"No man can go through life
and reach the end unharmed.
Aye, trouble is now,
And trouble still to come."
– Aeschylus, The Oresteia
Chapter 8: Smoke and Shadows
Legolas made note of the direction that Aragorn took as he left the gardens, and waited until the King's footsteps had faded completely before taking a different path into the citadel. Their discussion had left him unsettled, and he had no wish to encounter the Man again any time soon.
You love me . . . and that was true, just as everything Aragorn had asked of him was true. But never before had the Man required him to say it aloud; never before had he demanded proof of a friendship that should have been self-evident.
Why do so now? Legolas did not know. And of the myriad possibilities that occurred to him, he could not – he could not – believe Aragorn capable of any of them.
Yet even so, he did not seek to follow the Man. More than the words he had spoken, more even than the touch of his hand that still burned like a brand at Legolas' temple, there had been darkness in Elessar's eyes. In them Legolas had seen a desire alien to everything he had ever known or believed of his friend: a longing to possess, to control, to own.
That Aragorn might be capable of that, or what reaction it might require of Legolas, was not something he could bear to think of now.
So he turned his mind and his steps deliberately away from the King, and focused instead upon the Queen. Arwen needed him. She had asked for his help, and though his initial attempts to reach Aragorn had failed, Legolas would not give in so easily. First he would find Arwen and make certain that she was well. And then perhaps together they might devise a way to bring Aragorn back to himself.
He was halfway to the stairs that led to the Royal Chambers when something else caught his attention. A smoky-sweet scent drifted through the stone passage, detectable even over the acrid smell of the torches. Legolas slowed his steps, frowning.
It had taken him a long time to adjust to what was, for Elven senses, the almost overpowering reek of a city of Men. Even the cold breeze from the sea could not wholly disperse the oily fumes of food cooking in a thousand hearths or the thick smoke of rubbish heaps burning in the lower circles. In the summer the smell of the stables and latrines alone was nearly unbearable. He had, through dint of sheer willpower, learned to ignore the stench during his visits to the city, though how Arwen bore it he did not know.
But this scent was different. Unique, not wholly unpleasant, and familiar . . . Legolas stopped just before the turn into the main corridor. Pipeweed.
He hesitated, considering his options with lightning speed. To his knowledge there were at present two people in Minas Tirith who smoked the foul substance. Elessar had left the garden through the southwest passage into the citadel, heading toward the tower. He could not possibly have returned without Legolas hearing him.
Which left Gimli.
Legolas crept forward silently, pressing close against the cool stone of the wall. Careful to allow no shadow or glint of torchlight to give him away, he leaned out just far enough to see around the passage corner.
Gimli had positioned himself in a comfortable chair in the center of the main corridor, with a commanding view of the branching passages to the gardens, great hall, and guest rooms. There was no possible way that the Elf could get past without him knowing it.
Legolas allowed his head to thud gently back against the wall. Gimli had set an ambush. He had known that Gimli would demand answers for his behavior at the Council meeting, but he had not expected it to be so soon. He had been out-maneuvered, and grudgingly he conceded the first point to the Dwarf.
Well, there was no help for it now. Legolas straightened. He could either meet Gimli now, or slip away back to the gardens. Faced with the prospect of an irate Dwarf on one hand, and ignoble retreat on the other, Legolas briefly considered the feasibility of scaling the wall to Arwen's chambers from the outside.
It was doable, he decided, but perhaps not the wisest course of action at the moment. Aragorn was behaving strangely enough as it was: there was no reason to give him ground for additional suspicion.
Legolas took a deep breath. He had faced Orcs, spiders, wargs, múmakil, Nazgúl, and a Balrog, he reminded himself. He could handle one Dwarf.
*~*~*
Gimli sucked upon the stem of his pipe, eyeing his newest guard thoughtfully. The grizzled Man had replaced his previous guardian after the Council meeting, and had thus far proved to be the most tenacious of the Dwarf's watchers. With unflagging determination he had dogged Gimli's steps, undeterred by the long talk with Faramir, the brief exploration of the city's cisterns, or Gimli's luncheon discourse on the value of a clean water supply in the event of a siege.
