A/N: Okay! My first posting in…well, forever. Lol, but I hope all of you are gearing up for another great fanfic! This is a LotR/HP crossover and there will be more than one pairing though the main pairing is Legolas/Harry. This is SLASH!! Don't like, don't tell me about it, I don't care. If you don't like slash, then don't read it. Duh. There will be MULTIPLE PAIRINGS, and DUBIOUS CONSENT. There, warnings over. Yay! Big shout out to StarAngel Caelum SunSoar for inspiring me to get off my butt and post this. J
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. Period. Don't sue.
Where The Sleeper Waits
Chapter One~~~ Nazgul Pursuit
The shriek of the Nazgul sounded from below the window, their cries of rage as they discovered no dead hobbits beneath the sheets. Frodo and Strider watched from the opposite window the creatures tear the inn apart. Below in the street though, there was one Nazgul still on horseback. This one had never entered the inn. Strider watched the wraith's form with a frown. More peculiarly was a small figure slouched against the Black Rider's form, in a cloak of black itself. The sight had the Ranger on edge. Was it a new enemy? The figure was too small to be a Nazgul and too boneless to be conscious. The Ring Wraith held him in the saddle before him, an armored hand around his stomach almost protectively. He would have to tell Lord Elrond of this small figure who rode with the Nazgul of Mordor. Nothing good could come of it's existence. Could it perhaps shed light on the Dark Lord's plans?
Arwen raced for the river, trying with all of her might to outrun the horrors that now chased them from the darkest pits. The Nazgul were closing in around her and Frodo's breaths were becoming more and more labored with every mile. With every breath taken, Frodo's struggles for air began to sound more and more like the shrieks that were beginning to close in around them. She saw the Rider to her side let off a screech that pierced her elven soul to it's depths. The way through the pine trees separating them from the river were treacherous and were perfect for an ambush. She just had to stay ahead of their quarry and they would be safe once they made it into Imladris lands. She crossed the river at last, the enemy halting at it's opposite edge.
"Give us the Halfling, She-Elf!" The Witch King demanded in a rasping voice that left no doubt to his ruined state beneath his cloak.
She drew her sword furiously, ready to die to protect the small Halfling in her arms.
"If you want him, then come and claim him!"
They would not lay a hand on Frodo if it was in her power to prevent it! It was when they began their slow crossing that she noticed the strange, cloaked figure slumped in the Wraith's arms. The demon seemed to clutch him against his figure protectively though the form was not much bigger than Frodo himself. A child? Were the Nazgul kidnapping children now for some damned purpose? She began her chant, her eyes never leaving that figure that was almost possessively pressed against the Nazgul. The form was covered from head to foot in the black robes of the Nazgul, not a single hint of flesh peeking out. The child almost seemed to be sleeping…The river began to rise with her words, the ground shaking in anticipation. She eyed the now hesitating enemy down with a hard glare. If only she could save the child held against the Witch King…
With a roar and the power and mystique of a herd of wild stallions, the river cascaded down on the wraiths, sweeping them all away in a rush of shrieks and water. A choked, grating gasp alerted her to the hobbit in her arm's plight. His skin had gone pale as bone and his eyes misted over as if in death. Arwen could feel him slipping into shadow. With a small cry she lowered Frodo to the ground, his eyes already taking on the glazed, dead look of one of the nine ruined kings. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight and she hugged the small hobbit to her. No...she had failed. Even as Frodo gasped for breath in her arms, another wheezing breath caught her notice. Half crawling, half stumbling over to them over the rocks of the riverbank was the small Rider in black. Now, however, his hood was down and she could see that he was not one of the Nazgul as she had at first suspected. He was just a boy. His black hair, as dark as hers and the color of crow feathers, fell around his face, dripping wet from the river and hanging down to his elbows. His emerald eyes were the brightest she had ever seen though they were glazed as if he did not know where he was or even who. She would have mistaken him for Elvin at first though his ears were not pointed.
He crawled over to them, his breath hard and labored until he did something she did not expect in all of her long years of immortality. He leaned over the dying Frodo and, without a moments hesitation, pressed his lips softly to the dying boy's. Frodo arched up as if in pain but the elvish princess was frozen in shock as if by some unseen hand. She felt helpless to stop his apparent pain. What was happening? Was he hurting the small Ring Bearer? How could she stop something she did not understand? The strange boy, no more than a second or two later though it felt like a hour, fell to Frodo's side unconscious, leaving her even more confused than before. What had just happened? Arwen looked down at the pair and a shocked gasp tore itself from her throat. Frodo lay, his skin returning to it's healthy peachy color and the blackness fading from the wound as if he had never been stabbed at all! His eyes were closed in sleep now but his breathing was even and normal. The influence of the Nazgul was gone! He had been stripped of the darkness with just a simple kiss from a strange boy. Surely she had to take this stranger to her Ada. Who was he that he could heal in seconds something so foul? The screeches of the Nazgul sounded from downstream furiously and as quickly as she could, Arwen hoisted both boys onto her saddle, glad for their small frames as she urged her steed towards Rivendale and her waiting beloved.
