Chapter Ten
I Give You Gods And Monsters
Part 1
Greenleaf awoke...for the last time.
He was on his side on a cold stone floor, weak as a newborn kitten, a blanket covering him to his chin. Low orange light cast the mine's walls in a soothing warm blush. Thoughts of: /Lords, I'm still alive?/ changed to: /Lords, I'm still alive./ It wasn't a welcomed thought. He had begun praying for death long ago – he and Legolas both – but it was taking it's sweet damn time in coming.
He could make out the faint but distinct scents of the mine's long previous owners. Bear, fox, and a more recent family of skunks, among the mustiness of mosses clinging to the walls and the acrid smell of illness. The faint, rhythmic sound of water dripping from somewhere deeper in the damp mine behind him grated on his nerves.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
The steady, rhythmic sound reminded him of a diseased heartbeat of some massive beast...or a flicking forked tongue slapping a blunt nose...it's owner in the shadows behind him...waiting...waiting for an opportunity to strike...it's black reptilian body coiling...thick drool pouring from it's widening jaws...foul breath passing over serrated teeth...gleaming yellow eyes watching...forked tongue honing in on his body heat...moving closer...closer...
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Greenleaf became more and more sure that he had been right about what it was; that he had, at least, solved this riddle.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
The idea that he was lying here on the floor of the mine in the middle of nowhere and listening to a monster who was moments away from tearing him to pieces...that was crazy, but was it any crazier than what he saw in front of him? Ghosts. Ghouls. Phantoms. He could just make out the ghastly forms standing motionless just inside the mouth of the mine. The full moon's rays washed them in an eerie, unearthly glow, making them appear as though more apparition than of this world. Hushed familiar whispers reverberated softly off the cold stone walls around him, their words as if echoed from long dead tongues of past ages. To his fevered mind the sounds only confirmed his worst fears – that the gruesome visions were real and not fantasy.
Am I dead? Greenleaf wondered. Am I in the midst of ghosts and phantoms?
Panic slowly touched its icy hand to his throat and tightened it's grip, hitching his breath. He remained as motionless as he could and tried to make as little noise as possible.
I'm not letting those walking nightmares near me, he thought.
"What's wrong with him, Orome?" he heard Aragorn ask, his voice low and fret with worry.
Orome? The Huntsman of the Valar? It can't be. I am among the dead.
Greenleaf's stomach suddenly cramped so hard that he thought for sure someone had hacked him though with a huge clever. The monster from behind? From unseen phantoms? The tortures of the void? He tried to suppress a moan but it escaped him. At the sound, the forms at the mine's entrance turned. One was Aragorn. One was Alflocksom – the captain of Aragorn's guards. One was a boy.
What is a boy doing here? he wondered, but he didn't have time to puzzle this out. His stomach heaved hard. He tried to swallow to no avail.
"He's going to be sick again," Aragorn called.
At once Greenleaf heard their footfalls padding towards him on the stone floor. He closed his eyes tight as they neared so he wouldn't have to see them.
Aragorn skidded to a stop behind him and lifted him slightly off the floor. He wiped the sick sweat from the elf's forehead with a corner of the blanket.
"It's alright, Legolas. Let it go," he soothed.
Greenleaf tried to hold it back, but...
He gasped and shook all over.
"Alflocksom, help me move him to another spot," Aragorn said. "Careful with him, now."
Greenleaf felt arms gently lift him into the air. He had a strange feeling of flying without wings. Disconnected – that was the word. Totally disconnected. He was here – where ever here is – but not really a part of it, like being in a dream and trying to run but everything is in slow motion and he couldn't make any progress. Reality and fantasy collided to make everything questionable. Life. Death. Feeling. Movement. Pain. Sight. Voices – voices in his head and voices around him, all jumbled and disjointed and slurred...
Too much. It was all too much.
He wanted it all to end. Now.
"Alright, up you go, Legolas," said Alflocksom quietly as he hoisted him up. The elf's weight was light in his arms. Too light. "My liege, we're running out of clean spots."
"Let's bring him closer to the fire. Legolas, you'll be alright. You're with us now." Aragorn's voice was almost in his ear as he and the captain lowered him back to the ground.
Someone knelt beside him. He could hear water splashing. Then a cold, wet cloth patted his forehead. It was the first real sense of relief he had felt in what seemed like forever. He began licking his lips subconsciously, wanting to taste the cool water so desperately that he almost cried, but he knew his stomach wouldn't hold it. As if the bearer of the cloth knew his thoughts, the wet cloth was gently pressed to the elf's parched lips, allowing a few refreshing drops to spill onto his tongue. He held them greedily in his mouth and then swallowed. The bearer rewet the cloth and again pressed it to his lips. Unable to resist it's powerful allure, he sucked lightly on it, drawing the precious water out of it. The bearer once again rewet the cloth, and again he pulled the water from it.
"That's enough for now, Legolas," said a strange, soft voice. The boy? "Your stomach will be lucky to hold even that much."
A gentle hand gently smoothed his sweat-matted hair back from his face. The owner of the hand heaved a heavy sigh and rocked back on his heels, then quietly said, "I know what it is, Aragorn, though it has no name. The liquid caused the separation between the light part of the soul and the darkness. The darkness gained access to the light's strength because of the liquid, but now it's failing. The light can't recover it's strength, even with the supply of liquid cut off, and so continues to weaken. What you see now is occurring because of the separation, not because of the liquid. The balance is broken. Without balance, the body can't survive."
"So what can we do, Orome?" Aragorn asked worriedly, all but begging. "I've already tried athelas but it had no effect."
Silence. Then, "No, it wouldn't. That's the problem. Nothing will." Orome – the boy – patted Greenleaf's forehead with the cloth as he trembled. "Aragorn, the two halves of his soul are dying. There's nothing that can be done but make him as comfortable as possible...and wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For the end," the boy said softly. He paused. "Stay with him. When it comes – and it will be soon – it will be sudden. Call me when it happens. Until then, I have to go and prepare."
"Prepare?" Alflocksom asked.
"For death."
/No,/ Aragorn tried to say, but his voice failed him.
/Oh Lords,/ Alflocksom thought to say, but held it back.
/Thank the stars,/ the tiny part that was still Legolas, whispered.
Part 2
Gimli knew he was in serious trouble the moment he tried to walk into the palace. The first indication was when the guards instantly leapt upon him, clapped him in irons, dragged him to the prison, and shoved him inside a cramped cell. The second was when the prison warden informed him that the penalty for attempting to murder the king – considered high treason – is death. The third was what he was told when he'd tried to explain. He had been told in no uncertain terms that since the king was in his bedchambers and could not be disturbed he may as well save his breath. One through three shocked the bejeebers out of him, but the fourth one...that one was different. That one sealed it. That one came next.
"But I'm telling you that Aragorn is – "
"You can't lie your way out of this one, dwarf," one guard growled. "The king has already made his ruling. In three days time you're to be brought before the people of Gondor and publicly executed."
"WHAT?" Gimli's mouth hung open. Past exhaustion and teetering on the brink of collapse, it's understandable that he was a bit slow on the pickup. "He wouldn't..."
"He did. King Elessar ordered it himself. Disappointed that the king lived, are you?" The guard scowled and looked him up and down as though he would like nothing better than to run him though himself. "You missed, dwarf, but I'll wager the executioner won't." The guard swiped his finger across his neck before slamming the door behind him.
Gimli's hand unconsciously went to his throat.
Part 3
Life is funny. Hilarious actually. One day you can be enjoying life, and the next? Poof! Everything changes. Greenleaf had been in control. Now he was shaking, sweating, throwing up, and waiting to die. Funny. Knee- slapping-roll-on-the-ground-laughing type of funny.
Voices giggled, screamed, laughed, and whispered in his ears. Conspiring, maniacal, cold, frightened, bellowing in rage. He couldn't separate fantasy from reality anymore. His mind shrieked to get loose, go back, and tear that mine to rubble to find the vial.
You know where it is.
/If it's still there, which isn't likely. If there's a vial still in the mine, it's seven levels deep... /
We're dying! You have to help me! I can't do this alone. If we work together -
/No. It's too late, Greenleaf. You lose./
No, Legolas – we both lose. But this is what you wanted, isn't it?
/Yes./
Suddenly the muscles in his back went into an ugly spasm. His spine wrenched backwards so hard he could actually hear the bones popping under the immense pressure. His neck strained backward; jaw clenching against it. He hissed and moaned in agony while hot tears streaked down his face.
