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 Sixteen: Loose Rein Upon the Neck of Fate
Death from the stars looks ominously down—
Ho, ho, the dauntless riding that we dare!
East, to the dawn, or west or south or north!
Loose rein upon the neck of Fate—and forth!
– Richard Hovey
So when the Witchking towered over him, Legolas did not move – did not close his eyes. He held himself still, just waiting.
Legolas lay on the damp ground – blood on his tongue and blood on his skin. It hurt – ai, Valar, it hurt! – to draw every hoarse breath. Silver mist lingered over his face, touching his eyelids and cheeks – and he could taste the odd mugginess of stale water on his parted lips.
His death was coming in creeping, stepping increments in the slow-moving mist. The Nazgúl's steady steps on the soft grass seemed to be distant and far – but they were there – and they were coming closer. He would not look, turning his cheek to the grass and closing his eyes.
If his eyes had been opened, he would have seen the black hood of the Witchking looming over him – a strange phantom drifting in an otherwise featureless world. He would have also seen – in the very corner of his dimming vision – the spluttering, yellow-orange flame of his torch lying just within the reach of his fingertips. But he did not open his eyes.
The pain had left, obscured by the floating fog. He expected the cool metal to come down – pierce his chest – pierce his pumping heart. He expected to take one breath and then slip away on a murky cloud. Very painless and very soon.
He waited – and waited – and waited. No pain – no knife slipping through his ribs – just the heavy, ominous feeling of the Nazgúl leaning over him. And then, a niggling touch assaulted his mind. The niggling turned into harsh digging and Legolas twisted his head, grass and dirt catching in his soft hair.
Blackness – evilness – the taste of death overwhelmed the elf as the Witchking stretched his mental fingers into Legolas's vulnerable, agony-weakened mind. He felt for a moment as if rotting flesh was smothering him.
Legolas forced himself to take a breath – felt the increasing level of pain and weakness – and understood. His white fingers tore up soft blades of grass. The creature of darkness was trying to find Estel. Mental walls were hastily erected around his memories of Estel – and then shoved to the very back of his mind, buried beneath a multitude of other mundane thoughts. He covered the bond with tight barriers and leveled his strength against them in an effort to hold them erect.
Agony pounded behind his eyes and shot through his temple, making his jaw lock spasmodically. But the Ringwraith plowed through his mind, scooping up memories and discarding them as broken toys.
The memories of Estel that he had hidden were unnoticed – or simply bypassed as unimportant? – and then the full strength of the beast was thrown against the bond. And the barriers were saplings in a windstorm – bending, twisting, and barely holding under the mental force of the uninjured being.
And Legolas knew the truth then. He knew that he would not be able to hold the mental barriers against the superior strength of the Witchking. Blood was slipping from his body and onto the grass at an alarming rate – mental and physical strength were flooding away with each gasping breath. The creature would rip through and reach through to Estel's tender, vulnerable – doing Valar knows what damage. The Nazgúl would find Estel and destroy Estel's mind – either turning him to the path of evil or breaking his mind beyond the power to heal. And Legolas would be dead – powerless to save or help the boy. Panic touched Legolas' soul and then he bolstered his walls against another attack.
He had to cut the bond – he had to keep the beast from ravaging and destroying the boy's bright mind – but there was no time to perform the task gently or carefully. No time – so Legolas reached in, sent a soothing impulse over the bond, a promise that Mithrandir would be there when Legolas could not – and tore the bond from his mind. And he heard Estel's scream in his mind before his thoughts were thrown deep into the maelstrom of shock – the pain of a broken bond and the creature's rage as his plans were foiled.
Legolas opened his eyes – saw the menacing creature standing above him – saw the dimming flame. Strength of will had left him – but the memory of Estel's pain sustained him. There was a reason to fight back for one more breath – a boy staying with a group of rangers an indefinable distance away.
