"Estel?"

Letting out a small relieved laugh, Aragorn looked down at the large blue eyes that stared up at him in a mixture of hope and disbelief. 

"Yes, Legolas, it is I!"

A smile broke over the Elf's pained face at Aragorn's words, his eyes showing a light that had not yet been fully extinguished.  Extending his hand out towards the human's face, Legolas half expected to touch only air; to see Aragorn's form distort and disappear as it had done countless other times when he woke.  He was only half aware of his position, his mind refusing to work at any great speed through the pain that seemed to cloud his every thought and, as his hand moved towards what he knew not to be real, he was not at all shocked to see it covered in blood while trembling like a leaf in the Fall breezes. 

Prepared for the heart-wrenching disappointment that he would feel when the face above him vanished, Legolas found himself letting out an involuntary gasp as his hand brushed against the rough surface of Aragorn's jaw. 

"När le ú-I nwalca olórë?" Legolas whispered in awe as his fingers roamed over Aragorn's face, taking in the feel of the rough skin against his.  He trailed up the man's jaw to his ear before creeping over the nose and allowing his hand to drop to the corner of the man's smiling mouth.  "Le när anwa?"

Reaching out and taking the wandering hand in both his own, Aragorn smiled gently down at the Elf, his eyes locked onto Legolas'.  "Aye, mellon nin."  Aragorn said while hugging the hand to his face, his cheek pressed against the pale knuckles of the Elf.  "I am no dream.  I am here now."

Legolas let out a small hiccup-sob as realization finally set in.  Aragorn was there, he was not about to vanish on him as he had so many other times in his dreams.   He would not disperse into the darkness of his thoughts to remain a mere shadowy impression upon his mind. 

"I am here too!" a gruff voice boomed from out of Legolas' vision.

Recognizing it immediately, yet another smile spread across the Elf's face as he strained to see the short being. 

"Gimli?" the Elf called out with a slight laugh, "how do you fare, my friend?"

"Suffering from a slight height disability, but nothing too serious," the dwarf joked while pulling on Aragorn's sleeve and standing on his tip toes, trying to see over the branches. 

He had been trying to make the Elf laugh; laugh as he once had under the cooling shade of golden trees and his efforts were well rewarded when a soft, harmonic chuckle floated upon the breeze to greet his ears.   Granted that his attempt had worked, the laugh seemed forced, fake and almost uncertain.   The voice was no longer as sweet sounding as it had once been – though he would never admit to anyone out loud that it had been sweet in the first place – and there seemed to be little or no mirth behind the soft sound. 

It aggravated him that he could still not see his companion, but he knew that he would get his turn to greet he Elf in due time.  At the moment, it was for Aragorn to see that he was all right.

"Gimli, my friend, have you ever considered that it may be we who suffer from height disability," Legolas inquired with a small smirk to Aragorn.  "Perhaps it is us who are too tall."

"I have been saying that for years!" Gimli jested back with his own laugh, glad that his friend could still hold to their friendly banter. 

"Greetings little one," a deep yet surprisingly quiet voice spoke from above the Elf.  Startled, Legolas half jumped where he lay while gripping Aragorn's hand so tight that the human gasped in pain and shock. 

Twisting quickly in his position, Legolas turned huge, worry filled eyes up to the origin of the voice, only to let out his own gasp before his face turned to a look of wonder.  Still gripping Aragorn's hand, the Elf started up at the large yellow eyes that looked down of him; eyes that were part of a tree. 

"A Onodrim!" he exclaimed, his voice full of the marvel that shone so clearly in his eyes.  As if in a state of shock, Legolas looked quickly from Aragorn, to the yellow eyes, to the place where he lay and back to Aragorn, each time trying to form words but failing miserably.   Finally settling for looking up at the Ent with sparkling eyes, Legolas rose his arm, intending to touch the barky face of the creature that cradled him.

A cheery grin spread right across Treebeard's face as he looked down on the awe struck Elf and, extending a young, re-sprouting shoot, he wrapped it lightly around the Elf's proffered arm and gave it a light shake.

"Treebeard," he said as a way of introduction, "and you, I assume, are Legolas."

Nodding mutely, Legolas ran his thumb over the growing leaf that rested in the palm of his hand, not wanting to let go of such a marvel so soon. 

The leaf was new, just growing and still curled at the edges.  Life seemed to pump through it; the tiny veins within the leaf seemed to glitter with the energy that it required.  It was a sight unlike any other that Legolas had ever seen; nothing like the normal formation of a leaf or plant and for a moment he found himself wondering that, if he held onto it tightly enough, if he could become one with the little leaf – share in its energy and life force. 

"Long have I desired to look upon the Tree Herders sung about in the tales of old," Legolas breathed out, casting another quick look up at the Ent's face before once again turning his attention to the pure green leaf.  "I believed you to be a myth!  None have seen or heard a trace of your kind for many centuries!"

"Hoom Hrum!"  Treebeard seemed to laugh to himself at the obvious wonder that coated the young Elf's voice.  "We are here, I assure you, little one." He said kindly, his eyes never once breaking contact with Legolas', who was now gazing up at him intently.  "We are just not as numerous as we once were."

Seeing that the idea of such mystical creatures dwindling obviously upset Legolas, Aragorn thought it best to interfere.  After all, the last thing that the Elf needed now was to be overcome with any more worrisome thoughts. 

"Treebeard," he drew the Ent's attention to himself while giving Legolas' hand a tight squeeze.  "Is there some place were I may take our wide-eyed friend here to clean up and treat his wounds?" 

Thinking on the question for a moment, Treebeard eventually crooked his leafy head to the left.  "There is a nice little stream only a few minutes walk that way."

Bowing his head in thanks, Aragorn offered Legolas as much of a cheery smile as he could bring himself to form.  "Come on," he said softly as he pulled Legolas' arm around his neck.  Slipping an arm in behind Legolas' back, he carefully felt for a place where the skin was not too badly broken; a horrifying task if he ever knew one, and at the same time pushed his other arm through the covering of leaves and tucked it in under Legolas' knees.

