Disclaimer: Does everyone agree that writing disclaimers can irritate to no end:o) I don't own "Lord of the Rings". I bet if Tolkien saw what I had done to his characters, he would be vexed. :o)
Author's note: The last chapter was unforgivably full of typos. I'm sorry. In this light I want to say a huge thanks to Faerlas, who had wasted her writer's time to check over this one. :o))) It's very nice of her, since I lost faith in my own attentiveness. Friends like her must get medals.
Neniel Sildurien: I have no idea when you manage to read this, but I hope that it will be soon. Thank you once more for having supported me. I needed that. :o) As for Legolas… Tolkien never accentuated him to be overly heroic or overly powerful. He was just an elf, though brave and noble, but not too eye-catching. So I saw no reason why his feelings should differ with quite logical feelings of some other person under the circumstances. :o)
Elven Script: Thank you. :o)) I just couldn't restrain myself from inserting a little pinprick after such a solemn scene. It's pleasant that you appreciated that.
Some more words – and the chapter is yours. I had a fit of nostalgia the other day and was looking through the reviews for "The Blackthorn". There I came across reviews from Rennjenn and it occurred to me that it was probably her comment about "clueless girls in the Middle-Earth", that prompted the idea of this story… I wonder what she could say about my heroine… :o)))))) Anyway, best regards to her and to all my readers and reviewers.
Chapter 13.
Taking wings.
The supple waist strained in his arms, and once more he couldn't help but notice that the outward frailty of this body concealed iron muscles. But the hands, which for a brief moment leaned upon his shoulders, were lightweight, and no sound came when two boot-clad feet landed the solid ground.
"Thank you," muttered Gwirith, glancing back at the rocky slope they had surmounted. Once it must have been a staircase, for a more or less passable part of it kept the weak resemblances of the stairs, while the most of its length was splintered and wreathed in deep uneven dints. There had been a battle. The huge boulders, scattered at the bottom of the slope, seemed to be still growling in fury, which had been instilled into them by those who had once sent them upon the heads of their enemies. The stones were rolling down the stairs, crashing everything on their way to give place to flaring arrows. And somebody – could it have been Archaldir? – was losing his voice, crying out command after command, standing in the most unguarded place, for his each motion was to be caught up by his warriors.
Legolas frowned, attempting to determine the outcome of the event. Though many bones lay here, in the spacious hall, trifle of such could be seen up the stairs, and the upper landing was barren of any signs of the fallen, either elves or orcs. Everything told him that his people were victorious, but he could be mistaken.
"The elves won this fight, if you want to know," in some inconceivable way she had learned to read his mind. Her voice stirred the elf up, bringing him out of the past into the cold present, where it was grey, damp and deafeningly quiet.
"Were you in it?" asked he without any expression, being very well aware that if she had been in the battle, she would have probably stood here, under the deadly hail of rocks. It was a relief to see Gwirith shake her head, even though her smile reflected the full comprehension of his grim thoughts.
"I was not. Otherwise you would have had the pleasure to contemplate my mortal remains under one of these pebbles. The elves were in the advantageous position."
Her fingers lightly ran along the rough boulder. For a moment Legolas imagined the merciless stone trample her brittle frame, rubbing her into the floor and mixing her blood and soul with the foul flesh of some orc. In the name of Eru…He felt an intolerable desire to hit her hand off the immobile killer, as if it could hurt her even now, when the body of its last victim had long since turned into dust. There was some deep, ancient, tangible malice in the lines of its jagged surface – it was staring at the elf with two grayish hollows, which oddly reminded of squinted eyes. As well as the knob under them was distantly similar to a shapeless nose… Stricken by a sudden guess, Legolas brusquely leaned in to appear face to face with a stiffened snout, in which every feature presented the ugly mockery of what Iluvatar had drawn in the lineaments of his children.
"Oh, you've noticed," smirked Gwirith, placing a quick flick on the enormous forehead, "It's a troll - at least a half of a troll. They all are."
