A/N: Woot, my hand's much better! Thanks for the well wishes :) I slapped myself the other day when I realised I forgot a very important message in my last two or three notes... I love you, faithful reviewers! I'm sure a lot of people have already lost interest in the story due to my inablility to post a chapter a week, but I'll keep trying. I've got a maths test on Monday then I'm scot free until November! YAY! Watched the Fellowship of the Ring again the other day, and despite the fact that I've literally seen it about 27 times, Boromir's death scene STILL has me close to tears. Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen are both amazing actors. Oh, the chapter after this is going to be SO much fun to write! :D Read on...
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Starcrossed
We Shall Have Peace
He was back at Amon Hen. And he could see. He could see the leaves upon the floor, the green of the trees, the white froth of the river Anduin before him as the bellow of Rauros filled the air. But why was he here? What importance had this dream, this vision? He took in a deep breath, sucking in the fresh air as his eyes fluttered closed, palms facing the river. He pushed aside his confusion to relish in the beauty, allowing nature to still his fears. His breathing slowed. He was calmed.
"Always a lover of nature, indeed, Master Elf?" A deep voice broke his peace.
Startled, the elf whirled around, eyes wide and crouched in a defensive stand as the leaves whipped in protest at his feet. The speaker simply smirked at him, his fair and handsome face grinning as stormy grey eyes glinted amusedly at him. He stood leaning nonchalantly against a gnarled tree trunk, forearms void of the rich patterned vambraces that had once adorned them, his bare hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his side.
He was a ghost, surely. Legolas knew this was not real; this was a dream. He knew fully well that the man was dead, and the figure before him now was just a vision, a figment of his imagination. He'd shed tears for this man, held remorse for his death. But he'd also laughed with this man, watched as he played with the halflings, and witnessed his fierce loyalty to any who gained it. That was enough for him to want to believe.
He didn't care if he wasn't real.
Just the sight of him had Legolas starting happily towards him, a delighted laugh springing with ease from his mouth and arms half-open to embrace him.
No, he didn't care if he wasn't real.
But that was until he looked further than he saw.
He saw skin deathly white, as if all blood had long ago fled. He saw a sickly paleness, furthered all the more by a dark smudge or two on the speaker's brow. And he saw three arrow shafts, ugly and black, protruding grotesquely like beastly leeches from his broad chest. Legolas froze in his place, eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.
"What's the matter, Legolas? You will not embrace an old friend?" Boromir enquired, grin widening.
.
Legolas woke with a start, chest heaving and shoulders shuddering as the others slept on. The dark of night gave a much appreciated and welcome opportunity for him to temporarily regain his sight, with the sun long gone and only the light of the moon to inconvenience him, even then it bothered him little as he slipped off the protective cloth from around his eyes. Aragorn sat a little way off, the spiralling smoke of his pipe rising silhouetted against the dim light of the moon as he looked over at the elf.
"What is the matter, mellon nîn?" The ranger enquired quietly, frowning as he shifted to face him.
"It is nothing." Legolas shook his head, blinking at his friend, "A dream, 'tis all."
Aragorn nodded, but his frown didn't fade in the slightest as he stood and walked over to Legolas, sitting down beside him.
"Is there something you are not telling me, Legolas?" He enquired softly, "I feel that you are distressed, but are too stubborn to speak."
Legolas simply sat up, watching his breath fog in front of him by the cold wind, before looking around at the other figures, all of them in the midst of peaceful and deep sleep. Gimli was snoring as per usual, whilst Théoden King slept near his sister-son, lying on his back as Éomer slept on his side, facing Théoden as if he'd at one point been watching his uncle. Both Haldir and Gandalf slept with wide eyes, looking almost dead under the moon if not for the telltale fog of their breath. Legolas rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before sighing and looking back at his friend.
"It is nothing, mellon nîn." He repeated softly, smiling reassuringly at Aragorn, "Dream will do me no harm. Allow me to relieve you of watch; I shall like to recollect my thoughts a while."
Aragorn studied him for a short while, seemingly assessing his options, before giving into the weight of his eyelids and nodding. Settling onto his bedroll and drawing up his blanket, Aragorn fell fast asleep, leaving the elf with his thoughts.