I can't do this anymore!
/I can't do this anymore!/
This was the first time they both agreed on anything.
Things slowed for a while and it wasn't too Lords-awful...until the shaking and the cramps started up again. He slowed his breathing and tried not to think about it. Sometimes that helped.
But not this time.
He retched once – a miserable dry sound – but nothing came up. His stomach began to settle...at least on a trial basis. Unfortunately, the shaking grew worse.
"Easy, Legolas. Steady," said Aragorn, his voice soothing and calm. He knew Greenleaf still had control, but he wasn't interested in comforting Greenleaf – only comforting Legolas. He had a feeling that the Legolas side was still there...somewhere, and could hear him. Aragorn wondered if Legolas hated him for not followed through with his promise. Then he wondered if Legolas knew his hand had been stopped not from cowardice or some vain grasp at hope, but instead from knowledge and love. Somehow Orome had known the promise he had made to Legolas the night before – or had assumed as much, anyway – and instantly upon arrival had counselled him against keeping it. He had explained that Legolas' passing had to be natural for his spirit to be free, and then went on to explain that if he were to mid-wife Legolas into the next realm the elf would never pass to the Undying Lands or anywhere else – his fragmented spirit would go straight to oblivion. Promise or not, there could be no ease into the afterlife. Legolas would have to travel this path to it's end. And now here Aragorn was, rewetting the cloth and patting Legolas' forehead, and as he did, he did the hardest thing he had ever done in his entire life – he waited. And as he waited, he did the only thing left to him – he prayed for death to be as quick and painless as possible. But it wasn't quick and it wasn't painless.
Greenleaf gasped and moaned uncontrollably like an idiot. He hated it but he couldn't help it. Another spasm hit then slowly released, but was replaced with smaller, meaner ones, racing all over. His stomach lurched violently again. Horrible cramps – like he'd swallowed splintered glass – rippled through him. Grunting with pain, his knees drew up on instinct.
"Sire, he's going to – "
He felt strong but gentle hands lifted him over someone's lap. His head hung limp as he dry heaved – nothing left in his stomach to expel. He shook like the floor was made of ice.
Aragorn mopped Legolas' face; his sad eyes lifting to the captain. "Alflocksom, I think it's close to the time."
"I hope so, sire, for his sake. Lords take him quickly," he said, squatting to sit on his heels and leaning forward, his forearms on his thighs. He rubbed the back of his neck as he looked the ashen elf over. "He's suffering the tortures of the damned."
With Alflocksom's help, Aragorn drew Legolas up and back against his chest then carefully positioned the back of the elf's head against his shoulder. He gently brushed Legolas' sweat-wet hair away from his face, took his right hand in his own, and wrapped his left arm lightly around his chest, as much to steady the elf as to give him and himself some comfort. Legolas' breath was ragged, raspy, hitching. Irregular soft puffs passed through his slightly open mouth. He seemed to be fighting for every breath now; his lips tinged blue on a face far too pale, even for an elf. Aragorn didn't honestly know whether to pray he'd keep breathing or pray he'd stop.
Alflocksom, still squatting over the balls of his feet, watched for a while. Then he shook his head slowly, rose, and moved back. This whole thing was making him sick...and angry. It physically hurt his heart to watch this.
/But if it hurts me, what is it doing to the king?/ a small part of his mind wondered.
/Likely shredding him to pieces,/ another distant part of his mind answered.
He turned his back to them in an attempt to tune it all out for awhile. It wasn't easy. The only sound in the mine was the elf's soft panting, and each time there was a pause between pants he subconsciously held his own breath until it resumed. Aragorn was right, he reflected – it wouldn't be much longer now. At least he hoped not.
/Please, Greenleaf, let me go,/ Legolas begged from his black prison.
Take it, Greenleaf finally relented, too weak to argue anymore having taken the worst of it. We're both dead anyway. Say your goodbyes, Legolas.
Aragorn felt the change. He felt a difference within the circle of his left arm. He could feel the growing desperation. The elf was losing his strength. His spirit was changing.
Legolas dry-swallowed; back in control once again. He panted softly, beyond pain now, beyond sight now. He had only one thought, and he voiced it.
"Aragorn, where are you?" he breathed. His fluttering eyes, searching without sight, appeared to be wholly lucid. He was not that heartless creature who had gone by the name of Greenleaf. Greenleaf's voice faded into nothingness and was replaced by a much beloved one. "My...friend?"
And with those words Aragon knew that Legolas was back. The poisoned, half- mad bitterness was gone from the sound. The king swallowed the tight lump in his throat.
"I'm here, Legolas," he breathed in his ear. "I'm here. I've got you." A painful hole he'd felt opening in his heart grew wider. It had been easier to pull back a bit and detach from Greenleaf's misery, but he couldn't detach from Legolas'.
A slight shake of the head. "I can't – " the elf broke off for a moment before continuing. "Can you... hold my hand? I'm... floating... away."
Aragorn already was. He tightened the grip on Legolas' icy hand and wrapped his other arm even tighter over his chest.
"I'm cold. So cold. Is it... me?"
Alflocksom draped a blanket over both of them and then moved back to allow them some privacy.
"No, it's cold in here," Aragorn lied. Actually it was too warm. Sweat trickled down his temples. His chest felt wet – his shirt was plastered to him.
"Ridley." Legolas' sightless eyes widened. "Aragorn, Ridley is... going to st...steal the crown," he panted softly. "He looks just... like you. He did this so he... could step... into your shoes..."
/Ridley,/ Aragorn thought. /Ridley. I'll take him apart with my bare hands for this. What kind of an animal could do something like this?/
"Shhh," Aragorn hushed. "Forget him. He'll never get the crown. I swear it."
"I wouldn't let... Greenleaf do it. I... couldn't let him... hurt... you."
"I know. I know." Silent tears streaked Aragorn's face, dripping off his jaw onto the elf's tunic. He brushed them away with the back of his hand but more came just as quickly. Legolas' eyelids fluttered, growing heavy. Breath slowed. Lightened. Aragorn's eyes didn't shift to Alflocksom, and his lips didn't move as he murmured: "Get Orome. Hurry."
The captain fled from the mine at a dead-run.
"Did I... matter?" Legolas asked, the words as a breath on the air.
Aragorn swallowed hard. "Oh yes. Yes, you mattered, Legolas. You made a difference. You made a world of difference."
Legolas gave a ghost of a smile. "My... friend..." he said. His voice was scarcely more than a movement of his lips.
Aragorn's chin trembled. "My brother," he croaked.
Then it happened, and there was no fanfare or fireworks or trumpets blaring or agonized screams or the heavens opening up with crashing thunder and wild lightening...or anything. What did happen was a tiny shudder so light that if Aragorn hadn't been holding him at the time he wouldn't have known it had happened. Then, only three sounds: two tiny, quick, jerky breaths that sounded like sniffs, then a single soft sigh of air. Legolas' eyes rolled back. Lids slid closed.
And it was over.
And Aragorn froze. He could feel his mind locking up, folding in on itself and forming into a lump of utter immobility. He felt his heart stop. Felt everything totally stop. His own breath, his heart, his thoughts...everything. Total shutdown, just like that. Later he would think that the only time he'd felt remotely like this was when he was twenty-one and he, Elladan, and Elrohir had gone hunting in the winter. It was at least three weeks before the ice on the river would have been safe to cross, but it seemed to hold the weight of his brothers' just fine, and for that moment they'd all forgotten that he wasn't an elf. The three of them had walked out onto the ice. He was practicing his tracking skills, hence the first one to the middle of the lake. The ice simply cracked under his feet, he was under before he knew it, and he still thought he might have come close to dying then – just how close was not something he really wanted to know. The air that day might have felt like late- summer, but the water felt like mid-winter. His nervous system had momentarily shut-down. His breath stopped solid in his lungs, heart stopped in mid-beat, and when he broke the surface it was as if his mind couldn't remember how to restart his body. He remembered the looks on his twin brothers faces, he remembered Elladan and Elrohir standing on the ice, Elladan looking like he'd just been gut-punched, Elrohir looking pretty much the same and then yelling 'Estel!' as he started to move, and all he had been able to think was /I'm dying, I'm right here in the middle of the lake with my brothers watching me like two slack-jawed statues and Elrond is going to kill me and Legolas is coming for a visit in a week but I'll never see him because I'm going to be dead./ Then it had broken, he sucked in a great, gasping breath, and had called to them with the unthinking of utter panic: 'Help me!' It had occurred to him later that he could have ended up killing one if not both of them, just as he had almost killed himself.
