Storms in Middle Earth
Chapter One
Word Count: 2,819
Rating: T/PG-13, with discussions of/implied torture and some... death
Disclaimer: Normally I'm wittier, but... I got nothing. I would say I own nothing, but that's not true. I created the original characters that are driving the plot, so... I guess I own something.
Summary: Pre-fellowship/AU. Following an unsettling dream, Aragorn joins Legolas in Mirkwood, but he is not the only old friend to cross its borders. Legolas is determined to help his friend rescue his family, but Aragorn distrusts this strange elf and his companions. He refuses to let Legolas go off alone chasing an Avari into the shadows, but a storm is coming whether he likes it or not.
Author's Note: I logged in today to delete the two stories I had posted, Storms in Middle Earth and Dreams and Coming Storms, intending to start over with both of them, but then a new review made me pause and start rethinking that decision again. In the end, I decided that I had made so many changes to Storms' chapters already and rambled too much in author's notes for my liking and concluded that it was better to start fresh. This way I can test the way the story flows now with the changes I made, and I hope it will be more cohesive this time.
So I apologize. A part of this will be familiar, as it is exactly as it was in Dreams and Coming Storms. The beginning, however, is new.
The elvish here and the names I used for the original characters come from the arwen-undomiel site. The words of the lament are from their transcription/translation of the lament for Gandalf, and according to them, it means: No more you will wander the world green. Your journey in darkness stopped. The bonds cut, the spirit broken.
One more thing: while there are original characters in this story, there is not and will not be any attempt at pairing anyone with Legolas or Aragorn. This is more a story about friendship and family... with all the angst and drama and trouble that come with those things.
Dreams and Coming Storms
His mother's last scream cut through the air, a wail matched by the trees around them, and he knew at least one other now howled in anguish, but he could not speak. He could not move because of the foul creatures holding him, could not free himself from their hold, weakened as he was. He was supposed to have hidden, and he'd tried, but when hiding failed, he'd had tried to fight, but his fight was for nothing.
He should not have called for her. She would not have come, and she would not now be dead. This was his fault. His doing. She had tried to fight through the orcs to get to him, but they had only laughed as they outnumbered her, and though she fought with the determination of a mother that would save her child, the orcs were too many. She could not win against them all. No one could have.
"Nana," he whispered, trying to get to her. He wanted to believe that he was wrong, that she had not died, that he had not killed her by leading her into this, but he had.
"Pathetic little worm," the orc said, spitting on his face. "We will enjoy your screams now."
Legolas studied the picture with a frown. He did not know what had drawn him to it, but he had been unable to prevent those same images, the same feelings from being drawn back to his mind, as though with one brushstroke the painter had managed to send the painful memories to him, even if the portrait had been finished long before the events occurred.
He touched his fingers to the fair face, wishing that he could remember her this way, with this serene and slightly amused smile, not the contorted look of pain that had marred her face in death.
Nana.
He should not be here. He should not have come, since all this brought him was bad memories. He did not want to remember his mother with pain. He had tried to gather to him all the good times, to replay the sound of her laughter and to imagine the warmth of her arms. Those were the things that he wanted to keep, to hold tight to, not the terrible image of her lifeless body.
"Why is it I can't remember her the way she was?" Legolas asked, shaking his head at his mother's portrait. He didn't mean to come down here, where the painting hung, but he'd taken a turn while playing with his friends. He'd stopped, and he didn't know how long he'd stared at her face before he heard someone behind him. "She was alive for centuries even before I was born, and she was full of life and laughter. Ada doesn't speak of her often, but when he does, it is always of how she loved something—me, mostly, since I think he likes to embarrass me with those stories. I want to remember her that way, but I can't. All I hear are her screams."
"That is your guilt. It will not let you remember her without pain until you are ready to stop punishing yourself," the other elfling answered, sounding older than he was again. Legolas looked at him, wondering what he saw when he looked at the painting—his own mother, perhaps? What had she been like? Was she anything like the queen had been?
"Do you remember what your mother's laughter was like?" Legolas should not ask. They did not speak of these things often—Varyar spoke so seldom sometimes that he would have seemed mute if not for the things that came out of his mouth when his siblings provoked him.
"Yes, but that is easier for me. I have a sister who sounds like her," his friend answered. He smiled, one both rueful and pleased, betraying his affection for his sister as well as his pain of that similarity.
Legolas shook his head. "I do not think it is easier—how can it be when you are always reminded of what you have lost and your own part in what happened?"
