Chapter 2
The Wizard had been gone for thirteen days with no word. Aragorn paced on the parapet where Gandalf was want to walk late at night. His eyes traveled across the White City, easily seeing the movements of the sleepy realm as dusk signaled the end to the merchants’ busy day. The land prospered and his city thrived. He leaned against the cold wall and looked in the direction of the Great Green Wood.
A forlorn sigh escaped his lips, without conscious volition. Legolas. His heart constricted painfully at the thought of the Elf. He closed his eyes against the memories that threatened to well up again. Forcing back hot tears, he opened his eyes and searched the silent darkening skies.
“You are restless again, my King.”
Aragorn clenched the cold stone balustrade with his hands. He did not turn around. “Nay, I merely find it peaceful up here.”
“Are you sure that is what brings you here?” Cold white hands touched his shoulders from behind. His jaw tightened.
“Yes.” He could not go on with this, his mind intoned. As a Ranger he had ever been an honest man. Now as a King, he was forced to assume a dishonesty, one that his entire existence was predicated on, and it ate at his soul a little more each day.
“Very well.” The hands left him, and the voice was a study in neutrality
The rustling of her gowns told him he was alone again. He breathed a sigh of relief and his eyes turned again toward Mirkwood. The vision of his wedding day reared up again in his mind’s eye like a recurrent nightmare. He closed his eyes against it but still it came.
Gone was the Archer, clad always in the simple greens of a tracker. Instead, the Prince of Mirkwood, swathed in shimmering silvers and misty blues, walked in stately radiance, stunning the crowd of spectators. Stunning, indeed, thought the would-be King, when Aragorn had laid eyes on his long time friend and recent lover. The Elf was a vision of ephemeral loveliness that outstripped even the famed beauty of the Evenstar on her wedding day.
“I love you,” he had told the Elf, beseechingly, after the wedding. But what had he expected? Did he really think this Prince would remain, hidden away, as a concubine to a mortal King?
‘Nay, do not speak those words to me. You have made your choice.’ The blue eyes were striking in their rage. The hurt in the sapphire pools was like a poisonous dart that had embedded itself into his heart.
‘Please, melethron, I beg you to understand. Only duty makes me do this!’ But Aragorn had averted his eyes from the searching cobalt orbs.
The sizzling gaze burned into him and he could see what was written in its bitter depths:
“Liar.”
He was a liar. Aragorn knew it was more than duty that compelled him. It was fear: his fear of failure, his fear of disappointment. His entire life had pointed him in this one direction. To become King of Gondor and fulfill a prophecy that would make right the wrongs of his ancestors.
When love bloomed in his heart for the beautiful young Prince of Mirkwood everything in him, his entire body, vibrated to a song of irrepressible love and passion. But his mind rebelled. This love was not part of the script laid down for him. It was a forbidden love, and an unforeseen one. Surely, the Evenstar was the one that was meant to join with him according to prophecy and thus complete the last chapter of the saga. So he had been led to believe. From the time of his youth, he had thought on her pure chaste beauty and dreamed of the day he would claim his prize. He would be King of the White City and the Evenstar would be his Queen. Together they would heal the rift between Men and Elves through their union and provide an heir for Gondor. The line of Isildur would finally be redeemed.
Why then could the Ranger not keep his mind off the Prince of Mirkwood? During the quest, the Elf began to invade his dreams and haunt his days. As the quest progressed and the Archer fought unswervingly by his side, Aragorn could not hold back the wild passion that flared within him for the fair golden Elf. Then it had happened. At Helms Deep, they had argued for the first time. Aragorn had stormed off, partly from anger and partly from the overwhelming torment that the heightened emotions evoked to want to clutch the shining Elven warrior to him and take him right there on the stone floor, in front of everyone. And so it had almost happened, when the Elf came to him later to apologize. Aragorn accepted the sword, offered soundlessly, in a gesture of peace between them. The Elf looked up, perplexed when the sword clanged loudly to the floor. The blue eyes widened as the Man’s arms came around him and lips pressed against his. Without a word, Aragorn had dragged the Elf into a deserted corner of the fortress and made love to him in a hot tempest of need.
