BTW…some of the dialogue comes from the chapter, ‘The Riders of Rohan.’ And, I feel like I’m losing my style a tad – it’s very hard to stay so consistent in Archaic English. ^^ Does Legolas still seem strong to you guys/gals or is he turning into a wimp? (I need to know this, because the Elf should not lose his masculinity even in trauma.)

Well…enjoy and sorry for the rant! ^.^

        It was already the fourth day since the breaking of the Fellowship at Emyn Muil, and Aragorn and Gimli continued their pursuit. From night they passed into the early rose of dawn and from exhaustion they passed into the rigorous steps of vigor, for such is the way of companions when seeking the lost. The early dew of morning clung to Aragorn and refreshed him, for little did he sleep the night before, even when Gimli slept. As darkness relinquished her cloak, the Ranger felt sorrow in his heart; had he failed his friends? Were they already beyond help, beyond hope, or beyond life? Was this pursuit all for nothing?
        This, Aragorn said not to the Dwarf, for fear of failure doubtlessly dwelt deep in Gimli’s heart as well and to bring forth injury upon injury was not his intent. In a dour time like this, he did not want to be the one to bring about division. Standing next to him, his axe sturdy on the ground, Gimli swept the Wold of Rohan with his eyes, only to grunt in dissatisfaction.
        “Long have we traveled, my friend. And yet, the trail grows cold.”
        “We have not yet looked far enough, Gimli,” Aragorn said, even as he saw the dark fringes of Fangorn and the Methedras glinting in the tranquil sun. “See how the trail leads from these downs down towards the Entwash? They have crossed this place yesterday and where they may be now is for us to find out. Do not trouble your heart, friend.” As Gimli grunted again, as if countering Aragorn’s counsel, Isildur’s heir resumed his watch. There were shadowy shapes in the distance, coming from Fangorn and at a swift pace.
        Aragorn immediately lowered himself to the ground, to see if he could hear rumours of the earth. Hooves galloping upon grass, quick in their flight – these were not Orcs. He had once ridden with the Riders of Rohan – could these be the very same? “Riders!” he said aloud, to the startled Gimli as he hastened to his feet. “Many riders on swift steeds are coming towards us!”
        “And what shall we do about it, Aragorn? Shall we wait for them here or go on our way?”
        “We will wait. I am weary, and our hunt has failed. Or at least others were before us; for these horsemen are riding back down the orc-trail. We may get news from them.”
        Gimli muttered darkly to himself. “Or spears.”
        “The foul creatures of Saruman and the dark forces of Mordor are more ruthless than mere Riders, Gimli son of Gloin. You may find yourself grateful for soldiers in times like this, for they battle to keep our lands free from Sauron’s scourge. Although we may be strangers on their land, most Men still speak fair.”
        “You speak as one who knows his own race well, even when there is talk of some turning to Sauron for allegiance.”
        “They do so because they see no other way of strength. For that, they deserve pity.” The Ranger bowed his head in thought, and then turned his glance on the Dwarf. “Let us move from this hill, lest we make ourselves an easy target for the Riders. The Riders of Rohan are not cruel, but they are suspicious in times like this and we should not tempt our fate by standing ill on their ground. Come, let us go towards the northwards slope, where we shall await them.”
        The two companions strode down the hill-top, the thinning breeze fluttering at the ends of their elven cloaks. Yet, cold they felt not and the Ranger and the Dwarf soon sat at the hill’s foot, watching as the horsemen approached. Time slipped by them and Aragorn watched keenly as the Riders approached. Long had it been since he had ridden with them, and how much time had passed ere the waxing and waning of many moons! Beside him, Gimli fell silent, although his brow was furrowed with worry and Aragorn grasped a hold of his shoulder and shook him. “Worry not. I do not feel any darkness in my blood about these people.”
        “But Gandalf spoke of a rumour that they pay tribute to Mordor,” the Dwarf replied.
        Aragorn shook his dark head. “I believe it no more than did Boromir.”
        “Boromir is dead.”
        “He died honorably, as a prince should. Wait, Gimli, for they approach.”
        Hooves of full-blooded steeds pounded against the earth and grass in swift succession – the galloping of the horses of Rohan pronounced their coming. Loud were these Riders’ voices, as one and triumphant and clear like trumpets blown to a returning procession. Their leader skirted his mount past where Aragorn and Gimli huddled, and after him rode his men. Swift they went and like the wind, so that Aragorn found himself gazing closely at the horsemen to note their garb. Shining was their armour, and their mail shirts gleamed bright in the sunlight like stars in a pale dawn. Tall and fair they were, proud in their stature and laden with the weapons of war – spears in strong hands, shields strapped to backs, and swords hung at their belts. Their faces were one and the same, with the sternness of Men and the alertness of warriors.
        They rode past the two in pairs, and Aragorn knew that it was the cloaks of the Elves that hid them from mortal sight. While this was a blessing during watchfulness, it would not do if the Riders passed them completely, for there was much for him to find out. Standing to his feet, with Gimli still sitting in silence, Aragorn let his voice ring true.
