Under the Morning Moon
Chapter Seven: Ranger, Again
***
Trojan, the young guard of King Elessar's Palace, was not the most learned of lads he knew. Though, of course, he possessed the capabilities of common sense that came hand-in-hand with being a mighty combatant, he was not strong in the fields of astronomy, or of history. It was with pure luck he recalled the knowledge of his father-who had been smart-at the exact moment he pronounced the former words to his king. "The bearer of evil tidings is always the first available to question when the news is given; if you ever have to give evil tidings be sure you are not around for the aftermath."
Nodding respectfully, Trojan ducked away from his King, who stood upright with eyes wide in shock. Missing? Surely the lad had made an error. Or, perhaps, Legolas had stolen away in the night for a walk. But he had done that countless times before, and was never reported missing. What was it about this time that struck the guards as so different than the other times Legolas hadn't been in his rooms in the morning that they would have to actually label the situation?
Aragorn's feet found their way across the corridor dividing the chambers where his family dwelt, swept mindlessly up the flights of stairs as he felt himself walking with more speed, adrenaline urging him forwards with almost desperation. By the time he was on the fifth floor-three above where he swept, he had begun to sprint as he hadn't since the days of the Ring, blindly hurtling through the corridors. On the eighth floor, where Legolas' chambers lay, he skittered to a lurching halt, and practically threw himself against the mahogany of Legolas' chamber door.
Elessar Telcontar transformed, then. His eyes merged with the room, blended with his surroundings as he easily picked up each minute detail of the struggle that had ensued. While the Elf sat, unmoving, meditating perhaps, a heavy being had stole soundlessly through the window, and had hidden behind a canvas dressing blind until the elf had stepped into view. Then, the antagonist had sprung forward and in one motion caught Legolas in his arms, most likely cutting off any way for the elf to make a noise-else he would have, and Aragorn had heard none.
Something lay broken on the ground, shattered stone of the purest obsidian fletched with dark green. Narrowing his eyes, and warily taking a step forward, Aragorn could see that it was one of the many soapstone sculptures that Legolas had made in the solitude of his chambers when he was not otherwise occupied; hair clung, matted, to sodden blood stroked over the bottom of the now-broken idol, and Aragorn assumed that it had been used to strike the elf unconscious. The heels of Legolas' shoes had scuffed the floor from the spot where the statue lay to the windowseat, indicating that he had been dragged by the larger man. Aragorn rushed over to the still-open window and thrust his head into the warm air, noticing the coil of rope that lay forgotten at the foot of the tower, and the jumble of footprints. A man, who trod heavily due to the extra burden of a particular archer, had met up with another man at the foot of the tower, and the three had then left on two horses.
Dejectedly, Aragorn gathered up the broken statue from the floor, and held it against his breast as he stepped back out into the corridor. Arwen, who had been looking for her husband, rushed over and enveloped him in her slender arms. "I heard," she breathed, and buried her head into the crook of his neck. Pocketing the broken emblem, Aragorn wrapped his arms about the slight waist of his femme, and sank down to the ground with her, quivering with shock. You'll be a ranger yet, thought a dull voice at the back of his mind.
~*~
There had been a sheet of red hazing Legolas' vision, red that hung like a veil before his eyes and obscured the entire world with its bloody existence. The elf dismissed any possibilities or rubbing his eyes free of this unknown enemy-the moment he had awoken he had felt the coarse friction of hemp about his wrists and knew he was bound. He was also being tightly held around the chest by a burly arm, hunched forward on a gray horse that frantically galloped behind another that Legolas could hear, but not see.
Suddenly, a gruff voice behind Legolas-the voice that owned the arm that held him-called out. Legolas felt the distinct jerk of the man's body as he pulled at the reins of his ride, who whinnied and stopped, twisting to the side slightly. The horse tossed her head, sad hazel eyes regarding the two on her back quickly before looking towards the other horse.
"Scalath!" hissed a voice urgently, from the horse ahead. "We've arrived-is he awake?" Legolas allowed his eyes to glass, as though clouded by cataracts, obscuring his view of the world around even more than the bloody hue did.
