Chapter Five
Judgement Day
Part 1
Under the leafy canopy it was dim, and the air – cool and crisp. Aragorn could smell the wood and pine leaves, could hear the snow crunch lightly beneath his boots. The path was fairly level for the first two leagues and became rougher only during the approach to the higher ground where the mine's entrance was located.
They broke through to a clearing and the mid-day sun was warm on his face. He could smell the musky odour of old earth straight ahead. Not unpleasant. It seemed to go with the other earth scents around him. He was beginning to relax, and for the first time began to believe that this crazy plan of Gimli's might actually work. Might being the key word. It was the might that held him back from being totally confident in it.
Gimli suddenly stopped.
"So how do you like it, Aragorn?" he asked. "Pretty here, don't you think?"
The dwarf hung back under a pine tree at the edge of the clearing and swept a hand ahead him. Even Aragorn, in the midst of his semi-uncertainty, thought it a pretty spot. There was a large, gaping entranceway that seemed to have been sliced out of a sheer rock wall at the far end of the clearing. Sunlight spread before it, making the long, narrow strip of frosty grass glow as though it were a glittering, rich-green runner of carpet. The entire area was encircled by pine trees that seemed to stand against the blue sky like silent, ridged guardians. When Aragorn stepped into the clearing, he had the sensation of striding into some hallowed, supernatural throne room, the door closing shut behind him.
"But sire," Alflocksom, the captain of the guards, said to Aragorn, breaking the sanctity of silence as he kept pace with him, "I'm not sure this is wise."
"Gimli is an honoured guest," Aragorn gently reminded him. "If he wants me to accompany him, how can I refuse? Besides, I trust him with my life." When the captain didn't respond, Aragorn added: "It won't take long."
Alflocksom nodded and dropped back to give orders, then he and the three others he had pointed out moved up to rejoin Aragorn.
"This is for the king's eyes only," Gimli said sternly, stepping up to block their way. "Not for you."
"Now wait just a minute, dwarf." Alflocksom looked down at him, growing as defiant as Gimli. "Where the king goes, I go."
Gimli shrugged. "Then lets go back. There are things in there that you have no right seeing."
Alflocksom, glaring at the defiant dwarf, stepped forward. "Suits me just fine."
Gimli folded his arms over his broad-chest. "Aragorn, this up-start feels the need to be your keeper as well as your council."
"Not this time, Alflocksom," Aragorn said, taking him by the arm and steering him away from the other.
"But sire – " the captain began, glancing back at the dwarf and shooting him a cold scowl.
"It's all right. I'll be fine, and I won't be long," Aragorn reassured him. "Just stay at the entrance." As the captain's eyes flittered uneasy from the dwarf to the cave's entrance and back to his king, Aragorn quickly added: "In case I need you."
Never much good at hiding his contempt or thoughts, Alflocksom felt the heat in his cheeks. He wasn't angry because Aragorn was being foolhardy with his own safety, he was angry at the dwarf for being foolhardy with the safety of the monarch. Though he'd heard all the stories everyone else had about how valuable Gimli's presence had been during the quest to destroy the One Ring, his heart had never quite accepted that evidence. It was the way he had been raised. His father had never trusted dwarves, so he, in turn, had never trusted dwarves, and his mind wanted to go on seeing them as different, and therefore lesser creatures.
His father's words whispered in his mind: "Better to be a mouse in the jaws of a wolf than a man in the hands of a dwarf."
But to voice that opinion and go against the king? He turned toward the short but weighty little man and thought it over. Above all of his concerns, one simple fact remained – Gimli was the king's friend. Friend, he thought with distain. Dwarves aren't friends. They can't be trusted. If you weren't careful, they'd steal the eyes right out of your head. They'd rather slit your throat than eat. He honestly meant to voice his concern but though the king's eyes were soft, they were steadfast – he would hear no argument.
Against his better judgement, Alflocksom drew in a deep breath and stepped back. "Yes, sire," he said obediently.
"Lead the way, Gimli," Aragorn called, waving him on ahead.
"Be careful, sire," Alflocksom said quietly as Aragorn passed. /Of the dwarf,/ he almost added, but bit it back.
