Disclaimer: This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment
purposes. All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R.
Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.
Never before have I received so many amazing reviews. They were the best ever! Thank you all! They were IMMENSELY helpful and picked me up from the ground.
On another note, to whoever felt inclined to send me that rather nasty email: Critiquing a piece of writing is one thing; senseless insults are another matter altogether. Next time please try writing from a VALID email address, as I would dearly love to respond. :]
A/N: I have been working on this diligently, I swear! I am beginning to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel for my other story, and when it's been completed I intend to concentrate solely on this one. Now if I could just make that term paper write itself. . .
Anyways, a slight warning to the squeamish in this chapter. (It's not too bad.)
I'm also assuming that others don't know about Legolas' sea longing. It's a sensitive issue and I don't think he would speak about it to everyone he meets.
Happy Reading!
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~ Chapter 11: Foresight ~
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Bergil dashed through the hallway, hastily shoving an arm into the black Citadel Guard tunic as he ran. It took exactly twelve minutes for him to reach the Citadel post from his quarters. Twelve minutes, which meant if he woke up half an hour before his watch, he could afford to drift off for another thirteen minutes of slumber. This, in turn, left him with exactly five minutes to throw on his garments, splash a bit of water onto his face, and run.
The plan left Bergil with a sense that he had somehow "cheated" and grabbed a few extra minutes of sleep. It worked marvelously--except on the rare occasions when he fell back into deep slumber. Today was one such occasion.
'Captain Haier shall have my head!' Bergil groaned inwardly. Why must his quarters be situated outside the inner ring of the city? Would it have been that much more difficult for the city's maker to build an extra room or two right next to the Citadel?
The resounding clang of sword upon shield floated up from the courtyard below; the novices had already begun practice. The fresh scent of morning was quickly giving way to the dusty heat of day. Bergil moaned and ran faster.
"Move your feet, Etunim!" "Good! And one! two! three! thrust!" "Back! two! three! block!" "Sall! Do not lock your elbow unless you wish to break your arm!"
The son of Beregond leapt down the stairwell, taking the stairs three at a time. Two patrolling foot soldiers, Rendur and Caben, barely managed to press themselves against the wall as he flew by. "Morning, Bergil," Caben called lazily.
Bergil hastily grunted in reply as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He threw his shoulder into the door, and was startled to discover it refused to budge. He tried again. The door stayed. "What is the meaning of this? Who ordered these doors to be locked?" The young guard cried out in frustration and pushed against the door with all his might. Rendur and Caben exchanged amused glances and paused to watch. "Open!" cried Bergil as he strained against the door's unyielding weight.
Rendur cleared his throat. "Ah, Bergil?"
Bergil kicked the door and turned to glare at the two soldiers. He was already working up a sweat and the day had barely dawned. "If you two would stop standing there and help me unlock this door," he panted angrily and continued pushing.
"Bergil."
"WHAT?"
Rendur and Caben again exchanged an amused glance. "Pull."
Bergil blinked.
"The door," Caben instructed. "Pull, don't push."
Bergil reached down and gave the handle an experimental tug. The door opened smoothly.
He tried to ignore the stifled laughter as he charged into the bright morning sunlight.
"I am late, I am late, I am late. . ." The words pounded over and over again in his head with each step he took. What was Captain Haier going to do to him when he realized Bergil's absence? A double shift? Demotion? 'That is highly unlikely as I already hold the lowest rank.' Bergil was unsure if the thought brought him comfort or not.
He swiftly turned the corner and ran straight into a smaller body. The young guard reeled backwards and managed to grab onto a heavy wall hanging before he completely fell over. The poor lady he hit was not nearly so lucky. With a cry of distress, she landed on the stone floor in a heap, her fine green dress wrinkled and dusty beneath her.
"Sorry! I am so sorry!" An extremely flustered Bergil hastily offered a hand to the woman he had just flattened. "Please forgive me, my Lady."
A worn, rugged hand--that of one accustom to hard manual labor no well-bred Lady of Gondor would dare partake in--quickly latched on to his. Bergil looked to the woman's face in surprise as she pulled herself up from the ground and pushed back her disheveled hair.
He cried out in shock and involuntarily attempted to yank his hand away. Deeply scabbed gouges ran down the woman's face in long ribbons. Her eyelids were swollen shut; so tightly plastered to her face it looked as though the bruised and scabbed lids had been fused together. There was a wetness to them, though, and a continuous flow of fluid leaked from them.
The hideous face smiled at him, causing the corners of the eyelids to crack and produce more fluid. Bergil's stomach flopped like a wet piece of leather. He was suddenly glad he hadn't had time to eat breakfast.
"Please excuse me." The face sneered. "I do not look my best in the morning and I have yet to 'paint my face.'" Its tone was so sarcastic and bitter Bergil was unsure of how to respond. The young guard swallowed wanly and wished it would let go of his hand.
The hideous face seemed to grow annoyed by his horrified silence. "Take me to the king," it demanded.
Bergil nearly choked. "To--what?" His mind was reeling and his stomach still gave the odd sickening flop. His experience of gruesome wounds lay in only the accidents that had occurred during his training, and they had been limited to minor cuts and bruises. Perhaps the occasional broken bone was a sight, but nothing as monstrous as the thing standing before him. What was this? How did it get into the castle?
The ribboned face growled. "Take. Me. To. The. King." It stressed the words and squeezed his hand even tighter.
Bergil winced and bared his teeth. "No!" He suddenly found his head eye- level and uncomfortably close to the hideous face. It grabbed his hair between its two capable hands and pulled him near. Bergil shuddered and tensed. It was disgusting. If it didn't let go of him, he would force it to.
"I have important business with the king, Boy. Unless, of course, you wish him to hunt down the Elf and reclaim the stone." The face released him and Bergil jerked back like a loosened spring.
He rubbed his head and warily eyed the hideous beast. It had called him "Boy," which grated him the wrong way. A closer inspection revealed it could be no older than thirty-five years of age--by no means a child, but definitely unqualified to refer to HIM as a boy. "How do you know of this?" He narrowed his eyes and glared at it suspiciously.
"I still have use of my ears," the deformed woman snapped. "And these walls have mouths wider than the plains of Rohan. All know an Elf took the stone from your imbecile king, and that the man intends to go after him! It is the worst-kept secret in all of Gondor."
"My Lord has made no plans to hunt down Lord Legolas," Bergil protested hotly. Being called "Boy" was bad enough, but insulting his liege was where Bergil drew the line.
The woman sneered, the scarred gouges in her face and purple, wet eyelids only adding more menace to her appearance. Bergil, however, was too angered to be affected. "I speak the truth!" he snapped, feeling his outrage at the woman's audacity grow. "He only wishes to stop Lord Legolas from journeying to the sea!"
