The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
Happy New Year Readers!
Here's a brand new chapter for you. Enjoy and leave a review if you please.
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Chapter 24 – Touch of the Shadow
Rivendell… 6 Months Later…
Erestor raced desperately through the corridors, not slowed at all by the fact that it was so dark that he could hardly see a foot in front of him. There were more dangerous things than the dark in Rivendell this night. One hand rested on the handle of his sword, ready to draw at a moment's notice if needed. He sped blindly past the empty rooms and threw himself around the corner, frantically trying to reach his lord Elrond before any other.
But he was already too late. He should have known he would be.
In the hallway, heavy bodies barring the way completely, stood three massive Uruk-hai blocking his path to his lord's rooms.
One of the huge creatures snarled at him as he screeched to a stumbling halt and fumbled to draw his sword from the sheath on his belt, clumsy in his haste and panic. The creature called then to another and from around the corner came an Orc dragging behind it the Lord of Imladris, stumbling due to an obviously hideously broken leg.
"No," Erestor breathed, staring in horror as Elrond was dumped carelessly on the hard stone floor before the three Uruks. "Please, no."
The creatures all laughed and one of them bellowed tauntingly, "See how it begs!"
"Enough," another one of the Uruk-hai snapped then, before calmly bending forward, laying its lethal blade at the helpless Elrond's neck.
"Erestor, my friend, help me," Elrond whispered in terror, noting through the haze of his grief that his life was in danger.
Excruciatingly, this was the most alive Erestor had seen his lord since the Lady Arwen's departure. Now that he was sure to die, he was prompted into life, not wanting to lose the on-going battle he had endured all these long years with the cruel world.
But what had become of his proud lord and master? Even now in his moment of clarity, Elrond was not as Erestor remembered or wished. Sat begging at the feet of the Enemy, it was a pitiful sight indeed and it nearly reduced Erestor for tears, because he knew already that the begging was in vain. Elrond had been dead the moment the Uruk-hai invaded Rivendell but minutes before.
"Please don't," Erestor pleaded to the Uruk-hai in what he knew was a futile attempt at begging for his lord's life. He knew he could never hope to kill them all – already in the distance he could hear the pounding of heavy feet heading through the house towards them. In a matter of moments he would be completely surrounded. Escape was impossible. He was being forced to submit or die.
Ignoring the plea of the lone advisor who posed no threat whatsoever to its plan, the Uruk commander smiled coldly then slashed its blade straight across Elrond's exposed neck, resulting in a sickening combination of pouring blood and pathetic gurgling from the slain Elven ruler.
In utter horror, Erestor went to dash forward but he knew that already it was too late for Elrond; his master, his friend, was beyond all aid now.
Brown eyes, still fully alert for the first time since the terrible tragedy had befallen his realm and stolen his family from him, looked up to the horrified advisor who had taken such good care of him for so many years during his infirmity with deep regret but surprisingly little fear.
Life drained quickly from him but Elrond just about had time to be grateful for and to welcome the end.
Erestor did not, however, welcome the ending of his lord's life, and long after the last remnant of life had drained from the protector of Rivendell, he pleaded over and over again in broken Elvish for Elrond not to leave him all alone at the cruel mercy of the Shadow.
He dropped to his knees, sword clattering to the floor and crawled towards the lifeless body of his fallen friend. The Uruk-hai paid him no heed. He was not a threat to them and there was no hurry for them now. Rivendell finally did truly belong to the realm of the Shadow. The last ring-bearer had fallen and Imladris, last Haven of the Light, had succumbed to the might of the Shadow.
Cradling Elrond's blood-coated body in his arms, sword laying useless and forgotten at the armoured feet of the thoroughly amused Uruk-hai, Erestor knew nothing but the agony of his loss. His beloved lord whom he had devoutly protected and looked after was at last lost to him, taken by Sauron's servants just as everyone else in the Elven realm had been years ago. He was all alone now.
The Elf's grief was to be short-lived, however.
Their amusement sated, the leader of the Uruk-hai grabbed Erestor by the upper arm, having to drag the limp, bloodied body of Elrond from his arms when he refused to surrender his lord willingly, and dragged him through the dark corridors, heedless of his futile struggles, to where the other creatures of Evil had gathered, swarming around the long-abandoned Halls of Fire at the very heart of Rivendell's house.
