Chapter Three: A Bridge Once Burnt

Orange licked skywards, spitting red as it hissed venomously at the world at large. The ghostly dance of the flitting glowing tendrils enticed the fingers of a careless hand to touch, trying to allure with an almost siren-like loveliness. Just to see what it felt like. Was it as silken as it looked? Or was its beauty merely a mask worn by some loathsome demon? He allowed the camp fire to absorb the complete attention of his eyes, not wanting to be disturbed from his reverie. None of the others attempted to rouse him, and for that he was wholly grateful.

His thoughts were black and consuming. There was no release from them offered by the fire, or by the silence surrounding him. As much as his soul shied and quaked at the depth of their meaning, and tried to cast them back from his mind, they insistently came back, unbidden, whispers in his ear as loud as madness itself. Was that what this was? Madness? Was it taking him as he knew it had taken others before him? The elf was right: there was a weakness in his blood, a festering and draining inability to stay the constant murmur in his mind. It had been there since he had first laid eyes on it in Rivendell. He knew it was a dark power, a weapon of evil and malice and blood.

He knew that the right mind could harness that power and make it great.

Did he have such a mind? He believed it so. His father knew the potential of the weapon to pull their people back from the abyss, and it frustrated him that others insisted on getting in the way of his pure ambitions to be their salvation. He would never be able to make them see: Frodo's shying denial of him and the ensuing confrontation with the elf were both evidence of that. His options were becoming more and more restricted with each passing day, and equally the imposing barrier the man, elf and dwarf presented was becoming all the more obstructive to his desires...

Of what am I thinking? Boromir subconsciously lowered his head to his hands. I couldn't harm to them! But that was just it, though: yes, he could ... he had proven that when he raised his sword against the elf. He had meant it, every sword stroke, and had Legolas not been so quick at defending himself, his lifeblood would have soaked into the stones long before. The most frightening thing was some part of him had screamed against the action, crying out against turning a blade on one he called a brother at arms. It was all the more terrifying that he had completely blanked that small spark of reason, his rage stamping it out and acting of its own volition. Only now, upon reflection, did his actions alarm him.

The crunch of shingle announced Aragorn's return. The ranger offered only a nod of greeting to those few who acknowledged his return, and set about nestling down on a stretch less dominated with large rocks. Aragorn said nothing of where he had been, but Boromir knew he had been speaking with the elf. He only wondered what their discussion of him had involved. His eyes stared unblinking at the ranger's back. Aragorn did not look at him ... was the reason behind that through some guilt or other? Why would he not make eye contact?

"We will leave at first light," the ranger informed them, wrapping his cloak tighter about himself and supporting his head with his arm. "Try and get as much sleep as you can."

Aragorn's suggestion enticed only the hobbits to act immediately upon his advice, shuffling into a space they made for themselves in the shelter of the immense washed-up log that had been their seat. Gimli did not bother to move just yet, instead stuffing his pipe with what little remained of his weed. He had become rather partial to sleeping in the boat, seeing as he was not large enough to operate it himself.

"Where is Legolas, Aragorn?"

Aragorn gyrated his head to stare at the Gondorian over his shoulder at the quietly voiced question. His grey eyes studied Boromir's face in the fading firelight, a light frown playing over his brow.

"I merely wish to apologise," Boromir supplied, grudgingly seeing it necessary to explain his proposed actions. "Nothing more than that."

Aragorn sat up fully to give Boromir his full attention: he might be at odds with the man, but respect was a thing earned, not a divine right, and he needed Boromir to know that he offered it to him freely. "I fear he would not receive your company."

"But you know where he is."

"It is my business to know where everyone is when they perform a watch."

"You know that is not what I'm asking," Boromir returned, not appreciating what he regarded as a cagy answer.

Aragorn sighed, rubbing at his face before he could stop himself. "Boromir," Aragorn said wearily, "I know Legolas very well, and I know for a fact that, right now, he will not accept your approach."

Boromir snorted, a measure of disdain colouring the action. "Oh yes? And what exactly would he do to stop me? Set an arrow between my eyes?"

Aragorn felt a touch of anger at the other's open disrespect. "You may mock, Boromir, but I don't think you're that far away from the truth: I will not tell you where he is. And that's as much for your sake as his." With that, Aragorn lay back into his bed of stones, vastly preferring their sharp company to that of his conflict-rousing companion.

-(())-

The muffled clatter of tin was what roused Boromir from his uneasy sleep. The dying light of the camp fire cast a distorted orange hue to the raider of Sam's pack. It was Legolas, rummaging through the bag in search of something. No sooner had the questing hands found what they searched for – one of Sam's deeper tin pots – then he turned on his heel and left.

Now was his chance, likely to be the only one he would get whilst an apology could possibly still mean anything. The elf was a prince after all, and Boromir knew he should be well enough schooled to graciously accept the offer of peace he proposed to give him ... he knew as well as any how important the maintaining of relations was in this troubled time, and after personally doing so much to damage such allegiances, his head suggested that they should both willingly form a pact. He scrambled out from under his cloaks, leaving all behind with the need for speed being too pressing.