Aragorn grinned. "Always."
Part 2
Dark sweet-smelling fir trees formed a semi-circle around the edges of the clearing. To the north, the ground broke off and dropped a good two hundred feet to a series of breaks and cliffs – remnants of failed attempts to establish a new mine. A small stream ran out of the woods, cut along the edge of the clearing, and then spilled over the place where the land dropped away, abandoning it's old route in favour of the new and easier route that orcs, man, or dwarves had indiscriminately carved out.
Ridley had set up two makeshift scarecrows at the far end of the clearing – one standing and another lying in the grass just to the left of it. Each were dressed in dark colours.
Even though the elf didn't know it, today was judgement day. Pass or fail day. The moment of truth. Either the elf passed with flying colours today or he died – it was that simple. Time was running out. Ridley gauged that he might have just enough time to put another plan into action if this one failed. It was literally do or die. And what was a true test without weapons? Although Ridley knew he was taking a huge risk giving the elf back his weapons before coming here, that was the only way Ridley could think of to test the true level of his control over Legolas. His plan might seem foolhardy, but he wasn't a stupid man. The man kept his crossbow at the ready with his finger lightly on the trigger, just in case.
The elf gave both scarecrows a quick glance and then dismissed them as being unimportant. There was only one thing important to him right now: the sun – bright and unusually warm for this time of year. He tilted his face up to it and closed his eyes while its ardent rays flooded over him.
As the Prince stood with his face upturned, enjoying in the midmorning warmth, Ridley studied him and was satisfied – not totally confident, mind, but satisfied. So far the elf given him no trouble and showed no signs of wanting to. He had adjusted quickly and had come out of all of this unscathed, Ridley noted. Relatively unscathed, he corrected himself, because though the elf looked as strong as ever, he couldn't discount the fact that this was not the same elf that had first entered the mine. He might look the same, but Legolas wasn't Legolas anymore. Far from it.
After standing for awhile, the elf began to come out of his daze and take some notice of his surroundings. He was standing at the end of a clearing. There were two scarecrows at the opposite end. He saw Ridley watching him from several feet away, holding an armed crossbow at his side. Supremely confident in his abilities and utterly unconcerned about Ridley he raised his face back to the sun and closed his eyes again, dismissing everything except the wanted warmth.
It was time.
"Recite your lessons," Ridley said.
Legolas opened his eyes, levelled an emotionless look at Ridley and did as he was told. His blue eyes dulled and took on the sun-on-steel glint that Ridley had come to know as indifference, while his beautiful but pale face became a sombre mask. Though his voice was even, the tone was utterly flat and dead, which made the elf's memorized recitation sound strange and totally unnatural.
"Always believe you; you, and only you.
"You control time, everything, and me.
"Nothing is as it seems; only you and your words.
"You are the only one I trust and the only one I listen to; you are my only reality, my liberator, and my only salvation."
"Very good," Ridley said.
The elf smiled, but it was a hard and humourless smile. It fell as quickly as it had come.
"Do you remember Aragorn?"
The elf's eyes flared for a moment, then went back to their usual dull, emotionless cast. Ridley liked the look. It was right. It spoke volumes about how far the training had come.
"That was not me," said the elf tightly. "That was Leg... That was – "
"Yes it was you," Ridley countered mildly. "Not the way you are now, but the way you were before. Do you remember all the times when he dragged you down while using you and your skills for his benefit? Do you remember how many times your so-called friend almost got you killed?" He paused. "Tell me, how many times did he thank you for risking your life for him? You – a prince of Mirkwood, had followed the ranger all over hell's creation like a lost mongrel while he used you and your skills to get what he wanted. And now that he has it, he now doesn't have time for you anymore. He doesn't need you anymore; doesn't want you around. He used you...and you let him."
The elf's eyes narrowed.
Ridley smothered a grin, knowing he'd gotten to him, and continued: "That dwarf had to have made it to Minas Tirith and told him by now. But I guess as far as he's concerned, though it would appear as if you've dropped off the face of the earth, he couldn't care less." He shrugged. "I don't see him out here looking for you, do you? But I'll wager that if the roles were reversed, you'd search to the ends of the earth for him, wouldn't you?"
