egolas could feel his body dying. The pain in his shoulder had swum into his head like a heavy cloud, pouring a rain of disconnected thoughts into a mind that was already balancing on the edge of consciousness. Voices came to him, cross-sections of memories that seemed to have happened long ago to a wholly different person. Faces flashed before his mind’s eye, and the events of a time long passed entered his drowsy head:

I do not wish to go to Rivendell, ada.

For what reason? Does Lord Elrond fill you with fear, my son?

Nay; but I should not like to bear ill news to his house.

How cowardly your words are! Show some honor of responsibility, Legolas. It is by our people’s fault that Gollum has escaped-

Why then should I be forced to pay for the mistakes of others? Why must I receive the brunt of Lord Elrond’s ire, when I had no-

Hold your impetuous tongue! I shall hear no more of your complaints. Go to Rivendell, Legolas, and may you return a wiser, more patient Elf than the disagreeable son that has left!

‘O ada,’ Legolas spoke softly, ‘rejoice if I should return to you at all.’ Clenching his teeth, he tried once again to stretch as far as he could, toes dangling vainly in the empty air above the table. He hissed when his efforts caused his wrists to slide deeper into the ropes, cutting his flesh. He felt small threads of warmth unravel down the length of his arms, into his sleeves, and knew that it was blood.

So much blood, he thought. Soon it will all drain from me, and then…

Legolas craned his neck back and flexed his numb hands. He could not tolerate another useless attempt to swing himself free, or find something to land upon. The chain from which he hung was too short, and the pendulant motion had already rubbed his wrists to the point of stinging agony.

I am going to die here. It had been too long. Boromir has surely been overtaken by now. The man to whom I sacrificed my grace…

The Elf shut his eyes tight, willing away the tears. He would not weep now. It was too late for tears.

Legolas. Grief and regret will not undo what has been done, and it will not heal Boromir’s wounds. Despairing only deepens the darkness in your heart. Now is the time to hope and have faith. Surely would Boromir appreciate those virtues in the stead of your pardons.

‘What hope do I have now, Haldir?’ he whispered.

I shall never forget your sacrifice, my friend. If I must forsake all memories save one when I pass into the halls of my fathers, it shall be of you.

Legolas shook his head, trying to rid himself of the dream-voices, for their presence meant that he was drawing ever closer to the end of his life.

You are my friend, Legolas, and I love you.

Why did I not reply? Why did I not tell him then?

You are my friend, Legolas, and I love you.

‘Why must I die a fool, when I have already lived my life as one?’ Legolas suddenly kicked his legs into the air, raging against his bonds, ignoring the pain that threatened to swallow him. ‘Why should I be forced to pay for my heart’s mistakes!’

At that moment the heavy wooden door exploded inward with a violent splintering sound. Legolas snapped to attention, fear seizing his heart. Only when the door gave way after the fourth blow, and a tall figure emerged from the shadows, did Legolas truly feel like dying. Only it would be death from overwhelming joy.

Boromir rested his eyes upon the elven prince, and no amount of shadows or the lingering fury in his veins was capable of concealing his horror. ‘Legolas!’ he uttered, darting to the table and sheathing his sword. The Elf was gasping for breath in an attempt to stifle his sobs of relief when Boromir mounted the table and drew his dagger. He wrapped his shield arm tight about Legolas’ waist, and proceeded to hold him steady as he cut through the thick ropes. He swore under his breath, cursing Orcs, cursing Dol Guldur, cursing every foul and evil thing that crawled upon Middle Earth.

Legolas leaned into the man, pressing his face against his shoulder and breathing in his scent. Comfort the likes of which he had never expected to feel again washed over him, and in that moment he came free from the hook, dropping into Boromir’s arms.

For several moments they stood in silence upon the table, embracing one another tightly, both aware of the impossibility of this reunion, unable to believe that—despite all odds, through forests of darkness and prisons of iron—they had survived, and found one another again.