She was right – now the rocks, surrounding the elf, did not look so amorphous to him. He distinguished the outlines of giant legs and fists, huge torsos, once and for all covered with pock-marks of petrified scales, misshapen heads, like the one, upon which his companion had so carelessly rested her now reset elbow. The remnants of the sun-feast, by some immense efforts delivered into the heart of the underground to be used as a weapon against the creatures of their sort.
"Your relatives have an exceptional sense of humour," remarked the girl with the same approving chuckle. Legolas darted her a glance, full of cool deprecation. That was the gift of hers – to give the most irrelevant observations and to twist everything, that was not allowed to be twisted.
"You call it humour?" asked he slowly, pointing at the half-moldered edge of some garment, pressed down with the stone lump.
Gwirith, however, ignored the gesture, as well as the unambiguous intonation of the inquiry. He should have got used to it by now.
"I appreciate unusual tactics and decisions, whoever they come from," plainly explained she, "And that was fairly unusual. I almost regret not being able to express Archaldir my admiration."
Be the circumstances any different, and the elf would agree with her praises to his teacher. But now they jarred upon him, either with the sincere tone they were uttered in, or with the simple fact that they were uttered at all. Admiration… For him she had none. She had never condescended to compliment or at least thank him, though he deserved that. Instead she just took him for granted, like a part of her surrounding.
"Can you admire only his quick-wit? Is bravery and selflessness nothing in your eyes?" he was wounded, and sounded shamefully resentful, yet the girl seemed not to comprehend the ground of his grudge.
"I give these qualities their due. Yet I'm not sure that blind and impatient bravery distinguishes real heroes. Each sacrifice, especially if it is a sacrifice of life, must be well-grounded. Do you really believe that Archaldir wanted to die in here? He was ready to, I don't doubt him. But it was not his aim. His aim was to protect his people and to spare as many of them as he could. And he attained it, because he was shrewd and didn't require his warriors to demonstrate foolhardy courage. All honours to him."
Serious and sober-minded. Sometimes Legolas had an impression that her body was a refuge of countless spirits, different from each other. And when he got accustomed to one of them, it retreated into the shadow, letting another one flash out and tease him like a ghost-light among the realm of marshes.
"Don't you yourself run ill-considered risk by helping me counter to the admittedly invincible adversary?" he challenged this new phantom, falling for the beaten track of pretending that he didn't notice the change.
But the touch of candour had already faded from her, and once more he had to contest with his old acquaintance - sarcastic bravado.
"Alas…" her laughter was bitter, and still unfeigned, "For now I have no choice already. And I don't rush through the land, carrying you like a proudly upraised flag, so that everyone would evaluate our valour. Though I somehow fail to doubt that be it for you to decide, you would already be dead in the attempt both to get home safely and not to appear an escaping coward."
"I'm not as unartful as you fancy me to be," replied Legolas dryly, swallowing the poignantly hurt self-respect. He wouldn't give her the pleasure of seeing that her pinprick hit the target.
"I know it," the sharp tune of her voice softened, mercifully pouring several drops of balm into his fresh wound, "But then why do you keep behaving as if you are?"
He had nothing to say for that. Or rather he had, yet not for the love of all the Valars he was eager to reveal that weakness again. One qualm of mind-dimness was more than enough.
Thankfully, Gwirith was not waiting for his answer. In a tired manner she rubbed her eyes and drew herself up, making it clear that the halt was over.
"Come," said she in undertone, "Let them lie here."
The elf obediently followed her through the hall, which lead to another, where they had to walk, plastering themselves against the wall in order not to sink into the yawning mineshaft. He insisted on creeping ahead of her, with his hand firmly clutched around her right shoulder. No doubt, in case she slipped he could have held her without any regard to where he was standing, but he didn't intend to cause her needless pain by catching at her injured arm and wrenching it again.
Little by little Legolas began to recognize the place. He had once passed it, so long ago that the very memory of it had turned into the echo of a weird dream – one of those, which couldn't be called joyous visions or nightmares, for they were akin to numbness and left the leaden heaviness in limbs by awakening.
