Part III

CHILDREN OF THE WEST

When Arrows fly true

The next thing he heard was the thud of his own arrow, as it burrowed its way within the chest of the man below, flying true towards his heart. Piercing, was the sound of the thud, as it hit with power and fervour, entering only to kill. Blood seeped from the chest of the man, creating rivers of darkness across his already black tunic. Life was draining at an alarming pace. The thud sent a shock wave through the elf as his breath was forced from his body and he felt himself fall slightly forward. In panic he realised what the folly of such action might easily be. He knew not if this man was alone, or if accomplices lay close by, in silence, ready to attack when the moment should arise, when he was most vulnerable. The men in the grove below, still, with fear in the depths of their eyes, jerked their heads around the area, fearfully and newly in the darkness brought on by the death of the torch. Legolas, glad at this moment for the darkness, waited.

When, after five minutes perhaps, in which he did not even allow himself to breathe, in which he slipped into the very shadows of the trees in the moonlight, Legolas began to let the muscles of his body relax. He could not remain in this tree all night. If the men below were in need of help, it would not do to wait for doom to come to them, to allow the man's companions to find them. If they were on the side of evil, they were still bound, he still protected, and there they would remain in either state it would seem until he came to their aid.

Carefully the elf slunk down the slippery lines and contortions of the tree trunk, careful not to make undue noise. Like a squirrel his light feet knew where to tread, and like the Earth the bark seemed solid and real underneath his feet. The leave fluttered, barely noticeably in the breath of breeze the passed through, one next to the ear of the elf and he jumped slightly. Yet despite his darkest fears the breeze brought with it no tell tale signals of those that lay close in wait, arrows poised and swords ablaze. What it brought was more silence. He felt the soft tread of grass beneath the soles of his boots, although in the overwhelming darkness he saw little, and stepping down from the tree he placed both feet securely between the sprouting blades, that did not cut but soothed. Turning, in the narrow light of the moon he watched as the men in front of him trembled slightly, as though awaiting some terrible verdict. Carefully he reached over and released the gags from their mouths. As he did so he felt his knees knocked from underneath him, and he fell noiselessly to the ground.

Never Enough

In surprise Legolas had found himself facing his own arrow, the fletchings of which, now darkened with the blood of men, tickled his face slightly. Looking up the elf gazed into the barrenness of his eyes, shocking and blank in their stare, and was reminded of the painful emptiness of his own dreams when he had awoken to find Estel gone. In shock he did not roll away when the man's arms reached for his throat, to end his life, dragging it with him to whichever hellish place he was bound. Bloody hands formed a loop around Legolas' neck and he writhed painfully within the strong grip, now in panic for the tardiness of his actions, fighting, pummelling for breath and life. Now clearly the stronger of the two Legolas released his boot into the stomach of the man. Instinctively his hands move to protect himself and in the moment, flash like though it was the elf sprang up. The man felt the cold edge of silver against the feverish skin of his chest and groaned his surrender.

Legolas brought his mouth close to the man's ear and whispered loud so that his words could not be mistaken. "If you move from this spot, even one inch, I shall cut into your stomach so that you bleed to death in agony over much time. Death therefore shall not be quick, but slow and painful and you will count the seconds and minutes, perhaps even hours with the drips of your blood. As it is you will die, shall you wait to suffer more?" As he gasped in fear, oxygen seeping from his body with blood, Legolas saw the appearance of terror on the man's face and for a second he pitied him. His knife still in place, he reached down and with one hand untied the threatening cloth, making the man's face monstrous, like a blank sheet in the small light of the moon's shadows. Only the barren eyes could be seen always, eyes that spoke no mercy but now flitted wildly in terror. For the first time he saw the man's mouth, it was not, as he had thought it might be, corners pulled downwards, cracked and full of malice, a full beard, hiding the emotion of the face. What he saw was young lips, slightly apart in terror and the fitful breath of panic. There was barely a hair on the youth's face. This was not the murderous, face, bare of emotion, fearless in death, tormentor in life that Legolas had expected. There was emotion here fear, terror of the death that was inevitable now. He breathed fast and gulped for the next breath as life escaped him. The cheeks were as yet not lined with wear and the skin of his face was soft with too few summers. Once more Legolas pitied.

