Chapter 8: Withering Leaves

Fifty-six elves. Legolas reeled from the latest information delivered by Nólaquen, the third elf he and Elladan had come across. The last count before Nólaquen fell asleep himself was fifty-six elves in mysterious comas. Which meant fifty-one were somewhere in this forest, lost and confused and possibly hurt. Most likely alone. Despite their best efforts, this dreamscape was simply too large, and it seemed there was no central place where one appeared after falling into a deep sleep. It was pure luck—or the grace of the Valar—that Legolas had found these few at all.

"Two have died," the Mirkwood warrior reported grimly.

Legolas stiffened. "Ohtar?"

Nólaquen quirked a puzzled brow. "Yes. How did you…"

"We came across him," Elladan broke in. "He was slain by a creature and…disappeared." He flicked a look at Legolas. "We had hoped perhaps that…death, in this realm, would result in one waking."

Nólaquen shook his head. "And Marille? Did you see her?"

Legolas closed his eyes in grief. Marille was not a warrior, but an artistic soul who devoted her time to music and helping the gardens flourish. He did not know her well, but she always played the lyre at their festivals. Of course she would not have lasted long in this place. Legolas could not stop himself from wondering whether her death had been quick, or if she had suffered horribly, terrorized by one of the woods' creatures.

"Who you see here is all we've been able to find thus far," Legolas said, gesturing to Calatar and Anaire, whom he and Elladan had come across a few days ago. Or, what seemed like it might have been days. It was impossible to tell, though Nólaquen's report told them it had been at least eight days since Legolas had been brought home to Mirkwood. Eight days that his presence had served to infect more and more of his people. Elves were falling victim faster than he could locate them in this dreamscape, and Legolas was powerless to do anything about it.

"Has anyone made progress on identifying the cause of this?" Anaire spoke up. She held a crude bow in one hand, and only three arrows that she'd managed to construct since arriving. It was slow work with less than ideal materials, but she was an archer, and after a close brush with one of those bats, had decided a long-range weapon was necessary. Legolas missed his bow as well, yet he could not bring himself to make a temporary one; somehow, that felt like accepting they would be trapped here for a very long time…perhaps indefinitely.

"No," Nólaquen said morosely. "The wizards went off in search of answers, but no one has heard from them since."

"And it is too soon for my father to have arrived," Elladan added despondently. "Has…my brother?"

"He was still awake last I heard." Nólaquen turned to Legolas. "As was your father."

Well, there was small comfort in that, Legolas thought bitterly. But what must his father be going through, watching his kingdom crumble around him? Watching his son waste away?

Elladan cleared his throat when Legolas did not respond. "We have been wandering in search of others, but it seems as though a large portion of the forest is uninhabited. Except for the creatures."

Nólaquen frowned. "What kind of creatures?"

"Vicious ones," Anaire muttered.

"Worse than Giant Spiders," Calatar concurred. He held a spear tightly in his hand, eyes ceaselessly scanning the surrounding woods so that it looked as though he hadn't even been paying attention to the conversation. "But they can be fought off and killed."

He and Anaire had run into a wolf-like demon before meeting up with Legolas and Elladan. Their description of the beast was harrowing—all taut skin and thin bones, like a charred skeleton with molten eyes. But they had managed to kill it.

Nólaquen shifted nervously now, gaze flitting across the pale trees. "And to die here means…"

"I will not let that happen," Legolas said sharply. He could not change what was happening in Mirkwood, but he could make up for what he was causing by protecting those elves currently in his company. And by continuing to tirelessly track down the others.

"Here." He handed Nólaquen a wooden stake carved down to a sharpened point. "If you spot anything that could be used for a dagger or arrowheads, pick it up, along with twine. We need to construct as many weapons as we can." Legolas turned to the others, noting their grim, yet staunch expressions. "Let's move out."

One good thing about no night in this place was they were not forced to stop because it became too dark to travel. Rather, they rested when weariness demanded. It was strange that they could feel fatigue when hunger was not an issue. Elladan had theorized that one's fëa was not nourished by food or drink, but a spirit could 'tire' given mental and emotional stress. Legolas just counted it a blessing considering he hadn't found a single edible thing in this world, and they didn't need the concern of starvation on top of everything else.

