Cold sliced through flesh like a sharpened blade through silk. Legolas lay with his limbs curled tightly against his body as he shuddered from the chilly sting of the night. The elf's muscles refused to stop their nervous twitching no matter hard he tried to hold back the violent shivers. Even the thick blanket Aragorn had hastily thrown over Legolas' gaunt form offered little protection from the frigid night time air.
The thin sheet of sweat that coated his trembling body did not help matters at all either. It felt as though the faint breeze that blew into the room from a nearby window froze the salty moisture on Legolas' exposed skin to ice. Misery took on a new meaning to the northern wood-elf.
A rattled groan escaped Legolas' pale lips. The sound was quickly swallowed by the sweat-dampened cover of his pillow. Though racked by bone chattering chills, the cool fabric of the bedding felt almost soothing to his fever burned forehead. But that was the only comfort Legolas found.
In his drugged state, the elf lay unmoving (except for his incessant shivering), exhausted and weary with pain. Despite outward appearances, the medical herbs Aragorn had forced down Legolas' throat had not counteracted the poison or even slowed it. The Athelas tormented him more than helped him. It only deadened his muscles and clouded his mind. The pain hadn't been diminished by any extent. Legolas was so lethargic and drugged he couldn't even make sense of where he was. Left in this half-paralyzed, stupefied daze, Legolas could barely even squirm in agony as the wretched pain of the elf-witch's poison continued to slowly drive him mad. Each of his shallow gasps for air sounded like an individual choke of misery.
Legolas' thoughts lay broken and scattered. All his mind could focus on was the burning trail of fire intricately woven between every fiber and sinew of his left arm. Not even the weak pressure applied by his unafflicted hand offered any relief from the unrelenting torture of Eronel's curse. It was a futile effort to even try. The pain was everywhere. Too much flesh had been lost to the invading toxin. From the tips of his swollen fingers to the base of his collarbone, the pain consumed flesh, bone, and blood. The whole limb felt like one giant, searing wound dipped in acid.
With every wearying beat of Legolas' heart the dark poison continued its unholy invasion.
Eyes clenched so tightly shut against the pain that tears beaded along his eyelashes, the tortured elf curled onto his side. Cradling his infected limb against his chest, Legolas involuntarily cried out as a wave of fresh pain exploded up the length of his arm. Writhing like a worm, Legolas spasmed so violently his back arched up into a U over the mattress of his bed.
Collapsing back down, the dying immortal gritted his teeth defiantly against the black witch's poison that boiled his blood and fed off his ebbing life force. As he fought the morbid temptation to succumb to the blinding pain, Legolas found his chapped lips subconsciously mouthing the faint syllables of a single word- a name! It was the name of the one person in all of Middle-Earth Legolas wanted to have there at his side; to comfort him, to take pity in his plight, to show him that he cared if he lived or died, to let him know he was not alone.
Unable to focus his blurry vision, Legolas groggily called out the name of his missing friend. "Gimli?"
Legolas became distressed at receiving no reassuring touch or gentle word from the dwarf to assure him of his presence. Tossing restlessly in his cocoon of blankets, the elf called out blindly for his bearded companion, desperation tainting his failing voice. "Gimli?"
His numbed mind seemed unable to comprehend why the dwarf refused to heed his plaintive summons. Lost in a fevered delirium, the elf did not remember that Gimli was miles away, racing against time to save his life.
"Gimli?!"
His sharp cry reverberated off the walls and echoed into the lonely night. The air hung heavy in the wake of Legolas' pleading cry. Nothing stirred in the darkness or answered his call. Whimpering in defeat, Legolas sank into the pillowy bedding. Why wouldn't he come? Why would Gimli leave him like this?
The throbbing of his poison riddled arm seemed to pulse with renewed intensity at the thought of Gimli; like a bitter reminder of what else the dwarf had done for him lately. Huddling into himself as another wave of white pain assaulted him, Legolas weakly clenched a handful of sheets and wrung the cloth between his fingers. Only as the blinding pain began to ebb away once again into a constant burn was he able to think again.
Where is Gimli, the distressed elf's mind wailed angrily. How could his friend have left him to suffer this torment alone? All he wanted was his friend there at his side. Where could his friend have gone? Legolas knew Gimli would never leave him like this without some reasoning.
Confused and frustrated in his sickened state, Legolas struggled to sit. Determined (or perhaps too stubborn to give into Fate just yet), the elf strained his muscles to rise, ignoring the ring of hazy blackness that tunneled his vision and threatened to send him spiraling out into unconsciousness. His pale cheeks flushed red as he pushed himself to the breaking point. But Legolas soon found his tenacity and body were just too weak to overcome Eronel's poison. He could not even find the strength to lift his head from the pillow.
Exhausted, Legolas gave up and fell limp into his nest of sheets. The world swum in his eyes, his head feeling dangerously light and disconnected from his body. Blood pounded in his ears. The elf's heart thundered against his rib cage like a hammer. Laying there, gathering the few remaining shards of his strength in his poison-leeched body, Legolas' mind churned. And in a brief moment of clarity, he remembered where his friends were. Gimli was gone. He had left with Gandalf and Toreingal to go in search of his only hope of a cure. Aragorn had left him to seek Elrond for aid. In a way, it was rather ironic; all his friends were doing everything in their power to save his life, but in doing so they were depriving Legolas of the two things he needed now more than anything else: companionship and support.
