Disclaimer: The Lord of The Rings belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien. Not to me! ::Gasp:: ::Cries::
"ARAGORN!" Gimli roared as the ranger crumpled to the ground, his face contorted with intense pain. But before the dwarf could even reach the man, rough orc hands seized him off the ground, and out of the corner of his eye, Gimli saw Aragorn being lifted off the ground by a huge orc.
Legolas fought furiously to defend himself and the two of his friends, though he knew it was no use. Soon he would be captured by Sauron's forces and they would perish in their valiant attempt to distract the Dark Lord while the Ringbearer continued with his quest to destroy the One Ring. Whirling around, Legolas caught sight of Gimli's face stricken with panic, and he shouted, "Gimli! Aragorn!" But Aragorn, unconscious and lying in the enemy's arms, could do nothing and neither could Gimli.
Fearlessly Legolas sprang forward and whipped out an arrow from his quiver. Then sitting it in his bow with lightning speed, he aimed it at Gimli's captor. But before the elf could shoot, Gimli shouted, "Legolas! Behind you!" It was too late, however, and a searing flash of pain on his arm exploded like a gunshot throughout his whole body. Legolas felt someone take his arm and twist it excruciatingly. With failing strength Legolas drew out his long dagger, but even as he did so he felt his knees buckle.
There came a shout- then a grey object whizzed through the air, and there came a loud shriek. Gimli's aim had been true, and his axe had sliced the orc's head off cleanly. Legolas felt the slimy grip on his arm loosen, and he sprang away from the dead creature. By now, the orcs carrying Aragorn and Gimli were running fast back to the Black Gates, and almost all the orcs were advancing towards Legolas. Legolas ran a few paces forward, ignoring the burning throb in his arm. "Gimli! Aragorn!" he called out hoarsely again. But by now they were almost at the Gates. Then Legolas heard it- faint at first, but still distinguishable. Gimli was shouting something.
"Rivendell! Elrond! Help!"
These three words seemed to fill Legolas with an invincible strength, and his arrows flew all across the field, and his long dagger flashed threateningly. At last the rest of the orcs had been wiped out by the elf, and he stood alone on the battlefield panting, gasping for air.
From deep inside the bowels of Mordor there sounded a horn, a long, solitary note that held in the air. Legolas raised his head, as a rumbling sound grew louder. Then, turning his back to Mordor, he fled. Half stumbling, half staggering, Legolas made his way into the green forests that swallowed him up in all their verdant glory.
~*~
For days and weeks Legolas travelled through the thicket, until he came to the top of a mountain. Legolas' arm he bound up himself, and now as he stared out from the top of the mountain with one slender hand shading his bright Elvish eyes, Legolas could see blankets of white mist drifting serenely about the rocky mountains, and down below he could just make out the tips of Homely Houses in the secret valley of Rivendell.
"At last, I have reached my destination," Legolas muttered to himself. He was weaker now, much weaker and did not have the strength left to make it down the steep and gravelly path along the mountain that led to Rivendell. It seemed eternity before Legolas found himself facing the first house in Rivendell. It was painted a cheery peachy pink, but no one seemed home. In fact, the streets of Rivendell were bare of elves, and the whole town seemed deserted. Somehow Legolas managed to stumble along the streets until he came to the Last Homely House.
Then taking a deep shuddering breath, Legolas collapsed onto the marble floor in a sheltered pavilion that stood beside the home of Elrond.
~*~
Arwen stepped out of the Last Homely House, and strolled along the terraces of Rivendell, letting the gentle flowing of the water from the river soothe her frazzled nerves. The Elven Princess's sinuous blue mantle that clung to the curves of her body blew about in the breeze, and her dark hair blew about in the wind.
And now Arwen's thoughts were not in Rivendell, but far away in Mordor. She feared for Aragorn, for his safety. What if he never made it back to Rivendell? Her thoughts ceased abruptly when a figure crumpled on the floor in the White Pavilion caught her eye.
