Chapter 10: Whither Strays The Mind
A wisp of cloud passed the moon and a trailing finger of darkness touched the brooding Elf, but it could not stir him from his concentration. Legolas sat quietly and listened to the wind sigh about him; he was summoning to mind the words of a story that took on new depth, new meaning for him, given the company he now kept. Snatches of it played through his mind, and he mused over each word carefully.
All at once there came a blood-curdling shriek, filled with hatred and despair; Gollum was defeated. He dared go no further. He had lost: lost his prey, and lost, too, the only thing he had ever cared for, his precious. 'Thief, thief, thief! Baggins! We hates it, we hates it, we hates it for ever!
It had been a singular tale, simple and yet astounding, for those who lent their ears to it knew it to be a missing piece of the Ring's history that the Wise had long sought. The appetite of the Halflings for story-telling and song rivaled their insatiable appetite for good food, and Bilbo Baggins had served up a tantalizing tale indeed to the Council as they gathered beneath the sheltering eaves of Imladris. At the bidding of Lord Elrond, the hobbit readily took up his narrative and drew them wide-eyed into his account of burgling the most perilous of treasures in the unlikeliest of places. Some of them would be literally drawn into the story and find themselves upon stranger roads than any could have foreseen as a result of what was revealed by Bilbo that autumn morn.
Such a one was Legolas son of Thranduil, messenger of Mirkwood and guest of the Last Homely House. The tidings Legolas did bear were not of the sort he might have wished, and Frodo's uncle had made his task little easier. The Elf had listened with dawning dismay as Bilbo gradually illumined the dark origins of the prisoner who was entrusted to his folk and whose very escape was responsible for Legolas's journey from his home.
The old hobbit had nonchalantly waved aside the fact that he was seated in the midst of Elf-lords, Dwarven emissaries, warriors from distant lands and a handful of the most significant personages in all of Middle-earth. He had settled into a comfortable, engaging verbal canter as if he were unravelling a tale before the hearth in his own small parlour in the Shire. Such was Bilbo's skill that each of them walked with the Halfling almost a century ago down into that blackest of black caves in the depths of the Misty Mountains, and felt the icy chill of the sun-shunned water pooled far below that did sustain the corruption and malice of the creature called Gollum.
Bless us and splash us, my preciousss! I guess it's a choice feast; at least a tasty morsel it'd make us, gollum!
The thoughts of Legolas were returned to that dark and lonely place conjured by the Halfling's tale in Rivendell. In his mind he formed the shape of the weeping rock and tangible shadow about him as Bilbo had described them. It was nary a stretch of the imagination; the River trickled close by with a ghostly voice, fueling the illusion, and no other sound but the creature's quiet, rasping breathing could be heard. The cold sand beneath him seeped into the Elf's limbs until even the night air felt warmer to him. But it was not the brisk wind that caused Legolas to shiver; his attention was wholly upon those two lantern eyes peering back at him there in the gloom, and the chill of poignant loss he could see within their depths.
It's gone! What has it got in its pocketses? Oh, we guess, we guess, my precious. He's found it, yes he must have. My birthday-present.!
So it is that our fate steals silently upon us and lies in wait where we should least expect to find it. Bilbo's confrontation with Gollum had seemed to him to be but a small, insignificant detour along the path to greater adventure, yet it would ultimately bring the hobbit more woe and renown than had any dwarvish hoards or dreadful dragon's death.
Stumbling steps taken along a forsaken passageway… the Ring of Power is stuffed hastily into a frightened hobbit's pockets... A pause along the River's edge and the bane of the son of Elendil is found, the dormant evil wakened... The doom of Middle-earth is held within small hands and passes furtively from fen to mountain to field whilst greater eyes rove elsewhere, unsuspecting.
Legolas looked quietly upon the extraordinary figure sharing the solitude of the night with him and he marvelled at the scope of its small presence. As the hunter, Legolas had taken no pains to learn anything of this creature beyond what might serve as useful in catching him. It was unwise, after all, to look too deeply into the eyes of an enemy lest one falter and miss one's mark. Gollum had proven himself to be a wily foe eluding the capture by the Elves of Mirkwood and also in his following the Fellowship with nary a revealing misstep giving him away to the likes of Legolas Greenleaf and Aragorn son of Arathorn; this alone did pique the Elf's interest in the creature. But Legolas had laid aside his bow for the moment, and his interest was of a somewhat less apathetic nature tonight; he allowed mazy queries rather than hunter's instinct into his mind.
