Part VIII

DUSKLANDS

Father and Son

"Aye…. you must go." The voice of his father, taut and choked with grief and realism, spoke the words that Arun never expected to hear. Bracing himself, he was ready for heavy onslaught. Battle ready as he was, he knew that his father would be difficult to persuade, and he was determined to prove himself. What he had been blind to was his father's understanding. Hellian knew as his son did not the need for this acceptance of his son's need, like his own, to prove this manhood, willingness to give himself to the cause of others. And yet as young as his son was now, Hellian had stood before his own father, eyes ablaze, begging the same freedom that his son now craved. It had been denied. His father, blocked his vision and his path, forced his hand in the direction of rebellion, that he never wished to take. He saw now the same eyes, as though peering through the ripples of a lake, calm and deep. He would not lose his son in the same way that he had, like a rift in the earth, fallen away from his own father. Bridges had been tried but still they fell like rotten wood. Arun would resist such an obstacle. Hellian knew whether he wished it or not, the boy would follow the elf to Mordor, read like tread of the sun from morning till night the path of his son's thoughts. If his son returned they would still have the bond. If not, it seemed to him that to lose his son to the fires of Mordor in a willing act, for another whose importance had been stated, was better than to lose his son to the stubborn gorge between father and son so alike in nature. Submit or lose he thought or both, the choice was unthinkable and yet made.

Arun turned sharply so unready he was for the words that came, his retort to his father's refusal so fresh in his brain that he could not speak for several moments. Instead, unsteadily, he moved towards his father and in a movement of sudden submission, (even he did not expect the gesture), knelt at the feet of the man, whom he had always imagined himself to be, placed his hand on his father's and looked directly into the worn eyes; those that had seen the black gate.

"I would not lose my son to the shadow," quiet and persistent his father spoke now. Understanding had brought him complacence and time to think; "… yet I know that should I refuse consent you would go nonetheless. Tis' truly a noble quest and should be celebrated as such and I shall not take away from the honour of your pledge." Pride slipped through the words, dripped into the silence of dread. Despite all, this was his son, willing to go so far into unknown evil; that in itself was a proof of the survival of good in the world. Hellian saw, and was thus comforted. Men would yet live, he thought.

Legolas, trapped between the compliance of these two wills, fell silence with a reverence which acknowledged the courage, fortitude and love which blossomed in the darkness of this world of men. Thus humbled he thought: few elves would have performed a similar feat. There was naught to do now but accept, for the outcome seemed already decided, and deep within his dread of the dark days ahead his soul wept for the mercy of this offer. Grateful to exhaustion that he would not face the road alone, for it seemed to him a terrible one, and that little hope lay at the end.

"Then there is no more to say, it is decided then," relented the elf with heavy breath. "For such an offer I can no longer refuse. Instead, since it is in my power to do naught else, I will kneel at your feet in the nobility of this action. The road ahead is a dangerous one and I do not bind you to me, I shall press you to go no further than you will. Yet it will be an honour to travel at your side. I know only one other that would do as you have done, and it is he that I seek." In a motion of deference equal to that of Arun to his father, an elf, of the elder people of the world knelt at the feet of a boy, the fraction of his age and felt himself unworthy.

The citadel of the stars

The dark thick cloth, bound tight around his mouth filtered Legolas' breath and he found he had to breathe deeper in order to move as far. Like the evil it represented it constricted him and he felt heavy and awkward behind the mask, yet it was the only disguise that could be offered. Even now, between the dark folds, the empty expression was missing. His fair locks and hairless chin could be hidden from view, folded away under the cover of evil. It was in his slate grey eyes, so telling of his soul, bright with joy, pain and a thousand years of experience. His life, his love of it and hatred of shadow, scored the very pupils, and they could no more die down than could the force of Anduin as it hit the rocks of a waterfall. If one was to look into his eyes they seemed as but a window to the anger and despair that lived in his mind. He walked now with his head down, and in his wish to be hidden, came closer than he realised to the bent gait of the Corsair, back bowed with the weight of the shadow. For although they had chosen their end, it seemed they have turned away from the sun, in their cover they could no longer feel the presence of light.

