Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.
Wherever the Surge May Sweep
By Jame K.
Chapter Nine: Slender Strings
All human things
Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
- Edmund Waller
The week-old bond in the back of Estel's mind was blue – blue like the warm sunlight on a deep, still pond. When Estel closed his eyes, he could see the warm spot shimmer, pulsate, and tremble with vitality. If he reached out towards the warm, blue depths of the bond, he could feel Legolas's gentle presence residing somewhere on the other side, sending back waves of comfort to the boy.
Estel smiled and quickened his steps along the muddy, frozen path. Home – and the warmth it provided – was only a few more steps away. The lashing rain of early winter had begun the night before and had continued until just before dawn. Along with the storm, had come cooler temperatures and frozen dew on the dying grass.
The last week since the formation of the bond had been fairly normal. Estel had gone to school, come home, helped with the chores, eaten dinner – their mundane routine. But Legolas had been on edge since that night. Nothing extremely noticeable, just little stuff – little lines around his mouth whenever Estel was a little late in getting home – his eyes going distant as he stared out the window. And he had begun to teach Estel how to use a knife.
Skeleton trees were covered with white, dripping icicles and turbulent clouds rolled through the sky overhead – warnings of another storm. The biting wind nipped at Estel's exposed, reddened nose and the boy tucked his hands deep within the brown folds of his cloak with a slight shiver.
The air smelled of coming snow and Estel could not help the little grin that stole across his chapped, freezing lips. Snow meant sledding, snowball fights – and staying home from school when the paths to town were too treacherous.
Squinting his eyes against the sharp wind that was continually battering his numb face, Estel could just make out the shadowy shape of the wooden house as it stood dark and hulking against the grayness of the clouds. If he squinted, he thought he could see the dim light of a fire reflecting through one of the glass windows.
He could imagine the warmth of that fire that he knew Legolas had built for him – and the hot tea that Legolas had probably brewed for him. He thought of the warm blankets that would be laid out and the thick soup that Legolas was probably making at this very second.
Estel shivered in anticipation as he quickened his footsteps. A patch of invisible ice crunched loudly beneath his booted feet and Estel curled his toes inside of his woolen socks. Oh, yes, he could not wait to be warm again. With another little grin, he focused his thoughts on the warm bond, reaching out as Legolas had taught him so that he could speak to the elf.
I am nearly home, he mentally called with a smile.
He had expected to be answered by Legolas's soft mental voice and a pulse of warmth that would stave off the biting cold until he reached the threshold of his home. He had definitely not expected to feel the flash of cold fear from the elf that echoed painfully inside of his head for many moments afterwards.
His eyes went wide and his footsteps ceased as he put one hand on his temple as he fought to think clearly amidst the pain emanating from the bond. What had happened to Legolas? He turned his face towards the dark house and quickened his steps, careful not to slip on the icy ground.
Legolas! I am coming.
No!
The power of Legolas's mental voice made Estel lose his balance on a patch of ice. His arms pin-wheeled through the cold air for a moment before he found himself on his back staring up at the gray sky – the wind knocked out of him. He lay still for what seemed to be a long time, his mouth opened as he tried to draw air into his wheezing lungs. He was finally able to draw a deep breath through his nose and staggered to his feet, one hand fumbling at his waist for the small knife that Legolas had gifted him with several days before.
Stay away, Estel. Return to the town immediately and stay at the inn.
Estel hesitated when he heard Legolas's soft mental words, his gaze looking towards the house and then towards the town. Then, he resolutely pushed towards the house. A wave of pain that did not come from his own body crashed into him and he stumbled to his knees with a cry.
Inside of his head, the mental bond with Legolas was still that gorgeous blue color but now – instead of pulsating warmly like Estel had become accustomed to – the light seemed to tremble with pain and fear. It would dim and then brighten and Estel could no longer feel Legolas's gentle presence at the other end.
The cold no longer mattered to Estel as he stumbled towards the house. All that existed was the pulse of pain he had felt from the elf. Legolas was always so stalwart – so courageous. What kind of pain could cause him to unintentionally broadcast the hurt towards Estel?
