Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

Wherever the Surge May Sweep

By Jame K.

Chapter Twenty-One: What We Are Made Of

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made of, such we be.
- William Shakespeare

The flavor of apples burst over his tongue and glided across the insides of his cheeks as he sloshed the juice around, trying to cover every part of his dusty mouth with the wetness. He closed his eyes – only to aware of the dark eyes watching him – and made a monumental effort to keep his hand from shaking.

"Do you know who I am?" the old man asked in a deep, booming voice that belied his age. He seemed to have grown taller, feeling the tent with the overpowering sense of his presence.

Estel cast his eyes to the ostentatious patterns of the ceiling and down to the plush, crimson pillow beneath one elbow. "No," he said at last, placing the glass of juice on the wide table and casting his eyes to the golden brazier and the low fire that sparked there. "Should I?"

The old man gave a closed mouth chuckle and lowered himself down across from the young man, settling his robes across the cushion. His wrinkled fingers stroked the staff though his gaze – wide, dark, and disconcerting – remained steady and biting on Estel. "I know Legolas and I knew your sire. Both were friends of mine once."

"But orcs run beside you now." Estel's mouth once was once again dry and he considered for a dreadful beat that the juice had been poisoned. His stomach rolled and he sagged against the cushions, a sudden sweat breaking just below his hairline. No, this man would not have gone to all the trouble to clean him up and bring him to this tent just to watch him to expire on the ground, choking on his own vomit.

"It was not poisoned," he said as if he knew the thoughts inside the young man's head. The old man drew closer, his long white hair swaying in the stillness of the tent. "And I promise you will not be harmed if an accord can be reached between us."

"What," Estel swallowed thickly, hands running nervously along the edges of his ragged tunic. "What accord? Who are you?"

The old man sighed as if the weights of a thousand fishermen had hooked onto his large nose. "I am Saruman, young man, the White wizard of Middle-earth."

Estel's hand jerked and the glass of juice tumbled to sticky the floor and cushions as he unconsciously retreated into his mind, seeking warmth and comfort from Legolas. "What?" he stammered at last, feeling dreadfully outmaneuvered.

The wizard sighed again, his mouth turning up slightly as he watched the young man's reaction. "It pains me to think Legolas has not spoken of me to you. I had imagined we were much better friends than that – or at least better enemies."

He has spoken of you, Estel wanted to say, when he thought I could not hear and then there was fear in his voice. But he kept tongue still and gripped the material tightly; the hardened pads of his fingers turning mottled red and white.

Saruman made a derogatory noise in the back of his throat and waved one hand in dismissal of the previous topic. "What do you know of the Ring you carry?"

Estel instinctively raised a hand to his chest to clutch at the Ring and Saruman laughed again. He could not let Saruman take the ring… he could not…

"You see," the wizard said, voice just above a whisper as he leaned near to Estel, breathing in his ear. "It speaks to you already – it calls to you. Can you not hear it, filling your mind with thoughts of its own?"

Estel furled his hand tighter about the bit of gold. The whispers in his mind grew louder, echoing about his head. He felt for a moment that he was in a long tunnel – voices swirling around him and the gold light of the ring at the other end.

Power… they murmured. Anything you want – anything at all.

With a great gasp that seemed to crack his ribs, Estel tore himself from the grip of the tunnel and faced the smirking wizard. "It calls," he acknowledged, realizing that denial was useless. "But," he lifted his chin, hand loosening from the Ring and falling to his lap. "I will not answer."

The wizard nodded as if he expected no other proclamation. "Now you will not. But you will – the whispers will work in your mind, turning every kind thought into hatred – warping love into lust – and trust into bitterness. Then you will give yourself to the power that awaits you. You will come to me."

Estel hissed low in the back of his mouth. "Never."

"Do not be so sure." The fire in the brazier dimmed, orange sparks sputtering. "It took your forefather only moments to fall under its spell – a hardened man late in years. And, you are just a youth."

His mouth moved and Estel's leg dropped from where it was curled beneath him to the floor. "What? What are you saying?"

"Oh, poor boy." Saruman's face seemed truly crestfallen for a moment and his hand left his staff to rest upon Estel's knee; the young fought the urge to jerk away. "Legolas has not told you the truth all of these years."

Estel shook his head and did jerk his knee away, huddling against the back of his chair. "Legolas has never lied to me."

"But, he has – he has lied to you about who you are."

