Chapter Three
The Coming Of Change
Part 1
Every echoing step the dwarf took sent a fresh, crawling shiver up Aragorn's back. The only relief he had was when the dwarf's boots paced the long runner of carpet or would briefly crisscross it as he stalked about that great stone chamber better known as the Throne Room. Each echoing click-on-stone thundered through Aragorn's head, bringing back the nightmare with a vengeance and reminding him of Legolas.
/Walking on my grave,/ he thought. /I feel as though someone is walking on my grave...or his./
/No – impossible,/ another part of his mind whispered. /Legolas is certainly capable of taking care of himself. There has to be another explanation. A misunderstanding, perhaps. Or an argument./
/Guess again.../
"Gimli, settle down and start over," Aragorn said. Between the dwarf's quick, angry words and his constant pacing, he didn't catch half of the story. What he did catch, however, sent a chill through him. As much for Gimli as for himself, he added: "I swear, Gimli, someday you're going to break an ankle jumping to conclusions."
Gimli whirled on his heels and shouted: "I am not jumping to conclusions! We're wasting time! We have to move – now!"
Aragorn gave him 'the look' and motioned him to the couch beside him. The dwarf sighed and ran a hand over his distraught face, then stalked over and threw himself onto the cushions.
"Again, Gimli, only slower," Aragorn urged gently, fighting down his own rising fear.
"Oh for... Alright." Gimli heaved a huge breath to pull himself together. "We were on our way here for a visit – "
"How long ago?" Aragorn interrupted.
"It took four days and nights without food or rest to get from there to here... and that's on foot, mind you."
"Four?" That not only set Aragorn back, but took him back to the days of the fellowship when he, Gimli, and Legolas had tracked the band of orcs (who had taken Merry and Pippin) cross-country, heading, as it had turned out, toward Isengard. During that long, arduous trek, Legolas had constantly urged Gimli on, and Gimli had constantly grumbled and complained. As the leagues wore on and their hearts grew heavier and more troubled, at times it would turn into a bickering match the likes of which Aragorn had never heard before and hoped never to hear again – so bad that he was ready to slay them both near the end of it. Luckily the Riders of Rohan had attacked and destroyed the orcs, or he may have. Arguing. The elf and the dwarf were legendary for it.
"Were you and he arguing?" /I hope,/ Aragorn thought to add but bit it back. It would explain everything if they had been. Legolas might have lost his patience and had decided to cool off by giving the dwarf a little distance.
"No." Gimli grimaced. "Well, maybe a little, but no worse than ever."
Aragorn nodded while a ghost of a smile played on his lips. "So is that a yes?"
Gimli shrugged. "I suppose."
"Uh-huh." He felt a slow relief move over him. "And where there any signs of a struggle?"
"No. None." Gimli paused. "And that was what's so peculiar about it, Aragorn. That's what I'm trying to tell you."
"Peculiar?"
"Yes – peculiar," he growled. "If he left on his own, then why isn't he here?"
Aragorn blinked. That caught him off guard. /Yes, why isn't he here?/ he wondered. /A prank to worry the dwarf?/
/No,/ a distant part of his mind answered. /Legolas loves a good prank as much as the next, but not this kind of prank./
Relief evaporated and unease returned.
"Alright, go on."
"Anyway..." Gimli said, shooting him a dirty frown, "when I came out of the mine, he was gone. Lock, stock, and barrel. He left my things, but all of his own were gone."
"You mean he was angry and left." And thought: /Tell me he was angry and left. Or tell me that you're mistaken and have forgotten something – like a change of plans or a stop somewhere else first or – /
"NO, Aragorn!" Gimli leaned forward, dropped his forehead into a hand, and muttered, "Will someone save me from slow-witted fools?" His gaze lifted and so did his voice. "I'm sorry, but are – you – not – listening – to – me? "
In reality, Aragorn was only half listening. For the last several minutes his ear was caught by the phantom sounds of echoing footsteps. This was easily the tenth time this morning he had heard them, and twice since Gimli's arrival – a loud, toneless tapping from everywhere and nowhere. The sound was clearer this morning, if no more comprehensible. Aragorn hated it. It was as if, somewhere out in that realm between reality and fantasy, some invisible force was trying to drive him crazy...or get his attention. He knew the sound was only in his mind, not in the room, but it was loud enough that he couldn't completely tune it out. The best he could do was to pretend – as he had for the last few days – that it wasn't there.
"Aragorn," Gimli went on, not looking at him, "if Legolas moved on without me, he should be here by now. I might be fast, but even if he had taken his time..." He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "I didn't pass him on the way." He paused – expecting an answer in that pause, a grunt... something...but there was nothing. He turned. Aragorn was looking at him but his eyes seemed distant, as though he was looking without seeing; as though his mind was a million miles away. Gimli glared hotly. "Are you understanding any of this? He said he'd wait, but when I came out, he was gone. Gone!"
Aragorn looked at him blankly for a moment, as if startled out of a daze. "I know what you said, but I'm just trying to make sense out of this." He paused, frowning. "No signs of a struggle. And you two were arguing. He doesn't like mines, Gimli. It's no surprise that maybe he – "
"Left?" Gimli finished. Now it was his turn to stare blankly at him. But there was no daze in his startled look, only disbelief that Aragorn would think to say such a thing. Aragorn knew the elf better than that. "No. He swore he'd wait. Swore, Aragorn. He's the one who told me to go in. Lords know the elf may tread on my last nerve at times, but when he says he's going to do something, he does it." Defiant, he folded his arms across his chest. "If he's not here, then where is he?"
/Then there were no other plans,/ a small distant part of Aragorn's mind thought. He felt his heart sink. The echoes grew louder.
When Aragorn didn't respond right away, Gimli growled, "Are you not listening?"
There was no answer, just the dazed, million-mile-away look again. Gimli's hopes for instant aid collapsed in a puff, and he once more found himself having to restrain a flood of worry, all swimming around two basic ideas: that there was something wrong with Aragorn, and – more importantly – Aragorn was hesitating when Legolas needed him.
Except why was he hesitating? And what made him so sure that there was something wrong with Aragorn? A feeling? The look – yes – but more than that. Gimli found himself wondering if Aragorn's new life as a king could change him so much. The old Aragorn would already be at a dead run for the door. This Aragorn didn't seem to be all here. But he couldn't change this much in such a short time, could he? He didn't know. But he thought he had at least one valid sense: time was ticking away, and for some reason Aragorn seemed content to let it go by.
The king's head tipped as though listening to something. His eyes wandered toward...nothing, frowning as he did as though seeing something, but there was nothing there to see.
/Unless I've gone mad,/ Gimli thought as he followed Aragorn's gaze and looked at nothing as well, then turned back to him. /Mayhap I have./
"What's wrong with you?" the dwarf almost whispered. He was looking at Aragorn as if Aragorn had gone completely crazy.
