A/N: Normally I write book-verse, because as much as I love the work of
Peter Jackson et al. in recreating Middle-Earth, I bow to Tolkien as the
supreme authority. In this case, however, I am diving deeply into
character analysis, which, I am a little ashamed to admit, is not exactly
Tolkien's first priority in his novels. Although I can stick to the books
for Gandalf and the hobbits, since they are closer to my heart and I know
them almost as well as if I'd created them myself, Aragorn is still
somewhat of a stranger to me. So I am throwing in a little movie-verse and
a little of what I shall call me-verse, for lack of a better expression--
the difference between me-verse and fanfiction being the alteration for me-
verse of expressly detailed events in Tolkien's books, sort of like
occasional jolts of mini-AU. So please don't write me a review and say
"That doesn't happen in the books!" Thank you.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Aragorn, Legolas and the rest of the Fellowship don't belong to me, and neither do any other people, places or things mentioned in this story. Luckily for them, they belong to the marvelous imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien and also to New Line Cinema.
Aragorn stood on the last stair of falling rock, wobbling precariously and clutching desperately onto Frodo's collar. If one of them fell, it was not going to be the Ringbearer, he told himself grimly. 'Hope of Men, my foot,' he thought wryly. The Ring was the absolute, the center of every action that now went forth, and it could not be lost at any price. He had always known that good and evil were two sides of the same coin; he had been taught as much among the Elves. He had always wanted to be the one to pull the ones on the edge to the right side. He had known several of these over the years. The creature Gollum, though disgusting, seemed to him to be important somehow for this reason. Saruman had been on the edge for a long time, he now knew. And what almost no one in the world knew, what only one other solitary being in Middle Earth had any idea of, was that he had been one of these as well, for the shortest possible time it could take for the dangerous thoughts to blossom.
The day he had learned of his heritage was one he never wanted to remember. He had sat shaking in the pouring rain for hours, weeping and screaming to the skies as fury, pain and fear rushed through him. He had desperately wanted to run, either away from or back to Rivendell, and the two warring desires had kept him clinging to the slimy bark of the tree serving as his dubious shelter from the elements. He wanted to be five years old again, running to Elrond's rooms when he was frightened by a storm or a nightmare. This was the most horrifying nightmare he had ever had, and he wanted Elrond desperately but was too afraid to seek him out. After all, he had been the one to tell him, to snatch away his safety, his happiness and everything he knew about himself. Elrond took every responsibility, everything that every day brought in stride, and the boy was afraid of what the stern, reserved lord would say if Estel- no, Aragorn, he told himself with a sob- confessed that he could not be what he was born to become, that it was too big, too much.
His thoughts had turned, then. The words 'evil,' 'Sauron,' 'end,' 'darkness' and 'death' did not even pass through his mind; nothing he considered in these moments was as clear as that. He only knew there must be another option, another side to this danger, this 'problem,' as everyone called it. What if he were already on the winning side? What if he were not the underdog, the one doomed to a certain end? When he had finally returned to the house, Elrond had met him in the hall, concern radiating from his smooth features, but Aragorn had said little and excused himself quickly to retire to his rooms for the night.
The elf lord had spent the night in thought and had decided not to accept such an incomplete explanation. He had sought out his foster son the next morning in his chambers and had found the boy weeping uncontrollably on the floor, the ring of Barahir lying on the carpet beside him. Aragorn in his distress had confessed everything, and the terrified Elrond had talked long with him, alternately explaining, lecturing and soothing him until the world had made sense again.
Over forty years had passed since then, but Aragorn often found himself contemplating those days between childhood and adulthood. As his relationships with those dear to him had grown deeper and more complex, he had learned to care without showing it in every expression of voice or movement. Physical comfort of any kind was rare now; he had savored every casual touch from any member of the fellowship, knowing that their pressed circumstances were responsible and grateful also for this reason that he had been included in the quest to destroy the Ring. The companionship here was strong, made agreeably desperate to Aragorn because of their danger. One in particular was a great comfort to the Ranger now, knowing of Aragorn's balancing act as he wallowed in companionship one moment and loneliness the next, placed in this awkward position by his personal mission.
This one looked up at him now, reaching out his arms in anticipation, steady eyes locked on the Ranger's face. Aragorn almost smiled. He could see the fear in the Elf's eyes, shining across the chasm as clear as day, but Legolas would die before he would show anything but a regal dignity befitting his position among his people, or, failing that, a righteous battle anger. It would have been funny if he hadn't been shooting down through the air on a boulder over a bottomless chasm holding the bearer of the fate of Middle Earth in his tenuous grasp. The rock slammed into the firm stair with incredible force, and Aragorn lost his grip on the hobbit. He could only hope that some other vigilant member of the fellowship had been in a position to catch the small creature flying through the air.
