Chapter 2: Scarring of my Soul
Legolas' POV
We ran for hours following the smell of this girl—woman—until we found her trail of deep crimson. Sown into the earth. Half a mile away, I'm sure her wound is clogged with dirt.
'If Rivers gets better, I promise not to ever let her out of my sight,' I prayed. I didn't bargain for Rivers' life because I didn't believe she was in danger of dying. Was I wrong!
Some men pointed us towards the mass graves established just outside of Fangorn forest. Sure enough, there was Rivers...
...Smoldering alongside the countless other dead.
Her body was slashed down her stomach, contents spilling out. Aragorn concurred she had been dead for a half hour. "I'm sorry, Legolas," he said in Elvish.
Why was he apologizing? It wasn't his fault. And why was he apologizing to me? I'm not her lover or her brother. From what she's told me, he'd be too confused to understand his sister's death.
I find a strange similarity between Kyler and I. I've been moiling over it ever since he was first introduced; she seemed to love him and omit his faults...but if she really loved him, wouldn't she have to love everything about him? I try to explain her death to him mentally, secretly teaching myself as well. I wish she could have seen him one last time.
The Cúron Ivor is near the foot of the grave. There are imprints of the flute in Rivers hands, yet it is untouched by scarlet. I dislike the way it shines so proudly. I pocket it anyway.
As we scurried through Fangorn, I found it hard to concentrate. I was tripping over hidden roots, smeared with natural camouflage. I imagined Rivers beside me, panting from the walk. Each time, a soft wind breathed a whisper through the trees.
If she was gone, why wouldn't she just leave? Her imaginary presence cut into me, growing deeper with each step.
Then, I hear them.
Voices, soft, chattering under the wind, drift into my peaked ears. They are almost inaudible. I catch one word, and pull out Rivers' flute—"Sirion."
For some weird reason, I twist the tube, and its clicks. The voices vaporize and I feel strangely comfortable. I tuck the flute away and scurry behind Aragorn.
(3rd person)
The mystic hues of a lost world snap back into her vision. A sharp, high click echoes across the expanses of Middle Earth. Animals cringe, plants wilt, and a corpse stirs from its eternal slumber.
Rivers was awake, alive and well as ever. Her stomach was smoothly sewn shut, the surgical crevices becoming invisible to her eyes and touch. Her blue habit, however, is rent to pieces, reminding her faintly of a gypsy floundering through battle.
What had happened? She remembered hearing music... but that was it. Nothing else. Just music...
"Oh m'god! Where is it?"
The flute was gone! She dug through the smoldering bodies of the orcs below her and was mortified to discover it had been abducted. 'Galadriel is gonna kill me...'
Now what? She was marooned in Middle Earth, this time completely clueless and unarmed. She was positive she couldn't give directions to any help nearby. Worse, if she had to go somewhere, she could stumble upon an orc encampment, or even Frodo.
She did have to somewhere. If she didn't, she'd be force to cannibalize her marauders, and she almost retched at the thought. Her collected a few things for her trip: a sword, a plump canteen, a pennywhistle, and a sack to tie them together. She laughed at herself. Rivers of Hastings, Middle Earth's hobo.
The sunrise was waning, the fluorescent remnants of the aged sky reflecting in Rivers' pearly eyes. She hoped Legolas was looking at the same sun, somewhere, anywhere, just to gaze upon it for one second.
How long had she been gone? Minutes, hours, days? Based on the intactness of the corpses, she guessed a day or two. He could be anywhere. His elven feet could have lifted him far from here.
A rustle in the woods drew Rivers to her feet. Her sword gleamed in the sunshine, its bearer shaking. 'My first fight by myself,' she thought. 'Bring it on!'
A pale, long snout budded out of the greenery. She had seen this face before. It was a horse, as white as Rivers' eyes. She had never seen something so white, yet it was strangely familiar...
"Shadowfax?"
The horse nickered, trotting over to her with a friendly wind. He tossed his head, mane flickering in the light, before rubbing against her face in a gesture of accord.
Suddenly, a whistle broke across the wind. They both froze. Shadowfax neighed obligingly before walking away. Seeing that she did not follow, he bit her gown, tugging her from the burning corpses. The whistle hissed again. Shadowfax desperately pulled her away, pace increasing as three more shouts came from over the hill.
She understood. "He's calling you, isn't he? Gandalf wants you to come."
The horse snorted, bullying her into another step.
Rivers cambered up onto its back and they took off at a full gallop over the swells of grass. The whistle had stopped somewhere in it all...
Rivers smiled. Finally, the gears of fate were spinning. Little did she know, someone was about to shove a wrench in to screw it all up.
