A black shape passed over them on the river, and Legolas notched his bow and fired, hitting something that sounded more metallic than flesh. There was no screech of pain, nor did a dead animal fall from the sky, there was only the continuous, deep, rumbling drone.

Ârâgorn frowned, fearful. “That did not sound like a beast.” He rested a calming touch on the shoulders of the Ring Bearer, who was standing in front of him, also looking up at the passing shadow.

“The scream of its passing sounded like no creature I have ever heard,” Gimli said. “But it was as dark as the balrog.”

“Nor was it a fell beast,” Frodo murmured, knowing that sound well, all too well.

Ârâgorn knew there was only one person he could ask, the one who had fired upon it. “Legolas, what do your elf-eyes see?”

There was silence.

Ârâgorn looked down at the hobbit before him, but Frodo had vanished right from under his hands. His first thought was that Frodo had put the ring on, and cursed the frightened creature’s ill-timed move. Then he heard it; behind him Gimli began to shout, calling for Legolas in an increasingly tortured tone, as if something had torn out his heart. Legolas had also vanished.

Ârâgorn gasped, feeling a shudder roll through all elvenden. Through his link with Arwen, he realised instantly that they are gone. He felt the instant terror even from Lorien, where Galadriel must have felt the Ring’s departure. A great wailing rose within his soul. He could not speak for the terrible sense of loss that filled him. The world was doomed.

“No,” he whispered, sinking to his knees. “No . . .”

Suddenly, cries from the eastern shore rose to a clamour as orcs begin to cross the river.

“The ring is gone!” Gimli gasped softly. “The Lady . . .Ârâgorn, the Lady . . .”

Ârâgorn could not reply, already whispering the mourning prayer for their coming deaths.

Boromir, keeping his head, took control, not because he wanted it, but because Gimli was right. They had to do something. Even if he had no lost love for the Elven Queen, he knew they had to tell her what had happened. “Our only safe refuge now is Lorien. Quickly, get back in the boats. Quietly now, little ones. Back up the river, silence and darkness shall be our shields.”

Gimli agreed, picking up one of the halflings and almost throwing him into a boat, before pushing Ârâgorn along with it, but Ârâgorn did not budge. “We must warn the Lady Galadriel, or Lorien will be overrun from all sides before we even get there.” Gimli turned back for another of the hobbits, but stumbled in the dark.

The attack began in earnest as Boromir dragged Ârâgorn to his senses by his shoulders. At his feet, someone had fallen, and he tripped and almost fell over the body. He pushed an oar into the heir’s hands and pushed the boat out. He looked back and saw Gimli withdraw from the bank with another hobbit and launch himself into the second boat. Boromir felt a bite of cold metal in his right leg as he shoved the last of the boats out into the water. Grimacing in pain, he climbed in and rowed furiously upstream.

Boromir jerked as another arrow struck him between the ribs. Hot pain coursed through his lung. He cried out, unable to bite it back. He looked up, seeing Ârâgorn’s face pale as he looked back at him. “Go, my King, go.” the man of Gondor urged him. Plucking up the hobbit that shared his boat, he set him in Ârâgorn’s boat beside Sam, whose frightened face he could see in the moonlight. Another arrow struck Boromir in the back and Ârâgorn grabbed him, held him. Boromir gasped and struggled against death. The boats began to drift and Ârâgorn’s hands slipped from his grasp, his fingers empty save for the belt that held the horn of the House of Stewards. He watched helplessly as Boromir collapsed. The boat fell under a hail of arrows and slowly it began to drift away with the current.

Paddling hard and fast, Gimli and Ârâgorn pressed on, arrows falling all around them. Ârâgorn wept silently as he felt the hobbits shift before him, one of them desperate to cry out to his cousin who lay unmoving at Gimli’s feet, but in the dark he could not tell which of the two he had in the boat. Some time passed before he realised that both Sam and the other hobbit were silent, and with the rising of the sun he discovered why.

As the sun poked upward into the lightening sky, Ârâgorn looked into the bottom of the boat. Blood pooled around his feet, and at its source lay two hobbits. Pippin lay half on his back, eyes open and glazed. In the prow, Sam lay wincing terribly at the arrows embedded in his thigh and stomach. In Gimli’s boat, the dwarf gently closed Merry’s eyes and openly wept.

There were two boats now, and only three of them remained, one of whom was fading, but the fast pace continued. Lorien was their only hope. Ârâgorn hoped it was still standing by the time they reached it.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Captain,” a smooth baritone voice smirked over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t want the first officer to think you had fun.”

Janeway laughed softly. “This is my first shore leave in eight months. I am going to get as comfortable as possible, Tom,” she grinned mischievously. “And pretend I didn’t when I get back.”

She always enjoyed the light teasing she received from her best pilot, Tom Paris, and she gave as good as she got. Only just teetering within the bounds of propriety, their innuendos had raised eyebrows in the beginning, but that had long since faded.

“Ambassador M’Nink,” she called out, as if they would be unrecognisable in the crowded square. The throngs of locals were all red-headed like her, but none of her crew were as tall and long limbed as the Hin’ja. They seemed to float across the intriguingly uniform coloured paving, and their long flowing robes billowed around them giving the impression of flame or water. Most robes were simple, woven in muted shades of green, aqua, blue, red and gold. M’Nink’s were several layers of blues, and he bore his badge of office on an overly large gold chain around his shoulders.

M’Nink smiled as he approached.

“Thank you for meeting with us at such short notice. I am sure you must be a very busy man,” Janeway greeted.

“No more than usual,” he grinned. His honey-gold skin sparkled merrily as if he had accidentally fallen into a large container of glitter and not gotten around to washing it off. “I am, in fact, one of many, Captain Janeway. My job is to facilitate interaction between our world and first onlookers.”

“First Contact,” she noted.

M’Nink bowed his head in acceptance. “We do not often see such large vessels as yours, Captain, although you say it is a very small ship from your perspective. Welcome to our citadel.”

Janeway wondered for a moment if his gentle, undulating tones might actually lull her to sleep before she had even started. It was going to take more than good manners to stay awake. “Thank you, Ambassador. Allow me to introduce my tactical officer, Tuvok of Vulcan; Mission Specialist, Chell of Bolarus and our pilot, Tom Paris of Earth.”

M’Nink greeted them all in turn. “You have a crew from many worlds, Captain.”

Janeway smiled with pride. “Our federation is made up of more than 150 worlds and 300 species, Ambassador,” she replied.

“This is amazing,” M’Nink replied, although they wondered if he was capable of such extremes of emotion. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Your world is beautiful and this city is the perfect place to begin a tour, with a great view of the sea and the forests in all directions,” Janeway accorded. She did not mention the distinct desire not to look up, the very thought made her nauseous alone, but she said nothing.

M’Nink smiled, cheeks twinkling with modest embarrassment. “This is Nin, our main city in the North, the seat of learning and culture. I took it upon myself to invite your party to explore our history and art.”

“We would be delighted,” Janeway responded. She paused to glance at her three companions, who were also trying to make some sense of what they were seeing without cringing, and joined M’Nink on a gentle stroll across the plaza.

Beside Tom walked Chell, a bright blue Bolian of genial nature. He loved art, almost as much as he loved talking. On this day, though, he was happy just to stare at the intricately decorated buildings that seemed to defy gravity itself and hover just above the ground.

On closer inspection, they slowly began to realise that the buildings were not hovering at all, but were covered in an optical shell, rendering the first three levels invisible to afford pedestrians an unimpeded view of the surrounding area.

“How do they know where the buildings are?” Paris murmured.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Chell admitted. “How do you find the door without getting a head ache?”

“Or a black eye,” Paris added.

“That would be obvious,” Tuvok noted blandly. “Where the buildings are the paving changes colour. Where there is a door, there is a sign to indicate its location and the purpose of the building.”

Paris and Chell eyed each other. “Trust a Vulcan to cut in on our sense of fun.”

“You said it, Chell,” Tom turned to the Vulcan and shook his head. “We have waited six hours to see these invisible buildings, Tuvok. So just once, where is your sense of fun? Imagine; a little rain, a little wind, all the signs blow over, and in the morning no one can find their way to work.”

Tuvok lifted a brow, unaffected by the chortling Bolian and bemused by his human associate. “I fail to see how that would be amusing.”

Tom’s fun at the Vulcan’s expense deflated somewhat. “With so much to see, Ambassador,” he asked, to change the subject. “How do visitors choose where to go first?”

M’Nink smiled and glittered with pride. “It has been noted that our visitors’ first stop is generally the markets and eateries, after that it is often the music halls or our museums.’

“History museums?” Janeway asked.

“Our most popular is the Museum of Art and Form,” M’Nink replied with a nod. “It is our oldest collection of artefacts. It is not only popular with visitors from off-world, but with our own as well. Artists go there to draw the exhibits, and scholars often draw inspiration from them for their writings of all kinds.”

“I have been reading a little on your world’s history,” Janeway voiced. “I am looking forward to seeing the museum.”

"Oh, you misunderstand, Captain,” M’Nink replied. “The artefacts are not indigenous. They were all collected over many thousands of years from across the galaxy. There are forms there that are exquisite to look at, perfectly preserved for all to see, but sadly, we could not take credit for such beauty.”

Their curiosity was piqued. They wandered through the market stalls, purchasing mementoes, before embarking on an exploration of the local cuisine. Thoroughly pampered on cream-filled scone-like things and puff-cakes, they continued on towards what appeared to be a large cuboid box hanging in mid-air.

Although they knew it was an illusion, seeing nothing but forests beneath the tall building was disconcerting. The locals appeared to have phased it out altogether. M’Nink had passed a marker almost before they had noted the change of coloured paving beneath their feet. It was red in the open areas, surrounded by a narrow strip of yellow down each side of the streets, and there was blue wherever a doorway opened up.

Before them double doors opened inward, halting the conversation that Paris and Chell had tuned out some time back. Paris looked up to see a comfortably bright interior of a building swallowing them, and gasped.

“Whoa!”

“This is incredible,” Janeway agreed, a little more articulately.

“This is nothing,” a voice announced. The group turned to find another of the locals smiling at them, his sparkling skin shimmering with pleasure. “Welcome to the Museum of Art and Form,” he announced boldly. “I am M’Non. I will be your guide today.”

M’Nink took his leave of them for the duration and the curator took over.

They began at the beginning, wood and stone carvings, ivory and metal faces from across the cosmos. “What inspired the name of the museum?” Janeway asked. “There are many forms of art here.”

M’Non smiled congenially, but he displayed an almost bored undertone to his demeanour, as if he had been through this answer, as with dozens of other standard questions, once too often. “As we move through the galleries, we will see that there are many forms, but they all follow on a theme. The appearances are unique, but they are simply variations.”

“Variations of what?” Paris asked.

M’Non began what, to him, was yet another scripted response. “We believe that in the beginning of all things, Mem’Nahan, the Almighty, seeded worlds unnumbered with creatures created in his own image. They adapted to their habitats and grew numerous. In our travels across the cosmos we have gathered together a collection of these adaptations. And today we can see these preserved specimens on display. Each gallery contains a selection of these creatures who have adapted to a certain condition. The first is water, saline and fresh.”

They passed beneath an ornate archway, not knowing what they would find. What greeted their eyes was not what they had expected or even imagined. Behind a glass window was a water scene, a huge tank filled with real water with modelled plants and fish. Swimming among them were humanoids without suits or any clothing at all.

“These forms adapted to life in the oceans,” M’Non continued, smothering a yawn. “Some were air breathers, some are gill breathers. As you can see from the stasis pods, we have recreated in exact detail their variations and colouring, and extrapolated how they would have moved, hunted and socialised in their environments.”

“Are they real?” Chell asked softly, pointing to the creatures swimming about above their heads.

“Animatronics,” Paris replied. “This reminds me of many an old museum I visited on earth.” he eyed the stasis pods that accompanied the displays and shuddered. “A Victorian would be right at home here,” he noted quietly.

“Why do you say that?” Chell asked.

“Well, in England circa 1890’s, the Victorians had menageries full of tiny cages, built to house one exotic animal, and the cage was barely bigger than the animal. They believed that the more animals they had, the more prestigious the owner. Care for the animals was still a distant dream.”

Chell took one last look above him at the saline fish tank and nodded. “I see the resemblance.”

And so it went on. Habitats were recreated and preserved bodies displayed. To an increasingly concerned Paris, it was beginning to look more like an early circus, in this case with humanoids as the acts. Catching the captain’s eye, he noted that she two was having reservations. Humanoids, usually but not always, showed signs of sentience.

“I must admit, I was expecting something quiet different?” Janeway said. Though her tone remained amiable, it still surprised M’Non.

“How so?” he asked.

“On our home world, displays such as these would be of animals, and any remains we have of our ancestors are usually mummified or skeletal in nature. This is certainly a remarkably preserved proto-Hin’ja.”

“Ah,” M’Non nodded, coming out of his stupor, seemingly with a question that had never been put before. “But none of these are the ancestors of the Hin’ja race, madam,” he replied politely. “We do not display our dead, however ancient. That would be barbaric.”

Janeway cast a meaningful glance at her companions, but said not one word.

“Here we come to the Woodland exhibit,” M’Non announced, slipping back into his ‘I have said all this several times already’ boredom. “This is one of our oldest collections and the most extensive. There are seventeen distinct forest habitats ranging from rainforests to pine forests.”

“Intriguing,” Tuvok noted suddenly. “That most of these are dressed in much the same manner and yet I presume they came from very different worlds.”

“Yes, sir,” M’Non replied. “How can you tell?”

“The one standing to the left is of a much stockier build, denoting perhaps a heavier gravity, where as the one beside him, although dressed in like manner, is of slender build and much taller.”

Finally, M’Non’s skin twinkled, an intelligent tour. “Exactly right, sir. As you can see from the information on their respective stasis pods, their planets were indeed at the extreme ends of the gravity spectrum associated with the ability to spawn life.”

Together they watched the display of ‘creatures’ swinging through the modelled trees, eating and sitting together, looking more like a group of chimps at a tea party than a diverse collection of non-related bi-pedal humanoids.

“This must take a while to set up,” Tom decided, unsure if he should be amazed or sickened.

“How do you gain insight into their habitats?” Janeway asked. “Especially when some of these specimens have been dead for thousands of years.”

“Most of our forms are taken from the habitat they came from at a time of great suffering, either natural disaster, plague, war or some such, or just before death by old age. A detailed study is made upon collection and cataloguing,” the curator said. “It is the case with all of these forms that none of them were intelligent, in our sense of the word. They were indeed very primitive. We kept all their own artefacts with them, their clothing and tools. It brings a little authenticity to the display.”

“Intriguing,” Tuvok spoke up. “In essence, you rescued these beings from a certain death and preserved them here for prosperity.”

At the next display he gazed up at the tall pine trees and the broad river. Between the trees sat several specimens, some had clothing, but all of them had pointed ears. The display had them looking down into the river as it ‘flowed’ passed them, it was obviously fake water this time. A boat bobbed gently, as if tethered to the bank and two very different humanoids sat in it.

“They travelled by boat,” Tuvok noted, although his voice belied his keen interest. “That would denote intelligence on some . . .level . . ."

The Vulcan fell silent, unaware that his sentence was left unfinished and hanging in the air.

Janeway turned to him. “Tuvok?”

There was no answer. He was staring at the tall lithe figure standing in the centre of the display, body erect, and an intricately carved bow in his right hand. His eyes were focussed on the forest, as if keeping a look out for danger. Against his back there lay a quiver of arrows and two ivory-white knife handles peeked out from over his shoulder.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Janeway said.

Without looking away, Tuvok murmured a reply. “Perhaps I have, Captain.” He stared at the exhibit and his voice became wistful. “Perhaps I have.”

Tuvok slowly paced around the conference table, aware of their eyes on him. He had called an abrupt halt to their shore leave, and he knew they were curious. It was so unlike him, but he had no answers, except to retell the history of his people. It would clear his mind, at least that was his hope.

As a Vulcan, he was totally poised and controlled at all times, but this was an exceptional day. All that he believed in, all his learning, all his people’s official history had suddenly been brought into question. What he had been told was worthless. Someone had lied, and for a Vulcan to lie it meant . . .

He clenched his jaw again and decided that he would start from the very beginning, from the forbidden as well as the excepted truth, and hope that it made sense to himself as well as to those seated at the table. He had scoured giga-quads of information and read the files, what scant few the federation computer had. He thought he knew everything, but in truth, he discovered that it had all been a lie, and in fact he knew nothing at all.

“In our long distant pass, tyrants ruled over our ancestors, one in particular took control and many species of humanoid that shared our world were wiped out. Today, only two remain. In the beginning, there was segregation among the people. Some embraced change, some walked from their homes and some remained as they had always been, preferring the land and its bounty than the offer of a new life, whether it be technology or a new land. Those of us who wanted technology left for a new world and thus began the days of Vulcan. There are schools of teaching that believe the days before never existed. I, myself, had been among the doubters, Captain, until today.”

“What changed your mind, Tuvok?” Chakotay asked, always one to embrace beginnings, especially when it concerned a spiritual nature. He himself had found what had been to him only a story, the Sky Spirits, had indeed been real. Also, he had not been on the surface and from the look on Tom’s face he doubted that those who had were any the wiser than those who had not.

“In the museum today, I found a being that comes from Vulcan’s distant past, and beside him was another. They were two of the Chosen. There were nine of them, all from several different species, working together for a common goal. These nine had been chosen to save our world from the worst of the tyrants, Dark Lords as some historians refer to them. Their task was to destroy a Ring of power, an object that kept the Dark Lord alive. During their journey they disappeared, and were never found. It is because of their disappearance that our world fell, and we were forced to flee into the furthest reaches of the planet and create the technology that enabled us to leave.”

“It is conceivable then,” Janeway began. “That if these two had not disappeared the Dark Lord would have been destroyed.”

“And the Vulcans and Romulans would never have left their home world,” Paris suggested.

“And the Klingons would have been destroyed long ago,” B’Elanna put in. “It was a Romulan vaccine that saved our people from extinction.”

“And Earth would have been uninhabited by 2052,” the Doctor added. “There would have been no first contact, and the Borg would have probably assimilated the entire Alpha quadrant.”

Janeway smiled a little. “Every event has its knock-on effects, but what concerns me is what we do about it. Those two beings should not be in a museum. They are from the Alpha quadrant. We discovered a shrine like this one before, except that this one is still maintained by the alien abductors.”

“From what you were told by the curator these ‘specimens’ are little more than curiosities, frozen and preserved,” Chakotay voiced. “It is unimaginable that they could be alive after so many millennia.”

“Actually, they are alive,” the Doctor put in. “I took the liberty of conducting a few scans, Captain. Ambassador M’Nink advised me that it would be permitted on engineering interests. I had B’Elanna scan the entire complex. We discovered more than four hundred thousand stasis pods, but many of them are erratic or already non-operational, which leads me to assume that they lose exhibits at an alarming rate and must replace them with fakes.”

“That’s not all, Captain,” B’Elanna, the half-Klingon engineer, put in. “The power failures are not accidental. They are caused by inadequate power distribution and a maintenance aversion bordering on the callous. All it would need is one light turned on and the whole building would be one enormous morgue.”

“Then we must make a decision, and quickly,” Janeway announced. “Chakotay, I want you to join me this time. I need you to see this for yourself.” She rose, and summoned a team. “Tom, Doctor, you’re with me.”

Within minutes of revisiting the museum, power was lost to one of the wings and thirty specimens were lost, but the curator was uninterested, deeming it of little newsworthy value to concern himself with the loss. "We have thousands of others," he said. "What is thirty among so varied a collection?"

"I take it back, Captain," Paris said. "It's less of a Victorian attitude to animals and more akin to wax models at Madam Tusaude’s, of little or no worth to the visitors or the owners alike, other than curiosities to gawk at. Captain, I urges you to take action and save Tuvok’s kin before they die."

Tuvok lifted a brow at him. "While I do not share Mr. Paris’ view on familial honour, I would concur with his suggestion."

Janeway looked at him. “You do realise, that if we take them back to Voyager, we could not, in all conscience, keep them in stasis? That we would have to revive them?

"I do, Captain."

"And what then? Taken them with us? How would they cope with such an enormous jump in time, not to mention space. They came from a period a thousand millennia in the past. They know nothing of 24^th century technology, space travel . . ."

"On the contrary, captain,” Tuvok interrupted. “The Ellonath believed that the Ainur came from the sky, in other words, space.”

“Sky spirits?” Chakotay noted.

“Indeed not,” Tuvok responded evenly. “Many of the Ainur walked among the early Ellonath as beings of flesh, even married and bore offspring. The Dark Lord was one such being. The Ellonath believed that once they had lived to a good age, they transcended earthly limitations and became as the Ainur themselves.”

“Wow,” Paris voiced. “That’s a very Christian belief. They called it translation, moving from physical to immortal.”

“It would be similar, Mr. Paris, but for one small detail. The Ellonath were already immortal. Death only came to them through war or emotional withdrawal.”

Janeway turned to gaze through the Perspex panel. “In that case, anything we do could kill this man anyway.”

“Aye, captain," Tuvok agreed with detachment. "These two were friends of one such Ainur, a Maia of the Istari Order by the name Gandalf, a Holy One of significant power, and both were friends of the son of another, known as Eärendil, who was transformed into a star of pure diamond and set in the heavens to guide souls to the Undying Lands.”

“A diamond star?” three voices spoke at once. Janeway, Chakotay and Paris exchanged glances.

“Are you telling me that star BPM 37093 was once a living being?” Janeway asked in astonishment.

“Not his body, captain, his soul. His light, as they perceived it, became one with an object called a silmaril.”

“Where are you getting all this information?” she suddenly asked. “Surak would never have allowed this sensational story to be told.”

“I agree, Captain. This is perplexing, and goes against all logic, and yet it did exist. These two beings prove that much. My source is not Vulcan, but Romulan history files. It seems they stored all the knowledge of the First, Second and Third Ages of our first home, whilst Surak suppressed it all through the teaching of logic. I have made a mere cursory glance at the files, and some of what i have said may prove to be inacurate, but I do not doubt my conviction that these two are who I believe they are.”

All through the exchange, the curator eyed them all with only mild interest. Finally he spoke. “You know, if you really want them, you can always put in an offer.”

Janeway glanced at the alien, but her attention was quickly taken up by a commotion in the background. The west wing was still without power and several occupants of the damaged stasis chambers were beginning to revive. There was a sudden flash of light and one of them fell to the floor. In wide-eyed horror, Janeway watched as one after another the beings, all still half asleep and defenceless, were fired upon. “What the hell is going on?”

“Oh, that?” the curator wondered with disinterest. “We cannot allow them to escape, and putting them back into stasis will take too long. We have exact likenesses of them down stairs for just such an emergency as this. No need to be alarmed.”

“No need to be alarmed? But you’re killing them!”

“Of course. They are, after all, dangerous creatures.”

Tuvok gazed at the two before them and froze. He was in a quandary. Could he make a choice without resorting to an emotional response? He did not know.