When the boy spoke, he used the common tongue as though a foreign language, spluttering, grabbing for the words that seemed to evade him. "I …" he started then broke off in a sob of anguish. Legolas moved the knife so it no longer touched the skin of his chest as if to offer a comforting motion. "Where are you taking them?" He whispered again, loudly but a little less fiercely. "Wherefore are they so bound? You are of the Corsairs are you not? Why do you travel so with these men in tow?" There was another gasp for breath, this time more ragged than the last, as the life within the boy leapt one last time to cling to hope. Legolas feared he would lose him, but then the voice spoke again. "They are my slaves." He rasped, painfully, then gasped again, his mouth large and wide like a valley, but still he could not admit enough oxygen to persuade the body back to life. "Where are you leading them?" whispered the elf, again more fiercely, he saw the life ebbing away faster than he could control and began to lose patience, "where?" He prodded with the handle of his knife and felt the motion judder through the boy. There was another gasped whisper, as life whimpered from the boy. Slow and drawn out it was like breath after fever or drowning and it spoke the word that Legolas feared most to hear: "Mordor."

Then life left the tortured, fearful body. The elf's threats were nothing to him now. With a silent prayer Legolas wished for the mercy of the Valar on a young life so shortened. He recognised the fear and folly of youth in the boy's face… not yet should the full weight of the evil of his people be brought upon the head of one so young, perhaps, as the elf wished in his soul to believe he had no choice but to follow this life, as a Corsair's child what else was there to do? What was it like to grow up already caught in the fingers of the shadow?

In his grief at the passing of one so young (he was reminded a little of Estel) he had forgotten the other two, that knelt, thus bound under the shadows of the trees, gazing, still with fear, but with more interest than had previously been read in their features. But Legolas saw none of this, he had noticed a vial, that hung from the man's belt. The smell was the same of that which he had found in the vial under the tree, the liquid which had produced a dark stain on his hand, a reflection of his empty dreams. Grief overwhelmed Legolas as he realised the link within the tales, interlocked now. This boy, or some like him, had been there that night. He had followed their trail. It was they who had spilled the blood of his friend, spread for many miles throughout the forest. Could this now be where his friend was bound? Tears flowed again from the stricken eyes, painting thin lines of transparency across the fine cheeks, the high cheekbones like precipices. He wallowed in the luxury of the tears, the feeling that he could let go and mourn and he did not wipe them from his pale face. Then fear overcame him; Mordor, it was a name, in Mirkwood spoken only in nightmares, or the voices of hushed conversation, behind curtains, behind doors. What could he be doing taking men to Mordor?

Legolas knew that the Necromancer had now left Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, for his ancient tower, that of terror in Barad Dur, but he knew little of what happened beyond the black gate. But he knew that the fingers of Sauron, driving evil through the clean lands, slithering out from the gate, and painting all in the colour of his shadow were at work, slithering slowly further from his lair. Numbers of Orcs were multiplying, and, for those who ventured further there were tales of further horror, of men collecting in the south, men now under the eaves of the evil in far Harad and in the mountains there were trolls. Now there was no safe place outside the bounds of Elevendom, unless it was small Gondor, where the remnants of the people of Numenor huddled close, or Rohan where the hearts of men were bold and fierce. And in these places too strange tales began to be told and fires had begun to burn. Legolas thought… 'If Estel is gone to…?' but he could not think it, he refused the obvious connections, building up a solid wall around the thoughts, forcing them away, if even in folly, yet always there was a hole atop this wall, he could not force the thoughts away. But he could not believe that Hope was in such danger.

What do I do now?

Legolas felt himself at a loss, nowhere to turn, like a dim lake covered with mud he saw no options, the murky water blinded him, revealing itself in the dirty tears that still ran down his face as he forced himself to believe. He calculated the possibility. It seemed there was no avoidance, whither he turned it seemed to him he looked straight to the fires of Mordor, and in his biased vision there was always Mount Doom in the background as it spilled ash from it sides scarring the landscape with molten rock. In his fitful visions he saw Estel tied to the rocks, and the fear on his face as it grew and the magma came closer. He remembered old stories of those that had escaped the throes of evil, elvish kinsmen, those who had fought for all, and Morgoth had been overcome. Could one man survive such alone? He thought of Turin, and how he slayed the dragon. And yet could he have exchanged the life he led, Legolas would not hesitate. The curse of Morgoth layed upon him, sometimes it seemed the misery of fate outweighed the justice he retained.

