In the Lengthening Shadow

by gawainthegreen

Legolas and Aragorn become lost in the wilderness of Middle Earth. When Aragorn is captured Legolas must travel to the brink of the shadow to find him, but will he be too late?

4. IV

PART IV

THE ROAD TO NOWHERE

The open road

It was late in the morning and the greedy sun had already overtaken the sky when Legolas and his new companions left the protective eaves of the wood, eyes squinting in the invading sunlight. Legolas, having been under cover of green for so long, and so used to the shadows of Mirkwood, felt strangely naked under the wide beams of the expansive sun. It worked its way into his pores and tried to wash from him the grief of his haunted complexion. In haste he pulled his green hood over his head, as if to hide from the mocking happiness the sun longed to spread. In reality he sought to protect his identity for as long as possible. Elves were not always welcome in the world of men. An underlying jealousy and distrust had existed between the two races for many years; one which not even the arrival of the open and trusting Estel had been entirely able to dispel. He represented to most, one man among many, and even within the elven world there were some who could not bring themselves to believe in the good of men. This saddened the elf and he had become very close to the man, closer than to any others he knew now. The open trust and unquestioning obedience and respect of the boys gave him hope, but he did not believe he would be as welcome in the white city as they expected or wished.

He now walked, slowly, trying to grasp the feel of the Earth beneath his feet as a signal of reassurance, that not the whole world lay upside down and beyond his control. Arun and Haran, whose shorter younger legs did not carry them so well, trailed several paces behind, speaking mostly in hushed whispers, between themselves, as though voicing their fears and griefs might force them into some sort of horrific reality, as though the whispers kept the world at bay. Alone as they were, the tall slender elf in front, the two younger boys, wider built but with an air of innocent immaturity painted a strange picture on the road in these days of shadow. Few travelled now between the towns and usually in larger groups, these solitary wanderers drew the stares of many from the edges of the roads. Legolas was glad for his hood, fearing the glances his elvish identity might attract.

Impatient to reach their aim, fearful for another night spent in the open, when orcs loomed near, and frantic to move forward to find Estel, Legolas did not stop them until evening. The boys appeared about to collapse with the toil and exhaustion of the walk, In the darkening day as sunlight gave way to thoughtful shadow, not that of Mordor, but purer and denser, the road appear to split the landscape on either side of them like raven hair. Afraid to stay on the road at night and determined to remain alert and watch for his charge's safety Legolas finally stopped and turned to them. Looking into the tired faces, pale like sand, as their energy ran from them, he spoke breaking the hushed silence of the day like a spell. Suddenly the world was once more with them. "We should stop here and rest. The shadows lengthen and we shall not see our way. We shall move quicker and perhaps reach the white city tomorrow if you are to rest now." In their shattered existence, the boys did not deny their need but dejected, their heads low to the ground they followed him towards the trees. In the darkness, the crept into their very features, Legolas built a fire, hoping that it might stave away the worst of their nightmares. Reaching into his pack, containing that which he had salvaged the night Estel had disappeared he removed some lembas bread and looked to the boys with a kindly expression, rendered warmer by the gentle glow of the fire between them, this fire breathed friendship.

Anticipating the fear of the boys and wishing to put them at their ease, once they had eaten, and they were huddled against the painful night air, brisk and cold in its extremity, Legolas began to speak to them, hoping the sound of a voice, kind and warm might draw them to sleep, deep and empty. In the end he asked: "How came your father to be at Minas Tirith when your mother has for so long resided in the country?" Arun appeared to shun the question, forcing a barrier between him and the elf, perhaps the memory was still too raw a wound. Haran however, was more forthcoming, "our father is of the city guard," he whispered, hushed but proud. "He stands watch at the great outer gate of the city." In the strength of his memory and the vision of the flames a flicker of colour passed his face as for the first time in many days it did not hurt so to recall such a tale. "He came to my mother's village to protect it against orc raiders. There he came and fell and loved. He was wounded by the arrows of orcs, their poison near well cost his life, and he was carried to the house of my mother, who was the daughter of the healer." In the dense flame of the fire the simple love story wove itself deeply and Legolas was moved. In the close silence of their small circle it was as though he began to speak not to his companions but to the air itself. "She watched over him as his body fought the poison, each day it appeared he would succumb and yet on the fourth day, to the shock of all he opened his eyes and spoke her name, although he had not seen her before, it was as though a mist drew back and they knew each other." He stopped and stared into the fire for a moment as though the secret of his parents' romance lay within the flame, as if within the bright sparks regeneration might occur.

