Disclaimer: I don't own anything from "Lord of the Rings".
Author's note: Practically no comments, except those to thank all who reviewed. :o)
HyperSquishy: I hope that this chapter won't lead you into a more complicated labyrinth, though I should confess it's quite possible. :o) Thank you for the compliment, it was very pleasant to read.
Swasti: I rather like the effect they produce. :o)
ZELINIA: What will happen to him? Hm-m, with what to begin… :o))) Just read and find out. (and don't forget about the next chapter to send. This one was interesting. And well-written)
Name1: Danke schön! ;o) (sorry if I have accent) :o)
Ara Goddess of the Broken: I'm glad that you settled on that opinion. :o) Thank you.
Faerlas: (bowing and trying to seem a humble girl) Thanks… I was doing my best… :o)
Chapter 2.
Ruins.
Light. Repulsively-crimson and heavy like rain of blood.
Smell. The worst smell for the elf – that of burning trees. Or rather of burnt ones.
He had no need to open his eyes – they were open. What surprised him was that he kept firmly standing on his feet, though if he were to give a conclusion of his last recollections, the reclining position would be more natural.
He took a deep breath to make sure that his body was still serving him. The outer frame appeared perfectly sound, not considering the slight tremble in relaxing muscles, as if he had made a long-distance run without halts. But having glanced round he realized that he didn't commit a single step. But time seemed to do it in his place, because every bit of his surrounding changed in a terrible manner, compelling him to think that he had missed several thousand years while day-dreaming.
He was standing at the very edge of the steep, formed by the crumbled bridge. No water was seen in the dried-up river-bed down his feet. The ground was crannied under the merciless rays of the red sun. The trees, rising up around the elf, lost their foliage, and now they were no more than thinned black trunks. Some of them had burnt down to the ground. They were dead – all of them – however hard Legolas tried to catch at least one breath of life in their motionless frames, nothing echoed in their veins anymore.
Something showed up white in what had once been the sparkling river. The elf bent forward only to start back again, his forehead getting covered with sweat and his eyes blazing in terror. There, blanched by rains and winds, picked by countless days and nights, lay thousands of bones. The channel was bestrewn with skeletons – those in the Elvish chain armors and dimmed helmets, and those of orcs - short and ugly even in their death. Thrown-back heads, thin fingers, wringing bows and swords, jaws, open in agony… Legolas shuddered and stepped back to realize that the same white remains were crushing into dust under his uncertain feet.
Horror and destruction reigned everywhere.
Rivendell – if it was Rivendell – lay in ruins.
Once rich chambers grinned with the fangs of blasted rocks. The carved windows blindly squinted at Legolas, like the eyes of a dying man, who failed to recognize his friend because of the death-pangs feasting upon his body.
The glance of the elf was racing from one terrible sign of demolish to another – he saw everything but couldn't accept it. A moment away he knew Rivendell as the abandoned, but flowering land – and yet now its blossom was out, leaving only abandonment. He seemed to hear cries and wheezes of pain over the immobile battle-field, he caught the sound of pouring blood and perceived the sufferings of pierced flesh. The shadows of the fallen clutched at his ankles, breathing out the last pleas for help.
He suddenly came to his senses as something else caught his eyes, something what he wished were not what it seemed to be. Slowly, against his own will the elf moved along a thin stone path, leading to the palace, and stopped as the objects of his staggered attention became clear enough to understand their nature.
Three marble tombs heaved up from the smooth lane in front of what had earlier been the majestic harbour of Rivendell sovereigns. Two of them – grey-marbled and waist-high – were crowned with two decumbent stone figures of fallen heroes – a man and an elf. A warrior and a king. At seeing their faces Legolas got certain that his reason had failed him – wise and serene image of Elrond and tired noble features of Aragorn were looking at him from the lineament of the statues.
And between these graves lay another and the most grievous one. It was lower than they and atop of it rose a sculpture of an elven maiden on bended knees, her streaming marble hair half-hiding a fair face, lined with sorrow. The gravestone in front of her bore a doleful inscription:
Here lies Elrond Peredhil,
Aragorn son of Arathorn,
and Arwen the Evenstar.
The light of Rivendell died down.
Before he let the epitaph sink into his thunderstruck mind, something moved behind him. A twig cracked under a clumsy step… Legolas turned round to notice the edge of a billowing cloak, disappearing between the trees. He darted after, not thinking that the one who was escaping could be dangerous for him. He wasn't afraid – all he had seen in the last half-an-hour blunted his perception. He desperately wanted to look into the eyes of a living man, and not into the empty orbits of skeletons. It took him several steps to run down the fleeting one and grab him by the shoulder, turning his lean body so that they appeared face to face with each other. The stranger lifted his arm, and though the impact never came, Legolas's cheek blazed up with sharp ache as if stung with a well-aimed slap. The elf winced but didn't let go, squeezing his fingers even tighter, if that was possible.
"Let me go," croaked the prisoner of his grasp, jerking to release himself, "Let me go! I don't want to see you, do you hear?"
At the sound of this voice – strained, yet unmistakably feminine - his fingers unclenched, suddenly week and languid. It was obvious that the stranger should run, but she just dropped on the ground, covering her face with her palms.
"Why did you return?" she forced out, her shoulders shaking with muffled sobs, "Why do you torture me?"
Her head went up – and once again Legolas had to suppress an exclamation of utter surprise, when his gaze fixed on the brown eyes, dimmed with tears.
"You?" whispered he with unbelief, but almost happily, "Gwirith, you are alive…"
His heart was beating so rapidly, that it made him pant. In the name of Eru, he was sorely mistaken, having let himself think he hadn't loved this wonder of a girl. He was so self-assertive to persuade himself he hadn't been losing his head at the mere sight of her. Now, seeing her bruised, dressed in rags, smearing dirt and tears over her cheeks, but still undoubtedly alive was the greatest joy he could remember having experienced. The elf drew forward to touch her, to ascertain that she was not just a vision…
"Don't come closer," warned Gwirith, standing to her feet and staring at him with so much hostility that he felt a lump in his throat.
"You are alive," mocked she, her lips curved in disdain, "Thanks to you – yes, I am. Now get out unless you came to put an end to it, as you had always wanted. Enough of this derision."
"I don't understand you," he tried to reach out for her, "Gwirith, it's just me."
Gwirith sniffed and stepped back, nearer to the trees behind her.
"I see it perfectly well," snapped she, "But this time you won't get your way. Not at my expense. I hope you will die and decay here."
And with these words she hurriedly stole away, leaving him alone and astonished.