"Who is he?"
"He was with the Nazgul in Bree where I found the hobbits." Came a silky dark voice.
''A Ranger. A Ranger from the north'' the voice that remained with him ever present hissed, the sounds of the language of Mordor scraping along his brain like tongues of cold fire, both pleasure and pain.
"He saved Frodo, Ada. He took the poison of the wraiths right from his body." A chiming beautiful voice insisted.
He would have listened further but a burning, searing pain lanced through him, bending his back. He sat up and, much to the shock of the room's three occupants, his eyes shot open. The burn was like red hot nails being forced into every cell of his body at once. It focused even stronger in his stomach and lungs though. He gave an ear splitting shriek of agony, unable to contain the pain any longer. His cry was cut short as a violent wave of black sludge forced it's way out of his throat. It poured from him in what seemed like an unending wave before it eventually stopped. He was sobbing lightly, looking down at the goo that now covered his chin, front and hands. It was thick and sticky, leaving a foul taste in his mouth as he tried to cough it out of his throat. The pain had dispelled with the goo so only a light nausea remained. With pleading eyes, he looked up at the four occupants of the room. Three elves and one man. The Ranger looked at him in sympathy though there was a wariness there as well. The teen had not missed the hand flirting with his sword when he had screamed. The pain gave aNother violent jerk before steadily calming. The poison in his mouth tasted foul. He imagined that his Master's kiss would taste this way, though he banished the thought furiously. His Master was everything to him. There would be no having such dark thoughts about the one person who had given him so much.
"Are you well, child?" The Elf Lord asked and though his voice was kind, he couldn't help but to instinctually shy away from his foreign touch when the man reached out to touch his head.
He had not been touched by warm hands since...he had a flash of a red haired smiling male and a strange looking female before it was swallowed by the darkness. He lost the thought as quickly as it came, the memories slipping through his fingers like water. He gave a pathetic keening whimper, wiping the sludge from his mouth. He hoped he never had to do that again. The Ranger came and sat at his side on the bed, pulling a small cloth from his cloak. Tilting his head up, the man wiped his face tenderly. No one had ever been so soft with him before and he found himself leaning into the touch. It was gentle though delivered with sword calloused hands and kind. There was no one like that at home. No one but cruel things and the Witch King who kept him. Sometimes there was Master.
"What are you called, little one?" The Man asked, pushing his long hair behind his ear.
He bit his lip, his soul craving and crying out for that soft touch. It felt so nice but…The Elves put him on edge, nameless whispers of forgotten orcs speaking in their dark tongue about the deadly speed with which the elf-people slaughtered them. Would they kill him too? Would they slaughter him like some mindless beast as well?
"They call me Valokiloren." He whispered and immediately paused, trying to remember something important, "though I was called something else once. Before..."He trailed off as the thought blew away like a feather on a wind, "You may call me Valo, though, Ranger."
The Ranger and his Elvin compatriots frowned, sharing a look. He knew why. He knew what his name meant. Valokiloren was the Morgul tongue for The Sleeping One. The Ranger gave him a soft polite tilt of the head.
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Lord Elrond, Lord of the house of Rivendale and his heiress Lady Arwen. This is my companion, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood. You are in Rivendale, Valo."
His eyes widened and he cringed away from the elves fearfully. Lord Elrond approached slowly, trying to ease the child.
"Valo, can you tell us what you were doing with the servants of Mordor? Did they hurt you?" The man asked and Valo inched back over the side of the bed so the piece of furniture was between them.
Aragorn was visibly confused and did not bother to hide it. The Legolas elf looked suspicious and wary, as if expecting him to attack any moment. The whisper in his mind was urging him to use his black craft to attack. To escape and flee back towards his Master, though he did not know where he was. No doubt the Ring Wraiths would find him before long and would put him back to sleep. He could attack and escape. The problem was sitting on the bed though. Aragorn did not look on him as a potential enemy nor did the Lady. They were the first people to ever show him kindness. Valo didn't want to hurt them but he didn't want to be killed either. He wasn't even sure if he could die at this point. So what was he to do?
"They did not hurt me. The Witch-King keeps me sleeping until he has need of me. I've lived in Minas Morgul for a life age of Man though he has me Sleep for much of it." He said softly, backing up cautiously.
He didn't know what the other residence of Middle Earth would think of him, though he doubted it was anything good. His existence had been kept tightly under wraps, even he wasn't entirely sure what he was or his purpose in life. Judging by the arrow now pointed at his face and the looks of horror on the assembled faces, he was not going to be well received.
AN: I know! Kinda rushed into it but I hate drawn out beginnings. So has it piqued your interest? Let me know! R&R!