This is my first attempt at fanfic. I was inspired by all the stuff I have read here! I started this story after FotR came out, and now I'm continuing it again. I am much more confident this time 'round, and I even have the ending worked out! There is no slash here as yet, but if/when there is, I will let you all know very clearly. I am not very good with LotR trivia, but for the purposes of my story, it is after the deaths of Merry and Pippin, and Legolas is the last Elf left on Middle Earth.
Dreams of Legolas
It was always dark when the dreams came. On moonless nights, Aragorn son of Arathorn felt the light of the stars go out. He lit plenty of candles, throughout the palace and in his own chambers, but it was if he had suddenly become blind. Blackness pressed against his wide-open eyes, and darkness lay heavy on his heart. He was alone. Aragorn could not bear to have another see him in the grip of these dreams, not even his once-Elven wife.
They were beginning. Seated cross-legged on the bed, Aragorn's heart began to pound. His breathing grew frantic. His muscles cramped into hard knots of pain. The sound of the blood roaring in his head blocked out all other noise. Sweat beaded on his forehead to slide unheeded into his open, unseeing eyes.
BLOOD.
The voice in his head was liquid and hoarse all at once.
I WANT A SACRIFICE.
Images, then, that flickered through his mind so quickly that he did not have the time to register each on before it was replaced by another. His subconscious caught them all, however. Legolas, cold on a bier. Legolas, the smooth skin of his throat marred by the sticky red-black blood that oozed from a terrible gash. Legolas, staked to the ground with a thin, treacherous blade through his heart.
THE LAST LIVING ELF SHALL LIVE NO MORE.
No! screamed Aragorn's mind. His protest was cut cleanly off, as if a door had been slammed shut on them. More images rushed in, and like a drowning man, Aragorn was powerless against the waves. Terror. Pain. Torture. Guilt. Betrayal. Dread. These visions were agonizingly slow. A small part of his mind continued to echo 'no! no! no!' but it seemed to Aragorn that he no longer knew what it was that he was protesting against. His thoughts were no longer his own, and all that existed was terror.
THAT WAY LIES MADNESS.
The voice reproached his attempts of denial. The visions faded slowly, almost gently, into entombing darkness.
YOU ARE THE KEY.
There was light, then, a molten fire of white which engulfed Aragorn's vision. The brightness grew into pain that bordered on unbearable before it suddenly vanished. But in the after-image, Aragorn fancied that he could see the face of Legolas, contorted in rage, terror and agony.
*****
Aragorn awoke, his body slick with sweat. He was still seated cross-legged on the bed. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes, and waves of nausea washed over him. He retched painfully, bringing up bile. Gasping for breath, he ran a trembling hand across his eyes.
Each of the candles he had lit the night before had gone out. They always did, during these dreams, but Aragorn lit them all the same. He did not think he could face complete darkness, whether he could see the candles burning or not.
He never remembered what it was he dreamed of. Only an un-named fear and the after-sickness of the dreams remained. Sometimes, fleeting images came to him, of hobbits, and Gandalf the Grey, of Gimli the dwarf. Of an Elf, lithe, graceful, beautiful - of Legolas. Aragorn shook his head. Frodo and Gandalf and Sam had long left for the West. Pippin and Merry, always the young and mischievous pair in his memory, had succumbed at last to the fate of mortals. He, Gimli and Legolas were the last of the Fellowship. Yet he was busy with the duties of a king, and Gimli and Legolas travelled widely over Middle Earth, often to lands too distant for communication.
With belated relief, Aragorn saw that it was dawn in the Eastern sky. A faint wash of grey had replaced the oppressive black. Slowly, unsteadily, he began to wash and dress himself. By the time Aragorn buckled Anduril to his side, he was once again the impassive, controlled King. Only the slightest sign of hesitation in those marble-grey eyes betrayed him.
*****
Aragorn was seated on the High Throne as the court of Gondor assembled around him. He was not interested, though. His thoughts were turned inwards, and his gaze on his subjects was unblinking. Aragorn felt as if he was seeing through a curtain of black light. And woven through their voices was an unrelenting roar, like the sound of merciless waves.
The dreams came more often now, and not only at the dark of night. Truth to tell, Aragorn could scarce tell when he was dreaming and when he was waking anymore. The same voice, declaiming the same words, gave him no peace. He still could not make out the images, but a grave fear grew in his heart for the safety of Legolas.
