DISCLAIMER:
See chapter six
Series:
None.
Spoilers:
See chapter one
A/N: Hey, I did promise. :D
Thank you for all the nice reviews. I know you probably get that a lot, lol, but it's really true.
You know, after trying to write this story I've had a lot more respect (even more than usual, lol) for writers who have a lot of main characters. Not only do you have to develop each character, you have to keep them in that character. You also have to be careful not to deviate too far from the books, but enough that people don't feel like they're rereading the books. It's an interesting balance…standing on the edge of a knife…:D
By the way, the Northern Pass was something I constructed, and is not Tolkien's. As for where it's placed, I figured a few miles up from Moria, but past the Pass of Caradhras, and (by my characters at least) considered safer than either of the other passes, though it was harder to find.
//: Means a flashback.
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Three Rings for the Elven-Kings
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Chapter Ten
The Northern Pass
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"Trust an elf to get us in a mess like this," Gimshe muttered to his brother as they tramped along through the rocky path.
"One good thing's come out of this," Gimli responded, hefting himself over a small boulder.
"What's that, brother?"
"The elf's a good cook."
"Humph."
Behind the group, Legolas and Aragorn walked. Aragorn was pointedly unhappy about the elf not being in the center of the group, and therefore the easiest to protect but he had a feeling Legolas wanted to talk to him alone, and was hardly going to shove him away.
"Are you afraid, Legolas?" Aragorn asked quietly, listening with a half-smile as the dwarves bickered quietly with Sealbeth. They had been marching for hours after the elves had sensed the orcs presence, and it was nearly dawn. The moon was down and everything was dark. The majority of the Company were quite unhappy about the lack of light—mostly the elves, who disliked starless nights at the best of times. The dwarves, however, were in their element. Used the darkness of underground caverns, it was no surprise that they were walking up with Gandalf while the elves were now hanging back, mostly silent.
"Afraid, meldir*?" Legolas murmured thoughtfully. "Afraid of death, do you mean? Afraid our Quest will fail? Or afraid that it will succeed and the power of the elves diminished forever in the Western Lands? Or afraid that I will give in and become the next Dark Lord? Afraid that I will not be able to give it up when the time comes to destroy the Ring, if it comes?" He turned his silvery-blue eyes on the human. If Aragorn had not been used to the elf, he would have flinched at the deepness of his gaze. "I fear them all, Aragorn. I fear them all."
Aragorn hesitated. For the most part, elves usually did not touch each other. The pats on the back that humans casually gave to each other were almost faux pas among the elven race—expectable between friends and family only, and then only on occasion. Aragorn, however, knew that Legolas was not so much like the High elves with whom he had grown up. The Silvan and Sindarin elves were slightly less noble, less arrogant in ways than the Noldorin elves, though perhaps more suspicious. Gently he placed his hand on the elf's shoulder in comfort, and his friend did not pull away.
Without warning Legolas spun and pushed Aragorn to the ground. At first, the Ranger thought it was because of some gaffe he had committed. Then he heard Endara's cry of, "Yrch!"
Gandalf's voice boomed over the sudden hideous scrabbling and shuffling sounds of orcs heading their way. "Follow me, quickly!"
The Company followed the wizard. Endara and Aragorn pushed Legolas to the front, next to Gandalf, while they held the rear, returning fire whenever an orc's silhouette was seen in the night.
"Curse this darkness!" Sealbeth growled as he watched the human and elf miss two out of three shots.
"Quickly!" Gandalf urged. "We are almost to the pass."
The elves ran lightly, the dwarves had good night-sight, and both Aragorn and Gandalf knew the area well, but Hantor was struggling to keep up. The younger man was shooting beside Aragorn and Endara, having more luck than either the ranger or the elf, but his breathing heavy, and when Aragorn touched him he could feel the boy shaking.
"Stop shooting!" he ordered Hantor, pushing him away. "Sealbeth! Take him!"
Sealbeth, out of respect for the older Ranger, grabbed Hantor and pulled him along, leading the half-blind human along the path, avoiding the worst of the rocks and ruts. Aragorn and Endara ran to catch the rest of the Company.
When they reached the rest of the Company, Gandalf had his hands pressed against the rocky side of a foothill, searching for some opening the others could not see. Aragorn stood guard with Endara, back to back, staring out into the night. Hantor, still shaking slightly but less pale, was kneeling in front of Aragorn, holding his bow and waiting for something to shoot at. Aragorn felt Legolas' warning touch from behind, and Sealbeth's sword sang softly as it left its sheath.