Though, he had begun to wonder about the condition of his physical body. How long had it been since he'd had food or water? Eight days in Mirkwood, but an additional four or five since he'd been captured. If his physical body died in the waking world, would his spirit still wander this endless realm until he met a second death here? Or would he be granted entrance into the Halls of Waiting?

In truth, Legolas was not sure which he wished for. Ever since arriving in this place and believing he had died, he had begun to fear that he would be forever trapped. Ohtar might have passed on, but if Legolas was the catalyst for this spell, was he tied to this dreamscape in a way the others were not? What would death do to his fëa? He had never worried about such things before, going into battle in Mirkwood against spiders and orcs. He fought, and if he survived, it was to fight again. But ever in the back of his mind, he knew that one day he would reach either Valinor or Mandos…and therefore see his mother again.

Yet even as he began to yearn for such an escape from this nightmare world, Legolas could not abandon his friends. As long as other elves were trapped here, regardless of what he must sacrifice, he had to stay to protect them.

After what may have been several hours, their group stopped to rest. Anaire immediately sat cross-legged on the ground and began shaving one of her sticks into a pointed arrow. Nólaquen drew Elladan aside to quietly ask more questions about this place, while Calatar took up position near a squat, blackened tree that gave him the best vantage point should anything approach.

Legolas paced the perimeter. He knew he should rest, conserve his strength for the next trek, but he was too on edge, his mind a torrent of thoughts as tangled as a spider's web. Objectively, he knew not to blame himself for what was happening. There had been times during a patrol when a decision he'd made had led to battle and injuries. Warriors had perished under his command. It was part of the wood-elves' lives; they all knew that each time they ventured from the palace to fight for their home, some might not return. Legolas had come to terms with losing soldiers under such circumstances.

Yet no matter how much he tried to think of this situation in rational comparison, he couldn't. For the simple matter that it was not one or two lives at stake, nor even a whole patrol, but every Mirkwood elf. And his closest friends. It was not easy to reconcile.

Anaire suddenly stepped into his path, forcing Legolas to stop. She held out the makeshift arrow she'd just finished. "It is not up to the Weapons Master's standards, but I hope it's sufficient."

Legolas arched a brow at her. "I don't need to perform weapons checks here."

"Is it not part of a captain's responsibility?" she replied cheekily.

He stared at her for a moment, stunned by this uncharacteristic boldness. There was compassion in her grey eyes, and also a vulnerable request—he wasn't the only one struggling with fear and dark thoughts. And yet there was not even a hint of blame or accusation on her face.

Legolas inclined his head and accepted the shaft, lifting it up to inspect. There was no arrowhead, but one end had been tapered to a very sharp point, almost like a porcupine's spicule. "You'll have to shoot it within only a few feet to cause the most damage," he said.

Anaire nodded and took it back. "A few feet can make all the difference compared to short-range daggers."

"True. And considering the poor materials you have to work with, that is more than sufficient."

Anaire glanced away hesitantly. "I could make you a bow as well."

Legolas forced a wan, yet grateful smile. "Perhaps if it is needed. For now, concentrate on making enough arrows to stock a quiver." Unlike the skillfully crafted ones in Mirkwood, these would likely only survive a single use.

"Who's going to make the quiver?" she quipped.

Legolas almost jested that they use the Ñoldo as a pin cushion, when a sharp cry sounded from Calatar. Everyone whirled around to find the elf partially melded with the trunk of the charcoal tree, as though he had sunk into it like mud. Both his arms, thighs, and most of his torso were covered by the suddenly shifting bark. The tree creaked, followed by a resounding crack, and Calatar screamed again.

Legolas leaped forward, whipping out his dagger and immediately hacking away at the trunk. The bark rippled and undulated, tightening and hardening around its prey. Legolas's stone blade chipped at the tree, but not fast enough. Elladan jumped in with his knife as well while Anaire grabbed Calatar's hands, trying to pull him back out.

"Legolas!" Nólaquen shouted in warning, but not in time for the prince to dodge the branch that came swinging down to strike him in the chest.

He flew backward and hit the ground, ribs jarring painfully. As Legolas blinked up at the tree, he noticed how each of the sparse leaves had yellow spots in the center…yellow spots that were suddenly blinking and roving about like eyes.

