Archive? Eternal--Yes. All others--please email.
This missing scene fic is movie-verse, but does draw on some information from the books as well as includes mentions of events from my own Middle-earth universe (which have not been written down yet, btw). Also, this is not the other fic I've mentioned I am working on. That one is still in progress. Soon...maybe.
This scene was one of my favorites in the movie, simply because it
intrigued me as to why they added it. Enjoy, and please review. I'd love
to hear your own thoughts and reasoning as to Lego's hissy fit.
Disclaimer: Characters and events belong to or inspired by Tolkien
or New Line Cinemas. Italicized quotations are taken directly from the
movie, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.
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Pen-estel
"Natha daged aen!"
"Then I shall die as one of them!"
The words echoed unceasingly, as if confined by cold lifeless stone, trapped forever to volley against the reaches of his mind.
Legolas stood upon the outer rampart of Helm's Deep, a solitary figure gazing out over the wall at the gently rolling hills of Rohan. Soon the forces of Saruman would descend upon them, said to be ten thousand strong. The elf stood straight and tall, seeming calm and confident to outside eyes, yet within he faced great turmoil, and struggled to stay afloat in a tumultuous sea of emotions.
He knew not why he had said those words, and not knowing plagued him greatly. Elves were supposed to be in control of their emotions; it was necessary as they felt emotion more deeply than any other beings. His loss of control when he spoke them gnashed at his heart as they continued their unending assailment upon his mind.
"Natha daged aen!"
Even in the normally soothing and beautiful Sindarin tongue, they were harsh and ugly words. The way he had said them had made them even worse.
Frustrated with himself, Legolas placed his hands against the cold stone breastwork of the wall and pushed with a force greater than that of the minions of Saruman currently marching upon them, causing himself to reel backwards. Suddenly he recognized the flood of emotion within himself.
Anger.
Could it be that anger had ignited his words previously? It was certainly anger he felt now-anger directed at himself for having spoken so severely, and anger at Aragorn for being willing to sacrifice everything to stand by a race of men so unprepared to fight. But was it really anger then? Had it been anger that actually fueled those scorching and searing words?
The elf considered this as ocean-blue eyes glimpsed the first sign of the forces of Saruman far off, marching belligerently across the golden plains of Rohan. Even from this distance, he could feel their hate; he could smell it and taste it in the air. One purpose had they in mind, and that was to destroy. Destroy Rohan. Destroy her people. Destroy all life.
Would they succeed? He knew not. He hoped not.
Did he yet have any hope?
Legolas had stood on this precipice before, this loss of hope-once in Moria, when Gandalf fell, and again as recently as when Aragorn also plunged into the depths. He had almost fallen into despair then. Why now had he again plummeted into this dark and cold place?
The ring of metal sliding against metal released the elf from his thoughts. He turned reluctantly to find its source. A short distance away sat a man upon the wall, an empty scabbard in one hand, a sword in his other. He held the crude weapon before him, twisting it and turning it slowly, studying the blade. No light glinted off the lackluster steel, for no sun could pierce through the heavy overcast of the darkening grey sky. Tonight would see a terrible storm.
Legolas looked upon the man-not with the intense gaze of one of the Eldar Race who sought to discover the inner desires of another's heart; not with the sharp glare that the Eldar could possess when they wanted to strike fear or doubt into another's soul. He simply looked upon him-observing and considering.
The features of the man's countenance plucked a sorrowful chord upon the elf's heart. Beneath a yellowing beard of white, the man's face was drawn with the lines of great age, but more than just the passage of time marred his face. The pain and grief of great loss was written there as well. Sweet Elbereth, he was old, much too old for this.
The sword trembled in the man's grasp, and he handled it with great apprehension, as if it were a cobra ready to strike. Legolas could easily tell he was one of the simple folk of Rohan, most likely a farmer. His hands were weathered from toiling in the soil, the muscle in his shoulders still showing the signs of many years of pushing the plow and baling hay. He had at one time possessed great strength, but this man was meant to cultivate life, not take it.
The old man sheathed the sword and lowered the scabbard to rest upon his lap. His eyes glanced briefly towards Legolas, and for a moment elf and man stared at each other.
"Look at them! They are frightened. You can see it in their eyes."
