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 Twenty-Six: The Winds Were Withered in the Stagnant Air

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.
- Lord Byron

Denethor, successor to the Steward of Gondor, held his hands at his waist and listened as anger grew in his heart.

"There is terrible news," the elf before him said, "from the healing wings. Elladan, child of Elrond, has been brought in with terrible wounds. The council is to be delayed until the arrival of Lothlorien."

"Lothlorien?" Denethor moved his jaw and went to the window, eyes skimming over the silent form of the Rohirrim ambassador seated beside the window. "The situation of people grows bleak and we are delayed because the stripling of Elrond's son has been injured." He turned quickly, ankle creaking under the weight of his rage. "My people are dying!"

"The sire of Greenwood, King Legolas, is believed to have perished in the woods at the hand of the wizard Saruman. Much darkness lingers in the world now. Lord Elrond believes it would be most prudent to…"

"Two elves die and Lord Elrond speaks of prudence. My lands are seething with this growing darkness and the council is delayed until the arrival of Lothlorien." He paced, hands gripping the sides of the robe. "Elves may have infinite time to play their games of war – but men do not! Only a breath is our lives and in those breaths we must do all we can to secure the future for our next generation."

Serenity blanketed the elf and he tilted his chin. "You may address your concerns with my lord, Elrond. I assure you all the commodities you may need for your extended stay will be provided for you."

Denethor sucked in a great breath and turned his head quietly to the Rohirrim ambassador. "What say you? I say the kingdoms of men would be better served by actions then lengthy councils and hours of pointless talks that lead to nothing but more discussions. Action must be taken with all haste."

The younger, fairer man straightened his head from where he had been studying his weapon. "Rohan is the strong arm of Gondor. We will stay true to her decisions. We will follow you, my lord."

"Then it is decided." Denethor spread his stance and tilted his forehead. "Gondor and Rohan will fight alone because the elves wish to linger with their head buried in their safe sanctuaries." He strode to the wardrobe, tugging out the saddlebags he had brought with him and tossing them to the bed. "We will defend our people with our blood. Tell my lord Elrond that we will be leaving with the light."

The Rohirrim stood and gathered his own possessions, eyes not even drifting toward the elf still standing by the door.

Estel stood by the gate, black lashes clumped together from his recent tears, and watched in confusion as the Gondorians and Rohirrim mounted their fine beasts and prepared to depart. "You are leaving?" he asked, tongue brushing numbly against his teeth. He glanced vacantly around the courtyard of Imladris. "You will fight alone?"

"If the elves will not help, we have no choice." Denethor smoothed his hand over his horse's neck. "You should come with us. Those who measure their life in moments do not belong with the immortals."

The wind brushed passed Estel's face and he shook his head. "They are my only hope if Legolas is to be returned to me."

Denethor shook his head. "Mark my words – they will hesitate in the striking. They will seek diplomacy over the necessary action. Estel, they will not help you with Legolas. They would see him die rather than leave the safety of this," the older man gestured to the clear waterfalls and green sloping valleys, "paradisiacal haven. Legolas will die before they set their might against Saruman."

"I cannot believe that." And Estel's heart stuttered within him as he contemplated the truth of the man's words. He bit his lip and glanced quickly away, the apprehension seeding and growing deep within him, the Ring throbbing dully and consumingly against his chest. "I must hold faith that…"

The Gondorian shook his head and laid his hand on the broad shoulder. "You will see, my young friend."

Bright sun swept out from behind the gray clouds, burning Estel's eyes and he shut them. He stepped backward, swallowing with some difficulty. "I wish you," he murmured when he had opened his eyes, blinking in the brightening sun. "I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors."

Denethor nodded, dark greasy hair swinging about the curve of his jaw line. "And I will remember your mentor in my prayers. I know that he is close to your heart." He mounted the horse, turning his head to the West. "You will always be welcome at the White Tower."

Estel heard his words even as his mind was preoccupied inward. He was looking at the sun – but the light did not burn his eyes. A mist seemed to be lifting from the bond, receding into faint shadows that could be easily brushed aside. Estel reached out eagerly, his mind's eye glimpsing the bright light of Legolas.

He was alive. Legolas was alive.

Legolas! he called, eyes bright, unblinking, and intense. Legolas!

"Estel," Denethor said but the voice was underwater, across the plain, in the sky – and Estel did not listen.

The shadows vanished and Estel plunged into the bond, eager to feel the warmth and acceptance of his guardian. He reached out and…

Pain swamped him.

