Okay, author's notes are actually required for this chapter ... for the notes, responses to my wonderful reviewers, and grovelling appologies for the lateness of this chapter, please see my profile page when I've had some sleep!
Otherwise, enjoy reading!
Ghost
Chapter Ten: The River's Run
They made the land sicken like a terrible blight, covering ground and sullying it with their touch at an alarming and terrifying pace. So many of them swarmed into the trees that the forest shuddered as a memory it would never be rid of was pounded into it. It quailed from their advance, begging to be ignored as something less than significant as the masses of Uruk-hai heaved between its trunks. But as soon as the first one passed beneath the turning boughs, the clashing contrast of natural and abomination tainted the earth with a stain that could never be washed away. For the second time in recent days, the forest found itself invaded ... but the memory it held of the original intruders was far sweeter than the army that coursed between its trunks now. It knew their black intentions, and it almost remembered what pity was when the collective consciousness of the trees bent their thoughts to those who had entered not two days prior.
The Uruks had scented blood, and there would be no escape.
-(())-
Gimli's sleep was fitful, riddled with course dreams and more times of wakefulness than real rest. He felt no better for it. Images he never wished to see washed against his weariness with an abrasive persistence, hounding him out of sleep into less forgiving awareness. When the sorry squelch of mud and wet leaves announced Aragorn's heavy approach, Gimli was almost glad for it.
Aragorn's mild surprise at finding his stocky companion looking up at him from his bed of brittle leaves registered only briefly in his weighted eyes. "Did you sleep?"
"Some," Gimli supplied simply. He did not say that his time lying there had been consumed more by restless consciousness than sleep. He certainly would not divulge that he had been more privy to Aragorn's pain than the man knew. The ranger nodded unknowingly and bent before the still soundly sleeping hobbits. He hesitated, clearly loath to wake them when they evidently needed the sleep. While he was temporarily distracted, Gimli ran a critical eye over their companion: the ranger looked terrible, his own need for respite hanging under his eyes and paling his skin. But it was beyond Gimli's right to goad him into rest; Aragorn's waking world was damaged enough without Gimli forcing him to face his dreams...
Aragorn called softly to their hobbit companions. When neither of them stirred, he gently shook a shoulder each. "Meriadoc. Peregrin. Come on, friends, time to get up."
Merry was first to rouse properly. He sat up, stretching his bunched shoulders, his face contorting as he gave a wide yawn. "Hallo, Strider," he greeted groggily. "What time is it?"
"Only about mid morning, I'm afraid."
Merry sagged a little at the news, apparently disappointed he had not had more than a few hours. He cast his surroundings something of a bemused look, taking in his lack of companions with a light frown before the burning memory of the night before seared itself into his head. Cruel enlightenment smoothed his face and left him with a deadened expression of hopelessness. Any buffer Merry usually had in place against his temper was too badly frayed by their losses for him to tolerate Pippin's inaction, and he gave his cousin an ill-tempered bat on the arm.
"I'm awake," the other supplied quietly. "Though I don't see much point in it."
"'Not much point', Master Hobbit?"
Pippin fixed Gimli with a mournful look from the shielding folds of his cloak. "Frodo and Sam are gone. Boromir's gone. We lost Gandalf, and now Legolas is dead. And we never got to say goodbye to any of them. What are we without them? What's the point in us?"
Gimli had no reply to that. The dejection in the other's face was so intense he found it difficult to look at him, and the power of his frank observation was more than the dwarf wished to face.
But the leader amongst them did have an answer. He took Pippin's shoulder in a grasp that affirmed the conviction of his words, pinning the young hobbit with forceful silver eyes. "The point in us, Pippin, is that our friends are out there, and it is our duty to hold true to them. We will find the others, and we will not give in until there is no other path for us to tread." Aragorn smiled, but there was an odd trace of bitterness lacing the tilt of his lips as he added: "No matter what happens, the sun still rises." He got up then, turning his back on the others to riffle through his pack.
Aragorn proffered the other three a lembas wafer to share between them, taking nothing for himself and pacing with a dab of impatience waiting for them to be ready to leave. He had no desire for food, the need to press on driving any appetite from him, and as soon as they were finished, he had them on their feet and following the water's passage again.
This time, Aragorn took all due care to keep himself with the others, not allowing his long legs to out-stride them again. After all, he could offer them little protection under attack if they were a great distance behind him. But what that did mean was he could not be alone with his thoughts, and his cheerless mood settled on the two hobbits and dwarf like a heavy dust. Feeling the pressing silence of their companion more clearly than they liked, Merry and Pippin fought valiantly against their own despondency and strove to lighten the mood with their own antics, the forced brightness in their banter managing to strangle the odd grunt of mirth from Gimli. But no matter how hard they tried with their humour, they could not salvage Aragorn from his heavy sadness of loss and seething rage at their betrayal. Finally ceding defeat, the pair fell into a sorry silence, their pace brisk to keep up with the ranger.
The morning ebbed into afternoon, the sun hiding its face in the clouds like a sulking child. A smattering of rain assaulted them again, nothing more than an echo of the previous night, but enough to plunge their moods even more as their wrapped their damp cloaks all the tighter around themselves. They walked in silence, only the ranger amongst them paying any real attention to their surroundings as he searched the furious waters below with an obsessive edge for what was lost. The sun began to edge through its downwards arch behind its cloud shield, casting a deeper grey about them. It intensified the shadows in the forest. Everything was so very quiet.
