Chapter 18: The Vengeance of Mortality
Crack.
Aragorn turned his head ever so slightly to attune his hearing to the direction of the sound and slowly drew his knife from the sheath. The soft sound of steel being drawn was deafening in the small clearing. He took a step backwards, carefully choosing his footing and noting the way the earth sloped downwards into a different clearing to his left. Bodies of dead orcs littered the ground in the other clearing. The ranger carefully placed his back against a tree, pulling his sword from its sheath ever so slightly to make sure that nothing obstructed the path of the blade. His fingers danced lightly upon the blade he was already holding, his body taut and ready to spring into immediate action.
Screams in the distance...
Aragorn shook his head and attempted to clear his mind. What's wrong with me?
Snap!
Aragorn turned his head sharply. The sound had now come from a completely different direction. He smiled grimly and mirthlessly. Who is the predator and who is the prey?
The silence grew deafening in his ears. Then, a sudden crash jolted the ranger into action. He threw his blade ruthlessly into the body of his stalker: the Uruk-hai who had murdered Boromir. They both fell to the ground, a chaotic battle of glinting silver blades touched with crimson.
How many lives had these weapons taken?
Aragorn didn't have the time to process the question that had surfaced in his mind. He gasped for breath as his body was thrown ruthlessly against a tree, his neck caught by a shield. Death came with erubescent fury and cold steel, swiftly gliding through the air. Desperately, the ranger jerked his head from the shield. Pain overcame his senses as the shield rammed into his already bloody face. For a moment, his thoughts were disconnected as he realized he had escaped death yet again, but not for long. Again, the Uruk-hai came towards him, swinging his blade. A small dagger shrieked through the air and, with reflexes built from long years of experience, Aragorn parried the knife with his own sword.
The dead twigs underneath his feet crunched like bones, and blood was quickly joining the parched wood--Aragorn had sliced the arm off the Uruk-hai. Now, in one final weary, desperate stroke (where was Legolas now?), the ranger swung his sword, covered with black and red blood, across the Uruk-hai's neck, severing the head from the body. The Uruk fell with a heavy thud, snapping more of the bone-like twigs with his dead weight.
Aragorn stumbled over to where Boromir lay dying. Already, the Gondorian man's face was alabaster, his normally ruddy complexion as fair as an elf's. He took in short, shuddering gasps of air and suddenly Aragorn was transported back to Moria, where he had been forced to watch Legolas die. The same emotions, the same raw pain suddenly rushed over him. More death, more pain... does it never end?
A tear slid unexpectedly down Aragorn's face, mingling with his sweat and blood. He hardly noticed it as Boromir struggled to speak.
"It was my fate to end in darkness..."
Legolas' words unexpectedly rose in the ranger's mind again. He shook his head vigorously, clasping Boromir's hands with his own, his vision obscured by tears. He forced himself to watch as his companion took one last slow, shuddering breath, and then laid still. The clearing was silent and Aragorn was left alone.
T.A. 2879, Mirkwood
The dimly lit corridor was silent, save for the soft rustling of chains, the gentle crackling of the torches, and the slow quiet breathing of those who knew they were doomed to die. If there were leaks in the harsh stone passageways, the steady drip, drip, drip of water would echo across the silence, a soft but unrelenting rhythm. Still, the deafening, unforgiving crack of thunder permeated the walls of the wood-elves and reverberated across the labyrinthine passageways.
Suddenly, another light descended from the stairwell, a flickering light: another torch. The softly glimmering, silver-blue eyes of the prince shone out from behind the torch. Long golden hair shone in the small amount of light. Suddenly the torch clattered to the floor not far from a where another body lay, in front of a set of bars. Behind the bars was blackness, a void without any light.
"Sidhion!"
Legolas fell to the ground beside the body, and his hands immediately flew to the pulse on the neck, then on the wrist. Nothing. He pulled the younger guard towards himself, prepared to give breath to his friend. He pulled his hands out from underneath the body and was about to steady himself when he saw his fingers, each and every one dripping with blood. That was when he finally noticed the blood pooling underneath the elf, still dripping from a vein on his neck. In the darkness , the blood around the smaller elf's neck had looked like mere shadows from the fire. The young prince jerked back in horror, jarring his shoulders against the cold bars behind him.