So he reached, scrabbling his clammy fingers against damp, rough wood of the one way he could still fight. He bit his lip and blood was in his mouth as the hot pain snaked through his body.
The torch was fully grasped in his hand and he cried out in response to the overwhelming pain as the creature continued to lambaste his weakening mind, tearing through synapses and frying nerves. But the fire of the torch was still lit and he yet had the strength to pull the burning stick close to his side, absently thankful that the Ringwraith was so focused on the internal battle – so convinced that Legolas had been rendered physically incapable by his wounds – that it did not notice the external one still raging.
It was a terrible throw, he thought, just as the flaming wood left his hand. Or perhaps it had been more of a weakened lob. Sluggish and awkwardly arching, the torch sputtered through the wandering mist. Legolas wondered – with the part of his mind that was not screaming out in agony as it was plundered by the dark mind of the Witchking – If the flame would die before making contact with the black, woven robe.
He sobbed – dry tongue catching on chattering teeth – as the sparks caught hold of the dark, worn robe, snaking upwards towards the empty hole of a face. Legolas smiled and closed his eyes through tears of pain as the last of Nazgúl went up in burning flames. But he was unconscious by the time the creature's screams seared through the drifting fog – he did not see the burning beacon flee through the fog, retreating to the river and then further to Dol Goldur to bide its time.
White murkiness was around him – holding him, caressing him, taking away the pain that had been so constant in the last few moments of consciousness. He drifted away from the cold, painful reality and his shattered mind was submerged into a deep, undisturbed rest. The broken bond pulsed and throbbed as a deep puncture wound – but, where he was, the agony did not touch him.
Pleasant dreams came and went – he floated through an idyllic sea on a silver ship. Memories, the happy ones, drifted before him and he smiled in his sleep – white lips turning upwards on colorless face. He thought he heard falling rain but that did not matter – nothing mattered.
And the green grass was stained a lovely red.
The light from Gandalf's staff cast a white puddle in the post-midnight darkness around him as he moved through the thinning fog. Green grass was unusually dark – dark and soft underneath the horse's hooves.
He knew the canyon was close. Water leaped over rocks, the sound rushing through the stillness.
When his staff illuminated the edge of the canyon, the wizard dismounted, ordering his horse to remain in one spot. Sick, hot scents of battle – smoke and rotting carcasses – hung heavy and still in the moist air. On the white, slate rock of the canyon floor, dark shapes blotted the ground, the slain casualties of the battle. The white-blue streak of the river lapped and sucked at some of the corpses, threatening to drag them all of the way to the wide sea and consigning them forever to a dark, watery grave. Gandalf grimaced and move onwards.
Threads of urgency laced through his innards – an unspeakable feeling of dread touching his mind and Gandalf quickened his stride. Blood – the stench floated with the fog. It was not the rotten smell of spoiled fluid but the fresh smell of the recently injured – the recently dying.
Darkness was vanquished by the white light as Gandalf swung the staff in a slow arc across the green field at the top of the canyon. Green grass and the bulkier, darker shrubberies and, then, a dark hump surrounded by crimson. His throat twisted – he had found what he had come for.
Moonlight broke through the fog and the pale rays wept solemnly on the stained grass. As Gandalf approached, the white face was touched by the light, a quiet star on the dark, bloody ground – blond hair still shimmering beneath the gauzy red streaks trailing from hairline to tips.
Gandalf knelt beside the body, dimly noting the crumpled pose and how the limp fingers still uselessly pressed against the oozing stomach wound – despite the death sleep that had obviously come upon the elf. The wizard's staff lay forgotten on the ground as he straightened the elf's legs from where they had been twisted and folded beneath the body, arranging the limbs comfortably on the slightly damp ground, even though Legolas was passed the pain. The smell of the Nazgúl was thick in the air and Legolas's wound oozed with the dark magic. He fumbled with his cloak, intending to draw the thick material over Legolas – a shroud to cover the dead.