"Nothing." Aragorn held up a placatory hand. "Calm down, Gimli. I'll send riders out to search."
"Finally!" /That's more like it,/ he thought, falling back onto the pillows behind him and folding his arms across his chest again. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered under his breath. "I'm going to kill him with my bare hands for worrying me to death like this."
/If he's still alive,/ Aragorn thought to say, the dream still nudging his mind urgently, but held it back. Gimli doesn't need to hear that right now and he didn't want to say it. Instead, he signalled to the two guards who were watching them from the far end of the room. Obviously they'd overheard everything because instead of stepping forward, they nodded instead and obediently trotted from the great room.
Likely half of Gondor heard as well, Aragorn mused, since Gimli had insisted on half-yelling out his frustrations as soon as he came within sight instead of holding his tongue until he could be ushered into a more private setting. Overwrought and overly loud, Gimli had insisted on spilling everything in a near-bellow. Too bad he had. Aragorn's first inclination was to go himself. But now that half of Gondor knew, thanks to Gimli, he knew he wouldn't get two feet out the door without being stopped for his own safety.
The dwarf continued to mutter, growl, and rant, but Aragorn had stopped listening to him. He was held in his own thoughts now. Thoughts of the past. Of Legolas. Of himself. Of worry. Of the dream. And of a hawk.
A hawk in a gilded cage.
He remembered quietly admitting the fear of ending up as a hawk in a gilded cage to Legolas one sleepless night when the tonnage of weight he felt about someday having to claim the crown had gotten to be too much. His mind flew back to that quiet night with the fellowship. Even though it had been a few years ago, it felt like a million and yesterday...
"Have you thought about what will happen when this is over?" Aragorn could remember asking Legolas. That conversation had taken place one night in front of a campfire, somewhere in the middle of the quest, about – what? three or four years ago or more? It didn't matter, he supposed. "Providing we succeed, that is."
Legolas had said, "No." Then he'd shrugged, Aragorn remembered, and poked at the fire with a stick. "My focus is slightly narrower. I believe we should live day to day and be thankful when we wake up each morning. But after the fellowship?" He'd paused. Shrugged again. "I haven't given it much thought. But you certainly have. Tell me."
In shame, Aragorn's eyes had glued to the ground, and he remembered thinking, /I can't. I can't get my mouth to work, Legolas. I can't even think it right, never mind say it right./ The vile word 'ashamed' wedged deep in his throat, choking him like a great splinter. It held everything else back.
Legolas had frowned at his silence and touched his arm. "Aragorn, enough is enough. Just say it. I already know what it is, so just say it and let it out. It's alright. You don't want to claim the crown, is that right?"
He'd swallowed hard and started slowly. "I am...afraid that you and I are destined to go our separate ways, one way or another." And then the words came easier. "If I'm forced to don the unwanted mantle of king, you and I both know that our adventures will come to an end. A king can't afford the luxury of freedom, not like a ranger can." He'd paused. His hands clenched to fists in his lap. "I'll be trapped. A prisoner. Chained and shackled to a throne I don't want. Unevenly yoked to a tainted crown glittering with responsibilities and bent from Isildur's damned weakness."
The elf had raised a brow at his rising anger but kept silent.
He remembered looking away in shame as the words quietly flow out of him, needing to get everything out now that he'd finally started. "A hawk in a gilded cage. I hate that thought. That's another reason in a list of a million reasons of why I don't want to claim the title. That, and knowing that I can't stay who I am and still become another. A king can't live as a ranger anymore than a ranger can live as a king. I don't want to be tied down and restrained like a dog on a short rope. I want the freedom to go wherever I please – like I have now, like I've always had."
Legolas turned to him. Still cross-legged, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs while he listened. Aragorn, however, could not bring himself to move nor look at him.
"Damn Isildur and his failure," Aragorn remembered saying, as he stared into the fire. "Now it's my responsibility to live with his shame and right his mistake. And what do I get as a reward for shouldering his burden for him? I get the joy of being forced into a life I don't want – that's what." He had paused then and in that pause he yanked out a handful of grass and tossed it into the fire, then watched as the blades curled back as though recoiling from the greedy flames. "I'll be kept like found money in a greedy man's pocket: protected, manipulated, and never seeing the light of day again." He shook his head. "I despise the thought, I loath the crown, and I'm ashamed to death of my lineage. Legolas, what do I do?"
The elf had heaved a long sigh and was silent for so long that at first Aragorn didn't think he was going to answer. "That's your destiny, Aragorn, like it or not," he said finally. "Mine is to sail someday, whether I like it or not." He'd shrugged. "I hear the strong call of the sea everyday, but reject it for now...though I know that the day will come when I won't be able to – just like you know that the day will come when you won't be able to reject the crown. The time of elves on Middle Earth is coming to an end, and the time of Man is at hand. You, my friend, like it or not, have been chosen to lead them into the new age." He'd paused. "Understand this: there can only be one winner in this war. Either Man will win the day or Sauron and his minions will. If you do not take your rightful place, Man will fail, for you are the only one who can lead them. You can do this, Aragorn; you have to. And you can have your freedom and your kingdom both, if you trust in yourself and your abilities as a ranger." He'd grinned mischievously. "There is always a way. Think about it."
Aragorn had listened to the words and had thought them through, then still looking at the fire, shook his head. "I am weak, Legolas. I carry Isildur's weakness in my blood."
There had been a long, long silence; so long that Aragorn's shame made him wish the ground would rise up to swallow him. Then the elf had reached over and with a finger and gently tilted his chin up to look him in the eyes. After a moment Aragorn had raised his gaze and searched the only face in Middle Earth he knew he could trust. Legolas' face held not sadness nor sympathy nor pity, only truth. "No, Aragorn," he'd said softly, releasing him. "You are not weak. You are not Isildur. And you will not fail. I know you too well, my friend. You will find a way. There is always a way." He smiled brightly, proudly. "And I will be with you every step of it."
Now the words repeated themselves over and over in Aragorn's mind: /There is always a way, there is always a way, there is always a way.../
The nightmare crept back into sharp focus, and with it came the now familiar shiver and the disturbing thought: /Someone is walking on his grave./
He clenched his hands into tight fists on his lap, knowing that if he held them out in front of him they would be shaking.
/Someone is walking on his grave./
The phantom sound – the echo of footsteps – grew louder still, almost deafening. It was joined by Legolas' and his own light laughter. Aragorn raised a shaky hand to his forehead and gingerly began to rub his throbbing brow. Now he could see Legolas walking down the dream hallway toward the doors. Two doors. Two Legolas'. Two completely different Legolas'.
