The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
OIOIOIOI
Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
A/N: Ohh, such lovely reviews. Thank you all. Here's the next chapter for you. Enjoy!
OIOIOIOIOIOI
Chapter 51 – Tensions
Legolas awoke from his sleep abruptly, sitting up straight with a sharp gasp. There was but a gentle breeze on the air ruffling his hair but he shivered at it all the same. Wiping his hand across his brow, he realised it was beaded with sweat. Nightmares had always haunted his reverie on the rare occasion that he was granted it, but this was particularly vivid and not set solely in Mirkwood as the others had been but rather in the horrible, forsaken lands of Mordor. Focusing too hard on the memory made him shudder again. He shook his head, not wanting to dwell on the dark images of the Necromancer and his unfortunate slaves and prisoners.
"Water?"
The unfamiliar voice made Legolas jump and he looked up to find the man who called himself Jecha stood next to him, holding out a small tin cup, presumably filled with the offered water.
"Oh. Thank you."
Rather than leaving after Legolas had gratefully accepted the cup from him, Jecha instead gracefully sat down beside him. "Sleep well?"
Legolas was hardly going to reveal that his nights were seldom peaceful anymore or that nightmares haunted his sleeping hours. He did not know the man well enough to divulge such personal information. So he settled for a simple answer of, "Yes."
"Your ward is sleeping."
Glancing to his left, Legolas indeed saw Aragorn laid out on the ground, blanket spread over his sleeping form. At some point, he had also been gifted a crimson-coloured cloak, presumably from one of their new allies.
Legolas remembered now that the previous evening, after they had finally been released from their bonds and granted their freedom back, they had all been sitting around a fire listening to Jecha and his unusual band of companions explaining who they were and how they had come to all be together in this place at this time. And he had fallen asleep before the warmth of the fire. He had not intended to but he could not help it. Rarely did the exiled and tormented Prince of Mirkwood prove so lax in his attentions but he had been exhausted, surprisingly so for him.
Looking to Aragorn now, a sudden thought occurred to the Elf. A memory, actually. One night, long ago, Aragorn had awoken from a terrible nightmare, which he had reluctantly confided in the Elf had featured none other than the Dark Lord himself. He recalled Aragorn speaking with reticence and open fear of how he had witnessed his guardian's demise at the Dark Lord's hands. Was that indeed what he had seen all that time ago? And did Legolas now have a similar premonition? Was that truly to be his end? Rotting in the depths of foul Mordor as the Elf he had dreamt of?
"Are you well?" Jecha asked, peering at the Elf as he noticed his sudden pallor.
Swallowing thickly against the lump of fear that had lodged in his throat, Legolas nodded, but at the same time got to his feet, saying, "Excuse me for a moment."
"Certainly."
He did not know where he intended to go, after all, there was nowhere to go for privacy in this space, but Legolas felt suddenly enclosed and that he had to get away, not from the man who had earlier declared himself to be a defector from the savage Easterling race, but rather away from all of them. Truth was, he was afraid. Given that he could not abide those he knew well seeing his fear of anything he was hardly going to allow people he did not know to witness such a profound weakness.
Once in the relative privacy of the darkness, away from the telling bubble of firelight, Legolas came to a halt, breathing deeply of the stale air to cleanse away the last of his troubles. For a moment, he paced rhythmically, trying to clear his mind. He did not fear death. He never had done. He'd always known that to be his fate, one way or another. What horrors led up to his death, those were harder to trivialise.
Such dark thoughts were not healthy to dwell on. Besides, there was no point in fearing what may never happen. Chances were, he had simply suffered a nightmare, a vivid and frightening nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless. It had left him understandably shaken.
Taking another deep breath, vaguely irritated with himself that it came out shuddery, Legolas steeled himself to return to camp.
"Not out here. Dangerous," a low, deep voice warned from behind the Elf, making him jump for a second time that night, caught unawares. He vaguely remembered that the big man had been assigned to take the first watch of the night.
"Yes, I know. I was just…" He found that he had no explanation he felt fitting to give the tall man from Harad; yet another of the eclectic team of rebels he had found himself unwittingly aligned with. So instead, he ended up merely shrugging in response.
