Failure

Failure

Wiping blood from his face, Gimli stood shakily and gripped his axe in readiness. The battle seemed to be over, but it would not do to be caught off guard.

Orcs! But not orcs of a kind he was used to; these were taller, stronger, and they moved in daylight. Everywhere he looked they lay. Slain by his own axe, or by one of Legolas' deadly accurate arrows. Yet though he searched he could see neither hide nor hair of his friend. Or any of their companions.

Feeling a slight prickling of worry he hurried away into the trees, taking the direction he had last seen Legolas disappear into.

"If that Elf has gotten himself killed, then I shall have a few choice words to say to him for leaving me like this!" he muttered, the idiocy of this statement not registering in his tangled state of mind, although to any observer it would have seemed rather paradoxical.

Gimli was beginning to feel more than a little concerned. There were bodies and blood and arrows everywhere. But no Legolas. Had he been captured? Was he even still alive—no! It did not do to dwell on such thoughts, better to put the mind to something more constructive.

He was heading back towards the camp—where else would the others go? —When he saw him. Stalking through the trees ahead, Legolas had his long bladed knife in hand; his arrow and quiver resting on his back, arrows all spent.

The Elf turned at the sound of Gimli's approach, and hastened towards him. "Glad am I to see you, Gimli, I had begun to think the orcs had taken you!" he shook his head. "Never have I been so happy to be proved wrong!"

Ignoring that statement, (taken by orcs indeed! Who does he think he is talking to? I am Gimli, Glóin's son, not some reckless Elven novice!) Gimli looked to his friend and saw with relief that he did not look to badly wounded, although blood, too stained his face; and his hair was slicked to his head by sweat—it was always hot in battle, it could be the depths of winter with snow all around... but still heat seemed to radiate from somewhere.

"Where are Aragorn and the little ones?" he asked. Legolas shook his head.

"I know not. I have seen none but you since we split at the camp—"

"I had thought to check the encampment…"

"Nay, I have been there, and there is no sign of any disturbances. I do not think anyone made it back."

"Whither can they have all gone, then?" said Gimli, exasperated.

"Did you not hear the horn of Gondor earlier?" said Legolas. He turned and pointed back the way he had been going. "The call came from yonder. That is the direction I think we should take."

"Then why stand we here chattering?" cried the dwarf, "let us make haste!"

And so it was that Legolas and Gimli came upon Aragorn and Boromir, in that once peaceful little glade. Many of the strange orcs lay lifeless around them, but their death's had come at a heavy price. Boromir, dear Boromir, lay slain upon the ground, his mighty sword broken, his horn cloven in two.

Peaceful he looked as if an inner turmoil that had plagued him was now gone, but it was with a heavy mournful silence that his old friends readied his funeral boat, and prepared him for his final journey. The great Falls of Rauros would take Boromir to his rest, and whatever his misdoings he had been a decent and noble man, and would be strongly missed by the remaining Fellowship members, and his homeland.

They watched the boat float out of sight silently, and then Aragorn turned wearily to his friends. "The orcs took Merry and Pippin," he sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. He suddenly looked very old, every line on his face seemed deeper, each grey hair more accentuated.

"And Sam and Frodo?" said Legolas.

"I let them go… do not look at me like that Legolas, I know it seems faithless, but it is their quest now."

"It still does not seem right to send little hobbits into Mordor alone, Aragorn. You know the perils of that dark land, how can those two little ones possibly survive!"

"I daresay they'll find away. Hobbits seem to be pretty remarkable creatures, and Frodo has something special about him… almost Elvish. Besides we have a new quest ourselves. Unless you plan to leave Merry and Pippin in the hands of those orcs?"

"Nay… but if we are to hunt, then I must be armed. Forgive while I go seek out any decent arrows that there may be here." He walked away, muttering about shaft length and head size.

Aragorn turned to the dwarf. "And you, Gimli. Will you leave us now? You may if you wish, the Fellowship is truly broken… no obligation holds you."

"Do you expect me to leave because times are getting tough? Is Legolas leaving? Are you? If you say we are to hunt orcs, then hunt orcs we shall!" cried Gimli, and Aragorn nodded in grim agreement. "We may be of no use to Sam and Frodo, but we shall do all we can for some very unhappy little hobbits. I have grown quite fond of them. I have no wish to see them hurt, or carried away to Saruman!"

"Good" said Aragorn. "We shall be the Hunters Three! Man, Dwarf and Elf, together for one last time… but first, Gimli, I must see to your wound."

