Fall From The Truth
Chapter Two
The Scent of Death
Author's Notes: I actually had this entire chapter written the same day I posed the first chapter. However, during the week, I was overwhelmed by (a) Homework including studying for like ten tests, (b) Being a tech in the four plays that happened on Thursday and Friday, (c) The plays on Thursday and Friday (d) Family Crises and Social Crises of epic amounts. I know that I shouldn't be giving excuses, but I apparently am…I'm incredibly sorry. Anyway, I hope the second chapter isn't as sappity-horrible-super-crap that I think…Sigh. There are so many billion ways this chapter could be better L
Try and enjoy?
***
As a Ranger, Aragorn had committed to memory all that had anything to do with nature. He could ramble off without even being hinted the names of each plant that grew within five leagues of his city and their most prominent uses. Without even looking at the bud, he could identify a flower simply by touching it with his infinitely cautious fingertips, by testily smelling its unique odor. If he had derived nothing else from his laborious studies as a man of nature, he had understood this; everything had a unique texture, or scent, or careful accent in its call.
Except for death, Aragorn thought bitterly to himself. It was generic; there were no unique properties to death. Sure, every death that occurred was different, but only cosmetically. Deeper than that, they all had the same appearance, the same musky odor of sweat and earth, the same resonating sound of complete and utter silence. Death was the same, no matter who it ensnared. Aragorn knew this firsthand; he had fought in seemingly countless battles, seen many friends or enemies fall. He had felt his skin crawl and his nostrils burst into flames of pain as the scent of death touched them.
His dreams of late were filled with such scents. Though each dream had its own specific, eerie qualities the undertones were all relative; death. Legolas' death. At one point, he was the perpetrator, sneering greedily down on the writhing body of his friend. His hand didn't shake as he held the glistening point of the Elf's own weapon against the most tender part of his exposed form. In his grasp, he unwaveringly held the life of the Golden Prince.
But then, something went wrong. His faceless dream companion heard something, the drumbeat of approaching hooves, and in his fright jerked. Aragorn could hear his cry of anguish as the arrow broke the skin of the flawless elf, blending easily with the flesh and muscle as it delved deeper into the pale column of his neck. The wound contracted around the arrow, fusing with the Elf's bleeding flesh, and the arrow and Elf were as one; dying together. Aragorn withdrew his hand, staring in wild horror as the Elf slumped to the ground, spluttering wildly. At his neck, his veins twitched with a life of their own, blood pooling from a wound. Confusion and pain warred in the wide sapphire eyes of the dying Elf, who weakly lifted a hand to gingerly touch the weeping wound.
His lips cracked open, stained, contaminated with his own blood as it fled from him like his dying spirit. His voice could barely be caught, his vocal chords shattered, but amidst the choking breaths and the gurgles on the blood, Aragorn could discern two words; "Aragorn…why?"
And Aragorn had awoken then, shooting upright in his bead with a cry of absolute horror. His face was drenched with his own tears, his hands bleeding from where he had clenched his fist tightly enough to break the skin. And his nostrils burned with the scent of death that he knew so well; yet this time, it defied all rules he had set for the state of demise. It was unique, because it was of Legolas
~*~
Aragorn had refused to rise from bed. Though many of his closest friends and servants had been called upon to will him out of his solitude, he blatantly refused to be moved. For days on end he went without food, only consuming what Arwen literally forced between his lips, drinking only when he had stopped sobbing long enough to, hands quivering, pour himself a mug of stale, old water from the bedside pitcher.
He soon denied even Arwen's presence by his side, so buried was he in his own grief. He fled from his bed and curled into the crook of the wall, huddling against himself, desperately grabbing at his own knees where they were trembling against his chest. He sobbed freely into his thigh, resting his brow against his knee as all the grief in the world spilled heatedly from his eyes.
It was his fault. He deduced that every torturous minute of his existence, recalling the very morn of his Elf's death. It was his fault that the Elf had died in the worst way. He had snuffed out the Golden Flame of Mirkwood, single-handedly. Aragorn's mind was far too consumed with an overwhelming guilt to even think of the demise of these murderers.
