Part 2: Of Blue and Light

Chapter 30: Cloud of Shadow

"Still no sign?"Estel asked, absently turning the rabbit over the flames. The scent of sizzling meat filled the air, but to Legolas, it was dull, distant—meaningless.

He barely processed the ranger's voice. His mind stretched toward the familiar, toward the presence that should be there—but wasn't. Rae had always been there, a thread woven into his thoughts, her voice slipping into his mind when the world grew silent.

Now, there was only silence.

Again, he had tried. Again, nothing had answered.

He exhaled, shaking his head. "No."

Estel hesitated, then offered, "She's strong. She'll be fine."

Fine. As if fine was a certainty, as if fine could be declared without proof. As if fine would erase the hollow ache in his chest.

Legolas didn't answer. He watched as Estel tore a leg from the rabbit, passing it to Gimli, who devoured it without thought. The simplicity of it—the ease of hunger, the satisfaction of eating—it felt surreal. Detached. How could life carry on in such normalcy when something so vital was missing?

"Eat."Estel offered him the other leg.

Legolas forced a smile, though it barely touched his face. "No, Estel. I prefer lembas."

"You know that's just what parents say." Estel chuckled, but Legolas had no humor left to give.

Still, routine was safety. Routine was something he could hold. He nudged the leg back. "Eat, Estel. Your aunt would strangle me if I didn't take care of you."A pause. "And wash your hands before eating."

Estel blinked. "Aunt?"

Legolas tilted his head slightly. "Yes. Technically, Arwen is your ancient aunt."

Estel gaped. "What? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Legolas sighed. "Keep your voice down."

"But—"

"I assumed you knew."He rubbed his fingers together idly, grounding himself in the sensation. "I was there when your identity was revealed, and your father considered calling Arwen your aunt."

Estel frowned. "Then why didn't he?"

Legolas allowed a faint smirk—the first real expression of the night. "Because a certain little boy couldn't pronounce 'aunt'and instead called Arwen an 'Ent.'She was so 'distraught'by the insult that Rivendell began calling her 'tree-maiden.'"

Estel groaned, burying his face in his hands. "No wonder she avoided me when I asked her for another story."

"Which is why you started asking me for horror stories."

"Only because you told me that was the only genre you knew!"

"And because it was hilarious watching you sprint across the house to my room, demanding I check under your bed for monsters."

Estel blinked. "WHAT?"

His outburst faded into laughter—warm, unburdened. He and Gimli drifted into sleep, leaving only Legolas and the stars.

The world exhaled around him, but he couldn't.

His gaze lifted to the sky, its cold brilliance stretching infinitely. The stars had seen the rise and fall of kings, the ruin and renewal of realms. He wondered if they had ever answered a mortal's plea.

He had never been one to beg. But tonight, he did.

"Whoever is up there... bring her back."

Faster. Faster.

His mind screamed it, his body obeyed.

The world blurred past him, but he did not slow—he could not slow. The hobbits were out there, taken by creatures who would show no mercy. Every heartbeat was a countdown to their fate.

They had been running since the moment the Fellowship shattered. Sleep came in fleeting moments. Food was barely a consideration—only enough lembas to keep their legs moving. But even exhaustion was secondary. Even the burning in his limbs and the tightness in his chest could not compete with the storm churning inside his mind.

Or Rae dies fighting orcs.

His grip tightened around the wine flask at his waist before he tore it free, raising it to his lips without breaking stride. The warmth of it burned down his throat, but it was not enough to drown the ache.

How in Middle-earth was he ever going to face Estel again, reeking of alcohol and regrets?

It was a farewell gift, Rae had said. He had not yet opened the pouch she had given him when they parted. Now, with Estel scouting ahead and Gimli lagging behind, it seemed as good a time as any. He fished it from his pocket, lifting it to his nose.

Fresh daisy. The scent of her talan—the place she called home. And—

Parsley.

His chest tightened. He was too tired for sentiment.

