SS6

         Aragorn came at last to Isenguard. The old wizard was waiting patiently for him.
         "You did not bring the elf." He said quietly.
         Aragorn said nothing. He had come across a band of Fearies, and he knew they would protect his elvin friend. He saw no need to endanger Legolas any more.
         "I came only to get what is rightfully his."
         "And how do you propose to do that?" A smile spread across his face.
         "Tell me, how can I kill you?"
         "With no sword you posess." He tossed something at the Ranger suddenly. Aragorn deftly caught it, realizing it was his sword.
         "I challange you," the wizard said quietly, "to a duel. For the elf's life."

         Legolas awoke from a nudge in his already aching ribs. "What?" he whispered.
         "Shh," Silvaha hissed. "Orcs are raiding our camp. Looking for an elf, they say. They are Mordor's orcs. We are being pursued by Moria's orcs. That's two bands of orcs to protect yourself from. Get up, my Lord. Rise, and flee from this place!"
         Legolas was confused, and slightly panicked. "Nay, I have not the strength, nor do I know the way to Mirkwood."
         "You must leave! They will find you and kill you."
         "Come with me! I beg you!"
         Silvaha looked at the elf with pity in her eyes. "Alas, my Lord. I cannot leave my people."
         Suddenly, a shrill scream pierced the air.
         The faery looked around anxiously. "They draw near and their anger grows. They can smell you."
         "I will pay you whatever you desire if you only lead me to Mirkwood."
         The faery was silent for a moment, and Legolas could sense her contemplating the offer.
         "You really do need me, don't you?"
         "I do."
         "Alright, come on. We must go."
         She reached out her hand to help Legolas stand. She felt pity towards the elf, the only reason she was really helping him.
         "You will be repaid, I promise you." Legolas whispered as they began their way out of the small camp.

         "My Lord," a royal guard approched King Thranduil, and bowed low.
         "Yes?"
         "We think your son has entered Mirkwood."
         "What?" The king said, rising to his feet in surprise.
         "Some of the guards spotted an elf in the presense of a faery. A broken faery."
         "When?" The King was more confused as the tale went on.
         "Just this morning. We sent guards out to meet them, but we have heard no news of them yet."
         "My son. Back after all this time? Has the quest been completed then?"
         "Nay, sir."
         "A broken feary did you say?"
         The guard nodded. "Her wings were torn."
         "Then we must wait for the guards, and provide anything for these two."

         Legolas fought with all his strength to keep moving.
         "We're in Mirkwood, my Lord. Hold on."
         Legolas could make no reply, for his throat was dry, and he had barely enough air left to breathe. If it was possible, his vision grew more obscured, his steps harder to make. He felt dizzy, and suddenly, he was uncontious.
         The faery was caught offguard when her elven companion fell to the ground.
         "My Lord!" She fell to her knees next to him. "Rise, sir!"
         There was no movement from the elf. If she had not known better, she would have taken him for dead.
         For several hours she stayed by the fallen elf's side. Instinct told her to run, to get help, but her reason told her she should stay. If she left, she would leave a creature defenseless in the woods.
         And so she stayed, ready to protect him. The sun began to set, and Silvaha began to worry. She wasn't used to the woods of Mirkwood, and strange noises echoed around her, seemingly growing ever closer.

         Someone was calling his name. He could feel it more than hear it, for Legolas was deep in a painless sleep. The voice was calling him out of his sleep, but he fought it. The voice kept calling, and soon, all of Legolas's concentration was bent on ignoring it. It brought him to reality again, and his eyes flew open.
         It didn't surprise him that he couldn't see his surroundings, but he could hear quite plainly. Two men... two elves, were talking about him, keeping their voices hushed.
         "He was with a slave, that's the part of his tale I am most eager to hear."
         "Ai, me as well,"
         'A slave?' Legolas thought. He was with no slave. Only a faery. Suddenly he thought about Silvaha.
         "Silvaha! Where is she?" He said, sitting up.
         There was silence for only a split second, until the two elves acknowledged him.
         "He awakes! Get the king!" One of them hissed.
         "Where is she?" Legolas repeated.
         "I know naught of what you ask me, my Lord," the remaining elf replied. "But of a faery we found in your company."
         "That's her, where is she?"
         "She is in the healing room, but she is alright."
         "Where am I?" the prince asked cautiously, wondering if he wanted to know the answer.
         Silence again followed his question, but only for a moment.
         "You are in Mirkwood, my Lord. In your own room. Do you not recognize it?"
         "Nay, I can't see it," the elf muttered. His frustration began to return to him.
         Neither elf spoke, Legolas from anger, the guard from confusion.
         Minutes later, Legolas heard the door to his room fly open.
         "Legolas! My son!"
         "Father?" He asked incrediously.
         "Ai, tell me, how are you? Where have you been? Is the quest complete?"
         "Nay," Legolas said, glad to hear the familiar sound of his father's voice. "The quest is not complete, and I fear it shall never be. I... I have been to Mordor and back."
         "He can't see a thing, My Lord," the guard said. Legolas winced. He hadn't wanted his father to know this. He remembered the promise he had made to Silvaha at the beginning of their journey, to tell hsi father of his handicap, but he had not planned to keep it. Now his father was going to question him of everything he did not want to answer, everything he did not want to remember.
         "Is this true, my son?"
         "It is."
         "Tell me your tale, for I am listening."
         Legolas wanted to cry, from weakness, weariness, pain, failure, and humiliation. He took a deep breath that pained him, and began his tale for the third time.
         His father listened patiently until his son's story was finished. Calmly, although he was quite panicked, he prompted his son for more.
         "Do you know with whom you came here? You mention her in your tale, yet briefly."
         "Yes. I came with a faery, Silvaha of the southern woods."
         "That is only partially true, my son. You came with Silvaha, a slave of the orcs of Moria. She is no longer a faery, just as you are no longer an elf."
         "I do not understand,"
         "Her wings are torn, my child. Your soul has been stolen."
         Legolas did not speak. His father watched as a silent tear ran down his son's face.
        Legolas was being tormented by guilty thoughts. He had thought the faery had power, the only reason he insisted she come with him. If he had known she was as helpless as he, he would have left her with her family, kept her away from danger. How much pain had he caused her? How much pain had he caused anyone? Aragorn was still missing, though now he was certain that the ranger was fighting for him. Fighting a battle that he had no hope to win.
          Finally, with the absolute simplicity of a child, Legolas said, "I wish I knew why I hurt so much."
         "All greatness, my boy, is achieved by performing outside of your comfort zone."
         His father spoke that phrase with such smoothness that Legolas was calmed slightly.
         Three weeks passed, and still no word from Aragorn was recieved. Legolas kept to himself, mostly. Every so often he would visit Silvaha, until she left Mirkwood. After that, Legolas was completely alone, and the feeling overwhelmed him.

         King Thranduil sat in the Great Hall, watching the world below his window. His memory reminded him of how Legolas used to be down there, firing arrows, riding horses, wishing to be somewhere else.
         He sighed. Legolas confined himself to his bedroom more often than not. Neither his sight or his strength had returned to him, though he managed well now.
         "My Lord," a guard broke his train of thoughts.
         "News of Aragorn?" the king asked hopefully.
         "Nay, but of your son."
         "Well, speak then."
         "He grows worse. His temperature is high, and his breathing is laboured. He cannot survive much longer. No longer than another day."