"Legolas would not… lie." But the words lacked some of their previous conviction. Estel closed his eyes and drew inside of himself as his arms wrapped around his chest in a physical manifestation of his mental retreat. "He always tells me the truth – no matter what the costs to him or me."

"What do you know of your sire?" Saruman's voice was farther away and Estel opened his eyes to see the wizard standing next to the brazier, pouring wine into a yellow goblet set with gems. "Your mother? Has Legolas ever spoken of them to you? Ever told your about them?"

"No – but he has not lied…"

"Your father's name was Arathorn," the wizard said and the name meant nothing to Estel. "He was the son of Arador – son of Aragorn."

Estel listened to the names of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather impassively. He had never known them – there was no emotional connection to the names said in the wizard's deep, thick voice. There was a vague shattering of childish dreams – the young boy who had dreamed that Legolas was his father. The dreams had faded as Estel grew, realizing that there was no genetic link between him and the elf; yet the absolute confirmation of their invalidity still struck a chord deep inside of him and he felt like crying. "The names mean nothing," he said at last. "Legolas never disclosed the name of my sire so he never lied."

"But, you will interested to know," the wizard continued as he crossed the room to sit before Estel once again. He casually sipped from the glass, one hand resting on the top of the chair in an imitation of the regal fluidity of the elves. "That the lineage of Arathorn traces back to the king of the Isildur – making you the direct heir to the throne of Gondor and heir to that Ring you carry against your chest."

His face remained steady – not because he took the news with stoicism, but for a few brief moments, he did not understand the wizard's meaning. Then, his brow furled toward his nose and his lips turned downward. "Isildur," he said and then fell silent, lost in deep thought. Slowly, connections revealed themselves to him – puzzles became clear as mismatched pieces suddenly rearranged and fit together, revealing a picture frightening in its magnitude.

"You are the heir of Isildur," Saruman murmured and Estel could see the eagerness in his eyes – the blood lust that stole all natural affections and turned him into a deep monster. "The Ring is yours to wield. Your forefathers understood the power that could be theirs if they took the Ring unto themselves. The elves in their petty fear kept them from realizing the true power that could be yours. Think of it, Estel, you could be the sun and moon of Middle-earth – the rising and the setting, as you were intended to be since the beginning of time. You are destined to rule – and the Ring will lead you to that destiny, enable you to be the king over all."

Estel had dropped his head, chin touching his chest as he slowly took deep breaths through his nose and out of his mouth. His fists clenched and he seemed to tremble for a few moments before his body seemed to lose all animation save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then, "the ring needs to be destroyed. I will destroy it." His voice grew stronger, deepening in its intensity. "I will destroy the ring. I do not know how or – or where – but I will." He stood slowly, knees refusing to lock for several moments as he wavered in the dark, penetrating gaze of the wizard.

Saruman leaned back. "So be it," he said, fingers tenting in front of him.

"You are not going to kill me?" Estel's voice did not waver but his eyes clearly revealed that he had been expecting that end.

"No, of course not. Despite Legolas's negative view of me, I am not evil. I simply take the opportunities that are most beneficial to me." Saruman smiled.

Estel's eyes darkened suspiciously as he backpedaled. "I am taking the Ring. And Bilbo," he said a moment later. "I am not weak like my forefathers. I will destroy the Ring and its evil will never threaten Middle-earth again."

The condescending smile made Estel flinch. "Estel," the tall wizard said softly, "you will take the path of most benefit to you – that is not being weak. It is merely being wise. I promise you, when you and I stand together, we will rule Middle-earth. You will have power, prestige – anything and everything you want will be right at your fingertips. I will let you go now; but soon, the Ring will tell you of the folly of your ways and you will return to me – to rule by my side. Besides," he said, his tone growing almost derogatory as he waved a hand indifferently, "the Ring cannot be destroyed."

Estel's knees wavered but he took another step backwards. "It can and will be," he murmured almost to himself. "Legolas will teach me right – he will show me how to destroy the ring and I will rise where my forefathers did not."

Anger flashed across the wizard's face. "You fool! You can never hope to stand against your destiny – your blood has predestined you to take the power of the Ring! If you turn from that path and settle for the measly life of a ranger, you will always be unfulfilled and weak. With the Ring on your finger, you will be the greatest king Middle-earth has ever known.

