Under the Morning Moon
Chapter Nine: The Morning Moon
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A/N: Long chapter here…lots of action. Though, of course, the action is as usual crap, I've nevertheless upped the rating of this chapter to a low 'R'. Sort of like a…14A, I suppose. Any way, enjoy. I'm very sorry about this chapter taking a week to get up; I didn't have enough spare time to get deeply in to writing one of the more climactic parts of this story during the week. I hope you'll forgive me! *pleading little stare incl. quivering lip and big brown eyes*
Also! For those of you who aren't tired of my pointless rants, I've several pointless orders of business. Number one. HAVE ANY OF YOU SEEN THE GUY THAT PLAYS SAURON? Holy ****ING HELL! The guy's arms are like the size of ME. It's bloody AMAZING. He's be the best hugger, except you'd like drown in his 'ceps. Order number two; for those of you who have read RoTK, do you not agree that Legolas and Aragorn should have had a more substantial goodbye scene? I mean, hullo, the elf only saved your life six billion times! Jeez! And thirdly, I figured out why Aragorn lives 1.5 times longer than normal humans…LOL Yaaay!!! =^^= Thanks everybody for your help on that topic.
Without further ado;
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Aragorn tensed, squaring his shoulders proudly. He stood before a stone structure rearing several stories in the air, beautiful in the same way that Dwarrowdelf had been. Squared, stone, architecture remarkably sturdy. There was no need for the ornate, cursive curls of the Elvish way of life when something was built to last, Less attractive, though, was the fence of thistles that those living in the city had erected. Aragorn had cut up his shins rather remarkably after jumping the same spot he estimated Legolas' captors had done. The injury had slowed him considerably in finding a way to enter the city.
It was nearly morning, he could judge. In the distance, the first tendrils of the sun poked over the horizon, staining the navy of the sky with the more attractive golds and reds of sunrise. But, less happily-greeted in it's coming were the charcoal clouds clustering above the forest while Aragorn tried to find away into the stone haven. He could sense, almost Shaman-like in his senses of the weather, that the clouds were laden with rain threatening to spill within the hour. It would be a grand storm.
~*~
Meanwhile, Legolas awoke from a dreamless sleep in horror. Nightmares were so much easier to understand than the obsidian void that claimed him in the midst of deep horror and pain. Why had not the Valar graced him with at least some escape from the stony reality that surrounded him, four walls and ceiling? Perhaps there was no Valar; no spirits of Arda…Legolas shook his head brutally at the thought, momentarily pondering hitting himself for such a blasphemous thought.
Instead, he concentrated on the lash-marks up his legs. They were already healing, new skin molding itself atop the ugly wounds in his legs. Grim with satisfaction, he realised that he still retained some of his elvish heritage in his heart. He had yet to succumb to any injures. Legolas pulled his tunic to just under his chest, glancing over his stomach for any wounds, but they had all but disappeared. Thank Valar, Legolas thought unabashadely. He smiled, and surprised even himself by finding that indeed such a gesture was powered by mirth. Though, deep down, he felt as though he was being transformed into a mortal his body did not accept such a thought.
What time was it? He couldn't even guess. Perhaps midday, he thought. Please no. It was so early…his body needed repose from the torment. Of course, he could will himself against the hurt, convince himself that the pain was only temporary and would fade within the moment. But as the humans realized that they could do little to hurt the elf, they increased the pain of their beatings a threefold.
The door of his cell opened a crack, and despite himself Legolas started. He slowly stood, using the wall to as support. "Who goes there?" he asked proudly, and was met by the shallow laugh of yet another different man. There was a new one every day who came to take him from his cell. Legolas' flared his nostrils, ominously sniffed the air. There was no scent of industry's fire as of yet, nor of life milling around the town. It was, perhaps, not even morning.
Which meant only this one man would supervise him.
Which meant he could escape.
Cheered, Legolas straightened himself, his shoulderblades digging into the bricks. "I asked you a question, slime," he spat venomously. The Man only laughed again, and took a step into the cell. All of Legolas' supsicions were confirmed; the scent of morn-dew hung thickly on the air, and the entire essence of the man seemed to drip with that of one who had just awoken.