Paris watched him, the indecision and wonder in the Vulcan’s eyes was almost palpable. He touched Tuvok’s arm inconspicuously and spoke up. “Are these two real, or are they wax models?”

“These two are real,” the curator replied.

“Then we’ll trade for them,” Paris put in.

Janeway stared at him in astonishment. “Mr. Paris . . .” She stopped, eyes moving to Tuvok’s measured gaze. “Begin negotiations at once,” she amended.”/P>

“Yes, ma’am,” Paris grinned. He turned away, and curled a conspiratorial arm around the curator’s shoulders, a traditional ‘you know you want to say yes’ tactic often used by salesmen with less scruples than a Pakled. It took less than three minutes before Paris turned back and smiled. “Easy as taking candy from a baby.”

Seven power couplings and one transport later and the doctor met them in sickbay, looking miffed as was his want at times.

“What are these stasis chambers doing in my sickbay? More to the point why are these mythological creatures in stasis?”

“They are not creatures of mythology, doctor,” Tuvok responded in clipped tones. “These beings are figures from a distant point in Vulcan history.”

The doctor sighed, also as was his want at times, with his superior attitude and gruff bedside manner, although it wasn’t as bad as it had been during his first year of ‘life’. “Commander, far be it for me to educate you on the differences between fact and fiction, but in this case it appears that it is necessary. This one is an elf, a mythological being of woodland folklore, the second is a pixie, also of ancient folklore. Pixies were often known by the names gnome, goblin, peri, fairy, hob-goblin, Father Christmas, Davey Jones, brownie, dwarf, troll, kobold, poltergeist, gremlin, leprechaun, sprite, genie, nymph, Valkyrie, hobbit, mermaid, angel, demi-god . . .”

“What did you say?” Paris broke in.

“I said . . .”

“Not the whole list, just the last few,” Paris interrupted, before the EMH could reel off the entire list again.

“Valkyrie, hobbit, mermaid . . .”

“That one. I read about hobbits once, it was a footnote on 20^th century art,” Paris spoke up.

“Tom?” Chakotay frowned.

Tom crossed to the access panel and opened a file, depicting a painting created in 1972. “This was a painting by a man called Alan Lee, for a book known as The Hobbit. The book was lost during the Eugenics wars, but the story and plays written about it continued until well after Cochran’s first warp flight. I didn’t make a connection until now.” He lifted his eyes to Tuvok. “Are you saying that book was history . . .in more ways than one?”

“I am not saying anything,” Tuvok replied. “I am also unaware of the book in question. Although, it should be said, not all the ships that left Arda made it to Vulcan, legend has it that one did crash on the third planet of the Sol system. As a result, we searched the planet on several occasions, but found nothing of any worthy note.”

The humans in the room bristled at the implication, but let it pass.

“I have not heard of the book, either,” Janeway noted. “Who wrote it?”

“It doesn’t say,” Paris replied apologetically. “All that is left is a digital representation of the painting.”

Janeway pursed her lips. “That is unfortunate. Nevertheless, we cannot leave them to sleep away an eternity. We should wake them, as gently as possible.”

“Certainly, captain,” the EMH agreed. “No doubt they shall be anxious to go home.”

“That would not be possible,” Tuvok replied. “For three reasons reasons, the first being we do not know what planet we came from. Secondly, we do not have the ability to make such a journey back through time. And third, the Temporal Prime Directive forbids such an action.”

“Making the jump is possible,” Janeway corrected quietly. “But it would alter everything that has happened in the entire galaxy since the Vulcan’s came into being. The changes would be unimaginable.”

“Why are we in the holodeck?” Janeway asked.

“Tuvok’s suggestion,” the Doc said. “They would not understand our world. Coming from what in our frame of reference was an early fifth century environment to a 24^th century sickbay would probably cause extreme, and possibly fatal, reactions.”

Janeway nodded, satisfied. She looked around her at the trees and distant mountains. “It’s much like earth,” she decided.

Tuvok agreed. “My ancestors once roamed a world akin to this, living in dwellings high in the trees. The smaller of the two beings made their homes in the ground, much like a rabbit.”

“Do you have names for these two?” Chakotay asked. “I’d hate to wake them up and refer to them as ‘specimen one’ and ‘specimen two’.”

“The taller one is Vulcan, they referred to themselves as Ellonath.”

“He’s so blonde,” Tom commented, peering into the stasis tube. “I’ve never seen a blonde Vulcan before.”

“You won’t,” Tuvok replied, with an edge of regret in his voice. “They were all wiped out. The shorter one has no name in common tongues of Vulcan, the history records note them only as holbytan, though there were several subspecies of them.”

“Which one is this?” Chakotay asked?

Tuvok lifted a brow, gazing at the sleeping creature for a long time. “It is hard to be accurate, considering that I had not given them any thought until now. To me, these creatures were figments of pure fantasy, children’s stories long forgotten with the advent of Surak and the teachings of logic.” He stepped away from the transparent panels and frowned. “According to the history, which is now only recorded in Romulan texts, the edhel was called Legolas. He was the only one of his kind on the quest. The hobbit could be any one of four possibilities.”

“Didn’t they have portraits of them?” Paris asked. “Someone must have recorded their likenesses at some point, if their quest was that important.”

Tuvok regarded him evenly. “Perhaps they might have, but for the fact that the Dark Lord won, and my ancestors barely escaped a devastated world with their lives. They had no written language that we know of or have ever discovered; we have no literature and very little oral history from the Before. We settled on Vulcan and quickly fell into anarchy. From there Surak brought us to enlightenment.”

“Needless to say,” the Doctor said. “The Vulcan past is a particularly cruel one.”

Tuvok nodded. “And none were more cruel than the Ellonath. They killed each other as well as their enemies with equal alacrity. We should be on our guard, Captain.”

Janeway nodded briskly and turned to the EMH. “Doctor, if you please?”

The EMH turned his attention to the panel before him and worked for several minutes, at least it seemed that long. The stasis tubes vanished to be replaced by fur-covered beds. “I should warn you, Captain, that the length of time these two have been in stasis, they could experience hibernation sickness, with symptoms ranging from mild to severe hypothermia-like shivering, sensitivity to noise, intense headaches, extreme hunger, violent mood swings, blindness and nausea. I cannot say what their mental state will be.”

“Noted,” Janeway replied. “How long until they wake up?”

“They should wake up at any moment.”

“Where are we?

“I do not know.” He looked around him as his body was wracked with shuddering he could not control. Hugging himself he frowned trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “It seems we are inside a grey box, but it is a deception. In truth, there are no metal boxes this large. Regardless, we are inside a grey box.”

Frodo gazed about him, turning his head where he lay on soft fur. “But I can only see trees and grass.”

“You do not have elf eyes, my friend. This place would be far more terrifying for you if you did.” Legolas looked around them and could see nothing that seemed real but for a strange grey pedestal, much like a tree that had had been felled and the stump left to rot. Around it stood strange creatures, something akin to men, but not dressed in much other than what appeared to be leggings and shirts of clashing colours. “I shall ask her,” he shivered and tried to stand, but could not get his legs to work. He could manage sitting up, but nothing more. He blinked to clear his swimming vision.

Frodo had not even noticed the woman at all until he turned his head the other way. He struggled to sit up, feeling gentle elf hands guide him. “Where are we?” he asked again, for her benefit. The woman frowned and spoke, but he shook his head. “I must be sick. I cannot understand her.”

“It is both of us, Frodo. I cannot understand her either,” Legolas replied. “Please,” he called out. “Tell us where we are. What is it you want with us?”

Janeway regarded them. It was obvious they were trying to say something, but her translator was not responding.

“Pedich Edhellen? O man dôr túliel le?”

Janeway turned to Tuvok who was standing behind the control panel with a question in her gaze.

“I must apologise, Captain. The universal translator does not recognise their language.”

“What language is it?”

“Heniach nin? Pedich Edhellen?” the elf exclaimed, desperate for some response, some recognition.

Janeway turned to him and gave him a small smile, her hand was held out in supplication. “Please, I doubt you can understand me, but try to be patient. We are trying to work out what language you are speaking.”

“Rhaich! Im ruthui!” Legolas spat.

Janeway backed away. She did not understand the words, but the sentiments behind them were perfectly clear. They were frightened and angry, and with good reason. “Expedite the corrections, Tuvok,” she urged him.

Legolas growled under his breath, a mannerism he had picked up from Gimli. He sighed. “I hope the others are safe. For now, we should sit still. She seems to mean us no harm.”

“How did we get here . . .wherever here is?” Frodo wondered.

“I do not know,” Legolas replied. “I do not even know where to start. Is this our imagination, a dream, an hallucination? Or perhaps the Istari are having a game with us lesser beings. Sometimes, for all their greatness, they can be infuriating. And a little strange.”

Frodo tried to laugh, but was shivering too much. “I am so cold.

“Here,” Legolas invited. “I am cold also. Let us share body heat, it will help.”

Frodo’s eyes widened in growing alarm, watching him shiver. “Elves aren’t supposed to feel the cold.”

Legolas nodded, at least he tried to. “I cannot lie. To feel this cold is to die, and I do not understand how that could be.” Snuggled together they began to feel warmer and the chattering of their teeth slowed and stopped. His eyes darted this way and that, trying to make sense of where he was. “What do you see?” he asked, his voice still slurred.

“Trees, grass, sky.”

Legolas looked about him. “I see nothing but a grey box, much like a cage.” A movement to his right forced him to turn his head, and his eyes widened in terror. “Oh no!”

Frodo looked and gasped. “Orc!”

Legolas gently shook his head. “Worse. It is a dark elf from the East.”

Frodo frowned. “A dark elf? I thought they were orcs.”

Legolas turned to him, his large grey-green eyes glittering dangerously. “All moriquendi are dark elves, my friend, including me. All those who remained in Middle Earth are counted among them, even the Avari. He is Avari. Orcs were elves once, yes, but tortured by Melkor into the hideous twisted forms we know. It is said that the Avari are far more dangerous. If there is one, there will be many.”

“What do we do? We are alone and in no fit state to defend ourselves. He will kill us for certain.”

“If he was going to kill us, he would have done so before we saw him,” Legolas reasoned. “On the other hand, he could torture us . . .”

Legolas and Frodo turned to each other as a thought came to them both instantaneously. “The ring!”

“According to the Romulan files, the king of our civilisation was lost during our journey from Arda. In modern tongue his name is Tolkien, which is a dialectal evolution of the name Tholionkemen, meaning strong or abiding earth. The ‘th’ as it appears in the texts is said as a ‘t’ sound.”

“Who was he?”

“Tholionkemen was a great king of the Avari as they called themselves. They remained separate from those calling themselves the Ellonath movement. They followed three beings of light to find solace in the trees and worshiped them.”

“Religious evangelists?”

“Something of that nature,” Tuvok agreed. “Needless to say, we did not go with them.”

“What else do the files say?”

“When the king’s ship was lost, a captain of one of the remaining ships gained control by might alone and pronounced himself king. His name was Valcam, meaning ‘the hand of power’. His name became twisted into the word Vulcan that we know today. Our language has been corrupted by long absence. It is possible to feed their speech into the translator, if I can induce them to speak the old tongue.”

“How are you going to do that?”

Tuvok hesitated. “I do not know.”

The doctor arrived to check on his patients. He smiled as he approached, though only one looked up. The other did not seem to notice him. “Hello,” the EMH greeted. “How are you feeling?”

Frodo looked up at him quizzically.

“We have not determined their language as yet,” the Captain warned him.

The doctor nodded and sighed. “It is a little difficult, but not impossible to work with patients who do not speak. I have been programmed to respond to an unresponsive patient.” He smiled at his quip, but there was stony silence from the crew present.

He took out a medical tricorder from his medi-pack and began his scans. Suddenly Legolas erupted with a loud cry, watching the scanner wave through the air. All around it stood an outline a watery air, a thin shadow upon his perceptions. “Frodo! The ring! The ring!”

Frodo spoke to him, calmed him, but the elf’s eyes searched the area around the blinking light, and said something in reply, which they could not understand.

The Doctor curved his hand around the scanner and the light disappeared, and the elf relaxed a little, but the strain increased as he opened his fingers. The EMH returned the instruments to their case and closed it. “Captain?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“I deem them to be in full health, as well as I am able to determine,” he replied amiably, though he was clearly miffed. “Only now, not only am I being ignored, I am invisible as well.”

Janeway frowned gently, but passed up the piece of information and returned to her immediate problem.

Janeway continued her appraisal of the Romulan files. Chakotay, she had noted, had replicated food and was bringing it to their guests, something that she had forgotten in all the confusion. Chakotay knelt before them and offered them the tray of small loaves of bread, cooked meats, fruits and vegetables. She watched him press his fingertips to his lips asking the strangers if they were hungry. The smaller of the two hesitantly detached himself from the larger one and eyed the plate with eager delight. He was obviously famished. Chakotay smiled and offered them water. Legolas seemed more hesitant, tending to his little friend’s needs first before partaking of the proffered fair.

A bleep from the panel before her dragged Janeway’s attention back to the readout. “According to Romulan historians, your ancestors were planning on leaving their world anyway, I am thinking Mintaaka 3, or Arda as they called it. Even so, I am not convinced that returning these two . . .”

“Legolas and Frodo,” Tuvok supplied.

“Legolas and Frodo,” Janeway amended. “Will change what happened, except that Sauron may be destroyed and some of the elves may survive. If they succeed in their little quest, the proto-Vulcans, the Mintaakan race, will no longer exist. You will never exist. In fact, neither will any of us. Without these two, there is no victory, without victory your ancestors may not have had to leave, and without the exodus, there is no Vulcan. Without Vulcan there is no first warp flight, no first contact. And they have both been exposed to a world out of their range of thinking or understanding. Their memory engrams are already contaminated.”

“On the contrary, Captain,” Tuvok replied. “If we return them to the planet, it will be enough. This hobbit was intended to see time, it was spoken of as his destiny. Therefore, in that respect we will be repairing damage to the space-time continuum by returning them there.”

Janeway stared at him agog. “Tuvok, you are justifying a breach of temporal law.”

“Yes captain, a breach created by their removal in the first place. According to data collected by the enterprise D during their research on Mintaaka 3, Stardate 43173.5, the volcano known as Mount Doom still existed. Once they have destroyed the weapon the Dark Lord created, the planet should return to a state it should have been in when my ancestors were forced to leave.”

“There are three problems with that, Tuvok. We have neither the capability nor the power to perform such a feat. We are too far away. Second, even if we could do it, Vulcan will cease to exist, as will Romulus, the Federation and the Borg will gain control of Earth. And three, we don’t even know if they still have this weapon.”

Tuvok considered this carefully. “I cannot agree nor disagree with your first two arguments, Captain. As for the last, we can but ask.”

“Ask? How? We tried, already. They speak no known language.”

“They speak an unknown language,” Tuvok pointed out. He fiddled with the translator controls for several seconds, feeding in Mintaakan speech patterns into the computer. After a few clicks and whirring sounds, the computer signalled its readiness. “Quenya is the root form of all the Vulcan language group, including Mintaakan, just as Anglo-Saxon is a root language for Modern English. If we were to beam aboard a Saxon warrior we would have the same difficulty in understanding each other, but there are words that continue to be used to this day that were used in 8^th century Britain.”

Janeway conceded that point. “Next hurdle, how do you get an elf to speak Quenya when neither of you understands the other?”

“That would seem to be obvious, Captain. Modern Vulcan contains many ancient words that have remained uncorrupted, or undergone very little change. Suffice it to say, I must find such words and speak them, but I must disconnect our communicators for this to work.”

“How will you know which ones are uncorrupted?” Tom asked.

“If the elf, as you prefer to call him, reacts to what I am saying, logically it is a recognisable Quenya word.”

“Logically,” Tom replied wryly.

Janeway smirked. “It’s worth a try. Tom, I need anything you can find on this missing book. It may hold the key.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom replied and left.

“Mr. Tuvok, ready when you are.” She had never heard Vulcan spoken before and she was eager to hear it. After several minutes of what to her was pure gobbledygook she wished she hadn’t.

“Esh ned mullah uid wëd muklum ruin neg nin.” There was no response. “En úrien galà elnedh norën Valcam,” Tuvok continued. Not to be outdone he went further and further into the archaic tongue, words now only used among the separatist movement on Vulcan. “Chen ad?”

The elf looked up in confusion.

“Ava vanta i salquessë.”

“Alae hebo estel,” Legolas muttered, still feeling frustrated, but hoping that a breakthrough was at hand.

“What is happening?” Frodo asked.

“I am unsure. I believe he is reciting Quenya words, from a book perhaps. He may be trying to speak with us. We must be patient,” he added, aware of the fidgeting hobbit beside him.

“Aníron pedi,”

Legolas wondered if the dark elf would actually find what he was looking for, whoever this stranger was.

“I can speak Sindarin, but I do not understand these words. What does he say?” Frodo asked.

“Thaed nîn.”

“He said, help us,” Legolas translated.

“Havo-dad, Tholionkemen.”

Legolas suddenly shot to his feet and stared at the dark elf in astonishment. “Tholionkemen? Legolas eneth nîn, law Tholionkemen. Le quenta Quenya…” his voice questioning yet clearly confused. “Man carel le... hehtanë met handë or min lúmë?” he demanded.

Frodo rose to his feet, eyes flitting from the dark one to Legolas and back again. “He speaks elvish?”

“Very badly,” Legolas noted wryly. “But I have heard worse from Gimli, so there is hope.”

“Who is Tholionkemen?”

Legolas searched his long memory for the name and slowly turned his fear-darkened eyes to Frodo. “This dark elf knows more than he lets on, my friend. In the beginning there were four brothers, all wanted to be king. Three of them took the Walk into the west, to the light of the two trees of Valinor, receiving the gift of immortality and the life of the Eldar. The fourth . . .Thol . . .did not. Tholion would be his son.” Legolas lifted his eyes to the dark elf watching and realised the he was listening, just a moment before he realised that he was speaking Quenya. “You can understand me?” he asked, almost dreamily.

Tuvok nodded, uncharacteristically surprised. “Yes. Welcome to Voyager. I am Tuvok of Vulcan.” He stepped forward and pressed a com-badge each into their hands. “I must apologise for keeping you waiting. It has been . . .a terrible long count of years since my people spoke this language. Please forgive any errors.”

Legolas gazed at the dark eyes and finally remembered to breathe, even if it was only once. “There is nothing to forgive . . .brother.”

"Pedich Edhellen? O man dôr túliel le?" - Do you speak elvish? What do you want with us?

"Heniach nîn? Pedich Edhellen?" - Do you understand me? Do you speak elvish?

"Rhaich! Im ruthui!" - Curses! I am angry!

"Chen ad?" - You again.

"Ava vanta i salquessë." - Keep off the grass.

"Alae hebo estel," - Finally, we are getting somewhere, literally; Behold, we have hope.

"Aníron pedi," I wish to speak.

"Thaed nîn." Help us.

"Havo-dad, Tholionkemen." Sit down, Tolkien.

"Tholionkemen? Legolas eneth nîn, law Tholionkemen. Le quenta Quenya… Man carel le... hehtanë met handë or min lúmë?" Tholionkemen? I am Legolas, not Tholionkemen. If you can speak Quenya, why leave us sitting here for over an hour?

“Tom, come to bed,” B’Elanna moaned in exasperation.

“In a minute.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“What time is it?”

“0.400.”

“The captain needs this. I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.”

B’Elanna rolled over and peered at him with one eye closed. “Found what? It’s all myth, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it is.” Tom looked up at her, a light in his eyes. “Think about it, B’Elanna. Until the beginning of the 21^st century hundreds of generations believed Gilgamesh was a myth, before they found his grave. And then there was Troy, and Pompeii, both thought of as Myths until they were unearthed by archaeologists in the late 20^th century. Now it’s our turn. We are on the threshold of a wonderful discovery. Elves really did exist. Hobbits were not just creatures of folklore. Vulcans really did come from Mintaaka 3.”

“But we don’t even know who wrote the book.”

“I do,” he smiled. “The Hobbit was written by one J.R.R. Tolkien.”

B’Elanna lifted her head. “Tolkien? Isn’t that the name of the Vulcan king lost during the exodus, who supposedly crashed to earth?”

Tom slowly nodded. “Not supposedly, he must have. According to this, he did not just write one book. He wrote dozens of them.”

“Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

“Positive. I just read a random page out of a book called the Silmarillion. It describes in detail the star we refer to as BPM 37093. He wrote exactly what is written in the Romulan history files centuries before humans had even met the Romulans. Not only that, he drew star charts and maps of a planet, and not just any planet. I just ran a match. It’s the eastern continent of Mintaaka 3.”

Intrigued, B’Elanna rose and crossed to the desk to see the screen for herself. Before her she saw files, embedded in files, 20^th century digital storage data, reams of pages of a book stored but lost to the world, and beside it, pages and pages of what appeared to be early forms of internet cache files. “Where did you find this?”

“It was in the tricorder readings the captain brought back from Los Angeles 1996. All this was on Starling’s computer. He had the entire collection digitised, but there’s more. There are websites filled with what was known as fan fiction, paintings, poems, and there was an animation made of the Hobbit once. There’s a news article here about a movie script that someone had sent to Hollywood. Some guy called Peter Jackson wanted to make a movie out of the elves’ lives, as written in Tolkein’s books. There are four elvish languages recorded here, words, a few phrases, not much, but it might help . . .”

Her jaw dropped and she turned to her husband. “Never mind sleep. Let’s get this to the captain.”

Janeway watched in awe as the two conversed in what to her was nothing short of two drunks with marbles in their mouths sharing old news. The last part was perhaps accurate, but some of the words did not come to her ears in Federation standard, they were old Vulcan, and a complete mystery. Suddenly the computer spoke and made her jump.

“Translation algorithms complete. Communications restored.”

Legolas’ eyes widened. “Ai! Eru speaks!” Taking a step back he fell to the floor, and hid his face.

Tuvok turned to his captain and lifted a brow.

Janeway shrugged and stepped towards the prostrate fellow and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The blonde head lifted to reveal huge, frightened eyes. “Shall we try this first meeting again?” she asked.

Legolas pushed up onto his knees and regarded her quizzically. “You speak Quenya.”

Janeway pointed to her shiny brooch. “It’s a translator. Whenever you speak, I hear my language, and when I speak, you hear yours.”

Legolas mustered a little grace to rise, his gaze not leaving hers. “Sadly, it is not my own language, but it is one that I speak. You are human, my lady?”

Janeway smiled. “I am human, but please, call me Kathryn.”

Legolas frowned. “It is a strange name, but beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Janeway smiled.

“Forgive me,” he said. “My name is Legolas, I am the son of King Thranduil. This is my friend, Frodo.” He gazed around them with a wary glance. “Why are we inside a grey box?”

“A box . . .” Janeway looked around her at the trees and grasses, and above her a clear blue sky. “You cannot see any of this,” she realised.

“I see shadows of trees, of false life. It is an image that does not deceive my eyes,” he responded gently. “Although you painted it to calm our fears, for which I thank you.” With a hand to his heart, he bowed.

