Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
Author's Note:
This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)
ActI
Undoing The Quest
Chapter 93: Familiar Faces, New Fires
Helm's Deep, March 5th 3019
Xena stirred awake, her senses sharpening as the soft flicker of torchlight cast dancing shadows on the fabric walls of the tent. Every muscle in her body protested her movement, a sharp reminder of the wounds she had earned infiltrating Khafir al-Rahûn's camp. The Haradrim, surprisingly meticulous in their care, had bound her injuries with expertly applied salves and linens. The air was heavy with the earthy tang of medicinal herbs, mingling with the faint scent of desert sand and leather.
Her eyes adjusted to her surroundings—a modest space, yet carefully arranged. Layers of finely woven furs were piled in one corner, while a low brazier glowed softly, warming the cool desert night. The tent bore no excessive decoration, but its orderliness hinted at the precision of the man who commanded this camp.
Xena pushed herself upright slowly, testing her strength. Pain flared through her back and shoulder where lash marks and the beast's claws had torn her flesh, but she held her expression steady. The tent's flap rustled, and she instinctively tensed, her warrior instincts refusing to be lulled by the relative calm.
Khafir entered with the fluid grace of a hunter surveying his prey. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked over her form. Every detail about him was deliberate—from the ornate detailing on his battle-worn armor to the confident set of his shoulders. Xena, for now Zahrya, the wandering mercenary, returned his gaze with carefully veiled curiosity.
"You recover well," Khafir said, his voice low and commanding, the kind that demanded attention without needing to shout. "Few would survive such a skirmish. It speaks to your resilience."
Xena inclined her head slightly, her tone respectful but firm. "Resilience, my lord, and fortune. Your men's care ensured my survival."
He stepped closer, his expression giving little away. "It is rare to find one with your talents, Zahrya. A fighter who knows not only how to wield the blade but when to yield to greater power. Tell me, what drives a mercenary like you?"
Leaning back against the cushions, Xena allowed a hint of vulnerability to creep into her posture, all the while calculating her response. "Survival," she said simply. "In times like these, the blade offers more mercy than the shadows that hunt the weak. To serve a leader of your renown is to ensure survival… and perhaps find purpose."
"Purpose," Khafir echoed, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "Many speak of it, yet few understand its cost. I have seen purpose forge empires—and destroy them. Which path do you follow?"
Xena held his gaze, unflinching. "The path that serves the one I follow."
For a long moment, silence hung between them, the firelight flickering in Khafir's eyes as he studied her. At last, he nodded. "Rest, Zahrya. Your strength will be required soon enough."
He turned and left the tent, his departure as quiet as his arrival. Only when the flap settled behind him did Xena release the breath she had been holding. She had taken the first step, but trust was a game of endurance, and she was playing against a master.
The next morning, Xena awoke to a soft rustling outside her tent. The linens they had provided were coarse but clean, and the aches in her body had dulled to a manageable throb. After washing up, she dressed in a simple brown Haradrim outfit—practical, if unadorned—offered in place of her own tattered and bloodstained garments. The bandages across her back and arm reminded her of the narrow margin by which she had survived. Despite the pain, she felt sharper, more focused. She was exactly where she needed to be.
Stepping outside, she was struck by the life of the camp around her. This was no ordinary war encampment; it was a self-sustaining community. Beyond the rows of soldiers' tents stood a bustling marketplace, where traders bartered under the watchful eyes of Khafir's men. Blacksmiths hammered steel into weapons, while nearby, a crude but lively tavern brimmed with the clamor of voices and laughter. There were even children darting between the tents, a jarring contrast to the ever-present weight of war. This was more than a temporary stronghold; it was a microcosm of a kingdom in the making.
A guard approached and gestured for her to follow. They wove through the camp, her sharp eyes cataloging every detail—the layout of the soldiers' quarters, the positioning of sentries, the hidden stockpiles of weapons. She was led to a small fire where Malik, her ally and the key to her infiltration, sat sipping a steaming beverage from a clay cup. His weathered face broke into a rare smile as he saw her approach.
"You're alive," Malik said with a tone that bordered on relief. "I wasn't sure you'd make it through the night."
Xena smirked, lowering herself onto a cushion beside him. "It takes more than a beast and a few lashes to finish me off."
They fell into conversation, their words carefully measured but layered with meaning. Malik's demeanor softened, the camaraderie between them easing some of the tension that lingered from their separate ordeals. Over time, the discussion shifted to strategy.
"What's the plan now?" Malik asked, his tone quiet but firm.
Xena's expression hardened slightly, her voice low enough to avoid unwanted attention. "For you, Malik, the choice is yours. No one suspects you yet. Use that freedom as you see fit. As for me… I'm inside now. I've got Khafir's attention. The next step is finding what I came here for."