"That is of no substantial value," the rough voice returned. It was haughty and scholarly, but also brutal like all of his brothers-and he, too, wanted the elf to pay. "Come," he beckoned with a vague wave of his hand. He took a step out, and the door of the cell slowly began to swing shut. The elf quickly covered the distance of his cell, and slid out of the ajar door into the morning.
It was beautiful. The air was rippling with a coming storm, and the moon above prickled deliciously at Legolas' arms. Never before had he stood without shackles or bindings outside of his cell, and it felt absolutely marvelous-the momentary freedom. Though short lived, Legolas knew that the thought of life still existing-the moon, stars, trees-beyond this torturous prison would be enough to keep him from crying out during this beating.
Then he could make his escape.
The man turned to the elf, a greedy grin crawling over his features. Legolas' eyes widened; he had misunderstood the intentions of the man. As if struck, he realised what indeed were this morning-visitor's intentions. "NO!" Legolas screamed out, his voice a note of raw innocence amidst the corrupt, stony aura which the stone city emulated.
At that moment, the heaving clouds churned all the more powerfully, and all at once the collected rain fell from the sky, as if the dismal heavens wept for what was pending to their Elf-Child. Legolas stumbled backwards a step, judging his surroundings with still-wide eyes. He was disarmed, and the man before him carried a sword. He had no doubts that this Mountain Man would be surprisingly skilled with blade, as the muscles in his right arm seemed to be more taut than those in his left-a trait of a skilled swordsman.
Legolas glanced about again, taking a step back. Relentless, the man advanced a pace, and his footfall beat with Legolas' own blood in the elf's upswept ears. Not again, Legolas prayed to himself, and even in his mind his voice was broken with horror and disgust. Saes, not again.
The Blonde lanced forward without knowing he did so. Positioning himself with most of his weight on his left foot, he struck out with the right. The movement, fluid and almost too fast to catch, caught his captor alarmed. There was a mighty crack as Legolas caught the man's jaw with the toe of his shoe. Expecting swift retribution for the moment of independence, Legolas ducked down in a wave of flaxen hair, easily dodging the fist that belted out to strike the Elf.
Legolas crouched, tensed like a panther sighting its prey, before springing forward like a released arrow. His hands flew to the Man's neck, thumbs digging into his throat. Legolas felt the man's pulse beating through his jugular's beneath his fingers at parallel sides of his neck, and heard the man's choking gasps.
The man struggled, his arms flailing, his thoughts shifting out of those of a sensible man to irrational, strangled ones. In a lack of oxygen the man forgot about the orders against harming the elf and drew his blade. Hands quivering from lack of oxygen, he unsheathed his blade and swept it before the elf could react deep into his side.
Spluttering, the elf fell back, the sound of his body crashing to the ground muffled by the rain. He closed his eyes, furrowing his brow, trying to will the cry of pain that rose in his throat back into his lungs but he could not. Head swimming, the elf at last choked out a mighty cry of pain that seemed to shatter the hearts of those who slept and didn't understand what they heard.
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Aragorn heard not the scream of his friend, but instead felt a dread crawl over the back of his neck, hairs standing on end. Something was terribly wrong, he could feel it in his heart. He hesitated, before breaking into a run. Ignoring the laws of the Ranger-slow, steady, find a way-he began to look at the unmarked walls with renewed desperation and speed. He tripped over his own feet, but caught himself before he fell. Legolas, hold on, he said in his mind. Please, please, I'm almost there….just hold on…
~*~
Broken hands sought forward, his blind eyes pushed violently shut. He lay on the cobbles, motionless with his hands shoved infront of him, hair bloody and matted in a vulgar stroke of flax down his bare back. Slowly, he delved his toes into the stones on the ground, arching away from the antagonistic cold of the cobbles on his bare belly, and let out a cry of pain, tears dashing his cheeks. The tender, gushing gash in his side lay splattering the ground with a pool of crimson.
Ignoring the flames that ignited up his spine and splayed outwards from within the source of all his pain, he curled his fingertips into a crevice of the cobbles, fingernails cracking under the force of his weight as he dragged himself forward. A dark trail of blood smeared from the elf's open side as he pulled himself forward, over the cold of the stone ground marvelously slicked with rain. Again, he arched upwards, whispering and hissing in Elvish, his tears hot on the pale cold of his cheeks. Blood rushed into his mouth, and he vehemently coughed it out, droplets of red splaying in front of him.
