A/N: Monday, like I promised. This was actually meant to be two chapters, the latter of which I would post on Wednesday, but I figured there was no point; they'd both be incredibly short. So here you are with a somewhat bigger chapter than the last. I actually rushed this chapter a little, because you would only be bored by it. It's basically the parts of the movie that I didn't need to, or want to, change, so yeah: the scenes are short and I skipped the unnecessary and very boring bits. After this, I guarantee it will become a little more interesting.
Disclaimer (I did say it was a habit): I've basically just quoted the movie here, except a few lines, so I don't want to be accused of plagiarism, and apparently reviewers are beginning to accuse FF authors of either that, or "lack of imagination". The characters, settings, horses were never mine anyway, they belong to Tolkien. Much of the lines and plot in this chapter belongs not to me, but to Peter Jackson, director of the movie.
Starcrossed
Musings of an Accursed Immortal
He watched as the three hunters gawked at him, their mouths gaping and eyes wide. Stifling a chuckle, he waited patiently as they attempted to recover from their shock.
"Gandalf?" The ranger was the first to recover, and even in his voice was the blatant disbelief detectable. The wizard smiled; their reactions were almost as bad Meriadoc and Peregrin's.
"Gandalf?" He tasted the name, rolling it around his mouth. "Yes… that was what they used to call me. Gandalf the grey, that was my name." He leant forward, fixing his wise eyes on them. "I am Gandalf the White, and I come to you now… at the turn of the tide."
"Forgive me," A softer voice spoke, and the wizard switched his gaze to the Prince of Mirkwood. "I mistook you for Saruman."
Gandalf resisted the urge to narrow his eyes: he'd never seen an elf so pale, and he'd seen a great many elves in his long life. In fact, it occurred to him that elves as pale as that were… dead. Greenleaf looked expectantly back up at him, and he only just managed to recover himself.
"I am Saruman," Something was wrong, "Or rather, Saruman as he should have been." very wrong. His elven glow was dimmed, and the young elf looked ready to empty his stomach at any given moment. And yet it seemed as if…
"But you fell." Gandalf looked back to the Dûnedan, the future king.
"Yes, through fire and water." He took a deep breath as the memory played out before him, yet still… "From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth…" The glow dimmed further. "Until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountain side…" And further. "Darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time…" And further. "The stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as a life age of the earth," Cobalt eyes were cast to the ground.
"But it was not the end." The eyes glanced back up. "I felt life in me again." Hope and relief were ignited. " I've been sent back until my task is done."
He met the prince's eyes, smiling kindly. Greenleaf Thranduillion smiled back, and the glow was renewed, but nevertheless, Gandalf noted with distain that the pallid skin remained.
"Come." Gandalf swept his hand in a sweeping motion. "Fetch your horses, we must move swiftly to Edoras."
"What of Merry and Pippin?" Aragorn enquired, following closely as he strode past the three.
"Worry not about the hobbits." Gandalf assured him. "They are in the safety of Treebeard; he will protect them."
At his side he saw Greenleaf glow further, releasing a relieved sigh. He frowned to himself, letting his mind wonder yet again. What ailed the Prince of Mirkwood? Or rather, what had?
The sun's rays hit them as they stepped out into the clearing, and for a moment he stopped to relish in it, before turning his attention to the plains. His grey eyes scanned the hills swiftly, and he let out a low, melodic whistle. The tinny sound echoed around them, bouncing from one grassy mound to another as the air rang clearly. For a short moment the four waited, the soft breeze tickling their hair as a strong whinny sounded from out of sight, and a magnificent stallion bounded into view.
The Istar heard their gasps as Shadowfax powered towards them, scaling the uneven grounds and scattered rocks as if they were nothing more than paths and pebbles. His rippling coat gleamed a perfect white in the sun's bathing light, and a gentle feeling of pride filled the wizard. This horse and he… they were one.
"That is one of the maeras." Greenleaf murmured beside him, his ageless face in an expression of awe. For a short second Gandalf saw the young elfling he'd known since the prince's birth; the same elfling he'd many a time sat on his knee and entertained with great stories; the same elfling he'd have in fits of giggles; the same elfling he'd comforted in the aftermath of the elvenqueen's death… "Unless my eyes are cheated by some spell."
But then the second passed, and Legolas Thranduillion was once again the seasoned warrior he'd become.
"Shadowfax." He turned his attention back to his brilliant steed as he spoke. "He is the lord of all horses, and has been my friend through many dangers."