"Aragorn, really, I am fine to move myself..."

Not even replying Aragorn pulled the Elf against his chest and then into the air, freeing him of the enclosure of leaves and branches.  Legolas' obvious lack of weight did not go unnoticed to the human who, not for the first time that night, wished that the Orcs had not already been killed by a hand other then his own. 

As he was lifted out of the tree, Legolas suddenly felt vulnerable, open; unprotected.  Many times he had thought on this moment, that fleeting second in time when he would be able to succeed in horrifying everyone that he had ever cared about with merely the sight of him.   He could feel Gimli's horror radiating off him, feel the well hidden shiver of pity that jolted Aragorn as the ranger pulled him out into view.  It made the Elf fell hideous and deformed.  A scourge to all that Elves stood for and were. 

"No Elf, prince or no, defeats me, especially one that is no longer one in appearance or thoughts."

Pressing his lips together till all the blood drained from the parched skin, Legolas tucked his head under Aragorn's chin, burying his shame in the hair and collar of the person whose opinion mattered the most. 

Trying not to pay too much attention to the wounds that covered his dear friend's body, Aragorn held him tightly to his chest as one would a precious object.  He could only imagine what was running through the prince's head and, what he could fathom was truly horrible. 

He knew Legolas; better then most he would think, and that meant that he knew how his friend would react to his current situation.  He would close himself off, claiming that he was fine and that all was well with the world. 

The prince was an excellent liar when the time called for it – though he would never use it for a less then honorable purpose.  He used it as a barrier, a way in which to protect himself from others and his own inner turmoil.  He was that good that Aragorn often wondered if Legolas managed to lie to himself, to convince his heart and mind that nothing was wrong. 

The ranger could feel Gimli's eyes locked onto Legolas, his horror evident.  Knowing that the stout being was about to say something regarding the Elf's condition, Aragorn shot him a hard glare over Legolas' bowed head, warning him to keep his thoughts to himself for the time being. 

"Gimli," Aragorn stated, looking down at his friend as meaningful as he could, insuring that the dwarf received the hint.  "Would you be so kind as to pass me my pack?"

Taking Aragorn's meaning, Gimli reached down and picked up the discarded bag, handing it up to the ranger who hooked it over his hand. 

Nodding knowingly, Gimli looked up at the Ent that stood perfectly still and then back to Aragorn. 

"I shall make camp here for the night," he declared whilst banding down ad picking up a random stick to prove his point. 

Offering his dwarven friend a small smile of thanks, Aragorn set off in the direction that Treebeard had indicated, his silent friend held tightly and protectively in his arms. 

*****

The waters of the Onodlo gushed along its course, the noise of the river like that of a gathering of garrulous people, each straining to talk over the top of the other.

Legolas sat patiently on a submerged rock which Aragorn had placed him upon.  The rock stood in a smaller offset of the river, a place where the waters were calmer and the bubbly noise one that allowed the Elf's mind to wander.  The water was cool and yet not to the extent of the Entwash and, while being knee deep when standing, it was also wide, forming more of a brook then a stream. 

Patches of moonlight streamed in through the forest, creating beams akin to those of the rays of the sun as her golden light played upon mist.   The small glow that the moon provided dance on the dark green of the surrounding forest, illumining certain leaves and aspect of the woods in a way that made it seem as if it were alive.  Further downstream at the place where the stream met the main body of the river, droplets of water flew up into the air as the rivulet hit a maze of rocks, the globules sparkling like stars as they caught the light in midair.  The banks sloped down gradually into the outlet, the twisted roots of the surrounding trees dipping into the waters and providing easy access into the brook. 

Unheeding of the beauty around him, Legolas rubbed gently at his arms, splashing water up onto the marred skin in a feeble attempt to get himself clean. 

The water ran red with blood, the strange colour snaking its way through the slowly moving current whilst being carried further downstream.   It was a strong contrast; the transparent blue and the watery crimson that Legolas could not help but stare at in some strange form of wonder.  It seemed to reflect him and how he felt.  Watered down, weak, transparent and broken.   Defeated.

Sighing slightly, he heard the soft rush of water as Aragorn re-entered the stream, holding onto the twisted roots that snaked their way out of the muddy banks to aid in his entrance.   Looking up, Legolas offered the human his best smile of confidence and strength, but, judging from the flittering worry that was obvious in the ranger's eyes, Legolas knew that he had not fooled his friend as he could so many others.

In all his long years there had never been anyone that could see so clearly through him; as if he were made of water.  It was both infuriating and comforting at the same time and yet, deep down, Legolas knew that he would have it no other way.  Let Aragorn be able to see his weaknesses – at least he knew that he could trust the man. 

Yet at the same time he did not want the human to be able to see inside of him.  Not now, not this time.  It was different this time, much different. 

What would he think?  How could Legolas look at Aragorn – Estel who he had rocked in his arms as a small child – how could he possibly look at him the same after all this.  He had been defenseless, weak and needed to be rescued by a human and a dwarf!  He was the crowned Prince of Mirkwood, royalty in his own right and what's more, an Elf.  He was one of the first born, a favored child of the gods and a possessor of a light and strength unlike any other race upon the Ambar...

...Aragorn had to carry him.  Aragorn had to stroke his face and tell him that all would be all right.  Aragorn had to give him strength...

Never in all his life had Legolas thought that he could have been so useless and the idea scared him beyond words.  What if he did not heal?  What happened then – would he stay weak, needing to depend of the charity of others to keep him alive? 

The Prince of Mirkwood brought to his knees and judged; found guilty and condemned.

"No Elf, prince or no, defeats me, especially one that is no longer one in appearance or thoughts."

Those words, spoken to him in hatred and anger, would not leave his head.  Was he still an Elf?  His pride was gone, fled into the winds and most likely never to return.  His dignity had been stolen – he had been degraded to a mere play thing of creatures which had managed to triumph over him...to defeat him!