‘Never again will I leave you,’ Legolas murmured, clenching his bloody hands in Boromir’s cloak. ‘Forgive me.’

The man held him very tightly for a few seconds, then he slowly pulled back and, taking Legolas’ dirt-smudged face into his rough hands, held him gently, stroking his thumb across the soft cold cheek. Boromir’s grey-blue eyes seemed to take on a depth that fell far into the core of his soul. ‘Do not ask my forgiveness,’ he said, ‘for there is nothing—nothing—you could do that would ever cause me to evict you from my heart. Mellon.’ He pulled the prince into another embrace, stroking the sooty golden hair with shaking hands. ‘My mellon.’

And for the first time in his long life, Legolas felt himself unworthy of something so precious. Never again, he imagined, would he find another living being so understanding, so forgiving, so tender in his love and fearsome in his passion, as the mortal man who held him now, nor did he wish to believe that any other could compare to him. Such was the ignorance of true and real love, a trait that blinds one from the flaws of their beloved. The Elf could traverse the face of Middle Earth for thousands of years and find none who possessed even half of the honor of Boromir of Gondor. My heart had been right, Legolas thought, before I was even aware of its mortal beat.

Boromir’s voice brought the Elf from his hazy reverie: ‘They have harmed you badly. Let me see your wounds.’

Legolas allowed himself to be lowered into a seated position on the table while Boromir stood before him, studying his torn tunic, weeping shoulder, and raw wrists with darkened eyes and a grim face. ‘Did they…’ He blinked long and swallowed the bitter words, then said haltingly, ‘Did they use you?’

‘No,’ Legolas answered quickly and averted his eyes, unwilling to even allow such awful thoughts into his mind. ‘No, they only mutilated me.’

Boromir strained to withhold his anger, and leaned down to grasp the hem of the crimson tunic he wore beneath his leather jerkin. With his elven blade he began to cut a wide ribbon about the circumference. He halved the torn strip and used each to bind Legolas’ chaffed wrists, and then set about tearing a larger swath to mend the Elf’s shoulder. He worked quickly, with the efficiency of a soldier long accustomed to dressing field wounds during battle. Legolas felt a deep appreciation for such often-overlooked skills.

‘That shall have to do,’ said Boromir urgently, casting a glance toward the door. ‘Come, we must hurry. Can your legs bear you?’

Legolas nodded.

‘Good. Follow me.’ With quiet haste they slipped from the room though the shattered door, then Legolas paused just outside the threshold. Boromir turned to give him a curious glance.

‘I must first do something,’ the Elf muttered, and disappeared inside the room. A few moments later there came several loud crashes, and when Boromir sprang to the door he saw Legolas approaching with a torch in hand. Behind him lay the shattered remains of three barrels once filled with grog. ‘No Elf shall want for death upon that table,’ he said darkly, staring at the icon of torture. ‘I was its last victim.’ And he tossed the burning brand into the room. The grog caught fire with a great flapping sound, like that of a sail filling with wind, and Legolas strode away from the scene. Boromir stared after him with both fear and admiration, for he had never witnessed such vengeful devices from so mild a heart. Legolas possessed a noble disposition and elven temperance, this Boromir knew, but he also held a terrible fierceness that belied his fair face, making him both beautiful and deadly, a wild creature roaming in places where all others feared to tread. And the man felt no shame in admitting that he wished he possessed such traits with the same fervor as the Prince of Mirkwood.

Boromir jogged to the fore and took up Legolas’ hand, leading him along a broad corridor and to a dilapidated staircase that fell into blackness. ‘Mind the bodies,’ he cautioned, kicking aside a dead Orc he had hewn in two from head to chest. ‘And excuse the entrails.’

Legolas grinned despite himself. ‘Do you always leave such a gruesome mess behind you, Captain?’

He could hear the smile in Boromir’s voice as he replied, ‘Only when something of great value is at stake.’

