POSTING SPREE! Right, everyone: here is where we find out whether he is alive or not Â… he he he *brushes hair back from her face to conceal the horns*. Well, have fun reading this; as always, many gracious thanks to my reviewers and readers alike: without you there would be no Equi- OKI, enough of that, on with the story!

Yep, definite posting spree going on here – profuse apologies for the slowness of these chapters – our internet broke, so I had to wait ages before I could get online…

Anyway, here’s #16, ready for you all. As always, please read it review it and ENJOY IT – if that is possible with this one does he die? Does he live? I know and you don’t, ha ha ha ha ha ha – you’ll just have to read it and find out, won’t you?

Chapter Sixteen – The Strength of Grief

Saruman glared daggers at Thranduil as the Elven King came forward to stand before him, grey eyes filled with a dangerous anger as he surveyed the other with eyes no warmer than a frozen lake.

‘Where is my son, Saruman? Tell me, or the Valar help me, for I shall not be held accountable for my actions.’

Defeated as he was, Saruman laughed – a high, cold sound that chilled even the most hardened out of those present.

‘There will be no point in finding him now, O mighty Thranduil,’ he replied mockingly. ‘There is no sense in the living chasing after the dead.’ He laughed maniacally again at this as the Elven King’s face paled at his words.

One of Thranduil’s balled fists found its way to Saruman’s jaw faster than any had perceived possible, and the King did not even pause to see the wizard clasp at his face as he stormed out of the room, calling his son’s name, Aragorn and Gimli close on his heels.

Gandalf sighed inwardly at the pained desperation in the Elf’s voice. It had not been a King talking with Saruman just now and outside before the battle – it had been a father, throwing aside all that he was for want of his child. The King wanted his son back, but Gandalf felt that he would not get him – alive, at least. He knew what Saruman had become, and what he was capable of, and feared that he did not lie about the fate of yet another member of the Fellowship.

~

Aragorn was hard-pressed to keep up with the stride of the King as he passed through Orthanc, and Gimli found it even harder, having to trot to keep up with Aragorn. Thranduil went with the same brisk pace, paying no heed to the other two, sticking his head into every chamber, kicking down any door that resisted him, still calling feverishly after his only child. This hurt, seeing the King so frantic with worry for his sonÂ’s life, hearing his cries as he thundered through the Tower.

It was during this traversing of the Tower that they stumbled upon Gríma Wormtongue, cowering in a corner beneath a table; indeed, Aragorn would never have guessed that he was there, for there was no sound that he could hear as they entered the study. Quite clearly, Thranduil did, for he crossed the room in a short series of lengthy, purposeful strides, and threw the table aside with a great thrust of his arm. This revealed the snivelling little Man, who whimpered as the front of his shirt was gathered in a steely grip and he was jerked to his feet, his pale eyes – which held such terror as Aragorn had only seen in men going to war – fixed on the slate-grey ones of the King.

‘Where is Legolas?’ This had not been hissed as a question, but more of an if-you-fail-to-offer-a-suitable-response-you-will-die.

‘I – I know not-‘

Gríma’s head slammed against the wall, and he gave a gasp of pain and fear, his feet scrambling uselessly to find the floor to ease his neck – but he found no floor, just air. He had thought that Legolas had strength – but, at that moment in time, he was really beginning to find out exactly how strong angered Elves were, to his great discomfort. Indeed, what Legolas had done had felt like a child feebly hitting a parent compared to what his head and neck were now experiencing.

‘There are lies in your eyes,’ spat the King. ‘You know of whom I speak, I see it in your face. I ask again: where is Legolas?’

Gríma blinked to try and get a greasy strand of hair from his eyes before replying: ‘He’s in the dungeons.’

His body was thrown to the stone floor by the King, and he tried to scramble away – but Gimli, who had remained ready should his opportunity arise, slammed a foot down onto the Man’s cloak before he could get anywhere. Gríma immediately turned over onto his back, like a wolf offering submission to a stronger animal that it had foolishly challenged, belly up.

‘Please,’ he sobbed, ‘show me mercy! It was the wizard that made me do it, I swear!’

‘Do?’ Thranduil’s voice was of deadly quiet. ‘Do what?’

Gríma instantly realised that he had spoken foolishly, and he knew that there was no way out of the situation he had just placed himself in – those storm-grey eyes told him so under no uncertain terms.