Clearly more drastic action was called for. Gimli blew a series of short puffs in the guard's direction, and watched as his nostrils flared. Aha. He had arranged his seat here with the intention of catching Legolas when the Elf finally appeared from wherever it was that he had vanished to after the Council meeting. His pipe had been incidental to the plan, but now it seemed that the past-time was having an added benefit. After half an hour's exposure to the smoke, his guard was finally beginning to crack.
The Man's lips tightened as Gimli drew upon his pipe. They studied each other for a long moment. Silence. Gimli waited, apparently unconcerned. The Man's eyes were watering now. Gimli could see the faintest trembling in his hands. Finally the guard released an explosive breath, panting, just as Gimli blew a long stream of smoke at him. The Man coughed loudly, a hand at his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed and glaring balefully at the Dwarf. Gimli hid a smile. Really this was too easy. At least baiting Legolas gave him a challenge now and then.
As if summoned by the thought, at that moment the Elf rounded a corner and came striding up the hall toward them. Gimli blinked. Well, it's about time, anyway. And – yes, Legolas was coming from the direction of the gardens. I knew it. It was that or the balconies again. Least I don't have to go climbing a ruddy tree after him.
Gimli blew a series of smoke rings, purely to see his guard flinch, and then turned his full attention on the Elf. Legolas glanced briefly at the soldier as he approached, and then seemed to ignore him completely. He stopped a short distance away from Gimli's chair and folded his arms, studying the Dwarf.
Gimli raised his eyebrows expectantly. Legolas spoke first. "I thought that you were meeting with Lord Faramir."
"Did you now," Gimli said.
There was a pause. Legolas' eyes narrowed. The embers of Gimli's pipe glowed red as he drew on it. Somewhere in the distance a servant's voice called a greeting, and a door slammed. Gimli blew a long plume of smoke.
Legolas did not so much as twitch. Gimli sighed. Of course the sodding Elf could hold his breath longer than a mortal, too.
"As a matter of fact," he said, getting to his feet, "I did meet with Faramir before the mid-day meal. Don't suppose you cared for that?"
Legolas shrugged. "Was it mid-day? I did not notice."
Gimli rolled his eyes. "Mahal grant me a friend who measures time in shorter increments than decades. Yes, it was mid-day, and now it is afternoon, and you are not getting off that easily. Come on."
"Come where?" Legolas asked, but he was already walking alongside the Dwarf.
"My room," Gimli said. "We need to talk, and you need to eat, and he –" he jerked his head toward the guard that was following them, "does not need to listen in. Let's go."
They walked in silence toward the guest chambers. Legolas seemed preoccupied, frowning to himself and chewing now and again at his lower lip. A tide of frustration rose within Gimli. There were a thousand questions that he longed to ask, but his lips were dammed to silence by the insufferable guard behind him.
It was with a sense of immense satisfaction that he at last ushered Legolas into his chamber and closed the heavy door behind them. Let the Man wait outside. Gimli didn't need him.
Legolas immediately crossed to the narrow windows at the southern wall. Their long draperies were tied back and pale sunlight was streaming in, making the room almost warm. Gimli snorted as the Elf threw open the sashes one by one.
"I wasn't going to smoke," he commented, knocking his pipe ashes into the hearth. A fire was laid there but not yet lit.
"The word of a Dwarf," Legolas said, swinging himself up to sit in the largest window's sill. "Even without your pipe this room is so close that I can hardly get my breath. Why you are so afraid of a little fresh air…"
"I have no objection at all to fresh air, and you know it," Gimli said. "Just because you like to keep all the windows open in the middle of a raging blizzard . . ."
He was bent over, feeling behind the deep green hangings of his bed. And – yes, the small covered bowl of fruit was still there. Gimli breathed a silent word of thanks to whichever harried chambermaid had been to busy to find and clear it away that morning.
He carried it over and pushed it at the Elf. "Eat that."
Legolas took the bowl purely out of reflex. "What blizzard?"
"Last winter, when I was trapped in Ithilien and all the roads were blocked –"
"That was in November, Gimli. It was just an autumnal squall."
"It snowed three feet! I had frost on my sheets!"
"There's no need to shout. The flets were warm, and the storm passed quickly enough."
