C: Uh. Right.
Grumpy: Oh but I did! Just not when I wanted to. Hehe. It was really good. Mm, yeah, help is on its way. Lol. I heard that in my head in Mrs. Doubtfire's voice. (is that how it's spelled?) Anyway, lol, his finer points. Can you tell how odd my thoughts are?
Deana: *g* Wouldn't it.
Nat: lol. If it is, I've never seen it. Why, because she wasn't at the exit. Her little tunnel didn't lead her there. Lol. Um, I don't think they had cricket. Hehe, yes, let's not think about what he'd look like. *g* Of course. Um, don't think I could forget, but you could still review. *g*
Bill the Pony: Yep! Lol. I'll see what I can do about that cliffie. *g*
Lauren: A month? Yikes, that's terrible. Lol. Yes, my friend does that, too. I haven't reached that point yet. Trying to become creative? Why must you try to be creative? Lol. Don't even need to do that. I'll say a word that I consider common knowledge, and my friends will give me this looks, blank looks and ask "What's that mean?" Then I'm stuck trying to come up with a dumbed-down version of the word when I hadn't been able to think of a simpler word to begin with. Lol, I can so picture that, too. The story would be over so much more quickly if everything went right. I've seen so few horror movies, it's laughable, but I may have to see May now just to find out what you're talking about. *g* Well developed. *does a little dance* Well rounded. *does another dance* Thank you! Lol, I can see that one too. I almost made him do that, actually. It just didn't write, so it didn't get put in. *g*
Okay, okay, this chapter is long enough as it is. I'll let you get to it and pray I don't have as many mistakes as I think I do. Hehe.
Read. Enjoy. *wide smile* Review. You know the drill.
Chapter 17
To Lose or Win
The mountain crumbled, the shaking no longer so intense, but now a steady rumbling that vibrated one's very bones. It was that feeling of being shaken, so very familiar, that woke him. "I'm awake, Strider, I'm awake," he murmured, but the shaking did not cease, nor did it become more insistent or less.
Blue eyes peeked out from behind closed lids, beginning with a crack, then widening when nothing was revealed. Regardless of the fact that his body wanted nothing more than to ignore the shaking and go back to sleep, Legolas forced his eyes open. His heart fell when he saw that Aragorn was nowhere nearby, for he had been sure his friend had woken him. Then he remembered where he was, and gasped.
Nearly frantic, he struggled to sit up, struggled to move, and accomplished neither. His legs would not cooperate and his left arm was too heavy for him to move. It was too dark to see anything, but his natural glow dimly illuminated his surroundings, and he forced himself to move until he could see what was wrong.
When he had, he almost wished he had not and sank back down onto his back, frustration and despair welling in his chest. He was trapped. He was trapped in a cave under tons of rock. Alone.
He took a deep breath and held it, fighting against the panic that threatened to engulf him and send him over the edge, past reason. The number of bad experiences he had in caves kept growing, and while he had managed to overcome his feelings towards humans, he had yet to find a cave that could do what Aragorn had done to get through to him. It was certain he never would. The high whistle of his breathing, quickly rushing in and out of his lungs, sounded in his ears even above the constant, deep humming in the distance.
By the Valar, he was in a cave, alone, with the ceiling crashing down on him, pinned, unable to free himself, and his friend, his best friend, was likely in the same predicament. A shrill laugh, strange to his own ears, escaped him. There had to be something funny in that, didn't there? Aragorn could have found something funny.
Aragorn. What was he going to do? He had lost the Hope of Men, he had dropped him. His friend was helpless and he had dropped him. Oh, by the Valar, he had dropped him and left him alone, and now they were both helpless, both doomed to die alone under a mountain of rocks, to starve to death or dehydrate, forever occupants of a stone tomb. In a cave that was collapsing.
His vision blurred and began blacking out along the edges, strange colors floating before him, and a distant, somehow still lucid part of his mind told him he was hyperventilating, but that meant nothing to him. It was too big of a word for his frazzled mind to cope with.
You'll pass out, you idiot! The voice screamed, and he tried to figure out why that would be a bad thing. It was always better to be asleep when there were things one did not want to endure. It made them go by quicker. Passing out was a good thing.
If you pass out, you'll never escape. When you wake it will not be over. If I wake, he countered, but the voice had a response to that, too, and it penetrated his panic-haze. If you never wake, Aragorn is doomed whether you could have found a way to save him or not.
