Once beyond Rivendell’s gates, they did not stop their flight. Indeed, they fled nearly three miles before Saryn finally collapsed with a shriek of pain. Telvryn reined in his horse and dropped to her side. “M’lady, what is it?” he asked, trying to roll her onto her back.
        “My stomach,” she groaned. “Like daggers and fire.”
        “I fear you have exerted yourself beyond your means. You should not have stopped for him,” he said grimly, nodding in the direction of the inert form still lying across Rhydon’s back.
        “I could not let him die; my conscience would not have it,” she answered, gritting her teeth against another wave of pain.
        “Your compassion for him may cost you dearly. The child inside you protests this treatment. Surely you will kill him ere he greets life if you continue down the path you have chosen. Have a care. From now on, you must tread softly,” he chided her.
        She made no reply, only took a deep breath and trailed her fingers softly along the slight swell of her belly.
        “Now,” he continued in a gentler tone, “we must cross the river if we are to be sure of safety. It marks the boundary of their lands, and they will not cross it. Once there, I’ll set up camp, and we’ll see about our new friend.”
        “I don’t think he has much time,” she coughed.
        “I don’t intend to dally,” he said.
        Nor did he. As soon as he lifted her upon her horse, he galloped off into the night, bidding her follow. For eight miles, they streaked across the plains, flecks of hot foam flying from the horses’ muzzles as they went. At long last, they splashed through the cool waters of the river, steam rising from the horses’ bodies as their overheated skin touched the soothing current. When they reached the other side, he raised his hand and motioned for her to stop.
        He sat scanning the horizon for a suitable camp site. “There,” he said, pointing to a grove of birch trees a quarter-mile to the east. He nudged his horse forward again. The animals, sensing an end to their interminable journey, cantered briskly onward, and within twenty minutes, they were comfortably ensconced in the pleasant grove.
        “Now then,” said Telvryn once the camp site had been secured, “let’s tend to our fallen friend, eh?” He gently lifted the limp body from the horse and laid it beside the crackling fire.
        “Is he dead?” she asked, fearing the worst. She hadn’t seen him move since she put him on the horse.
        “No, he lives, though barely. He’s lost a great deal of blood. He’ll need a transfusion, but first the arrow must be removed.” He picked up the body and carried it over to where she sat propped against a tree. Setting it down, he rolled up his sleeve and drew a small knife. “I’m going to cut my arm now. When I tell you, pull the arrow out quickly and cleanly. Jiggle it just a little either way and you’ll sever his jugular. He’ll be dead before my arm reaches him. You only have one chance. Are you ready? He looked at her levelly.
        Of course she wasn’t ready. The magnitude of the responsibility now being foisted upon her sat heavily on her chest, making it hard to breathe. If her hand twitched or trembled but a little, she would snuff out his life like a faint spark in a driving rain. The idea made her stomach give a greasy, uneasy lurch. She swallowed hard and nodded, hoping she wouldn’t break the arrow in two as she gingerly grasped its delicate shaft with a cold hand.
        He extended his arm, clenching his fist to bring a vein to the surface of his skin. Acting quickly, before his own nerves could fail him, he sliced diagonally across his arm, wincing as the cold iron bit into his skin. A thin rivulet of dark red blood emerged, dime-sized drops pattering softly to the ground below. “Now!” he barked.
        She pulled as hard as she could, struggling with her gorge as the arrow emerged with a squelching, meaty sound like gristle being torn from the bone. She tossed it away with a disgusted whimper, wiping her hand on the coarse leather of the sentry’s uniform she was still wearing. Telvryn, meanwhile, had clamped his forearm over the gaping wound in the dying elf’s neck, with immediate results. The wound was sizzling and contracting, knitting together like the mouth of a drawstring bag. The dying injured elf’s body shook and juddered as though struck by an electric current. His cloth-booted feet tapped out a sporadic, staccato rhythm on the ground, his hands clawing into the hard earth, breaking two fingernails to the quick. His jaw worked feverishly, his teeth clicking together like dry bones as he convulsed. He was grunting, thick jabs of air blowing from his nostrils.
        Telvryn remained pressed against the wounded elf’s neck until he had given as much blood as he thought safe before wrenching himself away with a jerk. Exhausted, he sat on his knees, panting. Now he had gone pale, dark, bruised circles forming under his eyes. “Saryn, bring me some water and a potato from my bag. The transfusion has weakened me, and I must eat to regain my strength.” His voice was but a whisper.
        She stood slowly, mindful of a lingering tenderness in her belly. His bag lay by the fire, and she quickly found a large potato and a canteen of water. She handed him the water and prepared the potato, impaling it upon a spit and turning it over the fire until the skin crackled beneath her fingers. When it was done, she handed it to him, eyeing him with concern as he devoured it. His normally vibrant face was drawn, his bright eyes muted in weariness. She feared he had given too much.
