With another hideous screech that echoed off the walls of the canyon, the winged beast leapt at its prey. Though it could no longer fly, it moved with surprising speed at the wounded, crumpled form of Boromir. And he was helpless!
Aragorn was too far away—Gimli yet lay prone where he had dived—Frodo was still behind the Ranger—
With a courage that shocked even himself, Sam Gamgee dashed ahead with his little blade outstretched. I am mad, he thought to himself all the while. I really am completely mad. Perhaps it was best that he was preoccupied with his thoughts, or he might not have had the nerve to continue. As it was, however, his little hobbit-sword stabbed out and up, shearing through the stinking black hide, opening a great wound in the beast's belly. The creature screamed horribly and turned its fanged maw at the Halfling, unintentionally facing the rest of the Company. And in that instant Aragorn fired his last arrow.
The shaft almost drifted through the air, slowly…ever so slowly…surely it had stopped moving…but miraculously, it did not deviate from its path. There were no interfering winds—surely that would not matter, because it had completely stopped…
Until it plunged directly into the beast's slitted eye. For a second, the thing seemed to register neither the wound nor its own demise. Then it screamed, the sound resounding through the gorge, seemingly for eternity, its body writhing in its death throes. The whiplike tail flew through the air and struck the hapless Sam, sending him into the opposite wall. But suddenly, the beast was silent, so that the Companions could hear the wind whispering, and slowly, almost majestically, it toppled over with a crash that shook the stone walls, and the head flopped at Aragorn's feet.
"Sam!" Frodo cried, dashing forwards to where the other hobbit lay. Sam sat up, groaning and rubbing his head, but otherwise quite whole. His only injury was a small cut above one eyebrow that trickled blood.
Aragorn merely stared at the hobbit for a moment. He laughed. "Come, Master Samwise," he cried. "Let us take care of your wound, and inspect this great beast you have slain!" Then, taking some athelas out of his beltpouch and using some water from his drinking flask, he washed and rinsed the cut thoroughly. When he was done, the injury was nearly invisible.
"Aragorn!" Gimli called from across the canyon. "Come, and quickly! Boromir has need of your healing skills!"
The Ranger swore in a language Sam did not know, the smile wiped from his face. He dashed across the rock to arrive at the Gondorean's side. Boromir was breathing heavily. Blood soaked one arm, running in scarlet rivers from three deep parallel gashes. The same arm also hung at an odd angle. From just a glance Aragorn could see the bone was broken in at least three places.
"Strider?" Sam asked worriedly. "Boromir'll be all right, won't 'e?"
Without answering, the Ranger knelt and placed a hand on the Gondorean's shoulder. He seemed to be questioning, almost asking permission for something. The wounded man, teeth clenched, nodded once.
And Aragorn drove his fist into Boromir's temple.
ειδαсαг
The forests were burning!
The Elf spun in horror, lungs stinging from the smoke, eyes burning, searching for some escape from that horrible picture. Trees, stripped of their bark and leaves, reached blackened limbs to the sky like so many beseeching fingers. Their tips dripped crimson, and the copper smell of blood wafted to and fro on the air. Shadowy figures stretched towards him, as a hideous wailing touched his sensitive Elven ears, exactly like that he had heard when shot by Kashgûl's arrow. Faces hovered before him. All were contorted in pain, mouthing soundless pleas for help, reaching with invisible fingers to drag him into their embrace. He recoiled in horror and ran.
He fled on and on, looking, desperately searching, for something—anything!—that would let him escape. He recognized these woods now: they were of his homeland. Where was his home? The palace of Taur-en-Daedelos, where was it? Where was his father, Thranduil, king of Mirkwood? And all his friends?
The forests were burning, and all the while, the scent of blood lingered in the air.
Suddenly a voice called out to him, barely audible above the shrieking wind. But he recognized it. It was his father screaming.
"Laiqulassë! Ai, ionn nin! Tua amin! Tua amin, amin kyermallë!"
Haunted by the voice of his father screaming in agony, the Elf covered his ears and fled, stumbling and tripping, trying to escape this land of black and blood, this land of nameless nightmares.
ειδαсαг
Legolas awoke gasping with a strangled cry, eyes wild and drenched in sweat. The arrow wound in his shoulder throbbed afresh with a vengeance. He shivered. Vainly he attempted to clean the tear with a piece of cloth torn from one tattered sleeve, grimacing every time it touched the gash, but soon the fabric was soaked red and to no avail. Abandoning the futile effort, the archer tossed the cloth away. A dream, he thought. Only a nightmare. However, dreams were more than mere dreams to his kind. The thought did not comfort him.
"Merry? Pippin?" he rasped. He was incredibly thirsty, but there was not a drop of water to be found in this stone cell where Saruman's Uruks had apparently put him. Nor was there much light. The only source of it came from without, leaving a small square of torchlight on the floor through the door's barred window. As to the cell itself, it appeared to be nothing but cold damp stone, with a naught in the form of an exit but for a single ironbound door.
"Legolas?" a small, frightened voice answered him. "Legolas, are you there? Where are you?"
"In a cell near to yours, Master Peregrin, or so I would assume, if indeed you are in a cell," the Elf responded, having now identified the hobbit's voice. "You sound quite close. Is Merry with you?"
"Yes, but an Orc hit him on the head with a club, and he has not yet awakened. Are you all right?"
Before Legolas could reply, his cell door swung open on rusty hinges. Framed in the doorway in a pool of torchlight stood a burly Orc, sword and whip at its waist. "Come," it growled. "Saruman wants you."
The archer spat at the creature's filthy boots. "Then let him come and get me."
The Uruk shrugged as if it mattered not, and in truth, Legolas thought, it probably didn't. It beckoned, and three others entered the cell with it. All were wearing eager, malicious grins. They were glad the Elf had resisted; now they could have some fun.
Swords rasped free of their scabbards as the first Orc uncurled his whip from his belt and delicately ran his claws down its blackened length. The words rolled off his tongue like the weapon's own snap.
"Beat him."
ειδαсαг
so there you have it: chapter six. as to translations, there's only the one: "Legolas! Ai, my son! Help me! Help me, I pray you!" it was supposed to be 'help me, please' or 'help me, i beg of you' but i couldn't find the words. o well. i know this chapter was relatively agony-free, but i promise the next one won't be like that—ho, no no no…and it was too short again. sorry, i'm trying to keep up!
and to my *marvelous* reviewers, all four of em:
Lisseyelen—hee! why thank you. *bows* i had way too much fun writing that chapter. way too much fun. but i couldn't fit in all the angst i wanted to. but that's ok—next chapter will solve that problem!
Sirithiriel—dude, that is a way cool name. but no, i wont spoil it for you; i guess you'll just have to keep reading and find out! *wicked laugh*
Nazgul—oo, high praise! *blush* you couldn't find anything to criticize? crikey. wow, i feel special. don't kill me pls—i updated as fast as i could! no wrath! spare me! aaaaaaaaaaahh!
MoroTheWolfGod—more torture? why certainly! just wait til next chapter. there will be some good scenes there…as to aragorn and co, i'm not really sure how soon they'll find them. but yes, he will definitely have some small explosions in his head when he does…*evil chuckle, rubs hands together*