Rain began to splatter across his face and he ran one hand across his eyes so that he could see the house as it loomed closer through the dull light. Dread gripped the boy's heart in icy and bitter claws when he realized the front door of the house had been left hanging open. Legolas would never have done that intentionally.
He was within four strides of the house when a dark figure stepped from the shadows lining the side of the house and stood right in front of him. Huge arms were folded across a massive chest as the man stared down at him.
"Well. What is this?"
Estel choked slightly at the sudden appearance and tried to dodge around the dark figure of the man.
Firm hands caught his shoulders and he was hoisted into the air, kicking and screaming. His hand once again gripped around his small knife and he drew it from his cloak. Still struggling, he twisted in the man's grip and stabbed the small blade deep into the man's upper chest.
The man let go of him with a cry as he stumbled backwards hand coming up to touch the gushing wound.
Estel held the knife in one trembling hand as he lay sprawled where the man had dropped him, his eyes wide with fear. An instant later, he was scrambling to his feet – ready to fight the man again. His mouth was open and his chest jerked with his heavy panting. Blood dripped from the white blade onto his boot and was quickly washed away by the snow.
With a soft thump, the man fell onto his back and lay still. His breathing was loud and heavy in the shrieking wind.
Shock creeping across Estel's face, he swallowed hard and resisted the urge to drop the knife to the ground. Legolas needed him. With another deep breath, he turned and ran up the steps into the house.
A warm fire was burning brightly in the stone fireplace but Estel took no comfort from it as he moved quietly through the living room towards the kitchen. His entire being was focused on the loud voices he could hear coming from that room. Carefully, he peeked his head around the door jam.
Legolas's back was turned to Estel, facing a tall man that Estel recognized as the one who had given him the letter. Two other men flanked the elf, holding wicked looking swords in one hand while their other hand held Legolas's upper arms. A rope trailed down from Legolas's hands and Estel realized with a start that the elf's hands were bound in front of him.
"I imagine my friend has captured that little boy of yours by now, my lord. They should be here any moment." The tall man smiled chillingly.
Legolas made no response to the man that Estel could hear but the boy noticed that Legolas's back had stiffened considerably. The boy tried to reach across their bond but found it firmly blocked from Legolas's end. Estel doubted that Legolas had even realized that he was there.
"Saruman has looked long and hard for you across all of Middle-earth. He will be so pleased when he finally lays eyes on you and your charge – bound and at his abject mercy. I am sure that I will be generously rewarded for all my trials." The tall man smirked and moved closer to the elf. "You have failed to keep him safe, my lord. I trust you will always remember that. Though," the tall man bent his head to study his fingernails. "With what my lord has planned for you two, I doubt you will have time to mourn for long."
"You will never take him." Legolas's voice seemed harsher then was normal and his hands twisted in the rope. "I have sent him to the town. The townspeople will not give him up to you. You have failed."
An ugly sneer twisted the man's face and he drew his fist back. Legolas tried to dodge but his hands were tied – and the men holding him were strong.
Estel almost shrieked when the fist connected with Legolas's face and a spray of blood went up in the air. The boy jammed his own fist in his mouth and gnawed on his still numb knuckles as his eyes filled with tears.
With his eyes squeezed shut, Estel did not see the second punch but he heard skin meet skin and the harsh grunt the tall man made when he connected. Tears stung at the back of his eye lids and his fingernails dug blood from his palm.
And he knew that Legolas wanted him to flee to the safety of the town. He knew that he was too small to go up against three full-grown men with only a small knife – he would lose. He knew and his mind urged him to follow Legolas's instructions – surely the elf knew what was best.
But he also knew that he could never just abandon Legolas to the mercy of these men. He could never stand by and allow Legolas to be hurt.