All too early, a squared body turned, his voice gruff and as a knife-slash in the dark of the rainstorm; through the haze of pelting rain, a figure had noticed the hunched and dying figure of the lone blonde as he tried, fruitlessly, to escape. Defensively, the elf struggled onto his knees, whimpering in the worst kind of pain. The rain drove relentlessly over the whip-scars on his arched back, delved into the gaping bloody gap near his ribs, making the runoff around the elf a hideous blend of the innocent iridescence of rain stained with the corrupt scarlet of the Elf's blood.
Senses dulled by the bloodloss, and the footsteps muffled by the gales of violent wind and the ceaseless rain that it brought, Legolas didn't have time to protect his mostly-naked form from the elephantine hands that snatched him about the waist, hauled him to his feet. The elf didn't have the sense to yell out, nor the strength to struggle. With horrible resolve, he allowed his tense muscles to at last loosen, and relax. He fell limp against the mountain man's grip, boneless and submissive.
The man abruptly forced the Elf into his arms, hitching an arm underneath the Elf's knees, and using the other to hold him behind the shoulders. Legolas' head rolled back, thoughts of death and darkness replacing the chaste thoughts that seemed to go hand-in-hand with his name; in the past, before he became what presently he was; nothing, those who heard the name of the Youngest Prince of Mirkwood would revel in the way his name seemed to coincide with the joy and happiness he radiated from his eyes. But if they knew him, what thoughts plagued his mind in the last minutes of his life, they'd have wept every time his name was spoken…
Legolas gurgled dully on a rush of bile and blood that brewed in his mouth, twisting and writhing about the man's grip to violently spit it about the cobbles. For the movement, he earned a slap to the face. Frozen from the rain, the man's flesh was hard, and his knuckles left harsh bites of red on the Elf's impossibly ashen face. Without ceremony or hesitation, the man threw the elf back to the ground ere he stood. "You'll pay," were the only words, his voice gruff, as was the norm with his culture- "You'll pay for that little ruse," the man promised. And with that, he fell to his knees.
Hands scraped as poison over Legolas flesh, as he still tried to writhe away from the hands while they quested his sodden, bare chest, hesitating in shock at the hard muscle of his abdomen. One hand draped across the Elf's throat, as it twitched in apprehension with the elf's ragged breath. Legolas burrowed his eyes shut again, his vision swimming dizzily, trying to will himself into unconsciousness…or, better, to death….how sweet the arms of demise would feel embracing the Elf's broken spirit…How cleansing it would be to walk the Halls of Mandos, forever…
The Elf seized up. Eldarion, Gilraen, the children of his heart; how would they be able to cope without the presence of their Elf? You are greedy. Aragorn. Arwen. The family of your heart and soul. Legolas arched upwards, grinding his skull against the cobbles, trying to evade the probing hand that sought to unclasp his tattered leggings-which clung to his legs like a second skin, such was the effect of the pelting rain on the fair Gondorian fabric.
With bloodied, frantic fingers, Legolas tried to bat at the hands that peeled away his leggings, but knew it would be no use; the strength he had formerly possessed had melted with his spirit and had washed away with the bloody rainwater, veining through the gaps of the cobbles. "No, no," Legolas breathed. "Saes, tampa, tampa…" [Please, stop, stop,]
Uncomprehending of the language, the man persisted, his motions harsh and abrupt, driven by lust and the realization of his domination, and only intensified by the fact that the thick shroud of rain would slow any of the other villagers to go seek out their elf…
In the distance, a hollow sound began to dully ring through the driving rain; persistent like the beating of a drum, like hurried hearbeat as it grew closer, thudding dully over the cobbles of the city with determined intensity. The man pressed a hand flat into the Elf's belly, and another underneath his chin to impair his movements, to eliminate any chances of escape, before cocking his head to the side. Through slated eyes and a tangle of wind-swept, sodden hair the man tried to catch the source of the sound.