A way to save him? Could there be a way to save him, to help him? The elf prince could not think of one if it existed; he was pinned quite firmly under tons of stone which did not shift, even when he struggled against them. Still, if there was a chance, he had to try. He had to. Aragorn was his friend; the human would do no different for him if their positions were reversed. After all, it was Legolas' fault they were in this predicament.
He was the one who had gotten hurt and forced Aragorn to make his way alone and without guidance through Mirkwood, in a place where even Legolas was not entirely sure of his location. He had forced his friend to seek out help, and Aragorn had found it. He had failed to warn the human of those being's ill intent, of the danger they faced. He had let them walk straight into a trap and he should have stopped it. Aragorn was busy dealing with nightmares, struggling against the last time he had been tormented. And he had exposed his friend to more of the same with his carelessness. He had become distracted. He had doomed Aragorn with his actions. He could not let him die a certain death in a cave, away from his family and those who loved him, if he could help it.
Again, he made the effort to escape, but got no further than he had the last time. He jerked and pulled, ignoring the burning pain that crept up his limbs with every effort, well aware that he had endured worse for less than a friend's life. He kicked with his legs, hoping to free them, but did not anticipate what happened next.
The rocks shifted. His legs, which had before only been trapped, were now being crushed. The abrupt pain startled a curse out of him before he could stop himself, and he half rose in an attempt to ease the pain, to remove the burden, nearly wrenching his arm from its socket in the process. He hissed and fell backwards, struggling to ignore the pain, the insult to his pride, his fear, and most of all, his guilt. Tears pooled in his eyes, but did not fall, his feelings running too deep for that. He simply lay there, listening as the rumbling he could hear, that vibrated through his being, gradually stopped, and all was silent.
He almost wished for the rumbling, the constant sound to lull him and possibly distract his thoughts. He did not want to have time to think, to dwell on the past, to consider how he had failed Aragorn. He did not want to remember how he had failed his friend.
"Legolas?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The first thing he noticed when awareness returned was pain. No surprise there. He had expected pain, terrible pain, and was not disappointed. Still, he was not prepared for it. He hissed and half curled in on himself automatically before his mind registered that he could not. The pain the movement caused, forced him back down and he lay gasping through the pain until it finally diminished.
When it did, he frowned. Why could he not? Automatically, he made to look around him but saw only black. This perplexed him and he struggled to get his mind to work. What had happened that he could not see anything around him?
It was right about the time that his brain started working right (which was likely why he realized it in the first place) that he realized his eyes were closed. Along with that realization came the thought that all was not as quiet as he had originally believed. There was a distant rumbling, an angry grumble, that seemed to be getting further and further away. This newest discovery was no less perplexing than the others, but at least, he thought, he could find some answers.
The first step, though, was to find out where he was. To do that, he needed to see--which meant opening his eyes. Aragorn tried, his mind commanding his lids to rise, but they did not budge, did not even twitch. It's not that hard. They may very well be the lightest piece of me. But there was no change, and his lids remained stubbornly concealing his eyeballs.
He could not remember having so much trouble opening his eyes since he was seven, when Elrohir had drugged him so they could set his broken arm and forgotten he was less than half the size of most men, and thus only needed less than than half the dose. His family--namely Elladan and Elrohir--had been worried (terrified) when he did not wake for more than fifteen hours, especially since the concoction had only been supposed to last around five hours.
Elrond had let them worry about what had happened (the only time Aragorn could recall the elf lord not comforting the twins when they were distressed), not telling them their mistake nor that their little brother was fine. It was only when he awoke and blearily asked how much they had given him that they realized their mistake. It had never happened again: not to him, not to anyone.
In light of that memory, though, he had to think back a bit. Have I been drugged? But no, he was pretty sure he had not been drugged. If he had already been unconscious, there would have been no need to drug him.
That decided, and never one to give up easily, he tried again. This time, he got results, so he kept trying, his eyelids flickering quickly until he managed to force them open. Even the dim lighting (which really could not be considered lighting) that trickled in from somewhere he could not find hurt his eyes, and he blinked a couple of times before his surroundings swam into focus around him. Plain gray stone stood before him and he instinctively pulled back, an apparently solid wall barely six inches from his eyes catching him off guard. Wasn't I in chains?