For reasons unknown to him, Merry felt deeply unnerved. He cast the dark trees a furtive look, feeling that they were hiding something from him, some nasty surprise they chose to conceal out of sheer malice. It didn't feel like the Nazgûl had, but there was definitely something there, and he found his steps slowing to a cautious pause that he might listen a little better. Were Legolas still alive, he supposed the elf would think Merry's senses deaf in comparison to his own, but the hobbit prided himself on his stronger awareness of his surroundings. No sounds of threats came to him, but there were no birds either, no rustlings of small animals in the undergrowth. He didn't sense the horrible smothering threat of Wraiths or smell the putrid stench of orcs, but the silence was wholly unnatural. He turned back to his fellows, and pitched his voice a little louder to their retreating backs.
"Strider-"
An arm hooked around his throat in a strangling embrace and lifted him, pinning him against a solid body. What little breath he had escaped in a sharp yelp. Merry kicked his elevated legs furiously, but everything he hit felt like rock to his heels.
Aragorn whirled at the shout, sword hilt in hand –
But he stopped and released the half-drawn weapon when he locked eyes with the man right in his path, blade already out and levelled at Aragorn's chest. A quick assessment told the ranger that they were of a height, but the blatant bulking power of the other made them viciously out-matched. The fight was over before it had begun. They both knew it, a knowing grin cracking the other's face like a split in the earth.
Merry's captor tightened his hold on his struggling captive, a breathy and cold chuckle in his ear engulfing his senses with the stink of bad teeth. A flailing foot found some softer part of the bull-like man and drew breathy curses in dry gasps from him. But Merry stilled at the bite of a dagger snagging the skin on the underside of his jaw, his panicked mind understanding what the blade point was telling him, even as clarifying threats were uttered in his ear.
"Merry! No, no! Let him go!"
Pippin surged away from the other two to help his friend, thinking nothing of the real threat to himself imposed by the one keeping Aragorn at bay. But Aragorn lunged and grabbed him back, a hand braced firmly against his chest and another gripping his shoulder. Pippin thrashed to throw him off, but the ranger's grip in the folds of his jacket was too strong for him to shake. "Let me go, Aragorn!" His desperate fingers clawed uselessly at Aragorn's clenched fist while his eyes lifted to plead with the grinning thug. "Please, let him go!"
"Now, why would he do that?"
A third man stepped into their line of vision, a crooked smile slanting a thin dark beard. His build was slighter than his two cohorts, more wiry and quick. The dark cleverness in his eyes glinted as they fixed with Aragorn's, recognising him immediately as the leading authority, the one to target to weaken the group. He smirked as he observed the anger that burned in the grey depths, relishing their powerlessness. "Odd company you keep," he said dryly to the other man. "Travelling with a dwarf. And with Shire rats in tow as well." He sauntered over to the restrained Merry with leisure, surveying him like a horse at market. A gloved hand ruffled the curly gold locks roughly, caring nothing for the discomfort of the prisoner and enjoying the feel of barely restrained hate burning the back of his neck. "But perhaps you are confused, and think these are your children."
The poor wit enticed a run of laughter from his men.
"We have nothing of value for you here," Aragorn warned levelly. "Move on, and let us be on our way."
The apparent leader shrugged his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, I don't think so."
There was no feasible move Aragorn could make quick enough ... the sword at his chest he could probably deal with, but the dagger at Merry's throat was a threat he was not willing to test. He could feel Gimli seething beside him, the stocky warrior itching to draw his axe. They needed a distraction...
"You're bandits, aren't you?"
Another shudder of laughter. Aragorn squeezed Pippin's shoulder in an attempt at reassurance, a gentle reminder of I'm right here. Don't worry, I'll let nothing happen to him. But there was no offered comfort Pippin could possibly take, not when his dear friend was under such treat. When Pippin was nervous or frightened, the ranger had learned, he talked: sometimes foolish utterings, statements of the obvious, glaringly blatant questions. Right now, his terror couldn't be clearer.
"You hear that, Dal?" the one holding Merry called mockingly. "Would you say we're bandits?"
"You could, Thindor ... Bandits, thieves, muggers ... slave runners. Call us what you will."
Slave runners. The hair at the nape of Aragorn's neck bristled at the words. He had heard much of such men patrolling the Wilds, and had seen more than enough of their 'goods' on his travels south. The burning image of Merry and Pippin bound in chains and crammed in stalls of misery like cattle for slaughter, waiting to be sold, turned his gut to ice. Sure enough:
"There is a market for freaks like these two in the barbarian lands. They'll make a pretty fort- "
"You won't touch them." The caution burned low in Aragorn's throat, deep like a wolf's warning growl.
Dal's lip curled with contempt at the interruption, his eyes losing all traces of twisted humour: no-one told him what he would and would not do, no-one. "Move, Lakil!" When the one guarding Aragorn cast a confused look in his direction, too slow in his reactions, Dal threw his foot into the side of his leg, literally kicking him out of his way so that he could level with the ranger who dared to not fear him. The one named Lakil gave his leader a murderous look behind his back, an old and festering resentment boiling for any to see who cared to look.
They hate him, Aragorn noted with sudden interest. If things could be twisted in their favour, there could be a way out of this mess yet ... but it all depended on which was more important to them: promised riches from enslaving the hobbits, or being rid of a leader they despised. Dal was only one man, he had to have something the others needed ... valuable connections in the slave trade, perhaps?
"You'll hand that one over, or I'll have him slit the other one's throat." The grin twisted back into existence as Dal drew a blade from the back of his belt and pointed it straight at Aragorn's face, the gold inlay on the flawless steel throwing the failing light in a flash of brilliance. "Understand?"