Malik nodded, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Just be careful. He's not a man easily fooled."
"I know," Xena replied. "But I've faced worse."
As the fire crackled softly between them, Xena cast another glance around the camp, already piecing together the threads of her plan. She knew the road ahead was fraught with danger, but this was the arena she thrived in—a battlefield of wit, trust, and deception.
The days turned to weeks, and Xena's place within Khafir's camp solidified. She moved with quiet efficiency, offering assistance where needed and carefully observing the intricate dynamics of his forces. Her skill with a blade and tactical mind soon caught the attention of Khafir's inner circle, earning her a place at his side during strategy discussions. Yet she never pushed too far, knowing that any misstep could expose her true identity.
Khafir, for his part, seemed intrigued by her. He would often summon her for private conversations, testing her loyalty with pointed questions. Each exchange was a delicate dance, with Xena offering just enough truth to satisfy his curiosity while concealing her true intentions. Through these interactions, she learned fragments of his past: a man shaped by betrayal and driven by an unyielding desire to secure his legacy.
One evening, as the camp settled into an uneasy calm, Khafir invited her to join him by the central fire. The flames cast flickering shadows across his features, making him seem both larger than life and deeply human.
"Zahrya," he began, his tone unusually reflective, "do you ever wonder what becomes of those who defy the tides of history? Those who stand against forces far greater than themselves?"
Xena tilted her head, considering her response. "I believe they either become legends… or cautionary tales."
Khafir chuckled, a sound that held both amusement and bitterness. "A fitting answer. Tell me, do you aspire to be one or the other?"
"Neither," she replied, her voice steady. "I aspire to survive."
He studied her closely, as if searching for the cracks in her armor. "A pragmatic choice. Survival, after all, is the foundation of every ambition. Even mine."
"And what is your ambition, my lord?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
Khafir's gaze hardened. "To restore what was taken. To ensure that no one under my banner is ever left to the mercy of our enemies. Alakar shares this vision, though his methods are… unique."
The mention of Alakar sent a jolt through Xena, but she masked her reaction with practiced ease. "Alakar is a name spoken with both fear and reverence. What is he to you?"
Khafir's expression darkened, his voice lowering. "An ally, for now. But alliances are fleeting when ambition is involved. Alakar's true loyalty lies with the Eye, and that loyalty will demand a price none of us are prepared to pay."
The admission was a crack in Khafir's otherwise impenetrable facade, and Xena stored the information away, knowing it could prove invaluable. Yet, it also confirmed her fears: reaching Alakar would be impossible without drawing the attention of Sauron himself.
As the days turned to weeks, Xena's position in Khafir al-Rahûn's camp grew more tenuous. A month had passed since her infiltration, and the rhythm of the Haradrim's movements had shifted. Their drills became sharper, their strategies more intricate—an unmistakable sign that an impending campaign loomed. Xena had gleaned valuable insights during her time among them, but the knowledge came at a cost. The camp's tension was palpable, and her continued presence risked exposing her true identity.
For the most part, Khafir had utilized her skills against rival warlords, keeping her occupied with tasks that, while brutal, avoided innocent bloodshed. Xena had taken care to balance her role as a trusted ally and a careful observer. In the shadows of the camp, she found subtle ways to manipulate events—small acts of sabotage that weakened the cohesion of Khafir's alliances while appearing loyal.
Azar and Malik had each found their paths to freedom, though by different means. Azar slipped away into the desert under the cover of darkness, his quiet departure aided by Xena's carefully orchestrated distraction. Malik, ever the pragmatist, had ingratiated himself with Khafir by providing intelligence from intercepted communications, crafting his escape not with silence, but with words.
However, the most critical revelations came from Xena's late-night conversations with Khafir himself. Often after long days of training or battle, the warlord would linger by the fire with a goblet of wine, recounting stories of his 'Master.'' It was during these moments, when his guard was lowered by drink or weariness, that Xena pieced together the puzzle of Alakar.
Alakar, she learned, was no ordinary servant of Sauron. Though loyal to the Dark Lord, his ambitions stretched beyond servitude. His ultimate goal was dominion, and his obsession centered on Mirkwood. This ancient forest, once Greenwood the Great, held a strategic and symbolic value that Alakar coveted.
One cloudy evening, Khafir's tongue loosened further. He revealed fragments of the tragedy that had befallen Mirkwood's royal family—a tale steeped in both sorrow and malice. Before Sauron's return to Dol Guldur, Alakar had already begun his machinations, lurking in the shadows of the forest, weaving his influence into its decay.