It was not to be the last such encounter. His desire for the Mirkwood Elf grew almost beyond tolerance. Stolen embraces in the night fueled his passion for the glorious Archer. The days blended together and death hounded their every step. In a haze of adrenaline, the Man clung to the beautiful Elf through what became one long day of fighting and one long night of passion.
And then, suddenly, the War of the Ring was over. He had claimed the Archer then, on the highest ramparts of the Castle, overlooking the White City. Never had Aragorn known such exhilaration. But it was doomed to be short lived. Joy had turned to cold dread with the arrival of the Elves.
The future King was swept up in the whirlwind of activity in preparation for his coronation. And the Evenstar who was supposed to have left for Valinor materialized. Aragorn longed to scream out his refusal. But before the eyes of Elrond and Mithrandir, before the entire host of the Elves and the people of Gondor, he could not do it. All their expectations rested on him. He was to be the leader of the world of Men. Yet, in the very designing of this role he was but a puppet whose strings rested in the remote hands of those older and wiser. His fate was sealed. Or so he thought.
And thus it was that the Prince of Mirkwood left the White City on that very day, the day of the King’s coronation and wedding. He returned to the Woodland realm, and agreed finally to take his place as the chosen Sovereign of the Green Wood when Thranduil announced he would sail to the Gray Havens. Five treacherously long years had passed and Aragorn had not seen nor heard from his passionate Elven lover.
The wind bore a chill, but the King of Gondor took no notice. Aragorn bowed his head as the memories played over, again, in his mind. It had been the worst mistake of his life, he reflected for the millionth time. Looking back at all the paths he could have taken, he realized, that by taking the one most expected of him, he had lost himself and any hope for lasting happiness. It was probably the reason why he and Arwen had not been able to conceive a child. He was trapped in a life he did not want. And he was miserable.
He had confided in no one save his counselor and friend, Faramir. Surprisingly, the son of Denethor, had an unorthodox and unexpected piece of advice for his King. “Divorce her,” he had said, “and go find the Elf you truly love and marry him.”
Aragorn had gaped in astonishment at his notoriously conservative court advisor. But Faramir had merely shrugged with a good-natured smile. “You are a good man and deserve happiness,” he had said simply.
“What of Gondor, my friend?” he had asked, believing his counselor was having fun with him.
But the wise young Gondorian responded in a serious tone. “My Liege, this city has lived through many evils. You are loved among the people. You have brought prosperity to the land. Gondor could handle a male Elf Consort if he made the King happy.” Faramir drew closer in a conspiratorial fashion and added, “And, your Highness, if you will forgive me for saying so, you’ve been a miserable son of a bitch ever since your fair Prince left the White City.”
Coming back to himself, Aragorn smiled at the remembered conversation. The sky was darkening and the wind was cold. Making a sudden decision, he turned on his heel and strode down the stone steps towards his throne room.
“Summon Lord Faramir,” he told one of his attendants, “I wish to send a messenger to Mirkwood.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Galadriel gazed into her mirror but could not understand what it was she saw. It was dark, in the depths of the cave. Nothing seemed to stir within. A small movement in the shadows caught her attention. Directing her will to look closer, she sighed. It was but a small woodland creature. But what was it doing in a place that it did not usually inhabit?