        “What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?”
        The leader of the Riders turned and spoke a quick word; soon, the procession bore down upon the stranger, surrounding him and his unseen companion. Weapons were unsheathed and spears were lowered; many bows with shafts nocked were ready. And yet, their mounts continued their restless pace, circling the strangers. Aragorn looked into each man’s face, reading his emotions. Suspicious and cautious they were, and their eyes glittered cold and wary. These were changed men, for Sauron brought forth darkness and trust was no longer infallible as it was in years before. But these were trustworthy and sturdy folk; Aragorn did not doubt his instinct that things would fall into place ere this confrontation was over.
        Suddenly, the horses stopped their paces and the Riders glared down at the Ranger. A tall man, fair and noble in appearance, rode forth and Aragorn stood his ground. From the Rider’s helm flowed a white tail like that of a pale steed; in his hand he held a spear, which he pointed towards Aragorn’s breast. Caution and courtesy flowed in Aragorn’s blood and he held himself straight and true.
        “Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?”
        “I am called Strider,” Aragorn said calmly, keeping his voice mild. “I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs.”
        Before the Rider could reply, a soldier rode in next to him. Sitting almost sidesaddle behind the Rider was a pale youth clad in grey. His fair hair swept his face as the wind persisted and familiarity lay in his dark eyes. There was something strange about his gaze and Aragorn found it unsettling. Turning to the soldier, the leader spoke. “What is it? I have matters to deal with.”
        “The prince said that he knows this person, Éomer. He said that he recognized him from afar.”
        With these words, it suddenly dawned on Aragorn who the pale youth was. The fair hair, now cut short and untidy, grazed high cheekbones and those dark eyes held a melancholy light in them that was startling. Those eyes, that pierced through a soul with clarity and understanding beyond the ken of Men. The noble brow and the slightly proud turn of the mouth.
        And yet, there was a tangible veil of sadness over the still figure.
        “Legolas?”

        When he had seen the tall and dark figure on the hill-top, Legolas strained his eyes and shaded them with his hand. An elven cloak adorned a man standing confidently upon Rohan’s sweet grasses; there was also a shorter and stouter figure beside him. There was an axe in his hand and a helm upon his head. The Elf’s heart stopped, then leapt with joy. Aragorn! And Gimli? The Dwarf had not been felled on the slopes of Emyn Muil? He was alive?
        The prince felt like crying out to them – his companions had come! But he kept his silence, for he wished to see them closely before he declared their names to his newly found friends. As he watched, he noticed Aragorn turning to Gimli and soon, the two had crossed over the hill and settled down at its foot. Aragorn was ever alert and Legolas slightly smiled at this; the Ranger had not changed – maybe that was for the best. His own keen senses had failed him when he most needed it and the way he was now was all because of that.
        Gimli had not changed either, not that Legolas expected him to. During their stay at Lothlórien, he had witnessed more about Gloin’s son than he had warranted to, and that was also for the best. He could no longer slander Dwarves, not when Gimli taught him all that there was to know about friendship and the endurance of that bond. Even if Elves claimed differences between themselves and this smaller race, the prince knew one quality that was similar. Both Elves and Dwarves loved beauty and wisdom – Galadriel had been proof of that ere the Fellowship left the Golden Wood. The Dwarf, struck dumb by her kind words and her granting of his gift, had mourned their departure and Legolas never left the trees in his mind.
        That is, until his capture and torment at the hands of the Orcs.
        As if experiencing a new injury at this thought, Legolas winced, unconsciously tightening his hands around the elven cloak he held. Elves were never used to darkness, unless the stars and the moon brightened that shade. They always loved light and joy, being creators and singers of melodies fair to the mortal ear, for that was their singular expression of how they cherished life and nature. Mordor’s blackness had not threatened their existence until the Ring was found – that was when Rivendell, Mirkwood, and Lothlórien found themselves in peril. His father fought against the evil lying in wait in Dol Guldur, while the lord Elrond used his might to hold Imladris strong. The Lady Galadriel and her husband, Celeborn the Wise, barred Sauron from invading their realm with all their authority and power.
        All Elves fought against the Enemy, for it was either freedom or submission.
        And the Elves, being a proud and noble people, the Firstborn of all races in Middle-earth, were not about to hand over their freedom to someone such as Sauron. Sauron, who was Melkor’s lieutenant during the Second Age, as his father had told him. Someone who detested Elves with as much hatred as Melkor did during those evil and dark days. For a long time, even before the Third Age, Elves battled the darkness with light and won, although not without struggle and not without losses.
        But they won and Sauron hid, still crafting his wiles in that accursed land of his. His minions multiplied and his Orcs increased. Their foul feet trampled the land and they destroyed things of beauty with sadistic pleasure, as if pillaging and ravaging were their only reasons for living. Creatures fell and cruel lived only to inflict torment on fair beings, for that was their sole desire. It was like an appetite for wicked deeds that could not be quelled unless all innocence died and withered, leaving fertile ground for evil to sprout.