"Did you know," Khafir said, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, "that the Queen of Mirkwood herself fell into his hands? Not by cunning, but by the arrogance of her son." He paused, watching Xena's expression carefully. She maintained her composure, but her heart quickened.
Khafir continued, his tone mocking. "Legolas, the proud young prince, led a foolhardy expedition into Dol Guldur. A child playing at heroism, thinking he could challenge the darkness. When his mother followed to save him, she succeeded... but at a cost."
Xena's grip tightened on the goblet in her hand. She had heard this story before, in fragments shared by Legolas and others in Rivendell, but Khafir's retelling carried a sinister clarity.
"The Queen was captured," Khafir said, swirling his drink. "Alakar saw her as more than a prize. She was his key to Mirkwood's unraveling. For decades, he broke her spirit, twisted her will, and corrupted her heart. When Thranduil finally learned of her fate, he discovered a dark queen aiding Alakar's forces in Gundabad. He would have sacrificed everything to save her—but it was the prince, not the king, who delivered the final blow."
Khafir smirked, savoring Xena's subtle reaction. "Legolas killed his own mother," he said with cold satisfaction. "Alakar, though deprived of his pawn, took something even more precious: the prince's peace. Guilt, my dear Zahrya, is a poison that festers. And Alakar is a master of such poisons."
Xena fought to keep her voice steady. "And now? Does Alakar still covet Mirkwood?"
Khafir leaned back, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Oh, he does. But his wrath is no longer for Thranduil. It is for the son. Alakar's curse is subtle and cruel—he twists the guilt of killing his mother into something deeper. Whether it will consume the prince entirely, I do not know. But I do know this: Alakar has not left Mordor in years. Whatever spell he weaves, it is from within its shadowed walls."
The conversation left Xena with chilling certainty. Legolas's nightmares were not born of his guilt alone. Alakar's influence lingered, a malignant force sapping the prince's strength. Yet, when she pressed Khafir for more details on how such magic could operate across such distance, he admitted his ignorance. "Sorcery of that magnitude," he said, "is beyond me. But if anyone could manage it, it would be Alakar. And undoing it?" He laughed darkly. "Perhaps only by ending the sorcerer's life."
That night, as Xena lay awake under the weight of this revelation, she knew her time in the camp had reached its end. She had what she needed: confirmation of Alakar's ongoing threat and the knowledge that Mordor held the key to unraveling his curse. But the path forward would not be simple. To face Alakar, she would need time and allies—and the opportunity to confront him beyond Mordor's impenetrable defenses.
With her mission clear, Xena resolved to leave the camp, but not before ensuring her departure left Khafir's forces in disarray. She had no illusions about the journey ahead—it would be long, fraught with peril, and require more than her strength alone. But for Legolas, and for the peace he deserved, Xena was prepared to face it.
After weeks embedded in Khafir's camp, Xena knew the time had come to leave. The signs were unmistakable—the camp's growing tension, whispers of Saruman raising an army to assault Rohan, and Khafir's forces preparing for a full-scale war. She had learned much during her time here, including the motivations of those who followed Sauron. Unlike the Dark Lord himself, the men she encountered were often shaped by lives steeped in strife and survival. It didn't excuse their actions, but it made them understandable, even pitiable. Yet, despite her growing understanding of Khafir's vision for unity through strength, Xena could no longer ignore the rot at its core.
What cemented her resolve came on the day Khafir ordered an assault—not against a rival warlord, as she had come to expect, but against a fortified village. Larger than Azrath, this village had already endured raids and was now bolstering its defenses. Xena rode out with the elite warriors under Rhaza's command, listening to the war leader outline Khafir's orders: leave no one alive. When Xena asked why, Rhaza's reply was chillingly pragmatic. "They refused Khafir's banner. He doesn't tolerate rebellion."
As the village came into view, Xena's unease deepened. She saw not soldiers or warlords, but families—farmers reinforcing makeshift barricades, women readying bows, and children herded into hidden shelters. This was no rebel stronghold, but a desperate community fighting to survive. It was then that Khafir's mask slipped in her mind. His rhetoric of uniting Harad was nothing more than a thin veneer for his ambition. He was no better than Alakar or Sauron.
Xena tightened her grip on the reins of her horse, her heart pounding. Memories of her past—villages burned, innocents slaughtered under her command—rose like specters to confront her. She had promised herself never again, yet here she was, on the brink of repeating those horrors. No. Not this time.
When Rhaza signaled the attack, Xena hesitated for only a moment before spurring her horse forward—not toward the village, but toward the Haradrim warriors at the front. Her daggers gleamed as they arced through the air, striking down two riders. The sudden betrayal stunned the Haradrim, giving Xena the opening she needed.
"Stop this madness!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "These people are no threat to you!"