"Three weeks is not quick. And I am not sleeping in a bloody tree-house every time I visit you. You built me that cottage on the ground for a reason, and I want shutters over my windows."
Legolas gave a quick, mischievous grin. "You already have them, elvellon. I had glass put in your windows and oak shutters made for your house after you left."
"After I –"
"The oak did not give permission before."
Gimli gave up. There was little point in trying to get the Elf to make sense once he started talking about his trees on an individual basis.
He sat back in a low armchair next to the hearth and watched as Legolas selected a small orange from the bowl. Gimli toyed with his empty pipe, rolling the polished stem between his fingers as he tried to think of a way to broach the real issue. After considering and discarding a few possibilities – So, Legolas, had any staring matches with the King of Gondor recently? – he decided on a direct approach. It generally worked best for him anyway.
"What's wrong with you?"
Legolas looked up, eyebrows raised. "I beg your pardon?"
Gimli rolled his eyes. He'd seen Legolas track an owl by the sound of its wing-beats at a quarter mile distance. Pretending not to hear him now . . . not only was it an obvious play for time, it was undignified. Mentally he marked another point against the Elf. Legolas was behind two to one, if he counted the standoff with the pipe, and the conversation had barely gotten started.
"I said, what's wrong with you? You practically rode Arod into the ground to get here last night, you've been avoiding me all day, and at the Council you were keyed up like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. So what's wrong?"
Legolas sighed. "I am sorry, Gimli. It was not my intention to avoid you. I have merely been . . . preoccupied."
"Uh huh." Gimli folded his arms. He had considerable experience now with the Elven ability to avoid giving a straight answer to even the simplest of questions, and he was not about to be put off so easily. "Is it this business about Aragorn and the palantír?"
A muscle jumped in Legolas' jaw. Ah ha! Gimli thought. But Legolas looked away. "You were at the Council, elvellon," he said finally. "What do you think?"
"About Aragorn?" Gimli stroked his beard for a moment, considering. "He's worried about the Haradrim, of course, and wanting to get everyone organized and marching quickly. Mostly he looked like he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in about a month."
"Is that all?" Legolas turned back to face him, one eyebrow raised. "Did nothing else seem . . . strange . . . to you?"
"Other than the fact that he's got guards following me everywhere I go, that he wants to invade another country without even discussing terms first, and that you and he were staring at each other like you were about to go for one another's throats?" Gimli shrugged. "No, can't say I noticed much."
That surprised a laugh from Legolas, and Gimli smiled. Then, sobering, he looked more closely at his friend. "Do you think it is the palantír?" he asked.
The light seemed to fade from Legolas' face. He looked down, turning the orange over in his hands. "Perhaps," he said quietly. "Faramir at least believes so, and he has had some experience in these matters."
"He has," Gimli acknowledged. He tapped his empty pipe against his knee. "But so have we. And you know Aragorn better than he does. Do you really think that he could be influenced like that?"
Legolas' lips thinned. His long fingers were digging into the orange's surface, leaving small half-moon marks in its skin. "I . . . I do not know. Even a day ago I would have said no, but . . ."
"But what?"
Legolas sighed. "Something has to be making him act this way, elvellon." One pale hand came up to his temple and stroked back a tendril of hair behind his ear. Gimli could not quite recall seeing that mannerism in him before. "Aragorn would not do such things. If it is not the palantír, what else could it be?"
Gimli stood up. "Well then, it's easy enough to find out. We'll just take the palantír away from him, and see if he starts acting normally again."
"What?" Legolas was off the windowsill and across the room before Gimli had taken more than a step toward the door. He caught hold of his arm. "What are you doing?"
Gimli jerked his arm free. "I'm going to help my friend, Master Elf. Something's bothering Aragorn and no one seems to know what it is. So I'm going to find out."
Legolas circled quickly to face him, blocking his path. "And it's that easy, is it? You'll simply walk up to the King of Gondor, and never mind the guards around, just ask him to his face if he's gone mad or what, and while you're at it, might we take away the seeing stone that is his rightful possession as the heir of the high Kings and elf-friends of old?"
Gimli shrugged. "Something like that."