Aragorn blinked stupidly at the obstruction for a moment, completely at a loss, before he thought to look around. There was not even a sign of a chain, and unless he was much mistaken, he thought wherever he was was smaller than where he had been, and not only because it had been invaded by large boulders. What had happened after the pain sent him away?
The pain.
He blinked, silently berating himself for not considering it sooner (the voice at the back of his mind wondered why he would want to), and tried to look at his hands, which radiated the most pain. His right arm, however, could not be seen and felt little at all. His left arm, though, was visible, even movable if he concentrated hard enough, and he brought it up so he could get a better look, wincing when the appendage brushed against the stone wall before him.
He was surprised to see it was bandaged--a bit more profusely than he would have done it--and smelled strongly of two herbs he knew but could not quite identify but knew to be found in Mirkwood. Legolas, his mind supplied to explain the bandages. But what had happened that the elf had been able to help him since he could not imagine Kaialian allowing such a thing out of the kindness of her heart.
He frowned, then, and tried to shift position, stopping as he came to the decision--really quickly--that it was a bad idea to do so. That little voice in the back of his head told him he had already known it was a bad idea. He wondered why pain never effect it.
When the pain diminished, he was able to determine why he could not move. A large boulder had trapped his legs, landing mostly on his right leg just below the knee. Somehow, when whatever had happened, happened, he had landed in a pocket, of sorts, as he could see a bit of rock supported about four feet above his head, a good deal shorter than when he had last seen the ceiling.
Aragorn relaxed and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It was just his sort of luck to move from one life-threatening situation to another to another. Why could he never move from a life-threatening situation to a completely safe non-dangerous one? One where people helped him instead of trying to kill him. Was that really so much to ask? If the frequency of how often he did not get his wish was anything to go by, he would have to guess it was.
Suddenly, the image of Legolas, dead, floated through his mind, appearing before his eyes behind closed lids. His heart contracted in pain, the thought of losing Legolas--ageless, immortal--to murder was something he would never be able to think about emotionlessly, but now, the pain was not so overwhelming. Hope (or whoever she really was) had told him that path did not have to be; it could be changed, avoided, so long as he did not fall into shadow.
He would not fall into shadow.
Whether or not he would be king, or even if he could be, was a decision that could be left for a later time. Gondor, while not as prosperous as at its height, was still doing well under stable leadership. A decision on his heritage (which he felt was highly over-rated--he did not deserve to be king) could wait. Nothing was final, but the shadows were also growing. Kalya had said his people needed their king. Had she seen something he had not?
It had been several years since he had last had business near Gondor, since his somewhat limited travels had taken him anywhere near the White City, perhaps a return trip was in order? Regardless of his heritage, it was his responsibility as a ranger to protect those who could not protect themselves, and that responsibility dictated that he look into the defenses of Gondor and Rohan. Everyone was better served that way. It had nothing to do with his heritage. . . .
Aragorn frowned, hearing a cry--or rather, laughter. Was he not alone? Surely there was no one around him, here. That had to be his imagination playing tricks on him. But what if it was not? That laughter had sounded . . . odd. No one laughed like that, bitter, lost; it was the laugh of someone who had given up, who could find nothing to live for, and that thought chilled him: he had been in that same position not all that long ago. Worse, though, was the fact that it had sounded disturbingly familiar.
He held still, half-hoping half-fearing to hear it again, to confirm his thoughts, his fears, but no sound come. Still . . . if someone else was here, and especially if that someone was Legolas, he could not simply lay around and wait. He had to help; he had been idle too long. Besides, as best he could tell from never having seen most of the caverns when they were intact, he was pretty sure he was still in the Mountains of Mirkwood, and anywhere Kaialian was was somewhere he did not want to stay.
Judging his right arm to be numb from his weight and not seriously injured, he rolled over--as best be could, anyway, with his legs pinned in place and a solid wall before him not far away--and felt blood rush into his arm. He groaned and pressed his forehead against the ground while he waited for the odd, painful tingling sensation to pass. The only good thing: it did not hurt so bad as when Legolas had retrieved him from the cliff-side and cut the ropes from around his wrists. That, he did not want to experience ever again, and, happily, the painful tingling ended after only a few minutes instead of lasting hours.
When the pins and needles ceased stabbing into his appendage sufficiently enough that he began to feel other things again, he began cautiously moving it towards his head. Twinges of pain coursed up his arm and into his shoulder whenever he bumped his hand against the wall, telling him in no uncertain terms it was a good thing the pain was numbed in his hands because of the herbs. He would hate to feel--again--the raw pain. Once had been more than enough.