Fear built in his mind as he was thrown to the floor in the midst of the baying servants of Shadow. The Orcs and Uruks laughed as they surrounded him, tormented him. It had been many years since they had been rewarded with an Elven prisoner and they were fascinated by him and immensely looking forward to toying with the fragile Elven soul, driven into a near frenzy by the scent of Elf blood.
Through the noise came a soft, rasping voice, which, despite its apparent lack of power, instantly silenced the blood-thirsty creatures, making them draw back. "That will do now." Immediately, the beasts ceased kicking the now badly beaten Elf and backed away, forming a circle around the pitiful creature, restrained only by their fear it seemed.
Erestor struggled up to his knees, having to brace himself with his hands on the blood spattered wooden floor so that he didn't fall flat on his face again, and spat out more blood. Through the silenced creatures, an impossibly dark, robed figure emerged. A chill shuddered through the Elf and he heard the Orcs openly chuckling at his reaction although he could feel their unrest too at this new presence.
At first, Erestor thought it to be a Ringwraith, one of the damned Men enslaved to the Dark Lord, such was its obvious, immense power. But when it at last spoke to him in a clear, concise tone, he changed his mind. This was no wraith. This was something new that he knew nothing of. That scared him more.
Coming to a halt in front of the cowering Elf, the tall being hissed, "Tell me what I want to know, Erestor of Imladris, and I will make your passing quick and painless." Erestor trembled at the words but made no response in spite of the evil positively seeping into him from this creature of darkness. Unfazed by his lack of answer, the being calmly crouched before him, waiting, and, with great reluctance, the advisor raised his eyes to the face partially obscured by a thick helmet at the silent summons, and in its face he cowered in fear. Dead, dark eyes stared back at him in vague amusement and a smile revealing sharply pointed teeth split its pale, wrinkled face. Erestor cried out but found that he could not look away from the face such was his terror.
From beneath a thick black robe, the being radiated pure evil and Erestor knew that this was no lowly slave of Sauron. This creature of darkness held high rank in the lands of Mordor and was feared for its talents and position.
"I am the Messenger of Sauron, ruler and master of Middle Earth, and you will tell me: where is the Human child?"
Erestor frowned in spite of himself, knowing now that the conduit of Evil meant to find Aragorn. However, he forced himself to sit up straighter in defiance, ignoring the pain the action caused to flood through him, and braced himself for what was to come.
"What boy?" he asked with feigned innocence.
The creature quirked a terrible smile at him then stood to its full, impressive height. It turned back to the gathered Orcs who stared hungrily at the prone Elf on the floor.
"Gain the truth," the Messenger of Sauron commanded simply before calmly turning and walking – or was it floating across the floor, Erestor wondered – away.
Closing his eyes, no longer bothering to disguise his fear, for not to fear would have been impossible and the creatures surrounding him knew that, Erestor muttered through tears, "Valar give me strength."
The Messenger of Sauron turned then with the same wicked smile upon its face and returned smoothly to Erestor. In the fluid, practiced language of the Elves, although it sounded so very wrong coming from the Mouth of Evil, it said tauntingly, "Your beloved Creators have not helped you thus far, Erestor of Imladris." It bent close to Erestor's ear and whispered, "You are all alone. They have abandoned you." Taking a step back, the creature said, "Nothing can save you now but the Master of Shadow. If you comply, he will be merciful."
Gritting his teeth, Erestor glared as best he could up to the tall creature in disgust. "Never will I serve the Darkness. I would sooner die."
The Messenger nodded its head and turned on the spot, walking away as he said, "So be it."
Immediately, the circle closed in around the Elf. Rough clawed fingers wrapped around his arms and he was hauled to his feet and dragged across the hall. The Orcs regarded him with renewed excitement at the prospect of extracting information from one of the Firstborn they hated so deeply, or maybe they just looked forward to hearing his screams, hearing him begging for their mercy.
But Erestor set his jaw as he was strung up against the wall and stripped of his clothing. He would sooner die than expose Aragorn and Legolas to this Evil. In this he was determined.
And, as the Orcs swarmed around him, eyeing him greedily, various instruments of torment already poised in their hands, Erestor knew that Elrond's would not be the only Elven blood spilt in Rivendell this night.