"Two, and yet one," he heard the other Legolas say in a voice that sent a shudder through him. "One and the same. Two halves of a whole. Remember that."
Then, suddenly, the visions and sounds of the dream were gone. He was back in the palace with Gimli sitting beside him, staring at him like he had just lost his mind, again.
"Aragorn?" The dwarf touched his arm. "Are you alright? You're not ill, are you?"
/What if it's no dream?/ a distant part of his mind whispered. /What if it's a premonition? A warning?/
"Aragorn!" Gimli said sharply.
"What?" He looked at Gimli as though he'd just now noticed he was there and then blinked several times as he came back to himself. "No," he said, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. He thought briefly of saying: "I keep having some kind of flashes. Nightmares. And if they're real... Lords, if they're real, then..."
Thought of it but didn't say it. He patted the dwarf's shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. "Gimli," he said instead, dropping his voice low, almost conspiratorially, "help me get out of here. I'm going to need a distraction. A very big distraction."
The dwarf's eyes widened. "But Aragorn, what about the crown? What about Gondor? You can't just go traipsing off – "
"It's Legolas." /I should tell him,/ he thought. /Tell him everything. But not here. Too many ears. Half the guards saw me blank out several times today and probably think I'm starting to go crazy. They'll be watching me. Listening... /
"I know who it is," Gimli hissed through clenched teeth in a voice that would not quite remain steady. "Don't you think I know who it is? The question is – do you know who you are? You're not a ranger anymore."
Aragorn gave a lopsided grin. "Says who?"
Gimli's mouth opened to speak then snapped shut. He stared at Aragorn while his teeth began gnawing relentlessly at his lower lip.
"Gimli? Please?"
Gimli looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Alright." He rolled his eyes. "I must be crazy." By now he was so confused that he didn't know for sure if that was a lie or the truth. "I knew you'd want to do something like this. Seems I'm not the only one jumping to conclusions."
Though Gimli's voice had been mild, his thoughts were clicking over at a rapid rate. Not the question of whether he would or wouldn't – of course he would – but the question was how. How would one go about smuggling the most celebrated and recognizable person in Gondor out of Minas Tirith without being noticed?
/By being devious,/ he thought. /And I can do devious./
Gimli grew silent as his mind began to wrap around a half-formed plan. Almost as an afterthought, he muttered: "But when we find him safe and sound, I want to be the one to kill him."
/We won't find him safe and sound,/ Aragorn's mind whispered, and his heart twinged at that thought.
He forced a grin. "Agreed."
Part 2
Legolas realized that he could no longer grasp time as it flowed around him, as though the man had somehow removed his ability to gauge minutes that passed. Not a sound came to him except the sound of his own ragged breathing. When Ridley was there, which was more not than often, there was dim candlelight and always pain. But for the most part it was featureless darkness, almost a denial of time.
/How long has it been?/ he wondered. /Hours? Days? Weeks? Centuries?/
The silence around him was deafening, and the darkness – terrifying. Wide- eyed, he could barely pull a decent breath though his tight throat. He licked at his dry lips and tried to force himself to concentrate on something else – anything else – in order to focus his thoughts and control his rising panic. His thoughts flew to Aragorn – his face, his smile, his eyes – but with his concentration too fragmented with fear to focus properly, it was a hazy, distorted picture at best.
/Focus,/ he told himself. /Just calm down and focus./
/I can't!/ a small part of his mind cried. /I can't breathe! I'm going to smother! Buried alive... /
He found himself remembering the man's words: "More than six-hundred feet of rock and dirt sitting right above your head. A big load for four small walls." It wasn't exact, but it was close enough. Too close. /And what's even more amazing is that I had thought him merely overconfident./
That was a mistake, Legolas now realized too late. /The man knew that I'd react this way. He knew exactly how I'd feel. He had counted on it. That's why he had brought me here. That man is trying to drive me crazy./ He had an ugly thought: /If he leaves me here for much longer, I very likely will be./
Two days. The thought of two day was bad enough. But a week?
/Oh Lords.../
Pure panic. His stomach clenched and he dry heaved. He closed his eyes trying to shut off against the room, but open or closed it didn't matter – it was too dark and the air too heavy and the smell of old earth too thick to successfully block it all out. His stomach clenched again. He clamped his teeth down and dry-swallowed over and over until it eased; so dry he couldn't spit if he was on fire.
/I'm in a
(grave)
mine. Trapped. Buried alive. There's...there's no air in here! I'm going to suffocate!/
He had a mental flash of the mine where he and Aragorn had freed the slaves. Aragorn – the way he had touched his shoulder in a gentle, comforting gesture that had reminded him of the way his friend would touch Frodo's shoulder when he was frightened. He couldn't accept Aragorn's comforting touch then. Accepting comfort would have been the same as admitting fear and weakness. He would gladly accept it now though. As a matter of fact, he'd just about kill for it now. That
(grave)
hole had only been four levels deep and it had taken every ounce of strength he'd had, and then some, to stay down there. This time...
(Seven levels...)
"No air," he said in a trembling, watery voice. He had never been so terrified in his life... and suddenly that sensation overwhelmed him. It was as it had been in that hellish, nightmare mine, but this time it was stronger. Much stronger.
He breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. It usually helped.
Not this time.
(Seven levels...)
His breathing immediately increased and his chest heaved for air. He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to breathe slowly again. After a few moments he bit his lip, felt his nerves unravel like a ball of string, and knew he was only moments away from tears.
He fought the darkness, fought hard. His eyes grew impossibly wide. Breath came in rapid, short gasps though his slightly open mouth.
"No air," he repeated, and he heard his voice as if from a million miles away, a voice which was filled with horror and terrible wonder. "Sweet Earendil, seven levels. It's seven levels!"
/Stop fighting. Stop moving. Breathe and relax./
/I can't! Lords... /
/Calm down./
/I'm going to smother!/
/CALM DOWN!/ his mind bellowed at him.
A small, strangled cry bubbled up from his throat sounding something like a strange combination of a high-pitched, kittenish mew and a squeal. The sound bounced off the walls and echoed around the room. It wasn't the echo, but the way it echoed... That's when it hit him like a cold slap in the face. That's when he finally knew for certain and couldn't deny it any longer. Rock. This is a room carved out of solid rock.
(Seven levels...)
/The man wasn't lying! Lords, I'm in a GRAVE!/
As if to emphasize that fact, he heard what sounded like a deep rumble a long way off, like the grumble of thunder; then the ground beneath him give a tiny shudder. A moment afterward, a hiss of dirt and rock chips sifted down from the ceiling above, dusting his face and hair. He could taste it. Smell it. Spat it out. It took only a moment to register what it was and where it had come from, and when it did, he literally went wild – twisting and thrashing, desperately renewing the struggle with everything he had until his wrists were rubbed raw and the muscles in his biceps and shoulders burned and shook under the enormous strain. But there was no give to the ropes; no hope. His heart hammered in his tightening chest. Between his racing heart and his ever-tightening throat it was nearly impossible to breathe.