The large doors moaned apart and a man dressed in black with red shoulders and a woman in black with green shoulders emerged into the lush green countryside. Frodo was surprised, since the doors had not existed a moment before, now there was a gaping hole where once there was grass, trees and sky.

Legolas seemed unfazed by the door’s appearance, all he could see was a blank grey wall. The woman, however, made him unexpectedly animated.

“Yrch!” he screamed, knives drawn in a second and held at the ready.

The instant the blades left their slumber an excruciating noise filled the space around them, like a dozen horns being blown at once.

“Warning! Unauthorised weaponry detected!”

Legolas dropped the blades as if burned. “Ai!” he shrieked. “Eru! Forgive me!” He threw himself onto his face on the floor.

Janeway threw her hands up in despair. “Tuvok, turn that damn thing off!” Silence was restored. “The last thing we need right now, is to scare them to death with a red alert.” She extended an apologetic hand to the elf. “It’s a claxon. Your weapons alerted the computer.”

“The gods were displeased,” Legolas panted.

Janeway shrugged gently. “Something like that. No need to be alarmed.”

Tuvok eyed the two blades of an unknown metal and frowned at the scans of its composition, as the elf gathered them up again and swiftly sheathed them. More intriguing was the scans of another object close by, hanging on a chain and inconspicuously hidden beneath the hobbit’s shirt. There was an energy signature emanating from it, causing a dark knot within his mind to seep into his thoughts like an oily secretion. He shook his head, and logic cloaked him once more. He filed the surreptitious scans away for further analysis, and resolved not to touch that thing that seemed to call to him from deep in his past. An ancient cry, a beguiling cry, one which he had no interest in answering.

“The orc is safe?” Legolas wondered, pointing at the woman.

B’Elenna stood there looking down at the elf still cowering on the floor at her feet. There was a lop-sided smirk of amusement on her face as she touched her furrowed brow. “You like them? They’re all the rage back home.” She looked at Frodo, who eyed her in terror. “A hairy Ferengi?”

Tom stepped in, fighting a grin. “B’Elanna, you’re a notorious tease. Pay her no attention,” he told the little creature. “Captain, I think we found what you’re looking for. The book was call The Hobbit, it details the adventures of a being known as Bilbo Baggins. There are several books by the same author, detailing history, language, geography of several races and their fight against a Dark Lord. These two are mentioned all through at least three of the books. The author’s name was Tolkien, a professor from a place once called England, in a university called Oxford.

“I found out that the reason we couldn’t translate their language, is because it is not Quenya. That’s the route language, yes, but these guys aren’t speaking Quenya. They’re speaking Sindarin. And Frodo speaks what Tolkien described as a Shire Speech, or the ancient tongue. In fact, most people in Middle Earth, as they called it, spoke something completely different, referred to as the Common Tongue. Shire Speech is an archaic form of elvish, much like Saxon was to our 20^th century ancestors. Even the elves couldn’t speak it beyond a few words. And there’s more. The books had a huge following. By 1996, thousands of fans were writing their own stories and ideas, and called in fan fiction. There’s reams of stuff, and get this, someone wanted to make a movie out of it.”

“Where did you get this information?” Janeway asked, finally getting a word in edgeways.

“It’s all in the tricorder readings you took from Starling’s computer, during our search for Captain Braxon and his time ship.”

Janeway considered this carefully. “It would better serve our needs if this was all laid out during a full conference.”

“Lady Kathryn,” a soft voice broke in, stopping their rapid fire conversation. Heads turned to regard the. “I am confused and frightened, but I would much rather be doing something than sitting here in your grey box.”

B’Elanna perked. “How good are you at measuring astrometric charts?”

Legolas blinked. “What?”

“Astrometrics charts, the position of and distances between the stars.”

Legolas blinked again. “I can measure wood, for making houses and ships. I can measure water depths and the distance an arrow flies.”

“Perfect,” she announced. “Captain, with your permission, I’d like Legolas to accompany me to Engineering. I have several ideas that I would like to put forward myself at the meeting,” B’Elanna mentioned and the Captain nodded agreement. “But first, I want to run some theories through the computer.” With that, she rushed off to Engineering, still in her pyjamas, to do just that, with Legolas in tow. Tom stowed his argument for later.

As they were leaving through the enormous doors, Legolas stared at an approaching being, covered in spots, hair stuck out at all angles and wispy beard barely hanging onto his chin. “You are the strangest dwarf I have ever seen,” he said. “Did you dig up cold fire you should have left alone?”

Suddenly B’Elanna grabbed his arm and bore him away before Neelix could reply. The Talaxian entered the holodeck, bemused, bearing a tray of food. “Has B’Elanna taken Mr Elf somewhere? I brought food.”

Janeway smiled. “Perfect timing as always, Mr Neelix. Legolas has gone to Engineering for a while. It may help to alleviate his boredom, while we try to determine where he came from and how to return him there.”

Frodo eyed the food with relish, licking his hungry lips. He was starving, but the sight of the creature, made him question the safeness of approach. Neelix smiled genially and held out the plate for him. Frodo’s eyes flicked between his face and the food. He whipped his hands out, grabbed something, he knew not what except that it smelled good, and retreated.

“This is going to take some explaining,” Tuvok voiced drably.

“What is cold fire?” Neelix asked, his eyes narrowed with confusion. “What is a dwarf?”

“A dwarf is a diminutive fellow of ancient folk lore,” Tuvok replied.

“Cold fire is a old miner’s term for uranium, a radioactive metal found on several worlds, including earth,” Tom said. He eyed the doors for a moment. “Legolas thinks you have radiation poisoning, with the spots, and the hair . . .or the lack of,” he added, straight-faced.

Neelix rolled his lips between his teeth and said nothing. Suddenly small hands divested his tray of all the remaining food. “Whoa, my friend. You’ll give yourself indigestion eating like that.”

“I’m hungry,” Frodo replied, warily. “I haven’t eaten in . . .a long time.”

“Neelix, meet Frodo, he’s a hobbit. According to my resources, Hobbits eat copious amounts of food,” Tom put in helpfully.

Neelix smiled. “Oh! What a coincidence. I’m Neelix, pleased to meet you. Food is my speciality. Captain, you don’t need to keep Frodo locked up in here, do you? Good. There’s a person on board who needs feeding, and it’s my job to make sure he does not go hungry,” the Talaxian announced with overstated panache and self-importance. “Can’t have our guests giving Voyager a bad name, can we, Captain?” he asked innocently.

Janeway closed her mouth, and chewed her lip. Frodo was most definitely hungry, but could she dare let loose a Talaxian on a frightened creature from several thousands of years in the past? Clearly, Neelix did not believe she had a choice in the matter, when put in the manner he had addressed it in. “Do not give him anything too rich,” she warned. “We do not know the effect of our own food on his metabolism, much less your . . .delightful concoctions,” she struggled.

It was a well known fact that Neelix’s idea of palatable food did not match that of anyone else’s idea, though all except Neelix seemed aware of this fact.

Neelix grinned. “Come, Frodo, my friend. Allow me to awaken your taste buds with a universe of culinary delicacies.”

Frodo seemed as certain as Janeway, but followed the strange being regardless. Still nibbling on a small bread roll and spiced cheese slices, he began to warm towards the one called Neelix. Besides, he looked like an overgrown hobbit. And, he promised himself silently, he just had to know. Did Neelix have hairy feet?

“Sooth, Captain, very smooth,” Tom accorded.

Janeway smirked slightly and shuddered. “Let’s just hope hobbits are not allergic to Leola root.”

Legolas was intrigued by the ‘maiden of the living crown’, but took several long breaths before he could summon up the courage to speak. He cursed his weakness, usually none but a balrog could provoke his fear. “What is your name?” he asked.

She smiled. “B’Elanna,” she replied.

“I am Legolas Thranduilion. What is this place where we walk?”

“You’re on a small ship called Voyager. We’re currently on our way home after a long trip.”

“I do not hear the sea,” he said.

“There is no sea out here, just space,” she replied.

Doors parted as they approached and Legolas felt ever more nervous as he peered into the tiny room. “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a turbo-lift, it’s like a box that carries you from here to somewhere else. It’s ok,” she assured him. “It’s quite painless.”

Legolas stepped in beside her, unsure about what to expect.

“Engineering,” B’Elanna said, apparently to nothing and no-one, and then looked down at herself. She rolled her eyes. “Computer, strike that. Deck 8, married quarters.”

The doors closed and the box began to move. Legolas threw himself back against the wall and closed his eyes. A second later he had slid down the bulkhead and collapsed.

B’Elanna leaned over him, quite shocked at the unexpected reaction. “Halt turbo lift. Legolas? Are you alright?”

Legolas opened his eyes at once. “Dizzy,” he rasped.

B’Elanna winced. “Sorry about that. We assumed because you had ships like ours, that you had turbo lifts as well.”

Legolas blinked at her. “I do not understand.”

B’Elanna paused. “Well, your people travel between the stars, don’t they?”

“Yes,” he replied. “As beings of energy. I am not old enough for that level of existence,” he explained. “We have ships that cross the sky. Eärendil crosses the sky many times between spring and spring again.

“A satellite,” B’Elanna decided. Clearly Legolas did not understand the terms they used. “Perhaps you have different names for things,” she suggested. “If the turbo lift makes you dizzy, stay there. You’re not alone. A lot of people complain of motion sickness in these things. Computer resume.”

The rest of the journey was thankfully short, and Legolas gratefully stepped out into an almost identical corridor. “We are still here, but . . .the walls have moved.”

B’Elanna smiled. “This is Deck 8, it’s where I live,” she announced and stepped through a wider set of double doors. Legolas followed pausing to touch his forehead in respect.

“Why do you do that?”

Legolas was frowning at the doors as they closed by themselves. “To enter a person’s home is to be honoured,” he replied. “Why do your doors open on their own? Are there little folk hidden within the walls?”

“Hmm, no, not even close,” B’Elanna replied, as she stepped into another room. Legolas wondered if he should follow, but he saw a bed, and a naked arm, and looked away. “It’s mechanical. Slavery is against our beliefs and code of practice,” she was saying from the inner room.

“As it is for us, also,” Legolas replied. His eyes surveyed the room, seeing a framed picture of B’Elanna and the man he had seen briefly a few minutes before. “This man is your mate?” he asked.

B’Elanna reappeared, straightening her cuffs. “He’s my husband,” she agreed with a smile. “My better half, I assure you.”

Legolas gazed at her. “Better half?”

“My calming influence. I’m a monster without him.”

Legolas wondered if he should be more worried by that, or by the admission itself. “I have seen many monsters, but not one as beautiful as you,” he told her.

B’Elanna lifted a brow, but there was no guile in those words, just a frank truth. “Thanks,” she replied, though she doubted Tom would have been so impressed. “But, as half-Kinglons go, I am still very much like my mother’s people. Bold, brusque, and pushy. Sometimes, my job requires me to be . . .sometimes I go too far,” she admitted. “Don’t elves ever get angry or frustrated?”

Legolas thought about it. “I have not needed to be either angry or frustrated, except when Gollum escaped,” he replied.

“Gollum?”

“A servant of the Dark Lord,” Legolas replied. “I was given charge of his imprisonment, but he escaped me.”

“I see,” B’Elanna replied. “I’ve escaped prison myself once or twice.”

Legolas looked shocked. “Why were you in prison? Surely, it is not seemly for a lady to be in such places as dungeons, nor to slight her honour in the crude actions of men?”

B’Elanna giggled at his innocence. “I was a terrorist, not a petty thief . . .well, maybe I was a thief too, but mostly I kept engines running and blew things up.”

Legolas frowned. “Why would you do this?”

“We were at war. These people invaded our homes, killed our children, and we fought back. It’s not something I am totally proud of. I just hope that it was worth it, that we made a difference in the end.”

“War does many terrible things, makes us do things that we would not do in times of peace. I have killed many, mostly orcs, some dwarves too,” he added.

B’Elanna tried a weak smile. “Come on, let’s get to engineering. I need to run a few tests on an idea I have about finding your home.”

Legolas readily followed her. “Will we go into the moving box again?”

“I’m afraid so,” B’Elanna conceded. “You might want to sit on the floor, just in case you fall again.”

A few moments later, Legolas stumbled out of the elevator and paused for a moment to allow his head to reacquaint itself with his neck.

“I did suggest you sit down,” B’Elanna observed, trying not to smirk. “Engineering is this way.”

Legolas followed less than steadily at first. The door opened up on a whole new world of colour and sound. Eyes wide, he slowed to a halt and simply stared.

Before him stood a blue column of swirling liquid which reached up almost to the height of three talans. It seemed like fire, and at the same time water. Something pulsed on either side of it, and at each pulse thrummed through his feet. Whum-whum-whum it purred, making the hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. His skin tingled all over.

“There is something living in there,” he said, at least he thought he had spoken.

“It’s not alive, it’s a machine. That’s the warp core. It makes it possible for our ship to move. Do you have anything like this?”

Legolas shook his head dreamily. “It reminds me of the silmaril, but I have never seen them, only had them described to me. You have crystals within the blue flame, but they are not like the silmaril.”

“This silmaril, it’s a power source?”

Legolas turned his head to regard her evenly. “To speak of the silmaril directly is forbidden. Eärendil, who crosses the sky, bears one before him. That is all I can say.”

B’Elanna accepted this without question. “That’s ok,” she assured him. “We have laws like your own. The captain and first officer discuss things that the senior staff don’t know about. And there are thinks we discuss in staff meetings that we don’t mention down here, things that the junior officers are not allowed to know. It’s called security clearance, based on rank.”

“You are a lady of high status, a princess to these ordinary people,” Legolas said.

B’Elanna grinned. “I think I like that.”

“Be warned,” a man suddenly said. “Don’t inflate her ego more than is safe to do so, especially near the warp core.”

Legolas turned to see a blond curly-haired man with a welcoming smile approach.

B’Elanna laughed. “Joe, this is Legolas, Legolas this is Joe Carey, he is my second in command down here. He keeps things running while I am . . .”

“Supposed to be sleeping.” Joe interrupted, with a grin. “You’re one of the two Tuvok rescued. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand, and Legolas looked at it in confusion. “Ah, you’re not familiar with the hand shake, don’t worry. How do you greet someone that you have not met before?” he asked, genuinely interested.

Legolas smiled, pressed a hand to his chest and bowed. “Mae govannen,” he said.

Joe copied the hand gesture and smiled. “Welcome to engineering. Seen anything you recognise? I hear you’ve been asleep for a while. Hibernation can make the mind go fuzzy for a while. I should know. It took me two months to recover from hibernation training in the academy.”

“I am not familiar with this . . .machine,” Legolas replied. He pressed a hand to his stomach. “I am hungry. My stomach growls like your blue fire.”

Joe chuckled softly. “I’ll go and get something for you to eat,” he offered.

B’Elanna began pressing buttons across the panel behind him, and Legolas turned to find out what the bleeping noise was.

“It is a small bird,” he said.

“It does sound like a bird,” B‘Elanna agreed. “Each time, one of these coloured squares is pressed, it bleeps, to let you know that the command has been input and accepted,” she explained.

Legolas leaned closer to frown at a blinking light, turning his head at all angles to try to work out what the light was. He reached out to touch the red square, and B’Elanna suddenly cried out.

“Don’t touch that!”

Legolas jumped back, and horror. No one had ever spoken to him in such a tone before. What had suddenly made this beautiful creature turn so suddenly from a gentle lady into a ferocious beast?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just . . .that control would eject the warp core and blow out half this deck right along with it. Maybe we should go into my office and see if we can get a match from the charts Tom found.”

Legolas followed her, less than certain he wanted to be in an enclosed space with the warg that lurked just below the surface. He noted that no one else in the rooms around him had even turned their heads at her explosion. Perhaps it was normal. He smelled food just as the woman stepped into the office, and turned to see Joe bearing a tray.

“Here we go,” he said, setting the tray on the table. “Two hotdogs, a coffee and a glass of water. The doctor said you could eat this safely, but coffee would most likely cause heart palpitations. We don’t want that, B’Elanna is scary enough.”

“Watch it Joe,” she tossed back, good naturedly, as quickly the gentle lady again. “Or I’ll demote you to bilge duties for a month.”

Joe just laughed. “I hope to see you again some time, Legolas.”

“And I you,” the elf replied. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I better get back to work.”

The man left them to it, as Legolas warily joined her at the table. He looked at the long sausage tucked inside a white roll and smiled. “My hobbit friends make these things at every opportunity. You call them hot dogs? You eat dogs?”

“Well some do, but it’s an old phrase I picked up from Tom. He’s a historian. This food is actually made of pork and was very popular back in the twentieth century.”

“How far into your past is that?” Legolas asked as he took a bite.

“About three hundred years,” she said. “But sausages have been made as far back as three thousand years on my home world.”

“That is an Age of Arda,” Legolas said. “I have lived that and that again, but I have not known a year called twentieth century.”

B’Elanna coughed and choked. “What?”

“Is something wrong?” he wondered.

“You are six thousand years old . . .and you look like that.” B’Elanna gaped at him incredulous.

“I am considered young, though I have friends half my age,” he told her.

“How long-lived are your people?”

“We are immortal,” he replied.

B’Elanna was enthralled. “You are born immortal. That is a concept I have never come across before, except with the Q.” She took another bite, hoping the venom in her voice went unnoticed. It had not.

“What is Q that makes you so angry?”

“It’s an omnipotent being that turns up when you least expect it, and when you least want it. They can be any shape, size, or colour, but more often than not they cause chaos, lots of chaos. They make things appear, disappear, break, duplicate, and can turn you into anything they please. Trust me, a Q is not a being you want to annoy. They are bad enough in a good mood.”

Legolas smiled to himself. “That sounds like a wizard.”

“Wizard?”

“Yes, they are powerful beings who have transcended to the higher plane. On their return to Arda they disguise themselves as old men. Our greatest is Gandalf. He is a grey wizard . . .except he died in Moria.”

“But you said you were immortal. You can’t die.”

“In battle, or when the heart is broken, the life may leave us. It is death. To be cold is to die. This place, your ship, is cold.”

B’Elanna swallowed. As soon as he had uttered the words, she felt an unquenchable feeling that they were running out of time. “I need you to stay alive,” she suddenly spoke. “Frodo needs you alive. What good is trying to get home if all I take back is a pile of clothes and memories?”

Legolas gently tipped his head to one side a little, regarding her with deep consideration. “I could not more will my heart to stop, than I could take life in cold blood,” he replied. “You say you have maps of my home, I would like to see them.”

B’Elanna sipped her coffee and thought long and hard before punching up the required display. “Do you recognised this?” she asked, pointing to an orbital depiction of Mintaaka 3.

Legolas gazed at the blue and grey ball, swathed in wispy white clouds. “I do not,” he replied.

“Ok, how about this?”

Legolas looked at the next display, and almost jumped from his seat. “Arda,” he breathed.

“That is a close-up of the planet I just showed you. Are there any features of this landscape that are particularly familiar?”

Legolas pointed. “Mirkwood. The Misty Mountains. Eriador, where the Shire lies. Frodo’s home is there. And down here is Gondor, where Ârâgorn shall be King.”

“Is all this one country?” B’Elanna asked.

“Many countries,” Legolas replied. “Between Gondor and the Misty Mountains lies Rohan, the land of the horsemen. I have never been there. They are a tall and strong, but not of Númenor. Over here is the North Kingdom of Arnor. Ârâgorn will be king of that as well. And, away in the east, in this circle of mountains, is Mordor, where the Dark Lord dwells, where we were going. My last memory of that journey was standing on the banks of this river, the Andúin. A fell beast flew overhead, dark and menacing as its rider, and shrieked into the night. I fired an arrow into its chest . . .it turned and flew straight at us. And the world . . .vanished.” Legolas gasped. “Lady B’Elanna . . .it was no fell beast. Was it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it was. An alien race called the Hin’ja kidnapped you. I’m sorry if I sound angry. It’s not directed at you, believe me. Tom went down to their museum, he saw what they had done. There were thousands of people, just like you, all boxed as if in coffins. I find that so dishonourable, so cruel.” She paused for a moment to control her rage. “You called me beautiful, but I have to say, you are one of the most gorgeous beings I have ever met. And to think that they took you from a world of trees and mountains to be imprisoned in a box for thousands of years. I can't say what I would have done, if I had been down there and not Tom.”

Legolas remained silent in deep thought for a moment. “You are a woman of honour, Lady B’Elanna.” he informed her. “Is this how Arda looks from your ship in the sky?” he asked, changing the subject. The rest, he could not understand, and decided to let it lie for a while and deal with it later.

“It might have looked like that once,” she said, glad that he had moved on to something else. She was close to wanting to punch something. She flicked a few numbers into the panel and another image popped up. This planet was a dull, grey brown, with a few small dark shallow oceans and swirling red clouds. “This was Mintaaka 3, as seen from space approximately fifteen years ago.”

Legolas sank into the chair, and a single tear formed and spilled out over his cheek. “Arda was destroyed . . .because we were not there to destroy the Ring.”

“There are still people who live there. It’s a very simple existence,” she told him. “Don’t despair just yet.” She brought another image for him to look at. It was volcano, huge and belching smoke and hot ash from it’s summit.

“Mount Doom,” he whispered.

“That’s the place you were trying to reach?"

Legolas nodded.

“Then that is our target. Now all we need to do is find out how to get you there and as quickly as possible. Tell me about your people and this ring. What is it, what does it do that makes you so afraid of it?”

“It was created by the Dark Lord, to hold power over all the peoples of the earth. It has its own will, its own evil malice. Frodo was affected by it, that much was certain even at the Counsel of Elrond, but he still offered to take the Ring. The rest of us were too afraid, or too eager to take the ring for themselves. It affects your mind. It was once worn by Gollum, keeping him alive far beyond his natural years. It twisted him, so much so that it was hard to recognise him as the peaceful creature he had once been. It distorts time, your very soul is sold to it within seconds, if you are not strong enough to fight it. Gandalf was deeply afraid of it. If it had touched him, the downfall would have been all the more swift.”

B’Elanna listened, enraptured, but her mind had wandered elsewhere. Distorting time . . .meant a temporal field. How to use that to my advantage, she wondered.

Frodo sat in the Mess Hall, and hesitantly lifted the pastry to his mouth. Neelix watched him, eager hopefulness on his keen face. The hobbit took another bite.

“Well?” the Talaxian coaxed.

“This is delicious,” Frodo agreed. “What is it made of?”

“It’s a plant called Leola. The leaves, flowers, stems and even the roots are edible. You can do almost anything with it: roasted; boiled; mashed; fried; steamed. You can eat it as a vegetable, a meat substitute, a desert, baked like a cake. You can make drinks out of it, and even smoke the leaves.”

Frodo continued eating, but his eyes darkened alarmingly at the mention of smoking. The being called Neelix did not seem to notice.

Neelix eyed the six empty dishes before him. He had eaten as much as the creature, and had reached his limit, but the hobbit was still going strong. “Are you full?”

