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Chapter Text

Aragorn pulled up short as a shaft of sun lancing through grey cloud cover reflected off a stone spire in the distance. The tower was the only part of the desolated city visible among the trees and overgrowth that had claimed Fornost over the past thousand years. Now it was a forbidding place, named Deadmen’s Dike by people who believed the ruins were haunted. Rangers knew better, and sometimes visited what was left of the once great city of Númenor. But though the place was not haunted as the ignorant and superstitious thought, it sat on the south end of the North Downs, a range of hills fraught with all manner of evil creatures. So it was not a safe place to traverse, yet here was Aragorn’s destination, for the wizard Gandalf suspected a magical object of great power was buried within the ruins, and wanted it secured before the Enemy could get his hands on it. That was Aragorn’s errand.

Legolas stopped at his shoulder, his elven eyes able to see far more detail of the ruined city than the man could. Aragorn was glad of his friend’s company on this quest, for as a Ranger he often spent time alone, wandering the wilds and protecting the inhabitants of the old realm of Arnor. Sometimes he rode with the Dúnedain, but there were different expectations of him when he functioned as their Chieftain, compared to the more carefree time he spent with his longtime friend.

“Did you ever see Fornost Erain when it was the capital of Arnor?” Aragorn asked.

The elf nodded. “The city was enclosed by fortified walls on all sides, almost as tall as the hill it sat against.” He spread his arm, gesturing toward a corner of the perimeter that still stood erect, though it was completely covered in ivy and moss. “The grey granite held flecks of blue beryl that sparkled like the river Anduin in sunlight, though after many years they faded to white, and then the city walls resembled the frothing rapids. There were eight towers for the eight points of a compass, and the great hall in the rear there.”

Aragorn followed Legolas’s arm toward a large grass-covered mound. “That is where we should begin our search. Hopefully the chambers inside are still intact.”

“Did Gandalf give any clue as to what we are looking for?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Only that it is some kind of obsidian stone. He did not tell me its name, if it even has one.”

Legolas frowned. “The ruins are quite vast…”

“I suspect that’s why Gandalf sent us ahead to manage the tedious searching,” Aragorn replied, earning a shared smirk from the elf. “In any case, there may be surviving records that mention the object and its location.” He had no illusions that their task would be easy, but Gandalf seemed to think it vitally important this magical item be retrieved, and so they would try.

“Then let us continue,” Legolas said. “And hope luck will favor us that we may find the stone before Gandalf even arrives.”

Aragorn’s lips twitched. “The wizard is likely to show up the moment we do find it.”

Legolas’s eyes danced with amusement. “All the more reason to find it quickly.”

Without further preamble, man and elf continued their trek on foot toward Fornost. The sun had passed its zenith by the time they reached the outer walls. Only a few sections still stood at their full height before descending in staggered, crumbling steps. Ivy climbed the stone in thick woven sheets, completely concealing most of the rock, and only its steep face and ninety-degree angles showed that it had ever been a man-made wall. Great trees populated what used to be streets. Some had grown up from the center of decimated buildings, branches pushing out and over walls like fat, green mushrooms.

Aragorn stepped lightly through the brush under his feet, eyes taking in every broken stone, not just the ones that had been worn away by time and erosion, but columns that lay scattered across the ground in shattered remains from a siege.

“One day I will rebuild this city,” he said quietly. One day when he embraced his heritage, when the broken sword was reforged and the crown-less again became king. He would see the glory of Arnor restored.

Legolas paused to gaze back at him. “I look forward to seeing that day with you, mellon nîn .”

Aragorn gave a slight smile. His friend also hoped for the day when the Shadow was defeated and every land it had touched was revived, including the elf’s home in Mirkwood. One day, Fornost Erain and Eryn Lasgalen would be the great realms they once were.

The two of them moved on, navigating their way through lush greens toward the mound against the base of the North Downs. Once closer, they began to see hints of stone underneath the lichen and grass. A great cleft sundered one side, and a sapling oak was slowly pushing its way up from underneath. The doors to the great hall were well-concealed, and the two seekers were gradually losing daylight as they searched along the edges for it. Aragorn ran his hands over granite and pried apart fibrous vines in a race against the waning sun. Just as he was about to give up and resign them to setting camp, his fingers hit a protrusion that turned out to be a door handle.

“Here,” he called, and gave it a hard wrench. The stiff joint made a snapping sound, and Aragorn hoped it had not broken. But the door gave slightly, scraping across ground and releasing a puff of stale air in his face. Aragorn shoved his shoulder into the door, pushing it open further. The chamber inside was dark and musty.

Legolas appeared with a broken branch, and Aragorn retrieved a strip of cloth from his pack to wrap around it. Then he doused it with oil and took his flint to it. After a couple sparks, the torch caught and a whoosh of flames lit up in the deepening twilight.

“Shall we?”

Legolas’s eyes narrowed a fraction as he peered into the darkness, but he didn’t voice a warning that he heard or sensed anything sinister inside, so Aragorn strode forward, the elf right behind him. The Ranger paused to ease the door mostly closed behind them, leaving it open only a crack for Gandalf to find—and should anything unsavory happen upon it first, at least the grinding sound of it moving would potentially alert the elf.

Aragorn now turned his full attention to the ruined chamber. The walls bore stress cracks, and one or two supportive columns lay in pieces over a dusty floor, but the structure did not seem in danger of collapsing. If anything, the roots that had infiltrated the fortress almost served as reinforcement, binding together the fragments and filling them with swollen cords. Thorny vines had dug their claws into the cracks as they swarmed down into the room to cover half the floor. A raised mound sat in one corner, and Aragorn moved closer to inspect it. He pulled up short, however, when he spotted bleached bones sticking out from the ivy that had grown over them in a choke hold.

He stepped away from the remains. “Let’s try to find a secure room for the night.”

Legolas nodded once in acknowledgement, but waited for Aragorn to take the lead. The Ranger swept the torch in a half-circle to illuminate the rest of the foyer. A set of large, broken double doors stood in the back. One side hung from the hinges, while the other had been completely splintered. From the ornate relief carvings on the wood, Aragorn suspected they led to the meeting hall. He shifted to look down a passage on the right. Well, standing around debating a course would do them no good, and their entire errand was up to chance anyway.

Aragorn took the first corridor. They passed another large room, one filled with broken and overturned wooden tables, smashed pottery, and more bones. Something skittered from within, causing both man and elf to freeze. After a tense moment of listening, Legolas visibly relaxed.

“Mole-rat,” he said.

Aragorn almost laughed, but something about the silent, ancient tomb kept him somber. They continued down the hallway, testing closed doors. Finally, they found one whose sides were engraved with old runes from the Númenórean kingdom. Though he could not read them, Aragorn knew they signified the room’s importance. He gripped the handle and gently torqued it. Thankfully, the door gave without much resistance, though the air that escaped smelled much more stale than the rest of the underground citadel. Aragorn wrinkled his nose, and caught a similar look of distaste on Legolas’s face.

The chamber appeared to be a library or study room, with bookcases lining three of the walls. Worn and weathered tomes stood back-to-back on each shelf, with rolled up scrolls stuffed around them to the brim. A large wooden table sat in the center of the room with piles of parchment sprawled across it. Some spilled over the edge like yellow starched curtains to pool on the floor. Aragorn held the torch over some stick candles in wall sconces, and a minute later the archive room was filled with a soft incandescence that banished the shadows to the corners.

“We might as well get some searching done tonight,” Aragorn said, snuffing out the torch and setting it aside. He approached the table first, surveying the haphazard piles and picking one at random to start with. The paper crinkled between his fingers, and most of the ink had faded into barely discernible strokes. It may well be the information they sought had dissolved to time.

“Tomorrow we can divide our efforts between searching these records and exploring more of the fortress,” he added, sparing a glance at the elf. “Do you have a preference?”

Legolas continued skimming the book he held. “Let me think: stay in this stifling room with no windows, or venture deeper underground.” He tossed the Ranger a wry look.

“With a little sprucing, this place wouldn’t look much different than the Mirkwood Palace,” Aragorn pointed out. He set the parchment aside on a clear section of table that would serve as his discarded pile, and reached for another.

Legolas shook his head. “As we are likely to be here a while, we can alternate. I will explore more of the other chambers in the morning and we can switch for the afternoon.”

Either way worked for Aragorn, so he didn’t protest. The two of them searched for another two hours before Legolas suggested Aragorn sleep. The elf offered to keep perusing the archives while he kept watch, leaving Aragorn with little room to argue. He laid his bedroll down on the floor and fell asleep with orange flickers dancing across his eyelids.

For the next two days, Aragorn and Legolas searched the records in the archive room and ventured deeper into the underground fortress looking for a treasure store or some place that one would keep a magical artifact. On the second day, Aragorn had found a repository of gold and jewels, but after hours of sifting through it, he hadn’t found anything resembling the stone Gandalf had described. The wizard should be joining them soon, and hopefully would have a better idea of where to look, for the ceaseless searching was growing tedious.

It was now the third morning since their arrival at Fornost, and Legolas had gone outside to watch for Gandalf’s arrival. Aragorn sat in a creaky old chair in the records room, the words on the parchment before him blurring already, despite the rest he’d taken the night before. Though it was his turn to take the scrolls, he considered asking Legolas to trade with him so he could stretch his legs.

The faint rustle of hurried footsteps snapped him to full alertness just as Legolas appeared in the doorway, shoulders taut and expression dark.

Aragorn surged to his feet. “What is it?”

“Orcs,” the elf spat with venom. He whirled back around, and Aragorn abandoned the scrolls to sprint after him, down the corridors and out the door. Legolas leaped up the jagged steps of a dilapidated wall, footsteps lithe and quick across the crumbling stone. Aragorn followed, albeit more cautiously. At the top thirty feet above, Legolas dropped to his knees, and Aragorn quickly did the same when he caught up. He tensed at the large mass of black bodies currently camped on the eastern edge of the ruins. They must have arrived during the night and had stopped to take shelter from the sun on the open plains. At least, Aragorn desperately hoped they were merely passing through, though his gut told him otherwise. He counted about fifty of their number.

Legolas’s jaw looked tight. “They bear the mark of Gundabad.”

Aragorn swallowed an oath. Though the beasts were too far away for his human eyes to make out such a detail, he could tell that several of the orcs were taller and broader in stature than the more common Misty Mountain orcs that mingled with them.

“Gundabad’s forces were heavily culled from the Battle of Five Armies,” Aragorn said carefully. Were these remnants from the dark stronghold aimlessly wandering the northern wilds? Or were they here on a specific mission?

“A new leader may have risen after Azog’s and Bolg’s demise,” Legolas replied, gaze briefly flickering with memory. “I doubt their arrival here is a coincidence.”

Aragorn sighed. “As do I. If they seek that which we do, we cannot let them get it.”

Legolas nodded in agreement. After another moment of surveying the arrivals, they finally backed away and carefully descended the wall to return to the underground chambers. Aragorn’s earlier weariness had been banished with the new sense of urgency. He could only hope the orcs would not search the mound first, for he did not like the idea of he and Legolas holding off a siege until Gandalf arrived.

The two of them returned to the archive room by unspoken agreement and attacked the remaining records with renewed vigor. This time, rather than taking care of the ancient papers, they merely dropped them on the floor once they determined the information wouldn’t help them. Aragorn couldn’t allow regret at the mistreatment of his lineage’s history, not when more important things were at stake.

“Aragorn,” Legolas’s voice shattered the man’s concentration, and he looked up as the elf approached with an open tome. The page detailed the construction of a secret vault built inside the mountain.

“Well, if I had an item of great power, that is where I’d put it for safekeeping.” There was no mention of an obsidian stone specifically, but they had little time and not much more to go on. Aragorn skimmed the rest of the page, trying to determine where the door to this vault was located. “I saw a schemata for the fortress interior our first day here.” Only where had he set it?

Legolas put the open book on the table and began sorting through the larger parchments. Aragorn checked his discarded pile, which had long ago overflown onto the floor, and spotted a corner with part of a diagram. He pulled it up and spread it across the table, pressing down the curling ends.

“Here is the symbol used in the ledger,” he said, tapping an index finger on a rune that marked a door in the rear of the fortress.

Legolas studied it. “I scouted that area yesterday, but saw no signs of a door.” His brow furrowed in thought. “There was a mural carved into a stone wall…”

“Entrance to a secret vault, perhaps?” Aragorn finished.

“How do you propose we open it?”

Good question. It probably would have benefitted them to have a dwarf-smith on this mission. Not that Legolas would have appreciated that. “Was there mention of a key?”

“No.” Legolas’s frown deepened. “Nor do we have time to search for one when we still have yet to find our true quarry.”

“And orcs may be descending on our heads any minute.” Aragorn sighed. “Let us take a look at this secret door and hope an answer presents itself.”

They blew out the candles in the archive room and gathered up their things. Legolas took the map and the book mentioning the vault, and stashed them behind a series of thick tomes on a top shelf. Though orcs were more likely to smash and destroy than read, it was best not to take any chances.

After checking the corridor to make sure nothing had entered the underground fortress while they’d been occupied, Legolas exited the room first and led the way toward the mural he had seen, and where a secret door might very well lay hidden.

Chapter Text

Legolas stared at the relief carving on the wall, keen eyes roving over every contour line in search of a chink or crevice that might suggest the panel could be opened. The mural was quite large, fifteen feet wide and tall. Its work was incredibly detailed, every chisel carefully set to stone so that the figures partially protruding from the rock appeared as though their mortal counterparts had been cast in molds to achieve such likeness. Legolas recognized King Amlaith, son of Eärendur, though it had been over a millennium since either had lived. The mural depicted Eärendur and his three sons standing tall and proud under the star of Eärendil, before Arnor had been divided. Even in the gray, frozen stone, Legolas could see hints of Aragorn in the shape of Amlaith’s brow and strong jaw. The Dúnedan may little resemble the kings of old, dressed in the worn and weathered garb of the Rangers, but there was still nobility in his bearing. Legolas could well envision a crowned King Aragorn standing over a great city as Fornost had once been. Even if the man himself could not.

Aragorn ran his hands over the rock, pinching and prodding in the hopes something would give. His shoulders held the tension of a taut bowstring as though he were forcing himself to move with extreme care rather than in haste from the knowledge a troop of orcs could barge in on them at any moment. Legolas also felt the urgency pressing in on him, and he constantly turned his head to listen for clomping footsteps down the halls. With his attentions divided thusly, it was Aragorn who finally found the secret knob.

King Eärendur’s scepter extended from the rest of the relief carving a few inches, and when Aragorn tugged at it, the stone shifted a centimeter, followed by a grinding sound from behind the wall. A crack split down the left side of the mural, and with a puff of dust, the panel pushed outward. Aragorn immediately went to the gap and peered inside, waving his hand to clear the haze. Not even Legolas’s elven eyes could pierce the darkness within. It seemed a living, breathing entity, softly snoring as though their intrusion had not wakened its slumber. Wisdom would have them leave now while they could, but that was not their task.

Aragorn slipped through the opening, excitement over their progress giving him boldness. Legolas lingered only a moment behind before following. Though he had no love of deep dark places, he would never leave his friend to traverse such roads alone. Once inside, both man and elf paused to let their eyes adjust to the dim light seeping through the crack. They appeared to be in a small, square antechamber. Legolas could make out thin shapes of torches ensconced along the wall, and he yanked one free. Tucking the wood under one arm, he pulled out his flint and struck the chert over the charred linen. It took some coaxing, but the ancient torch finally lit, casting further illumination throughout the room.

The walls were smooth and plain, save for the four torches mounted on the east and west sides. Directly across from the secret entrance stood a door engraved with the seal of the kings of Númenor. A flicker of shadow to his right caught Legolas’s eye, and he snapped his gaze to a pile of bones laid out along the panel. The elf counted perhaps half a dozen men.

Aragorn moved to stand over them, gaze thoughtful. “They must have been trapped in here, likely when the city was under siege.”

Legolas considered how the hidden entrance had been sealed. “They may have even barricaded themselves inside to protect the secrets of the vaults.”

Aragorn tilted his head, then squatted close to some of the bones. “More light.”

Legolas lowered the torch to encompass more of the ground. There, clutched between the gnarled remains of a hand, lay a key. Aragorn reached out and plucked it from the bones’ grip, accidentally breaking apart the phalanges.

“You deserve more than this forgotten tomb for your sacrifice,” the man said quietly.

Legolas placed a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “When you rebuild this city, you will give a proper burial to those who rest here. They are your people, Aragorn, and will wait for you.”

The Ranger drew his shoulders back. “Yes, but the orcs will not. Come.” He strode to the door, which bore an obvious keyhole, and inserted the key into it. With a twist, the lock clicked. Aragorn tugged on the handle and the door swung outward, revealing a tunnel stretching deep into the hill. Legolas tightened his grip on the torch. Who knew what fell things had burrowed their way in from the North Downs and taken up residence inside the earth. The air was dank and cold, tinged with the scent of moisture and silt.

Aragorn grabbed a second torch off the wall and lit it. Then he turned to Legolas with a rueful look. “Ready, mellon nîn?”

The elf gave his friend a wry smirk. “If you are.”

With a shake of his head, Aragorn plunged into the darkness, and Legolas followed. The tunnel was wide enough for five men to walk abreast, though only three feet hung between their heads and the ceiling. More wall torches were mounted every several paces, though they did not light them.

They came to a juncture, and paused to decide which path to choose. Both had been established as frequently traversed shafts with wall sconces, and strange marks were etched into the stone near each entrance, though Legolas could not decipher their meaning.

“How far did they delve?” he muttered. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect the people of Númenor had dwarf blood in their veins.

Aragorn considered their options, and after a moment veered left. The deeper they traveled, the more the weight of the earth seemed to press in upon Legolas. He roved his gaze across the ground, up the walls, and over the ceiling, wondering how stable these caverns were after centuries of being undisturbed. Then the ceiling began to slope upwards, giving him more breathing room, and Legolas pushed those thoughts aside.

He heard a soft grating click, and his eyes snapped to the ground where Aragorn had stepped upon a raised stone, which had then sunk under his weight. Something creaked above them, and before Legolas could register what was happening, he leaped forward and shoved Aragorn to the ground, falling with him. Both torches flew from their hands to land in the dirt, sputtering as a brush of wind swept above their heads. The sound of iron striking stone resounded throughout the tunnel. Legolas flipped onto his back and stared wide-eyed at the framework of spears that had swung down from the ceiling where they’d been standing.

Aragorn pushed himself onto his elbows with a grunt, glancing over his shoulder and blanching slightly. “That would have been unpleasant,” he said after a moment, and then added his thanks, “Le hannon .”

Legolas rolled to his feet and grabbed Aragorn’s arm to haul him up. “Perhaps we should go back and try the other tunnel.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Something deserving this level of protection is worth investigating.”

“We must be wary then. I ven hen delu.” He scooped up their fallen torches, the light casting jagged shadows along the walls, as though the pointed barbs were still stretching out to skewer them.

“The road is dangerous,” Aragorn agreed, and took his torch back. “Care and a slow pace are needed here, yet haste is the taskmaster that awaits us outside.” He shook his head. “I wonder if Gandalf is near.”

“Mithrandir is powerful, but I would not see him take on an army of orcs alone,” Legolas said, casting one last look at the trap that had almost claimed their lives. Hemmed in by peril on all sides…

Aragorn sighed. “Nor us. Perhaps after we’ve located the stone, we may find a back way out of this place.”

Legolas hoped so, though he did not relish the thought of venturing even deeper to find it. However, neither did he like the prospect of returning the way they’d come and walking straight into a troop of orcs.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said, and this time took the lead, eyes peeled across the ground to spot any more snares awaiting them.

A few yards in, Legolas shot an arm out to stop Aragorn. He slowly bent down and ran a finger under a piece of fishing line, as thin as gossamer and barely visible in the dim tunnel. Turning his gaze upward, Legolas scanned the walls, trying to determine what trap they had just avoided, and spotted a crossbow tucked deep into a ledge.

“We probably should have just let the orcs go first,” he grumbled.

Aragorn’s mouth quirked. “I feel more certain we will find what we’re looking for at the end. Such measures would not have been taken to secure mere gold or treasure.”

Legolas straightened. “And when we find it, what then? Gandalf only meant for us to locate it, and for him to retrieve it himself.”

Aragorn stood up as well and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Let’s find it first, then worry about what comes after.” He nodded toward the ground. “Should we cut this?”

Legolas tilted his head in thought. “Leave it in case we are pursued.” He picked up a stone then and scratched three lines on the wall. Once finished, he stepped carefully over the line and made a similar marking on the other side. That way they would recognize the spot should they return that way.

They continued down the darkened passage. Soon Legolas could hear water trickling from some source up ahead, and not long after they came to another wide juncture where the tunnel forked.

“Dartho,” he instructed Aragorn to hold, and studied the ground. Though naturally uneven in places, there seemed to be at least two stones a little too symmetrical and sitting half-raised from the floor. Legolas pointed them out, and he and the Ranger deftly avoided them before coming to stand before the two branching caverns. They held their torches aloft to illuminate the shafts, but the light barely pierced the shroud of blackness. Legolas stared at the passage on his right. There was a subtle difference in the air coming from that way—it felt thicker, cloying. He did not wish to take it.

“These walls are less shaped,” he said, angling his torch to throw light upon the craggy surface. “The men of Fornost may have explored this way, but I do not believe they developed vaults within its depths.”

Aragorn swung his torch toward the opposite entrance, casting an amber halo into the ring. “The ground here does look more trodden, and there appear to be more wall torches here.” He nodded. “We’ll go this way.”

Legolas inhaled deeply with relief. The dank odor of the right tunnel filled his nostrils, however, and he grimaced before turning away from it. They found no more booby traps along the left passage, and about ten yards in came upon a door. Aragorn ran one hand along the engraved stone, but found no knob or handle.

“There is a keyhole,” Legolas said.