"Elrond, Galadriel – all those elves that bear the wisdom of the Eldar fear you. They wished to kill you at birth for they fear that you would usurp their power. They told Legolas that they had walked the paths of your future – seeing you be the great ruler of Middle-earth – and they wished to murder you in your cradle so one day they could conquer this land. Legolas had made a promise to your sire to look after you so he stood against the plans for your death – but he swore that he would restrain you from your full potential. Even now he seeks to restrain you from the power that could be yours. He is stifling you, Estel."

Estel locked his knees. "No – you are wrong. Legolas loves me as if I were the child of his loins. He cares for me as if I were his firstborn son."

"Legolas fulfills a promise made to Arathorn – his dearest friend – on his death bed. Legolas is the honorable sort, is he not? Would he ever break his promise like that?" The wizard's face changed from irritation to kind benevolence. "Estel, please, I only seek to show you the truth. The Ring is yours – Legolas has vowed to keep you locked in unknowing depravity so that the elves can truly dominate. Do you understand? Legolas is your enemy."

Estel shook his head and breathed deeply. "No," he said, "you are wrong." A deep grimace carved over his mouth. "I will leave now and I will destroy the Ring – so if you wish to destroy me, do it now."

Saruman shook his head. "No, my son, you are free to go. Take the fastest horse and the body of the Halfling and go to the elves – but think of the power that could be yours. Just think – and if you ever change your mind – I will be there." Saruman waved his hand and turned to his drink.

Estel's shoulders sagged and he fled the tent. He realized with some modicum of relief – and another of surprise – that it was almost dawn. Blue white sky and a dim moon stretched from the cliffs to the golden plains. The dim light did not yet cause shadows – but left everything lighter, mistier with the edge of darkness about their features.

The outrageous heat had long since cooled leaving the temperature mild – the seaside during autumn.

True to Saruman's word, a horse was provided by a reluctant, snarling orc, who was obviously under strict orders to leave the young man in one piece as he handed the reins of the tall, worn beast to him. Otherwise, Estel knew he probably would be missing several fingers and other limbs not vital to life.

Bilbo lay in the dust, much how Estel had left him the night before. The blood had dried into dusty globules, sticking to the soft, thick curls. The lips were rimmed with a powdery blue and the cheeks were dusted with sepulchral white.

The ring had burned as Estel gently hefted the tiny creature against his chest, one hand falling to dangle like a misplaced toy. His face was serene and Estel found himself strangely taking strength from the quiet calmness in the dead features.

Death, he considered as he mounted the horse, body wrapped in a blanket before him, is much like sleeping. The words felt profound and they haunted him across the plains – even though he knew the phrase had been reduced to a mundane explanations suited for small children. But one never knows the true accuracy of a cliché until the situation rises before them.

When the horizon turned pink and the grass seemed to be spun gold in the hazy morning life, the vision of Legolas's face appeared in his mind – deathly and still after the attack of the Nazgúl.

Legolas would not have died… almost died… for a boy he did not believe in. The words convinced Estel momentarily but the Ring murmured.

The first subtle warpings of Estel's mind occurred deep within his subconscious – far away from the realm of conscious thought. A seed, an idea, planted deep within the hidden insecurities and the feelings of worthlessness – the fear and uncertainty given birth to Lothlorien the day the elves sought his life.

His hands were lax about the reins and the pace was unencumbered by an urge to get anywhere. The world, Estel felt in that moment, was a colorless flow of the river with no meaning or purpose; or if it did have one, he could not comprehend it.

On his chest, the Ring seemed to burn a cold circle through his chest, reaching through his lungs and creating an aching sensation that grew with each passing section. He gasped once, bending at the waist, hand clutching at his chest.

"I cannot do this," he murmured to the lightening horizon. "I cannot…"

Fear closed his throat, brimming his eyes with foggy clouds as his breathing increased. Dust swirled and clung to the edges of his throat and mouth, sticking in his nasal cavity. Oxygen grew thin as his hot blood fought to bring the life-giving substance to his brain.

He could not breathe, doubling forward at the waist with the body scrunched beneath him. The heated sweat of the horse's neck burned like a brand across his forehead. The horsey smell thickened in his nostrils as his pulse raced onwards, mouth wide open as he fought to bring in more oxygen.

His knuckles went clam white, veins bulging. And then, his breathing slowed, pulse easing its mad race. Finally, he was still, one – two tears clumping on his eyelashes and listing down his cheeks.

