Oh my God. What is this? Can it be? OMG it is! It's an update!
Hey hey! Ya miss me? Yeah, I know it's been awhile. What's it been... oh, about four months or so, give or take? Yeah, something like that. Anyway, thanks for the great response for the last chapter. I know I kind of left everybody in a tizzy about what was going to happen next. When I first posted that last chapter I was actually planning on that being the last one I was going to write for this story and I felt I had to at least get Legolas back in the picture so people won't think I really killed him off. Yeah, I had had serious debates about abandoning this story for a while there. For the last couple chapters there, feedback was less than encouraging, so I had decided to just call it quits. I mean, why should I bust my butt writing something that no one (I thought) was even reading. But then this happened! OK now, I ask you, how does chapter eleven go from less than ten reviews to chapter twelve with over 46?!?!
Well, anyway, all bad feelings aside, over these last indecisive four months or so, I got a lot of people e-mailing me asking me it I was planning on continuing. And during that time I slowly began to realize that with this story being so close to being finished that I almost had to finish it. So, everyone out there that's still keeping with this story, I once again give my apologizes for the long wait and humbly give you the long awaited Chapter 13! Enjoy!
Oh! And thanks to all the reviewers last chapter! I really got a kick out of reading them. I would respond to them, but there's not enough room here to do it. The overwhelming majority was pleased that Legolas returned (which I was happy about), although a few were a bit... hmm... how can I sum up their statements... less than enthused? Oh well, can't please everyone! So anyway, I thank everyone again for last chapter's response. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all associated characters belong to JRR Tolkien and are not mine, nor are they being used for profit in the telling of this story.
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A slow, sad roll of thunder sounded somewhere on the distant horizon as the low rumble of its echo rolled out over the land like the announcement of an approaching nameless doom. A slatey grey sky of dispassionate rain clouds hung so low in the sky overhead that it almost seemed as if the taller trees of the verdant green forest below could almost scrape up along the underside of its swollen grey belly. The whisper of coming rain sang softly through the heart and mind like a gentle breath of wind through chimes as another rumble of thunder vibrated through the wet and chilly air of early spring, whose grasp the lingering touch of winter's icy fingers still refused to yield.
Stretched out under the oppressive sky of grey stood a wide grassy stretch of land. On either side of the large open field, beyond the shadowy edges of the surrounding forest, reared up towering stone giants of rock and granite. Still dusted by early spring snow, the hulking masses of the Misty Mountains seemed to literally sprout up from the land before their snow-capped peaks finally faded away from sight into the mist and clouds above. Mist hung low around the bases of the towering mountains so that it seemed as if the massive structures of stone hovered in midair, suspended in a fog of ethereal dreams.
Though the air was heavy and still with the promise of a coming storm, a certain charged tension electrified the air. It was not only the promise of rain, but the promise of blood that weighted so heavily over the land like a thick pall. For not only did the dim morning herald the promise of a coming storm, but also the promise of a coming war. For it was the morning Thranduil was to make his war against the elven realm of Imladris and the small group of dwarves it harbored in revenge for the tragic death of his youngest son.
On that grassy, sloping field nestled deep between the feet of the Misty Mountains about three miles outside of the Rivendell's eastern border stood the defensive line of Imladris' forces. Over two hundred warriors had been amassed to ride out to that point and wait for the approach of Thranduil's army. Any patrol within a day's ride of the city had immediately been called back to Rivendell to answer the threat now facing their lord and land, bolstering the defensive forces to almost three hundred.
But while Rivendell's forces clearly outnumbered Thranduil's, there was still doubt. The northern wood-elves of Mirkwood were notoriously cunning and fierce in battle. For countless centuries the wood-elves of Mirkwood had fought to protect their land and people in unmatched battles against invading forces much greater than their own, and always without the help of any elven rings. They were considered by many to be the best warriors in all of Middle-earth – frightfully skilled in war, fearless, tenacious, and deadly. Though they were outnumbered, few believed that would mean anything to them. They had lost one of their princes, and they were angry. They would use that anger with them in battle.
But besides the fact of their northern brethren's fighting skills and wrath, there was also the unspoken fact that many of those fighting for the defense of Imladris were reluctant to face and battle those they had once considered friends and allies. Like Elrohir and Elladan had been with Legolas, many of Rivendell's warriors knew other warriors from Mirkwood who had become close friends and companions to them over the centuries. And even though the declaration of war had seemed to overnight sundered either elven realms to opposite ends of a giant, invisible gulf of broken alliances and political contention, those with such connections with the other side could not help but feel that they were about to outright murder and kill their kin in unjustified bloodshed.