He was not the least bit surprised when a pair of slender, almost crushing arms wrapped around his shoulders, stopping his terrifying flight and planting his feet on solid rock once more. The Elf held him close for an extra second, exhaling in relief, before he put him down and spun to follow the others down the path. Aragorn flew after him, half in an effort to avoid any arrows or flaming demons, half in frustration over the lack of opportunity to thank his friend. He knew there was really no need; they were here for each other, and everyone was supposed to save everyone else; that was how it worked. But Legolas had been so happy to have brought him to safety in one piece; he could tell. The Elf had practically smothered him in his relief.
The next moments passed him by in a blur, and it was not until Gandalf's fingers slipped from the rock and his light was lost to Aragorn's disbelieving eyes that he snapped back to reality. His feet flew over stone, arrows flew over his head, and finally he was out in the open air. He closed his eyes and tried to process the grief, but Gandalf could not die for him. He had always been there; as a child he had heard all manner of tales in the Hall of Fire about Mithrandir and his great deeds, and as he had traveled with the old wizard all over Middle Earth, he had seen the wizard for himself. Not merely his greatness, either. Gandalf was sometimes very human, an amazing feat when one had walked the earth for many hundreds of years. His wisdom and power sometimes played second fiddle to his peaceful disposition and simple good humor.
Aragorn felt tears coming to his eyes and hurriedly opened them to divert his mind before they fell. He sorrowfully looked over the other members of the fellowship. The hobbits were weeping on the ground. He quickly looked away to Boromir, standing bent in grief; he too had known Gandalf from childhood. Gimli was raging to the heavens, anger being the typical vent for grief among the dwarves. And Legolas... Aragorn gasped quietly at the look in his friend's eyes. Pain and loss were there, certainly, but that was not what struck his heart so. Legolas was looking around with panicked movements, a total lack of comprehension marking every line of his body and filling his eyes. He did not understand... he did not know what it meant that Gandalf was dead. Aragorn saw that the Elf was fighting the urge to search for the wizard, unable to realize that he could not be retrieved. He swallowed painfully and returned his attention to the hobbits, still laid low by grief and shock. "Legolas..." He had to get the Elf's attention. Somehow he had to get the Prince back. "Get them up." Legolas snapped to attention as Aragorn had hoped, clinging to the familiarity of orders and danger.
Soon enough they had reached the borders of Lothlorien, and Aragorn felt both relieved and uneasy at the idea of the leisure that would follow. He needed to talk to Legolas, but he was afraid of what their shared grief might pull from his heart. He was afraid to share his deepest fear, but he flinched at the memory of that heartbreaking confusion in the Elf's eyes and took courage and strength from the shining leaves and cool sanctuary of the Golden Wood.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Aragorn, Legolas and the rest of the Fellowship don't belong to me, and neither do any other people, places or things mentioned in this story. Luckily for them, they belong to the marvelous imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien and also to New Line Cinema.
Aragorn stood on the last stair of falling rock, wobbling precariously and clutching desperately onto Frodo's collar. If one of them fell, it was not going to be the Ringbearer, he told himself grimly. 'Hope of Men, my foot,' he thought wryly. The Ring was the absolute, the center of every action that now went forth, and it could not be lost at any price. He had always known that good and evil were two sides of the same coin; he had been taught as much among the Elves. He had always wanted to be the one to pull the ones on the edge to the right side. He had known several of these over the years. The creature Gollum, though disgusting, seemed to him to be important somehow for this reason. Saruman had been on the edge for a long time, he now knew. And what almost no one in the world knew, what only one other solitary being in Middle Earth had any idea of, was that he had been one of these as well, for the shortest possible time it could take for the dangerous thoughts to blossom.
The day he had learned of his heritage was one he never wanted to remember. He had sat shaking in the pouring rain for hours, weeping and screaming to the skies as fury, pain and fear rushed through him. He had desperately wanted to run, either away from or back to Rivendell, and the two warring desires had kept him clinging to the slimy bark of the tree serving as his dubious shelter from the elements. He wanted to be five years old again, running to Elrond's rooms when he was frightened by a storm or a nightmare. This was the most horrifying nightmare he had ever had, and he wanted Elrond desperately but was too afraid to seek him out. After all, he had been the one to tell him, to snatch away his safety, his happiness and everything he knew about himself. Elrond took every responsibility, everything that every day brought in stride, and the boy was afraid of what the stern, reserved lord would say if Estel- no, Aragorn, he told himself with a sob- confessed that he could not be what he was born to become, that it was too big, too much.