That was how he felt right now: he was in a total frozen shut-down. All thinking, all sanity, all reason, breathing, heartbeat, everything... stopped. He was sitting on the floor of the cave in the middle of this great big shut-down, Legolas still in his arms, looking over the elf's shoulder and staring down at his still chest, and he barely knew he was there. A tiny part of his mind was aware that Alflocksom was running toward him, someone with him, he was speaking to him, and it was like that day on the hunt, exactly like it, his breath was stuck solid and his heart refused to budge – everything completely, totally, and unequivocally down.
Then it just broke, as it had the other time, and he sucked in a great whooshing gasp of breath. His heart slammed painfully, caught, and then slammed again. But this time his mind took much longer to unthaw.
"Legolas?" Aragorn breathed.
No answer.
"Legolas, please..."
No answer.
"Oh no... Oh Lords... Oh please, please, please..."
Aragorn didn't need to look into the elf's face to know, but he had to. He shifted slightly. Legolas' head lolled with the movement and his cheek came to rest against the middle of Aragorn's chest. The elf's face was colourless – literally colourless except for his bluish lips – but there was something touching in that beautiful, pallid pallor. Something serene. He looked peaceful, as though sleeping, as though in that dreamless eternal sleep he had finally found what he had been searching for. Aragorn felt a huge, gaping hole – a horrible, hollow emptiness – form in the middle of him; a good chunk of his own soul gone with him.
"Oh Legolas," he croaked. He squeezed his eyes shut and hugged him closer. Tears poured unrestrained down his face. He wrapped his arms tighter around the elf, and tighter still, and began to rock side to side. He had no idea in this world how long he stayed like that, the elf's golden hair swaying with the slow rocking movement, while memory after memory flashed in the his head. He and Legolas laughing as the elf splashed water at him. Legolas hanging upside down from a tree limb and scaring him half to death. The elf patiently critiquing his archery skills. Both skidding around corners and sliding down banisters, racing like two lunatics through the halls of each other's homes in Rivendell and Mirkwood. The quiet times spent talking about life, loves, and everything. The jokes, games, and pranks. The battles they'd fought side by side in. A flash of Legolas shouting in victory... snarling in anger... singing... laughing... smiling warmly...
A hand touched his shoulder. He was barely aware of it.
"Peace, Aragorn," a deep, gentle voice said. "Be at peace."
Aragorn's gaze lifted slowly, slowly. His heart was beating so hard that he saw a bright light like the flicker of the sun through leaves dance in front of his eyes, a light that seemed to pulse with each painful thud of his stricken heart.
He saw a powerfully built man (at least Aragorn thought it was a man) hunker down beside them, his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees. He was looking at Legolas with the same deep compassion that the boy had had when he'd used the wet cloth to quench his thirst. Aragorn was aware that someone had lowered down beside them only when he saw long, dark hair swirl about a face and shoulders as though stirred by a light breeze, though there was no breeze here to stir it. This is Orome's true form, he knew, but he didn't care. And he didn't care that Alflocksom was standing off to the side, looking grave. And he didn't care that they were now both staring at him.
But he did care when Orome gently cupped Legolas' ashen face in his hands and tilted his head upward. He cared about that very much. His eyes couldn't stop looking at Legolas' face or the man's hands.
Don't touch him, Aragorn tried to say, but his voice failed him.
Don't hurt him. He's been hurt enough. Orome touched a knuckle to his brow then to his lips, then leaned and kissed Legolas' brow. He smiled at the elf, though it was a very sad smile, and murmured: "You have found your peace at last, beloved son of Mirkwood."
Alflocksom bowed his head in respect for the elf and for grief over his king's grief. It hurt his heart terribly to see Aragorn in such agony.
There was a long, long silence, then Orome touched Aragorn's shoulder again and quietly said, "King of Gondor, look at me."
Aragorn didn't.
"Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, Lord of the Dunedain, King of Gondor, grieving friend – look at me," he said quietly in the High Speech.
Aragorn looked at him. Looked him square in the eyes. He saw sadness and compassion...and an inner light – a light that sparkled from the dark pupils of his eyes and held his gaze as firmly as iron manacles to wrists – that transported him away from his grief as it whispered secrets to his mind that only those rare few who are worthy of hearing would ever hear. Aragorn had the strange sensation of floating upward into the heavens and suddenly seeing everything. Battles in ages long past. Great quests. The beyond. The future. The reason for man's existence. The reason for his own existence. He wanted to go on staring into those eyes forever, absorbing the information, but Orome lowered his eyes back to the elf, and in so doing, severed the link. The crushing veil of grief returned. And so did guilt at having briefly set aside that grief. Fresh tears stung his eyes.
Orome, perhaps reading his mind, put the comforting hand back on Aragorn's shoulder. "I was drawn here by his darkness, but I assure you that I did not come here to hunt him or hurt him, only to save you from yourself, and in turn, save Gondor.
"There is no victory without sacrifice. Still, it pains me and others that you have had to suffer more than your share." He paused. "I know what I am willing to sacrifice for Gondor. What are you willing to sacrifice?"
Aragorn didn't answer. His entire consciousness had fused into one thought: /Not this. Notthisnotthisnotthisnotthisnotthis... /
Orome nodded as though in understanding. "As a Steward of Gondor it is only fair that I right this wrong, or try to, anyway. Besides," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "I have a vested interest in Gondor and a soft spot for elves, and this elven hunter in particular. He reminds me of myself. And like you, he has not only suffered more than his share, but proven his worth many times over."
"But he's..." /Gone,/ Aragorn naturally tried to say as his gaze lifted to Orome, he just couldn't manage to get the word out. "He's..." /Dead and it's too late,/ he thought to say, but those words wouldn't come out either. He couldn't bring himself to say them; couldn't bring himself to think them. His mind simply shut off before they had a chance to form on his lips.
"Yes, he is," Orome said, as though reading his thoughts. "I was the only one of the Valar who crossed to the Undying Lands unwillingly. I suspect he did the same. That makes he and I lost souls – living dead. Let him go now. Let me take him."
"Where?" Aragorn asked, his grip tightening protectively.
Orome smiled a little. "Not where you think."
Aragorn made no move to release him. He was looking at Orome with utter blankness.
"I do not expect you to understand, but you will very soon. I just want you to remember that the rest will be up to you. Before this is over, no matter what happens, I want to hear you swear to me that you'll go back and take up your crown with the same strength and compassion that you've shown here these many days."
"I can't promise..." Aragorn began, his voice sounded distant and strange to his own ears.
"Try," Orome urged. "That is the best anyone can do." His gaze cut back to the elf. "He is past your help now. Let me take him. It's time."
Aragon nodded numbly.
Orome gathered the lifeless elf in his massive arms, lifted him from Aragorn's grasp and cradled him against his chest with no more effort than a father lifts and cradles a tiny, sleeping child.
"Outside, now. Quickly."
In a daze, Aragorn swiped an arm across his wet face then climbed to his feet and staggered after them. Orome walked out of the mine and into the middle of the clearing, sank down to one knee, lowered Legolas gently to the ground and crossed the elf's arms over his chest.
Alflocksom stopped halfway between the mine and Orome. Aragorn almost ran into him. The captain was staring out across the clearing at the tree line. Except it wasn't. The tree line was gone. There was nothing but a black, seething void.
"Lords almighty," Alflocksom murmured, deep struck with awe. "Protect us," finished Seigen among the silent, staring guards. Both were the perfect sentiments for what Aragorn himself wanted to say, but...couldn't.
There were birds everywhere.
Sparrows, to be exact. It looked as though the far side of the clearing had been totally swallowed by...nothingness. A black, empty, undulating oblivion of sparrows. Every branch, log, rock, inch of ground, piece of snow...everything was covered in them.
Aragorn was staggered by the mass. No, mass wasn't quite the word he was searching for. Sea. Yes, that's better. Definitely a sea. A black sea of sparrows. And he was seeing them without really seeing them. Sight without belief. His mind simply wouldn't accept this. Refused, actually. Utterly refused. The closest his mind would go was to believe it had been gripped by another nightmare vision because what he saw defied any sane description.
/How many sparrows does it take to obliterate a forest?/ he wondered. /Millions? Billions? More?/ He couldn't even begin to imagine the count. It literally hurt his mind to think about it.
