Chapter One
Ill Tidings***
Hello all!!!=^^= If you're reading this, I thank you a billion times for taking the time to check out my brand-spanking-new fic. This is set post-ROTK, semi-AU. Basically the biggest changes are that Haldir is still alive, so far. I may change the story slightly more as it goes along, but I'm trying to keep this as close to 'reality' as I can.
As for warnings in this chapter, there are few. A very very very mild
description of a character death-Yes, a character death. Don't worry, Legolas
will still play a major part in this fic beyond this chapter! I very much doubt
I could write a story without him playing a very major role. So, of course, he
will.
This isn't….exactly…quality…writing, but I reckon my stuff never really is. Sorry if you are incredibly offended by this and want to murder me with some sort of pointed stick. I most likely deserve it.
As a final note before I get on with it; this fic is dedicated in a bit way to
Bobo, for all her wonderful support and comic relief, as well as a response to
a tear-jerking poem she wrote for me…I'm seriously still emotional about it.
Also, to Tithen Min who needs some Ego Boosters because she definsitely deserves them, and to Celestra who is my Ego Booster. Thanks so much. =^^=
Enjoy! =^^=
***
Haldir had always been a close friend of Aragorn. There had never been a time where Aragorn had known the Elf and not felt a swelling in his gut, a jollity that seemed to be contagious whenever the Lord of the Haladin was about.
But not this time.
Haldir's face contained none of the previous laughter, none of the mirth that seemed to blossom from the Elf's very core. Now, there was only a face haggard from endless travel and complete grief, hands trembling, eyes brimming with imprisoned tears. When he spoke his voice was hoarse, as though it had never before been used.
"They found it…Near the south gates of your city…slain with his own arrow…through the throat…"
Aragorn slumped to his knees, not even mindful of the curious spectators crowded in the room, the ones that couldn't hear the whispered conversation between their King and the mysterious Lothlorien Elf. His vision was completely obscured by a rush of tears, his judgment clouded by horror and grief. He dug his fingertips into his scalp, fisting at the tousled curls of his hair.
"Did he suffer?" rasped the King. There was a silence that lasted an eternity. A billion years of hateful madness gnawed at the King's spirit in the few seconds that Haldir hesitated. "SPEAK!" he practically yelled, Ridgidly looking up at the elf. Tears streaked, unchecked, down his cheeks, pooling at his chin. The drumbeat of each silvery drop hitting the marble floor of the cavernous roomed seemed to repeat endlessly, impossibly loud, through the King's mind.
"I…I don't know, my Lord," replied the Elf, uncharacteristically stammering. He was toying with his robes, fisting them at the waist until his already pale knuckles turned snowy. "He…he was bruised, everywhere it seemed…He struggled. In the end, they grabbed his quiver…They weren't trying to kill him, only threaten him…held it to his neck…he was…kicked from behind." Halidr coughed out the last words as though they were some tangible poison. "Impaled."
Aragorn let out a cry of anguish. He found himself unable to even keep his upper body upright from where he knelt, and pitched forward painfully onto the marble, crossing his arms over his head. His tears pooled below his head, his head throbbing with the pain of impact and the still-dawning realisation that his closest friend was forever gone.
Sure, occasionally the Elf had strayed from his now-home of Minas Tirith, vaguely scaling the nearby forests and rivers. At one point, the Elf had been gone for nearly half a year before returning, clad in Eastern clothing and bearing many gifts for all of Aragorn's immediate family and the servants to whom Legolas was closest.
"No," came Aragorn's staccato voice. The word beat in a rhythm with the thousands of thoughts battling in his head. Who could bear to do such a horrendous act to the most generous being that Aragorn had ever known? If these murders had approached the Elf in hopes of acquiring a bit of petty cash, the Elf would have easily given it, and perhaps even offered more of his wealth. He'd have bloody brought them to dinner, befriended them.
No, these men wanted something else, something that required infinitely more greed than a simple want for scarce gold coins. And they would pay. Through the overwhelming emotions, Aragorn managed to smile bitterly. It was almost worth these men daring to even lay a finger on Aragorn's comrade, just so he could do the Elf the justice of destroying them in the worst way possible.
Oh, how he would destroy them.
Several of Aragorn's subjects had fled at the beginning of this outburst to urgently whisper to the neighbour's wife what little they knew. Aragorn's friend-yes, that one-missing. Dead? Perhaps…Who, though? Who could do that?
Aragorn managed to sit up, resting himself on his heels. Haldir hunched before him, and rummaged in a pouch strapped to his waist. "My Lord," Haldir said. Unceremoniously, he extracted a flawless wooden shaft, the fletching delicately auburn, and the point still specked with the familiar crimson of blood, though clearly several salves had been applied in attempt to clean the weapon.
Aragorn rose, his eyes never straying from the arrow that Haldir bore. His entire body quivered with absolute horror. He felt a blend of emotions so tightly knit that it became one sweltering, unavoidable mess of sheer sickness. He wanted to lean forward and retch, or to fall unconscious so as to spare himself the unbridled pain that came to him from the sight of the weapon. The weapon that brought about the fall of Legolas Greenleaf, his comrade in arms, and the one thing in Aragorn's life that presently meant more than his own.
Some Spirit or force from above allowed the King at least some mercy, and Aragorn felt his weak hold of consciousness harshly drop from his feet. For a moment he faltered, swaying as his vision swam, before crumpling forward, overwhelmed by black.