"And why does he do this, Boy?" Her voice dripped acidic with sarcasm.
Bergil's face flushed with anger. "Because, Lord Legolas risks capture and death at the hands of the Corsairs of Umbar if he travels to the sea."
The ugly woman placed her hands on her hips and snorted contemptuously. "And an Elf would be foolish enough to wander straight into the arms of the Corsairs? Forgive me, but tales of the Elder I recall speak of them as highly intelligent, superior beings."
Bergil remained silent. As much as he was loath admit it, the woman did have a point. 'Nay,' he told himself, 'King Elessar is a wise and just king. He always does what is best.' Then again, Prince Legolas was certainly capable of handling himself. Bergil suddenly had an awful, nagging suspicion that one of them was terribly wrong. But who? The Lord Prince Legolas could not be wrong, yet neither could the King of Gondor. They were both not capable of such a thing.
Were they?
It was a concept foreign and altogether unfathomable to Bergil. Desperately seeking to find a way around the idea, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mouth: "You are mad."
The woman threw up her hands and cackled. "Very good, my dear boy! Very good! Yes, I am the crazy woman who talks to her dead child's doll." She blindly tottered towards Bergil. He took a step back. "Yet here is where the most interesting question arises: Why is it that I, Bitaliel the Madwoman, am blind as a bat yet can still see the foolishness of your king, whereas you, Boy, are intent on making yourself blind to his errs?"
"I am late for duty," Bergil stated flatly. He turned sharply on his heel.
"Many will suffer if the King follows the Elf." Bitaliel's soft words tapped him on the shoulder, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He froze and cast a glance back. She stood, forlorn and hunched in the hallway; her hands clasped earnestly in front of her. Morning sunlight bathed her as it streamed in through the windows. The woman appeared disturbingly sane.
The young guard sighed in resignation and silently berated himself for his soft heart. "Very well." He walked over to her and gently grasped her arm. "I suppose it matters not. I am late enough as it is. Come, let us bandage your eyes and then I shall lead you to the King's quarters."
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Aragorn rummaged through the drawer until he found the shirt he was searching for. He tossed it over his shoulder, where it landed on the bed next to his travel sack. Arwen stood silently at the window, watching him with reproachful eyes.
He did his best to ignore her.
He pulled out another shirt and two pairs of leggings. Walking over to the bed, he began angrily stuffing his clothes into the sack. At last Arwen's gaze became too much. "You know I cannot stand it when you look at me that way."
Arwen blinked serenely. "I know."
He slipped on a pair of black leather wrist guards and laced them up. He could still feel her eyes on his back. "Then please cease doing so." The laces squeaked against the leather as he gave them an ill-tempered tug.
The Queen of Gondor sighed softly and turned her face towards the window. Much to Aragorn's chagrin, she began humming a low and mournful tune.
"Are you trying to torture me? I assure you Arwen, you are succeeding marvelously."
Arwen opened her mouth to reply, but instead allowed her attention to slip towards the chamber door. "Come in, Bergil."
The doors were cautiously pushed open and Bergil entered. The hunched form of Bitaliel clung to the young man's arm as he reluctantly moved forward.
"And to what pleasure do we owe this visit?" Arwen smiled disarmingly at the guard. He wanly smiled back.
"I come to stop your husband from hunting down the Elf," Bitaliel said. Bergil glanced apologetically towards Aragorn. The King's face darkened.
"Then you have joined our discussion at precisely the right moment," Arwen smoothly replied.
"I am not charging after him with the entire force of Gondor by my side," Aragorn growled. "I go to stop that foolish Elf from destroying himself!"
"Gimli shall see that he is not harmed." Arwen lanced him with a scrutinizing stare. "And what of the jewel? What would you do if it fell within your grasp again?"
Aragorn tactfully evaded the question. "Why is it that you so readily side with Legolas? Might I remind you of his actions last week? He stole from Gondor, Arwen. And he had no qualms against striking me down to accomplish his goal."
Arwen was silent for several moments as she carefully chose her words. Bergil and Bitaliel stood in quiet expectation at the doorway. "You know you speak out of hurt, Estel." She watched him lower his grey eyes. "The Silmaril does not belong to Gondor."
Bitaliel suddenly spoke from her place by the door. "This Elf friend of yours, King Elessar--he must deeply care for you." She tugged on Bergil's arm and indicated she wished to move forward.
"So I had believed," Aragorn softly replied, his eyes growing distant as faded memories of past battles, Legolas at his side, paraded through his mind.
"And so you should still." Bitaliel's tone brooked no argument. "Your friend cared enough that he was willing to jeopardize your friendship, so that you and your realm might know peace and safety. That accursed stone would have been your undoing!" She pursed her lips and tilted her bandaged face to Aragorn. He fancied she glared at him. "Shame on you, King of Gondor! Shame on you!"
Aragorn stared at the peasant woman in the rumpled green gown. He had not been reprimanded so since. . . Since his own mother was still alive. He felt less like the King of Gondor and more like a misbehaving child.
Aragorn caught the slight quirk of Arwen's lips from the corner of his eye. Bergil's eyes were nearly the size of saucers. The young guard was struck dumb that Bitaliel dared to berate the King in such a manner. He fidgeted nervously, as was his habit when he found himself in an uncomfortable situation. The poor lad was undoubtedly regretting his decision to bring the madwoman before the king.
An awkward silence hung over the chambers as fragments of Bitaliel's last "Shame on you!" dissipated. Aragorn stared mutely at the disheveled peasant woman, who, sensing his shock, defiantly crossed her arms over her chest and stuck up her chin. Bergil's face drained of all color, and he looked to Aragorn as though expecting the man to violently explode at any minute.
Arwen raised a finely sculpted eyebrow and cocked her head to Aragorn. Catching his eyes, she gently placed a hand upon her husband's shoulder. Her grey eyes held a bemused twinkle as her voice floated clear and musical in the deathly silent room:
"Shame on you."
Aragorn shot her a look of exasperation, to which she promptly grinned back. He shook his head and muttered in irritation, smiling despite his best efforts. "Can you not allow me to stay properly mad at you, if only for a day?"
Bergil felt the mood of the room shift drastically, though he could not quite grasp how Bitaliel and Arwen managed to do so. Aragorn still looked angry, but he did not appear on the verge of erupting as he had before. "Does this mean you shall not ride after Prince Legolas, my Lord?"
Aragorn tossed his travel sack over one shoulder. "Nay. It is still my intention to follow him."
Bitaliel exhaled loudly and shook her bandaged head in disgust. "Fool," she muttered under her breath.
"You disappoint me, Estel." Arwen's lips drew into a thin line of disapproval. Aragorn was suddenly reminded of Elrond.