"Aragorn, stay back," Orome said without taking his eyes from the elf's face. "Your part is over. The rest is mine." He leaned and stroked Legolas' still-warm cheek with a knuckle. His voice was soft, hushed. "You are whole now, prince of Mirkwood. The two parts of your soul are separate no longer. The time is right."
Orome climbed to his feet and lifted his gaze to the sparrows.
"They are the harbingers of the dead, Aragorn. Do your recognize them?"
"No." But subconsciously he did, and it sent a chill through him.
"Then give them a good look and remember them. No one can control them – at least not for long. They are here because of me, and now, hopefully, for me. Watch and learn, King of Gondor. You have been chosen to serve as witness to this. The dead have honoured you before. Now they honour you again. It is a special gift. Do you understand? Do you remember?"
Understand? No. Remember? Yes, he remembered. /He's speaking of The Paths of the Dead,/ Aragorn thought, and his mind rolled back to memories of the haunted road under the mountains and the tryst at Erech, and the great ride from there to Pelargir in the company of the Shadow Host, and all that came afterward. He nodded and was going to answer but Orome's attention was fixed on the sparrows, needing to hear none. He kept silent.
"Harbingers!" Orome cried. "You know who I am. I am Orome. But I am also known as Araw, Tauron, Bema, Aldaron, Vorondil, and more. I am the Lord of Forests. The Hunter. I am the Huntsman of the Valar. I am Immortal with no beginning or ending." He paused. "This is an elf. A prince of Mirkwood. An Immortal as well, but one who is destined to sail. I offer you a trade."
/Harbingers,/ some distant part of Aragorn's hazy mind repeated obediently. /Guides. They guide lost souls to the land of the living. I have to remember them. I have to remember this – all of this./
Aragorn, his mind slowed to a crawl by his grief, and understandably so, suddenly understood
(I offer you a trade)
what was happening here. Orome was going to offer himself up. The sparrows had served as Orome's escort back to the land of the living, and now he was going to try to control them.
What had Orome said? No one can control them, at least not for long. They are here because of me, and now, hopefully, for me.
The last piece of the puzzle fell into place, a perfect fit. The heavy fog in his mind lifted and suddenly he was wide awake and his mind was able to think clearly. And he knew. There was only one reason Orome had come back at this specific time of all times. He knew this would happen and had come back to try to change it. Eyes that show the past and future could also see it. Legolas' future, his future, and Gondor's future...
...and time. He had mentioned time.
The time is right.
That was a double-edged sword. The time had to be right. Exact. Not only did he have a limited amount of time to try to control the sparrows – No one can control them, at least not for long – but he also had to wait until Legolas' light and darkness reunited. The right time for both. He had to find the exact moment between when he could still control the Harbingers and Legolas' spirit reuniting – no longer bound by his body. If Aragorn had fulfilled Legolas' wish to kill him, the controlling side, be it Legolas or Greenleaf, would have died first, and the two sides of his soul would have remained separate forever. By dying naturally, both sides died at the same time, drawing them back together.
I know what I am willing to sacrifice for Gondor, Orome had said.
Legolas' only chance to live was for Orome to sacrifice himself. He was offering the Harbingers a bigger prise – himself. There is a price for trying to control the agents of the afterlife – a high price. The guides – the sparrows – were there to do a job, and they would not go back empty- handed.
/But what if the Harbingers refused the offer?/ Aragorn thought. /What then?/
A rustle of feathers rippled through the black sea – a rustle like a shiver of excitement. The sound was like a distant rumble of thunder. They were tense, alert, barely containing their eagerness. Yes, eager was the word. They were eager, wanting to get on with their job.
The calm before the storm, Aragorn knew, and then wondered how he knew that.
"Bring the elf back," Orome called.
The restless shifting of the birds suddenly stopped. It seemed like the whole world was silent, black, and waiting – like it was hold it's breath and hanging on his every word.
No, Aragorn knew. They weren't just hanging on his every word. They were waiting for the right words, the words they needed to hear.
And when they did, all hell would break loose.
It suddenly struck Aragorn that Orome seemed to be waiting as well. He was waiting to hear the right words...from him.
"Orome," he called. "I swear on my honour that I will take back the crown, no matter the outcome here." Then he shouted as much for the Huntsman as for himself: "For Gondor!"
The Hunter smiled a little, and seemed to grow in strength...and, in some indescribable way, in contentment and resolve as well. It was as if his very essence had somehow changed.
"For Gondor!" Orome repeated just as loudly, then after a slight pause in which he seemed to mentally count off the time, he commanded in a tremendous voice: "Guide Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood, back to the land of the living! I offer myself willingly in his place! What say you?"
The forest suddenly exploded with an ear-splitting trill of millions upon millions of sparrows. Then they took wing with a deafening roar, lifting en mass like a floating carpet, and shot for the sky like a monstrous swarm of black bees. The sky darkened with them. Blackened. More birds came, and still more, forming into what resembled a single pitch-black cloud directly overhead – a cloud which blocked out most of the sky.
Then slowly, slowly, the cloud began to rotate.
Aragorn stood were he was, utterly transfixed by what he saw. Then he saw what they were doing.
"Alflocksom!" Aragorn screamed over the still rising roar. "Get everyone into the mine!"
Alflocksom waved to some, resorted to shoving others, and herded them safely inside the mine's entrance. Then he raced back to Aragorn and yanked him by the arm.
"You too, sire!" he screamed, trying to raise his voice over the ungodly howl, "Come on! Come on!" But try as he might to scream above it, his voice sounded like a whisper below it, even to his own ears.
"No!" Aragorn bellowed, struggling free, his wide eyes not leaving the sight for even a moment. "I have to see this! I have to stay!" Aragorn couldn't leave even if he wanted to. His eyes were glued solid to this magical...thing – this beast with a billion parts and a billion voices. "Someone has to witness it!"
"Then I'm staying with you!" Alflocksom cried.
A tendril began to snake down from the bottom of the whirlpool cloud; the sparrows following each other in a pattern that reminded Aragorn of a long, looping, spiral staircase. The staircase tightened ("Oh my Lords," Aragorn breathed, staggering backward against the hurricane wind), swirling into the beginnings of a very recognizable shape – a funnel cloud. A living black tornado. How they were able to move together without striking each other none could say, but they moved as if controlled by a single mind. More and more sparrows, late-comers by the look, swarmed in from every direction to join the swirling monstrosity. The tornado grew, and as the monster spun faster and faster the sound rose to a shrieking howl. The sight was both incredible and terrifying.
Then it began to lengthen out...and reach down...
Aragorn was caught somewhere between a reckless desire to rush over and drag Legolas and Orome out of the way and a desperate need to rush backward out of the way. Fascination overrode both, though, and he took three steps forward and would have taken more, utterly mesmerized by the living twister, but Alflocksom caught his arm.
"No!" the captain yelled to be heard above the howling gale. "He said to stay back!" His grip tightened. He'd already lost his king once and wasn't about to lose him again.
The bottom of the ever swelling, screaming twister hovered just above both immortals, whipping their hair and clothes as though both were caught in a hurricane. Orome looked up into the eye of the storm above him. He staggered against the wild wind then righted himself, spread his arms wide, and closed his eyes. The twister suddenly dropped on top of them, swallowing both whole in utter blackness.
Time stood still in Aragorn's mind. Seconds, minutes, hours, now and forever, all seemed to blend together as he watched the supernatural at work. His eyes strained for a glimpse but the blackness was total – a complete nothingness – as though there had been a rip in the fabric of time and space...of reality...of everything.
Slowly, slowly, the middle of the tornado began to thread out, loosening like yarn from a ball. The swell lessened, the long, thin thread rewinding and funnelling back up into the cloud. The thread bent with the bulk of the tornado still on the ground and Orome and Legolas still lost from view. Suddenly the tornado withdrew back up into the cloud. One second the cloud it was there – spinning and churning like an insane, furious whirlpool – and the next it seemed to explode as birds tore off in every direction. Within moments the sky was blue once more...and it was over.
Aragorn stood panting as though he had just run the race of his life. His face remained upturned, his eyes fixed on a far off fluffy white cloud, afraid to look over and see the answer.
"Aragorn?"
He froze. Swallowed. Slowly lowered his gaze.
Orome was gone, as if he'd never been...and Legolas was rising to his feet.
Aragorn's knees almost buckled. He swayed for a moment, dangerously close to shut-down again, but this time with relief. He suddenly burst into tears. He had no idea that was coming, it just happened.
Alflocksom did as well.
So did Legolas.
Tbc...