Realizing he was truly alone, Legolas finally felt the cold chill of abandonment. He wanted his friends there by his side, not gallivanting off somewhere else. He didn't care if their intentions were to save his life or not. He just wanted them there. Especially Gimli. He didn't care about a cure anymore. All he wanted was his friend Gimli there beside him.
Angry tears stung his eyes the more he thought about how unfair Life had become. And the more he brooded, the angrier the young elf became. He was angry at himself. Angry at his own weakness. Angry at Eronel and all her evilness. Angry at the deadly poison in his veins. Angry at Elrond. Angry at Gandalf. Angry at Toreingal. Angry at Aragorn for not staying with him when he needed him the most, and leaving him in his desolate misery to run off into the night. Angry at himself for being careless enough to cut himself on the edge of the tainted dagger. Angry at the world and everybody in it.
And flowing in this fashion, he finally found himself angry with Gimli for ever giving him that cursed gift.
Suddenly realizing where his mind had strayed, Legolas was startled out of his reverie and immediately regretted his despondent thoughts. It was not Gimli's fault or anyone else's. And that was what made it all the worse; there was just no one to really blame. He suddenly felt as though he had betrayed the dwarf's friendship. Here was Gimli, braving unknown dangers and hardships without any thought of himself to go in search of a cure, and here he was, spitting their friendship back into Gimli's face by thinking such atrocious things about him.
His anger quickly dissolved, bitterness replacing it. Laying so helplessly with no one there to offer him any comfort, Legolas silently cursed Fate. Why did he have to suffer? Why did he have to fall victim to this poison? It wasn't fair... So unfair.
A flood of swirling emotions washed over him. Tears of utter despair tumbled from his gray eyes. His head swum with bitterness, loneliness, grief, anguish, and a thousand other woes of the heart, until he finally just felt totally hollow and empty. Emotionally drained, Legolas suddenly felt old and weary and just too tired to care anymore.
And for a brief moment he almost wished he would die. Just die and leave all this pain behind and no longer burden his friends with his suffering.
The pain he had suffered for over three days was slowly breaking him, shattering his spirit. And as he lay there, darkness slowly crept towards him.
I am nothing but a burden. My friends should not have to suffer like this. Nothing can save me. I am causing everyone nothing but heartache...
The heavy gloom slowly seeped from the walls. The thick darkness glided through the air and across the ground like tendrils of ink towards the shadow-draped bed.
It is because of me Middle-earth may be destroyed by war. The blood of a thousand dwarves and elves will be on my head...
The air hung heavy with a dark presence, the faint moonlight that filtered through the nearby windows consumed by the unnatural shadows.
All my fault...
The tears came faster now. The salty water tumbled down his cheeks and wet the pillow beneath his head. Legolas no longer cared for pride or pretense. There was no one there to see him weep in hopelessness anyway. They had all left him... His hollow sobs choked out of him without restraint.
The darkness deepened to a dense, impenetrable shade, the gloom fueled by the tortured elf's sorrow. Hungrily it seemed to feed off Legolas' despair and hopelessness. Lapping now at the feet of the prone and withered body of the dying elf, the black cloud rose up and seeped around Legolas, consuming him in a tomb of lightless cold.
Why would Aragorn and Gimli leave me like this? What have I done to be abandoned?
But as the bitter tears continued to gently roll down his face, Legolas' despair seemed to slowly fade with every drop. It was as though he had finally begun to exhaust his anger and anguish at his condition as he let his emotions run their course. Understanding and coherent logic slowly returned to his fevered mind.
He had not been abandoned. Aragorn and Gimli had left him to save him. They had not left him to die in pain. They were fighting to save his life.
Carefully, Legolas pondered this. And as he mulled over this new theory, realization struck him. There was more then just his own life in balance. Not only for himself did he have to fight to stay alive, but also for his friends and the people of Middle-earth.
I cannot give up. Too much is a stake. If I fall, war will consume Middle-earth. I cannot let that happen. I must fight and hold on. Everyone is counting on me. I cannot let Eronel win!
Determination swelled in the battered but not defeated elf. He would not surrender without a fight.
The invading shadows that soaked the very air recoiled back from Legolas, repulsed. Swirling in agitation, the black cloud hung heavy in the air, as if uncertain whether to press an attack or not.
They are fighting to save my life. I cannot let them down. I must hold on. Gimli is coming back with the cure. I must hold on for him...
A sudden chill brought Legolas out of his thoughts. It crept up his spine and froze his heart cold. It was not a night time breeze of early spring, but rather a darker chill; a foreboding twinge in the pit of his stomach that warned him of an evil presence.
Legolas' breath stilled in wary apprehension. Cracking open bleary eyes still moist with fallen tears, the elf's usually sharp sight was met with an impenetrable wall of black. The darkness robbed him of his vision and deadened his senses. It sealed him off from the world and in a dark void of nothingness.