A large hand fell upon his tense shoulder and he was forcefully turned around, back towards where the firelight glowed. "Go." When you were as physically intimidating as the former chief of a merciless Haradhrim tribe then Legolas supposed it mattered very little that you could not speak the Common Tongue of Men with any degree of fluency. For him, no doubt, actions spoke considerably louder than words ever could.
With a little push applied to his back, Legolas had little choice but to return to the small campsite. Reasoning with the man that he wished to spend some time by himself would do no good given that he could barely understand half of what was being said to him and Legolas knew fully well that he was by no means a physical match for the giant Haradhrim.
Jecha sat just where Legolas had left him, waiting patiently, it seemed for the Elf's return. As Legolas sat down, the man made no attempt to enquire as to whether he was well. Maybe he didn't want to discomfort the prince any further – or maybe he just didn't care either way.
"Your plan," spoke Jecha after a few moments of silence, "to return to your people via Rohan, it is a great risk."
"I know this."
"Grima bears the mark of the White Hand on his dagger. It is the Wizard he is aligned to."
"Saruman had decimated the lands of the Rohirrim. That he would have planted spies amongst the remains of its people is perhaps not all that surprising."
"No. When Grima fails to return with the Stone of Seeing, Saruman will be most seriously displeased. He will suspect that his spy has been weeded out. Passing within mere league of Isengard would be foolish."
It made sense, this logic. Legolas knew it. "What then do you suggest?" he asked, somewhat more tightly than was necessary given Jecha was only trying to do what was best to help them reach their people safely.
"Another route. One that might prove advantageous given your…associations," Jecha replied cryptically, dark eyes slipping over to Aragorn's prone form.
"Aragorn?"
"The King of Gondor. That is the sword of the king that he carries with him, is it not?"
Legolas looked to Anduril, laid almost with reverence up against the bags they always carried with them and confirmed, "It is."
"There is a legend, ancient now, of a race of Men," Jecha started, looking intently, unflinchingly at Legolas as he spoke from behind his thin veil of cloth. "They were of the White Mountains. When Gondor's need in the first War was at its most dire, the King of Gondor called them into service. They swore an oath to aid Gondor in battle. But they did not come. They broke their vow, reneged on their sworn promise and fled into the darkness of the mountains. For their treachery, the last King of Gondor, Isildur, cursed them, doomed them to never be granted rest until they had fulfilled their promised allegiance."
Legolas nodded; he had a vague memory of reading of such a myth in some ancient text during his history schooling as an infant but even so he knew little of the details.
"What was their fate?" he asked of the storyteller sat beside him.
"The curse held. It kept their spirits tied to this world. The world of the living. In the Dimholt mountain where they cowered they remain trapped."
"All right," Legolas said slowly, trying his best not to disrespect Jecha by viewing this Human superstition with all the scepticism it so clearly deserved. "How exactly does this help our cause?"
"The legend goes that only the true King of Gondor can command the Army of the Dead." Jecha's eyes once again alighted upon Aragorn, who remained sleeping, oblivious to the fact that he was the object of this most bizarre discussion. "If what the legend tells is true, then Aragorn, with the blood of the kings running in his veins and the sword of Isildur in his hand, can summon them to his aid. Such an army – invincible as they would be – would be a major help to your cause. If they could be persuaded…"
"Wait. You are suggesting that we cajole an army of ghosts into helping us reclaim Gondor?" Legolas finally demanded incredulously, illusions of respect vanished in wake of the astounding lunacy of this man's suggestion.
"Such power should not be wasted." Legolas snorted in derision at this so Jecha continued, "To ignore such a great ally, one that could change the fortunes of this war, would be foolish."
"You cannot be sure that this legend is true."
"No."
"Nor can you say with any certainty that Aragorn can indeed summon or command them, or indeed that they would agree to fight on the side of Light. Ghosts seem very much within the purview of the Shadow."
"Then you do not think the risk justifiable?"
Legolas shrugged, sighing, "I don't know."
"Then I will take it to the king."
"Excuse me?" Legolas wasn't sure what surprised him more, that Jecha had referred to his ward as 'king', the first time he had really heard Aragorn referred to thusly without coercion, or that he was being ignored as a voice of reason. Seldom did people ask his opinion and then pass it over because it did not suit their liking. Certainly, none had ever gone over his head to Aragorn before. It came as quite a shock.
"I will speak with the king on this matter when he awakes."