Noting the silence Legolas fell from his reverie and wanting to renew the boy's spirits and in need of such an enlightening tale begged of him to continue. "Why were they thus parted?" he questioned the soft tones of his voice at once gently coaxing and deeply interested. He did not wish to break the spell of awe that lay across them like silk across skin. In the same animated tone, lyrical as the web of a spider and smooth the boy continued. For many years, while the threat lay with the outlying villages my father stayed and was of the soldiers there to protect us, but when the need grew at Minas Tirith he was called upon to return. Being very loyal to the Lords of the White City he had little choice but to answer the call. He left when I was five years old, but my mother, who at this time had succeeded her father as the healer of the village, felt she could not follow. Ever since they have been apart, except when he has been given leave, and he always returns to the spot where they met. But now…." As his voice became mixed with the moan of the wind in the trees, Haran's body finally gave way once more to trembled grief. Legolas moved to put an arm around the boy's shoulder, still hesitant of how to react in his distress. Haran laid his head against the elf's chest and fell quickly into a tearful sleep.

Unable now to move, Legolas turned his eyes, half in panic towards Arun, unsure of how to care for the lonely child. Arun's eyes were now turned towards the elf with interest. "Bring him to me," he whispered reluctantly but not harshly. I shall hold him until he wakes. Putting his arms around the boy's shoulders, surprised by how light he was to lift Legolas handed the boy to his brother. Kneeling by his side he longed for the same close comfort that the boys found in each other, that he had found with Estel, gently he questioned, "what became of your mother?" The hurt that washed through Arun's tormented eyes caused the elf to feel pain deep within his chest as he recollected all that they had lost. "Do not answer if you do not wish." He pleaded now, aware of the pain he had caused the boy, perhaps it was best to leave such questions to themselves. But as Legolas turned to return to his watch Arun exerted himself, the elf watched as he physically rejected the tears that threatened again to marr the rough dirt that now grew in islands across his cheeks. He seemed the epitomy of forlorn and yet Legolas could see growing within in him a rough and ragged strength, to fight, he would not give in to death and grief so easily.

In his adult years Legolas saw Arun a stalwart soldier, perhaps very like his father, with wide shoulders, a force not easily moved in battle. He would provide a brick in the wall that must protect the White City from the onslaught of the shadow. Out of the darkness, came the voice strong and clear now, as if shifting aside the constraints that had kept them all in silence, a voice real and practical, ready to take on the task of adulthood, "she was killed," he replied steadily, maintaining his clear tone, the elf should not think him weak. "…it was orcs," Legolas winced in the dark, hoping that Arun did not see, but his heart went out to such a young one so bereft. "I had been gone in the evening, hunting with the men, but found myself lost in the forest. When they returned without me she took it upon herself to search for me, without the counsel of others who wished her to remain till morning. When I came upon her in the wilderness it was all but over." He fought back the urge to speak of his own blame in the matter, but fell silence one more, and yet in the tension of the night air, strung tight like his bow Legolas sensed the boy's feelings. As the embers of the fire went to their rest he reached out and laid his hand once more on the Arun's shoulders "Twas no fault of yours, you could not have stopped the hurt. Destiny does not fall so lightly. You must rest and be strong for your brother." Then removing the hand he disappeared a few steps from them into the darkness. Arun's dark eyes watched as he moved, taking in the mystery of their elvish saviour. Realising he knew little of him, he wondered for a moment at his trust of him, and yet there was an air of sadness which tinged the elf, one which he understood. Finally he could no longer refrain from the call of sleep and he fell to silence.