OIOI
Four Months Later…
For all the lands now under his domination the Dark Lord Sauron remained safely ensconced behind the borders of what he had once considered to be his prison but was now transformed into his capital. Surrounded by his legions of mindlessly loyal Orcs and those enslaved to his will, he oversaw everything under his command, dispatching those under his vast veil of control to perform his whims. Soldiers, spies, raiders, slave traders – all looking to simply survive under this new command or desperately eager to spill the blood of those who still foolishly resisted the thrall of Sauron.
Mordor, a barren, dead land once secluded, divided from all else on Arda, now teemed with life from all races. The Orcs, Uruk-hai and Wraiths, created by the Dark Lord himself, reigned in the twisted multi-cultural land he had created from utter devastation after the first War upon the Shadow. Even they themselves were nothing but slaves though, serving only to enslave those lesser races brought amongst them: Men of all lands, Elves – at least those few who had survived the merciless massacres brought upon those most hated kingdoms – Dwarves and even Hobbits now served under the Dark Lord.
Sauron was ever careful though. One so powerful was always destined to be surrounded by treachery from the opposed, so only those thoroughly broken of their free will now actively served him and his Black Court.
Men made for good spies and workers for they were easily turned from past allegiances with the promise of survival and rewards for their loyalty even to that which they hated - and their women made for good sport for the ever-hungry creatures of the Shadow and, of course, provided a future supply of slaves in Mordor through their children. The Hobbits meanwhile were endlessly entertaining for the Orcs but they broke too easily to be of any use to the higher orders of the Shadow; because of this flaw they were all but extinct now. The Dwarves, stout and hardy creatures that they were, made for perfect labourers; ideal in a realm needing endless fortification, and for the building and maintenance of the rebuilt dark towers. And Elves, well, to the monsters of the Shadow, they were just good fun to possess and toy with. Immortal and proud, most were locked up in Mordor's many dungeons or thrown into the prison pits.
The Orcs, numerous though they were even before the beginning of the War, now positively swarmed over the lands, mingled with the stronger, much more resilient Uruk-hai gifted to Sauron from another land. Orcs were the sheer brute force of the army of Shadow. Thousands resided in the Black Lands to serve as protection for their master and tens of thousands more still roamed the rest of Middle Earth, keeping the people outside of Mordor terrified and enslaved and also constantly capturing new slaves and killing those who remained opposed to the new order. The Dark Lord's foresight had proven invaluable, for he had ordered long ago that their numbers be increased to allow him the power to do the work across his lands. It was fortunate indeed.
And Sauron oversaw all of this.
By the power of those who knew well the dark magics – including the White Wizard of Isengard and the Witchking of Angmar, who now resided in the tower of Minas Morgul – Sauron was no longer incorporeal as he had existed for centuries before the final uprising, but rather his spirit was now tethered to a physical body. He breathed, in a manner; and walked freely. But this necessary existence was decaying rapidly – quite literally. In the past year alone he had worn through four of his vessels, mainly the bodies of Elves broken to the point where their fea – or spirits – could no longer fight off the tendrils of Shadow that had been worked into them through dark magic.
Sauron needed something more permanent though, something incorruptible, and there was but one way to achieve that.
Hence, the heavily cloaked figure that was now knelt in front of the throne of black stone before the Dark Lord, also swathed in black robes of his own.
"You let them get away," the Dark Lord accused, his voice quiet but commanding absolute authority.
"We will find them again, Lord," the being spoke, his customary confidence now entirely missing from his demeanour.
"I sent you to the land of the Elven refuge. Our spies located them but you - you let them slip away."
Had he been capable of shivering, the creature whose job it was to act as the voice of Sauron outside the realm of Mordor would have been a quivering mess upon the floor by now in the face of the Dark Lord's quiet fury. However, he was bound to answer his master and he did so.
"They left sooner than we had anticipated."
The Lord Sauron sat back on his throne and asked darkly, "And those who showed them the way?"
"Dead, my Lord. I killed them myself." A minor lie, he considered, for he had actually let the Orcs have their fun with the Lord of Rivendell's infuriatingly stubborn advisor once he had realised that the Elf would surrender no information to them. Still, he had watched with no small amount of amusement as they had taken the screaming immortal apart piece by piece, savouring the increasingly rare opportunity to play with one of the Firstborn. And, as an offering to his Lord and master, the Voice of Sauron now carried the heads of those last two remaining Rivendell Elves with him in solid wooden crates. Proof of his attempt to follow orders.