The ranger always expected his new enemy to draw a blade on him. Such things were somewhat customary in situations like this. But having a knife levelled at him did not normally make his heart jolt in his chest, or make him feel like he had just been thrown into a vat of freezing water. Only his eyes could move as they took in every familiar detail; the clean sharpness of the edges, the aged creaming of the bone hilt visible under the dirty hand, the colourlessness of flawless steel planes contrasting starkly with the inlaid filigreed gold...
Dal took the sudden drain of colour from his proposed victim's face as fear and couldn't restrain the grin at the wondrous power the knife gave him. And just to think, he had drawn only one –
A screech of agony tore through the quiet. Dal and Lakil spun as one, to see Thindor clutching at his face with both hands in shock and agony. Dropped like a poisonous snake and forgotten, the cause of his pain stumbled to his feet, elvish dagger flashing red in his clenched fist as he fled -
It was all Aragorn and Gimli needed.
Dal barely had time to position the knife in a block at the speed of Aragorn's strike. The heavy hit from the larger weapon jarred his wrist and nearly sent the knife flying, but he held on and hastened back just out of range. And that was it: the two men found themselves in a combat circle, blind to all else but each other. Dal flashed his teeth in a grin close to manic, drawing the other blade and holding the pair before him, looking through them at the ranger like they made mockery of something so cumbersome as a sword.
Aragorn levelled himself. That one clash taught him much of his adversary ... that he was a savage attacker of the weak and ill-prepared; that he was not a skilled warrior by any stretch of the imagination, dropping his guard so readily at a squawk of distraction ... but there was dangerous art in those hands. They held those beautifully crafted weapons with too much relish. Even the way he looked at Aragorn spoke greatly of what type of man he was. It was starkly clear that Dal was a killer many times over, and he was more than keen to see Aragorn's lifeblood spill into the mud.
They circled, two wolves assessing each other for weakness, footfalls careful and light, waiting for that moment when the still was breached and the opportunity for the fatal strike came.
Waiting...
There would be no middle ground, no draw -
Ready.
Dal jumped the gulf, knives angled to take neck and torso in one effort. Aragorn countered, pitching his body right and out of the way of the knife destined for his neck, deflecting the other blade with a sweeping flow of his sword and bringing it round in a returning swipe. Dal twisted himself, parrying inside the longer weapon's range. But he misjudged, getting too close to his adversary. The space he had given himself was too restrictive, the knives too long to use together. His left hand raised and stabbed down in a hacking motion at Aragorn's flank –
The sword came across and up just in time: the white knife glanced from the longer blade with a screech of agonised metal. Aragorn hissed when the keen edge bit into his hand, but he didn't stop and went with the momentum, ramming his pommel into his rival's chin with an almighty thwack. Dal's teeth came together with a loud clack and his head jerked right back on his neck, flinging him backwards with such violence it threw the two combatants apart. An angered Dal righted himself and wiped the back of his cuff across his chin. It didn't surprise him that the material came away bloody, the force of the blow had been that great. He spat contemptuously at his feet, privately prodding his smarting teeth with his tongue. But his sneer twisted when he noticed the deep cut on his rival's right hand freely running crimson.
"Does that hurt?" he asked, his teeth flashing red in the ghoulish smile he threw at the other man. The knives twisted in something crudely reminiscent of their real owner's more practiced and graceful flourish. "I think I like these."
"You've no right to touch them!" Aragorn spat, aggression and upset searing his blood.
A faint glimmer of surprised realisation passed over Dal's features. But the surprise melted away into pure joy, a sickening glee at this most wonderful flaw lighting his eyes like fire. "You knew the elf? Well, well. This day just keeps getting better."
His words did not provoke retaliation with either blade or tongue ... but there was that betraying clench of the bearded jaw, an indication both slight and glaring. He had found a point to twist the dagger, an exploitable weakness, and he had every intention of pushing it in to the hilt.
Careful steps again, prowling. Aragorn mirrored the action, sword primed, keeping his foe in full sight.
"Was the elf filth a close friend?" Dal asked quietly. At the returned silence, the sneer deepened triumphantly. "So much blood ... how very sad -" his tone suggested he found Legolas' fate more delightful than lamentable. "Does it burn you to see me with these?" Dal flicked his wrists, displaying the white knives like a pair of valuable hostages. "Mind you, it isn't as though he needed them anymore," he goaded. "Carrion can't defend itself from scavengers, can it?"
The taunt went too far. An incensed cry erupted from Aragorn's throat as the two men came together again. All the grief, the pain and the anger, the hurt of betrayal and burning shame of his failures came together in a blinding fury of rage so incredible he was near impervious to any threat Dal could present.
There was a new and entirely more dangerous edge to the fight now that the ranger threw himself so completely into it. A degree of recklessness marred his fighter's grace with jarring ferocity, and Dal mirrored it with purest ecstasy. Anger was such a dangerous emotion, and Dal had managed to make his enemy succumb to its poison. Now it was a matter of waiting for him, playing against the barrage of assaults until the ranger did something stupid. Thrust, counter, parry, parry again –
Sword and knives assaulted each other for what seemed like an endless struggle for dominance, greed and arrogance pitched against angered desperation. To Aragorn, it seemed a bitter and twisted way for things to fall: fighting – not only for his life, but those of his three companions - against knives he had never looked upon as posing a threat to him in his life. Now that they were pitted against him, now that he had felt their keen bloodlust in the intense pain of his hand, he felt a deeper and altogether different hurt resounding in his chest at their betrayal. A silly sentiment, but it was there all the same. It put all the more fire under his skin that this filth before him had taken even that away.