How badly am I hurt? Legolas wondered. There was a thunderous pulsation, nonstoping and rhythmic, at the back of his head, most likely caused by the head injury that reddened his vision. Aside from that, he was unhurt-his wrists and ankles were chaffed by the rough ropes, but that would heal quickly.
"He is not," Scalath replied in a bitter hiss that made Legolas feel cold, for some reason. Involuntarily, he shuddered, hopefully imperceptibly. The vague motion went unnoticed by his captors. Legolas was lifted brutally off the horse and slung around Scalath's shoulders like one might put a rug they wanted to throw away; proudly grinning the pair of kidnappers walked into the forest towards their hidden fortress.
~*~
Eldarion looked around the lunch room, then pawed gently at his mother's nose from where he sat in her lap. "Momma," he whimpered, and cocked his tiny head to the side. "Momma, where's Legl's?"
"He's gone away, sweetheart," Arwen replied, coddling her son. Across from her, Gilraen's nanny Trisha looked up quickly before bowing her head back down to the child, murmuring something and offering Gilraen's stubborn lips a spoonful of something green and shapeless.
"Where's Master Greenleaf gone?" Trisha asked in a voice she hoped could be casual. Gilraen turned her head to the side, her lips forming a distinct arc of unhappiness.
"We don't know, Trisha," said Arwen delicately. Though Legolas had countless female worshippers who silently gaped at him from crowds when he allowed himself to be seen in them, Trisha was one who was particularly graced. She dwelt in his presence nearly daily, and her affection and lust for him had blossomed into something that the young lass thought to herself had to be love. She thought she did a good job of keeping her feelings obscured, but she always forgot that Arwen and Legolas were both of elven heritage and not that easy to fool.
How long ago had it been when Arwen and Legolas had last spoken of Trisha's desperation for the blonde? Why, not more than three nights prior to the one where Legolas had nailed Aragorn with a counting block, Legolas and Arwen had been particularly immersed in their conversation. Legolas knew of how Trisha felt, and did not want to hurt the girl, but could not bring himself to like her as anything more than a skilled nanny. Arwen had told him that to feign affections so as to not hurt the feelings of the one who you feign them for is hurting yourself too gravely for it to be worth the sacrifice. Then, Aragorn had walked in, more distressed than usual. Legolas has poured him a goblet of dry red wine, and Arwen had begun to baby him like she was so used to doing. The topic dropped away, forgotten.
"Oh.will he be back?" the nanny asked. Arwen stirred out of her trance of memories, and nodded slowly.
"Oh, yes," Arwen consoled Trisha gently. "Undoubtedly." Lightly, Arwen now-Telcontar bounced her child mirthlessly on her knee, and smiled despite the desperate gnawing at her stomach when the child shrieked out in joy, clapping his hands together, his missing Father-of-Heart forgotten.
~*~
By morning of the following day, the two kidnappers and their blonde prize finally reached a structure that, though it blended with the forest, looked startlingly unnatural. It was massive, stone and wood, wreathed in thistle. The pair's footfalls became more cautious-they stopped laughing and instead fell into a stony silence that disheartened the elf.
Earlier in the day, they had stopped to rest and given the elf a chance to nurse his head. The gash at the back was wide, but clotting. His hair was thick with blood at the back of his head, matted from where the head-wound had been bleeding more freely than it now did. Delicately, the elf ripped off the cuff of his leggings and fashioned a rough cover for the wound. Then, he frantically rubbed at his eyes to free them of the blood- red stain that had occupied his eyes.
He could see without obscurities now the fortress in the forest of which the two antagonists had made light talk during the day. Carefully, the second of the two who called himself Urag'kl, walked alongside the rim of thistle, carefully judging the point where it thinned the most.
"Here," he said gruffly, and easily jumped across the distance. Legolas next was forced across, followed by Scalath who held his elbows to prevent escape.
"Why have you taken me?" Legolas asked for the first time, looking up at the sheer unwavering height of his new prison, at last feeling the gnawing gloom that threatened to consume him as, yet again, things took a turn for the worse.