The elf had told him these things and much more over the many long, drug- fevered days and nights in the mine. Though Ridley hadn't understood every word he'd said (some spoken in Sindarin during liquid-induced hazes), he certainly remembered the Common Speech. Pain and fear are great motivators. Sometimes they are the best keys. They unlock more that a tongue – sometimes they allow a glimpse into the soul.
Instead of answering, the elf merely shifted his stance.
"Do you know what you are in his eyes?" Ridley asked him, then paused. The pause was only for effect, not waiting for an answer. He knew the elf wouldn't offer one. "Nothing," Ridley answered for him. "You mean nothing to him." His head tipped as though he was contemplating aloud. "Do you know what that makes you? A fool. A pawn."
The elf's eyes blazed dangerously. The fire was not aimed at him, Ridley knew, but at the memories – warped and twisted as they had become.
"Those," Ridley said slowly, deliberately, and quietly, pointing at the scarecrows, "are two forms of Aragorn – the friend who betrayed you; who left you; who turned his back on you after you saved him countless times; who turned his back on you after you helped him become king. Ultimate betrayal, Greenleaf," he said, careful to call the dark side by the name he preferred. "Ultimate betrayal."
Ridley found it both ironic and yet right that when the different sides of the elf had separated, so did the names. The light had insisted on the elven name of Legolas, while the dark preferred the Common Speech translation of Greenleaf.
/And that was so right too,/ Ridley thought. /Legolas Greenleaf. The release of two different sides of an elf who's first and last names just happen to not only be doubled words, but doubled words in two different languages. It's kind of ironic and appropriate that he is now two completely separate individuals./
Ridley watched as Greenleaf's gaze shifted to the standing scarecrow. He was breathing rapidly now, his ice-blue eyes gauging the distance of the target.
"Say your lessons...and this time mean them."
Greenleaf stood ram-rod straight; his fingers twitching tensely. He narrowed his vision to hone in on a scarecrow target. Ridley knew he was not seeing scarecrows anymore, but seeing Aragorn. And when he spoke, this time the words were as cold as the coldest ice in winter.
"Always believe you; you, and only you.
"You control time, everything, and me.
"Nothing is as it seems; only you and your words.
"You are the only one I trust and the only one I listen to; you are my only reality, my liberator, and my only salvation."
"Kill him," Ridley said matter-of-factly.
Compliance was instantaneous. Greenleaf's hands are twin blurs between the bow slung over his shoulder and the quiver strapped to his back. A split later his bow was in his left hand, and his right was fitting arrows, which were fired with deadly aim. He was in his prime, reflexes sharp and quick. His movements were like nothing Ridley had ever seen. Personality split or not, the elf had never been that fast. His speed was blinding.
Six expertly-placed shots flew one at a time across the clearing in such rapid succession that for a moment Ridley thought them all shot at once. Five arrows plunged within a hair's width of each other into the scarecrow's chest, slightly left of the middle, directly over the heart. The last, the sixth, plunged dead-centre in the middle of the scarecrow's forehead.
/My lords,/ Ridley thought, /he can't be that fast, no one can be THAT fast, I'm one of the best there is but this elf makes me look as slow as a feeble old man./
As Greenleaf shot, all thought ceased. Then, out of arrows, all movement abruptly stopped. His sides heaved like bellows and his eyes glowed with fever and madness and red rage.
"Use your knives on the other. Destroy him."
Greenleaf was on the move before the last word completely left Ridley's lips. In one swift motion he reached the Aragorn illusion that was on the ground, straddled its chest and drew his razor sharp knives. With their blades pointing in he plunged them deep into the ground on either side of it's neck and pulled the hilts past each other, crossing them to form an X over the scarecrow's throat. He knelt, and with the flat of his hand he pressed down on the middle of the X to bring them tight against the makeshift throat. One hard push down now would easily remove the scarecrow's head.
In a flash, a vision of Aragorn's face replaced the muslin sack that was the scarecrow's face. Anger flared like the fire of a great funeral pyre.