"Don't bother, princeling. He's dead."
The voice came from within the void of the cell. Now a face came to join the previously disembodied voice. Another ear-splitting crack of thunder rumbled through the room. Legolas resisted the urge to jump. He turned to roll away from the bars, out of the reach of the prisoner, but a large hand clamped itself on his shoulder. Legolas' voice came out in a hoarse whisper.
"You murdered him."
The prisoner laughed softly. "Aye, your highness." He pulled out a small blade, stained with blood, and twirled it in his hands. "He thought I couldn't overpower him, he thought he could control me, because he was an elf and I was a human! NO!" The last word was yelled angrily in Legolas' sensitive ears. When the man continued, his voice was deceptively soft, as though trying to restrain himself. "Now we shall see who is the stronger race, elf. We, the pitiful mortals, the helpless humans, we are tired of your race thinking it is superior, thinking you are better than us! Not anymore, princeling…"
The man pulled him backwards and rammed the prince's head against the bars. He turned his head and whispered against the prince's ear, "Now, we shall be even, prince of elves, now…"
Legolas shuddered as he felt the man's coarse face scratch against the tip of his ear, the man's warm breath entering his mind… "I do this for all of mankind, Prince. I'm sure you understand, being royalty and all that; besides, I taught you well. You have learned of the "one life for many" concept, have you not, my student? Now, we shall see whose race comes out on top."
Then, the young archer felt a cold, sharp pain shoot down his back. A knife clattered to the ground behind Legolas, but he heard nothing but the dull roar of death, or was it thunder, echoing in his ears. He felt himself drop to the ground, the steady drip of his blood filling his eardrums, to join the cacophony of death and thunder in the night. He felt cold, so cold… Then everything disappeared and Legolas surrendered to the darkness that hovered before his eyes, begging entrance to his soul.
Legolas jerked up, sucking in deep gasps of air as he became aware of his surroundings. The expansive plains of Rohan surrounded him and the light of dawn was just beginning to touch the sky; a bloody red sun rising in the horizon. He turned his head, and suddenly caught Aragorn staring at him impassively. The prince turned his gaze aside, not willing to have a stare contest with the man who he had once called his brother.
At least the dream was not of me killing Estel again, thought Legolas, briefly. Still, the memory hung at the back of his mind ominously.
He turned and shook Gimli awake. The dwarf awoke with a snort and a grumble as he rattled his head in an insane attempt to wake himself. Legolas smiled faintly and began to take care of his bed roll and items.
In a matter of minutes, the small company was already on its way towards their destination: the hobbits. Legolas led the way, barely conscious of his own actions. The elf had, for all points and purposes, fallen asleep as he ran--as elves were wont to do. On auto-pilot, his body pushed itself to stay in rhythm with his companions as his mind had wandered past thought.
It was never meant to come to this…
flashback
The crash echoed through the forsaken home of the wood-elves. When the door slammed on its hinges, the elven king had expected anything but this; anyone but him. Against his will, tears blurred his azure eyes and fell in swift rivulets down his face. His hand clenched the hilt at his belt; his back was straight and his jaw rigid as he stared ahead. A limp body was being held by a guard, and two more flanked the warrior. The elf who was obviously in charge, the one holding the corpse-like being, stepped forward. He placed the body at Thranduil's feet and stepped back.
"He was found in the dungeons, majesty. We assume he was on guard duty when the man we detained, somehow… found a way to restrain the prince long enough to stab him. Sidhion is already dead at the man's hand. The prince is alive, but barely. Healers have already been sent for. A missive has also been sent to the Lord of Imladris by our head healer when told of the injury. We have secured the prisoner's cell with warriors."
There was a short pause. Then, Thranduil nodded his head as a dismissal. The three warriors bowed in unison before turning and leaving the dimly lit hall.