Legolas threw his hands up in the air. "Elbereth save me from thick-headed Dwarves! Has it occurred to you that this might possibly be a situation that requires something with a bit more finesse?"
Gimli was losing patience. "Why? This is Aragorn we're talking about. He's your friend! What are you so afraid of?"
Legolas froze. It was a long moment before he spoke, and then his voice was very soft. "What if he isn't Aragorn, Gimli? What if he is so changed that when you speak to him, when you look at him, you see only a stranger? What if he treats you in a way that Aragorn, your friend, never would? Would you not then approach him with care?"
Gimli stared at him. "What are you saying?" He swallowed. "What has he done to you?"
Legolas shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "He has done nothing to me, and he will not. But I ask you, Gimli, please. Do not approach him until we know more of what has so affected him. Do not give yourself into his power so easily."
Gimli hesitated. Legolas was watching him, his eyes intent, almost pleading. "All right," he said at last, irritably. "I'll not confront him just yet. But what are you going to do?"
Legolas released a small breath, almost a sigh of relief. "I am going to stay with him. Perhaps, in time, I will be able to reach him, and he will be himself again."
Gimli snorted. "Oh yes, and that's a grand plan. You'll just hang about, 'giving yourself into his power' as you put it, and if you can't reach him, what then? You'll march off with him and this army into Harad?"
Legolas straightened. "If necessary."
"Right then." Gimli folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. But I'm coming with you."
"No."
"No?" For a moment Gimli could say nothing more, but stood with his mouth half open in dumb astonishment. Legolas did not answer. He turned away, wandering back toward the open window.
The shock was swiftly giving way to rage, and Gimli got his voice back. "What in Mahal's name do you mean, 'no'?" He followed the Elf, his fists clenched. "Of all the bloody arrogant, inconsiderate, spoiled stubborn block-headed stupid Elvish – since when do you give me orders?"
Legolas was staring out the window, over the city toward the flat plains that stretched away to the southwest. "It is not I who ordered it, Gimli. You gave your word to King Elessar that you would stay and fortify the city."
"Because you told me to!" Gimli roared. "I didn't know you were planning to go with him at the time! Of all the low-down dirty scheming dishonorable – you set me up!"
"I did not." Legolas' voice was quiet, in direct contrast to Gimli's fury. He seemed distracted, not looking at him. "I encouraged you to accept Aragorn's proposal because it seemed to me that you were right. The city cannot be left defenseless."
"You still knew that you were going to go with him," Gimli said bitterly. "And if you think for one moment that I'm going to just sit here and let you –"
Legolas interrupted. "The city is dark, elvellon. There is a cloud over it that hangs grey and close in the streets, and the shadow covers all."
Gimli blinked. He looked past the Elf, out the window. "Legolas, the sky is perfectly clear. The sun is shining."
Legolas did not seem to hear him. He continued in a low voice, his breath coming swift and shallow. "The river runs clear to the south, far away. The desert stars shine, yet the shadow blocks them. There is malice there, but it need not come by the river. It is already here."
"Legolas!" Gimli was starting to get frightened now. He poked the Elf sharply in the ribs. "Stop it!"
Legolas blinked and turned to look at him. The sun glinted gold on his hair, but his eyes were very dark. "Gimli?"
Gimli tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. "What has gotten into you? Since when do you have the Sight?"
Legolas raised an eyebrow questioningly. "I do not."
"Oh, of course!" Gimli snorted. "I should have realized! This is normal behavior for an Elf – try to have a serious conversation and he starts talking about the weather!"
Legolas smiled a little. "I was not discussing the weather outside the window, Gimli."
"No?" Gimli glared at him. "Then what was that about? You went off in some sort of, of trance or something –"
"Don't be absurd." Legolas looked briefly out the window and then back at Gimli. "I remember everything that I said. It was not a trance, or the Sight; it was merely an observation. There is darkness in this city, and malice. Elessar fears invasion from the south. But now I see that there is no need for it to come. It is already here."
*~*~*
Aragorn was tired. So very tired, and if he could only close his eyes for a moment, to rest, to think . . . but every time he did so, leaning his head forward upon his hands, he was jerked back to wakefulness by a sickening wave of vertigo.
It was that bloody palantír.