But through the distorting haze of his wrath, Aragorn felt his body threaten to betray him. The weight of his sword against an opponent with such light weapons was beginning to count against him. The mud sucking greedily at his feet made him less agile, and Dal seemed to be quicker, skirting over the slick surface with the damnable strength of someone who knew they had an advantage. He deflected a near-hit to his chest, countered, parried. Nearly every meeting of weapons on his half was in defence rather than attack. Definitely tiring, the steel becoming heavier to him, making him lag -
STRIKE
The feel of a blade passing through cloth and flesh is the same, no matter what the weapon, and Dal knew the swift slash he had dealt to be a true hit. Triumph heated his blood as his enemy lurched back out of range, left hand shooting to the lengthy laceration across the right of his stomach. The sword tip sagged into the churned earth, almost seeming to linger like an ignored hound, unsure of its master's intentions as he bent over with pain...
Dal saw his moment of victory and rushed forward with a guttural roar, raising one blade with the intention of slashing the exposed neck –
The dagger's flash came too fast for him to react. The hand snaked out and punctured the descending wrist with astounding accuracy, in-out. Dal didn't scream, but he dropped the leading knife and reeled backwards with pain, horror drawing his eyes to the through-and-through wound. His vision filled with steel and the flat of the sword came smashing into his face, again, again -
The slick mud threw his slipping feet from under him and Dal landed flat on his back in the filth. Defeated, but not conquered: snarling defiantly through the blood streaming from nose and split lips, Dal raised the knife in his other hand and swiped for Aragorn's leg to hamstring him, but the action was clumsy with pain, and the ranger kicked the knife away, not caring that he caught fingers with his boot. Ever ready, the cold sword tip rested like a deathly kiss against Dal's jugular. It was over. Finally over. Aragorn used the sudden still to calm his breathing from jagged pulls into something more regular.
There was a viper at the end of his sword, and he dared lift neither blade nor eyes to check on his companions. "Is everyone alright?" Three confirmations, two strong, one hoarse. Aragorn scowled heavily down at his captive at Merry's husky response, but he took it as a victory that the hobbit was there to make any sound at all.
Defeat had ruined him in the eyes of his men, Dal knew that, but he swallowed his fear back and pushed his voice through his lips in an attempt at his previous authoritative aggression: "Lakil! Thindor!"
"Be silent!" the ranger snapped.
"Useless calling for them," said a voice from out of Dal's range of sight, gravelly as the earth and dripping with smug satisfaction. "A poor leader you must have been for them to leave you with such little hesitation!"
A flash of panic and rage at the abandonment passed over the bloodied face.
"Do you yield?" Aragorn breathed, chest heaving with sheer loathing aside his exhaustion.
Though the eyes of his conquered enemy wore a thin veil over their fear as they finally took Aragorn's anger for something decidedly more serious with the sword at his throat, Dal flung an altogether foolishly defiant "No" at the ranger.
"I would, if I were you," Gimli cautioned, his tone ringing clear with amusement as he collected the knives from the dirt, wiping what mud he could from their otherwise perfect planes: he was thoroughly enjoying seeing the man who had threatened the lives of the hobbits and defiled the memory of their gone friend squirming in the muck. Justice was being dealt, and Gimli didn't feel so much as a twinge of sympathy as he handed Aragorn the twin blades.
Something close to snapping in Aragorn was mildly soothed by the familiar weight in his hands. To say so much had changed, they felt no different. It was miraculous that they had come back at all... Only, he had no right to them. I'll send them to Thranduil. The thought burned with its implications, becoming an ominous cloud in Aragorn's mind. The last child, gone. History repeating its cruel game on Mirkwood's king as the white knives returned home again without their owner...
The vicious weight of cold metal lifted from Dal's throat, the ringing song of a sword being sheathed a welcome sound to his ears ... but before Dal had the chance to even consider escape, Aragorn's uninjured hand knotted in his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Aragorn bound his hands tight behind his back with a thin leather tie, caring little for his prisoner's discomfort. One of the deathly-elegant knives Dal had called his own for a short time gripped mercilessly at his pulse point like a savage dog waiting for the command to kill. Aragorn pressed the blade edge so firmly to his enemy's skin a crimson bead outlined the contours of his throat. "You will take us to where you thieved these, or I swear by Illuvatar's blood I shall spill yours," Aragorn breathed. "Do we understand each other?"
There was no way Dal could have known the identity of the man who was so prepared to slit his throat from ear to ear, but his heart quailed at the power in the cold grey eyes like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. Still, in a final bout of foolish showmanship, he chose to flash a coward's last attempt at defiance. "Why?" he demanded. "What good is carrion to you?"
Aragorn's lips peeled back to reveal an almost animalistic snarl. The blade bit all the deeper and the man fought with his reflexes not to swallow, fearing the action would be enough to end his life.
"It is no concern of yours. Take us, or die by my hand now. Your choice."
"Fine!" Dal spat. "Just remove your damned knife from my throat!"
Leaning even closer and pitching his voice for Dal's ears only, Aragorn laid down his terms: "I will grant you your life in fair exchange. But should you touch a hair on their heads -" he threw a glance in the direction of Merry and Pippin, "- I will enter you into the trade myself. Understood?" The ranger pushed his captive away from himself, open disgust burying any measure of kindness and compassion he would normally offer anyone in his custody. Rather than keep a knife to the wretch's neck, Aragorn nocked an arrow to his small hunting bow. The string remained slack, but the menacing contact of his primed fingers was enough. Should the streak of orc spit try anything, Aragorn would not think twice about putting an arrow in his worthless back.