It swayed as if drunk. The hapless creature stumbled foreword to collapse by a large pulsating mound. As she leaned closer to the water, the petals of the flower like opening of the mound peeled back to reveal a simmering white gel like interior. She leaned over her mirror, her long blond hair hung into the water as she leaned in for a closer look. The tentacle that had lurked under the surface of the steamy white membrane broke through its diaphanous covering and leapt with unexpected speed. It coiled around her throat, constricting like a snake, cutting off her air passage. Her mouth gaped open to gasp for breath, and the smothering cloying wetness covered her nose and mouth, she gasped, screaming as the skeletal fingers wrapped around her head and the long tube was inserted into her throat….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hunters did not tend to come this far north since the dark woods were far more dangerous in the colder, darker regions. But the trees had been disquieted for weeks now, almost inconsolably it seemed, and finally the silvan archers were sent out on increased patrols to find the cause of the forest’s anxiety. Patrols now canvassed every inch of the Elvan Kingdom but as yet none had come back with an answer. But a weariness passed in the looks of the Elves. The trees spoke of an evil unlike anything ever before felt. It was in the far north where they found the first of the mutilated carcasses: a wolf, a deer, some smaller forests rodents. The Elves followed the trail of bodies not noticing the flowery aroma that came up from the ground. It dulled their anxiety and drew them deeper, over the edge of the ravine, into the waiting arms of darkness below.
Legolas stared out of the arched veranda, which opened to the forest floor below through hidden doors and stairs. He closed his eyes and listened to the songs in the trees. The northern border patrol had been missing for two days. A second group of Elves had been sent out to search for the missing warriors. Legolas listened to the trees, hoping to learn of the fates of his people. A profound disquiet was whispered among the leafy citizens of his Realm. It had been this way for several weeks now. The trees rustled in anxiety and in warning. To the King of Mirkwood they spoke the loudest. Today he listened to their song and was most distressed, for the trees spoke of invasion.
Startled, Legolas opened his eyes. Someone wanted to invade Mirkwood? It was absurd. What people could think it possible to even approach the Great Green Wood without incurring the wrath of the Elves. Indeed it was incomprehensible. The final great War for the Ring was over. Sauron was dead and all his forces at this point defeated. What evil could exist that would pose a danger to Mirkwood? From where? And why?
He listened with eyes closed in concentration. The trees spoke of hunger, and an innate desire to rampage and to conquer. He could almost feel it himself as he let his latent Elven abilities stretch forth from their slumber. He soared into the wind, and past the restless Mallorns, into the darker northern regions. He flew deeper into the dark woods there, down the treacherously steep ravines and into the caves. Into the earth her self, he plunged his soaring mind, into the darkness of the tunnels under the ground. He flew through the winding caverns and was suddenly upon the enemy, into the very nest of the invaders. It was hidden deep in the earth, but was it of the earth? The question was startling. What were they? He could not see, or perhaps, he chided himself as he tried harder, he did not want to. As King of Mirkwood, and as an Elf, he was connected to all living things of the earth and especially of his realm. Yet he could not connect to this, whatever it was.
Legolas opened his eyes in chagrin. He should be able to see this thing. Had he gone soft, sitting on the throne these mere five years? He was a fearless warrior, who had battled with countless foes. Orcs, trolls, balrogs, dark wizards, spiders, …he was no stranger to the evil denizens of Middle Earth. Why then should he be unwilling to see the face of yet another foe?
His meditation was brought to a sudden halt by the commotion of a small crowd of Elves in the entrance hall to the palace. A blond Elf came running into the King’s private chambers in unaccustomed haste.
“My Liege!”
Legolas turned at once to the distressed page. “What is it, Seleth?”
“You must come at once! Two of our hunters…dead!”
Legolas ran down the corridor, following the page, into the great hall. Healers were standing over the two mutilated bodies, expressions of stunned horror on their faces. As Legolas drew near, he slammed to a halt. The two bloodied bodies were of the northern patrol border guards. But it was not merely the sadness of their loss that rendered all speechless. It was the condition of the bodies. The bloody corpses were frozen into a paroxysm of agony, arms raised about their heads in terror. Their chests had been opened and their ribs broken and exposed through the gaping holes. Their hearts and internal organs were gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn watched the messengers depart, feeling nervous and anxious now that he had made the decision to communicate with the King of Mirkwood. His message was a diplomatic one on the surface. News of a possible concern in the Green Wood had reached Gondor and as ally and friend to the Elves, the White City stood by to assist in any way necessary. But this was not the cause of Aragorn’s nervousness. For hidden in with the official letter was a more personal one, written in Aragorn’s own hand, for the eyes of the King alone. If Aragorn had not piled the evidence of his many dozens of false attempts into the fire, one might have been tempted to assume that the normally decisive King was suffering from some malady of the nerves.