I Give You Gods And Monsters
Part 1
Greenleaf awoke...for the last time.
He was on his side on a cold stone floor, weak as a newborn kitten, a blanket covering him to his chin. Low orange light cast the mine's walls in a soothing warm blush. Thoughts of: /Lords, I'm still alive?/ changed to: /Lords, I'm still alive./ It wasn't a welcomed thought. He had begun praying for death long ago – he and Legolas both – but it was taking it's sweet damn time in coming.
He could make out the faint but distinct scents of the mine's long previous owners. Bear, fox, and a more recent family of skunks, among the mustiness of mosses clinging to the walls and the acrid smell of illness. The faint, rhythmic sound of water dripping from somewhere deeper in the damp mine behind him grated on his nerves.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
The steady, rhythmic sound reminded him of a diseased heartbeat of some massive beast...or a flicking forked tongue slapping a blunt nose...it's owner in the shadows behind him...waiting...waiting for an opportunity to strike...it's black reptilian body coiling...thick drool pouring from it's widening jaws...foul breath passing over serrated teeth...gleaming yellow eyes watching...forked tongue honing in on his body heat...moving closer...closer...
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Greenleaf became more and more sure that he had been right about what it was; that he had, at least, solved this riddle.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
Blip...glunk.
The idea that he was lying here on the floor of the mine in the middle of nowhere and listening to a monster who was moments away from tearing him to pieces...that was crazy, but was it any crazier than what he saw in front of him? Ghosts. Ghouls. Phantoms. He could just make out the ghastly forms standing motionless just inside the mouth of the mine. The full moon's rays washed them in an eerie, unearthly glow, making them appear as though more apparition than of this world. Hushed familiar whispers reverberated softly off the cold stone walls around him, their words as if echoed from long dead tongues of past ages. To his fevered mind the sounds only confirmed his worst fears – that the gruesome visions were real and not fantasy.
Am I dead? Greenleaf wondered. Am I in the midst of ghosts and phantoms?
Panic slowly touched its icy hand to his throat and tightened it's grip, hitching his breath. He remained as motionless as he could and tried to make as little noise as possible.
I'm not letting those walking nightmares near me, he thought.
"What's wrong with him, Orome?" he heard Aragorn ask, his voice low and fret with worry.
Orome? The Huntsman of the Valar? It can't be. I am among the dead.
Greenleaf's stomach suddenly cramped so hard that he thought for sure someone had hacked him though with a huge clever. The monster from behind? From unseen phantoms? The tortures of the void? He tried to suppress a moan but it escaped him. At the sound, the forms at the mine's entrance turned. One was Aragorn. One was Alflocksom – the captain of Aragorn's guards. One was a boy.
What is a boy doing here? he wondered, but he didn't have time to puzzle this out. His stomach heaved hard. He tried to swallow to no avail.
"He's going to be sick again," Aragorn called.
At once Greenleaf heard their footfalls padding towards him on the stone floor. He closed his eyes tight as they neared so he wouldn't have to see them.
Aragorn skidded to a stop behind him and lifted him slightly off the floor. He wiped the sick sweat from the elf's forehead with a corner of the blanket.
"It's alright, Legolas. Let it go," he soothed.
Greenleaf tried to hold it back, but...
He gasped and shook all over.
"Alflocksom, help me move him to another spot," Aragorn said. "Careful with him, now."
Greenleaf felt arms gently lift him into the air. He had a strange feeling of flying without wings. Disconnected – that was the word. Totally disconnected. He was here – where ever here is – but not really a part of it, like being in a dream and trying to run but everything is in slow motion and he couldn't make any progress. Reality and fantasy collided to make everything questionable. Life. Death. Feeling. Movement. Pain. Sight. Voices – voices in his head and voices around him, all jumbled and disjointed and slurred...
Too much. It was all too much.
He wanted it all to end. Now.
"Alright, up you go, Legolas," said Alflocksom quietly as he hoisted him up. The elf's weight was light in his arms. Too light. "My liege, we're running out of clean spots."
"Let's bring him closer to the fire. Legolas, you'll be alright. You're with us now." Aragorn's voice was almost in his ear as he and the captain lowered him back to the ground.
Someone knelt beside him. He could hear water splashing. Then a cold, wet cloth patted his forehead. It was the first real sense of relief he had felt in what seemed like forever. He began licking his lips subconsciously, wanting to taste the cool water so desperately that he almost cried, but he knew his stomach wouldn't hold it. As if the bearer of the cloth knew his thoughts, the wet cloth was gently pressed to the elf's parched lips, allowing a few refreshing drops to spill onto his tongue. He held them greedily in his mouth and then swallowed. The bearer rewet the cloth and again pressed it to his lips. Unable to resist it's powerful allure, he sucked lightly on it, drawing the precious water out of it. The bearer once again rewet the cloth, and again he pulled the water from it.
"That's enough for now, Legolas," said a strange, soft voice. The boy? "Your stomach will be lucky to hold even that much."
A gentle hand gently smoothed his sweat-matted hair back from his face. The owner of the hand heaved a heavy sigh and rocked back on his heels, then quietly said, "I know what it is, Aragorn, though it has no name. The liquid caused the separation between the light part of the soul and the darkness. The darkness gained access to the light's strength because of the liquid, but now it's failing. The light can't recover it's strength, even with the supply of liquid cut off, and so continues to weaken. What you see now is occurring because of the separation, not because of the liquid. The balance is broken. Without balance, the body can't survive."
"So what can we do, Orome?" Aragorn asked worriedly, all but begging. "I've already tried athelas but it had no effect."
Silence. Then, "No, it wouldn't. That's the problem. Nothing will." Orome – the boy – patted Greenleaf's forehead with the cloth as he trembled. "Aragorn, the two halves of his soul are dying. There's nothing that can be done but make him as comfortable as possible...and wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For the end," the boy said softly. He paused. "Stay with him. When it comes – and it will be soon – it will be sudden. Call me when it happens. Until then, I have to go and prepare."
"Prepare?" Alflocksom asked.
"For death."
/No,/ Aragorn tried to say, but his voice failed him.
/Oh Lords,/ Alflocksom thought to say, but held it back.
/Thank the stars,/ the tiny part that was still Legolas, whispered.
Part 2
Gimli knew he was in serious trouble the moment he tried to walk into the palace. The first indication was when the guards instantly leapt upon him, clapped him in irons, dragged him to the prison, and shoved him inside a cramped cell. The second was when the prison warden informed him that the penalty for attempting to murder the king – considered high treason – is death. The third was what he was told when he'd tried to explain. He had been told in no uncertain terms that since the king was in his bedchambers and could not be disturbed he may as well save his breath. One through three shocked the bejeebers out of him, but the fourth one...that one was different. That one sealed it. That one came next.
"But I'm telling you that Aragorn is – "
"You can't lie your way out of this one, dwarf," one guard growled. "The king has already made his ruling. In three days time you're to be brought before the people of Gondor and publicly executed."
"WHAT?" Gimli's mouth hung open. Past exhaustion and teetering on the brink of collapse, it's understandable that he was a bit slow on the pickup. "He wouldn't..."
"He did. King Elessar ordered it himself. Disappointed that the king lived, are you?" The guard scowled and looked him up and down as though he would like nothing better than to run him though himself. "You missed, dwarf, but I'll wager the executioner won't." The guard swiped his finger across his neck before slamming the door behind him.
Gimli's hand unconsciously went to his throat.
Part 3
Life is funny. Hilarious actually. One day you can be enjoying life, and the next? Poof! Everything changes. Greenleaf had been in control. Now he was shaking, sweating, throwing up, and waiting to die. Funny. Knee- slapping-roll-on-the-ground-laughing type of funny.
Voices giggled, screamed, laughed, and whispered in his ears. Conspiring, maniacal, cold, frightened, bellowing in rage. He couldn't separate fantasy from reality anymore. His mind shrieked to get loose, go back, and tear that mine to rubble to find the vial.
You know where it is.
/If it's still there, which isn't likely. If there's a vial still in the mine, it's seven levels deep... /
We're dying! You have to help me! I can't do this alone. If we work together -
/No. It's too late, Greenleaf. You lose./
No, Legolas – we both lose. But this is what you wanted, isn't it?
/Yes./
Suddenly the muscles in his back went into an ugly spasm. His spine wrenched backwards so hard he could actually hear the bones popping under the immense pressure. His neck strained backward; jaw clenching against it. He hissed and moaned in agony while hot tears streaked down his face.