Something compelled him, however to delay a moment before covering the placid face. He gazed sadly at the slightly upturned lips and wiped at a bloody smudge on one statuesque cheekbone, gently kissing his knuckle and pressing it to the smooth forehead. There was something indefinably tragic in the dead features of the immortal being. Gandalf was glad of the peaceful expression – glad the Estel's last glimpse of the brave immortal would not consist of a white face, brutally twisted in terror and pain – a body mutilated and torn asunder by the horrific ravages of evil. As his fingers ghosted down the cheek, past the lightly parted mouth, a brief hint of warm breath touched his own chilled skin.
Gandalf froze, fingers hovering just over the smiling mouth, a mere hair span from actually touching them. His blue eyes widened, his own breath stilling in his lungs and mouth drying as he waited for something. A wild hope clutched at him as the soft touch of air moved against his fingers once again.
"Oh, Valar – Valar…"
Legolas's neck was slightly twisted, his head drooping awkwardly off to one side – he looked dead – but Gandalf still felt the weak, erratic pulse throbbing just beneath the skin of the elf's neck. He was alive – cold, pale, quiet, wounded, and alive.
Large, weathered hands flapped uselessly – eager to help but lost on what to do. He touched the face again, now feeling the slight dampness of sweat on the freezing, pale skin that he had missed before in his grief. He noticed the slight bluish tinge on the smiling lips and the quiet, puffing irregularity of Legolas's breath. It was only the miracles of the elven body that had kept Legolas alive to this point and now Gandalf feared that shock and the black poison of a morgul blade would claim the archer. Haste was of the essence.
Sweet, unnatural energy coursed through Gandalf as he looked towards where his horse had been left. At a full gallop, he could make it to the ranger's camp in a little under an hour. Too much time – but there was no other way.
When he looked down again, Legolas's mouth had moved a little, nose wrinkling infinitesimally, and the slight smile had been lost in a tiny grimace of pain and a low groan. His head shifted restlessly against the grass, dark eyelashes fluttering for a moment before falling dreadfully still once again – the breathing just a little lighter than it had been before.
The cloak that had been Legolas' funeral shroud was now a blanket as Gandalf drew the cloth tightly around Legolas, scooping him into his arms.
"We must," he said, his breath harsh and uneven to his own ears as the silence stretched around them. "We must get you home if there is to be a chance. Estel – will not want you to die."
Blond hair swung freely in the cooling air as Gandalf bustled Legolas towards where the horse was grazing. One of the elf's white hands twitched slightly and a feathery moan reached the wizard's sharp ears.
Gandalf cooed a little, fingers rubbing a little where they tightly gripped the elf. "Hush, you are all right. I have found you. You will be fine." And Gandalf tasted the bitter fluid of the lie on his tongue.
The first person Gandalf saw as he approached the ranger's camp was Estel – running towards him, breath coming in foggy pants. The wizard drew the horse to a halt, dismounting with Legolas cradled carefully in his arms.
Estel stopped a few feet away, arms wrapped around himself and eyes wide. "You have brought him." His voice was so dull – so lost – as if his youthful vigor had been ripped from him in one fell blow.
And Gandalf realized the boy still thought Legolas had perished. He opened his mouth to correct – to reveal the happy truth – but stopped. His gaze turned downwards to the white lips and closed eyes – the slowing breath and cooling skin. Should he give the boy hope now only to have it snatched away when Legolas slipped away from his world once more?
The choice was stolen from him as the elf twitched in his arms, breathing out a groan into the dark air.
A single shiver ran through the boy's limbs when he heard the small sound. He blinked once – skin whitening just a little – and then darted forwards, hands reaching to touch Legolas. "Legolas?" he laughed, fingers dancing over the white forehead and still cheekbones. "Legolas?"