Arwen crept towards the figure. Now that she could see the pale tips of the figure's pointed ears peeking out from beneath a glorious mane of gold hair as brilliant as the sun, she was sure it was an elf. It seemed unconscious, lying on the stone floor of the pavilion without moving. Arwen advanced cautiously towards the elf, her head craned forward to catch any sign of life that stirred within the sleeping form. Suddenly a gust of wind blew through the valley, and Arwen a glimpse of the elf's eyelids flutter.
It's alive! Arwen shivered slightly in the cold and with her suspicions fading like the sunset, rushed towards the limp figure. Picking the elf up with amazing strength, Arwen stared down at the elf's face, and gave a gasp. Bright elven eyes framed with slightly curled lashes had fluttered open and were gazing at her with awe. A quick glance over the elf told Arwen that he was suffering from no wound, merely fatigue and exhaustion. "Do not worry- you will be saved," she reassured the elf gently. He nodded as if he trusted her with all his soul. His eyes took one last, piercing, lingering look at Arwen, then his body went limp and he fell back in her arms.
Arwen carried the elf back into Elrond's home, and the elf quickly ordered a new clean room to be prepared for the weary traveller. Then Elrond lifted the unconscious elf from Arwen, and carried him off. Arwen watched as Elrond and the elf disappeared into the hall, the image of those arresting eyes still fresh in her mind.
Many hours passed, and the Elven princess spent her time sitting by the white marble benches along the lofty terraces where she could hear the now gentle trickling of water on stone. She stared off into space, thinking about the traveller's familiar face. Where had she seen him before? Then suddenly a stab of guilt penetrated into her heart, and Arwen tried hard to think of Aragorn instead. She tried to picture his silky brown hair and the strong curves of his face, but the image that kept coming into her mind was not that of Aragorn, but that of the elf she'd rescued.
Heart fluttering wildly, Arwen rose from the bench to see Elrond emerging from the Last Homely House. Arwen decided not to move, and waited for the older elf to make his way to his daughter. In no time he was by her side, but his eyes never rested on her. Finally Arwen could not contain herself, and she asked, "How is the elf?" Elrond's face relaxed into a soft smile, as if he knew she would ask him that. "He is resting, do not harass him with questions, he will answer them in his own time," he said, then turned and left with a swirl of his golden tunic.
Arwen was left alone to ponder the words that her father had said to her. Why would she want to harass the elf with questions? Did she know the elf, then? If she did, that would explain why he was so familiar… but who was he?
Curiosity tugged at the Elven princess, and finally she gave in to temptation. Turning around, Arwen headed back into the Last Homely House, the hem of her cloak swishing against the ground. Arwen managed to find the room in which the guest lay, and she opened the door carefully so as not to wake the sleeping elf.
His back was to her, and Arwen gazed intently at the gold mane spread out along the pillow. His chest rose and fell evenly, and Arwen could tell that he was sleeping peacefully. The beautiful Elven princess furrowed her dark eyebrows as she racked her brains, trying to find out who this elf was. Just as she turned to go, the elf in the bed tossed under the covers, and she caught another glimpse of his face.
It was fair, but worry and anxiety filled every part of it. Sweat trickled slowly down his forehead, and the elf whispered. His voice was filled with fear; such fear that it even made Arwen shiver. "Gimli…" he called. Arwen knew that evil dreams were dominating his sleep. But then the elf murmured something that made her breath catch in her throat. "Aragorn…" he called.
~*~
The world all around him was black…
It was endless…
It choked him…
No one in sight…
Only him…
Only him…
Was that a light? He struggled to sit up, tried to open his eyes. Yes, it was light! It was so bright.
Too bright…
Now something was blocking the light. It was a figure… short… with a long beard… Gimli! Was it Gimli? He tried to reach out a hand, but he could not touch the figure. "Gimli…" he tried calling out.
But Gimli was gone now. There was a tall figure in his place. Someone with long hair… and a gleaming sword at his side… it was Aragorn. He tried to open his eyes, but they were stuck fast. The figure was slowly vanishing. "Aragorn…" he called out listlessly.