For here was Gollum, or Sméagol, and he was no longer merely a vague shadow, a seldom-seen nuisance who hounded their trail. The creature was huddled there before Legolas of his own volition, inviting speculation, close enough to nearly touch, and the weight of ages did seem to rest upon his thin shoulders. Legolas looked deep into those eyes, and his mind reeled at the terrible enormity of this little one's fate and the winding paths of circumstance that had led him here.
"You have my attention, Master Sméagol, though you may come to regret your boldness." The threat was in Legolas's words but not in his heart. He did not like the intrusive sound of his soft voice in the pensive silence. He did wish to know more of this creature and the meaning of this meeting in the darkness ere he acted upon it, though he was not so foolish as to completely let down his guard.
What sort of being had Sméagol been ere the Ring distorted him into the loathsome and loathing Gollum? the Elf wondered fiercely as he studied the creature. How had he come to find his perilous prize? Acquiring his "birthday-present" might have been the end-all of Sméagol's life, but it was not the be-all.
It slipped from us, after all these ages and ages! It's gone, *gollum*.
Legolas mulled over Bilbo's tale and he decided the old hobbit had erred in claiming to have taken the only thing Gollum had ever cared for. 'Ever' was assuming much, and as preoccupied with the pressing of time as the Elf had been this night, 'ever' was not a word he felt should be used lightly by those who could not comprehend it. Long had this fell creature suffered, of this he had no doubt, and long had he lived beneath the Ring's sway. Yet, not always. It had not always been so dark for him. Legolas looked upon Sméagol and it seemed to the Elf that he could almost see the beginning of the creature's tale.
What isss he, my preciouss?
There were none now to remember Sméagol as he had been, none who cared to. Even Sméagol's own recollections of days past were nearly gone, fitfully picked to pieces until there was naught left to him of his life before the Ring but shredded, scattered memories, and these served only to torment what peace he might have found in ignorance. It should not have been so wrenching, perhaps, if the creature had no knowledge of how far he had fallen, if all had been madness within him, but the One Ring granted no such mercy. There was now that unveiled awareness in this little one's eyes that spoke of such loss and loneliness, of voices half-recalled and ravaged innocence; it disturbed Legolas and intrigued him as well.
The Ring had ensnared this creature, lured him from those he might have loved and who did love him and drove him to dark deeds and this basest of existence; he had lost all he cared for long, long ago to the drowning control of Sauron's contrivance. What had Sméagol been ere the Ring took him? The answer was there in the eyes looking back at him from the darkness; the green fire of madness in them had burned low enough to allow Legolas to see what few others would ever see: a glimpse of the remnants of the soul it consumed, the small, confined corner of Sméagol's mind that was still his own, hidden deep down inside, away from the horrors.
"I can see you," murmured the Elf. "Your awareness is bitter. Were it not better to utterly forget that which grieves our hearts, yet to some that peace shall never belong. I know this."
Legolas felt the fine hairs along the back of his neck rise as Sméagol licked his lips in response. The Elf shook his head and sighed lightly. He leaned forward, trapping Sméagol with clear eyes, and he rested the less-tender edge of his chin upon his hand.
"I would know, Master Sméagol, what it is you remember."
Sméagol's eyes shifted, became more lucid in response, and Legolas was allowed deeper into them. To Legolas came suddenly the vivid imagining of years, countless years alone in the dark, enfolded by those slithering, invading whispers of cruelty and deceit until the boundary between one's own consciousness and the Ring's was no longer discernible. The Elf had felt the taint of that subtle control but briefly, and it had been enough; the malignant taste of it lingered still.
He broke his eye-contact with the creature abruptly. He shuddered at the recollection and wished he had not touched upon it. He passed a hand before his face and cast the darkness from his mind. His wound pained him, but he refused to pay heed to it; the Elf firmly pushed the ache aside, unwilling and unable to deal with matters so near to his own heart just yet. The inevitable could wait. He mastered himself and guided his thoughts back to the welcome distraction that was Sméagol.
He looked up in time to see the creature lower his own hand from his face. Legolas raised a questioning eyebrow and reached up to sweep a stray strand of hair behind his ear.
Sméagol raked his matted locks from his eyes.
Legolas hesitated and then drew a finger down the long length of his nose. He watched with amusement as Sméagol imitated the gesture. The Elf could not be certain but he might have sworn there was a glint of grim amusement in the eyes of the creature as well. Quite unlikely, but it did seem so to him. Where did the boundary lay within this creature? Where did Gollum begin and Sméagol end? For all his growing might, the power of the Dark Lord was not absolute, not yet. Legolas thought perhaps there was a hint of something, even there in the mind of this wretched little being that could not be touched, not even by the strongest will of evil. This gave him great pleasure.
