Chapter 8: Heroes
Gimli stomach writhed; the part of him that was conscious of what he had just done recoiled in horror. He flinched as if struck himself and faltered back.
It was well he did so, for the Elf's counter-strike was swifter than sight; in a flash Legolas was on his feet with blade in hand. Had Gimli stood defiant, his severed head would have been staring up from the sand. Legolas swept his knife upward in a vicious arc. Gimli felt it whistle past, and then a stinging pain across his breast. Gimli stumbled and pressed a hand to the wound; he lunged forward with a savage shout.
The Fellowship would have been six that night if Aragorn and Boromir had not closed in quickly. Boromir threw himself at the Dwarf, gripping him by the shoulders and forcing him to the ground. Gimli slammed a solid fist into the Man's gut, but Boromir still wore his leather armor and the warded blow did no harm to him and served only to enrage the Dwarf further. Cursing and spitting guttural words in his own language, Gimli fought to break the warrior's hold on him, but his struggles were hindered by the madness that clouded his mind and Boromir proved to be mightier than the raving Dwarf.
Aragorn leapt forward and placed himself resolutely before Legolas. The Elf was standing still, very still. His arms were at his side and the knife now stained with the Dwarf's blood was clenched tightly in his fist. He was watching Gimli with a look as cold as a killing frost. A deep gash along his cheekbone was red and raw in the firelight and a blackened bruise was beginning to form along his jaw where the Dwarf's powerful, stony hand had caught him.
Carefully, Aragorn gripped Legolas by the sword arm to keep his weapon at bay and he hooked a finger below the Elf's chin, forcing him to look upward and meet his gaze.
The pale green eyes were shallow and merciless. Legolas stared through Aragorn as if the heir of Elendil were an insignificant annoyance to him, beneath his concern; Aragorn's throat constricted at the lack of emotion he saw there. That soulless look did not belong to him, would never belong to any Elf, and it did not belong to Legolas. Sickened, Aragorn trailed his hand down the Elf's arm and wrenched the blade from him. He lifted it into the air and slowly, deliberately cast it downward, plunging it into the sand at Legolas's feet.
"Look at me," ordered Aragorn, but Legolas did not react to his voice. "Tiro na nin! Nuitho i'ruith," said the Ranger. The Elf ignored him and made to retrieve his knife.
Aragorn stopped him and brought him up. He cupped the Elf's face in his hands and looked at him steadily, trying to pull Legolas's will to the surface to meet his own. "E-tolo le ulunn tin, Legolas Thranduilion?" he whispered.
Legolas seemed to hear this. He flinched slightly and the Ranger saw something stir in him. Aragorn's voice grew stern, his grip tighter. "Aen!" he said. "Hado dad lin meldir ah e-tolo be buian esta hir Sauron."
The Elf's breath caught and he shuddered violently. Aragorn saw the veil lift. The life came back into Legolas's eyes and brought with it desperate disbelief. As close as he stood, Aragorn could feel awareness dawning in his companion, and confusion and pain. Aragorn wished fervently that he could spare the Elf and Gimli both from the consequences of their brief madness, for their sake and for the sake of their companions.
He had seen the signs in Boromir. Temptation had ridden upon his back, spurring the Man of Gondor since Rivendell and Aragorn had kept watch over their stalwart, conflicted companion, fearing for Frodo. With his narrow vigilance, Aragorn had failed the others. He berated himself for his neglect, but for all the bickering, all the bitterness, he had held the hope that the Elf and Dwarf would be less susceptible to the corruption, slower to succumb. He had needed to believe that. He could not trust Boromir, could hardly trust himself, and more than ever he realized he had relied upon the unyielding Dwarf and the dauntless Elf to be strong. Unfairly did he place that burden upon them, this he knew, and yet he could not help but feel betrayed by them now.
Then Legolas turned from Aragorn to look at Gimli, and all of Aragorn's emotions were overturned. The anger, the betrayal he felt at their actions was as naught compared to the anguish Legolas was feeling. His eyes mirrored the immeasurable sorrow he saw in the Elf's.
Aragorn lifted a hand and lightly traced the hurt upon Legolas's face.
"I am sorry, Legolas," said Aragorn quietly. "Aranno nin. I should have been watching. I knew. I knew you were in danger and I failed you both."
Legolas looked at him, unable for a moment to answer. "You... failed us?" he whispered. He smiled sadly and he pulled away from Aragorn's touch.
Aragorn was arrested by the sudden vulnerability of the Elf. Legolas looked so very young. Never had he seemed so before, ever; though the timelessness of his companion's features would suggest it, Aragorn was wise enough not to judge an ageless life-span with a mortal eye. But now, for the first time, the confidence, the surety of him, the ancient presence and eternal self-possession of his people that did emanate always from Legolas was gone.
Legolas bowed his head and stood before him, broken, defeated, a young Elf indeed who had been tested and had failed to withstand the subtle might of the Enemy.
Aragorn felt his heart tremble at the enormity of this, recognizing it as his own greatest fear that Legolas now suffered. He wanted to shake his companion and banish the thoughts from his mind and make him see that Glorfindel, Elrond, Gil-galad himself! the greatest, eldest of the Elven lords could not have served the Fellowship any more faithfully or worthily that he had. But ere he could speak again, the Elf turned from him and walked toward the fire.
Legolas came to the Halflings. He sought the Ring-bearer. There was wondering fear on his face and shame as he met Frodo's eyes. The Elf slowly knelt before them both and he bowed his head low. He did not speak for a long moment.