"Gandalf?" Aragorn's voice was noticeably tense.
"We've got company," one of the dwarves muttered.
"Got it," the wizard declared, and pushed on a small knot on one of the rocks. It shifted to one side, revealing a path that disappeared deep into a cave.
"I hate caves," Endara said, balking.
"Endara, get in here," Sealbeth snapped, following Legolas and the dwarves into the cave. Reluctantly Endara followed, taking Hantor's sleeve and leading him in. Aragorn let off two more shots and turned to race into the cave after his friends. Just as he took a step, though, an orc got lucky.
Hot, tearing pain ripped through his shoulder and chest, throwing him forward with a startled gasp, knocking the wind out of him and making his vision swim strangely. The shaft of the arrow immediately began to burn cruelly and he stumbled forward. Gandalf caught him and showing surprising strength for an old man, picked the Ranger up and carried him into the dark path, the rock closing behind him.
Gandalf placed his charge gently on the ground and placed some sort of crystal in the head of his staff. The crystal began to glow, providing them with some light. Enough light to see the seriousness of Aragorn's wounds.
"Aragorn?" Legolas' face was concerned as he came over, kneeling by the wounded man.
Aragorn smiled palely at his friend. His hand protectively pressed against the area of the shaft, protruding from the right side of his chest. "Father always said I'd come to a bad end if I didn't eat my carrots," he said, and then coughed wetly. Legolas just looked at his friend, in that way that said, Humans. Always cracking jokes at the worst of times.
"What's wrong?" Sealbeth demanded, stomping over. He stopped when he saw Aragorn's wound. "That's going to have to come out," he said immediately.
"If we can. Look, the arrow head's built to come off in the wound," Legolas said, pulling away the man's shirt as he and the wizard studied the wound. "We'll have to push it through, but that could cause more damage to him, and we run the risk of hemorrhaging."
Aragorn's face was growing pale with shock. The elves, all three of whom either were archers or had been, also understood the risk of their art. Even elves sometimes misfired and hit a friend instead of a foe or target, and most learned some sort of healing techniques in case of such accidents.
Legolas pressed Aragorn down onto his side and lifted his feet up onto a backpack to get the blood back into his head. Aragorn tensed when the shifting caused the arrow shaft to jerk slightly.
"Careful," Sealbeth said, softening his tone as he knelt down. "It would do us no good if the shaft broke off inside him."
Boromir, who was watching, was suddenly aware that Hantor was looking just as bad, even worse, than Aragorn. He was sweating heavily and leaning against one wall for support. Just as he moved to help the boy, though, he seemed to recover. Shaking his head slightly Hantor straightened.
Aragorn shivered as Gandalf placed a light blanket over him. "You elves are so fussy," he groaned as Sealbeth probed the wound. "You fuss over everyone else's injuries almost as much as you fuss over your own."
"We have to," Sealbeth replied as his hands pressed lightly on the wound, here and there, causing Aragorn to grit his teeth. "You foolish humans usually end up in the line of fire. We can not have you all die on us, or we would loose our arrow-fetchers."
"Sealbeth," Legolas scolded, knowing that the elf was only kidding in a Sealbeth-kind-of-way.
"We are going to push it through, Aragorn." Gandalf's voice was kind. "Here, take this." The wizard offered Aragorn a glove to bite. Aragorn nodded grimly and took it, placing it between his teeth. He took a deep breath as both Legolas and Endara held him firmly. Gandalf grabbed the shaft of the arrow coming from his back and gave a sudden, sharp push. Aragorn jerked and made a small sound. The arrowhead came free of his skin.
"Easy," Gandalf murmured, wrapping the arrowhead in a cloth and preparing to jerk it out. "Ready?" he said to the two elves, who nodded. Both held the Ranger down as Aragorn struggled involuntarily, unable to completely stifle his scream of pain. Gandalf wrenched the arrow all the way out and let the bloody thing drop onto the floor. Aragorn lost all remaining color in his face, and then his cheeks flushed bright red, leaning limply against the hands holding him.
"Of…all the times—I had to get hurt," he gasped, spitting out the glove. "It—had to be now."
"Foolish human," Sealbeth muttered again. "Always in the line of fire."
