Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.
Thanks again to my wonderful beta Sarah (you are the greatest!) and to you for your kind reviews - I respond to them using the automated thingy but please, please let me know if you aren't hearing my thanks. I think I'd be doing this if I didn't hear from anyone because it is just so much fun but it really, really means a lot to know someone is reading (and liking even!) and I wouldn't want to miss telling you how much I appreciate it!
Chapter 4
What Would it Really Matter?
The sound of Gimli's teeth scraping across his fork sent a shiver through Legolas' spine that made his own teeth ache. The dwarf was positively without table manners, but then, eating was a function, not some art form to be perfected, as Gimli had taken pleasure in informing Legolas when he had brought up the subject. That was, when Gimli had actually offered up an excuse at all, other than a grunt, which was the most effort he usually afforded the complaint. Legolas sighed and pushed his own plate aside; it was amazing the effect that the sight of the dwarf eating could have on one's appetite.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aragorn's wide smile; the man was no doubt fully aware of exactly what was going through his mind. He gave a resigned shrug and slumped in his chair. He marveled, not for the first time, how he and Gimli had ever managed to survive together as friends, as different as they both were. But amidst all of their moaning and complaining about each other there was an absolute caring and respect between them that never allowed them to take their complaints to a level that they could not return from.
He winced as Gimli began to slurp his coffee with complete abandonment. As much of the dark liquid flowed down the dwarf's beard as into his mouth, mingling there with whatever food had earlier befallen the same fate. "How does your work go, Legolas?" Aragorn asked, probably as a diversionary tactic - Legolas had no doubt that his face showed clearly his desire to reach across the table and throttle the dwarf. He forced his gaze from the revolting sight and faced Aragorn, who was at that moment sipping his coffee with exaggerated care, his little finger curled like the court ladies at teatime. The king winked and Legolas was obliged to laugh. But the laughter died on his lips as he considered Aragorn's question - it was a better diversion than his friend could have hoped for. Gimli's antics were completely forgotten as he sorted through what answer he might give, knowing that things were not going well at all. The memory of what had happened just the day before followed by the events of this morning sent a stab of misery through him as he instinctively flexed the bandaged fingers of his right hand.
He and the men helping him were building a low rock wall intended to ring a streambed running through the centre of the gardens that was to provide a ready source of water for the garden. Helping. That was a stretch of meaning if ever there had been one. Most sat on the ground flipping stones back and forth. Others took naps beneath the trees. A few truly did help or attempted to do so; most had physical ailments or disfigurements that hindered their movement and made their progress painfully slow. He was grateful, though, for the attempt, it at least made him feel that he was not a complete failure in his promise to Aragorn to do something for these men.
His plan had been naïve at best. Although he offered the men a chance to earn a decent living without accepting charity, the depth of hatred most of them so obviously held for him overrode any possibility that they might take advantage of the opportunities presented. He could see it in their eyes, their sullen faces. He heard it in the words whispered about him when they thought he could not hear. Even the ones that did help spat on the ground after he passed or wiped their hands hard against their shirts after he had inadvertently touched them. He had never in his life been exposed to this kind of hatred and it disturbed him more than any orc, warg or spider had ever managed to do.
He had smeared mortar on a row of stones, shunning for the hundredth time the desire to slink back to the King's House and admit to Aragorn that he had failed, realizing at last that he would never be able to reach these men, to change how they felt. As he reached for another rock from a pile at his side, a sudden sharp pain caused him to drop it at once. Blood flowed freely from a deep cut that ran across the pads of all four fingers. He gingerly shifted aside the stone he had been trying to pick up, revealing a row of glass shards jammed between the rocks beneath, their jagged edges now tinged red with his blood. Each piece had been carefully sanded to the same sharpness as cold steel and placed in such a way that anyone reaching for a rock would be most certainly cut, or possibly maimed. He had felt a stab of misery then too, as the folly of his plan had at last become brutally evident. How could he have been so blind, so stupid? He would fail in this and Aragorn would be the one to suffer. In the end his efforts might even be making things worse, not better as Aragorn had to continue to defend the construction of the gardens before the council and Petras and his cronies.