A fanciful whim it was, to seek a gleam of hope in one whom hope had abandoned long ago. Sméagol could not be cured, could not be reclaimed; others had sought to draw Gollum from the black web of his soul and had received naught from his mouth but the marks of his teeth. The creature was lost and nothing but malice lurked in his mind. This was madness beyond mere folly; much wiser it would have been for the Elf to slay him there and then, for the sake of the Company and Frodo's safety. It would have been just and many times deserved in recompense for all the lives this creature had shaken or destroyed. Legolas drew himself up and took a deep breath - and tried to ignore Sméagol when he did the same.
Gollum was dangerous. Quite apart from murder by night on his own account, he could put any enemy that was about on their track. It was quite clear where the Elf's duty did lie; this creature was a threat to the Ringbearer. He should harden his heart to the task, he knew.
One swift, merciless instant. Fear governing reason, hatred governing compassion... the world encompassed within a tiny circle of perfect gold. He should harden his heart to the task and strike.
The Elf brought an end to their game. "It would take such little effort, Sméagol, to end your miserable life, if it is death you seek from me." His voice now held the grim edge of a promised threat that it had lacked before.
Sméagol cringed. He curled in upon himself like an agitated spider, his wide eyes never leaving the Elf's face. He brought his thin hands to his breast, and his disfigured fingers fidgeted. They began to clench and unclench, to twist and writhe incessantly in a pattern of nervousness and discomfort.
Legolas tipped his head inquisitively to watch, disarmed once more by his curiosity. He watched Sméagol rub his thin hands together with feverish intensity and the Elf's eyes softened once more as he understood.
"Nay," said the Elf. "You have little love for my people, Sméagol, this I know well, but we are not cruel. Doubt not that I will kill you if you dare come near those I protect, but it will be a swift and unerring death. I take no pleasure in causing pain."
Legolas raised his own long-boned hand to his face and gently ran it across his bruised cheek, then very deliberately touched the fingertips of his other hand, one by one by one. The creature followed his gesture with an intense gaze, suspiciously tracking every small movement.
One swift, merciless instant, thought Legolas. An instant that could never be taken back.
He motioned to the creature's twitching fingers. "What did they do to you, little one, to make you betray all you knew?" he asked.
Sméagol's attention lingered for a moment upon the Elf's hands, and then he lifted his own. His large eyes turned flat and grey. Legolas remained very still, wondering if the creature might speak, but Sméagol kept his silence and instead swallowed hard with a queer gulping noise.
It was a startling, horrible sound, like a convulsive sob combined with a chortle of laughter and the muscles in Sméagol's throat constricted grotesquely as if squeezed by an invisible grip. Legolas tensed and caught his breath a little. He swallowed instinctively himself as he watched the creature's tongue flick out over bared sharp teeth. But Sméagol's eyes were focused inward, distant now, and he gave heed no further heed to the Elf. His wasted hands continued to writhe and his body began to rock slightly to and fro, to and fro, as if wallowing in some vague, unpleasant recollection.
So long was he like this that Legolas thought the creature had forgotten his presence altogether. The Elf was at a loss. Sméagol was so near and yet profoundly unreachable. Whatever compulsion coaxed Sméagol out in the open beneath the harsh white Moon, it was not strong enough to bring him to speak. Whatever had driven the creature to come this near to Legolas, it was not strong enough to conquer the creature's solitary mistrust. Legolas searched the face of the preoccupied little creature with frustration. Legolas watched reluctantly for the consuming green fire to kindle once more in the creature's eyes.
"I know not what it is you want from me, Sméagol," he sighed, "and I am far too weary to while the night away with futile speculations. I cannot leave you here, for I will risk no harm to my companions, nor do I think you would suffer yourself to be bound and led back to our camp without a fight. I do admit my heart is more of the hare's tonight than the hunter's. These meaningless games are of no use to me, if you will not speak..."
Inspiration struck the Elf like a sure-shot arrow. His eyes lit with quizzical delight; he straightened and looked at Sméagol thoughtfully for an instant, then slowly he smiled.
Perhaps the key to loosening this little one's tongue lay within the hobbit's tale!
Riddles….
Riddles in the dark.
Gimli paused once more to peer into the darkness ere he set off down another length of the shoreline, mumbling imprecations against the accursed light-footedness of Elves. He had set off in the general direction Legolas had taken when he left the Company, not expecting a long jaunt; the eyot was not as large as all that and even distraught, the Elf knew better than to wander far from the camp. Minutes passed, however, and the red glow of the fire was left far behind him. Gimli's ears grew accustomed to the night noises and the dull tread of his boots upon the level ground. Beyond the steady rush of the River there was naught else to be heard, and there was no sign of Legolas.
