Here is the first chapter. Hope you like.


After many centuries, the walls of black that stood like unwavering sentinels of desolation seemed to become at times unbearable. As though insanity was a mere heartbeat away if no light would at that moment pierced through the gloom. The only steadfast in that ocean of despair was the undying hate and boiling rage that still burned through blood and body towards the ones that had created this living hell of black. Revenge was what kept the brink of insanity away.
Through the inky darkness came a single, echoing voice, “Not much longer…It has been many ages, but my revenge is finally at hand. Revenge against all Elves and Dwarves…and then all of humanity.”
An evil cackle rang out through the gloom at this, where it then faded into a sing-songy tinkle of mirthful laughter that sang out loudly though the blackness, “Enjoy your festivities, Elves and Dwarves! For I have chosen my pawns for this game that exact my revenge against those that have imprisoned me here in this dark hell! Enjoy your merriment whilst you can, ignorant players in my grand scheme!”
Fading back into the darkness, the laughter slowly subsided and returned back to careful waiting and brooding of evil plots and revenge where only the stinging silence of loneliness filled in the air.
*********
A cool, damp breeze wafted though the many passages and paths of Rivendell. Nestled between the feet of the Misty Mountains, the city created a peaceful haven for weary travelers and elf-friends. Spring was upon the grand elfish city. The green shade of the trees cast a gentle hue of rebirth and renewal. And it was a perfect setting for the gathering that was to take place there.
Over the distant rush of the waterfall and river that ran through Rivendell, the low babble of voices could be heard in the courtyard of Lord Elrond’s palace. Inside the walls of the elf-king’s home, a great reunion was taking place.
It had been two years since the War of the Ring and the fall of Sauron with the destruction of the One. Peace had returned to Middle-Earth. The heroes and champions of the epic tale had reunited to recount their journeys and adventures with one another in the place where the story of it all had first begun.
In the Grand Hall of Elrond, voices rang out through the brisk spring air of the river valley. The hall was several hundred paces long, made of the finest crafted marble and stone. The high ceiling overhead was braced with carved wooden beams decorated with elfish designs and patterns. Large windows lined with gauzy white fabric stood open along the sides of the hall to allow the sweet spring breeze to blow inside. Just on the other side of the windows lining the right side of the hall were large balconies overlooking the waterfall that fell along the high slopes of the Misty Mountains. Long tables filled the hall but arranged in such a way to allow for a wide open space set aside for story telling and music at the foot of an elaborate dais at the end of the hall.
“Greetings, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I was wondering when you were going to arrive,” the great host called to the black haired Ranger as he noticed his arrival on the other side of the crowded dining hall. Smiling an acknowledgment, Aragorn hastened over to his foster-father and bowed low.
Standing straight again after his bow, Aragorn swept a stray strand of hair from his eyes and replied in the grey-elven tongue, “You humble me with your hospitality, Lord. It has been much time since I have had the pleasure of sharing your presence.”
“Your formalities are appreciated, but it hardly seems accurate to say it has been a long time since you’ve been in my house. I believe the last time you returned to Rivendell from one of your Ranger escapades to visit the Lady Arwen was less than a week ago,” Elrond smiled, forgoing an elfish reply. Although at times, the elf king rethought the situation of his daughter’s love to a mortal man, he could not deny he could not have hoped for a better possible son-in-law -- elf or man.
“So it has!” the wandering Ranger laughed merrily with a broad smile, “It is only every time I leave Rivendell and return, it seems like ages since I have last been here. Before long, I may not be able to leave your house at all!”
“Let us hope such a thing does not come to pass!” Elrond returned with another jestful retort. Looking out over the assembled guests, he paused thoughtfully before he changed their talk, “It gives me much joy to see so many of the original Fellowship return here victorious and in a time of peace.”
“Those were dark times,” Aragorn agreed with a passing moment of dark memories, “But it does gladden my heart to reunite with old friends. I see the four Hobbits have joined us. I was almost certain I would never see the young Frodo anywhere outside the boundaries of the Shire again after the peril he faced only several years ago.”
“Yes, but the small one shares his uncle’s blood,” Elrond said as he began to lead Aragorn towards a set of lavishly decorated chairs behind the head table at the end of the hall on the raised dais. Seating himself down in the center most chair of velvet, the elf-king motioned for Aragorn to take the seat beside him. Accepting this honor, the Ranger sat and listened as Elrond continued, “Only after two years of living quietly in his hole in the Shire, recovering from his adventures, Frodo returned here to Rivendell to visit his uncle Bilbo. It seems his misadventure has awaken in him a restless spirit.”
Glancing out towards the Hobbit in question, both took a moment to analyze the five Hobbits gathered admits a group of elves from Elrond’s house who were listening intently to one of Bilbo’s many stories. Encircled by the elves, Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry laughed heartily as Bilbo came to one of the more comical parts of his tale.
On the outskirts of the group, the great wizard Gandalf stood, listening to his old friend’s story with a small smile of nostalgia. In those stories, the sorcerer had been called Gandalf the Grey. But now he wore robes of pure white, and his beard and hair reflected this change in color to suit his new title and position. With the defeat of Sarumon, Gandalf had become the head of the wizard council. But for the present, he held no title. Amidst friends and old companions, he was merely Gandalf.
As if noticing something, Aragorn broke the moment and asked, “Where is Gimli? I see dwarves among those gathered here, but where is our battle axe wielding friend?”
“Talking and catching up on old friendships with Legolas on the other side of the hall,” Elrond pointed out with a nod of his head in the indicated direction. Following his direction, Aragorn distinguished the short but solid form of the dwarf, Gimli, seated beside the lighthearted elf, Legolas, at one of the many tables set along the far side of the long hall.
Even from a distance of thirty feet or more, the Ranger could see smiles written across the pair’s faces as they talked and laughed, although the dwarf’s smile was harder to see from behind his thick reddish beard and the large mug of mead that seemed to constantly be at his mouth. But despite this, his guttural laugh rang out loud and strong over the background chatter that filled Lord Elrond’s hall.
“Such an unlikely friendship,” Aragorn murmured more to himself then anyone else as he watched the two from a distance.
“It’s true that Dwarves and Elves have rarely made lasting friendships and alliances in the past. The last several centuries have been filled with suspicion and mistrust between the two races. But I have hope. It is becoming increasingly apparent that to survive, all races of Middle-Earth must live in harmony, and I can see right here in these two there is hope in that,” Elrond commented thoughtfully.
“Who is the elf beside Legolas?” Aragorn then inquired as his dark eyebrows knotted together in the center of his head curiously.
Glancing over to the pair, Elrond saw the elf Aragorn asked about. The elf’s hair was long and blond like Legolas’ but his face was sterner and sharper in appearance. Under dark eyebrows, the elf’s eyes were shrewd and gray, seeing and cataloging everything in but a quick glance. His tunic was a dark blue with black leggings and light boots. Around his waist was fastened a curved blade made in the craft of elven blacksmiths. He sat close beside Legolas along with a contingent of other fair skinned Mirkwood elves. Even from across the room, Aragorn could detect a certain aura of wariness radiating from the mysterious elf.
“He is Toreingal, son of Leliem, of Mirkwood,” Elrond answered after a moment of contemplation, “He is of relation to Legolas- a cousin through blood by Lady Aelin, Legolas’ mother.”
But before the elf-king could add anything else on the matter, his thoughts were broken by a musical voice that suddenly caught his ears, “Father, are you boring Aragorn again with your meandering thoughts?”
Glancing to his side, Elrond saw his daughter, Arwen, mounting the dais and coming towards them, her long iridescent green and silver gown flowing gracefully around her feet. “I will have you know,” he said in mock seriousness, “that Aragorn is one of the few that can fully appreciate my ‘meandering thoughts,‘ as you put it.”
“I’m sure…” she simpered, giving her father a small peck of a kiss on his cheek before taking a seat beside Aragorn, “Why haven’t you started the feast yet, father? All those invited are present.”
“I was merely waiting for you,” Elrond answered tenderly as he stood and gracefully swept a fold of his red and gold embroidered robe behind him so as to address his many guest that numbered several hundred in elves, dwarves, followers of Aragorn, and five Hobbits. A hush fell over the people as they turned to listen to their host.
“I welcome all my guests to Rivendell,” Elrond began in a loud booming voice, “It pleases me that so many friends gathered here. Besides renewing old friendships, I hope this gathering will result in the enduring peace of Middle-Earth between all its inhabitants. That being said, let the feast begin!”
At the Lord’s words, a line of elf servants began to file into the room carrying trays laden with food and pitchers filled with rich drinks. A roar of approval rang out from the amassed guests as they sought to find seats to begin eating. Several musicians took their places near the dais and began to play soft elfish music on flutes as the guests ate.
“Such a spread!” exclaimed Gimli as a servant sat a large roast in the center of the table near where he sat. Setting his goblet of mead on the table for the first time since he had entered, the dwarf sliced a large hunk of steaming meat from the hock.
“I would pace myself if I were you, Master Dwarf,” Gimli’s elfish companion warned lightheartedly from beside him, “Lord Elrond’s feast will last long into the night and into tomorrow, and then another eight days if my guesses are correct!” Catching the sideways glance from the dwarf, Legolas noted with a smirk, “It would almost seem you have not eaten for several days by the way you hoard that meat.”
“The journey from the dwarf mines was very long and the rations taken with my company and I were mediocre at best,” Gimli snorted in reply as he shoved a mouthful of red meat into his mouth. Mumbling around the food in his mouth as he simultaneously talked and chewed, he added, “Although this doesn’t measure up to a true Dwarfish feast, Elrond’s is something to behold.”
“I would watch your tongue, dwarf, whist you are in the house of your host,” snarled a cold voice from the other side of Legolas. Turning towards the origin of the voice, Gimli saw Legolas’ elf companion, who had not spoken more then two words since arriving, leaning forward into the miner‘s field of vision from behind Legolas.
“What was that?” Gimli demanded gruffly, feeling a confrontation coming on by this mysterious fellow.
“You disrespect the hospitality shown to you by comparing this feast to a dwarf’s!” Legolas’ companion snarled with apparent dislike for Gimli. Turning to Legolas, he scoffed, “How can you stand to even share a table with this dwarf, cousin? I think you have fallen into bad company. No self-respecting elf would ever be caught dead with a dwarf.”
“I beg your pardon?!” roared Gimli in outrage as he leapt from his place to confront his aggressor. Standing to meet him, the other elf towered over the stout miner. Gimli was dismayed to find he barely even reached the elf’s narrow waist in height. Momentarily caught off guard by his vertical handicap, the dwarf nonetheless puffed out his chest and shifted his weight onto his toes to better utilize what few centimeters he could gain in doing so. Those in the general vicinity of the sudden outburst turned to watch.
There was a tense moment as the two faced off. The elf’s hand strayed to his side to gently grip the handle of his curved knife as Gimli reached to where his axe lay propped against the table.
“Master Dwarf! Cousin Toreingal! Enough of this!” Legolas cried as he leapt between the two, trying to prevent a fight, “We are guests in this house and will not take to fighting while here!” He could see the other elves in his and his cousin’s company tensing, waiting for the moment to jump to their lords’ aid if need be.
Considering Legolas‘ words, Toreingal narrowed his eyes at Gimli before saying in a dangerous tone, “You are right, cousin. I will not lower myself to a dwarf’s level--both literally and figuratively.” Gimli’s wrinkled expression twisted into rage at this, but said nothing out of respect to the archer that stood before him and his wicked-tongued cousin. Catching the dwarf’s stormy gaze, Toreingal added, “I will not show such disrespect as this dwarf has to this house by fighting here. But be warned, cousin, be careful of those you keep company with. I would hate to see one of our linage to be tainted by dwarves.”
With a final disdainful snort of disapproval towards Gimli, Toreingal turned and stormed from the room, leaving Legolas and the dwarf staring at his retreating back.
“Why I ’ought to….” Gimli muttered from beneath his furry beard with insulted eyes as Legolas’ cousin disappeared into the passage beyond one of the Great Hall’s many exits.
“I am deeply sorry for my cousin’s actions and words, Gimli,” Legolas bowed low in apology, “Please forgive me.”
“Why should I forgive you for what he said?” Gimli questioned more calmly in tone as they both retook their seats and those around them that had been disturbed by the brief outburst returned to their merriment. Half the hall seemed to have not even noticed the minor brawl at all, such was the size of Elrond’s Great Hall.
“He is related to me, thus making his words representative of me,” the young looking elf replied shamefully with downcast eyes, “Can you ever find it possible to forgive those ill-spoken words?”
“That cousin of yours has a sharp tongue, but I don‘t blame you for anything he said. It just strikes me as hard to believe he could actually be related to you,” the miner answered.
“It seems great hatred still exists between Elves and Dwarfs,” Legolas murmured dispiritingly to himself, “Will nothing change?”
“Well, elf, I can’t say I was very taken with you the first time I meet you at Elrond’s Council all those years ago. And though you’ve proven yourself more trouble than you’re worth, you’ve come to grow on me,” Gimli said, trying to lift his Legolas’ spirits.
“As have you, dwarf, only more like fungus on the side of a tree,” the elf quipped with surprising glibness considering his melancholic mood only a moment before.
Taken aback at first, Gimli sat open mouthed, groping for a suitable comeback. Finding himself coming up empty-handed, the dwarf was reduced to having to admit defeat to their verbal sparring. “Well, I’ve always said no sane dwarf would associate with an elf… And though I loathe to admit it, I’ve never been classified as the most mentally stable!” Gimli laughed heartily, giving Legolas a friendly slap on the back.
“Why does that not surprise me…” the elf muttered, feeling his heart lighten as the two continued on in their well-practiced banter of half-hearted insults.
“Oh, before I forget…” Gimli suddenly startled as if he just remembered something very important, “-I’ve brought you a gift from my father’s kingdom.” Reaching down to the small bundle at his feet, Gimli pulled free from his pack a wrapped package. Pushing his plates away from him to clear a space, the dwarf laid the bundle on the table before him and slowly unwrapped it while saying, “This is an ancient dagger forged in the Mountain of Bazadur centuries ago. It has been in my family for ages. But I’ve no use for it, Legolas. I prefer an axe to any other weapon made in Middle-Earth. I should like to offer it to you in good faith and friendship.”
Lifting the final fold of brown cloth from it, Gimli reverently pulled a sheathed dagger from the mass. It was light silver but with a bluish hue to its metal. Dwarfish runes ornamented the scabbard’s sides and the dagger’s handle. It was a beautiful piece of weaponry with deep blue gems that had been dug from the sides of mountains mounted along its sheath.
Offering it to Legolas, Gimli urged with a smile, “Go on. Take it.”
“Oh, I am most humbled,” Legolas stuttered gratefully as he gingerly took the knife from the dwarf’s hands, “I am hardly worthy of such a gift.”
“Don’t be modest,” Gimli smiled at the look of awe on the young elf’s face as he studied the etches along the scabbard carefully, “This is a gift worthy of such an elf who tolerated me for as long as you did on that quest so many years ago.”
“It hardly seems so long to me,” Legolas chuckled under his breath, “The War seems like only last week in my reference of time.”
Stifling a smile at the elf’s immortality, he urged anxiously, “Go on now! Don’t just sit there admiring the pretty designs! Pull it out and see the blade!”
Doing as he was directed, Legolas tugged the blade from its sheath with hardly any effort, as though the dagger had been well oiled and cared for over the years-- hardly showing the ages Gimli testified it had seen since its forging . Shining in the bright afternoon spring sunlight streaming into the hall from outside, the slightly curved blade shined like the moon; a pale bluish silver.
“It’s beautiful,” Legolas commented quietly as he laid the blade across his other hand to examine the edge. Pulling it straight up before his face, the elf fell into a trance as he gazed at the polished blade. It was so perfectly forged and sharpened.
Not thinking, Legolas gently slid his left pointer finger against the edge as if touch would better let him appreciate its artistry. But as his finger neared the tip of the dagger, the elf gave a tiny yelp of surprise and pain. Retching his finger back, he saw a small horizontal line of red beginning to form across the pad of his fingertip. Blood dotted along the thin and shallow cut.
“It seems I am not ready for such a blade,” Legolas joked, sucking the blood from his finger and thinking no more of the injury as he slid the dagger back into its scabbard, “I need more practice with it, it appears. Many thanks nonetheless, Master Dwarf. I will treasure this gift forever.”
“I‘m sure you will. You have enough time to actually fulfill that promise,” Gimli answered merrily as he waved down a passing servant and sent orders for more ale. Quickly downing his foaming mug, the incident between Toreingal and Gimli soon became forgotten as the feast continued on for many hours and into the night.
*********
The feast had been going on for several hours now. The sun had already set and the stars were beginning to shine out brightly against the dark firmament. The pale spring moon was beginning to raise off on the horizon, casting a ghostly glow on Rivendell and the surrounding mountainsides. Candles had been lit in Elrond’s Great Hall, giving the place a warm friendly glow. The musicians had long began to exhaust their repertoire of elven lore and songs, but the slack had been taken up by various guests who added had their own to the festivities.
Aragorn had already recited the legend of Turin and Beleg and their journeys together in the Northern Marches. Bilbo had also given a retelling of his encounter with a group of mountain trolls at the request of one of Elrond’s household. And Frodo had left his own mark on the night with a merry drinking song from the Shire that seemed to have gone over quite well with some of the dwarves from Gimli‘s company. Others had also taken their turn at being momentary entertainment for the party.
After one of the dwarves of Gimli’s clan retold some ancient story of mines and mountains, Elrond called out loudly over the polite applause of the other guests, “Will we not hear some Elven tales? Legolas! Would you not entertain us with some song of old? Perhaps some lore from Mirkwood!”
Off to the side where Gimli and Legolas sat in the darker shadows of the hall, the elf sat straighter in his chair with apparent strain but called out blithely, “It would be my pleasure, Lord Elrond! How does the tale of Nelomnial fancy you?”
“It would please me well, Legolas,” the regal king of Rivendell answered. Some of the Mirkwood elves that had accompanied Legolas to Rivendell smiled to each other. The tale of Nelomnial was a local favorite and was always readily recited and listened to at any elven gathering.
Despite the cries of approval from the remaining elven guests that had not yet gone off to bed or had retreated for a few moments to go in search of quiet somewhere away from the feast, Legolas felt no joy in his heart at the thought of reciting the long and wordy tale of Nelomnial. He didn’t know why he had offered to recite the longest story he knew, but it had been the first thing that came to mind. His head was spinning too much for him get his mind to think of anything else, and pride would not let him back down from Elrond‘s request. His body felt unnaturally heavy and weighted down to the floor. His head on the other hand felt light, and his eyes refused to fully focus on anything, leaving the world slightly blurred and fuzzy. A dull ache throbbed in his left hand but he thought nothing much of it.
Swallowing the discomfort on which he blamed too much ale pushed onto him by Gimli, the young elf hardened himself to the task at hand. Pulling himself to his feet, Legolas tried to push the edges of darkness that circled his vision away as he slowly trudged to the center of the area set aside for the storytellers and musicians.
As the elf took his place and looked out over the revelers, Aragorn and Arwen exchanged a worried glance as Legolas came more into the warm light of the many candles that filled the hall and saw how sickly and pale their friend’s face was. A sheen of sweat glistened across his brow and his shoulders sagged as if he was too tired to stand straight.
Taking a deep breath to steady his unsteady breathing, the Sindarian elf began in his native tongue the epic poem of Nelomnial:
Far from the east came a fair light
Fair and brave was the elf that rode before the sun
In the west lay a shadow of great darkness
Riding forth to met this foe,…
All of a sudden, Legolas trailed off. Those gathered close to hear his recitation, waited anxiously, thinking he was merely using dramatic pause to heighten the suspense of his telling. But before anyone knew what was happening, the archer suddenly pitched forward and crashed to the floor.
Cries rang out as a mass of people swarmed around the motionless form. Even Lord Elrond leapt from his place on the dais and rushed to Legolas’ side. From some far corner of the hall, Legolas’ cousin, Toreingal, hurried forward, having returned to the feast after his minor huff with Gimli hours before, but having kept a distance from his cousin and the dwarf during that time. Already there at Legolas’ side, Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen gently rolled the young elf onto his back. Legolas’ cheeks were sunken and unnaturally pale. His desperate breaths for air sounded loudly as his chest heaved up and down. A tense silence filled the hall as the other guests there stood to better see the sick elf.
“What happened to him?” demanded Toreingal as he knelt beside his cousin’s head and brushed several strands of sweaty blond hair that had loosened themselves from Legolas’ braids away from his face, “He has a terrible fever and can barely breath!” Sweeping his questioning gray eyes across the faces of those gathered closely around Legolas, Toreingal’s eyes fell onto the dwarf Gimli. “You!” he accused with a pointed finger, “My cousin was well when I left him with you! What did you do to him?!”
“I did nothing! How dare you accuse me of any treachery!” the dwarf shouted from Legolas’ side, anger brewing in his dark little eyes.
“Both of you, calm yourselves!” Gandalf cut in, “We must figure this out later, but first we must tend to Legolas. He is gravely ill.”
“Will he be alright?” Frodo questioned softly from the wizard’s side, looking down worriedly at his sick elf-friend.
“The festivities for the night are ended,” Elrond announced, not answering the Hobbit’s question, “Legolas is to be taken to my chambers in the palace immediately.” Clapping his hands loudly, a small team of servants rushed forwards and lifted the fevered elf up and hurried him out one of the hall’s many grand exits and into the main body of Elrond’s palace. Low murmurs sounded in waves through the other guests gathered in the hall at the mention of the feast’s end. Nothing like that had ever happened before. Never had one of Lord Elrond’s feast ever been prematurely ended.
“Gandalf, come with me. We must tend to Legolas,” ordered Elrond gravely. In both their eyes they shared the knowledge of something very ominous hanging in the air. Hastily retreating from the Great Hall in the way the servants bearing the stricken elf had gone, the wizard and elf-king disappeared from the sight of the others.
Not invited, but not caring if they were or not, Toreingal, Gimli, Aragorn, Arwen and the Hobbits quickly followed the two into the bowels of Rivendell’s palace.
**********
“He is fading from us,” Gandalf muttered gravely to himself as his removed his hand from across the elf prince’s burning hot forehead. Laying on the soft down pillows of Elrond’s own bed, Legolas’ labored breathing was the only thing that broke the tense silence that filled the room. The elf’s eyes lay half open, but saw nothing from under the delirium of the fever that burned his body. In the dim candle light that shined from a nearby stand, the elf’s skin glowed a deathly pale shade. Those that had followed Lord Elrond and Gandalf from the Great Hall stood silently along the far side of the room, out of the way of the two healers. Toreingal, however, paced nervously at the foot of Legolas’ bed, heedless of the possibility he was in the way.
“I do not understand this,” Elrond muttered under his breath, “I talked to Legolas myself earlier today and he was perfectly healthy. What could have stricken him so ill so fast? None of our medicine is reaching him through this fever.”
“I am wondering things much along those same lines, my friend,” the aging wizard answered, “I am beginning to wonder if this is more than a simple illness…” A deep frown was pulled across his bearded face as he looked down onto the panting boy before him. The elf had been stripped of his tunic and belt to better examine him. An unspoken fear crept along the half-elf’s and the wizard’s spines as they saw Legolas’ chest drawn up beneath his ribs with every desperate, irregular gasp for air. They would need to hurry to heal the prince or he would slip beyond their aid.
“What’s this…?” Gandalf suddenly murmured as he stooped to examine Legolas’ left hand that lay down flat against the coverlet of the bed he lay on. The warrior’s first finger was swollen and bluish in appearance. Gently turning Legolas’ hand over in his own to see better, the wizard saw what had once probably been a small and shallow cut, was now almost half and inch long. The edges of the cut were purple and pulled taught from swelling. The bluish hue of the skin around the wound spread down towards the heel of Legolas’ hand.
Coming around to the same side of the bed as Gandalf, Elrond stooped to examine the cut himself. A grim frown spread down across his ageless face as he gently probed the inflicted finger. Moaning weakly, Legolas writhed under the elf-king’s gentle touch. Relinquishing his examination, the ancient healer closed his eyes and he held an outstretched hand out over Legolas’ infected hand, using his magical insight to look beyond the superficial wound and to the true problem. Finally after a moment, Elrond stood straight beside the bed, ill tidings written across his face.
“What is it? Do you know?” Toreingal demanded from the foot of the bed urgently, worry creasing his face.
“Unfortunately, I do. But I do not know how,” answered Elrond, “There is poison flowing in your cousin’s veins.”
“Poison?” Legolas’ kin repeated in shock.
“But as I’ve said, I do not know how it could possibly be the poison I think of. I sense what feels like Ghostslip. But the plant that this poison is made of has long been extinct,” Elrond said as if in a trance, his voice very distant, “It kills slowly and very painfully. Before death, the victim is delirious and mutters utter nonsense until they pass away. There is no known remedy.”
Silence stung the ears of the room’s occupants as they digested Elrond‘s words.
“How did this happen?” Frodo whispered, tears stinging the corners of his eyes at the thought of one of his friend‘s dying.
“It seems the poison was transferred into Legolas through a small cut on his finger. But I do not know how this could have been achieved,” Elrond sighed in defeat, perplexed by these facts.
“Did you say a cut? On his finger?” Toreingal suddenly broke in and demanded. Turning on Gimli who stood not far away from him, Toreingal exploded, “Murderer! I should strike you dead right where you stand for what you’ve done!” Rage boiled in his pale gray eyes as he whipped his dagger from its sheath at his side.
Startled by this, the others gathered in the room jumped away from Legolas’ enraged cousin. Gandalf and Elrond stood beside each other, watching as Toreingal gripped his knife tightly in his hand. Caught without his axe which he had left behind in the Great Hall in his hast to go to his sick elf-friend’s side, Gimli watched with terror widened eyes as Toreingal stalked towards him.
“Stop this!” Aragorn ordered, stepping between the two and drawing his sword on the elf warningly, “What are you talking about, Toreingal?”
“This treacherous dwarf has just sentenced my cousin to death!” the elf roared, eyeing Gimli with hate filled eyes, “I saw him give my cousin, Legolas, a dagger earlier today. I saw him even from across the hall edging Legolas to draw the knife and examine it. My cousin followed his instructions but cut himself on its edge as he did so! He must have placed the poison on it before he arrived in Rivendell. This dwarf conspired to murder Legolas!”
“I did no such thing!” Gimli retorted defiantly, “I would never stoop to poisoning a blade in order to kill an enemy with such dishonorable treachery and deceit!”
Snorting at this, Toreingal snarled, “I would not put it past a dwarf to do such things.” But before, the miner could return the insult, he was interrupted by a strong voice.
“These are grave crimes you a charge the dwarf Gimli with, Toreingal of Mirkwood,” Elrond said sternly, breaking up another potential brawl between the two, “Before anyone is to be accused of murder, the blade in question must be examined.”
“I will not wait for such diplomatic means of justice,” Toreingal hissed with venom, “I will avenge my cousin.”
“You will take no such course of action until all it taken into account,” Elrond commanded, staring down the much younger elf.
Gritting his teeth in anger in knowledge he could not out rightly go against the king of the land he was in, Toreingal looked towards the only dwarf in the room and growled, “I am sending out a carrier pigeon to Legolas’ father, my uncle, in Mirkwood at first light. If my cousin dies, open war with befall all dwarves. King Thranduil will not take lightly the poisoning of his youngest son. The elves will march in mass towards the mines of all mountain dwellers and seek justice for the king’s son’s death with the blood of ten thousand dwarves.”