Throughout those days he had been so confused, forced into such inner turmoil that it all seemed to be a haze.  He could not for the life of him remember how long he had been there, how many nights had slowly given way to the coming of the sun and how many times the land had been swept with the darkness that he seemed to belong in. 

...a child of the light forced into the dark...to remain forever in the darkness of the crushed soul...

'You think I did not see what goes on inside you? Your doubts, your fears and your questions of what you really are. I saw them all!...'

Was he truly that transparent?  Had the wizard really been able to see the self-doubts that he had thought he had so expertly hidden?  Self-doubts that should not have even been there but were, far beyond him control. 

Aragorn could see through him as if he were air, so why no the wizard.  Saruman had been in his mind, had tried to take all that Legolas once loved from him.  But Legolas had pushed him out, had triumphed over the darkness that the wizard sort to fill him with. 

Or had he?  If he had been so successful in driving the betrayer out of his soul, why then did he still feel tainted?  Why did he feel that constant nibbling at the edges of his consciousness that were forever attempting to pull him back away from the light?  Back into the darkness that had now engulfed his entire world. 

He had felt at home there, safe and almost protected by the thick gloom.  He had looked forward to succumbing to the seductive pull of what he had never experienced before. 

Was it a doom that all Elves must face at one time?  Was it something that all children of light would come across?  The undying need to feel the comforting hands of the darkness enclose them once again, just one more time...and once more after that.  Just once more after that...

Or was he just different?  Was he not worthy of the light that had claimed him for its own?  Perhaps he was a child of darkness wrongly declared – maybe he should have been one of the Elves taken and twisted beyond recognition, turned into what they had all been brought up to hate; what he still hated. 

But then why did he just want to fall?  To fall into a bottomless abyss and be surrounded by anything but light and love?

'…And I tell you now, Elf, they will be your demise.'

"All right," Aragorn said with as much cheer as he could muster in the face of such a task.  "Let us get this over and done with, shall we." 

Forcing his dark thoughts to the back of his head, Legolas tried as hard as he could to concentrate on what Aragorn was saying and what he was about to do.  He knew it would hurt, but, in all truth, he did not care.  He had been hurt, hurt beyond belief and recognition, what were a few more jolts of pain to an already defeated being?

Peeling the torn shirt gently from Legolas' back, it took all of the future kings self control not to gasp out loud.  That was not what Legolas needed right now.  He needed Aragorn's strength, not his horror, and, as he looked down on the blood covered back, Aragorn vowed to give his friend as much of his vigor as he needed – and then some. 

Reaching down, Aragorn dipped the cloth into the cool waters of the stream and gave it a light squeeze, feeling the water run through his fingers.  Brushing Legolas' golden hair to the side so that it trailed over one shoulder, Aragorn placed the cloth near the nape of the Elf's neck.  Unsure of how to really treat such a wound, he simple wrung the water from the material, letting it trickle down Legolas' back and wash away the dried blood. 

For a moment it seemed as if Legolas had sat in the sun too long for his entire back was covered in a sheet of red.  But soon, much to Aragorn's relief, the red passed, running its course down the slender back and into the flowing waters.  It seemed to linger for some time, hovering upon the surface around them for a moment before dispersing and starting its own journey. 

Gathering more water in the cloth, Aragorn repeated the process until the deep, angry cuts and slashes became more and more apparent.  They seemed to radiate heat, a heat that Aragorn could feel without even touching the wounds.

Washing away at the lashes and cuts the best he could, he could hear the faint hisses of pain that slipped through Legolas' tightly closed mouth.  His heart bleed for his friend – Legolas did not deserve this; no one deserved to be treated as such, but least of all his kind hearted friend. 

As he stood after rinsing the cloth once again, Aragorn knew that he had to clean the wounds a little more thoroughly.  Folding the cloth over his pointer finger, Aragorn made sure that there were no ends that could dangle across the Elf's back, not wanting to cause his friend any more pain then need be. 

Reaching around Legolas' thin waist, he grabbed hold of the prince's hand, holding it tightly within his own as he  slowly and carefully started to run the cloth closer and closer to the deep cuts that crisscrossed the Elf's bare back.    

Wanting to distract his friend, Aragorn decided that this was as good a time as any to try and get Legolas to open up to him; to relieve the Elf of the worries and fears that he was currently holding in.  He may not be able to rid his friend of the pain, both physical and emotional, but he could decrease it. 

"Tell me," Aragorn said softly, thinking that the Elf would catch onto his meaning.

"Tell you what?" Legolas questioned coarsely and concisely, following is words up with another hiss.  

"Your thoughts," Aragorn replied, ignoring the harsh bite in the tone of the Elf, "your feelings.  Tell me your fears."

Staring at the steadily flowing stream of crimson that bubbled along the stream, Legolas felt that need to close himself in and to block others out set in and take a hold of his mind.

"My thoughts, feelings and even my fears are for myself only, Aragorn."  He replied without thinking, his tenor less then friendly. 

Paying no heed to his friend's obvious temper, Aragorn continued to work on the angry wounds upon the Elf's pale back. 

"Then let me tell you them," he substituted.  It was a tactic that Elrohir, his foster brother had once tricked him into and, even though he had never used it before, the human was almost sure that it would work. 

Once he said a number of things that were not correct or far too vague about the Elf's current state of mind, it was almost guaranteed that Legolas would fly into a rage and tell him how wrong he was, thus revealing all that he did not want to disclose willingly. 

"You are scared!" he stated with as much fake inner-knowledge that he could summon.  "You are afraid that I shall not help you, that I will look down on you."  Stopping what he was doing, he walked around the seated Elf and stood in front of him.  "How am I doing so far?"

The only response that he received was a lighting fast glare from the Elf, one telling him to hold his tongue and unintentionally telling him that he was on the right track. 

Crouching down in front of the Elf, Aragorn reached up and pushed a stray strand of hair behind the only ear that remained with a point.  Tilting his head to the side and looking the Elf over, he once again generalized the situation. 