"I cannot do it," he cried, pushing his fist against his teeth. He bit the meaty flesh of his fingers and reveled in the pain – reveled in the distraction. A moment longer and he shoved the Ring deep beneath with his shirt, doing the fastenings up and steadfastly ignoring the bit of metal.

The searing freeze of the ring taunted him, whispered to him, and toyed with him. Warping tendrils stretched through the coils of Estel's mind, ingraining themselves deep within the subconscious.

Love to lust, the Ring murmured.

Trust to bitterness.

Unwavering courage swaying back and forth in the breeze created by uncertainty – and then falling like a tiny bird from a perch.

"Mae goevannan, Legolas," she murmured, coming up to stand beside him. "Your heart is heavy with fear for Estel."

"Arwen," he greeted quietly, eyes not moving from the panorama of hills and waterfalls. "No news has come from the Last Bridge and Elrond – they do not believe me – they wonder if it would not be better to leave him in the wilds to die. They fear him." He turned, eyes bruised – the eyes of a wounded deer as its youngling was taken from his side – as he pled with her to simply understand. "You have seen his soul, have you not? That day in Lothlorien – he spoke of your beauty and your kindness often in recent years. You have seen the goodness – the beauty that rests deep inside of him. You must have seen it."

She moved slowly, quietly, putting her arms about his waist and resting her head against the tense muscles of his back. "In every one of us, there is the capacity for great evil. Estel will find that evil in himself soon – and Middle-earth will hold his breath as he weathers the storms of conscience."

Legolas shuddered in her arms. "He will be strong and good. He will save Middle-earth and be the Hope – my hope."

She had sighed softly. "Yes, he will be hope." But she did not agree with the rest of his words and the silence stretched as her breath gently warmed the skin of his back. "Lórien has opened the paths of my life unto me. Within the year, I will go over the Sea, following the path of my mother."

He turned in her arms and laid his forehead against hers, fingers gently brushing aside the tears that he just now saw were trailing down her cheeks. "Arwen…"

Her gentle finger was laid against his lips. "No – do not speak yet; let me say it all before you reply. Estel will come to Rivendell shortly, bearing with him the harbingers of destiny. Soon his path will weave into the darkness and he will fall into the ways of his ancestors."

Reflexive denial made him stiffen but she calmed him.

"But the light will follow him. Events are occurring, Legolas, that will change Middle-earth forever. Do not lose heart, child of Greenwood, for although Estel may live in the dark for a time, the light will return to his soul." She paused, drawing herself back and Legolas saw her firm resolve. "Ilúvatar has spoken to my soul. Within two weeks, I will lay with Estel and I will conceive his child."

"Arwen…"

"It is not a hard thing – Lórien has shown me your child as he is now while I have wandered the paths of the future and he is very beautiful. There is no suffering in going to his bed – no pain in carrying his child within me."

"You are the Evenstar of the Elves, Arwen – your mate should be one of your own choosing – your child should be one you wish to bear, not a task laid upon you by the Valar."

"I have served Ilúvatar for the entirety of my life, Legolas, and their will has always been the steadfast desire of my own heart. The Valar have grown a love for Estel within me – he has my love and I will have his child."

Legolas closed his eyes, feeling the weight of destiny. He could not argue – he too had been guided by Ilúvatar and had loved Estel. "He is a good man and he will love you with all that he can."

She nodded. "That will be enough." She hesitated, hands pressing against her sides. "Our love will not be the love of Beren and Luthien."

He drew the sadness clinging to his spirit about him like a cloak. "In another lifetime – in a gentler world – it would have been. Your love would have surpassed theirs. But, these are not the days of gentle love. Too much – he cannot love you in the fullest measure. There is no time…"

"It is sufficient. We live in a time of war – of strife and hardship – where only those with a bulwark set about their heart survive. Our love is what it will be and nothing more than that."

"What of the Sea?" he asked then, voice weary with the press of life. "Will you leave him alone and take your child to the Undying Lands?"

"No – the child will remain here. Delivering his child to the world will be my last deed in Middle-earth – and, when the time comes, I believe it will be better if I go. In another time, I would have stayed with him, passing in the way of mortals, but not now." Her face had saddened and she had pulled away from Legolas's grasp, breathing in the air as if tears were about to come. "You will suffer, Legolas," she said, "for Estel, you will suffer beyond measure."

"I am prepared." Legolas tilted his head back and squared his shoulders, eyes sparking in defiance as his father's had. "I will face whatever is necessary to save him. He is Hope and I will not believe anything to the contrary."