Gandalf looked up from the boy's wondering face and saw the rangers coming rapidly towards them, bearing torches and grim lips. "Careful, Estel," he cautioned – making sure to infuse a gentle tone to his voice – as the boy tried to tug the elf from his arms, wanting to embrace the alive elf fully. "He is gravely injured."
"He is alive," Estel breathed, awe touching his eyes and voice as his fingers lingered on the weakly throbbing pulse in the elf's throat. "He is alive!" Gandalf saw the tears clump the boy's eyelashes as reality flooded the boy's mind.
"Yes, but he needs help." Gandalf began to stride towards the camp, not caring if Estel kept up with his long, quick steps. If there were any chance at all for Legolas' survival, they had to act now.
The flap of the medical tent was thrown open for Gandalf and the wizard hurried in, ignoring the blood dripping from Legolas's fingertips. "Water, bandages," he barked to the ranger standing beside him. "His wound stinks of Nazgúl poison."
The ranger nodded, darting from Gandalf's sight.
A white cot sat against the tent wall and Gandalf placed his limp burden onto the coarse sheets, positioning the elf on his side. His hand skimmed over the elf's face, feeling the light breath and the weakening immortal spirit.
"You found him." Halbarad moved to stand beside Gandalf, eyes fixed on the elf. "I sent Estel to fetch blankets from our packs. Tell me now how badly he lies."
Gandalf sighed as he carefully removed Legolas's bloodied tunic, revealing the two pussing wounds. "His injuries are severe." He paused and his voice dropped. "I have witnessed many an elf and man die from wounds less severe than these when they are made by the blades of the Nazgúl."
Halbarad watched the wizard probe the two vicious wounds in the elf's torso. A slight tremble seized his hands and he tucked them behind his back. "He looks to be lingering on the threshold of the Halls already," he noted, despondency in his voice. "Perhaps Estel should not see this."
The words settled in Gandalf's mind and he took a breath, remembering his previous thoughts and seeing the desperate hope on the face of the child. "No… no." Estel needs to say goodbye, he thought but he could not say it aloud. The words seem too final – too terrible to even be contemplated. He would not say the words while there was yet hope in this earth. While Legolas breathed, Gandalf would hope.
A shudder seemed to ripple through the white and red body on the bed. A breathy moan broke past the colorless lips as one hand grappled against the woolen blanket, fingers catching in the rough folds.
Brow furrowing in concern, Halbarad dropped down to Legolas's level, gently shushing as he smoothed the blond hair back from the clammy face. When he turned his face upwards to look directly at the wizard, his eyes were dark with regret and concern. "Gandalf, he is in pain. If he is to die… he should not be in pain."
Gandalf looked at the pain screwed features. "No, he should not." But he could not bring himself to move.
Cloth flapped in the wind as the door of the tent was flung open. Estel came rushing in, arms full of blankets, and followed by the lean figure of the ranger Gandalf had sent to fetch the supplies. The blankets were dropped on to the ground and the boy darted to bedside, falling to his knees.
"Is he all right?" his voice wobbled and broke even as his hand clutched at the elf's lax fingers. "Please tell me he will be well."
Gandalf opened his mouth to tell a lie.
Legolas's head twisted to one side, eyelashes fluttering rapidly against his white cheeks as if he had sensed the nearness of the child. "Estel," he murmured, his voice sounding weak and scratchy. Strangely luminous eyes sunken deeply into shadowed skin blinked open and the elf stared upwards at the boy's face. "Estel," he whispered happily, even as his mouth twisted in a grimace at the sharp pain Gandalf knew was pounding through his system.
"Legolas…" the boy choked and buried his face in the blankets near Legolas's face, clutching one vaguely trembling hand. "The bond – it is gone. I do not know what happened but it left and I could not feel you anymore." The boy's voice babbled on but Gandalf was no longer listening.
He knelt beside the elf, tucking the blanket around the chilled flesh. "Legolas," he whispered, watching as the blue eyes began to wander away from the physical world and into the phantasmal world of the dead.