"Legolas courts disaster should he travel to the sea. The addition of Gimli will do naught but endanger the Dwarf as well. I cannot, in good conscience, let them go." Aragorn's voice held a note of finality Bergil knew could not be swayed. "I will cast the jewel into the sea if need be."
Bitaliel snorted in disbelief. Arwen shot her husband a penetrating elven gaze, effectively stabbed him to the core. "Bergil shall journey with me," Aragorn stated, meeting Arwen's accusing eyes. "He will ensure I do not take the jewel for Gond--for my own purposes."
Arwen's look did not waver. Aragorn sighed and took her slender hand within his calloused ones. "I fully intend to have words with Legolas when we meet, Arwen. And yes, I believe I shall continue to be angry with him for some time. But I promise you, by my sword, I shall not allow the jewel to dominate my thoughts and actions."
The Queen of Gondor closed her eyes and gently kissed her husband. "May your journey be safe and uneventful, Love, though I fear otherwise."
Aragorn squeezed her hand reassuringly within his own. "I shall return to you." He grimaced slightly. "Though do not be surprised if a certain Elf is sent back to Ithilien sporting several well-deserved bruises."
"Come," cried Bitaliel, pulling Bergil's arm in the direction she believed to be the door, "Let us be off!"
"My Lady, I do not think--"
Bitaliel dismissed Aragorn with a wild fling of her hand. Bergil barely managed to avoid being hit. "Bah," she said. "Someone is needed to keep the two of you from trouble."
"But you are blind as a bat," protested Bergil. "You said so yourself!"
"Bergil," Aragorn warned. "It is impolite to--"
Much to his annoyance, Bitaliel cut him off a second time. "The boy merely states the obvious. It is a fine quality to have. Yes, I am blind as a bat." She poked Bergil sharply in the shoulder, causing the young guard to yelp. "But bats can see in the dark, and there shall be much darkness where we are headed."
'What a strange day has dawned thus far,' Bergil mused with a shake of his head. 'And I cannot help but sense many shall follow.'
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Galathe stood on his palace balcony and scowled at the sight before him. His sharp brown eyes looked down his hawk nose, roving past the burnt umber sand onto the glimmering silver that was the bay. Four black ships rested peacefully, tugging only minutely at their anchors while the waters rolled and surged against them.
Four ships out of the twenty sent to plunder.
Galathe closed his eyes and growled in disgust. A hot, dry breeze combed through his raven hair and the man inhaled deeply. The wind smelled of sand and salt.
A seagull wheeled and cried above him. Galathe opened his eyes and stared angrily at the yellowed parchment in his hands. He unrolled it for the thousandth time and reread it yet again, holding it tightly as the paper flapped in the scorched Umbar wind.
'Most Venerable Galathe,
I regret to inform His Majesty of Umbar that our fleet suffered a most grievous loss when a great storm caught us unawares. All ships were destroyed, as well as most plunder from previous raids. That which remained was used for the materials and construction of four new ships. Such measures were necessary as the Lord Prince Imrahil of Belfalas proved to be a most watchful eye.
I believe Gondor now has some idea of our strength and force.
I do not view our recent misfortune as completely unsalvageable. A great chance has presented itself, and I am informed the time is right to act upon our previously discussed plans. Prepare the remaining fleet to set sail. Jesseral will carry out my instructions from there. I also suggest you send word to our allies, so that they may meet us at the designated point.
Umbar shall triumph.
Your Loyal Admiral,
Mortsdil'
Galathe crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it over the white marble railings. 'Loyal Admiral, indeed,' he snorted. Galathe was nothing more than Mortsdil's puppet, and all of Harad knew this.
Following the fall of Sauron, Mordor and the surrounding lands--Umbar, Harad, Khand and Rhûn--had been flung into chaos. Their allegiance shattered, former kings and tribal leaders scrambled to regain control. Civil wars and border skirmishes were commonplace; coup d'etats occurred by the hour. In the end, it was the wealthiest that ultimately triumphed, for men are easily bought. Those whose hearts could not be swayed by promises of riches were promptly slaughtered.
The Havens of Umbar held the greatest wealth of all the warring factions. Its location proved a most valuable commodity--the Corsairs' city was an open port nestled safely within the small inland Bay of Umbar. The Corsairs were free to come and go as they pleased, and vast riches were attained through coastal raids, pirating, and the occasional trade stop to foreign lands. Though it was said that "precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with,"* one could argue the ocean waves broke silver and gold upon Umbar's bountiful shores.
Galathe came from a long line of affluent sea merchants. One of his forefathers, Malacob Pazrog, had built the white marble palace to signify the family's greatness. Many a traveler was astounded as he came upon the City of the Corsairs; often mistaking the formidable white palace as a temple of sorts.
Other merchants had followed suit, constructing their own family heirlooms, yet none could boast the impressiveness of the Palace of Umbar.
Every room and corridor within the great white building was wide and high- ceilinged. Windows and balconies opened in all directions, granting sunlight and the constant warm breeze passage throughout the palace. Silk curtains, intricately woven tapestries, and delicate vases lined each corridor. The marble ensured the dwelling never became too hot during the day, and great fireplaces protected it from cold desert nights.
Some said the Palace of Umbar was kept from sinking into the sand by magic. Galathe knew this to be untrue, as it was built on one level and extended outward, its great surface area supporting the marble's weight. The same principle could be used to describe the oliphaunt's ability to walk over sand without sinking: the animal's giant feet served to disperse its weight. Nonetheless, Galathe did nothing to dispel these rumors. If the people thought him in possession of some sort of mystical power, it only enhanced his reputation as a force.
To walk the gardens of the Palace was to be transported to another realm. Galathe had never been to Elvish lands, and was not altogether sure Elves even existed, but he liked to think the gardens were reminiscent of such places. The lush, exotic plots were filled with imported plants and birds of every size, shape and color. Sculpted fountains rained crystalline water into tiled ponds teeming with iridescent fish. Swans, their slender necks perfectly arched, floated serenely amidst the lily pads. Palm leaves and dark, waxen Khavna rustled quietly. Strange and beautiful flowers proudly displayed their petals and perfumed the air with a thousand and one different scents. Peacocks strutted unhindered on the emerald lawns.
Galathe was especially fond of the peacocks, and tended to use the bird as his own personal insignia.
It was this prosperity that made Galathe the most hated man in all circles of Sauron's broken alliance. The fact that he had managed to retain most of it, despite Mordor's fall, caused him to be looked upon with even greater loathing. He, too, had suffered his losses--almost the entire lost fleet at Pelargir had been under his ownership. Yet he had hoarded his money wisely, and those who survived the punishment of their mutiny found themselves indebted to Galathe for abandoning his ships. They had little choice but to work for him, under his demands, in order to resume life at sea. Galathe single-handedly rebuilt Umbar, and the City of the Corsairs became an undisputed force once again.