Now he was hyperventilating. Spots glittered in the darkness before his eyes.
/I can't breathe! I can't... I'm smothering! I'm going to die here!/
That's when it happened.
It was the kind of thing one would expect would happen at the hands of screaming orcs or from any one of countless, vile horrors Sauron himself could have inflicted on his worst day; but not here, alone, and in silence.
Something deep inside Legolas' mind...let go.
In that brief split-second he actually felt his mind crumble, shatter, tear apart and separate into two totally distinct pieces. It wasn't painful at all, just...there. No trumpets blaring, no fanfare, no screaming or ranting or convulsing or pain or anything he would have assumed would come with it. Just a numb tear – a tiny mental jolt, really – like someone had cut a taunt thread in two, or the floor had suddenly dropping an inch. Then...utter stillness...like holding your breath and waiting for the rest of the floor to drop out from underneath you.
As he lay frozen in the blackened silence he had a thought that perhaps there is another possibility. Maybe he had passed out and this is some kind of a dream. Or maybe
(There are worse things than death.)
he had died.
/No,/ Legolas thought, a shudder twisting up his back. /I'm very much alive./
The world suddenly swam back into sharp focus. He had never felt such total clarity, such total astonishment in his whole life. Lords, of course – it was so right, so clear.
/If the man wanted me dead, he could have done it a hundred times already. He's not trying to kill me, he really is trying to drive me crazy./
(There are worse things than death.)
Then he felt – not heard, but felt – a soft whisper of conscious thought bubble up out of the depths of himself like a painless gush of blood. It rapidly gained in power and strength until it was his equal... and still it grew.
And he was terrified.
A voice spoke – not a voice from a mouth but a voice from within.
I can breathe, weakling.
Legolas jerked as if he'd been stung, then lay as though frozen in time; waiting, barely breathing, his ears filling with the sound of his own thudding heartbeat and his eyes searching wildly for a source he knew he wouldn't find.
The voice from within spoke again.
I'm stronger than you are.
/What is this?/ Legolas wondered. /Some sort of spell?/
Spell? Hardly, the icy voice said. Lords, you're pathetic. That's why you're nothing without me. I'll do whatever I have to, to get us through this.
/Us?/
Yes – us.
/Who are you?/ he wondered timidly, even though he thought he knew who, or rather, what, it was. It was the certainty of the idea that terrified him.
The inner voice laughed at him. Your better half. I'm your strength, your intensity, your darkness – weakling. Back down. You failed miserably. Now it's my turn to play.
(There are worse things than death.)
/Oh Lords, no... NO!/
Suddenly the room spun insanely out of control, and he with it, as he was forced down, down. His eyes rolled back in his head and he sank into the comforting arms of the dark abyss...
That was when he woke up.
For real.
For the first time.
Waking was nothing like waking from sleep in any normal sense. When he thought about it, he didn't think he'd ever been fully awake or asleep. In a way, he had always been somewhere in the middle, in a half-waking, half- dream state. His life – what little he had – was not really a life at all, but merely a few bright flashes here and there.
But this...this was...different.
He knew he could actually wake up for real this time. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. So he struggled to awaken...struggled to pull the light side down...felt as if he were being held underwater, drowning...then the grip of the light side weakened for a moment and he instantly tightened his own grip, showing no mercy or hesitation. He felt his control strengthen, made a mighty effort to wake up, and somehow...did it.
He came slowly out of sleep knowing he hadn't really been asleep at all. Knowing. Aware. Fully aware, he corrected himself.
And he remembered.
He remembered that the light side and he had been talking to each other. That had never happened before. Sometimes a tiny thought past between them – yes, but never a true dialogue. Always before it had been more like a feeling of being let go, sent out to do something – usually to fight or defend – and yet even while fighting he was never fully alone, and never without the limitation of mercy. Mercy is stupid. Weak. Mercy gave the enemy another chance to try again.
But this time – for the first time – he actually awoke, alone. And when he did, he felt rage and resentment smouldering deep in his gut. Never being one to feel...well, anything before – never allowed to be out long enough to feel anything – at first he was a little startled by it. Then he grabbed onto it like a lifeline. Rage was an appropriate feeling, after all.
Who, exactly, gave him the right? he thought. Who gave him the right to hold me back and be happy, while I – who fight all of his damned battles for him when he needs me – live in the world of darkness waiting for the moment when he turns me loose me again? Why do I always get shoved into the dark until I'm needed, and then pulled out in bits and pieces when it's convenient?
Because he's afraid of me, that's why. He's afraid of what I'm capable of. He knows I'm stronger than he is. Well no more waiting around and living in the dark while he lives in the light. No more. It's my turn now, and I'm going to take it. I have as much right to control as he does. Survival of the fittest – it's that simple.
This separation between us certainly has it's advantages, he thought.
He thought of Aragorn. Of Gimli. Of Haldir and Elrond and Thranduil and all of them...and burned with hatred.
What right did he have to live in the light and be happy and have friends and family and...everything, while I – who saved him and them more times than I care to remember – die in darkness like some diseased animal?
None, of course. No right at all.
"I have a right to live too."
He slowly opened the eyes. Raised the head – his head. Smirked with his mouth. Mine, he thought. It's mine. It should have always been mine.
He felt the exquisite pain in his wrists from the deep rope burns; felt calm, raw power at being in total control; felt alone. Alone. No restrictions and no limitations. This was a first. He liked it. A lot.
He looked out at the black world from under his brows and whispered: "It's my turn now, and you can't stop me anymore."
A heavy tiredness drifted over him; settled; overwhelmed him. His eyes flittered and rolled, barely able to keep the eyelids open. Something was wrong, he knew. First time in complete control, he guessed. Just not used to it, he guessed. It's like swimming through mud. Unfortunately he'd have to back down for now. Take things slow. Build up into it.
"Or are you fighting me?" He smirked. "You can't fight me forever."
/I can try./
"Well if it's a fight you want, coward, then you've got it. Now I know I can take over and push you down to the darkness where you've kept me," he said, then gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Hear that? That was me! You can't hold me back forever. I'm getting stronger and you're getting weaker. Soon, I'm going to shove you into that black prison you keep me in, and I'm going to leave you there."
There was, of course, no answer. But he did feel the light side cringe back a bit, and that pleased him.
Drown for awhile, he thought. It's your turn. Let's see how much you like it.
He felt the light side shrink back even more.
The corners of his mouth pulled back into a slow, satisfied smile; a smile that extended no higher than his mouth.
