7
Leaves falling with the vigour of snow and though dry they swept the wooded floor with the nearly deadened hush that comes only with a resigned heart. In the deep mists of exhaling branches came a figure, weary, and another with a sense of the depraved about it.
The tangled breaths of Mirkwood distilled sunlight as it fell, and it landed, light, dilapidated, and sacred on the floor: tremulous and almost fearful. Shadows leaned forth, the goldenrod spirits filling the space between shivered and shrank. The phantasms wended their way forth through the amorphous trees—the same sleepy watchers that echoed a holocaust. Shudders resounded.
One was taller, hardy and something unmistakably noble clung to the silhouette, the other crouched; decrepit and bitter, rancorous mutterings. It tried to pull away and the taller figure grasped it sharply: a wounded cry. The sound of something with a heart poached and gone. They drew closer.
The rustles made were barely perceptible but the man cast an upward glance at where the scout had been moments before; he credited the movement to a bird and moved on. He followed the path as it dipped into a grove, shrubbery that had become wild and untamed with the years of rampant growth, it embodied the very shadows it captured within its gnarled fingers, intertwined, wood, once good and uncorrupted—it lay there as a tragic remnant: wood and blackness kissing and inseparable.
The man's ragged cloak, worn and rugged as he himself surged into the grove, twisting as the winds tore at it—pulling pulling—he was gone.
The scout took note and dived from his perch to a branch below and then from this tree to the next, the wood pliant and willing beneath him.
The wood was left as quiet as it had ever been, ever.
He had only been twenty, a mere stripling according to the elven calendar—according to that of his own race he was a man, due to begin life on his own.
Where did he truly stand?
Lothlorien confused him, the golden mist held him wrapt and surely he was as a leaf on the waves, turbulent stormy and intemperant, dream met life here, both entities transcending the ghastly gates of ivory that were usually fastened, firm and definite. Here there were no such borders. Dream and life wandered freely; and in this prison phantasmagoria wandered, met him, cornered him and were cruel, a caress and a whisper: all murmurous dialogue, then they left and he, heady with agony and bliss all the same.
Not Estel—Aragorn.
The name was harder, harsher. More like that of Men. Less like the Elves. It was only when he encountered both that he realized the startling difference between them, hounds, two worlds each fraught with their own menaces like hounds, they chased him, up the precipice and held him there.
He waited for the blow to fall. And it did. He knew what path he must take.
Events past and gone, swept by time, condemned to live only in history: all were resurrected on that day in spring; Lord Elrond released the hell he kept from him. Rivendell was no longer quite the shelter it was constructed to be. No ramparts of stone can ever protect you from the truth and the conscience that follows it wherever it may choose to go.
Why?
He leaned by a mallorn, willful but with grace, and thought. And thought.
---
She bowed her head and listened as the gales descended in their parabola, rustling the trees, these beings who whispered and shivered intermittently: the muse was amongst them now—muse of many things, of all the things she embodied, tragedy was one. She made it so unbearably beautiful.
And the golden mist transmuted the forest to a heady brilliance, incited by fitful sunshine; the moment lulled on a contemplative note, and was broken. She heard footsteps. Not an elf but quieter than a human's.
It drew near, faintly stirring fallen leaves from their rest. She did not hide, it was no menace.
He emerged and looked up.
---
She was the purest of new climate, pleasant and more temperate than the summer though radiant as all summers should be.
Dark haired and dark eyed, he registered these little details and found little less to say. it seemed unworthy for him to record, in verse or in prose, the sublimely transcient immortality she exemplified.
Aragorn bowed deeply; he did not know her name.
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn." He spoke, he could not lie to her, he could no longer use the name of the only father he had ever known.
---
He was earthly and yet unearthly. Arwen found thoughts fleeting as they ran along faster than they could be acknowledged.
She spoke and he listened.
---
To look upon her was to drink from a forest pool—which forest pool, he recognized one, this surrounded by the darkly amorphous trees, isolated in a glade, he had known it before—and drink again and again.
Aragorn drank—he knew it could not last. It could not last.
Gollum had been most disagreeable that day, he seemed to know the forest they were encroaching on was the domain of the elves. And despite the darkness of the wood, Aragorn recognized a distinctly elvish air. They brought more light than the sun.
Not that Gollum had ever been well-behaved and acquiescent, he kicked and scratched his keeper and tore ravenously at the fish Aragorn had been generous enough to catch for him.
He still did not know why he humoured the creature. Perhaps in its terrible dilapidation it inspired pity from others. Aragorn preferred not to dwell on these questions and instead did what was required of him. He took Gollum to Mirkwood.
The strange pair had journeyed far; Aragorn's stealth had whisked them over leagues with little trace of their trespass over unfriendly lands, and they arrived unheralded in the bleak wood.