I can't do this anymore!
/I can't do this anymore!/
This was the first time they both agreed on anything.
Things slowed for a while and it wasn't too Lords-awful...until the shaking and the cramps started up again. He slowed his breathing and tried not to think about it. Sometimes that helped.
But not this time.
He retched once – a miserable dry sound – but nothing came up. His stomach began to settle...at least on a trial basis. Unfortunately, the shaking grew worse.
"Easy, Legolas. Steady," said Aragorn, his voice soothing and calm. He knew Greenleaf still had control, but he wasn't interested in comforting Greenleaf – only comforting Legolas. He had a feeling that the Legolas side was still there...somewhere, and could hear him. Aragorn wondered if Legolas hated him for not followed through with his promise. Then he wondered if Legolas knew his hand had been stopped not from cowardice or some vain grasp at hope, but instead from knowledge and love. Somehow Orome had known the promise he had made to Legolas the night before – or had assumed as much, anyway – and instantly upon arrival had counselled him against keeping it. He had explained that Legolas' passing had to be natural for his spirit to be free, and then went on to explain that if he were to mid-wife Legolas into the next realm the elf would never pass to the Undying Lands or anywhere else – his fragmented spirit would go straight to oblivion. Promise or not, there could be no ease into the afterlife. Legolas would have to travel this path to it's end. And now here Aragorn was, rewetting the cloth and patting Legolas' forehead, and as he did, he did the hardest thing he had ever done in his entire life – he waited. And as he waited, he did the only thing left to him – he prayed for death to be as quick and painless as possible. But it wasn't quick and it wasn't painless.
Greenleaf gasped and moaned uncontrollably like an idiot. He hated it but he couldn't help it. Another spasm hit then slowly released, but was replaced with smaller, meaner ones, racing all over. His stomach lurched violently again. Horrible cramps – like he'd swallowed splintered glass – rippled through him. Grunting with pain, his knees drew up on instinct.
"Sire, he's going to – "
He felt strong but gentle hands lifted him over someone's lap. His head hung limp as he dry heaved – nothing left in his stomach to expel. He shook like the floor was made of ice.
Aragorn mopped Legolas' face; his sad eyes lifting to the captain. "Alflocksom, I think it's close to the time."
"I hope so, sire, for his sake. Lords take him quickly," he said, squatting to sit on his heels and leaning forward, his forearms on his thighs. He rubbed the back of his neck as he looked the ashen elf over. "He's suffering the tortures of the damned."
With Alflocksom's help, Aragorn drew Legolas up and back against his chest then carefully positioned the back of the elf's head against his shoulder. He gently brushed Legolas' sweat-wet hair away from his face, took his right hand in his own, and wrapped his left arm lightly around his chest, as much to steady the elf as to give him and himself some comfort. Legolas' breath was ragged, raspy, hitching. Irregular soft puffs passed through his slightly open mouth. He seemed to be fighting for every breath now; his lips tinged blue on a face far too pale, even for an elf. Aragorn didn't honestly know whether to pray he'd keep breathing or pray he'd stop.
Alflocksom, still squatting over the balls of his feet, watched for a while. Then he shook his head slowly, rose, and moved back. This whole thing was making him sick...and angry. It physically hurt his heart to watch this.
/But if it hurts me, what is it doing to the king?/ a small part of his mind wondered.
/Likely shredding him to pieces,/ another distant part of his mind answered.
He turned his back to them in an attempt to tune it all out for awhile. It wasn't easy. The only sound in the mine was the elf's soft panting, and each time there was a pause between pants he subconsciously held his own breath until it resumed. Aragorn was right, he reflected – it wouldn't be much longer now. At least he hoped not.
/Please, Greenleaf, let me go,/ Legolas begged from his black prison.
Take it, Greenleaf finally relented, too weak to argue anymore having taken the worst of it. We're both dead anyway. Say your goodbyes, Legolas.
Aragorn felt the change. He felt a difference within the circle of his left arm. He could feel the growing desperation. The elf was losing his strength. His spirit was changing.
Legolas dry-swallowed; back in control once again. He panted softly, beyond pain now, beyond sight now. He had only one thought, and he voiced it.
"Aragorn, where are you?" he breathed. His fluttering eyes, searching without sight, appeared to be wholly lucid. He was not that heartless creature who had gone by the name of Greenleaf. Greenleaf's voice faded into nothingness and was replaced by a much beloved one. "My...friend?"
And with those words Aragon knew that Legolas was back. The poisoned, half- mad bitterness was gone from the sound. The king swallowed the tight lump in his throat.
"I'm here, Legolas," he breathed in his ear. "I'm here. I've got you." A painful hole he'd felt opening in his heart grew wider. It had been easier to pull back a bit and detach from Greenleaf's misery, but he couldn't detach from Legolas'.
A slight shake of the head. "I can't – " the elf broke off for a moment before continuing. "Can you... hold my hand? I'm... floating... away."
Aragorn already was. He tightened the grip on Legolas' icy hand and wrapped his other arm even tighter over his chest.
"I'm cold. So cold. Is it... me?"
Alflocksom draped a blanket over both of them and then moved back to allow them some privacy.
"No, it's cold in here," Aragorn lied. Actually it was too warm. Sweat trickled down his temples. His chest felt wet – his shirt was plastered to him.
"Ridley." Legolas' sightless eyes widened. "Aragorn, Ridley is... going to st...steal the crown," he panted softly. "He looks just... like you. He did this so he... could step... into your shoes..."
/Ridley,/ Aragorn thought. /Ridley. I'll take him apart with my bare hands for this. What kind of an animal could do something like this?/
"Shhh," Aragorn hushed. "Forget him. He'll never get the crown. I swear it."
"I wouldn't let... Greenleaf do it. I... couldn't let him... hurt... you."
"I know. I know." Silent tears streaked Aragorn's face, dripping off his jaw onto the elf's tunic. He brushed them away with the back of his hand but more came just as quickly. Legolas' eyelids fluttered, growing heavy. Breath slowed. Lightened. Aragorn's eyes didn't shift to Alflocksom, and his lips didn't move as he murmured: "Get Orome. Hurry."
The captain fled from the mine at a dead-run.
"Did I... matter?" Legolas asked, the words as a breath on the air.
Aragorn swallowed hard. "Oh yes. Yes, you mattered, Legolas. You made a difference. You made a world of difference."
Legolas gave a ghost of a smile. "My... friend..." he said. His voice was scarcely more than a movement of his lips.
Aragorn's chin trembled. "My brother," he croaked.
Then it happened, and there was no fanfare or fireworks or trumpets blaring or agonized screams or the heavens opening up with crashing thunder and wild lightening...or anything. What did happen was a tiny shudder so light that if Aragorn hadn't been holding him at the time he wouldn't have known it had happened. Then, only three sounds: two tiny, quick, jerky breaths that sounded like sniffs, then a single soft sigh of air. Legolas' eyes rolled back. Lids slid closed.
And it was over.
And Aragorn froze. He could feel his mind locking up, folding in on itself and forming into a lump of utter immobility. He felt his heart stop. Felt everything totally stop. His own breath, his heart, his thoughts...everything. Total shutdown, just like that. Later he would think that the only time he'd felt remotely like this was when he was twenty-one and he, Elladan, and Elrohir had gone hunting in the winter. It was at least three weeks before the ice on the river would have been safe to cross, but it seemed to hold the weight of his brothers' just fine, and for that moment they'd all forgotten that he wasn't an elf. The three of them had walked out onto the ice. He was practicing his tracking skills, hence the first one to the middle of the lake. The ice simply cracked under his feet, he was under before he knew it, and he still thought he might have come close to dying then – just how close was not something he really wanted to know. The air that day might have felt like late- summer, but the water felt like mid-winter. His nervous system had momentarily shut-down. His breath stopped solid in his lungs, heart stopped in mid-beat, and when he broke the surface it was as if his mind couldn't remember how to restart his body. He remembered the looks on his twin brothers faces, he remembered Elladan and Elrohir standing on the ice, Elladan looking like he'd just been gut-punched, Elrohir looking pretty much the same and then yelling 'Estel!' as he started to move, and all he had been able to think was /I'm dying, I'm right here in the middle of the lake with my brothers watching me like two slack-jawed statues and Elrond is going to kill me and Legolas is coming for a visit in a week but I'll never see him because I'm going to be dead./ Then it had broken, he sucked in a great, gasping breath, and had called to them with the unthinking of utter panic: 'Help me!' It had occurred to him later that he could have ended up killing one if not both of them, just as he had almost killed himself.