/NO!/ the light side screamed from the depths of his mind. /He's lying! Aragorn would never... Don't do – /
Greenleaf ignored him and slammed his hands down on the hilts, cleanly removing the scarecrow's head from it's shoulders. When the head rolled away, he felt – not heard – Legolas screaming inside of him, but ignored that too.
The field before him suddenly turned a deep scarlet, as though the ground had been drenched with so much blood all at once that it couldn't absorb it all. A mixed felling of bliss and conquest surged through him. He glanced around and was stunned to see that everything was awash in red; just different hues of it. Shaded areas and deeper colours were painted a deep crimson, while sunnier, lighter areas were almost a pinkish colour.
How beautiful! Greenleaf marvelled. How perfectly, utterly beautiful! He was crouched over Aragorn's lifeless (headless) body and was standing in his blood. No, not standing in it; drowning in it. And he loved it.
Legolas' voice hammered at his ears: /How could you? How could you do this? Oh lords, oh lords, oh lords... WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?/
"Back down," Ridley's voice ordered from somewhere behind him.
His eyes lowered to the body once more. Then he realized that it was not blood he was looking at but bits of straw. He blinked. Rose to his feet, confused.
"Soon," Ridley soothed. "Very soon. Gather your things, Greenleaf. You'll get the chance soon enough."
Then Greenleaf whirled.
Ridley saw those eyes and stepped back before he could stop himself. Greenleaf's eyes seemed to blaze with a fire that glowed from deep within – a glow Ridley recognized easily as the fires of loathing born from the hell of insanity. He caught himself and grinned, his finger tightening on the trigger of his low-slung crossbow. "Reward time. You've done well. Now gather your things and bring them to me."
"When?" Greenleaf asked flatly.
Ridley smiled. "You can leave tonight."
"Good," he said, glancing back down at the headless scarecrow. The corners of his mouth twisted into a wicked grin. "Very good."
Part 3
Gimli held the lit torch high above his head as he and Aragorn made their way down the mine's main tunnel. The cavern was immense and dark and damp and smelled of old earth and stale air and Gimli loved it. He didn't stop to point anything out for a change, but remained striding purposely forward.
"So you mentioned a change?" Aragorn asked, keeping the brisk pace beside him.
"Wait," Gimli whispered, even though the echo made the gruff whisper as though more of a yell. "Ears, Aragorn. Ears. Wait until we're further in."
They walked on for another five minutes, the path a continuously but gently descending slope, until they came to a place – a vast room, really – where the decline finally levelled off into a sort of junction. Here the main tunnel split in several different directions. Gimli patted an enormous support column with a snigger. It towered a good hundred feet above them. The top of it, higher than the torch's light would travel, was lost in the darkness of the ceiling above.
"Hold this." Gimli passed the sputtering torch to Aragorn and then pulled his axe free from the harness on his back. "There are nine ways in and out from here – some miles apart. It'll take them weeks of digging and a month of Sundays to figure out which one we used. This is a main support column for the whole junction," he explained. "One good whack aught to send the whole thing down."
"Down," Aragorn repeated, raising the torch and looking up. "Down on top of us?"
Gimli frowned. "No, not on top of us," he grumbled. "Toward the entrance." He wet his thumb and ran it along the edge of the axe's sharp blade. "I've worked on this column almost all night."
"Did you take any rest?" Aragorn asked, his eyes still scanning for the elusive ceiling above.
"No. What's your point?"
"I don't know about this." Aragorn's brow furrowed. "It's not that I don't trust you, Gimli, but you've traveled for four days straight and then had no rest again last night. Are you sure you didn't make a mistake?"
Gimli turned and shot him a look that was a mixture of blank disbelief and utter shock. "No I didn't make a mistake!" he growled when he finally found his tongue. "I'm a dwarf and this is a cave, or hadn't you noticed?"
"Alright," Aragorn said without much conviction, and raised his face and the torch toward the ceiling again. "If you're sure, then whack away, Gimli. But know this – you have my life in your hands."
Gimli hesitated, the thought stilling him for a moment. Then he shrugged, brought the axe high over his shoulder, and swung for all he was worth. It smashed into the column with a might wallop, sending splinters of wood and echoes flying throughout the mine.
But nothing happened.
"Something wrong?" Aragorn asked, trying to smother a smirk.