The stairs ended, and from above they could hear the sounds of chaos and disorder. No doubt the Orcs had discovered the blaze and were beginning to battle it; that would buy precious time for Boromir to fulfill his oath. ‘This way,’ he hissed, stealthily pulling Legolas past several halls. Orcs were shouting and running down many of these, though they took no notice of two fair enemies traveling safely within the shadows. ‘In here,’ said Boromir as they came to a broad doorway. It closed behind them and an atmosphere of eerie disquietude settled in the darkness where they stood.

‘What is this place?’ Legolas asked softly, looking at the barred doors that lined the corridor.

‘The prison cells,’ answered Boromir, turning to gaze at the Elf. ‘And what lured you to Dol Guldur.’

The sound of movement behind the doors reached Legolas’ keen ears, and he uttered a wordless oath when he saw the faces that lay beyond the iron bars. ‘No!’ he cried to himself in his own tongue, stricken, stumbling backwards in shock. ‘Why could it not have been an illusion? Such a nightmare cannot be true!’

Boromir immediately went to Galron’s door, and found the Elf waiting for him. ‘Did you find your friend?’ the fair prisoner asked hopefully, and sighed with relief at Boromir’s confirmation. ‘I hope he did not suffer long at their hands.’

‘He suffered,’ the man murmured, ‘yet the reign of blood was ended by his hand. No Elf shall again be tortured in Dol Guldur.’

Legolas appeared behind Boromir, looking anxious and desperate. ‘We must free them, Boromir! We must get them out of here!’

‘I plan to,’ Boromir muttered, studying the reinforced door. ‘I could try breaking the lock.’ He drew his sword. ‘Stand back, Galron!’ The Elf obediently took several steps back.

Boromir’s heavy blade fell uselessly on the door’s lock, sending sparks flying. Galron winced at the tremendous noise, covering his ears as the Captain continued to strike. Legolas laid a hand on his arm and said, ‘Lend me your knife, Boromir.’ The man slipped the blade from his belt and passed it to the Elf, then turned back to try another plan. Swords were obviously worthless here—perhaps brute strength would be more useful. Boromir took an iron bar in each hand and pulled as hard as he could, grunting under the strain. The little window did not give, no matter how hard he tugged and worried. The sudden sound of scraping metal caused Boromir to turn to the prince, who was effectively chipping away at a rusty hinge with the edge of his dagger. With some difficulty Legolas wiggled the bolt loose and plucked it from its hinge. He then without pause set to work on the next.

Boromir stood dumbfounded and imagined himself quite silly for not having thought of such a clever trick. ‘I am glad you are with me, Legolas,’ he said as he busied himself with the hinges of another door, ‘to act wisely when I act foolishly.’

Legolas remained focused on his work and replied, ‘And I am glad you are with me, Boromir, to act bravely when wisdom counts for nothing.’

At last the final bolt fell free and the impenetrable door was heaved open from the opposite fulcrum. Galron stepped from his cell, gazed upon the face of Legolas with surprise, and bowed low in the elven custom. The prince felt his heart crumple with grief at the pathetic-looking Elf before him. ‘Please, do not bow to me,’ he begged. ‘I am not the being I once was.’

‘Nor am I, your highness,’ replied Galron, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. Legolas placed a hand upon his shoulder and said nothing more. Together they turned to the remaining cells.

One by one the doors fell loose, and the freed Elves eagerly set to work on the doors still holding their captive kin, using whatever tools or strength they had. It pained Boromir to see these poor creatures in full: their shorn hair, their thin scarred bodies, their ragged clothes. Some he noticed were missing fingers or an eye, and cruel notches had been carved into their pointed ears. Such images filled him with the desire to see Dol Guldur burn to ashes, yet even that would not be enough to rectify the terrible crimes that had transgressed within these walls. If the earth opened up and swallowed this fortress into a pit of darkness and fire, ruled by beasts more terrible than Balrogs or Wargs, still it would seem too merciful for these wicked fiends.