"Yo, what did that lass give you, lad?"Gimli's voice broke through his thoughts as the dwarf closed the distance, an event so shameful for elven history that Legolas nearly winced.

He clenched his palm around the pouch. "Healing herbs."

Gimli roared with laughter. "Healing herbs? Lassie and you fought like two dwarves at the Rivendell banquet, and now she's sending you remedies? Or was it poison, lad?"

Legolas said nothing. Nothing could truly anger him these days—his frustration was reserved for things beyond his control. He pressed forward, closing the distance between himself and Estel.

"Penin ceniad?"(Any signs?) he asked, already chewing the parsley leaves, grounding himself in their familiar taste.

Estel kneeled, pressing his ear against the earth. "They've quickened their pace."

His expression darkened, then snapped toward Gimli. "Hurry up!"

Legolas nearly smiled—almost. The way Estel shouted still held remnants of the child he had once been. The same boy who had tugged Legolas to meals, singing a ridiculous song about cakes.

Estel caught the look. "What?"

Legolas feigned nostalgia, letting amusement crack through the weight in his chest. "Just recalling a certain little boy singing 'My Cake Ran Away for Lunch with Icing on My Nose and It Was Homework'after he hid a dessert under his pillow—only for it to end in a pillow fight that left his future love covered in cream."

Estel nearly tripped. "I haven't sung that since I was seven!"

Legolas smirked. "And you also composed 'Love of My Life, Evenstar of Cakes'—a poem read aloud in the Hall of Fire over dinner. I heard Arwen was heartbroken when you compared her eyes to sea grape candies."

Estel gaped in horror. "That was Lindir's fault! If he hadn't picked a love song at that moment, and if Elladan hadn't—"

Legolas never heard the rest.

His instincts flared, his hand shot out, yanking Estel and Gimli behind the cover of the rocks.

"Riders."

Just as Gimli opened his mouth to mock him for his over-sensitivity, a large group of horsemen appeared on the horizon, their strong hooves pounding the earth like war drums.

"Riders of Rohan, what news from the Mark?"Estel called, leaping forward. Legolas had no choice but to follow, his pulse already thrumming with unease. Judging by the startled yelp and stumble, the dwarf did too.

Soon, they found themselves trapped within a tight circle of riders, their spears gleaming in the sunlight. One of them urged his horse forward.

"What business does an elf, a man, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!"

"Give me your name, and I shall—"Gimli challenged, but the rest of the sentence was muffled when Estel slapped a hand over his mouth.

The horselord leaped down as Estel continued, "We intend no evil to Rohan. My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli, son of Glóin. And this is Legolas, son of— from the Woodland Realm. We're friends of King Théoden and of Rohan."

The rider inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Théoden no longer recognizes friends from foes. I am Éomer."

"We aren't spies! We track a band of orcs westward—they have captured two of our friends,"Estel explained.

Éomer glanced uneasily. "You need not pursue them further. The orcs were destroyed; we slaughtered them during the night."

Legolas felt something snap inside him.

"And what of our friends? Have you seen two hobbits, halflings?"Gimli asked.

"We saw no halflings. We counted all slain and despoiled them—none were left."

A sharp breath escaped Legolas before he could stop it, as if the very air had betrayed him. Faster than light, his bow bent, his arrow aimed directly at Éomer's throat.

"You lie!"His voice was hoarse, burning with something close to panic. "There is an elleth with them."

Éomer stiffened, gripping his spear as the rest of the riders tensed.

"There were no elves,"he insisted.

Legolas'breathing faltered. His grip on the bowstring was so tight his hands shook—not with fury, but with the kind of dread that eats away at reason. "Wavy black hair, golden eyes, light spots that glow in the dark."His voice cracked. "She was with them."

Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No confirmation.

Estel's hand came down on Legolas'shoulder—not just steadying, but restraining.

"They speak the truth."

Legolas felt his throat close up. The world tipped, the colors dimming at the edges of his vision. He barely heard Éomer summon the horses.

Hope felt like a dying ember between his fingers.

It was nearly noon when they finally spotted the large fire burning in the open glade. Helms, spears, swords, and arrows lay scattered across the torn remains of orc bodies.