Legolas' muscles tensed. He knew this blackness. It was the same that had blinded him when he had been lead out into the night by a soft luring voice that sang of freedom from pain and suffering. He could feel the cold presence of a dark force, hiding somewhere behind that inhospitable curtain of shadows. And he knew her well...
Eronel...
The elf could practically feel the darkness churning and folding in on itself around him with wrath and malcontent. The poison in his arm throbbed. From out of the unfathomable black void came the single, icy cold voice of the elven sorceress Eronel. The sound echoed through Legolas' skull and filled his ears.
You are a frustrating creature, my little prince. Even after all you have been through - all this pain and torture- you still hold onto the hope that that pitiful dwarf will return in time with a cure to save your life. He has abandoned you, and yet you still are foolish enough to claim him friend, sneered the witch.
"He will return," Legolas retorted, "Gimli has not abandoned me. He will not let me die."
You are a fool! It is a hopeless venture. The water will do nothing against my poison. Nothing can save you now. You will die and war will scorch the land. Bodies will litter the ground like autumn leaves! Blood will flow like rivers! And I will be released to rule over Middle-earth. A new Darkness will fall, and nothing will stop me! I will rule over this world and death and destruction will flow from my hands like water. Men, Dwarves, and Elves will fall to their knees and worship me!
"Rather haughty words from one who has been locked away in dank darkness for so many countless years and still has yet to taste fresh air again," Legolas growled from between gritted teeth. "Go crow your fantasies somewhere else! I do not believe any of your lies. You will not fool me. You will never be released from your prison. I will not let you win!".
But I already have won laughed Eronel's disembodied voice in Legolas' ear. You do not yet know the extent of the game. My pieces have already been positioned for the final move. Checkmate is within only two moves. And you, my poor little pawn, are the first of them.
"Whatever you plan to do to me, it will not work," Legolas said passionately, boldly shouting out into the darkness blindly, not sure of where his enemy actually was, if anywhere in true body or form. "I have already warned my friends of you. Even if you kill me you will not be freed. Aragorn knows it was you that tried to kill me before. He will warn Gimli. Gimli will not be your pawn. Neither one of us will!"
Silence stung Legolas ears, only the beating of his heart rending the air. For a moment, he wondered if Eronel was there any longer and if somehow his words had turned the witch away. But then suddenly, the twitter of cold laughter echoed from out of the stagnant gloom that surrounded him, contesting that Eronel had in fact not abandoned her scheme. Rising in volume, the elven sorceress' cackle drowned out Legolas' own thoughts.
Regaining her composure, Eronel chuckled with such sardonic mirth Legolas involuntarily shuddered. You actually believe that foolish mortal Aragorn believed you?! she exclaimed in twisted amusement as if delighted at Legolas' ignorance. Let me enlighten you then, my poor little elfling, she cooed. That Man, Aragorn, who you so dearly hold to be your friend, did not believe you for a mere second! He thinks you are delirious. He has dismissed your 'warnings' of me as nothing more then the hallucinations and insane rambles of a dying fool! Why do you think he left you so quickly? He did not believe a word you said. A true friend would not have left you as he did!
Her words struck deep. Having only just regained faith in his friends, Legolas' mind was again attacked by gnawing doubt. He didn't want to listen to the witch, but her words carried such a bitter reality to them he found himself unable to not question their truth. But Legolas' friendship ran deeper than mere words.
"You are wrong!" he screamed in a weak voice. Wrestling with his body, Legolas struggled to sit. He could no longer stand to lay helplessly by as Eronel manipulated him and treated his life as nothing more then a worthless and dispensable commodity. Gritting his teeth, Legolas strained to raise and face the witch like a warrior.
"You are wrong, Eronel! You lie!"
Am I? she mercilessly probed.
Legolas' poison-withered body screamed in protest as he tried to push himself onto his elbows. His muscles trembled and shoulders shook with effort. Finally, he could endure no more of the excruciating pain that throbbed through his infected arm. Exhausting his last remaining strength, Legolas reluctantly relinquished his battle.
No! I will not listen to her! They are lies! Aragorn and Gimli did not leave me! I believe in them!
Eronel's impatience grew as the elf stubbornly refused to listen to her deceitful words meant to cripple his mind and break his spirit. She now saw Legolas was not going to offer her the entertainment of any more mental torment or anguish; his bond with his mortal friends proving too strong to break with lies alone. That being so, it was then time to make the final move.
The darkness thickened. Its cold caress licked at the weak and helpless elf. My dear Legolas, our time together has reached its end... Eronel's voice whispered in his ears like the chilly kiss of Death. It is now time to begin the final stage of the game...
Legolas tried to struggle, but found his body paralyzed. His muscles felt frozen by dark magic, immobilized by the unseen witch who's poison bled away his strength and ran like fire in his veins.
From the murky quagmire of blackness spawned a shadowy hand with long, wispy fingers. Slowly it stretched out towards the helpless elf. The hand's slender fingertips gently brushed over Legolas' left breast. Spikes of cold shot through his heart like arrows of ice. Gasping, Legolas felt his breath stolen from his lungs. No sound escaped his constricted throat.
