AUTHOR NOTES: More jumping around, some bloodletting, and some more god-
forsaken foreshadowing. I just can't get enough. Here's Chapter 9, and I
humbly entreat you to enjoy it.
Chapter IX - The Weakness of Men
These orcs were swifter than their kin who had attacked Mirkwood upon that fateful day which now seemed so long ago. They held their blades with a strange, terrifying confidence and wielded them well. Legolas, underestimating his foe, lost his footing when one scimitar raked against his ribs, slicing clean through his tunic and the pale skin beneath. The pain was acute and unexpected. He grabbed at his side with his free hand and felt himself fall to the earth, and as he fell he saw his own blood upon the leaves below. He hit hard, unable to catch himself. In a moment, the huge beast was upon him. It straddled him and, gripping one of Legolas' shoulders, it flipped the Elf onto his back with amazing strength. Then it raised its weapon high above its head and bellowed a terrifying war cry as it was brought down. As the blade screamed through the air, heading for his throat, Legolas felt genuine fear. His eyes flew wide as he realized how swiftly his life was about to end.
Suddenly the orc had no head. A black fountain of blood replaced its snarling face. But he was not safe yet. The falling body still clutched a jagged scimitar. Regaining his wits, Legolas rolled out of the way, using his hips to buck the headless orc off of him. There was a hard thud as the falling edge was embedded in the earth where his neck had been a moment before.
Smiling to himself in a wild, dwarvish way was Gimli, his axe sticky with orc gore.
"Diola lle. My thanks," Legolas said, rising to his feet, cursing himself for having fallen before his companion. He knew it would be long before Gimli let off the subject of an Elf falling flat on his face.
But Gimli was all concern now. "You're hurt." A red stain was growing across Legolas' side. He felt blood begin to run down his leg. Nausea from blood loss was beginning to set in. Being Elvish, the wound would clot quickly and leave a scar that would fade within a couple hundred years, but for now he had to ignore it.
"This is nothing. Have you seen Frodo?"
"No, indeed. I've lost track of the Hobbits completely."
Legolas winced: his movement had made the cut tear deeper. Perhaps this was not as easily mended as he had assumed. The news of the Halflings disappearance darkened his spirits even more. He thought of Baran and Silindë's perishing. *No,* he thought to himself. *Let them not share the same fate.* They would not. They were not Elves, they had not the same unwritten doom that Elves met when outnumbered by the yrch. But they were far from safe. His train of thought was broken as the call of a horn split the air.
* * *
It was over. They had failed.
Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli stood silent and afraid over the body of Boromir. The tall, hard-eyed Man had died with four arrows embedded in his torso, his blood-slicked mouth slightly open, icy gray eyes staring up at the trees, his face smeared with gore. Blood soaked the earth around him and covered his companions' hands. Legolas could smell it on him. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the scent of Boromir's blood out of his skin.
If he had come sooner, if he had not followed Gimli, if he had not suddenly felt that strange wave of panic upon hearing of Frodo's disappearance: he would have fought with Boromir. He could have taken the arrows. They would have succeeded in the end, with an Elf and a strong Man fighting back-to- back. It was so simple. Why had he followed Gimli? Why hadn't he thought of the others? Why-*why* had he panicked like that? He thought bitterly of the Ring. Had it taken a hold of him as well? He stopped. His mind was reeling. *How could the Ring possibly tempt me? This was not supposed to happen. I am an Elf. I am immune. I turned from its touch, I never thought of it before-this day.*
"We must give him a funeral," he stated simply.
"We don't have the time," replied Gimli. "Merry and Pippin are most likely still alive, but they won't last long in the clutches of the enemy. We should go after them. There is hope there."
"No!" Legolas said, almost shouting. Gimli took a step back, afraid of the wild look in his companion's eyes, wary of his taught shoulders. "I have lost too many friends already, and I was denied of the ability to give them proper rites. They were taken and no trace was ever found."
