Author's Note: Okaaaaaay, it seems that chapter 5 has some of you rather... upset. I haven't listed a character death, I haven't thought about realism, etc, etc,blah blah blah. I mention this because I don't think that this next chapter is going to do much to quell your fears or quibbles... (That's right, I'm playin' around with the alliteration!)
But you have to understand thatI have my reasons... for all of this. I have considered all of it. Now, I need you to trust me. It will all be okay.The road is a bumpy one butwe can work through this. Please fear not and keep reading!
Final note: You will notice cough -arynn- cough that sometimes in fantasy, things aren'tnecessarily realistic... (ex. The physically and anatomicallyimpossible centaur...)
6) Straining Hands
The sun shone dead centre in the mid-afternoon sky. The day was filled with natural words from the birds, the pounding of the waterfall and the sun's rustling through the trees. Below the height of the forest sounds, amongst the large boulders of the far shore of the waterfall's ravine pool, something lay out of place.
A splay of blonde hair lay drying over the river rocks, over a drenched, unmoving face. The frail, white, waterlogged body was covered with the pale blue silk of what was once a ceremonial tunic. It was now little more than a soaked rag. The body lay curled around nothing; only the ruined leather boots remained in the water.
Were there life in the body, it would have found the bulbous rocks uncomfortable, the unnatural way that the shoulder still clung onto the torso disconcerting. The open eyes of the body had changed from a full-blooded blue to a diluted moon shade, as though the pigment itself had disintegrated. In fact, the mangled body all but appeared as though it had always been a soulless shell.
However, the pale hands were the one part of the carcass that implied that it had not simply been dropped from the sky like a wind-blown piece of clothing. The hands grasped, sallow and empty, haggard and beautiful. They reached for that which was not there. The hands were the one part that did not look sculpted. They looked as though they were straining, as though they had once had power in them - the power to perform tasks. And, in a way, the hands were the one part that still had life in them – dead, only long enough to appear frozen while straining for life.
These fingers still had things to do. If life were just inches from them, why not move forward? If the chance was there, why not take it? Rather than simply twitching as the night before, the fingers rippled through the motions, as fingers play with the feathers of an arrow.
They did not bother much more with testing, but sent fire straight to the heart like electric current and immediately shocked it into beating again. A great gasp came from the elf and his whole body straightened abruptly. Tingling blood flooded the rigid form from toes to forehead.
The stretched limbs slumped back onto the unyielding rocks and Legolas listened to the sound of his own heart beating. He did not try to move. He simply thought, wondering if any of this could be real.
Does one dream when one is dead?
An involuntary moan escaped his lips. This caused him to question whether or not he had control over his body now. He was not shuddering hysterically as before. However, though he did not try to move, his legs felt shaky. He did not wail with horror as he had before either, though he did not feel entirely opposed to doing so.
I should not be here. He thought. I have fought my entire life to maintain balance and nature. This is not natural.
He struggled, and as he did so, he managed to sit up. Without thinking, he got to his knees. He then fell back into a sitting position. He regarded his feet and the water's edge. He did not dare look at his reflection.
Yes. But you want revenge, don't you? He asked himself. You were murdered! Murdered by cowards, no less. . . No, no. Revenge is not a part of me, dead or alive. He argued.
And exactly whom do you think you are fooling? Suddenly he was struck with a thought. Estel! Where is he! Did he escape? Did they kill him? Where am I?
He looked up the waterfall and abruptly noticed the river elves' home, nestled against the hillside. He looked up at the sun.
Midday. Is that to imply that it took me half a day to come back to life? And how long before that? A day? Legolas was once more overcome. I should not be here. It's wrong. It upsets the balance. I am no more deserving of a second life than anyone else . . .
He took off his waterlogged boots. How beautiful they were . . . He tried not to think of those who dressed him for death, those who chose the finest quality garments that Rivendell had to offer for his passage into the next world. It was not the thought of exposure that harmed his heart, but rather, he did not wish to think on those he knew were grieving for him.
He looked up at the bridge and the dwellings above. He knew they were up there, thinking of him. How close to civilization he was and yet, how very, very alone. He had been closer to his loved ones when he had been buried above, when he had been dead. Now, he was some sort of freak of nature, alone in his strange magic.
We are to live forever. Or die. And be dead… Forever.
He put his head in his hands. He tried not to run his hands through his matted hair, or his tiny frayed braids. Had he been given a gift, or a curse? Was he a grotesque phenomenon or a good omen?
It took me a day to come back to life, the first time. Then half a day, again. The time was cut in half: Why? Am I getting better at dying for an impermanent amount of time? Am I perfecting resurrection? How can that be? Do I have more lives?
The elf began to wonder if he dared test his theory. He had been given a second, and now a third chance. Could he waste them?
The elf realized that he had stood without much thought and that his body was his. He could control it now.
What does it matter? It's all borrowed time anyways. If I have to know, I have to know. No more fear. I have had it to death with fear.
Legolas emptied the water outof the boots and put them back on. He thenstumbled and weaved the few feet to the edge of the forest, which, he noted, refused to speak to him. There, he broke off a strong, serrated branch. He kneeled. He propped the bluntest end against the rocky ground and the sharper end against his throat.
I pray I have the strength for this. I shall know what is meant to be – in life or in death.
The prince took a shuddering breath and released all restraint. He let all of his weight fall against the branch. There was a moment of white pain and then instantaneous lifelessness came to the bloody pale creature with the tree through his windpipe.