‘He wanted him to be broken-‘ His voice cut out at the growing glow in the KingÂ’s face.

‘And?’ Thranduil bent over the quaking figure, an intense snarl over his fair face, threat in his stance. Gríma shrieked, covering his face with his arms.

‘-Spiritually. I tried many things, but none of them worked alongside Saruman’s spell, so Saruman said I should give him a letter from one of your lords saying you had died in battle.’

Thranduil’s lips parted slightly in horror, and the fist was lowered slowly to his side. He stepped back, as though Gríma were some kind of highly poisonous snake. His heart felt as though it had stopped beating in his chest and had instead sought to occupy his throat. He knew all too well the connotations of what this could mean for Legolas.

‘And did you know when you said this of what it could do to him?’

Gríma dared to look the King in the eye as he answered the question with a chilling: ‘Yes.’

Gimli’s foot lifted to permit Gríma to find his feet again – though he hardly could for fear of the King, whose sword was now drawn and centred on his stomach.

Aragorn stepped forward, heaving Gríma to his feet. ‘You will lead us to him,’ he said quietly. He needed no threat, and so used none.

‘Move.’

Gríma did as he was bid by the Elf, passing constant glances at Thranduil over his shoulder, not daring to look straight lest he ended up with a blade through his gut.

They followed him closely as he led them through the labyrinth of inter-connected chambers, a system that they never thought existed. They passed through several rooms filled with charts and further maps – there was even a room being used as what appeared to be a temporary armoury. And it was in this ‘armoury’ that Gríma approached a wall instead of a door, and whispered something to it softly. To the astonishment of all watching, a seamless door opened out into the room, permitting entry to a small landing and a narrow flight of spiral stairs, with a globe of some magical form lighting their way with a feeble – yet oddly adequate – glow.

Gríma gave those behind himself a contemptuous glance before he began his decent, closely followed by Thranduil and Gimli – Aragorn had paused briefly to collect a torch from a bracket.

The smell offended Thranduil’s senses as he followed the Man down into this dark hovel. It was the stench of death, only some time after the actual decaying period. He did not understand it, but he felt an almost overwhelming sense of intense misery in this part of the Tower, which, he found, was only thrown away a little by the torch-light; were it not for that, he felt that it would have engulfed him. Lives had been extinguished here, he knew that they had Â… had one of those lives been that of his son?

The stairs ceased after they had gone down some one hundred and fifty of them (one hundred and fifty six, as Gimli had counted), levelling out into a short, dead-ended corridor, out of which three doors were able to open.

The cold was one of the things that hit Aragorn the most – a deathly chill, which he deemed that no Man would survive were he down here for a lengthy period. The smell was not so intense for him as it was for Thranduil, but it was enough to make him wish he could breathe the outside air.

Gríma lead them down to the very end of the corridor to the last door. It was of heavy, solid oak, capable of withstanding the test of time, it appeared. It was probably over a thousand years old, Thranduil reasoned, just before he turned expectantly to Gríma, who stood giving him nervous glances.

‘Are you not going to open it?’

A grin twisted Gríma’s face as he replied: ‘I have not the key.’

The Man stumbled backwards into the wall as Thranduil launched for him. Thranduil would have killed him there and then if Aragorn had not restrained him.

‘No, my Lord! He will pay for it, but not now.’

The King looked into the grave face of the Ranger before he gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to this, shooting Gríma a look that told him that there would be no mercy when he got to him.

He released himself from Aragorn’s grip to inspect the door. The wood, to his surprise, was not quite as strong as he had originally perceived, as a few water-swollen splinters came away into his fingers as he touched it. True, it was an incredibly dense block of wood, but he felt that it would not be able to withstand him and his anger – after all, he had made hardened warriors quake under his wrath. It was time to see if he could have this affect physically.

He turned and ran to the opposite wall – Aragorn and Gimli stood back sharply to get out of the way, confused at why he was running at the solid stone. Was it madness? But Aragorn understood as the King leapt at the stone, his feet out before himself. Thranduil pushed off of the wall with as much force as he could muster, and twisted gracefully in the air, feet towards the oak door. There was a deep boom as they kicked with incredible power against it, and a great deal of mortar and loose stone chippings rained down from the frame.

The King came down to his feet lightly, and fell back as the bits continued to fall. As soon as they had desisted, he resumed his position for another run – only this time he was joined by Aragorn. The Ranger gave the King a grave smile, to which he nodded once with appreciation, and they both followed through the action together.

