Six hours had passed since the shores of the gorge had seen elven life. The sun had recently set and the creatures of the woods were settling down for the night, ready to pass the roll of activity over to the nocturnal beasts, when the land fell dark.
Back from the water and the boulders, where the seemingly impenetrable wood began, there was blood everywhere. Ten pints of it had sprayed all over the evergreen branches and run black and pooled over and between the river rocks. And the bloodless carcass lay amidst it all, having fallen over with a branch rammed through its air passage.
Again, the hands were the only part of the body that appeared alive, wrapped around the branch, which they had done after death – a last plea. The elf's hands were the most integral and innovative of all of his instruments. They could not stop doing, even in death. And these hands didn't care about rods through life-giving throats, or ten pints of blood on the ground. They cared about doing.
What woke them after six hours was unclear. However, what was perfectly clear was that this piece of wood would have to be removed from the neck. Without hesitation, twitching or testing, the hands summoned the strength of the arms and slowly pulled the branch from the oesophagus. Blood that had been held within the walls of the throat by the tree spurted forth. The rod slid out with a sickening "gloop," though there was no one around to hear it.
The fire in the heart exploded and lit the brain. Within moments, breath had flooded Legolas' lungs and his brain was sparking. His eyes blinked open. He took in the gorge and knew at once all that had happened to him.
Incredible! He thought, his skin prickling. I am alive, again…. I am mastering death…This is so very wrong… I truly am immortal…
He stood and stared up at Rivendell, feeling as though his mind had stalled. He swayed. And then all at once, it seemed obvious what he should do.
I will not use a branch again. That was most unpleasant. What I truly desire is a sword or even an arrow point…Something that will bring instant death…
He leaned against a large boulder to think in the gathering darkness. He looked down at his attire. He was now clothed in little more than a blue silken rag that hung draped off of his shoulders untidily. He had no weapon with him. They had not suited him with a defence in death. They had not thought that he would need any.
Why am I trying to be creative? It's not as though it is a contest… Still… that branch was … He shuddered.
The water of the falls thundered behind him and he froze as a terrible thought crossed his mind. He turned and began wading into the water over the slippery stones. He picked up the largest boulder he could carry, subconsciously and ironically careful to bend at the knees and lift, so as not to harm his lower back, and continued to wade deeper.
Where the water grew dark and he could no longer reach the bottom, he thrust himself down, pulling the heavy rock onto his stomach. It weighed him straight to the gloomy bottom. Legolas felt his lungs panicking. He let his air out of his mouth in large glossy bubbles until his body was completely empty. He had to fight all of his instincts to keep from trying to free himself and swim for the surface.
He stared up at the white ball above the surface that was the emerging moon and waited for death to come. He tried to be patient. He tried to meditate.
He would begin upon a path along a peaceful field in his mind. He walked slowly towards a large boulder in the centre of the field.
But his mind kept skipping off to the right, creating a dark forest. He tried to pull himself back to the peaceful field, but he could not. The darkness kept flashing over the gold of the field.
He entered the forest, desperate to find someone…Desperate to find Estel! He clawed through a wall of branches and thorns and black foliage, but seemed to get nowhere. His brain was aching terribly from lack of oxygen, but in the forest in his mind, it was the thorns that were killing him.
Why can't I find you? He wondered dreadfully.
He pulled back branch after branch and saw nothing but more branches. He was becoming more desperate and yet sleepier inadvertently.
I can't find you, Estel… I'm dying…
His head sunk low on his chest in the murky water. He kept pulling thorns away as he ploughed deeper into the forest, but this action was much slower now. He thought he saw a glimpse of brown ahead, through the next few branches. He pulled them back. It looked like Aragorn's hair. He wasn't moving.
"Aragorn!" Legolas choked out in his mind.
But the ranger would not respond. The elf pulled back the last two branches to excruciating agony and just as he was looking up to see if he had finally found his comrade, his heart stopped. His brain fizzled. He died, the last useless beads of air clinging to his blue tunic under water like mocking pearls. It was slow and quiet; yet there was nothing peaceful about this death.
Aragorn had headed east, certain that he should be able to find the mysterious forest of Legolas' death. Once within the forest, he would find the dead marsh clearing where they had been attacked. He was confident that the attackers would have left behind some clue - perhaps tracks that he could follow. Perhaps he could at least find some evidence as to who they were. If he knew that, he might very well be able to find them.