Corporeally and mentally, he staggered. Dust seeped into his palms, creeping up his sleeves, when he fell to the ground. The tang of blood rushed through the gaps between his teeth. Thoughts came – tumbling, crowding, agonizing. The Ring was freezing, sucking the warmth out of his body in painfully pulses.

Stay away! Legolas cried out as if his mental teeth were clenched against the pain. I beg you to leave me be!

Estel shook his head and cried out between clenched teeth. Stubbornly, he braced his hands against the dirt and dove back into the maelstrom. Legolas was in agony and Estel would not leave him alone with the pain.

The suffering slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. And he absorbed the pain, accepted it, reveled in it – knowing that this was pain he was taking from Legolas. This was pain that Legolas would not need to bear. He was only vaguely aware of his physical body lying prostrate in the dusty courtyard, muscles jerking as if in seizure when the mental pain was manifested physically.

He opened his eyes, unable to focus but making out the dark blur of Denethor's worried face.

Why? he pleaded, eyes closing again as he pressed deeper in an attempt to discover the source of the pain. Why are you hurting? Why do you shout in pain? He shoved his strength through the bond, willing Legolas to accept it. His mind was on fire, Legolas's agony searing through every part of his brain. Fingers were digging through head, squeezing gray matter like mud and then tossing it aside.

Be strong. I will come for you. Do not fear – just stay alive for me, Legolas. He hesitated as the pain intensified for a moment. I love you.

Legolas's deep moan echoed in his psyche, echoing defeat and weariness. The pain was growing and Estel could feel Legolas falter just before the elf slipped into unconsciousness.

The agony drained partially away and Estel was left flopping like a fish on the dirt ground as he struggled to breathe with his suddenly heavy lungs. He groaned deep in chest, twisting his head to the side. The dirt and sky melded and swam – blue and brown meshing in a psychotic spin that fried his eyes. Bile rose up and he gagged a little, trying to swallow the mess, just before heaving his breakfast onto the ground. He could not move after that and lay, vomit under his chin, blinking woozily at the blended dirt and sky. Then he shut his eyes and all was quiet for a moment.

When he opened his eyes, Elrond was there, kneeling over him, hand on his forehead. He did not remember for a moment – just seeing the aching brilliant sky and feeling the soft, dry hand. Then the darkness and pain gushed in through his ears.

Estel jerked and snatched at the elf's wrist, fingers leaving white imprints. "Legolas," he gasped, mouth working slowly, heavily. "He is alive and he is in pain. Saruman…" His stomach rolled and he vomited again, hands trembling as the mess covered his chin and chest.

"Easy, Estel," he heard Elrond murmur and then he was lifted into the air. The pain was singing through his head, making every nerve tingle.

"We must save him," he murmured and then the blanket of sleep fell over his mind and the rest of his thought was lost.

The fading sunlight beat one last pulse upon Legolas's upturned face – and then the elf was submerged in the darkness of Orthanc. Dank, cool, and wet air seeped across his face and leadened his tongue.

"This, your majesty," the wizard announced, nose silhouetted against the ugly, orange glow of a torch as he turned his neck to face Legolas. "This is Orthanc. I am afraid it is a bit different then the elven strongholds, but we will have to make do."

Legolas fought to breathe slowly as he was dragged deeper into the torch-lit caverns of the tower. Hard metallic clanking from the chains about his wrists and ankles grated against his nerves and he shuddered, remembering when the cold steel was locked about his skin. "It will do fine," he murmured, fighting to maintain his façade of calmness. "Just fine."

Orcs walked on either side of the elf, grasping dark chains connected to the ones about Legolas's wrists and ankles. They seemed to delight in yanking unnecessarily hard on the bitingly cold metal. Legolas felt the bright glow of his spirit suffocating with the proximity to their dark madness.

"I did consider the difficulties your folk have with stone and dark. You will be pleased to know that I took extreme measures to insure that you will be as," the wizard's voice paused in malicious glee, "comfortable as possible."

Snuffling in terrifying excitement, the orcs on either side of Legolas drew him to a halt before great black doors,. Saruman smirked – Legolas cringed inwardly at the ugly sneer – and waved his wrist, flinging the doors open.

"Take him in here."

Solid black stone seemed overbear across Legolas's shoulders. Cold that was not from temperature alone permeated his muscles and burned his lungs. Legolas had meant to show no fear – he had meant to hold his head high and spit in Saruman's face as death came to carry him to the eternal rest of the elves – but elemental terror gripped him severely at the wickedness pouring from that room.