Legolas sat at watch the whole night, waking neither Éomer nor Gandalf for their shifts.
He knew fully well that sleep would not come to him for a long while.
The King's golden hair flew in the wind as they rode, all seven warriors regal and silent atop their horses as the sun slowly faded into the landscape, turning the lands around them a burn orange colour that almost gave the deadened grass an appearance of fire. On Théoden's right was Éomer: his sister-son and heir now that his own son had passed. Nevertheless, Théoden's raising of his sister's children from a tender age had brought them close. He'd loved his sister dearly, so much so that the grief of her passing almost consumed him had it not been for Éomer and Éowyn; he cared sincerely for them, they may as well have been his own children.
But when Théoden looked back at the recent past, he was angered. Angered by Grima's wicked tongue, angered by the bad-comings of the age, but most of all he was angry, that in his state of delirium, he'd neglected them… Even banished Éomer! His disbelief was only countered by the pride he held, that his sister-son -despite Théoden's wrong doings- had come back to him, to fight for his home. The gift of courage and duty was a great thing indeed, especially as Éomer would be the next King of Rohan.
In fact, Aragorn- a lone ranger- would never have struck him as rightful royalty if not for his abundant qualities of courage and duty. The man- older than him, imagine!- held his head high with bravery. Though, there were fleeting moments when it was plain to see the burden he carried. Not just of his duty to the creatures of Middle-earth, but of things and event already past, as if ghosts rode on his shoulders and Aragorn couldn't shake them off- or perhaps, didn't want to. As if the ranger would rather remember than forget, as if their spirits kept him company, gave him strength, gave him the will to carry on- a reason to fight. Théoden knew that if his sister-son were even as half as noble as Aragorn, he would be a fine king, indeed.
And his followers… well, his allies would total to a great number if his friends were as varied as those who rode alongside them now: a wizard, a dwarf, and two elves. He would never have to fear a thing if his allies were as committed as these, each holding a love for the ranger as strong as the force holding them to the very ground they walked on. Any waiver of dedication, and Théoden wondered whether they might all float off into the sky…
Wearily, he sighed, smiling discreetly to himself as the riders reached a tittering halt and Isengard came into full view, the tall and once imposing tower now weak and childish next to the giants of the forest. His smile widened as they rode nearer, and the full extent of damage- and humility- became clearer. Isengard was flooded- flooded!- with the tree-herders trudging about the place as if it was their own, which, in fact, it now was. The King of Rohan found himself wondering whether Saruman could swim, and contemplating how long a wizard could be submerged in the aquatic conditions before drowning. The thought was a most pleasing one.
"Welcome, my lords!" A loud and happy call came as they emerged from the trees, and Théoden blinked away his amazement at the sight of two children- or rather, two small people- sat and stood atop the broken wall, "To Isengard!"
These must be the Hobbits, Théoden thought to himself, as the one who'd called out to them grinned happily while the other sat on the wall with a pipe in hand, giggling.
"You young rascals," Gimli growled from behind Legolas, "A merry hunt you'd led us on, and now we find you… feasting and…and smoking!"
His half-hearted reprimand only led to more laughter, and the one with the pipe now spoke up.
"We are sitting on a field of victory, enjoying a few well earned comforts." He told them with glee, before lifting his pipe slightly and raising a small eyebrow, "The salted pork is particularly good."
Gandalf, seemingly accustomed to such behaviour, simply rolled his eyes as the dwarf closed his mouth, just short of drooling. Both Hobbits giggled again, but both also seemed to sober as their gaze drifted to Legolas and his covered eyes, their eyebrows drooping and smiles fading a little. The one with the pipe seemed to look over at the other, who recovered with a small, awkward cough and continued.
"We're under orders from Treebeard," He said, vaguely flapping a lazy hand to a direction behind him, "Who's taking over management of Isengard."
"Very neatly done, Meriadoc." Gandalf told him with a smile, "Very neatly done, indeed."
The hobbits beamed at the compliment as the riders rode forward, before they dropped down from the wall, with the pipe-smoker (Pippin, as Aragorn had whispered across to him) clambering up to sit behind Aragorn, and the other (Merry) behind Éomer. Both Hobbits, it seemed, were not to be judged, with everyone treating them as the tallest of warriors despite their small statures.