A considerably larger amount of debris came down this time, and the door shook with the force.

‘Again!’ cried Thranduil, and they did, Man and Elf united in a single cause, bound into a powerful allegiance by the love they held for the one behind the door.

Upon the fifth attempt, the wood caved in, no longer able to bare the brunt of the onslaught that two pairs of feet with a purpose hailed down upon it. It crashed to the stone of the floor some five feet away from where it had originally barred the way, and all four entered, Aragorn holding the torch that he had briefly given to Gimli. But even with the steady glow of the flame not all of the corners were thrown into light, and still maintained their contemptuous shadows which glowered at them with loathing.

What the light did show, however, was who they were looking for, and Thranduil gave an agonised cry at the sight. Legolas lay at the bottom of the wall, still and unmoving, eyes closed.
Thranduil ran to him, a scream of rage escaping his lips as he smote the chains with his mithril sword, causing the links to part as though they were made of candle wax rather than iron. The chain fell over the body of the younger Elf, who did not react to it at all.

Aragorn hung back in the doorway. He could sense that there was something very wrong, and deemed it best to leave the King alone with his best friend, as fear for what was devastatingly possible nestled in his chest like a parasite.

Thranduil scooped his son up in his arms, holding him close. A trembling hand brushed some fine fair strands from his only child’s lifeless, cold face. Such cold, soft skin, broken by shallow cuts, numerous in consistency.

‘Legolas. Legolas, answer me,’ the King pleaded with the still body in his arms. ‘Please come back. Don’t leave me. Don’t you leave me, too.’ His tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he held his only child closely to himself.

Gimli shook his head to himself in bewilderment. ‘But he breaths, Aragorn – I saw his chest rising.’ To the immense surprise of the Dwarf, he saw, as he looked upon the Ranger’s countenance, tears streaming down Aragorn’s face. He frowned in confusion. ‘I do not understand.’

Aragorn turned his eyes down to his friend. ‘It is Elven grief, Gimli,’ he explained, his voice restrained with the pain that twisted his soul. ‘Legolas was told that his father had died. The King and his son were very close, and the news devastated him so much that it will kill him. He will not come back.’

There was a finality to Aragorn’s tone that told Gimli that this was indeed the end. After they had been together for so long, had braved so many different tests of spirit and courage, even cheated Death – in the cases of his companions, anyway – it was hard for him to accept that such little things as words should be the downfall of one he had deemed a mighty warrior. Gimli turned his head back to the King and the body he held so tightly in his grasp, rocking to-and-fro, like a parent trying to get a baby to settle.

‘Come on, Legolas; you are not fated to follow your mother and brother – come back to me. I cannot go on without you.’ Thranduil buried his face into the fair hair of the Prince of Mirkwood, his tears running into it, dampening it.

There was still no response, and the King lifted his head and looked down pleadingly into the face of his one remaining son. His face was of ashen grey, and the lips were chapped from becoming too dry. There was no flinch from the feather-light touch of Thranduil’s fingertips, no gentle sigh as one would expect from one who slept. Nothing – he was just there, no more than that.

‘Legolas – my little Bellas – awaken to me, please.’

~

Something tickled his awareness. Something that sounded so far away, and yet was not quite so. Interesting. But not quite interesting enough. He continued to walk along his path. He did not know where it led to, but he still knew that it was his path. Especially for his use, and his only.

There it was again – that thing that tweaked at his consciousness. It made him turn this time, though all he could see behind him was murky – there were no solid shapes there, nothing was certain. A world of uncertainties and pain and fear that he need not suffer. He had had enough of it, and that was why he was going this way, to join his family. It was incredibly unfair of the world, really, that all four of them should be there – but then he corrected himself. He was not there yet. “You will be soon,” he promised himself. “Soon enough.”

‘Â… Bellas.’ There it was again, and he properly stopped this time to gaze into the shadows. He knew that word and what it implied. He had always hated it when his father had used it on him. It had been used on him since he was an Elfling – especially when he had been an Elfling – after his brother and mother had passed to where he was heading to now. His father would use it in jest, knowing full well that he resented it. The fact was it came from behind him in the shade rather than from the lighter area. Why would his father call to him from behind? Surely it was this way that he had to go? But then he though that, perhaps, he was going the wrong wayÂ…

Legolas gave what he had originally thought to be the right direction an unsure glance, just as his father called to him again. It was definitely coming from the shadows, filled with desperation and pain. That he could not understand – were not the Halls of Mandos supposed to be places of purest bliss? Why would his father be experiencing distress? If his father was indeed in trouble -as it sounded to him – then Legolas had to go and aid him.