Turning on his heels quickly, Toreingal stormed from the room to ready his message to King Thranduil that would be sent out at the first rays of dawn.
“I did no such thing as that elf accuses me of,” Gimli cried out in a tight voice, feeling himself being backed into a corner.
“I believe you, Master Dwarf,” Elrond soothed, “But I fear, King Thranduil may be swayed by his nephews words and turn to war.”
“Do you have the means of curing Legolas?” Aragorn asked softly, looking down onto the sickened elf’s pain screwed face as he returned his sword to its scabbard.
Looking to the wooden floor, Lord Elrond shook his head sadly, “I cannot. There is no cure that I know of that can reverse the effects of the poison that flows through Legolas‘ veins. At best, I could only lengthen his life until he finally slips beyond my power.”
“So war is upon our heads,” Gandalf muttered as he gazed down onto the pale face of Legolas, whose failing life would ultimately decide the coming of a war that could ravage all of Middle-Earth until there was nothing left. Elves would fight Dwarves and then Men would fall in the wake of the consuming battles between the two races until all was but a desolate wasteland…
************
“Ha ha ha,” sang the mirthful voice in the blanketing darkness of nothingness, “The elf has fallen and my revenge is at hand! With his death, I exact my revenge against those that imprisoned me in this tomb centuries ago. And better yet when the dwarf comes to me seeking salvation for the elf. Then I will be free once again! The second coming of the Dark Witch is close at hand!”
Again the woman’s voice trailed away into the inky darkness as the wall of blackness darkened to an ever more despairing shade of nothingness…
A gray, early morning light filtered through the far window of the darkened room. The sky outside lay overcast and gloomy, threatening a chilly spring shower. Inside the grand palace of Rivendell, a still quietness pervaded one of it’s many guest chambers, as if any of its occupants dared not speak. Gathered close around the large bed that stood against the far wall of the room, Aragorn, Gandalf, Arwen, Gimli, and four little Hobbits huddled together at their stricken friend’s side, hoping beyond all hope for a miracle.
Legolas lay motionless, wrapped in layers of soft sheets with his long blond hair fanned out on the pillow beneath his head. His face was still a ghostly pale shade, but he now seemed able to breath easier. The medicines given to him by Elrond and Gandalf throughout the long and wearying night had seemed to have finally taken some effect. A slight fever still warmed his forehead but the elf seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He barely stirred as Arwen placed a cool, damp cloth across his brow.
Sometime before the first dim glow of morning had warmed the horizon, the group had carried the poisoned elf to a guest room in the palace near Lord Elrond’s should his knowledge of medicine and healing be needed again. Throughout the rest of the long and lonely night, they had stayed by Legolas’ side faithfully, unable to tear themselves away from their fatally ill companion.
During that time, the accursed dagger that had struck down the youthful elf had been brought to Lord Elrond. The timeless elf-king had pondered the blade thoughtfully with Gandalf for some time before leaving to study the dagger in his chambers alone. When he had left, the others there swore they sensed something ominous in the air by the way Elrond eyed the dagger; as if he sensed something evil brooding in the ornamented weapon and cringed at the touch of it. That had been hours ago and the day was now nearing the ninth hour of the morning, but still there had been no word from him.
Near Legolas’ head, Gimli sat hunched in his chair, staring blankly down at the polished floorboards, thousands of miles away lost in thought. It seemed to the rest of the group he had aged several decades since the night before, being completely undone by Legolas‘ poisoning. The dwarf said little and never strayed far from the elf’s side. In his eyes shined the unmistakable torture of guilt and grief.
“How long do you think he has?” Sam suddenly squeaked in a soft and timid voice from a chair near the foot of Legolas‘ bed beside Frodo, as if frightened to break the silent vigil but unable to keep the weighty question unspoken any longer. The others looked to the Hobbit slowly, emotionally exhausted expressions chiseled onto their weary faces.
“It is hard to foresee,” Gandalf answered grimly, tugging at the bottom of his long white beard thoughtfully, “Legolas is strong, but the poison is stronger. I can make no estimate on the length of his suffering.”
“Is there nothing we can do for him?” Aragorn cried in frustration, standing straight from where he leaned against the window frame nearby, “If Legolas dies, the northern Elves will wage war on the Dwarfs. King Thranduil has many alliances with other Elf clans who would easily be swayed to march against the Dwarfs. And the Dwarves are no helpless race. They would go to meet the Elves in battle and fight with unimaginable brutality. Middle-earth is still recovering from the War only two years ago. It could not survive an open war between Elves and Dwarfs.”
“I share your fears, Aragorn, but there is little you, I, or Lord Elrond can do,” Gandalf replied as he hung his head against his chest in defeat, “There is no magic or medicine I know of that can cure him.”
“This is all my fault,” broke a low voice. Looking to its origin, the group saw Gimli raise his head for the first time in hours. Shaking his stout little head from side to side slowly, he murmured despairingly, “It’s all my fault. What that elf, Toreingal, said before was true. I did urge Legolas to examine the blade. If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened. If I had known there was anything foul on that blade, I would have cast it into the darkest pit of my father’s mine. I should have never given Legolas that dagger. If I had only known…” Here the miner trailed off, choking back the grief and guilt that threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes as he looked down upon the pale face of the sedate elf laying beside him.
“Gimli,” Frodo hushed with a gentle hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, “There was no way of you knowing there was poison on that knife. You have no fault in what happened.”
“Frodo is right, you know,” Gandalf assured.
Gimli looked to the Men, Hobbits, and female elf that nodded to him in agreement, but found no such forgiveness for himself as they did him. He could already feel the weight of Legolas’ death hanging over his head, along with the deaths of all other Dwarfs and Elves that would result from his ill-fated gift. Gimli felt as though he were in quicksand; slowly being swallowed alive with no way of escaping. And it was all his fault… Quiet descended on the guest chamber of Lord Elrond’s palace as the dwarf hung his head and turned his sorrows in on himself again.
Suddenly there came the soft click of a door being opened. Startled by this new sound, those in the room turned toward the only entrance of the sparsely decorated guest chamber. As the delicately carved door swung outwards into the hallway beyond, the face of Legolas’ cousin, Toreingal, came into view as he stepped over the threshold without a sound from beneath his light boots on the floorboards; such being the grace and stealth of all the Eldar. Looking towards the bed, the elf’s face did a momentary startle as he noticed the many faces staring back at him.
Quickly recovering from his initial surprise, Toreingal said in a tight voice, barely masking his distrust towards the group, save for perhaps Arwen, “I was not expecting to find so many at my cousin’s side.”
“We were not about to abandon our friend in his hour of need,” Aragorn replied, returning Toreingal’s hostile tone.
The elf’s gray eyes narrowed to slits at the Ranger‘s words, staring daggers at the Man who dared imply any notion of him abandoning his dying cousin. But before he could return any barbed comment, Toreingal noticed a stout figure sitting in the gray shadows of the room close beside Legolas’ bed.
“What is he doing there at my cousin’s side!?” the elf exploded, straying his hand to his side where his dagger was sheathed, “I should slit that dwarf’s throat for his treachery and betrayal of Legolas’ trust! It is because of him I must watch my cousin slowly slip away to the Halls of Mandos!”
“Toreingal,” Gandalf spoke calmly, but with force behind his words, “Gimli had no hand in the poison that tainted that dagger. He is innocent of all your accusations. Lord Elrond is investigating this matter as we speak to find the truth. We will find who did this.”
The fair elf snorted in disgust at this and scoffed, “So this dwarf has the great Gandalf the White under his pudgy little finger too. I will tell you the truth of this matter, old man: he plotted to kill Legolas and has thrown a blanket over everyone’s eyes but mine! I see him plainly for the deceitful little murderer he is.”
Gimli said and did nothing at this. The dwarf merely sat like a cold stone statue in his chair staring at the floor with a distant look in his dark eyes as the elf battered his ears with hate filled accusations. And in his heart, Gimli began to wonder the truth of Toreingal’s words…
“Stop this!” Aragorn ordered forcefully, coming to place himself in front of Gimli as if to shield the dwarf from anymore of Toreingal’s abuse, “Cannot you see past your own nose?” he demanded from the angered elf. Fire blazed in Toreingal’s pale gray eyes as Aragorn continued undaunted, “You accuse Gimli, of poisoning the blade that struck down Legolas, but have you ever considered the point Lord Elrond made last night that this poison can no longer be made? How could Gimli have poisoned Legolas if there was no way of him obtaining the plant needed to brew it?”
Twisting his face up in obstinance, Toreingal opened his mouth to answer the Ranger, but was cut off suddenly by another whose strong voice commanded all attention in the room. “From what I have found, simple poison would be a blessing.”
Standing there in the doorway of the room, Lord Elrond stood clutching the bluish silver dagger whose poisoned blade had numbered Legolas’ days. Slowly stepping across the threshold with his pale green and silver robes gently whistling above the wooden floor, the elf-king moved silently into the room with his dark eyes turned towards the ground. Elrond’s ageless face now seemed taught and weary, as if he bore a great burden on his shoulders.
“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked worriedly from the grim look in his foster-father’s dark brown eyes.
“Father, what is it?” Arwen joined in softly, concern tainting her voice.
The elegant king stood for a moment staring down at Legolas’ still form on the nearby bed as he slowly brought the moonlight colored dagger up to hold before him. Breathing in a tight breath of air, Elrond said grimly, “It was not as I thought. There is no poison upon this knife’s edge.”
Perplexed glances were exchanged at this revelation from those gathered at Legolas’ side. “How can that be?” the wizard wondered out loud as he shifted his long white staff from one hand to the other nervously.
Elrond replied in a grave tone, “Instead of Ghostslip, which I had first thought it was, the whole blade rather is tainted with evil. Anyone who is cut or pierced by this knife is doomed to die.”
Tense silence hung in the room as thick as fog as the half-elf continued in a low voice, “When I first touched it, even through its scabbard, I could feel something darker then mere poison within. From the ancient dwarfish runes etched into its blade, I have deciphered the name of it’s original master: the dwarf Rungal.”
“That was one of my ancestors,” Gimli broke in, finally choosing his moment to speak “He forged the dagger himself and that was how it came into my family.”
“You are correct, Master Dwarf,” Lord Elrond confirmed with a nod of his head in Gimli’s direction and riddled enigmatically, “But I doubt you know the reason of its forging.” Gimli said nothing as the elf explained, “In my research of the name Rungal, I have uncovered a forgotten chapter in our world’s history which should never have been forgotten. Three thousand years ago in the Second Age, Middle-earth was plagued by an evil sorceress named Eronel-”
“Wait!” Toreingal broke in suddenly with great surprise, “That is an elven name!”
“It is,” Elrond affirmed again with a saddened tone, “Eronel was of the our race; one of the Eldar, a Sindar like you, Toreingal, and Legolas. But she was tempted and fell into dark magic. She was corrupted by power and greed and became tainted by evil. She killed anyone who stood against her and covered much of the northern lands in darkness, fire, and fear.”
“How terrible…” Frodo muttered quietly, remembering the same terror he had seen and suffered only several years before during his long and weary quest to destroy the ring of power.
“It was, Frodo,” Elrond commented to the small Hobbit, “But Eronel was defeated by a contingent of Elves and Dwarves who had banded together to rid Middle-earth of her evil. After many long and bloody battles, the magic of the Elves and force of the Dwarves finally wounded and drove back Eronel into a dark cave hidden in the Misty Mountains where they sealed her inside for all eternity.”
“But what does this dark witch Eronel have anything to do with this dagger?” Arwen questioned from Legolas‘ bedside.
Elrond bowed his head, for he had come to the part that effected them most. Gathering his will, the he said, “Gimli’s ancestor, Rungal, was one of the those who had fought against Eronel. He was the one who wounded the sorceress and forced her into the cave where she was sealed. But it seems Eronel’s evil had gone deeper then what was first imagined. The evil and darkness that had consumed her soul had also spoiled her very body. When she was wounded on the edge of this blade, she in turn tainted the dwarf’s sword with the dark poison that ran through her flesh. After Eronel’s defeat, the Elves and Dwarves went their separate ways and the tainted dagger fell out of use and memory and became only a family heirloom until it came to pass into Gimli’s hands…”
An uneasy quietness followed as each of those there fell into silence and thought. But then, a weak voice sounded, like fall leaves being carried away on the winds, “Then I am doomed to fall into darkness…”
Startled, the group looked to the large bed where the voice had been issued. There, laying with his deep blue eyes cracked open a bit, the elf Legolas stared up at his friends. Whether the elf had no intention or no strength to, he did not try to rise and sit. Converging on him like vultures on a dead animal, those crowded together in the room sprang to huddle around the large bed.
“Legolas! Thank the Valar you’re awake!” Aragorn cried as he hurried to his companion’s side and took the elf’s cold hand into his own. A mixture of relief and concern stormed across his weatherworn face. “We feared we would never hear your voice again. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” the warrior admitted groggily, trying to blink his bleary eyes into focus on the faces hovering over him.
“I hate to say it, but you look terrible,” Aragorn then took the opportunity to say as he pushed some of Legolas’ sweat-matted hair away from clammy face and readjusted the wet cloth on the elf‘s forehead.
The poisoned warrior let a small, weary smile grace his face at their little inside joke, but the expression was fleeting and quickly fell away to exhaustion. Obviously struggling to keep his already barely open eyelids from sliding completely shut, Legolas weakly turned his head to acknowledge his cousin as the other Mirkwood elf forcefully pushed his way through the four Hobbits that huddled together beside the bed.
Bending over Legolas‘ body, Toreingal asked in surprising gentleness, “How long have you been awake? How many of Lord Elrond’s words did you hear?”
Legolas said nothing for a moment before answering softly in despair, “Enough to know there is no hope for me…”
Toreingal’s face hardened at these words. “Fear not cousin. You will not go unavenged. I have sent word of your plight to you father, King Thranduil, in Mirkwood early this morning. I dare gamble that he is already gathering his armies to march out towards the Dwarf mines nestled in the Lonely Mountains to seek revenge. The Dwarves will suffer for their plot to kill you. I know that deceitful little miner purposely gave you that dagger knowing full well what evil it held.”
Legolas looked at his kin for a moment, horror shining in his eyes as he struggled to find words. His stomach clenched into a knot at his cousin’s words. A cold shiver of fear sliced down his spine as he tried to decide if he wasn’t really in the grips of some terrible nightmare conjured up by the poison that flowed through his body.
“You did what?” he finally rasped, looking at Toreingal with disbelief, “Gimli would do no such thing. The Dwarves have done nothing to have war declared against them.” Looking to the dwarf who sat close beside his bed in silence, Legolas saw a sorrowful shadow fall over his friend’s face, as if Gimli himself was not so sure of his own innocence.
Looking down at Legolas for a long moment, Toreingal finally assessed with a grim frown, “You are not well, cousin. You are still in the grips of a terrible fever. You do not understand these things in your delirium. I have already sent a carrier pigeon out in the direction of Mirkwood. Your betrayal will not go unavenged.”
Before Legolas could form any words in his parched throat to defend his sanity, Lord Elrond broke into the conversation and said, “Before you plan for war, Toreingal, you should know there still may be salvation for Legolas. All hope is not lost.”
All eyes in the room snapped towards the tall, dark elf who stood on the outer circle of those gathered around the poisoned archer. “Have you discovered a means of curing Legolas?” Gandalf questioned hopefully.
“Perhaps,” the elf-king muttered with hesitation in his voice, “The witch that tainted this blade is sealed in a mountain cave hidden from view by a small waterfall that flows over its entrance and then into a shallow pond. The Elves that sealed Eronel in the cave enchanted the water to imprison her inside. It is possible that the enchanted water that was used to drive Eronel’s evil into the dark recesses of the cave may also be used to break the poison and drive her evil from Legolas’ body.”
Hope rose in the group as Elrond finished. War may yet be diverted. Legolas may still be saved.
“Such a thing may work…” the white wizard mumbled to himself, pulling on his beard thoughtfully, slowly pacing along the foot of the bed.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get some of this magic water!” Pippin exclaimed in his excitement, not considering any of the preparations that would need to be made before any such quest could be undertaken.
“Thing’s are not so simple, my little Hobbit,” Lord Elrond chided, holding up a hand in front of his chest to motion for attention again from the group, “The way to the waterfall is long and treacherous. The witch, Eronel, still resides in the hidden cave and strives for release. She would bring utter ruin to Middle-Earth should she somehow escape. If we were to go in search of Eronel‘s cave, great care must be taken. We cannot risk her release.”
“But we can also not risk Legolas’ death,” Aragorn pointed out, “If he dies, open war will erupt between the Elves and Dwarves. That would be just a devastating on our world.”
“Where is this hidden cave?” Frodo then asked softly from Legolas‘ side.
“The cave is actually not far from Rivendell - perhaps a two days journey. It is hidden in a valley east of here in the Misty Mountains. But as I’ve said, the path is treacherous. The mountain pass to the valley may still be blocked by winter snow and ice. But Aragorn is right; we cannot let Legolas slip so easily. We must try to prevent war at all costs.”
“I will go!” a loud shout rang out through the room as the dwarf Gimli erupted into life and sprang to his feet, “I will go to this cave a bring Legolas this healing water.” The others looked at the dwarf, momentarily stunned into silence by his sudden uptake of the perilous task. In his eyes shined a desperate look of hope as he looked down to where his unlikely friend lay dying beside him.
“Gimli,” Legolas called weakly from within his cocoon of soft white sheets, as he battled his own body to stay wake, “You do not need to burden yourself with this task.”
“I burden myself with it,” Gimli answered softly, laying a hand on the sick elf’s shoulder, “All this was brought onto you by me and my ill-fated gift. I will not let you slip away without a fight.”
“You offer to brave the dangerous road ahead, Gimli son of Gloin?” Elrond addressed the dwarf with regal regard.
“I do,” he answered with dead set determination.
Taking all of this in, Toreingal finally could take no more and cried out with smoldering hate in his eyes, “No! No! No! No!” Turning on Elrond he exclaimed, “This dwarf poisons my cousin with a cursed dagger and you would allow him to go in search of the poison’s only known cure?! He is treacherous and deceitful! Who is to say he will not leave Rivendell saying he is making for the hidden cave when in reality he is returning to his dark mines to leave Legolas to die waiting for a cure he will never return with? I will not allow such a thing to happen. I will go!”
“This is not your battle, elf!” Gimli retorted stubbornly, “I have already said I will go.”
“I will not let a dwarf go to save my cousin as long as my bow still has a taunt string,” Toreingal snarled venomously, coming to tower over Gimli’s stout figure.
“That’s it! I can take no more of this bickering!” Gandalf suddenly cried out in exasperation, breaking the tension between the two by pounding the end of his white staff against the floor loudly and earning himself a startled look from everyone in the room, “It is clear neither of you will be deterred of this task, but it is becoming increasing clear that you both cannot be trusted alone together in the wilderness. I will go with you both to see that this quest is completed with no casualties.”
“I will go also,” Aragorn quickly offered.
Following the Ranger came a barrage of ‘Me toos’ and ‘I will gos’ until Lord Elrond finally hushed them all with a single outstretched hand. Looking down to Legolas who lay by quietly as all his friends offered to willingly face the dangers ahead to bring him a cure, Elrond said softly, “You have many faithful friends with you. A person would be fortunate to have only one as faithful as yours.” Looking up to the group, he rebuked gravely, “But while all of you are noble in your offers, not all may leave for the cave. Speed and quickness are of the essence. King Thanduil’s army will soon leave from Mirkwood to march against the Dwarves. The enchanted water must be brought back to Rivendell as fast as possible. Should Legolas die, death and war would sweep over Middle-earth.”
Swiveling his head to encompass the company of friends, he added, “The fewer travelers, the faster they could move. Since it is clear Toreingal and Gimli will not be cut from this quest, I would consul only one other companion to make sure there are no more quarrels such as the one I’ve seen between the two today. Gandalf, you have already offered your presence, so you will accompany them.”
Not deterred by Elrond’s command, Aragorn stepped forward and insisted, “Please, allow me to go with them. They will need a guide through the Misty Mountains.”
“No, Aragorn, you will be needed here in Rivendell to prepare for Kind Thranduil should he make a preempted attack on any dwarves in these lands. Your skills cannot be spared.”
Accepting these words after another moment‘s hesitation, Aragorn relinquished his fight and drew back to stand with the others who were to remain in Rivendell.
“We must prepare to leave immediately,” Toreingal stated with commanding urgently, “I am no healer, but I doubt my cousin’s ability to stave off this poison for long. Lord Elrond, how soon can you have ready all that is required for this quest?”
“By this afternoon,” the elf-king answered.
“Then we will depart then,” Toreingal announced loudly to the group. Kneeling beside Legolas’ immobile form that lay helplessly beside him, he whispered encouragingly, “I will fly with the wind and bring you back this cure. Rest easy, Legolas. I will not let you down.”
Legolas lolled his head sluggishly to the side to face his cousin. Fighting the urge to fall into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, the elf tried to muster the strength to bid Toreingal a safe journey. But he found himself unable to form any coherent words, he was too drained of energy.
Frustration mounted in the sickened warrior. He was not used to his body’s being so unresponsive; for Elves were not ones to suffer sickness or death, and Legolas’ condition was new and strange to him.
Bowing his head to the sick elf, Toreingal raised his right hand to his forehead where he then swiftly brought it to his chin. Then laying his hand on Legolas’ fever warmed brow, Toreingal blessed quietly, “May Elbereth watch over you until I return...”
Then standing, Toreingal made as if to leave to ready for his journey but suddenly halted dead in his tracks several paces from Legolas‘ bed. Swiveling on his heels, he called back to Gimli with a disdainful gaze, “You, dwarf, I will be keeping a close eye on. Even after Legolas is brought back to health, you will answer for your treachery. Do not think that since you have come with me in search of the healing water with me that I will forgive you.” With that, the elf stalked out of the door. Leaving those still in the room staring after him.
In the still silence that followed in Toreingal’s wake, Legolas felt his energy leaving his body swiftly. Sleep called to him softly, lulling him onto the brink of unconsciousness where reality and dreams faded and folded into each other to form a misty fog. Fighting off the call to slip away into sleep, Legolas called out softly, “Gimli?”
Coming quickly to the elf’s side, the dwarf asked gently, “What is it, my friend?”
Eyes already slowly falling shut in exhaustion, Legolas murmured, his words slightly slurred, just above a whisper, “Gimli, I apologize for my cousin’s words… No matter what he may say, he means well. I thank you for going, though you are too stubborn for your own good. Maybe one of these days someone will finally beat some sense into that thick skull of yours. But I thank you nonetheless…Just please hasten back.”
Gimli looked down at this, tears beginning to brim along his eyes as he stared into the floor, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. How could Legolas still banter as though nothing had happened between them? How could he not blame him for the evil that had befallen him? What had he ever done for this elf to deserve such forgiveness or friendship? “Legolas…” he began in a faltering voice, “I…I‘m sorry…about all of this. I-”
“Gimli. Stop.” the elf ordered with surprising force in his frail voice, cutting the dwarf off before he could get out anymore. Looking into the dwarf’s dark brown eyes, Legolas said purposely, “This is not your fault. I do not blame you. And if you do not stop with all these tiring apologies, I will be forced to string you up by that beard of yours.”
Gimli could not fight the grim smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. Leave it to Legolas to let him keep his pride. Over time, both had learned the full depth of each other’s pride and knew how hard it was for the other to offer an apology. Nodding in understanding, he placed a hand tenderly onto his friend’s shoulder. But in his heart, the dark whisper of guilt still echoed through the dwarf’s soul.
Weakly reaching up and seizing Gimli’s hand into his own, Legolas gave Gimli a small, wan smile before finally letting his eyelids slowly shutter close. He could no longer fight the exhaustion that weighted on his body and mind. Comforted with the knowledge that Gimli and his closest friends were there by his side, Legolas let himself slip away into the deep void of sleep where the exhaustion and growing pain of the dark poison coursing through his veins could not follow. And although Legolas fell into distant dreams far astray from the world in which he left his worried friends, his weak but firm grip on Gimli’s hand did not falter.
Fighting the hitching sob that threatened to break from his constricted throat, Gimli hung his head over the poisoned elf‘s body, ashamed and grief-stricken that he was the one to bring Legolas so much pain and suffering.
~This is all my fault. How can Legolas not blame me. It is my fault that he may die…~
“Take heart,” Gandalf said reassuringly, seeing the dwarf’s turmoil and came up behind him to place a reassuring hand on Gimli’s muscular shoulder, “Legolas will not slip into darkness so easily. Lord Elrond will fight back this poison for as long as it will take for us to return with the enchanted water.”
“I will not let Legolas down,” Gimli affirmed quietly with solid resolve as he looked up into the Istari‘s wrinkled face.
“Then we must go now and prepare for your departure. You must ride long and hard to reach the hidden valley and cave and a great many things must be made ready. You will leave tonight before the sun sets,” Elrond said in a deep voice of calm direction.
“What about Legolas?” Sam asked worriedly from the archer’s side, standing on his toes to look over the edge of the large bed to better see the elf’s sleeping face that still seemed many shades too pale than what would be deemed healthy.
“He will sleep for many hours. I am surprised to have even seen him awake. The herbs and medicine Gandalf and I gave him last night are potent and strong. To have seen him wake from under the power of my medicine exemplifies his strength and resistance He will not fall so easily,” Lord Elrond answered with great regard and respect for the northern wood-elf. But despite his reassuring words, he knew Legolas’ strength would only sustain him for so long until Eronel’s dark poison finally overtook him.
“Hear that?” Pippin exclaimed, oblivious to the hidden truth of Elrond’s words, “Legolas’ll be fine! He‘ll make it!”
“Let us hope…” Aragorn muttered under his breath, meeting Gandalf’s eyes and seeing in them the wizard’s own doubt of the stricken elf’s ability to hold off the deadly poison that was slowly pulling him down into darkness and death, “For all hope now lies with the enchanted water of the hidden cave…”
*********
Darkness permeated through every particle of the air as a distant laugh rang out over the distance. “Hope all you will…For it will avail you not. I am waiting for you. I am waiting, Gimli son of Gloin and descendent of the hated dwarf that drove me into this lonely abyss… I can sense you coming. It will not be long now until Eronel reigns fire once again upon the Elves and Dwarves of Middle-earth…”
“Thank you, Aragorn. I could not stand to be flat on my back any longer. I needed to move around,” Legolas said weakly as he held onto the Ranger’s strong shoulder for support. Slowly placing one unsteady foot after another in front of him, the wood elf gradually made his way towards the open doorway of his palace guest room that led out to the room‘s large private balcony outside. Locking his eyes in dead set determination on the seemingly distant balcony, Legolas added in a strained voice, “I doubt I could have asked anyone else to help me. I hate to admit it, but I am embarrassed to have to be helped like this - as though I’m a child just learning how to walk.”
“Think nothing of it. Just don‘t strain yourself too much,” Aragorn cautioned, walking at barely a crawl to keep beside Legolas as the elf pushed himself to walk unaided. Pity went out from Aragorn’s heart as the Mirkwood elf struggled on beside him.
Despite Elrond’s orders that Aragorn or some other attendant was to be by Legolas’ side if he should stand and walk around a bit, the warrior refused to let the Ranger help him any more then by just being there to fulfill the king‘s orders. Aragorn said nothing about this decision, understanding that Legolas’ ego had suffered heavy damage from his weakening illness and failing health.
Nearing the threshold of the balcony Legolas paused for breath, unconsciously leaning more onto Aragorn as his body sagged in exhaustion