"Aragorn?" Legolas had asked, lighthearted as usual. With complete grace he crossed the distance between the door and the King's arm chair, where he sat bitterly brooding over a yellowed scrap of parchment.
"Legolas," Aragorn had said, rolling the parchment for a moment to glance up at his friend. Legolas knelt beside the armchair, his elongated fingers curling around an armrest. He quirked his head, a small smile curling over his lips.
"You, a king," he said, feigning disbelief. "Ah, it is still unbelievable. Of course, you've not yet caused the demise of any significant village, I suppose-I can credit you with that much."
Aragorn sighed loudly. "The day is young," he replied, the mirth in his voice overwhelmed by the utter frustration from his task. Legolas' eyes swept momentarily away from his friend's face to gravely survey the discarded balls of parchment lying about the feet of the chair.
"Ah, tradeswork," said the Elf knowledgably, his grin broadening teasingly. "How wonderful it is to be a Scout on a day while you are trapped in this Fortress, addressing Kings of faraway nations to know how much wheat you can receive from them." Using only his legs, the Elf stood. In a demeanor that belonged solely to him he shouldered his quiver, completely casual yet clearly alert.
"This King can dismiss you from your post as Scout for such ridicule," Aragorn said bitterly, though Legolas could still detect the teasing edges of laughter in the monotonous tone of his Estel's voice.
"Come riding with me, Aragorn," said Legolas suddenly. All teasing was dismissed and momentarily forgotten; he was again the warm, compassionate friend that so many loved. "You are overwhelmed by the bores of your task-it will take not an hour." He smiled softly, gesturing towards the ajar door from which he had entered. A sliver of pale blue sky shone faintly through the crack, seducing Aragorn with it's imminent warmth.
"No," Aragorn replied, sighing louder than previously. "You have a good time. Perhaps later," he added quickly, noticing the disappointment in the Elf's eyes before the Blonde had time to repress it. Legolas smirked.
"As you will. I ride south," he said with a brisk nod of his head, and then he was gone.
Aragorn busied himself once again, telling himself that he would go riding with his friend after Haldir arrived for his visit from Lothlorien.
If only he had gone riding! Legolas was right; it would have only taken an hour. That night, Aragorn was nowhere near done his trade agreements-an hour wouldn't have set him back at all. In fact, the fresh Gondorian air would most likely have cleared his head, and he wouldn't have had to spend a perfectly beautiful day cooped in a stifling room.
He had been caught unawares. Legolas' only weakness was his unbridled love for nature; if you were incredibly cautious, you could most likely startle him while he observed something as simple as a wren in flight or the trembling leaves of an Oak deliberately rocked by the leaves. Gondor was safe for the Elf, Aragorn had convinced him of that, and so the Elf hadn't possessed any of the wariness that used to be so common to him. Instead, he had most likely plunged himself into the beauty of the world that Aragorn often forgot to see. He had been killed because of it.
Aragorn let his legs drop away from his chest, stretching them in front of him, before laying his arms upright on his thighs. He narrowed his eyes to see through the tears that seemed to always lurk, now, in his gaze. Only dimly aware of what he was doing, he looked down each forearm, noticing the clear blue of his artery against the leathery tan of his skin. With the index finger of his left hand he traced along the fine lifeline on his right arm, causing himself to shiver.
How could life go on without Legolas? Indeed, he was Light for Aragorn; he was Day when Aragorn thought himself trapped forever in night. He was the Moon on a night when the real one wasn't present and he was the Sun when clouds shrouded the real one. He was Laughter, and Music, and Beauty and Life, all compacted into a package simple as a fair blonde elf of Mirkwood. To Aragorn, he was everything-and now, the man had nothing but fleeting memories and the ever-present baritone of his own voice reminding him that it was his fault.
~*~
Arwen was too sensible to give herself the luxury of jealousy. How wonderful it would be to tell herself that Aragorn simply needed a brother more than he needed a wife! But she knew it would never be true. Aragorn would mourn the exact same way if it had been she herself who had passed-denying the presence of his closest friend, starving himself, blaming himself…Arwen knew that Legolas would never become jealous in such a situation.