Aragorn found it, his fingers brushing the smooth edges. Then he pulled the key taken from the pile of bones, exchanged a look with Legolas, and fit it in the hole. The lock clicked, and the sound of grinding stone preceded the door sliding sideways. Inside was a square chamber, fourteen by fourteen feet, with an altar set against the back wall. A single, unadorned chest sat on top.

Aragorn set his torch in an empty wall sconce while Legolas used his to light two others. An orange glow filled the room, casting their large shadows against the walls and ceiling. Legolas secured his torch on a wall mount and then moved to join Aragorn, who was standing before the altar and studying the chest. A frown tugged at the man’s mouth. “That looks like Black Speech.”

Legolas looked at the runes carved into the rim of the case, and his brows furrowed. “It is.” Neither of them could read it, though Gandalf would be able to. What hadn’t the wizard told them about this errand?

Aragorn exchanged a wary look with him. “A weapon the Enemy wants…”

“Nay, Aragorn, it is not that.” Legolas put a comforting hand on his shoulder, knowing full well his friend’s feelings regarding his lineage and Isildur’s failure. “The Ring was lost, not stowed away. I do not know what is inside this chest, but Gandalf would not lie. We seek an obsidian stone, not a ring.”

A muscle in Aragorn’s cheek twitched, but he nodded slowly. Taking a deep breath, the Ranger reached out and flipped the latch. The rusted hinges creaked as the lid arched open, and for a moment neither spoke, for Aragorn’s fear was unfounded, but Legolas felt a surge of his own. Laid upon a raised platform level with the box’s rim was a black, double terminated crystal. It was a little longer than the width of a grown man’s palm, and an inch thick. Firelight glinted off its sharp, faceted edges and reflected in the pyramidal ends as though something alive and sinister simmered within.

“Well,” Aragorn said, breaking the silence. “We’ve found it. Now we must decide what to do with it.”

Legolas stared at the crystal. He could not say why the mere sight of it repulsed him, for its aura was dormant. Perhaps it was merely the Black Speech runes it had been encased in that set the elf’s nerves on edge.

“I do not like it, Aragorn. It would be better if it remained buried.”

The Ranger sighed. “I agree, yet the Enemy knows of its existence and obviously suspects its location. Better for Gandalf to hide it somewhere else.”

“But did not Gandalf’s instructions say not to touch it?” Legolas’s jaw clenched in frustration. “Yet he is not here, and if we wait, the orcs may find us and it.” Whatever intent this thing possessed, he did not want to see it fall into evil hands.

Aragorn’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We have no choice then.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a handkerchief. “The chest is too big to carry, otherwise I would leave it inside, but I also trust Gandalf’s warning, and do not intend to touch it directly.”

With that, the Ranger draped the cloth over his hand and used it to pinch the crystal between his fingers. As soon as he lifted it, however, something beneath the platform clicked. Aragorn froze.

Legolas whipped his head around as stone behind them shifted, and the door began sliding back into place. The elf ran toward it, though how he expected to stall the heavy slab was beyond him. Little did it matter, for the door thudded shut just before he reached it. His hands searched along the crease for purchase, but the exit was sealed tight. A distant roar prickled his ears then, and Legolas stiffened, eyes widening. Aragorn looked up as the noise grew louder, and suddenly water was rushing through a hole in the ceiling and down upon the man’s head.

Aragorn staggered backward in surprise and almost slipped under the deluge, but Legolas caught his arm and hauled him back toward the door. The man sputtered and shook water out of his eyes, looking around in bewilderment. Water cascaded down from the opening in the ceiling and splashed across the floor. The torch closest to the waterfall was doused, but the other three were out of reach, their light clearly showing when the sloshing water began to pool as it filled each corner.

Freezing water soaked through Legolas’s leggings and lapped about his ankles. He whirled back to the door, hands scrambling across stone without care. The coarse, porous rock nicked his knuckles and fingertips as he frantically tried to pry the slab open. Yet it did not budge. He vaguely noticed Aragorn working just as fervently, but the Ranger was also having no luck. Legolas’s heart thundered in his chest, sending blood roaring through his ears as loudly as the gushing underground stream.

“Rhaich!” he cursed, and smacked the wall. The water now pooled around their shins, sloshing in a violent current as it was fed by the cascade. Legolas met Aragorn’s grim gaze; they were trapped.

Chapter Text

The water was frigid, sending barbs of ice stabbing through Aragorn’s skin and burrowing into his marrow. He was already soaked from the cascade dumping on his head, his clothes heavy and waterlogged, hair dripping around his face. As far as he could tell, the door was sealed tight, and there was no way they’d be able to open it by force.

Legolas whipped his gaze around the chamber, his entire body rigid with tension. Aragorn could imagine how horrific the notion of drowning underground would be for an elf. Not that it was any easier for him to swallow. He sloshed through the rising water toward the altar, skirting around the gushing deluge, and pried open the false bottom inside the box. If he could figure out the mechanism that had sprung the trap, perhaps he could find a way to reverse it. It had obviously been some kind of counterweight spring, so that when Aragorn removed the crystal, the subtle change in weight had triggered the doors. If only Gandalf had been with them! Perhaps the wizard would have suspected such a snare, or had a spell to disarm it. Alas, rueing his decision would not help them now.

Aragorn leaned over to inspect the altar itself, a block of stone with melon-shaped bulges at the bottom, which the rising water was quickly covering as it reached up to his thighs. He ran his hands along the stone, trying to feel for any inconsistencies or potential levers. Surely the engineers of this complex trap would have built a safety release in case they accidentally trapped themselves. His foot slipped on something and Aragorn splashed chest-deep into the water. Hands suddenly gripped his arms and hauled him upright again, bracing him as he regained his balance. He looked over at Legolas’s tight expression. The elf didn’t say it, but Aragorn could see the glimmer of fear in his eyes. The water was quickly approaching their waists and completely submerged the altar. What were the chances the pressure would break down the door? Before or after they drowned?

“Aragorn…”

He reached up and grabbed his friend’s arm. “We are not defeated yet.”

Legolas’s eyes hardened, and he gave a sharp nod.

“There must be a release lever,” Aragorn continued. Because if there wasn’t, all hope was lost. “Check the rear wall.”

Legolas moved to do so, and Aragorn turned back to the altar. The waterfall pouring out of the ceiling inches from him splashed his face as the surface of the flood rose to meet it. His body was shivering violently now while sensation gradually seeped from his extremities, causing his fingers to knock clumsily against the stone as he frantically sought their salvation. When the water reached his breast, Aragorn was forced to dive under, and the shock of ice that enveloped his head nearly drove the air from his lungs. But he held it in and attempted to see through the dark water.

The pressure in his chest increased, and he pushed his way back to the surface, coming up under the cascade. He kicked out from under it and gasped in air as he brushed plastered hair away from his eyes. Now he was treading water. With a start, Aragorn whipped his gaze toward the torches. If the water extinguished the last of their meager light, they would most certainly be lost. He swam across the small chamber and snatched a torch from the wall sconce. There was a short rim near the ceiling, so Aragorn heaved himself up and rammed the end of the wooden dowel into it. He managed to save the second torch but the third was quickly swallowed. Failing orange light flickered across the surface of the water like shimmering oil.

Aragorn dove down toward the altar again, panic threatening to overwhelm him. Four more feet and the chamber would be completely flooded. He flailed in the darkness, hands nearly frozen so that when he brushed against a lip in the stone, he barely felt it. Aragorn grasped and tugged, but couldn’t bend his fingers to get a solid grip. Air bubbles escaped his lips with his efforts, and when his lungs began to burn he fled for the surface again.

Fists tangled in his collar and held him afloat as he sputtered. Twisting around, his eyes met sad blue ones. “Savo hîdh nen gurth,” Legolas murmured, wishing them peace in death.

Aragorn coughed. “No, Legolas. There’s a catch at the…base of the altar…” Water sluiced into his mouth, cutting off his words. “On the back side. I…can’t grip it.” In fact, his entire body was almost numb now, and he was struggling to tread water.

The despair in the elf’s eyes was quickly replaced with determination. Legolas sucked in a deep breath and then disappeared beneath the surface, leaving Aragorn to reach desperately for the wall to hold himself up. Two more feet of breathing space left. Water lapped at the torches, slowly drowning them. Aragorn craned his neck around, scanning for Legolas, but couldn’t spot him. The elf could probably hold his breath longer than a man could, but certainly not indefinitely.

Aragorn closed his eyes and tipped his head back to half-float. His life had never taken the road of ease and safety, and there had been many times when he’d faced death and survived. None had seemed quite as hopeless as this one though. That he had dragged his friend into this wretched place to die as well was even worse. Would Gandalf find their bodies, and then the stone currently wrapped in Aragorn’s pocket? Or would the orcs find them instead, and thus get their prize despite his efforts? He hoped their troubles wouldn’t be for naught. But what would become of Gondor now that the line of kings had finally failed? Aragorn had never relished his future and destiny, but now that it would never come to pass, he felt a pang of regret for those who were depending on him.

The water ebbed up around his cheeks and pricked at the corners of his eyes. Aragorn took one last breath, futile as it was, and sank as the water sloshed over him and lapped up to cover the ceiling.

Legolas felt along the base of the stone where Aragorn said the secret latch was located. The man had been white as a sheet and shaking violently from the cold. Temperature extremes didn’t bother elves as much, though Legolas definitely felt the biting chill. It pierced his skin and attempted to claw through his veins. He pushed past the icy pain. If he failed, they would both die.

How long had he been holding his breath? He felt the strain, but it wasn’t debilitating yet. Legolas ran his hands along the altar, probing for the catch. He jerked when suddenly the faint light winked out, plunging him into complete darkness.

No. If the torches had been doused, the chamber must be completely flooded, and Aragorn…

Legolas frantically grasped at the rock. He couldn’t see! Precious air slipped from his lips in a flurry of bubbles, and he flinched at the harsh, freezing liquid that washed down his throat. Ai, Valar, please.

Then his fingers stubbed against a sharp protrusion, one that seemed a little smoother than naturally formed stone. Forcing himself to focus despite the fiery bursts in his brain, Legolas managed to grip the catch and tug upward. Rock grated against granite, and suddenly the stagnant water became a current that yanked him sideways and spun him around. More air escaped his lungs as he gasped in surprise. He flailed his arms in search of something to grab hold of, either a wall or Aragorn. Though the Ranger was nearby, Legolas couldn’t see him, trapped alone in an eddy of blackness.

His shoulder struck rock, which whipped him around and swept him into a narrow channel. He thought perhaps he was being carried down, but how could one tell up from down in an abyss such as this? Oblivion pulsed at the edges of his awareness, and just when Legolas thought it would swallow him whole, his head broke the surface and he gasped in blessed air. Then he was dragged under again, thrust back and forth against solid obstacles as the raging flux flung him about like a rag doll. At one point he knocked against something more pliable—Aragorn? Legolas snatched blindly for his friend, fingers grasping slick fabric before being wrenched away again.

Suddenly the river thinned out in a rush, and Legolas found himself sprawled on the ground, coughing up water. He rolled onto his side and expelled the rest of the liquid from his lungs, then simply lay there panting. As his breathing gradually slowed, Legolas began to see a faint light filling whatever space he was in. He blinked rapidly, frozen beads of water falling from his lashes. A green hue bathed rock walls in a soft incandescence, which seemed to emanate from stalagmite crystals protruding from the ground in pyramidal pointed starbursts.

The sound of hacking drew Legolas’s attention behind him where he spotted Aragorn a few feet away. The Ranger lay curled in a tight ball, his frame wracked with shivers interspersed with heavy coughs. Legolas pushed himself onto his hands and knees and crawled over.

“Aragorn.” Gripping his friend’s trembling shoulder, Legolas shook him gently.

The man’s eyelids fluttered, and grey eyes lolled up to meet the elf’s. “It-t wo-rked.”

Legolas regarded Aragorn grimly. Yes, they had survived drowning, but now the Ranger was suffering from hypothermia, not to mention he might have been injured in that impromptu river ride. Legolas himself felt a myriad of bruises forming up and down his body, but he was not seriously hurt. He glanced around the cave the escape channel had deposited them in. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the muted luminescence, Legolas noted the tunnel was quite wide and large, lit as far as he could see by the strange, glowing, calcareous formations. He spotted two of the torches, but the ground was wet with an inch of standing water, so there would be no lighting them. With a resigned sigh, Legolas knew they had to find another place to rest and hopefully make a fire.

“Are you injured?” he asked, turning back to Aragorn. “Anything broken?”

Aragorn furrowed his brow, and Legolas waited patiently while the man tested his limbs. A slight grimace scrunched his face, but otherwise his assessment seemed to find nothing grievous.

“I’m alright.”

Legolas felt a measure of relief, and scooped his arm under the Ranger’s. “On your feet then. We must find dryer ground.”

The man groaned, but managed to stumble upright and lean heavily on Legolas. The elf looked up and down the tunnel, unsure which way to go. One path could lead them deeper in while the other could lead them to safety, and if he chose wrongly, it would go poorly for his human friend. Legolas closed his eyes and focused his keen senses. He heard trickling water like the tinkle of glass chimes, and smelled mildew clinging to the damp cave walls. None of which gave him a clue as to the right direction. Gritting his teeth, Legolas started shuffling Aragorn down the passage, hoping it would take them out. The weight of the earth pressing in around him made the elf tense, and were he alone he might have succumbed to the agonizing anxiety. But with Aragorn to think about, Legolas kept his levelheadedness and continued to push the Ranger.

Their waterlogged clothes caused them both to sag under the extra weight, and several times Legolas had to hoist Aragorn’s arm higher over his shoulder. But at least movement kept the man awake, and he stubbornly refused to collapse. The jagged crystals lit their path like eerie, silent sentries, and their pale fluorescent light cast a spectral pall over the man and elf. At times when Legolas glanced at Aragorn to see how he was holding up, the ghastly green tinge to the man’s face made him appear wraith-like. That and his soggy state filled Legolas’s mind with the visage of a ghoulish corpse, an image he could very well have done without.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Aragorn asked, voice gruff from coughing.

“Do you?” Legolas retorted. They had passed a handful of smaller side tunnels, but he had kept to the larger road. Ai, what he wouldn’t give for stars to map his way south. As soon as they escaped these wretched caves, Legolas intended to leave Fornost behind and not look back. Gandalf could have his prize, and then the Mirkwood prince could return home to face more preferable dangers—such as spiders and wolves.

“Sorry for this,” Aragorn said a moment later.

Legolas shook his head. “It’s not your fault, mellon nîn. And had I not been here, what would you have done? Sprouted gills to breathe underwater with?”

Aragorn managed to shoot him a wry look. “I should not have removed the stone, as Gandalf warned.”

“Gandalf isn’t here,” Legolas pointed out. “We could not have known the consequences of taking the crystal—or of leaving it.” Maybe the first orcs would have been caught in the trap and drowned, but the others would have eventually broken through the door and retrieved the stone. Legolas felt the Ranger sigh.

“You are right. Yet I can’t help but wonder what future decisions I may make for ill. To endanger myself is one thing, and to bring you along is pain enough, but when a kingdom is mine to rule…how can I be sure what I do is right?”

Legolas glanced at the would-be king, noting the distant look in his grey eyes. Aragorn was not so much asking for an answer as he was voicing his doubts. “That such worries trouble you is sign enough you will be a good king, Aragorn. You made the best decision you could with the information you had. No one can ask more.” His countenance darkened with memory. “I have made battle calls that led fellow elves to death. After the first…I blamed myself, doubted my abilities as a captain. My father told me that if I had the control I imagined, I should take up the Mirkwood crown and he could sail for Valinor, as his rule would be obsolete.”

Aragorn’s lips twitched. “Thranduil said that?”

Legolas snorted. “He was not admitting weakness on his part, but pointing out mine. And he was right. I have not the foresight to see all ends, but none do. Not even Gandalf.”

The Ranger didn’t respond for a moment, but he seemed to straighten a bit more. “Well, since Gandalf did have some inkling of how dangerous this errand was, I say we blame him for this mess.”

A smirk lifted Legolas’s mouth. “And because he is late.”

They both paused, heads turning to survey ahead and behind, as though their gibes might summon forth the wizard from the ether to rebuke them. When only the sound of dripping water returned, they continued their slogging march. Legolas held back a sigh; it was worth hoping for anyway.

The stalagmite formations began to dwindle, reducing the eerie yet precious light. Legolas slowed his pace, wary of venturing into complete darkness. Yet they had come so far, it would be a deep blow to have to turn around and backtrack. Still, was that a whiff of fresher air he detected up ahead? Perhaps he should have grabbed one of the torches, not that it would have been dry enough to light at this point.

“Has my brain been addled or are those crates ahead?” Aragorn asked.

Legolas stiffened. Had he been so distracted by his fear that a human’s eyes had spotted something before he did? Narrowing his gaze, he attempted to pierce the shroud of darkness. Yes, there were crates, and rope and tools. He quickened his steps until they emerged into a larger cavern that appeared to have been under construction. And praise the Valar, there were dry torches set in a rack!

Legolas leaned Aragorn against the wall and strode to the dowels. The light from the stalagmites in the passage behind them was wan, but just enough for an elf to distinguish the shapes of the implements before him. He found a flint and struck it against the old linen. A spark quickly ignited to a raging flame, banishing the blackness to the edges of the cave. Legolas lit all six torches, heedless of what slumbering entities he might disturb and concerned only with finding comfort in the light.

“It appears the men of Fornost had been constructing additional vaults,” Aragorn said as he hobbled closer to the fire.

Legolas set about—now that he could see clearly—gathering up as many loose rocks as he could find to create a fire ring. The torches were a blessed relief, but they needed a concentrated pit if they were to warm their chilled bodies. Even Legolas with his elven stamina moved stiffly and felt minute tremors running through his muscles.

Aragorn examined some of the crates and then took an axe to begin chopping up the lids. He stacked the broken wood in the center of the ring, which Legolas then set a torch to. With that immediate need taken care of, Legolas turned his scrutinizing attention on the Ranger. He had not been able to check for wounds sharp rocks may have caused, and in the chilled dark could not distinguish damp water from blood. Now, however, Legolas was able to see a handful of colorful scrapes on Aragorn’s face, though thankfully no apparent gashes.

The Ranger shrugged out of his leather jerkin and outer shirt, draping them over a rack of tools, which he pushed closer to the fire. He then knelt down to unpack his supplies, and Legolas caught the wince that crossed Aragorn’s face when he bent his knee.

“You’re injured,” he said, moving to kneel beside the man.

“I suspect we both are.” Aragorn gave Legolas an appraising look as well. “Our supplies are useless though. Can you search the crates? A construction crew should at least have had bandages on hand for accidents.”

Legolas stood again, hoping that was true.

“Take your tunic off first,” Aragorn instructed. “You may boast of elves resistance to cold, but you’re as pale as the moon.”

Legolas barely held back an indignant snort. “You look worse, mellon nîn.”

Aragorn paused to skewer the elf with an authoritative glower that would serve him well as king one day. “By all means, shall we extend your competitive nature to which one of us shall drop from exposure first? I do not think that is a title you wish to win.”

Legolas huffed, but removed his tunic and hung it in front of the fire ring. In just his thin undershirt, which clung to him like a cold, wet web, he felt a fresh chill race along his skin, yet he refused to let Aragorn see his discomfort. He searched the crates, and eventually found a supply of bandages. When he returned to the Ranger, the man was shaking his head as though to clear his vision, and his shivers had increased now that he was garbed in little more than a light cotton undershirt and breeches. Legolas prayed he would not be struck with one of those debilitating human illnesses because of it.

“Let me tend your wounds,” he said, sitting down beside Aragorn and laying out the bandages.

Aragorn angled a humoring look at him. “The leg is bruised only, but I think something sliced my arm. In truth, I barely feel it now, though I remember it happening.” He shifted slightly to give Legolas full view of his bicep, which did bear a laceration. The edges of his torn shirt were tinged pink, but the wound had not bled much since the initial cut. Legolas wrapped the arm, which was the most he could do in their current situation. He then looked Aragorn over for any other wounds. Satisfied when he found nothing more than bruises, Legolas leaned back and turned his mind toward their next move.

Aragorn caught his wrist unexpectedly and held the elf’s palm up, frowning at the assortment of nicks covering his hand. Legolas tilted his head at them. He’d forgotten they were there, which perhaps meant he was more chilled than he cared to admit.

“I wish I had a salve for this,” Aragorn said regretfully.

Legolas pulled his hand away. “A minor irritation for the time being. Rest now, Aragorn. Then we can decide what to do next.”

The Ranger gave him a piercing look. “You should take some rest as well, Legolas. We both nearly perished in that trap, and both need to recover. Don’t worry about a watch,” he added quickly when the elf’s eyes had begun to narrow in protest. Aragorn scanned the cavern, long abandoned by a people that had fled their city. “We are alone down here.”

Legolas shifted uncomfortably, senses coiled tight in anticipation. He dearly hoped that last part was true.

Chapter Text

Aragorn jerked awake, and for a hazy moment forgot where he was. Shadows danced on the walls before him, great writhing figures that seemed to press against an invisible boundary to get at him. He reached for his knife, only to find his jerkin and belt gone, along with the sheath. A low fire crackled next to him, and torches braced in a stand fluttered a couple feet away on his other side. The rest of his clothes hung from a tool rack in front of the flames. Right, the booby trap and the water, then trudging through the damp caves before they found this abandoned construction site.

Looking around, Aragorn spotted Legolas reclining against one of the crates, and was glad to see eyes glazed in elven sleep, albeit an uneasy one as the occasional twitch suggested. The elf had set his bow on the ground next to him, along with a few arrows from his quiver. Any sounds of something approaching and Legolas would be up and shooting—probably before he was fully awake. Aragorn therefore shifted quietly toward the clothes. He lifted his tunic from the rack and found it not only dry, but warm. How long had he been asleep?

