THE PALANTIR
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: We own none of the characters in this fic (except Legolas –
he's mine! ALL MINE! Mwhahahahaha….. OK kidding). They belong to
Tolkien. Tolkien is god. Bow before Tolkien. *Bows*
A/N : 'The Palantir' written by Shir'ann. Original ideas and copyright, Kyrri and Shir'ann.
Once again, A/L slash (don't ya just love it?) so be warned if you're not into that
sort of thing. Please review – flames will be used to cook orcs with.
Summary: What if Legolas had taken the Palantir and not Pippin?
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PART 1
Aragorn stood to the shadows, cunningly hidden in the dark's embrace. The night was black; starless and quiet around him, wrapping him in a cold, unfeeling embrace. All around him, the rhythmic breathing of sleeping forms dotted around the clearing sounded; some close together in a small bundle of warmth and companionship – Merry and Pippin lay nearly entwined protectively in each other's arms – while others sought more solitude and wrapped themselves in warm blankets and cloaks – Boromir and Gimli lay far apart, each with weapons clutched close at hand – and others, while still apart, remained protective and ever watchful – Gandalf, who lay holding the fallen Palantir between his arms, facing the rest of the gathered Fellowship – and then there was the solitary form near the trees; always single, never far from the favoured longbow and arrows, and always steeped in a certain mystery that was appealing in its innocence even for the Man who had known the likes all his life, having been brought up by Elves. Aragorn glanced over to where the Elf lay, expecting to see the familiar blond head that was the object of many musings on cold nights of eventless watches. Instead, Aragorn found there an empty blanket and abandoned bow, arrows and knives. The Man cast his gaze about wildly, searching the clearing for the missing Elf. There! Legolas kneeled silently over Gandalf's prone form. How had he gotten there without the Man's keen eyes seeing him? Aragorn rubbed his tired brow, berating himself for keeping such poor watch. And what if it was an Orc and not Legolas kneeling now over the Wizard? Would you fail him once again, poor excuse for a Ranger?
Aragorn raised his eyes to the still-kneeling Elf. Only then did he notice Legolas reaching down to gently lift an object from Gandalf's arms. With the light grace of his people, he rose and silently backed away, keeping an eye on the prone form of the wizard while victory shone in his face. Aragorn frowned. This did not bid well at all. He watched as the Elf turned and quietly disappeared into the woods, clutching his prize tightly in his arms. The small, material-wrapped bundle fitted neatly into the crook of one arm, and lightly caressing it with his free hand, the Elf darted away from the clearing. Aragorn turned fast and followed, hard put to keep the Elf's pace but managing none the less.
Finally the Elf halted in a small clearing next to a tinkling stream deep into the forest. The moonlight seemed to gather around him and reflect off his pale skin as Aragorn saw him crouch, placing the wrapped bundle on the forest floor before him. With a shock, the Ranger saw at last the object of Legolas' sudden affections. The Palantir. Confusion and suspicion immediately clouded his mind. What could the Elf want with an object so foul?
Aragorn could wait no longer. He strode between the trees until he was next to the tall oak Legolas was sitting under. Leaning against it, crossing his arms and feet, the Ranger tried to appear calm and self-assured while his heart pounded in his chest and a thousand questions threatened to overwhelm him.
Legolas' hand was paused above the wrapped Palantir; he seemed almost afraid to touch it, yet a longing more imminent than any doubt shone in his face, and Aragorn could guess which emotion would win.
"So at last the thief is caught."
His words sounded strange to him, almost leering and condescending; he yelled at himself mentally that that was no way to treat the Elf. But still they came, those traitorous syllables that hurt him more than helped him judge fairly that which deserved fair trial.
"Red-handed." He could feel his eyebrows draw up in an enquiring manner, asking – no, commanding – the Elf to explain his actions immediately. Legolas looked up at him. To the Ranger's surprise, tears glistened in clear blue eyes; a measure of pain written across the delicate features and high cheekbones that Aragorn had never before thought anyone capable of.
"Is that all I am to you?" Legolas' voice was soft and trembled slightly, threatening to break into uncalled-for cries. "A mere thief?"
Aragorn could not open his mouth. His words caught in his throat and barred all rational thought when the Elf gracefully rose from his crouch, bearing the Palantir.
"Well, let me tell you something, Ranger –" the emphasis on the last word was as a hooked barb in Aragorn's mind; it sounded so harsh, so unforgiving, so hurt. Legolas walked over to him and verily threw the round stone into the Ranger's open hands, before lifting his piercing gaze to Aragorn's grey eyes.
" – it is you who are the thief,"
Legolas placed a hand on the side of Aragorn's face, caressing the rough edges of his cheekbone with fingers of silk, before leaning in until his face almost touched the Ranger's.
"For you have stolen my heart."
With that he was gone, Aragorn knew not how or where, and he was left standing, one hand clutching the Palantir and the other tightly clamped over the side of his face.
To Be Continued . . .