Arun walked behind, tried to imitate the bend of the elf's head and the slant of his walk. His youth still evident in his hesitant movements, following the example of those he looked to as a child learning to walk and he absorbed all. He might stand in silence and wonder and those who watched would feel him inattentive or dull and yet the answers came, for he always listened. Now shadow like in his imitation, it seemed to Legolas that he became the Corsair, had the mannerisms of the young boy he had seen below from the tree, and in moving the elf felt he might learn as much from the boy who might be moulded so easily. So quickly can the paths of the young be changed he recollected and for a moment Legolas' mind wondered once more to the Corsair boy whose life had been taken so short of time. He too had merely followed orders, would he have been so different from Arun? In his mind he relived the moment and was briefly frightened by the power of life and death he seemed to wield so easily. Given the choice, and knowing what evil the boy's future might hold, would it have been right to have taken the life no matter what? Shaking his head of the thought, letting it fall to the depths of his mind Legolas tried instead to prepare for the journey ahead, recollecting in sadness once more that this was the price the shadow brought, enemies could not be told apart but came under one collective title of evil, and on the side of good as he saw himself, there was no choice but to eliminate.

As the sun began to lower itself in the west (light still found its resting place in the west of the world) they passed the ruins of the city of Osgiliath 'The citadel of the stars'. Neither Arun nor Legolas had looked upon the ruins of the city, once as great as Minas Tirith in its magnificence where the glory of Numenor now lay blemished and spent. White were the bricks that lay in the road, glimmering like the stars they were named for in the growing twilight. But where now were the stars which shone upon this city in the days of her youth, when she was the pride of men? The Dunedain, true heirs to this land and its city lived scattered and divided and their hope now seemed lost, beyond hope, in the fires of Mordor. None remained now except the birds in the dusklands of Osgiliath. Legolas felt his hope wane as he looked upon the ruins of the works of men. Stone walls fell so easily, as did men's souls.

Yet, he had only to look upon Arun, who already laid the first logs of a fire to keep them from the touch of frost, and he knew that though men might fall, these ruins had stood to the test of time, and would stand longer yet.

The road that lay beyond them, on the Eastern bank of Anduin the Great was invisible in the pitch of night and the river lay calm as glass, as though it was not there at all.

"How is it?" asked Arun, shrouded in the folds of night; "that you are willing to undertake such a journey, to risk your own death even though tis' likely there is no hope?" His expression was hidden by the creases of cloth that wrapped themselves around his face and his voice was muffled and yet Legolas fancied he could read the expression that lay upon his features. Misunderstanding still worked its way into the boy's consciousness and he did not equate his own situation with this.

"As you offer to do for me, so I do that is all." Legolas tried to be honest, allowing the griefs he tried so hard to conceal to show, although in the darkness they could not be seen except in the flicker of flames. "There is more resting in this task than I believe my life is worth, therefore I am ready to give it."

Arun listened to the words and sensed that like himself, as the night and flickering flames that hid them slightly from one another, so were the answers of the elf, there was more than they told. He gave little away, and his grief lay beneath the surface. Only in certain words, as though lit by the momentary iridescence of flame were his fears visible. Legolas knew that Arun wanted more, needed to understand why he would go on, in order to understand himself a little. Each had their own reasons for risking themselves, and a different thing they would risk themselves for. Arun acted from guilt and wished to prove himself, maybe even for revenge Legolas did not know.

Relenting he continued. "You have heard me speak of this man, the one for whom I search. Perhaps he, if nothing else, is the reason. In the end I am not willing to give him up yet. This friend in whom I place my hope I would not live without; and therefore I would risk my life, despite the fear that breathes within me."

"Who is this man?" Arun questioned once more, astonished still by the bond that seemed to exist between the elf and a man, a bond he had never heard of before in his world; where the gulf between the races, deep as ocean bed was accepted, expected. What good came from the elves, they who had forsaken them in their hours of darkness people asked?

Legolas answered quietly, a mere breath in the darkness, as the burden of his loss was bared for a second. In the darkness Arun did not know if he wept, but felt the weight of a new grief.

"He is the beat of my heart."

The Farther Shore

When light dragged with it morning, Arun awoke and taking a boat crossed they Anduin, calm in the dawn breeze, to the farther shore. For Legolas it seemed that now he entered a new stage of his journey. The land seemed the same and yet for him everything was changed; trees seemed tinged with a new darkness, the sky a little closer, a little more oppressive. Searching for answers he realised that this was the furthest from his experience that he had ever known. Alien though he had been in the world of men, there were enough links with his own world to make it familiar if different, but Mordor… How did one survive such a change? He kept in his mind only that Estel must have survived it if the quest was to gain success and as he took each step he reassured himself unrelentingly with this thought

They were now in the green woods of Ithilien, unspoiled as yet by the lengthening shadow that festered in the East. Legolas walked fast now, mind barely connecting with the beauty around him, for in his nullity with the loss of his friend he often lost his appreciation of the natural world, once essential to his being. He bent his thought on the black gate and said little to Arun as they stepped closer and closer to the door behind which evil hoarded.