"I am frightened," the old man said, confirming the unvoiced observation. "Frightened to fight, frightened of dying."
To this the elf made no reply, for he was uncertain what to say even if a reply was necessary. Legolas crossed his arms and turned away to watch the dark hoard marching their death march across the plains of Rohan.
"Are you frightened?" the man asked.
Legolas turned his head to find the man looking at him expectantly, aged eyes the color of bone-dry dirt searching his. What did this man want? Did he want comfort? Did he want reassurance? Legolas was certain he could give neither.
No, Legolas was not frightened. Not to fight. Not to die.
But he was afraid.
He was afraid of life.
He was afraid that they would die and he would live.
Thrice already upon the Quest he had experienced the grief and confusion of his comrades' deaths, the pain and the anger of being left behind. Though two of his comrades had since returned alive and well, it did not erase the memory of the emotional barrage he had experienced upon believing them dead. Their deaths-supposed or real, it mattered not-had required that he try to make sense of their passing from this world, that he try to come to terms with their loss.
Mithrandir-he was the first to have been lost, deep in the dark Mines of Moria. He was one of the Istari, a Maia, considered an immortal-losing him had been unexpected, thus deepening the piercing and painful emotions that had assaulted his mind. Shock and disbelief he had felt as he stood outside the Gate of Moria, trying to determine if what he had just witnessed was truly real; and if it was, why it had come to pass. Mithrandir was not supposed to yield to death. He was supposed to be as immortal as elvenkind, even more so, for it was said a Maia could not be killed unless by the hand of another Maia. Yet it was also told in the old tales that the fire-demon of Morgoth was a Maia bred from the greatest evil. Confusion, guilt, grief-all had filled his heart upon the loss of the wizard. All to be replaced with joy and wonder and admiration when the Istar returned, resurrected as Gandalf the White.
Boromir -he would not be coming back. This the elf knew for certain. It was impossible, for he was Adan, and everlasting death was the gift Eru had given to the Secondborn.
Death was not a total stranger to Legolas. Many of his own kin had been lost just after the Battle of Five Armies. It was he who had held the hand of his brother Lalvenor, singing softly to him as his fëa passed from this world into the Hall of Mandos. His death had grieved him deeply, but Legolas had found comfort in knowing that one day, when the Call of the Sea finally stirred within him and he subsequently answered that Call, he would be reunited with Lalvenor as well as all other loved ones who had passed before.
That same day, merely a few autumns ago, Legolas had also first witnessed the death of a mortal. The men of Esgaroth had felt the blow of death more so than his kin. He had tried to offer what aid he could in the hastily constructed huts that had been set up to house the wounded, but he was a warrior, not a healer, and there was little he could do. It was there he had first watched a mortal succumb to the clutches of death, passing into an unknown existence. At that time, Legolas had given little thought as to what it meant for a mortal to die.
But Boromir's death was different. Boromir he knew. Boromir he considered his comrade.
Though the elf had been aware the temptation of the One Ring weighed heavily on the man's heart and spoke loudly in his mind, Legolas still respected Boromir and held him in high esteem. The son of Gondor was a good man, a valiant man. He had fought bravely and died honorably. It was sorrowful mystification that he had felt at the departure of Boromir-sorrow for forever losing one so close to him; mystification at the uncertainty of where the man's soul would now reside, if anywhere it did reside.
Boromir would not return, nor would Legolas ever see him again. Boromir was forever lost to him.
Aragorn-indeed Legolas was beginning to believe the heir of Isildur was more Elf than Man, for his "death" had not been everlasting, thankfully so. Of the three "deaths" he had experienced since embarking upon this perilous Quest, Aragorn's had been most painful to bear. It was him the elf held most dear. They had forged a bond greater even than that shared by Gil-galad and Elendil. Aragorn he considered friend. Nay, more than friend, for did he not feel closer to Aragorn at times than he did his own brothers? Quickly had their friendship formed, and many times already had it been tested by fire. Always their bond emerged strengthened. Upon this Quest, he had followed Aragorn unquestionably, and in him he had placed his trust wholly.