Finally, though, after several minutes of slow moving, stops and starts, repositioning, gritted teeth, and violent--albiet silent--cursing, his hand rested above his head, his arm held straight out as if he was reaching for the sky (or at least he would have been if he were standing up). Then he rested, his eyes slipping closed as he slowed his breathing.
Then he heard another cry, muffled and indistinct, though at some point he could not find the rumbling had stopped. His eyes shot open and he sat up, his legs protesting the odd angle they were being forced to assume. Without thought, he started to put his hands down, then thought better of it and fell back down, hands held protectively away from his sides. Once firmly against the floor again, he attempted to become vertical once more, slowly.
He eased up onto his elbows and twisted his legs until he could sit upright, if not exactly comfortably. Then he took a look at the rocks holding him in place. As far as he could tell, he would not have a problem if he had use of his hands. That, of course, was a problem. He bit his lower lip as he debated whether or not he could move the rock not only with the pain in his hands, but with them bandaged, as well.
It was not something he would choose to do (inflicting pain, after all, was not a goal of his, and especially not on himself), but a part of him--a rather loud part--objected to staying put, to being helpless, to the possibility of a slow and creeping death because he was not willing to endure a little pain. In the end, however, it was that cry which made his decision: he could not willingly leave someone to suffer, not to save himself.
Quickly looking around him, he surveyed the rocks that had become his temporary home and which he was more than happy to leave as soon as possible. He was no dwarf, and he had not that people's mastery of stonework, but even he could see that when he freed his legs by shoving the rock back out of the way, the slab braced over his head would crash down, right on his head. A minor difficulty, he decided, looking to see what would fall where.
After several moments, he discovered that if he pushed, pulled, and rolled he could avoid being smashed. The difficulty came in pushing the rock off, pulling his legs out, and rolling out of the way of the falling stone wall, all within a few seconds.
Ah, Legolas, he thought, And you wonder why we humans insist on growing so fast. Everything goes fast, even out escape attempts.
He chuckled, ending on a sigh, then took a deep breath and braced his hands against the rock he had to move, pressing hard enough that he was sure he was pressing (as evidenced by the pain shooting up his arms to his shoulders), but not hard enough that he moved it prematurely. Then, after going through the plan in his mind and taking several slow, deep breaths while trying not to think about what would happen if he messed up, he began counting to three--and moved on two.
As hard as he could, he pushed out with his hands while tucking in his feet and rolled to his left, away from where the slab that was coming down. It was close, the rough stone grazing him as he rolled, but when all was once again still, Aragorn and the stone slab lay side by side barely two inches apart. The dust that had been stirred up on impact slowly began floating back down, settling on his face and clothes, and in his hair.
Then, before the adrenaline had time to leave his system, he pushed himself back into a sitting position. Pain had not yet registered in his brain, and he wanted the painful projects completed before it did. Shaking slightly, he looked to find a way out of his rock cage.
It actually was not so difficult since the stone he had pushed out of the way revealed an opening that he could just manage to squeeze through. He found himself in a slightly larger cage with various crawl ways scattered throughout, but the way behind him was completely blocked and no light shone before him. The only light peeked out from the space he had just crawled from, sometimes showing through hairline cracks. The only light--except for a faint glow of a different kind which was definitely familiar.
Carefully, he made his way closer, stepping slowly over rocks and tripping over others unseen in his path. He half-fell a dozen times before he stood near the source of the light. When he did, he leaned forward and pressed his eye against the crack, hoping and dreading what he would find.
"Legolas?" he called, his heart caught in painful anticipation. Inside, he thought he could see something, but he was not sure. "Legolas!" he cried again, his anxiety coming through in his voice. The young human waited, straining inferior ears to catch even the slightest response that may be uttered.
"Strider?"
Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief even as his breath caught on another concern. Even so, he did not fail to note the touch of incredulity in his friend's voice. Again, guilt surged through him. He was responsible. If he had just been stronger . . . but no, he could not go down that path; he already knew where it would lead. He would just have to be stronger from now on (advice easier given than followed).
"Yes, Legolas, it is I," he assured. "Are you well?"
"Y-you're awake?"