"That wasn't your fau-" Aragorn began, but Legolas wheeled on him, shooting him a look so venomous that it would have frozen a lesser man's heart.
"Leave it," Legolas said. He knelt by Boromir's cold body and touched his hand to the Man's brow. "He needed me before and I did not help him. But I can do this. In this there is time."
"THERE IS NO TIME!" Gimli yelled. Yet Legolas didn't even flinch. It was as though he had not heard the dwarf's bellow though it echoed around them and made Aragorn fearful of enemies who might have heard. Legolas was as silent and cold as the corpse before him. Aragorn had never seen his friend act this way. Indeed, he had never even seen an Elf act as though his own sanity was in question. Legolas was hiding something: something deeper than the torment of losing two companions to the Shadow, and now the four most innocent of them all. It was present in the steady hum of his breath, in the strange light that had been kindled in his piercing, gray eyes.
*Why did I think of the Ring? Do I desire power? Do I desire-?* He stopped. He remembered Ithilwen and suddenly he wanted to scream. He opened his mouth, but it took a moment for the sound to come out.
"Get one of the boats," said the Elf in a way that made the others instantly obey.
* * *
Time did not exist in Rohan. As soon as he had stepped upon the smooth, grassy plains of that land, Legolas had felt time stop. He knew things were still moving, for he saw the grass ripple and shimmer like waves upon a stormy lake, and he knew the wind was running through his hair, but the motion seemed slow and steady. It was like to the feeling he had known while in Lorien, but vastly different. There was something less ancient, more fresh and young about the halting sensation. It was not unpleasant. It was enticing. It was like the difference between a human and an Elf: essentially, they were the same, yet there were the subtleties and awesome dissimilarity. He knew that something here was waiting for him.
And there was also something distinctly troubling in the air. It was very thin and nearly undetectable, yet Legolas swore that he could sense something alien in the breeze. It pulled at part of him he had never felt: a piece of his soul that he had hidden away.
He could smell salt on the wind.
* * *
Upon first seeing the flaxen-haired Man high upon his light gray steed, Legolas tried hard not to stare. The Man's face held a strange quality which he was sure he held to be familiar, but he could not place its origin in his mind. The blue-gray eyes were cold, but the face had something gentle in it as well. The Man was trying to hide this vulnerability now. He looked upon the three companions with disdain and apprehension.
"And are you Elvish folk?"
Legolas had decided to remain silent, as to allow Aragorn to deal with this Man who seemed more irksome than intriguing. But he started at this strange inquiry. The Man was being absurd. Was it not obvious? His hood was thrown off his head, dark hair whistling in the wind, ears easily visible if not for the other signs: his build, his eyes, the intangible essence that separated Elf from Man. Was so little known of his people in the Southlands? Didn't they ever pass this way? Or was he a myth, a curiosity come to life?
"No," Aragorn replied steadily. "Only one of us is: Legolas, of the People of Northern Mirkwood."
Legolas received a slew of stares and hard looks. Embarrassed, he had to remind himself that Elves must have indeed been scarce in the Southlands, and that these people had doubtlessly never seen an Elf before. It was discomforting to feel the yellow-haired riders' eyes travel up and down his person, seeking irregularities. Their gazes rested on his face for the most part, or a bit to the right or left to see the subtle peaks atop his ears. They looked again at Aragorn, noting that the Man was distinctly unlike one of their own, yet not completely akin to an Elf-or at least, *this* Elf. They were similar, and yet not so.
At last, the rider lifted his gaze from Legolas and returned to speaking with Aragorn. His name was Eomer. He was the chief of the Riddermark, whatever that was. There were the Rohirrim. Their horses were tall and proud, rivaling even the beautiful Elven steeds he had seen in Rivendell.
