Thanks to all who read and reviewed Nightmares! You have no idea how much they meant to me.

For those of you who haven’t read Nightmares… let’s just say it could be beneficial to your understanding of this story.

CONSIDER YOURSELF FOREWARNED! This story will later include torture and maybe even character death.

Well… what else can I say. I can never think of anything good here and then I get a bunch of stuff I forgot two chapters later.

Well, read on!

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The oppressive smells of blood and smoke lingered in the air, churning his stomach and only sickening him more. The scent of smoke was all too familiar, but it was the blood he was unaccustomed to, even as a soldier. It smelled of iron and copper with some form of bittersweet tang, similar to the scent of rotten fruit.

It was ten years to the day of the cave. Yes, that was how he perceived it now. In that simple decade, it seemed as though the very ground he’d walked on loathed him. He wished for solitude but could not find it, practiced more on the training grounds than he deemed necessary, and was now on patrol in the South to investigate a ‘disturbance,’ in one city. That city in question was Aodhain, an old post used for stakeout at Mordor. It was an ideal place for said operation because of its convenient location near the region’s walls. The city itself was old, made of stone and heavily fortified. It had fallen out of use after the War of the Ring, thus was inhabited by the Elves who were driven out of their homes. Aodhain had turned into a quiet city that Mirkwood kept on eye on just to say they kept an eye on it.

But nothing is forever. A rider had galloped into the capital just weeks before, bearing a letter from the small encampment’s leader. “Bring the army,” it read. “Something’s not right. We can smell it in the air.” And here they were, two weeks later, camped just inside the gate, complete with tents and small campfires. And he knew they were right. Something did linger in the air, other than the smells of blood and smoke. It was fear. The city reeked of it. And he knew that whoever was stalking them knew it, too.

Legolas was caught off guard when another figure halted his steed next to Legolas’ own. The man was tall and proud, with a nobly uplifted head. He was dressed from head to toe in fine metals and rich reds, weighted down by a supply of light weaponry.

He smiled at Legolas weakly. “What see you?”

Legolas turned to face the Man. He was growing more and more annoyed by the second as the wind whipped strands of almost snow-white hair into his face. “Nothing, Aragorn. The invaders have passed beyond my sight.”

He didn’t want to tell his best friend that he could still see the intruders, that he could even make out a rough frame of them. Give him a piece of charcoal and paper, and you’d have a rough sketch of one in merely seconds, so close they were. But however Elven-trained Aragorn’s senses were, they were still limited to the boundaries set by a man’s buildup. He was in no place to contradict his friend’s judgment, seeing as how he couldn’t get a glimpse of these creatures himself.

Aragorn allowed a curt nod as his soldiers sidled up behind him, mounted on fine white horses. They all dipped their heads to acknowledge the royalty before them, then drew swords and clustered up a bit closer around the King. Aragorn continued to calmly survey the city from the plain before it, eyes straining to see the barren land behind it that was Mordor.

“I know when you’re lying, Legolas.”

Said elf’s head turned to accommodate his friend’s statement. Better to surrender than fight it out with Aragorn, who had a good hold on his conscience. “You caught me,” Legolas admitted, face red from the chilled wind and shame.

Aragorn straightened his posture and glimmered with pride. “It would seem I did. How far are they?” Legolas chewed his cheek and pondered, eyes focusing on the forest just to the left of the fortress.

“Three days ahead of the best riders,” Legolas announced evenly, turning to fix Aragorn with his pale slate-blue eyes, narrowed against the wind that whipped his hair. Aragorn huddled into his crimson cloak for warmth, visibly shivering. His circle of about five men closed in tighter to warm their leader, hoping that their body heat would radiate onto him. Aragorn smiled his thanks and allowed them to stay close, eyes locked on Legolas’.

“Shall I send out riders?” Aragorn asked. He knew that Legolas’ judgment of battle maneuvers was much better than his, thus Legolas made most of the decisions. The Elf had seen numerous battles in his millennia; therefore it made better sense for him to call the shots.

Legolas’ eyes were fixed on the forest. They didn’t move as he responded, “No. They would never catch up.”

Aragorn nodded and pulled on his steed’s reins as it began to buck. Legolas reached out a fair hand to stroke the horse’s flank, whispering quietly. The horse immediately settled, a flushed Aragorn struggling back into the saddle from his spot on the horse’s rear. Legolas chuckled and continued to stroke the horse until Aragorn had regained his position, then removed his hand.

“Get back into the city, Aragorn. You’ll catch your death out here,” Legolas protested. Aragorn turned to fix his silver eyes on Legolas’, which flashed dangerously. He truly did believe that the Elf’s eyes changed color according to his mood. When he was angry, they flashed silver, when content, ocean blue, and when ecstatic, electric blue. But the shade he found most often was a pale, icy blue. Neutral. Blank. Empty.

Aragorn nodded, not in the mood to protest against his friend. He spurred his horse and galloped back into the city, his escort following close behind.

Legolas peered carefully into the woods. Yes, he could see them. His mind wasn’t prepared to come to terms with the grotesque, deformed creatures that scampered between the trees. The ground their feet trampled over was dishonored with their footprints until a heavy rain washed them out of the mud. He’d thought they’d died out about fifteen years ago.

Apparently, he was wrong.