Arun wished to talk with the elf, ask him of his home or the history of the elves that in his own education had been completely neglected. Most of all he wished Legolas to speak of the man they sought, his importance. Arun felt his importance as it evaporated from the elf even in unconscious moments. In his sleep Legolas, moaned and reached out and the boy watched in interest as the hands of the elf lifted away from the body and seemed to search the air, then, finding it empty, slumped to his side once more in despair. It seemed his energy with his despair tumbled to the ground. Arun wondered what it was the elf searched in his dreams.

Both were feeling the effects of their disguises and Arun wished to cast the itching material from his face, and yet it provided his only cover. It angered him that he should have to take on the prison like garb of his captors in order to destroy their work, as though he was once more submitting to their cruelty. Unsure of how to gain entry to Mordor once they had reached it Hellian had suggested they should go under the guise of Corsairs, that at least on the journey they might not be accosted, even if they did not know the language. They were alone in passing the threshold of the dark land, hearing the creak of the hinges like the door of a prison, but with no to peer through even for light. Both companions considered the strangeness of their apparel, that in order to do good, they should yet hide beneath the cover of surreptitious darkness.

Once across the river they turned slightly north. Within Ithilien they moved once more under the cover of trees and shuddering Legolas recollected the darkness that had collected in Mirkwood, until the lives of the elves themselves that lived under its eaves had been touched with the sadness of the bruise that came with the brush of evil. Ithilien with its green roof, the faint smell of living foliage that enlivened the senses seemed to Legolas what Mirkwood had now become a shadow; his mourning grew.

Both seemed lost in the wilds of their minds, tortured thoughts, when, from behind, there came the twang of a bowstring. Working with the most basic of his senses, learned from travelling through the wilderness of Middle Earth Legolas fell to the Earth imperceptibly, in such silence that Arun did not automatically follow. He felt a gentle tug at his feet and a hiss of danger, and then both disappeared behind a tree and watched.

Forgotten Memories

Night painted Mordor a deeper shade of black; so dark tonight that even the moon was hidden. In the darkness lay the aching limbs of the prisoners. Most of them fell to murky sleep as soon as they hit the hard rock below them, forcing sharp pillows of needless stone into their backs. In their fatigue this meant nothing, only another dent in rough skin. Only Aragorn fought the pain of sleep, moved against the needles of rock to keep himself from falling further. For in the dark of sleep the blurs of broken memory still spoke like spears of his loss. They had not returned to him, and he was still fearful of the void they left. Yet in him like the roots in the ground at the end of winter almost extinguished by the cover of frost, the spirit grew strong once more, nurtured even by the contact of those that surrounded him. The lifting of his spirits, even when so haunted and crushed by such a place, seemed to do the same for those around him. And even in the darkness and even in the hopelessness of the watch of Orcs they felt he had some thing to offer. In their silence all wondered at the nameless stranger, on whose face the grim nobility, tired by the toil was bared for all to see.

Shivering in the cold breath of night air, Sador too was wakeful and in the black and white of limited vision, like Aragorn's dreams he watched the blurred form of his friend as he huddled against the power of ice as though it might at any moment take his breath.

"Tell me something Sador," spoke he asked suddenly, unexpected in the cold silence as if reassurance was all that was needed. "Please," (he was begging now) "for I have no memories to live from. I shall not survive if this is all that I remember, my mind will not survive the touch of evil forever." The plea tore at Sador's heart for though he hurt in this place, in the darkness and release that midnight brought he could still disappear into dreams of former life. Despite the terror that they might belong to some terrible lie, at least they were there and vivid in their expression.

"Of what would you have me tell?" He wished to comfort the man, starved of contact as he was, even beyond hope he could not imagine what it was to be no one.

"Tell me of your family, something of your identity; anything that is a good memory. For all I see now is darkness, whether my eyelids hide this barren wasteland or not." As though desolation had once more taken hold and the vacancy of the words frightened Sador more than the threat of being heard. So he began.

Into the darkness, where there was naught to see except what lived in the imagination Sador now wove his tale. So imperceptible it was that no Orc ears knew and yet for Aragorn the tale seemed as a song that lulled in the dark and brought with it comforting sleep.

"As a child I grew up close to my sister, for there was but a year between us. She is gone now, but when she lived she filled with laughter and the devious nature of infancy. We roamed the streets of the white city together and my mother could not separate us. Often she found herself walking the streets beyond the change of day to nightfall, as we had still not returned." The memory seemed pleasant to him and sighing for a moment he stopped lost in the reveries of the past, comforting and full of colour as they were, like a salve they broke the harsh monotony of this dying landscape, perhaps it was already dead.