The ethereal realm passed before him: black smoke roiling around the smooth, black marble floors, and the thick, squelching scent of death.

His feet seemed to be bound to the floor, a few steps from the doorway. The orcs tugged at his chains – but he would not move. He could not move. Time and feelings slipped around him and Legolas held his breath.

Vaguely – underwater, in a dream – he saw another orc join the struggle to pull him into the darkness.

"No," he murmured. And then his feet began to slip across the tiles, the doors growing taller, the stench growing stronger, the smoke growing thicker. "No!" he shouted, tugging on his chains and planting his feet. He wrenched to one side, and his chains slipped from the orcs's grasps.

Encumbered by the chains but empowered by fear, he turned and ran.

Stark fear overwhelmed any shred of rationality – there was no escape plan, no thought for the next moment. There was just a desperate desire tonot enter that room. His chains clanked and the torches blurred before his eyes just before a tremendous force – incorporeal but powerful – plowed into his back, throwing him against the wall.

Cold stone knocked against the back of his head and he slumped to the floor. Shivering seized his muscles as the freezing tile pressed against his skin. He rolled, landing on his stomach, and tried to rise.

A gigantic weight was against his back, pressing him to the floor and driving the air from his lungs. He turned his face to the side and saw the length of his blond hair spread out starkly against the black tile. His mouth was dry and cold; he could not breathe – only gasp hysterically as the weight grew more and more oppressive. The air was hot and still, as if the wind had been smothered by the evil just as it was now smothering him.

All he could see was darkness, shimmering marble and clinging evil. His chained arms were sprawled out inelegantly from his body and his legs were twisted awkwardly together in their bindings. His ribcage smacked against the floor with every heaving breath – and the white bottom of Saruman's cape wavered across his dimming vision.

He moaned under his breath as he was lifted into the air with no hands – set upright by merely the power of the wizard's thought. He was drifted toward the dreaded room. All strength had been swept from his limbs like errant dust and Legolas was left unable to even lift his head from his chest.

If I close my eyes – I will not see the smoke – not see the cold wickedness reaching for my soul.

He closed his eyes.

The incorporeal hands released him and he tumbled to the ground, chains clanking as he sprawled bonelessly on the cold floor. The doors banged shut and Legolas fought madly to breathe in some semblance of his regular rhythm.

"I know," the wizard said, deep voice echoing around and inside of Legolas's head. "I know that you have kept the bond between you and the boy shielded. You wish him to believe you to be dead. You do not want him to stage some foolish rescue attempt and fall into my clutches. We cannot have that."

Legolas moved his head weakly against the floor, mind gibbering as he tried to defend that soft warmth of Estel's bond. Perhaps he could cut it before Saruman…

"Last time, you sliced your bond rather than allow the Nazgúl access to your precious child. The bond was rebuilt – oh, yes, I have seen it all. Perhaps," the wizard said and Legolas felt terror in his heart at the faintly mocking tone. "Perhaps I have seen the circumstances even more clearly than you.

"The new bond is much stronger than the old. While the other could be broken by the strong mental power of one elf, this bond cannot be. You may mask it, block it – but only death will break this bond."

Legolas knew he should be panicked – but there was no air in his chest and he could not think beyond the desperate need for oxygen.

"I believe," Saruman murmured almost absentmindedly, "that we should open the bond, mhm? We should show your Estel – your Hope – what he is missing."

Air rushed through Legolas's lungs just as harsh fingers dove into his mind without any preamble. He screamed, wasting precious air, as the pain shot through his head. His limbs stiffened and his head banged against the dark floor. Conscious thought was fleeting as he writhed under the wizard's immense pressure on his mind.

His world was black agony and searing cold. His head knocked repeatedly against the floor as he instinctively tried to flee the pain. Tightness across his face alerted him that his mouth was gaping wide open, teeth bared desperately, as he tried to ride out the intense hurt shooting out from the center of his head.

Something gave way deep inside of his mind and the shields and shrouds he had set about the bond tumbled into nonexistence. Estel's presence flooded his mind, the bright conscious eagerly reaching for his own.

He cried out, begging wordlessly for Estel to not do this.

The young man seemed to cringe back from the overwhelming suffering – but then returned with more strength, trying to assuage and heal the agony and begging to understand why Legolas was hurting.

I will come for you, Estel said. Do not fear – just stay alive for me, Legolas. I love you.

And Legolas moaned once more before slipping into unconsciousness.