He put his shirts back on, basking in the heat that seeped into his skin and soothed some of his aching muscles. The beating he had taken in the underground river would be smarting for a while, but he’d had worse. Aragorn glanced at Legolas again, debating whether to wake him. He didn’t know how long the elf had been sleeping; likely he’d attempted to keep watch regardless of Aragorn’s words before exhaustion took hold. They could wait a little longer, he decided. There was no telling time down here away from the sky, and who knew where the orc pack was now, if they had infiltrated the citadel, or even the secret chamber. Better the two of them regained their full strength before deciding their next course of action—mainly, finding a way out.

Sitting back down, Aragorn reached into one of the pockets and pulled out the handkerchief with the obsidian gem wrapped inside. He carefully unfolded a corner of the cloth, exposing one pyramidal point. What manner of powers did it possess that Sauron would want for himself? Was it an evil device? Or could it be wielded for any purpose, such as aiding Aragorn and Legolas now?

The Ranger sighed, and covered up the crystal once more. He had no idea what it was meant to do, and he dare not try to find out. Tucking the item safely away, Aragorn turned his attention to his pack. The food and herb supply had been ruined, which was a sour blow, but as long as they weren’t lost in the caves for more than a few days, they’d be alright on that count. Although, if Legolas remained trapped down here away from sun and stars and fresh air for that long, Aragorn suspected starvation would be the least pressing problem for the elf.

He repacked his bag with the items that were salvageable once dried, and added the bandages from the crates Legolas had found. He also added dirty linen and a caster of oil to maintain the torches. Then Aragorn rose quietly and retrieved the elf’s tunic, which was also dry and warm from hanging in front of the fire. Moving quietly, he approached his dozing friend, placing one foot on the bow lest Legolas attempt to shoot him, and draped the heated tunic like a blanket over the elf’s shoulders. As suspected, Legolas flinched as he roused from sleep.

“Prestad?” he murmured, asking if there was trouble.

Aragorn smiled ruefully. “No. Sorry for waking you.”

Legolas looked around sharply, brow creasing in frustration. “Ai, how long have I slept? It is impossible to tell in this wretched place.”

Aragorn grimaced in sympathy. “Long enough for everything to dry, so at least we shall no longer be wet and miserable.”

“Small blessings,” the elf muttered as he sat up, frowning at the shirt that pooled in his lap.

“This passage should lead us out,” Aragorn said encouragingly. “Men had to come in here somehow, probably through that second shaft we bypassed upon first entering the tunnels.”

Nodding with grim resolution, Legolas slipped his tunic on, and then gathered up his arrows to put back in his quiver. Aragorn scuffed dirt over the smoldering fire ring, putting it out. Then he grabbed two torches from the rack and handed one to Legolas. With their spirits raised a fraction, they once again braved the black corridors in the depths of the North Downs. They came upon more side tunnels that bore signs of exploration: carved notches in the walls to hold torches, picks and hammers and other assorted tools. Had the city of Fornost endured, the Númenóreans could very well have developed multiple hidden vaults, each with their own mechanism for executing trespassers.

Unfortunately, while signs that men had navigated these passages meant the two lost travelers were heading in the right direction, the winding, intersecting tunnels were frustrating, as they couldn’t be sure which turn would lead them straight to the citadel, and which wrapped back around. There were markings on the cave walls, much as Legolas had done to the crossbow trap, but neither of them could decipher which symbols meant the way out.

When they took one shaft that led them around in a circle for twenty minutes before depositing them back to a juncture they had passed already, both Aragorn and Legolas halted in exasperation.

“We shall be wandering around down here for an age,” the elf grumbled.

Aragorn sagged against the curve of the rock wall and rubbed his forehead. “This is tedious,” he agreed. His body ached and he wanted nothing more than to sit down and not move for several hours. “Alright,” he said, pulling himself together. “Let’s at least not make the same mistake twice.” Bending down, Aragorn searched the cave floor for a sharp rock. He found a ruddy-brown one and moved to the juncture to make his own scores across the granite.

Legolas watched with a tight expression. Yes, they still had to rely on trial and error, but at least they could mark which tunnels were dead-ends or roundabouts so they wouldn’t stumble into them a second time. They resumed their hike, and when they came to the shaft that had led them backwards, Aragorn scratched a circle with a line through it at the entrance. That way, just in case another passage brought them back to this intersection, they wouldn’t end up completely turned around.

Legolas suddenly stiffened, head jerking to the side.

Aragorn whipped his torch that direction, though the meager light revealed nothing, and the elf appeared to be listening rather than relying on his sight. “What is it?” he whispered.

“I heard footsteps.”

“Orcs?”

Legolas’s brows knit together. “No, they are too soft, like scuffing instead of tramping.”

That was not very comforting. “I may have been wrong about us being alone down here,” Aragorn admitted.

Legolas flicked a scowl at him before snapping back to focus on the darkness behind them. “I suggest we not stay to meet it.”

“Sound advice.” Aragorn regarded the other two tunnel options, as Legolas remained engrossed in listening. He wondered why his friend always seemed to defer to his leadership. The elf prince had seen more centuries than Aragorn could ever hope to, had commanded Mirkwood patrols, and was probably better suited for making tactical decisions than Aragorn was. Yet, Legolas rarely stepped up to take the lead in their travels together. Was it some intentional attempt to get the Ranger used to command in preparation for his future kingship? Something the elf was in collusion with Gandalf over?

Aragorn swallowed a sigh. His decisions had led them to this mess, and while Legolas’s words earlier held wisdom, they did not alleviate the man’s guilt. And here he was again, faced with a choice and too little information to know which was the right one. Well, there was nothing for it. Taking a deep breath, he chose the middle passage.

Every few yards Legolas would halt and listen carefully. Aragorn couldn’t detect the soft footfalls, but he trusted the elf’s senses. When Legolas stopped short and whipped his head around, shoulders going rigid, Aragorn’s hand went to his sheathed sword.

“Is it close?”

“No.” Legolas’s tone made it sound as though he was perturbed by this, which Aragorn did not understand. Better the creature or whatever it was decided they were not worthy prey. Aragorn waited for a frustratingly long moment without speaking before Legolas tore his gaze away from the shadows. “It does not follow anymore.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, noting the elf’s still taut bearing. They needed to get out of here.

As they traversed the tunnels, Aragorn paid close attention to the markings the Númenóreans had left. Based on their own trial and error, he began to divine what each symbol signified, and therefore believed he’d found the directions to lead them out.

“Take heart, mellon nîn, you shall soon breathe free air again.”

Sure enough, the tunnels began to have a more refined shape and well-trodden floor, as opposed to the lesser explored shafts deeper under the hill. Aragorn’s spirits lifted at the prospect of escaping the caves; he hadn’t realized how oppressive they were to him as well. The path was clear now, one single passage stretching toward freedom. There were no side tunnels to lead them astray, only one narrow crawlspace with wooden planks secured across the opening to bar entrance.

Perhaps because his mind was still running like rapids, because he was not expecting it, or simply that he was relying on the elf’s senses instead of his own, but Aragorn did not feel a prickle of foreboding until it was too late. As he passed the barricaded side passage, something plowed through the flimsy wood slats and tackled him to the ground. He landed face-first in the dirt, a heavy weight slamming on top of his back and knocking the wind from his lungs.

“Aragorn!”

Gasping for breath, he tried to buck the creature off, but one taloned forefoot curled four-inch claws into his pack. The pinky talon caught Aragorn in the lower back with a sting of pain, though not intense enough to be very deep. He heard a whiff of air and the sound of something hard bludgeoning flesh, and the pressure on his back lifted. Aragorn rolled over, still trying to suck in air and inflate his shocked lungs.

Legolas swung his torch a second time, catching the reptilian beast in the jaw with a resounding thud. Its head snapped back and it stumbled away. Legolas flung the torch aside and drew his bow. The twine sang a split second later as an arrow flew true…only to splinter into several pieces when it struck upright quills protruding from the creature’s back. Like an armored coat of spears, the beast’s entire hide was protected in dozens of barbs. Scales covered its legs, neck, and head. Its tail was the only naked part of its body, pinkish like a rat’s.

Aragorn staggered to his feet and drew his sword. He had never seen a dragon like this—for he was almost sure it was a great serpent, though it had no wings and was more bulge than serpentine. Like a bull, it nearly filled the diameter of the cave. Steam puffed from two nubby nostrils as the beast regained its footing and narrowed one ocher eye on the side of its saurian head at them. Legolas loosed another arrow, but it clinked off the dragon’s cheek and clattered somewhere in the darkness beyond. Aragorn realized grimly that the beast was currently positioned between them and the exit.

It shuffled its bulky weight around, talons and tail scraping through dirt softly. If this was the creature Legolas had heard behind them—most likely—it must have known which tunnels to take in order to cut them off. And if its hide was as strong and impenetrable as its winged cousins…

Aragorn tightened his grip on his sword. Weak spots, they needed to find weak spots.

“The tail,” Legolas said in a low voice, knowing the Ranger’s thoughts well.

“That will not be a death blow,” he replied.

“But perhaps enough to convince it we are not worth the trouble.”

True. Aragorn sidestepped right. The dragon’s eye followed his movement, and the spicules along its back vibrated with threatening menace. He hesitated. How was he supposed to get around that porcupine mantle? If it weren’t for the fact that running back into the tunnels would get them lost and make them easier prey, Aragorn would flee from a confrontation. But the exit lay ahead and they had to reach it.

The dragon made a slurping sound, its jaw working, and Aragorn thought it was preparing to breathe fire. So when it opened its mouth, he ducked, expecting a burst of heat, when instead the creature just spat at him. The Ranger was briefly confused at the pathetic show of prowess; however, as soon as the saliva splattered the wall and ground behind him, it began to sizzle and smoke.

Great, acidic spit.

Aragorn scooped up one of the discarded torches and brandished it in a wide arc, trying to herd the dragon back to the shaft it had come from. Eyes gleaming, the beast lashed out, jaws chomping around the flaming dowel and swallowing the flames. Shadows plunged down upon them like a cascade, barely held at bay by the single torch left flickering on the ground. Aragorn jerked back before his arm was next or he got splattered with caustic spittle. Then the darkness began to diffuse as a subtle orange luminescence started in the beast’s belly and extended outward like cracks of molten lava.

Aragorn’s eyes widened and he dove to the ground a second before the dragon belched out a stream of fire. Scorching flames soared overhead, fluttering his hair with their hot waves. So it breathed fire too.

Aragorn rolled to the side and quickly looked around for Legolas. The elf had also dodged under the stream, and once it petered out, he was back on his feet and firing an arrow at the beast’s open maw. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough, and the dragon snapped its head aside so that the arrow struck harmlessly against its shoulder. The creature roared in response, a high-pitched screech that shook sediment loose from the ceiling. Aragorn ducked his head to avoid getting dust in his eyes. The tunnel was now awash with light as the broken wood planks and patches of saliva-coated dirt burned with the remnants of the beast’s fire.

Legolas flipped his bow back over his shoulder and drew his twin knives instead, sweeping them back and forth to draw the dragon’s attention. “Oso adel ten!”

Aragorn barely resisted an eye roll; how was he supposed to get behind it? By Legolas providing a distraction, apparently. The elf lunged forward, slashing his daggers at the dragon’s face, close enough to antagonize it, but not enough to make contact. There was no reason to risk damage to his blades from the invulnerable scales, nor getting spit on. The beast snarled and snapped at Legolas, taking a step toward him. Legolas backed up toward the side passage, striking out repeatedly to keep the serpent fixated on him.

Aragorn gritted his teeth, but skirted the wall as unassuming as possible until the beast’s flank was to him. Then he leaped forward, launching over the tail and pivoting as soon as he was on the other side. Whirling his sword around, Aragorn brought it down upon the exposed tail. Though vulnerable, it was made of tougher stuff than it looked, and the blade only notched a chunk out of the pale flesh.

The dragon jerked away with a screech, slamming into the side of the cave wall. Legolas darted around it, narrowly escaping the snap of jaws that tried to snatch the elf. He flipped both blades over his shoulder and back into their sheaths to focus on fleeing. Aragorn scooped up the remaining torch and turned to run. Another shriek shook the shaft, raining down granules from the ceiling. Lumbering footsteps soon followed.

Aragorn and Legolas sprinted down the tunnel, barely having time to spot the special markings on the walls and dart down the correct fork. They came to the original juncture they had taken upon first entering the underground vault, only from the opposite passage they had ignored in favor of the booby trapped one. But now Aragorn finally knew where they were. A roar belted out on their heels, and they pushed themselves faster. There! The door was in sight!

Legolas reached it first and slipped through the gap. Aragorn rammed his shoulder against the rim as he plowed through next, nearly slipping as he skidded to a stop and whirled around. He and Legolas threw themselves at the door, slamming it shut with a resounding thud. Bracing it with their shoulders, they looked around for something to barricade the door with.

An impact vibration jarred through the slab, momentarily distracting them. They both pressed themselves harder against the door, fighting the force of the dragon attempting to break through. Aragorn heard an angry huff from the other side, followed by the grating sound of claws gouging down granite. Where was the key? Maybe he could lock the door and it would hold.

A throaty burp resonated behind the slab, and a whoosh and crackle of air suggested the creature was venting more than frustration. Flipping around to press his back to the door, Aragorn sheathed his sword and patted his pockets down in search of the key he’d first used to unlock the underground vaults. He immediately froze, spine going rigid. “Legolas.”

Upon noting his expression, the elf twisted to face the secret panel of the outer mural. The relief wall hung wide open, and was filled with the broad, hulking figures of several orcs. Legolas threw Aragorn a wry grimace. Of course things could always get worse.

Chapter Text

Legolas flicked his eyes briefly to the ceiling. Ai, Elbereth, why? He heard a snort and chitter from one of the smaller orcs, while the larger Gundabad breed made jeering grunts.

“What have we here?”

“Little lost lambs.”

“Fresh meat,” another gurgled gleefully. Their deep, guttural voices raked Legolas’s ears like wire mesh. Beyond that though, still behind the door his back was pressed against, came the softer snuffling of the dragon. To be tortured or eaten…

Well, there was only one solution, it seemed, one Legolas thought he would never again do willingly. He glanced at Aragorn, meeting the man’s gaze and canting his head toward the door. The Ranger’s mouth nearly disappeared in a tight line; he was not fond of such a plan either.

The Gundabad captain stepped forward. At six-seven, he towered over the other orcs, his broad, spike-armored shoulders supporting a blocky bald head. He wore a motley sash of teeth, claws, and antlers: the spoils of hunting. There were a few humanoid finger bones as well. “Leaving so soon?” he leered.

Neither Legolas nor Aragorn broke eye contact to acknowledge the orc. They continued their silent exchange until Aragorn gave a subtle nod and rolled his eyes. Legolas’s mouth quirked wryly, and with that they yanked the heavy door open, flinging themselves away at the last moment just as a large and very angry dragon came barreling through.

The orcs gaped dumbly, stunned into stupor while the dragon’s head whipped back and forth to take in the increased number of intruders. Legolas and Aragorn remained still so as not to draw its attention. Sure enough, one of the orcs finally roused, and with a screech, raised a rusted axe. The dragon’s amber eyes flared. It made a slurping sound before shooting a stream of acidic spit at the orc. As the corrosive mucus splattered his face, he screamed and staggered back, frantically wiping at his smoking eyes. Enraged, several other orcs charged, and the chamber filled with shrieks and roars as yrch and beast clashed in a flurry of gnashing teeth and clattering iron.

The orc captain snapped an infuriated glare at the elf and man. “Seize them!”

Legolas scrambled to his feet and made for the tunnels. He couldn’t believe that after working so hard to escape them, he was running straight back into the darkness. Except it wasn’t that dark, for the dragon’s fiery explosions against the door had caught several of the wall torches, filling the cavern with writhing orange flickers and shadows. Aragorn’s feet pounded alongside Legolas as they darted down the left passage toward the booby traps.

“Ci benm!” the man groused as they deftly dodged around the framework of spears hanging from the ceiling.

Legolas smirked; yes, one could argue they truly were insane. But they needed to thin the herd if they were to have a chance at escaping with their lives.

A moment later the sound of splintering wood signaled the orcs had barreled through the benign trap. The crossbow was ahead though. Legolas spotted the scores he’d left on stone to mark its location, and his keen eyes caught the glint of fishing line. He leaped over it, Aragorn right behind. Shortly after there was a snap and click, followed by a pained screech. The orc captain bellowed his rage.

They reached the second juncture where they knew of at least two trip stones. Inwardly cringing, Legolas headed for the dank, mildewy tunnel on the right. Despite its foreboding air, it would do them worse to run down the other and reach the dead end of a barricaded vault. Though he wished there was a way to lure all the orcs inside there and let them drown.

The darkness of that second shaft pulsed like a torpid heartbeat, fingers reaching out to snag them. Legolas paused at the brink, hesitant to plunge fully into it; he would rather face the horde on their heels. Drawing his bow, he strung an arrow and let it fly back through the tunnel. He was rewarded with a high-pitched shriek.

Aragorn skidded to a stop as well, turning to watch as the orcs careened into the wide cavern. Some had brought torches, which served to push the probing shadows back a little further. The man unsheathed his sword as Legolas fired three more arrows, each one striking true. One of the smaller Misty Mountain orcs landed on the right-hand trip stone. Something creaked from above, and two frames holding stakes sharpened to points swung down, one from each side. They crossed each other in the middle, skewering two orcs completely through and catching a third in the arm. The orc sandwich blocked Legolas’s line of sight, so he flipped his bow back over his shoulder in favor of his knives.

As the remaining orcs swarmed around the first trap, one of them triggered the second. A great rumble sounded through the cavern and the ground shook before crumbling beneath the orc’s foot. It and two companions suddenly disappeared into an abyss that appeared along the left side of the cave, cutting off access to the vault that had held the magic stone.

Legolas slashed at the closest survivor, a puny orc bowed to half his own height. He drove his blades crosswise into the monster’s chest. With a choked gasp, the fire left its eyes, and as Legolas wrenched his knives free, he kicked the filth away so it tipped backward over the chasm. He spun to meet the next attacker, heart jolting when he saw the giant Gundabad captain bearing down on Aragorn across the way.

The Ranger lifted his sword to block the blow of a scimitar, and the clang of steel rang out like a trumpet. He tried to slide the blades around to get an opening, but the wide curve of the orc’s weapon prevented such movement. Aragorn parried another strike, but the force knocked him off balance. The orc captain grabbed Aragorn’s shoulder and flung him into the wall. He collided with a grunt before dropping to his hands and knees.

Fury flaring in Legolas, he quickly dispatched the orc in front of him and surged toward the Ranger, but another foul creature leaped from around the hanging spears, barring his way. Legolas slashed at the orc’s throat, slicing through tissue and muscle easily. Viscous black ichor spurted from the jugular.

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas saw the orc captain pick Aragorn up and toss him against the other cave wall. This time in addition to the heavy thud of the man hitting earth, something smaller clinked across stone. Legolas’s keen hearing caught Aragorn sucking in a sharp breath. He was almost too distracted to block a knife aimed for his side, and as it was, a larger Gundabad orc was charging up behind him.

Legolas pivoted and spun, wielding his knives like an extension of his arms. The smaller orc fell in a gurgling heap after being stabbed through the throat, but its giant cousin would not be as easily felled. Its ugly, smudged face sneered as he clubbed Legolas in the side of the head with a heavy arm. Black spots burst across his vision and he staggered back, just managing to bring up his knives in a cross. Steel slammed into them, the force vibrating down the handles through his arms. The orc pressed forward, his bulk propelling Legolas backward and pinning him against the wall. He grunted in pain and vexation. Then his eyes landed on a glittering onyx crystal lying on the ground a few feet from Aragorn. The man was trying to get back on his feet, and Legolas felt a chill of fear at the Ranger’s vulnerable position. But the orc captain was no longer focused on him.

A boot stomped down next to the gem, and the brute bent down to pick it up. His face cracked into a vicious grin as he turned the crystal between stubby fingers. Then he closed his fist around it and glanced at Aragorn, who had finally stumbled upright, sword in hand.

The captain let out a throaty bellow: “Kill them!” More orcs surged forward to converge on Aragorn as the captain began to make his retreat.

Legolas kicked out at the kneecap of the orc holding him. With a grunt, the beast shifted his weight and loosened his hold. Legolas slid one knife free and thrust it forward into the orc’s chest. It roared in response, jerking away and wrenching the dagger from Legolas’s hand when the blade caught on a piece of metal armor. Breathing heavily, the orc snarled and hefted his blade, spittle flying from his panting mouth. Legolas threw up an arm to block a punch, then ducked under and spun around to stab his last knife into the orc’s lower back. Another howl ripped from its harsh throat. Its blade swiped sideways, and Legolas lithely danced away before delivering a final killing blow to the neck. As the orc crumpled, he grabbed the hilt of his first knife and yanked it free of the beast’s chest.

Something slammed into him, knocking Legolas to the ground with enough force to send him sliding toward the edge of the pit. He stopped mere inches from it and threw his knives up again to catch a blade aimed for his heart. Shifting to get his knees under the foul rat straddling him, Legolas bucked, tossing the orc over his head and into the chasm. He failed to hear an immediate thud, assuring him the creatures weren’t likely to climb back out.

Legolas whirled in search of Aragorn then, and was relieved to see the Ranger running his sword through the last orc in the cavern. With a grunt, Aragorn also spun, eyes wide and searching for the next enemy. The two of them were the last ones standing though.

Legolas strode forward. “Aragorn, are you alright?”

The man gave a gruff nod, eyes searching the fallen bodies. His face darkened. “The orc captain took the stone.”

Legolas tensed. No, not after all they’d gone through to secure it. They still did not know the importance of the item, but that only made their need more dire. He bent down to wipe his knives clean on one of the orc’s rags. Straightening, Legolas flipped them back into their sheaths and drew his bow in turn. “Then we shall retrieve it.”

Aragorn met his gaze, chest still rising and falling with exerted breaths. After a moment he calmed himself and nodded resolutely. “Let’s go.”