Rhaza snarled, urging his horse toward her. "You dare defy Khafir's orders? You'll die with them, Zahrya!"
Xena met his charge head-on, drawing her sword in one fluid motion. Their blades clashed with a resounding ring, sparks flying as they traded blows. Rhaza was a formidable warrior, but Xena fought with the ferocity of someone battling her own demons. She disarmed him with a swift kick and knocked him from his saddle.
"Stand down!" she commanded, pointing her sword at Rhaza. "This isn't strength. It's slaughter."
The warriors hesitated, glancing at one another in uncertainty. Their hesitation ended when a second group of Haradrim, further back, began advancing. Xena had no choice but to act decisively.
With a battle cry, she launched herself into the fray, fighting not to kill but to disarm and incapacitate. She moved like a whirlwind, her sword flashing through the air. Her defiance inspired some of the villagers, who joined the fight with renewed courage, striking from behind barricades and rooftops.
The battle intensified as Xena took the lead. She rallied the villagers and used her strategic mind to turn the tide against the better-armed Haradrim. She instructed the villagers to use the narrow streets to funnel the attackers and set traps to slow their advance. Her actions were not without cost—she bore fresh wounds as the skirmish wore on, but her resolve never faltered.
At last, Xena faced Rhaza again. He had regained his weapon and stood amid the chaos, his face twisted with rage. "You'll pay for this treachery!"
"I've paid enough for my past," Xena replied, her voice firm. "I won't let you or Khafir add to it."
Their duel was brutal, both warriors pushing themselves to the limit. Finally, with a deft maneuver, Xena disarmed him again and knocked him unconscious with the hilt of her sword. The remaining Haradrim, leaderless and demoralized, began to retreat.
As the dust settled, the villagers emerged from their shelters, bruised but alive. Xena stood amidst them, bloodied and weary, but victorious. She turned to one of the elders, who approached with cautious gratitude.
"You saved us," the elder said, his voice trembling. "Why?"
Xena looked out over the battered village, her expression solemn. "Because I've been where he is. I know the cost of following a tyrant." She sheathed her sword. "But the fight isn't over. Khafir won't let this stand."
She knew she had crossed a line of no return. There would be no going back to Khafir's camp now. But as she looked into the eyes of the villagers—alive, safe, and free—she felt something she hadn't in a long time: peace. She had chosen the harder path, and for now, it was enough.
The news reached Khafir quickly—a blow to both his pride and his plans. Zahrya, his trusted warrior, had turned against him, defying his orders and decimating his forces. The initial reports confused him. How could one fighter, even one as formidable as Zahrya, stand against his men and the villagers combined? Rhaza's explanation was grudging, his pride clearly wounded. There were not as many as they could have been, he claimed, and the villagers had put up a stronger resistance than expected. But Khafir was not placated. Zahrya's betrayal was an affront, her actions tearing apart the unity he worked tirelessly to forge.
Her defiance had struck at the heart of Khafir's ambitions. She had not merely rebelled; she had unraveled a significant portion of his forces and, worse still, remained in the village long enough to ensure its defenses were strengthened and reinforcements arrived. Yet, Khafir could not deny his grudging respect for her resolve and skill. She had accomplished what few could have dared, but in doing so, she had also drawn his ire. His orders were clear: hunt her down, find her, and bring her back—alive or dead.
For Xena, the days after the village battle were a test of endurance. She had stayed long enough to fortify the defenses and help the villagers regain some semblance of hope, but her presence had become a liability. Khafir's forces would focus on her, and the village would suffer if she remained. She led her pursuers away, using her wits and skill to stay one step ahead. The relentless chase pushed her to her limits, forcing her to navigate treacherous terrain and endure harsh conditions with barely a moment to rest.
When she finally reached Malhazan's inn, she was nearly unrecognizable—her armor and clothing torn, her face streaked with dirt and blood. Malhazan hesitated before recognizing her, his shock quickly replaced by concern. "Zahrya?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "What happened?"
Xena gave him a brief account, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. She explained the events—the village, Khafir's betrayal, and the grueling pursuit. She was here for one purpose: to retrieve her belongings, clean up, and prepare for her next move. Malhazan nodded gravely, understanding the urgency of her situation. He informed her that the gold she had entrusted him with had been distributed—some to Malik, Scarface, Rafiq, and Azar, who had come by not long ago, and Halid's share to Rafiq, who intended to return it to Halid's hometown for burial.
Xena nodded in agreement. She had no use for cursed coins, their taint symbolic of the betrayal and destruction they had caused. After thanking Malhazan, she went to wash away the grime and blood. The cold water stung her wounds, but it was a welcome relief, washing away not just the dirt but also some of the weight of her recent trials. Her older injuries—the lashes on her back and the claw marks on her arm from the beast—had faded to scars, but new cuts and bruises covered her body, a testament to the days spent evading Khafir's men.