That was how he felt right now: he was in a total frozen shut-down. All thinking, all sanity, all reason, breathing, heartbeat, everything... stopped. He was sitting on the floor of the cave in the middle of this great big shut-down, Legolas still in his arms, looking over the elf's shoulder and staring down at his still chest, and he barely knew he was there. A tiny part of his mind was aware that Alflocksom was running toward him, someone with him, he was speaking to him, and it was like that day on the hunt, exactly like it, his breath was stuck solid and his heart refused to budge – everything completely, totally, and unequivocally down.
Then it just broke, as it had the other time, and he sucked in a great whooshing gasp of breath. His heart slammed painfully, caught, and then slammed again. But this time his mind took much longer to unthaw.
"Legolas?" Aragorn breathed.
No answer.
"Legolas, please..."
No answer.
"Oh no... Oh Lords... Oh please, please, please..."
Aragorn didn't need to look into the elf's face to know, but he had to. He shifted slightly. Legolas' head lolled with the movement and his cheek came to rest against the middle of Aragorn's chest. The elf's face was colourless – literally colourless except for his bluish lips – but there was something touching in that beautiful, pallid pallor. Something serene. He looked peaceful, as though sleeping, as though in that dreamless eternal sleep he had finally found what he had been searching for. Aragorn felt a huge, gaping hole – a horrible, hollow emptiness – form in the middle of him; a good chunk of his own soul gone with him.
"Oh Legolas," he croaked. He squeezed his eyes shut and hugged him closer. Tears poured unrestrained down his face. He wrapped his arms tighter around the elf, and tighter still, and began to rock side to side. He had no idea in this world how long he stayed like that, the elf's golden hair swaying with the slow rocking movement, while memory after memory flashed in the his head. He and Legolas laughing as the elf splashed water at him. Legolas hanging upside down from a tree limb and scaring him half to death. The elf patiently critiquing his archery skills. Both skidding around corners and sliding down banisters, racing like two lunatics through the halls of each other's homes in Rivendell and Mirkwood. The quiet times spent talking about life, loves, and everything. The jokes, games, and pranks. The battles they'd fought side by side in. A flash of Legolas shouting in victory... snarling in anger... singing... laughing... smiling warmly...
A hand touched his shoulder. He was barely aware of it.
"Peace, Aragorn," a deep, gentle voice said. "Be at peace."
Aragorn's gaze lifted slowly, slowly. His heart was beating so hard that he saw a bright light like the flicker of the sun through leaves dance in front of his eyes, a light that seemed to pulse with each painful thud of his stricken heart.
He saw a powerfully built man (at least Aragorn thought it was a man) hunker down beside them, his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees. He was looking at Legolas with the same deep compassion that the boy had had when he'd used the wet cloth to quench his thirst. Aragorn was aware that someone had lowered down beside them only when he saw long, dark hair swirl about a face and shoulders as though stirred by a light breeze, though there was no breeze here to stir it. This is Orome's true form, he knew, but he didn't care. And he didn't care that Alflocksom was standing off to the side, looking grave. And he didn't care that they were now both staring at him.
But he did care when Orome gently cupped Legolas' ashen face in his hands and tilted his head upward. He cared about that very much. His eyes couldn't stop looking at Legolas' face or the man's hands.
Don't touch him, Aragorn tried to say, but his voice failed him.
Don't hurt him. He's been hurt enough. Orome touched a knuckle to his brow then to his lips, then leaned and kissed Legolas' brow. He smiled at the elf, though it was a very sad smile, and murmured: "You have found your peace at last, beloved son of Mirkwood."
Alflocksom bowed his head in respect for the elf and for grief over his king's grief. It hurt his heart terribly to see Aragorn in such agony.
There was a long, long silence, then Orome touched Aragorn's shoulder again and quietly said, "King of Gondor, look at me."
Aragorn didn't.
"Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, Lord of the Dunedain, King of Gondor, grieving friend – look at me," he said quietly in the High Speech.
Aragorn looked at him. Looked him square in the eyes. He saw sadness and compassion...and an inner light – a light that sparkled from the dark pupils of his eyes and held his gaze as firmly as iron manacles to wrists – that transported him away from his grief as it whispered secrets to his mind that only those rare few who are worthy of hearing would ever hear. Aragorn had the strange sensation of floating upward into the heavens and suddenly seeing everything. Battles in ages long past. Great quests. The beyond. The future. The reason for man's existence. The reason for his own existence. He wanted to go on staring into those eyes forever, absorbing the information, but Orome lowered his eyes back to the elf, and in so doing, severed the link. The crushing veil of grief returned. And so did guilt at having briefly set aside that grief. Fresh tears stung his eyes.
Orome, perhaps reading his mind, put the comforting hand back on Aragorn's shoulder. "I was drawn here by his darkness, but I assure you that I did not come here to hunt him or hurt him, only to save you from yourself, and in turn, save Gondor.
"There is no victory without sacrifice. Still, it pains me and others that you have had to suffer more than your share." He paused. "I know what I am willing to sacrifice for Gondor. What are you willing to sacrifice?"
Aragorn didn't answer. His entire consciousness had fused into one thought: /Not this. Notthisnotthisnotthisnotthisnotthis... /
Orome nodded as though in understanding. "As a Steward of Gondor it is only fair that I right this wrong, or try to, anyway. Besides," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "I have a vested interest in Gondor and a soft spot for elves, and this elven hunter in particular. He reminds me of myself. And like you, he has not only suffered more than his share, but proven his worth many times over."
"But he's..." /Gone,/ Aragorn naturally tried to say as his gaze lifted to Orome, he just couldn't manage to get the word out. "He's..." /Dead and it's too late,/ he thought to say, but those words wouldn't come out either. He couldn't bring himself to say them; couldn't bring himself to think them. His mind simply shut off before they had a chance to form on his lips.
"Yes, he is," Orome said, as though reading his thoughts. "I was the only one of the Valar who crossed to the Undying Lands unwillingly. I suspect he did the same. That makes he and I lost souls – living dead. Let him go now. Let me take him."
"Where?" Aragorn asked, his grip tightening protectively.
Orome smiled a little. "Not where you think."
Aragorn made no move to release him. He was looking at Orome with utter blankness.
"I do not expect you to understand, but you will very soon. I just want you to remember that the rest will be up to you. Before this is over, no matter what happens, I want to hear you swear to me that you'll go back and take up your crown with the same strength and compassion that you've shown here these many days."
"I can't promise..." Aragorn began, his voice sounded distant and strange to his own ears.
"Try," Orome urged. "That is the best anyone can do." His gaze cut back to the elf. "He is past your help now. Let me take him. It's time."
Aragon nodded numbly.
Orome gathered the lifeless elf in his massive arms, lifted him from Aragorn's grasp and cradled him against his chest with no more effort than a father lifts and cradles a tiny, sleeping child.
"Outside, now. Quickly."
In a daze, Aragorn swiped an arm across his wet face then climbed to his feet and staggered after them. Orome walked out of the mine and into the middle of the clearing, sank down to one knee, lowered Legolas gently to the ground and crossed the elf's arms over his chest.
Alflocksom stopped halfway between the mine and Orome. Aragorn almost ran into him. The captain was staring out across the clearing at the tree line. Except it wasn't. The tree line was gone. There was nothing but a black, seething void.
"Lords almighty," Alflocksom murmured, deep struck with awe. "Protect us," finished Seigen among the silent, staring guards. Both were the perfect sentiments for what Aragorn himself wanted to say, but...couldn't.
There were birds everywhere.
Sparrows, to be exact. It looked as though the far side of the clearing had been totally swallowed by...nothingness. A black, empty, undulating oblivion of sparrows. Every branch, log, rock, inch of ground, piece of snow...everything was covered in them.
Aragorn was staggered by the mass. No, mass wasn't quite the word he was searching for. Sea. Yes, that's better. Definitely a sea. A black sea of sparrows. And he was seeing them without really seeing them. Sight without belief. His mind simply wouldn't accept this. Refused, actually. Utterly refused. The closest his mind would go was to believe it had been gripped by another nightmare vision because what he saw defied any sane description.
/How many sparrows does it take to obliterate a forest?/ he wondered. /Millions? Billions? More?/ He couldn't even begin to imagine the count. It literally hurt his mind to think about it.