"Is that how you see your father, Legolas? You consider him just a reminder of what you have lost?" Varyar stepped forward, his hand reaching forward to touch the painting, tracing along the line of the queen's fine hair. "That punishes both of you, and I do not think you want that."
"I do not want to cause my father any pain," Legolas said, tempted to close his eyes for a moment, not wishing to see the painting any longer. "That is why I do not discuss her with him. You are the only one I feel I can speak of her with—the only one who understands these things that are within me even without me saying them, gwador."
"Brother? I do not see the resemblance," Varyar said, lifting up the dark strands of his hair and comparing it first to the portrait and then to Legolas. "Not unless someone in the royal family was unfaithful to their bond..."
"Now you speak treason," Legolas said, lunging for his friend, and Varyar laughed as he dodged him, running down the hall. Legolas ran after him, willing to let himself enjoy their game and forget his troubles again for a time.
Legolas reached his hand out to the painting, tracing along the same line that his friend had done so many years ago. He would like to hear that laughter again, to know the comfort that came from the understanding they'd shared, but with centuries of nothing but silence, that comfort was gone.
He turned from the painting, walking back toward his room.
Other friends he could have sought out, other friends would have done their best to cheer him, and he would have welcomed their efforts, even if a part of him felt they could not reach the part of him that ailed. So few knew that kind of loss, and if they did, they knew it in what seemed like such a different way—many there were that had family who had sailed, others who had seen their loved ones fall in death, but Legolas knew of only one other that had watched his mother tortured to death before his eyes and believed it his fault. In that, he and Varyar had been so alike, alike enough for Legolas to call him gwador.
He thought of others he would give that name to, those here and those off in other realms, elves he had come to know well—and of one man, one ranger, who had managed somehow to become a part of that number—and he hoped that their night was more restful than his.
Sleep well, brothers. Losto vae.
"Ú-reniathach i amar galen. I reniad lín ne môr, nuithannen. In gwidh ristennin, i fae narchannen..."
The lament ended, the voice faltering with the words. No gift of song had this particular elf, or if he did, he did not use it well. Perhaps that was grief interfering with skill, or perhaps it was that the singer did not want the song to be true.
The trees stirred as if in warning, but the elf was too preoccupied to listen to them. The skies darkened, wind picking up around the lone figure on the cliff edge, whipping back long hair and tunic all at once, threatening to knock him off onto the ground or down onto the rocks under his feet. He spared a glance toward the stormy skies before a sound drew his attention back behind him.
Another gust rushed him, and he knelt down, hands on the boulder underneath him. The winds carried a scent that was familiar, both welcome and unwelcome at the same time. He was where he needed to be.
He set his weapons down on the ground before easing himself down next to them. If he continued to stand, he would be seen in an instant, but he was at least clever enough to know that and to hide himself as best he could.
His eyes returned to the path below him, and he kept himself pressed against the rocks as he overlooked it, trying to gauge the distance and the time it would take to cover that distance. Moments, he thought, only moments, and he lowered his cheek to the stone. He felt that he was dwarfed by the cliff surrounding him, knowing that he was smaller than most. His clothes were dusty, all but the one sleeve, torn and stained with more than dirt. He grimaced as he moved toward the side of the rock, glancing down.
The fall could be fatal to a mortal. To an elf, a great inconvenience, at least. He did not want to fall, but it might be necessary to make the jump. Landing on the approaching patrol would cushion that tumble, would take some of them down, and that would help with the odds. That was the sort of story that others would tell, the great warriors, but he knew he was not one of them.
He reached for the bow beside him, a slight cry escaping his lips as he did. He lowered himself down again, trying to blend with the rocks once more. He could not let himself be seen by the ones that were coming.
No alarm came from the orcs below. He had not alerted them to his presence, but how much longer would that last? The time had come; it could wait no longer. He would have perhaps one shot with the bow, maybe two, and if the orcs were not already dead, then someone else would be.
He did not know that he trusted his skill with the bow, not even when he was not injured. He was worse with a sword, and the one he had been given was too heavy for his hand to grip with the pain in his arm. He looked again at the approaching orcs, counting their number and determining his fate. He was resigned to it, it was accepted, it might even be a relief, but it could not be without purpose, this death.
Honor must be avenged, the mistakes atoned for, and when that was done, then perhaps rest. He drew the bow close. At least one orc dead was better than none. The shot was fired, the orc fell, the jump was made, and the cry given.
"Legolas!"