She donned the leather armor forged by Maegnor in Rivendell, a masterpiece created at Legolas's request. The smith's craftsmanship was unparalleled, and as she secured the armor, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. Her chakram gleamed at her side, and the ancient sword she had found alongside Legolas and the twins in the Hidden Forge of Eregion hung at her hip. Fully equipped, she looked every bit the warrior she had always been, yet her reflection in the polished surface of her sword revealed a weariness she could not hide.
Her horse, Chubby, whinnied with delight at seeing her, nudging her gently as she approached. Xena smiled, patting his neck affectionately. "Miss me, boy?" she murmured, her voice soft. She thanked Malhazan again, instructing him to burn any remnants of her belongings to prevent Khafir's men from tracing her here. With her dark cloak pulled tight and her hood obscuring her face, Xena mounted Chubby and rode out.
She chose the Harad Road, a bold and dangerous route but the fastest way north. The road was bustling with activity, making it easier for her to blend in despite her haste. Her goal was clear: leave Haradwaith and reach the South-North Road leading to Rohan. She had heard rumors of Saruman's army mobilizing against Rohan and knew that her skills would be needed there.
Finding Legolas or the Fellowship was no longer feasible; their path was shrouded in secrecy, and she had neither the time nor resources to seek them out. The twins and the dwarves were similarly beyond her reach. For now, standing against Saruman's forces and aiding those in need was the best way she could contribute to the fight against the encroaching darkness.
As she rode, her thoughts turned to Alakar. She had the answers she sought: he was the source of Legolas's torment, the shadow behind his nightmares. But confronting him was impossible, not only because reaching Mordor was suicidal but because Khafir's men were still hunting her across Harad. Alakar would have to wait, though the knowledge weighed heavily on her. For now, her path led to Rohan and the battles to come. The fight against evil was far from over, and Xena was ready to face it.
Xena urged Chubby forward along the Harad Road, the thrum of her heartbeat echoing in her ears. The oppressive heat of Harad gave way to the more temperate breezes as the landscape shifted, yet the urgency of her escape made the days blur into one long stretch of tension and exertion. Every mile put between her and Khafir's hunters felt like a small victory, though their shadow lingered, a constant reminder of the peril she faced.
She rode with a balance of speed and caution, pushing Chubby when the terrain allowed but mindful not to exhaust him. Along the road, she occasionally passed merchant caravans and travelers. She kept her cloak pulled tight and her hood low, masking her identity beneath layers of anonymity. In more crowded stretches, she avoided lingering, taking side trails where she could bypass checkpoints or areas with too many watchful eyes. The Harad Road was a busy artery of trade and movement, and though this aided her in blending in, it also carried the risk of being recognized by those who might have seen her in Khafir's service.
For the first several days, her rest came in brief snatches—hiding in gullies or beneath dense underbrush, always with one hand resting on her chakram and the other near her sword. The nights were worse. Every rustling leaf or distant footfall sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system. There were times when she could swear she heard the muffled voices of Khafir's men in the distance, though they never materialized. The psychological strain weighed on her as heavily as the physical toll of the journey.
She relied on her survival skills to keep herself and Chubby sustained. Water sources became precious finds, and her rationed supplies dwindled quickly. Foraging for food was a gamble—too much time spent hunting or gathering risked being discovered. Still, Xena managed to catch small game, birds, and on occasion barter with roadside traders for dried meat and fruit. The merchants, accustomed to seeing all manner of travelers on the Harad Road, asked few questions, and Xena gave away little in return.
Days passed in a haze of relentless movement. By the time she reached the vicinity of the Ringló River near the North-South Road, Xena felt the exhaustion of her journey gnawing at her resolve. Her body ached from days of riding without proper rest, and her hands bore the raw calluses of constant tension on the reins. The terrain had shifted to rolling hills and fertile valleys, the lush greenery a stark contrast to the dry, rugged lands she had left behind. The river, its waters glinting in the fading light, offered a measure of peace she hadn't felt since her escape began.
She chose her campsite with care, selecting a rise overlooking the river and the nearby crossroads. The elevation gave her a strategic vantage point to see approaching threats, while the thick copse of trees that bordered the area provided some cover. A small, clear stream branched off from the Ringló nearby, its gentle flow promising fresh water. Xena tethered Chubby in a shaded area, letting him graze while she set about her tasks.
The air was cool and crisp as evening fell, carrying the earthy scent of the riverbank. Xena peeled off her gloves, wincing at the tender skin beneath. Her fingers trembled slightly as she prepared her camp—a sign of just how long she had gone without proper rest. She gathered fallen branches and dry brush, taking care to construct a small, smokeless fire. The warm glow felt like a luxury after so many days spent hiding in the dark.