Thranduil now knelt down to hold his son; the tears flowed freely now. The young stoic elf Thranduil had been had never wept for his father; now, older and infinitely more weary, the last elven king of middle-earth did grieve for his son. Even if Legolas could be coaxed back to the living world, Thranduil was not so sure that his youngest son would choose to stay there.
The king held his son close to him as the best healers in Mirkwood were being summoned. Thranduil wept for his child, his broad shoulders shaking with held-back sobs. His hand was carefully positioned across the long, jagged, bloody wound going straight down Legolas' back, in order to stem the flow of blood as much as possible.
For the second time that night, another crash resounded throughout the hall. A drenched elf stood silhouetted in the center, still clutching his sword. Thranduil raised his gaze and spoke one word.
"Ithilden."
The eldest prince started, knowing instinctively that something had happened. This confirmed it; his father never addressed him as Ithilden, unless in ceremony. Now as he stared at the form lying in his father's arms, he moved jerkily forward, his usual grace absent.
"No."
end flashback
Legolas stumbled, the half dream, half memory cutting across his mind jaggedly and causing him to jerk harshly back to a conscious state. Though the sun was steadily raising in the sky, the elven prince felt trapped in the blazing disc—caught in a torrent of emotions and memories that he had thought himself long past. Why had they suddenly come back to haunt him?
A loud crash sounded behind him and he jerked, startled from the coinciding of this crash so soon after his memory. For a moment, he was jolted in his past, lying feverish in his father's arms, wishing he could speak, wishing he could breathe… feeling the night surround him, cold and dark… Then, the sunlight glared down on him, reminding him of where he was. He turned, just in time to see the cause of the noise: Gimli. The dwarf had just rolled down a hill, ending in a tumultuous cacophony of chain mail, steely weapons and rock. A slight smile touched the edge of Legolas' lips.
"Come, Gimli!" he said, his words slightly mocking.
The dwarf did not fail to notice the debauchery of his fall: a result of trying to catch up—the sardonic undertone of the dry words was the only evidence of Legolas' teasing. He grinned slightly, glad to see that his friend's humour had not completely disappeared. He would gladly stumble down a different hill if it meant that Legolas would smile again . He took a step, wincing. On second thought, maybe the elf would have to find some different entertainment.
Dwarven pride took over and Gimli quickly rejoined the race to find the hobbits. Still, as Legolas' smile quickly disappeared, Gimli could not help adding, "We dwarves are very dangerous in short distances!"
Was that a slight twinge of amusement tugging at the archer's lips?
The dwarf continued steadily on, ignoring the gasps of air he was forced to take, the hot, dead air that threatened to suffocate him; slightly ironic since in the Rohan plains, all Gimli could see was grass, grass… and air. Logically, Gimli figured that there should be more air here, as opposed to this seemingly, frustrating lack of air! His footsteps thudded on the earth and his weapons rattled against his chain mail. Grimly, the dwarf set himself to the task of keeping up with his much lighter and less equipped companions.
The sun steadily beat down on their backs.
At last, the three found an end to the expansive plains—a downward slope into more endless plains. Legolas leapt atop a solid, large boulder. Using his keen, elven eyesight, he searched the landscape for the Halflings. From behind him, he heard Aragorn call out in an impersonal voice.
"Legolas! What do your elven eyes see?"
At last, the prince saw them; two hobbits in a large company of orcs. He followed their path and scouted ahead, checking to see where they were headed.
"I see the Halflings and the orcs… they are heading across the eastern plains…" The elf paused and then continued in a somewhat strangled voice: "They are taking the hobbits to Isengard."
Legolas stepped down from the rock, his gaze everywhere but on Aragorn. The ranger stared hard at his friend, willing the archer to return the eye contact. No such luck. Legolas' shoulders had gone rigid and his jaw was clearly clenched. Somewhere in his mind, Aragorn connected Legolas and his father together. Yet the pain that swirled in the elf's eyes was entirely his own. All Aragorn wanted to do now was take back what he had told Legolas in forest and comfort him.
Almost as if Legolas had heard his thoughts, the elf turned sideways, hiding his face with his hair and staring stonily across the sky. Frustrated, Aragorn gritted his teeth together as he spoke. "We continue then. Isengard." Forgive me, mellon-nín.