"Oh, shit," said a voice, feet away from the Mountain Man. Though the figure was obscured by the dark cloak he wore and the driving rain that curtained him from the burly antagonist, his voice was firm, resolute and unmeasurably kingly despite the rough undertones of the earth and the wind. Immediately , Aragorn withdrew his sword and held it in a shuddering, gloved hand. It had been years since he'd last fought with a sword, in any occasion aside casual fencing with his guards, or with Legolas.
History replayed itself, years in seconds, as Aragorn saw-eyes ruefully narrowed, and therefore through a tangle of lashes-the vague outline of a robust figure hunched over the almost naked silken one of his closest friend; he was reminded of a broken elf, battered, bleeding, years before. But, somehow, this was much worse.
The storm wavered, the driving rain seeming to draw away. Though slight was the change between the intensity of the storm from one minute to the next, it was enough. The Again-Ranger squared himself, leaning forward on his right leg, squeezing the hilt of his blade for reassurance. Feet away, forcibly splayed on the cobbles, was a pale and distinctly fading elf. His entire body was several shades whiter, as if all the blood in his form had drained. The most distinct parts of his body were now the dark, blood-stained lips on his face and the deep gash in his side, blood running like a river out of it. His eyes had faded into glass, reflecting the sky above.
Through the dead eyes of his near-dead friend, Aragorn could see the swirls of the heavens, of eternity, of the one star still in the morning sky that had refused to fade as of yet. He could see the dull crimson and orange slashes of the rising sun far to the east, and the crescent of the morning moon that-like the solitary star-knew that it's time was not yet up.
A cry from deep in his chest raked at Aragorn's throat, and as he heard himself scream it was as though he hovered alongside, a presence not occupying the body of somebody who could be so fiercely angered. "You killed him," Aragorn was dimly aware of his voice speaking, "You killed him, you bastard…" Less skillful of late, his movements harried by the intense quivering of his hand and the tears that obscured the edges of his vision, he swung out with his sword.
The blade was met, and in unison the twin notes of each blade coming in contact with the antagonists rose through the still-relenting rain. The elf lay, crumpled, dying and forgotten at the moment as the Mountain Man took stance. It was all rehearsed to him; his people taught their children the laws of the blade when they were barely tots, and so this particular man had years of practice on his shoulder. That, and he was in practice, not fatigued by days of endless travel or by emotions tugging like small ghosts at the back of Aragorn's tunic, plucking away at his courage.
He danced to the side, surprisingly lithe, and lifted his manufactured blade before his face. Practiced in his grace, he lanced forward and swept the blade as easily though it was a paintbrush, and Aragorn the canvas. But the King parried, stepped to the side. He shifted his weight, restless, unable to keep himself from showily dancing backwards. Aragorn had little time to weigh his opponent's skill, or to measure the usefulness of his environment. He would have to defeat this enemy quickly, lest the Mountain Man take advantage of the familiar surroundings.
A glimmer of silver stained the sky, and met little residence cutting into the meaty flesh of Aragorn's opponent's forearm. "Ai!" shouted the Mountain Man, throaty in his pain. His blood was a healthy dark crimson, staining the entire man's left hand in mere seconds, dripping along the ground. First blood was Aragorn's.
Bloodloss temporarily set haze over the man's senses, and his eyes dulled. He took a staggering step backwards, twisting only slightly to the side in a defensive pose, and he balanced his sword flat in the air, point towards Aragorn. The moment of weakness would last only a second, Aragorn knew, before the man could collect his senses and mentally numb the pain of his cut vein.
"ELENDIL!" shouted Aragorn passionately. He lost his sight, his hearing, and all that existed was his blade. He swung it to the left, and it passed weightlessly through his fingers as it struck the Mountain Man's blade with surprising intensity. Aragorn didn't hear the two metals come in contact, but instead sensed it instinctively as he disarmed his opponent. The stout, bloodied figure didn't have time to cry out as Aragorn shifted easily, taking a step to the right, back, forward, before lunging forward.
Aragorn's knife passed through the flesh in the Man's belly. Merciless in his attack, Aragorn tugged the blade downwards, slashing a gash in the man's stomach.
Aragorn's sight returned. He watched, horrified yet with complete satisfaction as the braid of the man's large intestine spilled with his blood out of the hole yawning at his navel. The man, still living, fell to his knees and swept his hands over his form, touching the warmth of his own entrails where they hung from his stomach. His last thoughts were of numb horror as he realised what his stomach felt like form the outside, before he slumped forward and died without a word.