Cold exploded through Legolas' body as the shadow-hand delved into the paralyzed elf's chest. Piercing through the flesh, blood and bone, the icy fingers of darkness gently wrapped themselves around Legolas' heart.
He wanted to scream. The jolting cold that flowed out from the hand's dark touch radiated throughout his entire body and coursed through his veins like ice water. The pain in his arm flared white in his eyes.
Help!...Someone... Please, not like this... Help me...Aragorn...Gimli...Help!
The black shadow-hand slowly caressed Legolas' heart, fondling it like a delicate toy. Paralyzing cold seeped through his body, the chill slowly numbing the beating of his heart.
No... Gimli!...Aragorn!...Help!
He could feel his life slowly seeping from his body. With every stroke of the black fingers, the beating of his heart slowed a bit more.
He tried to call out, but his voice was cut off by Eronel's control over him. Fear and panic seized Legolas. He could not move. He could not defend himself. He was utterly helpless. The sharp sting of frightened tears sprang at the corner of his eyes.
Gimli!... Help me!
Suddenly, the black hand clenched the beating organ in its iron grip, mercilessly squeezing it between its icy fingers.
The elf's body stiffened in shock. His eyes widened in pain. His mouth opened to scream, but no sound came.
Time slowed to the faltering beat of his heart.
Thump
No...Not like this...
Thump
The pain that consumed his mind began to ebb. The chill of the air felt less sharp and faded to only a numbed sensation that wrapped his body in a dense fog. Legolas felt weariness descending upon him like a blanket of exhaustion. His eyes felt laden and heavy. Darkness even blacker then Eronel's veil of evil magic fell over him. Legolas suddenly felt tired... so very tired.
Thump
And though he tried to fight it, he felt his body falling, falling into a yawning abyss of nothingness...
Thump
Tears flowed down his cheeks in rivulets of regret and longing as he fell away from the world. As a final offering of repentance, Legolas sent his thoughts out to one person.
Gimli...
A final tear escaped from the corner of his eye and slid down his slackened face.
Thump
I'm sorry...
Thu...
The last drop of sorrow and regret fell from the elf's face and was swallowed by the fabric of the pillow beneath his head.
The darkness lifted from around the elf like mist before the coming morning sun at dawn. Like a bad dream, it faded from the air. Slowly in slunk away from the bed. Slithering like tendrils of thick tar, the black shadow retreated to the corners of the still and quiet room. Seeping into the walls and out into the dead of night, the dark presence left but only a lingering chill in the air.
From beyond the doorway of the room came the hurried footsteps of two people. Rushing into the quiet room, Aragorn burst from the darkness and into the faint glow of moonlight that seeped in through a nearby window. A strange mixture of panic and relief stormed the Man's features as he rushed to the side of the large bed on the far side of the room where a still form lay. Following close behind him, the elf-lord Elrond entered the room in a flurry of flowing green robes and elegantly braided hair. Grim apprehension marred his fair countenance.
Falling to the side of the bed, Aragorn kneeled before his strangely motionless friend, Legolas. The elf lay on his side, staring with half-lidded eyes past Aragorn out towards the window on the far side of the room. The sinking moon hung low in the sky beyond. The sick elf did not stir as the man reached out to smooth back the hair from his pale white face.
"Legolas?" the man called gently to arouse the warrior, trying not to smile with relief. He had finally found Elrond. Everything would be fine now. Legolas would be alright. He was still here. Elrond would help him. Everything was going to be alright...
"Legolas?"
Aragorn's smile slowly faded as he received no response from the sedate warrior. A growing pit of dread churned his stomach. So distracted by Legolas' disturbing quietness, the man did not even hear the soft flutter of Elrond's robes over the floorboards as the elf-lord came up behind him and bent over his foster son' shoulder to examine the Mirkwood prince.
"Legolas? Legolas, answer me!" Aragorn's voice cracked with mounting fear, pleading for response. The elf still did not move. The man stared in mute horror.
The elf's pale gray eyes stared out ahead, nothing stirring in their depths. They were distant and cold; empty and devoid of light or beauty. A drying trail of tears stained Legolas' cheeks. Sorrow and regret lingered on his placid features.
A gentle hand fell on the Ranger's shoulder, offering comfort. Lord Elrond bowed his head sadly, the shadows of the room darkening his features into a mask of grief.
Unable to comprehend or accept Legolas' silence, Aragorn reached out a shaking hand and gently brushed away the tears on his friend's cheek. The elf's skin was cold and clammy to the touch.
"Legolas...?"
The rain had finally ceased falling from the dark clouds overhead. A gentle mist hung in the air, and the world now seemed quieted and still. Clouds hung low in the sky, spreading a gray roof over the sodden forests below. A strange heaviness permeated the air.
"Hurry up! We are almost there!" ordered a demanding voice that echoed through the humid air as a small group of weary travelers emerged from the thick forests of Imladris and onto a trodden path leading in the direction of the city. Reining his horse back into a brisk walk, Toreingal shifted in his saddle and looked back to his two companions. Annoyed impatience blazed in his sharp gray eyes.