He followed the highway away from civilization as the sun began to sink. He walked his tired horse over the smooth, flat trail through tall, green grasslands riddled with round boulders. He was certain that the elves had brought him in the wagon by this same road. He knew these fields well and thought it a shame that he had rode so hard and angrily the evening before. Galloping fast over this area had always been a sure joy for him. But now, his horse was much too exhausted.
Ahead, tall, straight alders closed in on the path and fed off the moisture of the creek that meandered over to join the road's side. It was hardly a forest, but Aragorn was sure that if he kept heading east, he would eventually find the wood he sought.
However, the more that he thought about that forest, the more unsure he was of his memories. Where, exactly, was it? How had they stumbled upon it? Why had they never been there before? Did it not have a name? None of it made any sense. The elves hadn't mentioned it either, nor had they even asked Aragorn what they had been doing there.
And my mission is officially abandoned. Aragorn thought. Well, it doesn't matter. Whatever conspiracies that forest holds, they will be solved in time, after Legolas is avenged.
Down the road, half on the trail and half amidst the trees, was a rider. He seemed to be a man, dressed in dark robes. He had a wide-brimmed hat and a black horse, which pawed impatiently. The man sat with his hands lightly on the reins and a bowed head. He was obviously waiting for Aragorn.
The ranger subtly gripped the blade, which he had strapped to his leg under his cape. Atop his mount, he slowly walked up to the man and stopped a safe distance away.
"What is it that you seek beyond here?" The man asked him.
"I am seeking a forest beyond this glade. And may I seek the identity of he who enquires about the business of others?" Aragorn answered without hesitation.
The man looked up from under the brim of his hat. He had developed lips, limitless black eyes and long, scraggly black locks. He looked Aragorn in the face for the first time. " You are upset. Something very terrible has recently befallen you." The man paused. "Your voice says everything for you."
Aragorn narrowed his eyes, his whole body tensing. He barred his teeth and tightened his hand on his blade. He was determined that he wouldn't tell the stranger anything more. However, after a long silence, Aragorn relented, his face falling.
"The terror has not fallen upon me." He said. "It has fallen upon my companion."
"Ah. I see." Said the stranger.
Suddenly, something caught the eye of the man and he whipped out his blade. On reflex, Aragorn matched the man with his own blade, ready to do battle. But the stranger wasn't looking at him at all.
"He's here!" Hissed the man.
"Who?" Aragorn asked.
Then a beautiful monarch butterfly came into his vision. The stranger slashed his thin and agile knife at it, but missed.
"Run! Hide!" He said to Aragorn. "Save yourself! You will fall to it!" With that, the stranger kicked his horse into a canter and flew back the way Aragorn had come.
Aragorn peered up at the butterfly. It looked to be an innocent blur of yellow and black fluttering. That man knows this butterfly? That's madness. I have more reason to mistrust a strange man than I do a normal butterfly. Either that man was trying to deter me from going this way and taking my revenge, or he was completely mad . . .
Aragorn walked on, the butterfly dancing happily above. He noticed what he thought to be a yellow pollen on his coat. He looked up and found that dust was tinkling freely from the wings of the insect.
"It's going to die." He muttered. He walked slowly and admired the shimmering sunlight that dappled the leaf-covered ground and the trunks of the alders. Warmth clung the evening air and licked the ranger's face delicately. The quiet trickle of the stream soothed him and he . . . couldn't . . . stay . . . awake . . . any longer . . . And just before he fell from his horse, dead asleep, his drugged and helpless mind offered up one last feeble reflection:
That . . . cursed . . . butterfly . . . casting evil . . . spells against . . . me . . .
I…I can't breathe!
So spoke the lungs of the elf. Neither the brain, nor the heart knew such words. They were dead, after all. No, these were the words of the lungs, perhaps with the aid of the hands, which, to this point, had been so full of life, even in times of death.
Nonetheless, there could be no explanation for how the elf's body was fired into life three hours later. With all due science, it could be described as no less than miraculous. Face down, the limp body floated downstream slowly. The rock had, at some point during the early evening, given into gravity and fallen further, to the very bottom of the river amongst the others. As the slow-moving current had pushed the uninhibited body along, bubbles in the water had formed air pockets under the elf's billowing clothes and lifted him to the surface.
