Aragorn bit his lip in frustration. Despite all the tasks already upon his shoulders, here was one more! Boromir was gravely wounded. He could not possibly continue tracking Merry, Pippin, and Legolas, but there was no way the Ranger could leave him, either. Yet Aragorn had to find his missing companions. In short, he had to carry on, and though Boromir could not come, neither could he stay.
Strider sighed heavily. His decision was made.
"Gimli," he began, "you will remain with Boromir and the hobbits. Make for Lothlórien—that is the only place for him to receive adequate care. Go northward on our path of these recent days through the Misty Mountains, and when you come upon the stream of Nimrodel, follow it eastward until you reach the Golden Wood. I shall join you there within four and one half tendays—but if I do not, I leave it to you to finish our quest. Do not stop until the task is done. Tarry not and worry not for me. The fate of the Ring will rule us all, and it is far more important an errand."
The stolid dwarf looked at him searchingly for a moment, and then gave a single nod. "I will do as you say, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."
"Strider, wait!" It was Frodo, clutching at the Ranger's arm. "You cannot leave us—we will never succeed. You do not mean to leave us here, do you?!"
"Aye, that I do. I must. It is the only way. Were there another, by the Valar, I would take it, but there is none."
So saying, Aragorn snatched up his bow and dashed away, and not even the high little hobbit-voice calling him back could stop him.
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Legolas drew in a great, shuddering sigh. The intake of air made his broken rib shift, and he cried out with the pain. He would have wept, but he had no tears left to cry. Gasping in agony, the Elf managed to lever himself up on his arms, dragging his wounded body a few feet to the side. The ever-caring Orcs had tossed a fetid bowl of water on the floor before leaving. Half of it had slopped out, and what remained smelled as though it had come from the Dead Marshes themselves, but water was water, and the archer's throat burned too badly to pass it up. He drank as much as he could force past his unwilling lips and splashed a handful on his face.
The Elf propped himself against the wall, dragging the bowl closer and tearing a strip of cloth from his tattered tunic. Slowly, gingerly, he dipped the material in the water to begin the delicate process of cleaning his wounds—those he could reach, anyway. He was careful not to breathe too deeply, because doing so hurt his ribs.
It was a long, agonizing process, and when it was done, all Legolas could do was drop the cloth into the bowl and slide down the wall into painless oblivion.
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Merry was having a dream.
He stood inside a bubble of time, or rather, of no time. Faces drifted by; places he had known slid past. One by one he saw each of his Fellowship companions: Gandalf—Gandalf, who had fallen in Moria—smoking his pipe, a troubled look on his face; Gimli, slapping his axe into his palm and frowning; Boromir, sharpening his great sword; Strider, toying absently with the Evenstar's jewel; Sam supporting an exhausted Frodo—what was it that had sapped so much of his strength? And Pippin, also smoking, biting his lip; and Legolas, who turned to look at Merry over his shoulder, then went back to gazing at a bloodred sunrise.
"A red sun rises," he dimly heard the Elf's voice say, though the archer outside the bubble said nothing. "Blood has been spilled this night."
It was true, the Hobbit saw, for a crimson trickle wound past the Elf's feet, pooling on the blackened ground. The dream-Merry looked up, meaning to ask whose blood it was, but was shocked into silence when he saw it was the archer's own. Scarlet drops accentuated every edge of every lash on the pale skin, like gems on a macabre red and white tapestry. The blue and black flowers of bruises blossomed against the milky background, dark lilies floating atop light water. The tip of one ear was missing.
Before Merry's horrified eyes, Legolas collapsed on the blasted ground. That single moment seemed an hour, one long, terrible hour. But his sapphire orbs opened as he smiled and began to sing.
Edhélwen eller naë en'iant,
Siliéngil ed'rë:
Nimgollo'hë rime yassen malta,
Daltuup'hë en celeb-windë.
Elen nardë deno'tirne'hë,
Me'a naë no'loske'hë
Vee'anor deno'i'malolwea
E'Lorien Tel'vanya.
Loske'hë naë ann, ranquie'hë naë nim,
Ar'vanya hë naë ar'theil;
Ar'e'i'sul hë autë vee'kalina
Vee'lassë en tathar-orn.
Aru i'lantaë en Nimrodel,
Ed'alu atin ar'him,
Ouma'hë vee'lantien celeb lantë
E'a i'silien elin.
Mankë sil'hë rana n'umao nawa nyar,
E'aurë ri'e'halya;
Ten'wanwa en ann'wanwië naë Nimrodel
Ar'e'i'orodor ranyë.
Listening to that sweet Elvish song, Merry drifted away into the clear blue pool Legolas' azure eyes had become. The song faded and finished. A voice called his name from far, far away.
And the dream ended.
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"Merry. Merry!" Pippin whispered, shaking his fellow's shoulder to wake him. "Look what I've found: a lockpick!"
"Hm?!" Merry came awake instantly at those words. "A lockpick? How?"
"Shhh, not so loud, an Uruk came by only a moment ago. But see, it's from my belt. I took the buckle and bent it straight against the wall. And I checked the lock—it's a clumsy thing, more for show than anything else, I think. Just like the one on the old wine cupboard back in Brandy Hall. Saruman did not expect this from us!"
"But he shall learn to expect much more from a Brandybuck and a Took! Pip, I take back everything I ever said about you."
"Thank you," he responded dryly. "Now, shall we set about escaping, or shall we sit around and wait for the next guard to come by?"
They nearly ran each other over in their scramble to get to the door.
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well. there we go. what do u think? personally, i think i like this version better. more angsty. *evil grin, wicked laugh* write me a review so i can figure out what to do in the next chappie!