A forlorn sigh escaped his lips, without conscious volition. Legolas. His heart constricted painfully at the thought of the Elf. He closed his eyes against the memories that threatened to well up again. Forcing back hot tears, he opened his eyes and searched the silent darkening skies.
“You are restless again, my King.”
Aragorn clenched the cold stone balustrade with his hands. He did not turn around. “Nay, I merely find it peaceful up here.”
“Are you sure that is what brings you here?” Cold white hands touched his shoulders from behind. His jaw tightened.
“Yes.” He could not go on with this, his mind intoned. As a Ranger he had ever been an honest man. Now as a King, he was forced to assume a dishonesty, one that his entire existence was predicated on, and it ate at his soul a little more each day.
“Very well.” The hands left him, and the voice was a study in neutrality
The rustling of her gowns told him he was alone again. He breathed a sigh of relief and his eyes turned again toward Mirkwood. The vision of his wedding day reared up again in his mind’s eye like a recurrent nightmare. He closed his eyes against it but still it came.
Gone was the Archer, clad always in the simple greens of a tracker. Instead, the Prince of Mirkwood, swathed in shimmering silvers and misty blues, walked in stately radiance, stunning the crowd of spectators. Stunning, indeed, thought the would-be King, when Aragorn had laid eyes on his long time friend and recent lover. The Elf was a vision of ephemeral loveliness that outstripped even the famed beauty of the Evenstar on her wedding day.
“I love you,” he had told the Elf, beseechingly, after the wedding. But what had he expected? Did he really think this Prince would remain, hidden away, as a concubine to a mortal King?
‘Nay, do not speak those words to me. You have made your choice.’ The blue eyes were striking in their rage. The hurt in the sapphire pools was like a poisonous dart that had embedded itself into his heart.
‘Please, melethron, I beg you to understand. Only duty makes me do this!’ But Aragorn had averted his eyes from the searching cobalt orbs.
The sizzling gaze burned into him and he could see what was written in its bitter depths:
“Liar.”
He was a liar. Aragorn knew it was more than duty that compelled him. It was fear: his fear of failure, his fear of disappointment. His entire life had pointed him in this one direction. To become King of Gondor and fulfill a prophecy that would make right the wrongs of his ancestors.
When love bloomed in his heart for the beautiful young Prince of Mirkwood everything in him, his entire body, vibrated to a song of irrepressible love and passion. But his mind rebelled. This love was not part of the script laid down for him. It was a forbidden love, and an unforeseen one. Surely, the Evenstar was the one that was meant to join with him according to prophecy and thus complete the last chapter of the saga. So he had been led to believe. From the time of his youth, he had thought on her pure chaste beauty and dreamed of the day he would claim his prize. He would be King of the White City and the Evenstar would be his Queen. Together they would heal the rift between Men and Elves through their union and provide an heir for Gondor. The line of Isildur would finally be redeemed.
Why then could the Ranger not keep his mind off the Prince of Mirkwood? During the quest, the Elf began to invade his dreams and haunt his days. As the quest progressed and the Archer fought unswervingly by his side, Aragorn could not hold back the wild passion that flared within him for the fair golden Elf. Then it had happened. At Helms Deep, they had argued for the first time. Aragorn had stormed off, partly from anger and partly from the overwhelming torment that the heightened emotions evoked to want to clutch the shining Elven warrior to him and take him right there on the stone floor, in front of everyone. And so it had almost happened, when the Elf came to him later to apologize. Aragorn accepted the sword, offered soundlessly, in a gesture of peace between them. The Elf looked up, perplexed when the sword clanged loudly to the floor. The blue eyes widened as the Man’s arms came around him and lips pressed against his. Without a word, Aragorn had dragged the Elf into a deserted corner of the fortress and made love to him in a hot tempest of need.