Gimli glared at him. Without answering he raised his axe over his shoulder again and swung once more. Several well placed blows later (to Gimli's embarrassment, and Aragorn holding his breath and pressing his lips tightly together to stop a gale of laughter), the column began to sway precariously on it's base, groaning in a loud, gut-freezing sound as though alive and mortally wounded. Splinters of wood popped and flew in every direction on their own accord. Gimli's eyes flittered between the groaning column and the dust and chips of rock sifting down from the ceiling. Instead of sifting down toward the entrance, however, it was not only raining down on their heads but racing past them toward the back.
"It seems I might have misjudged the type of rock in the ceiling," Gimli said quite calmly, as the ground began to tremble.
"What does that mean?"
"It means – RUN!" Gimli yelled, already on the move. "Go right! RIGHT!"
The ground shuddered under their feet as they flew down the smaller tunnel. With a final, decisive, loud crack, they heard the column in the junction behind them split under the enormous pressure. The ceiling buckled and gave way with a deafening boom of a massive thunder clap, and with it the ground shook with a force that nearly knocked them right off their feet.
"GO, GO, GO!" Gimli shouted frantically.
Both were gripped in terror, already half-convinced that they were about to die.
Aragorn slowed protectively to allow Gimli to run ahead of him. Just six feet from freedom and the outside light another rumble pitched the earth wildly. Gimli sprawled face-first in the dirt. Barely breaking stride, Aragorn grabbed the dwarf by the back of his tunic and the waistband of his breeches and with a mighty shout of effort, bale-drove him out of the exit ahead of him. Seconds later he landed hard beside him amid a stinging spew of rock and a billowing cloud of dust and dirt. Both face-down, they interlaced their fingers over the backs of their heads and waited it out. The ground heaved and quaked as though it was a massive blanket covering a giant in the midst of it's death-throws. More rock jettisoned out of the exit behind them, painfully pelting them like blunt arrows. It literally rained rock for a good three minutes. It felt more like a week.
Finally, the heaving ground stilled.
Gimli climbed to his feet and glared hotly at Aragorn. "Nobody tosses a dwarf!" he growled indignantly, angrily planting his fists on his hips and puffing out his barrel chest.
"Would you rather I had left you?" Aragorn asked. With that, Gimli's face grew more composed. Aragorn stood up, beat the dust from his breaches, and took his kingly cloak off to shake it, then leaned and scrubbed his fingers through his dust-coated, rock-chip-laden hair.
Gimli looked back at the choked mess of the collapsed exit and deflated. "I suppose not."
Aragorn grinned mischievously. "Then you're welcome, master dwarf," he said as he began to strip down to the ranger garb he wore hidden beneath his kingly attire.
"Still," Gimli said, ignoring the barb, "what a crying shame. That was a lovely mine."
"And by the way, Gimli – "might have misjudged"?" Aragorn levelled 'the look' at the dwarf while slapping dust off his shoulder. "Don't you think that was a bit of an understatement? They won't think I'm trapped, they'll think I'm dead!"
"You wanted a big diversion. Well, you got one." Gimli grinned. "Now we'll have plenty of time to find Legolas."
Part 4
As Alflocksom's eyes moved over the mine's collapsed entrance tracing the not-quite-random piles of rock plugging the passageway from top to bottom and side to side, his mouth pressed into a hard line. The junior guards in the squadron stood slack-jawed and staring, then one by one each turned to him – their captain – with liquid grief filling their eyes. He wouldn't respond to them. Wouldn't acknowledge them. Not yet. He couldn't. Still gripped in his own shock, there were only two things that his stunned mind could wrap around right now: Aragorn was dead, and Gimli – that traitorous, vile dwarf – had killed him.
Gimli's defiant face swam into Alflocksom's mind like the face of a foul demon: the pressed line of his rigid mouth, the narrowed eyes, the solid- packed face, and long, double-braided, reddish beard. /It was your idea to come here. And it was you who insisted on taking Aragorn in there unescorted. If you killed him... / the captain thought, and then forced his mind away, because that line of thought was a dead-end. If Gimli had killed Aragorn (/My king!/ his mind insisted fiercely. /Not just Aragorn – the man – but my king!/), he would kill the dwarf, yes – as slowly as possible and without an ounce of mercy. But the thought of justice meant nothing, for Gimli was somewhere in there buried under tons of stone, already dead.