_________________


~A-E twin/father of Vampire Anakin~

Very Very Nice Legolas!! I really enjoyed it!

Thanks!
here is more....

“Thank you, Aragorn. I could not stand to be flat on my back any longer. I needed to move around,” Legolas said weakly as he held onto the Ranger’s strong shoulder for support. Slowly placing one unsteady foot after another in front of him, the wood elf gradually made his way towards the open doorway of his palace guest room that led out to the room‘s large private balcony outside. Locking his eyes in dead set determination on the seemingly distant balcony, Legolas added in a strained voice, “I doubt I could have asked anyone else to help me. I hate to admit it, but I am embarrassed to have to be helped like this - as though I’m a child just learning how to walk.”

“Think nothing of it. Just don‘t strain yourself too much,” Aragorn cautioned, walking at barely a crawl to keep beside Legolas as the elf pushed himself to walk unaided. Pity went out from Aragorn’s heart as the Mirkwood elf struggled on beside him.

Despite Elrond’s orders that Aragorn or some other attendant was to be by Legolas’ side if he should stand and walk around a bit, the warrior refused to let the Ranger help him any more then by just being there to fulfill the king‘s orders. Aragorn said nothing about this decision, understanding that Legolas’ ego had suffered heavy damage from his weakening illness and failing health.

Nearing the threshold of the balcony Legolas paused for breath, unconsciously leaning more onto Aragorn as his body sagged in exhaustion from the short ten foot journey from his bed. His vision blurred slightly for a second before managing to focus again. Sweat glistened on his brow as he quickly wiped his hand across his forehead and pushed back several loose strands of un-brushed, long blond hair from his face.

“You should not be pushing yourself so hard, Legolas,” Aragorn said with concern, seeing exhaustion written on the elf’s face, “I admire your determination, but you are not well. You must rest.” Trying to turn Legolas back inwards towards the empty bed that sat forlornly against the far wall of the darkened room, Aragorn was dismayed as the elf planted his feet firmly and shook his head stubbornly.

“No,” he answered in a strong tone of undisputable finality, “I will not lay helpless in that bed anymore waiting for death. I am going outside to breath some fresh air.”

Contemplating his two courses of action; either forcing the elf to submit to more bed rest or actually allowing Legolas the simple victory of going outside to momentarily escape his personal prison of sickness, Aragorn finally hung his head in defeat. “So be it,” he muttered, giving a strong shoulder to the weakened elf.

Stepping barefoot onto the chilly stone balcony, Legolas felt a small jolt of rejuvenation course through his debilitated body as the rainy spring air of Rivendell whistled past, pulling the thin white material of his loose shirt and black leggings from off against his body to gently snap and flutter in the wind. Taking a deep breath of the fresh air, the elf could feel Nature soothing his soul‘s troubles and distress.

Coming up to the thick stone banister of the room’s balcony, Legolas looked out over the quiet elven city of Rivendell. On the steep slopes beyond the mountain city, the waterfalls that fed the main vein of water that flowed through Rivendell rushed down, swollen with newly fallen rainwater. The dark green of the surrounding wet forests stood in sharp contrast to the gray sky overhead, making the beauty of the landscape touch the elf‘s heart in a strange mixture of sorrow and awe. The gentle drizzle that fell from the thick gray clouds overhead onto the small overhanging roof of the balcony hissed softly in Legolas’ ears, reminding him of warm summer rains in his homeland of Mirkwood.

Taking in a deep breath of the wet earthy air that rose to the wood elf‘s nose as fragrantly as exotic perfume, Legolas felt a tug in his heart at the sudden thought of never seeing his home again. Memories of the tall ancient trees of Mirkwood ran through his mind as he looked towards the distant green forests. Would he ever see them again? he had to wonder with a sharp sting of longing in his stomach. Would he ever see his father or siblings again? Would he ever have the pleasure of going to another summer festival and dancing in the starlight without any worries of death or pain in his mind?

He knew he needed to think positively and keep faith in Toreingal, Gimli and Gandalf who had ridden out in the wildness only the day before to find him a cure for the dark poison that coursed through his veins. With them rode his only hope. And it was this frail and fragile hope that he had to hold onto it. It was his only defense against succumbing -at least mentally- to his seemingly dark fate.

Thinking of this, the elf strayed his hand over to gently touch his left bicep. The bluish coloring that had first began around the small cut on his finger where the poisoned dagger of Gimli had pierced him had now spread up over his elbow. A dull throbbing pain radiated through the whole area of inflicted bluish skin with every beat of the elf‘s heart. But what was worse then the pain was the knowledge that the coloring was slowly spreading. Every couple of hours, Legolas could see a new line of progression of the poison slowly making its way up the length of his arm.

Staring out again over the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape, Legolas suddenly could not stand to look at it anymore. It all seemed too perfect and untouched; while he felt defiled and withered, slowly being eaten away by poison and stinking of death. Sickened by these thoughts, Legolas turned sharply from the railing back towards the empty bedroom. Aragorn, startled by his friend’s sudden movements, hurried to catch up to the elf as he pushed away from the stone balcony edge and moved back indoors weakly.

“What’s wrong, Legolas?” he asked worriedly, quickly catching up to the stumbling elf and placing a hand on Legolas‘ thin shoulder. Not answering, Legolas recoiled under Aragorn’s touch and shrugged the man‘s hand from off him violently. Becoming further concerned by his friend‘s unexplained actions, Aragorn demanded more forcefully as he grabbed hold of the elf and easily wheeled him around to face him, “Legolas, what’s wrong?!”

Turning on the Ranger suddenly, Legolas shouted with frustrated tears brimming on the bottom of his piercing blue eyes and anger in his voice, “I will tell you what’s wrong, Aragorn, if you really must know! I am dieing! And though it may seem to you a natural and expected event, I cannot accept it. I am an Elf - immortal and immune to sickness, yet here I stand, slowly withering away! Unable to stand unless with the aid of another! I have fought in wars and countless battles, never afraid of dieing under the blade of the enemy. But what now? How am I to accept my death if I can not even find dignity in it?!”

As if suddenly drained of all feeling and emotion by this flood of misdirected anger, Legolas fell silent, his head hanging down against his chest in exhaustion. The soft choke of a sob sounded deep from within his throat as he stared at the floor, unable to bear Aragorn‘s concerned gaze. Unable to find words that seemed suitable as a response, Aragorn could do nothing more then place his hand on the elf’s shoulder in reassurance and unspoken comfort.

“I am sorry,” Legolas’ voiced softly after a moment. All anger had left his tone, replaced by a small sorrowful voice of hopelessness, “I had no right to turn on you like that. This is not your fault. I can feel my body dieing around me, and I am unable to do anything… I feel like such a burden to others. It is because of me war may destroy Middle-earth… But above all else I am afraid of death…”

Closing his eyes against the threatening flood of frustrated tears, the elf again fell silent. The look on the elf’s pale, sick face tore at Aragorn’s heart as Legolas slowly leaned against the outer wall of the room as if to find some emotional support there.

Stepping forward, the Ranger whispered softly in elvish, “Keep hope, my friend. For hope is the only thing you can hold onto in times like these. But while you may suffer, remember your friends will not forsake you and let you face this demon alone. I am here should you ask for help. You are no burden. The only burden here is the burden of having to see you suffer…”

Looking at the Ranger for a silent moment of contemplation, the elf thought to himself quietly. Finding strength in Aragorn’s words, Legolas then slowly pulled himself back onto his unsteady feet. Not saying another word, the elf held out his hand to silently ask for Aragorn’s help; accepting the fact that he did need aid in his sickened state. Moving beside Legolas, Aragorn offered his shoulder again, not about to offer any more help to the proud elf then what was asked for.

As the weak elf took hold and slowly dragged himself at a crawl towards the door, he spoke softly, “Aragorn, I feel I must explain for my despair…”

“There is nothing to explain,” the Ranger cut off, not fully understanding the direction of the wood-elf‘s speech, “I understand the helplessness you must be feeling.”

“No,” Legolas chastened in a low voice, shaking his head weakly. Finding confidence with his long trusted friend, the elf prince continued in a hushed voice, as if afraid of being overheard by any other ears, “Since this poison has entered my body, I have felt the presence of a dark figure whispering of my death…”

Almost halting in his tracks, the Ranger thought at first he had misheard Legolas. But the grim and imploring look for belief on the elf‘s face told him he had not. Aragorn looked at Legolas sharply with an unreadable face as he listened silently while the elf continued.

“At first it came only in my dreams but now I have begun to hear its soft whisper in my waking moments when I am alone. But when I turn to find the voice, I see nothing. I can feel a shadow following me in the darkness, just beyond my sight but always there - waiting for reasons I cannot know…”

“Legolas…” Aragorn stumbled in a hesitant tone, at a loss for words at how to exactly react to the sick elf’s crazy notions of being haunted by a dark, unseen ghost, “What do you mean?”

Staring out before him with a distant look in his eyes, Legolas at first gave no answer. He could tell by the look in the Ranger’s eyes that Aragorn did not believe him. He knew he should have never said anything, but he just felt like he needed to talk to someone he could trust. It seemed he would have to face this growing mystery alone.

“I do not know exactly what I mean…” Legolas sighed wearily after a long moment as the two came up beside the large bed of his room, “They are dark, shifting images that I am not sure I have actually seen or heard. Think no more of what I have just said. I have not been able to sleep well as of late…”

Trailing off lamely with this excuse, Legolas could now begin to feel exhaustion quickly stealing over him. The throbbing in his arm felt worse then before and Legolas had to stifle a whimper of pain. All the elf wished right then was to sleep and escape the pain of Eronel’s poison at least for time. A cold sweat chilled his skin from the exertion of him traveling to look out onto Rivendell from the balcony. His heart fluttered tiredly as he thought of rest and painless sleep.

Meanwhile, a small shiver of fear was creeping down the Ranger’s spine. Worry seized his heart and mind. What could this mean? Truly Legolas had not been lying when he had said he thought he had seen something… or someone. The desperate look in his eyes had told Aragorn that for sure. But surely, he was speaking madness…

Keeping Legolas from just collapsing onto the bed in exhaustion, the dark haired man gently helped the impossibly light elf lower himself down. Fear rose in Aragorn’s throat as he silently pondered the archer’s insane ramblings.

‘This is not good,’ Aragorn thought to himself with dread as the elf fell onto the soft sheets, already slipping away into dark unconsciousness, his half closed eyes dimming as sleep took him, ‘Lord Elrond said one of the symptoms of the poison was hallucinations… but I did not think Legolas would actually fall victim to them.’

Hiding his sinking suspicions of Legolas‘ rapidly deteriorating health, Aragorn said reassuringly to the half conscious archer, “Rest now. I will go and see if Lord Elrond has any herbs to ease your pain while you sleep.”

Standing quickly from Legolas‘ bedside, the Ranger hastily made for the door. In his heart as he closed the door behind him outside in the palace hallway was a gripping dread and despair. Legolas was slipping away faster then they had thought; he was already succumbing to the poison‘s power. Aragorn could only hope and pray that Gandalf, Gimli, and Toreingal would return soon. Because if they didn’t, blood would stain Middle-earth and war would destroy all that they had suffered and fought to preserve only several years before…

*********

Meanwhile, leagues away from Rivendell in the deep forests of the Misty Mountains, the same gentle spring rain that had soothed Legolas was not such a welcome experience to the small group of three weary travelers that steamed ahead through the misty drizzle. Everything for the past day and a half had been cold and wet. Their thick cloaks were sopping wet with rain water as were their packs, making travel utterly miserable.

The band weaved quickly between the thick trunks of towering ancient gray trees in the endless sea of rain dripping forest. Keeping in a straight line, the tired travelers urged their horses to keep a slow but steady trot. Snorting in distaste for their riders’ request, the swift elven steeds of Rivendell nevertheless complied. Steam raised in small wispy tendrils from off their hides to waft up and disappear in the cool misty air as they took the next hill with unbroken strides.

Accustomed to hard rides and long distances, the horses clip clopped with hollow hoof beats over the steep and rocky terrain. Any other normal horses would have found the mountain path difficult and treacherous, but not the ones chosen by Lord Elrond for this urgent mission. They were the swiftest and most hardy steeds Rivendell’s king could provide.

Tall walls of steel gray stone and rock spiraled upwards to the overcast sky where the snow covered peaks of the surrounding mountains then faded away into the clouds as the travelers passed between them. Hanging overhead of the small band of travelers was a thick mesh like canopy of dark green leafs that managed to stave off much of the falling rain, but allowed some drops of water to patter down onto the brows of the weary strangers.