Elven soldiers rushed about from place to place, hurriedly doing last minute checks on their weapons and horses as they quickly organized themselves into their appropriate ranks and divisions along the forest's edge. Commanders strode through the ranks, barking out commands and last minute orders to their troops. Among those leading the defense of Imladris were the young elf-lords Elrohir and Elladan.
The twins walked along the far south-western edge of the field, surveying the surrounding tree line. Though they were loath to resort to such measures, they searched the branches of the ancient oaks and maples for the best places in which they could station archers; places with clear vantage points over the open field beyond which also offered a bit of protection to the tree-borne archers from any return fire that could possible come from the very force they were trying to thin down with arrows.
It was a terrible thing to have to orchestrate and possible see through to actual execution on their woodland brethren. Though the twins were ready to take any measures necessary to defend their homeland, they still could not help but see Thranduil as the grieving father of their dead friend, not the invading king hell-bent on seeking revenge for his son's death with the slaughter of innocent blood. The look of warring emotions was evident in both elves' ancient grey eyes as they scanned the trees. They did not want to have to turn their weapons on their own kin. Never before had Elves ever battled one another in such hostile warfare. Though there had been minor disagreements between the three elven realms of Middle-earth throughout the long centuries, never before had any of the elven leaders actually declared war on another realm!
Not only had this war come to pit Elves against Dwarves, but also Elves against Elves.
Beside Elrohir and Elladan walked Gandalf, giving his own counsel and advice to the two elves as they scanned for tactical advantage points in the trees. Though their father Lord Elrond had sent the white wizard with them in attempts of perhaps convincing Thranduil to relinquish his path of war, there was no denying that Gandalf would be useful no matter which way the confrontation with the woodland king went. He had aided in the Battle of Helms Deep and also fought in the Battle of the Pelannor Fields. The Istari's guise of an elderly old man was just that: a disguise. No one that knew Gandalf would ever dare to intentionally enrage or incur the wrath of the powerful wizard without fear of terrible retribution or hefty consequences on their own part. The knowledge that Gandalf stood ready to fight on the side of Imladris was enough to give at least some encouragement to the defending elves that they held some kind of upper hand over their enemy.
The chilly wet air buzzed with the heightened tension of coming battle. The palpable scent of impending doom rode the wind like a rider of Death as building zephyrs swept in across the field from the purplish thunderheads brewing on the darkened horizon.
But even in the face of such unjustified hate and hurt that rode towards them with the impending threat of thunder and rain, there existed a small island of quiet. A small patch of lingering sadness and regret which not even the sharp teeth of fear or inevitable death could pierce.
Alone with his thoughts just under the leafy green boughs of the forest stood Gimli, the one whose blood the growing whisper of approaching battle sang for. Though elven soldiers bustled all around him preparing for battle, the stout little miner seemed to take no notice of the almost frantic actions. His dark brown eyes stared blankly ahead, dispassionately watching as angry grey storm clouds rolled and folded in on one another on the brewing horizon. The storm was approaching from the east and would soon be upon them. As would Thranduil.
Battle was nigh. He could smell it in the air.
In the dwarf's gloved hand leaned his mighty axe, its tip propped in the soft earthy ground beside his feet. Armor and thick chain mail adorned his stout, compact form. A heavy helm of bronze and steel sat atop his head.
To any, Gimli would have appeared the perfect image of a skilled warrior ready for battle. But to those that had learned to look beneath the miner's cool outer facade, they would have noticed that he did not seem to grip his axe with as much zeal as he once would have done when the prospect of battle loomed so challengingly of a threat before him.
Though Gimli's ruddy face seemed to be forged in the image of cool resolve and stoic calm, a heavy aura of dispassionate detachment from the world blanketed the air around him, like that of a man who had decided his path long ago and was now ready to meet whatever end came from his decision with no regrets. A dull cast of regretful sorrow and rueful lament resided in the chocolate brown orbs of his eyes as he stared ahead into the distance. No longer was there any glimmer of vim or life in those pained depths, only the dull husk of a spirit broken by despair and black, unforgiving guilt.
No emotions showed on his face, but inside, his heart ached and wept. It was because of him he now stood in that field waiting for battle to come. It was because of him Thranduil was moving to wage war on the elven realm of Imladris and all its dwarven inhabitants. And it was because of him his dearest friend, Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood, now resided in the Halls of Mandos.