Her next task was to find food. The stream teemed with fish, their silver scales flashing as they darted through the shallow waters. With practiced ease, Xena fashioned a simple spear from a sturdy branch and some of her supplies. She waded into the stream, her movements slow and deliberate, and within minutes, she had speared a fat trout. The catch was quickly cleaned and cooked over her modest fire, the rich, smoky aroma filling the night air.
As she ate, Xena allowed herself a rare moment of reflection. The stars above were brilliant and unclouded, a vast expanse that stretched infinitely across the heavens. The sight reminded her of nights spent in Rivendell, gazing at the same stars with Legolas, their laughter and camaraderie a sharp contrast to the solitude she now endured.
She wrapped her cloak tightly around herself as the night deepened, the fire's warmth seeping into her tired limbs. For the first time in weeks, she allowed her mind to wander beyond immediate survival. The road ahead remained perilous, where the battle against Saruman's forces awaited. But for now, she let the quiet of the night and the rhythmic murmur of the river lull her into a fragile sense of peace.
Xena leaned back against the trunk of a tree, her chakram resting within arm's reach. The soft flicker of the firelight illuminated her weary features, and for the first time in many nights, she felt the faintest glimmer of hope. Her eyes grew heavy, and as she drifted into sleep, she resolved to face whatever lay ahead with the same determination that had carried her this far.
That night, Xena didn't dream—a rarity, but not an unwelcome one. Her sleep was deeper than any she'd managed in the grueling fourteen days since she fled Harad. For the first time, she felt the burden of Khafir's camp lifting. Yet, even in this relative peace, the darkness lingered, its tendrils brushing against the edges of her thoughts.
She had survived Khafir's camp, but it had awakened something within her—an echo of the person she once was. To endure in a world ruled by Khafir's law, she had been forced to wield cruelty as a weapon, rekindling a ruthlessness she had buried long ago. Now, away from that place, she could finally breathe. But the realization haunted her: she had come perilously close to becoming her old self again.
Lying under the open sky, Xena let her thoughts drift. She remembered Rivendell—its calmness, its sense of safety—and for the first time truly understood why Legolas sought refuge there. It wasn't just a place; it was a haven. She closed her eyes, longing for even a fleeting moment of such peace. Her lips quirked into a half-smile as she imagined herself at a quiet Rivendell dinner, politely picking at a plate of greens while the others exchanged soft laughter. A ridiculous thought, but a comforting one nonetheless.
The first light of dawn stirred her. Xena stretched and clasped her hands behind her head, watching as the morning's golden hues danced on the surface of the river. Chubby stood nearby, drinking contentedly, his ears flicking as he nudged another horse—sleek and dark—that had wandered close. The other horse ignored Chubby's attempts at conversation, seemingly more interested in nuzzling the reflection of a man crouched at the riverbank.
It took Xena a moment to process the scene. Her eyes narrowed, heart quickening as realization dawned. The most important detail wasn't the horse's odd behavior but the figure it had wandered to. Her breath caught as she sat up, scrutinizing the man. Wet, bedraggled, and injured, he looked as though he had just climbed out of the river itself. His weary movements and the familiar set of his shoulders left no doubt.
"Aragorn…" she murmured under her breath, relief blooming in her chest.
Xena rose quickly, her camp temporarily forgotten as she approached him. He was struggling to mount his horse, his movements labored. The sight sent a pang of concern through her—Aragorn, ever steadfast, was rarely this vulnerable. Yet seeing a familiar face, one she trusted so deeply, filled her with an unexpected warmth.
She approached with deliberate ease, her voice light with teasing humor despite the knot of worry forming within her. "You know," she said casually, "if a certain Elven maiden were to see this, she might have questions about your apparent fondness for kissing riverbanks."
Aragorn froze at her voice, his body stiffening as though he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Slowly, he turned to face her. For a long moment, he said nothing, his gray eyes wide with disbelief. "Xena…" he finally breathed, his tone caught between astonishment and relief.
She stood before him, dressed in leather armor that fit her like a second skin. Her dark cloak and boots lay forgotten at her camp, leaving her barefoot, her hair damp and loose from a night spent washing away the grime of her journey. She was a striking sight, but Aragorn's sharp gaze caught the signs of her struggle—cuts and bruises marking her skin, the weary set of her shoulders, and the heaviness in her eyes.
"You're alive," Aragorn said, his voice soft, as though he feared she might vanish. "We feared the worst."
Xena smirked, her usual fire lighting her expression. "What, that I wouldn't survive a little trip to Umbar and back?"