He rotated his body now, and, breathing quite deeply, he allowed his feet to carry him back into the night, permitting the cold cloak to be weighed about his shouldersÂ…

~

His eyes opened reluctantly, and he found himself gazing with glazed sight at his father’s face. There were tears gleaming in the poor light, though Thranduil’s eyes were closed. He looked absolutely devastated, which was what Legolas could not understand at all – he was here, was he not?

‘My little Bellas,’ the King muttered, his voice choking with tears.

‘Please don’t call me that, Adar.’

Thranduil started, which was something that Legolas knew to be very difficult to achieve with his father. That installed a small amount of triumph into his features.

The King looked down into his son’s bleary eyes – something that he had thought he would never be able to do ever again, and his tears came all the more for pure relief. His only child was not dead; but he did look incredibly confused as he said in a quiet, tired-sounding voice: ‘Are these the Halls, Adar? I feel that I have been here before, and there are no light memories that I can fit to this place.’

Thranduil smiled as he replied: ‘No, Legolas, these are not the Halls of Mandos.’

‘But then that means – that you-‘

Legolas did not complete his sentence as he threw his good arm about his father’s neck, crying openly into the King’s shoulder, and this action was rewarded by Thranduil returning the gesture, all of his worry and pain and fear and, ultimately, sheer joy, shredding itself from his heart in the form of tears. Father and son reunited at last.

Legolas at last drew away, staring at ThranduilÂ’s beaming face, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

‘But Lord Daerahil said that you had been killed in battle – in that letterÂ…’

‘No, son,’ replied the King, shaking his head slowly, his face fixed with anger. ‘It was a forgery.’

‘A forg-‘ Legolas stopped his words, turning his fair head towards the wall where Gríma crouched, and his face contorted with pure rage, teeth bared in a terrible snarl. He sprang to his feet – to Thranduil’s shock – just as agile as before; it was hard to tell that he had bordered on the verge of death just a few seconds before.

Legolas stooped and grasped his father’s sword from the dirty floor. “Interesting,” he thought, “how this weapon which has been crafted to fit my fathersÂ’ hand exactly sits so comfortably in my own.” But it was a fleeting thought, little more, and his boots sounded heavily on the floor as he crossed it with a determined stride.

Gríma’s jaw dropped in terror. The Elf was coming for him, he could see that plainly enough, and there was murder in his eyes. Gríma turned his own upwards imploringly at the man Aragorn, who stood besides him. But there was no sympathy, no warm kindness in those deep grey orifices into the man’s soul. He looked with no compassion at Gríma. Perhaps, he realised, he had pushed Aragorn son of Arathorn too far when he had caused such harm to his best friend.

And so he scuttled up and ran out of the door, surprisingly fast for one of such a meagre frame. Legolas took flight after him. There was no hope of him letting Wormtongue go, not after what he had gone through because of him, and this was what powered him, giving energy where it had been deprived of through lack of food and water, forcing muscles that had been cramped up to work against their will. They worked very well, he found, for muscles that had become stiff through too little exercise. But that did not matter, for they worked under the sheer force of his emotion, whether they complained against it or no.

Gríma propelled himself up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. By the Gods, he was going to die if the Elf caught up with him, he was sure of it, and he knew that that was almost a certainty. He had seen the Elf run, but that had only been for a second and in the dark; he had heard that they were immensely fleet of foot, which was something that he fervently wished was a piece of inaccurate information.

He was out of the dark and into Saruman’s temporary armoury, and already he could hear the footfalls of the Elf, coming horribly closer at a rate that he did not care for. And so he flew from that chamber, and into the next, then the next. He briefly contemplated hiding – but deemed that a foolish notion: if the Elf that was so hot on his trail was anything like his father, then hiding would simply be another form of suicide.