"Thanks, Sealbeth," Aragorn grunted. "I always did appreciate your concern."
"You'll live," the elf answered shortly, moving away.
Aragorn groaned and considered retorting something that would not have pleased Sealbeth, but was in too much pain to do so.
"Take ease, meldir," Legolas murmured as he helped wrap Aragorn's shoulder in thick bandages.
"Easy for you to say," he answered, grimacing as blood ran down his arm. "You're not the one speared with an arrow."
Legolas, with surprising tenderness for such an aloof race, smoothed Aragorn's hair out of his face as he continued to bind the wound. "I," he said with all due gravity, "would have ducked."
When Aragorn laughed, the others knew he would be all right.
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The Northern Pass, in theory, would lead them underneath the mountains, being not so much a pass as an underground cave that stretched underneath the range of the Misty Mountains. There were plenty of underground streams for water and while there was little food to be found, it took no more than three days to cross under the mountains, barring no mishaps.
In theory.
In reality, it was cold, damp, dark and miserable, with little fresh water and even less food, bad footing that slowed them up and even deep cracks in the floor that had to be jumped. The elves were thoroughly put out. They did not like caves in the best of times—which this was not—nor dwarves—who were having too much fun for their liking—nor bawdy bar songs—which the dwarves were singing constantly. The dwarves' cracks about "not-so-keen elvish night sight" were not helping. At one point Gandalf rearranged the Company's positions, putting Sealbeth in the rear and the two dwarves up front with everyone else between before something violent happened. Aragorn was fast on the mend, though his arm was in a sling still. Hantor, on the other hand, was looking progressively worse, and while it was not at first noticeable, his lack of appetite and unnatural ashen skin was causing both Gandalf and Aragorn to watch him in concern.
Legolas alone of the Company was oddly silent. Gandalf had said it was safe to talk in the tunnels, which few even among the Wise knew of, and so talk they did. But Legolas went ahead of the group, away from their talking and singing, walking in memories to take his mind off the growing weight of the Ring. It never let up, even in the depths of his happiest memories, of his mother and little sister, long dead and gone, and of his friends, many killed in battles no one remembered or wars started for no reason and overlooked in the historical articles. The elf's melancholy was not lost on his friends, but neither Aragorn nor Endara dared encroach upon Legolas' reflections.
Hantor, too, was strangely silent, though from the grayness of his skin it was more from illness than from sad recollections. Aragorn walked beside the younger Ranger, silently offering support. But the young man did not speak to Aragorn about his illness, and no one wished to breach the subject.
Boromir was deep in discussion with the dwarves over mining. Legolas walked beside Gandalf but his eyes were glazed and his expression vacant. It was obvious he was not completely aware of what was going on around him. Gandalf looked at the elf, knowing there was nothing he could do to help the prince with his struggle with the Ring—for in the end, it was a struggle for his soul, a battle only he could fight. Endara stayed near his master, but never speaking, allowing Legolas his memories and his dreams.
"Hantor," Aragorn said at last when it was obvious the younger man was not going to say anything, "I need to know what's wrong with you."
"Besides my foot?" The bitter irony in the Ranger's voice was clear, and he could not suppress a slight limp.
Aragorn sighed. "Cousin…"
"It's nothing, Aragorn."
"Don't lie, Hantor."
"It's nothing," the young man repeated wearily, almost not caring.
Aragorn looked away, unable to see his cousin and not be reminded of that horrible day almost twelve years ago that his favorite younger cousin was so badly hurt…
//:It was a beautiful day, laughter full in the spring air near to the entrance to Rivendell. Aragorn was out riding with his kin, for once joyful and smiling along with the rest of his hunting party.
It happened so fast. Hantor was riding near the front, chuckling, when suddenly a stretch of weakened trail came away. His horse screamed in terror and struggled, but both man and horse went over the cliff. Hantor disappeared without a cry.
Horrified, the Rangers, Aragorn included, leapt off their horses and moved back away from the unstable trail, trying to see where Hantor had fallen. He disappeared into the river far below and was swept off downstream.
He would never forget the expression on Hantor's mother's face when he had to tell her what happened. She was twice a widow, all of her seven children dead but Hantor, and the pain on her face was sharper than any arrow. Aragorn had shut himself up in his room for a weak, blaming himself for not sending scouts ahead to check the trail. Nothing his stepbrothers, Elladan and Elrohir, or Lord Elrond himself could do to make him feel any better. Hantor's death was his fault and he knew it. He should have been more careful. There had to be something that he could have done to save his cousin's life.
