CHAPTER 26. CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
The next few days passed in a restless blur.
Aragorn remained by Legolas' bedside, leaving him only for reasons of utmost urgency. As Faramir gently pointed out, the kingdom did not stop moving when he did, and always there were things to be done – treaties to be signed, works approved, dignitaries met with. These he did, thoroughly but with haste, so as to return to his friend's side. When questioned, he would reply bluntly:
"I do not want him to be alone."
But sitting by his bedside meant facing the harm he had done, and with every new day that passed, the Elf's health grew worse. Though the healers had done all they could, Legolas' breaths grew shallower and more inconsistent by the hour. Aragorn was continually sending for more athelas, from which he made brews the likes of which had once nursed Éowyn back to health. But he knew that kingsfoil would only delay the inevitable - Legolas needed healing the likes of which only his own kindred could provide.
Unable to bear the silence of the empty infirmary, Aragorn would on occasion murmur to the bedridden figure. He doubted that his friend could hear it – in fact, he thought it highly improbable – but it seemed to lift a little of the weight that had grown in his chest.
"Do you remember," the king murmured, "the month I spent patrolling Mirkwood? We were very young then – you cannot have been much older than a century! But I recall distinctly that you and the rest of the guard were far from pleased when you discovered a band of Rangers encroaching on your forest… Until you spotted me amongst them. You could have dropped your sword, for all your surprise."
There was silence in response, but Aragorn continued.
"And for the rest of my time there, at any opportunity I would sneak past your people's defences and meet with you. You tried to teach me archery, do you remember? But I never was very good." he shook his head, smiling slightly. "In truth, I preferred to watch you practice. You were tranquil, with a bow in hand, in a way I have never seen you otherwise."
Now he felt himself compelled to continue speaking, as if the words were being drawn out of him by an invisible force. It seemed to ease him somewhat, to speak as though his friend were listening. He set aside the scroll he was supposed to be reading, and turned to face the bed.
"Or what of the time when your father sent you to Imladris, to receive lessons from Lord Elrond?" Aragorn queried gently. "We must have been younger still, then, and so very full of wanderlust. It was an achievement if Lord Elrond could keep us both still for long enough to teach us anything!"
The king's gentle huff of laughter echoed through the space. In spite of himself, he glanced over at the Elf's body, almost expecting a response, and felt disappointment seep into the pit of his stomach. He so wanted those blue eyes to open, to brighten with amusement as he had seen them do a hundred times.
A little shakily, Aragorn shifted his chair nearer to his friend's bedside. The athelas had dulled his pain, and it was no longer visible in his features. If he did not know better, he might have thought him merely sleeping.
It was so easy for the years to slide away, just sitting there beside him. Legolas' face was peaceful, blissfully innocent. He looked just as he had sixty years ago, when they were hardly more than children. They had both been fools, then – naïve, ignorant fools. Their shoulders were not yet hunched with the weight of their burdens, their eyes had not yet seen the horrors that would dampen their spark.
Aragorn wished he could be a fool still.
But in all the years he had known the Elf, he had not changed. He had been a constant, driving force, as youthful as when they both were children, scarcely changed in appearance or character. And, Aragorn realized, he was meant to remain so, long after his mortal friend was gone.
"This is not how our lives were supposed to turn out." he said quietly, voice rippling slightly. "I was meant to be the one to fade away into passing. You were always supposed to outlive me. An ever-youthful friend of an aging king…"
He felt his throat constrict tightly, but he forced the knot away.
"And it was not without reason, either. Your people are used to the short lives of Men. We come and go like seasons passing, just the blink of an eye. You are used to the grief of losing a friend, for your lives are long, and you live beyond many of your mortal comrades. Your kindred know how to cope with that loss. But I… I do not."
He had lost his composure now, but his sorrow was too deep to allow tears – there was no use for them any more.
"I need to know that you will live through this." he mumbled clumsily. "I need to… to…"
But his throat was too thick now, and he couldn't manage the words.