The silence behind him had become noticeable. Where the men had been murmuring amongst themselves moments before, they now sat without a breath to be heard between them. Legolas had turned, noting the open malice in so many of their faces. A sudden movement to his right startled him; so deep in his thoughts had he been that he had not realized that someone had moved to stand beside him. A shadow blocked out the sun as a man, a huge man, leaned over him, causing his heart to pound as a rush of adrenalin pumped through his veins, readying him for a defence. But the face leaning over him was full of concern, not hatred. He had searched his memory for a name, Sael. He had been one of the silent ones, one who listened to the others but rarely, if ever, commented. He was also one of the few who actually attempted to do any work, even though he had physical ailments that challenged his ability to do so. Legolas felt his body relax and he refocused his attention on his cut fingers.
The man had leaned closer and without a word grasped Legolas' injured hand gently in his own, examining it closely before tying a clean cloth he pulled from his sleeve firmly around the injured fingers. "You should let a Healer look at that milord. You would not want to let that get infected." The man spoke softly, as if he didn't want the others to hear him and Legolas had a flash of concern that repercussions for even this simple act might be a real possibility. He immediately withdrew his hand but smiled his thanks. The man nodded his head slightly, in return. "We will continue to work in your absence, milord. I know you are anxious to get this finished."
Legolas had thanked him with words this time and asked him, "Will you be alright?" The man had laughed then, a deep, pleasant rumbling sound that reminded him of Gimli.
"Look at me milord. I will be fine. I can do the work of ten men." He dropped his voice then to a whisper, showing that he understood what Legolas had really meant by the question. "And I can fight like ten men if I have to."
"You let me know at once if you have any…difficulties," Legolas had answered back. The man had nodded again and Legolas had pulled himself to his feet, walking past the rest of the men casting a threatening look at each as he went. Not one had had the courage to look him in the eye.
He had been optimistic yesterday. He had managed to reach one man, although it very likely had nothing to do with this grand scheme of his and everything to do with the spirit of the man himself. But Legolas had savoured that brief moment of success, earned or not. And brief it had been indeed. This morning when he had arrived for work at the small grouping of sheds at the rear of the palace grounds that he used for greenhouses and his office, he had found words scrawled on the door of the latter, "GO HOME OR DIE", written in what was unmistakably blood. So much for success.
He realized that he had been quiet for much too long; Aragorn had developed a worried crease in his forehead as he waited for Legolas' answer to his question. He stifled a sigh and lied, "Fine, things are going quite well." He should tell Aragorn the truth, he knew. He should own up to his failure. But in his weakness, he kept his mouth shut, wondering what price they would all pay for his cowardice. Aragorn needed him, he convinced himself. The man had enough worries of his own and he, Legolas would not add to them. A loud burp interrupted whatever anxious questions Aragorn might have thrown at him and Legolas literally bit his lip to keep from voicing the words that piled onto his tongue. The king on the other hand, chuckled. The worried crease vanished from his face, replaced by mirthful crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
"If you could see your face, my friend," he said, laughing harder. "Such offence you have taken. I have never seen you look so affronted, not even when your own kindred, your home or your very honour have been disparaged have I seen such a look!" Legolas had no answer; he could only shake his head in disgust as Gimli wiped the back of his shirtsleeve across his face.
"I suffer, Aragorn," he said, motioning toward the dwarf, "You can see how I must suffer…"
"What do you go on about now, Elf? Suffer? I must suffer everyday that I look across this table at that disapproving face of yours. It is like seeing my own mother there."
"At least this mother would attempt to teach you some manners, Dwarf." Aragorn's eyes flew open wide. He knew that when discussions between the two friends strayed upon a topic as personal as this, fireworks that would put Gandalf's to shame were close behind. Legolas knew this too, but it was Gimli who was at fault…
"Legolas," Aragorn broke in, "Gimli has told me of an idea he had, tell us what you think." Legolas turned to face Aragorn once again, but he could still feel Gimli's eyes boring into the side of his head even as he did.