Aragorn's weariness was palpable as he leaned against his horse, too drained to dismount. "Legolas told me you'd left Rivendell," he said, his tone weighted with concern. "Elros and others loyal to his father were sent to track you down. They said you intended to undo the quest in Umbar. That was months ago."
"It's been... eventful," Xena replied, brushing off his implied worry. "And you? You look like you've been through a forge and back. How did you end up here?"
Aragorn chuckled weakly, though his expression betrayed his exhaustion. "It's a long tale," he admitted. "One better told on the road. We cannot linger here. Gather your things—we ride for Helm's Deep. There's much to discuss."
Xena raised a brow but didn't argue. Seeing Aragorn in such a state only reinforced the urgency she already felt. She returned to her camp, quickly packing her belongings. Her movements were efficient but deliberate, her mind already turning over questions. What had happened to the Fellowship? Why was Aragorn alone, injured, and far from where she expected him to be?
When she returned to Aragorn, he was seated more steadily atop his horse, though the strain was clear. Xena mounted Chubby, positioning herself beside him. "We'll talk on the way," Aragorn said, urging his horse forward. His tone was grim, and Xena knew whatever news he bore, it would be heavy.
As they rode, the faint peace she had begun to reclaim slipped away, replaced by the weight of the battles yet to come. Still, she couldn't deny the relief of finding a friend in the wilderness. Whatever lay ahead, she wouldn't face it alone.
The sound of hooves pounding the dirt road filled the air as Xena and Aragorn rode side by side, their faces set with determination. The North-South Road stretched before them, a lifeline guiding them toward Rohan. They maintained a brisk pace—not too fast, allowing their horses to conserve energy, but fast enough to leave any pursuers far behind.
The silence between them was heavy but not uncomfortable. Xena's mind churned with questions, yet she held her tongue. Aragorn's weariness was plain to see, and she respected his need for quiet. He had been through something harrowing—that much was obvious—and she suspected he was weighing his words before he spoke.
After a while, it was Aragorn who broke the silence. His voice, low and steady, cut through the rhythmic thrum of the horses' hooves. "What did you find?"
Xena turned her head slightly, her brow furrowing at the unexpected question. Aragorn met her gaze briefly, his expression serious. "Don't look at me like that," he added, a trace of wry humor in his tone. "You didn't just ride to Umbar to undo a bounty. That would be the most absurd thing I've ever heard."
A faint smirk tugged at Xena's lips, but it faded quickly. Aragorn pressed on, his tone sharpening. "You went after Alakar, didn't you? What did you learn? And what is Legolas truly facing?"
She hesitated, her eyes shifting to the horizon. Xena was no stranger to truth—it was a weapon she wielded with precision—but Aragorn's perceptiveness made her tread carefully. Still, he deserved an answer. "Alakar," she began, her voice calm but edged with steel, "is the one behind Legolas's nightmares. Everything—the weariness, the torment—it's all his doing."
Aragorn's gaze darkened. "Why?"
"Because," Xena continued, her tone heavier now, "Legolas caught his attention the day he killed his mother."
Aragorn's jaw tightened, and his hands flexed on the reins. He didn't speak for a moment, allowing her words to settle. Then, quietly, he said, "So you weren't just in Umbar. Information like that doesn't come without a cost." His eyes shifted to her briefly before glancing at the fading bruises and scars peeking out from beneath her armor. "And I see you've paid it. Was it worth it, doing this alone?"
Xena bristled, an edge of frustration flaring within her. "I wasn't alone," she snapped. "I found my way with a few outlaws—"
Aragorn interrupted, his tone sharp. "And now you're here, alone, after leaving their company. You didn't just stumble upon this knowledge, Xena. Information like this demands more than coin or convenience. What did you do? Who did you trust?"
Her irritation simmered, but she recognized the concern underlying his words. "It wasn't easy," she admitted, her voice softening. "And it wasn't free. But it was worth it." She paused, letting the reins slacken slightly. "I heard the story from the enemy's side, Aragorn. That's the only way I could piece it all together."
Now fully engaged, Aragorn fixed her with an unyielding gaze. "Tell me," he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of a command and the compassion of a friend.
Xena sighed, finally relenting. "I joined Khafir's camp," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "He's a warlord in Harad—cunning, ambitious, dangerous. I fought with his men, earned his trust, and listened when he spoke of Alakar and the darkness consuming Mirkwood. That's how I learned the truth about Legolas's mother, about her corruption, and about Saruman."
At this, Aragorn's posture stiffened. "Saruman?"
"Yes," Xena continued. "He's building an army—a massive one—to strike Rohan. That's why I'm here. That's why I was riding north."