How the sparks of life heralding Legolas' previous resurrections could hope to be struck in such wetness, with no hope of air seemed dismal. Therefore, where the dreams came from or even the inspiration fuelling the resuscitation could not be traced. The only thing that was certain was that the mind, long before the body had taken any steps to bring it to life, screamed, "Aragorn!"
The eyes snapped open to the black blurry cold water. All at once, the entire body was alive, and filled with terror and rage. The mind had never been more awake, more clear. Legolas willed his body to roll over and so it did. He inhaled as much air as he possibly could, filling his chest cavity to its very bottom. Without thought or hesitation, the Prince swam for the nearest shore. He paid no attention to where he was, or rather, how lost he was. He pulled himself up the slippery rocks like a merman, holding his legs and lower body perfectly still. He dragged and dragged until only his feet remained in the water. Then he collapsed, exhausted, his cheek smushed against an algae-covered stone.
"Estel…." Escaped his lips on his first exhaled breath, as he lay resting.
What…. What's happened to him? I've got to get to him!
And, forgetting entirely about his present resurrection, the elf made to stand. His entire body shook with the effort and the shock of its once more being asked to perform its duties. He stood, swaying dizzily on the huge, round river rocks. He fell sideways and caught himself on a huge rotting stump that lay amongst the boulders. But his thoughts weren't on the stump or his dizziness. He wanted to know why everything in his body was telling him that something had happened to Aragorn. He rested with his arms pushing against the stump, keeping himself up. He looked at his feet, willing them to work.
Come on! We have to master this together. He said to them.
He pushed himself away from the stump, determined to stand on his own.
He no longer cared about life or death, what was natural or unnatural or mastering resurrection and thought upon it not a moment longer. All he cared for was finding Aragorn.
He was standing on his own and began to slowly walk into the woods, casting a wary glance up at the pallid moon. He could see no other choice, as he was all but stranded on a small beach of stones, down river from Rivendell on the opposite side of the water. He staggered along little deer trails within the dim forest, surrounded by stringy-barked evergreens and little underbrush.
However, the more that he thought upon his friend, the more desperate he became. The more worried he became, the faster he tried to move, and all at once, he was running. His weak body was not ready. It began to tremble and wouldn't hold him up.
He lost his concentration and his grace and fell clumsily over a root. He crashed into the dirt and wood chips and the mess clung relentlessly to his wet clothes.
He then noticed for the first time a large slash in his boot on the top of his ankle, his bare skin exposed. This was the exact spot that had grazed the root. The elf cursed and coddled his ankle with his hands. Through all of his deaths, his clothing had taken the same beating as his body and now lay in shambles, hanging off of his ashen body like drenched silk shawls.
As he began to push himself up, he heard a hissing noise. He looked behind him and saw that the protruding root was sizzling and turning black. The black spread like a disease over the root and it shrank into nothing as though it were on fire. With no more root, the disease seemed to disappear. Abruptly, the root's plague showed up at the base of its tree. It spread up the seventy-foot high elder cedar, rapidly turning brown to black. The sizzling sent curls of smoke up the tree and Legolas watched from the ground as it ate the tree alive like acid. The base began to get thinner and thinner. Though the tree would not speak to him, the Prince knew that it was dying and that very soon it was going to be no wider than an arrow.
Sooner than he would have liked, Legolas' prediction came true. The base was now crumbling like blackened cinders and before the rest of the tree had the chance to follow suit, it began to fall.
The elf cursed again as the shadow of the ancient tree fell upon him. There was no time to think. The elf rolled backward and flattened himself against the ground just as the trunk crashed down upon him.
He was thankful that his estimation had been correct. The trunk was mere inches from his head. Slung over another stump, it had been suspended just high enough to avoid squashing his head in. He pulled himself out from under the tree, his knees shaking. The elf cursed a third time, observing the damage.
What was that! He ran his fingers lightly over the charred wood but nothing happened, nor was the mystery revealed to him. The wood was neither hot nor cold - just burnt.
I can't understand. He ran his fingers back and forth, grieving for the dead tree until he remembered his purpose.
Estel! He made to run, but checked himself immediately. No falling. I have to master myself first.
He had to content himself with simply walking as fast as he could. As he moved away from the tree and closer to the forest road that led to Rivendell, he wondered why he had been so concerned about dying from being flattened by a tree.
"I don't die." He muttered and then immediately shuddered at the idea of waking from being flattened dead by a tree trunk.
TBC