Author: Mirrordance
Title: For Every Evil
Summary: Legolas is a policeman in 2004. His colleagues start to wonder why the 10-yr veteran doesn't age & more trouble ahead after he runs across the Fellowship & some friends in modern incarnations, resurrected along with a new world-threatening peril.
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38: Strange Old Places
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The Docking Bay,
The Black Sea Coast,
Sinop, Turkey
Mid-2004
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Say nothing of importance!
Wormtongue can hear!
"I want to speak with young Mr. Baggins," Wormtongue said, but those with the comm. links deigned to reply.
They heeded their elven friend's warning, and looked upon each other uncertainly. The perceptive Finn Baggins was staring at his companions with his wide penetrating eyes. The grave expressions on the faces of the older ones, those who knew what was happening, was stirring something in him that he vaguely felt he'd rather keep silent and asleep.
He was feeling strangely responsible, strangely guilty. He turned to Elladan pleadingly, wanting to know what was happening.
"They are holding all of our friends captive," said Elladan quietly, "They are looking for the Ankh."
"Which I now hold in my possession," Finn said softly. He fingered the artifact in his coat pocket, thoughtful. He considered handing it to the others; they seemed more knowledgeable of the situation than him. But for some reason they let it stay with him wordlessly, and he remembered what Brad said to him earlier this night about the story of the Ring. Another artifact that they let stay in his hands, trusting him to…
"It must be destroyed," he said softly, "By me."
"No one's destroying my Ankh!" Bob Baggins and Sean Malcolm said at the exact same time.
"It's not yours, you filthy thief," snapped Bob at his fellow scholar, "You filthy, filthy thief."
"I did not take it!" retorted Sean, and as Baggins glared at him hotly, unrelenting, he said quickly, "Well not at first. Dean stole it, I found it in his room. There's nothing wrong with stealing from a thief."
"Everybody calm down," sighed Elrohir, "We're not even entirely sure how we can destroy it, now that Mount Doom is at the very bottom of the blasted--"
"I want to speak with Frodo Baggins at once!" Wormtongue said, over the comm. more forcefully, so menacingly that those who had comm. links seemed to have been forcibly torn away from the docks, minds almost soaring off toward the Amazona with great, breathless fear.
"Put him on, NOW!" Wormtongue demanded.
When he was still met with no reply, they heard him cuss and snarl, just before they heard the blast of his gun.
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Deck C,
The Amazona,
The Black Sea
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Legolas lifted his head up from when he ducked to the ground, warrior's instincts having taken over the very breath Wormtongue's eyes took on a crazed look and he lifted his gun up loosely in Legolas' direction. In afterthought, he really shouldn't have bothered, for the man was not aiming for him at all, and the bullet made a home of a notch on the wall.
"Next one's going to weave its way to the elf," Wormtongue said over the comm., "Someone had better start talking to me."
"They won't tell you a thing," Legolas scoffed at him, "you'll never get your hands on it. Do you honestly think that after all these lives and all these ages, they will yield it to someone like you? That doesn't just make you an idiot, that doesn't just make you a fool, it makes you downright deluded."
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Docking Bay,
Black Sea Coast,
Sinop, Turkey
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He couldn't hear what they were saying, and he was downright starving for a comm. link of his own. But the Interpol Agent could read the faces of Elrohir, Elladan and Gandalf clearly enough. There was a steady, pained determination in their eyes, wary glances toward Frodo Baggins as if they ached to tell him something but could not find the heart to.
But Jimmy Goran, perhaps because he once was Gimli the dwarf, still had that inalienably persistent desire to always be kept abreast of the situation.
"What is happening in there?" he asked, "What the hell is happening in there?"
Haldir placed a calming hand on his shoulder, to silence him for a moment. It was easy enough to deduce, he supposed, what was happening aboard the Amazona, and likely Goran was distressed because he desired a different answer.
Wormtongue had their friends. They had the Ankh. He wanted a trade, and he was undoubtedly prepared to shed blood for it. From the looks on Elrohir, Elladan and Gandalf's faces, he's already started.