However, Théoden saw that, though both had seemed excited and talkative at first, both also glanced frequently at Legolas. As part of the fellowship of the one ring, Théoden knew the two hobbits had most likely been exposed to death and injuries, yet the young Pippin had all the innocence and curiosity of, indeed, children as his troubled gaze landed on the elf.
"Hello, there." Merry, on the other hand, seemed to have already learnt the risks of war, and now struck a casual conversation with Éomer. "I'm Merry, who are you?"
"Éomer." Théoden's sister-son replied deadpan, eyes ahead as he showed no emotion.
"Éomer…" Merry tasted the name, before grinning toothily, "It's a lovely name! I once had an aunt called Éomendrída. But, obviously, she was a lady… Had the same hair as you though! Very pretty and golden."
Éomer, a man unaccustomed to smiling in such times, could not but help a smirk; the sight warmed Théoden's heart.
"Aye, but not as pretty as my sister's."
The two hobbits giggled as the men, elves and dwarf chuckled deeply, their horses slowing as they approached a large Ent. Treebeard, his name was, and apparently the one who'd led the siege on Isengard.
"He was a scary sight!" Pippin told them eagerly as Treebeard's moss deepened a colour- blushing, as Théoden figured out for himself.
"Ahh, Master Peregrin." Treebeard talked slowly, his deep and rumbling voice drawing out each and every syllable to an almost impossibly sustained length, "I am sure young Master Gandalf knows well enough of yours and Meriadoc's own heroics."
"I do indeed, my dear Ent." Gandalf smiled at the large tree, before glancing around at the others and motioning to them in a single gesture, "My friends here, on the other hand, are those responsible for the victory at Helms Deep. Théoden King, Éomer son of Éomund, Gimli son of Gloín, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Legolas Thranduilion, and Haldir of Lórien."
"My, it is good to have the company yet again of the fair folk." Treebeard rumbled, bits of loose bark dropping from him as he bowed lightly to all, and then to both Legolas and Haldir.
"And we, indeed, feel much the same in the presence of the Ents." Haldir returned gracefully, bowing his head as he lightly touched his hand to his heart- the very same gesture he'd made when arriving at Helms Deep, "Lord Elrond had not gave mention of your plans."
"Why, not even the Lady of the Wood could have foreseen this, my dear Elf." Treebeard chuckled deeply, his bass booming and rumbling as he turned and gestured up towards the tower balcony, "But now, there is a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower…"
A sense of dread filled Théoden, face grave as he gazed upwards at the tower, hands subconsciously on his reins.
"Be careful." Gandalf warned in a low voice, "Even in defeat, Saruman is dangerous."
"Then let's just have his head and be done with it." Demanded Gimli gruffly, only to have Gandalf rebuff him.
Théoden would have smiled were it not for the sudden interruption.
"You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King."
The cold and cruel sound of Saruman's cursed voice drifted down to them, deep and hateful even as he spoke of peace.
"Can we not take council as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace?"
For a short, short moment, Théoden bowed his head, closing his eyes as the images of the crying children; the dying men; the poor women of his Rohan swirled in his head. All the people killed, all the deaths at the hand of this murderous traitor.
"We shall have peace..." He started softly, nodding his head lightly," We shall have peace, when you answer for the burning of the Westfold, and the children that lie dead there!" He let the strength of his heart take his voice as he raised his head, and bellowed up to the rotten wizard, "We shall have peace, when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they dead against the gates of the Hornberg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows! We shall have peace..."
Saruman simply sneered at him, leaning forward on his staff as he looked overbearingly down his long beak of a nose at them. Another figure crept forward to the tower's edge, peering fearfully over, the pale face and dark eyes anxious as they gazed down at the nine.
"Gibbets and crows! Dotard! What do you want, Gandalf Greyhame? Let me guess. The key of Orthanc? Or perhaps the keys of Barad-Dur itself? Along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the five wizards?" His spite grew with each item of the list.
"You can not win, Saruman." Gandalf called up wearily, voice heavy, "Your armies are lost."