“No,” Frodo replied.

Neelix smiled, quailing inside at the hugely underestimated task he had set himself. “Then let me show you something my dearest friend used to love. Egg canapés.”

Frodo looked up from licking his fingers. “Used to?”

The ever-present smile on the Talaxian’s face faded a little as he thought of Kes. “She was my love. We were together for the better part of her lifetime. Her race only lives nine years, so I made it a point to make her as happy as I possibly could. When she turned four years old, something happened to her.”

“She died?” Frodo wondered.

“No,” Neelix replied. “That I could have accepted. No, she transcended beyond the realm of the physical; she became pure energy. One minute she was here, and the next she was changing and then she was gone.”

Frodo frowned. “She was an elf?”

Neelix smiled widely. “She had ears like yours, true enough, but no. She was Ocampa.”

“You miss her very much,” Frodo realised.

“Yes, I do,” he replied. He could not bring himself to say anything more and instead wandered over to a cupboard set into the wall. Frodo watched, expecting him to open it and take something out, but, to his amazement, the creature spoke to it.

“Egg canapés,” he said, and Frodo watched agog as the hole in the centre suddenly lit up, filling the space with blue sparkles. When it had faded, Neelix lifted a plate that the hobbit could swear had not been there before.

Neelix was smiling again, something Frodo knew was not as easy a thing to do as the people around him supposed. “You’ll love these,” he announced, and set the plate before his guest.

Frodo looked at the food with delight and licked his lips, and struggled to hide a yawn that crept in unnoticed. Before he took a bite, he turned to his new friend. “Neelix, may I ask you something?”

“Anything,” the Talaxian replied.

“Do you have hairy feet?”

Legolas watched her make symbols and squiggles appear on the screen before him. He could not read it, but guessed that they were letters and words in her language. She was calculating distances, speed and the energy needed to do something that he could not understand.

“Simulation complete. Fatal hull compromise. Decompression in three seconds.”

B’Elanna thumped the panel and continued tapping on the keys. “Recalculate and begin again,” he told the computer.

Legolas looked around him, trying to find the source of the voice. “Your goddess speaks from the very walls.”

B’Elanna looked up, grinning widely. “That’s the ship’s voice.”

Legolas looked at her in surprise. “Your ship speaks?”

B’Elanna suppressed a chuckle. “It’s difficult to explain, but she’s not a goddess,” she said. “For me, if Lukhara were to speak from the walls, I would go home to Qonos right now, and never leave.”

“Lukhara?”

“The wife of Kahless. Kahless is as close to a god as Klingons get. Your god is called Eru, right? At least, that’s the name you screamed at me when I arrived in the holodeck.”

“Eru is the creator,” Legolas replied, touching his forhead in respect. “Why do you have a hollow deck?”

B’Elanna opened her mouth to correct him, when an engineer arrived with a flat object for her. “Thanks, Chell. That’s a great help,” she said.

Legolas stared and blinked and stared some more at the man who stood beside her.

Chell grinned. “Good morning,” he said. “I expect you have not met anyone quite like me before, and the last time I saw you, you were still asleep.”

Struck mute, Legolas merely shook his head, and then nodded.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Chell of Bolarus. As you can see, I am blue. All Bolians exhibit a blue colour of varying tones and shades, but what is more noticeable, perhaps, is the slight cleft that makes me look as though someone glued two halves together.”

Legolas still could not speak.

“That is also unique to our species, and has a very interesting stor . . .”

“Chell,” B’Elanna cut in.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Chell replied and returned to his post.

“What . . .is he?” Legolas stammered.

“He is a chatterbox,” she replied. “Sweet guy, but once you let him, he’ll talk you into a coma.” She observed the shocked elf for a long moment. “He is a little unnerving at first,” she admitted. “Are all your people the same colour?”

Legolas turned to look at her. "Elves of the Sindar are called Silvan Elves, for our hair and where we come from. The Teleri are darker though their skin still glows with the light. Those of the Noldor have golden hair, like the Lady Gladriel." Gently he took her hand and set it beside his own. “You are of Harad, or Easterling. It is the only orcs that are darker, black as their rotting flesh, black as their ways.” He gazed momentarily to where the blue man had gone. “We do not have men with skin the colour of the heavens, except when painted for war.” Legolas turned at the approach of another engineer, one with pointed ears. Legolas greeted him with respect. “Mae govannen.”

The creature, identical to Tuvok in all but colour, regarded him imperiously. “I have the specs you requested, B’Elanna. I believe you will agree that they are most intriguing.”

B’Elanna took the P.A.D.D. he held out and looked at the tiny readout on its surface. “Vorik, this is Legolas. He comes from Mintaaka 3, the Vulcan’s true home world. Legolas meet Vorik of Vulcan.”

“I am pleased to meet another of my kin,” Legolas said.

Vorik lifted a single brow. “There are some who believe that life existed before the time of barbarism. I am not among them,” he replied without inflection. “However, I am gratified that you appear to be unharmed by your incarceration.”

Legolas frowned, his heart sinking into his boots. “You do not recognise the likeness between us, as Tuvok does?”

Vorik tipped his head to one side, brows twitching together. “I am aware that my commanding officer has theories about our ancestry, however, I do not share his opinions. I do not believe there is any history beyond what Surak taught us.”

“Who is Surak?” Legolas asked.

“I think that will be all for now, Vorik,” B’Elanna told him shortly.

“Yes, B’Elanna. Although, pages three through seventeen are of special interest, I do recommend that the latter four of those should be reviewed by astrometrics, to be certain that I have calculated the variables correctly.”

B’Elanna gave him a tight smile and nodded. Vorik then left.

“He does not understand nor accept as Tuvok does,” Legolas noted quietly. B’Elanna was about to offer something sympathetic, but Legolas continued. “Nor is he as knowledgeable,” he added.

“Well, each person is welcome to his or her opinion, Legolas, but when someone rejects facts, it makes me so angry,” she told him, her anger was very obviously tightly controlled. “There was no need for him to be rude, and I apologise if he offended you.”

“Why does he call you B’Elanna, when all others here call you sir or lieutenant?”

Her expression softened instantly. “Star fleet regulations and protocol . . .with Vorik, it's . . .a long story,” she said, and left it at that.

Without warning Legolas winced, leaning over the console, and moaned loudly. B’Elanna looked up startled. “Legolas? What’s wrong?”

“My head hurts.” He dropped to his knees on the deck, cradling his head in his hands. The cool bulkhead against his back did nothing to alleviate the needle-sharp stab at the inside of his skull.

B’Elanna took out a med kit and opened it, beginning a scan of him. The results were nothing that she had ever seen before, but one thing was clear - he had a bad headache.

Legolas recognised the blinking light and flinched, gasping in terror.

“It’s ok,” she soothed. “It’s a little light. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

Legolas still flinched, as if recalling a memory. “I have seen this light before,” he told her. “The darkness held it in the grey box.”

B’Elanna looked at him with concern. Was he remembering his abduction? She had to know, it could be important. “Grey box?”

“The place Frodo and I were speaking with Tuvok.”

“You mean, the room where we woke you up?”

“Yes, the room was grey, like a dull metal box.”

B’Elanna thought back to the forests and grass she had walked into earlier that morning. “You can’t see holograms?”

“What is this thing that you speak of?” Legolas asked.

“Holograms, they are fragments of light, held together in something like an invisible bed-sheet, moulded into shapes like bread dough,” she said, much as she had described it to a child once. “It’s the simplest way to describe it. Light particles all bunched together to make a shape, to create a hologram.” Something occurred to her. “You can’t see the doctor.”

“Doctor?”

“Our healer, he heals the sick. He must have visited you at least once. He can be annoying, but he’s good at what he does. He would be the only person who would have had one of these scanners,” B’Elanna decided. “Tell me what you saw.”

Legolas shuddered. “I saw air like smoke, as if heated in the desert, like the ripples on water, clouded in the shape of a man. It was the form of the Dark Lord, as though the Ring were upon me, and I was frightened.”

B’Elanna patted his arm gently. “That was the doctor, as seen through your eyes. When I see him, I see a man like Tuvok, or Tom. I think the Captain should know about this.”

“You will you tell her?” Legolas wondered. “It is just a headache,” he dismissed, although it was obvious from his eyes that it pained him some considerable amount.

B’Elanna nodded. “I have to. You have what we know to be a delicate physiology. At any moment, you could die. A simple headache for me, could mean something far more serious for you, and it can’t be treated by a doctor you can neither see nor touch. Wait here,” she told him, and crossed to a panel and began speaking into it. After a minute or two she returned with a steaming mug and rummaged in the box. She took out a metal tube and fiddled with the buttons on its slender length for a moment. She then pressed it to the elf’s throat.

Legolas coughed and gasped a little, and blinked in amazement.

“Feel better?”

“Yes,” Legolas said in surprise. “What did you do?”

“I gave you a mild pain killer. You’re suffering from hibernation sickness, dehydration and extreme hunger. One hotdog is not enough. You need to drink this, and then sleep.” She passed him the mug and waited for him to tentatively sniff the contents before drinking it. Vegetable soup, warm and filling, he smiled.

“Where will I find somewhere to sleep?” he said, somewhat disappointed at having to leave the bright place with the colours and sounds.

B’Elanna stood up, returning the pack to its slot on the wall. “I would send someone else to escort you up to your quarters, but I have to go and see the captain myself so I’ll walk you there. The captain said that after you and Frodo have rested, you should meet with her on Deck one.”

Without a thought to explain the term, B’Elanna took him back to the turbo lift. Legolas gently touched his tingling neck in wonderment, and then his temple. The needle-point of pain driving through his skull had gone in an instant. He wondered silently if athelas was as good as this, not that he had ever had the need to try it.

“What is your race called, that have these furrows to your brow?” Legolas asked.

B’Elanna smiled. “I’m half-Klingon. My mother was a scientist from Qonos, my father came from Earth.”

“Middle Earth?” he asked in surprise.

“No, Terra, or Sol 3 as it’s correctly named. Most people just call it Earth.”

“Is it a beautiful place, this Qonos?”

B’Elanna huffed sarcastically. “Yeah, if you like smog, choking dust, pollution, and constant fighting.”

Legolas winced. “Perhaps you are in a better place here in the grey box called Voyager?”

B’Elanna smiled brightly. “Much better. I am accepted here, whereas I have never been accepted anywhere else in my life before.”

“I do not understand.”

“Being half of one race and half of another isn’t exactly plain sailing,” she told him.

“I do not understand.”

“Klingons are a warrior race, they fight and fight hard. Everything is honour; honour this, honour that. If you don’t fit in, you are unworthy. A petaq. That’s what I was before I came here, a nobody, a being without honour.”

“Why did you not go to your father’s lands?” Legolas asked.

“I did . . .for a time,” she replied. “I didn’t fit in there either. I was too feisty, too belligerent, too Klingon, too full of myself to understand. I was young, headstrong, and always right and even more right when I was wrong.” She smiled. “That was a long time ago. I’ve changed, accepted myself, and found a life for myself. Perhaps you know of someone like me where you come?”

Legolas’ mind had already wandered to Gimli. “Yes,” he replied with a tender smile. “I know a being like you.”

B’Elanna watched the expression flit across his face, and smiled. “I know that look. What’s her name? Is she cute?”

Legolas looked at her. “She is male, a dwarf. His name is Gimli . . .and yes, perhaps cute is a good word, though many would question me for its use. Elves and dwarves do not see eye to eye. We have endured thousands of years of war and distrust between our two peoples. But Gimli is different, one touched by Elbereth. He enlightens my life, brings purpose to waking, purpose to sleep, but I had not sought anything more than friendship with him until he struck me.”

“Struck you?”

Legolas understood her astonishment. “It is part of bonding. I am certain you will not understand, or will find it disgusting.”

“No, not at all,” she replied. “Klingon’s also have violent mating rituals. We bite, throw heavy objects, break bones, and generally make as much noise as possible.”

Legolas grinned. “We did not throw heavy objects,” he replied. “Gimli did come at me with a battleaxe, but there was no drawing of blood. It would not be seemly. I have told no one of our joining beside you. My father would not approve of my being joined with a dwarf. He would rather I be joined to a man like Aragorn, if I will not take an elf,” he supposed.

“You have same-sex couples?” she said in mild surprise. “I shall have to keep Tom locked up,” she added in jest.

“I am not male,” the elf replied. “I have no sex.”

B’Elanna’s amused grin vanished instantly. “Oh, well, that’s ok, too. The Federation has androgynous people as well. I haven’t met them myself, but I had to study them in school.”

“You study people . . .as a child studies ants?”

B’Elanna gazed at him, caught between wanting to scream and wanting to break into hysterical laughter. “Not exactly. Every child, and even adults at the academy, must know at least the basics of every race within the Federation. It’s what makes working in Starfleet so interesting, you get to meet so many different people.”

“Like the blue man in your work space,” Legolas decided.

B’Elanna grinned. “Chell is a sweetheart, talks a lot, but he’s as harmless as a kitten.”

“I want to go home,” Legolas suddenly said quietly. “Your grey box is strange; welcoming, but I need the trees. You are right, my heart fails me here. Without the voice of the trees, and light of the sun, without Gimli, I will die.”

B’Elanna wanted to cry. What had this race done to him, snatching him from his home, his life, his family, without so much as a thought? And he clearly missed this Gimli. She smiled reassuringly. “I’m working on it. I promise. If there is a way, I’ll find it.” She stopped outside a set of doors. Approaching from the other end of the corridor came two beings, one only slightly smaller than the other. “It looks like Neelix has brought your friend.”

“Hello again, Mr Elf,” Neelix chimed.

Legolas regarded his with some confusion. “You are not a dwarf?” he decided.

“No, I’m a Talaxian,” he replied. “My name is Neelix, I think I mentioned that.”

“I am Legolas Thranduilion.”

“Well-er, that’s a nice name. What does it mean?” Neelix asked.

“It means I am the son of Thranduil, Legolas is my birth-name.” Frodo yawned widely. “Frodo needs to rest.”

“So do you,” B’Elanna reminded him. “Make sure you both sleep, or that headache with return a lot worse than before.”

“Yes, my lady,” Legolas replied. “I thank you for showing me the place where you work. And Master Neelix for your care of my friend.”

B’Elanna smiled widely. “You’re welcome.”

Neelix took them into the quarters and showed them where everything was. It was a simple room. Two single beds, a table with two chairs and a sofa and low table by a large window. Another door, much smaller than the main doors, leading to the bathroom.

“There,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable. If you need anything just call.”

Legolas bowed his head and thanked him again. Both of them gazed around them for a moment, before clasping each other for comfort. They parted and selected a bed each and lay down.

The rooms were comfortable, but cold and dark. No earth sang beneath their feet, but the thrum of the engines, the heartbeat of the ship so foreign to them. Frodo stared at the ceiling, and across the room Legolas could not find reverie. Silently, but not unheard by the elf, his protector, Frodo slipped from his bed and padded across the floor to Legolas’ bed. Before Frodo could do more than draw a stuttered breath to speak, Legolas lifted the cover and accepted Frodo into his arms. At last, their fate came crashing in on them. Snuggled together in the silence, they both wept.

After a deep and restful sleep, Frodo woke to find Legolas sitting by the windows, gazing out at unending night. There were tears on his cheeks, which he made no attempt to hide from Frodo. The hobbit looked up at him, silent for a moment.

“What is it, Legolas?” he asked.

“There are no stars here that remind me of home,” the elf replied softly.

Frodo climbed up onto the sofa to take a look for himself, eyes taking in the blackness, swirled red in the distance and dotted with gold specks. “It is beautiful. It is night, and yet my heart tells me that it is day.” He pressed his head to the glass and tried to peer downwards. “How high is this building? I cannot see the ground from here.”

“This is no building,” Legolas replied. “This is a ship like that of the Holy Ones, that flies between the stars.”

Frodo jerked away from the window in horror, wonder and fear. “It is? I did not think it possible for a mortal to travel across the sky. Aren’t I supposed to be dead first, to be up here?”

“We are not dead, Frodo, but very much alive, and lost.” Legolas turned his eyes to his friend, and tried to smile, but it failed. “It is strange that we have been gone from Arda for thousands of years and yet my feelings are as strong as if it were this morning that I last set eyes on the others.”

Frodo smiled a little. “You and Gimli spent many days together in Lorien. It concerned more than one of us that only one or perhaps neither of you would return in the evening.”

Legolas suddenly smiled. “I could never harm Gimli. He is dear to me.”

“How is it that a male elf could love a male dwarf? Or any dwarf, for that matter,” Frodo said.

Legolas laughed softly. “An elf is neither male nor female, my friend, for gender only occurs in those who are peredhil or peredhor. And as for dwarves . . .” His gaze turned inward. “I cannot reveal the secrets Gimli told me, never. Even now, it would be wrong to do so.”

Frodo smiled. “Then I shall not ask, but I will wonder until my dying day what secrets you keep.”

Legolas smiled gently. “I pray that the Valar grant you many years before calling you to them, my dear Frodo.”

Frodo winced slightly, remembering a certain wizard who had called him that since he was a very small lad in Buckland. “How is your headache?”

“It is gone from me,” Legolas assured him. he wiped the teares from his cheeks and turned his back on the foreign stars. "There is food for us," he said, and Frodo noticed the tray on the low table for the first time.

"Neelix must have come while we slept. This is called mini stone soup . . .or something like that," he told him. "Taste it. You'll like it."

Legolas lifted one of the bowls and sniffed gently before sipping, deciding not to reveal how the food had truly arrived. Who would possibly believe that the moment he rose from the bed, blue sparkles had covered the table and when they were gone the tray sat in their place? B'Elanna had told him that the woman who spoke from the walls was not a god, but she certainly acted like one.

Replete with soup, they abandoned the empty bowls and rose.

“Come, the Lady Kathryn wished to speak with us as soon as we awoke.”

“Where is she? How do we find her?”

“Lady B'Elanna informed me before we came here to rest that Lady Kathryn bade us meet with her on Deck One. I was too . . .” Legolas covered his cheeks with his palms as he fished for the word.

“Embarrassed?” Frodo supplied.

Legolas nodded. “I could not ask her what she meant. I have never felt that before. There is no word in the elvish tongues for that feeling.” He took one last look at the alien sky and turned away, unable to put to words the unquenchable ache it caused to gaze at it. “Do you know how to get to where Lady Kathryn is?”

“No,” Frodo admitted. “Where I went was a place called Mess Hall. It’s like a dining room, with cupboards that do not open. You speak to them and they give you food. All this talking to voices in the walls, and food appearing as if from thin air . . .it makes me wish I was home, so that I can cook it myself,” he added ruefully.

Legolas smiled softly, relieved that he had not been the only one to see the strangeness of this place. “Perhaps we should ask the voice that speaks from the walls to show us the way to Lady Kathryn’s chambers.”

Legolas and Frodo arrived with wonderment on their faces, which quickly turned to trepidation when the doors opened and they looked out on what appeared to be a vaguely circular room with a collection of chairs and tables, but like nothing they had ever seen before. Each table glowed with coloured shapes and made strange noises that both awed and terrified them. And before them was a huge window, filled with the coloured points of stars.

Janeway looked up to see who had entered the bridge and stood and smiled, attempting to mask her surprise at seeing them there. “Good morning,” she accorded. “Did you sleep well?” They nodded, eyes everywhere, but on her. “If I had known you were awake, I would have come down myself.”

Legolas stared around him and settled his eyes on her. “You summoned us, my Lady. I did not wish to keep you waiting.”

Janeway smiled widely. “I would not put it quite like that. Please, call me Kathryn. I have it on good authority that you are both royalty. Please allow me to address you correctly, Prince Frodo of the Shire, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, welcome to Voyager.”

While both of them jolted with surprise, Legolas also cringed.

“If you don’t mind,” Frodo said gently. “I have never been called that. I prefer just Frodo.”

“As with my friend,” Legolas added. “I do not use my title. And, in truth, I am not the prince of Mirkwood, but of the Woodland Realm.”

Janeway lifted an eyebrow and glanced at Tom, who was sitting at a table below her, looking sheepish at her unvoiced question.

“Um . . .perhaps it’s the wrong forest?” he suggested hopefully.

“It is,” Legolas agreed. “Although it is something that is not spoken of to outsiders, or even amongst ourselves. You are forgiven for not knowing.”

Janeway smiled again and nodded in acceptance. “Please, join us. We have been going through as much as we can find in our memory files of your world,” she said, leading them to a doorway across the bridge. The doors parted to reveal a huge table and even larger windows.

“Your memory must be vast to remember Arda,” Legolas said.

“Sadly, I can’t take the credit,” she explained. “History is not my forte. Tom Paris is our expert on that. He and Tuvok have been hard at work piecing it all together.”

Legolas looked up to see others joining them in the room. He and Frodo warily crossed to the seating she indicated and sat down. The cushions were soft, totally unlike anything they had never seen before, much less sat on. Janeway took a seat opposite them at the far end of the table, and the other people took seats on either side of her.

“I feel as though I am on display,” Legolas decided quietly.

Janeway opened the meeting. “Gentlemen,” she addressed, which both Legolas and Frodo found odd. As one, their eyes flitted to B’Elanna, and wondered about it. B’Elanna was every bit a lady, why then would Janeway call them all gentlemen? “May I introduce our guests Legolas and Frodo, whom we rescued from the Hin’ja? Legolas, Frodo, this is my first officer, Chakotay; Harry Kim, operations; and our chief medical officer, the Doctor. On my left is my tactical officer, Tuvok, whom you already know; Tom Paris, our pilot and B’Elanna Torres, my chief engineer.”

Legolas eyed what to him was an empty chair and looked at his friend. “Do you see the spectre?” he asked softly.

“Captain, if I may?” B’Elanna put in. “Legolas cannot see the Doctor, his eyes do not see as ours do. To him, the doctor is what we could best describe as a ghost inage on a movie playback.”

“Well, that makes me feel particularly good about myself,” a voice spoke.

Legolas almost bolted from his seat, but a hand on his kept him seated.

“I think I can manipulate his force fields enough to lessen the impact of our hologram,” B'Elanna offered. "Though he may look more like an umpa-lumpa to us."

"A what?"

Tom tried not to laugh. "It's a character from a Roal Dahl book entitled Willy Wonker and the Chocolate Factory. They're short, orange skin and green hair, and extremely funny."

The Doctor pretended not to have heard.

Frodo watched the woman with the crumpled forehead play with what looked like a medallion attached to the doctor’s arm. Slowly he began to change. Ensign Kim grinned behind a hand, the Doctor did indeed look decidedly orange. Janeway maintained decorum, but only just.

Legolas’ eyes widened as the empty chair finally began to fill with a being his perceptions could not equate with goodness and calm at all. He could see more of the creature, but it did little to settle his racing heart. His eyes closed for a moment. “Wraiths,” he mumbled. “The man they call healer now looks like a black rider.”

“But,” Frodo said softly, “You can see him.”

“Aye,” he whispered. “And wishing that I could not.”

To the hobbit and the crew, the EMH now looked ashen, in muted grey-orange tones, like an orange gone mouldy, but at least visible to all.