He glowered at it, as it sat heavy and dark upon the plain wooden boards of the table. There was nothing there, he told himself. Nothing. The palantír responded to his every wish, showed him whatever he desired of Middle-earth, from the quiet hills of the Shire to the emptied wasteland of Mordor. There was no force to resist him, no will set against his, as there had been when he faced Sauron. There was nothing.
And yet . . .
And yet the very process of using it forced him to open his own mind to it, to will it where he desired to go. He was vulnerable then, he knew, and even if there were none left who could master him, he did not like to be vulnerable. Too much depended on his strength.
It was at times like this, when his head ached and his eyes burned with weariness, that his mind wandered. He found himself thinking back over those people who depended upon him. Faramir, who served faithfully as Steward and yet always seemed to be watching him with guarded eyes, as though waiting for some hurt. Arwen, sitting framed in a darkened window. Legolas.
Legolas. The Elf had pledged his service at the Council, and yet no Elves of Ithilien would join him. This claim that the Orcs had attacked their settlement . . . hadn't he heard something about that before? A letter, a message written in flowing Elvish script, regret to inform Your Majesty . . . no assistance required at this time . . . had he used the palantír then, to verify that Legolas did have the situation controlled? He could not remember.
Legolas was a skilled captain and leader, but he had inherited a strong measure of his father's pride, and sometimes he would resist asking for help even when he needed it. An image: Legolas with his sleeve rolled up, swearing as he struggled to wrap a bandage around his arm one-handed. That had been a nasty scrape from an Orc blade, shallow and unclean, but the Elf had refused to let Aragorn even look at it. For two days they had argued about it as they made their way slowly back to Imladris, and only when the poison threatened to interfere with his bow hand had Legolas finally given in and permitted Aragorn to tend it.
He smiled, remembering that. He had learned several new Silvan curses on that trip, and two more in Quenya when he finally had to burn the infection out of Legolas' arm.
He is willful. Aragorn nodded in agreement with that thought, but did not lift his head from his hands. Perhaps he should use the palantír, check that the settlement was secure. Later. Later he would do that.
Valar, he was so tired.
Can you trust him? Aragorn thought about that one for a bit. Using the palantír required such concentration that afterward he was left in a relaxed, almost fugue state. Thoughts came to him, ideas that he might not have otherwise considered. It had been unnerving, at first, but soon he grew used to it. Perhaps this was one of the benefits that the high Kings of old had experienced: the ability to view the people closest to them through impartial eyes.
Legolas had overstepped his bounds with Arwen, but Aragorn had ensured that that would not happen again. And the Elf had passed one test at least: his report of the lords' discussion after the Council rang true with what Aragorn had observed. Perhaps he was not as unswervingly loyal as Éomer, but neither was he as suspicious as Faramir. And Imrahil . . . but they would be taken care of. Arrangements were already being made for that.
Aragorn rubbed his hands over his eyes, trying to clear his head. He had been thinking about Legolas. He could trust Legolas.
Can you be sure? Well, no. When he came right down to it, how could he be sure of anyone? Without control, there could be no certainty. Not even of Arwen, who looked at him now with fear as much as love and shrank beneath his touch. His hands tightened upon the table edge, remembering the feel of warm skin beneath him, the soft curve of flesh and the trip-hammer pulse against his lips. She did love him. She had said it.
Is it enough? It did not matter. If it was not, if fear was necessary as well as love, well, that could be arranged.
And this Elf of yours? What of him? Aragorn remembered the brush of hair beneath his fingers, smooth instead of curled, light instead of dark. Was it so very different? The clear eyes turned upon him, questioning, a faint frown drawn between the brows as the lips parted . . . no, it was not very different at all.
There is the Dwarf. Yes. He had feared at first that Gimli would upset the plan by coming too early, before he had prepared for him. But he had adapted, and now the balance had settled more perfectly than before.
He pushed back from the table and staggered a little as he gained his feet. But the dizziness soon passed, and he threw a cloth over the darkened palantír before leaving the room. There would be the dinner tonight, and he must see if he could speak to Faramir and Imrahil there.
The Council was over, and the lords had pledged their support. But to keep their loyalty – to keep Gondor safe – there was still much to be done.
