Well, here's number four for you all – read it, enjoy it, and review it,
please! It would be great if you could...
This is centred on Aragorn and Gimli, just so's you know ... but I shall tell you no more than that ^^.
OK – let the telling COMMENCE! *It has probably been brought to the attention of several of you that I am slightly dappy – I can't help it: blame my Mum for dropping me on my head as a baby or - something...*
Chapter Four - Tethered Souls
Aragorn watched where the horsemen had disappeared to intently. They would return empty-handed, he knew they would. Only an Elf could catch another Elf, and Legolas was definitely a trial to defeat in a forest. So he stood with quiet confidence, just waiting.
He had guards, but they now stood consorting between themselves, ignoring him and Gimli completely. Were they under his management, he would have disciplined them for it. Still, it mattered not. All that mattered at the moment was the return of the riders with nothing to show for their exploits in the trees.
'He'll be fine, lad.' Gimli stood defiantly straight beside him despite his bound hands which were twisted behind his back.
'He has a broken arm, Gimli,' came Aragorn's response in a worried tone. 'That renders a bow and quiver of arrows useless.'
'You don't know that for certain-'
'Yes, I do. You saw the way he held it loosely.'
'Hm. He has had worse than a broken bone,' was Gimli's gruff reply. That was true. 'The poor laddie isn't having a very good fortnight, is he?'
Aragorn snorted at this. "No," he thought, "he damn well isn't."
'He'll be fine,' Gimli repeated, more to himself than to the Ranger beside him. 'He'll come back.'
'That is a foolish sentiment for one to hold when one's friend runs hurt and alone with Wild Men on his rat-like tail.' Gríma had skulked out of the shadows to join them it seemed, for he stood leering at them, a grin openly occupying his face.
'The only thing rat-like about here is you,' the Dwarf spat back maliciously.
'Hold your tongue!'
Gimli made to fire something back at the human, but stopped as Aragorn bade him gently yet firmly: 'Quiet, Gimli, my friend.'
'Ah, yes,' said Gríma with a spiteful tone. 'The leader of the rabble. O great commander of two - or one, should I say? Dear me, whatever will you do without that Elven filth to speak with? Plainly he gave you the only remotely intelligent conversation out of your two companions - I dare say a Dwarf has little to say of an intellectual level.'
Gimli wisely ignored this, acknowledging it as being an attempt to provoke some angered reaction from him. He tried hard to think like an Elf would in such a situation to keep calm - but how would an Elf think at such words as these? He had heard those last words that Gríma had said to Legolas, and had watched the Elf lose his control. It was like perceiving an avalanche; previously so tranquil was the mountainside of snow ... but it took the smallest thing to make the snow tumble, and Legolas' snow had fallen in terrible, devastating torrents. Wormtongue had been the cause of such a cascade, and, as was usual with an avalanche, the cause was often taken down with the snow. In fact, Gimli doubted not what Legolas' intention had been. Had he not been intervened and his will been carried out, he was sure that Wormtongue would not be standing before them now.
'Legolas will come back.'
'I like your confidence, Aragorn son of Arathorn,' came the silky reply. 'It shall be enjoyable to see it crushed when my men return with your friend's corpse.'
Aragorn did not reply to this. He heard horses' hooves in the distance in the trees, and felt his gut knot with sudden dread. The voices that accompanied the thud of hooves were too cheerful, too light for his liking.
'It shall be enjoyable to see you proven wrong, Master Worm.'
Gríma shot Gimli a contemptuous snarl at that comment, just as the riders made their entrance into the clearing. There were fifteen, not sixteen as had set out, and one of them lead Arod along by the reign, the stallion plunging and kicking, snorting into the cool night air. But there was no corpse with them as Wormtongue had promised there would be - which clearly infuriated him, as he bellowed: 'Where is the Elf?'
'He killed Gol-'
'I am not interested in whether he killed Gol or not - Gol was a moron! WHERE IS THE ELF?!'
'-So I killed him,' the other finished, ignoring the insult to his captain from the other, a gleam in his eye.
'It cannot be,' Gimli breathed.
'I wish to see evidence,' declared Wormtongue, 'and as you have no body, you had better have a very good substitute.'
'How about this-' he drew from his belt one of the white knives. 'The Elf dropped it when he fell from his horse-'
'-That does not prove that he is dead!'
'It does when he rolled off of a cliff with an arrow between his shoulders.'
Wormtongue turned back to Aragorn and Gimli, pure triumph etched across his sickly face, and said with the most casual tone he could muster: 'It appears that the Elf will not be returning as you thought.'