"A hobbit lay there…" Estel murmured moments later, his voice taut as he started following a faint trail. "They crawled." He traced the tracks, and Gimli and Legolas fell in beside him. "Their hands were bound. Their bonds were cut. The tracks lead away from the battle—into Fangorn Forest."

"Fangorn! What madness drove them in there?" Gimli cried.

Neither of the other two answered, their focus locked ahead as they quickened their pace toward the forest.

"The trees—they're talking to each other." Legolas noted after a while, his voice quieter, wary.

"Gimli," Estel called, "Lower your axe."

"No." The dwarf made no move to obey.

Legolas batted at the axe impatiently. "The trees have feelings. Listen to them speaking."

"Talking trees? What do they have to talk about—squirrel droppings?" Gimli huffed.

"Gimli!" Estel groaned, exasperated.

Then—Legolas stilled.

"Something's out there." He whispered, instinctively reaching out to stop the ranger in his tracks.

"What do you see?" Estel murmured.

Legolas narrowed his eyes, focusing beyond the veil of trees. "The White Wizard approaches. Arm yourselves!" He swiftly pulled an arrow from his quiver, and the others followed suit.

"Shoot him before he can speak, Legolas, or he'll cast a spell on us," Estel muttered, his grip tightening around his sword.

A brilliant white light beamed from ahead, searing their vision as if the very air had turned against them. Their weapons dropped from their hands, wrenched away by an unseen force.

"You're tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits," an oddly familiar voice said.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" Estel shouted, making a desperate attempt to reach for his dagger.

The light dimmed—revealing Gandalf.

"It cannot be!" Estel whispered in disbelief.

Legolas immediately bowed. "Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman."

"I am Saruman. Or rather, what Saruman should have been." Gandalf mused.

The wizard smiled then, something genuine, something light despite the weight of war. "Come now, child! One stage of your journey is over—another begins. War has come to Rohan. We must ride to Edoras with all speed," he said, leading them deeper into the forest.

"Edoras? That's no shorter distance! AHH!" Gimli groaned.

"HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO TELL YOU TO LOWER YOUR AXE?" Estel shouted.

Legolas smirked. "How many times do we have to stop your sticky fingers—just in the mud—from reaching for the cakes prepared for Arwen in the kitchen?" The human's face burned bright red.

But the moment of light-heartedness faded when Legolas quickened his stride to catch up with Gandalf. His voice, once steady, came quiet now, nearly fragile.

"Have you seen Rae, Gandalf?"

The wizard gazed at him in sorrow. "No, I have not."

Legolas froze, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. His bow nearly slipped from his grasp.

Gandalf's voice softened. "Do not despair, prince of Mirkwood. There is still hope for you to see your star."

The words clung to him, wrapping around his thoughts like something distant—something just out of reach.

What was that supposed to mean?

Someday, Legolas thought, he needed to write a book on how riding the same horse as a dwarf did no good to the body. Perhaps he would invite Haldir as his co-editor, who would quote: "The dwarf breathes so loud we would have shot him in the dark."

"You're being very quiet," Estel edged his horse closer to theirs.

"No, you're just having a nervous breakdown," he replied dryly.

"And very grumpy as well," the ranger noted.

"Aye, agree with the lad—I can hear ya speaking that strange language even from over here," Gimli grumbled.

Legolas scoffed. "You're sitting behind me, of course you could hear me."

The dwarf scolded, "Not everyone has those weird pointed-ear hearing like ya, lad."

Why did that sound so familiar? His heart dropped—it had been Rae who had spoken those words to him. Rae… His thoughts faltered. He hadn't heard from her since she had pursued the orcs. Even Gandalf had not seen her.

His heart was hollow—a vast, empty space eaten away by an invisible warg each day he woke up to silence on the other side of the connection.

His grip on the reins tightened. Without thinking, he gave the horse a hard kick, followed by a string of curses from the dwarf.

As if he ever had a heart.

For he had always been, the heartless.