He had not seen the Elf in over a decade, and only infrequently since his marriage to Arwen. Aragorn closed his eyes and smiled as he recalled thoughts of Legolas. His slender, yet strong hands drawing his bow, the light that shone unquenchable from him, and the richness of his voice raised in Elven song were sorely missed by Aragorn. A quiet contentment grew in Aragorn as his thoughts turned fully to the Elf. Aragorn remembered his clear grey eyes, bright with the innocence of youth and ancient with the wisdom of millennia. His fingers remembered the incredible silkiness of those strands of silver-blonde hair, and the unflawed smoothness of Elven skin.
When he thought of Legolas, it seemed to Aragorn that the darkness over his vision and the roaring voice in his head troubled him less. Yet, he could not shake the feeling that his old friend was being threatened by something deep and terrible. The dreams had made what rest Aragorn could get brief and unsatisfying, and he had not slept for four nights. His instincts screamed of danger, but his exhausted senses fumbled unsuccessfully with the idea. The memories of Legolas, however, shielded him temporarily with a glowing brightness, and the weary King was lulled into sleep by memories of happier times.
*****
My heart aches to see him so. What is this torment that weighs upon him, that he will not lighten by sharing with me? He thinks to hide it, with dismissing remarks and increasing distance from me. From us all. He no longer shares my bed, but sleeps alone in the royal chambers. He bids us good night early, and does not join us again until nearly noon. Yet it is plain to see that he is getting no rest. His face is grey and haggard. Often he sits, as if blind and deaf, for hours, lost in his own thoughts.
Is this the curse of men? Does age, stealthy and treacherous, stalk this love of mine? Then my heart does not just ache, it trembles with the very fear of the earth. There is no cure for old age, no Elven remedy to relieve his suffering. After all the battles, the dangers and the quests that he has been through, will fate decree that it will be Age that brings this warrior king to his knees? Oh, Aragorn, Aragorn. The gap between life and death is vast indeed for me, who has grown and lived with the promise of eternity before her. I am not afraid of death, only of the terrible, aching loneliness of not knowing your arms around me, of not feeling your soft breath in my hair. Stay a little, Aragorn, I pray. I could not bear losing you just yet.
And yet I feel him slipping further from me with every setting of the sun. He is more removed, more distant. I could almost hope it was illness, that could come, and be suffered, and be cured. But Aragorn is seldom ill, and treats himself speedily and well when he is, so that he is never burdened by it. Never have I seen him like this. There is a strangeness to him, a reluctance to be touched and to be with people. He does not seem himself. No, rather it is as if some great darkness has claimed him for its own, robbing him of strength and will.
I fear this darkness is the curse of mortals.
*****
Aragorn felt disorientation when he woke, and the warmth of another hand in his own. Almost, he whispered another name, but then his eyes opened to catch the beautiful form of Arwen sitting by him.
"Arwen," he sighed. He thought that her lips trembled just a bit, as she smiled down at him.
"How are you, my lord?" she asked. There was such sadness and such hope in her eyes. That confused him.
"Rested," he answered truthfully, for his dreams had not been dark and sinister, but filled with light and laughter, and the singing of an old friend.
"That is well, then," Arwen replied gravely. "You have seemed much wearied and unlike yourself these past few months."
Aragorn, troubled, did not answer. Arwen knew these moods of her husband, and did not press him further. Furthermore, her heart dreaded the answer she might hear. Time, Arwen, catches up with all mortals. He did not speak these words, but she looked upon his face and knew them to be true. They sat together, hand in hand, while the afternoon light, the colour of tea, washed over them both. Arwen was illuminated by it, and it seemed to Aragorn that even without her Elven light, his wife was lit by a joyous glow. For it was true that Arwen was not yet weary of life, mortal life though it might now be for her. But her heart faltered when she saw the scattering of silver in the dark strands of her husband's hair, and the few lines etched deep upon his brow.
"It is late afternoon," said Aragorn suddenly, with some surprise.
"Yes," replied Arwen. "You fell asleep at the council, and I had you moved to our chambers."
Looking around, Aragorn realised that indeed he was in the chambers that he had once shared with Arwen, before the terror of the dreams had driven him away.
Arwen looked intently at him as he struggled to place his thoughts.