Aragorn's "death" had torn his heart, ripping it to shreds. Only a few days past, he remembered all too clearly standing on the edge of the cliff, grasping the Evenstar pendant of Arwen firmly in his hand. It was as if he was trying to hold on to the man, to save him from the uncertainty of death. As he stood disbelieving and searching with paralyzing madness the rocks below, the pain of grief welled up inside him. Then Theoden King had come to stand at his side and had uttered those words-
"Leave the dead."
Anger seethed within him-it was much more bearable than the grief he felt. He could not move; he could not bring himself to walk away, to abandon his friend. Doing so would set in stone that he had failed him.
Resentment smoldered next. How could they leave him behind? He was to be the future King of Men!
"Leave the dead."
But what about the living?
~~~
"Elves do not feel fear, I guess," said the man when no response to his question came, pulling the elf back into the present.
Legolas turned away. He knew that statement to be a lie. He had certainly felt fear before, and many forms of it too-apprehension moments before his very first kiss; panic the night his mother and younger sister had disappeared; horror that dark day, mercilessly not long enough ago, that they had fled from the Balrog.
Yes, this elf certainly knew fear.
This elf was afraid.
Still Legolas remained silent, making no attempt to answer, wanting not to correct the erred statement.
Rising stiffly onto unsteady feet, the old man walked with careful steps to the stairs that lead back down towards the armory.
Legolas listened as his footsteps slowed, then stopped; then there was a rustle of clothing as the man turned.
"You think we stand no chance, but with the three of you fighting for us, fighting with us...there is hope."
The last word cemented itself in the elf's mind as the man stood by, waiting.
Then, as if muffled by thick layers of solid stone, Legolas heard the voice of Estel again.
"Then I shall die as one of them!"
Is that why Aragorn had bitten back with those words, in that language? Was it to give hope to those who had none?
Legolas withdrew the bow of the Galadhrim from upon his back and traced the elaborate design carved upon the rough wood. He ran the string of elf-hair against two fingers.
What could he give? What did he have to offer? He numbered only one. Even should a hundred of his kin stand beside him in battle this night, they would still have little hope of withstanding Saruman's army. Alas, his kin would not come, for they no longer felt bound to the fate of Men.
What difference would he make?
He let the bow drop to the stone floor with a hollow clatter.
He was but one elf. He could not save them. He had already failed them before on this Quest.
Legolas stood with his eyes fixed on the bow that lay at his feet. A worn and gnarled hand moved to grip the wood. As slow as a leaf turning from summer green to autumn gold, the old man rose from his bent position. Legolas could hear the creaking of his bones.
The old man studied the bow, running a crooked finger upon the delicate markings. "I fight this night for my daughter and her child," he said in a hushed tone. "I'll not let their ruin at the hands of Saruman's wretched creations go without justice, without reprisal." Though his voice wavered with age and grief, it still held a hardened edge.
His eyes moved from bow to elf, and his gaze set upon Legolas. "I am old. I am likely to die this night, but I will accept that death, knowing I fought for my family and for my kingdom. And if I take down but one orc, I will have made a difference. It will have been worth my life."
With both hands, he reverently held out the bow for Legolas to take. Legolas stood, considering.
What difference could he make?
He would fight this battle tonight. He would fight fiercely and dauntlessly until the end, and if he met his death, so be it.
And if he lived, if they lived....
Like a chisel cleaving through stone, Legolas felt it. Though dark clouds still hung heavily overhead, a beam of light seemed to pierce through, like an arrow flying straight and true.
He had been trapped within the cold dark that was despair, but that despair faded as hope ignited finally within him.
There was hope for this night and for Middle-earth.
There was hope as long as the Ring-bearer and his faithful servant continued the Quest. Did not Frodo and Sam face the greatest peril? Yet they had accepted that peril, and had chosen to face it on their own, together.
He was not alone, nor would he fight alone. He would stand beside his friends, and beside the men and boys of Rohan. Together, they would defend Helm's Deep, defend the women and children of Rohan, defend Middle-earth, and aid in the cause of the Ring-bearer.
Aragorn was right-to fight as one of them, to die as one of them, to know that he would make a difference, in that there was hope.
Hope now rekindled, Legolas reached out and took the bow from the old man.
"My thanks, goll a pen-achas min."
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Pen-estel: despair (literally, without or lacking hope)
Natha daged aen: They are all going to die!
goll a pen-achas min: wise and fearless one
Adan: Man