Then something stayed. An equally tall figure, with the same pointed ears as him. Her dark hair billowed out behind her, and he felt a sense of calm settle over him like golden mist. He settled back down slowly, feeling tiredness creep back into his limbs. And he smiled, staring at the immensely beautiful face that beamed back at him.
"Save me…" he whispered.
~*~
Mordor lay silent in the dawn of the day, and in a tall tower far from where the Dark Lord Sauron was, Aragorn awoke to feel the rays of the rising sun all over his skin. He was lying on a soft, scratchy mattress of straw, and there was a tremendous throbbing in his abdomen where the orc had stabbed him, and Aragorn felt the numbing ache in his limbs. The ranger glanced down, almost afraid, at himself. He found that the injured part of his body had been wrapped up tightly with a white bandage that was now soaked with blood. His neatly folded up shirt lay on the floor next to him.
What is going on? Aragorn thought as he struggled to sit up, only to be forced back down by the excruciating pain that sliced through his body. Marvelling how he had somehow managed to survive the stab, Aragorn settled back down on the floor, breathing deeply. The air smelt stale here, as though it was air from a thousand years back, and Aragorn longed for the fresh air in the Elven city Rivendell. His eyes closed as he tried to recall the smell of Rivendell, the refreshing breezes tinged with the scent of pines…
Suddenly the ranger's eyes shot open, and memories of the battle at Mordor flooded back into his mind. He and his dwarf friend had been taken by Sauron's forces, and Legolas had escaped. But the last Aragorn had seen were the shocked faces of Gimli son of Gloin and Legolas of Mirkwood.
A soft click from behind made Aragorn struggle again to sit up and look around, but the person who came up from behind the ranger was neither orc nor enemy. It was Gimli, Aragorn's dwarf friend. "Gimli… what brings you here?" Aragorn's voice came out as barely a whisper. He managed to prop himself gently up with his elbows on the rough straw, and gazed at Gimli. The dwarf scurried over to the man, and pushed a cracked ceramic bowl into his hands. "Drink this, Aragorn. The orcs made it…"
Aragorn stared in disgust at the slimy black liquid that filled half of the bowl. It reeked, just like the barren wasteland of Mordor. "The orcs? Made… this?" he asked faintly. "Yes, I managed to trick their greedy minds into hiding us from Sauron and his Messenger," Gimli watched grimly as Aragorn brought the rim of the bowl to his lips. Before Aragorn even took a sip of it, Gimli shuddered and jumped up. "No… it's not safe," he muttered, took the bowl from Aragorn and cast it onto the wooden floor. The effect was immediate- both of them watched in shock as the black liquid ate up the wooden floor with a fizzle.
~*~
It was not quite dark yet. The two hobbits, Sam and Frodo, plodded along, on into the night. The hours passed by drearily, and at the first hint of grey light through the thick canopy of leaves, they felt their hearts lighten a little.
Sam and Frodo rested for a minute before walking along again, and this time they came out of the forest and found themselves in the middle of a wide dirty road. Before Frodo could get Sam and himself off the road and back into the forest to hide, both of them heard the sound that they had been secretly dreading- the noisy sound of marching feet. Looking back they could see the menacing twinkle of torches and the occasional grunt of an orc.
"Oh, Frodo Sir, where are we to hide?" Sam was desperate. The least both of them wanted was to get caught by orcs, and here they were, trapped with no possible means of escape.
"There's no way, Sam! Only if we could get to that rock face in time, we could hide in the dark shadows," Frodo glanced around wildly.
Both hobbits ran to the wall of rock and sat down beside each other under the shadow of the cliff. "Well, we can but wait and see," Sam muttered as he sank slowly down side the other hobbit.
