legolas and the werewolf

Much earlier

“I have your woman.”

The voice—a deep, throaty growl—stopped Legolas in his tracks. Panic had been gripping his heart (as always when Eowyn was in danger), but something about that voice, something about the way it gruffly caressed the words, was reassuring.


Trying to resist the lethargy that had suddenly begun to invade his limbs, Legolas peered at the dark silhouette—

An explosion of light almost blinded him—he raised a hand to shield his eyes—and, standing at its centre, he saw again the powerful figure of the werewolf.

“She is waiting for us.”

No… Legolas frowned. That cannot be true; she would not… “No,” he whispered.

“Come, elf,”—the growl had become a purr—“join our sport.” The creature set its clawed hands upon its hips and spread its muscular legs. “The woman is so passionate—”

“No,” whispered Legolas.

“Enjoy her with me,”—the growl had hardened to a snarl—“or watch me enjoy her with my wolves.” The creature swept its hand past the dark shapes lurking beside it and, one-by-one, men draped in wolf skins appeared in the sphere of light.

“No,” whispered Legolas, tears running down his cheeks.

But he followed the creature into the Forest.

On and on they tramped, and Legolas—his mind growing duller, his limbs heavier with every step—had no idea where they were going, no idea where they had been, only that, in their wake, they were leaving the Forest empty.


At last, the werewolf brought them to a halt, and Legolas heard its followers dump something on the ground—something that groaned—What? he wondered and, from the depths of his sluggish brain, he dragged an answer.


Then another impression jogged his blunted senses.

Eowyn! Nearby! Legolas’ spirit reached out to her—

One of the wolf men pushed him to his knees.

She is somewhere up above…

A clawed hand stroked his face. “Beau-ti-ful.”

“Where is Eowyn?” whispered Legolas. “What have you done to Eowyn?”

But the werewolf seized him by the scruff of the neck, forcing him down on all fours; and Legolas, feeling its hands grasp his waist, and unable to prevent what was about to happen, closed his eyes, tightly—

Eowyn’s anger exploded above him, like a flask of spirits thrown upon a fire, and he heard her voice ring out, loud and clear: “SHOOT!” she cried. “Shoot! Shoot! Kill them all!”

And, suddenly, the werewolf was howling in pain, and its hands had fallen from Legolas’ flanks, and at the same moment—only dimly aware of the skirmish around him—the elf felt its curse lift from his mind like mist in the sunlight, and his own anger flare up, keen and bright.

And, as he rose to his knees, already looking for his bow and white knives, he felt a beloved presence, running up behind him, and heard her voice, shouting, “Get away from Legolas! MOVE!



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This starts during Trapped.