Aragorn closed his eyes as a whole new guilt flooded through him with painful realization. What Legolas must have thought! If he had been able to hear Legolas' cries, then surely Legolas--with his keener hearing--had been able to discern his cries and feel the pain through his friend, just as he had done. How much worse, then, would it have been when they finally ceased? And his trip not into unconsciousness but something else? The elf must have seen, must have known, must have feared . . . what? That he would die? That he would never wake up? He had done worse than he knew: in the face of Kaialian's darkness, he had left Legolas alone.
"Yes, mellon nin, I'm awake. I'm awake and just fine. How are you? Are you injured?"
There was a long silence on the other side. A fine tremor ran through the rocks around him as he waited impatiently for the response. Then, so faintly he almost missed it: "I'm trapped."
He frowned. "Trapped how?"
"I can not move my legs, nor my arm."
Aragorn considered that for a moment. He would have to see to know what to do, and he had no idea how long it would take him to discover a safe way of freeing his friend. He looked anxiously back to the stone. "Are you injured?" he asked.
"Nay," Legolas responded, more himself than he had sound before. "I am not."
The man's eyebrows rose. Nay? Trapped by stone after the collapse and he claims not? "Legolas?" he persisted, inserting a bit of warning into his tone to go with the facial expression Legolas could not see.
"'Tis nothing," the elf maintained.
"Legolas! I need the truth! I need to know if you're hurt. I don't know how long it will take me to get you out, but if you could die before. . . ." he trailed off, unwilling to complete the thought. Worse than his friend dying was the thought of him dying alone, with help so near when there might have been something he could do. He swallowed with difficulty.
"I'm--" Legolas stopped, then started over. "I think one of my legs might be broken, possibly my hand, too. Nothing more than that except a few bruises and some scratches which truly are just scratches, mellon nin. I'm not going anywhere for a while," he finished wryly, joking yet trying to comfort at the same time.
"Alright," Aragorn answered, moving around to get a better idea of the elf's situation. He traced the edge of the enclosure, stumbling over loose rocks in his way that he could not see, the light not extending so far. Then, after traveling on a quarter of the way around, he encountered a wall; he could not go any further. Painstakingly, he worked his way back around, still tripping over invisible obstacles, and found another wall after only going a short distance past the crack he had originally found. He returned to that crack. "Look up, Legolas," he instructed. "Is there anything that will fall if something is moved?"
He waited while the elf prince examined his surroundings. While he waited, Aragorn turned and tried to see if there was anything he could use to help pry the rocks away from their niche. He closed his eyes for several seconds, then opened them , and peered around. All he saw were more rocks. This is not going to be fun.
His attention was drawn back behind him when Legolas' soft voice broke the ominous silence. "Everything appears to be stable. I don't think anything will fall."
"That's good," he called back. Now if only I could use my hands. He turned back around and searched once more. With a disgusted sigh he hoped Legolas did not hear, the ranger attempted to force his bandaged fingers into the cracks--the pain nearly causing him to hiss--with no success. He dropped his hands back to his sides. Staring vaguely to the left of the crack, Aragorn tried to find a solution that did not require him leaving his friend alone, but he could only find one and he knew Legolas would not approve of it.
"Aragorn?" the elf prince prompted.
"A moment, Legolas," he called back, making up his mind. "I'll be right back."
"Back? Where are you going?"
"I need to find something to help move the stone. I will return as quickly as possible," he assured, then waited for the elf's acceptance.
After several tense moments, Legolas' voice once again floated to him through the dark. "I will be waiting."
Aragorn hesitated, hating to leave his friend under such circumstances but knew there was no other way. He murmured, "Be strong, my friend," through the crack and hurried off as quickly as he could, picking his way through the stone and rubble until he found a path he could tread that appeared to actually lead somewhere. Then, he walked.
How long he walked, he could not say, but he discovered several aches he had not been aware of before, mostly in his legs, and when he checked, he found a couple deep bruises that were already purple. There was one on his shoulder that he found after stumbling into a wall. His shoulder blades were tense and sore and his legs burned slightly from all the bending and standing, over and over.
Put quite frankly, he was tired. His stomach grumbled and it occurred to him that he did not know when he had last eaten or how long he had been gone. It had not felt very long, so he was inclined to think more time had passed than he thought, but less than he imagined. How long that made it, he had no idea. Right now, though, it felt like forever.
The tunnel seemed the same way. It continued on into the darkness forever, immeasurable to his mortal eyes. At some point it had started rising again, after descending for many steps, and he had not noticed until recently. Briefly, he wondered if he would be able to find his way back once he found what he was looking for.