        When he had finished, she returned the canteen to its place and guided him to a tree opposite the one beneath which she had been sitting. He smiled gratefully as she covered him with his cloak and settled once more beneath the tree beside the injured elf. Though a rose tint had returned to his skin, he had not yet stirred. Of the wound there was no sign. “Will he survive?” she asked, stroking his forehead.
        “I do not know. I gave him as much as I could, perhaps more than I ought. Still, he has lost much. His fate is now out of our hands. Whatever may happen, it shall happen soon.”
        She nodded but did not speak. Telvryn needed rest. She let her head fall back against the trunk of the great tree and let her eyes wander. The stars were brilliant ice chips splashed across the horizon, and she smiled bitterly at the memories they stirred within her. Midnight strolls with Legolas through their private glade, supple elvish hands linked as they meandered amongst the ageless green grasses and white-barked trees, their muffled murmurings and laughter floating lightly on the breeze. And the castle garden.
        The memory brought a brief tightening to her chest, and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. That magical night with the heady scent of jasmine in the air. The warm feel of Legolas’ arms around her as he laughingly smuggled her into the garden under a heavy cloak. The endless hours of hiding amongst the countless exquisite plants and flowers, giggling like children as they discovered one another anew. The song he’d sung for her as he’d threaded delicate lilac buds throughout her golden tresses. A fragment of it arose in her mind, a ghostly reminder carried by the soughing wind, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape from her lips. Oh flame of my heart, thee I shall never forsake, he’d sung in his silky, clarion voice, but about that he’d lied. He had left her, and now she was here on the outskirts of Rivendell with two strange elves. She’d never been more miserable in her life.
        Just when she’d regained self-control, another memory struck her, one that swamped her with its vividness and smashed all the defenses she’d put up to hold back the emotional tidal wave that raged within her. The memory of the rest of the night in the garden, the most sacred memory of all. How they’d come to stand beside a bush full of bronze roses. How for a long moment, they’d stared into one another’s eyes, frozen by the enormity of love’s power. He’d kissed her, a kiss of such deep and probing passion that her knees failed her and she sank into his arms. Then, as Diana poured the silver light of the moon over the garden like enchanted water, he tenderly stripped away her diaphanous white gown and stared at her in unabashed innocence. With eager and tender hands, he explored her, igniting sensations and passions about which she had never guessed. Then came the burning pain of innocence lost and his all-consuming heat. They had become one.
        The sobs came then, great heaving, wracking sobs that started as small quivering squeaks and rose to the crescendo of a banshee’s wail. She was dimly aware of Telvryn starting from a deep slumber and scrambling from beneath his warm velvet cloak to see what had happened, but she continued to wail, arms folded against her stomach as she bent double, hot forehead brushing her knees.
        “M’lady, what is it? Are you ill?” he asked, certain she was losing the child.
        “Some things are sharper than the point of an orc’s arrow,” she gibbered, but said no more. Her small frame shook with the force of her despairing cries.
        Telvryn hesitated. Clearly, the rigors of the journey had caught up with her, and she needed comfort and a warm shoulder. It was improper to touch a joined woman when not in the presence of her husband, but he could see little choice. Her husband was not here to give his consent in the matter, nor was he here to give her the comfort she so desperately needed. His tender heart could not bear to see her thus, and so he sat down beside her and enfolded her in his arms.
        There was a sudden moment of awkward silence as she pondered his unexpected attention. When she was certain he harbored no ill intent, the sobs resumed. Though quieter, she still trembled with their fury. He stroked her hair and made meaningless noises to calm her. Little by little, the sobs began to taper off.
        When he felt the worst was past, he helped her to sit up again. “Alright now?” he asked, brushing her cheek.
        She nodded, swiping at her eyes with her tiny porcelain hands.
        “Do you care to speak of what troubles you?”
        “I yearn for my beloved. My heart is torn asunder without him. I fear I will never look upon his beautiful face again, nor smell the sweet, wild strawberry scent of his hair-.” She stopped, on the verge of tears again.
        Turning her face to his, he said, “You shall see him again if you will but have faith.” Then to distract her from a further outburst, he said, “Tell me of the child.” He was relieved to see a faint spark of joy light her face.
        “If it is a boy-child, Legolas shall name him. He has often expressed fondness for the name Joloch. If it is a girl, I shall call her Gaela,” she said, tracing her finger along the barely perceptible swell.
        “It seems that you have considered this well,” he mused.
        She uttered a small chuckle. “Long have we desired a child, but it has been no easy thing.”
        “Truly?” He was surprised. Generally elves who wanted children were blessed with them rather quickly.
        “Though it was not for lack of trying,” she added with a sly grin, “indeed, we applied ourselves to the task quite vigorously.”
        “What then?” asked Telvryn, a bit taken aback by her forthrightness.
