Disclaimer: Tolkien's world, people, language, landmarks, ect. I don't claim any of it for my own . . . except Apryl (Atira) and Morgainne.
A/N: Sorry about the delay but I suppose I don't have to be seeing how I couldn't have posted even if I had wanted to, which I did. Kind of ironic that ff.net failed after I posted the previous chapter, ne? Ah, well, I feed off suspense. Anyway, enjoy and review, too, if you have time.
Chapter 19
OF THAT WHICH IS LOVED AND LOST
Frodo woke to the sound of someone crying, the world coming to him in a haze as he blinked his eyes sleepily. But it came swiftly, for the sobs alerted him instantly and he looked about him in the dark. Not a single candle burned nor did a star penetrate the clouds outside and it was several moments before his eyes adjusted to the dark. Once they did, he spied the she-elf and her tall, slender form was curled up upon the bed, her head of dark hair buried in her friend's still form.
"Lady Morgainne?" Frodo called hesitantly, seeing the elf's body shake with sobs.
Morgainne started, looked up sharply and Frodo could barely make out that the elf's eyes were red and swollen with crying. Instantly, he leapt to his feet.
"What's the matter?" he demanded, his voice sharp with fear. His gaze fell to Apryl and instantly he knew something was wrong. Morgainne said nought, though her gaze fell back to her friend and she swallowed, trying to force the tears to stop.
"Apryl . . ." she whispered into the night and squeezed her eyes shut tight. She clenched her jaw tight and spoke so very quietly that Frodo's sharp hobbit ears almost didn't catch what she said. "Go find Gandalf, Frodo. Tell him Apryl is . . . " she opened her eyes and looked out into the night, "Tell him she is dead."
His breath was knocked from his lungs by something unseen--her words. His body went suddenly cold.
Dead? Frodo was sure he had heard wrong. The color was gone from his face and his hands were as cold as ice. He could not think, let alone move. How could it be possible? He had heard wrong, surely.
Dead? She had only fallen into a pool of water in a desperate attempt to save Sam. Sam was perfectly fine, at this very moment sleeping contently in his soft elven bed. Apryl was fine. She was sleeping, only sleeping . . . Dead? No, not dead. She couldn't be dead.
"Go, Frodo."
But he couldn't. He couldn't do anything except look at Apryl. He saw her complexion was as white as the sheets on which she laid. He saw the lack of breath and the stiffness of her limbs. Her face, though. Her face was as beautiful as he had ever seen it--unstrained with the pains of life.
But I saved you! he wanted to cry. Gandalf sent me to you so you would not die . . . and, yet, you have. How? Why? This is not how it's suppose to be, this is not--
"Go, Frodo!" Morgainne fairly screamed, "Get out. Go!" and when he still did not move, merely jumped and looked at her in a blank, wide-eyed stare, she struggled from the bed and made to go after him, a look in her green eyes that promised death if he was unlucky enough to get caught.
He fled. Frodo ran from the room, not looking forward nor behind, his gaze blinded by fear, confusion, and something that he had not felt since the day his parents had died--hatred. Pure indescribable hatred.
Morgainne watched him go, cursed him silently then did so aloud, shouting profanity after him until her throat hurt and the tears once again came. She stumbled the rest of the way from the bed and ran out into the gardens.
* * * * *
Apryl was crying. She reached over and grasped his hand and when he pulled her close, they embraced and neither let go of the other for many long moments. Eventually, reluctantly, Apryl pushed away and peered intently at Peregrin's small form. "Are you well?" she asked finally, breathlessly.
"Aye," he nodded, looking her up and down just as intently. "You?"
She nodded. "I'll live." Suddenly, she frowned and reaching out, touched his face . . . .
Her eyes--as gray as the ocean before a storm--were filled with a terrible grief, for she saw before her such pain that she could never understand nor fix or mend, or so she deemed. Peregrin's face was a most horrid thing, not because it was scarred but because of what those scars portended.
What have I done? she cried, even as she had cried so many times before. But what hurt almost as much as the knowledge of what she had done was the lack of knowledge of how she had done it. For perhaps if she knew then maybe, just maybe, she could undo it.
But Apryl didn't know. She couldn't, for she did not yet believe all that Gandalf had told her.
It's impossible. I am Apryl. I am me, just me.
And so she could not heal him, could not help him when he sat right before her, looking into her eyes with so much joy, for they were no longer alone in the ash-covered world that smelled so much like death and decay.
He smiled at her--at her, who had caused him all of his grief--but she did not smile back. She couldn't. Seeing this, Pippin frowned. "What is it?" he asked, concerned.
"Your face . . ." she fairly cried and at her words Pippin flinched, turned away.
Not you too, Apryl, he mourned. Pippin's eyes pinched shut and he could have been wincing from pain and indeed he was, though not in a physical sense. My face is ruined, destroyed. Curse it!
He had seen the pitying glances from the others. He saw them and felt, in a sense, betrayed. Even Apryl, even her . . . .
"I know--" he said sharply, pulling away from her touch.
The hard tone in his voice hurt Apryl more than she thought was possible. At that small notion of rejection, tears threatened to spring to her eyes and only with her flatly refusing their existence did she get away with nought a tear shed.
I did this to you! she wanted to say. I've done an awful wrong, Pip, and I don't know how to fix it. I should have never come, and she might very well have got up then and returned to her own world had she known it would help any. But she didn't, not for certain, and her world seemed so terribly bleak, frail, and wicked right then that she was certain that if she was forced to return her heart might very well break at the terrible lose. Even at the thought of returning her whole being, her very soul, was cast into despair. I love it here so much, Pip!
Aloud, however, all she could manage was a quite, "I'm so sorry, Pip," and one could wonder what she apologized for--for the terrible scars that adorned his face and body, or for the fact that she could do nought to heal him? Perhaps both.
He never turned, though; never saw the desperation in her eyes, the fear in her deep gray orbs. She said it again, this time in a desperate plea, for suddenly he was leaving her, slowly fading from existence--no, back into existence. "So very sorry . . . !"
He never heard her; he was gone.
"Pippin!" she wailed, her terrified cry echoing throughout the hollow, blackened Otherworld. He heart clenched in fear and she reached out into empty space, clutching at the air. "Please! You promised, Pip! Don't leave me! You promised!"
They always do, came the pressing sneer. It was fast, fleeting and Apryl wasn't all that certain she had "heard" the phrase or had thought it herself.
She stared at the empty space before her, numb, unmoving. He did not come back no matter how much she willed it and deep down she knew that he never would. He had left her, just as he had promised he wouldn't.
Idiot! she sneered at herself in contempt. You're such a fool! You know better than that! To trust was to invite hurt--Apryl had learned that hard truth a long time ago and for the better part of her years she had kept herself from further injury. Even when Pippin had sworn she would not be alone she had doubted his words, though at the same time letting him believe that she did not. But after a time, after so long in a world that wasn't a world with someone to call a friend, that trust had slowly come, wrapped itself around Pippin in an eager embrace and had rested there contently. Now, she cursed herself for such carelessness.
It is your own fault, you know, she reprimanded herself, sniffling and rubbing at her eyes. Shakily, she stood, looked around her with a mixture of apprehension, weariness, and anger. Pippin's not to blame; you are. I am.
And the Otherworld, forever black, dead and motionless seemed to grow and swell, drink off of her misery. If she had not known better she would of thought the land chuckled in pleasure. Then again, who could ever know better when they found themselves in a place that was no place but merely a lack of place?
One could never be certain of anything.
*****