And then Mortsdil arrived.
It was rumored the sandy-haired sailor with the sea-colored eyes was product of a Gondorian deserter and a whore. How he came to sail with the Corsairs was oft debated. Some claimed he had worked his way up from an oar slave, others argued he signed on with a crew as a cabin boy and climbed the ranks from there. Galathe, and rightly so, suspected the latter was true. Another debatable matter was of Mortsdil's sudden disappearance and resurgence. He was taken to Mordor, as were the rest of them, but had come back completely unscathed. Mortsdil would say naught on the subject, and no man could offer a reasonable explanation.
Regardless of his mysterious return, it soon became apparent that the strange light-featured sailor had a knack for knowing things he shouldn't. Things he couldn't possibly be aware of. Galathe had first dismissed it as intuition. However, after several instances of Mortsdil warning him of land attack on the Havens by some disgruntled leader, complete with an exact location and time the skirmish was to occur, Galathe was forced to rethink matters. There was also a strange hollowness to the pirate's sea- colored eyes, one that sent Galathe's skin crawling whenever Mortsdil looked at him. Galathe was positive the man dabbled in darker powers of some sort.
Galathe came to rely on Mortsdil's protection. He had been wary of Mortsdil at first, expecting the man to make a grab for power. When Mortsdil had not done so, Galathe's suspicions gradually waned. Only too late did he realize the true strength of the Corsair's hold, and by that time he was powerless to reject it. It infuriated him the way Mortsdil had played on his pride. Galathe was the head figure of Umbar: it was he who offered funds and gathered support of surrounding lands--albeit through use of Mortsdil's words. Mortsdil used him as a shield of sorts. When things went wrong, the blame fell solely upon Umbar's leader--Galathe.
Mortsdil, in turn, kept Galathe alive. Without the Corsair's protection, for all of Umbar was fiercely loyal to the man, Galathe was weak as a newborn babe. He was as good as dead were it not for Mortsdil, and both of them knew this.
Thus, when Mortsdil beckoned, Galathe the Puppet obeyed.
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THANK YOU'S
Thundera Tiger- I'm still so completely floored by your review I have no idea what to say. It was incredible-- Thank you!!! *wooooow* (I considered printing it out and framing it.) This story is by far the most challenging for me to write (and I know I've said that before, but it's true), and . . . wow, what a review. . . Legolas has sidetracked quite a bit from the sea, but he desperately needs Gimli's support if he is to continue onward. As the saying goes, "getting there is half the fun!" Again, thank you!
kim- THANK YOU! Those were the two most helpful reviews I have ever received. I'm working on curbing the taglines. I never knew about those! I've noticed there are still quite a few sprinkled throughout this chapter, and I intend to go back and correct this as soon as time permits (and when I feel a little more versed in the technique). It's made me realize I need to improve on my character reactions. The action tips were priceless. :) I can see an immediate difference (another item which I intend to go back and correct). I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to share those pointers!
Ithilien- A bazillion thank you's, as always!!!! :) I always worry the more serious scenes tend to come off as ridiculous. I'm breathing MUCH easier at the moment. I think the key to overcoming the "pull" of the stone is the realization that there are greater things than power or wealth. Legolas knows this, as do Gimli, Arwen, and Bitaliel. Aragorn is also well aware of this, but who can blame him for being swept away in the moment? Gondor would have become more powerful than any land and he would have been the greatest king ever known, hands down. You hit the nail on the head: Arwen wants Legolas to appear obvious so Aragorn will know he didn't take the stone for personal reasons. Poor Gimli, he really does deserve a good woman. . . Again, thank you!
iverson- What a great review! :) It seems that no matter what way the characters turn, someone ends up getting hurt. Life would be so much simpler if there were defined rights and wrongs, wouldn't it? Good analogy between the friendship of Legolas and Gimli and racism. They do have somewhat of a taboo relationship, and many aren't willing to accept it. You're right, neither complains about it. They don't seem to necessarily promote it, either. I think they just accept it for what it is. Thank you for the wonderful review! :)
Jay of Lasgalen- *lol* Don't worry, my updates on this are ridiculously slow. Snails have run faster races. Somehow I think Arwen would be able to worm her way out of any tight spot when it comes to Aragorn. ;) He may rule the kingdom, but we all know who really has the power. . . Thank you for the review!
Eowyn Greenleaf- Legolas is a tough Elf, I'm sure he'll recover. (Unfortunately I do have a few raw deals for him in later chapters, but. . .) I thank your friends for returning my calculator. It arrived right on time. Judging from the glares they're giving me, I think they intend to do much worse if I don't post this soon. (Um, nice Elf. . . please don't shoot me.) I hope all went well with the school play! Thank you for the review! :)
fliewatuet- I'm glad you liked Ris! She'll appear again in the next chapter. :) I tend to think Gimli got the shorter end of the stick as far as others' view of his friendship with Legolas goes. He must have felt extremely alienated from his kind if he had no qualms about crossing over the sea with Legolas. Thanks for the review!!
Sylvia- Legolas certainly has placed himself at the center of the storm, hasn't he? Though it does look like his blow may have done Aragorn a bit of good. Oooh, another thumbs-up for Ris! She's definitely in the next chapter, and Legolas is going to get a lesson on Dwarven females. I actually wondered at the last scene myself--Elves probably don't have weak stomachs, but emotional turmoil can manifest to physical proportions if it is suppressed long enough. He didn't strike me as the type to hyperventilate. Thank you, thank you, thank you, as always, for the fabulous review!!! :)
erunyauve- "Shame on Aragorn!" ;) It's a pity Elrond isn't still around-- he would probably be the one best able to deal with the Silmaril's sudden appearance. Thranduil has a bad enough reputation (though I do admit there are some darker portrayals of him I like) and the poor Elf deserves a good word or two. Thank you for the review!
Irena- *smiles sheepishly* I hope you didn't hold your breath too long. I'm a little slow on the updates. Wow! As always, thank you for the great review! :)
JastaElf- Legolas certainly is blessed to have a friend like Gimli (and I think he knows it). The Dwarf keeps him rooted. You're right, his behavior towards Ris was extremely uncalled for, and probably did nothing to elevate her opinion of Elves. Mirkwood's Prince Charming will have quite a bit of groveling to do before she forgets his actions anytime soon. Thank you for the wonderful review! :)
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* "precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with"-- 'Lord of the Rings; Appendix A; (iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion.' Okay, actually this was said of Gondor during Atanatar Alcarin son of Hyarmendacil's reign (say THAT 5 times fast). This was approximately, um, we'll just say "back in the day" when the rulers of Gondor were insanely powerful and seemed to be slightly obsessed with capturing Umbar.
Next chapter: Legolas and Gimli reach a conclusion, Aragorn's in hot pursuit, and Umbar begins to make waves!