Following close behind in a slow gallop, Gandalf atop his silvery white steed Shadowfax and the dwarf Gimli bobbed into view from between the tall green trees. Their horses heaved and snorted tiredly as they came up beside the elven slave-driver. A thick foam of sweat covered the horses' skin. Their heads arched down low with exhaustion. Mud caked their hooves and splattered their flanks. Their riders' travel raiments faired little better. Ridden hard for three days straight, they had covered over a hundred miles through wet and rocky mountain terrain; a most astonishing feat.
"I believe a horde of Orcs would be more merciful then you, my friend," Gandalf said sarcastically as Shadowfax fell into step beside Toreingal's dappled grey mount. Tired, cold, wet, and hungry all three had forgone sleep and food for several days and nights to make it to the secret valley and retrieve the enchanted water needed to save Legolas' life. In doing so, they had all become understandably miserable and edgy with each other – Toreingal even worse then usual.
"Think what you will, wizard," Legolas' cousin snorted brusquely, "But speed was of our greatest concern. And as you can see, we navigated the journey to and from Eronel's cave within only three days when it should have, by all accounts, taken four at the least. That one day may prove the saving factor of Legolas' life."
Gandalf relented nothing, but merely nodded his bearded head thoughtfully.
Let us just hope our speed does not prove in vain...
Ambling farther behind the path then his faster companions, Gimli gave his horse an uncertain jab in the ribs to urge it to keep pace with its equine brethren. Unskilled in the delicate art of horsemanship, the dwarf could not seem to convince his mount to heed his frustrated demands and keep a constant pace that kept him beside his companions. It seemed as though the horse had long ago learnt that it was the master, and merely noted the dwarf on its back as nothing more then a pesky burden.
Grumbling dwarfish obscenities under his tongue about all beasts of burden with four legs, Gimli finally kicked his horse with his stubby legs enough times to finally convince it to speed into a lazy gallop. Managing to at least fall into step behind Gandalf and his pure white stallion, Gimli relinquished his comical display of horseback riding.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, he slouched in his saddle tiredly, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep. As he rocked back and forth in the saddle to the rhythm of his horse, Gimli caught the last few snippets of Toreingal's speech. Gandalf's silence stirred up in the dwarf a growing concern that had been festering in the back of his troubled mind ever since retrieving the enchanted water, the nagging worry planted there by the dark witch herself. For all of the return journey Gimli had kept his concerns to himself (especially his vision of Eronel), but it now seemed as though Toreingal had offered him a small opening to voice his worried thoughts.
Plucking up his courage, Gimli asked tentatively, "But what if the water doesn't work against the poison? What shall we do then?"
Before the dwarf even knew what was happening, Toreingal suddenly drew back on his reigns, startling his horse so much it reared back slightly off the ground and gave a surprised whinny. Gimli's horse luckily saw this fast enough and stopped just before it plowed into the back of the elf's mount. Wheeling the snorting beast around sharply, Toreingal faced Gimli with fire blazing in his eyes.
"What do you mean 'if it doesn't work?'" Toreingal hissed incredulously, rekindled wrath and anger growing in his voice. He stared the stout miner straight in the eyes with his piercing gaze. Gimli fell back, intimidated by this sudden outburst. No reply could he form in his throat to answer the interrogating elf. Again Toreingal pressed his inquiry, "What do you mean, dwarf? Do you think the water will not save my cousin? If I were you, I'd hope and pray to whatever gods you filthy little dirty-movers believe in that it does! It is your fault Legolas is dying! You are nothing but a treacherous little murderer! Legolas was deceived by you and now he lays dying because of his foolish trust! I have suffered your presence thus far, but if this cure proves a failure, I will cut your bearded little head clean off your shoulders for what you have done to my cousin!"
For a minute, Gimli thought the elf was going to fulfill his promise right then and there. Toreingal's hands balled into fists, shaking as though it was only by some small shred of willpower the elf managed to stay a swift grab for the knife at his hip and end Gimli's life.
"Toreingal! Stand down!" Gandalf finally broke in, pushing Shadowfax between the two to separate them before things could escalate any further. Undisputed authority rang in the white wizard's voice as he stared down the enraged elf. The Maia seemed to grow in height and stature even atop his white stallion.
Frightened by the growing shadow that welled up behind the old man, Toreingal fell silent and broke off his assault on Gimli. Seeing he had regained control of the situation, Gandalf let the shadow of power dwindle from around him and returned to his normal self. Casting Legolas' cousin a harsh, warning glance, Gandalf said in level tone, "Why don't you go ahead on the path and see if you can see any sign of Rivendell yet," indicating the direction with his chin and leaving no room for argument in his voice.
Snorting with simmering rage, Toreingal wavered a moment, still glaring at Gimli openly. Finally giving one final disdainful sneer, he slowly turned his horse from the wizard and dwarf, knowing he was no match for such a powerful Istari. Giving his horse a quick jab in the side, the elf took off down the road, leaving the two behind.
As Toreingal turned a corner on the forest path and went well out of ear shot even for an elf to hear, Gandalf turned to Gimli. "Are you alright?" the old man asked gently. Worry creased his already wrinkled face.