If his intuition wasn't failing him, their wandering through Moria was almost ended. The only thing that didn't let him rejoice over it was the direction of their pass. It had been troubling him for all that time, but he had been waving aside his suspicions, being sure that he was too mistrustful. Now there were no doubts.
"Where are we?" questioned he to confirm his guess.
"In several minutes we shall be in the fresh air."
She quickly seized his supportive forearm, as shingle slid under her feet with a dangerous rustle. Was it an accident, or was she trying to divert him from interrogation?
"You mean that we shall go out of the main gates? But won't it lead us to where we parted?"
"Not exactly," rejoined Gwirith somewhat irritably, leaving hold of his hand, "And, by the way, the main gates do not exist anymore. I'm surprised that you don't remember it – they were brought down by the Guard when the Fellowship entered Moria. You were present at the moment, weren't you?"
"But how would you…" Legolas cut himself off in the middle of the word, recalling to whom he was speaking. Of course, she knew it. She was there.
With the corner of the eye he caught the sad wrinkle at her smiling lips.
"You are as a bad of a listener as of a pretender, my gallant prince," murmured she in response.
And again he said nothing, as the reproach was righteous.
The cornice spilled into a narrow platform – the elf easily flew over the railing and turned just in time to catch Gwirith in the end of her jump.
"You could ask me to help," upbraided he quietly, not hastening to put her down. Against his will such instants pleased him. It was unaccountable luxury to perceive her weight in his arms and to know that this burden was trifle for him. To let her feel that he had enough strength to base at her feet if once she found need in a defender. And up to that moment he would take delight in saving her from petty efforts, no matter if she could waste them without much trouble.
Much to his secret triumph the girl tarried in the embrace, allowing him to feel the calm rising and falling of her chest. His heart gave a willful leap, as she bent forward, winding her hands around his neck. Her cheek brushed against his – warm and feather-soft touch, which sent a ravishing spiny tingle down his body.
"Will you help me to feel the ground again?" whispered she into his ear in a low, bewitching manner.
Valars…Legolas clenched his teeth to restrain a growl of disappointment. Such tempting tenderness, applied just to mock at him, cruelly deceived in his anticipation…
"As you wish," said he hoarsely. Smirking, she slipped out of his grasp and passed him round to dive into a black doorway. He tailed after, inwardly cursing himself for having yielded for the foolish desire to tease her. Where was his mind? And now he had deprived himself of the clandestine pleasure, he had been cherishing just a moment ago. No swearwords were enough to brand his folly.
The pitch-dark space devoured him. However hard he peered into the gloom, his eyes made out nothing but the casual blots of those objects, which caught the light from the mine. Yet he couldn't say for sure that they were not just figments of his imagination, whet by the temporal blindness.
"Here we are," her voice resounded so close to Legolas, that he instinctively started back, hitting his shoulder against something invisible, but unfortunately, quite tangible.
"The gates are supposed to be in front of me. They had been severely obstructed, indeed. However, partially the blockage was pulled down, when the elves arrived to shelter in Moria. It still seems solid, but there are several hidden passageways, which one fails to notice unless one knows where to search."
The darkness uttered a peal of dry crackles, and Legolas was blinded again, this time by the ray of weightless silver, having spouted from the aperture in the heap of crumbled stones. His guide was standing in the beam, breathing in the light air of the outer world. It struck him that she was quite calm, as if journeys like this were not out of ordinary for her. The confidence, with which she found the way out in the impregnable dark, spoke for itself. She had done it more than once. But…
"Gwirith?"
She turned her head and smiled at the sight of his dust-stained face.
"Welcome on the surface, Legolas."
"Haven't you told me that you were not acquainted with Moria?" inquired he without much hope for the answer. Gwirith bent her lips, but not angrily, like she had used to do it before. This frown was more pensive, than irritated.
"You don't cease amazing me, Legolas," murmured she musingly, "You memorize the minutest details of my speech, while not hearing the most important things."
"Then deign to repeat them for me, milady," his tone was matching hers in gravity.