For a long moment, Aragorn said nothing. His expression was grim, his eyes distant, as though weighing the full gravity of her words. "Legolas sensed it," he said finally, his voice low. "Your pain. Your danger. He didn't say much, but I could tell it weighed on him. He worried for you."
Xena's heart ached at the thought, but she pushed the feeling aside. "That's why I left without a word," she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. "If I stayed, he would've tried to stop me. And I couldn't let him carry my burden on top of his own."
Aragorn nodded slowly, though his expression remained troubled. "And now?" he asked, his question hanging in the air like a challenge.
"Now, there's war," Xena replied, her tone steady. "And the rest will have to wait until we find peace."
Their conversation was abruptly cut short as Aragorn raised a hand, signaling her to stop. Ahead, on the road, the horizon churned with movement. Dust clouds rose in the distance, accompanied by a faint but unmistakable sound—marching. Xena's eyes narrowed as she focused on the approaching figures.
"Uruk-hai," Aragorn said grimly, his voice tight with anger and grief.
Xena frowned. "I've never encountered them before," she admitted, her hand instinctively resting on her sword.
"You'll wish you hadn't," Aragorn replied, his tone bitter. "They're stronger, faster, and deadlier than any orc. We encountered them after leaving Lorien. They killed Boromir. They almost destroyed the Fellowship."
Xena's grip on her sword tightened. She glanced at Aragorn, seeing the fresh wave of pain in his expression, but there was no time to dwell on it. The Uruk-hai were close now, their sheer numbers visible even at this distance.
"We have to move," Aragorn said, urgency in his voice. "To Helm's Deep. Now."
Xena nodded, and with a sharp command, they turned their horses and rode hard, the thunder of hooves swallowed by the rising storm of war on the horizon. Before nightfall, they reached Helm's Deep. The massive gates stood open, but the keep was alive with hurried movement. Soldiers guided the last of the refugees inside, securing the perimeter as the shadows lengthened. The air was thick with the sounds of preparation—commands shouted, armor clinking, and the uneasy murmur of those who had never seen battle.
Chubby, Xena's steadfast companion, and Brego, Aragorn's loyal steed, were led toward the stables by stable hands who moved quickly yet carefully, aware of the urgency pressing on them all. Xena adjusted her dark cloak, pulling the hood low over her face. She kept her head down, allowing the shadows to obscure her features. It felt strange—unsettling, even—to be back among familiar faces after so many months. Memories of camaraderie and trust warred with the distance she had created, the choices that had driven her far from this place.
Gimli's booming voice cut through the clamor, drawing Xena's attention. The dwarf, having just learned of Aragorn's survival, was clapping him on the back with unrestrained joy. His laughter echoed as he half-pulled, half-dragged Aragorn toward the fortress, oblivious to his friend's weariness.
Aragorn, however, glanced over his shoulder at Xena, a silent reassurance passing between them. He did not reveal her identity, granting her the time she needed to decide how to face those waiting within. She nodded slightly, grateful for his understanding. For now, she would remain unnoticed, hidden among the crowd of warriors and refugees flooding into the keep.
Xena stepped further into the shadows, her back brushing against the cold stone of the inner wall. It felt like a barrier—a line between her and the people inside. The truth of her return settled heavily on her shoulders. She had come to fight among friends once more, to stand against the darkness threatening to consume them all. But there was one person whose presence she had not prepared for, one connection she had deliberately severed: Legolas.
The thought of him struck her like a physical blow, sharp and sudden. She turned her face away as a familiar figure emerged from the chaos. Legolas moved through the crowd with his characteristic grace, his sharp eyes scanning the courtyard. His presence was magnetic, commanding attention without effort, and Xena couldn't help but catch a fleeting glimpse of him. He looked weary but determined, his golden-silver hair catching the dim light as he approached.
Xena's breath hitched, and she pressed herself against the wall, her hands hidden beneath her cloak to hide their trembling. The weight of the past months bore down on her in that instant, sharper than any blade. It wasn't the war, the looming battle, or the legions of Uruk-hai that unsettled her—it was him. The thought of facing Legolas, of meeting his eyes after everything she had left unsaid, was suddenly too much.
For a brief moment, their gazes nearly met, and Xena instinctively turned away, pulling her hood lower. She leaned heavily against the wall, her heart pounding. She had faced countless battles, stared down enemies far more terrifying than anything here, but the idea of confronting Legolas now left her feeling unsteady, vulnerable in a way she hadn't anticipated.
She wasn't ready. Not yet.
With a quiet breath, she closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. Somewhere deep in the keep, the fires of preparation burned brightly, but for Xena, it was the flicker of something far more personal—something unresolved—that now loomed largest.
((Upcoming Chapter Ninety-Four))
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