"Is this wise?"
The ranger lifted his eyes to his dwarven friend. "Wise, Master Dwarf?"
Gimli scratched at his neck with his axe, a light frown playing across his heavy brow. He heaved a sigh of discontent. "Surely," he said with a measure of reluctance, "tracking the others-"
"I won't abandon him, Gimli," the ranger retorted forcefully, seeing where Gimli was taking his line of thought and not liking it one bit. "If you want to keep looking for a way across, I will not stop you. That's up to you, but I say now this is where we part." He stopped, trying to remove the rising anger from his voice. "But I just won't do it to him, Gimli. I can't."
Gimli understood well Aragorn's motives. It couldn't have been an easy choice for him to make, and it was admirable that he wished to give Legolas the final respect he well and truly deserved. It was an honourable choice.
But that didn't necessarily make it the right one.
"Hearken to me, Aragorn," Gimli demanded firmly. "The One knows I miss the damned squirrel too, but I'm imploring you to think on this: if we find a crossing place now, we have a chance of catching them." A little gentler, he said: "We need to chase after the living, not worry for the dead."
Surprise cleared Aragorn's face as though the dwarf had struck him. Somewhere deep within, he knew he had always hoped to find Legolas alive somewhere along the river bank, however implausible a likelihood such a miracle may be. Was it selfish of him, wanting so desperately to find him? The others he regarded as friends, truly, and he would do anything for them ... you could not traverse the perils of Caradhras together, or walk the darkness of Moria without forming a bond stronger than the mithril mined there.
But it was to Legolas he turned in his darkest times, when he found his decisions as leader questioned and his will tested by hardship. A friendship of decades meant the elf knew Aragorn better than the ranger believed he knew himself. He never shied from pointing out necessary truths, no matter how cutting. Legolas would steer Aragorn to the better path if the right one was not there to tread. Right now, he knew exactly what the elf would say...
But he knew just as well what Legolas' decision would be had fate swapped their positions.
Losing Legolas was like losing a brother. Abandoning Elladan or Elrohir in such a way was an act unspeakable, and abandoning Legolas, in his view, was equally as callous when he had a means of finding him within his grasp.
The Ring was likely beyond their powers of recovery, Frodo and Sam with it. Boromir would have diverted their course for Minas Tirith, of that there was no doubt. But so long as the river remained impossible to cross, there was little they could do besides search for a means to overcome the obstacle. It was an entirely hopeless situation.
"You think I make this choice freely?" he hissed, the anger he fought so hard to repress colouring his words with bitterness. "I am going, Gimli, whether it pleases you or no-"
"Damn it, Aragorn, you're letting your grief impede your judgement! Think clearly, curse you!"
Fury, boundless and pure and unrestrained set a cold fire in Aragorn's eyes. The sheer power of the glare of burning silver was almost enough to cow Gimli into submission. Almost. Dwarves were not so easily conquered, and he asserted his ground, hands crossed resolutely over the head of his axe, feet braced and boldly returning the furious gaze.
For Merry and Pippin, seeing their two defenders clash on such a personal level beckoned the ruin of the last remnants of the Fellowship. Such a possible eventuality filled their guts with ice. Merry for one would not allow that to happen. The harsh sound of his crushed throat being carefully cleared cut across Aragorn's retort, snaring their attention from each other. Both man and dwarf stared as if they had entirely forgotten the hobbits existed. "If it means anything," Merry croaked painfully, "I think we should look -" he stopped, swallowing uncomfortably and holding his throat. "I think we should go to Legolas."
Silence.
He took it as a small victory that they paid such attention to his words, even if their faces suggested they were too stunned to do anything else. "If you think about it," he continued, fighting with his hurt throat to force the words out, "we lost him last night." He waved a hand vaguely at Aragorn's captive. "This ... fellow -"
"Dal," the 'fellow' spat.
"Dal. Him. He must've found Legolas after the storm, which means this morning. It's – what? About three in the afternoon? I think we've trav-" another pained swallow "-travelled a few leagues through the day, like him. Surely, that means Legolas isn't all that far away."
So logical. Of course. The events crammed into the past twenty hours were enough to span a thousand lifetimes, but it hadn't occurred to them that, actually, everything had happened really very quickly. Merry's reasoning was sound: Dal and his filthy ilk really couldn't have come that far within the confines of the day.
"Is he right?" Aragorn asked, throwing the question in Dal's direction.
No response.
"Speak! Is he right?"
Dal flinched and flung Aragorn a hateful glare. "Less than a league."
"Well, that just about settles it, then," said Merry, his tone as light and airy as he could make it, sounding for all the world as though they had all agreed on what type of cake to have with their tea. In a more level manner, his light brown eyes meeting Aragorn's squarely: "You're right, Strider: we can't just leave him."
A touch of colour painted the hobbit's cheeks at the proud smile Aragorn bestowed on him. "Thank you, my friend." I'm grateful. "But first, I will tend to that throat of yours..."
Minutes later, Merry, perched on his cold rock seat, could not hide his curiosity as Aragorn rummaged in the depths of his pack. It was only a small bag, but the number of pots it concealed was truly amazing to the hobbit, and he couldn't help wondering what they all did. A cacophony of scents assailed his nose, sweet and softer smells barely permeating through much harsher, sharper ones. To Merry's disappointment, when Aragorn eventually found the little clay pot he was looking for, the scent upon opening it was not nice in any way, shape, or form.