At last the final door fell open, and the remaining prisoners took their first steps into freedom. Boromir made a quick count: sixteen in all, eighteen counting Legolas and himself. It would take a miracle for them to flee the fortress without notice; however, it was miracles which had taken them this far. Perhaps their fortune would last a little while longer.

‘This way,’ Boromir said, ushering the Elves from the corridor and into the open. ‘Stay together. Legolas, bring up the rear while I clear the way for them.’

‘I cannot fend off Orcs with your dagger alone,’ Legolas called. ‘They stripped me of my weapons’

‘Not all of them!’ Boromir took the Lórien bow from his back and tossed it to the Elf, who caught it with a startled smile. ‘You will have to find arrows, I’m afraid. But I trust a bow that sturdy could cause quite a bit of pain when taken to one’s head, aye?’

‘Just lead us out of here, Captain,’ Legolas insisted brightly. ‘Let me worry about my weapon.’

Boromir nodded and held his sword before him, peering around the corner ere he signaled the Elves to follow. Last came Legolas, keen eyes watching for enemies that might appear. Through narrow passages and dank halls they went, moving as quietly as they could while the noise from the floors above grew in intensity. Inevitably the Orcs had discovered that no army lay for them behind the trees, and the fire in the torture-room must have alerted them that the enemy could already be inside the fortress. Time was short and they needed to make haste, yet they could not move fast with such a large caravan. Boromir’s heart thudded in his chest, never knowing if the next turn would bring them to a mob of angry Orcs, armed and ready to cut them down. With one sword and a bow with no arrows, they stood little chance against such a crowd. Boromir prayed that he was leading his charges to safety. He felt responsible for these Elves now, and should anything happen to one of them he would never be able to forgive himself. Failure was not an option at this point—he must succeed or die trying.

Two Orcs blocked the next corridor, and Boromir made swift work of them both, then led the Elves past the dying bodies. Galron paused to spit on them before following. Just when Boromir was certain he had taken a wrong turn in this labyrinth of passages, a breath of cool fresh air caused him to run ahead and find the splintered door through which he had entered. Sentries were nowhere to be seen, save for the one dead Orc still lying upon the bridge. Boromir returned to his company and motioned for them to hurry through. One by one they stepped into the night air, and Legolas emerged at the rear. He appeared troubled. ‘I hear many footsteps in our wake,’ he said to Boromir in a quiet voice. ‘I fear we have been discovered.’

‘Then we must move quickly,’ the man uttered, and turned to the Elves that stood awkwardly in small groups. ‘There are archers on the turrets,’ he told them. ‘On my signal, split up and run as fast as your legs can carry you. Keep your heads down, and arms tucked close to your bodies. Do not run a line, but dodge to and fro, like a deer fleeing wolves. When you reach the trees, wait for the others. From there we shall reassemble and make our way through.’

The Elves stood quietly for a few moments, and then one, a young Elf with only one eye, said very softly, ‘Thank you, Captain Boromir.’

The severity of the moment seemed to lessen at the sound of those gentle words, and Boromir smiled in acceptance. Legolas stepped forward. ‘We cannot all pass at once,’ he whispered.

‘That is our only chance,’ the man replied, turning away from the others so that their conversation was more private. ‘If your ears were correct—and I am inclined to believe that they were—then any moment now there is going to be a small army of Orcs at our heels, and if we are not all off this bridge by then…’ He reached up and began to unclasp his Lórien cloak.

‘What are you doing?’ Legolas demanded as Boromir proceeded to fasten the broach about the prince’s throat. ‘Boromir!’

‘Your leg is injured and you are slow,’ the man muttered. ‘May my cloak own to its purpose and shield you from unfriendly eyes.’

Legolas’ mouth hung open in disbelief. ‘What then are you to…no. No, I will not go!’

‘You must. If any arrows are shot, they will be aimed towards me.’

‘I refuse,’ the prince hissed, his face dark with anger.

‘That choice is not yours,’ Boromir snapped.