“How much further do you think this valley is?” Gimli, the dwarf, asked miserably from behind Gandalf’s pure white stallion, Shadowfax. The dwarf gripped the reigns tightly as the group startled up another slope of mountain terrain. Even with the stirrups of the saddle notched to their highest level, the dwarf’s toes barely grazed the metal rings that dangled from the horse’s side. As awkward on a horse as a Hobbit in a boat, Gimli asked hopefully, “We have been riding now for a night and a half day without rest or stop. Shouldn’t we be nearing it by now?”

Glancing over his shoulder from beneath his wide brimmed white hat, the white wizard replied, “I should think by Lord Elrond’s directions that it should be somewhere beyond this ridge we are now crossing. If I am correct about this, then we have made better time then originally thought, thanks to Lord Toreingal’s expert motivational skills and leather driving whip…,” Gandalf finished with a sarcastic undertone in his gentle voice that was directed towards the elf that rode several paces ahead of the two.

Hearing his name mentioned, Toreingal wheeled around in the saddle of his dapple gray mount and snorted from beneath the hood of his dark green traveling cloak, “While you may find this something to make jokes about, I do not, Wizard. My cousin lays dieing back in Rivendell as we speak. Speed is our greatest concern right now, and I will not dally in bringing Legolas the only known cure to this poison. I could have probably been on my return trip by now with the enchanted water if Lord Elrond had allowed me to go alone as I had wished. But no! He had to let that dwarf accompany me so he could slow me down and sabotage the mission!”

Giving Gimli a piercing warning glance from his pale gray eyes, the elf turned back in his seat and urged his horse to a faster trot with a quick tap with the heels of his boots, leaving the wizard and dwarf in his tracks. Clamoring up the steep wet slope to the top of the ridge of the thickly forested hill, Toreingal’s cloaked figure slowly faded away like a ghost into the misty rain. Finally, after a few brisk strides of his horse, he had figured he had put enough distance between himself and his companions and slowed again to a slow trot to be alone with his thoughts.

“Don’t listen to him,” Gandalf said softly to Gimli as he eyed Toreingal’s ghostly outline several yards ahead, “I understand his frustration, but he has no right to take it out on you or I.”

“He has a right to blame me,” Gimli refuted sadly, sighting down the line between his horses ears awkwardly to where Legolas’ cousin plodded ahead through the rain. Going over the ridge of the hill they were ascending, Toreingal disappeared from view on its other side, “It is because of me and that accursed dagger that we had to go on this journey- although I do not regret undertaking it. I owe Legolas that much to be the one to go in search of a cure…”

The white wizard looked back over his shoulder to the dwarf as he patted Shadowfax gently on the neck to motion for the horse to slow a bit to draw back alongside Gimli. Letting the soft hiss of the spring rain fill the silence of the forest around them, Gandalf said in his wise grandfatherly tone, “I also understand your frustration for Legolas’ suffering, Gimli. But you are not to blame for this. You will be of no help to Legolas if you do not realize this soon. He does not blame you, so you should neither. There is a great friendship between you and he. And it is because of this, you were unable to not go to his aid.”

The dwarf nodded his stout little head thoughtfully at this. “Perhaps you are right, Gandalf… But I will always feel responsible for Legolas’ suffering.”

“Hmm.. You speak as though Legolas has already fallen into darkness…” Gandalf noted grimly with a turn of his head, letting the rainwater that had gathered on the brim of his hat to run off in several small rivers.

There came no reply from the guilt ridden miner as Gimli rocked back in forth silently in his saddle, staring out in front of him deep in thought. The words of the wizard hung ominously in the air like a thick fog. Seeing pain in the dwarf’s dark eyes, Gandalf spoke no more, letting the soft rhythmic hoof beats of the horses fill the void.

After several moments of uneasy silence, there suddenly came a shout from over the ridge. Coming over the ridge in a quick gallop, Toreingal’s hooded form came into view. Slowing his horse as he neared Gandalf and Gimli, the elf shouted excitedly, “There is a break in the mountain range just ahead - a narrow path only several paces wide. I would have probably missed it through the trees if I had not been looking for it. I can see a valley beyond.”

“That is good news,” the white wizard nodded at Toreingal’s report, “We have finally reached Eronel’s valley then. Come. Let us hurry, for we mustn’t stay here long. I have already sensed a faded but lingering shadow of dark magic.”

“Then let us not stand here talking and wasting precious time,” Toreingal snorted impatiently as he wheeled his horse around and spurred it onwards back over the ridge, not waiting to see if the others were following.

Staring after the elf’s quickly retreating figure through the misty rain, Gimli tightened his grip on the horses reigns and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, urging his mount to follow. Whining in response, Gimli’s chestnut brown horse gaited easily up the ridge with its rider bouncing recklessly in the saddle like a sack of flour. Following close behind, Shadowfax bounded up the slope as easily as a jackrabbit towards the pass of Eronel’s valley.

********

_________________


~A-E twin/father of Vampire Anakin~

I can not wait for more Leggy!! It is so captivating!!!

Thanks so much Nienna! Here is the end of the story. =(

Uneasiness gnawed at the back of Gimli’s mind like an unreachable itch as he and his two companions guided their horses slowly through the forest of towering trees. The solid brown trunks of the looming giants stood like ancient pillars of stone; so great in girth that four men would have been needed to hug the monstrosities completely. Their leafy green umbrella tops disappeared into the sky overhead where each other’s neighbor’s branches merged into one to create a giant meshy green blanket.

An unnatural, suffocating silence surrounded the small band of weary travelers. Even Shadowfax and his elf-raised brethren seemed to sense something unnerving in the heavy damp air. Their sodden hoof falls on the thick earthy soil and an occasional nervous snort were the only sounds to break the still silence of the damp forest.

The fine drizzle that had fallen tirelessly for the past day and a half on the heads of the three riders had mysteriously tapered off almost immediately after them entering the lush green valley. The low sky remained overcast and gray hidden behind stagnant clouds heavily pregnant with rain. But no drops of water seemed to reach the ground.

“I don’t like this place…” Toreingal muttered warily under his breath, breaking the tension. Scanning the surrounding tree with his sharp eyes as if looking for some hidden enemy, the elf fingered the hilt of the curved knife that hung from his waist nervously.

Venturing to speak further in the oppressive calm and quiet of the green forest, the elf said uneasily, “There is no sound here. No birds. No animals. Not even the sound of the wind blowing, though I can feel it on my face… And there is something strange about the trees. I cannot hear them speak or even whisper. There is something not right here…”

“While I do not share your elven ability to listen and converse with Nature and Her living creatures, I have noticed the same thing…” Gandalf agreed tightly, “There is something strange about this valley. And I fear I know who is responsible for it. It seems Eronel is not sleeping peacefully in her cave and still has some influence on the outside world, though I do not know to what extent. We should be very cautious from here on in while in this valley.”

“Is that possible?” Gimli exclaimed in a hushed voice of amazement that nevertheless rang out like a crash through the abnormally silent forest, “Could this witch still have so much power after so many centuries?”

From somewhere ahead of the dwarf, there came a disdainful snort. From the head of the group, Toreingal swiveled in his saddle to look over his shoulder. Eyeing Gimli from the corner of his eye, the elf curled his lips distastefully at the dwarf and hissed, “Shows how much a dwarf would know… Elves do not diminish in power the older they get unlike some other, lesser races…” Here Legolas’ cousin cast a condescending gaze down upon Gandalf and Gimli who seemed to have become representatives for their respective races. “Eronel is one of the Undying. Her powers - no matter how dark - would not have just faded away after a couple hundred years of isolation. No. Elves are not ones to suffer from the harsh grip of time’s hands.”

“Do not be so proud to state such thing, Toreingal,” Gandalf chastened with a sharp glance from his ice blue eyes set beneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows wrinkled with age and wisdom, “For while Eronel may be locked away from the world, her power has most likely been festering and growing in the darkness. Who knows what power she might wield now…” Trailing off, the white wizard stared ahead into the layered walls of thick trees that faded away into a green and brown haze in the far distance.

The elf contemplated the old man for a long moment before finally giving a small huff and turning his back on the wizard and dwarf, letting the strange stillness of the woods sting their ears once again. Maneuvering their quick and sure-footed horses over the sparse underbrush of the mossy forest floor, the small band penetrated farther into the valley of the trapped sorceress.

Alone in his thoughts as they delved deeper into the thick forest, Gimli sat atop his mount determined not to slip off the side of the monstrous beast and give the elf something more to jeer about him. Gimli hated ridding horses or anything else for that matter. The dwarf prided himself in his own two legs.

Keeping one hand on the pommel of the saddle to keep himself anchored to the moving animal’s back. Gimli held the reigns loosely in his other gloved hand, unsure of how to exactly use them. Gimli’s horse had long ago during the first few hours of the journey sensed the dwarf’s lack of horsemanship and merely trotted on beside Gandalf’s white stallion, Shadowfax.

Grumbling quietly to himself, Gimli simmered over how much he hated horseback riding. He hated the feeling of being precariously perched atop an animal five times his own size with the strength to throw him to the ground with a mere toss of its massive head.

Thinking of this, Gimli’s thought obstinately, ’A dwarf should not have to subject himself to riding one of these beasts. Let Men and Elves use them, but not us Dwarves. Legs are the most reliable mode of transportation, I always say, especially a Dwarf’s. But Legolas always knew how to handle these things whenever the situation called for it. That’s why I always rode with him. It was like that elf could almost talk to them…”

A deep heaviness came upon Gimli’s heart at these thoughts. For a moment he had almost forgotten about his quest and his guilt for his elvish friend. The dwarf hung his head solemnly, falling into memories of the once high-spirited elf.

But try as he might to remember the happier memories of Legolas’ smiling face or one of his sarcastic comments about Dwarves that was always meant in jest and good humor, Gimli could now only see a once proud and fearless elf slowly dying, his skin as pale as snow and eyes filled with pain.

Gimli’s thoughts wondered aimlessly in an endless sea of guilt at the thought of the fading warrior, all the while blaming himself for causing his friend so much pain and suffering. Surely he should have somehow sensed something evil on the blade of that dagger before he had given it to Legolas, but he hadn’t. And now Legolas was to pay for his stupidity and foolishness.

But as Gimli sat wallowing in self-pity and guilt, he came to remember something Gandalf had said in passing. And though they had seemed like only empty words at the time they were spoken, they now seemed to be full of wisdom and knowledge beyond a simple dwarf’s understanding.

‘You are not to blame for this. You will be of no help to Legolas if you do not realize this soon. He does not blame you, so you should neither. There is a great friendship between you and he. And it is because of this, you were unable to not go to his aid…’

It suddenly occurred to Gimli that the white wizard might have understood more about the dwarf then what he really wanted to admit. Gimli now understood Gandalf’s words when he had said he was not going to be able to help Legolas as long as he was still in the grips of guilt. Gimli knew he now had to reassess his position in this mission to save his friend’s life. Was he to play the helpless victim or the one to actually save the elf?

Perhaps Gandalf had wanted Gimli to come to this simplistic yet profound conclusion himself, on his own terms and at his own time. Or perhaps, Gandalf had just known that stubborn dwarf was not going to listen to reason no matter how hard the wizard tried to hammer it into his thick little head.

‘Well,’ snorted the dwarf to himself, ‘I’m not about to let that elf, Toreingal, think I’m nothing more then luggage on this mission. I promised Legolas I was going to bring him back his cure, and I’d give my father’s mines away to Orcs before I let that conceded and pompous elf show me up!’

Filled with renewed purpose and energy, Gimli suddenly became aware of a distant bubbling noise like that of a small stream from somewhere in the distance to his right. Gandalf and Toreingal, who rode several paces in front of him, had also seemed to pick up on this welcome sound to their noise-starved ears. From where he sat, Gimli almost swore he actually saw Legolas’ cousin’s ears perk up at the soft sound.

“Running water…” Gandalf noted, not to the surprise of the other two who had come to such conclusions by themselves.

“We should follow it to its source,” Toreingal suggested, as he wheeled his snorting gray mount around to face in the direction of the unseen moving water, “Lord Elrond said Eronel’s cave was guarded by a waterfall. Thus we should seek out running streams instead of tramping through these woods needlessly as we are now.”

“I suppose you thought of that all by yourself, didn’t you, elf?” Gimli mocked at Toreingal, slowly returning to his normal proud self. “Well, if you keep coming up with such profound assessments like this, then you may prove yourself useful to this mission yet…”

Not giving the elf time to recover from this unexpected remark, Gimli tapped his stubby little legs against his horse’s ribs. Surprised by the dwarf’s sudden show of assertiveness, the chestnut colored mare whined softly and kicked off the ground, galloping away from the others in the direction of the gurgling brook as Gimli bounced recklessly in his saddle and became lost in the walls of surrounding trees.

Left in his wake, Gandalf could only chuckle under his breathe as Toreingal sputtered for words beside him.

“Useful?…Profound assessments!?” the elf spat with rage, almost bristling around the edges with insult, “How dare that dwarf mock me…Of all the disrespect. I should--”

“-Hurry!” Gandalf’s merry voice broke out clearly from a short distance away.

Chuckling to himself in amusement for Toreingal’s enraged temper tantrum, the white wizard was already in pursuit of Gimli on the back of Shadowfax. “Come along, Toreingal!” he called over his shoulder laughingly, “Gimli is already far ahead of you! Don’t just sit there like moss on the side of a tree! We have much to do!” Letting another laugh escape from his bearded lips, Gandalf and Shadowfax took off in the direction the dwarf had just disappeared.

“How my cousin survived so long a time around these people, I will never know,” the elf hissed through gritted teeth as he spurred his horse after the two with a quick jab of his boots. Muttering curses about dwarfs and wizards, Toreingal slipped away from the path into the thicket of towering tree trunks and hurried after his quarry.

Breaking out of the silent forest, Toreingal found himself again beside Gandalf and Gimli who sat atop their stopped mounts, looking out before them. The three stood in a treeless space of area several yards long that was covered in a thick carpet of lush green grass and a multitude of other plants. Running through this lush area, a quiet mountain spring several paces wide ran, gurgling lazily as the cold clear water fell and lapped over a shallow bed of slippery smooth rocks.

Shrouded in a thick gray mist in the east, one of the surrounding mountains of the river valley stood, its snowcapped peaks, which supplied the small stream with its melted snow and ice, scrapped the underside of the low heavy clouds overhead.

“Which way?” Gimli asked, tentatively directing his question to Gandalf to deliberately ignore the elf that had just joined them. Gimli could feel Toreingal’s eyes boring into his back, but took no notice of him. In fact, the dwarf was now beginning to secretly enjoy playing with his friend’s cousin solely out of spite.

The old man sat pondering the question thoughtfully for a brief space of time before finally saying, “I would turn our search first towards the east, since there we would find higher land closer to the stream’s source near the base of the mountain. There we might find Eronel’s waterfall.”

Directing their horses heads east towards the great mountain of rock in the distance, the three moved along the side of the stream. As they rode on quickly to the accompanying soundtrack of the rushing brook, they could begin to notice a gradual change in the land. After a quarter of a mile or so, the banks of the stream began to become a noticeably steeper and rockier grade as more of the lusher river grass gave way to hardier plants more suitable to the quicker current of the stream the closer the three travelers came to its source.

After a mile and a half, the banks and surrounding land of the stream suddenly became more hilly and rocky, almost jutting straight upwards in small cliffs several feet high. Despite their sturdy nature and strength, the horses of the three began to show signs of struggle along the broken banks of the creek. The very air they breathed seemed to become noticeably closer and heavier the farther they pressed onward, as though weighted down with time and ancient secrets.

“The path is becoming more difficult and the horses are tired. We should leave them and go on by foot. We can move faster that way and allow the horses time to rest before our return journey. We will need all their speed,” Toreingal said, suddenly pulling back his dapple-gray mount and stopping. Nimbly leaping from the back of his horse, the elf gently led the creature to a grassy area a short distance away from the edge of the now quickly moving stream whose rushing waters now foamed in a frothy soup around the partially submerged rocks embedded in its bottom. Willing the tired beast to stay with a tender hand on its long face, Toreingal dropped its reigns to the mossy forest floor, not needing to tie it up.

“I think we should keep moving but not without our horses,” Gandalf cautioned under his breath, “I do not like the air around here. It is stagnant with ancient magic. We are getting very close to the one we seek…”

“Well, I for once agree with the elf,” Gimli said as he slid from his saddle a bit too ungraceful in comparison with the display just given by his elven companion. Giving thanks for the solid, unmoving ground beneath his feet, the dwarf added, “I ache all over from ridding that creature so far without rest. I fear my legs will be bowed by the time we return to Rivendell. I need to stretch my muscles a bit and walk. I don’t need any creature porting me around anymore.”

Seeing dissention in the ranks no matter what he counseled, Gandalf huffed obstinately. Snorting softly, the white stallion beneath the wizard pawed the rocky soil beside the banks of the stream and hung its massive head towards the ground tiredly.

“So I am outvoted from all sides then?” Gandalf sighed as he slid from Shadowfax’s broad back. Nuzzling the wizard’s side tenderly, the white horse gave a low and pitiful whinny. “Fine then,” he said, giving his steed’s mighty neck an affectionate pat, “We will go on by foot…”

Leaving the horses in a small group in the grassy area, Gandalf turned and strode to where Gimli and Toreingal both stood looking up the bank where the path became narrower in the near distance and the trees’ thick roots jutted out over the edge of the creek side, making a formidable obstacle course. Slabs and outcrops of slippery rocks also added to the obstruction of the path.

“What do you say now, Gandalf?” Toreingal sniped arrogantly as the three studied their next leg of the journey, “Would you still risk guiding our horses over this rough terrain?”

Biting back a quick-tempered comeback to the overly proud elf, Gandalf calmly replied to subtly agitate the warrior, “No. No I wouldn’t, Toreingal. Now that I see it, I would have to agree with you. I doubt even Shadowfax could have covered this.”

“Well, what are we wasting time here talking about horses we can’t even use while Legolas is still waiting for us?” Gimli scoffed impatiently as he started up the side of the terraced stream, his pace brisk and undaunted as he scrambled up the first slop of rocks on his short little dwarf legs.

Come along then,” the old man hastened to the elf as he followed the miner up the climbing creek banks, “The waterfall shouldn’t be much further. I can hear the crashing of water nearby and the air is becoming thicker…We are very close now to the witch’s cave…”

Grumbling again under his breath, Toreingal slung his bow over his shoulder and leapt after the wizard and dwarf.

It was a magical sight to behold. The clear blue water of the mountain spring sang musical notes as it tumbled gracefully over the eight foot drop of the small gray cliff face into a basin of water at its feet, forming a tranquil pond of shimmering cool water. Not more then twenty five feet across, the pool lapped its sandy banks gently where the water was so clear one could see straight down to its pebbly bottom. On the far end of the pool, the basin gave way to a sloping area where the water then spilled out down another small hill into a rushing stream.

Massive trees lined the majestic waterfall, their snaking gray roots weaving an intricate pattern along the mossy forest floor. A wispy mist hung low to the ground, giving the area a mysterious and unearthly ambiance.

“I was not expecting this witch’s prison to be so beautiful,” Toreingal whispered almost reverently as the three beheld the beauty and serenity of Eronel’s lair, “Is this the right place?”

Do not be deceived by appearances,” Gandalf said, “I can almost smell the magic in the air it is so thick. This is the place we seek. Do not let your guard down. For here in this seemingly peaceful place, we must be on our highest guard.”

Striding closer to the shores of the silver pool at the base of the rushing waterfall, the white wizard leaned against his staff and bowed his head as if listening to the air around him. Toreingal and Gimli stood silently by as Gandalf mediated to himself. Finally, the old man raised his bearded face and said in a low voice, “Yes. This is the place. I can feel Eronel stretching her powers out to us. We must be quick. I do not like this place. No matter how beautiful a rose is, it still has thorn to prick unwary fingers. We must not be fooled by things here. Eronel is a trickstress and manipulator of the senses.”

Looking towards the small waterfall whose waters splashed and fell innocently into the pool below, Gandalf directed, “Come, Toreingal. We must take water from the fall itself. That is where the magic is contained. I need the service of your nimble elf-feet to go over the slippery rocks to get it.”

“And what am I to do then?” huffed the dwarf sorely, feeling once again like only baggage.

“I need your sharp dwarf-eyes to keep watch,” Gandalf replied with biting sarcasm and a small smile, as he pulled from some hidden pocket in his flowing white robes a small empty vial corked with glass at the top. Turning his back on the short miner, the wizard bade Toreingal to follow him.

As the two made their way towards the base of the waterfall, Gimli snorted with wounded pride. So it seemed the elf was going to show him up after all. Their return trip was going to probably be filled with Toreingal’s snide comments about how he was the one to actually retrieve the enchanted water instead of Gimli.

‘Just as long as Legolas survives this whole mess, I guess I really won’t care what the pointy-eared warg monger says,’ Gimli scowled to himself.

Looking out over the serene and beautiful scene of the waterfall and silver pool, Gimli frowned. ’And just what exactly are my ‘sharp dwarf eyes’ suppose to be keeping watch for…” he thought despondently to himself, tapping the end of his ax in the earthy soil out of boredom.

Out of earshot of Gandalf and Toreingal who was currently in the process of skipping carefully from rock to rock along the base of the small waterfall into the silver pool below, Gimli again became aware of the uneasy silence of the encircling forest. A cool breeze kissed the dwarf’s cheeks beneath his helmet as his heart thundered loudly in his ears in the stillness.

Standing there, leaning idly against his useless ax like a prop as he listened to the intense sound of nothing, a cold wave of prickles suddenly crawled up the unsuspecting dwarf’s neck. Gimli, at first instinctively froze in place, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clamping down on his mind and senses.

Gripping the handle of his ax securely, Gimli stilled his breath, trying to hear any sound from his unseen stalker. Willing his heart to stop beating so that he might better analyze the heavy damp air, the miner could not discern any sounds from around him that would alert him to any hidden presence.

Almost ready to lower his ax and blame his unfounded uneasiness on the stories told to him by Gandalf and Elrond of the entrapped evil sorceress, Gimli suddenly froze as he felt a shiver of cold again creep up his spine.

“Gimli…”

A soft plaintive voice whispered out from what seemed like a great distance. It was female and almost sad in tone as he speaker again called out to the startled dwarf by name only now more pleadingly and urgent.