"You are just so scared." Cupping the Elf's face in his hands, Aragorn lifted it by the chin, forcing eye contact with the Elf whether he liked it or not.  Continuing on, Aragorn said the words that he knew would flare up his friend's temper due to the Elf's determination to be independent.  "But I am with you, Legolas." He said strongly, trying to stress the fact that he would not let his friend down.  "I am here and I will help you!  Together we will get you through this, I promise!" 

Tearing his face from Aragorn's comforting hand's, his mind screaming at him that he did not deserve such a touch, Legolas glared up at the human with a dangerous fire in his eyes. 

"Do you not get it?" he snapped, his eyes seeming to flash with a deadly hatred that Aragorn was not entirely sure was directed completely at him.  "Why do you not understand?  *You* are here, *You* will get me through this!  Do you honestly think that is what I want to hear?"

"Legolas..." Aragorn attempted to rationalize with his poignant friend, yet not to the extent that would make Legolas stop.  This was what he had wanted, this was what he wanted Legolas to use him for; getting out his fears and anger.  Even so, it was a frightening site.  Never had he seen Legolas like this before; never seen him so completely outside himself that he would look at the world in such a prospective. 

"No, Aragorn!  You do-you can not possibly understand!  How can you?  You do not know what it is like to feel so helpless!  To feel as if you had let down not only those with you but yourself!  I betrayed myself!  Everything that I stood for they took.  They took something from me that I have always taken for granted, always thought that I would keep just due to the fact that I was an Elf!  They tore everything I loved away from me and you sit there and claim that *you* can help me!"

"I can because I am your friend!" Aragorn rebutted utterly flabbergasted, "and because I care about you!"

Blue eyes glistening with tears looked up to meet the grey of the human's.   "I do not deserve that, Aragorn.  I am tainted; ruined.  I welcomed the dark, Aragorn.  I did what no Elf ever should and relied on my suffering to attempt to bring me peace."

Crouching down in the stream, Aragorn quickly reached for his friend's wrists, enclosing them with his hands and gently pulling them towards him. 

He was not at all shocked to hear what the Elf had said.  In fact, it seemed like the logical thing. 

Thinking back to the time when he had been younger and had asked why Elladan and Elrohir had no mother, he could recall the same words being spoken by the older of the twins.  Elladan had said that their mother had left, that she had been mistreated by Orcs and had thus fled to the Undying Lands.  He had told the young boy that Celebrian had needed to go into a place of constant light, a place where she could escape the dark that still clung to her like a wet riding cloak. 

Looking at Legolas now, his tear streaked face dropped and his eyes closed tightly, Aragorn wondered if this was in fact the end of the road for them. 

Since meeting, they had always vowed to stay by each others side, to follow the other no matter where they went and, so far they had stayed true to that pact.   There were only two places where the other could not go if one did.  Legolas could never follow Aragorn after death, not to the same place, just as Aragorn could never accompany his Elven friend to the Undying Lands.  Long had the isle of Eressëa been closed off to men, allowing only Elves in their grey boats that seemed to float through the air and not the water to enter.  

The main question was, if the time came for Legolas to leave the world, would Aragorn be able to handle it.  Or would Legolas really go?

"Legolas?" he questioned while straining his head to get a glimpse of the down turned eyes.  "Legolas, look at me."  Letting go of one slender wrist, the ranger reached forward and tilted his friends chin up, smiling down at the tear streaked face with a gentleness that reaffirmed Legolas' thoughts of his unworthiness.   "You are not ruined! You are still an Elf and you always will be no matter what happens; an Elf in mind, body and spirit.  As for letting us down, that is folly!  The hobbits are safe, the Ring bearer is on his way to Mordor and Gimli and I are here.  You did not fail us just as you did not fail yourself.  You did what you had to do to survive and to get yourself free."

Sniffing softly and fighting to hide the small hiccups of sorrow that were mounting in his throat, Legolas let his head fall forward.

"My light is extinguished!" Legolas muttered, his head hanging low to hide his face.  "Burnt out like a low candle."

"No it is not." Reaching out to take a hold of his friend, Aragorn gently pulled the Elf's head onto his shoulder and let out an internal sign of relief when Legolas did not try to pull away.   On the contra, Legolas instead buried his head deeply into the man's shoulder and neck, hiding his face and his tightly shut eyes. 

"I can still see it," Aragorn continued, his hand idly moving over the length of Legolas' hair.  "Gimli can still see it.  You have just lost sight of it, that is all.  You just need to look for it, and it will be there; bright as ever!

"You are going to be fine, Legolas.  You are the strongest person that I know, and I know that you will get better!  But I want you to know that you are not alone in this.  You are right, I do not understand, nor do I know what it feels like but that is what I am here for!  Open up to me, tell me so that I can comprehend, and then I can help you.  I promise that you will be fine."

Head still pressed into Aragorn's neck, Legolas shook his head slightly and sadly, "How can I be fine?" he questioned, his voice almost like that of a scared and lost child, desperately seeking its mother, "How am I supposed to get my life back now?  How can I put myself back together when I am so horribly broken?"

*****

The city was in an uproar, guards running to and fro with their arms full of weapons and armor whilst the citizens hastily aided in the fortification of the walls. 

Mordor was going to strike out at Gondor and they all knew it.

It was only a matter of days now before the forces of the Dark Lord would be upon them, his full fury and wrath tearing down the city's strong walls, his minions crawling about the buildings and land like locus in the midst of harvest.  It was be a sea, a swarm of evil that would not easily be purged or held back.  It would also be a sea of bloodshed.  The land would run red with the essence of life and, as far as they could all see, chaos and destruction would rule.   

Already people were boarding up their windows, not willing to risk the enjoyment of sunlight shining into their houses over the safety that they thought such a meager action would bring.  On the distant horizon carts and horses could be seen; the people that chose to flee hoping to start a new life in a far off land.  It seemed irreverent to them that once Gondor fell the rest of Middle-Earth would follow.  Should the Dark Lord succeed in taking Minas Tirith, would they merely move on and on, till the day would come that they were held up in the far West with nowhere else to run?