Aragorn jerked awake, the peace of Imladris disturbed by his restless slumber. He was not used to dreams of that sort—he had memories that he wished forgotten that would revisit him in his sleep, he had fears that would grip him only in the darkness of night, but those dreams were his. This one was unlike most he'd known—sometimes he thought he knew what his father's last moments were like, but he did not usually dream of strange elves.
Except—for all that he had not recognized any part of that dream—the location, the incident, even the elf. Though the name Legolas had been spoken, he had not thought it was Legolas who acted—the voice had not seemed to be his, not in that lament, and yet if he was somehow Legolas...
Perplexed, the man rose from his bed, walking across his room, wishing to find the source of his disquiet. He did not understand this dream, nor did he know why he would have it. Others might have been given them as warnings, visions to help prevent danger or injury or even death, but he had not known himself to have that gift, never before, and why should he start now?
He left his room, his feet carrying him down to the courtyard, needing to dispel some of this agitation. He wanted to be free of its troubled energy. Another time he would have ridden or he would have hunted, but not now, not tonight.
"What is it that disturbs you, Estel?"
Ruefully, Aragorn turned to see his foster father standing there. He had not heard the elf-lord approach, but he did not know that Elrond had not been there before he entered the courtyard. "I had a strange dream."
"Oh?"
Aragorn thought that he might have amused the elf with his words. "I cannot say why it managed to be so disconcerting. It was not as terrible as other nightmares, nor as full of guilt as some of my past actions, nor was it full of fear of what the future would hold—unless, of course, it was intended as a warning, but I have never had that kind of foresight."
"Do you wish for an interpretation?"
"I do not know. Perhaps talking of it will lessen its hold—though with all dreams, it is likely to fade quickly."
"Not all dreams do that," Elrond said, folding his hands together. "What was it you saw?"
"An elf, alone, preparing to ambush a group of orcs. I did not know him, but near the end of the dream, someone spoke the name Legolas. I did not think he was the one in the dream—he was not like the Legolas I know—but perhaps I was somehow mistaken..." Aragorn rubbed his head. "At the beginning, there was a lament, but the one singing it was a poor vocalist."
"Not every elf is gifted with song, or have you not heard your brothers argue that often?"
Aragorn smiled. He had, and now he missed the twins and their antics, for he would gladly have them here to make all thought of this dream disappear—it had no right to have such a hold on him. "That is true. Still, I do not understand. What meaning could any of this have?"
"The elf you saw... was he injured?"
"He was—his sleeve had been torn, and he'd bled—and now that I think on it, there was a strange mark upon his arm. It was not one I have seen before. If I attempted to draw it, perhaps someone else would recognize it." Aragorn stopped, watching Elrond's face for a reaction. "Do you already know it? Did you see what it was that I saw?"
"This was no shared vision," Elrond answered, moving to the edge of the courtyard and looking out at the woods around them. "I cannot tell you why you would have had such a dream now, nor am I certain if it is anything like what I can picture for myself. Draw the mark if you can. That might be our answer."
"And if it is not?"
"Whether it is or is not, I think you will get little rest until you have seen for yourself that the prince of Mirkwood is well and unharmed. I believe a journey is in your future."
Aragorn nodded. He knew that his father was wise—and he knew also that the lord of Imladris knew him well. He would not be able to rest until he had seen Legolas for himself, to know that this was not a mere dream, not a fancy of any kind. "If you have no immediate answer to the mark, will you send word to me if you find it?"
"You think I would conceal some truth from you?"
"I did not always know myself to be the heir of Elendil, did I?"
Elrond nodded in deference. "That is true as well. Nevertheless, if your dream is some kind of portent, I will not keep you from the warning that it holds."
Aragorn watched him. "Somehow I think you already know—or at least suspect—what this dream portends."
"I cannot say, not until I have seen the mark."
"Do you think the elf I saw was truly an elf? What if it was not?"
"If this was a message, it is difficult to say what part of it was true and what stands in place of something else. It is possible it is nothing—or it is possible it is a warning. There may yet be a threat to Legolas, and it is not one we understand. Often do orcs cross into what was once Greenwood, and the corruption spreads. At any time, the young prince could fall to such a force, though we would not believe it so simple or easy to cause his end. Still, the orcs may be more than orcs."
"They are the servants of the shadow—do you think that is why I saw them?"
"Perhaps."
"You are being infuriating."
Elrond gave him a slight smile. "I cannot tell you what I do not know, ion-nín. What comes may not be what you expect, nor may it be as dark as this foreboding seems. All I can suggest is that you go to your friend, that you might be with him no matter what may yet come."