~~~{###}~~~
Legolas drifted through a disorientating blackness. Sounds and lights passed by him in a whir, but he could not manage to focus on any of them. He could not feel his physical self at all, which he supposed was an improvement. He remembered pain that he had felt, not long ago, but could not recall the cause of it. Everything was blurred and muted, as though he were underwater and trying to make sense of the world above the surface.
And then a voice began to murmur gently, above the blank, static hum. It was familiar, so familiar, and yet he couldn't identify it, either. Something in the back of his mind almost clicked with it – a vague face, a few sketchy memories, the glimpse of a name – but nothing absolute. He could not make out all of the words, but grabbed at passages, phrases at random.
"You tried to teach me archery, do you remember?"
I can, he tried to say, but his body refused it. He tried harder to listen, grabbing at phrases at random. The voice was warm and soft and comforting, and Legolas clung onto it.
"…were tranquil, with a bow in hand…"
"…and so very full of wanderlust…"
But then the warmth vanished, the comfort turned to sorrow. Legolas wanted to call out, to ease the voice's sorrow, but he could not find his body to do so.
"…we come and go like seasons passing, just the blink of an eye…"
"…I need to… to…"
Legolas pressed himself to listen as the words faded away, and it took him a moment to realize that it was not his hearing, but the words themselves, that were fading. He wished for the voice to continue, even sorrowfully – it was cold and dark without it.
~~~{###}~~~
The messenger had travelled swiftly, cutting across the plains of Rohan and along the Eastern side of Mirkwood in just a matter of days. But now, with the vast expanse of the forest looming before him to the North, it was clear that he could go no further on horseback – now he would have to travel on foot.
He knew well the history of this place, though he had never been this far North before. Stories about the strange lands that lay to the North were told like fairy tales in Gondor and Rohan, and like many children, he had once rejoiced in hearing tales of ancient battles and Elven-folk.
Once, the forest had been the most breathtaking in all of Middle-earth, and had been a home to many creatures. They had called it the Greenwood then, a place of prosperity and light, where good company could be found if only you followed the paths to the Elven Gates.
But a darkness had fallen over it a long time a go, a sickness alike the one in Fangorn – a place he and all children of Gondor had grown up knowing to fear. Now, they called it Mirkwood, and it was filled with many dark, fearsome creatures. The Elves there, he had heard, were scarcely more hospitable – they had grown wild and hostile in the years the shadow had haunted their woods, and they lacked the gentleness and wisdom of their kin from Lothlórien and Rivendell.
Yet it was the Elves the messenger sought to find. His instructions from Faramir had been vague, with a single, simple idea: enter the forest from the north-east, and the Elves will find you. He had not realized how intimidating the idea was, until he set eyes upon the twisting, turning madness of the forest, and wondered at what type of forsaken people would chose to live in it. Nonetheless, he had not come this far to be perturbed by a group of trees, nor the Elves that guarded it.
The messenger dismounted from his steed and let the reins slip out of his hands. Habit meant that he did not spare the animal a second thought – Gondor's horses were bred and trained in Rohan, and could find their way home unguided.
If anyone needs to be fretted upon, the messenger thought derisively, it is surely me.
With that grim thought, he strode beneath the eave of the woods. Immediately the dank muskiness hit him like a wave; the scent of rot and decay. The air was hot and damp, and felt unpleasantly musty as it rested in the messenger's lungs. In places, he could see the forest fighting back against the disease – a clump of wildflowers amidst a sea of sinister mushrooms, or a few branches of green foliage, all but hidden among the mossy trunks. There was no clear path through the madness – if ever there were a road here, it had been lost long ago. Now, the messenger was forced to use his sword to hack through the thick undergrowth, and, more concerningly, the spider webs that hung from many of the tree's limbs.
Time was almost impossible to measure, with the sun hidden behind the canopy high above, but after hour or so, the man begun to get the sense that he was not alone. He could not have said what spawned the feeling, for he saw nothing to make him suspicious – not that he expected to, for he heard that the Elves could be as swift and silent as birds if they desired – but he felt a chill pass across his skin, a sensation of unease. He attributed it to soldiers' instinct – he had been taught to make it habit, to know when he was being watched.