“Better?” B’Elanna asked the elf.

Legolas hesitated, gasped and simultaneously shook and nodded his head. “It is visible,” he replied, not knowing what else he could say.

Janeway smiled a little. “It will only be temporary, Doctor,” she assured the rather annoyed EMH. “Two days ago, we rescued Legolas and Frodo from a museum on the Hin’ja home world, where they had both been held in what I can only describe as appalling and unacceptable conditions for the amusement of others. We felt we had no choice but to remove you both from their facility and bring you aboard.”

“We really were on display,” Frodo said emptily.

The captain opened the meeting, stating the purpose and opened the floor to Tom and Tuvok.

“I did a little research on hobbits,” Tom began. “I found reams of stuff on them, and it was easy to find, once I knew what to ask for. It seems that on Arda, their correct name is periannath. Pheri or pere means half, annath comes from the root word ellonath, elf, and translates, literally, to ‘half of us’.”

Tuvok, seated beside him, nodded in agreement and thought, arching his fingers before him.

Tom continued. “It seems they may be as old as the elves. It is interesting to note that when the elves were young, three beings called them ellonath, which means star host, most likely because of their first conscious word was El, which means ‘behold, the stars’. The three beings called upon them to leave Cuiviénen, the land of waking, and journey to the light of the trees. They granted them immortality and the elves left en mass. The hobbits were not so lucky, and were overlooked, but they too walked into the west.”

“In other words,” Tuvok put in. “There are, in fact, two races of elves, one tall, and one short.”

Tom agreed with a nod. “One became immortal and given divine rights, while the other was forgotten. It seems though that, not to be outdone, the halflings, as they are often referred to, followed the ellonath, perhaps to find out what all the fuss was about. They have always loved the land, even as they travelled across it trying to find a place as close to the sea where the elves vanished as they could get.”

“The elves vanished?” Janeway asked.

“According to ancient writings, the elves crossed the sea, but the hobbits couldn’t follow them, and merely stated that the elves vanished. Ships left, but none returned. The place they settled in was called the Shire.”

“I have noted that their calendar differs from that of other countries,” Tuvok explained. “They had not been in the Shire that long when the Third Age came to an end, since their dates begin from the year they entered Eriador. The records state that they came from the north east, beyond the Iron Mountains.”

“Just as the elves sought Valinor, the undying lands, so the hobbits sought their lost kin, but on reaching the sea, they could go no further,” Tom supposed. “Being a kindred race, following simply out of love, they desired to find the elves again, and gave up at some point, settling in the rolling hills and forgot their quest.

"Or simply acting out of a desire for revenge?" Kim wondered.

"There is no evidence to suggest bad blood between elves and hobbits, simply that one was left behind.”

“It is my opinion,” Tuvok took up the baton. “That once the early settlers had founded Eriador, they decide that they were home and remained there, disinterested in further travel or in any other races that existed in that region. Just as the Avari, my direct ancestors, settled east of the mountains.” He continued, “There begins, from about this time, the gradual transformation of the hobbit lines, adaptations to their specific environments.”

Tom nodded eagerly, but allowed Tuvok to address this most interesting subject.

“There are three subspecies of periannath, each distinct from the other. The largest is the Stoor, robust, tall and very strong. They were fishermen, having large lungs enabling them to dive to great depths for food in the deep waters of the rivers and inland seas. They are intelligent, inquisitive but highly volatile in nature. Their distrust of and viciousness towards outsiders is legendary.”

Two grins spread at one end of the table. Legolas and Frodo glanced at each other, fascinated by the stranger’s assessment of them and their kind, and not wanting to interrupt just yet, waiting to see if anything was left out. Or not, as the case may be.

Tuvok continued. “The second group, calling themselves harfoot, are smaller and more stocky in build, hardy and suited to farming and hard work than the smallest of the three, the fallohides. It is said that the fallohides are the scholars, the thinkers. They are fine-boned, calm-natured, inquisitive, less than a metre in height and extremely susceptible to the cold.”

Frodo thought back to the days on the Red Horn Pass, only Sam’s teeth had not chattered. Pippin had been the sickest of them all. He recalled the hours Boromir had spent blowing hot breath on his toes until the blueness had left them, rubbing the circulation back into his feet. He recalled too, the helplessness of the elf, unable to understand what it was that made them so cold, and the almost frantic and terrifying belief that the hobbits were going to die.

“The Shire was originally divided into three areas, or farthings, each inhabited by one group and ruled by a king, thane or master. They interacted with each other and over time, the boundaries became mere lines on a map, as communities merged and intermarried. Frodo, I have found, is the only hobbit descended from all three groups.” Tuvok mentally perused his research and Tom took up the lecture.

“They lived peacefully enough,” he said. “Content to be ignored by a world inhabited by people twice their size, they had no time for the slow progression of humans from the south. It’s almost as if they didn’t care. Unfortunately, the ‘big folk’ as the hobbits called them, brought disease for which they had no immunity, and several incidences of famine and plague have been noted. They turned even more into themselves, and built stockades around the shire to keep men out, although dwarves and elves were tolerated to a degree.”

“Dwarves?” Chakotay voiced.

“That’s right,” Tom replied. “They are a little taller than Stoors, but not as tall as men. Stout, robust, extremely hairy, ferocious, dressed in leather, and the males are just as bad,” he said, po-faced.

Janeway gave him a look that said it all. A quiet chuckle brought her head round to look at Legolas. “Is that description accurate?” she asked.

“Yes, Lady Kathryn, it is true,” the elf replied. “The dwarves are a warrior race.”

“We can learn about them another time, I hope,” she said. “In the meantime, Tom, please continue.”

“The hobbits employed their own peacekeepers and armies, called shirriffs or bounders. It was their job to keep men out of the Shire. All of them, without exception, were Stoors. Even though the Stoors had some sort of resentment going on, they did allow some travellers across their boundaries. They didn't trust elves, probably borne of a long forgotten jealousy or such, because the elves were tall and very beautiful and they were not. The records are unclear on the reasons. Elves often crossed the Shire to reach a city on the west coast, called Grey Havens. It’s where most ships set sail from,” he explained. “The Stoors were the ones who settled southern Eriador, the largest area for the largest, most vicious of the three types.” Tom took a slow breath. “When the wars started, they would have been affected more by the elves’ fighting, and probably feared they would be next.”

“Who were the elves fighting?” the Doctor asked.

Legolas shifted in his seat, and lowered his eyes.

Tom glanced at Legolas, and slowly began his response. “They were fighting amongst themselves. Some of it occurred within a stone’s throw from the border mark. The Stoors, hidden from view behind thick walls of trees, could hear every word, every action, and wrote it all down,” he told them. “It was clear from these writings that they knew the elves thought of them as ignorant, and unknowledgeable about the elf language. Many did not even think of them as kin, but more a scourge, a blot on the landscape, thinking that their way of life, that is living in holes in the ground rather than in tree houses, was filthy, and more akin to dwarves, whom were also hated by the elves.”

“I have discovered through my study of the heritage of hobbits, that they knew full well how they were regarded by the elves, and that made the Stoors all the more distrustful of them. Listening in on their conversations, and feigning stupidity was commonplace. The key is in a text about original elvish tongues and the speech of the Vala themselves, which none but the Noldor and the Unborn, I should imagine, ever heard or tried to speak, though they had limited success. The hobbits, on the other hand, knew it fairly well. Only a few words have been altered by dialectal change.”

“Who are the Noldor?” Janeway wanted to know. "And the Vala, and the Unborn?"

“The Unborn we'll come to in a moment, Captain," Tom assured her. "The Valar are the Holy Ones, there is very little information on them beyond a few names. The Noldor are one of three distinct groups of elves; they underwent an adaptation of their own. The Noldor speak Quenya and live in the trees. They seemed to be very confident, self-centred and selfish, believing themselves better than all the other tribes put together. The wood elves contain several tribes, including the Teleri who speak their own language, live in dwellings of stone and enjoy sea voyages. They are historians, healers and artisans. And the Sindar, who are the artists, sculptors, workers of fine metal crafts and gems. In the distant past they were friends of both men and dwarves, but war and misunderstanding destroyed their civilisation. It was assumed that they were destroyed, hence my error with Legolas’ identity,” he added apologetically.

Legolas blinked and nodded acceptance, but the depth of the man’s knowledge astounded him. He remained silent.

Tom nodded in return and went on. “The Avari are the third group, they are those who refused to travel further than the mountains, or to heed the call of the Valar, and their name means ‘unwilling’. They speak a rougher dialect of Sindarin, and it is suggested that it was from them that the feared orcs evolved. The Avari are described as unwelcome vagabonds, exiles, although often their number includes members of the other two groups.”

“And the war was between all three groups?” Janeway wondered. “Were they fighting for land?”

“Not exactly, Captain,” Tuvok replied. “With no warning or provocation, The Noldor attacked the unarmed Teleri in order to gain control of three powerful stones, called the silmaril. The Teleri were slaughtered, but the silmaril were not relinquished. One was thrown into the sea, one was lost in a volcano and the other was secreted from Arda by its keeper. She was Elwing, wife of Eärendil, the king.”

“That must have made them pretty angry,” B’Elanna decided.

“No kidding,” Tom snorted. “The leader of the Noldor, one called Galadriel, went on the rampage, killing brother, cousin, anyone even remotely of royal birth, and anyone who got in the way. The entire western half of the continent was a bloodbath. They moved further east, sundering any resistance until they came to the country of Lorien. There lived an interesting elf, one that I can’t understand completely. This elf’s name was Teleporno, and like most elves had different names in different languages, but he was one of only a limited number of beings who instead of being born of parents were actually created by the Valar, for what purpose, I have no idea.”

Legolas stiffened in his seat, making Frodo frown as he turned to look up at him. Still, the elf’s eyes were averted.

“Created?” the Doctor put in. “As in cloning?”

“The text didn’t say other than they had no parents. They simply came into existence,” Tom explained. “Nothing more of them is known, except that they were revered and respected. Teleporno was from Doriath, though how he came to be in Lorien is unclear. The Green-Wood Elves, a tribe of the Sindar, were not strong enough to fight off an assault by the huge armies of the Noldor. The ratio was, at a guess, a thousand to one in favour of the Noldor. The king of Lorien decided to flee, but they had little chance of escape. It seems Teleporno came up with the ultimate Kobiashi Maru.”

Frodo watched them, wondering what they were talking about. What had Teleporno done? More than that, he had never heard of an elf called Teleporno. He did not understand the term Kobiashi Maru, but from the looks on their faces, he decided it was probably akin to an ‘out of the frying pan, and into the fire’ situation, as his uncle would always say. He had always had great respect for the elves, now it was beginning to falter.

Tuvok took up the story.

“According to the evidence, Galadriel seduced Teleporno in order to gain political advantage over all the elves. Teleporno was in a position of power being who and what he was. Therefore, she sought to ally herself to him by coercion to cement her position. Teleporno’s single aim was to intercede on behalf of the remaining elves, to save lives at the expense of his own.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Janeway put in.

“Or the one,” Tuvok rejoined. “To safeguard the life and rule of King Amroth of Lorien, Teleporno agreed to give the land to the Noldor. Galadriel discovered the presence of an Un-born, and was not appeased nor satisfied with mere land. She wanted authority, absolute power. Teleporno took a step further to protect his people, and in particular the lives of a king living in exile in Northern Mirkwood, and his son. As an Un-born of the Silvan people, and very desirable to the power-hungry Galadriel, Teleporno was a worthy wergild, and taken away by Galadriel to Imladril to become her sexual playmate.”

“Why did Teleporno choose to protect the king and his son? Why was Amroth overlooked?” Janeway asked.

“The latter was not explained, Captain,” Tuvok responded. “It may be that Amroth was a friend, although Galadriel had never shown any favour towards friend or kin before that time. However, there was something deeper involved. According to Sindarin texts, quoted by the Romulan archivists, Teleporno was already married. By elven law, Galadriel could not claim him as her husband without him revealing who he was married to and divorcing her, which would leave his family at risk of death.”

“So, he accepted his fate, but did not give an inch under fire,” B’Elanna noted. “I call that courageous.”

“Who was Teleporno married to?” Janeway asked.

“According to the law there was only one person among the Sindar who would have been worthy or of high enough status to marry an Un-born, and that is the King of Doriath.”

Legolas closed his eyes. He imagined eyes turning to look at him, but in truth no one made the connection. Some pennies, however, were beginning to make their downward journey. Frodo peered at the elf out of the corner of his eye, a slight frown on his face. He had never heard of Teleporno, and the only consort to the Lady Galadriel that he knew of was Celeborn. Janeway fought to keep from turning to gaze down the length of the table, in case her suspicions were unfounded. A third coin dropped, a half-Klingon remembered well the conversation of the previous evening. She suppressed the urge to turn her head to look at him, not wanting to jump to conclusions.

Tuvok continued regardless. “Distrust and hatred already existed between the House of Doriath and Galadriel, not simply because of her treatment of royalty during the war, but for something far more sinister that occurred in her family’s past. Her grandparents were, in fact, brother and sister, a heinous crime among the ellonath. The Sindar did not recognise any of their line as legitimate rulers of any country, with the exception of Gil-galad, high-king of all Arda.”

“So, Teleporno tried to protect his wife and child from the murderous interloper Galadriel,” Janeway assessed. “What I do not understand is, how could Teleporno’s wife have been the king?”

B’Elanna smiled at that, but declined to butt in. Unnoticed, Legolas trembled gently.

“The terms male/female, wife/husband, he/she are irrelevant in elven societies, Captain,” he said. “The elves have no gender, being able to choose to either conceive or father a child as they so wish.”

“And Teleporno was the mother of the King’s son?”

“Aye, Captain,” Tuvok replied. “I have surmised that Teleporno gave up his spouse and son to protect their identity from Galadriel and allowed her to claim him as her lover. This further fuelled the king’s hatred of Galadriel. There was no love lost between Doriath and the Noldor, nor between Doriath and Imladris either.”

“You mention Imladris. What is it?” Chakotay inquired.

“It’s the elf city to the west of the mountains,” Tom explained. “It’s where Gil-galad and his heir lived. His name was Elrond, the eldest son of Elwing, whom Galadriel tried to kill. Both Elrond and the King of Doriath, although enemies, had cards of their own to play against the would-be queen. Elrond married the daughter of Galadriel and Teleporno, and the son of the exiled king was chosen to join the Quest of the Ring.”

“A double blow for Galadriel,” Janeway noted. “In her place, I think I would run for the hills to lick my wounds. Is all this mentioned in the records, or is it supposition that fits the available evidence?”

“It is, in part, supposition,” Tuvok admitted. “However, the evidence is compelling. We do have the opportunity to do more than guess, Captain. I believe that there is only one person who can answer the question, and it is the son of the King of Doriath and his wife Teleporno, or should I say Celeborn, himself.”

Frodo gasped loudly.

“That is highly unlikely, Tuvok,” Janeway dismissed. “The elves are now extinct, save for . . .” She lifted her eyes to Legolas.

Legolas swallowed as Frodo’s head snapped up to stare at him. Legolas’ worried eyes moved from the man to the Vulcan and back again. “I . . .do not . . .I must not,” he faltered.

Frodo suddenly shot to his feet, or more accurately slid to the floor. “Celeborn! Celeborn is your mother?”

Legolas looked away, not ashamed, but hurt by the scathing retort, the disgust he heard in those words.

“And you allowed us believe you had never been to Lorien, had never met the elves there. What else did you lie about?”

“You misunderstand, Frodo. I had no choice.”

“No choice?” Frodo almost shrieked. “And all this time I thought it was Boromir who had things to hide, that Boromir was the one not to trust.”

Legolas stood up, slippin into Sindarin, uncaring that the universal translator had already been modified. “This has nothing to do with trust!”

“How? How is it nothing to do with trust? How can I trust someone and place my life in their hands, and have them keep this from me?”

“It had nothing to do with the fellowship,” Legolas voiced in desperation. His breath caught in his throat thinking back to that day in Lorien when his eyes beheld the elf he had not seen in countless years. To an elf, time was meaningless, but the stab of pain at being parted was keener than a blade. A thick sob of anguish tore through him as he sank into the seat. “I can still hear them dying, still hear her shouting, ‘kill them, kill them all’. And still see the wood elves who had been sheltering us scattering before the Golodhrim in terror as she cut them down.”

“Golodhrim?” Frodo mouthed the word. He frowned. It was a word he had not heard before. Had he misheard? Had he meant Galadhrim? Somehow he did not think so.

Legolas sobbed quietly. “Galadriel wanted absolute rule, and the only way she could get it was to destroy all the royal houses, starting with her own. She had the loyalty of the Nordorim armies, even had them change their name from Golodhrim to Galadhrim. She was the last of her line, that she knew of, and I was the last of mine. My mother is an Unborn, and very desirable to Galadriel. Celeborn stood between us and . . .I heard them dying. I heard the words nanneth spoke; ‘I offer myself in exchange for their lives.’ and Galadriel replied, ‘Lie with me, and I will let them live’. My mother bought our existence with her own bondage.” Legolas wept softly. “Celeborn is Galadriel’s only claim to power, our price for life, and Arwen’s path to being queen so long as my identity remains hidden. In exchange, we took to the woods, giving up Lorien forever and I lost my mother. Galadriel must never know. No one must ever know.”

“Celebrian is your half-sister,” Frodo spoke quietly. “Which means, Arwen is your niece.”

“And the rightful queen,” Legolas added. “That must not change.”

“Does she know?”

“Yes, an elf can feel the presence of kin, but she never spoke of it to anyone, including her father.”

“That is why you touched her cheek when we left Rivendell,” Frodo remembered. “Why do I get the feeling that there is more to this?”

Another tear rolled down Legolas’ cheek. “My home is not in Lorien. The Woodland Realm is not even Mirkwood. It was Doriath in Beleriand. Sauron took control of Finrod’s tower and destroyed the land. That I was chosen to accompany the fellowship was a blow to Galadriel, indeed, that is why I spent most of our time in Lorien outside the city, to keep away from both her and my nanneth. But it was also a blow to the Dark Lord. I remember him, as he once was, but that is not in question here and now. Galadriel is, or was, a greater threat to me.”

“Galadriel must have guessed that you are Silvan and not Wood Elf?” Frodo saw him nod. “Even so, this could not have been as much a blow as Elrond marrying her daughter, Celebrian.”

Legolas looked at him sharply. “You already knew of the kin slayings?”

“Yes, Bilbo told me.” Frodo lifted his eyes to Tuvok for a moment. “The dark elf is right. Elves are cruel. I once held you in high honour. Now, I am not so sure it is deserved.” Frodo fought with the anger that boiled within him. “I cannot believe what you have told me. Celeborn, an Un-born, lowered himself to marry a kin-slayer and not just any kin-slayer - THE kin-slayer. That is disgusting! And all that time in Lorien you pretended that you did not know Celeborn. You lied to us.”

Legolas tried not to flinch.

“It would also explain why Celeborn did not go west with Galadriel, he was waiting for his son to choose to take the ship to Valinor,” Tom noted, which further confused Legolas and Frodo. “At least in Tolkien’s version of events. I guess he was writing with the hope that Sauron had been destroyed.”

“According to our history,” Tuvok put in, “When the host of Lorien reached the Grey Havens to escape the onslaught of a victorious Dark Lord, you were not there,” he said, addressing the two. “Ârâgorn, one of very few survivors from the lands south of Lorien, told Galadriel and Celeborn that you had both disappeared while travelling down the Anduin.”

“From the way the book was written,” Tom added. “Tholion noted that Legolas seemed to be hiding something at the meeting between the Fellowship and Celeborn and Galadriel.”

Legolas swallowed. “King Tholion knew?”

Janeway frowned. “How did Tholion know all of this? Where did he get his information from?”

“According to my research, the Avari were widespread in the hills and forests all across Middle Earth, Captain,” Tom explained. “Wandering from place to place, much like hunter-gatherers, they witnessed a fair deal and reported it to their king. It explains why the details differ in the two accounts. Valcam escaped with the history, Tholion had to write down as much as he could remember after crashing on an alien and inhabited world, far from anyone he knew.”

“Or perhaps it was an oral record,” Janeway suggested. “We still have no proof that the man who wrote the books was King Thol’s son.”

“That is true, captain, but the two accounts being almost identical would suggest that it is a possibility. Both note that Legolas was somewhat unique and unusual, in the fact that he has no family or home in a world where kindred and home was foremost to a man’s honour is practically impossible to hide or explain away.”

Legolas eyes slammed shut. It was many seconds before he opened them again at the touch of a tiny hand. He looked up to find large blue eyes staring straight at him.

“Your loss has been to our advantage, and I feel as if I have used you. I do not understand how a parent could walk away from their own child and pretend for so long that they never existed, and maintain that lie when that child stands before them again. Legolas, my parents died. We are separated until death, but your mother still lives and yet you are parted forever. That must be worse than death.”

“Lived,” Tuvok reminded them. “These events took place two-hundred thousand years ago. When you were taken, the quest failed and Arda fell to the Dark Lord.”

Frodo’s heart sank. “All of it? What about Valinor?”

“I do not know,” Tuvok replied. “There is no record beyond Ârâgorn’s arrival at the harbour, and the people running for their lives from the Grey havens. We have the records digitised for holodeck use, but since your eyes cannot see projections of light I fail to see what use it would be to play them. Needless to say, Ârâgorn is the last of the Nine mentioned.”

Legolas’ face crumpled, but he tried to retain some measure of control as the distress rose within him. He managed only one word. “Gimli.”

Frodo’s eyes filled with tears to see an elf cry. Without a thought to those watching, nor a word to fill the silence, he drew him to his chest and held him.

Janeway swallowed and inconspicuously brushed away a tear. “B’Elanna? You have something to add?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, none too steadily. “I have been running simulations on the computer, based on the scans Tuvok took of the Ring. I have not dared nor asked anyone else to risk touching the Ring, and I would not expect Frodo to relinquish it, so I have been working blind. Nothing has been successful as yet, but I think we can get them home. Not to that exact moment, but to the planet. Because the ring creates its own temporal bubble, once it is destroyed the imbalance could, in theory, correct itself.”

“How do we get them from the Delta Quadrant to Mintaaka 3?” Tuvok asked.

“That’s the hard part,” B’Elanna admitted. “We would need to modify the shield array to expand the temporal bubble big enough to surround a shuttle. The problem is it would be a one way trip, that is if I can maintain stability for long enough to actually get the shuttle there in one piece.”

“You want us to place two creatures of ancient history in a 24th century shuttle with no pilot?” Janeway asked incredulously.

“I can live with that,” Chakotay put in. “It would save me having to explain the loss of another shuttle on my record,” he added with an embarrassed grin.

“How soon can you have a modifications ready?” Janeway asked.

“Give me two days. I’d still like to run a few more tests before I commit to the total loss of a shuttle, let alone risk two innocent lives to the most unsolicited, dangerous and harebrained theory I have ever come up with,” B’Elanna replied.