Tbc...
The Coming Of Change
Part 1
Every echoing step the dwarf took sent a fresh, crawling shiver up Aragorn's back. The only relief he had was when the dwarf's boots paced the long runner of carpet or would briefly crisscross it as he stalked about that great stone chamber better known as the Throne Room. Each echoing click-on-stone thundered through Aragorn's head, bringing back the nightmare with a vengeance and reminding him of Legolas.
/Walking on my grave,/ he thought. /I feel as though someone is walking on my grave...or his./
/No – impossible,/ another part of his mind whispered. /Legolas is certainly capable of taking care of himself. There has to be another explanation. A misunderstanding, perhaps. Or an argument./
/Guess again.../
"Gimli, settle down and start over," Aragorn said. Between the dwarf's quick, angry words and his constant pacing, he didn't catch half of the story. What he did catch, however, sent a chill through him. As much for Gimli as for himself, he added: "I swear, Gimli, someday you're going to break an ankle jumping to conclusions."
Gimli whirled on his heels and shouted: "I am not jumping to conclusions! We're wasting time! We have to move – now!"
Aragorn gave him 'the look' and motioned him to the couch beside him. The dwarf sighed and ran a hand over his distraught face, then stalked over and threw himself onto the cushions.
"Again, Gimli, only slower," Aragorn urged gently, fighting down his own rising fear.
"Oh for... Alright." Gimli heaved a huge breath to pull himself together. "We were on our way here for a visit – "
"How long ago?" Aragorn interrupted.
"It took four days and nights without food or rest to get from there to here... and that's on foot, mind you."
"Four?" That not only set Aragorn back, but took him back to the days of the fellowship when he, Gimli, and Legolas had tracked the band of orcs (who had taken Merry and Pippin) cross-country, heading, as it had turned out, toward Isengard. During that long, arduous trek, Legolas had constantly urged Gimli on, and Gimli had constantly grumbled and complained. As the leagues wore on and their hearts grew heavier and more troubled, at times it would turn into a bickering match the likes of which Aragorn had never heard before and hoped never to hear again – so bad that he was ready to slay them both near the end of it. Luckily the Riders of Rohan had attacked and destroyed the orcs, or he may have. Arguing. The elf and the dwarf were legendary for it.
"Were you and he arguing?" /I hope,/ Aragorn thought to add but bit it back. It would explain everything if they had been. Legolas might have lost his patience and had decided to cool off by giving the dwarf a little distance.
"No." Gimli grimaced. "Well, maybe a little, but no worse than ever."
Aragorn nodded while a ghost of a smile played on his lips. "So is that a yes?"
Gimli shrugged. "I suppose."
"Uh-huh." He felt a slow relief move over him. "And where there any signs of a struggle?"
"No. None." Gimli paused. "And that was what's so peculiar about it, Aragorn. That's what I'm trying to tell you."
"Peculiar?"
"Yes – peculiar," he growled. "If he left on his own, then why isn't he here?"
Aragorn blinked. That caught him off guard. /Yes, why isn't he here?/ he wondered. /A prank to worry the dwarf?/
/No,/ a distant part of his mind answered. /Legolas loves a good prank as much as the next, but not this kind of prank./
Relief evaporated and unease returned.
"Alright, go on."
"Anyway..." Gimli said, shooting him a dirty frown, "when I came out of the mine, he was gone. Lock, stock, and barrel. He left my things, but all of his own were gone."
"You mean he was angry and left." And thought: /Tell me he was angry and left. Or tell me that you're mistaken and have forgotten something – like a change of plans or a stop somewhere else first or – /
"NO, Aragorn!" Gimli leaned forward, dropped his forehead into a hand, and muttered, "Will someone save me from slow-witted fools?" His gaze lifted and so did his voice. "I'm sorry, but are – you – not – listening – to – me? "
In reality, Aragorn was only half listening. For the last several minutes his ear was caught by the phantom sounds of echoing footsteps. This was easily the tenth time this morning he had heard them, and twice since Gimli's arrival – a loud, toneless tapping from everywhere and nowhere. The sound was clearer this morning, if no more comprehensible. Aragorn hated it. It was as if, somewhere out in that realm between reality and fantasy, some invisible force was trying to drive him crazy...or get his attention. He knew the sound was only in his mind, not in the room, but it was loud enough that he couldn't completely tune it out. The best he could do was to pretend – as he had for the last few days – that it wasn't there.
"Aragorn," Gimli went on, not looking at him, "if Legolas moved on without me, he should be here by now. I might be fast, but even if he had taken his time..." He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "I didn't pass him on the way." He paused – expecting an answer in that pause, a grunt... something...but there was nothing. He turned. Aragorn was looking at him but his eyes seemed distant, as though he was looking without seeing; as though his mind was a million miles away. Gimli glared hotly. "Are you understanding any of this? He said he'd wait, but when I came out, he was gone. Gone!"
Aragorn looked at him blankly for a moment, as if startled out of a daze. "I know what you said, but I'm just trying to make sense out of this." He paused, frowning. "No signs of a struggle. And you two were arguing. He doesn't like mines, Gimli. It's no surprise that maybe he – "
"Left?" Gimli finished. Now it was his turn to stare blankly at him. But there was no daze in his startled look, only disbelief that Aragorn would think to say such a thing. Aragorn knew the elf better than that. "No. He swore he'd wait. Swore, Aragorn. He's the one who told me to go in. Lords know the elf may tread on my last nerve at times, but when he says he's going to do something, he does it." Defiant, he folded his arms across his chest. "If he's not here, then where is he?"
/Then there were no other plans,/ a small distant part of Aragorn's mind thought. He felt his heart sink. The echoes grew louder.
When Aragorn didn't respond right away, Gimli growled, "Are you not listening?"
There was no answer, just the dazed, million-mile-away look again. Gimli's hopes for instant aid collapsed in a puff, and he once more found himself having to restrain a flood of worry, all swimming around two basic ideas: that there was something wrong with Aragorn, and – more importantly – Aragorn was hesitating when Legolas needed him.
Except why was he hesitating? And what made him so sure that there was something wrong with Aragorn? A feeling? The look – yes – but more than that. Gimli found himself wondering if Aragorn's new life as a king could change him so much. The old Aragorn would already be at a dead run for the door. This Aragorn didn't seem to be all here. But he couldn't change this much in such a short time, could he? He didn't know. But he thought he had at least one valid sense: time was ticking away, and for some reason Aragorn seemed content to let it go by.
The king's head tipped as though listening to something. His eyes wandered toward...nothing, frowning as he did as though seeing something, but there was nothing there to see.
/Unless I've gone mad,/ Gimli thought as he followed Aragorn's gaze and looked at nothing as well, then turned back to him. /Mayhap I have./
"What's wrong with you?" the dwarf almost whispered. He was looking at Aragorn as if Aragorn had gone completely crazy.