"Legolas!" he hissed to the elf's retreating back, trying desperately to not wake the others. "Legolas, I wish to speak with you!"

Legolas did not stop, nor did his step falter – if anything, it quickened. Boromir cursed under his breath as he stumbled noisily over the pebbles and rocks that the elf managed to navigate so neatly.

Through little fault of their own, the elves of Mirkwood were a distrustful people. So much so that the reception the Fellowship had encountered at Lothlórien would be considered an open welcome in contrast to what they would have received had those forests been Thranduil's. Too many years of their borders coming under assault had forced them to know strong caution, and they looked on outside folk more as threats than potential allies. The source of that threat held a nasty tendency to be men corrupted by the Shadow's whispers, and the occurrence was far too common to ignore. The elves had learned to perceive men in the same way a dog might regard a sleeping snake. Men had burned their faith, and there were very few now accepted into their kingdom. This distrust found its most solid foundation in the Mirkwood King himself, and Thranduil made it his goal to ensure his people were shielded against the threat imposed by the outside.

The attitude of his one surviving son was little different, for which Thranduil was grateful ... to the king's eyes, it was his own misguided trust of men that had resulted in the death of his eldest son, Baerahir. Legolas looked on outsiders with the guarded caution Thranduil had tried so hard to imprint on him, and it pleased him that he had successfully hardened his younger son to the dangers the outside world presented. Legolas was wary and shrewd, a competent leader of the Mirkwood forces and a fine warrior. He could not stand to lose another child.

So it was with considerable dismay that the king learned of Legolas' friendship with a man.

Not that it had ever been an easy friendship to undertake. Upon first meeting in Imladris, Aragorn and Legolas had not got on at all: the man thought the elf presumptuous and aloof, whereas the elf's long held belief that men were not to be trusted obscured his perception of Aragorn's qualities.

Elladan and Elrohir were instrumental in their introduction. It took great time and effort on their part to bend the prince's perception, but he grudgingly conceded – following many arguments – to their inclination of thought regarding the young man. But Elladan and Elrohir both had a motive behind their efforts: they knew a perilous path was chosen by fate for their foster brother. Whenever he embarked on his quest, he would need a friend on that lethal journey, someone to shield him against the darkness and ensure he reached the end alive. To their eyes, that someone could only ever be Legolas. They had known Mirkwood's prince for many years, and while Legolas was notoriously slow to trust, once both his trust and friendship were won from him, his loyalty and devotion were unbending. Aragorn would have need for such a strong character on his side in time.

Under the guidance of the two brothers, man and elf learned tolerance, then acceptance, then eventually friendship. Over the years, their relationship had become so solid that Legolas no longer looked upon Aragorn as a mere man, a tiny drop in his river of millennia, but more as a brother. He would, quite simply, do anything for his friend.

Boromir had no idea what he had lost.

Boromir's attack earlier that night had served only to reawaken the old wariness the elf had fought so strongly to ignore. It never sat comfortably with him, travelling with this rag-tag group – particularly with a dwarf at his side – but he knew it was necessary. Legolas had come to an agreement with Aragorn, and he would honour it. But he would never again turn his back to Boromir, or entertain his company alone.

When the light of the moon lapsed momentarily and his surroundings plunged Boromir into darkness, there was simply no elf there when the feeble light returned. He might as well have been following a ghost. The landscape glowed at him, offering him the silhouettes of scant trees and the hunched shoulders of river-flung boulders. Nothing more. He lifted his eyes, scanning the few trees for any sign, but there was no-one there.

"I only wish to speak with you," Boromir implored of the night, turning on the spot like a blind man in the vain hope that he might successfully sight the one with whom he wished to speak. But the sound of his voice was thrown back at him by the rising wind, lonely and small in the blank landscape. Clearly, Legolas did not accept his desire. Boromir was a proud man, and it threatened that pride to openly offer something as detrimental as an apology. He needed the elf to meet him half way.

But there was nothing, not the breath of a hint that there was another being in the vicinity. Boromir had no idea how Legolas had achieved it, but he had successfully disappeared like smoke in the wind.

The desperation for absolution quickly bent to the burning anger of rejection. "Damn you!" he shouted, hurt and offended that he had not been received as he expected. "Damn you and all your kind!" Still, the night offered no welcome. Boromir turned back for camp, his quest for forgiveness failed.

He did not know that he had looked right at Legolas. The elf watched the warrior's retreating back from his tree, motionless and tense. There were no words the man could possibly say to redeem himself in Legolas' mind: the damage was irrevocable ... he had seen those green eyes become black with murder, and whether it was the warrior's fault or no, the Legolas saw the poison that festered there. Legolas knew the enemy had clawed his way into the heart of a good soul, and he could not shake the deep sense of fear that settled so mercilessly in his chest.