His thoughts had turned, then. The words 'evil,' 'Sauron,' 'end,' 'darkness' and 'death' did not even pass through his mind; nothing he considered in these moments was as clear as that. He only knew there must be another option, another side to this danger, this 'problem,' as everyone called it. What if he were already on the winning side? What if he were not the underdog, the one doomed to a certain end? When he had finally returned to the house, Elrond had met him in the hall, concern radiating from his smooth features, but Aragorn had said little and excused himself quickly to retire to his rooms for the night.
The elf lord had spent the night in thought and had decided not to accept such an incomplete explanation. He had sought out his foster son the next morning in his chambers and had found the boy weeping uncontrollably on the floor, the ring of Barahir lying on the carpet beside him. Aragorn in his distress had confessed everything, and the terrified Elrond had talked long with him, alternately explaining, lecturing and soothing him until the world had made sense again.
Over forty years had passed since then, but Aragorn often found himself contemplating those days between childhood and adulthood. As his relationships with those dear to him had grown deeper and more complex, he had learned to care without showing it in every expression of voice or movement. Physical comfort of any kind was rare now; he had savored every casual touch from any member of the fellowship, knowing that their pressed circumstances were responsible and grateful also for this reason that he had been included in the quest to destroy the Ring. The companionship here was strong, made agreeably desperate to Aragorn because of their danger. One in particular was a great comfort to the Ranger now, knowing of Aragorn's balancing act as he wallowed in companionship one moment and loneliness the next, placed in this awkward position by his personal mission.
This one looked up at him now, reaching out his arms in anticipation, steady eyes locked on the Ranger's face. Aragorn almost smiled. He could see the fear in the Elf's eyes, shining across the chasm as clear as day, but Legolas would die before he would show anything but a regal dignity befitting his position among his people, or, failing that, a righteous battle anger. It would have been funny if he hadn't been shooting down through the air on a boulder over a bottomless chasm holding the bearer of the fate of Middle Earth in his tenuous grasp. The rock slammed into the firm stair with incredible force, and Aragorn lost his grip on the hobbit. He could only hope that some other vigilant member of the fellowship had been in a position to catch the small creature flying through the air.
He was not the least bit surprised when a pair of slender, almost crushing arms wrapped around his shoulders, stopping his terrifying flight and planting his feet on solid rock once more. The Elf held him close for an extra second, exhaling in relief, before he put him down and spun to follow the others down the path. Aragorn flew after him, half in an effort to avoid any arrows or flaming demons, half in frustration over the lack of opportunity to thank his friend. He knew there was really no need; they were here for each other, and everyone was supposed to save everyone else; that was how it worked. But Legolas had been so happy to have brought him to safety in one piece; he could tell. The Elf had practically smothered him in his relief.
The next moments passed him by in a blur, and it was not until Gandalf's fingers slipped from the rock and his light was lost to Aragorn's disbelieving eyes that he snapped back to reality. His feet flew over stone, arrows flew over his head, and finally he was out in the open air. He closed his eyes and tried to process the grief, but Gandalf could not die for him. He had always been there; as a child he had heard all manner of tales in the Hall of Fire about Mithrandir and his great deeds, and as he had traveled with the old wizard all over Middle Earth, he had seen the wizard for himself. Not merely his greatness, either. Gandalf was sometimes very human, an amazing feat when one had walked the earth for many hundreds of years. His wisdom and power sometimes played second fiddle to his peaceful disposition and simple good humor.
Aragorn felt tears coming to his eyes and hurriedly opened them to divert his mind before they fell. He sorrowfully looked over the other members of the fellowship. The hobbits were weeping on the ground. He quickly looked away to Boromir, standing bent in grief; he too had known Gandalf from childhood. Gimli was raging to the heavens, anger being the typical vent for grief among the dwarves. And Legolas... Aragorn gasped quietly at the look in his friend's eyes. Pain and loss were there, certainly, but that was not what struck his heart so. Legolas was looking around with panicked movements, a total lack of comprehension marking every line of his body and filling his eyes. He did not understand... he did not know what it meant that Gandalf was dead. Aragorn saw that the Elf was fighting the urge to search for the wizard, unable to realize that he could not be retrieved. He swallowed painfully and returned his attention to the hobbits, still laid low by grief and shock. "Legolas..." He had to get the Elf's attention. Somehow he had to get the Prince back. "Get them up." Legolas snapped to attention as Aragorn had hoped, clinging to the familiarity of orders and danger.
Soon enough they had reached the borders of Lothlorien, and Aragorn felt both relieved and uneasy at the idea of the leisure that would follow. He needed to talk to Legolas, but he was afraid of what their shared grief might pull from his heart. He was afraid to share his deepest fear, but he flinched at the memory of that heartbreaking confusion in the Elf's eyes and took courage and strength from the shining leaves and cool sanctuary of the Golden Wood.