Aragorn hardly heard what was said. How could it be? It could not be - but he knew that it was. There was no lie in the eyes of the Wild Men. He felt as though he had no stomach. He could not breathe. He was aware that Gimli had sunken to his knees, finding his legs unable to support him in his grief, could hear him gasp with sobs. But at that moment in time, he was unable to cope with the sorrow of another - he was too swallowed up in his own to even try. Such a sense of loss as he had never before felt, it bit into his very soul.
Neither Man nor Dwarf resisted when their hands were bound before them and tethered to the saddle of one of the horses with a short rope each. As the Wild Men - headed by Wormtongue - set off, Aragorn and Gimli allowed their feet to take them wherever it was the whim of the horseman to go, paying no heed to the direction in which they travelled.
They traversed the forest well into the day, and Aragorn and Gimli still maintained their silence. They offered no response to the various jibes and jeering comments made to them about their fallen companion. The words hurt, but the hurt inside was far deeper than any words could ever delve, and they refused to entertain their captors by rising to the remarks. To them, it was far more respectful to the forever-gone Legolas to honour him with their thoughts rather than to fight about him with these murderers.
The day was endured under the relative shade of the trees - but even in the cooler shadows, the sweat still flowed. They were offered no water to quench their thirst, which was just as well, as both of them held the notion of spitting it back in the face of whomever gave them any - or even spitting without water. Both options appealed greatly.
Legolas and Gimli had had plans for after the war; as their homes both lay in the North, they were going to travel back together. On the way, Gimli was prepared to stay in Fangorn Forest for a time if only Legolas would endure going to see the Glittering Caves with him. It was a pact that they had made to each other as they left Helm's Deep. Gimli had wanted to see the Elf's bright eyes fill with wonder, had wished to hear him admit to being wrong about those wondrous caves...
'...And I would give gold to be excused, and double to be let out, if I strayed in!'
'You have not seen, so I forgive your jest. But you speak like a fool. Do you think those halls are fair, where your King dwells under the hill in Mirkwood, and Dwarves helped in the making years ago? They are but hovels compared with the caverns I have seen here: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled- zâram in the starlight...'
Gimli had launched into a speech about the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, which caused the Elf to seriously reconsider his words to the Dwarf, he was so impassioned about what he spoke of.
'You move me, Gimli,' the Elf had said. 'I have never heard you speak like this before. Almost you make me regret that I have not seen these caves. Come! Let us make this bargain: if we both return safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey a while together. You shall visit Fangorn with me, and then I will come with you to see Helm's Deep.'
It had not been the order of travel that Gimli had hoped for, but he considered himself lucky that Legolas had even suggested such a trip - he knew full well that the Elf did not like going underground at all, so he had consented to the proposal.
But their journey together through peace would never happen. Not now, and that was an agonising realisation for Gimli to make.
The first night's camp provided them with no sleep; it was none too comfortable being bound by the wrists to a post. But neither of them had a mind for sleeping anyway.
'Gimli.' It was the first time that any speech had left Aragorn's lips for nigh on a day, and the Dwarf raised his head dully to it. 'We must try to escape.'
The guards were slumped unconscious, propped up by leaning into each other back-to-back, leaving them free to converse if they wished to. Wormtongue occupied a tent at the opposite end of the camp. There was no risk of being over-heard, and, quite frankly, Aragorn cared not if they were.
'Why? Where is the point, Aragorn? The Fellowship is well and truly destroyed - what purpose do we have left in this world?'
'Something evil is afoot here, Gimli, that much is plain. Our purpose in this world is to inform Gandalf of it. And the Fellowship is not completely destroyed: there are Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, and you and I. I cannot be so sure about Frodo and Sam, but I hold good faith that they are alive.'
Gimli gave a snort at this. 'Five out of nine to be sure of. That is not an impressive number, Aragorn.'
'It will be even less impressive if it is reduced to three,' he hissed back. Grief had worn away at his patience. The only way he could prevent it from taking over his mind was to think of freedom once more and how it was to be attained.
The Dwarf watched his human companion with hard eyes, scanning over Aragorn's equally hard face. He knew why it was that Aragorn had been sharp ... it was the very same reason that he bore pessimistic views on the condition of the scattered Fellowship. He was angry at their loss and remained so. Seeing his friends being dissipated across Middle-earth to unknown fates - which seemed, due to the recent event, to result more often than not in death - got to him deeply. He loved each and every one of them in turn, and had developed a particularly strong attachment to the fallen Elf and the Man before him.
As far as he knew, he and Aragorn could be the only ones left out of the Nine Walkers. Perhaps Aragorn was all that he had left.
'I am sorry, laddie.'
The hard expression fell away, and a small, apologetic smile replaced it. 'I too am sorry, Gimli my friend. Come! Let us discuss how to escape!'