Gimli adjusted his grip on the elf yet again, hoping dearly they would soon arrive at Edoras. The elf was skinny, too skinny for his liking. And yet the dwarf knew the deceptively slender frame was naught but a façade, hiding muscles and strength; Legolas was in no way skinny... So why did he fear holding too tightly in case of snapping the elf in half?
The subject of his concern glanced back at him, cocking an eyebrow, but received only a grunt in response. Mayhap the elf was unaware of his lack of fat? Gimli began grumbling to himself in dwarfish, ignoring the amused looks he received from elf, man, and Istar.
"Is something wrong, Mellon nîn?" Legolas enquired, keeping his gaze forward, as beneath them, Arod raced across the plains. Gimli made to shake his head, but realising the elf couldn't see him, instead made do with another, dismissive grunt. He could feel Legolas shaking with laughter, though the only sound was the roar of the wind. Cast your laughter to the wind.
The wind whipped about them, and their cloaks flew out behind like wings. Gimli snorted to himself, caring only about how could he was. With a deep breath, he forgot his fear and wrapped his arms tightly around the elf's waist, attempting to gain warmth by huddling into his back. A smirk appeared on Legolas' face, but Gimli ignored him. If he snaps, I shall have to tie the two pieces together.
It was not long before they set their tired eyes on a comforting sight: a village built on a hill bathed in gold. Huts and houses of strong wood and stone nestled into the hill's caress, settled as comfortably as they would on flat ground. Even from the distance Gandalf could see stable boys hurriedly tying horses to poles, and others lovingly grooming even more. And the most magnificent house of the village was set highest of all, with a wide, stone porch, and columns holding the area: the house of Théoden.
With speed, they neared the borders of Edoras, earning curious stares and gaping mouths from the guards as they rode past. They slowed at the first hut, making their way steadily upwards towards the dominant house of Théoden, as around them, villagers immediately halted their work, and bundled in groups to watch the three horses, some with trepidation; some with curiosity; some with excitement, and some with plain and disdainful apprehension. Most likely none of these people, however old, had ever seen an elf, or a dwarf, or even a wizard, though the wizard himself decided they were more weary of his staff then his garb. Many had most likely only heard old tales of their folk, and mysterious folk they were indeed told to be.
What a ranger was doing in their company also seemed to confuse them. Gandalf sighed grimly. He hoped dearly that their presence would not cause any misfortune, or that this apprehension they held would not escalate.
Finally, they came to a stop at the bottom of the grand, stone steps, and sliding from Shadowfax, the Istar whispered a few words into his ear, turning to the steps. Two men, ranked highly by the look of their garb, strode to meet them; Gandalf saw great hesitation in the two.
"I cannot allow you before Théoden king so armed, Gandalf Greyhame." One spoke, before hesitating slightly, and in his next words, Gandalf sensed disgust. "By order of Grima Wormtongue."
For a moment the wizard only gazed thoughtfully at the fire-haired man. Things had indeed become grim… it was as he feared. And yet, it would be best to comply with the orders. He turned to his three companions, nodding his assent. With a resigned sigh they complied. Greenleaf reluctantly handed over his bow, quiver and knives, Aragorn parted with his sword and knife, and Gimli with his axe. Gandalf smiled good-naturedly at the fiery-haired man as the warrior's sorrowfully handed over their weapons, and was mildly pleased to see him unnerved. He began to take a step forward, when the fiery-man once again halted him.
"Your staff…" He said, nodding towards it, and Gandalf instinctively tightened his curling grip, leaning exaggeratedly against it.
"Oh…" Gandalf chuckled lightly. "You would not part an old man from his walking stick?"
The man hesitated again, eyeing the staff with apprehension, but eventually relented with an inclination of his head, and moved to lead them inside. Gandalf smiled triumphantly, winking at a smirking Aragorn as he followed, threading his hand through Greenleaf's arm and walking slowly for extra measure. The Prince of Mirkwood was visibly attempting to stifle a smile, and teasingly patted the old wizard's hand. Gandalf resisted the urge to scold the elf, whilst examining the hall as behind them the halls slammed shut. There were not many in the great hall of Edoras, and those present were mainly soldiers, each and every one of them regarding the four with apprehension and fear.
"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late," The Istar remarked, halting in the middle of the hall. "Théoden King."
He watched with narrowed eyes as a man, with greased hair as black as night, and skin so gaunt it appeared beige in the half light, bent and whispered hastily into the king's ear. He suppressed a sigh at the sight of Théoden, a grey, old, mould a man, who seemed as though his years surpassed even the wizard's own, and whose frame sunk deep into the folds of him robes. He was almost lost inside of them.