So Estel brushed the tears from his eyes and felt the smooth handle of the knife on the inside of his fist. His trembling muscles calmed and he straightened slightly. And when the next punch slammed into the elf's stomach and Legolas doubled over, gasping for his lost wind, Estel lunged from his hiding place and threw himself at the back of one of men holding Legolas.
Surprise was on Estel's side and he managed to sink the blade into the man's lower back before the man reacted with a yowl as he tumbled to the ground, hands grappling uselessly for the small boy.
Estel hardly noticed the spray of blood that came with the knife when he yanked it out of the man's back. As he felt another set of hands enclose about him, cruelly biting into his muscle, he saw the crystal blue eyes of Legolas – widened in absolute fear and horror. Wrenching one arm free of the man's grip for a moment, he threw the knife through the air – hoping that somehow Legolas would catch it.
Then he knew nothing as he was thrown across the room like an errant puppy. His head slammed into the thick, wooden wall and his vision hazed yellow. He could not seem to find the will – or the strength – to rise from where he had crumpled at the base of the wall.
The only thing that seemed to be functioning properly was his ears – and he heard clearly sounds of flesh hitting flesh and groans of hurting men. Through the complete yellowy haze that had become his sight, he saw Legolas using his discarded knife to fend off the tall man – even though the elf's hands were still bound.
Deep nausea swept over the boy and Estel groaned, turning his face to the coolness of the plank floor. There was a terrible pain in his ribs and he experimentally drew a deep breath. Sharp pangs of agony engulfed his fragile psyche and he fell into waiting darkness.
It could have been seconds – could have been minutes or hours – Estel had no way of telling. Time was non-existent in the dark void he had been cast into by the tight pain – forever seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. But, nonetheless, he was grateful when slivers of light shot through the empty blackness and the soft rumble of Legolas's voice reached his ears.
His mouth felt incredibly heavy and he twisted his head to smell the clean, woodsy scent that had always signified Legolas. "Mhm," he mumbled, slowly dragging his eyes open. "Legolas…"
There was a sharp intake of breath and a gentle hand was touching his brow, smoothing his hair, and caressing his cheeks.
"Ai, Valar," Legolas murmured in his ear, his voice catching just a little as if tears were rising in his throat to speedily for him to quell in a moment. "You are awake. I – I was afraid."
Blond hair and fair skin blurred into an indistinct muddle and Estel frowned. He was dimly aware of being cradled in strong arms and a firm hand supporting the back of his head, which was good – his brain felt impossibly heavy and Estel did not think he could have held it up on his own. "What…"
"Shush." A finger was gently laid against his unwieldy lips. "Lay still. There is nasty bump on your head and I think you cracked your ribs."
So that explained the sharp pain when he took a breath. Thoughts tumbled incoherently and Estel reached up to grasp Legolas's hand. Scarlet joined the mix of pastels that had become Legolas. "You… hurt…"
The hesitation after his whisper made Estel's heart jump.
"I am fine," and the elf's voice was as soft and tender as the hand smoothing Estel's dark brown hair. "Just a scratch." There was the sound of material shifting and then a smooth, rounded cup was held to Estel's mouth and cool water lapped against his closed lips. "Here – drink."
Water dissolved the sawdust binding Estel's tongue and he choked slightly as the water cleaned his throat. The coolness of the liquid caused the mist settled over his thoughts to thin and vanish. Memories came into sharp remembrance and Estel jerked in Legolas's arms. His panicked, gray eyes scanned the room beyond Legolas's shoulder – three bodies, all lying dreadfully still.
"They are dead," Legolas murmured in a steely voice, his grip marginally tightening around Estel's shoulders. "Do not concern yourself over it. Everything will be fine."
"You…you…" Estel shook. Someone must have left the door open, he thought.That would explain the chill permeating the air. He shuddered again and drew closer to the warmth of the link with Legolas.
Giant walls still hung between them – blocking their bond – but when Estel's gentle consciousness nudged against them – the barriers dissolved and the boy was immersed in Legolas's warmth and comfort. He sighed in relief as he felt healing energy stream over the bond, vanquishing the aches and pains that had been tormenting his body since his collision with the wall.