This is centred on Aragorn and Gimli, just so's you know ... but I shall tell you no more than that ^^.
OK – let the telling COMMENCE! *It has probably been brought to the attention of several of you that I am slightly dappy – I can't help it: blame my Mum for dropping me on my head as a baby or - something...*
Chapter Four - Tethered Souls
Aragorn watched where the horsemen had disappeared to intently. They would return empty-handed, he knew they would. Only an Elf could catch another Elf, and Legolas was definitely a trial to defeat in a forest. So he stood with quiet confidence, just waiting.
He had guards, but they now stood consorting between themselves, ignoring him and Gimli completely. Were they under his management, he would have disciplined them for it. Still, it mattered not. All that mattered at the moment was the return of the riders with nothing to show for their exploits in the trees.
'He'll be fine, lad.' Gimli stood defiantly straight beside him despite his bound hands which were twisted behind his back.
'He has a broken arm, Gimli,' came Aragorn's response in a worried tone. 'That renders a bow and quiver of arrows useless.'
'You don't know that for certain-'
'Yes, I do. You saw the way he held it loosely.'
'Hm. He has had worse than a broken bone,' was Gimli's gruff reply. That was true. 'The poor laddie isn't having a very good fortnight, is he?'
Aragorn snorted at this. "No," he thought, "he damn well isn't."
'He'll be fine,' Gimli repeated, more to himself than to the Ranger beside him. 'He'll come back.'
'That is a foolish sentiment for one to hold when one's friend runs hurt and alone with Wild Men on his rat-like tail.' Gríma had skulked out of the shadows to join them it seemed, for he stood leering at them, a grin openly occupying his face.
'The only thing rat-like about here is you,' the Dwarf spat back maliciously.
'Hold your tongue!'
Gimli made to fire something back at the human, but stopped as Aragorn bade him gently yet firmly: 'Quiet, Gimli, my friend.'
'Ah, yes,' said Gríma with a spiteful tone. 'The leader of the rabble. O great commander of two - or one, should I say? Dear me, whatever will you do without that Elven filth to speak with? Plainly he gave you the only remotely intelligent conversation out of your two companions - I dare say a Dwarf has little to say of an intellectual level.'
Gimli wisely ignored this, acknowledging it as being an attempt to provoke some angered reaction from him. He tried hard to think like an Elf would in such a situation to keep calm - but how would an Elf think at such words as these? He had heard those last words that Gríma had said to Legolas, and had watched the Elf lose his control. It was like perceiving an avalanche; previously so tranquil was the mountainside of snow ... but it took the smallest thing to make the snow tumble, and Legolas' snow had fallen in terrible, devastating torrents. Wormtongue had been the cause of such a cascade, and, as was usual with an avalanche, the cause was often taken down with the snow. In fact, Gimli doubted not what Legolas' intention had been. Had he not been intervened and his will been carried out, he was sure that Wormtongue would not be standing before them now.
'Legolas will come back.'
'I like your confidence, Aragorn son of Arathorn,' came the silky reply. 'It shall be enjoyable to see it crushed when my men return with your friend's corpse.'
Aragorn did not reply to this. He heard horses' hooves in the distance in the trees, and felt his gut knot with sudden dread. The voices that accompanied the thud of hooves were too cheerful, too light for his liking.
'It shall be enjoyable to see you proven wrong, Master Worm.'
Gríma shot Gimli a contemptuous snarl at that comment, just as the riders made their entrance into the clearing. There were fifteen, not sixteen as had set out, and one of them lead Arod along by the reign, the stallion plunging and kicking, snorting into the cool night air. But there was no corpse with them as Wormtongue had promised there would be - which clearly infuriated him, as he bellowed: 'Where is the Elf?'
'He killed Gol-'
'I am not interested in whether he killed Gol or not - Gol was a moron! WHERE IS THE ELF?!'
'-So I killed him,' the other finished, ignoring the insult to his captain from the other, a gleam in his eye.
'It cannot be,' Gimli breathed.
'I wish to see evidence,' declared Wormtongue, 'and as you have no body, you had better have a very good substitute.'
'How about this-' he drew from his belt one of the white knives. 'The Elf dropped it when he fell from his horse-'
'-That does not prove that he is dead!'
'It does when he rolled off of a cliff with an arrow between his shoulders.'
Wormtongue turned back to Aragorn and Gimli, pure triumph etched across his sickly face, and said with the most casual tone he could muster: 'It appears that the Elf will not be returning as you thought.'