"He is hurting them anyway," Haldir said quietly, "I might as well call for the assistance of the authorities. We've no other choice. We can't board that barge and expect to succeed in attempting to take it; they can see us coming miles away and can prepare. We're outgunned and outnumbered, and they have the high ground."
"As you said earlier this night," said Gandalf, putting a hand over the speaker of his comm. link to prevent from being heard by Wormtongue, "Or backs are indeed pressed against the wall."
Haldir nodded and picked up his cellphone.
"We must take the hobbits to safety," said Elladan, "If Wormtongue cannot get the Ankh by ransom, he'll likely try by searching for them."
"Haldir," said Gandalf, "We shall spirit the young ones away."
Haldir pressed a hand to the receiver of his cellphone, "It is best that you do so; I am certain you have no wish of fielding any questions from the police. I will oversee that this operation is done in the safest manner."
"I'm going with you," Goran said flatly, booking no arguments.
Haldir glanced at him with a bit of a smirk.
"You have a bit of an affinity for elves, Mr. Goran," said Haldir, "When you come back to yourself, however, you'll find you've been mistaking me for some other blond, pompous fellow."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Goran said simply, "I'll just be where I think I'll be useful."
Haldir smiled a bit and shrugged, not bothering to argue as he turned his attention back to his cellphone.
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Sick Bay,
Deck C,
The Amazona,
The Black Sea
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When his eyes opened, they opened to an old world. That was because his King was looking upon him, face creased in worry even as he made a valiant attempt at a welcoming smile.
"My King," he said, or tried to say, at least. His weak voice was alien to him, just as the words were once alien too… but he was Boromir now, of that he was certain. Death brought the warrior back to life. The willingness to die for those he loved, a cause he believed in, brought those loves and those causes into focus, and he's reclaimed himself at last.
He knew, of course, that the last time that hardy face and those steely silver eyes looked upon him this way, he was dying. But instead of grief there is welcome in his sovereign's face, and he thought perhaps that things might just turn out all right, this time.
"Save your breath, my friend," Aragorn said to him, touching his cheek gently and resting his warm hand upon it, eyes alight, glistening at Boromir's apparent remembrance, "Quite a journey you've made. Through life and death, and then life anew. Except it's a life that's old."
Boromir closed his eyes in weariness, and he thought he smiled. "You are a very complicated thinker."
"Do you want anything for the pain?" Aragorn asked, "We treated you with the minimum anesthetics. I wanted you awake in the soonest possible time, that I may assure myself of your welfare, and that you may be awake and possibly able to defend yourself in case we encounter anymore trouble."
"I didn't even notice the hurt," Boromir said with an irritable grunt, "Until you pointed it out. Sire."
"Why does he call you that?" a disembodied voice said in the background, and Boromir struggled to crane his neck and see who in the world that was. But his body was leaden, and the various tubes and wires on his body was making everything such a ridiculously difficult and ultimately pointless task.
"That is Doctor Yavi," said Aragorn, "I assisted him in treating you. He has a wonderful pair of hands."
"Are we being taken hostage because of you?" Yavi asked, "You're some kind of a royal guy?"
Aragorn and Boromir crossed ironic, humorous glances. How in the world could they possibly answer that?
The one relaxed conversation they've had that entire night was cut short when Legolas Greenleaf burst through the double doors of Sick Bay, apparently having been thrown forward. Unable to catch himself, he fell to the ground as he crashed into a metal tray of miscellaneous medical tools.
Stunned, it took Aragorn a blink of disbelief before he sauntered forward and placed a hesitant hand upon the elf's shoulder. The Mirkwood Prince was bleeding to half his life the way he looked, pale and trembling, with the leg of his pants soaked in a deep crimson. But there was never enough blood loss to rob him of that princely glare. He pushed himself to his elbows and looked up hotly at the double-doors from which he came.
Grima Wormtongue strode into Sick Bay with an air of impatience and cold, cold efficiency. His mercenaries wordlessly grabbed at Yavi, Aragorn and Legolas, and held onto them tight. Wormtongue glared down at Boromir, who was staring at him with anger, and a well-concealed but admittedly present fear. Wormtongue tore his eyes away from the injured man, and studied the machines that kept him alive. Frigidly, he pulled at a plug on the wall, and the medical equipment bleeped in alarm and died down with a fading whir.