He was surprised, then, when he rounded a corner of crumbled stone and found a larger scantily lit room that had at one time obviously been lavish. The young man stopped and blinked quickly, attempting to clear his eyes of the dazzling spots that danced before them. When he had, he looked around.
A large bed stood to one side of the wide chamber, the frame split and broken, leaning at odd angles with a ton of rock covering it, swallowing it. Mounds of gray dust had settled on it, making the original color impossible to discern, though he imagined they had once been red. Pillows, dozens of pillows of different sizes and colors littered the floor on the other side of the room, also covered in rocks and dust, a couple scattered around and obviously out of place. Books, too, could be found, most of which resembled books he had seen in the library at Rivendell or in his father's study: and these were also stacked other places than bookshelves.
Slowly, he walked forward, curiosity leading him on like he had been taken by the hand and pulled into the room. That annoying voice in the back of his head told him he was wasting time, that he needed to find what he was looking for quickly and get out, but his legs would not cooperate and his head could not rule his heart, his heart which whispered there was something here he needed to see, something of great importance.
So he kept walking, pausing briefly to pick up a purple, silk pillow which had ended up in the middle of the floor. He picked it up with some difficulty, and idly smoothed it with hands that could not feel it's softness. His silver eyes scanned the room.
He had no idea what he was looking for, exactly; no idea what could possibly be more important than his friend, what he could possibly find that would aid him in any way. Still, he could not leave.
His gaze caught shiny silver trinkets tossed from the bed or the table onto the floor, a lamp that had been overturned, and another that was still somehow lit and responsible for the light upon his face. It was that which he walked towards, dropping the pillow on his way. Once he got to it, he stopped, then fumbled to hold the loop with fingers that were too thick and could not grasp. It slipped stubbornly from his hands and he frowned, frustrated.
The young ranger moved to try for a different angle and bumped into a chest behind him, knocking it off-balance. Several objects toppled off the top and slammed to the floor, sending a loud boom echoing off the walls, shattering the near-perfect silence that had fallen over the mountain tunnels. Aragorn jumped guiltily, immediately looking to the cavern entrance to see if his intrusion had been noticed, his heart racing a mile a minute, and he dared not breath, eyes wide.
Nothing moved. After a few minutes, he realized, breathing a nervous sigh of relief. Until now, he had not realized how nervous he was, how jumpy. With a sigh, he turned back to the lamp--and froze.
A book had been among the items to fall. It was thick and large with a dirty frayed black leather cover, obviously well-used, and completely nondescript, exactly like hundreds of other books he had seen in his short lifetime. Thus, none of these things came even remotely close to explaining his sudden fascination, yet he could not deny his curiosity.
Never looking away, he edged forward until he knelt before it, his hands hovering uncertainly as he debated, internally, whether or not to touch it.
It was not a fair fight.
As carefully as he could, he lifted the cover and looked at the first page. In slanted, close script, some had written:
"To my one and only, to cherish and share with until the end of days, as tangible proof of my love. Your devoted husband, Mannyn.
Except that someone had scratched out "devoted" until it was nearly illegible. He squinted and pushed the lamp closer, then, clumsily, turned the page, catching several and looked down at flowing script. A smile crept onto his face at the happy times described, the love he saw, and he imagined Arwen sitting down with a similar book to record her thoughts, black hair glistening in the sunlight which streamed down from above, soft skin glowing as she smiled, her fathomless blue eyes reflecting her inner light. . . .
He looked back down at the page and flipped through several more, finding the addition of a son, the family's pride and joy. Several minutes passed in this simple pleasure as he perused another's happiness, imagining such joy for his own love.
Another page turned, and his smile slipped from his face as he read.
"He has gone, and my son--so young, twenty this past winter--has left with him. The battle moves closer--they say--the death and destruction that was once foreign makes its way nearer these lands every day. For me, they are already here.
My husband and son are gone to war, perhaps never to return. They go to protect me, our home, our friends . . . but their presence is sweeter. . . ."
Aragorn blinked, then flipped a couple more pages and resumed reading, a frown pinching his forehead.
"As yesterday, I remember their smiles; the way my son laughed when he ran through the fields and the feel of Mannyn's arms as he held me close, the comfort of their presence when it rained and the words he whispered at night. I remember . . . and the memory burns. It wounds me, taunting me with what I no longer have; may never have again.