As Aragorn spoke, Legolas sat down on the grass, tilting his head back to feel the caress of the sun. He did not like looking at Eomer or even hearing his voice. There was something about the Man that caused a strange stirring inside him, as though he was supposed to know him. Yet Legolas had never been to the South all of his long life. The quest had brought him as far as he had ever been. And the Rohirrim did not venture to the North. They had no reason. What was this feeling?
The talk turned to Lorien for some reason. Legolas snapped back into attention, rising to stretch his legs. Still not fully listening, he suddenly realized that Gimli's voice had risen above Eomer's, and that the dwarf had drawn himself up to his full, diminutive height. Galadriel was being denounced. That was a foolish mistake.
Eomer delivered a cheap, human insult about Gimli's height. Legolas, who was already sick of being in the Man's presence, knocked an arrow before any of the surrounding mortals had time to draw breath. He leveled the tip of the dart with Eomer's forehead.
"He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell."
Eomer stared at him in an aggressive way, obviously afraid, and also surprised by the Elven voice. Legolas did not blink. He stared long and hard at the Man, revealing in slight the supremacy that was his people's birthright: the ability to reveal a segment of their power in the form of their wrath. It was radiating off of him, and Eomer felt it, and his heart quailed.
Aragorn stepped between them. Legolas let his fury melt, but continued to glare at Eomer, though now he did so in an effort to figure out where exactly he had seen the Man's face before. Eomer did not like being so examined, and his speech faltered a little. Defeated, Legolas turned away. Still netted in by the thicket of spears, he had little place to go. Slowly, he approached a young rider whose beard had not begun to grow. The human's youth and curiosity let Legolas come near enough to stroke his horse's muzzle. The horse, receptive to the Elf's touch, eagerly moved forward. Legolas smiled and softly said, "Lle naa vanima, belegohtar."
A few feet away, one rider whispered to another: "See? I told you that Elves could bewitch animals. He's saying a spell or something. That horse will probably go lame within a week, mark my words."
Irritated, Legolas ceased talking and lifted his hand, glaring at the Man who had whispered in the accusatory fashion. The human showed defiance, but visible unease. Legolas was sick of this. He did not like the Rohirrim. They were blind and stupid, ignorant as...no, not as Dwarves. Gimli had proven him wrong. They were ignorant as orcs. Time was being wasted. Merry and Pippin were still in need.
Legolas heart leapt in his chest. Merry and Pippin! He immediately turned his attention back to the conversation. Aragorn was inquiring as to whether or not the Riders of Rohan had come upon a band of Orcs.
They had.
Legolas stepped forward next to Aragorn. Eomer shifted back a little. The Elf asked, "Did you find two Halflings?"
"Halflings?"
"They would be small," Aragorn explained. "Only children to your eyes."
Eomer blinked in confusion. "We saw no children. You may search the corpses." He looked down, suddenly seeming culpable under the Three Hunters' stare. "We left none alive."
Legolas' heart stopped. He felt rage and despair flare up inside him. Aragorn had apparently sensed the same thing and caught Legolas' shoulder. The Elf and the Ranger stared at each other for a moment, utterly bewildered. Gimli sputtered, and whispered something mournful in Khuzdul.
Eomer whistled. Two horses were brought forward. Legolas heard angry whispers among the riders, questioning Eomer's lenience. It had surprised Legolas that the proud Man had folded, even to Aragorn. Gimli was strangely afraid of riding, so Legolas offered to share a steed. As they parted from the group Legolas knew, much to his annoyance, that they were all destined to meet up again.
He was falling into sickly fear, fighting it all the while. No. He would not allow the Hobbits to have suffered so. They were not meant to. The Valar were not so cruel.
Ahead of them, the forest of Fangorn loomed. Something was moving in the shadows there. Legolas felt himself smile unconsciously; relieved to take the comfort in the dangers and the ancient beauty of trees once more.
-Fin-
Please review.