For many years the elves had ignored if not forgotten the trials of men, and only those at Rivendell, half elven as they were, the thread of their lives entwined with the world of men unavoidably, had taken an interest in the line of Isildur, protecting the line, for future glory. It was only on meeting Aragorn that for Legolas all had changed. He came as though from a legend; the heir of a half forgotten line, hidden so well for his safety, but real now, filled with flesh and blood, noble thoughts and human fears. A man well designed for Kingship and yet refused his destiny, terrified as he was of disgracing his line.

Rising, eventually, tears still flowing with the same force, dripping now to the ground, mixing with the boggy earth, Legolas tried to take hold of the situation. His knees, where in his turmoil he had pushed them into the Earth as if it could hold and comfort him, had left small dents, a reminder of past fears. Perhaps they might lie there always; others might pass, might not give a second glance, or would consider the dips in the soil, as they might a carving in a rock. Or the rains might once again beat down, or the tread of feet in the soft clayish soil might hammer away, the scars of a single moment's despair, forgotten but all except those who were there, and it resurfaces years later, etched into the fibres of the mind. He considered this as his rose, how momentous was the world, that within minutes it could wash away the stains of evil, rebuilding itself anew. For a second he felt a bolt of light run through him, but his heart was too heavy and the grief too near. Taking his time he slumped against a tree, the veins of the bark through his tunic were all that reminded him of the world and began to sing an elvish lament.

Look East

When Legolas opened his eyes again it seemed to him as though a world had passed, and he had barely noticed, until, finding a path through his grief, familiar sights began to fill his mind once again. The sky though a little lighter now hid the moon from view and he could see little, but the birds above his head were preparing for the morn. Recovering himself, dragging himself, heaving himself from his misery and his reverie Legolas registered once again the men tied before him, bound but aware, now viewing him more as an object of interest than alarm. He took a step towards them and reached out, as he did so one flinched, but carefully, trying to touch nothing but the cloth the elf untied the cruel cloth. "Now," this time he spoke gently as they flinched once again. "You have naught to fear from me as long as you are true. Who are you?" "Please," spoke one. In the telltale moonlight Legolas guessed him to be the elder. "Do not harm us." The plea in his eyes pierced the heart of the elf deeper and in his silence he begged for mercy for the two young souls. "From where did you come?" he whispered, again gently, as though no more than a wisp of the wind. He did not wish to frighten them.

"Arun and Haran, we are, sons of Gondor," came the reply. Legolas stepped back for a second inhaling – so he had already come so far south. Now the younger took his turn, "We were far from home. Our mother had died and our father lives in the White City. He did not know…" then the child faltered, tears escaped from his eyes and he looked to the ground in shame and pain. "Do not fear me young ones," coaxed the elf, "for I will not harm you. I only wish to know how you came to this fate, and where you were found." Now releasing the bonds from the young hands Legolas stepped back and laid the ropes to the ground. Viewing their wrists he noted the angry red marks, that danced their way across their skin, the bonds had been tight. "Please speak," he cried, "for I have a friend that might be in great danger. I must know the purpose of these men."

Arun, who seemed to be the elder spoke again, this time with more confidence, discovering that the elf meant them no harm and all alone in the world he poured out his heart. They had been travelling alone to the white city, for their father knew not of their mother's death and they did not trust to the wisdom of their Aunt. In foolish panic they had escaped the farmhouse, determined to pass on the wicked news themselves, to find their father, for he would protect them. Having left the farm they had found themselves lost and alone in the wilderness. Arun felt himself old enough to protect the both. However, as they stopped for rest, hidden as they thought under a great bush, they had felt themselves dragged from underneath. They found to their dismay the gaze of empty eyes, cruel hands and biting nails in their skin. They had been bound and into the blood of their hands there had been mixed a drug; then there was darkness. They had woken later to discover they were carried by several men.