"Nine months have they been gone, and no word has reached me. Hope fails me as the hour wanes, as the season turns yet once more, smothering all I have left in creeping darkness.
"Once, messengers brought word, once I knew he would return to me--that they both would, that my son would carry on his father's name. . . . No more. I have no more."
With a feeling akin to sickness, a terrible dread, he turned the pages once more, skipping further to the end as despair crept upon the author day by day, entry by entry, a testimony to the decay of a spirit forsaken by hope. Horror crept into his stomach, but he continued, stopping to read one last page despite the voice in his head telling him he did not want to know, did not want to see. . . .
"They are dead.
"If I knew it not before, it is certainty now, a dread no longer escapable through denial or petty wishes. The truth has been handed to me, terrible as the harshest call, and as tangible as a sword . . . my husband's.
"My husband's sword, the one thing he would never be parted from save by death, has been returned to my hand, returned by those who left with him to war, who traveled with him on his journey of doom . . . yet did not meet his fate. I wish I could rejoice in their return as their families do.
"Words, they give me. words of consolation, of comfort . . . of kindness, yet their words are acid in my ears, burning yet failing to consume. Their words forever echo. They come to me, meaning good, and I am expected to host them, ignore the pain their ignorance causes and put on an act just the same as they. Yes, just the same.
"They do not miss my husband; they are glad he is gone. Avidly was my hand sought, the prize of many a man for my beauty. The men who now seek my hand, who came back when my husband did not, are the same men who wished to woo me once. They would woo me again! I would sooner rip out their hearts.
"Maybe then, they would know my pain."
For a long moment, Aragorn could not move. shock held him to his spot. He had always know if he married Arwen, he would leave her alone before the end of her life. He had known, was resigned to his eventual death, and so gave the matter little thought. But what would happen to Arwen? Would she become cold and bitter? This was Kaialian's journal, he believed. Would his beloved become like the monster who took joy in torture? Would his death twist her spirit so much as to become the very evil they fought against?
Surely not.
Yet doubt persisted, the very pain of the thought rendering it impossible to dispel with words alone, and he wondered. What would it be like to be left by your love, their presence snatched away too soon, unfairly? What would it be like for Arwen, pledged to his side, immortality forsaken and doomed to die, no longer able to join her kin? When he was gone, her reason for staying in Middle-earth was gone and her hear broken. What would she do? She would be left to live out the rest of her life among men she could feel no kinship with, no matter how long she dwelled among them. Would she become bitter?
It scared him to think of such a thing might be possible. And as hard as he tried to deny it, he knew that no matter how happy she was with him, she deserved someone who could stay with her, be with her, who could give her all she deserved.
Numb, he turned another chunk of pages, not really desiring to see more, but unable to help himself, the unconscious desire to know more moving his hand while his mind was too far gone to object. His hand--bandaged, immoobile--smoothed the pages, and he looked down, his eyes drawn despite the dread of what he would find.
"I hate them. Men are monsters, disgusting fiends who care more for riches and land, possessions, than people . . . love. I was a fool, a fool to ever think I might be important, for me. But no, I was a treasure to be coveted until a better one came along. Everyone, even my husband, only wanted me for my body, my beauty . . . the pleasure they can take from me.
"I was a possession, a possession not even worth holding onto. One who could be abandoned with little thought, not worth anything. Not even my own son, born of my flesh, found worth in returning to me. I am nothing in their eyes.
"But no matter. The Dúnadain, righteous to the end, may have destroyed my world; my tightly held, foolishly believed conceptions. But no more. They possessed me, and I was of no worth to them. They will soon know the folly of their ways. They will regret casting me aside; they will beg for mercy, they will beg for forgiveness, and they will not get it. Men mean nothing to me, their pain my one reward.
"They will die. They will all die. And they will learn their folly through the ages. That is my promise."
He moved, turned the pages . . . and found them blank. With great difficulty, the ranger turned the individual pages until he found the one directly behind the one he had just read.
Nothing was written on it, no ink marred the perfection of the page. He could have done well without perfection. Inside, he was nearly frantic, desiring nothing more than to recheck the pages, to flip through them one by one until he found the writing that had to be there, but his hands would not cooperate.
Breathing heavily, he sat very still, his mind racing with thoughts and suppositions, racing too fast to be understood, to even form a coherent thought. He felt like running, jumping, screaming, pounding his fists, pulling his hair out . . . anything, so long as it was something and moving. Instead, he did . . . nothing. He blinked, staring ahead but saw nothing of what sat before his eyes.
