Chapter 3
Only two weeks since the burial of the fair Lady Arwen and already fingers were being pointed. There was a talk of paid elvish assassins, and every elf still remaining in Minas Tirith was called in for questioning by the king.
Aragorn, truthfully, found this dull and fruitless. These people went on whims, not on evidence.
"What do you know of elvish bow making?" he asked the elf that stood in front of him now. He was a Moriquendi, by the look of him, seemingly human except for his angular ears. Legolas' ears were so soft. But I must not think of him.
"I know much of bow making," the elf said hesitantly. "Do you wish a new craftsman?" Aragorn shook his head, finally lifting it from the resting place cupped in on hand.
"No, I do not, but tell me, where are most long arrows crafted?" The elf thought for a moment.
"Lothlorien, lord," he replied, "though Mirkwood makes a fair number of bows capable of shooting arrows of great length. If you allow me to examine it, I can precisely tell you from where it came." With a wave of his hand, Aragorn summoned a servant in one corner of the great hall where he sat. He emerged, bowed low to Aragorn, and handed him the arrow. Shivers ran up Aragorn as he recalled that day long past.
But I must not think. I must not remember. That is past; this is present.
The elf approached Aragorn, running his hand along the shaft. He paused at the feathers, feeling of their texture, and nodded in understanding.
"This arrow, it is crafted in Mirkwood, lord, and whoever shot this bow would have to be quite an adept."
Aragorn felt his chest tighten and a sudden painful thought hit him, coming unbidden to his mind. He tried in vain to push it away, accept it as just a sudden burst of memory, but it was too clear. It dodged his pushing and returned, rooted deep already in his thoughts.
"Legolas," he muttered, though he knew that there were many ears in this hall that could hear it: Elrond's personal elvish servants. Aragorn could not stop that passing of knowledge, and he knew it was already too late to halt the messenger that they would send, with our without his consent.
He abruptly rose, and the elf backed away. Without a backward glance, Aragorn strode out of the hall and into the hallway-balcony. He paused to look down from his vantage point, at the city bustling with activity below him. People shouted at each other, merchants selling off their goods, angry women shouting that the price was too high.
I could be like that, living a normal life, only worrying over such petty matters. But I stand here bearing my mantle of grief upon my shoulders, bending backwards to hold it aloft.
Aragorn turned from that scene and stormed down the long balcony until he reached its end, where it turned off down another side of the royal complex. There, the back room of his private chambers awaited him.
Strangely enough, he found his door open. Aragorn entered hesitantly, glancing around before stepping fully into his sleeping quarters.
"Aragorn, if you do not mind me interrupting, I think we must talk," a voice said, traveling with a body that moved from one of his front rooms. Elrond stepped into view from behind a doorframe, and Aragorn started.
"I did not expect to see you here," he said, trying to sound calm and controlled. Legolas, I cannot believe you would do that. He is an innocent elf.
"I suppose you know then," Aragorn stated, and Elrond nodded solemnly. "Come though, let us not stand and discuss such matters." He led the elf into a sitting room. Inside, there was a round table with large, plush chairs set around it. Aragorn seated himself in one with a high back and large armrests. Elrond noted the tenseness in his movements. "Mlina, could you bring us some tea, perhaps?" he asked a servant who had just entered the room. She bowed and left just as abruptly.
Elrond saw through this mask. Such politeness, yet the conversations will go far past topics to be discussed over a cup of tea. Come, Aragorn, do not hide around those of greater stature.
Mlina brought the tea quietly, laying out carefully each mug. The steaming liquid gave off a sweet aroma, and Elrond lifted the cup to his lips. Peppermint, as he thought.
"Now," he said, setting his cup down and steeping his hands in front of him. Aragorn waited patiently at the other side of the table, not even considering drinking his tea. "Let us not play the fool. Lay what you know in plain sight, and I shall leave out what I have gathered." Aragorn leaned back and closed his eyes, deep in thought.
"You know what I heard," he whispered, his voice increasing in volume at the end. He was trying to sound confident, even in the face of such a realization. This man thinks that he should be over pain. Unfortunately, his grief cuts far deeper than the loss of my daughter. At the though of Arwen, Elrond felt his throat tighten. Far past crying, he just now let his voice freeze in his throat when memories became too close.