Walking through the streets, his precious bundle tucked protectively within his arms, Faramir tried his hardest to ignore the obvious submission the people has already made.  By fleeing, or even blocking their houses, they were admitting defeat before the challenge even began.   They should fight, make a stand that, if they should be destroyed, would be remembered for years in those lucky few that may survive – *may* survive. 

Mentally preparing himself for what he had to do, Faramir put the rest of his thoughts to the back of his mind, trapping them in a place where they could no longer hinder him.   Within just a few minutes, only a few meters away, he had to walk up to his ailing father and tell him of Boromir's untimely death. 

Seriously, what more could the Valar thrust upon them in such an already trying time.

The fact that he had no real clue as to how Boromir had passed was a troublesome thought.  How had he died?  Who had thought of putting him with in the confines of a boat tomb? 

Finally hearing his father's voice echoing out from the stone confines of one of the cities watchtowers, Faramir inhaled a deep breath before walking through the open door.

The room was abuzz with activity.  Soldiers were running back and forth carrying swords and quivers of arrows, ones obviously in charge yelling at the others to get them moving with their task. 

Looking up, Denethor saw his son's somber expression and, raising a gloved hand in the air, ordered the men to stop.

"Leave us,' he uttered little louder then a whisper. 

As the last of the men filed out the door, Faramir began.  "Father..." he stated with a slight shake in his voice.  Chiding himself for his weakness, he drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders and lifted his head high.  He would do this – he had to do this and he had to do it right. 

"Yes son," the weakening man exclaimed with a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes. 

Denethor was a man of mixed impressions.  While he was young enough; still fit to rule and clearly able to draw weapons, he also seemed fragile, feeble and slow.  It was as if a troublesome burden had long resided upon his once broad shoulders, ever so slowly pushing him down to the ground and sucking his strength from his very bones.  

Looking at his father, Faramir found that, no matter how much he tried to force himself, he could not keep eye contact with the man.  Dropping his eyes, he found himself wondering if it was due to the situation at hand or if there was a deeper, longer running reason that he could not comfortably gaze into the eyes of he whom had fathered him. 

It was a disturbing discovery, one that, looking back on it, he should have noticed long before.  It had been months, maybe even years since he had last looked directly into those eyes.  Eyes that he could hardly remember the colour of. 

Why was it so?  Why could he not look his own father in the eyes without squirming and dropping his normally steady gaze?  Maybe it was Denethor's favor for Boromir, the fact that he had always smiled upon the eldest son and told the younger to better himself.  Or perchance it was the feeling that had crept into Faramir these past months.  The feel that he was stronger, that he was of a more stable mind and that his father, the one that had pushed him to be all that he could be, was not living what he preached. 

Was it a loss of respect through exceeding, or through needless neglect?

Whatever it was now was not the time to contemplate it for it would only complicate matters. 

Keeping his eyes glued to the objects that lay across his arms, Faramir tried desperately to find the words that he did not want to say. 

"Boromir," Faramir managed to finally force the words from his lips.  His throat felt as if it had been burnt, scorched with flames to the point that it was red raw.  Not worrying about trying to soften the blow due to an inability to compose the words that would have such an effect, Faramir cut right to the point. 

"...Boromir has...has passed..." Faramir's voice finally trailed off, his eyes still glued to the items in his arms.  Not wanting to look upon his father, he moved off to the side of the room and placed the charred sword, half a shield and the remains of the gauntlets on one of the low tables. 

He was glad to be rid of the weight.  It felt as if the items held the heaviness of Boromir's death upon them, inflicting the burden upon the younger son with a relentless reminder of the one lost. 

"What?" Denethor palled – if in fact that was possible given his already deathly complexion – the words not sinking in for a few seconds.

"He..." Faramir started yet was unsure of where to take the statement.  He did not know how he died, where he fell, whom he was with.  What sort of support and condolences could he possibly offer? 

Finally lifting his eyes, he saw that his father seemed to sway dangerously where he stood.  It was if his eyes had rolled back in his head, his face ghostly white while chapped lips moved to unheard words. 

"Father?" Faramir pressed, the emotion in his eyes turning from sadness to worry.  Taking a careful step forward, the young captain peered into his fathers face, searching for the knowledge of what was going through his mind. 

Closer now, he could affirm his first suspicions that Denethor was in fact muttering to himself, his words rushed and incomprehensible.   If Faramir did not know better, he would have sworn that his father was speaking in another dialect, but Denethor did not know any other languages...did he? 

"Father?" calling louder this time, Faramir took another step forward and placed a hand upon his father's shoulder. 

At the touch Denethor reacted as if he had been slapped.  Reeling back, his eyes almost flashing in both fear and hatred, he let out a small gasp as he looked upon the face of his son.  It was as if he no longer recognized the young man that stood before him, as if he saw him as the enemy.

Hand blindly gripping for the sword that he carried at his hip, Denethor took a few rushed steps backwards, his eyes huge as he took in the appearance of his startled descendant.  

"Father, it is I!" Faramir said, his voice trimmed with both worry and fright.  Watching in disbelief as Denethor drew his sword slowly from the sheath, Faramir took a precautionary step backwards, putting more room between him and his disturbed father. 

"Father, you can put that away – you have no use for it here."  The young captain tried to rationalize with his wild-eyed parent and Lord. 

Seeing a flash of determination flash through Denethor's eyes, Faramir barely had time to dodge the over-hand strike that flew towards his head.  Jumping to the side and automatically drawing his sword in reflex, Faramir watched as the small bench that he had placed Boromir's belonging on broke in the middle, the sword striking hard and splitting the wood. 

What was left of his elder brothers shield fell to the ground and, upon impact, seemed to disintegrate, the extent of the fire and hard impact with the stone floor proving to be too much for the tortured wood.   Landing upon the pile of shattered wood and ash, the sword of Boromir seemed to balance charily on the unstable heap before sliding off, slowly making its way through the weaker substance before clattering to the cobbled floor. 

Seeing that his father was intently watching the decent of the sword, Faramir summoned his courage and walked softly up to Denethor. 