"What is it?" the hobbit asked with a measure each of dread and apprehension.
"Arnica root, amongst other things."
"But it stinks," the hobbit protested. "Arnica doesn't stink."
"Arnica doesn't, but the other things do." Aragorn left his cryptic explanation at that and scooped a liberal amount of stiff greenish paste into the palm of his hand, kneading it with his knuckles until it became looser. Only when he seemed content with the consistency did he bid Merry pull down the stuff of his shirt to allow full access to his throat. The ranger hissed angrily at the violent discolouring of the skin there. Whatever injury Merry's dagger had dealt to the man's face was a light punishment compared to what Aragorn would have done had he got his hands on him. He ensured his touch was no firmer than necessary when he applied his salve, smoothing it thickly onto the skin and binding an oiled cloth over it to prevent it rubbing off.
The ranger sat back on his haunches to survey his patient, wincing at the sudden shout of protest from his sliced stomach. "Better?"
The real possibility of pain made Merry somewhat reluctant to indulge the healer's request, but Aragorn's level and expectant stare told him that he would not be left alone without an answer. Merry frowned with worried apprehension and swallowed experimentally. Aragorn laughed when his face smoothed with shock. "Better? It's fine!" A hand flew to touch his throat, only to be intercepted by Aragorn's own with an accompanying warning shake of the head. "What's in that stuff?"
Aragorn chuckled, patting his young friend affectionately on the shoulder. "What is in it is of no importance: it works, that's all you need concern yourself with."
That's Strider-speak for you're better off not knowing, Merry concluded as his tall companion rose stiffly to his feet, throwing the hobbit a quick flick of his chin to indicate that he wished for him to do the same. "But what about you?" Merry queried, running a little to catch up. "He got you, didn't he? And your hand?"
Even as they walked, Aragorn wound a length of cloth about his injured hand. The tackiness coating it irritated him, but there was no time to do anything about it. The slash was deep, the cut clean and long. He marvelled at the sharpness of the knives with a warrior's appreciation. His awareness of being sliced had been something distant, like it could have been someone else suffering the injury. It was only with that first pulse of blood that his flesh seemed to register the wound and flare in panicked agony. Legolas might have been a prince, but he cared for his weaponry like an assassin.
His stomach was a little different. It stung in the same manner that shallow cuts from sharp blades do, and doubtless there would be a scar there in time, but he regarded it as a small price to pay. He had been tiring, and he needed to end the fight as the victor. The feint had hurt, and it was a dangerous manoeuvre, but it worked. "I am fine, Merry. They will wait."
"What about me?"
Aragorn cast Dal a neutral look. No matter how deeply he despised the man, if his life were under threat from the wound he had dealt him, he would have treated it sufficiently. Aragorn regarded his duty of care as a healer very seriously. As it was, the wound bled, but not in any way that was life threatening. "You're fine."
"Fine? I could die!"
"You say that like you think the world would miss you," Gimli scoffed, only to receive a filthy look from the man he held sentry over with Aragorn's bow.
Without another word, Aragorn reclaimed his bow. The arrowhead aimed with unwavering threat into the centre of Dal's back. All sense of good humour was lost in Aragorn's countenance, grey eyes darkening when they fixed with Dal's green ones, as though he saw some sordid stain marring his path. "Lead us on." The arrow jerked in an echo of the order. Dal sneered again, but the expression was the empty retaliation of a trapped dog as he complied all the same, walking back the way he had originally come to lead the strangest company he had ever encountered. Thindor was right: elves were cursed. He had a strong feeling his one would continue to rebound on him until he died.
Dal lead them for what felt like forever to Aragorn. The descent of the sun coloured the light a deeper shade of grey. Worry edged into his mind that they would not get there before nightfall. His senses tried their best to fight with the blinding onset of darkness, but he was no elf, and the failing light set his guard all the higher. There was no doubt in his mind that his earlier distracted mood had allowed them to be set upon. If only he had he been more aware of his surroundings, the threat would have been detected long before. Guilt tugged at him every time his eyes fell on Merry. The hobbit's heart was far stronger than the impression that yellow smoking jacket gave. Aragorn couldn't help the feeling of pride welling in him at Merry's self-defensive action ... but if he hadn't been able to reach his dagger? What if Aragorn had fallen, what then?
If, if, if...
He wasn't helping himself. Look forward, not back, he counselled inwardly. Concentrate on where your feet are going.
The terrain changed, passing from earth to stone and forcing the encroaching boundaries of the forest back, leaving them uncomfortably open. Boulders stood like sculpted sentries in their path, the diminishing light throwing stark shadows across their pitted and angular faces. A low rumble reached out to them like the warning grumble of a watch dog. A waterfall, Aragorn marked. The water was nowhere near as powerful as the night before now that it had had a full day without significant rain, but even now, it was no peaceful eddying brook. White peaks erupted from the silt-laden waters, crashing themselves against unmoving rocks with a fury to which the hunks of stone refused to bow.
The course marked by the steep hard-rock sides channelled the river with more control than the fierce flow liked, funnelling it through the cleft that was little more than ten feet wide. The water battled against it, plunging and breaking like a herd of ill-tempered wild horses through the narrower run. Aragorn paled at the thought of his friend being thrown into a course of water so aggressive, and no matter how much he tried to bar the image from his mind, it nestled there and refused to give him peace.