Continued in Chapter 10 - The Perils of Fangorn (Scary Saruman encounter ahead)
Elvish:
Diola lle: 'Thank you' Lle naa vanima, belegohtar: 'You are magnificent, mighty warrior'
Chapter IX - The Weakness of Men
These orcs were swifter than their kin who had attacked Mirkwood upon that fateful day which now seemed so long ago. They held their blades with a strange, terrifying confidence and wielded them well. Legolas, underestimating his foe, lost his footing when one scimitar raked against his ribs, slicing clean through his tunic and the pale skin beneath. The pain was acute and unexpected. He grabbed at his side with his free hand and felt himself fall to the earth, and as he fell he saw his own blood upon the leaves below. He hit hard, unable to catch himself. In a moment, the huge beast was upon him. It straddled him and, gripping one of Legolas' shoulders, it flipped the Elf onto his back with amazing strength. Then it raised its weapon high above its head and bellowed a terrifying war cry as it was brought down. As the blade screamed through the air, heading for his throat, Legolas felt genuine fear. His eyes flew wide as he realized how swiftly his life was about to end.
Suddenly the orc had no head. A black fountain of blood replaced its snarling face. But he was not safe yet. The falling body still clutched a jagged scimitar. Regaining his wits, Legolas rolled out of the way, using his hips to buck the headless orc off of him. There was a hard thud as the falling edge was embedded in the earth where his neck had been a moment before.
Smiling to himself in a wild, dwarvish way was Gimli, his axe sticky with orc gore.
"Diola lle. My thanks," Legolas said, rising to his feet, cursing himself for having fallen before his companion. He knew it would be long before Gimli let off the subject of an Elf falling flat on his face.
But Gimli was all concern now. "You're hurt." A red stain was growing across Legolas' side. He felt blood begin to run down his leg. Nausea from blood loss was beginning to set in. Being Elvish, the wound would clot quickly and leave a scar that would fade within a couple hundred years, but for now he had to ignore it.
"This is nothing. Have you seen Frodo?"
"No, indeed. I've lost track of the Hobbits completely."
Legolas winced: his movement had made the cut tear deeper. Perhaps this was not as easily mended as he had assumed. The news of the Halflings disappearance darkened his spirits even more. He thought of Baran and Silindë's perishing. *No,* he thought to himself. *Let them not share the same fate.* They would not. They were not Elves, they had not the same unwritten doom that Elves met when outnumbered by the yrch. But they were far from safe. His train of thought was broken as the call of a horn split the air.
* * *
It was over. They had failed.
Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli stood silent and afraid over the body of Boromir. The tall, hard-eyed Man had died with four arrows embedded in his torso, his blood-slicked mouth slightly open, icy gray eyes staring up at the trees, his face smeared with gore. Blood soaked the earth around him and covered his companions' hands. Legolas could smell it on him. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the scent of Boromir's blood out of his skin.
If he had come sooner, if he had not followed Gimli, if he had not suddenly felt that strange wave of panic upon hearing of Frodo's disappearance: he would have fought with Boromir. He could have taken the arrows. They would have succeeded in the end, with an Elf and a strong Man fighting back-to- back. It was so simple. Why had he followed Gimli? Why hadn't he thought of the others? Why-*why* had he panicked like that? He thought bitterly of the Ring. Had it taken a hold of him as well? He stopped. His mind was reeling. *How could the Ring possibly tempt me? This was not supposed to happen. I am an Elf. I am immune. I turned from its touch, I never thought of it before-this day.*
"We must give him a funeral," he stated simply.
"We don't have the time," replied Gimli. "Merry and Pippin are most likely still alive, but they won't last long in the clutches of the enemy. We should go after them. There is hope there."
"No!" Legolas said, almost shouting. Gimli took a step back, afraid of the wild look in his companion's eyes, wary of his taught shoulders. "I have lost too many friends already, and I was denied of the ability to give them proper rites. They were taken and no trace was ever found."
"That wasn't your fau-" Aragorn began, but Legolas wheeled on him, shooting him a look so venomous that it would have frozen a lesser man's heart.