"No!" Aragorn cried, struggling with his captors, "Boromir! No!" His eyes burned. He was weakened by his pains, but he was angry enough, and determined enough, to send renewed fire coursing through his veins. He took one of his captors down to the ground, knocked him out with a single, well-placed punch to the jaw.
Two of the mercenaries grabbed him from behind, by the arms and the neck. One of these was one of Legolas' two captors, relinquishing his hold on the elf in the false belief that he was too weak to cause similar trouble. But the Mirkwood Prince was, of course, practically made for disaster… He had slipped one of the medical knives he crashed into earlier into his sleeve, and decided now was the best time to make use of it.
Perhaps out of sheer revenge, he stabbed his captor on the leg, and twisted it just before he pulled it out. The man screamed in pain, and loosened his hold on Legolas. The elf then elbowed him on the stomach, and backhanded him so fiercely it sent him to the ground. Legolas looked to see how Aragorn was faring, and the warrior already successfully downed two of his foes. But he was obviously weary and hurt, and that last one was getting the better of him. Taking careful aim, Legolas sent his knife toward the back of the mercenary's neck, and the man went down to the ground with a dead, dull thud.
The elf then looked toward Grima Wormtongue, who was nervous but tried to remain unfazed. He backed up against the wall, gun raised before him threateningly to anyone who dared come close, and a radio to his mouth, apparently calling for reinforcements.
Legolas pondered his options. Boromir was dying (unfortunately, again). Grima Wormtongue had a gun trained on him and was never hesitant to use it. He could try to jump the man, of course, but he was injured and unarmed. He wanted to jump the man, wanted to train his own gun against his head, tell his mercenaries to stand down or the boss gets it and no one's going to get paid. Ransom us, why don't you, I'll ransom you, you sick bastard. But it was, of course, at this point in time, a bit of a dream. Wormtongue would have shot him, point-black, mid-air. Quick as he was, he was also a warrior and certainly no fool. In short, he found with a bit of a sigh that he didn't have very many options at all.
Legolas' eyes drifted away from him and toward Boromir, whose glassy stare was wide with desperate, inadequate gulps of air, blue-tinged lips partly open with his struggle. Legolas limped toward his bedside and looked at the multitude of wires with some alarm.
"Aragorn!" he cried, and the adan broke away from the felled mercenaries to the elf's side. The men holding Doctor Yavi held the same, cautious stance as Wormtongue, fearing to move.
Aragorn deftly organized the wires and put them back in their proper places. Boromir's breathing gradually eased, and his eyes drifted close in exhaustion. Legolas looked at Aragorn with a bit of a smile, exhilarated with the minor victory, as reinforcements of the downed mercenaries stormed into Sick Bay and once again took hold of them.
"That was a futile exercise," Grima said, after they were once again secured.
It can be looked upon that way, yes, Aragorn mused. But in a night so fraught with great dangers, every breath was a treasure. One could not help but look at the short-term, take the night one aching step at a time. They saved their friend after he was shot, step one. They saved him after Wormtongue shut down life support, step two. Only the gods knew where life would next take them. For now, he was simply relived that Grima Wormtongue did not try to do what he did with Boromir earlier.
Grima stepped toward Aragorn, tilting his head in thought. "I am having trouble reaching the Ringbearer. I am having trouble claiming my Ankh."
"Do you expect me to help?" Aragorn asked him sarcastically, cocking an eyebrow at him.
"As a matter of fact," Wormtongue said with a grunt as he arranged the comm. link upon Aragorn's ear and collar. He always had, and never lost these adroit servant's hands, quick and efficient. He stepped away from the adan, "I do indeed expect your help."
"I can't see how," Aragorn retorted, although it was of course, a lie. Frodo's always had a great, great heart. It will pain him to have people suffer directly or indirectly because of him. To ransom people was a plain enough tactic—give me the Ankh or Boromir dies, et cetera. But because Frodo was not here to see, and Boromir or Legolas or himself won't cry out in plea, or fear, or anguish, Wormtongue needed some form of a narrator, to tell Frodo what was happening, to tell Frodo who'd die and exactly how if he did not yield the Ankh.