"Because you are the son of Thranduil," Urag'kl said easily, smiling at his own knowledge. Gravely, he pushed Legolas through a rough square archway into the threshold of the incarcerated city. Legolas glumly looked around at the gloom that was now his life, at the rough stone structures in which dwelt only more burly figures with rough knives. These are mountain men, Legolas realized with a start. He had heard stories of them, mostly of the kind that dwelt in huge stone fortresses atop the Misty Mountains. As a lad of no more than twenty he would continually try and convince his father that he had seen the folk, but of course never had.
Now, here they were, the Mountain Men of Gondor who dwelt at the foot the mighty mountain Mindolluin, and they had an elf in their custody; what's more, the son of the elf that had brutally taken their lands and caused the slaughter of their women, their children. Of course, Legolas knew none of this, as the voices around him breathily cackled in mirth, and as calloused hands stroked along his bare arms and led him towards the underground of their prison.
~*~
Aragorn stood and marveled at himself in the full-length mirror that Arwen had set out for him. Not Aragorn, he mused, rubbing his fingertips over the coarse stubble he had allowed to grow over his chin and cheeks. "Strider," said he aloud, letting the name roll from his tongue as easily as it once did. "Strider."
"Indeed you are, Old Friend," Faramir said. He tilted his head, offering the smallest uplift of his mouth, before laying a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "You will find your friend," he said vehemently.
"Keep my family safe. They may not understand," Aragorn said firmly. Faramir nodded dismissively.
"You know I'd give my life for them. Go!" Faramir said, firm and kind as was his nature. His hand dropped away, and he took a step back, looking over Aragorn in fascination. "You are my king, of course-but somehow more noble when not clad as such," he said in a voice more to himself than actually to Aragorn.
Without answering, Aragorn swept out of the room, his cloak lifting behind him and trailing gray as he rushed out of his home.
~*~
It was cold. So cold. He couldn't help but shiver. Where did the cold come from? Stop. Stop quivering. You are weak. No. No. Not this. And so dark. Where are the stars? Where are the trees? Where am I?
Who am I?
So cold.
***
A/N: I *swear* It'll get good soon! I swear! Just..try and bear with me.
No reviews to answer for Chapter Six! =v.v= (sad kitey).
Chapter Seven: Ranger, Again
***
Trojan, the young guard of King Elessar's Palace, was not the most learned of lads he knew. Though, of course, he possessed the capabilities of common sense that came hand-in-hand with being a mighty combatant, he was not strong in the fields of astronomy, or of history. It was with pure luck he recalled the knowledge of his father-who had been smart-at the exact moment he pronounced the former words to his king. "The bearer of evil tidings is always the first available to question when the news is given; if you ever have to give evil tidings be sure you are not around for the aftermath."
Nodding respectfully, Trojan ducked away from his King, who stood upright with eyes wide in shock. Missing? Surely the lad had made an error. Or, perhaps, Legolas had stolen away in the night for a walk. But he had done that countless times before, and was never reported missing. What was it about this time that struck the guards as so different than the other times Legolas hadn't been in his rooms in the morning that they would have to actually label the situation?
Aragorn's feet found their way across the corridor dividing the chambers where his family dwelt, swept mindlessly up the flights of stairs as he felt himself walking with more speed, adrenaline urging him forwards with almost desperation. By the time he was on the fifth floor-three above where he swept, he had begun to sprint as he hadn't since the days of the Ring, blindly hurtling through the corridors. On the eighth floor, where Legolas' chambers lay, he skittered to a lurching halt, and practically threw himself against the mahogany of Legolas' chamber door.
Elessar Telcontar transformed, then. His eyes merged with the room, blended with his surroundings as he easily picked up each minute detail of the struggle that had ensued. While the Elf sat, unmoving, meditating perhaps, a heavy being had stole soundlessly through the window, and had hidden behind a canvas dressing blind until the elf had stepped into view. Then, the antagonist had sprung forward and in one motion caught Legolas in his arms, most likely cutting off any way for the elf to make a noise-else he would have, and Aragorn had heard none.