At his approach, Denethor looked up and locked glances.  His eyes were no longer aflame with that mysterious sense of power and hatred and his face, as far as one could tell, was back to its now normal colour.  . The sword that he had only moments before wielded with a fierce strength was dangling from his right hand, his fingers curled almost lazily around the hilt as the tip rested on the floor. 

Faramir was the first to drop his gaze, having been caught off guard by the action that he had just admitted to himself that he never conducted

Casting his son only a quick glance, Denethor straightened himself and rubbed the imaginary creases out of his long tunic.  Tucking his sword back into place, he offered Faramir a small smile before hastily leaving the room, the door slamming shut behind him causing the candles to flicker slightly.

Staring in confused wonder at the door, it took Faramir more then a few moments to come back to himself.  Shaking the thoughts and worries from his already screaming mind, he slowly – like he had suddenly become years older – knelt down beside the pile of ash that had been his brothers shield. 

Pulling the charred sword from the rubble and setting it aside, he gently pushed the remains away with his gloved hand, searching through for anything that was salvageable. 

It was all powder, all burnt and destroyed.  Charcoal and small fragments of flame licked wood.  Nothing remained that was worth saving; worth keeping as a token of remembrance of his brother; nothing unless he wanted to bottle the dust that was now spread thinly upon the cool, grey stones. 

Sitting back on his hunches and pushing a small strand of wavy dark-blond hair from his eyes, he paid no attention to the smudge of ash that he felt creep upon his skin as his hand passed over.  A small smile passed over his face as he looked down on the darkened glove of his right hand. 

It was ironic in a way, in some weird, twisted game of fate that Boromir should have been burnt.   Here Gondor was, standing upon the brink of destruction, under threat from a land of dark ash and red fire, and the eldest son of the over-lord was dead, his body reduced to a pile of smoldering embers.  Maybe it had been predated to happen so; maybe the god's had seen fit to send someone as a messenger to the land of the dead before the rest of his people would follow.

Perhaps the ones that fled had the right idea – they were all to be doomed, all to break upon the battlefield and perish in the fires of Mordor.

They would die, they would be defeated and, most importantly of all, they would be broken.  

*****

"Curse them," a hushed voice spoke softly into the howling wind, "curse them all!" 

Perched upon a high branch, hood pulled far over his face to shield it from both the rain and the wind, the Elf glared down at the moving figures which stalked along the ground.  His eyes flashed a dangerous green as he saw that they walked with their head held high as if they owned the place. 

How sweet it would be for he and his scouts to prove them wrong.

Raising a closed fist, the figure allowed two fingers to lift and then fall forward, motioning for the two Elves on his right to move. Switching hands, he did the same with his left fist only this time using three fingers to direct them to the left.  Lifting his pointer finger of each hand, he held them up in the darkness and, waiting till the noise beneath passed them by a considerable distance, lowered his open palms.  Grabbing his own bow, the Elf heard the soft, quick decent of the other two behind him as they dropped to the ground.

Rising silently to his feet, the warrior ran effortlessly across the wet branch to a small opening in the thick leaves.  Crouching down once more, he reached behind his back and pulled out a long, white fletched arrow from his quiver and placed it between his teeth, locking it tightly into place within his mouth. 

Peering through the leaves once more, he saw that the foul beasts had not yet passed from the clearing, the unusual density of the trees slowing their progress immensely. 

Drawing in a deep breath of the cool night air, the Elf reached up and grabbed a light hold upon another branch.  Counting down from five mentally, he let his feet slide off the branch he had been standing on as soon as he reached zero.  Swinging on the other for a moment, he tensed the muscles in his arms, drawing his body into a slight arching swing before letting go. 

He practically flew through the lush green leaves before landing silently on the ground only a few feet from the band of Orcs that had dared to pass their borders.   It was one of the largest groups that they had seen in these parts for a long time, numbering around thirty-five in comparison to the dozen Elven guards. 

Pulling the arrow from between his teeth and his bow from his back all in one swift movement, Haldir of Lothlórien notched the arrow and, holding it for only a moment, let it fly.  It hit the Orc closest to him in the back, passing right through its scaly hide to hit the heart dead centre. 

The shrill yelp that the dying beast gave out was enough to alert the others to the fact that something was amiss and, within an instant, they all spun on their heels, their swords raised, to be faced with a single blond Elf. 

Watching as the twisted faces displayed a mixture of snarls and growls, while eyes flashed yellow and green, Haldir did naught but smile smugly at the creatures. 

Thinking the Elf to be either overly arrogant or utterly stupid, the Orc's approached without any hint of caution whatsoever.  

Smirking yet again, Haldir took a few steps back while drawing another arrow and fitting it to his bow.  Letting the shaft fly through the air, it found its end in the stomach of one of the beasts.  It went down, withering and squirming on the ground and its companions, showing what heartless creatures they really were, proceeded to practically walk over in their attempt to intimidate the Elf. 

Pleased with his opponents position, Haldir stopped his retreat and, raising one eyebrow elegantly, yelled out, "Leithio i philinn!"

Before his voice could even stop echoing around the forest, a curtain of white feathered arrows sailed towards the orcs from all directions, their shooters hidden within the nearly impassable undergrowth that the woods of Lothlórien provided. 

Orcs fell to the ground, withering in pain as their screams of agony reached the very heavens above.  Without even having to issue another command, a second volley of arrows was fired into the group of panicked orcs, the onslaught this time aided with one of Haldir's skilfully aimed arrows. 

Once that shower of arrows had stopped the Elves knew that unless they were to take their time with aiming properly to hit the frantic targets, their bows were useless. 

Haldir stood in wait at the centre of the ring of trees, waiting for the orcs to make the first move in putting in his plan into action. 

"Mecil!" Haldir called into the forest, his gloved hand raised high in the air.  "Dartho…" watching as the Orc's advanced on him, their eyes speaking of the hatred between their races, Haldir waited for the right moment, not wanting to put his warriors at any more risk then need be. 