The messenger slowed to a halt, glancing all around in search of his pursuers. Somewhere overhead, a twig snapped.
Before he even had time to see his attackers, his feet were swept out from underneath him, and suddenly he was face-down on the leafy floor. He reached for his sword, but found it already missing from its sheath. He went to move, and received a blunt but clear command, barked in lightly accented Westron:
"Do not attempt to draw your weapon, unless you enjoy the sensation of arrow tips piercing your body."
The messenger held out his hands in a gesture of innocence, and slowly got to his feet.
He was surrounded by a dozen or so Elves, clad in green and brown garments that even up close appeared to merge in with the trees around them. Their hair was long and straight, like dark silk, and he noted with surprise that there were men and women in equal number in their company. They eyed the messenger with hostility, their blades raised and glinting, arrows notched and ready to fire. One of the Elf-women strode forwards and began searching his person for hidden weapons, being none too gentle in doing so; the man tried to keep his face passively indifferent. As his searcher seized the blades stashed away in his boots and snatched the parchment scroll from his belt, he opened his mouth to talk, but was cut off immediately.
"Were you asked to speak, pe-channas?"
He did not need to understand their language to realize that he had been insulted. The guards seemed reluctant to lower their bows, and their arrows were still notched and ready. He could feel his heart pumping in his throat, threatening to jump out of his skin. A moment later, the Elf-woman finished her search and stepped back into the ring, passing the weapons and the scroll to one of the Elf-men. From his composure and dress the Gondorian gathered to be their leader, which was confirmed a moment later when he asked:
"Why do you trespass on these lands, intruder?"
"I mean you and your lands no harmful intent." the messenger stated, earning a short peal of derisive laughter from one of the Elves.
"No harmful intent? There are no Men that lurk these woods without harmful intent." he returned spitefully, eyeing the intruder with distrust. The company's leader held up a hand, and immediately the soldier fell silent.
"He must be from Lake Town. No other men of his kindred lurk in these woods." suggested an Elf with a young face, his eyes narrowed slightly.
"He is not of their kindred. His garbs are different, and he has a different air." interjected a female Elf, cocking her head curiously at him, but still not lowering the dual blades that she held in her hands. "So if not from Lake Town, whence do you come, and with what purpose?"
"I ride from Minas Tirith." he answered shortly.
There was a murmur of conversation in a language that the man could not understand – it was warm to his ears, and sounded like flowing water. When they made no indication of pausing, he continued.
"I bring a message from Elessar, King of Gondor. It is of utmost urgency that your king receives it, with as much haste as can be managed." the messenger implored.
"A message?" the leader repeated, scepticism playing at his face.
"You hold it in your very hand." the Gondorian confirmed, indicating the scroll.
There was a short exchange of words between a few of the Elves, and the messenger was left with only their facial expressions to guide him. A question was asked, he thought, and replied to by several of them all at once. There seemed to be a disagreement in the group – whether or not to kill me at once, I suppose, the man thought grimly.
The Elf-man gave a sharp nod and a short command in the strange, liquid language of their native tongue. Immediately two of the guards stepped forwards, seizing his arms tightly. His heart leapt in his chest.
"He does not lie; this bears the seal of Gondor, verily enough." he concurred. "But we are not fond of unexpected visitors in these woods, so forgive our apparent lack of hospitality. If you truly mean no harm, I am sure you will be unbothered by our… precautions."
The Elves began to stride away, their steps long and fluid, like ink in water. The messenger swore he caught the ghost of a smirk on their leader's face as he too turned, taking off swiftly along the winding pathway beneath the trees.
Suddenly a piece of cloth was placed over his eyes, blocking all light and vision. Before he could protest, it had been tied firmly in place.
"Merely precaution." one of the guards explained, a hint of humour in his melodious voice.
As the Gondorian was unceremoniously frogmarched through the forest, blind and stumbling like a proverbial blind man, he could not help but mentally agree with what he had so widely heard of these forest-dwelling guardians.
'If they have a fault it is distrust of strangers', he thought, repeating the phrase in his mind with an air of satire. An understatement if ever I heard one.