The goldish eyes were studying him through the half-mast bars of the eye-lashes. It seemed to Legolas, that he almost read the thought, which was screaming and tossing and in these sparkling circles…
"It is no use," hurled Gwirith harshly, "You don't want to hear."
The outside met him with the bites of damp chill and one more surprise, as unpleasant as all the surprises in this land.
At the bank of the half-dried lake settled an abhorrent winged monster, large and scaly as a dragon. Its paw clutched the maim body of an orc, spreading the foul scent of death all over the glade. Having noticed their presence, the animal roared and clanged its free claws against the rock, which served it a nest.
Subconsciously Legolas exerted himself, preparing for another fight.
All of a sudden Gwirith stepped forward, her brows thrown together with irritation.
"Lith, why did you bring this piece of carrion? I told you not to move an inch away from here!"
The creature grumbled, bearing two lines of finger-sized fangs, and moved rearwards. Gwirith held her nose with the grimace of utter disgust. The stench was so strong, that Legolas's throat threateningly shrank, and mouth filled with sour taste.
"Drop it!" snuffled blanch-faced girl, pointing at the carcass, squeezed in the hideous claws, "Now!"
The orc fell to the ground and rolled into the lake-bed, followed by a plaintive whistle of the beast. The water swallowed the corpse with a hungry smack. Gwirith drew a breath of relief.
"That's better," forced she huskily, "Next time, please, have your dinner somewhere away from me."
"What is it?" asked Legolas, withdrawing the sleeve from his face, his hands trembling with deep-rooted, nearly subconscious aversion towards the clot of spikes and scales, which had settled itself in front of him. His enmity must have been reciprocated, for the gaze, which the monster fixed at his frozen figure, was dimly lit up by bestial spangle.
"Let's say it's my loyal steed," elucidated his companion, drawing nearer to the hissing creature, "It's Lith."
"You gave it an Elvish name?" Legolas was offended, "An Elvish name to this pet of nazguls?"
"You gave one to Morgoth," parried Gwirith, nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders.
Lith suspiciously sniffed her outstretched hand, and nuzzled into the palm, which was ten times smaller in comparison to its blunt neb. The girl scratched its low frontal bones, causing the monster shut the lids in the state of resigned bliss.
"I decided that since now you know my…," she faltered, as if hesitant as to the right word, "My position…, it would do no harm if I stop encumbering us with walking and return to my usual way of travelling."
Lith was grunting and fidgeting with impatience to receive another scratch. It looked sincerely absorbed by its owner, but as soon as Legolas ventured to get closer, its eyes instantly flung open, and it greeted the attempt with a thundering shriek.
"Careful," warned Gwirith, "She doesn't feel any sympathy towards Elves. There was the time, when she had borne you race, but it had lasted up to the day she had her wing arrowed through and we spent several hours in the mountains, guessing at who would feast upon us first – you friends or werewolves."
Her tone was imbued with such soft attachment, that the elf bit his lip, as something absurdly close to jealosy crept into his heart and lingered there.
"Give me your hand," whispered the girl, never ceasing to stroke her dread-inspiring animal, "Just very slowly."
With a tilted head the creature was tracing their guarded movements, eager to attack at any sign of danger. Gwirith forced him to touch a continuously jerking flat nose, and left his palm there, covering it with hers.
"The Elf – good," pronounced she distinctly, "Good."
The air cooled around their hands, when the slit-like nostrils widened, taking in the mixture of their smells. In the dead stillness Legolas clearly pictured to himself the amount of damage, Lith was able to inflict with a single snap of her fang-armed jaws. Finally, the creature snorted and arched her neck, pressing it against the ground.
"Mount her now," ordered Gwirith as quietly, "Don't worry, I watch her."
Did she believe that it sufficed a large slimy lizard to make him show the white feather? Granting the girl with a derisive smile, he swiftly leapt between the extended wings and bent down to aid her in climbing before him.
"I don't fly with you," she ignored his inviting gesture, "Two riders are too suspicious"
"How will I manage her, if you are not with me?" questioned the elf in puzzlement.