Legolas took the stairs three at a time. He was going to get him, like a sporting dog after a rat. Well, by the Valar, this rat had squeaked its lastÂ…

He hared through the building until he reached the main chamber, into which he burst to see an assembly of people, all of whom turned their gaze to him, all wearing expressions of vague surprise. But Gríma did not stop, the idea of heading out of the furthest door which lead to the outside world in his mind. He could no longer hear the Elf behind him, and thought that, with some incredible streak of luck, he had lost him, and so he continued towards the door, not slowing. He reached out his hands to fling it open…

He never expected the pair of feet that delivered such a powerful kick to his side that he was propelled across the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

Legolas had thrust one of the numerous side doors open, knowing perfectly well that Wormtongue was going to attempt to get out of the Tower. Interesting, really, how he managed to gauge so accurately as his feet connected with the Man’s rib cage. He landed gracefully, and then practically threw himself at the Man, who had tried – and failed – to get away by scrambling. The sword blade was pressed against the pail skin of the throat, Legolas’ teeth bared in an angry snarl. He was going to kill him, by the Valar he was going to kill the conniving ba-

‘Legolas?’ That had been the voice of one of the Hobbits – he had not noticed that they were here. ‘Legolas, what are you doing?’

He lifted his head at this, the snarl no longer masking his face. His blue eyes fixed with those of Pippin, then Merry, and his brow furrowed slightly. They were both looking at him, shock and confusion in their faces. He also took in the others: the two wizards, Éomer with some of his men, and a small section of the Mirkwoodian army. They appeared simply happy that their Prince was alive, no matter whose throat he held a blade to – but it was the faces of the Hobbits that made him look at Gríma Wormtongue again. He blinked once and immediately rose from his position, taking the sword with him, though it left a crimson line across Gríma’s jugular – though the Man had a lot to be thankful that a red line was all that he had received.

Thranduil, Aragorn and Gimli erupted into the room, only to halt themselves as they saw Legolas, the sword held loosely at his hip, and the form of Gríma Wormtongue scrambling to the door in order to flee.

‘You will not kill him, ion nin?’

Legolas looked up at his father at these words, and Thranduil was struck by how pallid his son really was. The bruising and cuts stood out all the clearer against his grey skin. “By the Valar, he looks like a corpse!” thought the King.

‘No, Adar: there has been enough bloodshed of late to stain the world ten times over – I shall not add his blood to that red ocean that I see in my mind.’

Gandalf smiled as he watched the dishevelled, dirty and thoroughly beaten Elf in front of them all, a proud twinkle in his eyes which he knew Legolas saw as he briefly passed his own gaze fleetingly over the wizard. He was quietly pleased with Legolas’ mercy; he had not expected it from him, and could not say that he would have been shocked or angry had the life of the poisoned rat been taken, but pleased all the same. “Good lad,” Gandalf thought, his eyes saying it even though his mouth did not. “Very good lad.”

So many faces that he knew in one area! Whence had they all come? Why were they all here? And, what was more, why were they all looking at him as though he were a rock that had sprouted legs and was currently dancing around the floor? Then he thought on the latter for a bit, and realised that his appearance must have altered somewhat since friendly eyes last saw him.

The warriors bowed to their crown Prince affectionately, to which Legolas responded with a bow himself – though it was much shallower than he wished it to be, for there was some pain in his chest that restricted such an action.

‘Mae govennen, my Hobbit Masters.’

Merry and Pippin bowed after their fashion as Legolas turned to them, realising properly for the first time that Legolas held a high title – though he never used it – and suited it. In all of his dishevelled and bloody form, Legolas commanded respect as these warriors bowed so very deeply to him. He was someone clearly loved by these Elves, no matter what state he was in.

‘We were worried about you,’ Merry commented, choosing to break the silence that had befallen the chamber.

‘We thought you’d been fed to a pack of wargs or something-‘

‘-It looks as though you were!’

Legolas chuckled at this. “No,” he thought. “I don’t suppose I look very good at all.”

Had he said that aloud, all in the chamber would have declared it as a gross understatement, and they watched with quiet horror as Legolas made to move to the other end of the room, face paling even further – if possible – than before…

His adrenaline-rush was over and departing from his bloodstream as quickly as it had entered, leaving him and sapping all energy from him. His vision began to blacken and the room swayed, Legolas feeling suddenly vertiginous and highly nauseous as the blood failed to get to his head properly. His legs knotted together, causing him to trip – and he knew nothing more as his mind fleeted away, a songbird finally released from a cage…

Aragorn had sprung forward to grab his friend before he could fall, and the Elf was already unconscious when he gently lowered him to the floor, throwing his own cloak to the stone to soften it a little for his companion, laying Legolas’ head in his lap … he had thought it funny that Legolas had leapt so abruptly from being near death – clearly the adrenaline had worn off and left him in his true weakened state.

