Disclaimer: I don't remember whether I had told you I don't own "Lord of the Rings". Supposedly, I did. :o)
Author's note: 1) To prevent the objections – the trick with a bow against the chest works. I checked it, otherwise I wouldn't have inserted it into the story. You'll see what I mean later. :o)
2) Thanks everyone who took pains to review. :o) I appreciate your support.
ZELINIA: A smart girl. :o))) A very smart girl.
Faerlas: Congratulations on the occasion of having finished the exams. :o) I'm green with envy. Missed you, my friend.
Name1: Thank you. :o) I shall try not to disappoint you.
And unfortunately, one of the reviewers was Anonymous, yet thanks anyway. I suppose it would be nice if I knew your name, since I guess it's not very polite of me to address to you this way, but if you are against I'll have to resign myself to it. The first two questions are skin-deeply highlighted in the first two chapters. I cannot lay my cards on the table fully right now. As for the other inquiries – you are too impatient. :o))) Though I really liked your question about the "alive" point. Everything will be explained. Not in this chapter, perhaps, but you may ask those who had read my "Blackthorn" and they will tell you that I never leave blank spots in my stories. :o))
Enjoy and review. :o) Love all.
Chapter 4.
Forward.
They almost bypassed the ill-fated bridge, which aroused so many memories, when Gwirith suddenly came to a halt and muttered something harsh under her breath. He preferred not to make out what exactly it was.
"I have quite forgotten," said she, turning to him, "You need some weapon to protect yourself."
"If you say so," he was still uneager to enter into any conversations.
He avoided talking to her lest she should demonstrate something which could make him feel stronger odium to her cynical statements than he already felt. He didn't want to quarrel with her – in the deepest corner of his heart there remained some leavings of the hope, that she was the Gwirith he had lost here, and had found again. Then her coldness could be fair. Then he could accept it and bow his head before her, begging for forgiveness. And could resign if she refused to pardon him. But the more he watched her, the more he craved to turn back and leave everything as it is. He didn't want to remember her this way. He didn't want to forget the pure image of an innocent beauty, he kept in his mind and soul for all these years, in favour of this tanned face, this scornful mouth and this heavy, evaluating, piercing stare. Each time she looked at him, he felt his skin burn and bleed there, where lingered her eyes.
She unbuttoned her crude leathern vest and drew out a skein of rope. For a moment she was gazing at it, biting her lip in doubts. Having cast a pensive glance at Legolas, Gwirith frowned with even greater hesitation.
"Lift me up," ordered she suddenly. At seeing his surprise she added brusquely and irritably, "I need to come down there. And if you think that I'll entrust to you my life without making sure that you are able to hold the rope with me hanging on it, you are mistaken."
"I'd hold three people as light as you are!" her contemptuous assumptions infuriated him. He unexpectedly felt an intense desire to hurt her. To break her to prove that he wouldn't be treated as a feeble mortal, whoever she might be. In one step he approached the girl and raised her on the stretched-out arms, squeezing her sides so tightly that she gave a constrained squeal.
"My ribs…"
Having immediately collected himself at this weak sound, he carefully restored her to the ground, feeling ashamed for his indecent outburst. Her hand rushed up to nurse the injured side, but she never touched it, instead of that tucking her hair behind her ear. He saw that it was nothing more than an awkward gesture of the one, trying to keep a straight face, and got even sorrier to have done her harm.
"Forgive me," said he uneasily, "I shouldn't have…"
"I do not blame you," interrupted Gwirith, as something smile-like showed itself upon her lips. She leaned to pick up the dropped skein and began to unreel it, avoiding looking into his eyes, "I suppose I deserved that. Just hold the rope, all right?"
Legolas accepted the soft elvish cord, which seemed to have wound around his hand without any interference of his. By the time he had checked the security of the knot and the solidity of the rope itself, Gwirith had already tied it round her waist and now patiently stood aside, waiting for him to finish his examination.
"Ready?" asked she, moving to the gap, which broke the bridge in two.
The elf nodded, his heels instinctively digging themselves in the ground to ensure the firm stand. For a second she inspected him, as if wrestling with herself, but this moment was fleeting. In a heartbeat she disappeared behind the brink, and only the tension of the rope, which had cut deep into his palm, indicated that she was still there.