Once again, they sprinted down the tunnel that would take them out of the bowels of the earth. Legolas listened for sounds of orcs or the dragon as they approached the door, now hanging wide open. He detected silence, save for harsh breathing issuing from the foyer. They slowed their pace to enter cautiously, and found the floor littered with orc corpses. Some had spicules protruding from their bodies like spears, others were charred and still smoking. A few had begun to disintegrate from getting a face-full of acid spit. Legolas held an arrow nocked to his bowstring and scanned the foyer. His gaze landed on the bulging body of the dragon. It lay on its side, chest heaving with slow, labored wheezes. Blood poured from a number of punctures that had managed to get past the armor of spikes—mostly where it seemed the animal had shed lost barbs like a bee’s stinger after jabbing someone.

Legolas kept his arrow trained on the creature as he and Aragorn gave it a wide berth. One ocher eye followed their movement, but it was clouded with pain; the dragon was unlikely to attack them in this state.

Once outside, it took Legolas a second to reorient himself, and then he remembered the way out of the underground ruins. Not that he needed to rely on memory, for the orcs had left a scuffed blackish trail across the dust-smeared floor. He and Aragorn hurried after them. There was no telling how many of their number remained, though it seemed the dragon had done them a great favor and destroyed a good amount.

They finally burst through the outer doors into open space. Legolas spared a moment to inhale deeply of pure, fresh air. It filled his lungs with the crisp coolness of night, for the sun had set some time ago and a smattering of stars peeked through a thin veil of clouds. Even their faint presence made the elf’s heart swell with relief. It was quickly overshadowed, however, when he remembered their task.

Turning around, Legolas vaulted up the side of the grassy knoll that had grown over the citadel, his elven eyes peeled against the darkness. The orcs were not being subtle though, for a great bonfire crackled and spat several meters to the left. Legolas waited in order to scan the troop camped there. Of the fifty he had seen first enter the ruins, perhaps twenty remained. Much more favorable odds.

He descended the hillock swiftly and returned to Aragorn. “The orcs’ camp is a few blocks east. They are not leaving yet.”

“Then we still have time.” Aragorn strode toward their target, sword at the ready. As they drew closer, raucous sounds rose up to greet them, along with swishing shadows and orange firelight flitting across leaves. Legolas tapped the Ranger’s shoulder and indicated a stepped wall that would take them up along the perimeter of the camp but out of sight. They climbed it quickly yet silently, ducking down to their knees at the top.

The orc captain was pacing the ring of fire, one arm raised above his head as he boasted his claim on the crystal. Though small in his meaty hand, the pyramidal ends sticking out from his fist glinted with reflected light.

“Behold! The power of burzum!”

Legolas tensed at the Black Speech. The power of darkness? He did not like the sound of that. He drew his bowstring back, prepared to shoot the Gundabad brute dead before he could activate the gem, but wasn’t sure it was wise to give away their position just yet. A fell aura pulsed from the stone, and a great hush fell over all the orcs. One end of the crystal began to glow with a simmering light, and the air seemed to wobble as a measure of power yanked. The shadows cast by the bonfire suddenly bent the opposite direction, like tides being dragged backward by the current. They ebbed and swelled, melting into a river of fluttering black that ran toward the orc captain holding the obsidian stone.

“Dago hon,” Aragorn hissed for Legolas to kill him.

He drew back the string once more to his ear, only for the arrow to slip from his fingers as a cacophony of screams filled his head. Legolas lurched to the side, shooting out one hand to brace himself while the other dropped his bow and reached up to clutch his temple.

“Legolas!” Aragorn exclaimed, grasping his arm to hold him steady.

“The trees,” he gasped. The trees were wailing in agony, though Legolas could not discern the cause of their pain. He forced his head up to gaze down at the small clearing where the shadows had lifted off the ground like a ribbon of silk and were flowing into the onyx gemstone. The trees’ branches thrashed in distraught throes, wood creaking and leaves rustling. The orcs backed away nervously. Soon their cries became whimpers as the last of the liquid shadows detached from their trunks and were sucked into the stone.

Grinning madly, the orc captain turned the crystal around and pointed the opposite end toward an empty space before him. The stone pulsed again, and then shadows were spilling out the faceted tip, only instead of running in unbound rivulets, the mass pooled in one spot and began to rise, building up like oil filling a mold into a seven-foot blob that appeared to have legs and arms, and perhaps a crown of antlers, though no other distinguishable features.

Aragorn’s grip on Legolas’s arm tightened.

The Gundabad captain walked a half-circle around the entity. “My master will be pleased.”

The shadowy figure did not respond, seemingly shifting in order to scan its surroundings. Though how could it hear or see without ears or eyes?

Swallowing his fear, Legolas picked up his fallen bow and arrow. “We cannot let them keep the stone.”

Aragorn released him with a jerk, as though he hadn’t realized he’d been holding on so tightly. “We are outnumbered, and have no idea what that…thing is down there.”

Legolas studied it with a frown. “We have faced the unknown before. Besides, now seeing what the crystal does, we cannot allow the Enemy to use it.” He did a quick mental calculation of their position and the orcs below. “We can take out as many as possible with arrows first. Should the leader flee, we pursue. He is our priority.”

“Agreed,” Aragorn said, though with a heavy sigh. He set his sword upon the ground and pulled out his bow as well. “Gandalf would be a welcome surprise right about now.”

Legolas’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he drew the bowstring back and aimed. Aye, a wizard would be beneficial when confronting a creature of sorcery. Of all the times to be late! If they survived this, Legolas would never let the old man live it down.

Chapter Text

With their targets in sight, Legolas and Aragorn fired their first arrows. Both flew true, killing two orcs instantly. They started with the stragglers along the perimeter, hoping to take down as many as possible before the rest noticed something amiss. Then they would focus on the Gundabad captain and have to fight their way through to get the obsidian stone back.

Two more diminutive orcs fell with arrows through their throats, unable to give a warning cry in their deaths. Fortunately, the others were too busy cheering on their leader, Uglûk, as their rallied grunts proclaimed. When the sixth orc toppled, however, the ones standing a few feet away finally jerked their attention from the ring leader, and a great roar of outrage went up.

“There goes the element of surprise,” Aragorn remarked ruefully, trading bow for sword.

“No dirweg,” Legolas said, though he didn’t really need to tell the Ranger to be careful.

“Carog,” he returned, bidding Legolas do the same.

Black arrows zinged through the night toward their position, and they broke cover to descend the stepped wall. Once at the bottom, Aragorn launched himself at the charging orcs while Legolas sprinted a few paces away so he could fire more arrows. Each shaft struck its mark like a triumphant crescendo to the tune of his bow. One orc dodged around a slain companion and barreled past shooting range. Legolas drew an arrow, rammed it through the beast’s eye socket, and then swiftly reused the bolt by nocking it to string and letting it fly.

They had reduced the orc troop by half, leaving ten to deal with. By then the fighting had become too close, and Legolas drew one of his twin daggers instead of an arrow. He slashed and parried, cutting his way through the horde. After stabbing one orc in the chest, Legolas briefly left the hilt embedded so he could fire an arrow at an orc leaping into Aragorn’s path. Then he yanked his blade free of the corpse and spun to face the next assailant.

Aragorn ran his sword through a Misty Mountain orc, its dying screeches piercing the night like claws on stone. The colossal Gundabad captain stood twelve feet away, nostrils flaring with rage. Aragorn raised his sword and charged. The clang of colliding blades rang out in the night, a discordant, screeching orchestra of steel that tossed reflections of firelight like flashes of lightning. Despite the man’s skill and agility, Uglûk had brute strength behind his blows, and the Ranger staggered from each one. The scimitar swung horizontally, and Aragorn threw his weight back to narrowly avoid decapitation. As he stumbled to regain his balance, the orc’s blade came around again, and Aragorn just managed to deflect it, though the tip arced across his shoulder. With a grunt, Aragorn wrenched away to reorient himself.

“I will add your bones to my torque!” Uglûk jeered, the fossils of his necklace clanking as his massive body lumbered forward.

Legolas darted in to aid his friend. His short dagger was little match for the monstrous scimitar, but there was something to be said for elven dexterity. He managed to cut the Gundabad captain along one arm and thigh, earning an enraged bellow for each one. Legolas whirled, intending to strike the hand holding the obsidian stone, but the orc seemed to anticipate the move, and jerked his arm away. It left his side unprotected, and Legolas quickly adjusted to stab between two ribs. Unfortunately, with his only defense now embedded in flesh, Uglûk managed to throw a punch that sent the elf sprawling to the ground.

Legolas rolled into a ready crouch, dagger still in hand, though now it dribbled thick black blood onto the grass. He leaped up to attack the captain again, but a great shadowy figure stepped into his path. Legolas recoiled, for the shade’s fell aura pushed at his senses with a profound pulse of evil. It towered over him, and this close Legolas could see that the crooked limbs protruding from its head looked like a crown of branches. Two hulking arms spread out to its sides, also fingered with the shape of twigs, like some motley version of a solid, walking oak.

The adumbration swiped a taloned arm. Legolas ducked under it and slashed at the being’s side. His blade swished through blackness as if it were mere fog, but when a gnarled claw raked across his back in response, he definitely felt it snag his quiver and almost rip it off. Dancing out of reach, he regarded the threat apprehensively. How could he fight something seemingly impervious to weapons?

Legolas spared a quick glance toward Aragorn to check how he was faring. The Ranger was now engaged with two of the remaining foot soldiers. Uglûk had yet to pursue the man, but was instead grinning with glee as he watched the elf and his new pet.

The shadow silhouette surged forward, and Legolas nimbly skirted out of reach again. With no physical features, it was impossible to read body language or facial expressions that would telegraph moves. It was also difficult to tell whether the creature possessed a sentient intelligence, or if it was a mindless blob obeying the will of the orc captain wielding the obsidian stone that created it.

It made no sound as it moved, gliding through air like a phantom, yet one capable of drawing blood with razor sharp claws. Legolas attempted to stab it one more time, but he felt no resistance of muscle and tissue when the blade slid through inky flesh, and so quickly spun away. Mortal weapons were useless here.

Legolas’s gaze met the smug orc captain’s, and his jaw tightened. He would shoot the smirk off that ugly mug if he could afford the brief second for drawing his bow. What else could he use on the shade though? Spotting a branch partially sticking out from the fire ring, Legolas lunged to scoop it up. He brandished the flaming wood against the tree of darkness, and felt renewed determination when the wight recoiled.

Legolas advanced, thrusting the fire into the shadow walker’s body like a blade. An inhuman wail rent the air as the creature flinched and contorted. The fire seemed to banish some of the darkness, though its malleable mass simply filled the holes by drawing matter from its extremities. That did mean it was gradually shrinking, however.

When the silhouette reached the tree line, it dove into the safety of the shadows, blending seamlessly with the night untouched by the halo of firelight. Legolas spun back toward the Gundabad captain, determined to retrieve what had been stolen. The brute’s chest heaved with barely contained fury, but rather than belting a roar and attacking, his face morphed into a wicked grin, and he extended his arm toward Legolas, holding out the obsidian stone.

A starburst of light ignited inside the crystal, and a split second later, Legolas felt as though half a dozen grappling hooks had suddenly speared his body. He would have fallen to his knees if some invisible force didn’t seem to be holding him up. A rush of air buffeted him from behind, pulling forward a shroud of shadow that rippled over him like water fighting the tides. Another pulse whomped from the crystal, and white-hot, ripping pain consumed his entire body as something was torn. He could not breathe; every nerve was alight with agony.

Finally, the barbs in his fëa released their hold, and he swayed unsteadily, slowly dropping to one knee. Blackness swarmed through his vision, though it appeared to be running like a river away from him and toward the glittering obsidian stone. As the rippling shadows slurped into the crystal’s point, Legolas saw Uglûk grinning madly, eyes smoldering red in the flickering light of the bonfire. Legolas blinked, knowing he needed to get up, but waves of dizziness kept swamping down on him. In his peripheral vision, he spotted the penumbrous tree slinking back into the clearing where it approached the orc captain. Uglûk rotated the gemstone, and then inky liquid was flowing out the other end to meet the umbrage, swelling its form to twice the size.

Legolas tensed in growing fear as the shade drew itself up to ten feet tall. He attempted to rise, only to slump sideways as blackness not associated with the shadow monster overcame him. Where was the torch he’d used before? If he could just get his hands on it, that would provide at least some meager means of defending himself.

At the orc captain’s direction, the giant shadow turned and started toward Legolas, its appendages now shaped like hands. Though, as it splayed black fingers, the tips rippled and extended into long, bony claws. Legolas reached for an arrow from his quiver and strung it flimsily to his bow. Not that his weapon would do any good against an amorphous creature such as this. He fired it anyway. The bolt zinged straight through the shade as though it were nothing but opaque mist. One upside, however, was that it then struck Uglûk standing directly behind, rewarding Legolas with a snarl of pain, though he couldn’t see the extent of damage it caused.

But the towering umbra continued to advance on him, and Legolas couldn’t muster the strength to get off the ground…

Aragorn fell under the weight of the orc that tackled him, even as the stupid beast managed to impale itself on his sword for the trouble. The air was punched from his lungs from both the impact with the ground and the orc landing on top of his chest. Silver specks flitted across his vision, which would have been a precarious position indeed if that hadn’t been the last orc to dispatch. He’d seen Legolas driving the shadow entity into the woods with fire, and hoped the elf would be able to handle the Gundabad captain.

But as Aragorn shoved the dead orc off and rolled onto his side, gasping for precious breath, he saw Legolas jerk soundlessly, and he watched in horror as the shadows behind the elf surged forward and around him like a cloak. For a brief moment, Aragorn thought the darkness was trying to swallow his friend whole, but then the shadows were streaming toward the crystal. Uglûk flipped the gem around, and as the shadows poured forth, the nebulous creation inflated.

Aragorn attempted to get one knee under him, chest burning with the exertion of trying to move and restore his seized lungs at the same time. He saw Legolas shoot the shadow walker, but the arrow flew straight through and struck the orc captain in the left arm. Uglûk spat a curse and reached up to yank the shaft from his bicep.

The giant silhouette of a tree was bearing down on Legolas, who had yet to get up off the ground, sending a jolt of fear through Aragorn. He snatched up a fallen orc’s bow next to several arrows laying scattered across the ground. A couple had fallen partway into the fire ring. With a thrill of inspiration, Aragorn grabbed one of the shafts gradually being consumed by the flames and set it to the bow. He ignored the twinge in his lacerated shoulder and the heat scorching his fingers as he pulled back and fired. When the bolt struck the shade, it flinched, for while the arrow apparently sailed all the way through, licks of fire had stuck to its outer skin. With an ear-splitting shriek, it turned to flee into the darkness where the tiny flickers were quickly extinguished.

Aragorn leaped to his feet and charged Uglûk before the shadow beast could return. The Gundabad orc roared in outrage and turned the obsidian crystal toward Aragorn, but the Ranger was too fast, and he sliced his sword up across the orc’s meaty knuckles. His animalistic bray turned to one of pain as his fingers spasmed open and the crystal fell to the ground. Aragorn ducked down and scooped it up, rolling into a crouch on Uglûk’s left and stabbing at his hulking thigh. Throwing his head back in a roar, the Gundabad brute swung one arm that clubbed Aragorn in the side and sent him flying.

He hit the ground with a grunt that threatened to steal his breath once more, but a second later he was scrabbling to his feet toward Legolas. They had the stone back; now it was time to escape with their lives. Though Aragorn couldn’t see any blood on the elf’s nearly prone form, only a serious injury would keep Legolas down this long.

Aragorn grabbed the elf’s arm, hauling him up and back toward the underground citadel. Even though the rest of the orc troop was slain, he did not want to risk running into that shadow wight in the overgrown ruins, or the livid Uglûk. Legolas stumbled along, bow dangling from lax fingers. Aragorn slowed enough to take the weapon and sling it over his own shoulder. His heart thundered in his chest with intense worry, but they needed to find a defensible shelter before he could devote attention to any wounds they bore. Pain throbbed through his shoulder, but Aragorn felt certain it wasn’t deep, as he still had range of movement.

They trampled through the undergrowth, not at all stealthily, though Aragorn hoped Uglûk would not attempt to follow them alone. And he had no idea what the shadow beast would do, whether it would be loyal to the orc captain by design, or if it would indiscriminately attack any living thing it came upon. Or, now that Aragorn held the obsidian stone, could he control the monster? That was one discovery he would be happy to put off for a while, at least until he and Legolas had recovered from this recent skirmish.

A glance at the elf revealed little of his condition in the shroud of night. Only his unsteady gait alerted Aragorn that something was wrong, though as they ran, it did seem to get stronger. Perhaps Legolas was just stunned by close contact with the fell aura of this sorcery.

They reached the doors to the mound, and Legolas was aware enough to pull up short, casting Aragorn a long-suffering look. Aragorn did not yield; if the elf wanted to defer to his leadership so often, he was going to make good use of it. He pushed Legolas inside, and then groped blindly at the wall for several moments before his fingers knocked against a torch. Aragorn fumbled the flint from his pack and finally managed to ignite a spark. Orange light burst into the great hall, filling it with a contorted mesh of light and shadow. Aragorn swallowed a flash of fear, all too aware of the fell crystal nestled in his pocket and what it was capable of.

He guided Legolas to the archive room they had spent the first two nights in, quickly lighting the candles left there. Though moving somewhat stiffly, Legolas grabbed a fire poker and one of their discarded torch branches from earlier, and barricaded the door.

Now that they were somewhat secure, Aragorn turned his full attention on the elf, taking in his pale pallor. “Where are you wounded?”

Legolas shook his head. “I’m not.”

Aragorn frowned. Legolas may have had a penchant for concealing pain, but he was not foolish enough to hide injuries. Argue that he could tend them himself, yes, or at least insist on being treated last if others were hurt, but he would never lie. And Aragorn could find no blood on his person that might explain the elf's dazed condition.

“Did the shadow touch you?” he asked anxiously.

Legolas’s brows knitted together in concentration. “No.” He hesitated as though trying to parse something out silently. Reaching around his back, he unfastened his quiver and laid it on the table. There were three scratches across the exterior.

Aragorn grabbed Legolas’s shoulders and turned him to get a view of his back, but it appeared the quiver had taken the brunt of the strike, for his tunic was not even torn. The Ranger rubbed his face rigorously in frustration. Not that he wanted to find a serious wound on his friend, but at least physical hurts was something he knew how to treat. Whatever this was served to unnerve him more than facing the acid-spitting dragon or horde of orcs had.

Upon noticing Legolas swaying slightly, Aragorn turned away long enough to pull a chair over, and gestured firmly for him to sit.

“I’ll be fine, Aragorn,” Legolas insisted, though the way he nearly sagged into the chair belied that assertion. “I think…I just need to rest.” He placed one elbow on the edge of the table and braced his head in his hand wearily.

Aragorn pursed his lips. They both needed to rest and recover their strength. If there was aid to be found nearby, Aragorn might have considered braving the wilds, but the closest friendly settlement was one-hundred miles south at Bree, and they didn’t have horses. Now that there was no longer an orc troop waiting for them outside, the road was less dangerous, but Uglûk was a concern, as was the umbral creature. What would become of it at dawn? Dark things loved the night, but considering the essence of the entity, shadows were a natural byproduct of light. Could it then walk under sun without hindrance?

Mulling such thoughts over, Aragorn’s gaze wandered in deep rumination over their predicament. So turbulent was his mind, that he found he’d been staring at the wall for a good length of time, and it seemed Legolas had not even noticed enough to tease him for it. Aragorn was about to impart a friendly gibe for his inattentiveness, when something about the wall behind them struck him as odd. He blinked uncomprehendingly—for really, what about it was so fascinating it held more importance than the troubles that lay outside?

Aragorn shook his head at himself; he was exhausted and losing his grip on rational thought…but that small movement triggered a jolting recognition at what he was seeing—or rather, not seeing.

“Legolas,” he said in a hushed voice.

The elf lifted his head, and craned his neck to follow Aragorn’s gaze. The Ranger gripped his elbow and pulled him up, both of them watching the wall as a dark patch mirrored Aragorn’s movements. Legolas, however, did not cast a shadow…

Chapter Text

Aragorn stared at the wall where only one silhouette darkened the otherwise ocher illumination, and a rock dropped into his stomach. Uglûk had used the obsidian stone on Legolas, had somehow stolen the elf’s shadow in order to feed that perverted shade. But what did that mean? How was such devilry even possible? One’s shadow was simply a projection from an object blocking light; it wasn’t an ethereal extension like a soul.

And yet, Legolas appeared significantly weakened by the spell. The question was whether he could recover on his own, or if the consequences were something more sinister that neither could foresee yet.

With a slightly shaky hand, Aragorn reached into his pocket and pulled the onyx crystal out. It glittered benignly in the candlelight, though Aragorn now knew just how treacherous the device was. Still, could he wield it to fix what had been done? He had not heard the orc captain utter an incantation to activate it, so perhaps it responded to will alone.

“Avo garo,” Legolas said, warning him not to do it. “It is too dangerous, Aragorn.”

He gritted his teeth, but after a moment closed his fist around the gem and slipped it safely out of sight once more. No, he would not risk further harm. But something needed to be done. If only he had not lost the stone! The rational part of his mind chastised himself for feeling guilty over things outside his control, and yet it was not only him who suffered the consequences. Though he would readily take them.

“Your own wounds need tending.”

Aragorn jerked out of his thoughts, blinking at Legolas, who nodded pointedly to his bloodstained shoulder. Remembering caused a fresh sting of pain to lance down the gash, and he winced automatically. While he wanted to figure out how to help Legolas, leaving his own injuries to fester wouldn’t do either of them any good. So he tugged his collar down to bare his clavicle and shoulder. With a grimace, he conceded the laceration would need stitches.

This time Legolas gestured for Aragorn to sit, but he dragged a second chair over instead so neither of them had to remain standing. If hard pressed, the Ranger could sew his own wound one-handed, but it would be slow and awkward, and therefore a deal more painful.

Legolas helped Aragorn shrug off his pack, and then pulled out the bandages and a water skin. He paused, mouth turning down. “Should I go out in search of herbs?”