It was an island! How far could the Elf have gone?
Far enough. It seemed Legolas found the threat of any unknown danger lurking in the darkness preferable to that of the Ring and risked the former to distance himself as far as he could from the latter. Gimli tried, but he could not fault the Elf for that. His own heart felt lighter the further he moved from the others.
From Frodo.
His heart was lighter, perhaps, but his conscience was heavy. It was with great bitterness that Gimli son of Glóin bore the guilt - if not the blame - for his behaviour over the past few days. A Dwarf should not have succumbed to the blasted whispering of Sauron's trinket! It rankled his pride. Yes, his Dwarven pride, a pride that rivalled Legolas's, he admitted, and he hated that it had been the Elf and Dwarf who proved to be the weakest of the Fellowship.
Why had it been so? Surely Legolas's race had long dealt with the wiles of the Dark Lord to recognize them and resist! It was an impossible task to drive anything into the mind of his stubborn Elven companion if he was unwilling to listen; Gimli could attest to that. He had argued with Legolas unsuccessfully for weeks on end during their interminable journey from Rivendell to the Redhorn that beards were anything but an unsightly inconvenience and a hindrance to a warrior upon a battlefield. (Legolas had abruptly dropped the matter after Gimli blithely suggested the Elf shear his long hair.) For all their faults, the Elves were not weak-willed. Legolas should not have been so lightly caught by the Ring. And while the mind of a Dwarf was said to be susceptible to the lure of gold, his own should not have been turned so easily by this particular, poisonous little golden trifle!
Gimli's thoughts looped fecklessly about in circles, but the path of his feet was straight and swift and unerring along the water's edge. Never did his gaze lift and linger long upon the hither shore. He did not consider the possibility that Legolas had crossed the River. The Elf would never have left them.
He wished, however, that Legolas could have had the consideration to stumble over a bit of driftwood now and then for the benefit of anyone daft enough to come out here looking for him! The Elf could be making no effort to move stealthily, but though Gimli kept his eyes trained for faint traces of Legolas's passage, there was nothing to be found. The fleet feet of an Elf in the dark could confound the most skilled of trackers and Gimli could hardly keep his eyes open. Still he trudged on, for he found himself sensing the Elf's path rather than seeing it and he was propelled by the surety of his heart if not the assurance of sight.
Gimli felt the wind off the water. He irritably tugged his grey cloak tighter about him. The Dwarf felt uneasily light, bereft as he was of armor and axe. Not often was he lacking either, and it was his habit when abroad to sleep encased in metal with his weapon near at hand. He felt awkward now without the familiar encumbrances and he rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as he walked, feeling the absence of the weight of his mail coat pulling him upwards, lifting him off his feet. A Dwarf without his armor was as peculiar as a dragon without scales and Gimli felt every bit as exposed and disgruntled. The floating sensation annoyed him. It plucked at his stride, giving him an unsteady feeling equal to a few strong pints hastily downed.
"Unsteady I must be to have followed him out here," muttered the Dwarf. "He is perfectly capable of caring for himself." Gimli shrugged and reached up to rub at his neck. "He is not likely to appreciate my company once I do find him. If I had any sense left to me whatsoever, I would turn back. No doubt he has already circled 'round and returned to the Fellowship, safe and sound. "
No doubt he has returned... He has returned, and lounges near the warmth of the fire with a disdainful smile upon his elvish lips... laughing at the thought of the simple-minded Dwarf running off into the night to find him. Would he fret at your absence? Would his heart be moved to seek you out here in the darkness? He would not bother... he cares not...
Gimli stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes narrowed. With a snarl, he thrust the shallow, petty thoughts from his mind. "Not mine!" he growled.
Whether it was the distance he had put between himself and Frodo, or whether the events of the night had served to fortify his will, he now recognized the hateful intrusion and he spurned it; it did not belong to him. He might have left his armour behind but his encompassing concern for his companion now proved his shield against such pitiful attempts to sway him and it was impenetrable. He was in no mood for the Ring's games. Gimli went so far as to sweep a hand about his head with a dismissive motion to ward off the nagging deceit, batting it away as if it were nothing more than a hovering insect.
The Moon had climbed higher into the sky. As thin as a nail paring, Tilion's light touched the water with but a muted glow. Still, the night was so clear and fine above him that Gimli could make out the dark orb of the Moon's completeness, the portion that was obscured in shadow.
A bright face marred by the black mark of a violent blow.
Gimli moved on, seeking the Elf's invisible path. He made a point of stepping firmly between the stones to leave deep, substantial prints of his own in the marl as he passed.