Now Aragorn… Aragorn always had no qualms about sacrificing himself. If he was tortured, and Grima tried to force him to cry out to Frodo in help, he knows he'd keep his silence to the death. So would Legolas and Boromir. But… but if he was made to watch Legolas or Boromir harmed, and forced to describe it to Frodo lest they be killed right in front of him… it was certainly much harder than if he just simply needed to sacrifice himself.
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Sinop, Turkey
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There was quite a number of them, so they split the riding party in two cars. The sons of Elrond spread their considerable talents around, and once more they split. With Elladan rode Finn and Sam, who'd taken a liking and found a comfort in him. With them rode Sean Malcolm, who was shying away from the ire of Bob Baggins, who was pondering Gandalf with some intensity and was loathe to leave him. Bob and Gandalf rode with Pippin and Mark, who were quite taken by Elrohir.
It shouldn't be hard to believe that the ride in the former, in Elladan's charge, was more uncomfortable than the veritable rollercoaster his twin drove (what with Pippin, Mark and Elrohir himself all there to cause trouble).
For here in this car, history weighed far more heavily, far more painfully. Here was Smeagol as caught in deception and insatiable hunger ages ago, as now. And here was a young man pressed into duties that entailed the fate of the world—quite a burden for a frame so small. Here was Sam, one of the grandest friends of all the worlds, unsure and worried. Here was Elladan, who was facing the loss of lifelong friends held captive in the Amazona. The limited space of the car—windows closed and air wet and tight because of the raging rains outside—was heady with the weight of history, and fear of the future, the very burden of it was just clogging every breath.
Elladan's jaws were set tight, as he kept his burning eyes on the road. He could hear the muffled crashes and hits, every strike that met flesh, every gasp that tried to remain silent, all from the comm. link he could not bear to tear from his ear. It was almost vulgar, to try and spare the self of hearing their pain, it was almost traitorous not to stay, and share some of it, even in just spirit. His friends were dying. Slowly, painfully. And he was, once again this night, running the other way.
Finn Baggins, uneasily settled in the backseat next to Sam, was staring at his face from the rearview mirror. He was always very perceptive. People were getting hurt. People were likely dying. All for this silly, little thing…
"I wish the Ring had never come to me," he said suddenly, slicing across the palpable silence.
Elladan glanced up at him from the rearview mirror. He knew that after all these ages, his eyes were setting upon some fragment of Frodo Baggins once again.
No one in the car corrected Frodo, or considered the reference to a ring as a confused mistake. Perhaps Sam and Sean found it trivial. Or perhaps, somewhere deep in their own minds, in their old spirits, they knew that in speaking of the Ring, they were also speaking of the Ankh.
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Sick Bay,
Deck C,
The Amazona,
The Black Sea
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It really wouldn't have been very interesting to torture a man who was unconscious and unresponsive. It was a bit like poking needles upon a smiling doll. So it was in this way that Boromir was momentarily left out of the equation, and Grima Wormtongue turned to Legolas of Mirkwood instead.
It wasn't quite… satisfying either, though. Torturing the elf was like poking needles upon a snarling doll. There was more than a bit of an angry, unbreakable danger to the elf, as if pride itself flowed through his veins instead of blood, even though Wormtongue was sure blood flowed in there too—he's certainly shed quite a lot of it.
Nevertheless, unfazed though the elf seemed to be, the true target of his torture was not at all him, but Aragorn the spectator. And then through Aragorn, Frodo, who will hear all that transpired, and will continue to transpire until all his friends died or he yielded the Ankh.
The man was not as undaunted as the elf. His eyes were wide and angry, he looked as if he ached to burst from his skin. He struggled against the men who held him—three, now, and struggling too. Aragorn Son of Arathorn always was a formidable force. But it was they themselves of the Fellowship whop showed Grima their own weakness…
Fellowship… such power, in a single word. Such purpose, such determination. There was a strength there that was solid and undoubted. There was a grand purpose, a grand purpose driven by love—love of home and country, as was the case with the hobbits and the Shire, or Bormoir and Gondor, love of friends, as was the case once again with the hobbits and then with the Three Hunters, love of lovers… Love lent strength. But it also lent weakness.