Elladan heard the commotion outside his room and imagined it was Legolas. The wooziness of sleep still blanketed his mind, churning out half-formed thoughts and illogical conclusions.

"Legolas," he rasped, voice wheezy and high. He rolled to his side, but could move no further. He could see the flash of darkly colored robes and hear the worried voices. He pressed his hand to the mattress and heaved his head from the pillow, gasping and staring. "Ada!"

Trembles seized him again and his elbow weakened. Why had he called out? He moaned, flopping to his back. If Legolas was dead, then it would be better to postpone the news – to imagine that Legolas was alive.

No one appeared in the doorway so he shut his eyes and conjured the image of Legolas in the forest – beautiful, whole, alive, vitally happy. Elladan's face stretched as he smiled. Yes, Legolas with the trees behind him and the sky above. Legolas with breath in his lungs and his face unmarred.

"Elladan?"

Ada's voice threw him from the idyllic image and another Legolas superimposed itself on his eyelids – Legolas lying on the white healer's bed – beautiful, broken, cold, devoid of spirit. Elladan turned his face toward Ada but did not open his eyes. Yes, Legolas with the white shroud tucked up to his chin and hair combed neatly over the pillow. Legolas with vacant eyes and his face twisted in the last throes of death.

"Yes, Ada?"

"Estel collapsed in the courtyard. We did not find Legolas." Ada stared frankly at him and the mental images vanished under the serene, calming gaze. "Rest now. Estel is not awake yet."

"Why," Elladan's throat was dry and he cleared it hoarsely. "Why did he… collapse, you said?"

"Yes, he vomited and seemed to fall into a faint. He spoke of Legolas briefly." Ada turned his face away and sighed. "Elladan… no matter what Estel may say, do not allow your spirits to rise. It is highly unlikely that Saruman would leave Legolas alive for any extended period."

Elladan swallowed and jumped a little when a commotion suddenly arose from the next room.

Ada glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowing. "He is awake," he told Elladan shortly and hurried away from Elladan's line of sight.

The elf struggled briefly to sit up in the bed, straining to see past the barrier of the wall. He could hear Estel's frantic words and the soothing healers as they tried to lay him back in the bed. Estel said something loudly and then cried out in pain.

Elladan jumped as if the pain had been in his own, muscles at last cooperating as he pushed himself against the headboard. "Do not hurt him." He had sworn that he would protect Estel and now…

The noises from the other room stilled and a moment later Estel appeared in the doorway, pale and drawn with trembling hands. Waning sunlight highlighted the imperfect ridges across his face, bathing his firm mouth in shadows. His eyes, despite the weariness of his frame, were bright and excited.

"I heard him." He stumbled across the room, falling to his knees beside the bed. His shaking fingers twined themselves with Elladan's and tears seemed imminent. "In my mind – across the bond – he is alive."

"Alive…" Elladan murmured. He turned his face against the pillow, staring into the sun until his eyes watered and his skin felt dry and papery. "Alive…" The word sunk deep into his core and he whipped his head around, staring at the red flush on the white cheeks. "Is this for certain? Is he well?"

The mortal face crumpled and the gray eyes watered. "He is with Saruman – he is in pain." Estel jumped to his feet, dragging his hand through the tangled mat of his hair. "We must save him." Ada stood in the doorway and Estel rounded on him, hands outstretched and eyes flickering everywhere. "We cannot leave him in Saruman's hands – you must understand that."

Elladan looked at Ada's face and knew the answer before it was spoken – knew that such a venture against Isenguard would only lead to more deaths – knew that it would be a grave tactical error to set the might of the elves against an impenetrable fortress in the hopes of saving one elf. But he still flinched when Ada's quiet words cut into Estel's harsh breathing.

"We cannot go against Saruman yet."

Estel froze, shoulders heaving and mouth opened – he seemed for a moment unable to suck in air. He turned to look at Elladan with red and puffy eyes, lips trembling. "What?" he asked, voice high and strained to its limit. "We cannot?"

"We cannot. The cost of lives and time to attempt such a venture is not practical. We must wait until the time is right."

"Legolas will die!"

"Legolas would understand the necessity of sacrifice to preserve an entire generation. If we go against Saruman now when we are not fully prepared, we will fail and condemn all of Middle-earth into darkness. You do see that?"

Elladan could not breathe. His chest was tight and his eyes were blurry. Estel was a smear of dark colors against the white cleanliness of the walls and Ada's burgundy robes. He slipped down, staring at the ceiling as their voices flowed over him, around him. The practicality of Ada's words rang true in his mind – but all his heart knew was that Legolas – beautiful, gentle, endearing Legolas – was being condemned to horrible death by their inaction.