"Leave it," Legolas said. He knelt by Boromir's cold body and touched his hand to the Man's brow. "He needed me before and I did not help him. But I can do this. In this there is time."
"THERE IS NO TIME!" Gimli yelled. Yet Legolas didn't even flinch. It was as though he had not heard the dwarf's bellow though it echoed around them and made Aragorn fearful of enemies who might have heard. Legolas was as silent and cold as the corpse before him. Aragorn had never seen his friend act this way. Indeed, he had never even seen an Elf act as though his own sanity was in question. Legolas was hiding something: something deeper than the torment of losing two companions to the Shadow, and now the four most innocent of them all. It was present in the steady hum of his breath, in the strange light that had been kindled in his piercing, gray eyes.
*Why did I think of the Ring? Do I desire power? Do I desire-?* He stopped. He remembered Ithilwen and suddenly he wanted to scream. He opened his mouth, but it took a moment for the sound to come out.
"Get one of the boats," said the Elf in a way that made the others instantly obey.
* * *
Time did not exist in Rohan. As soon as he had stepped upon the smooth, grassy plains of that land, Legolas had felt time stop. He knew things were still moving, for he saw the grass ripple and shimmer like waves upon a stormy lake, and he knew the wind was running through his hair, but the motion seemed slow and steady. It was like to the feeling he had known while in Lorien, but vastly different. There was something less ancient, more fresh and young about the halting sensation. It was not unpleasant. It was enticing. It was like the difference between a human and an Elf: essentially, they were the same, yet there were the subtleties and awesome dissimilarity. He knew that something here was waiting for him.
And there was also something distinctly troubling in the air. It was very thin and nearly undetectable, yet Legolas swore that he could sense something alien in the breeze. It pulled at part of him he had never felt: a piece of his soul that he had hidden away.
He could smell salt on the wind.
* * *
Upon first seeing the flaxen-haired Man high upon his light gray steed, Legolas tried hard not to stare. The Man's face held a strange quality which he was sure he held to be familiar, but he could not place its origin in his mind. The blue-gray eyes were cold, but the face had something gentle in it as well. The Man was trying to hide this vulnerability now. He looked upon the three companions with disdain and apprehension.
"And are you Elvish folk?"
Legolas had decided to remain silent, as to allow Aragorn to deal with this Man who seemed more irksome than intriguing. But he started at this strange inquiry. The Man was being absurd. Was it not obvious? His hood was thrown off his head, dark hair whistling in the wind, ears easily visible if not for the other signs: his build, his eyes, the intangible essence that separated Elf from Man. Was so little known of his people in the Southlands? Didn't they ever pass this way? Or was he a myth, a curiosity come to life?
"No," Aragorn replied steadily. "Only one of us is: Legolas, of the People of Northern Mirkwood."
Legolas received a slew of stares and hard looks. Embarrassed, he had to remind himself that Elves must have indeed been scarce in the Southlands, and that these people had doubtlessly never seen an Elf before. It was discomforting to feel the yellow-haired riders' eyes travel up and down his person, seeking irregularities. Their gazes rested on his face for the most part, or a bit to the right or left to see the subtle peaks atop his ears. They looked again at Aragorn, noting that the Man was distinctly unlike one of their own, yet not completely akin to an Elf-or at least, *this* Elf. They were similar, and yet not so.
At last, the rider lifted his gaze from Legolas and returned to speaking with Aragorn. His name was Eomer. He was the chief of the Riddermark, whatever that was. There were the Rohirrim. Their horses were tall and proud, rivaling even the beautiful Elven steeds he had seen in Rivendell.
As Aragorn spoke, Legolas sat down on the grass, tilting his head back to feel the caress of the sun. He did not like looking at Eomer or even hearing his voice. There was something about the Man that caused a strange stirring inside him, as though he was supposed to know him. Yet Legolas had never been to the South all of his long life. The quest had brought him as far as he had ever been. And the Rohirrim did not venture to the North. They had no reason. What was this feeling?