“Gimli…”

Now frightened beyond all reasoning, the miner wheeled around thinking the voice had come from behind, but found only empty forest stretched out before him. Straining his yes to see anything, the dwarf called out in the strongest voice he could muster, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

“I am here…” whispered the soft and sad voice, which seemingly had now sounded from everywhere but nowhere at once.

Spinning around on his heels to find the mysterious speaker, confusion and extreme nervousness assailed Gimli as his searching eyes were again met with nothing but the strange waterfall and pool. “Where are you?” he shouted more demandingly, becoming frustrated by these frightening games of secrecy.

“Right here…” the feminine voice again riddled softly, her musical syllables flitting like butterflies between the dwarf’s ears.

Pinpointing the elusive voice, the dwarf’s head snapped down to the perfectly smooth glass-like surface of the silver pool. What Gimli saw shimmering on the mirror-like water startled a tiny gasp from his lips. There, reflected on the still surface of the mountain pond was the watery image of a porcelain-skinned woman. A cascade of pale blond hair, like that of the shade of frost-covered straw, flowed around her flawless oval face and down over his slender shoulders. But at the woman’s collarbone, her image became wispy and faded away into nothing in the silvery water. Poking out from the waves of fair hair, a set of delicately pointed ears caught the dwarf’s eyes. The mysterious woman was an Elf.

Staring dumbly at the ghostly apparition there on the water, Gimli’s breath caught in his throat at the stunning beauty before him. For a minute, the dwarf thought he was looking down upon an image of his beautiful Lady of the Woods, Galadriel. But instead of the Elf-Lady’s profoundly deep and ancient gray eyes that were filled with wisdom and immeasurable understanding of all things, a pair of sharp blue eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul attacked Gimli. Under their cold hard gaze, he felt suddenly naked and seized by their intense power. And he knew he was looking down onto the face of the ancient elven sorceress Eronel.

“What magic is this?” Gimli muttered to himself as he took a curious step closer to the pond’s sandy edge, immediate fear and awe blinding him from any caution.

“I know why you have come, Gimli son of Gloin,” Eronel’s watery image whispered softly, “You have come a long way seeking salvation for the Elf prince, Legolas. You have come for the enchanted water…” The woman’s voice sounded in Gimli’s mind as though it echoed through his very skull. Startled by this, Gimli realized her voice did not come from her lips, even though they moved in sequence to her words, but were rather projected into his own thoughts and heard not by ears but by his soul.

“And how, may I ask, did the Lady come to know of my name and mission?” Gimli questioned with feigned politeness, feeling irrepressibly suspicious and uneasy towards the entrapped sorceress who had somehow projected her image into the waterfall’s basin.

“I know many things…” Eronel answered almost indifferently to the question. The woman’s voice was nevertheless sweet and soft to Gimli, as was her expression that seemed to milk pity from the dwarf’s heart. But Gimli could almost swear he saw some unexplainable glint of mischief in the elf’s piercing blue eyes as she continued on in her soft musical voice. “I also know that what you seek will not save the prince. The poison in his veins is more powerful then any magic that flows in this waterfall…”

“How do you know that? What lies are you trying to deceive me with?” Gimli demanded as he came directly up over the watery image of the witch. Every particle in the dwarf’s being screamed caution as he noticed a strange glint in the elf’s eyes, as though n inner fire was smoldering inside, waiting for its time to blaze forth and scorch everything in its path.

But the fleeting burst of light vanished quickly as Eronel answered in her fair voice, “As I have already told you, Master Dwarf, I see and know many things. Your friend’s plight is not beyond my knowledge. Yes. The enchanted water will not save him. He will die… unless I go to him. I know you know who I am and of my past. Otherwise you would not have come to me. If you release me from my prison, I can save Lord Legolas’ life. I am the only one that can purge the poison from his body.”

Gimli’s eyes narrowed at the sorceress’ entrancing face skeptically. “Do not take this Dwarf for a fool, witch,” he growled from behind his furry red beard, “You are right in that I know who you are, Eronel. I know why you were imprisoned in your dark hole. Why should I believe or release you? You are nothing but a liar and murderer. You would bring only death and destruction to Middle-Earth.”

There came again the same small kindling of fire in Eronel’s cold blue eyes as from before, but again faded quickly away before Gimli could fully realize he had seen it. Sadly looking at the dwarf with imploring eyes, the elf replied softly, “I do not blame you for your distrust. My past is not the happiest or brightest of tales. But through the many centuries of my dark isolation, I have seen the evil of my ways and now seek for redemption. I want to right my past wrongs and do good. And I want to save the life of the one that is still suffering from my sins. Please believe me when I say I want to make amends…”

Eronel’s heartfelt words struck a spot in the dwarf’s heart that made him begin to wonder is she wasn’t, in fact, telling the truth of her conversion. It hardly seemed to him that this delicate creature before him could have ever been as evil as Elrond or Gandalf had said. Moved by the sorrowful expression on the beautifully entrancing female elf’s fair face, Gimli began to feel doubt growing in his mind about Eronel’s evil nature.

“How am I to trust you?” he asked uncertainly, “What guarantee do I have your intentions are pure?”

“You must trust me just as Legolas trusts you to return to him with a cure,” Eronel’s voice whispered pleadingly from the pool’s surface, “The magic water will not save Legolas’ life, only I can. Would you deceive your friend’s trust because you could not forgive me for my sins as he did for you? Please believe me…”

Gimli stood dumbstruck, unable to think of a response to Eronel’s words that had struck him harder then a blow to the face. Torn between his brain that told him to not listen to the imprisoned witch and his heart that told him to heed her words, Gimli felt his head spinning with a million different thoughts and emotions. What should he do? Should he believe her that the water was not going to diffuse the poison in Legolas’ veins? Or was she simply lying to be released as Gandalf and Elrond had warned him she would?

Staring into the witch’s fathomless blue eyes that seemed to rake his very soul, Gimli struggled to find words and come to a decision. The world seemed to stop as the dwarf wrestled with himself and his own doubt. Dizzied by these weighty decisions and choices, Gimli closed his eyes tightly from the elf’s piercing gaze.

‘What do I do?’ the dwarf’s mind reeled, ‘What if she’s right and the magic water doesn’t work? But what if she’s lying? Can I really take either of these chances?’

But before Gimli could reach any conclusion in the storm of thoughts that thundered in his head, he suddenly felt a strong hand come down onto his shoulder from behind. Eyes snapping open, the startled miner whipped around in his heels, ax gripped tightly between both hands to face whatever enemy had snuck up behind him unawares.

But instead of some terrible enemy, Gimli found himself looking up into the gentle face of Gandalf. Behind the wizard stood Toreingal, looking rather impatient and antsy as he shifted between his two feet in the direction of the waiting horses they had left behind.

“Are you alright, Gimli?” the white wizard questioned with concern written in his ice blue eyes, “Toreingal and I returned from retrieving the water to find you staring into the water mumbling under your breath.”

Shaking the fuzziness from his eyes, the dwarf brought a trembling hand to his head. It felt as though he had just woke from a daydream but was still in the lingering aftereffects of it. Suddenly remembering the ghostly face on the water, Gimli looked down quickly to the silver pool’s edge. But nothing was there, save a gentle ripple along the surface of the pond.

“Did you see or hear anything?” he asked excitedly, still staring into the water’s surface as if searching for anything to validate what he thought he had seen.

“Hear what?” Gandalf asked gently, cocking an eyebrow at the dwarf.

“What are you blabbering about, dwarf?” Legolas’ cousin hissed with condescending eyes of impatience.

Not knowing if he should divulge the vision of the elf witch to his companions, Gimli stuttered quickly, “Nothing… Nothing at all. I’m fine. Never mind me. Just lost myself for a second… Did you get the water?” he asked hastily to change to the topic away from himself.

“We did,” Toreingal interjected sharply, “And now that we have it, we should be on our way. We have wasted enough time on your daydreams. Legolas’ time is running out as we speak.” Turning on the heels of his light boots, the elf jogged nimbly off in the direction they had first reached the lush waterfall glade.

Giving Gimli one last questioning look of concern, Gandalf slowly turned to follow the elf. “Come along, Gimli,” he called over his shoulder, “Toreingal is right. Legolas is waiting for us.”

Frozen where he stood, Gimli looked after the retreating wizard before giving one last uncertain glance at the silver pool’s empty surface, almost expecting to again see the Elf-Lady’s beautiful face. Did he just imagine everything? Or did it really happen?

Feeling some inner pull of doubt as he forced himself to turn his back on Eronel’s cave, Gimli quickly walked in the direction his companions had just disappeared. As he trudged away into the ancient forest, Gimli could swear he felt a voice in the back of his mind, softly whispering after him.

“I will wait for you, Master Dwarf…I will wait for your return when you see the folly of you errand…”

And as Gimli lost sight of the waterfall and still pool of mountain water, he swore he could catch the faint whisper of a mirthful laugh carried on the chilly spring breeze until it faded from his ears and left only the dead silence of the forest to fill the empty air…

The darkened elven city of Rivendell lay under a ghostly glow cast by the raising moon in the east. Few lights dotted the city’s many streets or warmed any of the windows of the gracefully designed buildings. A tense stillness permeated the river valley as though fear of an oncoming threat had silenced all noise from its inhabitants.

But deep within the palace of Rivendell’s king, there was no still tension, but rather a raging war. A great battle was taking place in one of the Elf-Lord’s many guest rooms. It was a battle between life and death, light and darkness, hope and despair. But the battle for life was steadily losing its stronghold…

“Legolas, if you can hear me, you have to swallow these herbs,” Aragorn called urgently to the thrashing elf held tightly in his arms. Burning with fever, the elf-prince showed no signs of acknowledging the Ranger’s plea. Crying out weakly, Legolas writhed in agony as he clenched his throbbing left arm tightly, unaware of anything else but the excruciating pain that seared his veins and flesh.

“Can you hold him still, Aragorn?” Elrond said as he bent over Legolas’ fever ridden body laying on the large bed of the room, “We must try to get some of this medicine in him to try to slow the poison or we may very well lose him tonight.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed opposite Aragorn, the ancient elf-king gently cupped Legolas’ chin in his hand and tipped the prince’s head back. Forcefully prying open Legolas’ mouth, Elrond quickly placed a single dried leaf under the archer’s tongue. Holding the sick elf’s mouth closed so he couldn’t spit the bitter tasting herb out, Elrond and Aragorn waited anxiously to see what effects it would have as Legolas thrashed on the bed in a delirium of pain.

Moaning pitifully around the bitter plant in his mouth, Legolas struggled weakly in Aragorn’s pinning grasp as the leaf slowly dissolved under his tongue. Sweat poured from the elf’s burning forehead as the Ranger tried to keep him still. Eyes clenched tightly shut, the archer kicked his legs uselessly in the tangled mess of bed sheets that had become ensnared around his feet during his struggles. Keeping the distressed elf pinned tightly against his chest to keep him from convulsing right off the side of the bed, Aragorn could feel Legolas’ heat pounding like a drum. The bluish coloring of Legolas’ infected arm had now spread to the top of his shoulder, doubling his suffering.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Legolas’ thrashing began to die away, leaving only an exhausted elf shivering in its wake. Panting weakly, the archer lay like a limp doll cradled in Aragorn’s arms. Long strands of blond hair lay plastered against the sides of his pain crumpled face.

“What did you give him?” Aragorn asked Elrond as he laid his sick friend back down onto the bed and pulled one of the sheets over the elf’s now stilled body.

“Athelas,” the king answered tiredly, watching the Ranger move to gently wipe a damp cloth over Legolas’ pale face and then place the rag over the elf’s forehead in attempt to cool his raging fever. Hanging his head solemnly, Elrond said, “Aragorn, our medicine is beginning to have little effect against this poison. Before long, it will do nothing at all. If Gandalf and the others do not return soon, I fear Legolas will slip away from us.”

“They will return in time,” the dark haired man countered a little too quickly. But his words seemed hollow, even to his own ears.

Closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly, Elrond muttered wearily, “But what if they do not? I would give Legolas another day at most.” Taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts, the ancient elf decided it was now time to voice the gnawing worry that had been festering in his troubled mind for some time now. “We must begin to prepare for the worst, Aragorn. My scouts have already reported movement from Kind Thranduil’s armies in Mirkwood. They are already moving out to mount an attack on the Dwarves. War is upon us.”

“We must keep hope, my Lord,” the Ranger almost pleaded to Elrond, staring down onto Legolas who groaned softly under his breath as he rolled his head to the side in discomfort and fevered sickness. He then fell still and quiet. Eyes fluttering beneath partially opened eyelids, Legolas again gave a low whimper as though in the heat of some troubled dream.

“Yes, Aragorn, we must keep hope,” the elf-king said sadly, standing to leave for the door, “But hope will not sustain us or Legolas much longer. Against this dark of a poison there is little room for hope…” With that, he turned and trudged to the door to find more medical herbs for the sick prince and softly shut the door behind him.

After Elrond had disappeared into the palace beyond, Aragorn could only look on silently as his dying friend tossed restlessly in a delirium of fever beside him. Reaching down to rewet the cloth on Legolas’ forehead, Aragorn was startled when the elf suddenly began to mumble in his sleep.

Slurred like a drunkard’s, Legolas’ words seeped over his bloodless white lips barely louder then a whisper. Bending low over the stricken warrior, Aragorn discerned only part of the faint and frightened murmurs of his feverish friend.

“No…The dark figure…It is coming for me…Somebody…Please help me…I don’t want to die…”

Fading away in his throat, Legolas’ unconscious ramblings became a soft and muffled whimper of pain and torment. Feverously tossing his head from side to side atop the sweat dampened pillow, Legolas cringed into a shivering ball as Aragorn tried to place a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. Moaning weakly, he elf held his infected blue arm in pain.

“Shhh…” soothed Aragorn softly, deeply pained by his friend’s inability to escape his misery even in his sleep. Pacing the damp cloth back across Legolas’ burning hot brow, he gently took his companion’s hand into his own reassuringly. Ice cold were the elf’s once strong and warm slender hands.

“Rest, my friend,” he whispered into the prince’s delicately pointed ear in the Elvish tongue, “I am here. I won’t let anything take you from us…”

Perhaps unconsciously hearing the man’s words, Legolas gave a final uncertain whimper of pain and fell silent and still, falling away into deeper and darker dreams. Heaving a heavy sigh of weariness, Aragorn hung his head tiredly over the dying warrior.

“Please don’t give up yet, Legolas,” he begged quietly to his friend’s unconscious form, “Too much is at stake for you to give up hope. Please hold on a little longer. You must fight this dark poison as long as you can. Gimli and your cousin, Toreingal, will return soon, and then all will be well again…”

Gently resting Legolas’ hand back over the elf’s chest, Araorn pushed back from the bed and fell into a nearby wooden chair positioned close beside the prince’s bed. Leaning forward in his seat, the Ranger dropped his head into his hands in exhaustion from the last few days’ stress, feeling drained and empty with grief for his suffering friend. Staring blankly down at the wooden floorboards of the room, the man listened silently to Legolas’ unsteady breathing as it whistled softly between the elf’s lips.

Shutting his eyes against the world, Aragorn let the hypnotic rhythm of Legolas’ breathing lull him into a distant state of mind. Leaning back in his seat so that his head hung over the back of the chair, the man became aware of the still quiet of the night that seeped in through a nearby open window of the room.

How alone he suddenly felt in that darkened room, waiting helplessly to see what lay in Legolas’ dim future. Sinking lower in his seat, Araorn prepared for his lonesome vigil awake at his friend’s side should Legolas require any aid during the course of the long dark night. Unwilling to leave his companion’s side with no one else there to calm or comfort Legolas in his suffering, the faithful man unselfishly took up his post.

Sitting there in the silence behind a gloomy curtain of darkness that draped the room like a tapestry, Aragorn waited as the elf’s chest slowly rose and fell beneath the thin coverlet of the bed. Assessing that the Athelas had finally taken its full effect against the dark poison in the warrior’s veins, the trained healer was at least momentarily contented that Legolas’ breathing now seemed steadier and deeper then before.

But Elrond’s words remained in his mind like salt in an open wound. The plant was not having as much effect against Eronel’s poison as it had only a day before. It was now taking much longer for the plant to show any signs of relieving the sick elf from his throes of pain. The evil venom was quickly becoming stronger and overtaking the valiant warrior prince of Mirkwood.

As the Ranger thought of this, he became aware of a deepening gloom descending around him. Turning in the chair, Aragorn saw through one of the room’s windows the last fleeting glimpse of the pale moon outside disappear behind a dark cloud in the sky. Looking back to the barely distinguishable outline of Legolas laying on the bed behind a wall of inky darkness, he had to wonder if light would ever come again. Because it suddenly seemed to him that hope had become lost in the darkness and was never to be seen again…

“Oh yes… My time is quickly nearing… There now only remains one more step in my plan. And then I shall be free to cover Middle-Earth in such a shadow of darkness that even the blackest of nights will seem like day to those that quake under my power. My revenge against the Dwarves and Elves will soon be complete.”

“For it is now my turn to make my move in this game of chess. And my dearest fool, Prince Legolas, you shall be the first to be moved and sacrificed on this battlefield of pawns…”

Dark laughter then rang out, chilling the very air it moved through. And thus, Eronel began to stretch her potent mind and deadly will from deep within her lonely prison of darkness and hate, preparing to move her pawn into place on the playing board checkered with the crimson of spilt blood and the blackness of despair….

Pain was what finally drug Legolas from out of the dark abyss of unconsciousness. It was a searing, unrelenting pain that the words of no known language could fully describe or encompass. So potent was its strength, it seemed to devour the very hope of ever escaping from its grips. Ripped from his dark and terrifying dreams where the full force of his agony could not follow, Legolas drifted beyond the borders of his misty dream scape back into the realm of consciousness.

Slowly fading into awareness of body and mind, the elf hovered on the edge of where dreams and reality melded and flowed into one another in an intricate and deceptive mosaic of what is and what exists only in the farthest reaches of the mind. Consciousness had long ago became a distorted concept to Legolas. In his sufferings he had drifted through many shifting shadows of darkness, caused by fever and poison. Time and space had little meaning to him.

Numerous times he had startled awake in a heavy daze of pain and sweat, to only immediately sink back into a thick muddle of troubled dreams. Several times he thought he had heard a voice speaking to him gently from somewhere beyond the fevered delirium that burned his body. It was strangely familiar but unplaceable, soothing him into another maelstrom of sleep with some bitter taste on his tongue. But he had cared little of this as the bitter taste and gentle but strong voice faded from recollection and memory as he once again fell into a dark void of restless sleep.

Sluggishly pulling his mind from out of the black desert of unconsciousness, Legolas slid heavy eyelids up from over the gritty surface of his eyes. Blinking slowly in blindness, the first sense to fully return to the disoriented and half conscious elf was the searing pain that laced itself through every sinew and muscle of his left arm and chest until it felt as though his very bones burned with poison and fire. Lethargic and drugged, he could do little more in his stupor then just whimper helplessly in torment and misery.

~It hurts...Make it stop...~

Laying in a daze of pain, Legolas fought the overwhelming urge to let himself slip into another bout of tormented sleep. Dark and frightening the nightmares of his fevered mind had been, and he was reluctant to return to them just yet.

~Why isn’t there any light... I can’t see... Where am I?~

Immediate darkness met his eyes as he slowly returned to the living realm. It was late and the moon’s pale face hung high overhead in the sky. Legolas tried to blink his blurry eyes into focus, but it felt as though cobwebs had been spun in front of his vision. Lucid enough to know he was truly awake and not in another hallucination, the elf clenched his throbbing arm weakly. Focusing on his surroundings he slowly recognized the large bed he lay in and the darkened room in which he had lived for three long and lonely days since falling under the poison coated blade of Gimli.

Laying helplessly in a daze of pain and sleep, Legolas suddenly felt overwhelmed with a burning heat. Cocooned tightly in the soft bedding of the deep and pillowy bed, the sick elf panted torridly. Feeling suffocated to the point of panic, he weakly kicked the many sheets from his sweat drenched body.

~Get off me!... I need air!~

Salty sweat dripped into his eyes and stung his vision as he peeled the last thin sheet from off of his gaunt body and threw it to the side with disdain. Legolas then flopped back onto the mattress with no strength left to keep himself up. Drenched in this cold sweat, Legolas shivered violently as a gentle breeze blew into the small room through a nearby open window and chilled his exposed damp skin. Too weary and exhausted to pull one of the sheets back over himself, Legolas shuddered with cold. But while he froze, his forehead burned with fever and perspiration continued to dampen his lusterless white skin.

Legolas’ labored breathing drowned his hearing with his lungs’ torment as he struggled to pull himself away from the brink of unconsciousness. He could feel the sharp, acidy sting of bile biting the back of his throat as his stomach heaved weakly, empty of anything to throw from it. Slowly the retching contractions of his stomach tapered off. Mind numbed by pain and sickness, Legolas looked around him in the moonlit room. It was empty and filled only with the shadows and sounds of the night.

The elf’s heart sank at this, feeling abandoned and alone in his pain and misery. For some reason he had half expected to find someone there by his side. Who he expected to see he could not say, but he thought he faintly remembered some presence at one time or another beside him. There was an chair sitting close beside his bed, but it was empty and cold.

Settling his fevered head back onto the cool cover of his pillow wearily, Legolas listened passively to the still silence and calm of the deepening night. Loneliness weighted down his heart before the poisoned pain of his arm all of a sudden crept back into his mind with renewed intensity and stole his attention away. It was as if hot needles had suddenly been driven into his flesh, boiling his blood.

~What evil have I committed to deserve this!?~

His mind reeled with pain as Eronel’s curse exploded into a new threshold of intensity. Legolas could do nothing more then roll to his side in agony with a moan, still clenching his poison seeped limb. Gasping with shock, Legolas shivered with pain and cold, his blood pumping through his arm like liquid fire.

But through the mind consuming throes of indescribable pain, there came to Legolas’ ears the soft whisper of a distant voice like that of one searching for someone who is lost.

*Legolas... Legolas, my dear prince, where are you?*

It was musical and sad, and seemed to radiate from the very air itself. Female it was in tone. Distracted from his pains by this unexpected voice, Legolas felt strangely compelled to answer although he knew not who called to him. A heavy fog seemed to descend over his eyes in the wake of the unseen woman’s call.

“Who’s there?” Legolas chocked out from his parched throat over the pain that throbbed in both mind and body. Struggling to sit, Legolas weakly pulled his back up against the delicately carved elven headboard of his bed. Focusing what little strength he had left in his withered body, he strained his sharp and acute elven ears, listening intensely for a reply, half expecting it to have been his fevered imagination that had concocted the mysterious voice. Waiting breathlessly in the tense silence, Legolas felt a chilled shiver pass up his spine.