“No,” Aragorn said firmly. Until he knew the extent of what had been done to Legolas, he wasn’t letting the prince out of his sight. “There’s an old pitcher in the corner you can use to boil water and that will have to be enough.”

Legolas went to retrieve it and used a small amount of water to rinse the dust out, then filled it partially before holding it over the torch in order to heat the water. “You don’t have any numbing herbs either, do you?”

Aragorn shook his head. Not that it mattered; he could endure this type of pain. “Legolas, what happened when the orc used the stone on you?”

At first the elf didn’t answer, but finished laying out the medicinal supplies on the table. “It felt like being stabbed with dozens of knives,” he finally said, somewhat reluctantly, and began to thread the needle. “The breath stole from my lungs, and then it felt as though I was being ripped apart from the inside.”

Aragorn’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, and he had to force himself to inhale and exhale smoothly. “Does it still pain you?”

“No. As I said, I just need to rest.” Legolas turned his attentions toward Aragorn’s wound and began to stitch the gash with careful precision, though the occasional tremor in his hands did not escape Aragorn’s notice. The elf did not allow it to affect his work, however, and eventually he nipped the last section and tied off the thread. Aragorn unrolled a strip of bandage, and Legolas helped wrap it around his shoulder. Once done, Legolas sagged back against the chair. Aragorn too felt the weight of exhaustion, bruises, and strained muscles, along with growing worry. They had gotten the stone back, but at what cost?

“Did you note the stars when we were out there?” Legolas spoke up. “Dawn shouldn’t be more than a couple hours away.”

Aragorn nodded minutely.

There was a moment of silence before Legolas spoke again. “I think we’ve waited for Gandalf long enough. We should take the stone somewhere safe, maybe Imladris. Gandalf passes through there often and can retrieve it then.”

Aragorn frowned. It was true, they couldn’t wait for Gandalf indefinitely, though he figured the wizard was the best person to help them figure out what had happened to Legolas—and how to fix it. He craned his neck around to survey the bookcases and mounds of scrolls. Perhaps the learned men of Fornost had known how to wield the obsidian crystal, and such records could be found here.

“There are resources here that are not at Imladris, or anywhere else, I imagine.”

Legolas furrowed his brow as he followed the Dúnedan’s gaze to the tomes. “You want to stay to satiate your curiosity?”

Aragorn shot him an incredulous look. “I want to find a way to reverse whatever’s been done to you.”

Legolas’s lips thinned. “As do I, but the longer we stay, the more risk we run of the stone falling into enemy hands.”

“The journey to Rivendell will be no less dangerous. Probably more so.”

“We do not have food,” Legolas pointed out. “I can go without longer than you, though only by a few days. Hunting this close to the North Downs is also perilous.”

“Hunting anywhere within fifty-square smiles of this place is risky,” Aragorn rejoined. “Thus food will be the same problem no matter which route we choose.”

Sighing, Legolas lolled his head to the side to gaze at the wall—or perhaps his lack of shadow. Flickers from the candlelight smudged dark circles under his eyes, and not even the amber luminescence could paint color back into his complexion.

Aragorn forced himself out of the chair, his adrenaline-drained muscles protesting with poignant aches. “We both need to take some rest. We can decide what to do in a few hours.”

He lay down on the floor, bunching his bedroll under his head. Despite his exhaustion, sleep did not come immediately. Two choices lay before them: to stay in Fornost or to make for Rivendell. Lord Elrond was a master healer, yes, but there was no guarantee he would know what to make of Legolas’s condition. And solving that was as much a priority to Aragorn as was keeping the obsidian stone safe.

Besides, and he would not voice this aloud just yet, Aragorn wondered whether Legolas could endure a fourteen-day journey on foot to Imladris. Oh, the Mirkwood prince would try, no doubt, but Aragorn would not march him to death if the chance remained help could come to them here.

Aragorn closed his eyes in silent prayer. There was wisdom in both options, and danger as well. How was he to choose, knowing that either one could be detrimental to his friend? And Legolas would follow his lead, as he always did, regardless of the risk to himself. But Aragorn was just a man, and while he had been graced with a touch of foresight from his lineage, it did not aid him now. As disheartenment settled over his spirit, his body finally lost hold on consciousness, granting him a reprieve from such heavy burdens.

Legolas did not find rest in elven dreams. Rather, his sleep was dark, like a gyrating whirlpool attempting to suck him under into a place where no light could penetrate. He woke with a start, pounding heart echoing in his ears. The archive room was undisturbed, and once Legolas reined in his nerves, the only sound he heard was the soft, deep breathing of Aragorn on the floor.

Legolas rose swiftly to his feet, only to stagger as the walls and ceiling suddenly switched places. He caught himself on the back of the chair and eased himself into it again. Ai, Valar, what was wrong with him? He was not used to feeling this weak. Sure, he’d borne injuries before, had felt the drain of blood loss and exhaustion. This was different though, something marrow-deep, not physical, yet it manifested that way…and it frustrated him that he could not grasp its nature.

The discovery that his form did not cast a shadow had been a shock, and quite disturbing. He avoided looking at the wall and the evidence of such vile magic, but he could not escape the fact it had touched his fëa, the knowledge of which elicited a shudder from the otherwise staunch Mirkwood prince. But he would not let it distract him from their purpose, which was to make sure the accursed crystal did not fall into enemy hands.

He attempted to stand again, albeit not as quickly. The room did not spin, but lightheaded blurriness still claimed his peripheral vision. Legolas gritted his teeth. He needed air, to breathe oxygen not heavy with dust mites and dank odors. But he could not leave Aragorn alone, despite how ‘safe’ this room may be. Besides, the man would have a fit if he awoke to find Legolas had disappeared. So he would wait, not wanting to rouse the Ranger from his much-needed rest.

They would then need to decide their course of action. Legolas understood Aragorn’s desire to stay; if their positions were reversed, he would search any place for as long as it took to find a remedy. Yet he could not in good conscience consent to putting them in more jeopardy should they linger, not for his sake. Suppose Uglûk returned with another orc troop and besieged them here? Or other monsters ventured out from the bowels of the North Downs now that the secret vault was open? Then there was the shadow creature, now loosed upon Middle Earth. Who knew what trouble and chaos it would wreak.

Legolas reached up to rub his temple. Ai, Mithrandir, where are you?

Aragorn stirred then. Blinking the remnants of slumber from his eyes, he rolled into a sitting position and looked around out of habit to get his bearings. His gaze lingered on Legolas, eyes narrowing in appraisal. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Some.” Legolas glanced away. “We’ll need to go outside to see what time it is.”

“I should like to scout the area as well.” Aragorn rose to his feet and stretched, grimacing as he pulled his injuries and audibly cracked a few joints. He tied his sword belt around his waist, then stopped and frowned when Legolas picked up his quiver and bow. Legolas could feel the Dúnedan’s shrewd stare making note of every superficial sign of fatigue, and possibly even piercing the elf’s facade down to the  vulnerability he was trying to hide. “How are you feeling?”

Legolas fastened the quiver to his back. In this, he would brook no argument. “Weary and troubled. But I need fresh air, Aragorn, and the sun.”

The Ranger’s jaw worked for a short moment, but then he nodded in capitulation. “Stand watch above the doors while I survey the perimeter?”

Legolas’s mouth turned down slightly, but he accepted the compromise. They headed outside, only to find a dreary day obscured by a sheet of pewter clouds. Disappointment speared Legolas’s heart that he would not feel the warmth of the sun. But then, perhaps it was best he not be reminded of what had been stolen from him. At least the cool breeze swelled his lungs and carried away some of the stagnant stench of being underground.

He scaled the grassy knoll, taking it slowly rather than sprinting up as he had done before. There was little strength in his limbs, and by the time he reached the top forty feet up, his legs were quivering with the urge to collapse. Legolas stood bowed over for a moment, attempting to draw in deep, bolstering breaths. Why could he not push past this? He could always overcome bouts of weakness, drive himself forward when the need arose.

Straightening, Legolas withdrew an arrow and nocked it to his bow. He pulled back to his ear and held the taut string for several seconds. The muscles in his arm began to tremble and he felt sweat break out upon his brow. Breathe through it.

Then his arm began to visibly shake, and he dropped the stance, thoroughly vexed. Normally he could hold that pose unwaveringly for thirteen minutes. Now he could barely make it over thirteen seconds!

He eased himself down to sit on the grass. Maybe it would pass. Brushes with dark sorcery were no trivial thing; he just needed to rest and recover. Though, if Aragorn decided to head for Imladris after all, the journey would likely push Legolas to his limits. Still, slow progress would be better than none at all. He sighed, for he could see the Ranger’s point: all options held danger, and none had certainty.

Legolas brought his head up to focus on the task of keeping watch rather than wallowing in self-misery. He scanned the ruins in every direction, noting the tranquility that pervaded the area. Even birds and beasts seemed subdued by the bleak day. Or perhaps it was the presence of the shadow creature. Legolas did not see any sign of it, however, nor Uglûk, though there were many crevices of vegetation and stone to hide in.

Behind him, fog coated the valleys among the North Downs, drifting in and out like tendrils of cobwebs. A cluster of leaves rustled here and there, secret murmurs that died down before their susurrations could be carried on the light breeze. He caught a flash of brown once, a quarter mile out. Other than that, the Dúnedain Ranger’s stealth was impeccable.

Twenty minutes later, Legolas heard soft footfalls that preceded Aragorn climbing up the hillock.

“I found Uglûk’s tracks leading away from the orc camp,” he reported. “Though I do not know if he left the ruins completely, or found some place to nurse his wounds.”

Legolas frowned. “I do not think he was badly injured, so unless something festers and incapacitates him, he could still pose a threat.”

“Let us pray a pox on him then,” Aragorn said, sitting down cross-legged next to Legolas. “As for the shadow creature, it left no tracks or traces of any kind. I did find these, however.” He pulled out a loosely tied handkerchief and set it on the ground, tugging the corners open to reveal a couple handfuls of berries.

Legolas took one and placed it in his mouth. The burst of sour juice on his tongue was oddly refreshing after everything. “These will not hold us over for long,” he pointed out regretfully, picking up two more.

Aragorn heaved a sigh. “I know. It’s something at least. I also found some healing herbs.” He turned his head to gaze south, likely considering their next step. “I still have hope for Gandalf to come,” he said quietly. “I could use his wisdom about now.”

Legolas didn’t say anything, but continued to chew on the berries. A few were more ripe, adding a splash of sweetness to the tart flavor.

Aragorn shifted around to face him, grey eyes holding a tidal storm of emotions: worry, doubt, understanding, and perhaps an unspoken plea. “You wish to leave? I would not have you suffer in this cave if it will cause you more hurt or prevent your recovery.”

Legolas furrowed his brow and ate another few berries to buy himself time before responding. Yes, he wanted to leave the ruins, to walk and sleep under open sky again. But he could not ignore this newfound weakness that made him vulnerable—that made Aragorn vulnerable.

“I do not wish for the decision to be made for my convenience alone.”

The Ranger let out an exasperated noise, though there was a glint of fondness in his eyes. “Since I cannot guess what Gandalf’s counsel would be, perhaps I should ask myself what your father would do were he here.”

“Aragorn!” Legolas chided.

The man chuckled, raising his hands in placation. “You do agree he would order you home without further delay.”

“And forbid me from leaving Mirkwood for a century ere he hears about this!” Legolas’s mock horror swiftly morphed into genuine disquiet, and he dropped his gaze to the dull green ground. Without the sun to shine above them, there was no obvious distinction between the two figures sitting on the hill top, yet Legolas could feel it, or rather, feel the absence of something he could not name.

A hand settled on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Legolas. You know I will do everything in my power to fix this.”

He lifted his chin, jaw tightening in determination. “Then we had best make our decision.” He pushed himself off the ground—too quickly, as he belatedly realized when the world spun beneath him.

“Legolas!” Aragorn was on his feet in an instant and catching the elf’s arm before he could tumble down the knoll. Legolas reached up to hold his head with his other hand, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the swirling landscape. Pulling one arm across his shoulder, Aragorn hefted Legolas up with a grunt. “It seems the decision has been made for us.”

“Goheno nin,” Legolas murmured.

“There is nothing to forgive, mellon nîn.”

They took their time stumbling down the hillock, almost pitching headfirst a few times. Legolas could not keep his knees from buckling, and the dizziness made it difficult to maintain his balance. Yet they made it to level earth safely, and then Aragorn half-carried Legolas back into the underground citadel to the archive room where he eased the elf down to lean against the wall, holding him forward a moment to remove the quiver. Aragorn moved away briefly to retrieve a water skin, which he held to Legolas’s lips. The assistance prickled the prince’s pride, but he had not the strength to gripe about it. Aragorn was looking at him worriedly, and Legolas felt a pang of regret at being the cause of such distress.

“I do not think…I will be of much help…reading,” he said, gesturing at the ancient tomes in an attempt at levity. It did not evoke a smile from the Ranger.

“Posto,” Aragorn replied, telling him to rest. Legolas could not have argued if he wanted to, as the weariness was all-encompassing now. He felt his eyelids drift shut, having only a brief startled moment to recognize the unnaturalness of that before unconsciousness claimed him.

Chapter Text

Drab cloud cover hung heavily over the ruins of Fornost, matching the dour mood of the grey-cloaked figure moving among the ivy walls. When the heavens began misting his head with spittle, the wizard lifted a glower toward the sky. A downpour would be the final straw in a long series of inconveniences. He should have been in Fornost two days ago, but Saruman had summoned him to Isengard for some urgent matter the white wizard had refused to give details on. When Gandalf arrived, Saruman reported he might have found the One Ring, a revelation that had deeply shaken the grey wizard. Except, when Saruman produced the gold band and placed it in the fire to test, it turned out to be only a lesser ring, something related to pyrokinesis most likely, if the ensuing sparks were anything to go by. Why Saruman couldn’t have waited until after confirming the ring’s power before summoning Gandalf six-hundred miles away from the place he was truly needed left the wizard baffled and in sour spirits. Hopefully Aragorn and Legolas would have good news for him; he could use it.

Placing his pointy hat on his head with a huff, he continued toward the grassy mound at the base of the North Downs. He still remembered what the great fortress of Fornost Erain had looked like when it was the height of the Númenórean kingdom. Gandalf had visited it several times, and it was where he’d picked up the name “Grey Pilgrim.” The city’s fall had been quite the devastating blow to Arnor, along with the death of King Arvedui. Though Gandalf joined the alliance of Gondor, Lindon, and Rivendell when they drove the Witch-king of Angmar from Fornost, the Dúnedain were too few in number to rebuild Norbury of the Kings. Thus it had fallen into ruin, along with many of its secrets. Secrets few remembered, save those who had walked its streets in the past.

Gandalf had long believed in letting such things lie undisturbed, but when rumor reached him that the Dark Lord had sent out his servants to find any weapons of great power, Gandalf recalled one particularly nasty object lying buried in the ancient ruins: the Leo-atsaëa, as it was called in Quenya. The mere thought of Sauron getting his hands on such a weapon was almost as terrifying as him reclaiming the One Ring. Gandalf would have gone there immediately to fetch the obsidian stone himself, had he not needed to check on a couple other potential items that might catch Sauron’s attention first. When he’d crossed paths with Aragorn, who was on his way to meet the Prince of Mirkwood, it had seemed most fortuitous, as the two of them could get a head-start searching Fornost. And with the extra time they’d had with Gandalf’s delay, perhaps they had found it…

As he pushed his way through a clump of overgrowth, Gandalf pulled up short at the scene of destruction suddenly laid before him. A huge fire ring left a charred patch of earth in the center of a small clearing, around which were scattered numerous orc corpses like black boils on the land. Several had arrows sticking out of their swollen hides, bearing the tell-tale fletchings of Mirkwood.

Gandalf stepped forward warily. It seemed the battle had taken place not long ago, and he did a quick cursory look for any prone shapes that were not orc. He leaned on his staff in relief when he didn’t spot man or elf, but then his back stiffened as he noted some of the orcs hailed from Gundabad. That bore ill-tidings indeed, for that meant this band was not simply a wandering group of displaced Misty Mountain orcs, but a troop here for a purpose. Still, it appeared Aragorn and Legolas had dispatched them successfully.

Gandalf turned to resume his trek to the buried citadel, when a startling sight caught his attention. Along the perimeter of the clearing, a cluster of trees stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding greenery, for their trunks were a strange milky shade unnatural for that species of elm. Their branches were almost naked, save for a few clumps of wrinkled gray leaves. The rest lay in a pile on the ground, crinkled husks like dried up caterpillars. Gandalf stared at them for a long moment, a deep frown turning his mouth down. What new abomination had the orcs committed to cause these trees to die in such a manner? Well, the beasts were slain now, but Gandalf would do well to find Aragorn and Legolas and make sure they were alright.

The large knoll that had grown over the ancient city stood only a few kilometers away, and Gandalf walked around its base before finding a set of doors half-hidden in moss. They hung open a space, so he strongly suspected he would find the two hunters inside. He wondered if the encounter with the orcs had set their search back or not. Tapping his staff against the floor, he coaxed a gentle light from the crystal nestled at the crown, and surveyed the interior chamber. Roots ran down through cracks in the ceiling, crawling around the surviving support columns and pooling across the floor. Such a shame the great city of Númenor lay in complete ruination…but thus was the nature of mankind: like a flower quickly fading, here one moment and gone the next. A new tree would flower for them soon—very soon—but that too would not endure forever.

Gandalf shook himself from his musings. Though he had a keen interest in Aragorn’s destiny, he was currently here to make sure their Enemy did not increase his power store with yet another deadly device. Ah, but how was he to track down the Ranger and elf prince in this vast underground citadel? Leaning forward, Gandalf squinted at tracks in the dust-laden floor. It looked as though there had been quite a bit of back-and-forth foot traffic through there. Hm, had Aragorn and Legolas grown tired of waiting for him? Though, he wasn’t that late.

Gandalf decided a look around would be prudent, so with his staff casting a halo of illumination around him, he ventured down the corridors. The hem of his robes swished through a century’s worth of grit, and his staff rapped out a steady rhythm as he meandered through the great halls. He caught a flicker of amber luminescence bobbing from around a sharp corner, and Gandalf slowed his steps cautiously.

The light seemed to cease its approach, and in fact drifted down to ripple across the floor. Frowning, Gandalf gripped his staff with both hands in anticipation. He waited for a long moment, until he finally considered taking a peek around the corner himself. Just as he started forward, a chunk of wood came swinging around from behind the wall. Gandalf threw up his staff, and an explosion of light blinded both him and his assailant. When it fizzled out, Gandalf found himself facing a very bewildered Ranger.

Aragorn blinked at him for a moment, an unlit torch hanging limply in his hands. “Gandalf,” he blurted with such intense relief it made the wizard’s lips twitch under his beard. “Thank the Valar you’re here.”

Gandalf’s amusement dissipated, for there was also an undercurrent of anxiety in the man’s voice. His eyes caught sight of the white bandage peeking through a slit in Aragorn’s tunic. So he had not come out of the orc skirmish unscathed. And where was the Mirkwood prince?

“I saw the battle scene,” he prompted. “Are you and Legolas well?”

Aragorn’s face darkened, which filled Gandalf with a sense of dread.

The Ranger’s mouth twisted bitterly as he replied, “Things went…poorly.”

“What happened?” Gandalf asked sharply. Had the enemy gotten the stone? For that was the worst possible scenario his mind immediately jumped to.

“We have the obsidian crystal, but…” Aragorn shook his head, and cocked his head for Gandalf to follow. The wizard’s relief was short-lived as he noted the Ranger’s tense bearing. Aragorn moved back down the perpendicular corridor where a lantern and pile of unused candlesticks sat on the floor. He scooped them up and then led Gandalf down the passage toward a set of closed doors with runes marking it as a records room.

Gandalf’s trepidation increased as the door creaked open, revealing a chamber barely lit by a series of candles nearing the ends of their wicks. Aragorn set the lantern on the table and methodically set about lighting the new sticks he’d brought and replacing them in the wall sconces. As the renewed light filled the room, Gandalf’s eyes came to rest on Legolas sitting propped up against the wall. The elf’s pallor was waxen, arms listless at his sides, and most disturbing of all, his eyes were closed.

A small utterance of surprise fluttered on the wizard’s lips, and he strode forward. Using his staff to brace himself, he knelt down in front of the elf prince. Yet he did not see any bandages or grievous wounds.

Legolas’s eyelids fluttered and he blinked dazedly. After a moment, a faint smile cracked his face. “Gandalf,” he breathed softly. “Le ab-dollen.”

“A wizard is never late,” he jested in return, though the mirth was not genuine. His brow furrowed as he took in Legolas’s anemic condition. “However, I do think it would have been judicious had I arrived earlier.” Alas for Saruman’s prematurity!

Legolas canted a look at the wizard, though the movement appeared too much effort, for his head lolled back to rest against the wall. “Where were you, Mithrandir?”

Gandalf grimaced at the frail voice. “I’m sorry, Legolas. I was delayed.” He turned to look at Aragorn. “What happened?” He had not seen the man this grim and worried since he’d learned of his heritage, and truly, whatever could make an elf ill like this was something dire.

Aragorn reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, setting it on the table. He folded back the ends, revealing a double terminated, onyx crystal that glittered in the light. Gandalf tensed at the subtle power he felt wafting from the Leo-atsaëa. Many questions leaped to his tongue, such as how they’d retrieved it, since he’d specifically instructed them to wait for him. Had the orcs arrived and found it first? Clearly, Aragorn and Legolas had dealt with them and emerged triumphant, except for Legolas’s malady.

Before he could ask, Aragorn was picking up the lantern and setting it at their feet. Giving Legolas an apologetic look, the Ranger gently lifted one of the elf’s slack arms and held it away from the orange splashed wall. For a moment, Gandalf just stared at them in confusion, but then Aragorn waved his hand as he looked at the wall, and Gandalf felt the floor drop out from under him. His hands clenched around his staff. “How did this happen?”