The land lulled a little to give them a better view into the valley, and Aragorn soon saw that it was not one waterfall, but a collection of many, descending in broadening, shallow steps into the valley below, widening from the funnel-like mouth they had just drawn level with. During gentler times, he imagined it would be a place of astounding beauty. A cluster of surreally carved rocks crowned the brink of the landfall and stood towering and imposing, guarding the entrance to the falls with blank and unfriendly faces slick with spray. The lowest side was little more than twice Aragorn's height. It was odd, but he almost felt that they judged him...
Dal stopped. He looked casually over his shoulder, an odd smirk angling his lips as his mud-green eyes fixed with Aragorn's. "If you want me to show you how to reach the elf, I need my hands back."
Aragorn's heart wedged itself painfully into the tight confines of his throat, yammering for release. This was it. That sickening light of triumph in Dal's eyes said so.
"You mean you've lead us to a way across the water?" Incredulous, Gimli's eyes glowed with anger. "You knew we needed to cross! Why didn't you mention this before?"
"You didn't ask." The wretch smirked in the face of Gimli's wrath, throwing the insult back at him tenfold with enjoyment too obvious for the dwarf to stomach. The fluid and unforgiving stream of dwarvish curses that coloured the air just about masked the sound of his near-boiling blood rushing through his veins. "Damn you and all your spawn!" he spat, every drop of sincerity he held shoving each word from his lips.
Turning to Aragorn, Gimli said: "We should never have trusted him this far. He's leading us on a merry dance like a fox with a gaggle of geese!"
"Oh no," Dal interjected, a lazy pleasure in his tone. "The elf is here: just down there." A flick of the head in the direction of the valley bottom had the remaining eyes of the Fellowship collectively trying to stare through the rock barrier as though they might see that which they sought. Not only would they find Legolas, they would be right where they needed to be, on the much-coveted other bank. But there would be a climb involved: slick rock over a dangerous run of river with a man Aragorn knew wanted them all dead did not sit well with him. He reaffirmed his grip on his bow, fingers becoming that little bit tighter, seeking assurance from the lengths of wood. There was no way he could climb and keep the bow in his hands, and just looking at the rock told Aragorn that there no conceivable way anyone could climb without their hands. But one false move, one push, and all would be over for the one to take the fall.
That was a risk he couldn't allow the others to take. With a measure of reluctance, Aragorn put the bow and arrow away and cut the blood-soaked leather tie. Dal brought his hands to his front with a groan of discomfort, flexing from his shoulders down. That loathsome mouth contorted again in a grin. It was an expression he had seen that much on the degenerate it barely mattered to him anymore ... until that point. There was something else behind that twist of the lips that set Aragorn's hair on end.
"I will go first with Dal," he informed the others as he adjusted the bandaging over his cut hand. "Come only at my call."
"But Aragorn, lad -"
"Only at my call, Gimli. Not a second before." Dal was too much of a snake to entrust with the lives of the others, and Aragorn was the only one who physically matched him: should Dal try anything, Aragorn would have the better chance of defending himself. I'm not prepared to lose any of you, too.
Without so much as a warning, Dal turned to the most pitted jut of rock and began to climb. Dismissing the touch of apprehension on his heart, Aragorn began to follow. He tried not to think on how very slippery the surface was, anchoring his fingernails as firmly as possible into the deeper little fissures and praying their grip was enough as they gained height. Dal had clearly done this before, scrambling up the face and finding all the best holds in less time than it took the ranger to think on his next move. The cold bit too keenly into Aragorn's fingers, numbing them to the better grips the unforgiving rock allowed. A glance up, and Dal was gone. Panic gripped his stomach at the lack of his traitorous guide and Aragorn redoubled his efforts, ignoring the pain as the rock cut into this desperate fingers. Finally reaching the top, he hauled himself over the narrow crest, and discovered the small mercy of a flat shelf broad enough to take his feet.
The other side amazed him.
The rock was far more forgiving on this side formation-wise, angling down in a series smooth carved steps of varying size to join with a narrow curved ledge, an elongated tongue of stone branching almost all the way across the water, leaving a gap little more than three feet to jump. Algae and lichen dappled the grey surface, giving a deceptive glistening beauty to the soaked stone. One false step on it, and he would be gone. Spray misted his face, the fresh and clean smell of wild water and wet stone washing over him pleasantly. The source of the spray was not nearly so appealing. The river raged through the funnel, falling over itself to escape the tight confines.
But he couldn't see Dal.
Aragorn tensed. The hulking grey shoulders of rock revealed nothing to him, no sound reached out to him over the ceaseless roar of the water –
Blinding white light erupted from the top of his left shoulder blade. The pain was so incredible his ensuing fall down the natural steps was more dream than reality. But reality could not be harsher when his forehead glanced off rock, or when he landed hard on his back and smacked his head. It struck with such force the vision of Dal leaping down from the rock above, the large stone braced in both hands to cave Aragorn's skull, doubled and swam out of focus. And there was nothing he could do save watch the rock swing powerfully upwards...
Except, Dal never factored the loyalty Aragorn commanded with his companions into his murderous plans. Nor did he consider the hobbits any form of threat to him ... but he was too stunned to realise his error as two accurately aimed pebbles dashed into his temple, flung by hands well-trained by misspent hours of mischief in idle childhood. Throwing rocks at squirrels proved at that point to be more useful than either of them ever deemed possible. The twin strikes threw his balance and made him fling the rock sideways rather than down on his victim's head. He fell awkwardly, missing Aragorn, only just catching the ledge with a foot...