"Nothing." Aragorn held up a placatory hand. "Calm down, Gimli. I'll send riders out to search."
"Finally!" /That's more like it,/ he thought, falling back onto the pillows behind him and folding his arms across his chest again. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered under his breath. "I'm going to kill him with my bare hands for worrying me to death like this."
/If he's still alive,/ Aragorn thought to say, the dream still nudging his mind urgently, but held it back. Gimli doesn't need to hear that right now and he didn't want to say it. Instead, he signalled to the two guards who were watching them from the far end of the room. Obviously they'd overheard everything because instead of stepping forward, they nodded instead and obediently trotted from the great room.
Likely half of Gondor heard as well, Aragorn mused, since Gimli had insisted on half-yelling out his frustrations as soon as he came within sight instead of holding his tongue until he could be ushered into a more private setting. Overwrought and overly loud, Gimli had insisted on spilling everything in a near-bellow. Too bad he had. Aragorn's first inclination was to go himself. But now that half of Gondor knew, thanks to Gimli, he knew he wouldn't get two feet out the door without being stopped for his own safety.
The dwarf continued to mutter, growl, and rant, but Aragorn had stopped listening to him. He was held in his own thoughts now. Thoughts of the past. Of Legolas. Of himself. Of worry. Of the dream. And of a hawk.
A hawk in a gilded cage.
He remembered quietly admitting the fear of ending up as a hawk in a gilded cage to Legolas one sleepless night when the tonnage of weight he felt about someday having to claim the crown had gotten to be too much. His mind flew back to that quiet night with the fellowship. Even though it had been a few years ago, it felt like a million and yesterday...
"Have you thought about what will happen when this is over?" Aragorn could remember asking Legolas. That conversation had taken place one night in front of a campfire, somewhere in the middle of the quest, about – what? three or four years ago or more? It didn't matter, he supposed. "Providing we succeed, that is."
Legolas had said, "No." Then he'd shrugged, Aragorn remembered, and poked at the fire with a stick. "My focus is slightly narrower. I believe we should live day to day and be thankful when we wake up each morning. But after the fellowship?" He'd paused. Shrugged again. "I haven't given it much thought. But you certainly have. Tell me."
In shame, Aragorn's eyes had glued to the ground, and he remembered thinking, /I can't. I can't get my mouth to work, Legolas. I can't even think it right, never mind say it right./ The vile word 'ashamed' wedged deep in his throat, choking him like a great splinter. It held everything else back.
Legolas had frowned at his silence and touched his arm. "Aragorn, enough is enough. Just say it. I already know what it is, so just say it and let it out. It's alright. You don't want to claim the crown, is that right?"
He'd swallowed hard and started slowly. "I am...afraid that you and I are destined to go our separate ways, one way or another." And then the words came easier. "If I'm forced to don the unwanted mantle of king, you and I both know that our adventures will come to an end. A king can't afford the luxury of freedom, not like a ranger can." He'd paused. His hands clenched to fists in his lap. "I'll be trapped. A prisoner. Chained and shackled to a throne I don't want. Unevenly yoked to a tainted crown glittering with responsibilities and bent from Isildur's damned weakness."
The elf had raised a brow at his rising anger but kept silent.
He remembered looking away in shame as the words quietly flow out of him, needing to get everything out now that he'd finally started. "A hawk in a gilded cage. I hate that thought. That's another reason in a list of a million reasons of why I don't want to claim the title. That, and knowing that I can't stay who I am and still become another. A king can't live as a ranger anymore than a ranger can live as a king. I don't want to be tied down and restrained like a dog on a short rope. I want the freedom to go wherever I please – like I have now, like I've always had."
Legolas turned to him. Still cross-legged, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs while he listened. Aragorn, however, could not bring himself to move nor look at him.
"Damn Isildur and his failure," Aragorn remembered saying, as he stared into the fire. "Now it's my responsibility to live with his shame and right his mistake. And what do I get as a reward for shouldering his burden for him? I get the joy of being forced into a life I don't want – that's what." He had paused then and in that pause he yanked out a handful of grass and tossed it into the fire, then watched as the blades curled back as though recoiling from the greedy flames. "I'll be kept like found money in a greedy man's pocket: protected, manipulated, and never seeing the light of day again." He shook his head. "I despise the thought, I loath the crown, and I'm ashamed to death of my lineage. Legolas, what do I do?"
The elf had heaved a long sigh and was silent for so long that at first Aragorn didn't think he was going to answer. "That's your destiny, Aragorn, like it or not," he said finally. "Mine is to sail someday, whether I like it or not." He'd shrugged. "I hear the strong call of the sea everyday, but reject it for now...though I know that the day will come when I won't be able to – just like you know that the day will come when you won't be able to reject the crown. The time of elves on Middle Earth is coming to an end, and the time of Man is at hand. You, my friend, like it or not, have been chosen to lead them into the new age." He'd paused. "Understand this: there can only be one winner in this war. Either Man will win the day or Sauron and his minions will. If you do not take your rightful place, Man will fail, for you are the only one who can lead them. You can do this, Aragorn; you have to. And you can have your freedom and your kingdom both, if you trust in yourself and your abilities as a ranger." He'd grinned mischievously. "There is always a way. Think about it."
Aragorn had listened to the words and had thought them through, then still looking at the fire, shook his head. "I am weak, Legolas. I carry Isildur's weakness in my blood."
There had been a long, long silence; so long that Aragorn's shame made him wish the ground would rise up to swallow him. Then the elf had reached over and with a finger and gently tilted his chin up to look him in the eyes. After a moment Aragorn had raised his gaze and searched the only face in Middle Earth he knew he could trust. Legolas' face held not sadness nor sympathy nor pity, only truth. "No, Aragorn," he'd said softly, releasing him. "You are not weak. You are not Isildur. And you will not fail. I know you too well, my friend. You will find a way. There is always a way." He smiled brightly, proudly. "And I will be with you every step of it."
Now the words repeated themselves over and over in Aragorn's mind: /There is always a way, there is always a way, there is always a way.../
The nightmare crept back into sharp focus, and with it came the now familiar shiver and the disturbing thought: /Someone is walking on his grave./
He clenched his hands into tight fists on his lap, knowing that if he held them out in front of him they would be shaking.
/Someone is walking on his grave./
The phantom sound – the echo of footsteps – grew louder still, almost deafening. It was joined by Legolas' and his own light laughter. Aragorn raised a shaky hand to his forehead and gingerly began to rub his throbbing brow. Now he could see Legolas walking down the dream hallway toward the doors. Two doors. Two Legolas'. Two completely different Legolas'.