Frodo’s eyes lifted over the top of the elf’s head. He had never flown before and yet for some reason he was without fear.

“Get to it. Keep me informed of any progress,” Janeway ordered.

B’Elanna nodded and left, Harry Kim and Chakotay in tow. Once they had left, she turned to Tuvok. “There is something that still concerns me. You mentioned that there are only two species of beings indigenous to Mintaaka 3, from which Vulcan’s descend. One was the Elves. What was the other?”

“In the beginning there were two races of elves. I once thought of the Ellonath as nothing more than a religious faction, but this conclusion was flawed, Captain. Legolas’ race, those of the Ellonath, and those of Valcam, were parted by one being, known as Thol. In his pride, he thought himself safe from the ever increasing reaches of the Dark Lord, but it proved to be his downfall when he refused to leave at the earliest opportunity. It was his son’s ship that suffered the consequences and was lost. The ellonnath are, in fact, identical to the second race in every way, except size. Frodo is of a member of that other race of elves, known as periannath, that is half-elf.”

Janeway’s face fell. “And even now, your people have suppressed this fact?”

“The logic of Surak suppressed everything, Captain,” Tuvok replied without apology. “Even Ensign Vorik rejected Legolas’ kinship.”

“But the mystery is solved,” Janeway decided.

“On the contrary, Captain,” Tuvok gainsaid. “The second race was not elf, but human.”

Janeway lifted her eyes to his, half way out of her seat and frozen in horror. “What did you say?”

“There were humans on Mintaaka 3,” Tuvok repeated. “Several subspecies of them, including dwarves. I suspect that they have met with the same demise as the other indigenous races. However, at this stage my research has overlooked this information in favour of the elves’ history. It was an illogical decision, Captain, and for that I apologise.”

“Send the material to my ready room,” she requested. “I would like to review this for myself. I must rule out the possibility of contamination from outside worlds.”

Tuvok nodded.

As the two Starfleet officers talked, Legolas shuddered and Frodo turned white as a sheet. They had parted the embrace and had regarded each other with uncertainty, wondering what they should say to each other. So much had been said, so much learned. Frodo stepped away from Legolas and gazed up at him as he stood, his regard for the elf had changed irrevocably. Legolas gazed back at him, afraid that he would never want to speak to him again. How could he? Legolas, the son of a traitor, the son of a whore, the step-son of a murderer.

“Please, tell me that this will not change our friendship,” Legolas said.

“I will need time to understand,” Frodo told him resignedly. “What am I saying? What does any of this matter anyway? All this is history to these people. All we are to them is legend, myth, a half-finished book of a time so deep in the past that we may as well have never been born!”

Legolas clasped his shoulder as he gracefully knelt before him. “Dear Frodo, it does not matter that thousands of years have passed, it does not matter that Valinor has gone, that Arda has burned. What matters is that we are here, now, together.”

Frodo gazed at him with his large blue eyes. “Gandalf said the same thing to me the day he died.” His voice broke at the last and he swallowed. “He said that all that matters is how we use the time that is given us.”

Legolas tried to smile, but the grief of losing Gandalf still plagued him keenly. “He was right,” was all he managed. “But we are so far from home, with no way to get back. What good could we possibly do? There is no hope.”

Frodo watched the elf lower his head and something caught his eye through the windows. His gaze rose. “What is that?” he asked.

Janeway looked up at the star gleaming brightly from the star-scape. “It’s a star we can see from earth,” she said. “Unfortunately, we never gave it a dignified name. It’s simply catalogued as BPM 37093.”

Legolas lifted his head and turned to look. He loved the stars, had always drawn comfort from them, even on moonless nights. His eyes widened as he left his seat behind him and crossed to the window. He gasped audibly in recognition. “Eärendil!” He dropped to one knee and bowed his head in respect and reverence.

To those observing this strange event, the star seemed to shine all the brighter for a moment.

Frodo dropped to his knees in wonder and hope. “We are closer to home than I thought,” he whispered. He looked up at those who still remained around the table. “My Lady, as the Ring Bearer I must insist that you do all you can to get us home.”

Janeway nodded.

“If we can get home, perhaps destroying the ring will be enough,” Frodo hoped wistfully. “But it will not bring back Ârâgorn.”

“Or Gimli,” Legolas added softly.

In the corridor, they followed the arrows that flashed along the walls, directing them to another turbo lift. They were going to dinner with B’Elanna and her husband, Tom.

“The first thing I am going to ask is why the Captain addresses her as a gentleman. And the second thing I am going to ask is why B’Elanna and Tom have different last names,” Frodo resolved.

Legolas remained silent. His mind and heart were fixed upon one moment in time, his last memory of Gimli; the way he looked when bathed in moonlight; his voice when he was singing; his smile; his reaction to his first bite of lembas bread. In contrast, all he could think about in the present was that he would have to endure yet another ride in those horrible lifts.

Frodo had said something to him, but it had passed him by, until Frodo paused for a moment, touching his arm. “Legolas? Why did you never tell me?” the hobbit suddenly asked.

“About what?” Legolas wondered. “Your ancestry?”

“No. Bilbo already told me about it when I was 12. It’s not as if it could be hidden from me. Many of my line were what people refer to as ‘strange’. They exhibited more elvish traits than other hobbits. Uncle Bilbo always believed that I was among them, but until we reached Lorien I didn’t quite believe him. I want to know why you never told me about your mother,” Frodo said.

“I am sorry, Frodo, but I had no choice. If anyone were to say anything, Galadriel break her oath and kill us all. Promise me that you will not speak of it.” Legolas trembled gently. “It is difficult to live with the pain it causes me now, to speak of it . . .” His voice trailed away into nothing.

“I promise, Legolas. I do not want to be the cause of your death. You are all I have left.”

Legolas gazed at him, having already realised the truth. “And you are all I have left. They are gone, all of them, as is our home. All of Arda is gone. And . . .Gimli . . .” Legolas moaned softly at the loss of his dearest companion. “I should have been there to protect him. I made an oath . . .but we were taken, and they had to die believing we had died somewhere. I cannot bear that thought.”

“Stay with me, Legolas,” Frodo whispered. “I do not think I could endure this place alone. I want to go home. You must try to think of going home . . .for Gimli.”

As the conference room doors closed behind the Doctor, Janeway regarded her tactical officer with a cold glare. “A lie of omission is still a lie, Tuvok.”

“I do not understand the inference,” the Vulcan said.

“I have also researched the fall of Middle Earth and you left out one detail.” Janeway regarded Tuvok for a long moment before the Vulcan returned her gaze. “You did not tell him.”

“About what, Captain?”

“About Gimli surviving the last war,” Janeway rebuked him. “Do you deem it unimportant to tell Legolas that Ârâgorn took Gimli to Valinor, along with as many of the elves, hobbits and men as he could save?”

“I fail to see why it should be important, Captain,” Tuvok returned blandly.

“According to the text, section 8 paragraph 663, Legolas and Gimli were joined in secret in Lorien. Gimli was to Legolas as T’Pel is to you.”

Paris’ eyes popped wide. “Whoa, that wasn’t mentioned in Tolkien’s book. And I didn't know about it.”

“Apparently, not all the goings on in Arda were known to King Tholion,” Janeway guessed. “But this fact is the most relevant to us here. Gimli did survive, and Legolas has the right to know.”

Tuvok’s gaze dropped to the carpet, in deep thought. “If we can return them home to their own time, that fact will be of no value. If we cannot, informing them will also be pointless. Therefore, it is irrelevant and irrelevant information is not on the agenda. Elves, like Vulcans, are creatures of logic.”

“How can you be so insensitive as to dismiss this as nothing, when you yourself endure a separation from your own wife?” Tom asked. “Legolas is not an unfeeling Vulcan, he’s an elf and highly sensitive to everything going on around him. And don’t try to tell me that you do not miss your wife and children.”

“I will rejoin them at the conclusion of our journey,” Tuvok pointed out.

“But Legolas can’t,” Janeway stressed. “You of all people should know what can happen to a Vulcan under too much emotional strain. It can kill. It is the reason Surak created the beginnings of emotion control. The Vulcan ideal has gone so far towards the extreme that you have forgotten what is was like for your ancestors that lacked that control. And moreover, Tuvok, you have lost your compassion.”

“I still fail to understand why informing Legolas of something we can only speculate on would be beneficial. Gimli was last seen at the Grey Havens, but we do not know how many or if any ships escaped, or who was on them,” he reminded them. “As a Vulcan, I can only make a guess, but a guess is not fact, however much we may desire for it to be so.”

“You can at least give him hope,” Tom stormed.

“What hope is there for one several thousands of years out of time?” Tuvok wondered. “Even if they escaped, they would all have died long ago.”

Tom rose from his seat. “Captain, if I may be excused?” he asked. “I’m cooking dinner tonight, and I don’t want to be late. Besides,” he added, a glance in Tuvok’s direction. “I’d rather leave before I do something I can be put in the Brig for.”

Legolas eyed the plate in front of him with large, suspicious eyes, and no small amount of disgust. “These . . .worms are still alive,” he said.

Tom chuckled. “It’s not actually live worms. These ones are replicated and sprayed with a stimulant to make them move.”

“Ah, but,” B’Elanna crowed with a grin. “On my home world, Gagh is served fresh, and alive, all fifty-seven varieties of it.”

Legolas lifted his eyes to his new friend. “You eat live worms?”

“Well, they’re not so palatable dead,” she shrugged, amused. “Just swallow them head first, so they know which way to go.”

Legolas looked like he might throw up, and reached out a finger and thumb to push the plate away. At the last second, he changed his mind, and plucked up enough courage to pick a small one from the pile. He held it up, wiggling it a little and popped the end into his mouth. Slurping it in, he swallowed. Legolas paused, blinked and slowly smiled. “Slimy, yet satisfying,” he noted.

Frodo nodded as he chewed. “Delicious, but needs mushrooms.”

Tom smiled quietly, rose and returned with a plate of steaming fried mushrooms, dripping with hot butter and smelling divine.

B’Elanna added dishes of boldly spicy meats, sliced paper thin, baby corn cobs and potatoes to the table and took her seat. She watched the hobbit’s face change to pure delight.

“My idea of heaven,” the little being said.

During dinner, the conversation turned to Voyager’s long exile from all they had known, and how they were trying to get home.

“We’ll make it home, by sheer grit and determination,” B’Elanna told them. “It might take sixty years or more, but we’re a stubborn crew.”

Tom sighed. “I still can’t believe how stubborn Tuvok can be. Even after all these years working along side him, and going through so much together.”

Legolas smiled gently. “He is like the being I met in B’Elanna’s work place. Vorik is less than accepting of our heritage than Tuvok. Is it a trait of all their kind?”

Tom opened his mouth to speak, to tell him, but B’Elanna got there first.

“Vulcan’s can be stuck in their ways,” she agreed. “Sometimes they are so far into the extremes of unemotional logic that I want to pummel them into the deck. It would cause a lot of trouble, but I would feel a lot better for it.”

“Your people are spirited,” Frodo grinned.

“Violent, not spirited,” B’Elanna corrected with a chuckle. “The sword on the wall behind you?” Frodo and Legolas turned to look at it. It was like no sword they had ever seen, two parallel shafts of metal, one a handle, one a blade and both ending in further blades. “That is a bat’leth, the Klingon warrior’s most formidable weapon.”

Legolas reached for his blades, but hesitated, glancing at the ceiling, not wishing to incur the wrath of she who dwelled in the walls. “I have a bow, and two knives. Elven warriors also have the battle sword, which is five feet in length and can cut through bone.”

“I have not seen you with a battle sword,” Frodo said.

“I do not have one,” Legolas replied. “I was not of the Sindarin Guard, while they still numbered among us. The Galadhrim also have them.”

“The most formidable weapon I have ever seen is Gimli’s battleaxe,” Frodo said. “It is very frightening for one so small as I.”

“Aye,” Legolas agreed. “But you have never had that blade against your throat.”

Frodo’s large eyes widened. “What . . .? When . . .? Why would Gimli do such a thing?”

Legolas smiled gently. “It was part of our joining ceremony,” he recalled softly. “It frightened me, but I trusted him not to go too far. It is how a dwarf claims a mate, drawing his axe and demanding the other to wed or die.”

Frodo smiled at the thought of them married, but the smile faded as the look on Legolas face turned to despair.

“There is no going home, even if you are successful, B’Elanna,” Legolas told her. “Not sixty years but thousands of years part us from our loved-ones. The world we knew is gone. Even if we can destroy the Ring, everything we have ever known, everyone we knew, will be gone forever. There is no point in going on . . .I cannot exist being so far from the stars I knew,” he whispered. “The silence here is unnerving, I cannot rest. The thrum of life beneath my feet is unreal, bereft of life. We alone of the Nine survived. There is an emptiness . . .without Gimli.”

“Actually, Legolas, there is something you should know . . .” Tom’s words faded as Legolas sucked in a breath and sank against the table.

B’Elanna jumped up and caught the elf before he could fall. “Legolas?” There was no movement in the floppy body in her arms. She pressed her fingertips to his neck, and gasped. “No!” She punched the communicator on her chest and screamed. “Medical emergency, code white!”

Frodo watched in horror as the EMH worked to restore the elf to life. He could not understand what they were doing, their words were meaningless. Finally the activity slowed and relief swept through the room.

“He is stabilised, Captain,” the Doctor said. “I can leave him to sleep it off, or I can wake him at any time.”

Janeway turned to Tuvok, who had entered sickbay with her minutes after the alarm was raised. “It’s your call, Tuvok. This is what has happened, and it will happen again if you do not tell Legolas the truth.”

B’Elanna looked at them both. “What truth? What’s going on?” At first there was no answer. “Sir?”

“I tried to tell him,” Tom spoke. “But he had already collapsed. Gimli didn’t die, at least we think so. There is evidence that he might have survived.”

B’Elanna stared at the Vulcan in disgust. “Gimli survived? How long have you known about this and left it unspoken?” she demanded. “How could you be so cruel!” she spat at him. “You profess to be Vulcan, a being of logic and control, but you are no better than the Hin’ja who stole Legolas from his mate. You are no better than the being who forced your ancestors from their homes and out into space. How dare you stand there all high and mighty with your self-proclaimed piety and tell me you have moved beyond the barbarian!”

Tom wisely did not approach her, or attempt to calm her. He knew from experience, that B'Elanna was angry enough to actually consider striking Tuvok, and to hell with protocol and court marshals.

B’Elanna’s fists curled at her thighs, thumbs tapping upon hard muscle. Every fibre of her being ached to pummel his smug face into a bloody pulp and feed it to him with cold gagh, but she had a friend to save. She’d pound Tuvok’s head later; and if Legolas died, she would pummel his entire body.

The Vulcan remained resolutely silent.

“Tell him the truth, damn you!” she demanded, and surprisingly there was no move from the captain to stop or restrain her.

Tuvok considered this for a long moment and finally changed his mind. He stepped closer to the bio-bed where Legolas lay inert and close to death. Janeway nodded to the doctor, who administered a stimulant. Slowly Legolas opened his eyes and instantly realised that he was still alive, that his nightmare had not ended. He blinked, poised to release the tears that burned at the corners of his eyes. He looked up to see Tuvok standing over him.

“I was in error, Legolas of Arda,” he spoke, his usually composed manner close to crumbling. “I concealed the truth from you. There is reason to believe that Gimli survived the fall of your world . . .our world. The records state that he crossed the ocean with Ârâgorn and Celeborn, even though he desired to remain behind and continue searching for you. However, I do not know where he is now.”

Legolas regarded him in silence, lacking the strength even to speak. He sighed, and closed his eyes.

Frodo gasped. “Legolas, no!”

A hand rested on his shoulder and Frodo looked up at the smiling face of the Doctor. “Legolas is going to be fine. He’s fallen asleep.”

“You don’t understand,” Frodo cried. “Elves do not sleep with their eyes closed. Only in death do they close their eyes. Legolas needs the sound of trees, and sunlight. They call it the breath of Elbereth. Without it, he will die. Your healing arts will not save him.”

“Trees,” B’Elanna voiced. “Legolas mentioned that to me before.” Without warning, she strode boldly up to the bio-bed and lifted the elf in her arms. He felt so light, hardly weighing more than a small child.

“Wait,” the doctor cried. “You cannot remove him. He is my patient!”

“Unless you can talk like a tree or shine like a supernova, Doc, you’re out of your depth,” she retorted and turned towards the doors. “With all due respect, Captain, but I’m taking Legolas to the hydroponics bay. Court marshal me, throw me in the brig, whatever, but do it after Legolas gets better.”

It was over an hour before he responded to the quiet call of green life around him. He opened his eyes and looked up, not at a grey box, not even the strange lights he had seen before, but at an apple tree, laden with fruits. It was not his tree, not his voice, not his world, but it was life, and he sucked it in with a deep, desperate breath. There were voices around him, Neelix, B’Elanna and Tom were sitting beside him. Others were nearby. “Gimli,” he whispered.

“He’s in Valinor,” Frodo replied. “He and Ârâgorn left Middle Earth with Celeborn and Galadriel, and you and I are going to join him there.”

Legolas’s eyes shifted to the hobbit’s face. “I have to hope that if Gimli was with Galadriel, he will be alive . . .somewhere. No one dies in Valinor, but we are so far from the Two Trees.”

“I know,” Frodo replied. “B’Elanna found these trees, thirty of them. Can you hear their voices?”

“Yes,” Legolas replied, his voice slowly regaining strength. “Their voices are unknown to me, but it is enough.”

Frodo smiled. “Good, because I have a surprise for you.”

Legolas felt himself being lifted a little more into a sitting position, hands holding his weakened body and setting it against something warm. It was someone’s chest, but he lacked the strength to lift his head to find out whose it was.

Frodo brought to him an old clay pipe and pressed it to his lips. “Take a taste of this, Legolas. It’s not Old Toby, but it’s ten times better.”

Legolas gently sucked on the pipe and drew in the aroma of wood smoke, apple cider and goat’s cream, all rolled into one. He coughed gently. “That is strong,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s called Leola root,” Frodo grinned. “It tastes good, too. It’s edible.”

B’Elanna glared at Neelix. “You fed him Leola root? And you liked it?” She grimaced. “Ugh! How can anyone like that stuff?”

Frodo chuckled softly. “And there’s more, Legolas,” he enthused. “Neelix has hairy feet like a hobbit, and his wife, Kes, not only looked like an elf, but transcended to a higher plane, just like elves do. I believe that, not only did our friends survive, they live on. We owe it to them to do the same. And just wait until you taste Neelix’s lembas bread. It tastes so good your mother would be jealous.”

Legolas tried to smile. “Frodo, even so, I saw the silmaril lying dead in a column of blue fire, where B’Elanna works.”

Frodo smiled gently. “That wasn’t a silmaril, Legolas. It was a crystal, like glass, but a big chunk of it. They use it to squeeze light through a tiny hole. It’s what makes the ship move.”

B’Elanna grinned. The explanation was not all together accurate, but she liked it very much.

Legolas shifted his head slightly against the warmth he leaned on. “Is it taking us home?”

Frodo turned to look at B’Elannna, a question in his large blue eyes.

The half-Klingon hesitated, but then spoke with quiet determination. “We can do it.”

“B’Elanna?” Janeway asked from where she stood off to one side.

B’Elanna looked up. “We can’t return Legolas and Frodo to their own time, we don’t have the resources, but the Ring does have a temporal signature that can work in our favour. The energy wave is too complex to duplicate, and I wouldn’t even begin to try, even if I wanted to.”

“How will we get them back to the planet?” the captain asked. “We are still half way across the galaxy.”

“I am working on a theory for a subspace catapult,” B’Elanna told her.

Janeway frowned. “A what?”

Tom grinned. “Every little boy’s dream toy, Captain. It’s a ‘Y’-shaped stick traditionally made of wood, with a rubber band looped around the upper half. While holding the lower half, you put a small projectile in the band, pull it back, aim, and let it go.”

“A hand bow,” Legolas noted as he pushed upward to sit up, turning to gaze at Tom, who had been supporting him all that time. “I had one when I was a small child . . .for an hour,” he added, looking sheepish.

“Only an hour?” Frodo grinned, amused as Legolas looked even more embarrassed. “Merry still had his when we left Lorien and he broke every window in Brandybuck Hall at least once.”

Legolas stared at him. “That is unfair. I broke one window and I never saw my catapult again. How did he retain it?”

Frodo grinned wider still. “I cannot reveal his secrets, Legolas, family honour. Let’s just say, small cousins with the initials P. T. can come in handy.”

Legolas tried to imagine what that could mean. It wasn’t working.

“How will a palm-sized child’s toy help us get a shuttle half way across the galaxy?” Janeway asked. “We can’t even get ourselves that far.”

“We can with a shuttle,” B’Elanna told her. “If we open a transwarp corridor into phased subspace, it might just work. So far I have only been able to maintain stability for six minutes, almost long enough to get to Mintaaka, after that it collapses and the shuttle is crushed.”

“Almost is not enough. Can you modify the warp field to create additional power to the bubble?” Janeway asked.

B’Elanna thought about it. “That might just work. But once the field collapses the shuttle will be thrown back to the Delta quadrant. We’ll have no way of knowing where it will end up.”

“We can live with that,” Janeway replied. “The question is how will it affect Mintaaka 3 if we succeed?”

“Frodo can still destroy the ring,” B’Elanna said. “Doing so would have a retroactive effect. In other words, reset time . . .or it might not, but we have to try.”

“How long will it take to refit a shuttle?” Janeway asked, still somewhat sceptical about risking two innocent lives.

“About a week,” B’Elanna replied, noting her CMO’s reticence. “We can do this, Captain.”

“If we don’t, Legolas is going to die,” the Doctor warned.

“It’s the best idea we have . . .it’s the only idea we have.” Janeway reminded them. “Get started, B’Elanna. Use all the personnel and resources you need. Make this a priority.”

Janeway exited her ready room and took her seat on the bridge.

Chakotay lifted his eyes. Something was wrong, he could tell. “Something I can help with?” he inquired softly.

“I wish there was,” she replied through a sigh. “The race of humans on Mintaaka 3 were indigenous. A totally unrelated species to our own, and yet the computer regards us as identical, one species.”

“A conundrum,” he agreed.

“It would have been better had there been contamination,” she said. “At least it would have sat better knowing that someone had crashed there inadvertently, rather than sitting here knowing that humans are not so unique a species after all.”

Chakotay smiled in support. “It is bound to happen, considering who many millions of inhabited planets there are in our galaxy alone.”

“Yes, but so close to our home world?” she wondered. “How much of a coincidence is that?” She gazed out at the view on the forward screen. “And we never had the opportunity to meet them,” she added wistfully. “I’m going to get some lunch,” she decided. “You have the bridge, Commander.”

“Aye, Captain,” he responded out of habit.

On Deck 2, in the Mess Hall, the fun had only just started. Tom grinned wickedly as Legolas stumbled over the Klingon words until he had it perfect. It had taken almost all day, having spent many hours together, with Frodo, touring the ship and shuttle they would be travelling in. They had spoken of the days before the quest, of Doriath before the fall, of Imladris and its splendour hidden within the forest. And Tom in turn had spoken of home, and his father. But most of all, he spoke of Klingon.