Swallowing a surge of bile, he jumped to his feet again. This time when he attacked the tree, his granite blade sank into squishy flesh, and an ear-piercing shriek rent the air. The tree began to thrash, swinging its branches around to knock the rest of the elves away while more and more bark shifted and wavered to swallow Calatar whole.

Legolas dove out of the way of another branch, rolling into a crouch next to Anaire's weapons. He snatched up the crude bow and the arrow she'd just completed, nocking it to the twine. He could not draw back very far for risk of snapping the bow, but as she'd said, a few feet was all that was needed. Legolas aimed up toward the tree's crown, taking his time to find his mark. There, in the center of the thickest branch, one of those uncanny eyes rolled inside a hollow of bark. Legolas let the shaft fly.

It struck dead center, splattering the eye completely, and the tree screeched as it reeled backward. Elladan and Nólaquen hacked at the trunk, sometimes striking coarse bark, other times pulpy flesh that spewed black ichor when they wrenched the daggers out. Legolas retrieved his knife and rejoined them. Bits of charred rind and gummy pomace littered the ground, and finally the tree began to relinquish its hold. Calatar cried out in agony as Anaire pulled on his arms with all her might. One leg stumbled free, followed by the other.

Legolas changed targets and grabbed one of the flailing branches to swing up to the top of the tree where he began to slash at the twigs bearing leaves, amputating the unseemly eyes. Another blood-curdling shriek pierced his ears and Legolas lost his balance. He tumbled to the ground, landing on his back. The tree shuddered, and then several branches were flying at him, barbed ends poised to impale.

Elladan darted in at that moment and gripped Legolas's arms to haul him up and away. One of the branches shot past the Peredhil, grazing his arm, but he didn't stagger as he continued to push Legolas clear. Calatar had been freed, and was now hunched over far away from the tree with Anaire and Nólaquen. Legolas and Elladan stumbled toward them, and then the five of them stood there panting as they watched the tree shake and writhe. Black goo dribbled down the trunk to pool on the ground. Leaves that had been severed lay scattered about, the pupils dulled into nothing more than moldy ocher spots.

None of them moved for a long moment, but finally Legolas pulled himself together and turned to Calatar. The elf's pallor was waxen, and he was still breathing raggedly. His left arm hung limply at his side, wide and terrified eyes fixated on the tree.

Legolas stepped into his line of sight. "Calatar, are you injured?"

The warrior blinked dazedly at him. "My arm…broken." He let out a raspy wheeze. "Nothing…else, I think."

Nodding, Legolas gestured to Anaire and then at the weapons lying on the ground. "We should relocate."

Elladan ducked in to help support Calatar, while Anaire quickly scooped up their things, leaving Nólaquen's stake and one of the daggers that was close to the tree. Even though it had stopped moving, no one wanted to risk getting near it again. Legolas cast one last wary look around before taking up position as the rearguard.

"That arrow served us well," he said to Anaire in front of him.

She glanced over her shoulder, mouth pressed into a thin line, and nodded.

They did not go far, only enough so the black tree was completely out of sight. All of them were on edge now, shaken by such a monstrous apparition. There were trees in Mirkwood that had grown dark and hostile under the Shadow's influence, angry and bitter with no love for any living thing, be it good or evil. Yet they never tried to hurt an elf. As though something deep within their roots still remembered the Eldar waking them up and teaching them to speak. As far as Legolas had sensed, the trees in this realm had all been dead, hollow shells. Until that one.

Elladan eyed a bleached birch suspiciously as he eased Calatar down to lean against it. "I believe we're relatively safe here. It seems the sentient beings of this world possess darker, inky complexions."

"Do you mean to say that a black patch of dirt could grow teeth and try to swallow us?" Nólaquen asked, tone sharp with a mixture of incredulity and defensive anger.

Elladan sighed as he cut a strip off his tunic. "I don't know."

"We'll rest here a while," Legolas interjected. It was no less dangerous than any other place, save beneath a bat's nest, but he'd scanned the tree tops and they were clear of webs. "Anaire, take up watch from above. Nólaquen will relieve you in…" He trailed off, and then waved a hand tiredly. "Whenever you deem enough time has passed."

The two nodded, and Anaire took up the bow and few remaining arrows before climbing up a tree into a perch. Nólaquen settled down beside Calatar as Elladan began to set and splint the broken bone. Legolas drifted away to establish a wide perimeter. It was so quiet here with no breeze rustling through the withered leaves, which made Calatar's pained grunts seem so much louder. Legolas found his own muscles clenching until it stopped.

