Hmm, okay, well this is probably going to show up late, like tomorrow instead of today, but it's here. So sorry, all my errands took longer than I thought they would and I kinda forgot to post it last night like I had planned. Ah, well. I'm posting this and then running, in fact. *g* Well, now, let's see. . . .
Bill the Pony: *grins* Hope you like this one, too. I'm not sticking with humor, honest. The angst will be back.
Bumper: Oh hey! *waves happily* The guy on the mountain pass....well, it would ruin all the fun if I told you. The answer to that question comes in the third story. *grins sheepishly* I know, I'm just writing it and doing my best not to be horribly repetitive. When he was two was, um, not exactly a nightmare. It's part memory, part a fabrication from a story he was told when he was little, and part fabrication by the shadows. I'm so glad you love it.
A group hug? Hehe. Dr. Phil? There's an idea. . . . No, what are you doing giving me ideas? *looks panicked* If I keep coming up with other things to write, I will never finish the third installment. *pauses and gets herself back under control* hehe. Writer stess, sorry. Someone to put better dreams in his head? *looks bemused* Is that a hint? *g* Ick, rain. I feel for you. Hope it stops raining.
Endril McMerlyn: *jaws drops open* wow. *huggles Endril* Thank you so much! I'm flattered.
Deana: *grins* hehe. More here.
Thank you all so much for reviewing. You have no idea how much it means to me. Especially when you come back to review again. *g* Big hug!
Chapter 5
Dinner with a Run
Aragorn and Legolas skidded to a halt just inside the kitchen door. The had expected to have already seen and smelt smoke, flames, chaos. The sons of Elrond, and the twins especially, were notorious for causing unparalleled mayhem wherever they went.
Their surprise, then, was palpable when they entered the room the twins had taken residence in to find nothing of the sort. Elladan, Elrohir, and Doril merely sat calmly, quietly, at a table away from the cooks, away from the food, perfect examples of perfectly behaved elflings. The two friends glanced at each other, mouths hanging open slightly. Mouths that closed when they saw the other's mouth hanging open.
Aragorn turned back to look at them and knew Legolas did the same. "What do you suppose happened?" he asked. "They would never do this on their own prerogative."
"Maybe my father got a hold of them," Legolas whispered back.
It was then that Doril caught sight of them standing just inside the door and waved them over, calling out, "Well, look who finally decided to show up for some fun." The two in the doorway smiled automatically at the greeting, though wariness still reined in their eyes.
Elrohir turned, bracing his elbow on the back of the chair. "Estel, what did Legolas do that we didn't?" he pouted.
The human cocked his head slightly, regarding his brother with a contemplative look that said 'you have got to be kidding'. "Oh, I'm simply reasonably sure that any mischief created around the prince will not get me executed on the spot."
"That wasn't our fault!" Elladan cried. "And we got you out of that. I mean, you're here, after all."
Legolas' eyes had widened during the exchange and he turned now to Aragorn. "What are you talking about?"
"Something that happened when I was twelve," Aragorn responded.
"You swore you would not speak of it!" Elrohir challenged, his eyes as wide as saucers.
Aragorn grinned wickedly, then let it fade into a nonchalant expression. He sat in the spot indicated by Doril and Legolas followed. "Well, I suppose."
"You won't tell me?" Legolas pouted, and he could pout good when he really wanted to, a fact that amused the ranger to no end. The wicked grin reappeared on the human's face as the twins shifted uneasily.
Doril leaned forward, always eager to hear about anything that made the twins uncomfortable. "Come now, it's not good to hide such entertaining stories from your hosts. Especially when they are your friends and should know everything anyway."
"Uh, isn't it about time for dinner?" Elladan asked hopefully. "I mean, it should actually be ready since we didn't sabotage it this time, right?"
This Aragorn found unbelievably funny for some reason unknown to the elves in his company, who stared quizzically between him and each other as the human slid down in his chair.
Elrohir frowned slightly, remembering a similar event not so long ago, though this one was not so clear about what he could possibly be laughing at. Elladan spoke first. "You aren't laughing at us are you?"
Bleary silver eyes met theirs, then the laughter increased. "You aren't going to end up on the floor again, are you?" Elrohir continued, which was actually a bad thing to say, for it made the young man laugh even harder, further upsetting his position in his seat.
Suddenly, the chair slipped, sliding backwards, and Aragorn was plopped onto the floor, landing with a tooth jarring thud. The elves had thought he might stop laughing, then, but he did not, the laughter merely taking on a somewhat shrill note before the man snorted and the gale of laughter started again.