“Perfect,” Tom said finally and looked up. “The captain has just arrived. She is the person to impress,” he coaxed.

Legolas turned and took a deep breath. He approached the captain. “qaStaHvlS wa’ ram loS Sad Hugh SljlaH qetbogh loD,” he announced.

Janeway stared up at him, unable to think of something to say in response.

“Tom taught me,” the elf smiled. “Though he has not told me what it means.”

“That does not surprise me,” she noted, sending a meaningful look in Tom’s direction.

Tom coughed and grinned. “It means, four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man.”

Legolas was horrified. “You taught me that? And you say your wife is a tease. Teach me something nice,” he demanded.

“That may be hard to do,” the captain warned. “The Klingon language contains few niceties.”

“Besides,” Tom put in. “I’m not all that clued up. B’Elanna is the expert. Which reminds me, I’m late. Got to go. Stop by our quarters in about an hour," he threw over his shoulder.

Legolas watched him dash from the room and the captain chuckled softly. "It is good to hear you laugh, Lady Kathryn. I wager it is not a sound oft heard.”

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed.

“What is it that keeps the laughter from your heart?” he asked.

“Wishing for home,” she replied as she lowered herself into a seat at the table. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“I believe you will reach it, Lady Kathryn. B’Elanna says you have grit and determination.”

Kathryn laughed out loud. “Did she really?”

“She did,” Legolas smiled. “These people are very lucky to have you lead them home.”

Janeway smiled softly. “Thank you.”

At that moment, Chakotay entered, and the first thing he saw was the smile on her face. A smile he wished was his, but was instead directed at the elf. He gritted his teeth and crossed to the counter. “Give me whatever you’ve got, Neelix. And lace it with something strong.”

Neelix gazed up at him, and sensibly said not one word.

Legolas and Frodo walked along the corridor, trying to find the right door. They knew it was along there somewhere, and finally found it.

“Are you certain it is this door?” Frodo asked him.

“I am certain,” Legolas replied. “I memorised these squiggles on the door.”

Suddenly something large and heavy thumped against the wall. They froze, the sounds of a commotion of some kind coming to their ears. There was noise, a lot of noise, and one long shuddering scream. Eyes in the corridor popped wide a hand stilled half way to the door, with an intent to knock.

“Ai! Poor B’Elanna,” Frodo cried.

“We aught to leave,” Legolas decided.

“But, should we not try to help? Someone might be trying to kill her.”

Legolas boldly shook his head. "No, Frodo. Trying to make a baby perhaps, injure each other in the process, perhaps, but not kill each other.

“That’s making babies?” Frodo stammered. “You mean, Tom is making her scream like that?” He swallowed dryly. “Then I am glad never to have married,” he decided. “Nor will I ever marry. It sounds most frightful.”

“Come away, Frodo. We will visit with them tomorrow. For now, we shall sleep.” He eyes the door over his shoulder and added ruefully, “Or at least try to.”

Legolas and Frodo did manage some sleep, but it came late and they slept late the following day. The hobbit was famished and they decided that food was the first priority, and so made for Neelix’s mess hall. It was already full with lunchtime patrons, as well as a company of musicians bearing instruments they had never seen the like of before. And one they most definitely had.

An impromptu jamming session had begun between several on-board musicians supposedly on their way to rehearsals elsewhere. Among them, Vorik and Tuvok had struck up a duet on Vulcan lutes.

The instant Legolas stepped into the room he was mesmerised, not by the similarity of the lute to the elven harp, but for the music they were playing. “That song, I know it.”

Both Vulcans stopped playing. “That is not possible,” Vorik dismissed. “It is a Vulcan nursery rhyme, the tune of which would be too complicated to learn, unless teaching of the lute is begun at an early age.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed with annoyance. “How dare you insult my intelligence, child! I was playing this harp and singing this song long before your Surak had even begun his existence as a gleam in his grandfather’s eye!”

Vorik was unimpressed. Tuvok remained silently out of the exchange, deciding Vorik needed to learn a few very valuable lessons.

The elf’s eyes grew increasingly dark, a look Frodo had not seen since their days in Rivendell. “What is more,” Legolas continued. “Do not insult the song, for Nimrodel deserves far more respect that to be a mere trifle of thrown together words and mismatched phrases.”

Vorik rose to his feet. A lesser being might have been livid, a greater being would have apologised and moved on. The young ensign was not the latter. “I am no child, I am almost thirty years old.”

“Not an adult,” Legolas retorted. “Not even old enough to question me. Nimrodel was to have been our queen, not some whore of the Wildmen, to be dismissed so lightly.”

Vorik was beginning to bristle, his youth, still ten years shy of Vulcan adulthood, and his lack of training were his downfall. Tuvok, however, stood up and lifted his lute to Legolas. “Prince Legolas,” he accorded with respect. “Would you please enlighten us by showing us the correct notes and words?”

“Commander?” Vorik seethed.

“You will control yourself, Ensign, and learn wisdom from a master thirty thousand years your senior,” Tuvok silenced him. “Please proceed, my lord.”

Taking the lute, Legolas lowered himself into the chair opposite them, aware that over sixty pairs of curious eyes were watching him, many intrigued by the being who had managed to anger a Vulcan; no mean feat in itself. Many were also intrigued by the being that Tuvok had acknowledging as a noble, an equal to the great T’Pau herself.

The first thing Legolas did was to turn the lute upside down, resting what had been the decoratively curved top right hand side on his thigh. “You are holding it wrong,” he explained tightly. “You dull the timber of her voice. The harp is a woman and should be treated with kindness and respect. You no more play a harp that way than you would hold a woman up by her ankles.”

The clipped annoyance was obvious. He plucked each string, and tightened or loosened as necessary. “Neither is it tuned correctly. A screech of pain is worse than no music at all,” he added shortly and began to play.

The notes were fuller, deeper without losing pitch. His fingers of one hand flew across the strings, melody and harmony flowing from one instrument that had taken them two to achieve, while the second hand held it gently but firmly. The tune filled the room with beauty and light, lifting hearts and provoking smiles of surprise. It was the same tune as before, but now it had body and form, now played with love and honour.

Only then did he begin to sing.

Frodo had heard this sung in Westron once, the gentle alto dusting the glade with his heartfelt mourning. Now, the words were of Nimrodel’s song came to him in Sindarin. He closed his eyes, absorbing the almost tangible essence of it. As before, Legolas paused, head slightly bowed in pain, unable to continue singing. A small hobbit voice drifted away as the music came to an abrupt end. He watched the elf intently, wondering what he was thinking.

“Amroth died childless,” he said, more to Frodo than to anyone else. “That is why Galadriel and Celeborn returned to Lorien, to watch over the elves in his stead . . .Celeborn had been treated well, and when she had been granted forgiveness by the Valar and called home, she did not go. She bade Celeborn return to his family. He did not go. He knew her only release from her own torment for what she had done would come by the call of the One Ring, its testing, her strength to resist.”

“Amroth was the last king of Mirkwood,” Frodo said.

“He was,” Legolas confirmed. “The Noldor bid us leave for the northern woods and never return. Our numbers have grown fewer and fewer with each passing century.” He turned and rose, regarding the silenced Vulcan, who displayed astonishment on his face. “You would make a poor student,” he informed him. “You are blinkered, unbending, stubborn and ill-raised; barren in both thought, skill and willingness. I would be wasting my time, and yours, in attempting to teach you.”

Legolas passed the lute back to its owner and turned his attention to other matters, such as what to eat for lunch, and made to move towards the counter. Vorik glared at Frodo, who seemed much amused by the rebuff. He did not like the younger Vulcan one bit, and thought it high time both of the arrogant creatures were brought down a floor or two. At least Tuvok was trying, he would give him that, but the look in Vorik’s eyes spoke of malevolence. In less than a second he realised that the silent ring was waking up. The dark elf had no control over the voice that slithered across his mind as he took a step closer to the suddenly very worried hobbit and reached for his throat.

There was no movement that Vorik could attest to seeing, but the result was obvious. A hand abruptly gripped his throat; a white blade lay across the hand, pressing against his flesh.

“Do not attempt to touch the Ring-Bearer,” Legolas forced between gritted teeth, his glittering green eyes filling the Vulcan’s field of vision. “I am sworn to protect Frodo at the expense of my life, and I will uphold that oath to the expense of yours, if need be.”

Several around the mess hall reached for the weapon’s locker.

“Stop!” B'Elanna called out. “He is just doing his job. Vorik, stand down.”

Vorik wisely lowered his arm and relaxed. Legolas’ grip gradually lessened and the hand fell away. The blade, however, remained until the Vulcan stepped back.

“Tuvok, you are the Captain of security, are you not?” Legolas inquired.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” the older Vulcan replied.

“Then it is time to review your methods. I have found more manners and respect, not to mention temperance, among Klingons than I have found with you.” He sheathed his blade as swiftly as he had drawn it. “At no time has my authority and title been brought to naught in such short order as it has been here. In the face of such impudence, I am ashamed to call you kin. You are more like furies than beings of logic.”

With that, he walked away. "Come Frodo. It is not safe for you here."

Vorik stood motionless for a moment.

“You are one annoying hot head, Ensign,” B’Elanna told him quietly, the first time she had used his rank since the days before they were bonded. “What has gotten into you?”

“For insulting T’Pau, you would not avoid severe punishment. For insulting her equal . . .perhaps a night in the Brig will do you good?” Tuvok decided.

Word had reached the Bridge, there were no secrets on a ship this small. As a result, Chakotay met them at the doors to their quarters. “Your highness,” he began. “May I speak with you?”

Legolas regarded him for a moment before turning to Frodo. “I will join you in a moment,” he promised, and followed the first officer to a set of doors not far away down the corridor. They entered, and Legolas took in the small space, filled with a desk, a console with blinking lights set into its surface, and a chair on either side.

“Please sit down,” Chakotay accorded, walking to the other side of the desk and taking the other seat for himself.

“Why have you asked me here?” Legolas asked.

“I am concerned about the psychological impact of what has happened to you these past few weeks,” he replied. “I’d like to offer a listening ear.”

“I am well,” Legolas replied. “I thank you for your concern.”

“I am not sure you are well,” Chakotay said slowly. “You are quick to anger, you never go anywhere without your weapons, and tonight you threatened a member of the crew. I can understand that this is . . .”

“I was not the one threatening,” Legolas replied. “I was protecting, and I shall do so again. It is my oath. Do you not have oaths? Perhaps you do not understand.”

Chakotay sighed gently. “I do understand, we have oaths as well. But carrying your weapons everywhere . . .to be honest, they make me nervous. They make several people nervous. The speed and accuracy of your draw would bring us all to shame. We can’t match you in strength, either.”

Legolas considered this for a moment. He lifted a hand and slipped the buckle free and the quiver, bow and sheath came loose. Legolas set it on the table before him and pushed it into the centre. “Does this make you feel more comfortable?” he asked gently.

Chakotay nodded. “Yes, thank you.” He sighed a little. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No, thank you,” the elf replied. “Why am I here?”

“I need to be certain that you are mentally and spiritually coping with this strange environment. Everything around you is unknown and frightening. A lesser man could be psychologically damaged. You nearly died. People are worried about you.”

“You are worried about me,” Legolas announced, eyes unwavering.

Chakotay blinked. This being was astute. “Yes,” he admitted. “Anyone who can best a Vulcan has to be someone exceptionally strong and quick, not someone to meet unawares. To be honest, you scare the hell out of me.”

There was a long silence.

“You must scare easily,” the elf voiced quietly. After a moment, he added, “And you are jealous that Lady Kathryn smiles at me, when she thinks you are not watching.”

Chakotay’s eyes turned hard.

“Your hopes for the future lie with her, getting home, loving you. You pray every day that the smile she gives others will one day be for you alone.”

Chakotay’s breath stilled for a moment. “What about you?” he asked gently, not letting on that the elf was unnerving him. “What are your hopes?”

“I hope that we may get home. My one oath is to protect Frodo, and his is to destroy the One Ring. Nothing else matters.”

“What about Gimli? Does he not enter into the picture?”

Legolas swallowed. His eyes lowered. “Gimli is my husband, as you wish to be Kathryn’s. He is in my thoughts, my heart and in my soul at every moment, just as she is in yours.”

Chakotay’s throat constricted. “We are not here to talk about me.”

“Why not?” Legolas inquired. “You are the one who asked me here. You are the one jealous of a being your people consider unreal. I do not exist to you, and yet you are jealous of me.”

“I admit that was my motivation when I first asked you here,” Chakotay said. “But while I am still jealous of you, I find myself more intrigued by you. You are poised, controlled, and at peace. I have been at war all my life. Once I believed I had found that peace, but it was cruelly taken away and I have never regained it. How do you remain calm in such a place like this. I hate it, every day. My people honour the land, and yet here I am on a ship millions of miles from land. How do you cope?”

“By remembering who I am, and my purpose,” Legolas replied gently. “Frodo is my purpose. Gimli is my strength. Lady Kathryn can be yours, if you simply allow her to breathe. She will never be yours as long as you stifle her, force her every step.”

“Did Gimli not force you? Elves and dwarves are enemies, you said so yourself.”

Legolas smiled, much amused. “If Gimli had forced me, I would have died, unable to return to life, no matter what tricks a healer may conjure. Rape is impossible for elves, both to do and to endure. I believe it is thus for you as well, though you may not die of it in the same manner, but it is a rape of sorts that you do to Lady Kathryn. The Valar would never allow your behaviour, if you had been an elf.”

“The Valar,” Chakotay spoke softly. “How can you be certain of their existence? How do you know they watch you?”

“You do not believe in a higher power,” Legolas decided.

“I do. We call him the Great Spirit. We also have beings not unlike the Valar. They are called the Sky Spirits,” Chakotay explained.

“The Valar are not spirits,” Legolas responded.

Chakotay smiled a little. “Neither are the Sky Spirits,” he replied. “It’s just a name we gave them in the beginning.”

“I know the Valar exist,” Legolas told him. “They created my mother. And when I cross the sea into the west, I will see them in Valinor.”

“Are you acting on faith alone?” Chakotay wondered. “For many years I rejected my people’s beliefs as shear fantasy.”

“And yet, I sit before you,” Legolas broke in.

Chakotay paused. “True,” he conceded. “And I found the Sky Spirits for myself.”

“As will I,” Legolas told him with conviction.

“Can you be sure?” Chakotay questioned him again.

Legolas was one step ahead of him, several in fact. “Valinor is not like your Eden, a place of myth. It exists. For one, our Queen went there after her capture by orcs. For another, the Lady Galadriel was born there. Also, it is where the two trees grow, without which all Arda would fall apart. In the days of Beleriand when I was a child, I used to stand upon the cliffs. Up there, on a point on the shore, Valinor could be seen on a clear day. There our eyes can see the White Shores.” Legolas’ eyes drifted into the distance. “They are beautiful. Behind them the land is covered in forests as far and beyond the mountains. It is the Undying Lands, where no pain of the past can worry you.”

Chakotay had fallen silent. After a long time, Legolas turned back to him.

“You love her, do you not?”

Chakotay’s anger boiled behind his eyes with a suddenness that surprised even himself. “I try not to trouble myself with something I know I can never have. Besides, we are here to talk about you.”

“Why?”

“Just as your job is to protect Frodo, it’s my job to see to the welfare of all onboard, including visitors, to be a listening ear, offer advice.”

Legolas tipped his head to one side and regarded him at length. “What advice could one so young offer one as old as I?”

The time for farewells had arrived all too soon, and it was with some trepidation that they had come to see them off. There were no guarantees, no absolutes. It was still just a theory, still a hope whistled against the wind.

They had assembled in the shuttle bay, the elf and the hobbit in awe of what they saw. The room was vast, and yet there were no columns to hold the ceiling aloft. A sleek type-11 shuttle sat like a crouched cat upon the deck, waiting to get underway. Its silver lines and pointed prow were akin to a boat; a very fast boat by elven standards, but still recognisable as a boat.

“That is a shuttle,” Legolas said, eyeing it most curiously. “How does it fly? There are no wings?”

“The same way Eärendil’s ship floats through the heavens,” Tom replied.

Legolas turned his head. “This I accept,” he said. “Though it does not ease my confusion.”

B’Elanna sucked in a nervous breath. “Ready?”

“No,” the elf replied. “But I shall go anyway. I must,” he added. He stepped closer to her and cupped her cheek. “I shall miss you, Lady B’Elanna. I wish for you fair winds to carry you and your family home.”

Tom smiled, quelling a jealous twinge seeing him touch his wife that way, but he trusted them both. This would be one friendship she would treasure for the rest of her life. Legolas smiled at her, and as Tom watched she enveloped the elf in a tight hug. He knew her, she was confident in her ability, but there was still that edge of uncertainty, still that tiny speck of fear.

“You’ll be ok,” she told him, though her voice betrayed an edge of doubt. “Just sit tight and enjoy the ride.”

“You’ll be going where no elf has gone before,” Tom put in. “Or hobbit, for that matter.”

B’Elanna smiled widely at his pun. Legolas pressed a small object into her palm and curled her hand around it. “What is this?” she asked, looking down to find a small lead toy in the shape of a dog in her hand.

“It is a toy,” he replied. “I found it on the shores the of Grey Havens. It is said that it was once owned by the son of Tholion himself, that they searched for it for many days, that this it is the reason why our dark kin still travelled among our lands. It may be legend, but I would like you to have it. Give it to your first child as a gift.”

Tom smiled. He knew. “Rover,” he said softly, noting the places where the much loved toy had been rubbed and worn smooth by small fingers.

B’Elanna looked into Legolas’ eyes, a slight frown in her gaze. She did not understand, and she knew that he could not. Klingons and Humans were barely compatible, so why would she be accepting a gift for her ‘first’ child? He had stressed the word. Did he know something that she could not?

“Qapla’,” he said, leaving B’Elanna too surprised to respond.

“Farewell, Tom.” Legolas squeezed Tom’s shoulder. “I will not forget these days spent here,” he said, cupping Janeway’s cheek in his hand. “Lady Kathryn, thank you.”

Nearby Chakotay almost heaved with rage, incensed that the elf could touch her and not be rebuked, when he himself had never gotten any further than holding hands. “Safe journey,” he accorded, marvelling at how calm his voice was regardless of how he seethed.

“And to you,” Legolas replied with a bow.

“Thanks for the worms,” Frodo smiled up at B’Elanna. “And the lembas, Neelix. There is enough food in our packs for six hobbits for a whole month.”

Neelix smiled, glowing with pride. “Well, there’s no point travelling on an empty stomach.”

“Tuvok, my kin from afar, I wish you fare winds . . .and less stubbornness,” Legolas told him, ignoring the hidden grins and chuckles. “I have hope that you will live longer and prosper for it,” he added insightfully. He clasped the Vulcan’s shoulder, unknowingly leaving an impression on the usually aloof second officer. “Menakhat ur sevah,” he accorded.

Tuvok regarded him evenly, wondering if the elf realised what touch did for a touch-telepath, but decided not to go into such a discussion. He would deal with the consequences later, and wonder what repercussions Legolas would feel after his inadvertent contact. He lifted his hand and saluted him in the way of Vulcan, palm up and fingers parted. “Live long and prosper, Legolas of Doriath.”

They stood back as Legolas and Frodo stepped into the shuttle and the hatch closed behind them.

“Is everything preset, B’Elanna?” Janeway asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The controls are locked and the sequence is pre-programmed. Once the shuttle reaches full impulse, it will be exactly half way between Voyager and the star off our port bow.” She crossed to the control panel and raised the force field, and opened the shuttle bay doors. The shuttle lifted into the air, the gentle thrum of its engines filling the vast room. Slowly it moved forward and slipped into space. They watched as it increased speed and vanished into the distance.

Eyes switched to the screen on the console, showing an external view.

“Opening the portal now.”

The shuttle seemed to hover for a moment, before swinging wildly to the port side. After a moment the deck beneath their feet seemed to shift nauseatingly to one side. Then it shuddered to the other side, and the shuttle swung in the opposite direction and vanished off sensors.

B’Elanna lifted her eyes from the screen and rested her hands on the top of the console. “Now we pray.”

There was a long silence, each not knowing what to do or say. Should they leave, should they stay and hope there was some sign to say where it had worked or not?

“Curious,” Tuvok said at last. “That I should see them leave and feel an emptiness of loss that I am unaccustomed to. More so, I feel the love of one Gimli as keenly as I love T’Pel.”

B’Elanna peered down at the small object in her hand in deep thought. She lifted her eyes to her husband who was watching her with curiosity.

“Lana?” he whispered.

“I need to check something with the doctor. Come on.” She took his hand and together they left the Shuttle Bay.

The shuttle piloted itself to a gentle stop at the foot of the volcano and the hatch hissed open. For a moment, neither of them said a word or moved. Legolas rose first and stepped out into the landscape that neither of them recognised. The dull grey, lifeless earth blew about them in tired dust evils, the air itself having lost the will to exist.

After walking away from the strange box that had carried them, they turned to look back at it. The outside shone in the early morning sun, and a blue flame seemed to cover its surface. The hatch closed again and the shuttle sat still for a moment. Suddenly it lurched and was gone.

“We appear to have but one choice, Frodo,” Legolas said and lifted his eyes upward towards the smoking peak above them. “We must climb.”

Frodo took out the ring and gazed at it as it lay in his palm. “It is silent. It has never been silent before. Slumbering, perhaps, but never silent. What if we are wrong?”

“He is here,” Legolas replied softly. “I can feel it.”

“Then we should hurry before Sauron notices us. For all we know he may have taken physical form. Who knows what he will look like?”

“Or worse, the Vulcans will see us,” Legolas added with an ominous shudder.

They climbed ever upward for several hours, the flat featureless basin far below them. Above them was more and more grey, lifeless rock, The mountain was much taller than either of them had expected, if the stories of it were to be believed.

Legolas sighed, flexing his aching fingers as he rested for a moment, waiting for the hobbit to catch up. “I have no idea where we are,” he readily admitted.

“Did you not fight here once?” Frodo asked.

“I fought here with the Last Alliance,” Legolas replied. “But this landscape has changed. I do not recognise it. And the mountain has spewed rock for eons since I last looked upon her. I cannot even be sure that this is the flank we should be climbing.”

“These rocks all look the same, and this sun does not cross the sky as I remember it,” Frodo agreed. “I cannot even tell what time it is.”

“Nor I.” Legolas moved on up the steep cliff of boulders and ash. “We must keep going. We will reach the top, however long it takes us. Just keep to the path.”

Frodo looked about him. “What path?” he noted quietly.

Suddenly the mountain heaved beneath them as if a mighty beast was rising from its knees to give a good stretch.

Legolas heard a cry and looked back. Grabbing the rock face he reached out and snatched at a retreating hand as Frodo lost his footing. Dangling in mid air, Frodo watched the path disintegrate from beneath his feet. Legolas peered down into the dust clouds that billowed around him. As it rolled away from their precarious position the first thing he saw was Frodo’s large terrified eyes.