"You have my undivided attention," he said, relieved to hear Gimli's answering snort.
"Gimli? Would you care to explain?" Gimli settled back in his chair as attention swivelled once more in his direction. He began to fish around in his pockets and Legolas felt a sudden lurch in his stomach as he realized what the dwarf intended to do.
"No, please Gimli, I beg of you," he pleaded. "Can you not at least wait until we leave the table?" Gimli glared at him again. He humphed, quite audibly, before withdrawing his empty hand from his pocket.
"Why I put up with you and all of your fussy Elven sensitivities, I do not know."
"Because you would miss me if I were gone?" Gimli humphed again, this time folding his arms across his chest as if to ward off even the idea of such a notion. But the pipe remained in his pocket and a momentary peace reigned at the table.
"Since you are providing something of your woodland realm for Aragorn's fair city," he said, "I thought I might provide something that embodies the skills and artistry of the Dwarves. We cannot have these people thinking that only Elves create beauty, can we?" Gimli's eyes gleamed a threat and Legolas was briefly tempted to meet the dwarf's challenge, but he could not - Aragorn had been treated to enough of their baiting and biting each other for one meal he decided.
"No indeed, we cannot," Legolas replied instead and on hearing Aragorn release the breath that he had been holding, the Elf was pleased with his decision. Gimli became suddenly animated as he leaned across the table as much as his small stature would allow and began to describe what he intended to do. Legolas was captured as much by Gimli's excitement as he was by his plan; it gave him great pleasure to see his friend so caught up in something - it seemed that for a long time the dwarf had been without any such focus. Then, with a sharp pang of guilt Legolas realised that this was because he himself had been the focus of the dwarf's concerns.
These last months, Legolas' life had begun to spiral out of control. Since he had heard the call of the sea, there was forever now an ache that pulsed through his veins with each beat of his heart and that even between beats settled in the pit of his stomach, throbbing incessantly like an unsatisfied and overwhelming desire. An ache that wished for something different, something more and that called to him constantly, threatening to eat him alive like some monster from the pits of Mordor. Without warning, he would suddenly find himself at the mercy of that force, captured by that call, as if wrapped in a spider's cocoon, sheltered from all other sound save that of water crashing against some unknown shore. Each passing day the sound became harder to push back, the ache seemed to grow more powerful and lately; the closer they had come to Gondor, a place where memories and emotion stirred, weakening him further, the stronger the call became. Eventually it would eat him alive, he knew. Eventually he would no longer be able to ignore it and those times when he had to struggle to focus, to survive, were becoming more and more frequent. Eventually, he would have to leave. Or he would die. He could not keep this up forever.
But if he left? What sort of pain would he feel then? When he was in his hypnotized state, captured by the call, he had no conscious thought other than the hypnotic sounds of a crashing sea and a niggling memory, just out of reach, of something that he had forgotten but was of utmost importance to him. Was this what it would be like if he left Middle Earth? Only the ghost of a feeling remaining, a feeling that he might have forgotten something dear to him, but Gimli, Aragorn, the Hobbits, everyone most important to him in this world, forever lost to him, relegated to nothing more than a wisp of memory caught on a breeze from time to time but carried away before he could pinpoint why he cared? That possibility pained him even more than this constant ache. That he might forget his dearest friends caused an overwhelming, crushing anguish that made his head feel as if it could explode, as if his heart had been cleaved in half and every nerve, every muscle, every part of his being laid open and raw. He would fight that possibility until he had no breath left to fight with. He would not forget his home, his friends, not even for the relief that he knew he would find if he gave in to that incessant thrum in his veins.