Legolas could not help but feel just a little bit affronted by this. He knew he shouldn't feel so. Aragorn was indeed the true ruler of these Men; he did have the final say.
"Get some sleep, Legolas. There are sentries all around. We are protected sufficiently for you to take some rest," Jecha told him, getting up and leaving the Elf by himself once again to ponder on what had been said.
Already, Legolas knew he would find no rest this night. He had too much to think about to allow himself the peace.
OIOI
"Are you angry with me?" Aragorn demanded somewhat breathlessly as he hurried to catch up with his guardian, who had been striding resolutely ahead of him all morning.
"Why would I be angry?"
"Because I disregarded your advice and listened instead to Jecha."
"You are their leader, Aragorn, you should heed all advice laid before you and make your own decisions based upon that advice. You have done just that, so I am not angry."
"Then why are you ignoring me?"
"I am not."
"You have barely spoken to me all morning."
"We are talking right now," pointed out the Elf with unusual brusqueness even for him; he knew fully well that the comment would annoy his ward to no end.
"Fine. Be that way!" Aragorn shot back, moving ahead of Legolas to join Jecha and his companions at the front of the group.
Legolas sighed heavily. He had not missed this moody side to Aragorn. Perhaps it was to be expected. After all, Legolas had been short with him ever since he had sided with Jecha and announced that they would head towards Dunharrow and attempt to summon the Dead Army that was reputed to dwell under the mountain. To Legolas it seemed futile. Chasing ghosts – worse, legends of ghosts! – was a seemingly massive waste of valuable time.
"Just so you know, I'm with you on this one," Kalub said conspiratorially as he drew up beside him, clasping Legolas' shoulder as they walked.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Legolas muttered, "Much appreciated, thank you." Of all the people Legolas wanted to be on his side, Kalub was close to the bottom of the list. Rarely did they agree on anything. Allies were important in times of disagreement but Legolas did not think that Kalub carried that much weight with these new Men they travelled with and thus had little care for his opinion.
"You know, I'm sure that if you just spoke to Aragorn, encouraged him to reconsider…"
"I have given him my opinion, presented him with the options. He has made his decision and it is not my place to question it or attempt to dissuade him in his actions," Legolas told the man with surely infuriating calm.
"But you are his guardian!"
"And he is King. The choice is his and his alone."
"That's just ridiculous. He'll listen to what you tell him."
Legolas shook his head in determination. "I will not coerce him into changing his mind."
"It's a bad idea, Legolas," stated Kalub loud enough to attract the attention of the others around them.
Suddenly, the Elf came to a halt, turning to face a rather startled Kalub. "Aragorn is your king. Remember that. You and I follow his orders." Coming closer still to an increasingly alarmed tracker, so that they stood almost nose to nose, Legolas continued warningly, "Is that clear?"
The prideful element of Kalub did not want to be intimidated by the Elf but he found that, much to his consternation, he was. Despite having travelled with Legolas for nearly three years now, he did not know the Elf well at all and still considered him to be in charge, no matter how Legolas tried to now dissuade him. Even when, before his untimely death, Kinnale had led his Rangers, he had been acutely aware that it had been Legolas' lead they were really following. For all intents and purposes, Legolas had always been in ultimate charge.
"Yes, sir," he replied coldly to the overbearing Elf, lowering his eyes from Legolas' piercing gaze.
Legolas kept his eyes locked on the man's for a moment longer just to be certain that the annoyed tracker had truly gotten the message, then he nodded in acceptance and backed off. He walked away from the furious man, fairly certain that Kalub was no longer so firmly on his side. As he moved away, he realised that everything had stopped during the short exchange and the rest of the group were staring at him, having heard everything that had been said.
"Let's go," Legolas called to them as he strode to the front of the group.
"Thank you."
Legolas glanced over to Aragorn, who fell back in step beside him. Rather than accept the thanks with grace though, Legolas merely reiterated, "It's still a bad idea."
OIOI
Arrows pelted down on them, thudding uselessly but with deadly intent into the earth when they happened to miss their intended victims. The sky had been turned dark with them, every one of them aimed in the same direction. Rather amazingly, not one had actually yet reached its target but they had come awfully close too many times.
"Eomer! We can't stay here!" Janor yelled over the almost deafening noise of the advancing Orcs.