As his servant most trusted recalled the delicious screams of his latest Elven victim, Sauron fell deep into thought. He didn't care that the remaining beings from the Elven sanctuary had not been brought to him alive. Even that most hated destroyer of his armies, the Half-Elven, paled into insignificance in comparison to that which he desired most of all. For it had not gone unnoticed to Sauron that that most precious thing, that thing that he craved above all else, was once again out in the open – not yet close enough to pinpoint exactly, but close enough to make him ache for it all the same. Soon enough though the child and his golden Elven ally, whom he suspected of carrying that which he held most dear would slip up and then he could, at long last, unleash that weapon most deadly, which even now waited patiently in Minas Morgul for his command.
Unconcerned for the time being, Sauron stood and the black-robed figure kneeling before him bowed even deeper, awed and terrified in equal measure for even he was not immune to the rage and malevolence of the Lord of Darkness.
"Go forth into the lands and find me that boy. Send an army if you must. I want him brought to me."
"Yes, Master." Then, more hesitantly, the Mouth of Sauron asked, "And what of the Elf?"
Waving a black, leather-gloved hand dismissively as he walked haltingly across the length of the throne room, Sauron replied, "Do with him what you will. He matters not to me." As he reached a tall plinth in the centre of the cavernous hall of his great tower of dominance, Barad-Dur, he paused and reached long fingers tentatively out towards the globe of polished black and deep purple stone shining with eerie yellow light that rested there, practically crackling with dark energy. He did not touch it, for there were some things he yet wanted to remain secret from the other keepers of the Palantiri, allies though they may have proclaimed themselves to be. "The child is all that matters now."
"I will find him, Master. Have faith in me, my Lord," the slimy creature begged, pressing its clawed hands together as if in prayer and smiling sickeningly.
Had he been able to, Sauron would have smiled through the rapidly decaying body he inhabited at the sycophant now cowering on his floor. His voice was unsettling, however, as he warned, "I have faith in your fear of me, Loyal One. And that will suffice. For now."
With that, the Dark Lord left and in spite of his loyalty to the cause of the Master of Shadow, the creature breathed a rattling sigh of relief as he climbed to his feet, a massive weight lifted from him now that that sense of all-consuming, suffocating darkness had left his presence.
Now all he had to do was locate this child that his master so longed to possess. Another cocky smile split his face as he strode from the room. How very pleased his lord would be when at last he found the boy.
For how hard could it be to find one unprotected child out in the beautiful wasteland of his master's Middle Earth?
OIOI
Four Years After Leaving Rivendell…
A strong hand was clamped over Aragorn's mouth and even though he struggled to breathe as it was through the thick air, he was immensely grateful for it because he couldn't have been entirely certain that if the hand were to be removed he would be able to keep entirely silent as was necessary. Close to his side – so close that he could feel the heaving chest and the panic carefully contained – Legolas was laid, just as he himself was, flat on his front, pressed onto the dust-covered wooden floor, rotted and crawling with all manner of irritating insects.
For nearly three weeks straight they had been running across open plains, chased by those who now still pursued them and from whom they now hid.
Normally Legolas would have never dared to enter a derelict house such as this, would never have ventured anywhere near any kind of settlement even if it stood so obviously unoccupied. But after so long on the move, Legolas knew that neither he or his human companion could run any longer so they had instead reached this small village, with the Orc patrol still unsettlingly close on their heels, chosen a small house that stood in the least state of disarray and hidden where they now laid on the floor under a broken bed in the hope that the Orcs would lose track of their scent and simply pass them by, finally giving them the opportunity to escape.
As the Orcs crashed through the deserted village, driven close to madness that their prey had managed to evade them for so long, Legolas listened intently, one hand pressed to Aragorn's mouth to prevent any sound from escaping and the other laid on the handle of the white knife that rested on the floorboards next to him.
They had rather hoped that the monsters would tire quickly of their search and leave promptly but it seemed that was not to be.
The front door to the house in which they now hid, which Legolas had left partially open in his haste, was nevertheless kicked off its hinges and pounding feet sounded across the floor of the front room. Panic raced through Legolas' body but he remained perfectly still and silent, relieved that for the most part he had calmed his breathing by now. By his side, Aragorn was tense as well, intermittently trying to hold his breath to avoid detection.