Two years passed. And while the pain of Hantor's death never left him, Aragorn moved on, learning to laugh and talk again.
Until one cold, raining evening, a limping, shadowy figure came to the door at Rivendell. There was a feast, celebrating some visiting elf-lord when the figure came in and asked to see Aragorn. His clothes were tattered and badly patched, he wore only one shoe and his right foot badly twisted and limping heavily. He pushed his limp, dark strands of hair from his face, and raised the bearded chin to look Aragorn in the eye.
"Elbereth," Elladan had whispered. "It can't be."
But it was. Hantor, his food badly broken and badly healed, had returned to Rivendell. After being swept far down stream he had come across some kindly farmers, but because of his terrible injury he had not been able to find his way back to Rivendell, nor had he come across anyone willing to take a message for him.
Some of Aragorn's saddest memories were staring into his cousin's eyes, young eyes, only eighteen years old, but pain-filled and haunted. Nor would he forget Elrond's words to him: "If I re-break the foot he will never walk again."
"Then I will walk," Hantor had said firmly.
It had taken all the courage the eighteen-year-old had to walk after that, his foot twisted still despite all of Elrond's advanced care, pain plaguing him with every step. Aragorn could never forgive himself.
Still could not forgive himself.
So for the next ten years he spent with the elves in Mirkwood, learning the craft of archery beyond the skill of any other creature in Middle-Earth, save the elves. But no matter how many times Hantor insisted it wasn't Aragorn's fault, he had continued to believe that if he had only watched the tail a bit more closely, instead of getting caught up in the excitement of a successful raid like a child, Hantor would still walk without pain.
"Aragorn." Legolas' concerned voice broke into his thoughts.
He looked over at the prince. "No," he said to the unasked question.
The two walked in silence.
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"We'll settle hear for the night," Gandalf declared when they came to a rather spacious cavern. "We can light a fire in here; the smoke will not be a problem."
The dwarves immediately went to work starting a fire while Endara took out his cooking utensils. After the few times the dwarves had been allowed to cook, it was generally accepted that they were never to be allowed anywhere near the foodstuff again.
Legolas was half-way through his meal when suddenly her jerked and dropped his plate. "Ground quake!" he cried, though he knew instantly there was no time to react. Almost as though his words were a command, the ground began to shake violently. Dust rose and choked them. Desperately, Legolas surged to his feet, grabbed the first had he touched and ran out from under the collapsing roof to the next cavern. The deafening thunder of rock falling from the ceiling chased them. Realizing it was Hantor he was holding, Legolas threw them both to the ground, shielding the human with his body.
When he opened his eyes, he wondered briefly if he was going to suffocate on the dust. Coughing heavily as the air cleared, he struggled to sit up. The lights were out, of course, and everything was dark as the abyss.
"Hantor?" he said, reaching for the human. Warm blood met his fingers. Alarmed, blind, Legolas carefully rolled the unconscious human onto his back, checking for injuries. The blood was coming from Hantor's mouth, so Legolas pulled him upright to prevent him choking.
"Legolas?"
"Sealbeth?"
"Is anyone else on this side of the fall?"
"Just us I am afraid, unless they have fallen unconscious."
"Legolas!" The shout was very faint.
"We are here!" Sealbeth shouted back. "Hantor, Legolas, and myself!"
"Are you hurt?"
Sealbeth looked at Legolas in question, and then realized the elf-prince could not see him. "Legolas? Are you all right?"
"Yes, but Hantor appears to be injured."
"We are both unscathed, but Hantor is injured!" Sealbeth said, shouting through the layers of rock.
"We cannot dig through this for many days." Gandalf's voice came through the rock easily enough. "You will have to go on without us. I don't suppose any food is on your side."
"I do not believe so."
"You must get out of the caves then. Follow the path, it does not branch, but wait for us at the entrance if you can. We will follow as quickly as possible."
Sealbeth shouted back an answer, but Legolas was not listening. He suddenly realized with sharp, painful horror what had caused the young human to fall progressively sicker, and knew that without help he would die soon.
"Sealbeth," Legolas said to his companion, "we have to get to Lothlórien."
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*Meldir=Male friend
Yrch=orcs