Legolas was trembling with passion. ‘Foolish Man!’ he cried. ‘Obstinate, stupid Man!’ In the next moment he was in Boromir’s arms, embracing him tightly. ‘I will not live to mourn you.’ He pulled away, and the fear in his eyes overwrote the anger in his words. Boromir brushed his fingers against Legolas’ fair cheek, and gazed into the Elf’s clear eyes. ‘Then live to honor me.’

The prince whispered, ‘I already do.’

Boromir gazed for another few moments upon the face of his own heart, his mellon, before saying, ‘Run. Now.’

And then Legolas was gone, dashing silently across the bridge with the rest of the elven prisoners. They reached the ground safely and their formation scattered. Then a cry sounded from the turrets above and the arrows began to fly, barely missing their marks. Boromir sheathed his sword, took a breath, and thought once more of Legolas before plunging out into the open.

‘Get him!’ a voice screamed. ‘Get the Man! Shoot him down!’

Boromir threw himself to the left and heard the arrow smash into the stone bridge. Another arrow whistled over his shoulder, and he changed direction.

‘Don’t let ‘im get away, ye fools! Shoot him!’

An arrow struck the bridge before him and he tripped, rolling painfully across the stones. Arrows rained all around Boromir, clattering and ricocheting, whizzing through his hair, tearing through the skirt of his jerkin. Within seconds he was on his feet again and running as fast as he could go, fighting to control his panic, embarrassed by his fear, ashamed of his retreat. This was not how a soldier upheld his honor. Perhaps, he thought fleetingly, I have replaced my warrior’s heart with that of a lover’s.

Up ahead the first of the Elves had reached the forest and disappeared into its darkness. A hundred more paces and Boromir would be with them. Yet where was Legolas? The man did not spot him, and terror seized his heart. If the prince had fallen, his cloak would make it impossible for human eyes to see him in the shadows—what if he had been struck by an arrow?

Boromir shook his head, banishing all doubts from his mind. Legolas had not fallen. He was running, perhaps already within the trees. There could be no other way. It was impossible.

A great row sounded from the fortress; they had escaped just in time, for the angry crowd Boromir had dreaded came pouring forth from the gate. Arrows thudded into the ground at his heels, along with spears and spikes flung from the foot soldiers. Boromir stumbled over one and then another. But as the distance between him and his enemies grew greater, the accuracy of their arrows grew less and less, until finally the terrible sound of flying projectiles was left behind. He heard the call to cease volley, and the Captain burst into the welcome cover of the trees. He paused to catch his breath a moment, leaning his hands upon his knees. ‘Legolas! Galron!’ he called, looking about for any signs of the Elves. ‘Anyone! Are you there?’

‘We are here,’ came a small voice, and a cluster of Elves emerged from between the trees. They appeared nervous and uneasy. Boromir stepped forward and took a quick count.

‘Many are still missing. Did you see any of your people fall?’

‘Nay,’ said one Elf. ‘I was one of the last to reach the wood. I saw none fall.’

‘Some good news at last,’ Boromir sighed. ‘Wait here. I shall go to find the others.’

No sooner had he spoken those words than a scream rent the air, causing all of them to gasp in fear and take hold of one another. Boromir’s blood went cold when he realized the safe haven into which he thought he had led the Elves was in truth a trap; that the spiders, he had forgotten, would be waiting to receive their promised prizes. Another scream pierced the air, ending much too abruptly.

Boromir drew his sword and began to run in the direction of the cries. ‘Stay close to me!’ he shouted to the Elves behind him. ‘Do not let me leave your sight!’ He tore through branches and ivy, stumbled over roots as the forest around him grew thicker and blacker. The edge of the wood slowly began to fade from view, and Boromir feared to lose himself in the dark until he came upon a clearing, where the faintest of starlight illuminated his surroundings.