It was that very weakness that Grima Wormtongue was seeing in the once-King's now-desperate eyes as he beheld a much-loved, lifelong friend suffering.
Legolas of Mirkwood leaned heavily against a now-bloodstained wall, glaring at him as if those eyes could not get any more icy blue. They backed the elf to a corner, ensured there were no trays or instruments around for the inventive elf to take advantage of once again. They had their brutal way with him, certainly, and at first he refused to let them. They kicked and punched and he kicked and punched back, twice as painful, thrice as angry. Elf was a lethal spitfire. But the more he fought, the more anguished and agitated Aragorn became as he watched, and as Legolas saw this, he calmed somewhat and simply let them hurt him. Or perhaps he was just weakening.
"He doesn't look very good at all, does he?" Grima asked Aragorn, silky voice slithering in the man's ear.
Aragorn didn't indulge him. Didn't even bother to tear his eyes from Legolas long enough to toss Wormtongue a heated glare. This irked Wormtongue so much that he made a grab for the man's hair and forced him to look at his face.
"Tell Frodo Baggins what is happening," Wormtongue said, "Tell him. Tell him more will get hurt, tell him someone's going to die. Tell him your silent elven friend is bleeding on the ground, and he's painting all the goddamn walls red. Tell him to come to me with my Ankh. Tell him Legolas won't scream because he refuses to break the hobbit's heart. Tell him people are dying for him. Tell him. Tell Frodo, and I'll stop."
Aragorn turned his head a bit and looked at Grima coldly, as if he was some filth who did not merit any attention other than the barest kind, and the harshest kind at that.
"He's not on the ground," Aragorn said to Wormtongue blandly, coolly, as if it was nothing at all, and he tore his eyes from Wormtongue, smiling at his elven friend.
"He will be," Wormtongue vowed.
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Sinop, Turkey
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"Gandalf," said Pippin, "I can't quite see how Frodo can destroy the Ring, this time around."
The chatty young Brit looked pensive from the backseat, where he sat in between Bob Baggins and Mark Brandy.
"I've been wondering about that myself," Gandalf agreed.
"We all know travel to Mordor in the old ages was quite a feat, and it was most certainly accomplished," said Pippin, "But Mordor is now at the very, very bottom of a wide, hostile sea."
"You're sounding crazy, Pip," said Mark with a wince, "And I'm not sure but I have a feeling I know what you're talking about."
"Give it time, my son," Pippin said playfully, "Give it time."
"The very air you breathed in Mordor was poison," Gandalf said softly, "But down there, beneath the sea… there is no air to breathe at all."
"We won't be asking Frodo to go down there, will we?" Pippin asked, "I mean experienced divers don't even go down there, no one ever has, except for those probing thingies."
"The probots," Bob Baggins corrected him pertly, perhaps out of sheer academic habit. He didn't say anything else.
"I need time to ponder this," said the wizard, "It must be destroyed where it was made. But it was made down there, where we cannot go. There is a way, surely, we're just yet to discover it."
"There's always a way," Pippin agreed.
"In the meantime," said Gandalf, "We have to look after each other. That is all that we can do."
The wizard sighed, glancing at Pippin from the rearview mirror. It was just so strange, that the few folk he could truly talk to of rationality, and strategy, and courses of action was the Fool of a Took.
Life truly brought them to strange old places.
TO BE CONTINUED…
HEY GUYS!!! Thanks so much for the ultra-encouraging c&c's… you guys just inspire me so much. THANK YOU FOR THE FIRE. I hope I don't disappoint. I'm midway through to chapter 39, and started on the notes already so we're definitely nearing the end.
Please keep the reviews coming if you can, I know we're all busy so just if you can. I also promise to reply to questions with my notes… i just want to let you guys know for now that you really have an impact on how the story progresses. Sorry also to keep you guys waiting I'm working real hard, promise :)
THANKS again, hope you had fun, and 'TIL THE NEXT POST!!!