"'Tis naught but a scratch" muttered Gimli sullenly; he had no wish to hold up the search one moment longer than necessary.

"Aye, if you say. Yet even the smallest scratch can become a festering wound if left untended. You do not want to become a burden to us do you? Especially since we have some evil orcs to chase."

"Nay, but…"

Aragorn raised his hand. "Then be still my friend, and let me tend you." He worked away, and then glanced at the Elf, who had returned from retrieving lost arrows. "Legolas, how fair you?"

"Well. I took no major hurt."

Gimli snorted. "Then how is it that you are stained in blood if you took no hurt, Master Elf?"

Legolas laughed. "I had thought your wit improved, Master Dwarf," at Gimli's scowl he smiled. "Fear not, my friend. The blood is not mine, but that of my enemies."

"Nevertheless." Said Aragorn, rising, and brushing his hands off. "I shall check you anyway."

"If you think it necessary, Aragorn," Legolas sighed. "But I am quite well."

"That mayhap be, but even if it weren't, you would be too proud to say otherwise…" it was Legolas' turn to scowl now, and Gimli's to chuckle. "Immortal you may be, but even you are not above injury."

"I am not that stiff necked," said Legolas holding his arm out obediently. Aragorn just smiled. "I would not endanger the mission by holding back an injury!"

"As you say, Legolas." The Man said smoothly.

"You do not believe me!" Legolas protested. He shook his head in the manner of one greatly put upon. "Fine. Do as you will Aragorn, but do it with haste… we must be on the trail of those orcs before the sundown!"

As swiftly as we move still they manage to evade us! Legolas thought as he trotted slowly on. Tis most vexing, with the little ones in so much peril!

Aragorn strode ahead, his desperation becoming increasingly obvious with each passing hour. Legolas did not think Gimli noticed—the Elf had a more acute perception—but who could tell with the dwarf… he was… intriguing.

A glance behind showed him Gimli, trudging on with a determination that belied his fatigue: dwarves were not made for such quick cross-country travel…

I have been finding myself wishing for Gimli to move further and faster. With every second that passes we are losing ground upon our quarry, and I cannot help but thinking that we could move quicker wit out having to compensate for his weariness.

Legolas stopped and quickly chastised himself Oh, what ill thoughts to have of one's friends! He is my comrade and loyal companion, I will not think badly of him! Dropping back to join the dwarf, Legolas asked. "How fare you, Gimli?"

Gimli kept his head down, concentrating on moving. "Better then those little hobbits, I fear. I cannot help feeling, Legolas, that I am letting Aragorn and you down by my sluggish travel. For ought we know Aragorn and yourself could have caught those orcs if it was not for me slowing the pace." He sounded despondent.

"Think not such black thoughts, friend!" answered Legolas, feeling guilty at the echo of his own thoughts. "You are far more aid to us than hindrance!"

Aragorn had stopped at the top of a hill and gazed out at the Mark spread before him. He grimaced as Legolas joined him. "For miles I can see and yet I can spy neither hide nor hair of our quarry. How can they have disappeared so fast?"

"Fear not Aragorn, for they are not so far beyond our reach yet." Legolas smiled and touched the Man's shoulder lightly. "I can pick up their trail, we will catch them yet."

The night grew dark, and even Legolas' elven senses could not track the trail of orcs in the dark, he counselled rest to Aragorn, but the man was frustrated. "We cannot stop! Every moment they are gaining ground on us… we must continue."

"We may lose their trail in the dark, and then all hope will be lost," said Legolas gently. "You need rest Aragorn, as do I…" he lowered his voice. " and I do not think Gimli will last much longer if we do not stop. He is my good friend, and an exceptional character but we all have limits."

Aragorn gave a wry smile. "Your good friend, Legolas? I remember not so long ago when you grimaced at his every action and exchanged sniping comments at every opportunity!"

"Things have changed," replied Legolas simply.

"Good, for in these unhappy times we need our bonds of friendships to stay firm and true. I am glad you reconciled with Gimli. He is a fine dwarf."

"Yes. And you, Aragorn, are a fine man. Come now… we must rest, let us set up camp."

The three companions continued on their way, running with the energy and powers of ones bent upon implacable revenge. Although they wearied they never slowed, for the fate of their two little hobbit friends was in their hands.

Eventually, after many miles of fruitless pursuit across the plains of the Riddermark, Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas met up with the Rohirrim, the horse warriors of Rohan, and learned from them the fate of the Orcs they pursued.