"Aragorn," she said, then. "Are you well, my love?"
He turned away then, but she reached up with her free hand to cup his chin. She brought his face around, so that grey eyes met grey eyes, and there was no distance between them.
Aragorn fought to remain unmoved. There was too much that he did not understand, too many emotions and fears brought by the dreams. He did not want to infect Arwen with his unease. He drew down the mask which he had been forging for over two centuries, a mask of control and strength and impassiveness that he wore more comfortably than he did his true expressions.
Arwen, however, knew Aragorn as she knew the trees and the wind and the earth. He was part of her, as the moon was part of the night. She saw through his mask as easily as through a paper lantern, and she felt despair.
"I feel a darkness riding on the wind," he confessed, slowly, then. "But I think my senses deceive me, for I am the only one who does. Perhaps it is just my darkness that is being foretold. It is as if the light in the world is forsaking me, and all has turned to dark."
"I will always be the moon in your night, my love. Never fear the darkness when I am here," whispered Arwen, and she put her arms around him and held him fast in her embrace.
Aragorn did not tell her that it was the moonless nights that he feared most.
*****
That night Aragorn was again untroubled by dreams, yet sleep eluded him. His rest earlier that day had done much to refresh him, and his thoughts were clearer than they had been for a long time. Moonlight fell on the sleeping form of Arwen, as he paced the room. Her eyes were closed in sleep, now that she could no longer walk the paths of Elven dreams. There was only one Elf left on Middle Earth who had the power of old.
Legolas. It seemed to Aragorn that his friend was connected to the dreams that were haunting him, but he could not see how. He tried thinking back over the last months, but found them blurred, as if nothing but a half-forgotten memory. Legolas. There was something about Legolas….
Aragorn shook his head in frustration. The chambers, although the largest in the palace, seemed confining to his restless spirit. He paced a minute longer, before resolve gripped him and he headed for the door. It was made of sturdy oak, bound in steel bands and etched with Elven blessings. Aragorn had made sure that it opened outwards from the room, so that if force was applied from the outside, it would work against the movement of the doors. He had also endeavoured to keep it well oiled, but recently, such things as the oiling of a door might slip his mind. So it creaked as he opened it, despite his silent curses.
The lone guard gave Aragorn a slight nod as he passed. The people of the castle were well used to their king wandering the halls at night, unable to sleep or working at one of the seemingly constant problems wich cropped up within a kingship. The room he sought was just beneath the roof. Its ceiling slanted, but did not leak. Aragorn was the only one who came here still – Arwen refused to come near it, and none other had the privelege.
The room was twenty-five strides from one end of the room to the other – Aragorn had paced it countless times. Despite its size, the room was unfurnished but for an undecorated chair and a plain table.
Aragorn was beside it in an instant, hands hovering over the lone object that rested on the table. A black orb, two handspans in diameter, crackled as if lightning originated from within.
The Palantir. Mastered by Aragorn at the fall of Saruman, it had given him counsel over the years which had allowed him to remain atop of the problems and enemies which faced Gondor. He hoped its counsel would serve him now.
FIRE.
BLOOD.
SACRIFICE.
Aragorn started as the words filled his mind. They seemed familiar. The sense of darkness and threat grew upon him again, stronger than ever before, as he thought of his friend. His instincts sensed that it was not him, but Legolas, that was in danger from this darkness.
Legolas must flee, his instincts told him. It is no longer safe to be an Elf on Middle Earth. He must seek refuge in the West without delay!
Aragorn's mind reeled. He trusted his instincts more than reason or thought, honed as they were from his years in the Wild. They had saved his life more than once.
"I will send Legolas a message," he said aloud, "and tell him of these dreams of mine. For I sense now that a terrible darkness will befall him and the world, should he not join the other Elves in the West."
Yet Aragorn could not but feel a tearing agony in his heart, as he contemplated the idea of never seeing Legolas again. The same curtain of darkness fell once again over his eyes, and a softer, yet no less insistent voice filled his mind.
SUMMON THE ELF.
Aragorn sighed wearily. That was a good idea. He should send for Legolas, so that his message could be delivered personally. And he could not bear to have Legolas leave without the chance of bidding him farewell.
"Caruon!" he commanded softly to the servant standing to attention outside the door. "I want this message delivered to Legolas Greenleaf, last of the Elves on Middle Earth."
*****