Unless...
/Unless the mine-dweller had planned this,/ a distant part of his mind whispered, /and used the cave-in to cover up the terrible deed. After all, who knows caves and mines better than a dwarf?/
/That evil little son of a... /
/I knew it. I should have never agreed to this,/ he thought guiltily. /I had a feeling not to trust that dwarf – not to trust any dwarves. Not dwarves or elves or... / His face fell as hard and as fast as the ceiling of the mine. /Lords, I'm responsible for this! I'm an accomplice in the murder of – /
"– the King," Alflocksom muttered, then touched his forehead with a trembling hand. He pried his eyes away and caught sight of a flock of sparrows on the wing. He forced his eyes to focus on them and watch their intricate aerial manoeuvres. It was better than looking at the ruined mine's entrance right now – the sight of it and his overwhelming guilt were making him deathly sick.
/I failed him. I failed him... and Gondor. I deserve to be execu – /
The sparrows soared upward as one and his gaze followed. They banked right and then left across the sky and disappeared into a rising column of grey.
That's when he saw it, saw them: smoky, twisting columns of grey, billowing dust. Several, in fact. Tendrils and towers rising towards the sky. At first he blinked rapidly, thinking them merely illusions. He was afraid to tear his eyes from them for fear that they were just the hopeful hallucinations of his grieving mind and would disappear if he looked away. But they remained – several grey swirling towers rising against the sky's clear blue backdrop.
/Exits? Yes. They have to be!/ His heart soared as high as those towers. Then suddenly afraid of getting his hopes up – their hopes up – he slowly wrestled his hope back in check.
/Maybe Aragorn still lives,/ he thought, then a dark thought layered almost on top of the first: /What if only the dwarf lives?/
/If he does,/ the distant, angry part of his mind answered, /and I find him, I'm going to take great pleasure in dragging him back to Gondor and publicly executing him myself. And I'll do it slowly. Very, very slowly. One piece at a time./
Part 5
He felt alive! Wildly alive!
And it was absolutely glorious!
He was running. Flying. Ducking and dodging low limbs and huge boulders. Jumping fallen tree trunks and low brush. Twisting and turning around old trees and young saplings in the pathless woods.
He could feel his heart racing in his chest as it pumped warm blood though his veins. His heart and his veins. His lungs pulling in the crisp air as well as the clean, fresh smell of pine, earth, and other things. Deer. Wolf. And more. His long, lean muscles worked, stretched, bunched. He felt keenly aware of everything – of himself, of his surroundings, of sounds, movements, of the heavens, and of the earth. He felt a oneness with this great forest. A part of it. Owned it. Owned this body. This was his time. His moment. An exhilaration he had never known before flooded over him.
Night was beginning to fall – the sky draining of colour and the air growing colder – when Ridley had finally sent him out. And he set out quickly – his pace faster than any human could travel. But he wasn't human. Far from it. He was far older than the oldest trees in this forest. He was a first-born. An immortal. A cunning, ruthless, predator of all predators; and he was in his element now.
The silence that began swallowing the forest was as deep as the darkness in his soul. It felt right to him. Everything felt so right. Hunter and hunted. The captured now newly freed – in more ways than one. He was ravenous with an unquenchable hunter's thirst – a voracious bloodlust. But this thirst would have to be satisfied like that of any other predator in the darkness. He would have to earn his prey. To find this prey would take all his skills, his senses...ready to strike...when the moment was right.
But his prey was not altogether human. The one he sought was a Dunadan. And not just any Dunadan, but a very skilled Ranger...and not just any Ranger.
The prey was Aragorn, Lord of the Dunedain. A more than worthy opponent.
As the darkness descended, the elf's pace through the trees quickened and the black pupils of his eyes widened and completely swallowed the light- blue colour to draw in the last small rays of twilight. To ordinary sight, he seemed to float over the heavy snowline. To ordinary hearing, he was almost silent. The elf's fierce gaze narrowed, his eyes flickering like small lights as they reflected the last of the dying dusk.