The elf turned to him, pale lips moving with a breath of air. "Mithrandir."
Once again, Gandalf was struck by the strange brightness of Legolas' sunken eyes – the flare of a star before it fades into the obscurity of the night.
Legolas blinked and peered deeply into the wizard's eyes, tearing his gaze away from Estel for a few brief moments. Waning strength was in the glassy eyes and Gandalf could see resignation and resolve stitched into each breath Legolas fought for.
He knew, Gandalf realized. Legolas knew that he was slipping from this world with every passing moment. Legolas knew that he was mere breaths away from the darkness.
A pained convulsion caught Legolas for a moment and his raspy breath hitched before resuming its labored pace. The dark eyes sought out Gandalf's gaze once more and he seemed to speak without words – his eyes saying what he did not have the strength to vocalize. Take care of Estel. He will need to be protected. Stand at his coronation where I could not. Tell him how proud I am.
Gandalf nodded in understanding and watched with weary eyes as a tender peace crept over the pain wracked feature. He turned his face away to steady his mouth and clear his eyes. "Was it the Nazgúl?" he asked when the elf when he was once again composed – he had nothing else to say and the dreadful silence hurt.
"Yes." Legolas turned his head toward Estel, closing his eyes with a tiny sigh of contentment. Gandalf could almost sense the comfort that the elf drew from the boy's mere presence – and the gentle love that Legolas exuded back toward the boy. Then his eyes snapped open again. "The rangers?" Legolas struggled for a moment, hands flailing until Estel caught them tight against his own chest. "Are they well?"
"They are." Gandalf smiled warmly and then frowned. "Are you in any pain?" You should not be in pain, his mind focused on Halbarad's earlier words, if this is to be your end, you will not leave in agony.
Legolas did not answer for a moment, his burning eyes looking to Estel again. "No," he said at last and he edged closer to Estel. "I am comfortable and at peace." He smiled, soft and gentle, at the boy before his eyelids sagged. Then he jolted, eyes turning from Estel. "No herbs," he mumbled to Gandalf as if guessing the wizard's previous intentions. "I want to... be aware."
Gandalf nodded, knowing the pride of the elves would not allow Legolas to give into his own weakness – even as death hovered. And death was hovering; the old wizard imagined he could see the brave heart struggling for each beat and the gleam slowly dulling in the elf's eyes. The end would not be long in coming.
Bright blue peeked from beneath dark lashes as Legolas once again managed to fix his gaze on his Estel even as his body shivered and trembled as it prepared for the final descent into death, muscles unlocking, loosening as they prepared for their eternal rest. "Be safe," he slurred through death-numbed lips and Gandalf was not quite sure if the elf was completely aware of what he was saying. "Be well, my child."
"No…" Estel dipped his face closer to the elf's, sobbing just a little. "Legolas. Please – do not leave me."
Sadness crossed the face and Legolas's hand twitched weakly in Estel's grasp. His mouth opened as if he meant to speak – naught but a puff of air slipped through. Legolas contended himself to smile one last time, forehead wrinkling just a little in pain. The glimmering blue vanished with the pained lines and Legolas looked relaxed and calm – white and dying. He looked at peace, a beautiful creature who already dwelt in the blissful peace of the halls.
Estel gasped, plucking at the elf's pliable hands, holding the cold skin to his face. "Gandalf," the boy moaned. "He is dying."
"I am sorry." Gandalf stood and lifted his hands to his face, calluses sliding against wrinkles. "I am sorry. There is nothing I can do for him." He looked to the wound again, seeing the black and blue traces of poison. There had been so many organs pierced or lacerated by the blade of the Nazgúl – too many to ever hope to mend without the marvels of elvish medicine.