"All dead?" Aragorn whispered, as he dismounted from his horse, a gift from the Rohirrim, and gazed upon the pyre, which still burnt fiercely. Horror clutched its icy fingers at his heart... the little hobbits, whom he had sworn to protect… he hadn't been there for them.

He had… failed.

The bitter taste of failure whelmed up inside of Aragorn and he collapsed to his knees, unable to stand with this weight so heavy on his shoulders. Choking on his heartache, he dropped his head in his hands, covering his face with his fingers. "No… no.."

His sense of guilt compounded his grief, like it never had before. He could not move, except to shake his head and sway with his anguish…there were no words, no actions… there was nothing he could do to make this right.

There were no excuses.

The cloud of despair, always hovering, always threatening, engulfed him as he knelt there and shook, upon that hard, unforgiving ground with the smell of death all around.

Merry and Pippin… their innocent faces danced before his eyes although he squeezed them shut. He could not block out the images, although he tried, and he was deaf to all save the piping, frightened scream of his little friends as they were carted off by the loathsome Uruk-hai.

Failure.

First dear Gandalf, then Boromir, now Merry and Pippin… Aragorn felt he was killing of his companions one by one.

"Aragorn?" Legolas' soft concerned voice penetrated his despair, and he looked up, through eyes clouded with tears that had not been shed in many years.

"What have I done, Legolas?" he croaked. "How did it come to this?"

The Elf knelt down beside him, and surveyed his old friend with worried eyes. "This is not your fault, Aragorn. You cannot blame yourself." Legolas tried to comfort Aragorn but he knew his words sounded empty and worthless. The man looked back at him with hollow empty eyes.

"No, Legolas," he said softly, in a voice loaded with heart rending sadness. "You're wrong… it is my fault. Everything that has gone wrong… everyone who has suffered and died… I am the only one to blame."

"Do not say these things, do not torture yourself!" Legolas implored, reaching out to touch the Man, who jerked away from his hand. Aragorn stumbled to his feet and gazed around madly. He saw the pyre and half stepped towards its burning face before flinching away.

"My decisions… my fault" he muttered wildly. Jerking towards Legolas, he grabbed him by the shoulder. "Don't you understand?!" he hissed, angry now. "Every decision I have made has been a bad one… I did not save Gandalf, I lead Boromir to his doom, I let Pippin and Merry be… be.. slaughtered like animals in the night whilst I SLEPT!" he broke off… choked with emotion and then continued more softly. "And Frodo… dear Frodo…. What folly of mine to let him face the peril of Mordor alone!"

"You did what had to be done"

"NO! I took the easy way out. I backed away from the danger because I. Was. Afraid. Frightened of that black land, and I would do anything to never have to venture there… even if it meant letting two defenceless hobbits… who were under my protection…go alone." Aragorn stared at hid Elf friend, striken by the emotion behind his confession,

"Oh Legolas, I am a coward! I am a coward… a pathetic worm of a man who does not deserve to be alive when my friends are lying dead! Weakness flows through my blood and I cannot escape it!" suddenly exhausted with all the rampaging emotions flowing through him, Aragorn flopped down on the ground and closed his weary eyes. He could feel the tears pricking but all he thought was let them come…it does not matter anymore. I am weak. Let the world see my weakness…

Aragorn did not know how long he lay there consumed by his own grief and madness… but eventually he became aware of voices. Indistinct at first, slowly they came into focus although at first Aragorn did not believe what he was hearing and thought he had sunk into a delirium.

"…alive, and their bonds were cut." He recognised Legolas' melodious tones.

"Aye" it was Gimli this time. "And headed into Fanghorn forest! Well glad am I that the little ones are alive, but… what madness drove them in there?"

"Possibly the madness of the battle?" this third dry voice wrenched Aragorn completely out of his reverie. He jerked to his knees and turned disbelievingly towards the figure clothed in incandescent white.

"Gandalf?!" he gasped incredulously, and the benevolent figure smiled warmly down at him.

"It is me, my dear boy, and I am glad to see you awake again, I had begun to think that cloud of despair had completely taken you."

"I am sorry I have failed you, my old friend" Aragorn whispered, and the wizard shook his head, still smiling.

"Nonsense, dear boy, nonsense. You have failed no one. Get up now, Merry and Pippin may be safe, but not us… we still have a war to win, and we shall be needing your services."

Aragon stood, a sense of purpose filling his being once again. He grasped his sword hilt in readiness and, smiling grimly, looked into Gandalf's wise blue eyes and said "You have my sword"

Hope you liked. A little bit of angst! Don't know if I'm actually good at angst, so r&r and tell me hehe :p

Thanks for reading!