"It cannot be," Aragorn breathed. Elrond felt a surge of compassion for this man he once considered his foster child, but that lasted only a short while. What would he say to him; what comforting words were there left for a man with a life as Aragorn's?
"There is a possibility." Heartless.
"There should not be!" Aragorn shouted suddenly. Elrond jumped in his chair. When he regained his composure, he saw the man slumped over in his chair, his forehead resting against the cold wood, his fist pounding it and sending tremors across the flat surface. "No, not Legolas, dammit, no," he sobbed. Elrond got up from his chair and did what he thought he should do, he draped his arm around Aragorn's shoulder. Aragorn turned and looked up with swollen eyes at the elf above him.
"If we let Legolas return, then we can question him and you can prove his innocence," Elrond tried to reassure the man. Aragorn shook his head furiously.
"No!" he shouted. He eyes glazed over with tears. "I will not get in Legolas' way any longer than I have. I have caused him enough trouble." His voice was no more than a whisper. "I cannot be a roadblock in the life he should have. I have done enough harm." He suddenly stood, the chair tipping to the ground. Without even a passing glance at Elrond, he stormed out of the room and down the outside hall.
***
"Legolas, son of Thranduil, by the orders of the King of Gondor, we take you under custody for questioning," the messenger's voice faded in and out of hearing, vibrating through the many layers of sadness in Legolas' mind. He saw the face, strong, young, a wide human face with small eyes, but there was no voice to accompany it.
"What have I done wrong?" he whispered. The man bowed his head, his eyes closed, and said with a trembling voice.
"You have been charged with the murder of Lady Arwen of Imladris, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven." Legolas felt his heart tighten in sadness, but he fought to keep back tears. Arwen, dead?
"And Aragorn suspects me guilty?" The messenger flinched at the harshness in his voice.
"His majesty has evidence that directs the blame to you," he said coldly. Such resentment. Legolas stiffened, his eyes filling with tears while his nostrils flared.
"I suppose he really only wants me to take her place," he spat loudly. The man glared at Legolas.
"Never speak of his majesty in that way!"
"What would you know of that filth you call your king?" Legolas shouted. The man hand his hand at his sword hilt now. He glanced around at his other men, who were slowly closing around Legolas. The elf felt his hands itching to shoot one through the eyes.
"I hereby declare you in the custody of the king, Legolas Elf. Men, take his weapons and secure him. We then make haste to Minas Tirith." Legolas fought, lashing out with his fists and screaming mad curses as the men bound his hands and took away his bow. The messenger smirked and turned away.
"Come back, you spineless bastard! I will rent you apart! You cannot take me like this! I never killed Lady Arwen! I would not dare! I would not dare murder an elf!" He lunged forward, but the men shouted and restrained him. "Dammit, let go of me! I did nothing wrong! Nothing at all!" He felt his strength fading as the men hardened their grip, iron hands clenching hard around his slender arms. Breathing heavily, Legolas paused, tears flowing freely down his face as he wept.
I will never go back. Not to him. Not to Aragorn.
Not to the Aragorn I love.
***
The city was dark and quite when the messengers returned with their quarry. They took a soldier's route into the city, away from the front gate so not to attract attention. Through the guard barracks they traveled, eyes sometimes peering out of windows as they walked, men shouting as they saw the golden figure in the center of the entourage.
Lendirn, the head of the messengers, sent on Lord Elrond's orders, listened half-heartedly to the insults thrown at the elf. Sometimes, objects would sail into the group behind it, but always they missed the intended target.
Not that this was the elf sidestepping. No, three days ago he had gone lifeless, not eating, not drinking, and barely moving other than to walk, and then he barely lifted his feet. His eyes glazed over with a filmy white, and his face dimmed in its brightness, the skin becoming a dead, grayish color. Lendirn had never seen that in an elf before. He had heard that elves could die of sorrow, but he expected that to be painless, a fading away from the earth, a peaceful leaving. This elf suffered.
He shifted in his saddle, the only man with a horse in the group, and turned back. Men had now lifted the elf up and were carrying him on their shoulders. His head faced straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the air in front of him. His mouth was drawn in a tight line, the lips white as his face.
"Hurry, men. The King wants him back alive," he suddenly shouted. This brought a rush of boos from the onlookers.
"Just kill 'em now and get over with it!" one man, his head sticking out of the window of a guard building, shouted. Lendirn shook his head and turned around again.