~*~
Arwen relentlessly mopped her husband's brow with an already sodden cloth, afraid to leave his side. A bump had swollen from his brow where he had hit his head on the marble, but aside from that he was physically unscathed. Yet still, the Evenstar worried. Her husband was bound to the Elves in more ways than one-could he, too, die of a broken heart?
Cracked lips peaked open enough to make Arwen start out of her almost reverie state of thought. She looked worriedly down on her husband, praying he was about to arouse, but instead he only let out a shivering sigh and dropped deeper into the throes of darkness that ensnared him. Arwen lay a slender hand on his breast, feeling the comfortingly rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath her palm.
"Oh, Estel," she managed. At news of Legolas' death, she had almost fallen into the same blackness as her husband, but had resisted, somehow. Her throat had immediately closed and, faint, she had fallen back into the sturdy comfort of Haldir's arms-though they, too, trembled. He had given her a glass of water, and willed her away from the mouth of grief she had rarely experienced in her regal lifetime.
Aragorn arched slightly of the bed, his brow furrowing. "Legolas!" he cried lightly, trying to raise a hand, perhaps to bat at some imaginary demons that leered down at him. Arwen surpassed a wave of tears and used her flawless fingertips to lovingly smooth her husband's brow. The man relaxed back into the comfort of his bed, letting out a childlike whimper. "Legolas…no…" he managed, rolling his head to the side. Tears glistened in his eyelashes, but didn't fall.
Arwen let out a hoarse little gasp, stifling it by biting firmly into one of her fingers. Her husband, the King of Gondor and the strongest man she had ever known-and undoubtedly anybody ever knew, or would know-was crying in his sleep. She fell forward, onto his chest, and buried her head into the crook of his neck. His own tears caused hers to fall with hot passion. She clenched at her husbands tunic and blindly sobbed into his skin until she had no more tears to cry, and had fallen into a hesitant state of Elven reverie.
~*~
Haldir was perched in an almost vulturelike way beside Aragorn's bed when at last, nearly an entire day later, Aragorn pulled himself from the darkness. "Haldir," he said softly, startled. The Elf relaxed into the bedside chair, frowning.
"Grief consumes you," he said knowledgably. His eyes wrinkled closed, slightly, clearly sympathetic. His own grief showed clearly beyond the pity that overwhelmed his stormy gaze. "I understand why," continued the Elf.
"I-Are you sure it was him?" Aragorn asked, rubbing cobwebs of sleep from his vision. "Perhaps it was a maiden, or another Elf?" The King jerkily shook his head in denial. "He would have been able to fend off such an attack."
"I could recognize Legolas the Fair from ten leagues away, Estel, but I had no need to under these circumstances. He was but inches away when my troupe discovered him," Haldir replied. His voice was firm, bordering curt yet far too stony in his sadness to actually be impolite. "I've known him for more than two millennia," Haldir continued pointedly.
Aragorn waved his hand, stepping the flow of comments. "Stop! You speak of him as though he is any slaughtered Man. He isn't! How do you not see?" Aragorn snapped. He twisted in the bed, glaring full-out at the Elf he once had laughed with on many occasions long into the night.
"I have no such feelings," Haldir replied coldly. "I have different ways of showing my grief, though I can assure you I am equally overwhelmed by it."
Aragorn hesitated, sheltering the brew of hideous anger that threatened to spill into his next words. "All right," he said reasonably, then looked to the ground. An uneasy silence descended over the pair, broken reluctantly by Haldir after a good quarter of an hour.
"It is my duty to travel to Lothlorien…to inform Lady Galadriel and her Husband Celeborn of the loss of the Mirkwood Prince. They may…they may aid me in my travels to Mirkwood. I do not relish telling the King, nor his family…Legolas was beloved…"
Aragorn nodded quickly, rubbing a hand down his jaw. He felt weak, drained, as though he had cried himself dry. But at Haldir's mention of Thranduil, of whom Legolas had often spoken quite highly, Aragorn's eyes once again brimmed with the salty, unwelcome heat of his yet-unshed tears. "Then go," he said hoarsely. Haldir nodded, gracefully rising. He crossed the distance between Aragorn's bed and the cloven door too fast to be perceived, but was stopped.
"Haldir," Aragorn said. His voice had dropped away to a hoarse whisper, as though the strength of each of his words was poured away with each tear that spilled from his eyes. "He was my brother by heart," the man said. "You will…help me find the ones who did this?"
Haldir nodded slowly. "By my life, I swear-the ones who slaughtered the Prince of Mirkwood will not go uncaught," he said. He bowed his head respectfully and left with all the nobility he had possessed before….Before this, Aragorn thought, finding no words that could do justice to the situation.
For none, ever written, could.
***
Was that as horrible as it seemed when I wrote it? I hope not…that's pretty horrible. I'll hopefully have another chapter up sometime this week; if I don't, pleeeeeeassee don't hate me, I'll definitely write/post one next weekend! =^^=
Also, just as a note, this fic has nothing to do in any way with the other ones I wrote; Legolas wasn't caught/raped at any point by a nasty bloke with a fire fetish or a whole bunch of burly mountain people with a whip fetish. Just as clarification! LOL =^^=
Much love,
Kayte.