"Two, and yet one," he heard the other Legolas say in a voice that sent a shudder through him. "One and the same. Two halves of a whole. Remember that."
Then, suddenly, the visions and sounds of the dream were gone. He was back in the palace with Gimli sitting beside him, staring at him like he had just lost his mind, again.
"Aragorn?" The dwarf touched his arm. "Are you alright? You're not ill, are you?"
/What if it's no dream?/ a distant part of his mind whispered. /What if it's a premonition? A warning?/
"Aragorn!" Gimli said sharply.
"What?" He looked at Gimli as though he'd just now noticed he was there and then blinked several times as he came back to himself. "No," he said, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. He thought briefly of saying: "I keep having some kind of flashes. Nightmares. And if they're real... Lords, if they're real, then..."
Thought of it but didn't say it. He patted the dwarf's shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. "Gimli," he said instead, dropping his voice low, almost conspiratorially, "help me get out of here. I'm going to need a distraction. A very big distraction."
The dwarf's eyes widened. "But Aragorn, what about the crown? What about Gondor? You can't just go traipsing off – "
"It's Legolas." /I should tell him,/ he thought. /Tell him everything. But not here. Too many ears. Half the guards saw me blank out several times today and probably think I'm starting to go crazy. They'll be watching me. Listening... /
"I know who it is," Gimli hissed through clenched teeth in a voice that would not quite remain steady. "Don't you think I know who it is? The question is – do you know who you are? You're not a ranger anymore."
Aragorn gave a lopsided grin. "Says who?"
Gimli's mouth opened to speak then snapped shut. He stared at Aragorn while his teeth began gnawing relentlessly at his lower lip.
"Gimli? Please?"
Gimli looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Alright." He rolled his eyes. "I must be crazy." By now he was so confused that he didn't know for sure if that was a lie or the truth. "I knew you'd want to do something like this. Seems I'm not the only one jumping to conclusions."
Though Gimli's voice had been mild, his thoughts were clicking over at a rapid rate. Not the question of whether he would or wouldn't – of course he would – but the question was how. How would one go about smuggling the most celebrated and recognizable person in Gondor out of Minas Tirith without being noticed?
/By being devious,/ he thought. /And I can do devious./
Gimli grew silent as his mind began to wrap around a half-formed plan. Almost as an afterthought, he muttered: "But when we find him safe and sound, I want to be the one to kill him."
/We won't find him safe and sound,/ Aragorn's mind whispered, and his heart twinged at that thought.
He forced a grin. "Agreed."
Part 2
Legolas realized that he could no longer grasp time as it flowed around him, as though the man had somehow removed his ability to gauge minutes that passed. Not a sound came to him except the sound of his own ragged breathing. When Ridley was there, which was more not than often, there was dim candlelight and always pain. But for the most part it was featureless darkness, almost a denial of time.
/How long has it been?/ he wondered. /Hours? Days? Weeks? Centuries?/
The silence around him was deafening, and the darkness – terrifying. Wide- eyed, he could barely pull a decent breath though his tight throat. He licked at his dry lips and tried to force himself to concentrate on something else – anything else – in order to focus his thoughts and control his rising panic. His thoughts flew to Aragorn – his face, his smile, his eyes – but with his concentration too fragmented with fear to focus properly, it was a hazy, distorted picture at best.
/Focus,/ he told himself. /Just calm down and focus./
/I can't!/ a small part of his mind cried. /I can't breathe! I'm going to smother! Buried alive... /
He found himself remembering the man's words: "More than six-hundred feet of rock and dirt sitting right above your head. A big load for four small walls." It wasn't exact, but it was close enough. Too close. /And what's even more amazing is that I had thought him merely overconfident./
That was a mistake, Legolas now realized too late. /The man knew that I'd react this way. He knew exactly how I'd feel. He had counted on it. That's why he had brought me here. That man is trying to drive me crazy./ He had an ugly thought: /If he leaves me here for much longer, I very likely will be./
Two days. The thought of two day was bad enough. But a week?
/Oh Lords.../
Pure panic. His stomach clenched and he dry heaved. He closed his eyes trying to shut off against the room, but open or closed it didn't matter – it was too dark and the air too heavy and the smell of old earth too thick to successfully block it all out. His stomach clenched again. He clamped his teeth down and dry-swallowed over and over until it eased; so dry he couldn't spit if he was on fire.
/I'm in a
(grave)
mine. Trapped. Buried alive. There's...there's no air in here! I'm going to suffocate!/
He had a mental flash of the mine where he and Aragorn had freed the slaves. Aragorn – the way he had touched his shoulder in a gentle, comforting gesture that had reminded him of the way his friend would touch Frodo's shoulder when he was frightened. He couldn't accept Aragorn's comforting touch then. Accepting comfort would have been the same as admitting fear and weakness. He would gladly accept it now though. As a matter of fact, he'd just about kill for it now. That
(grave)
hole had only been four levels deep and it had taken every ounce of strength he'd had, and then some, to stay down there. This time...
(Seven levels...)
"No air," he said in a trembling, watery voice. He had never been so terrified in his life... and suddenly that sensation overwhelmed him. It was as it had been in that hellish, nightmare mine, but this time it was stronger. Much stronger.
He breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. It usually helped.
Not this time.
(Seven levels...)
His breathing immediately increased and his chest heaved for air. He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to breathe slowly again. After a few moments he bit his lip, felt his nerves unravel like a ball of string, and knew he was only moments away from tears.
He fought the darkness, fought hard. His eyes grew impossibly wide. Breath came in rapid, short gasps though his slightly open mouth.
"No air," he repeated, and he heard his voice as if from a million miles away, a voice which was filled with horror and terrible wonder. "Sweet Earendil, seven levels. It's seven levels!"
/Stop fighting. Stop moving. Breathe and relax./
/I can't! Lords... /
/Calm down./
/I'm going to smother!/
/CALM DOWN!/ his mind bellowed at him.
A small, strangled cry bubbled up from his throat sounding something like a strange combination of a high-pitched, kittenish mew and a squeal. The sound bounced off the walls and echoed around the room. It wasn't the echo, but the way it echoed... That's when it hit him like a cold slap in the face. That's when he finally knew for certain and couldn't deny it any longer. Rock. This is a room carved out of solid rock.
(Seven levels...)
/The man wasn't lying! Lords, I'm in a GRAVE!/
As if to emphasize that fact, he heard what sounded like a deep rumble a long way off, like the grumble of thunder; then the ground beneath him give a tiny shudder. A moment afterward, a hiss of dirt and rock chips sifted down from the ceiling above, dusting his face and hair. He could taste it. Smell it. Spat it out. It took only a moment to register what it was and where it had come from, and when it did, he literally went wild – twisting and thrashing, desperately renewing the struggle with everything he had until his wrists were rubbed raw and the muscles in his biceps and shoulders burned and shook under the enormous strain. But there was no give to the ropes; no hope. His heart hammered in his tightening chest. Between his racing heart and his ever-tightening throat it was nearly impossible to breathe.