Aragorn shed his cloak, ignoring as the now-light rain pricked at his bare arms, and hunched beside Legolas. He took a moment to estimate the elf's bloodloss, and with horror calculated only a few dozen hours of left of life within the motionless form. At least he lives, Aragorn thought. Thank Valar. He tucked his cloak neatly about the Elf's form, covering him with some decency, before tucking his friend against his own chest, cradling him like he used to hold his son. Not even looking back at the dead form of his opponent, Aragorn stood and swiftly left the way he had come.
~*~
Thud. Thud. Aragorn's footsteps! Arwen didn't allow herself time to rejoice, for she could sense the heaviness in his steps; either he bore a great burden, namely his brother-of-heart, or he was wary with emotion at an unsuccessful search. The Queen of Gondor couldn't allow herself to pray for the former, but she didn't want Aragorn's two-week search to have been in vain. Thud, thud, as the steps drew nearer. She belted down the corridor to meet her husband at the front gates.
His black tunic was stained with crusted blood, and his forearms obscured with crimson to the elbow. Slung across him as motionless and untaut as cloth, was Legolas, hair matted to Aragorn's arms because of his blood, a bloody cloth pressed into his side. Aragorn's eyes didn't see his wife. Knowing he was safe, at last, in Minas Tirth he knelt on the silver-veined Marble, delicately lay his friend before him, and fell into unconsciousness.
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A/N: Woooo…that was draining. Longest chapter I've written to date. Sorry about the crap action sequences; I have no idea how to properly describe fencing, so I hope I bluffed all right. I know that there was no way this chapter could be classified as anything but AU, but hey…
Also; you guys are the *BEST*. Thank you soooooooooooooooooo much for all your *beautiful* reviews…They keep me alive. I feel so horrible at not being able to write you a perfect story in response to all the wonderful encouragement you all give me. Is there anything I can do to thank you all for your reviews? Make requests! =^^= I feel horrible at only being able to give you these chapters when you guys give me the words that cheer me up after a horrible day…Sorry, I'm ranting.
If I missed answering any of your reviews I'm realllly realllly sorry…I had to clean out my Inbox because I couldn't send out rant emails to any of my mates, so I had to delete all your reviews…
Fantasia: *grin* All right, I continued…LOL Hope you enjoyed!!
Reginabean: Hope that no mad cows found you. And I took your advice and have decided to not end this story till the end. =^^= *giggle giggle*
Tithen Min: Armrests! I'm so proud of myself…I figured out the *real* name for Chair Rails! But now I'm all disappointed…arm rests? How dull is that?! I mean, really. Arm rests? As for your madness, there is nothing to excuse, for aren't we all a little mad? *dramatic music* erm…LOL Thanks for your review! Hope you enjoyed!
The wanderer: LOL Yeah, you spelt it fine. Hope that you caught this update in time because, knowing me, it's going to be a while before the next one (miserable sob). Hope you enjoyed!
WeasleyTwinsLover…: Sorry about the Legolas abuse…But it ended in this chapter! YAY! But feel free to growl at me again if it helps =^^= Thanks! Enjoy the next chapter when it comes out!
Lissa: *giggles and blushes* Thanks. Dunno…Legolas has torture appeal, I suppose. And Rangers *do* rock, even if they're like…6006006359203830 years old. Grr…
Bobo: *sniffs too* Agreed…=^^= Hope you enjoyed!!!
Jambaby1963: thanks! Sorry about Legolas not being as brave as I love to read about him being (miserable sigh). I tried to up-his-image by making him at least strong enough to strangle Nasty Dude # 2….Sigh. Thanks! =^^= Hope you enjoyed!
EvilSpapplePie: LOL Yes, I have a thing for men-who-like-children, and seeing as I can make Legolas like children, why wouldn't I just go ahead and do it?! *cackle that sounds oddly like 'the world is mine'*… Sorry about all your homework! Email me if there's anything I can do to help out with it, 'k? =^^=
Elentari Manwe; As usual, ****BLLUUUSSSH*** Giggle. Thanks =^^= Hope you enjoyed Ch. 9, too!
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