He stopped and lifted his face to the heavens, and through an opening in the thickening cloud, he caught sight of a single star shining so brightly above him that it looked like a dazzling ray of sunlight. Earendil. For a moment he was drawn to stare at it. Then he sneered and uttered a low curse. Anxious to get moving again, he began to race once more through the forest. His senses seemed to be turned up several notches; so alert, so eager, that his muscles quivered as he ran.
"I don't need your help nor your protection, Earendil," he growled. "I'm my own protection. I don't need anything but to have Aragorn's throat between my knives." He grinned. "And I won't need your help for that. I can do that all on my own."
He heard a faint, muffled sound, very insistent and very rapid, and realized that the nuisance – the pesky little voice – had started up again. Deep down he wasn't surprised at all. After all, this was the hell between. And this was the punishment for control: incessant chatter. But he noticed something – something which gave him a good deal of pleasure: in the last dew days the chatter had grown steadily weaker, softer, fading.
"Leave me alone," he said as he ran. "You're dying, so shut up and do it already."
/You can't do this!/ the small, panic-stricken voice in his head cried. /I won't let you hurt him!/
"Who's going to stop me? You?" Greenleaf chuckled; his pace increasing even more. "You can't even help yourself now, never mind help him." The voice came again and he shook his head. "Oh no. I am going to do this, Legolas ... and you're going to watch. Share and share alike, you know. Just like you did to me. I watched while you lived; now you'll watch while I destroy everything you live for. I think that's only fair. Oh don't worry, after a few thousand years you'll get used to it. Of course, I never did, but that was me."
/You're insane!/
Greenleaf started to chuckle.
Then laugh.
The whole – how long had it been? – was condensed into great, roaring bellows of laughter. He laughed so hard than he had to stop and grip a tree trunk before he fell over. He laughed himself half-sick. He tried to speak, but the laughter howled out again before he could. He slid to his knees and wrapped his arms around his sides. Tears spurted from his eyes and rolled down his face.
I have to stop laughing, he thought. I can't breathe!
Then he thought: You're calling me insane? You've got some nerve! Guess what, Legolas? We're insane! We, my timid little counterpart, and began to laugh wildly again. Exactly what is your definition of one body with two separate conscious' and personalities? I don't know about you, but I call that insane, and I'm almost sure everyone else would agree with me! Lords, you're such a damned fool!
At last the fit began to slow to giggles. He wiped the back of his arm across his wet eyes and said, "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that, but since you and I are so close..."
But he couldn't finish the sentence. He doubled over with laughter again and held his aching sides.
Part 6
Legolas sank to his knees in his black prison. He knelt there with everything – hands, shoulders, and head – hanging. He was vaguely aware that he was weeping. The laughter rose around him, pummelled him, tore through his head with a physical pain. His mouth opened and all of his despair and fear came out in one long, agonizing cry.
The laughter continued. Grew.
"Greenleaf," he said, his eyes blurred with tears.
What?
"What do you want?" His voice was almost inaudible.
Silence. Then, Everything, Legolas. This body. You – gone. Everything I should have had. Everything you had that I didn't.
Legolas dipped his head. Swallowed. "Then take it." He paused. "It's yours. On one condition – you leave Aragorn alone."
The silence was so long that for a minute Legolas didn't think he was going to answer. Then, No. I don't think so.
"I won't fight you anymore. You can have it all."
Greenleaf chuckled. What's the matter? Don't you like it in there? You're in my home – my prison you made for me – and I'm in yours. By the way, I like yours better. It has a much better view. He paused. Of course, there is something...
"What? Name it."
Watch me kill him...then you can shrivel up and die.
The maniacal laughter surrounded him again. Legolas sank to the black floor, hugged his knees to his chest, and curled himself up into a tight ball. The laughter started up again, plunging into him, only this time there was no humour to it at all, only a coldness so horrid that it was like being stabbed through the heart with an icicle. An invisible, cold force pressed him down and once again froze him solid to the floorboards. Helpless, seeing no way to stop this, no way to even slow it, and all hope gone, he did the only thing left to him – he readied himself for the end.
Tbc...