Shaking his head ruefully, Gimli murmured, "Yes...I am fine. I should have known better than to bring up such a topic with him. It's just… Oh, never mind. It's nothing."
Gandalf pondered the dwarf thoughtfully in silence for a moment. "What is wrong? Something is troubling you."
Sighing, wearied by the weight of his worries, Gimli was disarmed into confession. "It's...it's just, what if this enchanted water doesn't cure Legolas? What then? What do we do?" His dark eyes implored the mighty wizard for answers, hoping desperately that Gandalf could quell his fears.
"I do not know if the water will work or not," the Maia replied truthfully after a moment of grim contemplation. Gimli was crestfallen. He had hoped Gandalf could dispel some of the doubts planted in his mind by the enchanted image of the elven sorceress. "But we must always keep hope," Gandalf hastily added, seeing the despair in Gimli's face. Giving a reassuring smile, he said, "There is always hope. Come. Rivendell is near and Legolas is waiting for us. I'm sure he misses your company."
"As best he should," Gimli snorted with feigned annoyance, his spirits perking at the mention of his elven friend, "That pointy eared elf is always getting into trouble and expecting me to get him out of it. If I didn't already owe him a debt of sorts, I would have to say he owes me for this!"
Giving Shadowfax a pat on the neck to indicate their readiness to start on again, Gandalf gave a soft chuckle and turned to head down the path in the direction Toreingal had gone. Following behind at a leisurely pace, Gimli's horse only sped to a trot when it heard Shadowfax's low whinny somewhere up the path. Swearing under his breath, the dwarf bounced recklessly in the saddle as his mount cantered down the path towards Rivendell where Legolas awaited their return.
Rounding a bend in the path, Rivendell suddenly sprang into view across the wide valley. Shrouded in a ghostly mist, the elven city seemed to sprout from the very mountain side. Its towers and delicately arched buildings spiraled above the hanging fog that clung to the base of the mountains. It floated like a city in the clouds. The gray overcast sky only added to the ethereal ambiance of the secluded mountain valley.
The small group held a collective breath as they gazed out on the beauty of the quiet city settled in mist.
Echoing out from the still mist that shrouded Rivendell, the slow beat of a drum throbbed through the air. Distant and somber in tone, the drumbeat brought the three travelers out of their mystified thoughts.
"What is that?" Gimli murmured under his voice as they stood listening.
"I do not know," Gandalf answered after a moment, his eyebrows knit up, perplexed. The low drumbeat continued to thump with its slow, purposeful beat.
"Perhaps we have been spotted by scouts and our return reported to Elrond," Gimli proposed helpfully. "The city is probably being alerted to our return." He looked to his travel weary companions for their reactions, but he found only apprehension written in the elf and wizard's faces.
"These kinds of drums would not be used as a welcoming song," Toreingal said. His fair face was blank, but his gray eyes seemed to hold an unspoken fear. He could sense some heavy sorrow in the air. The horse beneath him pawed anxiously at the ground, familiar with the area and eager to return to its stables. "Something is wrong. Something has happened..." Spurring his mount into an all-out gallop, Toreingal dashed down the paved path leading to the main gate of the city, his dark green cape billowing behind him.
Gimli and Gandalf did not even look at each other as they immediately took off after the elf. Shadowfax, even though wearied by the three days journey, easily overtook Toreingal's exhausted steed down the path. Matching paces, Gandalf and Toreingal rode beside each other as they raced down the winding mountain path. Gimli's tired mare dutifully galloped after them, but was soon left lagging behind.
Rounding a bend on the sylvan path, the elf and wizard disappeared from Gimli's sight behind a stand of trees. Cursing under his breath, the dwarf urged his horse faster with a swift kick from his stubby little legs.
Damn them. They could have at least wait for me. Its not like I'm not part of this mission or anything... The things I do for that pointy-eared, trouble-making elf! Once Legolas is healed, we are going to have to teach his cousin some manners...
As he himself darted around the turn in the road, Gimli saw the gates of Rivendell raising up in the distance. A small group of figures stood before the high walls of the city, their faces unrecognizable in the distance. Nearing the gate, Gimli saw Toreingal and Gandalf stopped dead in the path, several paces from the city's outer wall. Their backs were turned to him but even from the distance he could sense a certain tension in the air.
Confused, the dwarf hastened towards the group. Reining his panting horse in from its clattering gallop, Gimli drew up alongside Gandalf's right. Casting a furtive sideways glance at his companions, the dwarf caught the troubled expressions on their faces. The two looked out ahead silently, like frozen statues of stone, not even acknowledging that Gimli had caught up with them.
Turning in the direction they stared, Gimli saw that the ones that had come out to welcome them were non other then Lord Elrond, Aragorn and Arwen. Each was robed in clothes of dark, somber hues, their bodies standing like blots of darkness against the fertile brown earth and fresh green of the forest around them. Beyond under the wide arch gate there huddled a small group of figure: the Hobbits. Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo's faces were all turned downward, their usually merry voices strangely quiet and unforthcoming.