The door to the bedroom in which they were concealed was also kicked in and now Legolas and Aragorn could see the heavy feet of two Orcs sent to search for them.
Clearly the creatures were impatient with their hunt as they did not move about the room but instead started arguing in the Black Language, which neither Man nor Elf could understand. Still, it did not bode well, they thought.
Aragorn could not help the relief that flooded his body when, after no more than thirty seconds of arguing, the Orcs retreated from the room then followed their fellows out of the house, seemingly unaware that they had come so very close to capturing their intended prey. Slowly, Legolas removed his hand from the man's mouth but pressed his finger to his lips as an indication that they should still remain hidden and silent. The man nodded, listening intently for further sounds of the creatures nearby.
After a long while of inactivity, Aragorn dared to whisper, "Do you think they've gone?"
Legolas shook his head, unsure. "I don't know." He peered out from under the bed but could see nothing much.
"Should we go now?" the man asked still in a whisper, obviously impatient to leave even though both of them were exhausted from weeks of uninterrupted running. "Legolas?"
"Shush. Remain quiet," Legolas admonished in a hiss.
Although Aragorn scowled in annoyance at the command, he took heed and silenced any further impatient remarks.
It was a good job too because just a moment later the Orcs' shouts rose from outside. And although neither spoke the Black Speech of the Orcs, Legolas and Aragorn supposed that it couldn't possibly be anything good; a thought which was only reinforced when rowdy laughter started up amongst the creatures.
Legolas strained his hearing in an attempt to figure out what exactly they were up to and at his side Aragorn now remained absolutely silent. The next thing they knew there was another, smaller crash and a flaming torch appeared on the floor of the next room, visible through the now broken doorway as it rolled across the uneven floorboards until it came to a stop at the far side of the room.
Their panic immediately increased tenfold and without thinking they shuffled further under the bed, instinctively wanting to be as far away from this new danger as possible. Given that the house was made from largely rotten wood, the sparks from the torch set the old wood alight extremely fast and it was a mere matter of moments before the flames were threatening to consume the poky abode entirely.
Coming from outside the trapped pair could still hear the Orcs' raucous laughter.
"They're trying to flush us out," Aragorn gasped in horror.
To Aragorn, Legolas' reaction seemed to take an age to manifest, but then the Elf came to a decision and he nodded, reaching for his pack and swiftly withdrawing his other knife. "We have to go," he told his human charge sharply.
Before the Elf could slide out from under the bed, Aragorn grabbed his arm, asking in astonishment, "Out there? They're waiting for us. We won't last five minutes against all of them!"
"And neither will we last another five minutes in here! Arm yourself," the Elf commanded, proceeding to slither out from their hiding place, dragging his bag out with him.
"Right," the man ground out, withdrawing his stolen knife from the stolen sheath on his belt in one smooth, often-practised motioned. He too then slid out from under the bed, taking the helping hand Legolas offered him. He reached back under the bed to grab his own pack onto which was strapped the most precious item either of them owned – the Sword Re-forged. It was well-wrapped in cloth to protect its identity from unfriendly eyes and had yet to shed blood but the knowledge that its power was ever close at hand proved somewhat of a comfort to the young king.
"Keep low," Legolas told him, fighting the urge to violently cough through the increasingly thick smoke that was beginning to smother the building that had served only briefly as their sanctuary.
Crouching down, they reached the window and peered out. Through stinging, watery eyes, they could just make out the bulky shapes of the Orcs – a full score of them – scattered around the small cluster of houses that made up the settlement. They were well and truly surrounded.
"Well, what's the plan now?" Aragorn asked between coughs, keeping one eye on the flames beginning to lap at the bedroom doorway, consuming all the fuel in their path.
Legolas, meanwhile, focused his attentions on the threat waiting outside the house and considered their problem with as much calm as he could muster giving their ever-advancing death by fire. Then it struck him – the way out.
"Hold onto this," he commanded, shoving his pack at Aragorn. The man did as ordered and watched in bemusement as Legolas stripped off the dark red jacket he was wearing and wrapped it and tied it around one of his knives.
"What are you doing?" the man asked impatiently as Legolas, still keeping low, ran right towards the flames.