Suddenly, the ground dropped out from under him and he fell sideways, instinctively throwing out his hand to break his fall. Pain jolted up his arm and into his head, along his shoulder blades, effectively wrenching him from his thoughts. His arm gave out, and he collapsed to the ground with a cry of pain. More rocks crashed down around his head and he curled up in an attempt to protect himself. The rumbling lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.
When it stopped, he slowly sat up, and his silver eyes, dark with unease, landed on the black-bound book. He blinked at it a couple times, worries--what if Arwen became like that? Could I ask such a sacrifice? Would she make it? Should I let her?--flew through his mind, pushed on by what he had read.
He started to reach for it, his bandaged hand slowly creeping towards one edge. Just one more look. One more look would explain everything, and he would know. One more look would make everything okay. One look. . . .
The ground shook roughly, jerking him away from the book as if nature itself did not want him to look at it. He put out his hands as the ground rushed up at him, crying out with the jolt of impact through his frame, instinctively curling in on himself against the pain. A cry echoed through his head, and it was a moment before he realized he was not hearing it. More stone fell, peppering his back and arms with stinging chips. The ranger winced as a chip clipped his cheek, drawing blood.
Shakily, he rose when the trembling stopped, pushing himself warily to his feet as he looked around. That had been bad. If he could judge at all, then they were getting worse, the tremors; not necessarily longer, but worse. It was only a matter of time until the whole structure came down and crushed everything . . . Legolas!
He was halfway to the door before he remembered why he had left in the first place. He could not go back yet, but he needed to return soon, before it was too late. Looking around, he walked back to the--miraculously--still burning lamp and picked it up, sliding the loop onto his wrist instead of trying to grasp it. Holding it up before him, he searched the room, looking for anything that might prove useful. He found nothing, but kept looking, determined not to leave empty handed as he had no where else to go. Where was he most likely to find something useful?
A glint caught his eye and he froze. Turning to face it, he moved the lamp back and forth in an attempt to pinpoint what he had seen. It was four passes before light once again touched what he was looking for: light glinted back from metal.
Aragorn walked forward, never looking away from that glint. It could be anything, he knew. It would not necessarily be of any use to him . . . but he had a feeling it would be better than even he had dared hope. The ranger dropped to his knees besides it and swiped his hand down it's length to remove the dust that had settled on top. The ranger stared at what he had uncovered, eyes wide from surprise.
Before him, lay a sword. But not just any sword. . . . It was his sword.
He blinked, then reached out to touch it reverently. He traced the blade up and encountered a rock. A frown marred his face when he was thwarted, and he looked up. Standing, he turned so his back was to the rock, squatted, leaned against it, then pushed. Ever so slightly, the rock moved. He re-braced and pushed again, pushing harder as he felt the stone give.
Grunting, sliding, the pressure building, he finally got it to move and it rolled backwards, going so suddenly that Aragorn was nearly dumped to the ground before he managed to reverse momentum. Muscles in his back and legs protested, but the task was done and he could not help but smile.
Breathing heavily, he rested his hands on his knees, ignoring the pain that jolted through them, then considered the problem of actually picking up the weapon without the use of his hands. His gaze wandered idly as his mind turned the dilemma over and over, then landed on more familiar items.
A smile, half-amused half-disgusted, split his lips. Apparently, Kaialian had taken an interest in their weapons. He wondered why . . . then dismissed the notion. At the moment, he had more important thing to worry about, like getting out from under these mountains before they collapsed on top of him and his friend.
Carefully easing the lamp to the ground where he would be able to retrieve it later, he turned to collect their weapons. Using his feet, and working as quickly as possible, he stepped on the bow until he could hook it and swung it over his shoulder (why was it strung? Legolas doesn't leave it strung.), and then hooked the quiver, as well, moving carefully so as to refrain from dumping the arrows on the floor where he would never be able to retrieve them. Next, he stepped on the end of the hilt of his sword, tipping the blade up. He leant forward, carefully, and trapped the blade between his hands (where was the scabbard?), then tossed and caught it until he could slide it--very carefully--into his belt for traveling. He would never be able to pull it quickly, or even use it, but he felt better for having it at his side once more just the same.
That done, he once again picked up the lamp and turned to go . . . but froze.
Something was with him.