"There was a day…" he began again, words spinning like the web of many spiders and yet without the cold gaps. In the sunlight of his tale even the air that bit with frost seemed a little warmer. "It was in the midst of summer this day that comes to my mind before all else, just now in the moment of darkness. We had stolen my father's helm, for he was a guard of the city and fierce proud of his livery so much that we might never touch it. Taking it we climbed the walls of the city for in youthful minds there were dragons there. My sister took the helm first, for in all play she was bold and fierce and believed through some feat of bravery she would remove all evil from the city. In the tension and excitement of battle we forgot ourselves and leaving the walls in quest made our way unknown through the streets of the city where kings have walked."

At the mention of the tread of kings something jarred in Aragorn's memory but though he fought he could not remember why these words should make an impact and in the weariness that came with battling the pain of his dim world of forgotten memories. There was something in that he knew, the hint of a path he should lead, but he had not the strength, not yet. Sador's voice continued like the humming of birds.

"It was the day of a festival and the steward was taking part in a tour of the city, He walked through the streets in a signal of open equality with his people. My sister and I were completely oblivious, so obsessed we were with the chase and the quickened race of the pulse that came with it. So overcome were we with the excitement that it seemed we had stepped even into the world of legend. The helm was large and awkward and my sister could not see clear behind it. We had climbed to the roof of a house that overlooked the street, when, looking out over the city my sister in her short-sighted vision thought she spied the hunt. 'There' she cried, "there lies the dragon.'"

With the passion of his voice it seemed to all that lay scattered close by, intent in this sign of hope, of a meaningful past, that Sador had returned to the streets of his youth, tense with the rush of the chase, wide eyed at the moves of his sister. Sador remained persistent with the words that were as ingrained in him as the scars from the rocks he cleaved in the day.

"I stood steps behind her and could not call when she disappeared into the crowd, tumbling it seemed, from the edge of the house. I rushed to the rim of the roof and looked across the path of the procession, then, with horror, I spied her. In her excitement she had flung herself into the path of the steward, Ecthelion. I stood rooted to the spot with the terror of punishment that might come from my parents and watched the events unfold themselves.

I saw her, as she saw naught, for the helm had now completely covered her eyes. Being young she did not comprehend totally the actions that she undertook, but in amusement and curiosity she thrust her wooden sword into the leg of the steward. I cried out in the shame of the action, blushed with the embarrassment I naturally assigned to her. Having felt the stab in his leg the Lord Steward stumbled and I went to explain that my sister was but young and he must forgive her action, for she did not know what she did. As I made ready to jump to the ground I saw Lord Ecthelion kneel and address her, removing the vision blocking helm from her head. At this I finally left my viewing post and made my way to her side.

'Boy' he spoke, sudden as rain and I quaked in my young boots, 'is this your sister.' I could not reply in speech but nodded vehemently. Yet the words that came from him were kind and soft, he laughed at our actions, patted me on the head and said, "then you should be wary child to be in the company of so brave a shield maiden, for her deeds are bold.' As I looked it seemed that he winked and then leaning down once more he lifted my sister to his feet. 'Child I hope that when I shall see you in years to come your helm shall fit a little better." Then removing her to admonish he began once again the procession."

For the first time since being captured, the first time he remembered, Aragorn felt the springing of laughter, like the bursting of water under the ground unstoppable and so refreshing in its vivacity. He did not ask what had become of this sister for the moment was too precious and he did not wish to mar the remembrance with tales of grief. In this he felt his strength renew for the world from which he had come was a good one it seemed if such was the reaction to the play of children, for in them above all remained the hope for the future. Reaching out his hand, bound as it was to Sador he thanked him with the lightest caress of his shoulder and in the forging of a new memory, be it not his own, fell into a dreamless sleep.

Nuth heard the sprinkling of laughter with surprise and distaste. It rang through the shadows of Mordor cutting the dry air with the strength of silver and blade and yet it drew forth not blood. But to the ears of the Orc the sound was bitter as the arms of sunlight that threatened to wither him with their piercing fingers of heat. He listened more intently and knew to whom the laughter belonged and with it there arrived for him, even from the dark recesses of his mind, a new thought that there was strength yet left in that man, who had come so close to being broken. That he would not submit so easily. Nuth spat in the hate of the sound and vowed like a tremor in the silence, that man would yet be forced to break; he had only to wait for this strength to show itself. He spat in the darkness and plotted.

End of Part VIII