"Just stay down and get ready to run on my say-so," Legolas responded, having to shout above the roar of the fire. Reaching the raging flames, Legolas held out the knife, swathed in his jacket into the fire, twisting it so it caught entirely alight, creating a makeshift torch of his own.
From outside a shout from the leader of the Orcs came up in Westron, distracting Aragorn from watching his guardian's increasingly bizarre actions. "Come out, come out now. We don't want to hurt you," the foul creature sneered, then added an amused, "Much," to the end of its false promise, provoking laughter from its companions near enough to hear.
"Move aside," Legolas interrupted Aragorn's disgust, shoving the boy out of his way. He then proceeded to use his flaming torch to set fire to the crumbling wood under the window.
"Legolas, what are you doing?" Aragorn this time exclaimed in horror, considering whether his guardian had finally lost his mind.
"Providing us with some cover."
"By burning down the whole place? Cover won't do us much good when we're roasted alive."
"Would you please just trust me?" Legolas said as he shook off what remained of the smouldering jacket from his hot knife. "Get ready. Keep low and try to keep to the cover the smoke provides. We'll head around the back of the building. Maybe we'll get lucky and sneak away without even being noticed."
"Right – and when have we ever been lucky?"
Legolas shot his companion a dismissive look, although privately he had to admit that the man did indeed have a point.
They waited until the smoke had thickened sufficiently to conceal their escape – and very nearly choking them in the process – then climbed carefully through the window, keeping low to the ground but moving fast around the building. Although hidden from sight and even though they knew the noxious smoke would conceal their scents as well, both kept their weapons poised, ready to fight if their plan to run failed them.
Legolas' barmy plan seemed to actually work at first but the Orcs, who it seemed had torched every home in the abandoned village to flush their prey out, were ready and as the two friends made a mad dash around the burning structures, the shout went up and the pounding of heavy feet thundered towards them.
Determined to escape, Legolas urged his ward to continue on regardless, wanting to avoid a fight if at all possible. The Orcs were many and he and Aragorn had little strength left to spare.
They must have kept up their pace for nearly six hours before the Orcs, after three long weeks of no success, finally caught up with their quarry and Legolas and Aragorn were unfortunately forced to abandon fleeing in favour of fighting.
Considering they had been denied their prizes for so long, it was not surprising that the Orcs attacked with vigour unusual even for the foul servants of the Shadow. Simultaneously, the two defenders fought and attempted a retreat but on the barren plains of Eriador there was no place to seek shelter from this evil. They had no choice but to fight until the bitter end.
However, they were two against twenty and these were never to be considered good odds. Orc, Elf and Man knew this fact to be true and yet still they fought.
The two travellers were weary though and despite killing a few of the monsters, they were still nowhere near at their best. Aragorn soon found himself being held on the ground being kicked repeatedly by heavy boots, devoid of his pack and his sword, the Orcs taunting and hurting him for their entertainment rather than simply killing him outright. How these creatures loved to torment their prey.
Through a haze of panic and pain, Aragorn suddenly heard a sharp cry of pain from Legolas nearby and he peered through thick Orkish legs just in time to see the Elf's shoulder be impaled by a small but deadly sharp dagger and he watched in horror as Legolas fell to his knees, his own weapon falling uselessly from his hand as the Orcs advanced menacingly on their wounded prey.
Aragorn feared a great many things in his life – the fate that awaited him, the enormity of his destiny, being struck down by Orcs, spiders – but nothing terrified him half as much as losing his only friend and guardian to the Shadow.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins, giving him the strength through pain and exhaustion to reach out his hand towards his backpack, lying all but forgotten on the ground a couple of feet away from him. A heavily booted foot nearly thwarted his plan, whether by design or simply by accident, when it stomped on his hand. Despite the pain the action caused though, when the clumsy foot was removed, he was able to move his bruised fingers once again and snag the strap of the bag he'd been aiming for.
Only one single weapon was carried in his particular bag because, although twenty-nine long years had passed since his birth, Legolas still thought Aragorn too young and inexperienced to be in charge of carrying all their shoddy, scavenged weaponry. To Legolas, after all, twenty-nine years old was still but an infant.