*My prince...* sang the female voice, her voice echoing through his skull, coated thick with pity but not answering his inquiry. *How you suffer... Do you not yearn for relief from this torture?*

“Yes,” he replied weakly, not quite understanding why he was answering this mysterious voice. It was as if something had stolen his will to resist this melodious voice and disregard all caution or prudence as it pulled him deep into a dreamy trance as he sat listening to his allusive guest.

*Then come to me... I can relieve you of your torment. Follow my voice. I will end your suffering...* Trailing away, the voice faded from the gravely ill elf’s ears and into the distance.

Whatever magical or hypnotic influence had been woven into the unseen woman’s honey laced voice, Legolas slipped to the edge of the bed and slowly lowered himself down onto unsteady feet. His weary heart suddenly yearned for nothing more then to do as the voice bid and follow. Quickly managing to grip a nearby end stand positioned near the head of the wide down bed as he stood to steady himself before he fell to the floor in a heap, the once proud and fearless warrior swayed with vertigo.

Legolas’ breathing came in short raspy intervals as he bit back the pain that coursed through his arm, willing his sagging knees to support his crumpling body. He then staggered forward after finding his balance. In his weakened condition, his legs hardly seemed able to bear his already impossibly light weight, but he did not fall. Driven by some strong and unyielding force that seemed to seize his very mind in its iron grips, Legolas struggled along on unsteady legs.

Stumbling weakly against the closed wooden door of his room, Legolas leaned heavily against the doorjamb, trying desperately to catch his breath and stop the room from spinning. Gasping air into his oxygen starved lungs like he had just ran an uphill marathon, the elf saw his vision beginning to tunnel from exertion and sickness. The pain in his arm worsened. It took all his strength and willpower not to scream out in pain and collapse to the floor.

*Legolas...* The voice urged persistently from some distant corner of his mind. *Follow my voice... No more pain...*

Again feeling the inner pull of desperation to follow, the elf saw rather then actually feel or consciously direct a shaking hand out to grip the doorknob beside him. Like an observer to his own life, Legolas watched as his hand turned on its own accord and swing the door out into the pitch dark hallway of Lord Elrond’s palace.

*Legolas...Come to me.*

Like a snake charmer weaving her spell, the voice’s musical syllables ensnared the elf-prince’s mind and lulled him into a daze of blind obedience. Vision and senses wavering with pain and an unnatural heaviness that seemed to cover everything in a dense fog, Legolas stumbled from out of the room and into the black corridor beyond, unable to regain the will or strength to fight the call of the mysterious woman to follow. And so slipping into the long and dark shadows of the hallway, Legolas’ light elvish footsteps faded into the distance like one walking to his doom.

Aragorn stared out into the distance with empty eyes, his thoughts swirling in a confusion of helplessness, regret, anger, desperation, denial and anguish. His listless eyes overlooked the nighttime city of Rivendell. He sat on a cold stone bench set in one of the many sprawling palace gardens, heedless of the early spring chill that soaked through his clothes and into his skin like tiny knives of ice. Winter still hung faintly in the air, too stubborn to relinquish its cold grip on the land just yet. The moon above shined down her pale light, illuminating the earth in a rich glow.

Terraced to fit into to the mountain landscape, Lord Elrond’s gardens were filled with the quiet growth of trees, plants, and flowers year round. Even if it was the dead of winter, something was always to be seen growing there. Whether by gentle coaxing elven hands or magic this feat was achieved, no living mortal could say. In all actuality, Elrond’s gardens were more like a well tended forest then a flower covered patch of land.

Whatever the case, it was one of those elvish quirks that all of the Eldar shared (and Aragorn had always loved): their deep seeded need to be close to something green and growing. Nature was like their life force and their strength. But this came now as almost ironic and cruel to the Man who sat in the Elf-Lord’s undying green gardens, pondering life, its mortality and the cruelty of the world.

The bench that Aragorn sat on had been placed there long ago during the construction of the vast and peaceful gardens close to the edge of a stone pathway that weaved itself through the cultivated soil. On the other side of the pathway, a low stone wall of carefully cut blocks stood. And while Elves in general disliked and tried to avoid masonry or stonework of any kind in their green places, this wall had been built for good reasons.

Deliberately sectioned off to grant the best overhead, panoramic view of Rivendell and the beautiful valley’s many waterfalls and tributaries that ran through it, the palace gardens subsequently grew right on the very edge of the mountain side. A huge drop spiraled downwards fifty feet or more just on the other side of the innocent looking stone wall. It had been built to prevent any unwary guest in Elrond’s gardens from falling off the path and into the churning white waters of Rivendell’s main river below. The water surged and boiled against its rocky sides behind thick curtains of mist and spray.

A narrow waterfall rushed somewhere farther down the path, it sitting between the Man and the palace. It was forty feet high or so with a deep and swift river running from where it thundered down into its rocky bed. And while it would be considered a decent sized waterfall by any other standards, it was still considered relatively small compared to some of the other colossal beauties that crashed along the mountain sides of Rivendell. It sat several yards back from the main path in a deep misty glade surrounded on either side by sandy banks that were perfect for mid-summer afternoon outings.

Aragorn could hear the surging roar of its cascading waters even from the distance he had put between himself and the elven palace. But the sound of its rushing water did little more then further depress him. It only reminded him of happier times when life was sunny and green and full of promise. But those memories now seemed distant and from another world entirely.

Perhaps, subconsciously, he had wandered to the spot he sat now just so he could find some link to that time, when things had not been so dark and hopeless. But whatever the reason of him choosing that particular place to wallow in despair, he was there now. He needed time alone to think. He needed time to sort out the feelings he held for a dying Elf who he had faced more adventures, and braved more dangers with then twenty Men would ever hope to see in a hundred lifetimes.

Head held wearily in his hands, Aragorn bent forward like a tree broken in the wind, his bent elbow resting on his thighs. He stared out towards the darkened city through the tangles of dark eyelashes that slightly obscured his view, unable to lift his head from under the immense weight of grief and hopelessness.

~Legolas, my dear friend, why did this have to happen to you? Why you of all people? Why did Gimli have to give you that tainted dagger? It was suppose to represent his friendship to you, but...why did this have to happen? It’s not fair that you must suffer like this. I would give my life to help you. But I cannot do anything more then passively sit by and watch you suffer from this evil witch’s poison. You have saved my life countless times, and the one time you are in need of me, I can do nothing for you... ~

Aragorn could feel tears of frustration beginning to sting his eyes. They were tears that had been threatening to spill for some time now, but still remained in tight check. Aragorn refused to weep for a friend that was still alive and had not yet succumbed to Fate. But his resolve to keep his tried emotions in check was quickly crumbling. He could feel the frustration building in him even in the quiet peace of the gardens until it felt as though he was a moment away from just screaming at the top of his lungs into the night until no air remained in him to scream with.

~What cruel Fate deemed you to be the one to fall victim to Gimli’s tainted blade? Why did Eronel’s legacy have to find you as its victim?~

So consumed by these unanswerable thoughts, the Ranger did not even notice the soft rustle of cloth in the still night coming up behind him. Aragorn was only finally brought out of his inner turmoil with the fall of a gentle but strong hand on his shoulder. He did not even have to raise his head to know who stood beside him. He could tell by the reassuring squeeze on his shoulder (the same that had comforted him countless time during his life), that Elrond had come to join him in the moonlit palace gardens.

“Is it not a bit late for a stroll though the garden?” the ancient elf-king asked softly after a moment of silence between the two, the distant crashing of the nearby waterfall making the only sound in the still night.

“I needed the quiet of the trees to think in,” Aragorn replied emotionlessly, still not raising his head, his hair curtaining his downcast face in a shower of semi-curly dark tresses.

“Amongst the trees, there is little quiet to be found. They are full of voices and words. But you are not an Elf, so your ears are not troubled by their whispers,” Elrond said dismissingly, removing his hand from Aragorn’s shoulder and coming around to sit beside the clearly distraught man. Taking in the Man with a sideways glance from the corner of his grey eyes, he noted carefully after an uncertain pause, “This is the first time I have seen you away from Legolas’ side.”

The Elf’s words seemed to earn some sign of life from Aragorn as the Man finally hoisted his head up to look at Elrond with grief reddened eyes. “He is worsening, “Aragorn explained in a small voice of helplessness, “He is fading faster then I thought he would. I fear, he has little time left. He has already begun to show signs of hallucinations and the bluish coloring of the poison in his left arm is spreading quicker. It is already beginning to seep onto his chest... Once it reaches his heart, I don’t think even Legolas will be able to fight off this witch’s poison any longer...”

“We feared as much from the very beginning, Estel,” the Elf-Lord confirmed, speaking gently to the Man he had come to see as one of his own sons and who caused him pain if ever he saw him suffer. “But you said yourself - we cannot give up hope. Gandalf and the others should have reached the valley by now. We must place our hopes in them,” Elrond tried to assure.

Giving a soft snort, Aragorn scoffed, “Hope? What hope is there left to be had? Legolas is slowly dying in a torment of pain. Even I cannot fool myself any longer that he will last much longer against this evil. He will d-” Hanging his head, the man trailed off, letting his unspoken words fester in the air and in their hearts.

“They may return in time,” the Elf-king offered hopefully, but with only feeble backing to them.

“And what if they do not?” Aragorn retorted sharply, totally unaware of the ironic shift of attitudes that had taken place between himself and Elrond from only a few hours prior, “An all out war between Elves and Dwarves is hanging in the balance. If Gandalf and Gimli do not return in time with Eronel’s water, then not only do I lose my friend, war will erupt. The fighting between Dwarves and Elves will spread from here to every country in Middle-Earth until there is nothing left.”

“I have already sent out a messenger to Mirkwood begging King Thranduil to not make any attacks against the Dwarves just yet. Legolas’ father is stubborn and head-strong, but I hope my letter may at least buy us some time to save Legolas’ life and advert war. But there is little more we can do at the present. We must wait for Gandalf and the others to return- as painful as that may seem to you right now,” Elrond said, looking at the hallowed remains of a grief stricken man.

There came no reply from Aragorn at this. He only stared into the distance, revealing none of his inner thoughts or feelings.

“Aragorn, I know you are taking Legolas’ illness very hard, but you must begin to look after yourself,” Elrond then motioned after a long moment, deep concern seeping from his voice, “I am worried about you. You have not slept or eaten in three days. You can not keep this up. There is nothing more you can do for him. Come what may - it is out of our hands... Come back inside and rest. Legolas will be well tended to in your absence. If it will comfort you enough to take a few hours rest, I will spend the rest of the night at his side until you get some sleep. You look terrible. You will do Legolas no good, if you keep this up. Will you please do this for me?” The underlining plea in Elrond’s voice was genuine, and Aragorn did not at first respond.

~How can he ask me to worry about myself when Legolas is like this- teetering on the very brink of death?... But Elrond is right. There is little more I can do for Legolas... I am useless to him.~

Heaving a weary sigh of emotional exhaustion, and locking eyes with the ageless eyes of his adopted father, Aragorn conceded reluctantly, “As you wish...But I will remain here for a while longer. There is still much I must think about.”

“So be it.”

Standing, with some sense of relief and satisfaction at the Ranger’s complience to his request, Elrond cast Aragorn one last worried glance before turning away from the distraught Man towards the stone path that would lead him back to the palace. ~Please, Legolas, you must fight this darkness. I do not know what will become of Aragorn if you were to fall to this dark poison. And I fear what may become of Middle-Earth. Your father already harbors much distrust and animosity towards mortals- especially Dwarves. I am not sure that even if you are restored to health his wrath can be stayed against the Dwarves. But we must try. I will do everything in my power to help you, but your only real hope lies with Gandalf, Gimli, and Toreingal...~

Moving down the moonlit path, Elrond’s dark outline blended into the darkness and disappeared from Aragorn’s view. Following the ghostly form of the Elf-Lord as far as his human eyes would allow in the dim twilight, the empty man finally looked away and returned his wandering eyes out towards the sleeping city of Rivendell.

Falling out of thought, Aragorn let his mind drift, too weary to rail the images and memories that slowly floated past his mind’s eye. As he sat there on his seat of cold and impersonal stone bench, he suddenly became aware of just how tired he really was. At first he had relented to Elrond’s suggestion of rest only to satisfy the elf and get him to leave him in peace. But now, he was truly beginning to feel the heavy burden of worry and stress from Legolas’ suffering that he had been carrying for so long a time. And while he felt some twinge of guilt at the thought of restful sleep while his friend continued to be haunted even in his dreams, Aragorn knew he needed rest, or he would most likely fall asleep right at Legolas’ side from exhaustion.

Making up his mind, the Man stood from the garden bench. Straightening his stiff knees, Aragorn became painfully aware of the stinging rush of blood through his limbs as he stretched his legs and back. The Ranger now mentally chided himself for sitting so long on the cold stone bench and allowing his muscles to stiffen so. ~I will rest tonight and then return to Legolas in the morning.~

Turning down the path that lead to Elrond’s grand palace, Aragorn’s tired ears listened idly to the growing roar of the garden’s waterfall as he neared the narrow stone bridge that spanned over the fall’s tributary. Slowly treading over the stone path underfoot, Aragorn hunched his shoulders with fatigue. ~Yes, sleep does sound like a good idea...~

Rounding the last winding bend of the garden’s stone walkway, he could begin to see the faint outline of the cascading water through the trees’ leafy boughs. On his tired face, he could already feel the fine, misty spray that was kicked up from the base of the churning falls- an almost refreshing experience to the emotionally and physically fatigued man.

Nea

_________________


~A-E twin/father of Vampire Anakin~

Thanks so much Nienna! Here is the end of the story. =(

Uneasiness gnawed at the back of Gimli’s mind like an unreachable itch as he and his two companions guided their horses slowly through the forest of towering trees. The solid brown trunks of the looming giants stood like ancient pillars of stone; so great in girth that four men would have been needed to hug the monstrosities completely. Their leafy green umbrella tops disappeared into the sky overhead where each other’s neighbor’s branches merged into one to create a giant meshy green blanket.

An unnatural, suffocating silence surrounded the small band of weary travelers. Even Shadowfax and his elf-raised brethren seemed to sense something unnerving in the heavy damp air. Their sodden hoof falls on the thick earthy soil and an occasional nervous snort were the only sounds to break the still silence of the damp forest.

The fine drizzle that had fallen tirelessly for the past day and a half on the heads of the three riders had mysteriously tapered off almost immediately after them entering the lush green valley. The low sky remained overcast and gray hidden behind stagnant clouds heavily pregnant with rain. But no drops of water seemed to reach the ground.

“I don’t like this place…” Toreingal muttered warily under his breath, breaking the tension. Scanning the surrounding tree with his sharp eyes as if looking for some hidden enemy, the elf fingered the hilt of the curved knife that hung from his waist nervously.

Venturing to speak further in the oppressive calm and quiet of the green forest, the elf said uneasily, “There is no sound here. No birds. No animals. Not even the sound of the wind blowing, though I can feel it on my face… And there is something strange about the trees. I cannot hear them speak or even whisper. There is something not right here…”

“While I do not share your elven ability to listen and converse with Nature and Her living creatures, I have noticed the same thing…” Gandalf agreed tightly, “There is something strange about this valley. And I fear I know who is responsible for it. It seems Eronel is not sleeping peacefully in her cave and still has some influence on the outside world, though I do not know to what extent. We should be very cautious from here on in while in this valley.”

“Is that possible?” Gimli exclaimed in a hushed voice of amazement that nevertheless rang out like a crash through the abnormally silent forest, “Could this witch still have so much power after so many centuries?”

From somewhere ahead of the dwarf, there came a disdainful snort. From the head of the group, Toreingal swiveled in his saddle to look over his shoulder. Eyeing Gimli from the corner of his eye, the elf curled his lips distastefully at the dwarf and hissed, “Shows how much a dwarf would know… Elves do not diminish in power the older they get unlike some other, lesser races…” Here Legolas’ cousin cast a condescending gaze down upon Gandalf and Gimli who seemed to have become representatives for their respective races. “Eronel is one of the Undying. Her powers - no matter how dark - would not have just faded away after a couple hundred years of isolation. No. Elves are not ones to suffer from the harsh grip of time’s hands.”

“Do not be so proud to state such thing, Toreingal,” Gandalf chastened with a sharp glance from his ice blue eyes set beneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows wrinkled with age and wisdom, “For while Eronel may be locked away from the world, her power has most likely been festering and growing in the darkness. Who knows what power she might wield now…” Trailing off, the white wizard stared ahead into the layered walls of thick trees that faded away into a green and brown haze in the far distance.

The elf contemplated the old man for a long moment before finally giving a small huff and turning his back on the wizard and dwarf, letting the strange stillness of the woods sting their ears once again. Maneuvering their quick and sure-footed horses over the sparse underbrush of the mossy forest floor, the small band penetrated farther into the valley of the trapped sorceress.

Alone in his thoughts as they delved deeper into the thick forest, Gimli sat atop his mount determined not to slip off the side of the monstrous beast and give the elf something more to jeer about him. Gimli hated ridding horses or anything else for that matter. The dwarf prided himself in his own two legs.

Keeping one hand on the pommel of the saddle to keep himself anchored to the moving animal’s back. Gimli held the reigns loosely in his other gloved hand, unsure of how to exactly use them. Gimli’s horse had long ago during the first few hours of the journey sensed the dwarf’s lack of horsemanship and merely trotted on beside Gandalf’s white stallion, Shadowfax.

Grumbling quietly to himself, Gimli simmered over how much he hated horseback riding. He hated the feeling of being precariously perched atop an animal five times his own size with the strength to throw him to the ground with a mere toss of its massive head.

Thinking of this, Gimli’s thought obstinately, ’A dwarf should not have to subject himself to riding one of these beasts. Let Men and Elves use them, but not us Dwarves. Legs are the most reliable mode of transportation, I always say, especially a Dwarf’s. But Legolas always knew how to handle these things whenever the situation called for it. That’s why I always rode with him. It was like that elf could almost talk to them…”

A deep heaviness came upon Gimli’s heart at these thoughts. For a moment he had almost forgotten about his quest and his guilt for his elvish friend. The dwarf hung his head solemnly, falling into memories of the once high-spirited elf.

But try as he might to remember the happier memories of Legolas’ smiling face or one of his sarcastic comments about Dwarves that was always meant in jest and good humor, Gimli could now only see a once proud and fearless elf slowly dying, his skin as pale as snow and eyes filled with pain.

Gimli’s thoughts wondered aimlessly in an endless sea of guilt at the thought of the fading warrior, all the while blaming himself for causing his friend so much pain and suffering. Surely he should have somehow sensed something evil on the blade of that dagger before he had given it to Legolas, but he hadn’t. And now Legolas was to pay for his stupidity and foolishness.

But as Gimli sat wallowing in self-pity and guilt, he came to remember something Gandalf had said in passing. And though they had seemed like only empty words at the time they were spoken, they now seemed to be full of wisdom and knowledge beyond a simple dwarf’s understanding.

‘You are not to blame for this. You will be of no help to Legolas if you do not realize this soon. He does not blame you, so you should neither. There is a great friendship between you and he. And it is because of this, you were unable to not go to his aid…’

It suddenly occurred to Gimli that the white wizard might have understood more about the dwarf then what he really wanted to admit. Gimli now understood Gandalf’s words when he had said he was not going to be able to help Legolas as long as he was still in the grips of guilt. Gimli knew he now had to reassess his position in this mission to save his friend’s life. Was he to play the helpless victim or the one to actually save the elf?

Perhaps Gandalf had wanted Gimli to come to this simplistic yet profound conclusion himself, on his own terms and at his own time. Or perhaps, Gandalf had just known that stubborn dwarf was not going to listen to reason no matter how hard the wizard tried to hammer it into his thick little head.

‘Well,’ snorted the dwarf to himself, ‘I’m not about to let that elf, Toreingal, think I’m nothing more then luggage on this mission. I promised Legolas I was going to bring him back his cure, and I’d give my father’s mines away to Orcs before I let that conceded and pompous elf show me up!’

Filled with renewed purpose and energy, Gimli suddenly became aware of a distant bubbling noise like that of a small stream from somewhere in the distance to his right. Gandalf and Toreingal, who rode several paces in front of him, had also seemed to pick up on this welcome sound to their noise-starved ears. From where he sat, Gimli almost swore he actually saw Legolas’ cousin’s ears perk up at the soft sound.

“Running water…” Gandalf noted, not to the surprise of the other two who had come to such conclusions by themselves.

“We should follow it to its source,” Toreingal suggested, as he wheeled his snorting gray mount around to face in the direction of the unseen moving water, “Lord Elrond said Eronel’s cave was guarded by a waterfall. Thus we should seek out running streams instead of tramping through these woods needlessly as we are now.”

“I suppose you thought of that all by yourself, didn’t you, elf?” Gimli mocked at Toreingal, slowly returning to his normal proud self. “Well, if you keep coming up with such profound assessments like this, then you may prove yourself useful to this mission yet…”

Not giving the elf time to recover from this unexpected remark, Gimli tapped his stubby little legs against his horse’s ribs. Surprised by the dwarf’s sudden show of assertiveness, the chestnut colored mare whined softly and kicked off the ground, galloping away from the others in the direction of the gurgling brook as Gimli bounced recklessly in his saddle and became lost in the walls of surrounding trees.

Left in his wake, Gandalf could only chuckle under his breathe as Toreingal sputtered for words beside him.

“Useful?…Profound assessments!?” the elf spat with rage, almost bristling around the edges with insult, “How dare that dwarf mock me…Of all the disrespect. I should--”

“-Hurry!” Gandalf’s merry voice broke out clearly from a short distance away.

Chuckling to himself in amusement for Toreingal’s enraged temper tantrum, the white wizard was already in pursuit of Gimli on the back of Shadowfax. “Come along, Toreingal!” he called over his shoulder laughingly, “Gimli is already far ahead of you! Don’t just sit there like moss on the side of a tree! We have much to do!” Letting another laugh escape from his bearded lips, Gandalf and Shadowfax took off in the direction the dwarf had just disappeared.

“How my cousin survived so long a time around these people, I will never know,” the elf hissed through gritted teeth as he spurred his horse after the two with a quick jab of his boots. Muttering curses about dwarfs and wizards, Toreingal slipped away from the path into the thicket of towering tree trunks and hurried after his quarry.