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Never before have I received so many amazing reviews. They were the best ever! Thank you all! They were IMMENSELY helpful and picked me up from the ground.
On another note, to whoever felt inclined to send me that rather nasty email: Critiquing a piece of writing is one thing; senseless insults are another matter altogether. Next time please try writing from a VALID email address, as I would dearly love to respond. :]
A/N: I have been working on this diligently, I swear! I am beginning to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel for my other story, and when it's been completed I intend to concentrate solely on this one. Now if I could just make that term paper write itself. . .
Anyways, a slight warning to the squeamish in this chapter. (It's not too bad.)
I'm also assuming that others don't know about Legolas' sea longing. It's a sensitive issue and I don't think he would speak about it to everyone he meets.
Happy Reading!
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~ Chapter 11: Foresight ~
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Bergil dashed through the hallway, hastily shoving an arm into the black Citadel Guard tunic as he ran. It took exactly twelve minutes for him to reach the Citadel post from his quarters. Twelve minutes, which meant if he woke up half an hour before his watch, he could afford to drift off for another thirteen minutes of slumber. This, in turn, left him with exactly five minutes to throw on his garments, splash a bit of water onto his face, and run.
The plan left Bergil with a sense that he had somehow "cheated" and grabbed a few extra minutes of sleep. It worked marvelously--except on the rare occasions when he fell back into deep slumber. Today was one such occasion.
'Captain Haier shall have my head!' Bergil groaned inwardly. Why must his quarters be situated outside the inner ring of the city? Would it have been that much more difficult for the city's maker to build an extra room or two right next to the Citadel?
The resounding clang of sword upon shield floated up from the courtyard below; the novices had already begun practice. The fresh scent of morning was quickly giving way to the dusty heat of day. Bergil moaned and ran faster.
"Move your feet, Etunim!" "Good! And one! two! three! thrust!" "Back! two! three! block!" "Sall! Do not lock your elbow unless you wish to break your arm!"
The son of Beregond leapt down the stairwell, taking the stairs three at a time. Two patrolling foot soldiers, Rendur and Caben, barely managed to press themselves against the wall as he flew by. "Morning, Bergil," Caben called lazily.
Bergil hastily grunted in reply as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He threw his shoulder into the door, and was startled to discover it refused to budge. He tried again. The door stayed. "What is the meaning of this? Who ordered these doors to be locked?" The young guard cried out in frustration and pushed against the door with all his might. Rendur and Caben exchanged amused glances and paused to watch. "Open!" cried Bergil as he strained against the door's unyielding weight.
Rendur cleared his throat. "Ah, Bergil?"
Bergil kicked the door and turned to glare at the two soldiers. He was already working up a sweat and the day had barely dawned. "If you two would stop standing there and help me unlock this door," he panted angrily and continued pushing.
"Bergil."
"WHAT?"
Rendur and Caben again exchanged an amused glance. "Pull."
Bergil blinked.
"The door," Caben instructed. "Pull, don't push."
Bergil reached down and gave the handle an experimental tug. The door opened smoothly.
He tried to ignore the stifled laughter as he charged into the bright morning sunlight.
"I am late, I am late, I am late. . ." The words pounded over and over again in his head with each step he took. What was Captain Haier going to do to him when he realized Bergil's absence? A double shift? Demotion? 'That is highly unlikely as I already hold the lowest rank.' Bergil was unsure if the thought brought him comfort or not.
He swiftly turned the corner and ran straight into a smaller body. The young guard reeled backwards and managed to grab onto a heavy wall hanging before he completely fell over. The poor lady he hit was not nearly so lucky. With a cry of distress, she landed on the stone floor in a heap, her fine green dress wrinkled and dusty beneath her.
"Sorry! I am so sorry!" An extremely flustered Bergil hastily offered a hand to the woman he had just flattened. "Please forgive me, my Lady."
A worn, rugged hand--that of one accustom to hard manual labor no well-bred Lady of Gondor would dare partake in--quickly latched on to his. Bergil looked to the woman's face in surprise as she pulled herself up from the ground and pushed back her disheveled hair.
He cried out in shock and involuntarily attempted to yank his hand away. Deeply scabbed gouges ran down the woman's face in long ribbons. Her eyelids were swollen shut; so tightly plastered to her face it looked as though the bruised and scabbed lids had been fused together. There was a wetness to them, though, and a continuous flow of fluid leaked from them.
The hideous face smiled at him, causing the corners of the eyelids to crack and produce more fluid. Bergil's stomach flopped like a wet piece of leather. He was suddenly glad he hadn't had time to eat breakfast.
"Please excuse me." The face sneered. "I do not look my best in the morning and I have yet to 'paint my face.'" Its tone was so sarcastic and bitter Bergil was unsure of how to respond. The young guard swallowed wanly and wished it would let go of his hand.
The hideous face seemed to grow annoyed by his horrified silence. "Take me to the king," it demanded.
Bergil nearly choked. "To--what?" His mind was reeling and his stomach still gave the odd sickening flop. His experience of gruesome wounds lay in only the accidents that had occurred during his training, and they had been limited to minor cuts and bruises. Perhaps the occasional broken bone was a sight, but nothing as monstrous as the thing standing before him. What was this? How did it get into the castle?
The ribboned face growled. "Take. Me. To. The. King." It stressed the words and squeezed his hand even tighter.
Bergil winced and bared his teeth. "No!" He suddenly found his head eye- level and uncomfortably close to the hideous face. It grabbed his hair between its two capable hands and pulled him near. Bergil shuddered and tensed. It was disgusting. If it didn't let go of him, he would force it to.
"I have important business with the king, Boy. Unless, of course, you wish him to hunt down the Elf and reclaim the stone." The face released him and Bergil jerked back like a loosened spring.
He rubbed his head and warily eyed the hideous beast. It had called him "Boy," which grated him the wrong way. A closer inspection revealed it could be no older than thirty-five years of age--by no means a child, but definitely unqualified to refer to HIM as a boy. "How do you know of this?" He narrowed his eyes and glared at it suspiciously.
"I still have use of my ears," the deformed woman snapped. "And these walls have mouths wider than the plains of Rohan. All know an Elf took the stone from your imbecile king, and that the man intends to go after him! It is the worst-kept secret in all of Gondor."
"My Lord has made no plans to hunt down Lord Legolas," Bergil protested hotly. Being called "Boy" was bad enough, but insulting his liege was where Bergil drew the line.
The woman sneered, the scarred gouges in her face and purple, wet eyelids only adding more menace to her appearance. Bergil, however, was too angered to be affected. "I speak the truth!" he snapped, feeling his outrage at the woman's audacity grow. "He only wishes to stop Lord Legolas from journeying to the sea!"
"And why does he do this, Boy?" Her voice dripped acidic with sarcasm.