        Did they succeed with him?
        The Elf bowed his head low, leaving the distant figures of Aragorn and Gimli out of his sight. Long was his last torment and he still felt the pain, for that was why he chose to sit sidesaddle. For the prince, it was a matter of shame and Legolas was glad that he was not returning home to Mirkwood, where his eldest brother would mock his appearance. He still saw stripped and bleeding forests in his dreams, along with screaming winds and an ever-increasing darkness that frightened him.
        Where did his innate light go? Had he been in the shadows for too long?
        A shout rang clear and loud behind him, and Legolas turned to see Aragorn on his feet, his arm raised. Gimli, being stolid and cautious, sat still and did not move. As the Elf watched, attentive, the Riders of Rohan turned as if one and galloped back towards the hill. A sense of danger and alarm roused the Elf and Legolas spoke to the Rider before him. “I know of this man whom we are riding towards.”
        “The stranger? You know of him?”
        “His name is Aragorn. He is one of my companions.”
        The Rider’s fair head turned for a moment. “He is still a stranger in Rohan, and therefore must be spoken and dealt with. Do you wish to speak to him yourself?”
        “No. But I must speak to Éomer before he lays harsh judgment on an innocent man. He is as much of a stranger as I am and yet, you have dealt fairly with me. I do not ask for much, but this must be given if you do not wish for innocent blood to flow and to lay a curse upon your land. Elves do not bear ill will but a prince will not see unjust condemnation.”
        “So you speak truly. We are behind the others – shall we hurry?”
        Legolas nodded, urgency being his sole concern. “Go forth, for my friends await their fate!”

        Even as Éomer pointed his spear at Aragorn, the Rider bearing Legolas broke through the circle surrounding the two strangers. Éomer glanced towards their direction, but the Elf gazed steadily at Aragorn. The Ranger had not changed much; he still bore that air of weariness and nobility that Legolas knew well. As he looked, he noticed Aragorn staring back and Legolas wondered if recognition was still possible. He thought he glimpsed something in the man’s eyes, but what it was, the prince knew not.
        “What is it?” He heard Éomer ask in impatience. “I have matters to deal with.”
        The Rider sitting before Legolas spoke, his voice clear. “The prince said that he knows this person, Éomer. He said that he recognized him from afar.”
        “Legolas?”
        The sound of his name smote the Elf full in the heart and Legolas could do nothing but watch as Aragorn stepped forward, apparently disbelieving his eyes. There was something sad and strange about the Ranger’s expression – was it sympathy and pity? Had they not recognized him for whom he was? Legolas released the elven cloak, throwing it down to Aragorn. As the man received it, Gimli stood. The Dwarf gazed at the cloak, and then turned his darker eyes towards the Elf sitting on the Rider’s steed. Legolas wanted to leap off the saddle, but he knew his turmoil had wounded him beyond measure and therefore did not stir.
        “An elven cloak. Legolas, where are Merry and Pippin?”
        “They have fled, Aragorn. Where they have fled to, I know not. They left this for me the morning the Riders came, delivering me out of the hands of my enemies.”
        “Master Legolas, you surprise me,” Gimli said, advancing forward regardless of the spears and arrows pointed at him. “Aragorn and I thought you were dead or dying.”
        Legolas winced. “You see me before you, do you not, friend Gimli?”
        “I do. And I am glad for it! Come on down, friend! It has been idle and dull without an Elf to talk to!”
        “I cannot, Gimli. Unless Aragorn is willing to help me, I will stay here.”
        Aragorn handed the elven cloak to Gimli and stepped forward, speaking softly. “Legolas, have they wounded you to this extent? I will be willingly to aid you, since you seek no other for help.”
        In silence, the Elven prince nodded.
        “Untie him from the mount,” Éomer commanded, lowering his spear. “He recognizes them truly and wishes to meet with them. Do not delay him, for his companions await his descent.” Without word or question, the Rider sitting before Legolas unsheathed his knife and severed the bonds holding the Elf to the saddle.
        “You are free, Legolas,” the Rider said, a slight smile on his severe but fair face.
        Aragorn approached Legolas and the Elf slid off the mount, refusing for his friend to aid him in so much as getting off a saddle. Unused to sitting in such a stiff contraption that Elves deign to use, Legolas soon found that he was sore as well as in pain and he would have fallen if Aragorn had not caught a hold of him ere he fell. Grimacing at his weakness, Legolas berated himself; should Mirkwood’s youngest prince suffer embarrassment for his gracelessness, all because of his treatment at the hands of Orcs?
        “Legolas, why so silent? Do you not wish to speak?”
        “It has been long since I needed aid from Elf or mortal, Aragorn. As much as I thank you, I desire no pity. Alas, for a prince and an Elf to fall so low! I do not know if this silence forebodes ill tidings for me, but I leave that to fate. She chose my road for me at Emyn Muil – will she be cruel again?”