Legolas opened his mouth, but closed it again. It was not only fear he recognised in those eyes, but also resignation. He suddenly knew what Frodo was thinking. "No, Frodo. Do not let go." He suddenly wished he had a second pair of hands as he felt the rock face tearing into the flesh of his fingers. Frodo was beginning to slip from his grasp. "No! Frodo! Reach!"

qaStaHvlS wa' ram loS Sad Hugh SljlaH qetbogh loD - Four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man.

Qapla’ - Success (Klingon)

Menakhat ur sevah - Live long and prosper (Vulcan)

Tuvok slipped the iso-linear chip into the slot and waited for the image to clear. The images were of dark elves, though some were not as dark as he himself, looking more akin to Vorik, who stood nearby.

“You will note, Ensign, that these files have been encrypted and remain unbroken since the day they were created. Before you decide which truth you profess to believe, you must always research the facts. All the information must be thoroughly investigated and recorded, as they have been here.”

“And you wish for me to investigate this theory in order to gain freedom from the Brig?” Vorik replied.

“Not theory, Ensign. Fact,” Tuvok returned. "Part of your rehabilitation is to learn of our past. All that we are, that we believe, that we have become is at the expanse of a civilisation now lost and all but forgotten, except by a few historians who work unceasingly to preserve what little is left for properity."

Vorik lifted a brow, turning slightly as he considered this. “It is logical to assume that errors were made by our historians. However, the same can be said for Romulan historians.”

“That is possible,” Tuvok replied. “And your statement also carries errors. This is not merely Romulan history, it is also Vulcan history. It is also the history of Mintaaka 3, and also of Earth.”

Vorik lifted his eyes to his mentor. “Mere conjecture cannot span the stars,” he noted, whilst not totally convinced.

“Indeed,” Tuvok agreed. “I am about to show you the last file first. The reason for this is that it is the first book in the history of Vulcan. The exodus of our race.”

Vorik nodded his acceptance. “Proceed, sir.”

Tuvok tapped the panel and the images began to move, it was a three-dimensional holovid recreated from the written Romulan text . . .and they stood, unnoticed, amongst the action.

Vorik considered this short scene with deep thought. “Intriguing,” he said. “They appear to be Vulcan, both dark and light, as you and I. And yet, Mintaaka does not have a dark-skinned population.”

“That is because we all left for Vulcan," Tuvok replied. "Those who were lighter in colour remained behind. In effect, they hid our retreat and paid with their lives.”

“It would seem that much has been removed from our history for this truth to be withheld and forgotten,” the younger man supposed.

“Again, you are correct.”

“I feel I am more able to familiarise myself with your logic,” the young man conceded. “I am ready to review more of this history that is forbidden on Vulcan. Why did our ancestors leave Mintaaka 3? You said that they were forced.”

Tuvok nodded stiffly, pleased, in a Vulcan way, that his student was more willing to listen to reason and possibly accept the truth. “The stored memory on each of these chips is limited, and this one has been corrupted,” he explained as he removed the chip and replaced it into its case. “However, since this is the last recording, we can speculate that the recordings would mention the history of Vulcan that we do know. Therefore we may have to review many more before our answers are found.”

Tuvok selected an older record and slipped the iso-linear chip into the slot. At once the image opened up and steadied. The room filled again with holographic characters, the same ones as before, but the setting had changed to one of a grand hall.

“Legolas mentioned a war, but only a coward would leave the scene of a battle to save his own skin. There had to be something more,” Tuvok supposed.

“Vulcan’s are not cowards,” Vorik noted.

“Indeed not,” Tuvok voiced tightly. “Nor can it be said of our Romulan counterparts.”

"I do not believe it can be said of Prince legolas, either," Vorik noted.

“They were not cowards,” Vorik reasoned finally.

“No,” Tuvok replied. “There are further recordings on this chip, many of them made during their wanderings among the elves. Perhaps we shall gain further insight.”

“Noble indeed,” Vorik noted as he gazed into the young face of King Tholion. The image faded and others took their place. “What pivotal event caused this change of heart?”

“We shall see,” Tuvok replied, pushing another file into the panel.

“I am uncertain how a wizard can be a creature of fact,” Vorik said. “Magic is an illusion, and therefore it is not logical to accept them as fact.”

“The wizards of this time were not conjurors, Ensign,” Tuvok told him. “But souls who have passed through death and become beings of pure energy. They were, in essence, much like Q.”

Vorik considered this. “The files also state that this elf, Aragorn, was a healer, that he healed with his hands. Did he heal the one named Samwise?”

“We shall see,” Tuvok replied.

“It is here that our ancestors left?” Vorik queried.

“I do not believe so,” Tuvok replied. “There is another recording on this iso-linear chip. I surmise from your question that your mindset has altered towards the subject matter?”

“Yes, sir,” Vorik replied. “It is logical, is it not, that learning from a mistaken assumption brings wisdom?”

“It is logical.”

“I was in error to dismiss the truth without due thought or adequate reason. I was prejudiced in thinking that Surak was without weakness in his quest for logic. Enlightenment is also logical, truth is logical. Without the knowledge of the past and how it was fought for us and why, the present and the future becomes irrelevant. The Mintaakan race is too similar to us for our features to be explained away as pure evolutionary chance.”

“And Legolas?”

“I regret not allowing our association to form more perfectly. Legolas is clearly of the same blood as myself, though he is too pale to survive on Vulcan. I suspect that he has spent too many days avoiding the sun.”

Tuvok lifted a single brow.

“A joke,” Vorik offered, though being Vulcan he neither smiled or laughed.

Tuvok’s head rose in recognition and he nodded. “Impressive,” he replied, seemingly as amused as the ensign. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes sir.”

The image stilled and Tuvok pondered upon this new information, almost to the point of forgetting the presence of Ensign Vorik. His mind’s eye stayed upon the image of the dark elf, so like himself that the resemblance was uncanny, as humans would say. The other, whom the dark elf had addressed as brother, was more akin to the great Spock. And they were not as violent as his world’s own history had suggested, but cultured, refined, noble as Vorik had stated. “There were not the savages our historians have led us to believe we descended from.”

“I concur,” Vorik replied. “There is however a conundrum, Commander. Our ancestors were in contact with humans millennia before First Contact. How is this possible? There are no humans on, nor have any been to Mintaaka 3, except for the one visit made by the Enterprise, under the command of Captain Picard.”

“You are correct. Therefore we must assume that these are not humans as we know them, but an identical if unrelated species.”

“Are you certain of that theory?” Vorik queried.

Tuvok regarded him evenly and stepped through the 3-D video image with ease, walking across the holographic water as if he were God. Before him was the last ship to leave Middle Earth, and upon her quarter-deck stood the bearded, dark-haired man looking back towards the shore. “Computer, can a life form identification be made from the image two metres directly in front of me?”

“Life form identification from available data is possible,” the computer replied.

“Identify?”

“The life form indicated is Ârâgorn, Last king of Gondor and Arnor.”

“Comparing Ârâgorn with Voyager’s database, is there a match for his species?”

“Affirmative. Species match available.”

“Name the species.”

“Human.”

Tuvok turned his eyes to Vorik, who lifted both brows, the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug to say ‘I told you so’. “Our ancestors aided humans, or beings so human in appearance and genetics that our sensors cannot tell them apart.”

“Perhaps,” Tuvok replied noncommittally. “Or humans visited and or subsequently crashed on Mintaaka 3 long ago and Earth also suppressed all knowledge.”

“Not entirely implausible,” Vorik said. “There are several millennia in Earth history during which, it is said, humans did little more than exist in isolated pockets, often in very primitive conditions. I find that difficult to believe, given their sudden rise in technological advancement during the 20th and 21st centuries.”

“An intriguing thought,” Tuvok agreed. “One for further study, perhaps?”

“Either way, we cannot dismiss the presence of humans on Mintaaka 3 two hundred thousand years ago. The proto-Vulcan society may have been contaminated by this outside influence. Who do we inform of our discovery?” he asked, wondering what the inexperienced ensign would suggest.

Vorik hesitated. “I do not think it prudent to inform anyone that humans once inhabited Mintaaka 3,” he decided.

“I concur. To coin a human expression, we would be committed.”

“Yes, sir,” the ensign said. “Further more, who among humans, beyond our own shipmates, would believe in the existence of elves?” he added.

“Indeed,” Tuvok conceded. “The entire crew would need to be committed.”

“An interesting thought,” Vorik returned.

“Nevertheless, our logs will confirm than an elf and a hobbit were aboard.”

“Yes, sir. However, I feel I must point out, we have just sent them back. History will change the moment they destroy the ring. These files will cease to exist.”

“On the contrary,” Tuvok said. “These files were brought through a temporal rift. They exist just out of phase with our own timeline. If anything occurs to our timeline, these records will remain unaltered. I have taken steps to safeguard our logs as well.”

“A wise precaution,” Vorik assessed. “Have we reviewed all the available recordings?”

“Yes, Ensign,” Tuvok replied, removing the memory chip and replacing it in its slot in the carry case.

“It has been an enlightening exercise,” Vorik said. “I am gratified that you have corrected my flawed assumptions, sir.”

“You are welcome. It is time for you to return to duty. I do not believe returning you to the Brig will be of further benefit. I am gratified by your progress.”

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps, there will be time for further discussion on this subject. I am curious to learn what became of Gimli’s race, and Aragorn’s, and to know if the Mintaakans currently inhabiting that world are the descendants of dark elves left behind?” Vorik turned for the door and exited.

As the doors closed, Tuvok lifted a single brow. “I wish I had those answers,” he spoke quietly to himself, and frowned. That was a most unVulcan-like mannerism, more akin to elf. He quietly smiled and removed an iso-linear chip from his pocket, and inserted it into the slot. This file he had already reviewed and copied, to observe the temporal changes as they occurred. This one was unshielded. If he was right, the timing would be perfect. All evidence of humans on Mintaaka 3 would be eliminated from the records.

The image around him solidified. He watched a distraught Aragorn and Gimli paddle upstream after Legolas and Frodo had disappeared. So far, nothing had changed. Suddenly the scene crackled and solidified once more, but the image had not changed. Tuvok gazed in confusion as the boats rounded a bend in the river, Ârâgorn still in the boat. But, as he watched, he noticed that history had indeed been altered, yet his memory had not.

“Strange,” he noted to himself. “Surely if history has changed I would not remember anything.”

Then Tuvok remembered. Frodo, the Ring-Bearer, was meant to see time. It had been his destiny to venture beyond the realm of Arda, and Voyager was fated to intervene.

Tuvok stared around him at the characters, the hobbit, Sam, uninjured in the boat. None of them were injured, and yet now the boats carried only three. The two other hobbits had disappeared. Tuvok felt no different, and yet history had changed.

Suddenly the stilled playback shut down. “Simulation ended,” the computer droned.

Confused, Tuvok removed the chip, concerned that it might be broken for the recording to have ended so soon. He slipped it back into the machine. Nothing happened. “Computer, continue play back of history file 7-7 alpha 2-5.”

“Simulation has ended,” the computer repeated.

“What happened next?” the Vulcan demanded in exasperation. Tuvok realised his agitation and battled to control it. Legolas had touched him, and the results were not what either of them had expected, even if Legolas had been unaware of it, which he was beginning to doubt.

“Further narrative is not available from the currant file selection. Suggestions for further narrative include J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord Of The Rings; Vulcan History by T’Ping; Romulan History by Turnak, and internet access files of Earth, circa 1994 through 1996.”

“How many internet access files?”

“Sixteen million, three hundred and eight thousand . . .”

“Open Vulcan history by T’Ping,” Tuvok interrupted hurriedly. “Begin playback at last time index.”

“Vulcan history is not listed beyond written text format. Holovid recordings are not avaiable in Voyager’s database.”

Tuvok chafed. He simply had to know. He calmed himself and straightened. He recalled Paris’ mention that most if not all the files on the internet were stories written by those who had enjoyed the works of Tolkien, but they were not necessarily cannon with the original events. He was relieved, however, that the recordings taken from Starling's database were also immune to the temporal shift. “I will review Romulan History by Turnak,” he decided, in control once more. “Is holographic playback available?”

“Affirmative.”

“Begin playback from the last known time index.”

“Pause playback,” Tuvok commanded.

Tuvok remained staring at the image that surrounded him, now stationary. Stepping between the characters, he noticed that the human was still there. Why were humans on Mintaaka 3? Perhaps this man was not as human as he appeared. He recalled his earlier research, and nodded to himself. “A half-human,” he recalled out loud. “Computer, select time index plus-32 days from the present display,” he requested.

The image refocused and before him stood the Black Gates, swung wide and menacing like the gape of a hungry shark. Around him men and orcs fought, and he finally understood the terror in Legolas’ eyes upon seeing him for the first time. He could feel it, almost taste the bitter twisted evil of their mindset. The orcs were more vicious than the Kazon, more relentless than the Borg, and yet, more hideous than a Medusan.

“Computer . . .”

Tuvok froze as a scream like nothing he had ever heard before filled the air, tore through his soul and left him reeling as if exhausted. He sucked in a breath, eyes turning south where the hell-shriek had come from. Moments later the lidless eye disintegrated and the tower exploded.. Noise, earthshaking and dust plumes rising, senseless and unreasoning terror surrounded and yet emanated from him. For a long time he could not move.

The dust seemed to be rising, and yet the earth was falling away from beneath his feet. Tuvok cried out, and then remembered that he was on the holodeck, he was not a part of this recording. He was safe, but even that appeared to be an illusion. The twisted bodies began to rush passed him, many were caught by the destruction, falling into the huge abyss that had formed beneath his feet.

As the dust settled, coating his clothing and hair in a fine layer of grey soot, Legolas and Frodo emerged from Mordor triumphant, but Tuvok did not notice. His eyes took in the multitude upon the ruined battlefield, his control slipping once more, now in favour of astonishment. There, before him, stood thousands of humans, some of them he had seem before.

He turned away from the recording, at once uncomfortable. “Computer, state the nature of the life forms inhabiting Mintaaka 3?”

“That information is restricted.”

“By whom?”

“Star Fleet command and the Federation Supreme Council.”

Frodo dangled from the end of his arm for a long time before his other arm swung up and held on to him. The rumbling beneath their feet grew ever louder. Legolas clenched his teeth and channelled his great strength and pulled him up. panting with the exertion he pressed the hobbit to his chest and held him. “By the Valar, Frodo, do not scare me like that.”

Frodo held on for a long time. All around them the mountain seemed to be coming alive, like a monster that had over slept. Finally he looked up. “The mountain is doing that without my help,” he said

“How are we to go on from here?” Frodo asked, losing hope.

Legolas eyed the trembling rock face above them and thought about it. “Hold on to me,” he said. “I will climb up. Do not let go or look down.”

“Legolas . . .?”

“Do not be afraid. We are together and I shall not let you fall, my brother.” As he said the words, a strange calm came over him, one that he was not accustomed to, one that he knew was not his, but Tuvok's. A frown flitted across his face. He had touched him, had something occured during that touch? Perhaps, he would never know.

“I am afraid,” Frodo admitted.

Legolas nodded, unable to find his voice for a moment. "We are almost there."

Climbing up the last fifty feet of rock took the longest time. Steam vents and plumes of sulphur burst forth without warning to impede their progress. Finally, they stood above the boiling cauldron of orange fire. The heat singed their faces, stealing the very breath from their lungs.

Frodo hesitated. “Once I throw this in, what will happen to us? Where will we go?”

“I know you are frightened, so am I, but it must be done. What becomes of us is not important as what we do here, now.”

Frodo clasped him and took one last look at the glittering ring in his palm. “I have held this ring for far longer than any before me, now I am rid of it.” Slowly he tipped his hand and watched the ring spin in the air rolling lower and lower as it fell into the fire below.

They watched with expectant gazes as the ring settled on the surface scum for a long moment before it broke through and sank. Finally it was gone for ever.

"For Frodo," he whispered to them and raised his sword. Charging into the thickening onslaught of orcs they fought together.

Suddenly a tremor in the air made stones of their bodies, terrified and rooted to the spot as they were by the shriek that sounded from the south. Barad-dur seemed to tip to one side, crumbling and falling. Just as they began to think of victory the mountain exploded in a pillar of fire. In that moment, victory seemed to sour into insignificance. They had lost Frodo... again.

Gimli sank to his knees and gasped, "No!"

The orcs and trolls began to flee, but many were overtaken by the sinking of the land into the collapsing mines beneath. The sound was terrible, the rending of earth against earth, the screaming, the pounding of terrified feet. Dust was thrown up in huge choking clouds, like a wall between the men and where the gates once stood.

No one cheered. In victory they had lost, even those who had never known the Ring Bearer felt his absence as keenly as those who had, and they wept openly. Three hobbits clutched at each other like children, and a dwarf, numbed by grief, could do little but look on. The wizard lowered his head, his tears mingling with his beard.

"We must return to the city, Ârâgorn," Éomer rallied after what seemed like an age of the world. "Come," he said gently.

Ârâgorn did not move. "No, I . . .wait," he mumbled. His voice grew in strength as he called out, "look." He stretched out an arm through the murky air.

They waited, but none save Ârâgorn seemed to see anything. They waited until a dark smudge began to float towards them through the mist of pulverised rock. The smudge slowly took shape as it stumbled ever closer, moving from rock to rock until it finally stepped up onto the level ground at Ârâgorn’s feet. His clothes were filthy and torn, and his hair was covered in ash, only his eyes peered out at them as clear and bright as ever they were. He stood there, exhausted by his ordeal and appeared to teeter on the edge of collapse, but he managed to stay on his feet, though how was a mystery.

Ârâgorn gazed at him for a long time before he could trust his voice. "Legolas?" he breathed in wonder.

Legolas face broke into a bright smile and his blooded fingers tapped something that he had been carrying. An equally filthy head rose from his shoulder and opened its eyes.

Frodo looked around him for a long, long moment and breathed a sigh. "It worked?"

Legolas could do nothing but laugh. A laugh of relief, of sadness, of joy, of a desperate need to simply laugh. "It worked," he said. Finally, the cheering began.

Gently lowering his charge to the ground, Sam swooped in to care for his injured master.

"You're hurt, Mr. Frodo. I've been sore worried about you, so I have. Haven't I, Mr. Gimli? Gimli will tell you, and him dragging me all over Middle Earth to Rohan and back like a worn rag."

Gimli said nothing, simply stared up at his friend as he approached. "When you disappeared, I . . .we thought . . .we hoped . . ."

Legolas knelt on bended knee though his body hurt from numerous aches, and took in his face, cupping his cheek, close to tears. "You have no idea how long this parting has been. Or how much I have missed you every moment of it."

Gimli gazed up at him in surprise. "It's only been a few days," he said gruffly, embarrassed that he should be making a scene.

"No, Gimli," Legolas replied, gazing up at the clearing sky, not seeing but knowing his kin were up there, somewhere in the dark unending void of space, making their inexorable way home. "For me, it might as well have been thousands of years."

Gimli smiled, accepted it and embraced him.

“All is well, Captain,” he said. “The shuttle returned and, as expected, was badly damaged. Lieutenant Torres is complaining about the amount of work she has to do.”

Janeway smiled. “That’s normal, Mr Tuvok. She would be a lot worse if there was nothing to do at all.”

“If my wife was in a good mood about damaged engines, then you’d need to worry,” Tom put in from the helm.

The first officer chuckled. “I’d already be making for the hills at that point,” he grinned.

Janeway smiled softly. “You don’t strike me as a coward, Commander," she said innocently. "Is there something about Klingon tempers you don’t like?”

“Oh, I’m used to them," Chakotay replied with a grin. "I am more concerned on how they affected the gentle-natured elf. Apparently, he and B’Elanna spent a lot of time together.”

“And they were in my quarters, too,” Tom added to their goading, an edge to his voice that he knew would only too readily add to the rumour mill. “I don’t suppose it would be the right time to announce that B’Elanna found out this morning that she’s pregnant . . .would it?”

Data.

A slight flash of a change in the temporal resource registered an odd flux along his parietal lobe. The android blinked. Suddenly and inexplicably, his chronometer was sixteen minutes out of phase. An impossibility, his assumed, but he analysed it. There was a definite temporal shift, and it had not effected any of the systems that whirred calmly beneath his hovering fingers.

He turned. At the upper workstations stood Picard, captain of this fine vessel, at his elbow sat Deanna. Data frowned. Had she not been on the surface a moment ago, conducting an undercover research operation on the proto-Vulcans on Mintaaka 3? Now she was here, feeding research into the computer. An android was not programmed to be confused, but this was certainly an apt description of how he felt right now.

He turned back as his panel bleeped at him. “Approaching the planetary security cordon,” he announced blandly. “A security buoy has alerted us of our proximity to the no-fly zone.”

Picard turned his head. “Avoid all contact with the planet. We do not want to get close enough to alert any inquisitive person with a telescope, however remote the chance,” he warned. "Change course to 359 mark 2. Come about at 1-au and hold position.”

“Aye, captain,” Data replied.

Executing the flawless manoeuvre gave him ample time to analyse the erroneous information now logged and locked within his memory circuits. He shut down the files and knitted together the previous and the present, separating the sixteen extra minutes of temporal data from the rest. It was most odd. An incident that he should tell his friends about. Or more so, the Captain.

“Captain?” he called out.

“Yes, Data?” Picard replied as he descended to the main level of the Bridge.

“My neural net has detected a minor temporal disturbance localised to Mintaaka 3.”

Picard looked at him, his small dark blue eyes almost piercing, but gentle in their appraisal. “Temporal disturbance? By how much time? A few seconds can be explained away by a faulty chronometer.”

“I have sixteen minutes of extra memories, sir. That is far too much time to explained away by a faulty chronometer. Also, the scans of the planet are showing distinct signs of a dissipating temporal signature emanating from the large volcano in the northern continent.”

Picard joined him at his consol and took a look for himself. “Strange, but one mystery that, I'm afraid, we must leave for others to solve,” he said. “Your sixteen extra minutes, on the other hand, are beyond the boundaries of the security zone, but not beyond Federation law,” he smiled. “What do you know that Starfeet’s Temporal Regulations forbid me to ask?” he said quietly.

Data considered this. “I do not know, Captain, although, in years to come, if the cordon is ever lifted and we can finally meet the inhabitants of Mintaak 3, face to face, I would like to compare notes with their historians.”

Picard chuckled softly. “I don’t doubt it. Of all the worlds I’ve seen, Mintaaka’s history and its people are the greatest mystery.”

Earth, September 2, 1973

On earth, a man asleep at his writing desk, woke from an afternoon nap with a start. He, exiled and without hope of ever seeing kin again, smiled and hummed a little tune. There was something different in the air, he could feel it. He could guess what had happened. He peered out of the window at the twinkling stars in the heavens, one glinting as if only for him. Eärendil. He smiled.

“They did it,” he whispered. “Full circle. I can sleep now, My Lúthien.”