But Legolas was perfect; he was beautiful in form and spirit, passionate and loving. He would know exactly what to do to get through to Aragorn, exactly what words to utter that would draw the man out of his grief, even for just a moment. Arwen unconsciously toyed with the silver band of her wedding ring. She was useless, just another bratty child of Elrond; she didn't deserve to be the Evenstar, much less the consort of the King of Kings.
Arwen slumped to the ground, resting her back against the oaken chamber door in which her husband was imprisoned-in more way than one. He had locked the door, commanded against entrance-even that of his own Arwen. He had heightened the walls of his mental fortress, forcibly denying entrance to even the most gentle of friends who tried to get in to his mind.
"Ai, Legolas," Arwen said to herself in the stark emptiness of the corridor. "Why you? You would have the key to his stronghold." Burdened with the death of one close as a brother, and facing the imminent loss of her true Beloved, Arwen cried herself to sleep once again, though this time lacking the warmth of her husband's form for at least a shred of comfort.
~*~
Loopy writing crested a disintegrating scrap of parchment. Delicate runes were passed under the wide eyes of King Thranduil of Mirkwood as he beheld the words that made up a letter addressed solely to him. With a small, strangled cry with no set emotion he caught his bottom lip within his teeth, closing his eyes to shield himself from the horror of the words he read.
Lord Thranduil, it read; it is done.
And that was it.
His hands clenched into fists, and the scrap of parchment already so near to crumbling broke apart in his hands and fluttered as yellowed dust to the floor of the chamber, utterly dismissable.
***
Author's notes2: Thank you for reading the second chapter! I hope you enjoyed it, despite the crapiness…I'm really trying to improve on my writing style but am being distracted or am just plain miserably failing. I'll hopefully get a few minutes during this weekend to write the third chapter. Despite how disjointed this story may look, I'm actually leading it down a specific path-so I do know (roughly) what the next chapter'll look like. =^^=
Thank you *so* much for all your absolutely beautiful reviews…I feel guilty for not giving y'all something better to feast your eyes on in exchange to the marvelous reviews you all take the time to write…Maybe I'm just a review whore or something, but…Wow. You guys are the best.
Individual responses;
Bobo: *GG!* Glad you like it, despite all…I'll email you the third chapter soon as I write it =^^=
Celestra: I only say it was horrible because it *was* horrible! Nothing compared to what I bet you write (e.g Parody *cough cough*) Rodney the Mutated Platypus is probably already stalking me due to the lateness of this chapter, aye? I love you *being* my Ego-Booster, you're really good at it =^^=
Evil Spapple Pie: *beams* Thanks. Glad you like the new story, and I hope you liked the new chapter! I can't believe you think this comes anywhere even in the same field as 'quality writing'-it's not a step down, it's a bloody staircase. About Legolas being dead, well *twiddles thumbs innocently* He could be, he could not be.
Whitewolf: Sorry about the lack of buildup…hope I didn't injure your senses or something! =^^= Glad you enjoyed the chapter, and I Hope you stuck around for this one, and enjoyed it…
Elfchic02: Heya! Thanks =^^= I'm sorry about the sadness of this story-it's not as upbeat as most of the stuff I like to read…no, that's BS, I *love* reading angst. Have a wonderful read! And thanks again =^^=
Yours Truly: Whoa…this is possibly one of the most in-depth reviews I've received. Unfortunately, I completed this chapter before I got your review so I was unable to apply the techniques you suggested, but I definitely will in the new chapters-hopefully this'll improve the quality of the story….*crossed fingers* As for Legolas being dead; maybe =^^=
Tithen Min: HEY! I'm about to read over the new chapter of your story…I tried to the other night but my computer went off its head and tried to eat itself, thus disabling the download capabilities; in short, computer went mad and couldn't download it. Thanks! =^^= I'll email you chapter 3 soon as I write it.