wizard fairly flew past them and down the dark steps. The sky was heavy with clouds and a fierce, restless wind was blowing from the East. Trees shook under the onslaught as the wind howled between them with a terrific force.

"Did you know, Brome," Saruman said casually to the cowed boy as they moved towards their destination. "That in less than two days, I plan to move against the weakened country of Rohan?"

Slumped shoulders stiffened and a spark ignited and died in the colorless eyes. "No, my lord."

"I thought not to tell you until now," the wizard continued, one eye watching the boy's reaction. "Really I did not know why you needed to know – then today I had recollection. You had family in Rohan, a mother and a small sister if I am not mistaken. I imagine it has been years since you have seen them.

"Yes, my lord," Brome answered, his voice a toneless inflection. But pain and anger seeped into his eyes – a development that Saruman did not miss.

Their footsteps clacked against the wooden ramp and Saruman smiled – pleased at the sheer amount of orcs moving in the depths of the pit they had dug. He could smell the fire and see the glow as weapons of war were forged. He could taste the victory that this army would bring him.

Turning once again to Brome, Saruman fixed a slightly compassion expression on his face. "It has been so long since I broke you to my will that I sometimes forget that you once had a family and a home." His gaze dissected Brome's reactions. "You were training to be a carpenter, were you not?"

"Yes, my lord." And emaciated hands curled into fists at his bony sides.

"Hm." Saruman turned and swept onwards until they reached a deep pit near the heart of the labyrinth. "I am sure you have heard of wargs, Brome. They are wild creatures that live in the plains that attack small deer and horses. Normally, they are too timid to attack humans but I have been working with my generals," he nodded to a massive orc hovering just over Brome's shoulder, "to develop a breed that has no such hesitations."

Saruman chuckled. "Imagine our utter surprise and joy when all we had to do was introduce a bit of human flesh to them and they immediately began devouring everything white and pink that walked on two legs." He shook his head. "They are amazing creatures really – absolutely perfect for our needs."

A ferocious snarling arose from the pit accompanied by a deeper roar that seemed to echo off of the plank walkways.

"These wargs are new ones we have captured." Saruman gestured to the pit. "We have starved for several days now so that we introduce humans to their environment, they will not be recalcitrant to trying it."

Brome's eyes widened in fear and he began to back away.

The wizard let out a long-suffering sigh. "I like you, Brome, I really do. But you must understand that you have come to the end of your usefulness. You have been a good servant but now I fear that this coming war with Rohan will undo all the hard work I put into making you who you are today." He drew near to the trembling boy and smiled benevolently. "This way, you will die my servant – not a witless traitor."

"No!" Brome howled and threw himself backwards, passed the orc guards. His footing almost slipped on the walkway but he caught himself. He stared wildly at Saruman for a split second before turning and fleeing towards the surface.

A small laugh caused Saruman's lips to twist in malicious glee. "Chase him down," he ordered. "But do not kill him or it will be your flesh that will be fed to the wargs this night."

The orcs snarled in return and charged after the lean figure.

Saruman followed at a slower pace, his gaze eagerly tracking the pursuit. This had been more fun than he had originally thought it would be. He always loved a good chase – at least Brome would be good for something.

He watched as the lean young man tackled a confused orc guard that had moved to stand in his way, grappling briefly before getting his hands on the orc's blade. There was a harsh squeal and the orc expired on the tip of his own blade wielded by the skinny Brome. Wonderful amusement but soon it would come to an end.

Brome's strength had to be born from the fear of death – the young man had been kept near starvation in the darkness of Orthanc for months now. Saruman had no doubts that the energy would soon wane away and leave the young man at the mercy of the hulking orcs that were currently chasing him.

More of the orcs flooded up from their jobs and began to pursue the errant human through the wooden walkways and towards the surface.

The young man had turned and was pelting up a long wooden ramp that rattled under every pounding step. His head was bent downwards and in one hand he clutched the orcish weapon tightly.

Saruman's gaze darkened as his eyes took in what waited at the top of the ramp. Horses. If Brome managed to reach the horses… He took out his staff and pointed it in the young man's direction. Perhaps the fun would have to end prematurely.

An arrow flew through the air, causing Brome to stumble as it imbedded in the tender flesh of his thigh. Ten more steps and he would reach the horses. An orc appeared in front of the young man, snarling and raising a small hunting knife in the air. Brome simply used his momentum to drive the short sword he carried through the swarthy chest and dodged the falling body.

Saruman raised his staff and began whispering a spell.

Brome leaped forwards and landed clumsily on the back of the nearest horse, sword swinging forwards to cut the bindings that held the horse to the pole. The horse whinnied sharply but responded to the quick jab to her sides and lunged towards the relative freedom of the Rohirrim plains – her rider clinging desperately to her thick mane for dear life.

Blue lighting stretched from Saruman's staff, hurling towards the fleeing horse and rider.

The wizard smiled in satisfaction. This had been amusing – but all good things must come to an end some time.

But his victory celebration was premature.

Some miserable, unsuspecting orc lunged after the horse and inadvertently placed himself in the path of the lightning. The charge took the creature by surprise and he let out an animalistic howl, writhing as he fell backwards. He plummeted almost three and a half before crashing into a large vat filled with gray powder.

The vat toppled and fell with him until they both landed in the huge furnace that was used to furnish weapons.

Saruman's eyes widened and he barely had time to put a spell of protection around himself before a huge wall of flame shot up through the network of walkways, consuming all in its path.

Sounds of shrieking filled the air as orcs began to burn in the firestorm. Brome and the horse were forgotten in the frenzy of the moment.

Standing in the middle of the fire, Saruman began to chant quickly as he watched his hard work being destroyed. A breath passed and then the fire seemed to shrivel in on itself and fade into ashes.

Orcs that had managed to escape the heat cautiously picked themselves up and began to look around. A couple realized that roasted meat should not be wasted and set to eating the orcs that had been killed in the fire.

Saruman stood above it all and watched as Brome faded from sight. This was just a temporary setback. His plans would succeed.

The One Ring and the Heir of Isildur would soon be his.

To be continued...