Legolas watched his laughing friend with a kind of fascinated horror, too confused to find it funny, though the picture his young friend presented, laying on the floor, clothes a mess, hair flying and disheveled, was certainly beginning to strike him as hilarious.
Then, without warning, the laughter changed, and little by little, the four elves realized Strider was no longer laughing, but crying, and curling himself into a ball as if to push all others out. The elf prince frowned and started to lean down to ask what was wrong, when the human suddenly bounded off the floor and raced from the room, disappearing with a speed that stunned the elves for they had not thought a human could move that fast.
Silence engulfed the area and none of the friends moved. Faintly, then, the elves could make out the small and persistent sounds of food preparation going on just outside their reach, separated by a wall and a door.
Elladan was the first to stir. "I'd better go find him," he announced, beginning to stride out the door.
Legolas stopped him quickly, shaken out of his stupor by the other's voice. "No, Elladan. You do not know the area well enough, and you never could find him when he wished you not to. I will find him."
Predictably, the other elf shook his head. "I need to find him. He's been acting odd all week, particularly around us, and he needs to know we still care about him."
"Elladan," Legolas soothed. "He knows that, but if he ran because he was ashamed, then you are the last person he's going to want to see. For some reason, he doesn't want to show you any weakness. Wait here and let me go to him."
Something changed in the other's eyes. "Has he talked to you?" Elladan demanded fervently. Legolas nodded and the elder twin sighed. He sat back down. "Then find him, Legolas, and bring him back. We need to get whatever is wrong in his head straightened out."
The blonde haired elf smiled slightly, more for encouragement than out of humor, but he did not waste time with useless words. Anything he could say was already known. The only thing left to do was find the human. Once they found him, they could begin straightening out what was wrong with his head.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
What is wrong with me? Aragorn lamented in his head. Laughing one minute, crying the next, and all for NO GOOD REASON!
The human scowled, rubbing irritably at his eyes which betrayed the tears he had just shed, red and puffy as they were, even after only moments of crying. Silvery tear tracks still streaked his face, as he was too distracted to truly mind their presence. He did not even know where he was going, just that he had to get away, and that he did not want anyone to find him.
What they must think of me now. Some idiotic crybaby as weak as his forefathers and just as stupid.
Far enough away now to not be seen by idle eyes, he began casting about with his eyes and memory for a place where he could stay--hide, his mind rejoined--for a while and think.
He viciously cut off the thought that threatened to contradict that as he edged his way further into the undergrowth. After that display, he had no desire to eat with his brothers who would probably see him only as a child, a baby, still in need of their protection but by no means worthy of it.
It never failed. Just when he finally did something he could be proud of, such as besting all those Slyntari just a week ago without a single scratch, he went and did something to screw it up. Like gaining that scratch against the orcs. He was a better fighter than them and he knew it. Then why could he never enter a battle without getting hurt?
He kicked irritably at a rock near his feet, sending it skittering away from him, bouncing along the ground in a straight line before turning suddenly and shooting off to the right. His path was like that sometimes; as straight as could be one moment, then heading in an entirely new direction the next, changed by some unavoidable obstacle that could rarely be seen before he stumbled right on top of it.
Misery seemed to cloak the human, wrapping him in an almost visible cloud of gloom. If one looked closely, they could almost see the dark rain clouds that hovered over his head, dousing him with cold water. . . . At least that's what one would have to assume was happening, for there could be no other explanation for why someone would be so sad in the midst of such beauty which could just be seen from where Aragorn was standing.
Aragorn faced west, standing upon a ledge at a clearing of trees which allowed him an almost uninterrupted view of the sunset. It painted the sky in shades of blue and purple, reds and oranges, pinks and yellows, reaching outwards, seemingly pushing against the darkness yet still giving ground and growing ever darker the farther the sun fled. The moon would follow soon, but it could not yet be seen.
The beauty did not reach him, however, for he was too far sunk in his despair to see light in anything, his mind too occupied with chastising himself for perceived failures to escape the shadows.
The forest was quiet, no elves wandering about under the stars as dinner was nearly ready. No one saw the human sink to the ground in dejection, nor saw him fall asleep despite his best efforts to not give into the darkness. He simply had not the strength left, and as he sank, his mind berated him for being so weak as to be forced to accept the shadows. . . .
~*~
Darkness filled his vision.
The ranger looked around slowly, scanning back and forth, every sense on alert, every muscle tensed for action. Yet nothing happened. Distant sounds touched his ears, filtering slowly through to his mind but did not register. Nothing could he feel around him.