"You think I don't know that," Eomer replied through tightly gritted teeth. Carefully, he dared to peer out from behind the safety of the cave wall he and a few others who had fled with him were using as a shield. He was presented with a not particularly encouraging sight. "Damn, there must be hundreds of them!"
"Far too many to fight."
"You think?!"
Janor shot a quick glance over his shoulder. For the most part, those taking refuge in the cave with them were civilians, untrained and all but useless in a fight. When the Orcs had attacked, the Men had split, scattering in three different directions. Unfortunately, the warriors amongst them were also divided, making communication to organise attack nearly impossible.
"So what do you suggest we do?" Janor asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice. It was unbecoming of a commander to panic before innocents. He kept reminding himself of this sage bit of advice bestowed upon him by Kinnale before his untimely death. "Eomer, what do we do?"
"I don't know." Truth be told, Eomer had never commanded such an attack. In Rohan, he and his warriors had travelled in small groups all around the Riddermark, picking off any threats that strayed too close to the Golden Hall in Edoras, but never had he faced over two hundred of the Enemy. Even when facing the immense numbers of Orcs and Uruk-hai as they stormed Helm's Deep it had been Kinnale who had been in full command of the troops. Now, on his own with a cave filled with frightened innocents and facing a couple of hundred fierce Enemy fighters, Eomer very much wanted to ask advice from the former commander of the Rangers – Janor for all his valiant attempts at command was too young and inexperienced to be of much help. Much as he hated to admit it, he would even have taken Legolas' counsel at that point.
"Eomer, we have to do something. We can't just sit here and wait for them to slaughter us," Janor hissed into his ear, wanting to convey the urgency of the situation they were in without alerting the others to his rising panic.
"I know that!" Eomer snapped back angrily at him. He glanced around, once more checking how many warriors he currently had at his disposal. Unfortunately, their numbers looked no better the third time of looking.
"All right," Eomer declared at last, shifting up so that he was crouching now behind the cave wall, "there is no way out of this other than to fight our way out. That much has become clear. Janor, you try to make your way to the other caves, find as many of our people as you can and spread the word that we shall soon launch the attack. On my signal, we unleash our warriors on Sauron's hoards."
Fear shone achingly bright in the young Ranger's eyes but he nodded anyway, licking his dry lips in obvious nervousness before he gathered the courage to rush out of the relative safety of his hiding place to do his duty. Dodging numerous arrows as he raced across the open space in between caves that left him so very exposed, Janor ran straight for the closet cave where he knew others were sheltering. When he reached the cave, Janor dashed inside, colliding hard with someone in his haste to reach shelter from the rain of arrows. Strong hands caught him, preventing him from falling and he quickly regained his footing.
"Janor!"
"Veron," the Ranger greeted his friend with breathless relief, clasping the big man's arm.
Quickly, he relayed Eomer's plan, sketchy though it admittedly was, then ran straight back out of the cave and into the barrage of arrows, much to everyone's surprise. Having counted roughly how many people he had seen so far in both caves, he knew that a third group must be sheltering in another and he had to find them.
The third group were fewer than the two before, consisting of only ten people. When he raced inside, he was immediately grabbed hard, a knife pressed dangerously close to his throat by a young man of Rohan who obviously was twitchy given the advancing forces of Evil and had acted instinctively when he thought Janor to be the intruding Enemy.
"It's me!" Janor threw his hands up in the air, signalling his surrender. "It's just me."
Slowly, the knife was lowered by a shaking hand and the scared-looking man released the Ranger with a hasty, "I'm sorry."
"It's all right," Janor assured, rubbing his sore throat. "I came here to tell you…"
An impending description of Eomer's maddeningly vague plan was cut off as Janor's eye caught the sight of his fellow Ranger and good friend, Carion, laid on the cave floor, a black Orc arrow protruding hideously from his chest. The big man was heaving for every breath, gripping the hand of one of the attending Rohirrim tightly in pain and increasing panic. Sweat trickled down the man's face as he whimpered openly in pain, wild eyes locked on the wooden shaft buried deep in his chest in disbelief and fear.
"What happened?" Janor demanded, pushing past the other Men to reach the fallen Ranger.
"He was shot," replied the man whose hand Carion was crushing. "I don't know that he is going to make it."