She touched his forehead, pressing her fingers against the white skin in benediction. "You are stronger than most, Legolas Thranduilion. The weight that is set upon your shoulders would break someone of lesser quality."

"I will endure."

Glorfindel sat in silence beside the Last Bridge, hands draped loosely over his thighs. For three days he and the small contingent of warriors from Rivendell had waited – waited for word – for smoke rising on the distant line where rolling hills met sky – waited for a rider. But none came.

"We wait for Legolas," he had told himself when his own hope failed for any news. "We wait because he would fade without his Estel."

"Do you believe," Elrond had asked him once again, face shuttered and eyes solemn, as Glorfindel had prepared to ride out, "do you believe in the boy?"

Glorfindel had imagined the lanky, dark-haired youth he had met briefly in Lothlorien and had looked tragically to the west. "I believe in Legolas," he said at last in the quiet of the evening, "I believe he could not be wrong about something so vital."

"He could be blinded," Elrond had murmured to himself, gaze distant and inward. "He could be blinded by his own loves and desires – blinded by his desire for the child of his heart to succeed. Emotions do not always lend themselves to the rational."

"I trust him." Glorfindel had looked over the waterfalls and hanging vines. "He is a river beneath the ground – straight and quiet but full of life and knowledge. I do not believe he would allow himself to be swept aside by any new stream that runs across."

Elrond's smile had turned hard and he had blown a low sound through his lips. "So you defied me – to save him that day in Lothlorien."

"My loyalty is not imperatively yours, Lord Elrond. I choose to whom my loyalty is given. Legolas earned it – and while, my lord, I trust you implicitly – my affections swayed toward Legolas that day. And they will sway to him again whenever the need arises. I could not see him die for the lack of the child."

"But all of Middle-earth might fall into disrepair now," Elrond had said sharply, gaze driving through the Balrog-slayer's feelings. "Would you spare one elf only to watch the whole of Middle-earth tumble into ruin?"

"I do not believe it will come to that. And," Glorfindel had turned, face pointed, "I do not think you would so flippantly cast aside Legolas's feelings as easily as you would have us believe."

"That is… inconsequential." Elrond had left him then, eyes troubled and mouth lined with wrinkles.

And, now, Glorfindel sat beside the bridge, waiting for destiny to come to him on the back of a horse or on foot – healthy and whole or injured and dying. And he could not tell which it would be. The ache of days settled in the dust around him and the trepidation of tomorrow hung against the sun.

On the fourth day of his watch, when the others grew weary and even his heart wished to abandon this fruitless vigil, dust plumed in the distance. He stood and watched as a lone rider approached the bridge with slumped shoulders and a dirty face.

"Estel," he said, voice lined with the relief that he would not have to return to Legolas with empty hands, when the young man was only a few paces away and the horse was slowed to a halting walk. "We feared you lost."

"I am well," the young man said hoarsely with death written over every line and crevice of his grimy face. "I must go to Rivendell." The bundle he carried against his chest shifted limply with the wind and a few brown curls blew beneath the young man's whiskered chin.

"We will take you there." Glorfindel looked to the bundle, wondering. It was a Halfling – but how had one come to be in Estel's possession? The young man was so sober and a strange gleam lingered just beyond the candid emotions written over his face. "Do you have wounds or…?" He inclined his chin towards the hobbit's bundled form.

"He is dead. Killed by orcs three days ago on the plains." His dirty hand strayed over the blanket, patting what must have been the tiny creature's chest. The hoarse voice grated against Glorfindel's senses and he approached, offering a water skin.

"Drink your fill," he urged, "we will set out for Rivendell at first light." There was something wrong with the boy, he determined as the odd light flared briefly in the gray eyes. The once straight shoulders were now bent underneath an intangible burden. Glorfindel found himself helpless, not knowing how to help. But, he consoled himself, Legolas would set things to right.

"No – I must go to Rivendell now." Estel's voice was pained and for a moment it seemed as if he would plead; but, he held his tongue.

Glorfindel looked behind him at the calm, impassive faces of the elves and then back at the careworn young man. "Take some refreshment from our supplies and we will go to Rivendell."

Estel nodded, a relieved smile touching his lips but missing his eyes entirely and dying a prematurely as he seemed to dissolve to pathetic gratefulness. "Thank you."

To be continued.