The talk turned to Lorien for some reason. Legolas snapped back into attention, rising to stretch his legs. Still not fully listening, he suddenly realized that Gimli's voice had risen above Eomer's, and that the dwarf had drawn himself up to his full, diminutive height. Galadriel was being denounced. That was a foolish mistake.
Eomer delivered a cheap, human insult about Gimli's height. Legolas, who was already sick of being in the Man's presence, knocked an arrow before any of the surrounding mortals had time to draw breath. He leveled the tip of the dart with Eomer's forehead.
"He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell."
Eomer stared at him in an aggressive way, obviously afraid, and also surprised by the Elven voice. Legolas did not blink. He stared long and hard at the Man, revealing in slight the supremacy that was his people's birthright: the ability to reveal a segment of their power in the form of their wrath. It was radiating off of him, and Eomer felt it, and his heart quailed.
Aragorn stepped between them. Legolas let his fury melt, but continued to glare at Eomer, though now he did so in an effort to figure out where exactly he had seen the Man's face before. Eomer did not like being so examined, and his speech faltered a little. Defeated, Legolas turned away. Still netted in by the thicket of spears, he had little place to go. Slowly, he approached a young rider whose beard had not begun to grow. The human's youth and curiosity let Legolas come near enough to stroke his horse's muzzle. The horse, receptive to the Elf's touch, eagerly moved forward. Legolas smiled and softly said, "Lle naa vanima, belegohtar."
A few feet away, one rider whispered to another: "See? I told you that Elves could bewitch animals. He's saying a spell or something. That horse will probably go lame within a week, mark my words."
Irritated, Legolas ceased talking and lifted his hand, glaring at the Man who had whispered in the accusatory fashion. The human showed defiance, but visible unease. Legolas was sick of this. He did not like the Rohirrim. They were blind and stupid, ignorant as...no, not as Dwarves. Gimli had proven him wrong. They were ignorant as orcs. Time was being wasted. Merry and Pippin were still in need.
Legolas heart leapt in his chest. Merry and Pippin! He immediately turned his attention back to the conversation. Aragorn was inquiring as to whether or not the Riders of Rohan had come upon a band of Orcs.
They had.
Legolas stepped forward next to Aragorn. Eomer shifted back a little. The Elf asked, "Did you find two Halflings?"
"Halflings?"
"They would be small," Aragorn explained. "Only children to your eyes."
Eomer blinked in confusion. "We saw no children. You may search the corpses." He looked down, suddenly seeming culpable under the Three Hunters' stare. "We left none alive."
Legolas' heart stopped. He felt rage and despair flare up inside him. Aragorn had apparently sensed the same thing and caught Legolas' shoulder. The Elf and the Ranger stared at each other for a moment, utterly bewildered. Gimli sputtered, and whispered something mournful in Khuzdul.
Eomer whistled. Two horses were brought forward. Legolas heard angry whispers among the riders, questioning Eomer's lenience. It had surprised Legolas that the proud Man had folded, even to Aragorn. Gimli was strangely afraid of riding, so Legolas offered to share a steed. As they parted from the group Legolas knew, much to his annoyance, that they were all destined to meet up again.
He was falling into sickly fear, fighting it all the while. No. He would not allow the Hobbits to have suffered so. They were not meant to. The Valar were not so cruel.
Ahead of them, the forest of Fangorn loomed. Something was moving in the shadows there. Legolas felt himself smile unconsciously; relieved to take the comfort in the dangers and the ancient beauty of trees once more.
-Fin-
Please review.
Continued in Chapter 10 - The Perils of Fangorn (Scary Saruman encounter ahead)
Elvish:
Diola lle: 'Thank you' Lle naa vanima, belegohtar: 'You are magnificent, mighty warrior'