Before Janor could admonish the man was speaking the insensitive truth so blatantly before the injured Ranger, Carion chuckled softly and gasped out, "Optimist, this one."
Kneeling at his friend's side, Janor's sharp eye swept over the large, trembling form. "You're going to be fine."
Again, Carion laughed although this time it dissolved into pained, gurgling coughing. Janor laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, hoping the touch would calm him until the fit passed. Once it had, Carion drew in a deep breath, which sounded horribly strained.
"You…are a…truly…terrible…liar," Carion accused breathless, offering his friend a wavering smile to blunt the words.
"Exactly why I never do it."
Carion raised his hand and gripped the front of Janor's jacket until the commander caught his hand and held it instead. "You…do something…for me."
"Of course. Anything."
"Tell…my brother…" Carion swallowed back the blood that was beginning to choke in his throat. He had to get this out before he drew in his last breath. "Tell him…that I am sorry. And…and that I…I love him…To be strong."
Janor nodded, listening intently as he gripped his friend's hand until his fingers ached. "I'll tell him."
"P-promise?"
"Yes. I promise."
"Th-thank you."
Bowing his head, Janor laid his palm against Carion's stilled chest, closing his eyes in his grief. He had little time to wallow in the misery of his old friend's passing though as just a minute later a loud shout – Eomer's signal for attack – from outside. As much as he hated leaving Carion's body, Janor knew he could not stay here in the safety of the cave whilst his other companions fought for their lives.
As the man got to his feet, he withdrew his sword and turned to the others. "Anyone who is armed, come with me. The rest of you remain hidden until the threat is cleared."
With that, he turned and ran outside, not caring how many followed him. He would have his revenge on the abominations that stole his friend from him.
OIOI
Legolas was startled from his deep thoughts into their predicament when a rabbit, small and skinny, was dumped to the ground at his feet. He looked up from where he sat to the towering man standing over him, casting him into shadow.
"Cook," the man from the tribes in Harad said slowly and in thickly accented Westron.
"Do I look like a servant to you?" Legolas demanded bitterly but the man just continued to stare down at him, no expression on his weathered, tattooed face. "Right, you don't even understand what I'm saying," he sighed deeply. He picked up the creature by the back legs and held it up to give it back to the man from Harad.
"Cook," repeated the man, ignoring the creature being held out to him.
"I'm not the cook," Legolas said slowly, getting up and shoving the rabbit forcefully towards the giant of a man. "You do it."
"Cook."
Angry now, the Elf yelled, "What part of 'no' do you not comprehend?" and dropped the dead animal at the man's enormous feet.
"Legolas!"
The Elf looked around to find Aragorn glaring at him in anger.
"What are you doing?"
Glancing back up at the big man, Legolas muttered, "Nothing." Then he walked away, calling back after him, "I'm going to search for firewood."
"We've already…" started Aragorn pointing to the pile of wood ready to be burned but his guardian had already hurried off, eager to be away from the others, it seemed.
To say that things had been strained between Aragorn and his mentor of late would have been an understatement. Legolas was annoyed at him, that much was clear. Nothing seemed to help. Aragorn had apologised many times, even though he was uncertain what, other than siding with Jecha, he had done wrong. Legolas had been consistently cold towards him though. The situation was not helped by the fact that Jecha and his band of followers were a particularly sullen bunch and barely spoke at all nor that Kalub had been sulking for the last two days after Legolas' rather public abasement of him.
"Get some rest," Jecha advised, approaching the young man.
"Yes," sighed Aragorn in return. With so much on his mind, he knew that finding rest even after an exhausting day of travel would be difficult. Nevertheless, he dropped his pack on the ground then plonked himself down next to it.
"Cook?"
Aragorn looked up to find the Harad man holding out the rabbit he had hunted earlier. Offering a small smile, Aragorn nodded. "Cook."
The big man nodded his head and sent Aragorn a smile in return, revealing broken, yellow teeth.
Sometimes Aragorn felt immense pity for the man. It turned out that he had only been with Jecha for a couple of months, having lived his whole life amongst a secretive but ruthless tribe in Harad very close to the Black Lands of Mordor and as a consequence of his isolation spoke very little of the Common Tongue. He had picked up a few words along the way and he did make the effort but it had mostly proved to be in vain. It was not like the Haradhrim were a particularly learned race at the best of times. Why exactly he had abandoned his homeland and his people to join with those opposed to the Dark One to whom the Haradhrim were primarily allied, Aragorn did not know. If Jecha was aware of his reasoning then he did not confide it and Aragorn did not feel it his place to ask.