Still, Aragorn knew that right then only one weapon mattered – the sword that was still safely strapped to the top of the bag. He grabbed the handle and tugged at it until it came loose. Twisting onto his front with a grunt of pain, he forced his stiff fingers to unwrap the carefully wound fabric to reveal a bright, glistening new blade etched with sweeping Tengwar script and positively thrumming with the ancient magic of the Elves.
Never before had Aragorn wielded this most valued sword in battle or with the intention to kill and yet now, as he raised it to strike at the Orcs who had harmed him and his guardian, he felt a power unlike anything he had ever experienced before and strength rushed through his body so that he was at last able to regain his feet.
At the sight of Anduril shining brightly in the dull light of day, the Orcs took an involuntary step backwards, looking to one another in something akin to horror although they knew not why. They did not know, could not have known, that this very sword had once been used to destroy their master, yet they could sense the magic contained within the hard steel and it scared them. Their momentary shock at the thrill of magic permeating the air gave Aragorn the opportunity he needed to climb up from the ground and strike out at the dumbfounded Orcs surrounding him, for intrinsically powerful though Anduril may have been it was still a weapon designed for slaughter and it fulfilled its purpose well.
The sword had never been used before by him in battle but in Aragorn's hands it felt so perfectly natural to wield that it almost stole his breath away. It was as if the simple handle and attached blade were a solid extension of his own arm. He cut through the Orcs far more easily than would normally have been possible, spurred on by confidence he'd no idea he even possessed, as though drawing strength from the legendary blade in his hands.
Before he knew it, the Orcs who had been so ruthlessly beating him, lay hacked to pieces on the black blood-soaked ground and Aragorn turned to find Legolas still trying to fend off his own attackers with much less success, being injured as he was. How little time had passed, he wondered? Had he really slaughtered those foul beasts so quickly?
"No!" Aragorn yelled as one Orc who had managed to position itself behind the Elf raised its weapon for the killing blow. He charged recklessly at the creature, swinging his sword, now glistening black with the polluted blood of the Orcs, so it cleanly sliced off the startled monster's head. The strength running through him – from Anduril, he still presumed – continued and soon he had decimated almost half of the eight Orcs left surrounding them with seemingly minimal effort.
Legolas himself finished off another two and in doing so was given a view of Aragorn fighting beside him.
"Aragorn, no!" the Elf exclaimed when he caught sight of Anduril in full view of the agents of Shadow.
The boy, in confusion at the obvious over-reaction in mid-battle, froze, great sword poised mid-air, and asked, "What?" of his mentor incredulously.
His distraction gave the two surviving Orcs an opening and, upon realising there would be no way now to fight their way out of that kind of fury and power, they decided to run and hope for the best.
"What's wrong?" Aragorn was asking as, clutching his injured shoulder with one hand, Legolas was still glaring in dark annoyance at him.
However, before he could answer, Legolas caught sight of the two Orcs now retreating across the plain and panic lit his eyes in place of anger. Before Aragorn was able to further demand an explanation, the Elf had launched himself after the Orcs, leaving Aragorn behind to watch in ever-growing confusion and bewilderment. Legolas raced after the creatures so fast that the Human had little chance of keeping up with him anyway.
The slower of the Orcs was killed instantly by a single slashing motion of the golden prince's knife and went down immediately. Legolas did not break stride though, pushing his long legs onwards in spite of the aching from running for so many days and the pulsing pain of his injury sustained in battle. He was desperate to catch that last, fleeing Orc before it was beyond his reach entirely.
He knew that it was inevitable that this creature had seen the Sword Re-forged and although it may not have fully understood the significance of the weapon, it undoubtedly recognised the immense and ancient power within the blade and with this knowledge would surely report the strange sighting to its superiors and then the Dark Lord would no doubt be informed if something of unknown mystical origin existed within his lands. The Lord Sauron would certainly know of the Sword's origins and of the one destined to wield it.
Legolas could not let that creature report back.
After what felt to both parties like leagues of ground travelled, the Orc finally began to slow. Unfortunately, it offered Legolas very little advantage as he too was by now feeling the strain of running so far at such a speed.
Realising that the Elf was not going to quit the chase, the Orc veered off to the left towards a stand of naked trees made vague by a low-lying mist. Even with no foliage on them, Legolas knew it would not be difficult to get lost within these closely packed trees. He picked up his pace, his feet pounding on the ground, but failed to reach the creature before it plunged into the misty wood.