The King. Technically, his was disobeying the King's orders, for he was sent on Lord Elrond's will. He never told his men this, informing them that it was indeed the King of Gondor that wished this meeting. Lendirn, though, knew much better.
After being dismissed by Elrond from his personal chambers, Lendirn saw the King walking solemnly down the corridor. He bowed low, but the King paid it no heed, immediately entering Lord Elrond's room and closing the door behind him.
The entire palace should have heard the fight that ensued.
"Aragorn, we must bring Legolas for questioning."
"No, I cannot. I will not harm him." The King's voice trembled.
"Do not let your emotions cloud your judgment. If he is a murderer, than..."
"But he is not!" Aragorn choked on a sob.
"We have no proof of that! In fact, there is more proof that he is in fact the killer than there is that he is innocent." Elrond raised his own voice now.
"I forbid it, as King of Gondor! Legolas will not feel any more heartache than he needs. Who knows what seeing me will do to him! He could die because of that, being innocent or guilty."
"I understand your pain, Aragorn, but please, hear me out. I think it wise to do this. You can question him, and if he is innocent, you can send him on his way. Your soul will be free of that burden of question."
"My soul will never be free of any burden. Guilt anchors guilt. One cannot leave without the other, but the other will not leave without it, and so ever weaving a pain of eternal heartache." He wept then. Elrond cleared his throat.
"Aragorn, do not try to let him free. We must question him, to make sure."
"What about your men, Elrond? Do you not constantly trade with Mirkwood? Could it be one of your elves? You never suggest that! You point the blame at Legolas. All because your daughter never became queen..."
"You know that is not true!" Elrond roared. "Ever step of the way I tried to persuade her that her love was one sided. She would have left for the havens..."
"But Galadriel..." Aragorn gulped and held back another sob.
At that time, Lendirn left the two to their own, hearing the conversation suddenly stop. Already, he heard too much.
Rounding a corner, Lendirn found himself on the long roadway that led to the entrance to the royal palace. He spurred his horse to a trot, reaching the gate long before his men.
"State your business!" a watchman called from the top of the gate.
"I bring the elf Legolas of Mirkwood. You will permit me passage, by order of the King,"
***
Pain. Pain and longing. Burning in his heart. The world hurt. It hurt to watch it pass while he was helpless. Every bone was cold, deadweight on his already troubled mind. Each time he moved, the ice clanked, grinding that made his sensitive ears burn. But the warmth was momentary. Then, he would return to cold. His only wish was that he would loose touch with the wasted body, his spirit flying free on the winds of time. He could soar away, on silver wings that bore him to the halls of his ancestors. Such joy! But always, the cold replaced joy.
Now, there was no cold; there was no fire; there was not even joy. There was nothing, complete blackness that covered ever part of his mind and blanketed him in the bliss of numbness. All around, he could hear singing, coming from the heart of the darkness. It called to him, those voices, fair and light. They soared up into the far reaches of the black, then plunging into deep, enchanting rhythms, beating to the constant time of his heart. High notes rang above them, acting as a counter melody to the constant drum.
The voices faded, the blackness fading, and he expected to see fields, bright fields, forests of ageless trees, lakes of shimmering blue, cerulean skies without a trace of clouds.
But there was light. The light shone from one place and grew, radiating out in the dark. Shadows faded, his vision cleared, and he felt the cold returning painfully. The light drew ever nearer, increasing in speed. There was a hurried clank, and the light was upon him, wrapping around his body. The touch was warm, too warm though, and he shied away from the burning. Even the cold was more of a comfort than this. He could not move, paralyzed by the feel of strength returning to his frozen limbs. The fire that burned within grew, and he thought it would consume him, destroy every shred of sanity he had. He frantically tried to pull away, though his body did not budge. There was noise in his ears, and the fire scorched the delicate lobes. But he could not resist the words.
"Don't die on me. Please, come back. Don't die." The fire suddenly let free water, and he felt the flames subsiding as the droplets of rain fell onto him. His eyes unclouded, his vision returning, and he could feel the hard ground below him. The man was not finished speaking though, and now, he listened to the words.
"I am sorry. I don't care what punishment you bring, but do not die! Mela, do not die."
And I vow I will never leave you either.
We will never part.
My love.