"Isengard?"
Gimli had at last arrived.
"The Halflings are being taken to Isengard. We follow their trail; if we continue without rest, we can catch up."
Legolas turned back to Aragorn, his face once again impassive. Suddenly, a tremble in the ground shook Legolas' stony mask. He turned once again towards the eastern plains, and then across all of the plains. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
"Legolas, man cenich?" Aragorn unconsciously slipped back into elvish. But though Legolas did not deride him for it by not answering, he responded in the Common Tongue, as though to remind the ranger that he, Legolas, was walking death.
"Men." He paused. "They fly on horses with the flag of Edoras and their hair is flaxen; there are many."
The last, unnecessary comment echoed in Aragorn's mind and it took the ranger a moment to remember why it reverberated so coldly in his memory. Then, it hit him. When Legolas had been young, his human tutor had betrayed him, Legolas, and his family. The human had been detained in the dungeons but, on Legolas' guard, a young warrior had been found dead. The prince had gone forward to help him and was stabbed by the tutor, a prisoner of the cell behind him. Even after many long years of friendship, Legolas refused to speak of all that happened down in that dungeon, so many years ago.
Upon first meeting Aragorn, the wood-elf had been extremely distrustful, going so far as to be purposefully aloof and discourteous so as to warn away the young ranger—Legolas' way of protecting himself. After realizing Legolas wasn't uncouth to everyone just because he felt he could, Aragorn had vowed to become this elf's friend and show him that there was good in places that Legolas no longer felt the desire to look.
Now, just after being hit with the realization that they would have to confront Saruman, his other evil, Legolas was being confronted with the other demons of his past: being surrounded by men. Aragorn had thought the prince beyond his angeraround men, but it seemed that his past would give Legolas no leave.
Even Aragorn and Gimli could feel the tremors on the ground now. Aragorn could see the colours of the flag, waving in the wind. As the company huddled behind a particularly large boulder, clutching their elven-made cloaks around them, the great company of men flew past them, the sound of the stampede almost deafening. The sound was reminiscent of constant, unrelenting thunder. Legolas shuddered.
The ranger studied the group as they passed, trying to determine whether they could be trusted or not: he had heard whispers of betrayal in the court of Meduseld. Gripping his sword and praying he made the right decision, Aragorn stepped out into the open field as the last rider passed, before calling, "Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?"
And just as suddenly as the leader of the horsemen was becoming a speck in the distance, he was leading the group around. Within a matter of seconds, the three companions were surrounded. Aragorn moved his back slightly; a pike had been pointed uncomfortably close to his shoulder blade. He turned to ensure that Legolas and Gimli were well.
The dwarf stood barely high enough to stare the horses in the eyes, let alone the spears. His gaze was defiant and impetuous. Legolas stood still, as though oblivious to the sharp spears that pressed in on him on all sides and the curious gazes that were thrown his way. His jaw was fixed and unmoving as well. Already, Aragorn recognized the aloof and dangerous posture that had taken over his friend: the same one that Aragorn had been presented with for months after first meeting the elven prince.
"What brings you to these lands, strangers?"
For a moment, none of the three answered, all suddenly wondering how they would even put their strange quest. Aragorn shook his head as a strange conversation suddenly appeared in his mind. "Howdy, well, you see, we're not actually trespassing or anything, because, well, I'm actually King of Gondor--so basically king of men. Anyway, we're here because some hobbit friends got captured back near Lothlorien--she's going to be my grandmother-in-law, by the way--and, well, we hope to kill the Orcs that captured them because they probably think that one of them has the One Ring. Actually, Frodo has that, so no worries really..."
The ranger almost smiled, in spite of himself and the circumstances. The look on Legolas' face, however, shook all mirth in the situation. The leader was now staring intently at Legolas, and once again directed the question: this time to the elf, alone. Something flashed across Legolas' eyes, too quickly for Aragorn to decipher.
Then, Legolas spoke.
Gimli raised his eyebrows.
Aragorn swore softly underneath his breath.