Then he said simply, softly, "I will fetch more water, Sam," and he gathered the hobbit's kettle from the ground into his arms and he rose. He walked silently away from them, out of the light from their fire and off into the darkness.
Gimli knelt submissively ; Boromir's arms still restrained him, though he had long since ceased to struggle. His fury was dissolved in the wake of the sight of the grief of his companion. Gimli sagged and would have collapsed, but Boromir held him fast and spoke quiet words to him.
The false hatred drained from him and left him weak and shaking with fear as no Dwarf should. He heard Aragorn speak and watched him touch the Elf's cheek, saw the gash upon the smooth skin and the bruised flesh, and he was sick with loathing for what he had done. He pulled away from Boromir and huddled there wretchedly on the ground, beyond despair. He felt their eyes upon him now and knew a shame that threatened to stop his heart.
Then firm hands were laid upon his shoulders and he looked up into Aragorn's face. "Let me tend it for you, Gimli," said the Ranger. "Come."
But the hurt was nothing Aragorn could ease. The Dwarf watched Legolas walk off into the darkness and the shallow slash across his breast pained him more than any wound he had ever suffered. Shattered though it was, Gimli's pride made him get to his feet. He refused their help and tugged at his torn shirt, the white of it now stained crimson, and he pressed not gently at the ragged edge of the knife cut to test the extent of the damage done. Wearily, he made his way back to the fire.
Sam and Frodo sat together quietly upon Boromir's rock. They did not look at him, nor did he look at them, and though he yearned to beg their forgiveness, he was not yet ready for that. Merry reached up to touch his arm as he passed but Gimli heeded him not. He stumbled to their pile of supplies and crouched and began to search through his pack to find something with which to staunch the wound himself.
"Should we not go after Legolas?" asked Merry hesitantly.
"Nay," said Aragorn. "Let him be. He needs time to himself." He spoke of the Elf but his gaze rested upon the Dwarf. Gimli did not respond.
They attempted to go back to their tasks, to resume their routines, and quietly they laid out their gear and prepared for the night. Food was forgotten and most of them showed no interest in the cold rations Sam passed out to them. Even the younger hobbits munched only some waybread and bits of raw carrot and were silent.
Merry brought Gimli bread and cheese, but the Dwarf would not accept it. He sat staring off into the darkness away from the others. Dejected, Merry placed the food next to him and returned to the fire.
Boromir rested a consoling hand upon the hobbit's shoulder. "We should set a watch, Aragorn," he said quietly. "We all need rest. I will take the first."
"You held first watch last night," said Gimli. The Dwarf turned his head and regarded Boromir with pain-filled eyes. "It is my turn."
"I had thought..."
"It is only a scratch. I shall keep first watch." Gimli's voice sank and bitterly he added, "Fear not. You can all sleep soundly tonight." He looked around at the rest of his companions with a dull sort of hopelessness, as if waiting for one of them to contest him, to say that he was no longer trusted. It was what he expected and he would not have blamed them for it.
Pippin lifted himself up from his seat, his face small and sad. He picked his way over the debris of their campsite, stepping upon Merry and tripping over Aragorn's scabbard along the way. He steered himself around the fire to Gimli's side and sat down with him.
"Not alone," he declared. "I will keep watch with you, Gimli." He stifled an ill-timed yawn and smiled apologetically, "... For a little while, anyway."
Merry nodded with approval. He stood up. "I'll join you." He plunked himself down next to Gimli and selected a piece of cheese from the Dwarf's unheeded supper. "It's a very good night for star-gazing," he said with his mouth full, "and I doubt I should be able to drop off for some time yet."
Gimli stared at them. He looked at Pippin and opened his mouth to argue. But despite his efforts to be restrained, strong, proud, he began to laugh. And then the tears came and Pippin reached out to clasp his broad hand.
"Stubborn Dwarf," murmured Aragorn. The Ranger sat beside him, ignoring his protests and mending the poor job he had done bandaging his wound. As Aragorn tended his body, Merry and Pippin tended his soul; they regaled Gimli with more hobbitish constellations, making up a few absurd ones of their own. Boromir fed the fire and built it up a little to light their faces and warm the night air and the Fellowship did what they could to begin again.
The Elf was by himself.
He walked beneath the stars away from the others. This was not usual, not usual at all. They should have been resting tired eyes and keeping quiet watch! The White Face in the sky was full and rising swiftly, peering down at them and casting strange shadows. It was night-time, yes, and they had paddled all day, not resting, and so now was the time for them to sleep. The Elf should have been with the others, but he was not.
Gollum slunk along the slippery stones, his head on its long neck turning this way and that as he sniffed and muttered to himself suspiciously, curiosity making him bold. The Elf did not see him. Gollum slid and crept and crawled closer, closer, a strange shadow himself. Still the Elf did not see him and he wondered at that. Gollum puzzled and pondered over the Elf's wandering ways that night. He followed him carefully into the darkness.
Sindarin Translations (loosely):
Tiro na nin! Nuitho i'ruith. (Look at me! Hold your anger.)
E-tolo le ulunn tin, Legolas Thranduilion? (Would you become his creature, Legolas son of Thranduil?)
Aen. Hado dad lin meldir ah e-tolo be buien esta hir Sauron. (So be it. Strike down your friend and become no better than the servants who call Sauron master.)
Aranno nin. (Forgive me.)