"Distancing yourself will not protect them," Elladan said, appearing at his shoulder a few moments later.

"That's not what I'm doing."

Elladan snorted softly. "I know you, mellon nîn. You hide your pain so they will have confidence in their captain."

"Which is a captain's duty," he rejoined.

"But it isolates you," Elladan lobbed back. "And I am not under your command."

Legolas turned to face his friend, eyes narrowing on the bloody streak along Elladan's upper arm. He wanted to insist that be tended, but they had no water, and even if there was some form of it in this place, in all likelihood it would be too dangerous to touch.

Elladan followed his gaze, craning his neck to get a look at the graze. "It's not serious."

Regardless, Legolas took his dagger and cut a jagged strip off his own tunic, which he tied around Elladan's arm. "Explain to me how our spirits can suffer what feel like physical injuries."

Elladan arched a wry brow. "As if you are truly interested in metaphysics and not in deflecting attention away from yourself." He winced when Legolas knotted the makeshift bandage. "However, since you brought it up, an elf can receive wounds to the spirit, even grievous enough to cause them to fade. Here…" He shrugged his other shoulder. "They manifest as physical because that is how we comprehend them."

Legolas slowly dropped his hands to his side. "Then…even though this and Calatar's injury are not fatal, they could still cause you to fade?"

Elladan frowned, opening his mouth as though to protest, but then considering the question. "I suppose you could say that is what happened to Ohtar. If a wound appears physically fatal, it is because it is the equivalent of a mortal wound to the spirit."

"And something as small as that scratch could weaken you." Legolas staggered back a step, dread filling him anew.

Elladan's brow furrowed. "Legolas, what—"

"You've been in a coma for over a week," he said hollowly. "Longer than the others. It's only a matter of time before your body falters, and with a wound to the spirit in addition…"

Elladan grabbed him by the arms. "Legolas, I'm fine. As I said, it is a minor injury."

Grief and guilt constricted his chest until it became arduous to breathe. "But for how much longer?" Whether it came from within this realm or without, Legolas realized there was actually very little he could do to save those he cared for.

"This will not slow me down," Elladan insisted. "And if you are speaking of time, then I am equally worried about you, Legolas, for you have been here the longest, and your treatment at the hands of those men was less than kind. Not to mention how the weight of grief can also wound one's fëa. I beg of you, don't give in to despair, mellon nîn." He was practically shaking Legolas with the fervency of his plea.

A muscle in Legolas's jaw ticked as he fought for control over his own roiling emotions. Elladan was right; to succumb to grief would mean he would not be strong enough to help his people. I am the son of Thranduil, he mentally chastised. Of the line of Oropher. My father and grandfather stood against Sauron himself. Even when all hope had been lost.

Legolas inhaled deeply, and then let it out. "Goheno nin," he murmured, asking forgiveness.

Elladan gave his arms a reassuring squeeze before releasing him. "We are all hard-pressed, but you will certainly find none in this group who lay the blame on you, Legolas. And you are not alone."

"I know," he said softly. "And though it is wrong for me to feel so, I am grateful for it."

Elladan smiled. "It is not wrong."

"Hir nîn," a lilting voice interrupted, and Anaire silently swung down from the towering pine next to them. Legolas stiffened in preparation of an attack, but her next words were not spoken with that kind of urgency.

"You are my prince and my captain, and it is my honor to serve and protect you in whatever realm we find ourselves. Calatar has told me the same, as have many members of the Guard over the years." She canted her head, expression softening with obvious endearment. "As steadfastly as you have been searching for us, do not think for one moment that every Mirkwood warrior who's realized what this place is hasn't been looking for you."

Legolas blinked at the intrusive declaration, while Elladan's lips twitched knowingly. A glance past Anaire showed Calatar and Nólaquen watching, both of whom gave him stalwart nods. After a long moment, Legolas found it within himself to genuinely smile as well. He crossed an arm over his chest and inclined his head. "You uphold your duty well, Anaire."

"As do you, my lord."

Legolas felt a weight lift off his shoulders with the humble reminder. It may be his duty to lead and protect his people, but one did not run out to fight battles alone. A patrol worked in tandem, everyone watching out for each other. That was how they triumphed. That was how they would survive this.