‘NO!’ Thranduil shot forward, grasping Legolas by the hand and slapping it vigorously. ‘He cannot be allowed to sleep! It will kill him in a state like this!’

‘Kill him?’ questioned Gimli, forgetting that he was talking to a king. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! How can it possibly kill him?’

‘Because, Master Dwarf,’ Thranduil responded, voice ringing with terseness, ‘He has very nearly passed into the Halls of Mandos, and he has had not a thing to drink or eat for too long – Námo is never happy to let those who come to those mighty gates leave so easily.’

The slapping was not working, and neither did the calls of his name by numerous persons close to him – Gimli had a bash at using jibes in order to insult him back to consciousness, but that failed to work like everything else.

‘I have an idea,’ the Dwarf blurted suddenly, and he drew from his belt a small flask. ‘Try this.’

He handed it over to Aragorn, who gave him a sceptical look as he unscrewed the top.

‘What is it, Gimli?’

‘Don’t ask questions about it, it’s hardly poison – give it to him!’

Thranduil tilted LegolasÂ’ head up a little more, parting the lips to allow whatever it was Gimli had issued them to get to his sonÂ’s mouth. Aragorn tipped the flask slowly, watching LegolasÂ’ face closely for any sign of changeÂ…

A frown flittered across the wan face before the chocking began. Legolas’ eyes snapped open, and he flipped over onto his side, throwing out his good hand to support himself as he coughed up the liquor onto the polished stone, spitting as much out as he could. Thranduil and Aragorn could only smile broadly with relief at each other, while Aragorn gave his friend some support at his shoulders, deeming it unwise to help him cough up the alcohol by slapping his back lest the other had sustained any new injuries there – which seemed highly likely, seeing the bruising on his face.

‘What did – I ever do – to you?Â’ Legolas asked Aragorn hoarsely, gasping to recover his breath after his coughing fit, working his mouth constantly as though such an action would abolish the taste from it.

‘Do not blame me, Legolas – I got it from Gimli.’

Legolas turned his accusing stare to the Dwarf, who was standing with his arms crossed and a haughty expression on his wizened face.

‘What was that, Gimli?’

‘Finest blackberry brandy, of course!’ came the proud response. ‘I found it at the Hornburg. What did you think it tasted like – apple juice?’

‘I thought it tasted like something I’d rather not say.’

Aragorn and Thranduil chuckled at that comment, and Aragorn placed the flask to his own lips to see just how bad it really was. He took one swig before he too spat it out onto the black stone – much to Gimli’s annoyance.

‘Will you two stop wasting my brandy!’

‘Wasting it?’ said Legolas with a raised brow. ‘We are not wasting it at all: we are saving both you and anyone else that has the misfortune of putting it in their mouths from poisoning, that is all.’

‘Does anyone else care to aid us in our quest to save Middle-earth from this abomination?’ Aragorn raised the flask theatrically to the rest of the room, an action which was greeted by laughs from most of the others in the chamber.

‘Give me that,’ Gimli growled as he stepped forward to snatch the flask back with the cap, tucking it into his belt safely away from any marauding hands of either Man or Elf.

Legolas decided that now was as good a time as any to get up, so he began to gather himself, trying to make ready for getting to his feet. He did not physically feel that ready for it, and he could easily have laid back and gone to sleep … but this room – the whole Tower – was oppressing him: all he was able to see were the colossal black walls of stone, penning him in, sucking in his hopes and igniting his fear of closed spaces, which was now heightened after his duration in the dungeons. He felt as though the walls were closing in on him, crushing him…

He found his feet sharply, so quickly that his head swam again – but he ignored it, shooting for the exiting door, throwing it open in his desperation to get out. He practically flew through the short corridor and out into the open.

It was raining, yet the sun had found a window in the clouds through which to send her blessing to the earth. Rain and sun, both soaking him. He stopped a sizable few feet from the Tower, face turned upwards to welcome the pelt of the cold drops and the cleansing rays on his skin. He could feel the filth being washed off of his skin. It gave his heart a reason to beat properly, replenishing his soul like water over near-parched grass, fresh air filling his lungs, sweet honey eliminating the bitterness of captivity.