With a tremendous effort that drained him to cracking dust, he sat up and fixed his eyes on the dark face of Estel.

His mouth was twisted – half agonized and half enraged – and the flash of his white teeth caught the light. The brown skin on his forehead was drawn upward and the lines of his neck were drawn out like wooden planks. Elladan must have made some noise because the boy (the man) turned and stared in helpless confusion at him. The grays were dulling brightness, asking questions that could not be answered. Silent words passed between them – though Elladan did not know what was said – and Estel closed his eyes and the black lashes dampened.

Elladan's strength was no more and he returned to his pillow, tongue drying as he gasped in air. Why was he so weak? He closed his eyes and felt as if he had fallen into a deep river. The water was rushing in blue ribbons over his spine and forehead, seeping into his mouth and ears. All he could hear was the water and he let the current carry him toward the low lands. Then a wave crested beneath his spine, shoving him upward into the bitter tasting air.

Estel was shouting, voice angst filled and cracking. His head wavered in and out of Elladan's fixed eyes – a dim phantom wisping in the dark clouds of some rain storm. Ada was soothing, resolute and fixed.

Random snippets of words flickered to Elladan's tongue and then slid back into the realm of thought. He wanted to accuse Ada of never liking Legolas – of being glad that Legolas was lost to them. But Ada had loved Legolas as his own son. He wanted to scream that they could storm Isengaurd – that good would prevail in the face of Saruman's wickedness. But he knew that the elven armies would be crushed if they came upon Saruman in his own lair.

There was no recourse – no reasoned defense to state – no alternate plan. Elladan felt his lungs shrivel, air thin and bright around his face. The dark truth came in dark clouds, covering the sun.

"Estel," he said, imaging that by touching the mortal man, he could feel the spirit of Legolas.

The shouting ceased and dry hands were laid upon his face. But he could not open his eyes to look. He sighed with tremors and pressed his fingers against his closed eyes. Bright red painted the darkness before him – burgundy, yellow, green, blue. He watched the spots spin and dance, disappearing into a vortex.

Legolas sat in the darkness of the room, back against the wall and hands clenched beneath his knees. Endless litanies ran through his mind, repetitions that he could focus his dimming consciousness on. He needed lived for those mindless recitations. If he did not focus his thoughts upon them, he would remember what had happened – and where he was.

The thought came unbidden and he moaned deep within his throat as his eyes refocused on the dark wall inches from his face. An involuntary shudder gripped his body and his hands slid from his knees. Cool stone touched the backs of his fingers and the blackness reared within Legolas as he was forced to cope with reality.

He was in a casket – a coffin – a box. Something small and dark with walls on either side and no way to escape – place of nightmares where the only certainty was the continuing fear squeezing his throat from the inside.

As the terror cascaded, his feet lashed outward in a desperate and ill-conceived attempt to break through the stone walls. His toes throbbed even as his neck jerked backwards, head thumping against the wall behind. Pain sent star bursts through his vision, stole his breath and muddled his thoughts.

And then, reality slipped again and Legolas went back to flowered fields and warm breezes – faraway from where his body huddled in the cramped box and pain still spat across his muscles.

He was rarely lucid – a fact he was extremely grateful of in the scarce moments his mind did clear. His thoughts drifted somewhere between the sun and sea – the moonbeams on trees and the starlight on rivers.

Occasionally, Estel's face replaced the sun and Legolas would smile and be happy. He was in Saruman's clutches – he would remind himself, an absent, half-mad smile on his face – not the child of his heart. Estel was safe in Rivendell. Safe. Safe. Safe.

And the mantra went on, a quiet, croaking whisper that no ears would ever hear. He whispered the word until his mouth dried and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His thoughts returned to the darkened room but all strength had been sapped. Legolas did not fight the oppressive darkness this time.

No. He closed his eyes and laid his head against the stone. His mind felt free – cut from the tethers of his weakening, hyper-extended body. Legolas felt as if he were watching himself from afar as the hours in the box turned into days, for elves could go much longer without food or water than humans. Legolas watched himself grow paler, thinner, quieter, and increasingly vacant as the time slid by.

Then, at last – only scarce moments before Legolas was sure that his mind would slip fully free of the corporeal realm – the lid opened and rough hands dragged him, panting and cringing in terror, into the gray darkness of Saruman's presence.

To be continued.