"You don't have to manage her," laughed Gwirith, "I will be in her paws. It makes no difference for her if she carries me on her back or otherwise."
"But you'll freeze there," objected he, willing to descend and cede to his guide her rightful spot, "Why don't you want me to take that place?"
"Probably because Lith will never drop me, while I wouldn't be so certain on the part of your safety. Besides, I strongly advise you to change into the cloak, you are sitting on now. Elves do not drive creatures like Lith, and those who do, are not inclined to dress themselves after the elvish fashion."
The garment was black, like the still surface of a lake at starless midnight, and as sleek as it is. Strange cold forged Legolas, when the fabric flowed down his shoulders, as though his elvish outfit was the last thing that chained him to the being he had once called himself. That Legolas was of no need there, where he entered, having worn the guise of nazgul. That Legolas was too weak for the events that were at store.
He had marched into the final circle of this journey and was determined to use his every chance on surviving.
"Hold tighter," recommended Gwirith, throwing a swift glance over his seat. He answered with a brief nod, and she dove under the brawny belly of Lith.
With a snarl, which sent the whole glade into trembling, the monster shot upwards, making the blades of the wind lash against his face. Anxiety swept over Legolas. What if his companion failed to grasp at the giant paws, and was left at the gates of Moria, alone and unarmed?
But the ground was lifeless, as he looked down in search of a girlish figure, desperately waving for him to return. So she was there, by his side, unattainable yet present…
The mountains became small and distant, and soon got lost behind the misty gauze. The sounds died off – the silence was impervious. Annoying. He barely restrained the desire to shout at the top of his voice, call Gwirith, sing. Anything to breach the deathly hush in his ears. It made him vulnerable and shrinking in deep loneliness.
As far as he could see, there was only dull mirror of the sky, shimmering with blank sunlight, and the fog below him, now and then ripped by two vast wings.
His hands gripped the useless bridle.
The day promised to be a long one.
He had already witnessed this passage – dark and narrow, filled with unknowable scent of horror. A flaring opening was teasing at him from the distance of many steps ahead. He dreaded it. He knew what was waiting for him there, in the heart of the flame-enveloped cave. Who was waiting…
Still he didn't manage to get himself ready, when pale, frosty fingers weaved round his shoulder.
Legolas started, tearing himself out of the heavy slumber. Did he fall asleep? Unforgivable, criminal carelessness!
He was prostrate over the back of Lith, his cheek rubbing against the rugged skin. The clouds around him blackened, clothing the firmament with thick haze.
The elf shook his head, as the reality began to loom clearer to his fatigued eyes.
They were no clouds.
And he was not in the air.
Even before the smell of burning timber reached him, he had caught the sight of giant bonfires, which were rising at his sides. He must have landed just a moment ago – Lith was folding her wings, grumbling in discontent at the acid smoke. Gwirith stood at one of the fires, her hands stretched to the raving red tongues.
"You were right," said she without turning to face him, "I've frozen."
"Where are we?" the flame was so bright against the twilight sky, that the world outside the circle of light dissolved into complete darkness.
"Isengard."
Legolas dismounted the creature, who appeared quite satisfied with this circumstance. Gwirith made a slight gesture – and Lith noiselessly flushed up, vanishing out of view. The girl beckoned him to follow, and carefully slipped between burning columns.
"Who built the fires?" asked the elf, once the obstacle was left behind.
"The old man did it," she lingered at the door of the tower, which he remembered to be white and glorious in former days, "He's afraid that the trees are after him. Fool – the trees have all been destroyed by now."
The door reluctantly creaked, letting them in. The round hall bore signs of inexorable decay. Rich draperies had moldered, marble walls were lasted, dust smothered the luxurious tiled floor… Wooden panels had rotten, nibbled by time and insects.
Something stirred in the corner… Legolas flinched, snatching the knife from the sheath on his belt.
"No need," Gwirith raised an arresting finger, "He is of no danger. Not anymore."