Legolas saw Haran shudder at the memory, and in his mind he saw the shock of his empty dreams that night, and wondered again how he had come to be left alone. How, when placed against such stubborn malice did he appear to have escaped unscathed? In spite of this, his brother's terror at the memories, at the shadow of the eyes, Arun continued: At nightfall they had been attacked by Orcs, and although he had not understood the language of the stone like voices, hard as granite, it seemed that they were too valuable to be caught. They had been dragged away by the youth, who now lay dead on the ground before them, as much for his own protection, as theirs. That was how they had come to be here. The sounds of the battle behind them still ringing in their ears as they fled, they had been drawn away. Their feet, still sluggish from their unconscious hours had eventually failed them and they had fallen. In his youth the boy had not known how to treat them and so they had remained, knees locked to the ground, while he watched and waited, ears keenly anticipating the sound of his master's return, but none had come. Night had fallen and they had remained alone. At this point exhaustion overwhelmed the boy and, his jaws, though wide as a lion's, betrayed his youth and his hurt. Legolas needed to hear no more, the boys, it seemed were being drawn towards Mordor, though for what purpose he knew not, but that lay for the morning to decide.

Legolas did not desire the protection of the White City, for he had little love for its men, and yet he could not leave two such unprotected. Perhaps there he might find answers to the questions that eluded him, or discover a means to bring help to Estel. Prone to hope as he was, now it brimmed within his heart and he was decided. "I shall go with you to find your father," he proclaimed, as though the sound of his certainty might ring true within his mind, full of doubts as it was. A beam of delight passed the face of the boys and he knew he had chosen aright. It was what Estel would wish. The boys seemed tired; Haran, falling asleep against the thigh of the elf. Legolas decided that it would make little sense to move them tonight. They could travel more easily by day, and the Corsairs, frightened as they were by bands of men, and anxious to preserve their secrecy were likely to move at night, as were the Orcs, afraid of the good that sunlight unwillingly brought to the Earth, not totally engulfed by shadow. "Now you must sleep." He demanded of them, voice gentle as soft clay, "for naught will come of walking into the darkness at this hour." He helped the boys, with their limbs newly stiff from their bonds, into the tree behind him, and in the draught of the night air they huddled together. Legolas sighed, looked around him and waited for the dawn, and hoped.

Under the same stars

In Mordor now there was only night, with very little to see. Awake for the time being, having been allowed time to recuperate; Aragorn took the opportunity of wakeful, sensible thought to wallow in the peace of the world at this time. Although at the edge of the camp, some stood guard (unnecessary he thought in such a wretched place, who would attack?) while the others around him slept. In the quiet of the darkness, where the shadow abated somewhat, Aragorn considered his state, tried to make sense of the shapes that still tried to form reality within his muddled brain. The panic and the blankness left him weary and his thoughts fell silent once again. He knew he had not always been here. In his thoughts sometimes there was light and friendly faces, although he could not make out the eyes. He recalled distant names, but when he did the faces were gone. His struggle took its toll and his eyes flickered shut for a moment, only to be quickly forced open as the dark world of his dreams threatened to take hold. Dreams where the faces had no names and the eyes were not only indiscernible but were replaced but heavy sockets, therein lay fire. The eyes of his captors were reflected in his dreams. He dreaded the night hours, when he must sleep. When forced unconscious his mind was blank, but sleep gave not that luxury and he felt heavy with grief. It was no rest any more, but toil worse than the miles they walked in the day. On opening his eyes, he raised them slightly to look at the sky. That was his constant. Each weary day the rocks at the roadside, the plains of grey decay changed albeit slightly, but the stars above him, he knew belonged to the world he had come from, and they were all that could give him comfort in this world of shadow, where sometimes his name seemed a blur in the endless punishment of his captors. In his mind words came to him and he heard a voice within his head. Despite the bit like gag that forced his lips apart he attempted to sing, parting them slightly more until they strained at the corners. In his mind he heard a sweet voice that he recollected comforted him when younger. In a thin voice, careful to draw no attention to itself, Aragorn began to sing, singing to the stars, to Earendil that watched. And, although he knew it not, the words that came to him were of the lay of Luthien.