Something lay broken on the ground, shattered stone of the purest obsidian fletched with dark green. Narrowing his eyes, and warily taking a step forward, Aragorn could see that it was one of the many soapstone sculptures that Legolas had made in the solitude of his chambers when he was not otherwise occupied; hair clung, matted, to sodden blood stroked over the bottom of the now-broken idol, and Aragorn assumed that it had been used to strike the elf unconscious. The heels of Legolas' shoes had scuffed the floor from the spot where the statue lay to the windowseat, indicating that he had been dragged by the larger man. Aragorn rushed over to the still-open window and thrust his head into the warm air, noticing the coil of rope that lay forgotten at the foot of the tower, and the jumble of footprints. A man, who trod heavily due to the extra burden of a particular archer, had met up with another man at the foot of the tower, and the three had then left on two horses.
Dejectedly, Aragorn gathered up the broken statue from the floor, and held it against his breast as he stepped back out into the corridor. Arwen, who had been looking for her husband, rushed over and enveloped him in her slender arms. "I heard," she breathed, and buried her head into the crook of his neck. Pocketing the broken emblem, Aragorn wrapped his arms about the slight waist of his femme, and sank down to the ground with her, quivering with shock. You'll be a ranger yet, thought a dull voice at the back of his mind.
~*~
There had been a sheet of red hazing Legolas' vision, red that hung like a veil before his eyes and obscured the entire world with its bloody existence. The elf dismissed any possibilities or rubbing his eyes free of this unknown enemy-the moment he had awoken he had felt the coarse friction of hemp about his wrists and knew he was bound. He was also being tightly held around the chest by a burly arm, hunched forward on a gray horse that frantically galloped behind another that Legolas could hear, but not see.
Suddenly, a gruff voice behind Legolas-the voice that owned the arm that held him-called out. Legolas felt the distinct jerk of the man's body as he pulled at the reins of his ride, who whinnied and stopped, twisting to the side slightly. The horse tossed her head, sad hazel eyes regarding the two on her back quickly before looking towards the other horse.
"Scalath!" hissed a voice urgently, from the horse ahead. "We've arrived-is he awake?" Legolas allowed his eyes to glass, as though clouded by cataracts, obscuring his view of the world around even more than the bloody hue did.
How badly am I hurt? Legolas wondered. There was a thunderous pulsation, nonstoping and rhythmic, at the back of his head, most likely caused by the head injury that reddened his vision. Aside from that, he was unhurt-his wrists and ankles were chaffed by the rough ropes, but that would heal quickly.
"He is not," Scalath replied in a bitter hiss that made Legolas feel cold, for some reason. Involuntarily, he shuddered, hopefully imperceptibly. The vague motion went unnoticed by his captors. Legolas was lifted brutally off the horse and slung around Scalath's shoulders like one might put a rug they wanted to throw away; proudly grinning the pair of kidnappers walked into the forest towards their hidden fortress.
~*~
Eldarion looked around the lunch room, then pawed gently at his mother's nose from where he sat in her lap. "Momma," he whimpered, and cocked his tiny head to the side. "Momma, where's Legl's?"
"He's gone away, sweetheart," Arwen replied, coddling her son. Across from her, Gilraen's nanny Trisha looked up quickly before bowing her head back down to the child, murmuring something and offering Gilraen's stubborn lips a spoonful of something green and shapeless.
"Where's Master Greenleaf gone?" Trisha asked in a voice she hoped could be casual. Gilraen turned her head to the side, her lips forming a distinct arc of unhappiness.
"We don't know, Trisha," said Arwen delicately. Though Legolas had countless female worshippers who silently gaped at him from crowds when he allowed himself to be seen in them, Trisha was one who was particularly graced. She dwelt in his presence nearly daily, and her affection and lust for him had blossomed into something that the young lass thought to herself had to be love. She thought she did a good job of keeping her feelings obscured, but she always forgot that Arwen and Legolas were both of elven heritage and not that easy to fool.
How long ago had it been when Arwen and Legolas had last spoken of Trisha's desperation for the blonde? Why, not more than three nights prior to the one where Legolas had nailed Aragorn with a counting block, Legolas and Arwen had been particularly immersed in their conversation. Legolas knew of how Trisha felt, and did not want to hurt the girl, but could not bring himself to like her as anything more than a skilled nanny. Arwen had told him that to feign affections so as to not hurt the feelings of the one who you feign them for is hurting yourself too gravely for it to be worth the sacrifice. Then, Aragorn had walked in, more distressed than usual. Legolas has poured him a goblet of dry red wine, and Arwen had begun to baby him like she was so used to doing. The topic dropped away, forgotten.