As Aragorn removed his shoes, broken almost to the point of being useless, to knock out the stones that had gathered there making walking extremely uncomfortable, the Harad man built and lit a fire then started to skin the rabbit for cooking.
Soon, the two Dwarves came to join him around the fire, talking to each other in their own language as they often did. Aragorn liked the pair. Father and son named Gloin and Gimli long ago exiled from a place Jecha had called Erebor, once a haven for the Dwarves until Sauron's Goblin hoards had driven them to the brink of extinction and forced those surviving from the Lonely Mountain. In spite of the misfortunes of their people, they were always friendly, always in a good mood it seemed and full of stories for Gloin knew the old world well and Gimli was just about old enough to have known the world before Sauron's rise to power. In fact, they reminded Aragorn very much of the twin brothers, Carion and Veron, who ran with the Rangers.
Often they spoke of the great halls of the Dwarves filled with guests, of hospitality beyond all other races and of treasures too precious and creatures of legend too fearsome for Aragorn to even comprehend.
Even though he had never experienced any of the things they described, Aragorn felt something akin to nostalgia as he listened to their long, rambling tales. They were unlike anything he'd ever heard before. Legolas certainly had never spoken of his home with such love.
Legolas' irritation seemed to always be at its height when around the two Dwarves, even though he had made no effort to get to know them and always kept his distance. They too avoided the Elf and Aragorn wondered if perhaps there was some long-held grudge between the two races that he had not been made aware of. If so, he thought it ridiculous that Legolas kept the feud alive after all that had happened to him and the world in the intervening time.
Grima remained a captive of the group. Given that he was a thief, he was not to be trusted, so he was kept tied up and gagged – although now the gag was simply because the Dwarves had declared him to be intensely annoying when he pleaded for release.
At present the thief was being guarded by one of the three Gondorians travelling with them. Aragorn knew almost nothing about them. They kept very much to themselves, speaking only sparingly to the others in their company. The man was poorly dressed, much in the same manner as Legolas and himself, and he was accompanied by his wife, a quiet, timid young woman with thick black hair and blue eyes almost as striking as Legolas'. The third Gondorian amongst them was a small girl. She looked to be about nine years old but could have been older given that she was, like everyone else, severely malnourished. He deep brown eyes, akin to those of her father, darted constantly around and she clung most of the time to her mother, terrified, it seemed, of everything going on about her. So far, Aragorn had not heard her speak even once and she looked upon both him and Legolas with open fear and suspicion.
What a ragtag band of mercenaries he and Legolas were running with, Aragorn mused as he drank a small portion of the weak, rabbit-flavoured broth that the Harad man had prepared from a crudely rendered wooden bowl.
The truth was that Aragorn was uncertain whether joining Jecha and his band of Men and Dwarves was in fact the best course of action. His mentor's words of caution ever tugged at his indecisive mind, making him doubt his convictions somewhat. Going after a legendary army of ghosts was indeed an enormous gamble. It could very well prove to be a dangerous waste of time and energy. And yet, in spite of all his nagging doubts, he felt – no he knew – that this was the right road to take.
He hated the consequences of overruling his most trusted guardian. Legolas had not uttered another word against his decision, not since his initial show of disagreement, and in fact had even shot Kalub down in flames for so openly speaking against Aragorn's judgement. And yet, despite this unprecedented show of protection, Legolas had still distanced himself from his ward. He barely spoke to Aragorn as they travelled across the plains and often the man spotted Legolas looking at him with something akin to disappointment, occasionally bordering on outright, unconcealed anger.
"You really should take some rest," Jecha told Aragorn as the Easterling finally joined the group now that camp security had been set up for the night and he deemed it safe.
With him came a man who Aragorn had actively distanced himself from ever since he had first been introduced.
It had been Jecha who had informed him of this man's heritage one night when Aragorn had summoned up the courage to enquire after his latest travelling companions. Wild Man. The words had chilled Aragorn's blood and the man, who Jecha had confirmed had no name that anyone knew of, did nothing to put Aragorn's mind at ease. He was, in a single word, frightening.