"Why…should I… welcome you?" Théoden croaked, his voice raw and unused. "Gandalf Stormcrow." Lessened indeed.
"A just question, my liege. Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear." The greasy man drawled, slowly moving towards them. "'Lathspell' I name him. Ill news is an ill guest."
"Be silent." Gandalf snapped back fiercely. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I did not pass through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm."
He shook his staff threateningly, mildly pleased when the worm's eyes bulged and he cowered.
"His staff!" He exclaimed accusingly. "I told you to take the wizard's staff."
Soldiers surged forward to aid, only to be stopped by the three hunters; despite being without weapons, the three easily outmatched them.
"Théoden, son of Théngel." The Istar addressed the king powerfully. "Too long have you sat in the shadows."
To his side, Gimli Gloin's son had the worm on the floor, his boot planted firmly on his chest.
"I would stay still if I were you." The dwarf threatened.
"Harken to me!" Gandalf called, raising his staff and hand. "I release you from the spell..."
For a short moment there was silence, as men, elf and dwarf watched hopefully, scrutinizing the king for change. But none came. Théoden King let out a bark of laughter, leaning forward in his chair.
"You have no power here." He wheezed. "Gandalf the Grey."
Gandalf frowned deeply, but bowed his head shortly and threw off the worn grey cloak, revealing the gleaming white robes, glowing like a halo. He took a step forward, raising his staff and throwing the king back in his chair.
"I will draw you, Saruman." He growled, as Théoden writhed in his chair. "As poison is drawn from a wound."
"If I go," Théoden's croak had deepened into the rich hiss of Saruman himself. "Theoden dies."
"You did not kill me. You will not kill him!"
Théoden somehow fought the barrage of force, his eyes wild as he hissed ferociously.
"Rohan is mine!"
"Be gone!" The Istar bellowed.
The king fell back against his seat, his head bowed as utter silence ensued.
Never before had the Prince of Mirkwood seen such a spectacle, and he had seen many an unusual thing. In front of him the King of Rohan brandished his sword, threatening the same lowly advisor who'd poisoned his mind with lies and hate. Legolas stifled a smile; it pleased him somewhat to see the leech on the receiving end of his own crimes, especially after he had insulted Mithrandir.
"Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" Théoden King roared, raising his sword as Wormtongue cowered against the cobbles. But the killing blow never came, as the ranger was suddenly there, restraining Théoden.
"No, my lord." He stopped Théoden. "Enough blood has been spilt on his account."
For a moment, the murderous glint in the king's eye lingered, but the sense of Aragorn's words was empowering, and he finally relented. Legolas almost rolled his eyes when the ranger stretched out a hand to aid the worm. He will only spit on your hand, Estel, he thought, and gave a small un-elf like snort when the worm did just that, receiving a curious glance from the woman, Éowyn. He felt the softest of blushed begin to creep to his cheeks, but quickly turned back to watch as the worm fled from Edoras. The king stood, his gaze fixed on Wormtongue's retreating back, and it was a long moment before he finally turned back to them.
"Where is my son?" He asked quietly, and all faces fell in unison
* * * * * *
Elves were immortal. Elves were immune to the ravages of time. Elves needn't feel sorrow, and yet Legolas was already well accustomed to funerals. He was quick to find that though the traditions of men differed to those of the elves, they were identical in everything else. The grieving family; the weeping audience; the mournful singer dressed all in white; the pale, white corpse adorned with flowers…
It was the same old affair, repeated many times every day, whatever the race, whatever the cause, whoever the person. Peasant, soldier, knight, king, queen, prince…
He wondered it would be like; to be audience to your own funeral; to hear your own death song; to speculate the type of flower chosen to decorate your hair; to see your own family crying, sobbing; to see your own body, pale, still and lifeless, lying on a slab of rock…
He shuddered. He detested the though of being lain on a slab of rock. What person would want to spend the rest of eternity on something as cold and hard as rock? If one was at peace, shouldn't one be comfortable?
He sighed, looking sorrowfully on as Prince Théodred was borne slowly down the steps, to his tomb of rest, and to where Éowyn, sister daughter of the king, sang.
Who would sing at his funeral? Perhaps Lelani would. As an elfling, he had depended greatly on her; she had been his maid, and after the death of the Elvenqueen, a sort of surrogate mother to him- or close enough. It was only fitting that it would be her crooning down to his cold body; she'd sung him to sleep many a time.