Aragorn laid Legolas’s arm back down across his lap. “We located the stone in a hidden vault inside the North Downs, but when the orcs arrived, we thought it better to retrieve it before they could.” He rocked back onto his heels, running a hand down his face. “There were…complications.”

Legolas snorted. “That is somewhat…of an understatement,” he said breathlessly.

Aragorn squeezed the elf’s shoulder sympathetically before beginning his tale. As Gandalf listened to every grave revelation, he rued their misfortune and his delay more and more. He’d had no idea the men of Fornost had developed such elaborate booby traps. Back then he probably would have praised their ingenuity, though now it had only hurt matters.

“The orcs cornered us before we could get out, and the Gundabad captain managed to take the crystal. We went after it, but not before he used it to create some kind of shadow creature…and then on Legolas.”

Gandalf’s mind reeled. Then an abomination had been conjured and given life? Where was it now? For surely the Ranger and elf wouldn’t have been able to vanquish such an apparition. His gaze flicked to the accursed crystal on the table. The Enemy did not attain it as he had feared, and yet things were much, much worse.

“Gandalf,” Legolas said weakly. “What is that creature?”

The wizard’s shoulders slumped. “A perverted evil. The Leo-atsaëa crystal captures shadows in order to create this being. It has no will of its own, but follows that of the one who wields the crystal.”

“For what purpose?” Aragorn asked.

“Because of its nature, it is capable of moving like shadows can, which means slipping under door cracks or scaling citadel walls. Quite the effective spy or assassin, should one have a mind to use it that way.”

Aragorn frowned. “So since we have the stone, we control it?”

Gandalf shook his head. “I’m afraid not. You did not use the stone to create it; therefore it was not your will which was infused into its being, but that of the orc.”

The Dúnedan’s mouth tightened, and he glanced at Legolas, with his drooping eyelids and shallow breaths. He turned back to meet the Istar’s gaze and spoke quietly, “Gandalf, can you help him?”

The wizard gave Legolas an aggrieved look. As far as he knew, the Leo-atsaëa had never been used on a person’s shadow before, and Gandalf was not entirely sure what that meant, for Legolas or the eidolon. However, he did know there was only one remedy for this form of dark magic.

Gandalf heaved a sigh. “His shadow must be restored to him. And for that, we must capture the creature made from it inside the stone.”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what became of it, for it left no tracks in the clearing. Would it…have vanished in daylight?”

“No,” Gandalf replied grimly. “It now walks the earth as solid matter. The sun will not harm it, though it would likely have no love for it, as few evil things do.”

“How are we supposed to find it?” the Ranger asked despondently. “If the orc captain no longer holds the crystal, what will the entity do?”

“I am not sure, perhaps wander until it comes upon a settlement, and then it would likely wreak destruction as orcs are wont to do.” Leaning on his staff, Gandalf pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the table. “As to your first question, the source calls to its creation, and vice versa; it will guide us like a compass.”

He reached out and laid his hand over the crystal, flinching slightly at the fell pulse that pushed against his mind in response. Brow creasing in concentration, Gandalf shoved back with a measure of his own power, flinging the crystal’s aura into submission. With a calming breath, he then opened his eyes and took the gem in his hand.

Aragorn was watching him with a frown, one hand braced on Legolas’s shoulder. “He cannot travel, and we cannot leave him here.”

Gandalf’s mouth worked in consideration. It would do no good to leave the Mirkwood prince here, for Gandalf had a sinking suspicion that the longer Legolas suffered in this condition, the more detrimental it would be for him, either for his spirit so that he might be forced to sail, or perhaps deliver him straight to the Halls of Mandos. But once they captured the shadow phantom, Gandalf would immediately be able to use the stone to restore the elf. Or so he hoped…

He slipped the gem into his robes and returned to kneel in front of Legolas. Placing a weathered hand on the prince’s brow, he uttered an incantation under his breath. Power trickled through his palm, then out in a rushing cascade to envelop Legolas. The elf’s eyes flew open, suddenly alert, and he sat up straight. Aragorn looked on incredulously.

“Look at me, Greenleaf,” Gandalf commanded, drawing Legolas’s gaze. He searched the blue eyes, noting that clarity had replaced the glassy sheen. “That will do for now,” he concluded, and pushed himself back up.

Legolas rolled to his feet in one nimble motion, leaving Aragorn speechless on the floor. Blinking dumbly, the Ranger scrambled up after them. “Legolas?”

“I am better, Aragorn,” he assured, then turned to Gandalf and inclined his head, saying his thanks softly, “Le hannon.”

Gandalf shifted his staff to his other hand. “Well, we had best be going. Such spell work is not often advisable, nor is it permanent.”

Legolas nodded somberly, and turned to retrieve his weapons. Though much revived, he still had dark circles under his eyes and a wan hue to his face. Aragorn’s expression now held a spark of hope, and he hurried to extinguish the candles, save the one lantern, before gathering up his things as well. Once ready, the three of them exited the underground chamber and stepped out into the overgrown ruins. Gandalf glanced at the sky, glad it had not decided to unleash a torrent.

He withdrew the crystal from his robes and held it in his palm, channeling his will into igniting the small connection between the stone and its spawn. A ping vibrated through the striated gem, and wisps of power like invisible strands of spider silk extended from the pyramidal end to shoot through the air toward its other half.

Gandalf pulled his shoulders back with resolute determination. “It is south.”

“Can you tell how far?” Aragorn asked.

“No,” he replied regretfully.

“If it reaches Bree…” the man trailed off.

Gandalf suddenly felt the weight of his age a little more poignantly. It had been so long since the Istar had encountered such a demon, and he was a little apprehensive. That they had the crystal was an immense blessing, for without it they would not have a chance. And when this task was done, Gandalf would make sure the Leo-atsaëa was destroyed for good.

Chapter Text

Each step Legolas took felt as though he bore a mantle of rocks upon his shoulders. His legs were heavy as well, nearly dragging if he did not lift them with effort. It both confused and frustrated him, one who was accustomed to moving with grace and lightsomeness over any kind of terrain. He wondered if this was how Aragorn and Gandalf felt all the time. Aragorn could move with the agility of elves since he had been raised among them, yet gravity still seemed to have a stronger effect on the mortal. And Gandalf, though spry in spirit, certainly occupied the body of an old man whose knees often creaked and shoulders bowed forward. Legolas found himself amazed they could run and fight as well as they did, and resolved to overcome this impediment.

At least he could move again. That horrible, numbing weakness that had claimed him only hours ago was a terrifying infirmity the elf had never had to face before. It reminded him of some human illnesses he had seen, a disturbing thought since elves were by nature not susceptible to such things. But that was it—this was no natural affliction. Legolas wanted to believe Gandalf would be able to reverse it, but if that hinged on their ability to catch and trap the shadow creature…well, it was difficult to have complete confidence they would succeed. Still, they had to try, for such evil could not be allowed to roam unfettered if it was in their power to stop it. Which meant Legolas would have to find a way to compensate for his current deficiencies.

He caught sight of Aragorn pinching the bridge of his nose and squinting, and with a jolt Legolas realized he’d neglected to remember his friend’s needs amidst his own turmoil.

“Ai, Aragorn, you cannot make a long trek having not eaten in two days.” Brow furrowing, Legolas roved his gaze across the plain, calculating the wisdom of trying to hunt something simple for the Ranger.

Aragorn smiled ruefully. “You were right; the berries were not very filling.” He sighed heavily. “I regret the delay, especially since it may take a while to find anything.”

“What’s this talk of more delays?” Gandalf interrupted gruffly, having turned around when he’d noticed the two of them had stopped.

“Forgive us, Mithrandir,” Legolas replied. “But neither of us has had much sustenance recently. Your spell has revived me well enough, but unless you can cast one for Aragorn’s stomach…”

“A quail would be adequate,” the Dúnedan interjected. “Should we be so fortunate to stumble across one.”

“Ah, well,” Gandalf huffed, and pulled his small rucksack around to his front. “I daresay I have something better.”

Legolas’s eyes widened when the wizard withdrew a leaf-wrapped packet of lembas bread. Quite better indeed.

“My apologies,” Gandalf continued as he broke off two pieces. “I should have considered this earlier.”

Aragorn snapped a bite off the corner of his ration. One would satiate his hunger; a second would restore his stamina after the strain of the past few days. Legolas eagerly accepted his share and savored the wholesome taste that filled his mouth and settled in his stomach. It even seemed to add a bit more vigor to what Gandalf’s spell already had.

With that need taken care of, the three travelers continued their march south. Gandalf would pull the obsidian stone out every so often to check their direction, which never wavered. Legolas could not sense what the wizard could, but he also had no desire to touch the crystal and find out. Just being in its presence left a hollow feeling in his core that he couldn’t shake.

As the day wore on, however, Legolas felt his strength beginning to wane again. He tried to push past the weakness in order to keep pace, but soon his feet were catching in ruts and that wretched dizziness had returned. His heart sank with the acknowledgement that he would slow Gandalf and Aragorn down. Perhaps he could convince them to go on ahead? He could find a grove to rest in, for he would  feel more safe among trees than that underground tomb.

An arm suddenly looped in his. “Gandalf!” Aragorn called.

Legolas wanted to insist he could go a little further, but knew it was futile. The Ranger led him over to a pine tree and eased him down to lean against the trunk. At the physical contact, Legolas instinctively reached out with his mind to touch the tree’s spirit. It was not used to such communion, for elves had not crossed these lands in centuries, but Legolas still drew comfort from the steady thrum of its curious tenor.

He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed until he heard the disembodied voice of Aragorn nearby.

“We shouldn’t have pushed him this far,” the Ranger admonished. “I shouldn’t have let him push himself.”

“I can still hear you,” Legolas retorted, though there was little sharpness to his weak voice. He also did not bother opening his eyes, for they were too heavy.

“Gandalf?” Aragorn queried.

Legolas heard a rustle of fabric and picked up a faint scent of pipe-smoke, which he attributed to the wizard since the Dúnedan’s dunking earlier had cleansed much of that particular trace from his clothing. The elf’s lips almost twitched at Gandalf’s muttering self-talk.

“It is too soon to cast that spell again. We will have to rest awhile.”

Legolas forced his eyes open at last, finding both of them on either side of him. “Go without me. I can…catch up.”

Aragorn shook his head firmly. “You would never do that were our places exchanged.”

He attempted a shrug. “Worth a try.”

“How long?” Aragorn asked Gandalf.

“A couple hours. It will give me time to examine the crystal and ready myself for wielding it.”

“Very well.” Aragorn gripped Legolas’s shoulders, and without asking permission, shifted the elf prince so he was lying down on a patch of soft grass, though still next to the sturdy pine. “Losto, mellon nîn.”

Yes, sleep did sound good. Legolas felt his eyelids drift closed again, plunging him into darkness. It ebbed and flowed around him in a gentle, cradling eddy, yet despite its benevolence, a prickle of fear stirred in his heart. An elf was not meant for such lightlessness.

He vaguely heard Aragorn and Gandalf shifting around as they settled in to wait, like whispers wafting on the air from far away. The pine crooned softly, adding its voice to the harmony that swept under Legolas like a current, carrying him away into oblivion.

Aragorn’s voice broke through the trance, yanking him from the insensible hold. “What will happen to him, Gandalf, if…”

Legolas’s heart clenched. Part of him fought to stay aware to hear the wizard’s answer, while another urged that he cast himself back into the void. Would it be better or worse to know his fate?

Gandalf didn’t respond for a moment. “You said the orc used the stone to create the monstrosity before he used it on Legolas? What shadows did he take the first time?”

Legolas knew the answer before Aragorn voiced it aloud; he’d heard their agonized screams, seen the umbral specter mimic the shape of their branches.

“Some trees, I think.”

The wizard was silent for several beats again, and Legolas could imagine him sticking his pipe in his mouth and puffing to buy time. “When I arrived this morning and came upon that battle scene, I saw a group of trees that were quite ill…dying, I should say. At the time I didn’t recognize the crystal’s effect because I had never seen the objects from which the shadow creatures were made, only the abominations themselves.”

There came a sound of dirt scuffing, Aragorn moving closer perhaps. “And now that you’ve seen it? What do you make of the crystal’s ‘effect’?” The man nearly sneered the last word as though he found it a distasteful substitute for reality.

Gandalf heaved a sigh. “It is clear to me now that in taking something’s shadow, some of its…cohesion…is lost.”

Legolas felt a knot of dread curl around his stomach. Yes, that made sense. He felt…hollow, and his inability to pull himself together only confirmed the Istar’s assessment. His fëa was losing its anchor to this world, his body failing. He wondered if such a death would be painful, or if he would slip into dreamless sleep and simply never awaken. Or would it be worse to be stuck in this state, to not die but be forever infirm? It was said that elves who had suffered grievous hurts to the body and spirit would find healing in Valinor, but Legolas wondered if something as evil as this would be the exception. Nor did he wish to sail, for he still loved Middle Earth, his home in Eryn Lasgalen, his father, and Aragorn, whom he had vowed to walk beside until the end of the mortal’s days. It had never occurred to Legolas he may be unable to keep his promise.

“Is there anything else we can do?” Aragorn’s soft voice stirred his mind once more.

Gandalf’s silence was answer enough, and Legolas let himself go, finally surrendering to the current of shadows swirling at the edges of his mind. Any other time, he would have fought with everything he had, such as he did at home against the Shadow that had claimed Mirkwood. But how did one fight the shadows inside?

His sleep was hardly restful, as before, but sometime later he saw a golden glow suffusing through the blackness, and then warmth was seeping into his chest and coursing through his limbs. Legolas opened his eyes to find darkness similar to his dreams, but only because night had fallen. In the light from the quarter moon, he saw Gandalf beside him, felt a hand settled over his brow as the Istar murmured that strange, energy-giving incantation.

Aragorn stood just behind the wizard, watching anxiously, so as soon as Legolas felt capable, he sat up in order to reassure the man. With strength once more lifting him off the ground, the three resumed their hunt for the shadow creature.

Two days later, Aragorn stood with Legolas and Gandalf, looking ahead at the walls of Bree where they had tracked the umbrage. The prospect that it had entered the settlement of men filled Aragorn with foreboding at what they might find. Yet as they approached the gate, they found it open and a wagon blocking the path as two traders appeared to be in a heated discussion with the watchman. The surly-looking man with lank hair stepped away from the other two and raised a hand at Gandalf.

“What business do you have here?” asked a nasally voice. Beady eyes the size of dots surrounded by craters of crows’ feet eyed each of them suspiciously. Aragorn had been to Bree before, and was slightly indignant that the guard refused to acknowledge him. But then, such was the reception Rangers of the North tended to get among their fellow men. Legolas, for his part, had drawn his hood up over his head ere they approached, concealing his ears; elves sometimes experienced similar mistrust and chariness.

Gandalf drew himself up with a harrumph. “Nicholas Pennyworth, has pipe-weed addled your mind so much you do not recognize me?”

The man ducked his head ashamedly. “No, of course I know you, Gandalf. But your companions…”

“Are my companions,” the wizard finished gruffly. “Or do you suspect me of keeping foul company?”

Aragorn thought he heard Nicholas grumble something about never knowing for certain, which Gandalf charitably ignored.

“We have traveled a long way and desire good ale and food, if you would be so gracious.”

“You might want to keep moving to another town,” one of the traders spoke up. “One that’s safer.”

Aragorn straightened. “What do you mean?”

The one who spoke glanced over his shoulder warily. “Two men were brutally slain whilst walking home last night.”

His companion nodded. “I heard theys was ripped to shreds.”

“Mind your own business,” Nicholas castigated, then turned back to Gandalf more conciliatory. “It’s true, two men died last night, though nothing that gruesome. Actually, we, uh, ain’t sure exactly what killed them. Someone heard old Firth scream, but when they found him, he was dead. Not a mark on ‘im.”

Aragorn cast a concerned look at Gandalf, but the wizard kept his expression carefully schooled.

“Hm, well thank you for the warning, gentlemen.” And with that, Gandalf pushed his way past the wagon. Aragorn waited for Legolas to follow first before trailing after as well. The elf moved slowly, his shoulders visibly dragging forward as Gandalf’s most recent infusion of strength was wearing off yet again. It had taken three more ‘doses’ to get him here of his own legs, and he looked primed to collapse soon.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn started, but the wizard responded before he could complete his thought.

“We’ll stop at the Prancing Pony.”

The unspoken “not here” kept Aragorn from voicing the rest of his concerns about these strange deaths. To be honest, he had expected more chaos if the shadow creature had entered Bree, and yet could these two deaths really be just a coincidence? Gandalf had said such penumbral creations were mindless, following the will of their creator. He had mentioned them being used as covert assassins, but Aragorn doubted Uglûk had such purpose in mind when he’d first experimented with the obsidian stone.

The inn of the Prancing Pony had yet to draw the evening crowd, and so only contained a handful of what Aragorn liked to call “resident drunks.” Men who scorned hard, honest work, and spent their days drowning their sorrows in stout, a dark brew of roasted malt and hops, since they couldn’t afford an actual hardy meal. Gandalf removed his pointy hat and tucked it under one arm as he approached the bar counter and rapped his knuckles on it.

The man shuffling around at the other end turned, and his plump face brightened into a welcoming smile. He had a bushy mustache as thick as the clump of hair on his round head, and his apron bore a motley of brown and yellow stains. “Gandalf! Always a pleasure to see you here.”

“Barliman,” the wizard greeted. “A room, if you please, and hot food sent up for two.”

Butterbur’s gaze drifted over Gandalf’s shoulder, and his face blanched slightly. “Oh, Strider…”

Aragorn barely resisted an eye roll. He tended to unnerve the innkeeper, though the Ranger hadn’t done anything to warrant such fear.

“Sure thing, Gandalf,” Butterbur sputtered, and hobbled around the counter to lead them upstairs.

Aragorn put a supporting hand under Legolas’s elbow to help him up the steps. He wouldn’t have minded a scowl from the normally proud prince, so the lack of reaction at the assistance made Aragorn’s heart constrict. However, the elf did manage to remain stoically upright until Butterbur left; only then did he move to sit in a chair by the window and pushed his hood back.

“I shall return in a bit,” Gandalf said. “I wish to view these bodies and see whether our quarry is truly responsible or not.”

Aragorn frowned. “Should we not go with you?”

Gandalf shook his head. “There is no use for the skills of Ranger or elf in this matter. Butterbur will send up hot food and drink, which will do you both good. Lembas may be filling, but it is not exactly satisfying.”

“It will be dusk soon,” Legolas spoke up. “Will the night not be dangerous to move about?”

Gandalf gave him a kind smile. “I am hardly defenseless.”

Aragorn was torn, but decided to trust the wizard’s judgment in this. Besides, Legolas did need to rest again, and Aragorn did not wish to simply leave him at the inn. Though, when it came time to confront the demon, they would have to figure something out, which he suspected the stubborn prince would not like.

Gandalf departed, and the promised food arrived shortly thereafter. Butterbur bobbed his head like a discombobulated chicken as he handed Aragorn the tray and then hurried away. Rolling his eyes, Aragorn pushed the door shut with his foot and placed the tray on a table. Then he picked up one of the plates of bread, cheese, and roasted chicken and brought it to Legolas. The elf looked at the food dispassionately, but accepted it at Aragorn’s nudging.

The Ranger nibbled at his meal with similar enthusiasm, for he was distracted by casting furtive glances at Legolas. “Should I ask how you are faring?” he said hesitantly.

Legolas didn’t look at him, but set his plate of half-eaten food aside and turned his head to gaze out the window. Dusk had begun to darken the sky, and with the waxing night, Aragorn felt increasing apprehension over whether the shadow creature would emerge to hunt. He hoped Gandalf could handle it, especially armed with the obsidian stone.

“The stars are veiled,” Legolas said softly, though it was not quite an answer to Aragorn’s indirect question. There was a sad, faraway note in his tenor. “Everywhere I look, the light is withheld from me.”

Aragorn stood and moved to sit beside the elf. “The clouds will pass, and the stars will shine on Arda once more.”

Legolas shook his head. “Not for me. A si i-dhúath orthor.”

Alarm gripped Aragorn, and he leaned forward to press his palm over Legolas’s heart, drawing the prince’s lifeless gaze. “The shadow does not hold sway.”

A flicker of fear entered Legolas’s eyes. “I feel it, Aragorn. It siphons my strength, and Gandalf’s spells work less and less each time.”

“Avo dhavo am môr,” Aragorn said, urging Legolas not to yield to darkness. “I swear to you I will not let you fade. Swear to me you will not give up. Savo estel.”

Legolas stared at him for a long moment where it seemed only the Ranger’s unrelenting gaze held the elf anchored to this world. “I swear,” he said at last. “I will have hope.” And then he smiled faintly. “Estel, the Hope of Men, and perhaps for elves too.”

Aragorn attempted to return the smile, though his heart ached. He had no idea how he would keep his promise, and such knowledge terrified him more than his lineage, his destiny, and even Sauron himself. But his foster father had named him thus for a reason, and for the first time, Aragorn was determined to live up to it.

Chapter Text

Gandalf’s mouth was set in a grim line as he studied the bodies of the two men who had died. They lay on separate wooden tables, pale pallors eerily similar to one Mirkwood prince’s. It was true, there was not a mark on either victim to explain cause of death, though the wizard could detect the trace of a fell aura coating each man like an extra flimsy, diaphanous skin. He had no doubt the shadow creature was responsible, though he could not divine the manner in which it had killed. A most puzzling predicament, to be sure. And where had the fell shade gotten to? Had it hidden away at dawn to escape the light, biding its time until nightfall again? Well, it would not have to wait much longer. Gandalf wished the Leo-atsaëa crystal could narrow down the entity’s location more specifically than just the general vicinity of Bree.

He continued to consider the bodies. They still possessed their shadows, faint outlines clinging to their limp extremities in the candlelight, though it did seem to Gandalf that the silhouettes were somewhat thinner than they should have been. Perhaps the umbrage had succeeded in siphoning away some of them to feed itself. Not a lot, and not as complete a severing as the obsidian stone wrought.