Gimli could feel his inner resolve to remain stone-faced and stoic in the face of coming battle waver at the thought of his deceased friend. He could feel his throat constrict with a rush of unbidden emotions. Legolas... Gods, even after almost a week since the elf's death he still felt as if he could burst into tears at the mere thought or mention of the blonde warrior prince. He felt haunted by the elf, as if Legolas' restless spirit somehow followed him. Almost everything he saw or did somehow reminded him of Legolas and how he had failed to save possibly the one person in his life he would have truly given his life for.
He had failed Legolas. He had betrayed their friendship – his trust. Gods, was there anything between them he hadn't defiled or broken because of that accursed dagger?! Why did he ever give that dagger to Legolas? Why hadn't he known there was something foul on that blade? Why couldn't they have gotten back to Rivendell faster with the magic water? Why did Legolas have to die like he had alone with no one there to comfort him? Why did Legolas, even in his death throes, actually call out for him when it was because of Gimli he suffered so much in the first place?
Why?! Why why whywhywhywhy?!
Why... It was the one question in all the universe that did not seem to ever have an answer, but what some people spent their entire lives trying to understand. Gimli felt empty and numb from asking it so many times.
Why? Why you, Legolas? Why you of all people? Why did you have to die? Why?!
But once again, there were no answers that the dwarf could find that could ever possibly answer such a question.
The world around him suddenly seemed to become blurry and distorted as Gimli felt his resolve break and all his grief and guilt once again came rushing to the surface. His dark little eyes swam with barely controlled tears. His throat was now so painfully tight he could barely breath. But he dared not open his mouth to take a deep breath, for he knew if he did he would only lose hold of this fragile remaining bit of control he had and break down into tears
It was as Gimli stood staring out over the grassy field trying to regain his composure and control that he was quietly joined by another whose own grief and guilt were almost equal to his. "Gimli?" came a small, tentative voice from behind him.
The dwarf slowly looked back over his shoulder to the one who had come to join him. He did not have to look to know who it was, nor did he really want to. There was still so much pain and hurt between them from their fight in Lord Elrond's study the day before... But he knew he had address his friend. "Aragorn..." he greeted in an empty tone with no discernable emotion in his voice or on his face.
The man merely nodded in reply and uneasily turned his eyes downwards. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, making the small metal links of the chain mail he had donned for today's battle jingle together softly as he moved. Though Aragorn stood dressed ready for war in amour and chain mail with his sword securely strapped around his waist and hanging down by his side, Gimli could tell the man's heart was not there backing the impressive image he otherwise presented. Though Gimli knew this was the same man he had traveled in the Fellowship with and fought beside in numerous battles, he couldn't help but think how utterly tired and... old the man now looked, as if he was nothing but an empty shell hollowed by grief and pain.
"Gimli... I- I wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday," Aragorn said in a soft, hollowed voice. The man's tired, red-rimmed eyes remained consciously turned away from the dwarf as he spoke, as if he were too ashamed to look him in the eyes. "I had no right to say those things to you. I- I don't know what came over me. I don't know why I blamed you for what happened. I know it wasn't your fault Legolas died. It was just that I felt so guilty myself for what happened that I guess I had to try and blame someone else. I'm so sorry. I know you did everything you could for Legolas. You were a better friend to him than I ever was... I know I can never truly take back all those awful things I said, and I understand if you can never forgive me for them, but I just wanted you to know that I am sorry..."
Gimli stood for a long moment of silence with an unreadable expression on his face, quietly appraising the man and his heartfelt apology. For several long heartbeats of unbearable tension, Aragorn thought the dwarf was not going to accept his apology and proclaim an official end to their friendship because of all those untrue and hurtful things he had said to him the day before. But it seemed as if Aragorn was too hasty in his assumptions and had underestimated their bonds of friendship and the extent of Gimli's forgiveness.
"I thank you, Aragorn," Gimli said softly after a moment, turning to fully face the man, "But you are not the only one that has something to apologize for. I am also sorry for what I said yesterday," he said, now adverting his eyes to the ground to hide his shame. A watery shine had entered his eyes as if Aragorn's confession had for some reason given him reason to finally open the proverbial floodgates to all his own pent-up feelings of grief and regret. "I was wrong to accuse you of ever abandoning Legolas like that. I know that you would never do something like that. What I said was out of my own helplessness of returning in time to save the elf. You should not feel responsible for Legolas' death, because one thing you said yesterday was true: it was my fault he died – not yours. I was the one that gave him that dagger in the first place and was then unable to return in time to save him. And for that I am the one that should be sorry. Please forgive me."