Filthy and seemingly purposefully unkempt, he mostly spoke only in low grunts, although his Westron was good enough to be understandable when he put the effort into it, and glared with wild green eyes at all others around him. There was no friendliness about him and even those he had travelled with for a while regarded him with obvious distaste. Around his thick, unwashed neck, he wore a clunky string necklace adorned with small brown-coloured bones, which Aragorn strongly suspected were not from any animal and more likely from something far more grisly. With him he carried at all times a large and filthy backpack, heavy and stained deep red in places. Given that when they had first come across the mercenaries they'd been deceived by the warning signs posted all around that they were trespassing on Wild Man territory, Aragorn could imagine all too easily what the man carried around in that bloodied pack.
Quite simply, the man sickened Aragorn to the core. It did not matter that he now professed himself to be an ally of the Light. Aragorn had decided that he would never like him and he doubted that anything the man did would ever change his mind.
"Right," the young man agreed, eagerly getting to his feet and turning away from the fire.
"Sleep tight, lad," called one of the Dwarves, Gloin the older of the two, Aragorn thought, as the boy laid himself down on the ground, staying close enough to the campfire to still feel its warmth.
Sleep rarely came easily or swiftly. Too much weighed on his mind. So, he laid awake, feigning sleep to satisfy those who might be observing him.
Unlike the more jovial Rangers and Rohirrim, these people did not speak overly much. For the most part, they sat in tense silence. Only the Dwarves spoke freely but they mostly stuck to their own language as they usually found themselves only conversing with one another unless invited to tell their stories to the group. It was surprisingly easy for the mind to drift to dark places when there was nothing to distract it and there was plenty of darkness for Aragorn to dwell upon. He missed the friendly banter, the easy laughter of the people he had come to call friends.
Snuggling deeper under his blanket, Aragorn tried to sleep. One thing that was still familiar, Jecha kept them going at a quick pace, stopping only at midday for a break and halting when he deemed it too dark to walk.
"Is he asleep?"
Legolas' voice startled Aragorn and he jumped slightly, his eyes snapping open. He had not heard his guardian's approach. He did not give up his pretence though and closed his eyes again quickly in the vision of sleep.
And the pretence was working well, as Kalub answered with a simple, tart, "Yes."
"Good."
"Can't stand to be around him when he's conscious, huh?"
The barb stung Legolas and Aragorn also flinched when he heard it. That would have hurt his guardian, as it had hurt him.
"Kalub, please," Legolas sighed, sounding horribly weary.
"You started this," snapped back the Ranger quietly, knowing perfectly well that Legolas would hear clearly what had been said.
"I started nothing."
"No?"
"No!"
"Could you two take this someplace else please?" Jecha cut into their churlish argument tersely. He had no patience for this dispute, as he had made quite clear several times already.
Kalub got to his feet, purposefully making himself look taller in a futile attempt to intimidate the Elf. Resting his twitching fingers on the handle of his sword, the man said, "I'm going to take a walk."
"No need." Legolas stepped away, telling the others, "I'll take the watch."
"Elf, don't you want some rabbit soup?" asked one of the Dwarves, nodding to the pot hung over the fire.
"I'm not hungry," growled out the Elf in a most unfriendly manner.
"He's not hungry." Kalub set himself back down, smiling softly to himself with a sense of satisfaction that he had once again bested the Elf at his own game. When he looked up, his smile dropped at the sight of Jecha glaring at him, dark eyes animated and glinting threateningly in the light of the fire. "What?"
"Was that necessary?" the Easterling asked questioned quietly.
Embarrassed at Jecha's stare ripping through him, Kalub glanced down at his hands, muttering childishly, "He started it."
"A very mature defence."
Turning angry again now, Kalub glared back at the leader of the mercenaries. "Is it any of your business?" he demanded rhetorically, getting up.
As Jecha shrugged nonchalantly at the threat, Kalub spun on his heel and then strode angrily away.
Rather than going after either the fuming Ranger or the Elf, Jecha just sighed. He could not get involved in petty squabbles. There was too much at stake. For a moment, he watched the flames lap at the dark sky and then he turned shrewd eyes to meet those of his Easterling companion – the only one who looked less impressed by Kalub and Legolas' spat than he.
To Be Continued…