Breaking out of the silent forest, Toreingal found himself again beside Gandalf and Gimli who sat atop their stopped mounts, looking out before them. The three stood in a treeless space of area several yards long that was covered in a thick carpet of lush green grass and a multitude of other plants. Running through this lush area, a quiet mountain spring several paces wide ran, gurgling lazily as the cold clear water fell and lapped over a shallow bed of slippery smooth rocks.

Shrouded in a thick gray mist in the east, one of the surrounding mountains of the river valley stood, its snowcapped peaks, which supplied the small stream with its melted snow and ice, scrapped the underside of the low heavy clouds overhead.

“Which way?” Gimli asked, tentatively directing his question to Gandalf to deliberately ignore the elf that had just joined them. Gimli could feel Toreingal’s eyes boring into his back, but took no notice of him. In fact, the dwarf was now beginning to secretly enjoy playing with his friend’s cousin solely out of spite.

The old man sat pondering the question thoughtfully for a brief space of time before finally saying, “I would turn our search first towards the east, since there we would find higher land closer to the stream’s source near the base of the mountain. There we might find Eronel’s waterfall.”

Directing their horses heads east towards the great mountain of rock in the distance, the three moved along the side of the stream. As they rode on quickly to the accompanying soundtrack of the rushing brook, they could begin to notice a gradual change in the land. After a quarter of a mile or so, the banks of the stream began to become a noticeably steeper and rockier grade as more of the lusher river grass gave way to hardier plants more suitable to the quicker current of the stream the closer the three travelers came to its source.

After a mile and a half, the banks and surrounding land of the stream suddenly became more hilly and rocky, almost jutting straight upwards in small cliffs several feet high. Despite their sturdy nature and strength, the horses of the three began to show signs of struggle along the broken banks of the creek. The very air they breathed seemed to become noticeably closer and heavier the farther they pressed onward, as though weighted down with time and ancient secrets.

“The path is becoming more difficult and the horses are tired. We should leave them and go on by foot. We can move faster that way and allow the horses time to rest before our return journey. We will need all their speed,” Toreingal said, suddenly pulling back his dapple-gray mount and stopping. Nimbly leaping from the back of his horse, the elf gently led the creature to a grassy area a short distance away from the edge of the now quickly moving stream whose rushing waters now foamed in a frothy soup around the partially submerged rocks embedded in its bottom. Willing the tired beast to stay with a tender hand on its long face, Toreingal dropped its reigns to the mossy forest floor, not needing to tie it up.

“I think we should keep moving but not without our horses,” Gandalf cautioned under his breath, “I do not like the air around here. It is stagnant with ancient magic. We are getting very close to the one we seek…”

“Well, I for once agree with the elf,” Gimli said as he slid from his saddle a bit too ungraceful in comparison with the display just given by his elven companion. Giving thanks for the solid, unmoving ground beneath his feet, the dwarf added, “I ache all over from ridding that creature so far without rest. I fear my legs will be bowed by the time we return to Rivendell. I need to stretch my muscles a bit and walk. I don’t need any creature porting me around anymore.”

Seeing dissention in the ranks no matter what he counseled, Gandalf huffed obstinately. Snorting softly, the white stallion beneath the wizard pawed the rocky soil beside the banks of the stream and hung its massive head towards the ground tiredly.

“So I am outvoted from all sides then?” Gandalf sighed as he slid from Shadowfax’s broad back. Nuzzling the wizard’s side tenderly, the white horse gave a low and pitiful whinny. “Fine then,” he said, giving his steed’s mighty neck an affectionate pat, “We will go on by foot…”

Leaving the horses in a small group in the grassy area, Gandalf turned and strode to where Gimli and Toreingal both stood looking up the bank where the path became narrower in the near distance and the trees’ thick roots jutted out over the edge of the creek side, making a formidable obstacle course. Slabs and outcrops of slippery rocks also added to the obstruction of the path.

“What do you say now, Gandalf?” Toreingal sniped arrogantly as the three studied their next leg of the journey, “Would you still risk guiding our horses over this rough terrain?”

Biting back a quick-tempered comeback to the overly proud elf, Gandalf calmly replied to subtly agitate the warrior, “No. No I wouldn’t, Toreingal. Now that I see it, I would have to agree with you. I doubt even Shadowfax could have covered this.”

“Well, what are we wasting time here talking about horses we can’t even use while Legolas is still waiting for us?” Gimli scoffed impatiently as he started up the side of the terraced stream, his pace brisk and undaunted as he scrambled up the first slop of rocks on his short little dwarf legs.

Come along then,” the old man hastened to the elf as he followed the miner up the climbing creek banks, “The waterfall shouldn’t be much further. I can hear the crashing of water nearby and the air is becoming thicker…We are very close now to the witch’s cave…”

Grumbling again under his breath, Toreingal slung his bow over his shoulder and leapt after the wizard and dwarf.

It was a magical sight to behold. The clear blue water of the mountain spring sang musical notes as it tumbled gracefully over the eight foot drop of the small gray cliff face into a basin of water at its feet, forming a tranquil pond of shimmering cool water. Not more then twenty five feet across, the pool lapped its sandy banks gently where the water was so clear one could see straight down to its pebbly bottom. On the far end of the pool, the basin gave way to a sloping area where the water then spilled out down another small hill into a rushing stream.

Massive trees lined the majestic waterfall, their snaking gray roots weaving an intricate pattern along the mossy forest floor. A wispy mist hung low to the ground, giving the area a mysterious and unearthly ambiance.

“I was not expecting this witch’s prison to be so beautiful,” Toreingal whispered almost reverently as the three beheld the beauty and serenity of Eronel’s lair, “Is this the right place?”

Do not be deceived by appearances,” Gandalf said, “I can almost smell the magic in the air it is so thick. This is the place we seek. Do not let your guard down. For here in this seemingly peaceful place, we must be on our highest guard.”

Striding closer to the shores of the silver pool at the base of the rushing waterfall, the white wizard leaned against his staff and bowed his head as if listening to the air around him. Toreingal and Gimli stood silently by as Gandalf mediated to himself. Finally, the old man raised his bearded face and said in a low voice, “Yes. This is the place. I can feel Eronel stretching her powers out to us. We must be quick. I do not like this place. No matter how beautiful a rose is, it still has thorn to prick unwary fingers. We must not be fooled by things here. Eronel is a trickstress and manipulator of the senses.”

Looking towards the small waterfall whose waters splashed and fell innocently into the pool below, Gandalf directed, “Come, Toreingal. We must take water from the fall itself. That is where the magic is contained. I need the service of your nimble elf-feet to go over the slippery rocks to get it.”

“And what am I to do then?” huffed the dwarf sorely, feeling once again like only baggage.

“I need your sharp dwarf-eyes to keep watch,” Gandalf replied with biting sarcasm and a small smile, as he pulled from some hidden pocket in his flowing white robes a small empty vial corked with glass at the top. Turning his back on the short miner, the wizard bade Toreingal to follow him.

As the two made their way towards the base of the waterfall, Gimli snorted with wounded pride. So it seemed the elf was going to show him up after all. Their return trip was going to probably be filled with Toreingal’s snide comments about how he was the one to actually retrieve the enchanted water instead of Gimli.

‘Just as long as Legolas survives this whole mess, I guess I really won’t care what the pointy-eared warg monger says,’ Gimli scowled to himself.

Looking out over the serene and beautiful scene of the waterfall and silver pool, Gimli frowned. ’And just what exactly are my ‘sharp dwarf eyes’ suppose to be keeping watch for…” he thought despondently to himself, tapping the end of his ax in the earthy soil out of boredom.

Out of earshot of Gandalf and Toreingal who was currently in the process of skipping carefully from rock to rock along the base of the small waterfall into the silver pool below, Gimli again became aware of the uneasy silence of the encircling forest. A cool breeze kissed the dwarf’s cheeks beneath his helmet as his heart thundered loudly in his ears in the stillness.

Standing there, leaning idly against his useless ax like a prop as he listened to the intense sound of nothing, a cold wave of prickles suddenly crawled up the unsuspecting dwarf’s neck. Gimli, at first instinctively froze in place, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clamping down on his mind and senses.

Gripping the handle of his ax securely, Gimli stilled his breath, trying to hear any sound from his unseen stalker. Willing his heart to stop beating so that he might better analyze the heavy damp air, the miner could not discern any sounds from around him that would alert him to any hidden presence.

Almost ready to lower his ax and blame his unfounded uneasiness on the stories told to him by Gandalf and Elrond of the entrapped evil sorceress, Gimli suddenly froze as he felt a shiver of cold again creep up his spine.

“Gimli…”

A soft plaintive voice whispered out from what seemed like a great distance. It was female and almost sad in tone as he speaker again called out to the startled dwarf by name only now more pleadingly and urgent.

“Gimli…”

Now frightened beyond all reasoning, the miner wheeled around thinking the voice had come from behind, but found only empty forest stretched out before him. Straining his yes to see anything, the dwarf called out in the strongest voice he could muster, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

“I am here…” whispered the soft and sad voice, which seemingly had now sounded from everywhere but nowhere at once.

Spinning around on his heels to find the mysterious speaker, confusion and extreme nervousness assailed Gimli as his searching eyes were again met with nothing but the strange waterfall and pool. “Where are you?” he shouted more demandingly, becoming frustrated by these frightening games of secrecy.

“Right here…” the feminine voice again riddled softly, her musical syllables flitting like butterflies between the dwarf’s ears.

Pinpointing the elusive voice, the dwarf’s head snapped down to the perfectly smooth glass-like surface of the silver pool. What Gimli saw shimmering on the mirror-like water startled a tiny gasp from his lips. There, reflected on the still surface of the mountain pond was the watery image of a porcelain-skinned woman. A cascade of pale blond hair, like that of the shade of frost-covered straw, flowed around her flawless oval face and down over his slender shoulders. But at the woman’s collarbone, her image became wispy and faded away into nothing in the silvery water. Poking out from the waves of fair hair, a set of delicately pointed ears caught the dwarf’s eyes. The mysterious woman was an Elf.

Staring dumbly at the ghostly apparition there on the water, Gimli’s breath caught in his throat at the stunning beauty before him. For a minute, the dwarf thought he was looking down upon an image of his beautiful Lady of the Woods, Galadriel. But instead of the Elf-Lady’s profoundly deep and ancient gray eyes that were filled with wisdom and immeasurable understanding of all things, a pair of sharp blue eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul attacked Gimli. Under their cold hard gaze, he felt suddenly naked and seized by their intense power. And he knew he was looking down onto the face of the ancient elven sorceress Eronel.

“What magic is this?” Gimli muttered to himself as he took a curious step closer to the pond’s sandy edge, immediate fear and awe blinding him from any caution.

“I know why you have come, Gimli son of Gloin,” Eronel’s watery image whispered softly, “You have come a long way seeking salvation for the Elf prince, Legolas. You have come for the enchanted water…” The woman’s voice sounded in Gimli’s mind as though it echoed through his very skull. Startled by this, Gimli realized her voice did not come from her lips, even though they moved in sequence to her words, but were rather projected into his own thoughts and heard not by ears but by his soul.

“And how, may I ask, did the Lady come to know of my name and mission?” Gimli questioned with feigned politeness, feeling irrepressibly suspicious and uneasy towards the entrapped sorceress who had somehow projected her image into the waterfall’s basin.

“I know many things…” Eronel answered almost indifferently to the question. The woman’s voice was nevertheless sweet and soft to Gimli, as was her expression that seemed to milk pity from the dwarf’s heart. But Gimli could almost swear he saw some unexplainable glint of mischief in the elf’s piercing blue eyes as she continued on in her soft musical voice. “I also know that what you seek will not save the prince. The poison in his veins is more powerful then any magic that flows in this waterfall…”

“How do you know that? What lies are you trying to deceive me with?” Gimli demanded as he came directly up over the watery image of the witch. Every particle in the dwarf’s being screamed caution as he noticed a strange glint in the elf’s eyes, as though n inner fire was smoldering inside, waiting for its time to blaze forth and scorch everything in its path.

But the fleeting burst of light vanished quickly as Eronel answered in her fair voice, “As I have already told you, Master Dwarf, I see and know many things. Your friend’s plight is not beyond my knowledge. Yes. The enchanted water will not save him. He will die… unless I go to him. I know you know who I am and of my past. Otherwise you would not have come to me. If you release me from my prison, I can save Lord Legolas’ life. I am the only one that can purge the poison from his body.”

Gimli’s eyes narrowed at the sorceress’ entrancing face skeptically. “Do not take this Dwarf for a fool, witch,” he growled from behind his furry red beard, “You are right in that I know who you are, Eronel. I know why you were imprisoned in your dark hole. Why should I believe or release you? You are nothing but a liar and murderer. You would bring only death and destruction to Middle-Earth.”

There came again the same small kindling of fire in Eronel’s cold blue eyes as from before, but again faded quickly away before Gimli could fully realize he had seen it. Sadly looking at the dwarf with imploring eyes, the elf replied softly, “I do not blame you for your distrust. My past is not the happiest or brightest of tales. But through the many centuries of my dark isolation, I have seen the evil of my ways and now seek for redemption. I want to right my past wrongs and do good. And I want to save the life of the one that is still suffering from my sins. Please believe me when I say I want to make amends…”

Eronel’s heartfelt words struck a spot in the dwarf’s heart that made him begin to wonder is she wasn’t, in fact, telling the truth of her conversion. It hardly seemed to him that this delicate creature before him could have ever been as evil as Elrond or Gandalf had said. Moved by the sorrowful expression on the beautifully entrancing female elf’s fair face, Gimli began to feel doubt growing in his mind about Eronel’s evil nature.

“How am I to trust you?” he asked uncertainly, “What guarantee do I have your intentions are pure?”

“You must trust me just as Legolas trusts you to return to him with a cure,” Eronel’s voice whispered pleadingly from the pool’s surface, “The magic water will not save Legolas’ life, only I can. Would you deceive your friend’s trust because you could not forgive me for my sins as he did for you? Please believe me…”

Gimli stood dumbstruck, unable to think of a response to Eronel’s words that had struck him harder then a blow to the face. Torn between his brain that told him to not listen to the imprisoned witch and his heart that told him to heed her words, Gimli felt his head spinning with a million different thoughts and emotions. What should he do? Should he believe her that the water was not going to diffuse the poison in Legolas’ veins? Or was she simply lying to be released as Gandalf and Elrond had warned him she would?

Staring into the witch’s fathomless blue eyes that seemed to rake his very soul, Gimli struggled to find words and come to a decision. The world seemed to stop as the dwarf wrestled with himself and his own doubt. Dizzied by these weighty decisions and choices, Gimli closed his eyes tightly from the elf’s piercing gaze.

‘What do I do?’ the dwarf’s mind reeled, ‘What if she’s right and the magic water doesn’t work? But what if she’s lying? Can I really take either of these chances?’

But before Gimli could reach any conclusion in the storm of thoughts that thundered in his head, he suddenly felt a strong hand come down onto his shoulder from behind. Eyes snapping open, the startled miner whipped around in his heels, ax gripped tightly between both hands to face whatever enemy had snuck up behind him unawares.

But instead of some terrible enemy, Gimli found himself looking up into the gentle face of Gandalf. Behind the wizard stood Toreingal, looking rather impatient and antsy as he shifted between his two feet in the direction of the waiting horses they had left behind.

“Are you alright, Gimli?” the white wizard questioned with concern written in his ice blue eyes, “Toreingal and I returned from retrieving the water to find you staring into the water mumbling under your breath.”

Shaking the fuzziness from his eyes, the dwarf brought a trembling hand to his head. It felt as though he had just woke from a daydream but was still in the lingering aftereffects of it. Suddenly remembering the ghostly face on the water, Gimli looked down quickly to the silver pool’s edge. But nothing was there, save a gentle ripple along the surface of the pond.

“Did you see or hear anything?” he asked excitedly, still staring into the water’s surface as if searching for anything to validate what he thought he had seen.

“Hear what?” Gandalf asked gently, cocking an eyebrow at the dwarf.

“What are you blabbering about, dwarf?” Legolas’ cousin hissed with condescending eyes of impatience.

Not knowing if he should divulge the vision of the elf witch to his companions, Gimli stuttered quickly, “Nothing… Nothing at all. I’m fine. Never mind me. Just lost myself for a second… Did you get the water?” he asked hastily to change to the topic away from himself.

“We did,” Toreingal interjected sharply, “And now that we have it, we should be on our way. We have wasted enough time on your daydreams. Legolas’ time is running out as we speak.” Turning on the heels of his light boots, the elf jogged nimbly off in the direction they had first reached the lush waterfall glade.

Giving Gimli one last questioning look of concern, Gandalf slowly turned to follow the elf. “Come along, Gimli,” he called over his shoulder, “Toreingal is right. Legolas is waiting for us.”

Frozen where he stood, Gimli looked after the retreating wizard before giving one last uncertain glance at the silver pool’s empty surface, almost expecting to again see the Elf-Lady’s beautiful face. Did he just imagine everything? Or did it really happen?

Feeling some inner pull of doubt as he forced himself to turn his back on Eronel’s cave, Gimli quickly walked in the direction his companions had just disappeared. As he trudged away into the ancient forest, Gimli could swear he felt a voice in the back of his mind, softly whispering after him.

“I will wait for you, Master Dwarf…I will wait for your return when you see the folly of you errand…”

And as Gimli lost sight of the waterfall and still pool of mountain water, he swore he could catch the faint whisper of a mirthful laugh carried on the chilly spring breeze until it faded from his ears and left only the dead silence of the forest to fill the empty air…

The darkened elven city of Rivendell lay under a ghostly glow cast by the raising moon in the east. Few lights dotted the city’s many streets or warmed any of the windows of the gracefully designed buildings. A tense stillness permeated the river valley as though fear of an oncoming threat had silenced all noise from its inhabitants.

But deep within the palace of Rivendell’s king, there was no still tension, but rather a raging war. A great battle was taking place in one of the Elf-Lord’s many guest rooms. It was a battle between life and death, light and darkness, hope and despair. But the battle for life was steadily losing its stronghold…

“Legolas, if you can hear me, you have to swallow these herbs,” Aragorn called urgently to the thrashing elf held tightly in his arms. Burning with fever, the elf-prince showed no signs of acknowledging the Ranger’s plea. Crying out weakly, Legolas writhed in agony as he clenched his throbbing left arm tightly, unaware of anything else but the excruciating pain that seared his veins and flesh.

“Can you hold him still, Aragorn?” Elrond said as he bent over Legolas’ fever ridden body laying on the large bed of the room, “We must try to get some of this medicine in him to try to slow the poison or we may very well lose him tonight.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed opposite Aragorn, the ancient elf-king gently cupped Legolas’ chin in his hand and tipped the prince’s head back. Forcefully prying open Legolas’ mouth, Elrond quickly placed a single dried leaf under the archer’s tongue. Holding the sick elf’s mouth closed so he couldn’t spit the bitter tasting herb out, Elrond and Aragorn waited anxiously to see what effects it would have as Legolas thrashed on the bed in a delirium of pain.

Moaning pitifully around the bitter plant in his mouth, Legolas struggled weakly in Aragorn’s pinning grasp as the leaf slowly dissolved under his tongue. Sweat poured from the elf’s burning forehead as the Ranger tried to keep him still. Eyes clenched tightly shut, the archer kicked his legs uselessly in the tangled mess of bed sheets that had become ensnared around his feet during his struggles. Keeping the distressed elf pinned tightly against his chest to keep him from convulsing right off the side of the bed, Aragorn could feel Legolas’ heat pounding like a drum. The bluish coloring of Legolas’ infected arm had now spread to the top of his shoulder, doubling his suffering.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Legolas’ thrashing began to die away, leaving only an exhausted elf shivering in its wake. Panting weakly, the archer lay like a limp doll cradled in Aragorn’s arms. Long strands of blond hair lay plastered against the sides of his pain crumpled face.

“What did you give him?” Aragorn asked Elrond as he laid his sick friend back down onto the bed and pulled one of the sheets over the elf’s now stilled body.

“Athelas,” the king answered tiredly, watching the Ranger move to gently wipe a damp cloth over Legolas’ pale face and then place the rag over the elf’s forehead in attempt to cool his raging fever. Hanging his head solemnly, Elrond said, “Aragorn, our medicine is beginning to have little effect against this poison. Before long, it will do nothing at all. If Gandalf and the others do not return soon, I fear Legolas will slip away from us.”

“They will return in time,” the dark haired man countered a little too quickly. But his words seemed hollow, even to his own ears.

Closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly, Elrond muttered wearily, “But what if they do not? I would give Legolas another day at most.” Taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts, the ancient elf decided it was now time to voice the gnawing worry that had been festering in his troubled mind for some time now. “We must begin to prepare for the worst, Aragorn. My scouts have already reported movement from Kind Thranduil’s armies in Mirkwood. They are already moving out to mount an attack on the Dwarves. War is upon us.”

“We must keep hope, my Lord,” the Ranger almost pleaded to Elrond, staring down onto Legolas who groaned softly under his breath as he rolled his head to the side in discomfort and fevered sickness. He then fell still and quiet. Eyes fluttering beneath partially opened eyelids, Legolas again gave a low whimper as though in the heat of some troubled dream.

“Yes, Aragorn, we must keep hope,” the elf-king said sadly, standing to leave for the door, “But hope will not sustain us or Legolas much longer. Against this dark of a poison there is little room for hope…” With that, he turned and trudged to the door to find more medical herbs for the sick prince and softly shut the door behind him.

After Elrond had disappeared into the palace beyond, Aragorn could only look on silently as his dying friend tossed restlessly in a delirium of fever beside him. Reaching down to rewet the cloth on Legolas’ forehead, Aragorn was startled when the elf suddenly began to mumble in his sleep.

Slurred like a drunkard’s, Legolas’ words seeped over his bloodless white lips barely louder then a whisper. Bending low over the stricken warrior, Aragorn discerned only part of the faint and frightened murmurs of his feverish friend.

“No…The dark figure…It is coming for me…Somebody…Please help me…I don’t want to die…”

Fading away in his throat, Legolas’ unconscious ramblings became a soft and muffled whimper of pain and torment. Feverously tossing his head from side to side atop the sweat dampened pillow, Legolas cringed into a shivering ball as Aragorn tried to place a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. Moaning weakly, he elf held his infected blue arm in pain.

“Shhh…” soothed Aragorn softly, deeply pained by his friend’s inability to escape his misery even in his sleep. Pacing the damp cloth back across Legolas’ burning hot brow, he gently took his companion’s hand into his own reassuringly. Ice cold were the elf’s once strong and warm slender hands.