Find me now, find me here

The boot hit his trembling legs once again and Aragorn crashed to the floor. He was thin now, from the relentless march across uneven ground, bones poking through his skin like needles felt as though they jutted at odd angles. If he could have moved his arms independently they would have clung to his chest, pain shuddering through him as the stones, soft as iron, pushed cruel edges into his skin. Cracked like ice upon a pond, was blood in the corner of his mouth and had he seen a vision of his state within a lake, like his world the ranger would not have recognised himself.

The angry language of the Corsairs rang aloud in his ears, heavy like lead. Even in his pain Aragorn thought he began to understand somewhat of the strange words that hit his consciousness like the arrows of Orcs, cruel hard and true, heading to kill. It seemed strange to him that yet these were men. When they had been created he must have been the same as they, hidden in the shadows, untouched by the light of the Valar unconscious of the truth. When had their paths diverged so? It was not like the elves. Where they had fallen the result was bitter, twisted and misshapen they had become the foul race of the Orcs and it seemed life would never forgive them for such a choice. For men it was different, These men Aragorn wished to believe had the potential to be just as he, their lives so close they could feel each other's breath and yet he had to believe they might be saved otherwise what hope was there in the world of men, could he fight alone against the overwhelming weight, crushing weight of the shadow? In them he could still imagine the reflection of himself, in the orcs there was nothing of the former glory of the elves. The boot returned and his lips cringed.

"Get up fool;" came the hated command, that much he understood. The rest fell away from him like a wave in the ocean, cold and vicious. High and violent the wave of their abuse crashed against him the bitter salt stung in his wounds and in his confused mind. Aragorn thought his body might not take another step and yet when he awoke from tortured reveries he found that his wounds particularly the recurring feverish gash within his side had been treated and he was healed enough to bring him to the end of another day's struggle. Had he owned enough coherence Aragorn would have answered some rebuke, but holding his tethered arms towards his gut where the blow fell, once again he pushed his knees against the Earth, the sting of rocks like salt in an open wound forced him from the ground, he could not bear the feel of it, the evil that resided in the very rocks of this land.

Looking ahead as Zuliman's whip demanded each step from his slowing feet, Aragorn could see what seemed to be a sandstorm blocking his view. The road ahead seemed marred by mist, mist that did not disperse but slunk in between the bare features of the land, crawling closer to the prisoners. Suddenly they came to a stop, taking the breath of many with its rapidity. The slinking mist began to form itself into the shape of bodies, grey and awful. Like a machine the bodies marched in sequence, not one out of line with another in a terrible symmetry. Now the sound of a drumbeat caught their ears solid like water on rock, regular as dusk. "Doom doom," it sang a grim song, "doom doom." Aragorn knew with dread the doom of the Orc drums, had heard many times the heavy fall of the beaters against taught skin. Even with the loss of his memories this sound scarred deeper than names, deeper than eyes in his mind and he heard it in his dreams with a black intensity. As his mind trembled he realised that these were not the noisy, unintelligible swarm that slithered about Middle Earth, hiding in the shadows of mountains and beneath the eaves of dark trees, here they were organised, carried full weapons of deadly intent.

Then, like the silence before a battle, when the air is at its clearest they stopped. In the gap, Aragron believed that time stood as he, waiting for doom. In reality within a few seconds one of the Orcs stepped forward and Zuliman and his whip left Aragorn's side, with the removal of the rod, he sunk to the ground, but nobody noticed in the silence.

Then began a gestural battle, Aragorn neither understood the language of the Orcs or the corsairs and yet he knew they were angry, that things were not going well. In fury fists were thrown in all directions and although they did not hit each other, they punched the air with the weight of a mountain, definite and stubborn, would stand where lesser monuments would fall into decay. Aragorn raised his fatigued neck slightly from the ground in order to gain a better view of the happenings, now Zuliman was pointing, in their direction, eyes dark and red with bitter rage, unlike his usual cold vacancy.