The Orcs where stupid creatures, too blood thirsty for their own good when it came to the lives of Elves or any other beings that they had decided to hate and hunt.  It was their stupidity that aided those that normally would have fallen victim due to the overwhelming numbers, to gain the upper hand.   They did not care that almost half of their numbers had been shot down, or that there obviously were more Elves lying in wait for them; all they cared for was for the death of the one that they saw. 

"…Dartho…" almost there; almost to the right spot.  Close enough that Haldir could smell the foul stench of rotten meat upon their breaths. 

Holding his position as long as he dared, he saw the leader Orc start to pull back on his sword, ready to thrust it into the Elf that stood statue still only four feet away. 

"Herio!" Haldir commanded as he let his hand drop. 

As one, the Elven warriors spilt into the clearing, swords drawn as their leader had commanded of them, and engaged the Orc's head on.

Placing all his weight on his left leg, Haldir swiftly kicked the sword from the leader's hand, sending it clattering across the clearing.  As soon as his right foot touched the ground, he sprung back, arms up behind his head and fingers spread.  Arching his back, he let his hands touch the ground and, taking his weight onto his arms, kicked the beast under the jaw as his legs followed the path of the rest of his body, back-flipping away from the onslaught of Orc's.

The leader, taken by surprise, growled out in his native tongue.  "Drepapaken!"  Immediately three of the Orcs detached themselves from the rabble and, weapons drawn, advanced on the now standing Haldir. 

Quickly wiping his hands against the sides of his legs, Haldir grabbed the set of Elven daggers that had been a gift from the Lord of Rivendell and threw them tip first into the rain softened dirt, leaving them at either side of his feet for easy access.  Grasping his slightly curved sword, he drew it from its sheath and awaited the rush of foul beings with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

As the first came upon him, he swirled the blade over his head, letting the sword find its target between the Orc's shoulder and neck, successfully severing the head.

A cry from the left alerted him to the fact that one of his charges was in trouble, and, sparing only a quick glance, he threw his sword with surprising accuracy at the beast that had the young Elf pinned against a tree.  The orc fell with an enraged grunt, leaving the Elf able to regain his own weapon and rejoin the fight after nodding a quick 'thank you' to his commander.

As the other two orcs came at him, he kicked the next Orc in the side of the head whilst elbowing another under the jaw, snapping the neck.  As the first Orc recovered, Haldir quickly reached down for his waiting blades, pulling them from the earth within an instant.  Spinning them over his knuckles with ease, he finished one of the arcs with a downwards thrust on either side of the first Orc's neck, cutting deeply into the scaly skin.  Black blood sputtered from the wound and clung to the slender blades but he seemed not to care.

Eyes darting through the crowd, Haldir located the leader of the Orcs and, making eye contact, pointed one of his thin blades at it, issuing his challenge. 

The Orc, stopping the battle that he was engaged in with one of the other Elven warriors, simply walked through the crowd, his head held high and showing no sighs of fear in any way. 

As soon as it reached Haldir, it took an almighty swing at the blonds head, intending to disperse of the Elf as soon as he could. 

Side stepping, Haldir easily avoided the rash blow while being able to send one of his daggers into the unprotected side of the commander.  The blade slid in easily, cutting through flesh and bone while enticing a howl of pain from the Orc as it clutched at its side.  The scaly hand wrapped around the small part of exposed blade, forcing Haldir to let go of the knife if he wished to keep his hand intact.

Taking a precautionary step backwards, Haldir watched in slight dismay as the beast ripped the blade from his side and through it to the back of the clearing, the pain not seeming to affect the Orc at all. 

Knowing that his chances against the larger Orc were not good if he was only armed with one short dagger, Haldir slowly circled the beast, putting himself into the position that he wanted.  Seeing the Orc that he had killed with his sword behind the leader, Haldir waited until the Orc rushed at him.

Grabbing his bow-knife by the tip of the blade, Haldir threw it with all his might at the Orc, hitting it in the shoulder while launching himself forward and to the ground.    Hands folded over his head, he gracefully rolled out of the Orcs way and right past him, bringing him closer to his discarded sword. 

As Haldir rose to his feet, the leader turned, an angry growl coming from deep within its throat. 

The soft hiss of the air told Haldir that the blade of the Orc was sailing through the air behind him.  Throwing himself into a small dive, the Elf's head fell just out of reach of the blade moments before the sword would have sliced into the back of his neck.

Sliding to a stop by his discarded sword, Haldir grabbed the hilt, pulling it from the corpse and raised it quickly above his left shoulder, parrying the blow of the Orc chieftain moments before it would have severed his head.   Pushing back with all his might, he allowed his upper body to slip in further behind his own sword so that the blade was now more level with his chest.  Turning his wrists so that his sword stood between him and the Orcs', he gave a hard and forceful push on the locked blades.   As soon as the Orc was thrown slightly off balance, Haldir let himself fall backwards, his back hitting the ground as his right leg slipped out from behind him. 

Kicking the Orc in the stomach and shoving at the crossed swords once again, Haldir quickly let go of the hilt with is right hand and reached up to grab the stumbling Orc by slipping his fingers into the joins of the breastplate.   Tugging the Orc as hard as he could, he pulled the being over the top of both their swords and himself, letting go of the beast before it crashed to the ground to the left of the Elf. 

Jumping to his feet, the Marchwarden quickly swiped down, delivering the final blow that ended the chieftain's life. 

Glancing quickly around the clearing, he saw a number of Elves doing the same, their blows echoed with the cries of pain and gurgles of blood in the Orc's throats as they passed out of existence. 

Seeing that all the Orcs either had been slaughtered or were running somewhere in the opposite direction to what would cause any harm, Haldir slowly made his way to the centre of the body littered clearing.  Leaning on his sword he looked to all the dirty faces that peered back at him.

 "Is anyone injured?" Haldir called out while brushing away a few strands of silvery hair.

"Hîthlad, sir," one of the others called out from the far edge of the clearing. 