Bergil's face flushed with anger. "Because, Lord Legolas risks capture and death at the hands of the Corsairs of Umbar if he travels to the sea."
The ugly woman placed her hands on her hips and snorted contemptuously. "And an Elf would be foolish enough to wander straight into the arms of the Corsairs? Forgive me, but tales of the Elder I recall speak of them as highly intelligent, superior beings."
Bergil remained silent. As much as he was loath admit it, the woman did have a point. 'Nay,' he told himself, 'King Elessar is a wise and just king. He always does what is best.' Then again, Prince Legolas was certainly capable of handling himself. Bergil suddenly had an awful, nagging suspicion that one of them was terribly wrong. But who? The Lord Prince Legolas could not be wrong, yet neither could the King of Gondor. They were both not capable of such a thing.
Were they?
It was a concept foreign and altogether unfathomable to Bergil. Desperately seeking to find a way around the idea, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mouth: "You are mad."
The woman threw up her hands and cackled. "Very good, my dear boy! Very good! Yes, I am the crazy woman who talks to her dead child's doll." She blindly tottered towards Bergil. He took a step back. "Yet here is where the most interesting question arises: Why is it that I, Bitaliel the Madwoman, am blind as a bat yet can still see the foolishness of your king, whereas you, Boy, are intent on making yourself blind to his errs?"
"I am late for duty," Bergil stated flatly. He turned sharply on his heel.
"Many will suffer if the King follows the Elf." Bitaliel's soft words tapped him on the shoulder, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He froze and cast a glance back. She stood, forlorn and hunched in the hallway; her hands clasped earnestly in front of her. Morning sunlight bathed her as it streamed in through the windows. The woman appeared disturbingly sane.
The young guard sighed in resignation and silently berated himself for his soft heart. "Very well." He walked over to her and gently grasped her arm. "I suppose it matters not. I am late enough as it is. Come, let us bandage your eyes and then I shall lead you to the King's quarters."
* * *
Aragorn rummaged through the drawer until he found the shirt he was searching for. He tossed it over his shoulder, where it landed on the bed next to his travel sack. Arwen stood silently at the window, watching him with reproachful eyes.
He did his best to ignore her.
He pulled out another shirt and two pairs of leggings. Walking over to the bed, he began angrily stuffing his clothes into the sack. At last Arwen's gaze became too much. "You know I cannot stand it when you look at me that way."
Arwen blinked serenely. "I know."
He slipped on a pair of black leather wrist guards and laced them up. He could still feel her eyes on his back. "Then please cease doing so." The laces squeaked against the leather as he gave them an ill-tempered tug.
The Queen of Gondor sighed softly and turned her face towards the window. Much to Aragorn's chagrin, she began humming a low and mournful tune.
"Are you trying to torture me? I assure you Arwen, you are succeeding marvelously."
Arwen opened her mouth to reply, but instead allowed her attention to slip towards the chamber door. "Come in, Bergil."
The doors were cautiously pushed open and Bergil entered. The hunched form of Bitaliel clung to the young man's arm as he reluctantly moved forward.
"And to what pleasure do we owe this visit?" Arwen smiled disarmingly at the guard. He wanly smiled back.
"I come to stop your husband from hunting down the Elf," Bitaliel said. Bergil glanced apologetically towards Aragorn. The King's face darkened.
"Then you have joined our discussion at precisely the right moment," Arwen smoothly replied.
"I am not charging after him with the entire force of Gondor by my side," Aragorn growled. "I go to stop that foolish Elf from destroying himself!"
"Gimli shall see that he is not harmed." Arwen lanced him with a scrutinizing stare. "And what of the jewel? What would you do if it fell within your grasp again?"
Aragorn tactfully evaded the question. "Why is it that you so readily side with Legolas? Might I remind you of his actions last week? He stole from Gondor, Arwen. And he had no qualms against striking me down to accomplish his goal."
Arwen was silent for several moments as she carefully chose her words. Bergil and Bitaliel stood in quiet expectation at the doorway. "You know you speak out of hurt, Estel." She watched him lower his grey eyes. "The Silmaril does not belong to Gondor."
Bitaliel suddenly spoke from her place by the door. "This Elf friend of yours, King Elessar--he must deeply care for you." She tugged on Bergil's arm and indicated she wished to move forward.
"So I had believed," Aragorn softly replied, his eyes growing distant as faded memories of past battles, Legolas at his side, paraded through his mind.
"And so you should still." Bitaliel's tone brooked no argument. "Your friend cared enough that he was willing to jeopardize your friendship, so that you and your realm might know peace and safety. That accursed stone would have been your undoing!" She pursed her lips and tilted her bandaged face to Aragorn. He fancied she glared at him. "Shame on you, King of Gondor! Shame on you!"
Aragorn stared at the peasant woman in the rumpled green gown. He had not been reprimanded so since. . . Since his own mother was still alive. He felt less like the King of Gondor and more like a misbehaving child.
Aragorn caught the slight quirk of Arwen's lips from the corner of his eye. Bergil's eyes were nearly the size of saucers. The young guard was struck dumb that Bitaliel dared to berate the King in such a manner. He fidgeted nervously, as was his habit when he found himself in an uncomfortable situation. The poor lad was undoubtedly regretting his decision to bring the madwoman before the king.
An awkward silence hung over the chambers as fragments of Bitaliel's last "Shame on you!" dissipated. Aragorn stared mutely at the disheveled peasant woman, who, sensing his shock, defiantly crossed her arms over her chest and stuck up her chin. Bergil's face drained of all color, and he looked to Aragorn as though expecting the man to violently explode at any minute.
Arwen raised a finely sculpted eyebrow and cocked her head to Aragorn. Catching his eyes, she gently placed a hand upon her husband's shoulder. Her grey eyes held a bemused twinkle as her voice floated clear and musical in the deathly silent room:
"Shame on you."
Aragorn shot her a look of exasperation, to which she promptly grinned back. He shook his head and muttered in irritation, smiling despite his best efforts. "Can you not allow me to stay properly mad at you, if only for a day?"
Bergil felt the mood of the room shift drastically, though he could not quite grasp how Bitaliel and Arwen managed to do so. Aragorn still looked angry, but he did not appear on the verge of erupting as he had before. "Does this mean you shall not ride after Prince Legolas, my Lord?"
Aragorn tossed his travel sack over one shoulder. "Nay. It is still my intention to follow him."
Bitaliel exhaled loudly and shook her bandaged head in disgust. "Fool," she muttered under her breath.
"You disappoint me, Estel." Arwen's lips drew into a thin line of disapproval. Aragorn was suddenly reminded of Elrond.
"Legolas courts disaster should he travel to the sea. The addition of Gimli will do naught but endanger the Dwarf as well. I cannot, in good conscience, let them go." Aragorn's voice held a note of finality Bergil knew could not be swayed. "I will cast the jewel into the sea if need be."