Estel snuffled and buried his head in Legolas's chest – indefinable emotions corkscrewing through his brain. "You killed them… I… I killed them." Tears began to flow then and he clutched at the blue tunic. When he could not hold back the sobs any longer, he muffled his cries in the strong chest.
Legolas's hands stilled for a moment then they resumed stroking Estel's hair. His lilting voice murmured soft, comforting words that made his chest rumble against the boy's forehead. When Estel's cries had finally quieted, the elf lifted him from the floor like an eagle taking her child under her wing.
Strong hands snuggled him into his bed and a soft hand brushed at the dark strands that were falling into his eyes. Sleep swam at the edges of Estel's consciousness and his eyes stung with unshed tears.
Soft lips pressed a kiss to his forehead and then Estel heard a soft exhale as Legolas had set all of his worries free in that single breath. The air moved slightly as Legolas stood up to his full height.
"Some things," said Legolas quietly – his voice hoarse and low, "are worth killing for – are worth dying for."
And when Estel woke up several hours later, the bodies were gone and Legolas was cooking dinner.
The Golden Hall of Edoras was strewn with the best of the young Rohirrim men and women. Young, strong bodies in various states of undress were lounging about the stone floor. Golden skin offset by blond hair shone in the candlelight and silver chains twinkled between nubile breast and bronzed chests.
Thengel, prince of Rohan, kept his stone blue eyes straight ahead – fixed on an elegant tapestry hanging behind the throne. He imagined he could see each individual thread in the tapestry – he imagined that there was not a naked, virile young man draped in an alluring fashion across his father's lap – he imagined that the King of Rohan was not currently fondling said young man with decidedly unsavory intentions. He bit his inner cheek until metallic blood oozed onto his tongue – he imagined that there was nothing but the pain in his mouth.
Directly in front of him, the crier looked just to be just about as uncomfortable as the crown prince – hands nervously fumbling with the long scroll he held against his abdomen. He drew himself to his full height and fixed his eyes on the ceiling – his scarlet clad chest was puffed outwards and the buttons showed off their polish. "His highness – the prince of Rohan – Thengel, son of Fengel – and the Lord of the plains has arrived in the Golden Hall." He ended his speech with a flourishing bow then speedily disappeared into the shadows of the pillars.
Fengel raised languid blue eyes to study his son while his hand continued to stroke the tawny skin stretched over his lap – over the pectoral muscles and the passed the defined abdomen – venturing lower than Thengel cared to see. "So, my no good son returns from his duties as consort to the Gondorian pigs. Tell me, is Turgon as well-endowed as he appears?"
"Do not say such things." Thengel took two steps forwards and brushed the away the pale wandering hands of a slender female. "The good Steward has more nobility then you will ever hope to obtain."
The king of Rohan laughed and the strange noise echoed against the wooden pillars. He roughly shoved the young man from his lap – much to Thengel abject relief – and stood to his feet. Wavering jerkily for a few moments, he staggered forwards and clutched at his son's tunic. "Why have you come here, hm? Waiting for me to die so you can take the throne?"
"Saruman seeks to come against Rohan," Thengel leaned away from the rich, wine-scented breath that blew across his face like a hellish wind. "Our defenses must be strengthened quickly or he will take us. He will destroy us."
"Saruman?" Fengel shoved outwards causing his son to stumble away. "He is nothing but a cheap conjurer. He can have no victory over our mighty army." The king flung his arm outwards and was met by the cheers of his consorts – the sound of jackals admiring their prey.
"No! He is strong. He breeds an army in the depths of Isengard. An army that will destroy us!" Thengel started after his father, one hand stretched out beseechingly to the king's back. He must make his father understand. He must get through the lustful haze and show his father that…
"If you insist." His father turned drunkenly, his arms outstretched to maintain his precarious balance. "If you insist on ruining the mood of my fine hall – I suggest you take your doomsday predictions elsewhere. If you are right... who cares? Let us eat drink and be merry – for tomorrow we die." He raised the wineglass that had appeared in his hand and golden fluid jostled over the rim.