It was not to be the last such encounter. His desire for the Mirkwood Elf grew almost beyond tolerance. Stolen embraces in the night fueled his passion for the glorious Archer. The days blended together and death hounded their every step. In a haze of adrenaline, the Man clung to the beautiful Elf through what became one long day of fighting and one long night of passion.
And then, suddenly, the War of the Ring was over. He had claimed the Archer then, on the highest ramparts of the Castle, overlooking the White City. Never had Aragorn known such exhilaration. But it was doomed to be short lived. Joy had turned to cold dread with the arrival of the Elves.
The future King was swept up in the whirlwind of activity in preparation for his coronation. And the Evenstar who was supposed to have left for Valinor materialized. Aragorn longed to scream out his refusal. But before the eyes of Elrond and Mithrandir, before the entire host of the Elves and the people of Gondor, he could not do it. All their expectations rested on him. He was to be the leader of the world of Men. Yet, in the very designing of this role he was but a puppet whose strings rested in the remote hands of those older and wiser. His fate was sealed. Or so he thought.
And thus it was that the Prince of Mirkwood left the White City on that very day, the day of the King’s coronation and wedding. He returned to the Woodland realm, and agreed finally to take his place as the chosen Sovereign of the Green Wood when Thranduil announced he would sail to the Gray Havens. Five treacherously long years had passed and Aragorn had not seen nor heard from his passionate Elven lover.
The wind bore a chill, but the King of Gondor took no notice. Aragorn bowed his head as the memories played over, again, in his mind. It had been the worst mistake of his life, he reflected for the millionth time. Looking back at all the paths he could have taken, he realized, that by taking the one most expected of him, he had lost himself and any hope for lasting happiness. It was probably the reason why he and Arwen had not been able to conceive a child. He was trapped in a life he did not want. And he was miserable.
He had confided in no one save his counselor and friend, Faramir. Surprisingly, the son of Denethor, had an unorthodox and unexpected piece of advice for his King. “Divorce her,” he had said, “and go find the Elf you truly love and marry him.”
Aragorn had gaped in astonishment at his notoriously conservative court advisor. But Faramir had merely shrugged with a good-natured smile. “You are a good man and deserve happiness,” he had said simply.
“What of Gondor, my friend?” he had asked, believing his counselor was having fun with him.
But the wise young Gondorian responded in a serious tone. “My Liege, this city has lived through many evils. You are loved among the people. You have brought prosperity to the land. Gondor could handle a male Elf Consort if he made the King happy.” Faramir drew closer in a conspiratorial fashion and added, “And, your Highness, if you will forgive me for saying so, you’ve been a miserable son of a bitch ever since your fair Prince left the White City.”
Coming back to himself, Aragorn smiled at the remembered conversation. The sky was darkening and the wind was cold. Making a sudden decision, he turned on his heel and strode down the stone steps towards his throne room.
“Summon Lord Faramir,” he told one of his attendants, “I wish to send a messenger to Mirkwood.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Galadriel gazed into her mirror but could not understand what it was she saw. It was dark, in the depths of the cave. Nothing seemed to stir within. A small movement in the shadows caught her attention. Directing her will to look closer, she sighed. It was but a small woodland creature. But what was it doing in a place that it did not usually inhabit?
It swayed as if drunk. The hapless creature stumbled foreword to collapse by a large pulsating mound. As she leaned closer to the water, the petals of the flower like opening of the mound peeled back to reveal a simmering white gel like interior. She leaned over her mirror, her long blond hair hung into the water as she leaned in for a closer look. The tentacle that had lurked under the surface of the steamy white membrane broke through its diaphanous covering and leapt with unexpected speed. It coiled around her throat, constricting like a snake, cutting off her air passage. Her mouth gaped open to gasp for breath, and the smothering cloying wetness covered her nose and mouth, she gasped, screaming as the skeletal fingers wrapped around her head and the long tube was inserted into her throat….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hunters did not tend to come this far north since the dark woods were far more dangerous in the colder, darker regions. But the trees had been disquieted for weeks now, almost inconsolably it seemed, and finally the silvan archers were sent out on increased patrols to find the cause of the forest’s anxiety. Patrols now canvassed every inch of the Elvan Kingdom but as yet none had come back with an answer. But a weariness passed in the looks of the Elves. The trees spoke of an evil unlike anything ever before felt. It was in the far north where they found the first of the mutilated carcasses: a wolf, a deer, some smaller forests rodents. The Elves followed the trail of bodies not noticing the flowery aroma that came up from the ground. It dulled their anxiety and drew them deeper, over the edge of the ravine, into the waiting arms of darkness below.