"Oh.will he be back?" the nanny asked. Arwen stirred out of her trance of memories, and nodded slowly.
"Oh, yes," Arwen consoled Trisha gently. "Undoubtedly." Lightly, Arwen now-Telcontar bounced her child mirthlessly on her knee, and smiled despite the desperate gnawing at her stomach when the child shrieked out in joy, clapping his hands together, his missing Father-of-Heart forgotten.
~*~
By morning of the following day, the two kidnappers and their blonde prize finally reached a structure that, though it blended with the forest, looked startlingly unnatural. It was massive, stone and wood, wreathed in thistle. The pair's footfalls became more cautious-they stopped laughing and instead fell into a stony silence that disheartened the elf.
Earlier in the day, they had stopped to rest and given the elf a chance to nurse his head. The gash at the back was wide, but clotting. His hair was thick with blood at the back of his head, matted from where the head-wound had been bleeding more freely than it now did. Delicately, the elf ripped off the cuff of his leggings and fashioned a rough cover for the wound. Then, he frantically rubbed at his eyes to free them of the blood- red stain that had occupied his eyes.
He could see without obscurities now the fortress in the forest of which the two antagonists had made light talk during the day. Carefully, the second of the two who called himself Urag'kl, walked alongside the rim of thistle, carefully judging the point where it thinned the most.
"Here," he said gruffly, and easily jumped across the distance. Legolas next was forced across, followed by Scalath who held his elbows to prevent escape.
"Why have you taken me?" Legolas asked for the first time, looking up at the sheer unwavering height of his new prison, at last feeling the gnawing gloom that threatened to consume him as, yet again, things took a turn for the worse.
"Because you are the son of Thranduil," Urag'kl said easily, smiling at his own knowledge. Gravely, he pushed Legolas through a rough square archway into the threshold of the incarcerated city. Legolas glumly looked around at the gloom that was now his life, at the rough stone structures in which dwelt only more burly figures with rough knives. These are mountain men, Legolas realized with a start. He had heard stories of them, mostly of the kind that dwelt in huge stone fortresses atop the Misty Mountains. As a lad of no more than twenty he would continually try and convince his father that he had seen the folk, but of course never had.
Now, here they were, the Mountain Men of Gondor who dwelt at the foot the mighty mountain Mindolluin, and they had an elf in their custody; what's more, the son of the elf that had brutally taken their lands and caused the slaughter of their women, their children. Of course, Legolas knew none of this, as the voices around him breathily cackled in mirth, and as calloused hands stroked along his bare arms and led him towards the underground of their prison.
~*~
Aragorn stood and marveled at himself in the full-length mirror that Arwen had set out for him. Not Aragorn, he mused, rubbing his fingertips over the coarse stubble he had allowed to grow over his chin and cheeks. "Strider," said he aloud, letting the name roll from his tongue as easily as it once did. "Strider."
"Indeed you are, Old Friend," Faramir said. He tilted his head, offering the smallest uplift of his mouth, before laying a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "You will find your friend," he said vehemently.
"Keep my family safe. They may not understand," Aragorn said firmly. Faramir nodded dismissively.
"You know I'd give my life for them. Go!" Faramir said, firm and kind as was his nature. His hand dropped away, and he took a step back, looking over Aragorn in fascination. "You are my king, of course-but somehow more noble when not clad as such," he said in a voice more to himself than actually to Aragorn.
Without answering, Aragorn swept out of the room, his cloak lifting behind him and trailing gray as he rushed out of his home.
~*~
It was cold. So cold. He couldn't help but shiver. Where did the cold come from? Stop. Stop quivering. You are weak. No. No. Not this. And so dark. Where are the stars? Where are the trees? Where am I?
Who am I?
So cold.
***
A/N: I *swear* It'll get good soon! I swear! Just..try and bear with me.
No reviews to answer for Chapter Six! =v.v= (sad kitey).