        “I suspect the meddling of King Thranduil played no small part in the affair,” she said, eyes flashing. “Once he saw that he could not turn his son from the path he had chosen, he immediately summoned the midwives to attend to me so that I might produce an heir all the faster. Indeed, no sooner had we returned from our time of bonding than an endless stream of midwives passed through our doors, each carrying a potion more noxious than the first. Despite these foul draughts and our most fervent efforts, there came no child.”
        “After forty years with no success, I told Legolas I would no longer suffer the intolerable potions. A suspicion had begun to grow in my mind, one about which I did not speak to him. I reasoned that something so horrible could not possibly be meant to inspire new life. Mayhap it was purposed for the opposite end.”
        “You mean to say,” he interrupted her, “that the king would deprive his son of the joys of giving life for his own ends?”
        “I mean the very thing,” she affirmed.
        “But why?” he asked. “It would be folly to deny himself an heir.”
        “Why? He already has a son, and if perchance Legolas perished in battle, the king himself is in no danger. Certainly he has not ventured onto the field of battle for nearly a thousand years. Besides, if he could convince Legolas that I was barren, he could hope to pair him off with the much-lauded duchess.”
        “So how is it that you are now with child?” he prodded.
        “As I have told you,” she resumed, “I ceased taking the potions offered by the midwives. Instantly, I felt better. With renewed enthusiasm, we again set out to create life, but still there were no offspring. To my mind, the revolting concoctions were meant to render me permanently barren. Fortunately, I stopped taking them before they could complete their evil work, but it was a near thing. For a hundred and sixty years afterwards, our love has served only to unite us; in fact, we had given up hope of becoming parents. Then, nearly a month ago, our last coupling has finally produced the miracle we have awaited all these years.”
        They sat in companionable silence for a time. Then she said, “I have lost all hope of reaching Legolas before he comes to Mordor. Already he is ten days ahead of us.”
        Telvryn remained silent for a moment, debating whether or not to tell her what he knew. She seemed so fragile, and in her delicate condition, it would be ill-advised to plant the notion in her head at all. Still, if she discovered his well-meaning deceit, she would never forgive him. And the memory of her heartbroken wails was still fresh in his mind. “There is a way,” he said softly.
        She looked at him, hope sparkling in her eyes.
        “The Bog of Basylis,” he said, grimacing at the oily feel of the name as it slid from his tongue.
        “I know not this place,” she said, furrowing her brow in puzzlement.
        “Nor should you. It is not much talked-about here. I only know of it from my grandfather. According to legend, it is a noisome, evil marsh, filled with treacherous slithering eels and serpents. Few who enter it return. Even if one should survive the murderous creatures, they will almost certainly be slain by the bog’s guardian, the great Basylis.”
        At this name too she drew a blank. “Who?”
        “The great horned cobra Basylis guards the exit from the bog. Before one can return to the land of light, they must defeat him. No one has ever made it that far, hence no one has bested him. Basylis was once an ally of the people of Middle Earth, a counselor and protector. There was sanctuary to be had in his land, a paradise of rolling green hills and crystal springs.”
        “Then Sauron came with his ambitions of power. The wise and benevolent serpent opposed him. Enraged, Sauron used the Ring of Power to change the beautiful landscape into an ugly morass of putrid, stinking swamp. Basylis, too, was transformed from a breathtaking beast with satin skin the color of smoked cream into an eyeless, skeletal monstrosity covered with flaps of rotting flesh.”
        “Alone and isolated in his dank, hellish prison, Basylis’ once noble heart grew vengeful and bitter. Now instead of embracing the people of Middle Earth, he seeks to revenge himself upon them for abandoning them in his time of need. If we go there, he will surely kill us.”
        “How will it help us to catch up with Legolas?” she asked.
        “If he is going to Mordor, surely he will pass through Lothlorien, but first he must choose the path to take. The shortest way is through the mines of Moria, a four-day journey. Even with his head start, he is still four days from reaching the mines. That leaves us a minimum of eight days to reach him. The Bog of Basylis lies three days southeast of here. At the best, we could cross the bog in four days more, thus putting us directly behind them. However, it is unlikely our travels will be so smooth. Six days would be a better guess.”
        “Then it is hopeless,” she cried, crestfallen.
        “Not so,” he reassured her. “The mines of Moria are inhabited by dwarves. I doubt they would grant an elf passage. The next-quickest route would be the southern passage, a trek of thirteen days. It is most likely the road he will take.”
        “Then we must pass through the bog,” she said solemnly.
        “Even though we may pass to our deaths?” he asked.
        “Even so. You can turn back if you wish.”
        “No. I started this journey with you, and with you shall I end it.”
        She nodded. “What of him?” she asked, fussing over the unconscious elf’s blanket.
        He sighed. “We can only hope he awakens before we reach the bog. The horses cannot pass through the bog; they would drown in the murky depths. If he cannot walk on his own, we will have to leave him behind and hope a search party finds him.”
        “What if the orcs find him first?” she asked.
        Neither spoke after that. It was too horrible to consider.