But Rivendell was a seven day ride and Lothlorien only a little closer. Legolas could never make the distance when wounded so grievously. What could he do? The fates had rendered him helpless. He looked at the white, silent face and he knew that Legolas would never awake in this realm again. Unless…
The boy started to cry – silent, hurting tears that soaked into the blankets tucked around the elf. His face was turned to the side, eyes wide open and awash with sorrow, as he watched Legolas's mouth tremble with every breath. Candlelight touched those hurting eyes, making them sparkle like silver in the sunlight.
And Gandalf knew.
This was the boy for whom Middle-earth waited – the Heir of Isildur, the Last of the Numenoreans, the Chief of the Dunedain – the King of Arnor.
"Halbarad," Gandalf said, mouth barely moving as he watched the child weep brokenly next to the dying elf on the white cot. His eyes were alight with a premonition straight from the Valar even as he carefully wrapped the clean cloths about the oozing wound – knowing it would do no good. "Athelas – kingsfoil. Do you have any about you?"
The man looked startled but then nodded. "What…"
"Fetch it." And the command was uncharacteristically sharp. The wizard stepped close to Estel, kneeling beside him. "Child, you must listen to me if we are to save Legolas. Can you do this?"
Estel sat up, scrubbing vigorously at his face with his hands as he nodded. "Tell me what to do." His eyes glinted with awareness and readiness even though there were smudged trails of tears across his fearful face. The determination of a king glimmered across his face.
A brief second of hesitation flickered over Gandalf's face and then he forged on. "You can save Legolas. There is a power in your blood and hands that I cannot explain to you now – but know that it is there."
Dried leaves were placed in Gandalf's hands as the ranger came back into the tent and the wizard briefly nodded to Halbarad before turning to Estel again. "Chew," he commanded, transferring the dried, green weeds into the slightly trembling hands of the boy. "Until they are well ground together."
The wizard did not know what he was doing. He was blindly stumbling along, hand reaching through the dark, hoping to save the dying elf. Gandalf reflected somewhat ruefully on his utter lack of knowledge on how to go about releasing the healing power he knew lay in the young boy.
The hands of the King are the hands of a healer.
"Gandalf?" Halbarad was at his shoulder, voice low so the boy would not hear. "Kingsfoil will not help a wound such as Legolas's. Its smell may be pleasant but there are no medicinal qualities, save for soothing the sharp pain of headaches…"
Doubts threatened to cloud Gandalf's mind but he forced them aside as he watched Estel slowly chew the slightly bitter weeds. "I know," he said to Halbarad, just as softly. "But there are rumors…"
Halbarad's sharply drawn breath told the wizard that the ranger understood his cryptic words. Doubt and fear were scattered throughout his eyes – but they were interspersed with hoped and belief that maybe (just maybe) this would work.
When the black breath blows
And death's shadow grows
And all lights pass,
Come athelas! Come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king's hand lying!
But Gandalf did not speak the words aloud. He kept them within his heart as he watched the white face of the boy – part of him still dreaded that perhaps the words were just the jumbled creation of farmers' wives and drunken minstrels. "Spit them into your hand and now put them on his wound," he instructed gently as he peeled back the bandages that had been tucked about the elf's skin. "Careful now."
"Would it not be better – if perhaps you… put them there?" The boy swallowed, staring at the mushy green leaves lying soggy and limp in his palm. "Legolas has taught me about healing but I am not very good…"
"You must, Estel." The boy's hand was small in his own as he guided it to the discolored skin. When the weed had been pressed against the wound, Gandalf rewrapped the bandages and took a breath. "Estel… your bond – it is gone?"
"Ye-yes." Estel's mouth trembled and his hand came up to touch his forehead. "It snapped – I can feel the remnants – but not him." Tears threatened to well again, the pull showing starkly on the young face.
Terribly aware of Legolas's ever lightening breath and his ever paling skin, Gandalf fixed his dark blue eyes on the young boy. "Do you remember how Legolas created the bond?"