"You must take them." Zuliman's rasp grazed the air with its wrath. "We could come no faster, they were not easy to handle, and yet their strength is undeniable." "They should have arrived three days ago," spat the Orc, Nuth, and darts of saliva found themselves flying toward Zuliman's forehead. "It is too late, we cannot take them." Zuliman winced in irritation, his fury rising; he had brought them good men, strong men who would work long, their senses dulled, spirits broken; they would stay long then fade eventually to dust in the shadow. He wished now only for release to make his way from the dread land back to hunting, that was what he did best, like a Warg he revelled in the chase, once there was prey in his sight he was unstoppable and immovable. "You will take them, at the price agreed." He was growling now, fury clear and numb painted across his brow. If it came to a broken vow he could match any Orc in ferocity and brute strength. In anger he thought, I am unbeatable. "I shall take five," groaned the Orc like shreds of glass, "but we need no more. At the price agreed." A look of understanding passed between the two and the fury died down to embers in Zuliman's eyes.

Going Under

An exchange seemed now to be taking place, the wild hand gestures had stopped, and both seemed satisfied with their deal. In their eyes and their minds each believed he had outsmarted the other. In horror the ranger saw them slowly edge their way towards them. As he let his neck rest against the sore earth once more, he saw only the heavy footfalls of their boots. They came closer until the creases seemed as though they were in his eyes and the dark scent of leather filled his nostrils. Above him another debate was happening, but he dared not look. At this moment, so incapacitated he wished not to gain the attention of those that might crush. Life in itself still held value; he still lived did he not? The ranger's tortured mind, so ruined by his treatment, could imagine little worse than the heave the endless heaviness of his journey across Mordor, the slash of the whip against his back and his chest, the threat of steel within his side and the throb of the pitiless earth beneath him as he fell, falling as though he might reach the bottom of the sea. He wished he might continue to fall, the air did not hold rocks. Voiced were raised grating against the bitter air, slicing the silence that surrounded them. They moved on, stood above others, cruel nails wrenched chins from the chests of the prisoners. Aragorn rested, closing his eyes against the threat of the future, searching once more for the blurs of his memories. Then they returned. His eyes still closed, perhaps because he believed his fate would be less if he was blind to it, Aragorn felt the dig of a nail into the soft dirt coating the rough skin of his cheek. Finding flesh it pierced. "This one," gashed the voice so many metres above him, like the threat of hail." Aragorn's senses leapt in recognition of the tongue. "Yes he," replied the faceless answer, yet in his mind's eye Aragorn saw the relentless blacks of the eyes, the smouldering readiness; and the words brutal, threatening as they were, were spoken in the common tongue. "He is strong, but his body is weary. It will not take much to break." Aragorn felt himself lifted roughly from the ground, filthy nails digging through flesh and finding muscle. For a moment he locked eyes with the Orc, the certainty and stubborn strength of his, refracted by the will and malice, the deep evil of the Orc's iron black eyes, then he was thrown aside, bones crumpled into a pile at the side of the road and Aragorn felt a crack in his shoulder, resounding in his ears like the opening of a chasm in the earth. Pain dragged through him and he gasped.

He watched, tethered to helplessness, as four others, the strongest and those who had just become men were counted out from the other prisoners, hand picked for the crushing of Orc feet. Then he was hauled roughly to his feet, the gulf between his collar bone widening and small stones were pitted inside his skin, reminders of the force with which he had been laid there. In his agony, Aragorn's body refused to move forward even as he was tied behind the last of the slaves to be taken, ropes stained with the emptying blood of his hope. The refusal came this time not from will of defiance of the soul, but of the body, tired and worn, and so alone he could think of nothing but to die. Unforgiving hands, gritted with gnawing skin shoved him forward and he crashed ahead. His knees knocked then fell from under him, dragging down the line. Again he felt the merciless lash of a whip and blood rushed around his head, and he thought he might implode. Yet in the pain he felt, however faint, the warm touch of another human. A hand reached out and it was not of the Orcs but smooth and cool, restful, and its presence soothed the man. Reaching out it took hold of him, tied as they were, and lifted Aragorn once more to unsteady feet. The man felt another lash enter his back, and yet in his mind he felt the touch of skin not tinged with the scent of evil. In the reach of the hand, the clash of human skin rested his hope, and if there was humanity left to live for he would fight to keep it as long as he could. Ignoring the burn of the black leather, and the trickling blood, his unwilling feet began to move beneath him. And in his mind Aragorn saw grey eyes.