Legolas' POV
We ran for hours following the smell of this girl—woman—until we found her trail of deep crimson. Sown into the earth. Half a mile away, I'm sure her wound is clogged with dirt.
'If Rivers gets better, I promise not to ever let her out of my sight,' I prayed. I didn't bargain for Rivers' life because I didn't believe she was in danger of dying. Was I wrong!
Some men pointed us towards the mass graves established just outside of Fangorn forest. Sure enough, there was Rivers...
...Smoldering alongside the countless other dead.
Her body was slashed down her stomach, contents spilling out. Aragorn concurred she had been dead for a half hour. "I'm sorry, Legolas," he said in Elvish.
Why was he apologizing? It wasn't his fault. And why was he apologizing to me? I'm not her lover or her brother. From what she's told me, he'd be too confused to understand his sister's death.
I find a strange similarity between Kyler and I. I've been moiling over it ever since he was first introduced; she seemed to love him and omit his faults...but if she really loved him, wouldn't she have to love everything about him? I try to explain her death to him mentally, secretly teaching myself as well. I wish she could have seen him one last time.
The Cúron Ivor is near the foot of the grave. There are imprints of the flute in Rivers hands, yet it is untouched by scarlet. I dislike the way it shines so proudly. I pocket it anyway.
As we scurried through Fangorn, I found it hard to concentrate. I was tripping over hidden roots, smeared with natural camouflage. I imagined Rivers beside me, panting from the walk. Each time, a soft wind breathed a whisper through the trees.
If she was gone, why wouldn't she just leave? Her imaginary presence cut into me, growing deeper with each step.
Then, I hear them.
Voices, soft, chattering under the wind, drift into my peaked ears. They are almost inaudible. I catch one word, and pull out Rivers' flute—"Sirion."
For some weird reason, I twist the tube, and its clicks. The voices vaporize and I feel strangely comfortable. I tuck the flute away and scurry behind Aragorn.
(3rd person)
The mystic hues of a lost world snap back into her vision. A sharp, high click echoes across the expanses of Middle Earth. Animals cringe, plants wilt, and a corpse stirs from its eternal slumber.
Rivers was awake, alive and well as ever. Her stomach was smoothly sewn shut, the surgical crevices becoming invisible to her eyes and touch. Her blue habit, however, is rent to pieces, reminding her faintly of a gypsy floundering through battle.
What had happened? She remembered hearing music... but that was it. Nothing else. Just music...
"Oh m'god! Where is it?"
The flute was gone! She dug through the smoldering bodies of the orcs below her and was mortified to discover it had been abducted. 'Galadriel is gonna kill me...'
Now what? She was marooned in Middle Earth, this time completely clueless and unarmed. She was positive she couldn't give directions to any help nearby. Worse, if she had to go somewhere, she could stumble upon an orc encampment, or even Frodo.
She did have to somewhere. If she didn't, she'd be force to cannibalize her marauders, and she almost retched at the thought. Her collected a few things for her trip: a sword, a plump canteen, a pennywhistle, and a sack to tie them together. She laughed at herself. Rivers of Hastings, Middle Earth's hobo.
The sunrise was waning, the fluorescent remnants of the aged sky reflecting in Rivers' pearly eyes. She hoped Legolas was looking at the same sun, somewhere, anywhere, just to gaze upon it for one second.
How long had she been gone? Minutes, hours, days? Based on the intactness of the corpses, she guessed a day or two. He could be anywhere. His elven feet could have lifted him far from here.
A rustle in the woods drew Rivers to her feet. Her sword gleamed in the sunshine, its bearer shaking. 'My first fight by myself,' she thought. 'Bring it on!'
A pale, long snout budded out of the greenery. She had seen this face before. It was a horse, as white as Rivers' eyes. She had never seen something so white, yet it was strangely familiar...
"Shadowfax?"
The horse nickered, trotting over to her with a friendly wind. He tossed his head, mane flickering in the light, before rubbing against her face in a gesture of accord.
Suddenly, a whistle broke across the wind. They both froze. Shadowfax neighed obligingly before walking away. Seeing that she did not follow, he bit her gown, tugging her from the burning corpses. The whistle hissed again. Shadowfax desperately pulled her away, pace increasing as three more shouts came from over the hill.
She understood. "He's calling you, isn't he? Gandalf wants you to come."
The horse snorted, bullying her into another step.
Rivers cambered up onto its back and they took off at a full gallop over the swells of grass. The whistle had stopped somewhere in it all...
Rivers smiled. Finally, the gears of fate were spinning. Little did she know, someone was about to shove a wrench in to screw it all up.