This enemy he fought was cunning and cruel beyond measure though and the only weapon at his disposal to fight it sat across from him at this table. It pained him that Gimli worried for him, a constant anxiety that robbed the dwarf of the chance to turn his attention to other matters. But without his friend's care and concern, Legolas was not certain that he would even be at this table. He owed his friend his life: of that much he was certain.
"Well, what do you think?" Legolas was suddenly aware that all eyes were upon him. As his thoughts had wandered, Gimli had been describing his project. He would be in deep trouble if the dwarf realised that he had heard next to nothing of his plan. He feigned a look of great concentration on his face, desperate for some way out of this difficulty. He could pass out, which would be far too worrisome to his friends, or perhaps he might lose his stomach as the result of some sort of delayed reaction to the spectacle of Gimli's eating. The latter he could easily accomplish by merely recalling said vision for the briefest instant…
There was a hard knock at the door. Saved, although Gimli's eyes still gazed expectantly at him. Ingold, commander of Aragorn's guard entered the room and went at once to his king's side. "This letter just arrived from Ithilien, my lord," he said as he handed Aragon a sealed envelope, which the king opened at once.
Aragorn read through carefully, a smile growing on his lips as he did so. He folded the letter and smacked it squarely against his open palm. "Faramir is coming; in fact he should be here in a few days. I cannot believe my good fortune. I longed for companionship and camaraderie and now I shall have it in abundance!"
Legolas felt his stomach churn again, worse than anything Gimli's eating habits had managed to produce. "Faramir is coming here?"
"Indeed. I haven't seen him for several months now - he attends court whenever he can, but lately he's been busy with the demands of his own land." He turned to Ingold who was smiling as brightly as Aragorn. It was obvious that Faramir was much respected, if not the recipient of even deeper emotion.
"I will make preparations for his arrival, my lord. This is good news indeed."
"This time he is bringing Éowyn and Linea. Ingold, please see that their rooms are made ready and that the Queen is informed."
"Yes, sire, at once. And I will put some spit and polish on the guard now that their former captain will be returning. I hope he will find that I have kept them up to his high standards!" Aragorn fairly beamed at the man.
"I have no doubt at all Ingold, that that will be the case." The man glowed in return, bowing low at the waist. After a brief pause, he snapped back to attention and pivoting on his heel turned and strode purposefully from the room. Aragorn was still smiling when he turned back to face them. "How wonderful it will be to have Faramir and Éowyn back. Arwen will be thrilled to see her and the baby again and I shall have my best advisor once more, if only for a short time. I will be able to leave you to your work, Legolas, and can stop hounding you about business. I'm sure you will appreciate the respite."
Legolas didn't answer. In fact he couldn't have answered; his mouth had gone dry and his throat had tightened; he felt as if he had swallowed a handful of sand. Faramir was coming. He tried to ignore the fact that his heart was beating so hard in his chest he could hear it in his ears. What difference did it make to him? None. His services as advisor would no longer be needed now, of course. It was a familiar situation, certainly not the first time he was only a stand-in, waiting for the real thing to arrive, or that he found himself relegated to the background, not part of what truly mattered. He chastised himself for reacting so childishly while forcing a smile to his lips in answer to Aragorn's own. He should be happy and relieved that Aragorn would have the one he most trusted with affairs of state to once again confide in.
But he could not push away the feelings and a thought that came unbidden but clear, as if it had always been there, hidden, waiting for some wicked opportunity to flash into consciousness - it was amazing how easily one could be replaced in the hearts and minds of these mortals. Everyone was replaceable, father, mother, sister, brother, friend…lose one, find another, carry on with one's life as if nothing had happened. It was ridiculous, this thought that swept through him; ridiculous and childish indeed. Yet it swirled in his mind until it had taken hold enough to find its way to his weakened heart where it gnawed and tore like some vicious beast. He might choose to fight with everything he had to protect himself against the thought that he might lose them all forever, but would they fight to keep from forgetting him? Or was loss and death such a common mortal experience that they could easily carry on without a care? If he were gone tomorrow, what would it really matter?