Now he was hyperventilating. Spots glittered in the darkness before his eyes.
/I can't breathe! I can't... I'm smothering! I'm going to die here!/
That's when it happened.
It was the kind of thing one would expect would happen at the hands of screaming orcs or from any one of countless, vile horrors Sauron himself could have inflicted on his worst day; but not here, alone, and in silence.
Something deep inside Legolas' mind...let go.
In that brief split-second he actually felt his mind crumble, shatter, tear apart and separate into two totally distinct pieces. It wasn't painful at all, just...there. No trumpets blaring, no fanfare, no screaming or ranting or convulsing or pain or anything he would have assumed would come with it. Just a numb tear – a tiny mental jolt, really – like someone had cut a taunt thread in two, or the floor had suddenly dropping an inch. Then...utter stillness...like holding your breath and waiting for the rest of the floor to drop out from underneath you.
As he lay frozen in the blackened silence he had a thought that perhaps there is another possibility. Maybe he had passed out and this is some kind of a dream. Or maybe
(There are worse things than death.)
he had died.
/No,/ Legolas thought, a shudder twisting up his back. /I'm very much alive./
The world suddenly swam back into sharp focus. He had never felt such total clarity, such total astonishment in his whole life. Lords, of course – it was so right, so clear.
/If the man wanted me dead, he could have done it a hundred times already. He's not trying to kill me, he really is trying to drive me crazy./
(There are worse things than death.)
Then he felt – not heard, but felt – a soft whisper of conscious thought bubble up out of the depths of himself like a painless gush of blood. It rapidly gained in power and strength until it was his equal... and still it grew.
And he was terrified.
A voice spoke – not a voice from a mouth but a voice from within.
I can breathe, weakling.
Legolas jerked as if he'd been stung, then lay as though frozen in time; waiting, barely breathing, his ears filling with the sound of his own thudding heartbeat and his eyes searching wildly for a source he knew he wouldn't find.
The voice from within spoke again.
I'm stronger than you are.
/What is this?/ Legolas wondered. /Some sort of spell?/
Spell? Hardly, the icy voice said. Lords, you're pathetic. That's why you're nothing without me. I'll do whatever I have to, to get us through this.
/Us?/
Yes – us.
/Who are you?/ he wondered timidly, even though he thought he knew who, or rather, what, it was. It was the certainty of the idea that terrified him.
The inner voice laughed at him. Your better half. I'm your strength, your intensity, your darkness – weakling. Back down. You failed miserably. Now it's my turn to play.
(There are worse things than death.)
/Oh Lords, no... NO!/
Suddenly the room spun insanely out of control, and he with it, as he was forced down, down. His eyes rolled back in his head and he sank into the comforting arms of the dark abyss...
That was when he woke up.
For real.
For the first time.
Waking was nothing like waking from sleep in any normal sense. When he thought about it, he didn't think he'd ever been fully awake or asleep. In a way, he had always been somewhere in the middle, in a half-waking, half- dream state. His life – what little he had – was not really a life at all, but merely a few bright flashes here and there.
But this...this was...different.
He knew he could actually wake up for real this time. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. So he struggled to awaken...struggled to pull the light side down...felt as if he were being held underwater, drowning...then the grip of the light side weakened for a moment and he instantly tightened his own grip, showing no mercy or hesitation. He felt his control strengthen, made a mighty effort to wake up, and somehow...did it.
He came slowly out of sleep knowing he hadn't really been asleep at all. Knowing. Aware. Fully aware, he corrected himself.
And he remembered.
He remembered that the light side and he had been talking to each other. That had never happened before. Sometimes a tiny thought past between them – yes, but never a true dialogue. Always before it had been more like a feeling of being let go, sent out to do something – usually to fight or defend – and yet even while fighting he was never fully alone, and never without the limitation of mercy. Mercy is stupid. Weak. Mercy gave the enemy another chance to try again.
But this time – for the first time – he actually awoke, alone. And when he did, he felt rage and resentment smouldering deep in his gut. Never being one to feel...well, anything before – never allowed to be out long enough to feel anything – at first he was a little startled by it. Then he grabbed onto it like a lifeline. Rage was an appropriate feeling, after all.
Who, exactly, gave him the right? he thought. Who gave him the right to hold me back and be happy, while I – who fight all of his damned battles for him when he needs me – live in the world of darkness waiting for the moment when he turns me loose me again? Why do I always get shoved into the dark until I'm needed, and then pulled out in bits and pieces when it's convenient?
Because he's afraid of me, that's why. He's afraid of what I'm capable of. He knows I'm stronger than he is. Well no more waiting around and living in the dark while he lives in the light. No more. It's my turn now, and I'm going to take it. I have as much right to control as he does. Survival of the fittest – it's that simple.
This separation between us certainly has it's advantages, he thought.
He thought of Aragorn. Of Gimli. Of Haldir and Elrond and Thranduil and all of them...and burned with hatred.
What right did he have to live in the light and be happy and have friends and family and...everything, while I – who saved him and them more times than I care to remember – die in darkness like some diseased animal?
None, of course. No right at all.
"I have a right to live too."
He slowly opened the eyes. Raised the head – his head. Smirked with his mouth. Mine, he thought. It's mine. It should have always been mine.
He felt the exquisite pain in his wrists from the deep rope burns; felt calm, raw power at being in total control; felt alone. Alone. No restrictions and no limitations. This was a first. He liked it. A lot.
He looked out at the black world from under his brows and whispered: "It's my turn now, and you can't stop me anymore."
A heavy tiredness drifted over him; settled; overwhelmed him. His eyes flittered and rolled, barely able to keep the eyelids open. Something was wrong, he knew. First time in complete control, he guessed. Just not used to it, he guessed. It's like swimming through mud. Unfortunately he'd have to back down for now. Take things slow. Build up into it.
"Or are you fighting me?" He smirked. "You can't fight me forever."
/I can try./
"Well if it's a fight you want, coward, then you've got it. Now I know I can take over and push you down to the darkness where you've kept me," he said, then gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Hear that? That was me! You can't hold me back forever. I'm getting stronger and you're getting weaker. Soon, I'm going to shove you into that black prison you keep me in, and I'm going to leave you there."
There was, of course, no answer. But he did feel the light side cringe back a bit, and that pleased him.
Drown for awhile, he thought. It's your turn. Let's see how much you like it.
He felt the light side shrink back even more.
The corners of his mouth pulled back into a slow, satisfied smile; a smile that extended no higher than his mouth.
Tbc...