Aragorn silently stared at Gimli, feeling his heart break open anew and bleed at the sight of utter guilt and self-blame he saw swimming in the dark brown depths of the dwarf's eyes. "Gimli–" he began, but had to break off sharply as he felt his throat tightly constrict, momentarily choking off anything else he might have tried to say for several seconds. Unbidden tears of renewed guilt torn at him and welled up in his already sorrow-ladened eyes. "No, Gimli, it wasn't your fault. I was wrong. None of this was you fault," he protested with fresh tears shining in his eyes, "None of it was..."
Striding forward, the man swiftly closed the gap between him and the dwarf in two quick steps and pulled his friend up against him in a comforting embrace. A barely audible sob sounded in the back of the dwarf's throat as Gimli immediately returned the gesture, not caring if anyone else saw the rather awkward looking spectacle he and Aragorn were making: a man and dwarf embracing with Gimli's head barely even reaching Aragorn's chest. They just didn't care anymore. There was just too much death, loss, and sorrow between them to care.
Standing in each other's arms, the two friends suddenly felt a great sense of strength and support wash over them. Though no real words were spoken between them, they knew they had been forgiven for everything they had said in that moment of raging helplessness and despair the day before. No longer alienated by ill-spoken words or misplaced anger, the two finally felt as if they had someone else who they could share their grief and pain with for their dear friend who they had both lost and still bitterly mourned for. Finally after several long minutes of silence, as if coming to a mutual understanding, the two friends slowly pulled away from each other and looked into each other's watery eyes.
Neither said anything. There didn't seem to be a need. They had made their peace with one another. They had resolved their differences. There was just nothing left that needed to be said.
Offering Gimli a timid smile of thanks and final apology, Aragorn nevertheless began to open his mouth to speak. But whatever he was about to say was never known, for at that very moment a loud trumpet blast echoed out across the field, startling the man and dwarf back into reality.
"They're coming! They're coming!" was the resounding cry that rippled through the ranks as everyone there hurriedly looked out across to the opposite side of the field. Coming up over the first rise of the field rode an impressive company of mounted elves. The sound of their approach was like that of the thunder rumbling on the horizon, heralding the arrival of both a violent storm and war. Banners of green and gold all bearing the stylized design of a leaf entwined with vines angrily snapped in the air above their heads.
Leading this mighty host of riders atop a charging white war horse rode the impressive figure of King Thranduil of Mirkwood dressed in full armor. Angry black thunderclouds of the approaching storm swirled and twisted in the turbulent sky behind him, setting a dramatic backdrop for his approach. The elven king was an awesome and terrifying image to behold.
Thranduil's armor flashed brightly on his body as a sudden flash of lightening streaked across the sky behind him and momentarily illuminated the polished metal. Long blonde hair flowed out over his shoulders and whipped the air behind him. But that was not what suppressed many of the watching Imladris elves into silent awe and reverent fear. It was the king's eyes. Even from across the open field they could see the dangerous flash of his eyes, the smoldering fire and wrath burning deep inside them.
Standing in silence beside each other just on the edge of the forest line, Aragorn and Gimli watched with heavy eyes as Thranduil and his army swept across the field towards them like a terrible wind of death.
Thranduil had finally come... War was finally upon them – something they had feared since Legolas was first struck down by the evil poison staining the edge of Gimli's gift.
As the man and dwarf watched the elven king begin to slow his approach and then finally reign his prancing white war horse to a stop in the center of the open field with his army behind him, Aragorn slowly raised a hand and silently set it on Gimli's shoulder. This was the end. There was no escaping now. Unless they could still somehow convince Thranduil to relinquish his path of revenge, war would ravage the land and soak the earth with blood. Aragorn softly squeezed Gimli's shoulder, reassuring his friend that he was there to offer him his strength and support in the coming battle and that he was not about to leave him.
Gimli seemed to accept this and silently reached up to cover Aragorn's hand sitting there on his shoulder with his own. As the dwarf gave Aragorn a small nod of gratitude for the man's offered strength, Gimli felt a sudden pang of longing course through his heart. Now more than ever since the elf's death almost a week ago, Gimli wished Legolas was there.
A fresh wave of guilt crashed over the dwarf. He tightly shut his eyes to try and stem the pain he felt welling up inside him at the thought of his deceased friend. But there was no way for him to ease the pain of his guilt. It was his fault Legolas would never be able to fight beside him in battle again, why they now stood here preparing for war in the first place. Gimli slowly looked up at the turbulent sky and darkened thunderclouds quickly rolling in overhead.
He really wished Legolas could be there with him now to give him strength. Even if only in spirit...
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"No! It's not true! It can't be! Let me up!"
"Legolas, calm down," Elrond said, desperately trying to calm the struggling elf on the bed, "Legolas, calm down. You're going to hurt yourself."