Somehow, he knew he had been here before. He knew, and he knew he did not want to be here again. Something bad happened last time. He did not want--
Despite the near frantic desperation of his mind, his body gradually released tension as the panic drained from him with no danger having presented itself. Against his will, he focused on the sounds that seemed so very far away, afraid of what they would tell without knowing why.
A clash, like the ringing of metal, sharp, echoing. A scuffle of feet moving quickly, rocks clattering briefly. Harsh breath, fast. Another scuffling, slithering sound, then ringing metal. A grunt of satisfaction or . . . pain?
The sounds came to him, each identifiable, but he could not seem to place them together to see what they meant. A collection of random sounds had no meaning, yet he felt these should, knew these should. But in knowing, he knew he did not want to discover it for they held a secret he dared not know.
Another clash, harsh and unyielding. Firm impact against stone, a thud. Scattering, slithering, leaves, breath, clash, clang, the sounds came faster, repeating at odd intervals, occasionally joined by a new sound or two, but then it was gone. Still he knew not what it was, and still the feeling of familiarity grew, pulling at his mind with its dread, speaking of something he was long familiar with but could not bring to light. There was no light to bring it to.
His eyes narrowed as his mind, fighting against itself, struggled for realization, grasping futilely at a notion that hung just out of reach, taunted with the prospect of attaining the unattainable which nevertheless seemed to be close enough if one could reach just a hair further. . . .
Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, solidifying into a knot that seemed to grow heavier and heavier with each passing second, pulling him down. Something bad was about to happen, something he had known from the beginning, and now was registering to him again, a strange sense of deja vu occurring to him. It was inevitable, this doom, yet he knew not what it was and his flighty mind would not focus on it.
The fact that his own mind would not cooperate did not deter him though he wanted it to, for he was pushed on by a force he could not see, like a puppet whose master moved the strings and he was stuck watching as his hands moved close to a box he had been told not to open. He continued his attempts to grasp that elusive knowledge which danced just out of reach and yet, for all that, seemed to desire to be caught. . . .
The world spun. Or seemed to, a singularly perturbing feeling as there was no world to spin, yet did. Aragorn caught his breath as he felt he was falling, stiffening reflexively though he knew there was nowhere to fall to just as there was nowhere to fall from. The deja vu was stronger now, but no easier to fight, nor place.
When everything seemed returned to normal (or at least what he thought was normal), the ranger tried to look around again. A completely worthless exercise in a pitch black void, admittedly, but a habit he had long since grown accustomed to just the same, and not one he was anxious to break simply because he found himself currently in limbo.
His surprise, then, was palpable--even though he was not really surprised--when he looked around him and saw someone else also occupying this abyss. In the distance, too far for him to make out, were two figures, both tall, though one was light and the other was dark. One was lithe while the other was stocky. They seemed to be moving in their own world, unaware of their surroundings, not that there was much to be aware of, but the notion was so fully ingrained into the Dúnadan's responses that he noted it without thought of the bleakness of the surroundings they shared.
Despite everything in him that said to draw away, turn back, the figures drew him, tempting him closer. He tried to move closer, found he could not, then noticed both figures nonetheless grew larger, their movements apparently bringing them nearer him. Now he could see they moved, a complicated dance that held deadly intent.
As they moved closer, the sounds started to click into place. One-by-one he identified what he had heard earlier and already knew against their movements. The clash of swords as one swung for the other and was blocked. Feet moving across the ground as the combatants moved around each other, breath harsh from their exertions whistling in and out. A veritable cacophony of sound, steady, constant, except when it was interrupted by a grunt of pain or a thud or some other sound which as of yet did not belong in the tapestry of movement being woven before him.
Mesmerized, he stared, able and wanting to do nothing but watch, absorbed. It was a good thing there was nothing around him for he would not have noticed a band of orcs if they had suddenly marched up and trampled him, save to object if they obscured his view of the two fighters.
Slowly, the light figure became clearer, even as the dark figure grew more obscured, and his mind attempted to fight the revelations he knew were coming but did not know.
Golden hair glowed behind as the lithe figure moved and turned, blocking and evading blows. A whimper lodged in his throat. His clothes gained resolution: a moss-green over-tunic covered the long sleeved light gray tunic the being wore underneath, dark gray leggings ending in soft, supple, dark brown boots. His heart lurched as he moved closer--or the figures did--and he saw the belt secured around the being's waist, the quiver strapped to his back, the knives in his hands, the gauntlets secured around his wrists.
His heart knew what his mind had yet to register, apprehension curling up his spine, forcing him to shift. He noted the triple braids holding back the fair being's golden hair, the intricate elvish designs on quiver and knives, the graceful, pointed ears of the Eldar. Abandoning his spine, the fear crept over to his heart and his lungs, squeezing so as to deny him air.