A wrinkled, threadbare face for an instant showed itself between raw-boned hands. Dry, almost blue lips opened to produce a flow of incoherent words and hisses. The pitiful form it was – the old man in shreds of what had been a white chlamys, bent over a dingy sphere at his laps, whispering, pleading, begging… Saruman…
The most horrible end, which could have befallen wisdom, even if the wisdom was meant to work malice. The aged one was mad.
"Go up," she pointed at the stairs to her right. Still watching Saruman, who had set to rock back and forth over his treasure, the elf walked through the hall and trod the first footstep.
"Legolas!" hailed the girl suddenly. He turned round, waiting for the continuation.
"There are several rooms upstairs. Choose any and sleep your fill. I have some affairs in here."
He bowed his head and was going to proceed with his path, when her voice overtook him again, low and strained:
"Lock the door."
He woke up at a strange sound… Someone was breathing into his face, but he could swear with all he had, though he had not so much, that it was not Gwirith.
Legolas half-opened his eyes.
The tattered beard was sweeping over his chest. The old man hung over him, mumbling something aggressive and wildly gesticulating.
"Mine, mine…," words rattled in Saruman's throat, but he didn't stop muttering, "Mine, in my hands, mine."
"Get out."
Saruman darted a quick look at the door, and fear flashed across his features. He stepped back – behind him Legolas saw the horrent silhouette of his companion.
"I said – get out," Gwirith was slowly approaching the old man. Even from where his bed was, Legolas perceived perilous radiance, surrounding her figure. Having snarled in mad anger, Saruman ran out of the room, his rags flapping in time with his movements.
"Do the words "lock the door" remind you of anything?" inquired the girl acidly.
"I'm sorry," replied he with his head down. The late visit of the mad wizard was certainly his fault. He had been so tired that as soon as the bed caught his eyes, he forgot everything and collapsed on its welcoming surface, asleep long before his body touched the cover.
Gwirith sighed and silently sank near him, one leg pulled under her.
"It the last time you can have true rest," she yawned, having covered her lips with a sleeve, "Sleep."
He turned over to lie on his stomach. Mad Saruman, grey-haired Archaldir, dead Aragorn…
"Gwirith, what am I with the Ring?"
There came the long-drawn silence. When he started to think that no answer will come to appease his urgent curiosity, the girl spoke, and her tone was doleful.
"Great. Mighty. Unbending," she halted, taking a deep breath, "Cruel. Terrible. Irresistible…Gorgeous."
Her arms wrapped around the narrow shoulders. He wanted to touch her, to soothe the wound he had reopened…
"I don't even know what happened to Sauron," she was staring into the empty space – Legolas was aware of what pictures were coming unbidden through her mind, "The Black Tower just crashed, when you claimed your rights on the Ring… I … I couldn't kill you… Him. And he forbade me to die. I do not age. My injuries are transient. No chance to escape from my blame. He derided me and turned me inside out. He still does. But I didn't leave him, Legolas."
He suddenly remembered that night, when he first heard her story. Now there was the same frightening detachment in her voice, as if what she recalled had happened to someone else.
"You know, I spend a lot of time in the cave of Orodruin, over the very crater. The ledge which overhangs it is slowly shattering, gnawed by the heat of lava. I learned to predict when the next rock will collapse into that lake of fire. I stand at the edge, watching the crack grow wider and wider. But when it breaks off, I shrink and jump back. Coward… I hope that one day my jump fails…"
The elf remained silent, just letting his hand find hers and carefully stroke it in the darkness. Gwirith uttered a grim chuckle, but paid for the caress, leaning over to place a soft kiss on his cheek.
"Sleep," whispered she almost gently, "Forget my chatter."
There was one more question, he desperately needed to ask, yet she sounded so sad and exhausted, that he didn't have a heart to trouble her more.
He had seen his friends and enemies. He had heard about their lives and falls. And there was only one name, which had never been spoken through any of the tales.
Nobody told him what fate had stricken Mithrandir…
A/n: More chapters – more twists and more action. I'd be very-very thankful if you reviewed… I'm getting a little upset about the lack of your comments.
Ada