True to its promise of concealment, the wood swallowed the Orc up in mere moments. Legolas searched desperately for a while but could find no trace of the ungainly monster.
A crack of a twig behind him made Legolas spin on his heels, knife raised, but the source turned out to be only Aragorn, panting heavily from chasing after his speeding guardian.
"Damn it," Legolas cursed loudly.
"What is wrong with you?" breathed Aragorn in confusion, still not knowing the cause of Legolas' concern and distress over one Orc escaping their blades. Given the odds, Aragorn had to count this as a sound victory.
Legolas shoved his knives back into the bag Aragorn held out for him and yelled at the top of his voice, "Do you have any idea what you have done?"
Aragorn shrugged helplessly, honestly not seeing what had upset his normally stable guardian so. "No, I really don't," he admitted easily.
The Elf sighed in annoyance then ran his shaking, blood-streaked hand over his eyes. "I told you not to use that! I told you it was too dangerous. Why did you not listen to my instruction?"
"Use what?" Aragorn frowned but then he followed Legolas' burning gaze to the long, black-slickened sword he still held in his hands and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The sword? That's what you're so angry about?"
"Yes!"
"Why?"
The Elf made an exclamation of annoyance but it was in the tongue of the Elves so Aragorn couldn't hope to make out the words, although he imagined it to be filthy.
"Why? That sword you bear is more than simply a fine blade. It is infused with ancient magic beyond your comprehension and is bound to only one. You, Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to the Throne of Gondor, are the only one who can use that sword to its true potential and now Sauron knows of it he will also know of your existence and he knows also that you have the magic of the Elves on your side. He knows now that the King of Men has allies scattered around and that makes you an unparalleled threat to his empire." Slowly, Legolas' anger deflated as he saw the fear now blatantly apparent on the man's face at his perhaps overly blunt narrative of what was to come. "How knows of you now, Aragorn. And he knows of your power."
With Anduril suddenly feeling unbearably heavy in his hand and the burden of his future now resting more profoundly than ever upon his heart, Aragorn asked haltingly, "But…he won't be able to find me, right? He can't find me."
"Sauron's spies reach far and wide, Aragorn. He can."
"But…you won't let him, will you?" For most of his life now, Legolas had been his guardian and his protector; he was absolutely convinced that the Elven prince would hide him from this new evil that threatened them both. This time though, Legolas' confidence appeared to have been shaken and he turned away so he wouldn't have to look the boy in the eye. "Legolas?" Aragorn demanded an answer. "You're not going to give up on me, right?"
Blue eyes met suddenly frightened grey and Legolas hesitated for a moment before replying in a quiet, shaky voice, "Of course I won't."
"I'm sorry," the man said, his own voice so small-sounding as he lowered his gaze in shame. He'd put them both into unimaginable danger simply because he had failed to heed the often repeated advice of the one he trusted above all others. Tears filling his eyes, Aragorn said in a cracked voice, "I bet that by now you're wishing you'd never rescued me as a child; your life would have been so much simpler if I wasn't around."
Without warning, Legolas strode over to him and Aragorn was dragged into a tight, one-armed hug and held close as Legolas embraced him tight to his chest. "I don't ever want you thinking that! I regret nothing. I will always protect you, no matter what the cost," Legolas promised with fierce conviction. He held Aragorn close for a long while but then pulled back once again, once more evading Aragorn's watery gaze. "We have to get back on track, find the Rangers if we can"
"Wait. You are hurt," Aragorn suddenly remembered, his gaze going to Legolas' shoulder, which was covered in ripped, blood-stained fabric. "That looks bad."
Legolas looked down, as if he too was only now remembering that he had sustained a wound in battle. "We'll put some more leagues behind us and this place then find shelter when we can. We'll worry about everything else once we're somewhere safe." He realised then that Aragorn too had been injured, beaten by the Orcs and his look immediately changed from determination to concern. "Are you alright to carry on?"
"Yes." This whole mess had been of his making; he'd do whatever he had to in order to get them out of this trouble.
"You're sure?"
"I am. Let's just leave this place."
Legolas nodded, agreeing whole-heartedly with the man's decision, then led the way from the dead forest.
What happened from now on was out of their control. All they could do was run.
To Be Continued…