Gandalf grumbled unintelligibly under his breath. The undertaker, a wiry man with wispy white hair who looked as though he had one foot in the grave himself, stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. He had been most resistant when the wizard barged in and insisted on seeing the deceased, though there were few in all of Arda who could stand in the Istar’s way when his mind was bent on something. Gandalf ignored the pointed looks and impatient sighs issuing behind him, having no intention of rushing this examination.

However, he believed he’d seen and discovered all he could, and so finally took his leave and headed back toward the Prancing Pony. He kept his eyes peeled against the dark alleys and nooks, one hand tightly gripping his staff, the other tucked into his pocket and clutching the crystal. Yet nothing disturbed his trek, and he made it back to the inn unmolested.

When he entered the room they’d rented, he found a fire blazing in the hearth and two empty plates sitting on a tray by the door. Legolas was still reclining in the chair by the window, as though he had not moved since they’d first arrived, but at least the young prince was awake and alert. Fresh food and drink had done him good after all. Aragorn knelt next to the fireplace, stoking the flames higher. He jumped to his feet at Gandalf’s entrance.

“What did you find?”

Gandalf leaned his staff against the wall and moved to sit on the foot of the bed. “The shadow creature is here, and I believe it is responsible for those men’s deaths, though I cannot determine how exactly.”

“The touch of sorcery can be cause enough,” Legolas put in.

Gandalf frowned, though did not disagree. “We must act quickly to apprehend it.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Aragorn asked.

Gandalf’s mouth quirked thoughtfully. “Bait.”

The Ranger’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment he girded his sword in silent concordance. “It will strike soon, no?”

“I believe so.” Gandalf glanced outside the window at a blackness only softly suffused with a glow from lantern posts. The adumbration would be able to move stealthily in such an environment, and yet it was this covert cunning that bothered Gandalf somewhat, though he could not say why. Was it merely that the demon preferred the night, even though it could wreak just as much havoc in the light of day?

With a weathered sigh, he rose to his feet and retrieved his staff. “Let us go then.”

Legolas pushed himself out of the chair, and his slight wobble did not escape the notice of either wizard or Ranger. Aragorn opened his mouth, no doubt in vehement protest, but Legolas held up a palm to stay him.

“As long as I have strength, I will not sit idly by. Besides, under cover of darkness you will not see it coming, but I will be able to sense it.”

A muscle in Aragorn’s jaw ticked. “Legolas,” he began carefully.

“I will not endanger you,” the elf prince said quickly. “I will position myself out of the way and not engage, only serve to offer advance warning.”

“Very well,” Gandalf interjected before Aragorn could argue further. The Dúnedan shot him a scathing look, but the wizard did not relent. He knew well the Mirkwood prince’s tenacity and endurance, even with this dark malady overshadowing him. Gandalf also knew that short of an oath sworn upon the name of King Thranduil, Legolas would not consent to stay behind, but follow after they’d gone.

With weapons and a lantern in hand, the three hunters descended the stairs to pass through the bustling tavern and out into the streets of Bree. The cloud cover hid the moon’s face from them, leaving only the enclosed candle to light their path. Gandalf wordlessly led them to an isolated part of town, behind a grain storehouse closed and locked for the night.

“The first two victims were caught alone,” he reasoned aloud. “For whatever reason, this shade is not going on a berserk rampage, but skulking in the shadows. Hopefully it shall think us an easy target.”

“I hope such an assessment won’t turn out to be accurate,” Aragorn remarked dryly as he shifted his sword and sat on a crate, setting their lantern at his feet. Legolas moved toward the edge of the building and blended with the shadows there, while Gandalf shuffled over to a wagon several yards away. Then they waited.

After half an hour, the wizard began to have an itch for his pipe. He was accustomed to sitting patiently for long bouts, but usually he had a shot of Old Toby or Longbottom Leaf to ease the monotony. Yet he did not light up, for even the smallest embers would give away his location…though he found himself puffing nothing but air out of habit.

Aragorn sat on the crate in the center of the lantern’s halo, his shadow shifting minutely whenever the candle flame bent or fluttered abruptly. Gandalf noted ruefully that he had lit his pipe and was currently enjoying a casual smoke. Or at least that was the air the Ranger was putting on. Easy target, indeed. The man was a force in battle, though against an amorphous enemy as the one they currently hunted, he would find himself hard-pressed.

Gandalf rubbed his beard and fidgeted in growing restlessness. What was taking so long? What wild predator refused the allure of singled-out prey?

A trill note shattered the silence—Legolas giving a warning signal—and Gandalf straightened sharply. Though he had not the senses of an elf, he was hardly blind, even in the encroaching dark. Something disturbed the air, a subtle shift that weighted the atmosphere with an oppressive layer. A moment later, a distorted shape detached from the pitch perimeter and stepped into the outer rim of light.

Even having faced this type of monstrosity before, the visage still made Gandalf’s breath catch. The silhouette barely stood out in contrast with the inky blackness behind its form, but Gandalf could make out a broad shoulder sprouting twig-like shapes like an armored spaulder. It moved like water, sliding soundlessly over the ground, though it walked on two legs. More contours of branches protruded from its head, the exaggerated crown almost a caricature of the King of Mirkwood. An image none in their party needed, least of all the king’s son.

Gandalf waited for the umbrage to move closer to Aragorn, who had remained where he was, though the rigidness of his shoulders showed he was well aware of the approaching menace. Yet he was trusting the wizard to intervene before it had a chance to strike. Gandalf withdrew the Leo-atsaëa and pointed one end at the ready. He needed the creature to separate itself from the surrounding shadows just a little more…

The shade stopped short, hovering partially in the ring of lantern light, partially in the stygian shroud. It cocked its head as though listening, and to Gandalf’s horror, he spotted the slight curvature of a tapered ear under the mantle of gnarled branchlets. The apparition bore no other physical features, yet Gandalf felt when it turned its sight upon him, felt its calculating gaze sizing him up. A shudder ran down the Istar’s spine.

“Gandalf…” Aragorn warned, but before the wizard could act, the creature turned and melted back into the night. The Ranger leaped to his feet, accidentally knocking the lantern over. Legolas, too, emerged from his hiding place. He appeared even more pale, though it was likely related to the haunted look in his eyes. Perhaps Gandalf should not have allowed him to come after all.

“It must not escape!” the prince exclaimed, and both he and Aragorn were running after the thing before Gandalf could throw in a word of caution.

Confound the brashness of youths!

Gathering up the side of his robes in one hand, Gandalf hurried after them. He had, in fact, no trouble catching up, as Legolas could not keep an arduous pace, plus the elf paused repeatedly to turn his head in an attempt to home in on the shadow. But its fluid movement and nature made it difficult for anyone to pinpoint.

“Gandalf?” Aragorn said, expression questioning. They had anticipated things going ill, though not in this manner. How could the demon have suspected a trap? It was not supposed to possess that level of intelligence! Ah, but it was no simple conflagration of insubstantial material—part of its constitution came from an elf, a living, sentient being. Gandalf berated himself for not having foreseen such a complication.

A scream rent the night, and Legolas whipped his head toward the left. “This way!”

The three hunters sprinted down the side street, but by the time they came to a cross section at an alley, they were too late. Under the muted glow of an overturned lantern, a man lay sprawled on the ground, eyes wide open and staring into nothingness. Aragorn quickly crouched next to him and placed two fingers to his neck. The Dúnedan shook his head in the negative and stood back up, eyes narrowing as they scanned the surrounding darkness. All was silent, save for a handful of distant hollers responding to the cry that had disturbed them.

“We must go,” Gandalf said urgently. At Aragorn’s incredulous look, the wizard said pointedly, “Fear quickly breeds suspicion and hostility, particularly against outsiders. I will not have witless Bree-folk detaining us and hindering our task.”

The man frowned, but gave a sharp nod in understanding. They quietly retreated back the way they’d come, navigating isolated side streets to get back to the Prancing Pony, which was so busy that Butterbur didn’t notice their return. Though as they were ascending the stairs to their room, Gandalf heard someone burst through the door and exclaim there had been another kill. With that, the wizard ushered Aragorn and Legolas back to their room where he quickly shut the door.

“Well,” he harrumphed. “This changes things.”

Legolas leaned his shoulder against the wall as though to hold himself up, rather than sitting in the chair again. Aragorn was too busy pacing in agitation to notice.

“What exactly happened?” the Ranger asked.

Gandalf tossed his hat and staff on the bed unhappily. “The creature recognized it as a trap.”

“How? You said it was a mindless beast.”

“Normally, yes, but we must consider the source it was partially created from.” He met Aragorn’s eyes and flicked a meaningful glance toward Legolas. The Dúnedan followed his gaze, brow furrowing.

“Are you saying it has the cunning of an elf?” he asked, wincing that he wasn’t able to voice that outside of Legolas’s hearing.

Gandalf drew in a deep breath. “I’m afraid so. Which means capturing it will not be so easy.” He folded his arms across his chest and began to think. They had few options, none of them good. “We will have to take more drastic measures.”

Aragorn looked at him dubiously. “Such as?”

Gandalf held the obsidian crystal out in his palm. “The creature instinctively knows this device may undo it, and thus it fled rather than risk a confrontation. But if we fill it with more shadows, the demon will not be able to resist such a meal.”

“No!” Legolas spoke up, voice stronger than his slouched position implied, and there was a wild, fearful look in his eye. “You cannot steal more shadows, Mithrandir, not even with the intent of returning them. I was there; I heard the trees scream. We cannot subject another living thing to such torture.”

Gandalf softened his expression sympathetically. “Nor would I cause such pain to any being, Legolas. But there are many things that cast shadows.” He walked to the window and proceeded to drag the chair over in front of the fireplace, which had burned low in their absence, but still sent the chair’s shadow skittering across the floor. Gandalf beckoned Legolas and Aragorn to stand out of the way, which they did with uncertain frowns. Then the wizard produced the ebony gemstone and angled it toward the chair.

The power that thrummed through the crystal felt like thorny barbs pricking Gandalf’s palm. Had he not known better, he would have opened his fist to see if there were crimson punctures in his flesh, but instead he concentrated on bending the Leo-atsaëa to his will. Light pulsed from within the stone, shooting out to snag the chair’s frame and tear the shadow from its outline as one would slowly pull a piece of aged parchment apart. The chair’s shadow detached like a layer of filmy skin, and then was sucked up into the crystal.

Gandalf muttered a few grumbling words in Sindarin, Westron, and another language neither of his companions knew; such foul magic left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He stepped closer to the chair and experimentally flicked his forefinger against the back. The wooden pieces promptly collapsed in on themselves, creating a pile of nothing more than kindling on the floor.

“Butterbur will be quite flummoxed as to why his sturdy furniture suddenly lost its integrity,” the wizard commented absently, then turned toward a frowning Aragorn and Legolas. “It’s for the greater good,” he huffed.

“After you trap the shadow creature,” Legolas began carefully. “Will you be able to destroy the stone?”

“Yes,” Gandalf replied. “Once your shadow is restored, I will smash it, and the pieces will then be harmless.”

Legolas’s brow creased further. “What happens if you shatter it with the shadow creature still inside? Will the shade escape again, or be destroyed as well?”

Aragorn gave the elf a funny look. “Legolas, why would you ask such a thing?”

The Mirkwood prince ignored him, but kept his gaze firmly locked on Gandalf’s. “Well? What would happen?”

The wizard’s brows knitted together, for he could not decipher the point of this line of questioning either. “Once the shadows are inside, they will be rendered inert once more, and yes, they would be destroyed with the crystal.”

Legolas glanced away for a moment, and when he turned back, there was staunch determination in his eyes. “Perhaps it is better to destroy the crystal as soon as you recapture the shadow then.”

“What?” Aragorn grabbed the elf’s arm and forced Legolas to face him. “Ci benind?”

Gandalf arched an eyebrow; he too was doubting the young prince’s sanity if Legolas did not want himself to be restored. It seemed he had been too long in this dolorous state.

Legolas held his chin up defiantly. “I do not wish to take such evil upon my soul.”

Aragorn’s mouth parted in bewilderment. “Avon cared i iesteg,” he said, fervently refusing to do the elf’s wish. “Legolas, if you stay like this, you could die.”

“Death would be better than a corrupted existence.”

“Legolas,” Gandalf spoke up with stern, yet gentle firmness. “Just because a thing may be turned for ill, does not make it by nature evil. A bow in your hands defends your home, and dare I say the whole of Middle Earth, while there are others who wield such weapons for destruction.” He moved closer and placed a hand on the prince’s other shoulder, so that he was hemmed in on either side by the bolstering presence of friends. “The missing piece I will return to you will not taint your fëa, no more than if a brigand had stolen your horse and ridden it while committing slaughter before you reclaimed it.”

“An act which said brigand would have paid dearly for,” Aragorn quickly added, trying for a touch of amusement. He lowered his voice then, beseechingly. “You promised not to give up hope, mellon nîn. Please, trust Gandalf.”

After a long moment where wizard and man watched the fear and doubt war within the elf’s eyes, Legolas finally bowed his head. “Cerithon i iesteg,” he murmured, agreeing to do as they asked.

Aragorn squeezed his arm reassuringly, and looked at Gandalf. “We have the lure; now what do we do?”

The Istar worked his jaw in consideration. “A confrontation at night gives our enemy the advantage. Therefore we will summon it tomorrow after dawn, outside the village gates.”

Legolas cocked his head. “You think it will come?”

“For a satisfying meal, yes.” Gandalf nodded once more to himself. Yes, this plan had promise, more so than any other option they might try. “You two rest, for you’ll need your strength in the morning.”

“Gandalf,” Aragorn said in concern. “What if it is still hunting tonight?”

The wizard sighed heavily. “That cannot be helped, I’m afraid. Now sleep, both of you.” He turned away, intending to pull up a seat next to the hearth—only to find that he’d just recently reduced the chair to rubble. Grumbling under his breath, Gandalf exited the room in search of spare furniture.

Chapter Text

The few hours Legolas had managed to get in the dark, numb void of sleep did not refresh him. Still, he refused to be left behind while Aragorn and Gandalf confronted the shadow demon. Upon waking, the Istar had once again infused a measure of strength into Legolas’s weakening body, though the power that had been a coursing river the first few times now felt like a dribbling spigot. He would not tell Gandalf that, however, and instead gave a sincere nod of gratitude for the effort anyway. The rest Legolas would have to summon himself, and take care not to over-exert his energies needlessly.

The three of them gathered their packs and weapons, and took their leave of Butterbur. On their way out, they learned from passing gossip that two more men had been slain the night before. One, they had of course known about; the second was a sore addition. Aragorn’s mouth pressed into a tight line.

“We cannot know when the other victim was attacked,” Legolas whispered to him. “It might have been before our encounter with the shade.”

Aragorn did not respond, and Legolas recognized the mantle of guilt hanging over him. The Dúnedain Rangers protected the realm of Eriador, safeguarding the Shire and human settlements from foul creatures. Aragorn viewed these recent deaths as his personal failure, despite the fact he had done everything within his power to prevent them. Not knowing how to ease his friend’s mind, Legolas fell silent for the rest of the walk.

Gandalf led them away from the village and into the woods, far enough away not to draw attention when he activated the crystal’s sorcery, but close enough to entice the shadow creature’s attention. The wizard planted himself in the center of a small clearing, and pulled out the Leo-atsaëa. Aragorn stood three feet behind Gandalf’s shoulder, hand instinctively on the hilt of his sword. Legolas too felt the urge to nock an arrow to his bow, though he knew it would not wound the umbrage. He pressed a palm to an oak’s trunk to brace himself, drawing comfort from its deep, grounded song.

“I could use some of your strength, my friend.”

Legolas flinched in surprise when the tree responded with a low, baritone chord that pulsed vitality through its bark and into the prince’s arm. He straightened as numerous sensations flooded him: tough, fibrous roots curling through good earth; summer breezes tickling through leaves; basking in the warmth and glow of the sun. Legolas leaned forward to touch his forehead to the tree, humbled and overwhelmed. “Le hannon,” he thanked it.

When he looked up, he caught Aragorn casting him a worried look. Legolas nodded firmly in return. I am ready.

Gandalf had already begun chanting under his breath, so low even Legolas could not distinguish the words. The obsidian stone in the wizard’s hand simmered with molten fire, calling, beckoning. The three of them stood still as statues, only their eyes roving the tree line for any sign of their quarry. When at last it appeared, it made no sound, and only the sudden susurration of malice whispered on the air alerted Legolas to its arrival.

It looked quite different in the light of day—like a sheet of rippling sable silk suspended between the trees. Until it stepped into the clearing, a lissome void without light and shape, graceful yet haunting. It had morphed its outline since their last encounter, less treeish stockiness and more slim arms and legs. A crown of pointed branches still adorned its head, and if it had been cast flat upon a wall, Legolas would have thought himself looking at the shadow of an elf. An alarmingly familiar one at that. He gritted his teeth at the grotesque mimicry. It was no elf, he reminded himself, just as it was not those ill-fated trees that had been the first forced to give this abomination life.

Gandalf held the glittering crystal out as though in offering. Inside, the stolen shadows swirled in a maelstrom of writhing tendrils, specters sundered from their hosts and left to cry for release. Legolas could not suppress a shudder at the Leo-atsaëa’s seductive whispers. The shadow entity shifted nervously, as though it recognized the trap, and yet had not the will of mind to flee.

“Come on,” Aragorn murmured.

The umbrage took a step forward, completely separating from any surrounding shadows it might take cover in. Gandalf flipped the gem over in his hand, pointing the opposite end at the creature now. Legolas felt a vibration on the air and saw the creature flinch. But before its form could be sucked back into the onyx crystal, a horrible snapping of twigs and vicious snarl shattered the tense attention of the poised hunters.

Had Legolas been at full strength, he might have had the reflexes to draw an arrow and fire in less than a second. Or at least he would have been able to distinguish the second foul presence that had been spying on them, waiting for its moment. As it was, he only managed to bolt upright and unsling his bow by the time Uglûk had barreled through the briery chaparral and seized Aragorn by the back of the neck. The giant Gundabad orc dragged the man several steps away before pinning the Ranger’s back against his broad, gray chest, one meaty hand clamped completely around his captive’s throat.

Legolas had an arrow notched and aimed now, but he dare not fire. Only a kill shot to the head would prevent Uglûk from crushing Aragorn’s trachea in reaction—and Legolas could not be assured he’d hit his target, not with the tremble running up his arm as he held the bowstring back.

Gandalf and the shadow creature hadn’t moved, as though frozen mid-spell. The wizard’s eyes were wide with alarm as he watched the orc squeeze just a fraction tighter, causing Aragorn to screw his eyes shut. He frantically clawed at the immovable arm braced across his body, but Uglûk simply sneered at the feeble resistance.

“Give me the stone, or I pop his head off like a baby bird.”

Everything within Legolas screamed at him to take the shot, but the longer he held the bowstring taut, the less control he had of his muscles. Sweat broke out upon his brow. What if he missed and hit Aragorn? The Ranger’s squinting gaze met his, and Legolas gave him a look of anguish. Forgive me.

Though glistening from pain and constricted air, Aragorn’s grey eyes sharpened, message clear. Don’t give it to him.

Legolas lowered his bow, unable to maintain the poised stance. He looked to Gandalf, praying the wizard would know what to do. It was then that the shade did something unexpected to all of them—it lunged at Gandalf. One black hand wrapped around the Istar’s wrist and wrenched it back. Gandalf grunted in surprise and pain, and brought his staff around to club the shadow. Legolas expected the wooden stick to swish right through the creature’s body as blade and arrow had done, but perhaps there was something more substantial to the staff’s ethereal power, for it struck the shadow’s shoulder as though solid. The umbrage jerked, but ducked around behind Gandalf, twisting the old man’s arm in the process. Then it turned and flung the wizard into a tree. He hit with a thud and sharp cry before falling to his stomach.

“Gandalf!” Legolas took a half-step toward him, but paused and cast a torn glance back at Aragorn, still held in a vice-like grip by the Gundabad captain.

Uglûk’s face cracked into a wide, yellow grin, and Aragorn’s eyes widened. With dawning horror, Legolas flicked his attention back to the shade. It stood before them, one arm raised with the obsidian stone glittering in its amorphous hand.

Uglûk barked out a delighted laugh, and with a violent thrust, tossed Aragorn aside. The Ranger collided with the ground hard, rolling onto his side as he coughed and clutched his bruised throat. Uglûk held out his hand. “Good, now give it to me.”

The shadow didn’t move, and though it bore no obvious eyes, it seemed to be scrutinizing the brutish orc. Uglûk growled and took a threatening step forward. The shade cocked its head, and then slowly extended its arm. But rather than opening its palm to release the stone, it aimed one pointed end at the orc, and the air vibrated with a spike of power. Uglûk’s back suddenly arched, and in the light of day, Legolas saw a penumbral glow around his hulking form. It pulsed and shimmered before turning black, and then it was running down around him like spilled oil, washing across the ground and into the crystal. Without pause, it coursed out the other end, directly into the umbral creature. It tipped its head back as though inhaling deeply of the new shadows, its chest swelling into thick, bulging muscles with the additions. Uglûk staggered back, blinking dazedly.

Legolas stood frozen, unsure how to act. Aragorn was still coughing, though less now, so it seemed he was not suffocating from a crushed windpipe. Gandalf, staff still in one hand, was attempting to get up. The shadow creature regarded them disdainfully, shoulders pulled back and head high; it had the upper-hand now, and knew it. When it aimed the Leo-atsaëa their way, Legolas’s lungs seized with terror. Yet the crystal’s power did not grip him as it had previously, for he had no shadow to steal. In his peripheral vision, however, he saw both Gandalf and Aragorn go rigid, and heard the shocked shouts of the surrounding trees blast through his mind.

No, he could not allow this to happen. Nocking an arrow to bow once more, Legolas drew the bowstring back. He knew his arrow was useless against the umbrage, but there was one thing it would definitely hit. Valar, guide my aim.