The action itself was ironic: he would not enjoy his stay in Mirkwood, strange that his only opportunity to see the forest—an idea of legendary proportion, ripening seed planted there many years ago by a friend—came under hostile circumstances. He was there for duty's sake, he expected nothing but to have the wretch off his hands.
His impression of Mirkwood was smoky but uncorrupted by any tales he might have heard, he knew that under the eaves of the wood came exhalation, the rise and fall of old songs—trees. But he had not known the thickness of the foliage and the sparseness of the elves.
He was a stranger. Sunlight seemed to cower here, and he was perhaps more than a little regretful of his predestined path: away from Arwen and in an untamed land of strangling vines. Lothlorien's beauty was pale and benign, witchlike but softly brilliant. Here there was nothing, a void that rested upon leaf upon leaf upon leaf.
His heart pulsed and its old chant assumed itself: I am I am I am—what was he, how unanswerable that question was. Interspersed in the pauses of his monologue came the whimpering of Gollum, a distorted, altered creature. It would never see the light of day the same way again, it would never be restored to 'he', Gollum would always be an 'it'.
The trees rustled, Gollum cowered: he feared much, but in his erratic moods, he would often assert himself as a being beyond redemption, so much so that it has nothing more to lose.
A bough was rumpled somewhere over his head, the ranger peered upward: nothing, it was probably a bird, rare in the poisoned outskirts of the jungle.
Following the murky trail Aragorn dragged Gollum with him and resisted being lured back into contemplation: Mirkwood was not a place where one could let one's guard down, he would not fail.
"Hush, you." Gollum snarled in response but no more was heard: they were gone, hidden by tangled undergrowth.
Mirkwood's elves were cloistered deep in the woods, even the archaic stone of their fortress whispered, veiny with knowledge—familiar with the elves.
The corridors were winding and led underground even, still, a wind blew and it was as the breezes that found their way below ground: pervaded with the enchanted rusticity of the elves, it was an odd feeling, the feeling of age and youth all at once.
Gollum drew close to him and clamoured for mercy, he found the elves a threat apparently and his whimpers became more and more prevalent in the unearthly silence of Thranduil's halls. Aragorn was uncertain whether to extend sympathies or feel great joy, the taunting little shadow that had haunted his steps was now chased by his own fears—as a boy he had always loved and pitied things smaller than he, was this a change others underwent as they walked the lonely passage to adulthood, or was this alteration due to the rugged life of the ranger's?
He wandered the halls with his guide and probed deep: no, he still retained his love of the good—his love for Arwen persisted. He could see her face, almost, if only it were not punctuated by these incessant footfalls, if only these screams would leave… no no, they would not go, they came from his dogged ghost.
Gollum bore a mutinous look in his eyes, this and more Aragorn perceived as the scraggly hand tugged at his cloak, causing him to peer downward.
It hissed. "Leave this place. Leave, now!"
"No," the answer was a resolute one, the creature writhed in agony.
"He is a peculiar one." The elf turned and paid Gollum the attention he had been trying to evade for the first time. The look was mildly distasteful, perhaps a hint of curiousity was visible as well, but Gollum shrunk back from the elven gaze and was hushed.
And so they continued their sojourn through the labyrinth of carven stone and the winding vines, boughs and leaves blossoming from it.
The unlikely trio stopped by an almost imposing set of doors, they were shut but in their quietly communicative way promised truth and revelation.
"The king." It was not strictly a proclaimation, it lacked the pompadour commonly found and expected with royalty, but the tone was reverent, Aragorn could see this much.
The doors swung open, Aragorn held his breath.
---
The king leaned forward, scrutinizing Gollum, then shifted his gaze to the wretch's keeper.
"So you are Aragorn. Heir of Ilsidur." The tone was calm and wavered between neutrality and slight, very slight inquiry, it gave nothing away, still Aragorn wondered: had those eyes hardened, had those words meant more than what had just been stated?
A nod was returned to the king. Acknowledgement.
"Your errand was to bring him here—for what reasons, may I ask?"
So this was Legolas' father, seen through his eyes as a king. He was not harsh or even cordial…he simply was, it was an odd sensation, standing here, facing a being with an undeniable resemblance to his old friend and at the same time ridding itself of any connotations of warmth. And then again, no. Thranduil was not cold. He was indescribable, tranquil and stern, he wondered if he aspired to be this kind of king, mysterious to strangers and loved by his own people. If you ever ascend the throne, if you ever win your queen. He sighed inwardly.
Mithrandir sent me. He asks a favour of you: keep Gollum, somewhere secure where he will not wander away and into the hands of the enemy, it is imperative that this is done.
