Author: Mirrordance
Title: Exile
Summary: An elf is exiled as a suspect to his own brother's murder. A young king goes out into the Wild. Two warriors cross paths and embark on a common adventure as one seeks to escape his past and the other to reclaim it. How Aragorn and Legolas met.
* * *
PART 2
He had heard these stories, about the ghost of a slain prince lamenting the loss of his kingdom and his innocence, with his hauntingly beautiful voice echoing across the woodlands in a song that broke the heart and brought tears to the eyes, ensnaring the strangers who dared step in the midst of his kingdom of loneliness and be just as lost as he within it. There was also a host of other woodland ghosts, these great and lost lovers and spellbinding enchantresses.
One hears a lot of crazy stories along the road, and most often they began from a grain of strange truth. While it was easy enough to push them into the back of one's mind most of the time, the loneliness of this particular road was starting to lend them an eerie reality, and it was a feeling Strider did not particularly welcome.
The sun had long since set, though the clouds were yet to dim completely with the coming of the night, lending the Earth a casting of strange, luminous but painfully dull violet. It made the world stand still, and alongside the windy breezes that have long since quieted and became a stale coldness that refused to leave, it made for a rather lonely evening indeed. A lonely, eternal evening. It was so easy to sink into despair, especially when the first flakes of snow began to fall, and obscure the trail he had been following.
At least I've not been ravaged by wolves… yet.
Determinedly, the human pulled his coats tighter against his body to retain warmth. He was never one to despair. He was never one to fear. And tonight would not be the first time for him to have either of the two.
In the midst of strengthening his convictions, he heard a familiar and dreaded growl, and decided this must not be his best day at all.
His hand instinctively seeking his sword, he ceased to walk and lowered his stance, just as a pack of wolves emerged like drifting ghosts from the edges of the trees, surrounding him hungrily.
* * *
The odds were bad, but he was a man who knew only to move forward. And though this day was strange and much different from all the other days he had spent of his life, he was unchanging, and he would fight.
Now, in the midst of strengthening this condition, he heard the whistle of an arrow strike at the neck of a wolf that had been so stunned it made no sound except for the dull thumping of its dead body against the ground.
Suddenly feeling vulnerable, the rest of the pack growled and tensed, the hairs on the backs of their necks rising menacingly and looking toward him in accusation, and he had the strange and gnawing desire to say It wasn't me! It was almost comical, until they showed their fangs…
Another arrow struck another wolf, and it too fell to the ground without even so much as a sigh. The marksman was perfectly accurate and true, and the wolves knew that now it was they who were being hunted. Discouraged, they growled at Strider one more time before scurrying away.
Looking around him cautiously, Strider said nothing to will his helper forward, for whoever he was, they now both knew he was out there, somewhere. And if Strider's guess was correct, this strangely passionate elven thief needed no prodding, and had to learn to step forward on his own.
Sure enough, he appeared from the edges of the wood, looking like a ghost in a manner that was very much like that of the wolves that preceded him. His pallid face was partly hidden in shadow, his pale hair shining and whipping gracefully behind him, his steps unrealistically quiet, and the snow stirring about him and seemingly through him, his presence not disturbing anything, as if he was mostly not there at all.
Strider felt a smile spread across his face. "You are a most interesting thief, Master Elf. The strangest one I've ever come across. To say the very, very least."
The elf frowned, seemingly displeased over the entire situation. But he said nothing.
"And how long have you been following me?" asked Strider, though he had a very good idea, "'Til we 'parted,' would I be correct? You have the most discreet steps. I am seldom ever caught unawares, even by elves. You have an exceptional way about you."
In more ways than one, Strider thought, tilting his head at the elf and wondering about who he was, and how he had come to be in his situation. Elves were not a very isolated lot, and often moved about in their quiet, elite circles. This was the only time he had come upon one of them so alone, and seemingly so restless.
"Thank you for your aid," Strider said, when it was apparent the elf could find nothing to say yet.
"Do not flatter yourself," the elf said coolly, finding the opening he needed for a more antagonistic retort, "I did not do it for you."
"And for whom was the act of saving my life done then?" Strider inquired.
"For me," the elf replied, as if it were so simple to understand, "Your loss would not have been one that I would be proud of myself for, human. And in these woods, all that one has are one's memories and regrets, and I already have much of the latter."
"I see,"
Strider nodded, "Well. I suppose this
means I would not be making the rest of my journey back to the shallows
alone. I also see that there is little
purpose on you hanging back and hiding, or all the pretense of parting, if you
are to follow and aid me anyway. Do
you?"
"You are presumptuous," the elf
said, but stepped towards Strider anyway, "Maybe I would want to flank you
instead just to spare myself from your impossible company."
"Maybe," Strider indulged him magnanimously, but said nothing else when they began to walk together, side by side.