The drum continued to pulse in their ears like a heartbeat from somewhere beyond the city's stone gate, the sound now deeper and more dismal in tone then when Toreingal, Gandalf, and Gimli had first heard it across the valley.
No one from the somber delegate moved to speak. Lord Elrond meet the three's questioning gazes, but said nothing. In his pale eyes shined a heavy burden and pain. Aragorn and Arwen stood beside each other slightly behind their father, hands clasped as if in mutual comfort. The Ranger's face seemed listless and blank, half hidden behind his long dark hair. A great weariness hung around him like a cloak.
"What has happened? Where is my cousin?" Toreingal finally asked, breaking the tense silence. A sinking feeling grew in his stomach. Swinging down from his saddle in one fluid motion, the elf stepped towards the ones before him. His searching grey eyes scanned the assembled group, silently demanding answers.
The drum continued to beat a mournful rhythm somewhere inside the city walls.
"My Lord...?" Toreingal's voice faded in his throat as Elrond calmly stepped towards him. Reaching into his flowing blue robes dyed the shade of a moonless, midnight sky, the elf-king's hands withdrew a long bundle carefully wrapped in black silk. Untying the cord that held the cloth in place, Elrond slowly unwrapped it. As the ancient healer lifted the last fold of silk, two ivory-handled knives came into view. Their polished silver blades gleamed dully in the overcast grey light.
Not uttering a word, Elrond offered them reverently to the mud-caked traveler.
Toreingal stared dumbly at the proffered weapons. He felt his heart stop in his chest. The elf immediately recognized them. They were Legolas' knives. Legolas never left anywhere without them. The knives were a treasured gift from his father. He would never be willingly parted with them.
Slow and sad drumbeats reverberated through the damp air and through the hearts of those that heard it.
Toreingal's head snapped up from the blades to look into the face of the elf-king. Why is Lord Elrond giving me these? They are Legolas'... Why would Elrond be giving these to me?! The elf's mind reeled. He refused to believe what Elrond's presentation of his cousin's weapons could mean.
The elf-lord stood motionless, his ancient grey eyes silently speaking everything Toreingal feared.
"No..." Toreingal slowly backed away from Elrond as though the ancient healer offered him a poisonous snake. "No..." The elf's eyes darted from face to face of the party gathered around him. He vainly searched for some sign that this was all just some kind of cruel joke, or a terrible nightmare he would wake up from at any moment. His breath stuck in his throat. His heart hammered against his chest, matching the heavy beat of the drum that continued to sing its mournful song.
No...This isn't happening! It can't be!
"No!" Toreingal cried shrilly as he suddenly shot past Elrond before anyone could do anything. Shoving past the others, Toreingal sped under the arched stone gate of Rivendell and into the mist covered city. No one made a move to stop him. They knew the pain he felt.
Blinded by grief Toreingal ran recklessly through the deserted streets. Though he made no effort to direct himself, his feet seemed to know where they ran and flew beneath him. Toreingal ran like this for some short spance of time that nevertheless seemed to stretch on for all of eternity.
No...It is not true. There is some kind of mistake. It has to be...
Snapping his blurry eyes into focus, he saw he had reached the courtyard of the Last Homely House. By what way he had gotten there, he did not know. The whole world seemed dismal and covered in shadows to his foggy mind.
The beating of the drum rang out loudly now, it seeming to echo from somewhere on the high ramparts of the palace above. A faint mingling of voices caught Toreingal's ears as he sprinted across the courtyard. There were many, their tone sorrowful. Singing as one, the ghostly choir chanted a lament. The noise carried through the mist like the song of mourning doves.
Bounding up the steps and into the darkened halls beyond, Toreingal rushed through the corridors, driven by the desperate hope he held in his heart towards the sound of the sad voices. Reaching a corner of the palace he did not know, the Mirkwood elf suddenly burst into a large empty room several dozen paces long and wide. Buffeted in the face by the pungent scent of incense, Toreingal froze on the threshold.
A dim grey light filtered in through a set of windows positioned on either side of the far wall of the great room. Mist shrouded purple mountains sprang up behind the vast palace gardens that stretched on into the distance beyond the clear glass. Between the tall, ceiling-high windows a small dais rose from the floor. Atop this low platform, a stone altar had been raised.
Staring in disbelief, Toreingal staggered forward. His footsteps listlessly scraped across the floor beneath him. How he managed to make it across the empty expanse he could not say.
No...
Shakingly, he neared the foot of the dais and its laden alter. Staring at it, he suddenly felt distant and detached from the world, as if he were in a dream. None of it seemed real. But yet, there he stood, and knew in some corner of his heart this was no dream.
Bitter tears of stubborn refusal to accept what he saw brimmed along the rims of his eyes. Falling to his knees, the elf was unable to find the strength to stand any longer. Shaking his head defiantly against what he saw, Toreingal tried to form some semblance of speech in his mouth. "No...Please no..." His words came like a plea, imploring the mercy of any higher power near enough to hear.
But even if some roaming Valar had heard his prayer or not, the scene did not change.