But it wasn't enough. Dal screamed when his ankles betrayed him, throwing his centre of balance over the edge. He flung his hands out at the ledge, but the slippery rock dismissed him, callously offering his desperate fingers no purchase and shouldering him down into the foaming white horses.
Aragorn couldn't quite understand what had just happened, and he understood even less when Gimli's face swam into view, far too close to say he was supposed to be on the other side of the rock.
"You alright?"
He made to sit up, but the swing of nausea and bright pain in his head made the earth spin maddeningly. A strong gloved hand took his arm, stilling his efforts with a firm and commanding grip he was unable to counter. "Easy, Aragorn, lad. Slowly." Gimli levelled with Aragorn's face, scrutinising his eyes with a thick frown. "How many of me do you see?"
Aragorn blinked at his stocky companion, wincing as he brought himself into a sitting position a little slower. Bright spots of his own blood blossomed on the wet stone like little roses, budding from the split in his brow. "One more than I should. I thought I told you to stay back?"
Bushy red brows left each other's frowning embrace to advance on the edge of Gimli's helm. "If I listened to you, your brains would be fish food right now."
On any other occasion, he would have berated such disregard for orders, but, right then, the resounding headache shouting inside his skull drowned any desire to reprimand, and the massive debt of thanks now owed to all three of them for his life would not allow him to be so ungrateful. He uttered as much to them as the hobbits finally joined them, commending them in particular on their prowess with a pebble. Such flattery being bestowed on their childhood naughtiness etched matching grins to their faces.
Only when Aragorn could stand without vertigo threatening to make him share Dal's fate did they take the risk of jumping the three feet to the opposite side. Typical of a healer, Aragorn made a terrible patient, pushing Gimli's fraying tolerance with his own pressing impatience, the failing light nagging at his sense of urgency. When he declared himself fit to continue by standing without support of either rock or hobbit, Gimli had to cede defeat, although he remained sceptical, eyeing the ranger like a stall merchant watching a too-innocent looking child.
The good thing about making the leap was the opposite shelf of stone sloped away from them, meaning that if they - particularly Aragorn - slipped, they were more likely to fall with the slope rather than over the brink. Thankfully, the leap over proved largely uneventful; Pippin slipped on a particularly slick algae growth, but beyond that, there were no more dramas.
The falls were framed on either side by climbs of rock, great smooth steps several feet high and pocked with shimmering pools, as though a giant had scooped the live stone for his own amusement. Grasses flared high as plumes of pale fire in the deep cracks scarring the surface, splitting their way with in soft sprays. Though there was climbing to be done, the foot and handholds were adequate enough even for the hobbits to comfortably navigate, and it did not take them all that long to reach their destination...
Aragorn forced his eyes to search. He couldn't recall a time when he had ever needed to find something so badly, and wished so hard he did not have to. He didn't want to remember Legolas in whatever state his body was in, but he knew his mind would never be able to separate such a damaging image from the rest of his memories. Still, he sought him, because it was the least he could do, not for himself, but for Legolas...
They had reached a landing of sorts, massive plates of grey stone covered in boulders the river had cast aside with as much care as an ill-tempered child. Great hulks of trees littered the place, sad and lost from their formerly regal states as they lay stretched and bare to the wiles of the world. But even in the swiftly dimming light and with such debris scattered as it was, finding the body of an elf in an otherwise barren landscape should not have been all that difficult, yet the three of them were failing miserably at it. Aragorn halted near the edge of the gentling water, the breeze whipping straying tresses of hair about his face. He felt more than heard Gimli join him at his side. "He's not here, Gimli." Nothing prepared him for the intensity of the disappointment, the hit of dejection and failure sagging his resolve into something beaten. "I've lead you all on a fool's errand."
Gimli humphed sympathetically. "No, lad: Dal lead us on a fool's errand."
The ranger shook his head to himself, unhappy to accept the gentle line of comfort, knowing well what his dwarven friend thought. "Whatever way you look at it, we're here because I wanted to be; I was that intent on finding him, I just... what's that?"
Something captured his attention, something light and separate to the landscape coming to night. Barely able to contain his peaked interest, Aragorn made short work of the distance between himself and the source of his curiosity. The failing sun snagged on something trailing in the whispering breeze. He sat on his haunches at the cluster of rocks, piled haphazardly against a much larger and more permanently seated boulder. Fine strands of gold laced his trembling fingers, twisting into their embrace like something forgotten grateful at being discovered. There were several of them, snared by the cluster of rocks as a beacon to him. He knew them.
Aragorn ran a shaking hand through his hair, feeling the frustration reach a peak near unbearable. He had been here. Here was the evidence, tangled around his fingers, sad and lost in such a massive, massive place. But what really hit Aragorn hard was the dark pool at the boulder's foot, cradled in the shallow bowl like a precious commodity.
"Dal didn't lie."
"What?" Confusion, echoed by the hobbits as they joined Gimli, attentions distracted by Aragorn's change in behaviour.
"He was here..." Aragorn wrapped the strands in a piece of cloth fished from his pocket and carefully stowed it. He lifted his eyes as he straightened, scouring the vicinity for more evidence ... and could not quite believe what his refreshed view told him:
Printed in crude mockery of his tracker's sight, not two yards from his point of discovery, was the partial mark of a long-fingered hand, the stone having greedily accepted the offering of blood given to it. Aragorn placed his own hand on the dry stain, unable to contain the elation spilling from his eyes at his most wonderful discovery.
I'm coming, my brother. I'm coming.
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