Bitaliel snorted in disbelief. Arwen shot her husband a penetrating elven gaze, effectively stabbed him to the core. "Bergil shall journey with me," Aragorn stated, meeting Arwen's accusing eyes. "He will ensure I do not take the jewel for Gond--for my own purposes."
Arwen's look did not waver. Aragorn sighed and took her slender hand within his calloused ones. "I fully intend to have words with Legolas when we meet, Arwen. And yes, I believe I shall continue to be angry with him for some time. But I promise you, by my sword, I shall not allow the jewel to dominate my thoughts and actions."
The Queen of Gondor closed her eyes and gently kissed her husband. "May your journey be safe and uneventful, Love, though I fear otherwise."
Aragorn squeezed her hand reassuringly within his own. "I shall return to you." He grimaced slightly. "Though do not be surprised if a certain Elf is sent back to Ithilien sporting several well-deserved bruises."
"Come," cried Bitaliel, pulling Bergil's arm in the direction she believed to be the door, "Let us be off!"
"My Lady, I do not think--"
Bitaliel dismissed Aragorn with a wild fling of her hand. Bergil barely managed to avoid being hit. "Bah," she said. "Someone is needed to keep the two of you from trouble."
"But you are blind as a bat," protested Bergil. "You said so yourself!"
"Bergil," Aragorn warned. "It is impolite to--"
Much to his annoyance, Bitaliel cut him off a second time. "The boy merely states the obvious. It is a fine quality to have. Yes, I am blind as a bat." She poked Bergil sharply in the shoulder, causing the young guard to yelp. "But bats can see in the dark, and there shall be much darkness where we are headed."
'What a strange day has dawned thus far,' Bergil mused with a shake of his head. 'And I cannot help but sense many shall follow.'
* * *
Galathe stood on his palace balcony and scowled at the sight before him. His sharp brown eyes looked down his hawk nose, roving past the burnt umber sand onto the glimmering silver that was the bay. Four black ships rested peacefully, tugging only minutely at their anchors while the waters rolled and surged against them.
Four ships out of the twenty sent to plunder.
Galathe closed his eyes and growled in disgust. A hot, dry breeze combed through his raven hair and the man inhaled deeply. The wind smelled of sand and salt.
A seagull wheeled and cried above him. Galathe opened his eyes and stared angrily at the yellowed parchment in his hands. He unrolled it for the thousandth time and reread it yet again, holding it tightly as the paper flapped in the scorched Umbar wind.
'Most Venerable Galathe,
I regret to inform His Majesty of Umbar that our fleet suffered a most grievous loss when a great storm caught us unawares. All ships were destroyed, as well as most plunder from previous raids. That which remained was used for the materials and construction of four new ships. Such measures were necessary as the Lord Prince Imrahil of Belfalas proved to be a most watchful eye.
I believe Gondor now has some idea of our strength and force.
I do not view our recent misfortune as completely unsalvageable. A great chance has presented itself, and I am informed the time is right to act upon our previously discussed plans. Prepare the remaining fleet to set sail. Jesseral will carry out my instructions from there. I also suggest you send word to our allies, so that they may meet us at the designated point.
Umbar shall triumph.
Your Loyal Admiral,
Mortsdil'
Galathe crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it over the white marble railings. 'Loyal Admiral, indeed,' he snorted. Galathe was nothing more than Mortsdil's puppet, and all of Harad knew this.
Following the fall of Sauron, Mordor and the surrounding lands--Umbar, Harad, Khand and Rhûn--had been flung into chaos. Their allegiance shattered, former kings and tribal leaders scrambled to regain control. Civil wars and border skirmishes were commonplace; coup d'etats occurred by the hour. In the end, it was the wealthiest that ultimately triumphed, for men are easily bought. Those whose hearts could not be swayed by promises of riches were promptly slaughtered.
The Havens of Umbar held the greatest wealth of all the warring factions. Its location proved a most valuable commodity--the Corsairs' city was an open port nestled safely within the small inland Bay of Umbar. The Corsairs were free to come and go as they pleased, and vast riches were attained through coastal raids, pirating, and the occasional trade stop to foreign lands. Though it was said that "precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with,"* one could argue the ocean waves broke silver and gold upon Umbar's bountiful shores.
Galathe came from a long line of affluent sea merchants. One of his forefathers, Malacob Pazrog, had built the white marble palace to signify the family's greatness. Many a traveler was astounded as he came upon the City of the Corsairs; often mistaking the formidable white palace as a temple of sorts.
Other merchants had followed suit, constructing their own family heirlooms, yet none could boast the impressiveness of the Palace of Umbar.
Every room and corridor within the great white building was wide and high- ceilinged. Windows and balconies opened in all directions, granting sunlight and the constant warm breeze passage throughout the palace. Silk curtains, intricately woven tapestries, and delicate vases lined each corridor. The marble ensured the dwelling never became too hot during the day, and great fireplaces protected it from cold desert nights.
Some said the Palace of Umbar was kept from sinking into the sand by magic. Galathe knew this to be untrue, as it was built on one level and extended outward, its great surface area supporting the marble's weight. The same principle could be used to describe the oliphaunt's ability to walk over sand without sinking: the animal's giant feet served to disperse its weight. Nonetheless, Galathe did nothing to dispel these rumors. If the people thought him in possession of some sort of mystical power, it only enhanced his reputation as a force.
To walk the gardens of the Palace was to be transported to another realm. Galathe had never been to Elvish lands, and was not altogether sure Elves even existed, but he liked to think the gardens were reminiscent of such places. The lush, exotic plots were filled with imported plants and birds of every size, shape and color. Sculpted fountains rained crystalline water into tiled ponds teeming with iridescent fish. Swans, their slender necks perfectly arched, floated serenely amidst the lily pads. Palm leaves and dark, waxen Khavna rustled quietly. Strange and beautiful flowers proudly displayed their petals and perfumed the air with a thousand and one different scents. Peacocks strutted unhindered on the emerald lawns.
Galathe was especially fond of the peacocks, and tended to use the bird as his own personal insignia.
It was this prosperity that made Galathe the most hated man in all circles of Sauron's broken alliance. The fact that he had managed to retain most of it, despite Mordor's fall, caused him to be looked upon with even greater loathing. He, too, had suffered his losses--almost the entire lost fleet at Pelargir had been under his ownership. Yet he had hoarded his money wisely, and those who survived the punishment of their mutiny found themselves indebted to Galathe for abandoning his ships. They had little choice but to work for him, under his demands, in order to resume life at sea. Galathe single-handedly rebuilt Umbar, and the City of the Corsairs became an undisputed force once again.
And then Mortsdil arrived.