Aragorn hardly heard what was said. How could it be? It could not be - but he knew that it was. There was no lie in the eyes of the Wild Men. He felt as though he had no stomach. He could not breathe. He was aware that Gimli had sunken to his knees, finding his legs unable to support him in his grief, could hear him gasp with sobs. But at that moment in time, he was unable to cope with the sorrow of another - he was too swallowed up in his own to even try. Such a sense of loss as he had never before felt, it bit into his very soul.
Neither Man nor Dwarf resisted when their hands were bound before them and tethered to the saddle of one of the horses with a short rope each. As the Wild Men - headed by Wormtongue - set off, Aragorn and Gimli allowed their feet to take them wherever it was the whim of the horseman to go, paying no heed to the direction in which they travelled.
They traversed the forest well into the day, and Aragorn and Gimli still maintained their silence. They offered no response to the various jibes and jeering comments made to them about their fallen companion. The words hurt, but the hurt inside was far deeper than any words could ever delve, and they refused to entertain their captors by rising to the remarks. To them, it was far more respectful to the forever-gone Legolas to honour him with their thoughts rather than to fight about him with these murderers.
The day was endured under the relative shade of the trees - but even in the cooler shadows, the sweat still flowed. They were offered no water to quench their thirst, which was just as well, as both of them held the notion of spitting it back in the face of whomever gave them any - or even spitting without water. Both options appealed greatly.
Legolas and Gimli had had plans for after the war; as their homes both lay in the North, they were going to travel back together. On the way, Gimli was prepared to stay in Fangorn Forest for a time if only Legolas would endure going to see the Glittering Caves with him. It was a pact that they had made to each other as they left Helm's Deep. Gimli had wanted to see the Elf's bright eyes fill with wonder, had wished to hear him admit to being wrong about those wondrous caves...
'...And I would give gold to be excused, and double to be let out, if I strayed in!'
'You have not seen, so I forgive your jest. But you speak like a fool. Do you think those halls are fair, where your King dwells under the hill in Mirkwood, and Dwarves helped in the making years ago? They are but hovels compared with the caverns I have seen here: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled- zâram in the starlight...'
Gimli had launched into a speech about the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, which caused the Elf to seriously reconsider his words to the Dwarf, he was so impassioned about what he spoke of.
'You move me, Gimli,' the Elf had said. 'I have never heard you speak like this before. Almost you make me regret that I have not seen these caves. Come! Let us make this bargain: if we both return safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey a while together. You shall visit Fangorn with me, and then I will come with you to see Helm's Deep.'
It had not been the order of travel that Gimli had hoped for, but he considered himself lucky that Legolas had even suggested such a trip - he knew full well that the Elf did not like going underground at all, so he had consented to the proposal.
But their journey together through peace would never happen. Not now, and that was an agonising realisation for Gimli to make.
The first night's camp provided them with no sleep; it was none too comfortable being bound by the wrists to a post. But neither of them had a mind for sleeping anyway.
'Gimli.' It was the first time that any speech had left Aragorn's lips for nigh on a day, and the Dwarf raised his head dully to it. 'We must try to escape.'
The guards were slumped unconscious, propped up by leaning into each other back-to-back, leaving them free to converse if they wished to. Wormtongue occupied a tent at the opposite end of the camp. There was no risk of being over-heard, and, quite frankly, Aragorn cared not if they were.
'Why? Where is the point, Aragorn? The Fellowship is well and truly destroyed - what purpose do we have left in this world?'
'Something evil is afoot here, Gimli, that much is plain. Our purpose in this world is to inform Gandalf of it. And the Fellowship is not completely destroyed: there are Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, and you and I. I cannot be so sure about Frodo and Sam, but I hold good faith that they are alive.'
Gimli gave a snort at this. 'Five out of nine to be sure of. That is not an impressive number, Aragorn.'
'It will be even less impressive if it is reduced to three,' he hissed back. Grief had worn away at his patience. The only way he could prevent it from taking over his mind was to think of freedom once more and how it was to be attained.
The Dwarf watched his human companion with hard eyes, scanning over Aragorn's equally hard face. He knew why it was that Aragorn had been sharp ... it was the very same reason that he bore pessimistic views on the condition of the scattered Fellowship. He was angry at their loss and remained so. Seeing his friends being dissipated across Middle-earth to unknown fates - which seemed, due to the recent event, to result more often than not in death - got to him deeply. He loved each and every one of them in turn, and had developed a particularly strong attachment to the fallen Elf and the Man before him.
As far as he knew, he and Aragorn could be the only ones left out of the Nine Walkers. Perhaps Aragorn was all that he had left.
'I am sorry, laddie.'
The hard expression fell away, and a small, apologetic smile replaced it. 'I too am sorry, Gimli my friend. Come! Let us discuss how to escape!'