"Why so?" speech drifted lazily between the state of conception and birth. Aragorn had not been instructed to say much more.
"So this is Gollum," Thranduil resumed conversation, "it was he who found the ring."
Another nod.
A change of mood seemed to come around. Thranduil appeared almost amused, "So Mithrandir has not forgotten Mirkwood's expertise in holding diminutive ones prisoner."
"It is a hard thing to forget. Gandalf had quite an adventure that time." Aragorn nudged Gollum out from where he hid within the folds of the former's cloak. "Will you keep him?"
"He will not cause too much havoc, or will he?" Thranduil looked disdainfully at Gollum who had resumed his hissing and sobbing.
"It is unlikely. He is savage and bites and scratches but will not do much more."
"Fine. He shall stay." Thranduil waved a number of guards forth, "Take him to the dungeons." Aragorn was certain he had seen a wry smile. The guards did as told, snickering softly; apparently the elves had not forgotten that incident either and had instead turned into a public joke.
The pair waited for Gollum's guttural cries to cease in the distance as the elves grasped his slimy limbs and escorted him down to the wind cellars.
"And you," Thranduil returned his attentions to the ranger. "Your journey would have left you tired. Stay a few days." He waved another elf forth, this one Aragorn had not noticed until now, and as the elf stepped out from the relative gloom of the recesses of the room his features resolved themselves into something recognizable: Legolas.
-
It was a peculiar kind of reunion; quick and thoughtless when it occurred but it returned again and again many years later; this echolalia of the wood.
--do you remember when that happened?
It was bitten with desperation only chilly with restraint
--yes, yes I do
--then I...
he reached over—there was the rustle of velvet, the environs spoke in a muffle—blonde hair cloth quick faster faster push and heat of thoughts all coming together and it was very quick and there was protest and voices murmurous
-
"You have grown up, Estel—perhaps even a little too soon." The voice was merry and just as Aragorn had remembered it.
"My name is Aragorn now."
Legolas cast him glance and there was something in it which was inimitable—both in words and actions. He clasped the ranger's hand as they left the throne room, and the hand, slender and warm stayed there for a long time as they wound their way down corridors, some more populous than others, they walked and Aragorn felt the air change, moods were cast and undone like spells and neither said a word. There are situations in which dialogue is redundant, that was one of them.
They arrived by a tall darkly oaken door. It swung open with a light push. "Your room."
The ceiling vaulted in a graceful arc and the air was still, hushed, it was a fully amber room in the gentle sunlight that came in through the window, shot through with accents of green and goldenrod, landing in a square of gold on the wood floor.
Legolas crossed the room and flung open the window panes, "I prefer leaving the windows open. Shut them when you are absent—you have not forgotten the little horrors of the wood I told you about, or have you?" he smiled. Aragorn joined him by the window as the curtains billowed in and out, they swirled, filmy like haze and the wind blew its ever-changing repertoire through the trees.
"Elladan and Elrohir used to tell me tales about your woodland spiders too."
"They seldom brave populated areas—still, it would do to be careful." He turned away from the window and tapped lightly on another door Aragorn had not yet noticed, "the bathroom, I'll not bother explaining the mechanics of it—this pump," he continued with a finger briefly fluttering down to land on a faucet, "draws water from an underground spring. You push downwards." The hand exerted a little force—water like silver lilies falling and falling as they blossomed in momentary fullness.
Gollum pandered to the slow, tenebrous darkness found in the corner of his rather generous cell—but still a cell. It was inescapable, this prison of his mind and the ring shone bright bright. The precious the precious, its image was not dulled by the haze of time and distance. Ardour burned fiercely in the little throbbing heart—it was remarkable that he still had a heart, that it was not yet possessed by the precious.
And the lunar calendar seemed to have spun out of control, beyond regulation and normalcy, the anomaly of many suns and moons visiting him, revisiting him, the soft voices—gentle and easy like song—he could not appreciate such frustrations!
Where was Sméagol? Someone watched Gollum—was it Sméagol, it was short like him, plumper and bathed in the oddest rosy glow—dreams/ he would not, could no longer dream.
The eyes watched, sad sorrowful eyes from a sad sorrowful face. Did the figure—the little, what was its name?—want the precious?
"No, no! Precious is mine! Mine!"
Gollum's consciousness imploded into broken sobs, the elves found so much pity for him and yet so much disgust. Hate.
But no one should hate. No one at all.
To LegolassQ—thanks for the thought, and the advice. I'll keep it in mind. Meanwhile, I'll try as much as possible not to compromise.
Thanks for reviewing everyone, and particularly 'The doctor's in': I really appreciate the advice. I'm glad that you chose to tell me even though you didn't leave an e-mail address. I don't mind. Really, so long as it's helpful. Thanks.