Legolas felt the twinge in his arm just as he loosed the twine, and he held his breath as the bolt zinged through the air. It cut through the shadow’s nebulous arm as he knew it would—but on its way struck the obsidian stone with a clink and sent it flying.

The shade jerked in surprise, following the track of the crystal as it fell among a clump of brush. Gandalf and Aragorn sagged, released from the fell magic. The trees continued to sputter and whimper, jolted from their tranquil silence. Legolas attempted to push their voices far from his mind and concentrate on the enemy still before him.

The umbrage whipped back around, and Legolas could feel the waves of wrath wafting from its aura. Without a sound, for the creature had never made any, it surged forward like a gust of wind, spreading its arms into widening sails. Legolas stumbled back in surprise, almost tripping on a root, but then the great wave of blackness was upon him like a great deluge of water. He could not even scream for the thick film that clogged his throat and plugged his senses. There was no earth or sky, and if he fell, he did not feel the direction or impact, as he was plunged into a bottomless, numbing abyss devoid of light and air.

Aragorn wanted to cry out in horror when the shadow creature swallowed Legolas whole. Yet no sound escaped his abused throat, and his muscles were still in shock from the mystical attack that had speared him like fiery grappling hooks.

Then Gandalf was thrusting his staff out with a thunderous word, and light exploded in the clearing. Aragorn threw an arm up to shield his eyes, squinting against the pain yet desperate to see what had happened. He looked too soon, and white spots flooded his vision. Blinking them away, he saw the shade thrown against a tree, limbs splashing around the trunk before the adumbration regained its shape and feet. Shaking itself of the daze, it turned and fled.

Legolas lay in a twisted heap on the ground, unmoving, and Aragorn’s heart dropped into his stomach. Gandalf lumbered toward the bushes, and after sweeping an arm underneath the foliage, pulled out the obsidian stone. As the wizard rose to his feet, however, he stiffened when Uglûk stomped forward to intercept him, rusted scimitar in hand.

Aragorn forced himself up and unsheathed his sword. “Go!” he managed to shout hoarsely at Gandalf, drawing Uglûk’s attention. The wizard spared him only a brief worried look before sprinting after the shadow with a speed belying his physical age. Aragorn leaped between the Gundabad orc and Gandalf’s path. His neck throbbed mercilessly, and his vision still spotted from lack of oxygen while in the brute’s grip, but a quick appraisal of the orc revealed he was also off-balance from having his shadow stolen. His leathery gray flesh even had a pasty, greenish tinge to it.

Uglûk gnashed his teeth and began to circle the Ranger. Aragorn sidestepped so as to keep Legolas behind him. He dare not look over his shoulder to see if the elf had stirred, though his heart screamed and pleaded with the Valar that his friend be alive.

Uglûk curled his lip back, revealing broken teeth. “After I cleave you in two, I will dissect the elf, piece by piece. Maybe I’ll even keep you alive long enough to watch.”

Aragorn’s blood burned, but he refused to let the taunts push him into making a mistake. Instead he lifted his sword as though to strike, but feinted left. The orc, believing he’d stirred the mortal to anger, swung his scimitar the wrong direction. Aragorn ducked under it and slashed at the beast’s thigh, feeling the slight resistance of cutting through muscle. Uglûk howled and arced his blade around the opposite side. Steel screeched and grated as the swords crossed and sliced away.

Aragorn danced back to regain his balance, drawing in deep, steady breaths in order to keep his head. He noted with grim satisfaction that the weight behind the Gundabad giant’s blows was significantly weaker than their last encounter. Still, an enraged orc was not to be underestimated. With a bellow, Uglûk raised his weapon above his head with both arms and brought it down hard. Aragorn threw his sword up to catch it, and the impact vibrated through his bones. His spine bent backwards an inch from the strain, almost knocking him down. He shoved back with all his might, fighting the desperation clawing at his battle-trained senses; out of the corner of his eye every time he spun around, he saw Legolas’s prone form under the trees.

Uglûk struck again, and this time when their blades crossed, the orc used the locked position to throw a punch at Aragorn’s head. The Dúnedan dropped to a crouch to avoid it, letting the scimitar slice down the outer side of his arm. Gritting his teeth against the bite of metal, he rolled onto his hip and planted a kick into Uglûk’s kneecap. As the bone cracked, dragging the orc down, Aragorn kicked again at his stomach. When Uglûk doubled forward, Aragorn thrust his sword into the brute’s chest.

Yellow eyes flew wide, and a meaty hand flailed to grab the man’s throat. Using the sword as leverage, Aragorn flung Uglûk to the side. As he rolled with the toppling orc, he snatched the knife from his boot and brought it around to finish the job by jamming it in the Gundabad captain’s neck. Viscous black ichor spurted from Uglûk’s mouth to dribble down his chin, and with one final twitch, the molten spark in his eyes snuffed out.

Aragorn yanked first the knife free, then his sword, letting the body thud fully to the ground. Chest heaving, he stared for a prolonged moment as though to assure himself the ogre was dead. The silence in the forest was palpable, and Aragorn turned toward where Legolas still lay. His pulse spiked, already erratic from the fight, and he half-ran, half-hobbled toward his friend. Dropping his weapons on the grass, Aragorn leaned over and cupped the elf’s face.

“Legolas?”

The prince’s eyes were half-lidded toward the sky, gaze distant as though his spirit was far off chasing the stars. Under his pale jaw, a languid pulse barely fluttered. When Aragorn reached out with a brush of his own fëa, his heart nearly stopped at the elf’s being almost too faint to sense.

“No, you will not forsake me.” He crossed one arm across the prince’s chest to clasp a slack hand, and placed his other hand across Legolas’s brow. Then, channeling his will, the Dúnedan summoned forth what skill Lord Elrond had trained him in, fused with his own inherent power passed down through the line of Eärendil. He felt the burden of physical weight lighten as he pushed his way deep into a realm few mortals consciously traveled.

“Legolas, lasto beth nîn, aphado nin dan nan galad.” Aragorn repeated the words past his sore throat, voice growing softer with each utterance. He called the elf’s name again and again, beseeching Legolas to listen to his voice, to follow him back to the light. Aragorn felt the wandering fëa tremble, too weak to obey, but not yet too far gone to slip from this tenuous connection.

“I’m here, mellon nîn. Do not give in.”

Aragorn had no idea how long he sat there, keeping Legolas’s spirit tethered to this world. He lost feeling in his legs, though it was a vague sensation from far away. The surrounding trees bled into a haze of green fog, darkening as Aragorn drifted further into the spirit realm, taking all awareness of time and space with it. In the back of his mind, he wondered what had become of Gandalf and the eidolon, but it was a fleeting thought. All his attentions were focused on maintaining this precarious balance and preventing Legolas from fading…as he had promised.

Aragorn made that promise again, not in words, but in emotions and feelings passed through the gossamer strand linking them, one spirit-brother to another—I will not let go.

Chapter Text

Gandalf plowed through a clump of shrubs and out into a field. The umbrage had several meters on him, but its recent meal of orc-shadow seemed to have added bulk to its form, and it lumbered somewhat more heavily as it sought escape. Bree was around a small knoll up ahead, and if the creature reached the walls, it could disappear into any nook or cranny, not to mention Gandalf did not wish to confront it among a horde of people easily spooked into panic.

Raising his staff to the sky, the wizard shouted a short phrase that cracked the air like thunder, and a great sheet of blazing light burst up in front of the shade. It skidded to a stop, throwing up its arms and cowering away from the illumination that blocked its path like a physical wall. Gandalf closed the remaining distance and brandished the obsidian stone. Its power pinged in response to his will, reaching out to snag the adumbration.

The creature whirled and suddenly charged, a last desperate attempt to thwart the old wizard. Gandalf swung his staff around and clubbed the shade in the head. It stumbled to the side, lashing out to grab the crystal. Gandalf would not be taken by surprise twice, however, and twirled his staff to block. He felt the thud as wood collided with a shoulder, then a torso, all the while he fought to keep the Leo-atsaëa out of reach.

An amorphous hand shot out to grab his throat, and Gandalf gasped as cold fingers closed around his neck. The umbrage bore down on the wizard as though to envelop him in darkness as it had done to Legolas, but the staff between them held it at bay. Gandalf tried to ignore the firing synapses in his brain, and wrenched his other arm around to plunge the onyx gem into the shadow like a dagger. The creature jerked and released the wizard’s throat, trying to fling itself away. But Gandalf activated the crystal and felt its power bury invisible talons into the eidolon. The creature squirmed in an effort to disengage, but its form wavered and began to fold in on itself. Gandalf clenched his teeth and braced himself as the shadow creature dissolved into a rippling stream of ink that was sucked up into the crystal.

With a gasp, the wizard staggered forward a step. His pulse was racing, sending blood rushing through his ears, and his chest heaved with ragged breaths after the exertion of such a spell. He glanced at the Leo-atsaëa glittering in his palm, a hurricane of many shadows writhing inside. The knowledge that they had succeeded in capturing the demon filled Gandalf with an exhausted measure of relief…until he remembered he’d left Aragorn fighting the Gundabad orc. Spinning back toward the woods, Gandalf forced himself into a haggard run, praying he would find both Aragorn and Legolas in one piece.

When he returned to the clearing, his shoulders nearly sagged at the sight of the slain orc. But he stiffened again just as quickly when he spotted Aragorn kneeling next to a prone Legolas, one hand over the elf’s brow, the other clutching his hand across his chest. Even from the other end of the clearing, Gandalf could tell both of them were far away. The Ranger’s lips moved almost imperceptibly as he called to the Mirkwood prince—there was little time.

Gandalf hobbled over and lowered himself to the ground next to them. Then he turned the obsidian stone around, closing his eyes and reaching into the crystal with his power. The fell aura pricked at his mind with cold malice, yet he pushed past the discomfort, tracing the striations lining the inside of the gem until he grasped the thread of the elf’s shadow. Slowly and carefully, the wizard began to peel it away from the others, drawing it out through the pyramidal point. Black ribbons shimmered out of the tip like liquid silk. Gandalf squinted in concentration as he both held back the shadows of orc and trees, and reassembled Legolas’s.

When the shadow that hovered before him in the air was complete, Gandalf shifted the crystal and directed it at the fallen prince. The blackness settled over him like a sheet, pooling down around the contours of his frame and filling it in with a faint silhouette of incandescence, which fizzled and then suffused into a solid outline.

Gandalf rocked back on his haunches, feeling drained. But he was not quite done. Setting the crystal and his staff aside, he laid his hand over the clasped ones of man and elf. “Come back now,” he coaxed. “You are both still needed.” He pushed some more of his power into the call, and felt Aragorn’s spirit respond. Gradually, the man rose from the darkness, pulling Legolas’s fëa with him.

Aragorn suddenly blinked and leaned back, looking at the wizard. “Gandalf?” he asked in a mere rasp. His gaze shifted to Legolas, and fear flooded his eyes. “Is he…?”

“Alive,” Gandalf assured, and moved his hand to cup Legolas’s face. After a brief moment of searching, he nodded, much relieved to find the wandering soul settling back into the body. “I have restored his shadow and he should recover.”

“Should?” Aragorn winced and reached up to rub his neck, which was blossoming into a motley collage of red and purple.

Gandalf sighed. “I’m afraid that last attack by the shadow creature was quite a shock. In fact, I believe that is how it killed those men in Bree. Legolas is lucky to have survived.”

Aragorn dropped his gaze. “I thought he was fading.”

Gandalf did not doubt the prince had been, but didn’t say so. He gave the Dúnedan a meaningful look. “He was fortunate to be in the hands of a king.”

Aragorn looked away, jaw tight. Gandalf knew the man did not appreciate the wizard’s constant pushing and pointed reminders that he was destined to unite the race of Men. The preparation was necessary, however, for the Shadow grew stronger everyday. Still, Gandalf could give the heir of Isildur a brief reprieve, considering what they had just been through.

“Should we return to Bree?” Aragorn finally asked hoarsely.

Gandalf frowned. Both elf and Ranger needed tending to, but a village of nosy men was probably not the best place, especially if they had to carry Legolas back unconscious. Already the elf’s color was better at least. After some rest, he would return to his former self.

“We will stay here,” Gandalf decided. “Legolas will recover faster beneath the trees. I will make a fire and prepare some tea, for I daresay you could use it.”

Aragorn grimaced and rubbed his throat again. “I have some herbs in my pack that can be steeped.”

“Good.” Gandalf rose to his feet, but paused when he remembered the Leo-atsaëa. Best to take care of it sooner rather than later. He picked up his staff and moved several feet away before setting the crystal on the ground. Holding his staff in both hands, he lifted his arms and brought the wooden stump straight down on the obsidian stone. At the violent contact, a great crack rent the air along with a flash of light, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass. Black smoke belched from the glittering shards in a fetid plume before dissipating. Then the brilliant onyx sheen slowly dulled and clouded over, turning into a pile of pewter granules.

The wizard let out a relieved sigh; the Leo-atsaëa would never harm another being again, nor would Sauron ever wield it in his bid for Middle Earth. He looked up to find Aragorn watching him, relief visible on his face as well.

With a harrumph, Gandalf scuffed his shoe through the particles, grinding some into the ground and stirring smaller motes to be caught up in the air and carried away. Some of the dust sprinkled over the Gundabad orc’s corpse, which Gandalf curled his lip at. That needed to be taken care of as well, for such was not good company to recuperate in.

Shambling over to the dead brute, Gandalf ran an appraising eye across the large mass. He tapped the bottom of his staff three times and traced a rune on the air, followed by a spritz of light and eruption of smoke, from which the body had disintegrated. Gandalf leaned on his staff; so much magic in so short a time, especially with the obsidian stone, was tiring.

He turned around and found Aragorn gaping at him. “What?” he said gruffly.

The Ranger shook himself out of his daze. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you use such overt magic.”

Gandalf huffed. “Yes, well, I deem it necessary. Now cease talking, for the sound of your voice is as painful to hear as I imagine it is to speak with.”

Aragorn scrunched up his face in consternation, but didn’t say anything more as he set about placing stones in a ring. Gandalf proceeded to gather kindling, and considered uttering another incantation when Aragorn’s flint took more than three strikes of chert to start a flame. But his energies would soon be spent, and there were more needs that still required his attention.

Aragorn removed a large iron bowl from his pack to heat the water, and soaked the herbs in it. Gandalf then helped him clean a long slice down the side of his arm, almost parallel to another wound he bore. “From the flooded cavern,” he’d explained before Gandalf had silenced him with a look. Once that was tended, the man shrugged out of his tunic to change the bandage on his shoulder, which Gandalf was pleased to note was healing well. As the Istar wrapped fresh linen around the wound, the Ranger kept flicking worried glances at Legolas.

“Give him time, Aragorn,” Gandalf said gently, tucking the bandage closed. He turned to pour some of the boiling water into a cup, and Aragorn slipped his tunic back over his head with a small wince. He accepted the tea handed to him and blew on it before taking a sip.

With everything seen to, Gandalf let out a weary sigh and settled down against one of the trees to finally take some rest and await the revival of the Mirkwood prince.

Legolas felt a brush of cool, sweet air across his cheek. With returning sensation, he became aware of solid earth beneath him, cushioned by soft grass, and the ascending curve of an exposed root at his hip. Next came sound: the crinkling of leaves stirred by the breeze and a cicada chirping faintly from somewhere. Were the Halls of Mandos found in a forest? He tried to turn his head in the dark fog that enveloped him, and found his neck stiff, as though he still resided in a physical body. Strange, he thought. Why did death feel so…heavy?

Then another kiss of wind carried an earthy, clove-like aroma on a puff of smoke, and Legolas furrowed his brow. Surely there would not be pipe-weed in the afterlife. He slowly pried his eyes open and waited for the blurred shapes above him to coalesce into a canopy of trees. Peeking between their branches far above, he could see a few pinpricks of light standing out against a gloaming, twilight sky.

Another billow of smoke wafted over him, and Legolas lifted his head in confusion. He blinked at the sight of Gandalf sitting three feet away, back nestled into the crook of a large cypress. The wizard had a pipe in one hand and was chewing on the mouth piece. Dark eyes glinted mischievously.

“Welcome back, Greenleaf.”

Legolas pushed himself up onto his elbows, surprised to find strength returned to his limbs, though he still felt somewhat dazed. “What happened?”

“The shadow creature was captured, your shadow restored, and the Leo-atsaëa destroyed.”

He stared uncomprehendingly at the wizard for a moment, then whipped his head around for Aragorn. The Ranger lay a few feet away next to a small fire, curled up on his bedroll and breathing deeply in sleep. Legolas stiffened at the mottled bruises adorning his neck. “Is he…?”

Gandalf chuckled lightly. “That’s what he asked about you when he first returned.”

Legolas shot him a perplexed look. “Returned from where? And don’t think you can divert me from my first question,” he added with a scowl as he pushed himself up further to lean against the tree behind him. The oak’s overjoyed voice suffused him with an extra measure of peace and strength, and he found himself subconsciously resting a hand against the bark.

“He’s fine,” Gandalf assured. “Salves applied and tea administered. The Gundabad orc is also dead. As for your second question, what do you remember?”

Legolas frowned. He would not allow the wizard to distract him, but Aragorn did seem to be well, so he thought back to what he could recall of the confrontation. Uglûk had released Aragorn…because the umbrage had gotten the obsidian stone away from Gandalf! But then the creature had turned and used the crystal against the orc…

“I remember the demon tried to steal your shadows, and I shot the stone from its hand. Then…” Legolas splayed the fingers of his other hand across his chest. The oak at his back crooned soothingly in response to the harrowing memory. “I remember darkness.”

Gandalf nodded sagely. “The creature’s attack nearly killed you. Were it not for Aragorn, you would most certainly have gone on to the Halls of Mandos.”

Legolas canted his head, trying to decipher the wizard’s vague explanation. Then, like a light cutting through fog with the razor edge of a sword, he recalled falling through empty ether, drifting further and further into a darkening chasm, until a familiar voice had called him back. He’d recognized it as surely as he knew his own soul, and that presence had reached out to take hold of him, had held fast with a promise to never let go. His gaze drifted to the slumbering Ranger, tenderness and gratitude swelling his heart. Aragorn had kept him from fading, and Legolas knew he could never repay him.

“You would have done the same for him,” Gandalf’s voice broke through, as though the wizard had guessed his mind. He puffed on his pipe for a moment before removing it, brow puckering thoughtfully. “The time is soon coming when he will need you to, in a different manner perhaps, but he’ll need you to guide him through the darkness all the same.”

Legolas shook his head. “I shall follow him, not the other way around.”

“Faithfulness and devotion often serve as a compass for the one who inspires them.”

Legolas leaned his head back against the oak. He had known for almost as many years as Aragorn what the man’s destiny as Isildur’s heir entailed, and had vowed to walk this path with him. But where Gandalf and Lord Elrond often pushed and needled, Legolas remained a steady friend, patient to let the Ranger find himself before he took up the mantle of King. What the Istar and elf lord had failed to recognize, even in all their wisdom, was that the young mortal who had chosen exile simply needed time. Legolas had no doubt the man would embrace his calling when the moment came, even if Aragorn was as yet not so sure. But would it be so because of Aragorn’s indomitable valor, or Legolas’s faith? Or perhaps both.

“I will be there,” he said softly. He had almost despaired this time, almost given up, much to his shame. But Aragorn had refused to let him, and in the end, the prince had mustered the strength to fight—due in large part to his friend’s unyielding determination. Thus Legolas knew Aragorn would rise to the occasion again when he needed to, when Middle Earth would need him to.

Gandalf studied him before nodding in satisfaction and going back to his pipe. Legolas wrinkled his nose, though no one tried to tell a wizard to put out his smoke. With a knowing twitch of his lips, Gandalf huffed several times and sent a wispy gray horse prancing through the air and over Aragorn. The Ranger shifted and then let out a small sneeze.

“Mithrandir,” Legolas chided lightly. “You should let him sleep.”

“I think he would rather see you are finally awake.”

Aragorn mumbled something and lifted his head. As his gaze focused, his eyes widened and he bolted upright. “Legolas!”

“See?” Gandalf said smugly.

“Are you well?” Aragorn asked, shoving off his cloak and moving to crouch next to him.

Legolas nodded. “I am well.”

Aragorn smiled in obvious relief. “Your strength has returned?”

“Yes, though I think it may be a while before I’m ready to run another errand for wizards.” He cast a sidelong grin at Gandalf, who pulled his shoulders back with an indignant huff. Aragorn coughed into his fist to cover a snort.

“And do you feel tainted by darkness?” Gandalf asked, brows arched expectantly.

Legolas turned his gaze inward, finding the light of his fëa untarnished. “No. I feel whole again. Thank you, Gandalf. I should not have doubted you. And thank you, Aragorn, for calling me back. I owe you both my life.”

“There are no such debts between friends,” the Ranger said.

“Nor between us,” Gandalf added. “I bear some responsibility for what happened to you, for which I am deeply sorry. No one should have gone through what you did. But you have survived, your spirit unsullied.”

Legolas inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs with revitalizing vigor. Yes, he had survived. He turned to Aragorn then, brows knitting together at the unsightly bruises. “And your wounds?”

“A discomfort, but bearable.” Aragorn reached behind him for two tin cups and a bowl that had been sitting next to the fire. After pouring a simmering tea into them, he passed one to Legolas and the other to Gandalf before digging out a third mug from his pack and filling it as well. “To victory and restored health.”

Legolas and Gandalf raised their cups in a synchronized toast.

“And friendship,” the wizard added, winking at the elf.

Legolas buried a shared smile in his cup as he sipped the herb-marinated tea. Then he tipped his head back to gaze up at the trees and the midnight blue canvas beyond. Warmth filled his soul with the dazzling vision, and he murmured, “The stars have returned.”

Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder. “They never left, mellon nîn .”

No, they had not. In fact, their splendor was all the more radiant for the night. Legolas did not know how dark the road ahead would become, or where it would ultimately lead, but he would follow Hope. For under the growing Shadow, it was that light which would shine the brightest of all.