"I – he reached into my mind." Estel stopped, unsure and afraid, hands trembling. "Our minds connected… I do not know! I am mortal – I cannot!"
There was no time for comfort. Gandalf gripped him, pulling him toward Legolas's face. "You must reform the bond if he is to live. You do have the power to do that – the same power that lets you heal his fleshly wounds will let you form a bond and save his spirit from death. You must reach into his mind and bring him out of the shadows. Or – he – will – die."
Estel shuddered as if a frigid breeze had just swept over him. Gray eyes were frozen over and his mouth gaped just a little. "All right," he said with a shudder. "All right." And he seemed to gather a regal bearing around himself, staring at Gandalf with level, determined eyes though the hand that still clutched Legolas's wrist tightly trembled sporadically. "I will save him from the shadow."
"Good," Gandalf sighed and stepped back. "Lie down beside him and try to mimic what he did when he first formed the bond."
The boy did so, rigid fingers clutching Legolas's sleeve. "Legolas," he whispered, eyes closing as he turned his face toward the paling body. And his breaths evened out until he was completely still – lost in the realm of sleep.
"So we wait?" Halbarad asked, settling himself on a small stool and wringing the tips of his fingers. "There is nothing more to be done for them?"
"No." Gandalf watched the even rise and fall of the boy's chest and blue coloring of Legolas's mouth. Then he turned with some effort, tucking his hands into his voluminous cloak and sitting beside the ranger. "There is nothing more we can do for them. Estel must accomplish the rest."
For hours they waited. Dawn rose and the sun spurted through holes in the tent. Smells of rain drifted in on the breeze and water soon pattered on the canvas tent. Halbarad rebuilt the fire and made tea for them both.
Legolas was dreadfully still through the whole wait. His face laid turned to one side, mouth lax. His white fingers had curled loosely around the boy's – whether it was some reflex or a conscious reaction, Gandalf was not sure. Blood flowered on his bandages and Gandalf changed them, making sure the athelas was still tightly pressed to the dark, oozing wound.
Estel was more active in his sleep. He mumbled, tossing his head, hand tensing around Legolas's palm for a few moments before he relaxed again. A feverish pink stained his forehead and Halbarad wiped the sweat away. Now and then, he would cry out in his sleep. But his voice would seem so far away; as if he was miles from them – lost deep beneath the ground.
Finally, as the rain abated and the musty smell of wet grass rose into the air, Estel stirred. His eyelids fluttered, black lashes brushing against fever paled skin. Bright gray eyes had roamed for a moment and he had licked his lips with a dry tongue. "Legolas?" he murmured in the direction of the fire, voice hoarse and broken.
The elf lay still.
Gandalf held water to the boy's mouth, helping the exhausted boy to take a few sips. "He is yet asleep, Estel," he informed sadly, not daring to look at the peaceful elf – so serene, so quiet. Had the boy's quest failed? Was Legolas lost to them? He wanted to ask – but he feared for Estel's well being, feared the jaded shadow hanging in the once-innocent gray eyes.
"No!" The tone was childishly petulant and Estel sat up, leaning over Legolas. His forehead touched the cold one of the elf, breathing on the chilled nose. "You were following me – you promised to come back with me. Where are you?"
Halbarad stepped forward and made as if to take the boy up into his arms, but Gandalf stopped him. "Wait – just a moment."
Estel braced his smaller hands on the elf's white cheeks, grinding their foreheads together. "Come back," he urged again, tears leaking from his squeezed eyelids. "Please come back." He stopped, panting raggedly as he waited for his mentor to answer his plea. A sob shook his shoulders as the silence stretched on, unhindered by the elf. He swallowed his tears and cast a glance at Gandalf.
"Legolas," he said, voice scarcely above a pained mumble. "Return from the shadows – it is not yet your time to wander in a lightless world. I need you to come back for me. I need you so much. Come back."
And with a gasp and a harsh cough, Legolas did.
to be continued.