"No! Let me up! I have to stop them!" he cried, weakly trying to pull himself up to sit. His attempts to do so however were quickly stopped by Elrond and Arwen as they both easily pushed him back down onto the bed. "Please! I have to stop them! I have to warn them!" Legolas wailed, weakly tossing his head back and forth over the pillow in helpless frustration of making them listen to him.
Only several minutes ago, after being spirited from the alter room to a nearby guestroom, Legolas had woken for the first time to coherent consciousness. He had found Elrond and Arwen busily tending to him when he woke, hurriedly stripping him of a long formal grey robe he never remembered putting on and then covering his violently shivering body with several warm blankets. For this he was immensely grateful for. His whole body shook with cold that seemed to seep down and freeze the very marrow of his bones. Disoriented and dizzy with exhaustion, Legolas could only wonder in a muddled sort of haze why he was shivering so badly.
It was only after Elrond helped him drink some strong smelling herbal concoction did Legolas feel anything along the lines of coherent thought return to him. Still extremely weak and disoriented, Legolas nevertheless had had enough sense to know that something was wrong. He struggled to remember why he would be in the need of care like this from the Lord of Imladris, or why the whole left side of his body hurt with a dull, throbbing pain. He vaguely remembered waking up in Elrond's arms in some strange, open room he had never seen before, but everything before that was dark and hazy as if his brain was wreathed in dense fog.
It was only as he laid there in a stupefied daze fighting off the seductive urge to let himself drift off into sleep, did Legolas slowly begin to remember all that had happened. Gimli's gift. The poison. Eronel. The war... Gripped by panic, he had demanded answers from the other two elves. They had at first tried to dissuade his inquires, but it seemed that even after being considered dead for almost a week, Legolas had lost none of his stubbornness. Finally after many demands and weakly backed threats, Legolas had managed to wrestle something of a sketchy account of recent events since his apparent "demise" almost a week before. Horrified and shocked at what Elrond and Arwen reluctantly revealed to him, Legolas now desperately fought to stop everything he feared from coming true.
"Please! I have to warn them! This is what Eronel wants! Don't you see? I have to stop them!" he cried desperately, still trying to disentangle himself from the numerous blankets Elrond and Arwen had thrown over his shivering body. Legolas' body ached with fatigue and hurt from the lingering effects of the poison in his arm that had almost killed him. But he refused to succumb to the pain or his body's wishes for sleep and rest. He had to warn them.
"Legolas. Legolas, no. Just calm down and relax," Arwen soothed as he she once again gently pushed Legolas back down onto the bed and pet back some of his disheveled blonde hair from his face. "You're still sick. You need to rest," she said soothingly, lowering her voice to a soft, comforting, maternal purr, "Just lie back and relax. Everything will be alright. Father's already had Glorfindel send a messenger to the defensive line to tell everyone you're still alive. It's alright. Just relax and sleep. You're still extremely sick. Everything will be fine. I promise. Just lie back and rest..."
"No! You're not listening to me!" Legolas cried, "Eronel has planned this all out! She wants to see my father declare war on the Dwarves. This is her revenge! I have to warn them! You have to let me warn them!"
"Legolas, no," Elrond finally broke in, abruptly hushing any more of Legolas' plaintive cries with his deep, authoritative voice. "You are too sick to do anything of the sort. You're suffering from exposure and dehydration. Plus there is still poison in your system. We may have given you the magic water from Eronel's cave and broken her spell over you, but you are still suffering from some of the effects of the poison. It's not gone yet." As he spoke, Elrond pulled back the blankets from over the left side of Legolas' chest and looked down at the elf's vibrantly discolored torso and arm. Legolas hissed in pain as the ancient healer reached down and gently picked his arm up to examine. Elrond gingerly turned the elf's infected blue arm over in his hands. Dark blue track lines ran up and down the length of Legolas' arm, his veins horribly discolored from the invading toxin of the elven sorceress Eronel. "Your arm is still in pain," Elrond noted grimly, "It will take some time for the water to completely drive Eronel's poison out of your system. You are in no shape to get out of bed. It is lucky you are even alive. You must rest."
"No!" Legolas wailed almost deliriously, unable to be dissuaded, "Eronel is planning something. Can't you see that? She won't let this war end without bloodshed. She wants to see Elves and Dwarves destroy each other. She's not going to let this end so easily. I must warn them!"
Elrond and Arwen shared uneasy looks.
"Please," Legolas begged in a slightly softer tone, starting up into Elrond's eyes with a deep, unwavering gaze, "I have to go and warn them. She is not going to let this war end so easily..."
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To Be Continued...
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So 'till next time!