* * *
"Would you happen to have a name?" Strider asked along the length of their road.
Legolas hesitated, before he replied a semblance of the truth. The human had these binding eyes that actively defied any form of deception, making the elf wonder if this mere man here perhaps possessed a strange power of his own.
"Lesandro," he replied, reverently borrowing his dead brother's name before commenting, "Strider doesn't sound like a real name."
"It is," Strider insisted, "In its own way."
~You are a strange man,~ Legolas said, watching the human's face as he switched tongues, finding quick, instinctive comprehension in the other's eyes, one that he suspected was there, but still had to see for certain. This man spoke elvish as comfortably and fluently as he, and it was a wonder indeed.
~You are pondering over my speech,~ Strider observed, ~I grew up amongst elves. A pair of these mad, elven brothers. Which means I also know a lot of curse words and bad jokes and lewd things.~
"I beg you keep them to yourself," Legolas said wryly, though his heart envied the easy endearment he had detected in Strider's tone. How could a human find so much comfort with his kin and he, who shared all the best of them, was here, their exile, cut off, forgotten—
"Whatever you are thinking," Strider said, feigning an offhanded attitude as he watched his companion's expression darken, "I hope it is not about me."
"I wouldn't be so optimistic," the elf said dryly, his tone lightening as his face had, though his eyes housed his grieves and angers constant, even if they were temporarily held at bay.
"You're pretty strange yourself," Strider pointed out cautiously, "I've not met any isolationist elves before. Are you nomadic? Or are you very plainly lost?"
"I am very plainly lost," Legolas replied, a hard-edged smile slashing across his features as if he remembered a sick joke that only he understood, "Just not in the way that you think."
"To where are you headed?" Strider asked, "My companion and I, we came from the East and are headed towards… well, we are headed towards a lot of places. But right now, the closest stop is Rivendell. Perhaps one of these places is your own destination."
"Are you really just so… kind?" Legolas asked, confused and frustrated, "Or trusting? One wonders how you lived this long in times like these! Or are you pulling me into some sort of a scheme?"
"I am only being practical," reasoned Strider, "I've met many strangers in my travels. You would be surprised at how many more kind, drifting hearts there are along the road, just looking to go somewhere. And I do not fear that my kindness will eventually take me to a knife sticking out of my back, Lesandro. I can defend myself well enough. And besides… one owes much to the one who saved one's life."
"Which would not have been in danger in the first place if not for me!" argued Legolas.
"Well perhaps I don't owe you anything after all, then," teased Strider, "And you can walk all the way to the Shire for all I care."
Legolas' eyes narrowed in irritation, changed the subject altogether. "What brought you here?"
"Searching for a little ghoul by the name of Gollum," replied Strider, "We came from Gondor and searched along the edges of Mordor and made our way up northeast. We searched high and low all across Rhovanion to no avail. Mirkwood was the last stop and we even had some of your kin to aid us, by the kindness of King Thranduil. We have been searching for this Gollum for the better part of two years. We were just leaving Mirkwood on our way to Rivendell as a temporary respite until we can once again begin another search, when you suddenly happened by. Perhaps the gods have put our paths together for a reason and you can help us in this after all?"
"I'm sorry I could not help you," Legolas said, "I am absolutely certain I did not come across him."
"Why is that?" asked Strider.
The elf hesitated. "I've… I've not come across anyone in a bit of a while."
A bit of a while sounded like years to Strider's knowing ear, but he said nothing of it, unwilling to gamble the truce he felt they now had between them, this fragile opening towards each other.
"Well he is bound to turn up," Strider said instead.
"One little being in all these lands," mused Legolas, "You are madly hopeful."
"So I've been told," grinned Strider.
They walked in silence for awhile, the elf weighing his thoughts until he knew he could not keep himself from asking the things that were plaguing his mind any longer.
"You said you had come across the King of Mirkwood," he said suddenly, trying to keep his voice in check, if not his mind.
"King Thranduil, yes," answered Strider, "What of him?"
"How does he fare?" Legolas asked, his heart aching for his estranged father.
"The dangers that rise here in the East are undoubtedly a bother," replied Strider, "but he is a formidable being. I do not doubt his people are in the right hands," he paused, glancing at the elf's pensive appearance, "Why ask?"
"I just wondered," Legolas lied, "He was my King after all."
Strider's brows furrowed, noting the tone, noting the anguish in the other's burning eyes, recalling how the elf had seemed familiar to him even at the very onset. And then, he put things together in his mind and decided to gamble, this time.
"You have your father's eyes."
He felt the elf stiffen beside him, and saw the said eyes blaze up at the audacity, at the gall and nerve, at the invasion. But the elf barely missed a beat, and his voice sounded calm when he replied, so calm it was almost bitterly frigid.
"I've been told as much," he said, and they would say naught else for hours afterward.
TO BE CONTINUED