Soon the rope loosened – he heard Gwirith walk beneath the bridge. Her thin soles rustled against the dry ground – the intervals between these sounds were irregular, and he guessed that she had to overstep the bodies, which he had seen lying down there. Once or twice she mumbled something incomprehensible, hushed words followed by the aggravated clinking of metal. After several eternal minutes she gave a satisfied exclamation and he felt the rope stretch again, this time strongly enough to cause small drops of blood exude out of his palm and soak into the sleek fabric. Jerks came one after another, while he regardless of the pain in his hand was slowly stepping back to help the climbing girl up. At last her face emerged out of the gap. She threw a hand over the edge, and Legolas saw that it clutched a long dagger, stained with dark dry spots. Over her shoulder hung a quiver, full of arrows of different size, and a heavy war-bow neighbored it, almost brushing against her ear.
"I thought you will cut me in two," stated Gwirith breathlessly, having dropped her load onto the ground and untying the rope. Legolas lowered his hand as carelessly as he could lest she should notice a fresh cut on his palm.
"There's no need to be a hero, you know," smirked the girl, as the rope returned to its proper place behind her vest, "In any case there's nothing I could have done to help you with your scratch. I wouldn't even ask."
"How did you…," began the elf, but his question was cut off by her mocking laughter.
"The rope," explained she, "it's wet. I'm not bleeding, so it's only you who could be hurt. Look at the weapon, please. I guess it should suit you."
He picked up the bow and drew it, testing the tightness of the string. It twanged thinly, making a small smile cross his lips. It was a perfect bow – Gwirith evidently had an eye for such things. The arrows, however, disappointed Legolas.
"They are too different," muttered he discontentedly, "And those ones are meant for arbalests, not for bows."
Gwirith snorted, shrugging her shoulders.
"It was not me to have chosen weapon for them," said she, pointing at the skeletons beneath, "Or I would have certainly asked them to use something equal."
At the very moment Legolas's attention was arrested by odd scratches at one of the arrows. He had scarcely brought it closer to his eyes when his fine face took an expression of disgust and he cast the arrow away, looking as it he was going to spit.
"You don't say that you took those ones out of their bodies, do you?" his voice was strained with repugnance and indignation.
"And where else do you suggest I should take them?" wondered Gwirith innocently, "They don't mind, I assure you. Most of them haven't had bodies for a long time."
"Do you not respect the fallen?" his elven nature rioted against the act of obvious and deliberate looting.
"I do not respect even myself," responded she with slight frost, "What can one expect from me after that?"
Without further words she turned away and seemed to stiffen, staring into nowhere. He hesitated, waiting for her to do something, but she never moved, as if he had stopped being of interest for her.
"Gwirith, are you going?" he guardedly touched her shoulder, unsure of her having heard him.
"And you?" her tone was impassive, and she didn't take her eyes off the crimson line of the horizon.
"I suppose I have no choice," said Legolas half-questioningly. She chuckled, yet no mirth was there in her grin.
"A wise observation. Collect the arrows - you might need them."
This time he didn't protest. When all the arrows appeared in the quiver, and he was going to hang it over his shoulder, the girl suddenly woke up, shaking her head.
"Wait," asked she, "Can you put it on so that it would lie on you chest, not on your back?"
"Why?" the elf got sincerely surprised, "I won't be able to shoot."
"You cannot go through this land as an elf," explained Gwirith patiently, handling him the cloak, which she had also brought from the battle-field, "Try to hide the weapon under this."
The sight of the cloak left no doubts about the race of the craftsmen who had sewn it, so the precautions of Gwirith sounded funny. She caught his skeptical glance, and her lips turned into a thin stroke.
"With plenty of marauders like me in here you don't have to be an elf to wear an elvish cloak," dropped she archly.
In her statement he made out the notes of resentment. Not to aggravate it more than he had already done, he silently placed the quiver and even the bow against his chest, put the dagger in his belt and habitually wrapped himself in warm and flowing fabric. Gwirith watched him, her eyes half-narrowed. When he finished the preparations, she reached out to pull the hood over his face.
"You are too tall," concluded she with certain displeasure. Legolas obediently bent lower, stooping his shoulders as much as the weapon allowed him. The girl observed the picture he made up – her eyes flashed and she approached the nearest tree to break off a straight branch, which she handed out for him.
"That's better," said she approvingly, when he rested against it like a tired old man against his staff.
The elf wistfully considered that by the moment their journey would be over he would be as crooked as a mortal of ninety or so, because his neck and his back were slowly but inevitably getting numb.
"I guess that is all," commented mockingly-upright Gwirith, "Come on, … grandpa."
A/n: Sorry if there are any mistakes – Two o'clock in the morning do not dispose to checking over spelling and grammar. I just looked it through. :o)
I may be late with the next chapter – the term paper is left behind with an excellent mark, but there are still exams to take. Good luck to you all.
Adamanta.