They did not have to wait long. The leading orcs came first, traipsing wearily with their heads down. Frodo held his breath. Perhaps they would pass the both of them by. After the leading orcs came others of smaller and different breeds, being unwillingly sent to fight the Dark Lord Sauron's wars. Rounding up the smaller orcs were two fierce uruks with black whips. They were the slave-drivers, cracking and lashing their whips to spur the orcs on when they grew tired and stumbled. On they came, red flames in the dark, growing swiftly.
Sam bowed his head, hoping to hide it from the glare of the bright torches. Frodo followed his example, each trying hard not to look at the small army marching past.
Suddenly one of the slave-drivers spied them, and he cracked his whip at them. "You there! Get up! Back in line!" he shouted, cracking the whip once again. Frodo and Sam, with pounding hearts, scrambled to their feet, grateful for the heaving orc-armour (which they had stolen from Shagrat's tower).
"Come on, you slugs! This is no time for slouching!" the uruk called out once more. Frodo and Sam struggled to their feet, keeping bent. Limping like footsore soldiers, they made their way to the last line of small orcs. Behind that was the open road, and Sam gazed longingly back into the forest. "No! Not at the rear! Three files up! And stay there, or you'll get it when I come checking!" the slave-driver shouted, lashing his whip furiously. The hobbits scurried forward, and the company continued along at a brisk trot.
It was hard enough for Sam, who was dead tired. But for Frodo, this was a tormenting nightmare. He strained to carry on walking, gritting his teeth furiously. The stench of the sweating orcs all around them was stifling, but the hobbits could do nothing about it.
The slave-driver appeared only once after their encounter with him, but it was still even more terrible and exhausting. He flicked his whip between their legs, trying to make them trip and fall face down in the mud. But the hobbits bent their wills to draw their breath and keep their legs moving.
"There now!" he jeered, still flicking his whip at their legs. "Where there's a whip, there's a will, my slugs! Hold up! Don't you know we're at war?"
They had gone a few miles before Frodo's strength began to fail. Every few paces he lurched and stumbled, and Sam tried to hold him up, afraid that the salve-driver might notice both of them. Sam himself knew that we could hardly take one step further, but his loyalty to Frodo kept him going. At any moment he knew that the end would come; his master would trip and fall, and be discovered, and all their hard efforts would be in vain.
But unexpected relief came when the orcs caught sight of the gate to Udûn. Sam saw another company of orcs heading towards the gate too, and in the dark there was a great jostling and cursing as each troop tried to get first to the gate and the ending of their laborious march. The slave-drivers yelled and shouted, lashed and cracked their whips, but more scuffles broke out and orc blades were drawn.
Sam grasped quickly at his chance and threw himself close to the ground, pulling Frodo down with him, out of the confusion that was created. Orcs fell over them, snarling and hissing with rage. On hands and knees the two hobbits crawled away from the fighting orcs, until at last they dropped over the further edge of the road, where they were absolutely sure no one would notice them.
Sam and Frodo lay still for a while, trying to get their breath back. It was too dark to look for cover, but Sam felt that they should at least get away from the main road and beyond the reach of the watch-fires and torchlights on the wall.
" Come on, Mr. Frodo! Just one more step… then you can rest. Come on, Sir," he rasped to the other hobbit.
With bruised, bloodied and scratched hands, Frodo looked about as though in a stupor, raised himself and crawled for a few paces before dropping down onto the ground like a dead thing. Sam fell in place beside his master.
It would be a while before the two hobbits woke up.
~*~
She was still there, right in front of him…
Her smile was mesmerizing…
Her eyes twinkled brightly in the dark…
She seemed to be shrouded in silver misty light…
"Save me…" he whispered once again.
All she did was smile…
Then the dark and light both faded, blending quietly into nothingness.
~*~
Legolas of Mirkwood awoke to find himself lying on a soft bed. The first thing he did was to open his eyes, and when he did, he found himself face to face with the most stunning female elf he had ever seen.
Author's Note: Aahhh… ::sighs with relief:: another chapter is done! Hope you liked this one, and you see: Aragorn didn't die! Look out for the next chapter of Ethereal Winter, and thanks to everyone who reviewed!!