It was rumored the sandy-haired sailor with the sea-colored eyes was product of a Gondorian deserter and a whore. How he came to sail with the Corsairs was oft debated. Some claimed he had worked his way up from an oar slave, others argued he signed on with a crew as a cabin boy and climbed the ranks from there. Galathe, and rightly so, suspected the latter was true. Another debatable matter was of Mortsdil's sudden disappearance and resurgence. He was taken to Mordor, as were the rest of them, but had come back completely unscathed. Mortsdil would say naught on the subject, and no man could offer a reasonable explanation.
Regardless of his mysterious return, it soon became apparent that the strange light-featured sailor had a knack for knowing things he shouldn't. Things he couldn't possibly be aware of. Galathe had first dismissed it as intuition. However, after several instances of Mortsdil warning him of land attack on the Havens by some disgruntled leader, complete with an exact location and time the skirmish was to occur, Galathe was forced to rethink matters. There was also a strange hollowness to the pirate's sea- colored eyes, one that sent Galathe's skin crawling whenever Mortsdil looked at him. Galathe was positive the man dabbled in darker powers of some sort.
Galathe came to rely on Mortsdil's protection. He had been wary of Mortsdil at first, expecting the man to make a grab for power. When Mortsdil had not done so, Galathe's suspicions gradually waned. Only too late did he realize the true strength of the Corsair's hold, and by that time he was powerless to reject it. It infuriated him the way Mortsdil had played on his pride. Galathe was the head figure of Umbar: it was he who offered funds and gathered support of surrounding lands--albeit through use of Mortsdil's words. Mortsdil used him as a shield of sorts. When things went wrong, the blame fell solely upon Umbar's leader--Galathe.
Mortsdil, in turn, kept Galathe alive. Without the Corsair's protection, for all of Umbar was fiercely loyal to the man, Galathe was weak as a newborn babe. He was as good as dead were it not for Mortsdil, and both of them knew this.
Thus, when Mortsdil beckoned, Galathe the Puppet obeyed.
* * *
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THANK YOU'S
Thundera Tiger- I'm still so completely floored by your review I have no idea what to say. It was incredible-- Thank you!!! *wooooow* (I considered printing it out and framing it.) This story is by far the most challenging for me to write (and I know I've said that before, but it's true), and . . . wow, what a review. . . Legolas has sidetracked quite a bit from the sea, but he desperately needs Gimli's support if he is to continue onward. As the saying goes, "getting there is half the fun!" Again, thank you!
kim- THANK YOU! Those were the two most helpful reviews I have ever received. I'm working on curbing the taglines. I never knew about those! I've noticed there are still quite a few sprinkled throughout this chapter, and I intend to go back and correct this as soon as time permits (and when I feel a little more versed in the technique). It's made me realize I need to improve on my character reactions. The action tips were priceless. :) I can see an immediate difference (another item which I intend to go back and correct). I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to share those pointers!
Ithilien- A bazillion thank you's, as always!!!! :) I always worry the more serious scenes tend to come off as ridiculous. I'm breathing MUCH easier at the moment. I think the key to overcoming the "pull" of the stone is the realization that there are greater things than power or wealth. Legolas knows this, as do Gimli, Arwen, and Bitaliel. Aragorn is also well aware of this, but who can blame him for being swept away in the moment? Gondor would have become more powerful than any land and he would have been the greatest king ever known, hands down. You hit the nail on the head: Arwen wants Legolas to appear obvious so Aragorn will know he didn't take the stone for personal reasons. Poor Gimli, he really does deserve a good woman. . . Again, thank you!
iverson- What a great review! :) It seems that no matter what way the characters turn, someone ends up getting hurt. Life would be so much simpler if there were defined rights and wrongs, wouldn't it? Good analogy between the friendship of Legolas and Gimli and racism. They do have somewhat of a taboo relationship, and many aren't willing to accept it. You're right, neither complains about it. They don't seem to necessarily promote it, either. I think they just accept it for what it is. Thank you for the wonderful review! :)
Jay of Lasgalen- *lol* Don't worry, my updates on this are ridiculously slow. Snails have run faster races. Somehow I think Arwen would be able to worm her way out of any tight spot when it comes to Aragorn. ;) He may rule the kingdom, but we all know who really has the power. . . Thank you for the review!
Eowyn Greenleaf- Legolas is a tough Elf, I'm sure he'll recover. (Unfortunately I do have a few raw deals for him in later chapters, but. . .) I thank your friends for returning my calculator. It arrived right on time. Judging from the glares they're giving me, I think they intend to do much worse if I don't post this soon. (Um, nice Elf. . . please don't shoot me.) I hope all went well with the school play! Thank you for the review! :)
fliewatuet- I'm glad you liked Ris! She'll appear again in the next chapter. :) I tend to think Gimli got the shorter end of the stick as far as others' view of his friendship with Legolas goes. He must have felt extremely alienated from his kind if he had no qualms about crossing over the sea with Legolas. Thanks for the review!!
Sylvia- Legolas certainly has placed himself at the center of the storm, hasn't he? Though it does look like his blow may have done Aragorn a bit of good. Oooh, another thumbs-up for Ris! She's definitely in the next chapter, and Legolas is going to get a lesson on Dwarven females. I actually wondered at the last scene myself--Elves probably don't have weak stomachs, but emotional turmoil can manifest to physical proportions if it is suppressed long enough. He didn't strike me as the type to hyperventilate. Thank you, thank you, thank you, as always, for the fabulous review!!! :)
erunyauve- "Shame on Aragorn!" ;) It's a pity Elrond isn't still around-- he would probably be the one best able to deal with the Silmaril's sudden appearance. Thranduil has a bad enough reputation (though I do admit there are some darker portrayals of him I like) and the poor Elf deserves a good word or two. Thank you for the review!
Irena- *smiles sheepishly* I hope you didn't hold your breath too long. I'm a little slow on the updates. Wow! As always, thank you for the great review! :)
JastaElf- Legolas certainly is blessed to have a friend like Gimli (and I think he knows it). The Dwarf keeps him rooted. You're right, his behavior towards Ris was extremely uncalled for, and probably did nothing to elevate her opinion of Elves. Mirkwood's Prince Charming will have quite a bit of groveling to do before she forgets his actions anytime soon. Thank you for the wonderful review! :)
* * *
* "precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with"-- 'Lord of the Rings; Appendix A; (iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion.' Okay, actually this was said of Gondor during Atanatar Alcarin son of Hyarmendacil's reign (say THAT 5 times fast). This was approximately, um, we'll just say "back in the day" when the rulers of Gondor were insanely powerful and seemed to be slightly obsessed with capturing Umbar.
Next chapter: Legolas and Gimli reach a conclusion, Aragorn's in hot pursuit, and Umbar begins to make waves!
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