The combatants shifted, and Aragorn caught his first glimpse of the being's face. Blue eyes burned into his own for a fraction of a second, an eternity, and then they were once again obscured. A dark feeling, a dread certainty, settled over his heart and mind, telling him that nothing good would come of this battle, screaming at him that his friend would die, that he had to stop it before. . . . The end would be upon him soon, one way or another.
Aragorn struggled, desperately attempting to move closer. He tried to scream, already knowing it was futile and even more desperate because he knew, hoping to distract his friend's opponent . . . all to no avail. No sound issued from his mouth and his struggles only served to move him further away. Despair pulled at his thoughts, unbearable pain as he watched Legolas stumble, saw him drop his guard, mesmerized as the dark blade of his friend's opponent sunk deeply into the other's flesh, heard the shocked gasp of pain as icy tendrils grabbed hold to lead towards death.
The ranger's numb gaze traveled from the shocked pain-filled eyes of his friend, no scream able to leave his throat, and followed the elf's gaze to take in the dark figure standing over him. Even now, he could not make out the attacker's face, even though he could see the sweat beading Legolas' pale face, not even enough to know his species . . . but a malevolent smile could be seen through the shadow that cloaked the foul being, a smile of glee for felling that which he could never become, and inflicting pain on another through one being's death.
Anguish froze Aragorn, held him in place, unable to move. The Shadow's eyes turned on him, holding him prisoner, unable to look away, unable to go to his friend and offer aid or even comfort, if comfort was all he had left to offer . . . unable to say good-bye.
Darkness closed in around him, even darker than his surroundings. He could not move, could not breath, but not before he saw Legolas collapse, a still and broken lump of flesh worth nothing to the victor in the sea of black, his light extinguished never to be seen again.
Not before he saw the satisfaction in the eyes of his friend's murderer.
Inside, something snapped and rage replaced despair. He charged and the wraith pulled back, surprise flashing over it's dark features, lighting its eyes. Had he been thinking, able to think, Aragorn might have felt his own satisfaction at the uncertainty that replaced the smug satisfaction, but he did not. He simply charged the shadow, and suddenly--
It was gone.
~*~
Aragorn opened his eyes.
For the second time in the same day, he found himself staring into the startled blue eyes of his friend. A single heartbeat was all that passed before he flung himself forward to latch onto his friend with all the strength he possessed, his mind too distressed with watching the elf die to register the action. He dared not wait, dared not withdraw, lest he open his eyes again to discover it was all a dream and the dream had been the reality.
His body trembled. More tears fell, and he lacked the strength to stop the flow now that it had started. For the second time, he cried on Legolas' shoulder, reveling in the knowledge that Legolas was still around, still breathing, still alive.
He felt the elf's strong arms wrap around him in return, holding him securely. Blood rushed past his ears, drowning out the litany of soothing words he knew were being uttered. The familiar comfort, given by a friend with whom he had already been through so much, was finally the anchor that let him regain control.
When he felt some semblance of balance return, he let go and pulled back, prepared to see scorn in the other's eyes.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When Legolas had come upon the human asleep, he had smiled for Aragorn had looked like a young boy who had stayed out too long and fallen asleep in the middle of his travels. Then, he had noted the distress in the other's face and frowned. Too often had he seen the other caught in nightmares to mistake what he saw, so he had gone forward to wake him up.
He was surprised for the second time in only a few hours, when Aragorn's eyes once again shot open just as he was about to touch him, startling the elf badly. What startled him more, though, was when the human launched himself into his arms, hanging on with desperate tightness as if he would drown if his grip faltered.
The distress, the fear, he had seen in his friend's eyes precluded any consideration for any thought other than to hug him back, and he did. Clinging just as tightly as the human for whatever comfort it would bring the other.
The elf wondered what could distress his friend so. Nothing overly terrible had happened to the human in the story Aragorn had related to him. Orcs, and even Slyntari, were nothing new to the human and what had happened was certainly not the worst of it.
Any poison, however, was a different story. The Ungwale Aragorn had mentioned was new to Legolas; he had no idea what it did, but the ranger did not seem to find it pleasant. It was his experience that the poison did not necessarily disappear with the rendering of the antidote. Perhaps the ranger's troubles were residual of his experience with the poison? He had no clue who to ask to find out.
Then he realized the storm was petering out. Slowly, Aragorn pulled back, his hands brushing away the traitorous tears as his head was bowed, his eyes locked on something apparently very interesting. Then, just as slowly, the ranger raised his eyes. Silver eyes searched his own while he returned the gaze. Legolas got the impression he was searching for something he was sure he would find, but dreaded actually coming across; that he would search for something like that in his friend's own gaze hurt Legolas more than he would have thought.