"Aragorn, stay back," Orome said without taking his eyes from the elf's face. "Your part is over. The rest is mine." He leaned and stroked Legolas' still-warm cheek with a knuckle. His voice was soft, hushed. "You are whole now, prince of Mirkwood. The two parts of your soul are separate no longer. The time is right."
Orome climbed to his feet and lifted his gaze to the sparrows.
"They are the harbingers of the dead, Aragorn. Do your recognize them?"
"No." But subconsciously he did, and it sent a chill through him.
"Then give them a good look and remember them. No one can control them – at least not for long. They are here because of me, and now, hopefully, for me. Watch and learn, King of Gondor. You have been chosen to serve as witness to this. The dead have honoured you before. Now they honour you again. It is a special gift. Do you understand? Do you remember?"
Understand? No. Remember? Yes, he remembered. /He's speaking of The Paths of the Dead,/ Aragorn thought, and his mind rolled back to memories of the haunted road under the mountains and the tryst at Erech, and the great ride from there to Pelargir in the company of the Shadow Host, and all that came afterward. He nodded and was going to answer but Orome's attention was fixed on the sparrows, needing to hear none. He kept silent.
"Harbingers!" Orome cried. "You know who I am. I am Orome. But I am also known as Araw, Tauron, Bema, Aldaron, Vorondil, and more. I am the Lord of Forests. The Hunter. I am the Huntsman of the Valar. I am Immortal with no beginning or ending." He paused. "This is an elf. A prince of Mirkwood. An Immortal as well, but one who is destined to sail. I offer you a trade."
/Harbingers,/ some distant part of Aragorn's hazy mind repeated obediently. /Guides. They guide lost souls to the land of the living. I have to remember them. I have to remember this – all of this./
Aragorn, his mind slowed to a crawl by his grief, and understandably so, suddenly understood
(I offer you a trade)
what was happening here. Orome was going to offer himself up. The sparrows had served as Orome's escort back to the land of the living, and now he was going to try to control them.
What had Orome said? No one can control them, at least not for long. They are here because of me, and now, hopefully, for me.
The last piece of the puzzle fell into place, a perfect fit. The heavy fog in his mind lifted and suddenly he was wide awake and his mind was able to think clearly. And he knew. There was only one reason Orome had come back at this specific time of all times. He knew this would happen and had come back to try to change it. Eyes that show the past and future could also see it. Legolas' future, his future, and Gondor's future...
...and time. He had mentioned time.
The time is right.
That was a double-edged sword. The time had to be right. Exact. Not only did he have a limited amount of time to try to control the sparrows – No one can control them, at least not for long – but he also had to wait until Legolas' light and darkness reunited. The right time for both. He had to find the exact moment between when he could still control the Harbingers and Legolas' spirit reuniting – no longer bound by his body. If Aragorn had fulfilled Legolas' wish to kill him, the controlling side, be it Legolas or Greenleaf, would have died first, and the two sides of his soul would have remained separate forever. By dying naturally, both sides died at the same time, drawing them back together.
I know what I am willing to sacrifice for Gondor, Orome had said.
Legolas' only chance to live was for Orome to sacrifice himself. He was offering the Harbingers a bigger prise – himself. There is a price for trying to control the agents of the afterlife – a high price. The guides – the sparrows – were there to do a job, and they would not go back empty- handed.
/But what if the Harbingers refused the offer?/ Aragorn thought. /What then?/
A rustle of feathers rippled through the black sea – a rustle like a shiver of excitement. The sound was like a distant rumble of thunder. They were tense, alert, barely containing their eagerness. Yes, eager was the word. They were eager, wanting to get on with their job.
The calm before the storm, Aragorn knew, and then wondered how he knew that.
"Bring the elf back," Orome called.
The restless shifting of the birds suddenly stopped. It seemed like the whole world was silent, black, and waiting – like it was hold it's breath and hanging on his every word.
No, Aragorn knew. They weren't just hanging on his every word. They were waiting for the right words, the words they needed to hear.
And when they did, all hell would break loose.
It suddenly struck Aragorn that Orome seemed to be waiting as well. He was waiting to hear the right words...from him.
"Orome," he called. "I swear on my honour that I will take back the crown, no matter the outcome here." Then he shouted as much for the Huntsman as for himself: "For Gondor!"
The Hunter smiled a little, and seemed to grow in strength...and, in some indescribable way, in contentment and resolve as well. It was as if his very essence had somehow changed.
"For Gondor!" Orome repeated just as loudly, then after a slight pause in which he seemed to mentally count off the time, he commanded in a tremendous voice: "Guide Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood, back to the land of the living! I offer myself willingly in his place! What say you?"
The forest suddenly exploded with an ear-splitting trill of millions upon millions of sparrows. Then they took wing with a deafening roar, lifting en mass like a floating carpet, and shot for the sky like a monstrous swarm of black bees. The sky darkened with them. Blackened. More birds came, and still more, forming into what resembled a single pitch-black cloud directly overhead – a cloud which blocked out most of the sky.
Then slowly, slowly, the cloud began to rotate.
Aragorn stood were he was, utterly transfixed by what he saw. Then he saw what they were doing.
"Alflocksom!" Aragorn screamed over the still rising roar. "Get everyone into the mine!"
Alflocksom waved to some, resorted to shoving others, and herded them safely inside the mine's entrance. Then he raced back to Aragorn and yanked him by the arm.
"You too, sire!" he screamed, trying to raise his voice over the ungodly howl, "Come on! Come on!" But try as he might to scream above it, his voice sounded like a whisper below it, even to his own ears.
"No!" Aragorn bellowed, struggling free, his wide eyes not leaving the sight for even a moment. "I have to see this! I have to stay!" Aragorn couldn't leave even if he wanted to. His eyes were glued solid to this magical...thing – this beast with a billion parts and a billion voices. "Someone has to witness it!"
"Then I'm staying with you!" Alflocksom cried.
A tendril began to snake down from the bottom of the whirlpool cloud; the sparrows following each other in a pattern that reminded Aragorn of a long, looping, spiral staircase. The staircase tightened ("Oh my Lords," Aragorn breathed, staggering backward against the hurricane wind), swirling into the beginnings of a very recognizable shape – a funnel cloud. A living black tornado. How they were able to move together without striking each other none could say, but they moved as if controlled by a single mind. More and more sparrows, late-comers by the look, swarmed in from every direction to join the swirling monstrosity. The tornado grew, and as the monster spun faster and faster the sound rose to a shrieking howl. The sight was both incredible and terrifying.
Then it began to lengthen out...and reach down...
Aragorn was caught somewhere between a reckless desire to rush over and drag Legolas and Orome out of the way and a desperate need to rush backward out of the way. Fascination overrode both, though, and he took three steps forward and would have taken more, utterly mesmerized by the living twister, but Alflocksom caught his arm.
"No!" the captain yelled to be heard above the howling gale. "He said to stay back!" His grip tightened. He'd already lost his king once and wasn't about to lose him again.
The bottom of the ever swelling, screaming twister hovered just above both immortals, whipping their hair and clothes as though both were caught in a hurricane. Orome looked up into the eye of the storm above him. He staggered against the wild wind then righted himself, spread his arms wide, and closed his eyes. The twister suddenly dropped on top of them, swallowing both whole in utter blackness.
Time stood still in Aragorn's mind. Seconds, minutes, hours, now and forever, all seemed to blend together as he watched the supernatural at work. His eyes strained for a glimpse but the blackness was total – a complete nothingness – as though there had been a rip in the fabric of time and space...of reality...of everything.
Slowly, slowly, the middle of the tornado began to thread out, loosening like yarn from a ball. The swell lessened, the long, thin thread rewinding and funnelling back up into the cloud. The thread bent with the bulk of the tornado still on the ground and Orome and Legolas still lost from view. Suddenly the tornado withdrew back up into the cloud. One second the cloud it was there – spinning and churning like an insane, furious whirlpool – and the next it seemed to explode as birds tore off in every direction. Within moments the sky was blue once more...and it was over.
Aragorn stood panting as though he had just run the race of his life. His face remained upturned, his eyes fixed on a far off fluffy white cloud, afraid to look over and see the answer.
"Aragorn?"
He froze. Swallowed. Slowly lowered his gaze.
Orome was gone, as if he'd never been...and Legolas was rising to his feet.
Aragorn's knees almost buckled. He swayed for a moment, dangerously close to shut-down again, but this time with relief. He suddenly burst into tears. He had no idea that was coming, it just happened.
Alflocksom did as well.
So did Legolas.
Tbc...