“Rest, my friend,” he whispered into the prince’s delicately pointed ear in the Elvish tongue, “I am here. I won’t let anything take you from us…”

Perhaps unconsciously hearing the man’s words, Legolas gave a final uncertain whimper of pain and fell silent and still, falling away into deeper and darker dreams. Heaving a heavy sigh of weariness, Aragorn hung his head tiredly over the dying warrior.

“Please don’t give up yet, Legolas,” he begged quietly to his friend’s unconscious form, “Too much is at stake for you to give up hope. Please hold on a little longer. You must fight this dark poison as long as you can. Gimli and your cousin, Toreingal, will return soon, and then all will be well again…”

Gently resting Legolas’ hand back over the elf’s chest, Araorn pushed back from the bed and fell into a nearby wooden chair positioned close beside the prince’s bed. Leaning forward in his seat, the Ranger dropped his head into his hands in exhaustion from the last few days’ stress, feeling drained and empty with grief for his suffering friend. Staring blankly down at the wooden floorboards of the room, the man listened silently to Legolas’ unsteady breathing as it whistled softly between the elf’s lips.

Shutting his eyes against the world, Aragorn let the hypnotic rhythm of Legolas’ breathing lull him into a distant state of mind. Leaning back in his seat so that his head hung over the back of the chair, the man became aware of the still quiet of the night that seeped in through a nearby open window of the room.

How alone he suddenly felt in that darkened room, waiting helplessly to see what lay in Legolas’ dim future. Sinking lower in his seat, Araorn prepared for his lonesome vigil awake at his friend’s side should Legolas require any aid during the course of the long dark night. Unwilling to leave his companion’s side with no one else there to calm or comfort Legolas in his suffering, the faithful man unselfishly took up his post.

Sitting there in the silence behind a gloomy curtain of darkness that draped the room like a tapestry, Aragorn waited as the elf’s chest slowly rose and fell beneath the thin coverlet of the bed. Assessing that the Athelas had finally taken its full effect against the dark poison in the warrior’s veins, the trained healer was at least momentarily contented that Legolas’ breathing now seemed steadier and deeper then before.

But Elrond’s words remained in his mind like salt in an open wound. The plant was not having as much effect against Eronel’s poison as it had only a day before. It was now taking much longer for the plant to show any signs of relieving the sick elf from his throes of pain. The evil venom was quickly becoming stronger and overtaking the valiant warrior prince of Mirkwood.

As the Ranger thought of this, he became aware of a deepening gloom descending around him. Turning in the chair, Aragorn saw through one of the room’s windows the last fleeting glimpse of the pale moon outside disappear behind a dark cloud in the sky. Looking back to the barely distinguishable outline of Legolas laying on the bed behind a wall of inky darkness, he had to wonder if light would ever come again. Because it suddenly seemed to him that hope had become lost in the darkness and was never to be seen again…

“Oh yes… My time is quickly nearing… There now only remains one more step in my plan. And then I shall be free to cover Middle-Earth in such a shadow of darkness that even the blackest of nights will seem like day to those that quake under my power. My revenge against the Dwarves and Elves will soon be complete.”

“For it is now my turn to make my move in this game of chess. And my dearest fool, Prince Legolas, you shall be the first to be moved and sacrificed on this battlefield of pawns…”

Dark laughter then rang out, chilling the very air it moved through. And thus, Eronel began to stretch her potent mind and deadly will from deep within her lonely prison of darkness and hate, preparing to move her pawn into place on the playing board checkered with the crimson of spilt blood and the blackness of despair….

Pain was what finally drug Legolas from out of the dark abyss of unconsciousness. It was a searing, unrelenting pain that the words of no known language could fully describe or encompass. So potent was its strength, it seemed to devour the very hope of ever escaping from its grips. Ripped from his dark and terrifying dreams where the full force of his agony could not follow, Legolas drifted beyond the borders of his misty dream scape back into the realm of consciousness.

Slowly fading into awareness of body and mind, the elf hovered on the edge of where dreams and reality melded and flowed into one another in an intricate and deceptive mosaic of what is and what exists only in the farthest reaches of the mind. Consciousness had long ago became a distorted concept to Legolas. In his sufferings he had drifted through many shifting shadows of darkness, caused by fever and poison. Time and space had little meaning to him.

Numerous times he had startled awake in a heavy daze of pain and sweat, to only immediately sink back into a thick muddle of troubled dreams. Several times he thought he had heard a voice speaking to him gently from somewhere beyond the fevered delirium that burned his body. It was strangely familiar but unplaceable, soothing him into another maelstrom of sleep with some bitter taste on his tongue. But he had cared little of this as the bitter taste and gentle but strong voice faded from recollection and memory as he once again fell into a dark void of restless sleep.

Sluggishly pulling his mind from out of the black desert of unconsciousness, Legolas slid heavy eyelids up from over the gritty surface of his eyes. Blinking slowly in blindness, the first sense to fully return to the disoriented and half conscious elf was the searing pain that laced itself through every sinew and muscle of his left arm and chest until it felt as though his very bones burned with poison and fire. Lethargic and drugged, he could do little more in his stupor then just whimper helplessly in torment and misery.

~It hurts...Make it stop...~

Laying in a daze of pain, Legolas fought the overwhelming urge to let himself slip into another bout of tormented sleep. Dark and frightening the nightmares of his fevered mind had been, and he was reluctant to return to them just yet.

~Why isn’t there any light... I can’t see... Where am I?~

Immediate darkness met his eyes as he slowly returned to the living realm. It was late and the moon’s pale face hung high overhead in the sky. Legolas tried to blink his blurry eyes into focus, but it felt as though cobwebs had been spun in front of his vision. Lucid enough to know he was truly awake and not in another hallucination, the elf clenched his throbbing arm weakly. Focusing on his surroundings he slowly recognized the large bed he lay in and the darkened room in which he had lived for three long and lonely days since falling under the poison coated blade of Gimli.

Laying helplessly in a daze of pain and sleep, Legolas suddenly felt overwhelmed with a burning heat. Cocooned tightly in the soft bedding of the deep and pillowy bed, the sick elf panted torridly. Feeling suffocated to the point of panic, he weakly kicked the many sheets from his sweat drenched body.

~Get off me!... I need air!~

Salty sweat dripped into his eyes and stung his vision as he peeled the last thin sheet from off of his gaunt body and threw it to the side with disdain. Legolas then flopped back onto the mattress with no strength left to keep himself up. Drenched in this cold sweat, Legolas shivered violently as a gentle breeze blew into the small room through a nearby open window and chilled his exposed damp skin. Too weary and exhausted to pull one of the sheets back over himself, Legolas shuddered with cold. But while he froze, his forehead burned with fever and perspiration continued to dampen his lusterless white skin.

Legolas’ labored breathing drowned his hearing with his lungs’ torment as he struggled to pull himself away from the brink of unconsciousness. He could feel the sharp, acidy sting of bile biting the back of his throat as his stomach heaved weakly, empty of anything to throw from it. Slowly the retching contractions of his stomach tapered off. Mind numbed by pain and sickness, Legolas looked around him in the moonlit room. It was empty and filled only with the shadows and sounds of the night.

The elf’s heart sank at this, feeling abandoned and alone in his pain and misery. For some reason he had half expected to find someone there by his side. Who he expected to see he could not say, but he thought he faintly remembered some presence at one time or another beside him. There was an chair sitting close beside his bed, but it was empty and cold.

Settling his fevered head back onto the cool cover of his pillow wearily, Legolas listened passively to the still silence and calm of the deepening night. Loneliness weighted down his heart before the poisoned pain of his arm all of a sudden crept back into his mind with renewed intensity and stole his attention away. It was as if hot needles had suddenly been driven into his flesh, boiling his blood.

~What evil have I committed to deserve this!?~

His mind reeled with pain as Eronel’s curse exploded into a new threshold of intensity. Legolas could do nothing more then roll to his side in agony with a moan, still clenching his poison seeped limb. Gasping with shock, Legolas shivered with pain and cold, his blood pumping through his arm like liquid fire.

But through the mind consuming throes of indescribable pain, there came to Legolas’ ears the soft whisper of a distant voice like that of one searching for someone who is lost.

*Legolas... Legolas, my dear prince, where are you?*

It was musical and sad, and seemed to radiate from the very air itself. Female it was in tone. Distracted from his pains by this unexpected voice, Legolas felt strangely compelled to answer although he knew not who called to him. A heavy fog seemed to descend over his eyes in the wake of the unseen woman’s call.

“Who’s there?” Legolas chocked out from his parched throat over the pain that throbbed in both mind and body. Struggling to sit, Legolas weakly pulled his back up against the delicately carved elven headboard of his bed. Focusing what little strength he had left in his withered body, he strained his sharp and acute elven ears, listening intensely for a reply, half expecting it to have been his fevered imagination that had concocted the mysterious voice. Waiting breathlessly in the tense silence, Legolas felt a chilled shiver pass up his spine.

*My prince...* sang the female voice, her voice echoing through his skull, coated thick with pity but not answering his inquiry. *How you suffer... Do you not yearn for relief from this torture?*

“Yes,” he replied weakly, not quite understanding why he was answering this mysterious voice. It was as if something had stolen his will to resist this melodious voice and disregard all caution or prudence as it pulled him deep into a dreamy trance as he sat listening to his allusive guest.

*Then come to me... I can relieve you of your torment. Follow my voice. I will end your suffering...* Trailing away, the voice faded from the gravely ill elf’s ears and into the distance.

Whatever magical or hypnotic influence had been woven into the unseen woman’s honey laced voice, Legolas slipped to the edge of the bed and slowly lowered himself down onto unsteady feet. His weary heart suddenly yearned for nothing more then to do as the voice bid and follow. Quickly managing to grip a nearby end stand positioned near the head of the wide down bed as he stood to steady himself before he fell to the floor in a heap, the once proud and fearless warrior swayed with vertigo.

Legolas’ breathing came in short raspy intervals as he bit back the pain that coursed through his arm, willing his sagging knees to support his crumpling body. He then staggered forward after finding his balance. In his weakened condition, his legs hardly seemed able to bear his already impossibly light weight, but he did not fall. Driven by some strong and unyielding force that seemed to seize his very mind in its iron grips, Legolas struggled along on unsteady legs.

Stumbling weakly against the closed wooden door of his room, Legolas leaned heavily against the doorjamb, trying desperately to catch his breath and stop the room from spinning. Gasping air into his oxygen starved lungs like he had just ran an uphill marathon, the elf saw his vision beginning to tunnel from exertion and sickness. The pain in his arm worsened. It took all his strength and willpower not to scream out in pain and collapse to the floor.

*Legolas...* The voice urged persistently from some distant corner of his mind. *Follow my voice... No more pain...*

Again feeling the inner pull of desperation to follow, the elf saw rather then actually feel or consciously direct a shaking hand out to grip the doorknob beside him. Like an observer to his own life, Legolas watched as his hand turned on its own accord and swing the door out into the pitch dark hallway of Lord Elrond’s palace.

*Legolas...Come to me.*

Like a snake charmer weaving her spell, the voice’s musical syllables ensnared the elf-prince’s mind and lulled him into a daze of blind obedience. Vision and senses wavering with pain and an unnatural heaviness that seemed to cover everything in a dense fog, Legolas stumbled from out of the room and into the black corridor beyond, unable to regain the will or strength to fight the call of the mysterious woman to follow. And so slipping into the long and dark shadows of the hallway, Legolas’ light elvish footsteps faded into the distance like one walking to his doom.

Aragorn stared out into the distance with empty eyes, his thoughts swirling in a confusion of helplessness, regret, anger, desperation, denial and anguish. His listless eyes overlooked the nighttime city of Rivendell. He sat on a cold stone bench set in one of the many sprawling palace gardens, heedless of the early spring chill that soaked through his clothes and into his skin like tiny knives of ice. Winter still hung faintly in the air, too stubborn to relinquish its cold grip on the land just yet. The moon above shined down her pale light, illuminating the earth in a rich glow.

Terraced to fit into to the mountain landscape, Lord Elrond’s gardens were filled with the quiet growth of trees, plants, and flowers year round. Even if it was the dead of winter, something was always to be seen growing there. Whether by gentle coaxing elven hands or magic this feat was achieved, no living mortal could say. In all actuality, Elrond’s gardens were more like a well tended forest then a flower covered patch of land.

Whatever the case, it was one of those elvish quirks that all of the Eldar shared (and Aragorn had always loved): their deep seeded need to be close to something green and growing. Nature was like their life force and their strength. But this came now as almost ironic and cruel to the Man who sat in the Elf-Lord’s undying green gardens, pondering life, its mortality and the cruelty of the world.

The bench that Aragorn sat on had been placed there long ago during the construction of the vast and peaceful gardens close to the edge of a stone pathway that weaved itself through the cultivated soil. On the other side of the pathway, a low stone wall of carefully cut blocks stood. And while Elves in general disliked and tried to avoid masonry or stonework of any kind in their green places, this wall had been built for good reasons.

Deliberately sectioned off to grant the best overhead, panoramic view of Rivendell and the beautiful valley’s many waterfalls and tributaries that ran through it, the palace gardens subsequently grew right on the very edge of the mountain side. A huge drop spiraled downwards fifty feet or more just on the other side of the innocent looking stone wall. It had been built to prevent any unwary guest in Elrond’s gardens from falling off the path and into the churning white waters of Rivendell’s main river below. The water surged and boiled against its rocky sides behind thick curtains of mist and spray.

A narrow waterfall rushed somewhere farther down the path, it sitting between the Man and the palace. It was forty feet high or so with a deep and swift river running from where it thundered down into its rocky bed. And while it would be considered a decent sized waterfall by any other standards, it was still considered relatively small compared to some of the other colossal beauties that crashed along the mountain sides of Rivendell. It sat several yards back from the main path in a deep misty glade surrounded on either side by sandy banks that were perfect for mid-summer afternoon outings.

Aragorn could hear the surging roar of its cascading waters even from the distance he had put between himself and the elven palace. But the sound of its rushing water did little more then further depress him. It only reminded him of happier times when life was sunny and green and full of promise. But those memories now seemed distant and from another world entirely.

Perhaps, subconsciously, he had wandered to the spot he sat now just so he could find some link to that time, when things had not been so dark and hopeless. But whatever the reason of him choosing that particular place to wallow in despair, he was there now. He needed time alone to think. He needed time to sort out the feelings he held for a dying Elf who he had faced more adventures, and braved more dangers with then twenty Men would ever hope to see in a hundred lifetimes.

Head held wearily in his hands, Aragorn bent forward like a tree broken in the wind, his bent elbow resting on his thighs. He stared out towards the darkened city through the tangles of dark eyelashes that slightly obscured his view, unable to lift his head from under the immense weight of grief and hopelessness.

~Legolas, my dear friend, why did this have to happen to you? Why you of all people? Why did Gimli have to give you that tainted dagger? It was suppose to represent his friendship to you, but...why did this have to happen? It’s not fair that you must suffer like this. I would give my life to help you. But I cannot do anything more then passively sit by and watch you suffer from this evil witch’s poison. You have saved my life countless times, and the one time you are in need of me, I can do nothing for you... ~

Aragorn could feel tears of frustration beginning to sting his eyes. They were tears that had been threatening to spill for some time now, but still remained in tight check. Aragorn refused to weep for a friend that was still alive and had not yet succumbed to Fate. But his resolve to keep his tried emotions in check was quickly crumbling. He could feel the frustration building in him even in the quiet peace of the gardens until it felt as though he was a moment away from just screaming at the top of his lungs into the night until no air remained in him to scream with.

~What cruel Fate deemed you to be the one to fall victim to Gimli’s tainted blade? Why did Eronel’s legacy have to find you as its victim?~

So consumed by these unanswerable thoughts, the Ranger did not even notice the soft rustle of cloth in the still night coming up behind him. Aragorn was only finally brought out of his inner turmoil with the fall of a gentle but strong hand on his shoulder. He did not even have to raise his head to know who stood beside him. He could tell by the reassuring squeeze on his shoulder (the same that had comforted him countless time during his life), that Elrond had come to join him in the moonlit palace gardens.

“Is it not a bit late for a stroll though the garden?” the ancient elf-king asked softly after a moment of silence between the two, the distant crashing of the nearby waterfall making the only sound in the still night.

“I needed the quiet of the trees to think in,” Aragorn replied emotionlessly, still not raising his head, his hair curtaining his downcast face in a shower of semi-curly dark tresses.

“Amongst the trees, there is little quiet to be found. They are full of voices and words. But you are not an Elf, so your ears are not troubled by their whispers,” Elrond said dismissingly, removing his hand from Aragorn’s shoulder and coming around to sit beside the clearly distraught man. Taking in the Man with a sideways glance from the corner of his grey eyes, he noted carefully after an uncertain pause, “This is the first time I have seen you away from Legolas’ side.”

The Elf’s words seemed to earn some sign of life from Aragorn as the Man finally hoisted his head up to look at Elrond with grief reddened eyes. “He is worsening, “Aragorn explained in a small voice of helplessness, “He is fading faster then I thought he would. I fear, he has little time left. He has already begun to show signs of hallucinations and the bluish coloring of the poison in his left arm is spreading quicker. It is already beginning to seep onto his chest... Once it reaches his heart, I don’t think even Legolas will be able to fight off this witch’s poison any longer...”

“We feared as much from the very beginning, Estel,” the Elf-Lord confirmed, speaking gently to the Man he had come to see as one of his own sons and who caused him pain if ever he saw him suffer. “But you said yourself - we cannot give up hope. Gandalf and the others should have reached the valley by now. We must place our hopes in them,” Elrond tried to assure.

Giving a soft snort, Aragorn scoffed, “Hope? What hope is there left to be had? Legolas is slowly dying in a torment of pain. Even I cannot fool myself any longer that he will last much longer against this evil. He will d-” Hanging his head, the man trailed off, letting his unspoken words fester in the air and in their hearts.

“They may return in time,” the Elf-king offered hopefully, but with only feeble backing to them.

“And what if they do not?” Aragorn retorted sharply, totally unaware of the ironic shift of attitudes that had taken place between himself and Elrond from only a few hours prior, “An all out war between Elves and Dwarves is hanging in the balance. If Gandalf and Gimli do not return in time with Eronel’s water, then not only do I lose my friend, war will erupt. The fighting between Dwarves and Elves will spread from here to every country in Middle-Earth until there is nothing left.”

“I have already sent out a messenger to Mirkwood begging King Thranduil to not make any attacks against the Dwarves just yet. Legolas’ father is stubborn and head-strong, but I hope my letter may at least buy us some time to save Legolas’ life and advert war. But there is little more we can do at the present. We must wait for Gandalf and the others to return- as painful as that may seem to you right now,” Elrond said, looking at the hallowed remains of a grief stricken man.

There came no reply from Aragorn at this. He only stared into the distance, revealing none of his inner thoughts or feelings.

“Aragorn, I know you are taking Legolas’ illness very hard, but you must begin to look after yourself,” Elrond then motioned after a long moment, deep concern seeping from his voice, “I am worried about you. You have not slept or eaten in three days. You can not keep this up. There is nothing more you can do for him. Come what may - it is out of our hands... Come back inside and rest. Legolas will be well tended to in your absence. If it will comfort you enough to take a few hours rest, I will spend the rest of the night at his side until you get some sleep. You look terrible. You will do Legolas no good, if you keep this up. Will you please do this for me?” The underlining plea in Elrond’s voice was genuine, and Aragorn did not at first respond.

~How can he ask me to worry about myself when Legolas is like this- teetering on the very brink of death?... But Elrond is right. There is little more I can do for Legolas... I am useless to him.~

Heaving a weary sigh of emotional exhaustion, and locking eyes with the ageless eyes of his adopted father, Aragorn conceded reluctantly, “As you wish...But I will remain here for a while longer. There is still much I must think about.”

“So be it.”

Standing, with some sense of relief and satisfaction at the Ranger’s complience to his request, Elrond cast Aragorn one last worried glance before turning away from the distraught Man towards the stone path that would lead him back to the palace. ~Please, Legolas, you must fight this darkness. I do not know what will become of Aragorn if you were to fall to this dark poison. And I fear what may become of Middle-Earth. Your father already harbors much distrust and animosity towards mortals- especially Dwarves. I am not sure that even if you are restored to health his wrath can be stayed against the Dwarves. But we must try. I will do everything in my power to help you, but your only real hope lies with Gandalf, Gimli, and Toreingal...~

Moving down the moonlit path, Elrond’s dark outline blended into the darkness and disappeared from Aragorn’s view. Following the ghostly form of the Elf-Lord as far as his human eyes would allow in the dim twilight, the empty man finally looked away and returned his wandering eyes out towards the sleeping city of Rivendell.

Falling out of thought, Aragorn let his mind drift, too weary to rail the images and memories that slowly floated past his mind’s eye. As he sat there on his seat of cold and impersonal stone bench, he suddenly became aware of just how tired he really was. At first he had relented to Elrond’s suggestion of rest only to satisfy the elf and get him to leave him in peace. But now, he was truly beginning to feel the heavy burden of worry and stress from Legolas’ suffering that he had been carrying for so long a time. And while he felt some twinge of guilt at the thought of restful sleep while his friend continued to be haunted even in his dreams, Aragorn knew he needed rest, or he would most likely fall asleep right at Legolas’ side from exhaustion.

Making up his mind, the Man stood from the garden bench. Straightening his stiff knees, Aragorn became painfully aware of the stinging rush of blood through his limbs as he stretched his legs and back. The Ranger now mentally chided himself for sitting so long on the cold stone bench and allowing his muscles to stiffen so. ~I will rest tonight and then return to Legolas in the morning.~

Turning down the path that lead to Elrond’s grand palace, Aragorn’s tired ears listened idly to the growing roar of the garden’s waterfall as he neared the narrow stone bridge that spanned over the fall’s tributary. Slowly treading over the stone path underfoot, Aragorn hunched his shoulders with fatigue. ~Yes, sleep does sound like a good idea...~

Rounding the last winding bend of the garden’s stone walkway, he could begin to see the faint outline of the cascading water through the trees’ leafy boughs. On his tired face, he could already feel the fine, misty spray that was kicked up from the base of the churning falls- an almost refreshing experience to the emotionally and physically fatigued man.

Nea

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~A-E twin/father of Vampire Anakin~

Very Nice!! I applaud you!!

Thank you. *hugs*

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~A-E twin/father of Vampire Anakin~

*hugs back* Yay!