Legolas stared out of the arched veranda, which opened to the forest floor below through hidden doors and stairs. He closed his eyes and listened to the songs in the trees. The northern border patrol had been missing for two days. A second group of Elves had been sent out to search for the missing warriors. Legolas listened to the trees, hoping to learn of the fates of his people. A profound disquiet was whispered among the leafy citizens of his Realm. It had been this way for several weeks now. The trees rustled in anxiety and in warning. To the King of Mirkwood they spoke the loudest. Today he listened to their song and was most distressed, for the trees spoke of invasion.
Startled, Legolas opened his eyes. Someone wanted to invade Mirkwood? It was absurd. What people could think it possible to even approach the Great Green Wood without incurring the wrath of the Elves. Indeed it was incomprehensible. The final great War for the Ring was over. Sauron was dead and all his forces at this point defeated. What evil could exist that would pose a danger to Mirkwood? From where? And why?
He listened with eyes closed in concentration. The trees spoke of hunger, and an innate desire to rampage and to conquer. He could almost feel it himself as he let his latent Elven abilities stretch forth from their slumber. He soared into the wind, and past the restless Mallorns, into the darker northern regions. He flew deeper into the dark woods there, down the treacherously steep ravines and into the caves. Into the earth her self, he plunged his soaring mind, into the darkness of the tunnels under the ground. He flew through the winding caverns and was suddenly upon the enemy, into the very nest of the invaders. It was hidden deep in the earth, but was it of the earth? The question was startling. What were they? He could not see, or perhaps, he chided himself as he tried harder, he did not want to. As King of Mirkwood, and as an Elf, he was connected to all living things of the earth and especially of his realm. Yet he could not connect to this, whatever it was.
Legolas opened his eyes in chagrin. He should be able to see this thing. Had he gone soft, sitting on the throne these mere five years? He was a fearless warrior, who had battled with countless foes. Orcs, trolls, balrogs, dark wizards, spiders, …he was no stranger to the evil denizens of Middle Earth. Why then should he be unwilling to see the face of yet another foe?
His meditation was brought to a sudden halt by the commotion of a small crowd of Elves in the entrance hall to the palace. A blond Elf came running into the King’s private chambers in unaccustomed haste.
“My Liege!”
Legolas turned at once to the distressed page. “What is it, Seleth?”
“You must come at once! Two of our hunters…dead!”
Legolas ran down the corridor, following the page, into the great hall. Healers were standing over the two mutilated bodies, expressions of stunned horror on their faces. As Legolas drew near, he slammed to a halt. The two bloodied bodies were of the northern patrol border guards. But it was not merely the sadness of their loss that rendered all speechless. It was the condition of the bodies. The bloody corpses were frozen into a paroxysm of agony, arms raised about their heads in terror. Their chests had been opened and their ribs broken and exposed through the gaping holes. Their hearts and internal organs were gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn watched the messengers depart, feeling nervous and anxious now that he had made the decision to communicate with the King of Mirkwood. His message was a diplomatic one on the surface. News of a possible concern in the Green Wood had reached Gondor and as ally and friend to the Elves, the White City stood by to assist in any way necessary. But this was not the cause of Aragorn’s nervousness. For hidden in with the official letter was a more personal one, written in Aragorn’s own hand, for the eyes of the King alone. If Aragorn had not piled the evidence of his many dozens of false attempts into the fire, one might have been tempted to assume that the normally decisive King was suffering from some malady of the nerves.
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