Hesitantly, Aragorn offered the barest hint of a smile. "Two in less than a day. Does it still feel good?"
A brilliant smile crept across the elf's face in response, then he sobered and spoke seriously. "Aragorn, no one expects you to be strong all of the time." He watched the ranger glance away, shadows creeping across the expressive eyes. "I treasure my time with you, mellon nin. Whether we are laughing or fighting for our lives or resting quietly in Rivendell or here. I never thought I would ever befriend a human, Strider, but then I've never met anyone like you before either.
"You have tremendous strength, my friend. Strength you are not even aware of. And courage. Loyalty. I could not ask for a better friend than you have been to me even in these short years, and my only regret is that we will not have eternity to enjoy our friendship."
Bright silver eyes turned to regard him intently, and a small smile curled the other's lips. "Yes, I regret that also."
They were both silent for several long moments, then Legolas looked back in the direction of the palace. He looked back at Aragorn wryly. "Well, mellon nin, if you feel up to facing the precociousness of your brothers, I think maybe we should go back, get some dinner. After all, I plan on stirring up some trouble while you're here to share it with me."
Aragorn smiled. "Your father's probably about ready to strangle them by now. We wouldn't want that. Besides, then Father would have to decide whether or not to kill Thranduil or thank him, and I would rather he not have to make that decision. I fear he would decide to thank him."
Legolas laughed and stood, extending a hand to help the young human to his feet, which was taken automatically. The two headed back to the palace, laughing quietly as they teased each other and commented on the twins' unique ability to get into trouble even among friends.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Aragorn followed the nimble elf back to the house, the light his friend represented and the dark of his dreams fighting, arguing back and forth, the struggle growing fiercer the closer they moved to the palace. Unconsciously, his pace slowed.
Elladan and Elrohir are not Legolas. They do not see things the way he does.
No, they don't, but they've also had better experiences with men.
That does not change anything. They had direct experiences with Isildur, a man fostered from the same line as Elros, their father's brother. Surely they are disappointed in me, a weak excuse for one of that line.
They made you family. They do not think you weak.
They should. I am.
His attention was drawn away from the argument in his mind when he noticed that Legolas had paused and was looking back at him, an excited but slightly quizzical expression on his face. Aragorn knew if he held back again, Legolas would worry again, and that his brothers were probably already worrying. It hurt him that he kept making them fearful for him because of his weaknesses. He wished they would not fret.
He knew they would. So instead of giving in to his weak impulse to give in, he stepped forward and forced himself to catch back up to Legolas, to walk beside his wood-elf friend.
They reentered the hall, passing several elves, and he did his best not to notice their stares, his best to shut out the accusing gazes that condemned him for being weak. How they had found out, he could not fathom, but they had to know. His pulse increased, pounding away beneath his flesh, fleet as a gazelle fleeing a predator. Breathing shallowly, nearly panting as he struggled to bring enough air into lungs that suddenly did not want to cooperate.
If Legolas noticed, he was too considerate to mention it. Then the distant part of his mind that always found humor in the direst situations spoke, and he wished it did not find this so amusing. Strider, Ranger of the North, Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, who charges hordes of Orcs unconcerned, intimidated, flees before a few stares in an elven kingdom. As if you have not always been stared at by elves, and many of those were worse than these. Really, Estel, you act as if they would bite you. It is their estranged cousins you should worry about on that score. Had he not been so scared, he might have laughed.
The wood-elf walked to the door and pushed it open, glancing briefly inside before shooting a smile at the human who obediently followed him inside, immediately going to their seats.
Aragorn was surprised to find that few were seated in the room. Apparently, it had been decided this meal was to be a private affair. He saw only Raniean, Trelan, Doril, Elladan, and Elrohir, plus himself and Legolas. Both newcomers were greeted with bright smiles.
A note of mischievousness touched Elrohir's smile, and had Aragorn not already been half terrified out of his wits, that look would surely have unsettled him. The twin stood, then bowed formally before the bewildered companions. Aragorn cast a quick glance at Legolas, who shrugged fractionally in return.
Elrohir stood and adopted an exaggerated pose similar to that of a butler, one arm across his stomach while the other was held stiffly at his side, chin up, eyes forward and focused ruthlessly past his head, his posture arrow straight. "My lords," he announced, with a precise accent. "It is my pleasure tonight to serve you. I might inquire if you would prefer to have dinner on the run or if you would prefer the dinner with the run."
The laughter that rang out from the room could be heard throughout King Thranduil's palace and whispered about the surrounding city.