Unlikely Rescue

Chapter 22 - An Old Enemy

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The rain ran in rivers through the wind-flattened grass and streaked like shooting stars through the darkened sky. The moon's soft glow was smothered by banks of black cloud, swirling and writhing constantly, but never once letting through a single beam of moonlight or the glimmer of one tiny star.

All was dark below. Dark, but not silent. The wind screamed, its agonised screech echoing through the trees and whipping up clouds of hammering rain before dropping them back to the ground with a hideous sound of drumming droplets drenching the world.

The trees clung to the earth, their age-old roots loosening, and some coming free from their ancient grip upon the earth as they were toppled, falling out of sight and causing a small earthquake with each falling giant. Young trees bent to the ground, leafy crowns pressing against the grass in a prayer to the Valar, begging them to stop the devastating onslaught.

Spiders clung to their webs as the delicate silk structures billowed in the wind, and the storm sent any creature caught in its path to a dark, wet and stormy grave.

The world was drowning, drowning in the flooding air.

Unfortunately for Legolas, he was one of those creatures. Caught in the torrential rain with no shelter and no real experience of the outside world, he ran, ran with nothing but the comforting whispers of the trees to guide him. And yet with those whispers came hideous screams and moans as the ancient sentries of the forest were toppled like matchsticks in the fierce gale.

And yet- he was glad for the wind. It was a reminder that he was free, and outside, albeit wet, cold and filthy. His fall into the river had, at least, and for perhaps one of the first times in his life, revealed his true hair colour.

Although still greyed and dirty from the years of imprisonment, his hair was finally clean enough to be seen. And not only had he never washed his hair, but he had never cut it.

Long, golden locks flew across his face, whipping his cheeks in a flurry of gold, as the wind's fingers snatched at the trailing strands, working free the knots and tangles.

It was completely unknown to Legolas that nature did not look so kindly on all beings of Arda. He didn't know it, but he was different. He was special.

And he was lost.

Wandering aimlessly for days on end with only the food the trees guided him to and a little water from the streams he came across, the elfling began to tire. It had been, he estimated, two weeks since he had run from Rivendell.

Legolas had eaten little since Aragorn was shot. Tinu and Îdhír had been too wrapped up in their worries for Aragorn to feed him, although they had given him water. He had run from Rivendell instantly. That was almost a month with just enough food to survive. Legolas had lasted longer, but that was sitting still, in a cell. In this month, he had travelled further than he had in his entire life, and with such a scarce amount of food, Legolas was slowly starving to death.

He grabbed at a handful of berries, but the whispers in his ears became louder. The trees were warning him.

Sighing, he tossed the berries into the howling gale and pressed on. Just keep moving away from Rivendell. Just keep moving away.

It seemed like the rain had been going for hours. Legolas stumbled over a twisted root, and fell to his knees. Frowning, he picked himself up. After only a few more steps, he fell again. This time, he could no longer find the energy to continue.