And the flowers? They would most likely be Elfirin: his well-known favorite. It comforted him to imagine their colourful bells decorating his tomb, like an ever-changing rainbow, soft and gentle in the breeze. They would be a magnificent decorator, and it would be ironic for the body of an elf to be adorned with the immortal flower.
And who would be there to weep for him? He hoped it would be all he loved, for that would mean they still lived. His father, Lelani, Aragorn, Gimli, Mithrandir, the hobbits, Arwen, and… but no, that person was already long gone; he wouldn't sob at the Prince of Mirkwood's funeral. Oh Boromir…
The song of mourning resumed, the sobs died, the Prince of Rohan was forever sealed in his tomb, on his slab, with his decorating blossom.
* * * * * *
So young… is their mother even alive? Legolas thought bitterly as he leant back against the column, his arms crossed. The King of Rohan sat slumped in his chair, the grief of his loss still heavy as he thought. He had barely a chance to mourn…
The two children, a young girl and an older boy, ate hungrily at a table, doted upon by Éowyn as she tried to calm the girl and her panicked questions. She cannot be much more than six…
"I know what it is that you want of me, but I will not bring further death to my people." Théoden stood and began to pace the hall restlessly. "I will not risk open war."
"Open war is upon you," Aragorn sat at Legolas' elbow, a pipe posed near his mouth as he spoke up. "whether you would risk it or not."
Théoden stopped and turned, his eyes narrowing as they settled on the ranger.
"When last I looked," He said heavily. "Théoden, not Aragorn, was king of Rohan."
Aragorn lowered his pipe, inclining his head as Théoden once again turned away. The elf glanced down at his friend, raising his eyebrows enquiringly as their eyes met, but the ranger simply shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, lightly knocking the elf's elbow with his arm.
"Then what is the king's decision?" Gandalf enquired apprehensively, his face passive as he took a striding step closer to Théoden.
Théoden sighed heavily, his eyes travelling to the floor as his shoulders slumped.
"…We go to Helm's Deep." Was his decision, and for a moment, nobody spoke.
It was the wizard who finally made the first move.
"So be it." Gandalf muttered, sweeping out of the hall. Legolas took his weapons as he, Aragorn and Gimli followed hastily, finding that the wizard had waited outside.
"There is no way out of that ravine, Théoden is walking into a trap." He told them angrily, beginning again to stride off with them following. "Éomer is our only hope now."
They flitted down the stairs, stepping fast to keep with the wizard's quickened gait, and moved straight towards the stables.
"Three hundred lives of men I have walked this earth," He resumed ranting. "and now I have no time."
Legolas was quickly able to match the wizard's strides, but lingered even so, wishing not to dampen the spirit of the short-legged dwarf. Gandalf stopped abruptly at the stables' open doors, frowning deeply.
"And now Shadowfax seems to have disappeared…" He murmured, and the ranger smiled.
"Have no worry, Gandalf," He reassured the Istar. "I shall fetch him for you."
He cast a glance in the elf's direction, but seemed to think twice and instead dragged Gimli, protesting, off with him. For a moment there was utter silence, and Legolas began to feel foolish. After all, he stood there holding his weapons in his arms, gazing at the dirt in awkward silence. However, the wizard finally spared him by speaking.
"Legolas," He began quietly, and in his eyes there was remorse. "will you confide in me what ails you?"
Legolas froze, his heart skipping several beats as his mouth opened and closed, at loss of words.
"Do not try to fool me, Greenleaf. I have known you for far too long."
Legolas hesitated, casting his blue eyes to the floor.
"'tis nothing, Gandalf." He paused, and glanced up to see Gandalf gazing at him with such intensity that he backtracked. "There is just… a little poison remaining… from Moria."
At this, Gandalf looked aghast.
"Poison? Moria? But that was long ago!" Gandalf exclaimed in hushed tones. "Had Lady Galadriel not treated you?"
"She had." Legolas replied, rummaging through his mind for a firm lie. "'tis merely nothing now. I had been warned there would be a little excess… it merely requires time to… exit." Requires time to exit? Foolish elf!
But if the wizard had anything else to say, it was bitten back as Aragorn reappeared with Gimli, guiding Shadowfax with a hand. Gandalf nodded his thanks, leaping easily up onto Shadowfax' back, and sending Legolas' a fleeting look.
"Look to my coming on the first light of the first day." He told them, as Shadowfax whinnied. "At dawn look to the east."
Shadowfax reared, and with that Gandalf was gone, in the search of hope.
-
Boring chapter, the next one is spicier, don't worry. Till next time...