The consorts laughed and cheered their agreement as their jewelry jangled.
Thengel just shook his head. "Please, Father, if you would just take a moment to listen – I know you would see the importance…"
"Be silent!" Fengel's eyes blazed. "I will not have you enter my court and darken my lively pets with your warmongering. Be gone!"
"But, Father…"
"Go! Or I will have the guards drag you."
Thengel sketched a sharp bow to his father's back. His face was tightly closed and his eyes were hard and cutting – like a perfectly formed diamond. "As you wish, my lord," and his voice was caustic with bitterness.
Rowdy laughter followed his departure and Thengel was grateful when the thick wooden door swung shut and cut off the noise. He paused for a moment, his nostrils flaring like a well-bred stallion. When his temper had been checked and serenity had been returned to his eyes, the prince turned to his manservant.
"Send a message," he murmured as they walked down the hall, "to the Steward of Gondor. Tell him my father refuses to heed my council. Other measures will need to be taken if Rohan is to survive."
"Yes, my lord."
Saruman drew his smooth staff close to his breast and his dark eyes froze over. "They are all dead?"
The man before him quailed in terror at the viciousness lingering just under the wizard's placid features. "I – I assume so. None of them returned… it has been weeks since they last sent word. We can only guess that the elf disposed of them…"
"I do not want guesses!" The staff pounded the marble floor. "I want facts. Give me facts or leave my sight."
Underneath the power of the wizard's gaze, the man shrunk in on himself. His body bobbed with his hasty ablutions. "I assure you, o great one, soon we will have them. They cannot avoid us forever."
"No? But the elf has disposed of all of best bounty hunters in Middle-earth. He seems to be doing an excellent job of avoiding you." Saruman sneered in derision and spun around, his gaze settling on the covered palantir only a few steps away. "Men are weak, sniveling cowards. Nothing more."
"We have reason to believe, my lord, that this last man got closer to the elf than any before him. On his last missive, he had a fair idea of where the elf was holed up. He must have gotten awfully close…"
"Leave my sight at once!"
With another deep bow and an apprehensive glance at the angry Maia, the man scurried away, his footsteps shuffling against the slick floor. The door shut with a muffled boom behind him
Saruman turned his face to the dirtied window that broke the black monotony of Orthanc's walls. Weary sunlight filtered through and he could make out the vaguest outline of the green trees in Fangorn Forest.
Within a week, Rohan would fall to his troops. That languorous King Fengel did not have a breath of a chance. Then Saruman would be free to begin his crusade against Gondor – perhaps that would provide more of a challenge for his armies. But Gondor would fall eventually.
And, then, the elves would stand alone. If they did not flee over the sea like the cowards they were – Saruman would crush them.
There was only one thing that would stand in his way…
Saruman's fist clenched around his staff until his knuckles turned a yellowish white. Legolas could not hide that boy for long. The wizard would not allow it. Drastic measures would have to be taken now. Legolas could not be allowed to interfere with his plans.
He ripped the cloth covering from the palantir and focused his will upon the seeing-stone. Within moments, the flame-wreathed eye appeared and Sauron's voice echoed within his mind.
What does my servant wish for?
The Wizard smiled. I would ask my lord Sauron to release the Nine from Mordor so that they might capture Isildur's heir and kill the elf. Once that is done, he will be delivered into our hands at last. His soul will be bent to our whims.
Flames sparked from depths of the black eye. Your request is granted, the Nine will ride again. And the palantir was dark once more.
Saruman covered the stone carefully and turned once more to the window. His teeth barred in a menacing grin – like a starving tiger when it has come upon a wounded gazelle.
That poor, deluded, exiled king of Greenwood… Did Legolas truly hope to stand up to the combined might of Saruman and Sauron? Did the elf think he could save Isuldir's heir from their long grasp?
Sunlight faded behind a cloud and the chamber grew dark.
The winds of fate blew with Saruman's will.
To be continued…