It was turmoil, a horrific scene set before him: Elves fighting spiders with rocks and sticks, some struggling to free themselves from tangled strings of web. In the midst of all this Boromir caught sight of Legolas, valiantly matched against two large spiders who had already wrapped one Elf from head to foot, and were attempting to drag him away. The beasts hissed and champed at the Lórien bow that struck them mercilessly, but were unprepared for Gondorian steel to relieve them of their front legs. The spiders screeched and recoiled, leaving their victim as they retreated into the trees. Legolas knelt before the Elf and set to work freeing his brethren with Boromir’s dagger.

‘Wicked man!’ the wounded spiders screamed in their thin voices, their abbreviated limbs oozing viscous black blood. ‘Your word! Your word!’

Legolas glanced up at Boromir with a curious look. ‘What do they mean, your word?’

The man’s face was creased with remorse. ‘I convinced them to lead me to Dol Guldur,’ he replied helplessly, ‘on the condition that I bring them a fairer feast than what they found wandering blind in the forest. I gave them my word to bring Elves to them.’

Legolas was wholly shocked, and his face mirrored his feelings. ‘You bargained with the spiders of Mirkwood?’

Boromir nodded regretfully. To his surprise, the elven prince smiled. ‘Then they shall have us—if they can catch us!’ And Legolas leaped to his feet and began to harass any spider within his reach. Any Elf on his feet was engaged in vicious combat with these most-abhorred beasts, using whatever means available to them. For beings so fair and frail-looking, they wrought havoc upon the spiders without mercy or reservation. The spiders squealed as legs were broken, eyes put out, bodies pierced with sticks and battered by rocks. Boromir felt a spring of new energy pour into his spirit and he lit into his enemies, who climbed high in the trees for safety and hissed their dismay at being fooled. ‘Miserable man!’ their chief snarled, nursing several gouged eyes. ‘Betrayer! Gave us—your word!’

From down in the clearing the Captain of Gondor shouted, ‘Then take my word and leave my friends be, or I shall hunt you and finish what was started!’ From behind him came a group of Elves, throwing stones and pebbles with frightening accuracy at the chief spider and his followers, until at last the foul beasts screamed for retreat and disappeared into the trees. They were not to be seen again.

Silence descended upon the clearing, and Boromir shook the blood from his sword and sheathed it. He turned, regarding the pale but proud faces all around him. ‘Thank you, all and one. Han...hannon le,’ he said gently, and several of the Elves smiled at his use of their language. ‘Is everyone accounted for?’

‘Aye,’ said Legolas, appearing from the trees with a shaken-looking young Elf. ‘They tried to make off with Fildulin but encountered an unpleasant surprise.’

‘I can scarcely imagine what that might have been.’

Legolas grinned, and in the faint light Boromir saw that his face was covered in thin red scratches, undoubtedly from a tussle within the branches. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, stepping close to examine the shallow injuries.

‘Of course,’ Legolas answered, and met Boromir’s eyes for a moment. ‘You have freed the innocent from Dol Guldur, and saved me from a fate worse than death.’ A smile grew on his fair face. ‘And you negotiated with the spiders of Mirkwood!’ he laughed. ‘Never has such a reckless and insane thing been conceived, let alone committed! I think you are truly mad, Captain, maddest in the most courageous sense.’

‘I did what I could in order to find you again,’ Boromir said modestly. ‘And sanity is a small price to pay for a friend.’

The warmth and sincerity in Legolas’ eyes caused the man’s heart to swell with adoration.

‘My lords,’ said Galron, glancing worriedly in the direction of Dol Guldur, ‘what shall be done now?’

Boromir looked at Legolas, bowing his head slightly to indicate that the prince now held the authority to command and console his people, as a leader rightfully should. ‘We shall move within safe distance from the fortress,’ addressed Legolas firmly, ‘and tend to any injuries. At dawn we shall find our bearings, and thence follow a course north-northeast. To home.’

‘Home,’ Galron repeated, and tears of joy filled his eyes. ‘Never did I imagine this day of freedom would come, by the hands of our own Prince Legolas and his brave Captain of Gondor.’

The Prince and his Captain smiled, and together they led the free Elves from the shadow of Dol Guldur.