Dropping his sword to the ground Haldir hastily made his way over to the Elf that had spoken.  He was kneeling beside a figure that lay prone upon the muddy ground, his hood fallen back to reveal a pale, blood streaked face. 

Crouching by the Elf's head, Haldir looked down at the being, his face set in sorrow.  His eyes, normally a startling green, were a strange pale blue, glazed over and unseeing.  The large amount of blood that flowed across his face told of a serious head wound, most probably the reason of his demise. 

Reaching down slowly, he moved his hand gently over the face, closing the eyes of the deceased Elf before smoothing the silvery locks around his brow. 

"Get him back to the city," Haldir informed the man that had alerted him of the death, "take as many as you need to help you.  Make sure that he receives the respect that he deserves."  Standing to his feet, Haldir looked over all the Elves that guarded the northern borders with him. 

Looking to the warriors, Haldir could see the fear in their eyes.  Hîthlad had been a friend to all of them, the type that did not care of himself as long as he was able to aid another.  He was a few centuries younger then Haldir and most of the Elves in the patrol group, and a lot of the time that had shown through.  He was a joker, someone who could have made you laugh even in the most serious of times or even through tears.  Just looking at the others as they looked back at him, he could tell that Hîthlad would be greatly missed and that there was not one warrior among them that was not fighting to keep their self control. 

"You fought well and you fought bravely." Haldir stated, knowing that he had to offer those that looked up to him some form of assurance.  "Though it is a tragedy that a life was lost, look to the lives that we have saved.  Mourn him, but do not linger upon it.  Hîthlad deserves our respect and our gratitude for he was a great warrior, but he does not wish for our pity.  He would not want that, we all know that for a fact. 

Pacing in front of the gathered Elves, he saw that they were not completely agreeing with him.  They were frightened, ready to break and to scatter back to the city, leaving their post unattended.  Hîthlad had been the first immortal death that most of them had seen, the first one of them to fall and Haldir knew that there were all pondering on who would be the next. 

Taking a deep breath, he tried to reassure himself that all would be fine before even attempting to convince his company.   If he could not get a hold of himself, then what good was he to the ones that needed him now more then ever?

"We have taken it upon ourselves to guard this land," he started, his voice quiet and withdrawn, "and guard this land is what we shall do.  We have, each and every one of us, sworn to protect this land, our home and the very heart of Elvendom with our very lives!  We have promised to do all that is within our power to keep those that we love and cherish safe from the threats of the Dark Lord.  Now yes, an immortal life was lost today, but are we to let that loss, the first that we have experienced in years, are we to let that stop us?  To break us?  Are we to let them take our home?  To burn our forests and to kill our kin just because we broke at the first real test?

"I am willing to uphold my vow, to give my life for this just as Hîthlad has this very night.  I will fight till I no longer draw breath or till the Dark powers cease to challenge us!  Why?  Because this," he spoke passionately while holding his arms out, implying that it was the forests that he spoke of, "is far beyond us all.  Lothlórien, Caras Galadhon, it is all that Elves, no matter where they are in Middle-Earth stand for.  This place is what we are, who we are!  We are tree-people, protectors of the forests and the children of nature.  And if I must die to protect that which has protected me for the entirety of my life, then so be it!" Pausing to look each Elf in the face, Haldir could see that he had reached them, that somewhere, deep down, he had found that which drove them on.  "Now, are you with me?"

His answer came in the form of a cheer.  A cheer so loud that it seemed to reach to the very sky and pass all the way into the city which they had all sworn to protect.   Hîthlad would be mourned just as he would be missed, but they could not stop now.  They had a duty; to their people, to their Lord and Lady and to themselves. 

"We will not fall," Haldir practically yelled, the others cheering even more, emphasizing each word that their captain spoke by banging the bottoms of their long-bows against the earth.  "We will not stop and we will not yield, not as long as there is an ounce of strength to share between us!  But, most importantly of all, we will not be broken!"

*****

A single light illumined the darkness of the small room, casting a crimson circle around the seated, hunched figure.  The light flickered, wavered in its intensity before changing colour completely.  Green flooded the room, green like the rolling hills and the lush forests of the world, yet slowly, very slowly, it started to darken; turn into the colour of the forests when the sun is tucked behind a passing cloud.   Night fell, a night without stars or moon, candle or the soft glow of fireflies.  It was pure darkness, a black that still seemed to give off a light even if it was of resentment and hatred. 

Soft words were spoken to the darkness, words of innocent curiosity that became twisted into something more; something of a sinister nature.  Searching's for a lost loved one transformed into the desperate need to find something else, and yet something unknown.  The words and intentions were changed without either the beings consent or knowledge, only the glowing orb understood what was in fact happening. 

Glowing brighter, it answered, did as it was bid to do.  Every time it did such; obeyed one master only to find another stronger will forcing its way in and taking over its actions.  Thus was the way with those that were bound and those that were linked.  One submitted to the other and all sacrificed for continuing the connection between them. 

And still the voice muttered...seeing things that should not be seen...the minds slowly being twisted and broken beyond that which was comprehensible...

*****

Time line for Chapter Ten

30 – Night.

Éowyn is stopped in her attempts of talking to Théoden by Gríma.   Aragorn and Legolas talk while Faramir has to inform his father of Boromir's death.  A party of orcs enter Lothlórien only to be stopped by Haldir and his warriors. 

*****

Tbc...

Ok, so I got stuck with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli and thus decided that it was high time that I started showing a bit more of the 'bigger picture' so to put it.  The 'broken' thing was just due to my strange mood, but in the end I kinda liked it, especially the Haldir bit (which was meant to end the same way, but just would not!)  I mean, go Haldir with the prep talk!  

Quick note to Ihni: Ever read Alice in Wonderland?  If you have, remember that weird ass, slightly insane cat that would always appear and then as it disappeared, it would only leave its eyes.  That is the Cheshire cat!  It is used as an expression – or maybe that is just used by my rather strange mother…

Ok, that is all from me – have to get some school work done!  I have an independent biology experiment due in a week and I have not even started!  Yay!  See what I give up for you guys?! *pokes out tongue*

Minka