"Old friend, my armies maybe lost. But so are many of your warriors." Saruman straightened, lips peeling back into a maniacal smile, triumphant and ugly to witness, "A certain Elven Prince, for example?"
The words confused Théoden, they meant nothing to him, but the ranger's head whipped immediately Legolas, eyes confused and scouring for any hint of emotion as Haldir looked to the floor, and Gandalf sighed heavily. Saruman simply relished in Legolas' discomfort as the elf squirmed slightly in the sudden attention. The elf is a prince?
"A shame, is it not? For such a fine warrior's demise to be at the hands of measly poison?" Saruman laughed cruelly, cold eyes alight with depravity. Aragorn's eyes bore into Legolas, his gaze inwrought with hurt and confusion and anger, as the elf's grip tightened on his bow. Théoden wondered whether it would be Aragorn's gaze that would pierce Legolas first, or Legolas' arrow that would pierce Saruman.
"Saruman, enough-" Gandalf attempted to put a stop to Saruman's mocking, but the other wizard would not halt for anything.
"Gandalf," The name was spat in revulsion, "does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him. Those he professes to love." Saruman leaned further still, "Tell me, old friend, does Denethor know yet of his eldest son's death? Curious, is it not, how you spare not a thought for the one you'd known for all his life?" Gandalf tiredly closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his shoulders sagged and head lowered, and Saruman knew instantly that he'd struck a chord, "I had heard the boy fell whilst protecting your precious halflings."
Boromir? Surely not the Captain General of Gondor. Surely not the strong-hearted man whom Théoden himself had warmly welcomed oh so many times into his kingdom. Surely, not the warrior, the firm friend of both Theodred and Éomer; Denethor's heir was a mighty man; surely he'd not fallen too?
"Legolas." Gimli's gruff voice growled.
"Surely, it plagues you to picture the sight of dear Boromir's body riddled with arrows of the Uruk-Hai?" Saruman's laughter was loud and long. From the corner of his eye, Théoden could see his fellows were set to relieve the Wizard of his head and organs.
"Legolas, stick a damned arrow in his gob!"
"After you all but condemned him!"
"ENOUGH!" Gandalf's roar was loud and echoing, his face a picture of fury as he raised his staff at Saruman, the crystal atop it glowing ferociously, brighter than a star.
Saruman's own staff shook, quaking and moving against the traitorous wizard's hand as it too glowed, before splintering with a loud 'CRACK' and exploding, sending shards and shrapnel about the place as Saruman was left to stagger back, shocked and surprised at Gandalf's newfound power.
"Your staff is broken, Saruman." Gandalf told him solemnly, the fury gone as soon as it had appeared, "No longer have you any power here."
His words were truthful, and at this the simpering sight of Grima Wormtongue hesitated, tongue darting over his lips like a trapped snake. Despite everything, the pain and horror Théoden had unknowingly committed by the fault of Grima, despite the fact that Wormtongue was a traitor and a sheep, Théoden felt a twinge of pity as he looked upon the terrified figure who'd once upon a time been his faithful servant. There was a time when Grima had just been a young and sickly boy beneath his mother's elbow, cowering in fear as he did now.
"Grima." Théoden called softly up to him, speaking with love and gentle compassion, "You were not always like this, Grima. You were a man of Rohan- come down. Be free of him."
"Free?" Saruman spat with disbelief, still furious from the loss of his staff and power, "He will never be free!"
"No…" A small voice spoke from behind Saruman; Grima shook his head in denial, eyes boring into the wizard, "I will be free."
And as Saruman turned to strike him, not even Théoden could track Grima's movements as he drove the dagger into the traitor's back, again and again and again, until Saruman no longer cried out. Saruman fell, spinning limply in the air multiple times before a spiked wheel stopped him. Théoden turned his gaze away in disgust, looking up instead, at Grima.
"Come, Grima." He called, and Wormtongue immediately bowed, disappearing as he scurried down to join them.
All watched in silence as the wheel spun slowly with the corpse' weight, and the filth of Saruman was washed away with the mud and debris. The dead of Rohan were avenged. The fallen trees of Fangorn were avenged. Boromir was avenged.
Now, there was peace from Saruman.