And then the full weight of what lay before him came crashing down like a massive blow to his heart. Unable to bear anymore, the elf sagged to the floor, his lithe body beginning to tremble and shake with violent sobs. Closing his eyes tightly against the grief, Toreingal was finally forced to accept cold reality. Casting himself prostrate upon the floor at the foot of altar, the proud and self-righteous elf wept bitterly, letting his anguished howl mingle with the somber voices still singing their sad lament...
He has seen many terrible things throughout the long years of his life; horrible scenes of war, death, and sorrow; but none as devastating as what he now saw. Devoid of drama or pomp, it was the sheer stillness and calm aftermath of the scene that disturbed his soul. For many years afterwards, the image would still haunt him, burned forever into the template of his memories.
Gimli, son of Glóin, stared in mute horror, his feet rooted to the stone floor beneath his boots. His head felt light, dizzied by disbelief and shock. The world felt as though it was crumbling around him.
The dwarf had chased after Toreingal, following the elf through the mist chocked streets of the lonely city. He did not know why he had taken off after Toreingal. In his heart he knew it was true, but his stubborn mind still refused to believe. And so he had followed, driven by the same surging swell of grief and disbelief that afflicted the elf, unable to accept what his friends' eyes so silently proclaimed.
And though he ran with the raw power of a single faint and desperate hope coursing through his veins, Gimli could not keep pace with the elf's long elven stride, and had gradually and ever so frustratingly fell behind Toreingal. Letting his heart guide him after the elf had long ago disappeared from sight, the dwarf had finally caught up to his arrogant companion in a large, empty room of Elrond's palace that was filled with the scent of incense and grief. Toreingal sat kneeing at the base of a low dais, his head bent almost to the floor, weeping inconsolably. His proud shoulders were stooped forward and shook violently with racking sobs and unabashed tears.
There, Gimli also found his dearest and most beloved friend. But their reunion was not one of joy or gladness, but rather one of sundered hopes and loss. An anguished cry of disbelief tore from the dwarf's throat at what he beheld.
Oh no... Legolas...We are too late...
Stretched out upon a raised table of stone on the far end of the room, Legolas lay in state.
The elf-prince's body rested atop a silvery gray mantle that hung in billowing folds over the edges of the altar and draped down towards the floor. His right hand lay folded up over his chest. The silver bow Galadriel had bestowed to Legolas years ago before the Fellowship's departure from Lothlórien during the War of the Ring was fitted neatly into his ungrasping hand. Legolas' left hand lay flat beside his body, shrouded beneath a sheet of white silk. The cloth had been draped over him to cover the lower portion of his body, but moreover to discretely hide his discolored hand stained a sickly blue by the poison that had stolen his life.
The elf's motionless body was clothed in a light grey velvet robe, the royal raiment's flowing long sleeves falling over the edge of the stone table.
Beneath a delicate silver circlet wrought in the image of twisting vines, Legolas' carefully washed face lay peaceful and serene, his eyes closed like that of a sleeping mortal. The elf's pale skin shined a beautiful ivory shade in the dim light that filtered through the windows flanking either side of the dais.
Neatly brushed and braided away from his face in the half-up style he was most oft to wear, Legolas' hair cascaded like a waterfall of golden locks over his shoulders and the small cushion pillowing his head against the cold slab of stone beneath him.
And though Legolas' kin wailed loud and piteously at his feet for him to return to them, the elf did not stir from his eternal sleep.
No... Legolas... Oh, please come back... I'm sorry...
The dwarf stood frozen in place, staring at the motionless body as though expecting at any moment for Legolas to suddenly sit up and make some blithe joke about Gimli being too sentimental for his own good. And though Gimli strained his eyes to detect some small hint of breathing from the elf's chest, Legolas continued to lay silent and still like an empty shell.
Gimli's heart felt like a dead lump in his chest. He felt sick to his stomach. His legs felt numb and wobbly under him, ready to give out at any second. Grasping for something to steady himself with, Gimli clutched at the wall behind him. His eyes blurred with tears.
Legolas...No... This is all my fault… I'm sorry. I am so sorry…
Closing his eyes against the world and against the horrible vision of Legolas' lifeless body before him, the dwarf let the unstoppable flood of tears course down his wrinkled face and soak his beard.
As he leaned against the wall trying to comprehend the full magnitude of what had happened, the noise of the room seemed to fade from his ears. Toreingal's empty cries of anguish and the sorrowful lament sung by the elves of Elrond's household drifted away like a distant murmur.
Through the dwarf's grief hollowed mind, a repetitious beat echoed like a heartbeat. It was slow and heavy and filled his ears as though it were the only sound in the entire world. Listening so intently to the unfaltering pulse, it felt as though the air practically throbbed with the mournful beat.
It was the sad drum that had been playing throughout Rivendell, announcing the loss of one of Ilú vatar's immortal children to the world. But as its beat throbbed in his ears, Gimli suddenly felt as though the sad song seemed to change; its pitch becoming more ominous and threatening, like that of a war drum, signaling the first charge of a coming army of death and destruction.
Lost in grief, Gimli suddenly realized he could not let the drum continue its war call, or let Legolas remain in this cold and silent state of death. And in that moment, he knew what he had to do...
TBC
Till next time,
I'm LAXgirl, signing out!
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