Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
XXVIII: Whispers in the Dark
Gundabad 2941 TA, 2041 TA, June 15
In the shadowed crags of Mount Gundabad, where the chill of ancient malevolence lingered, Dular, an orc of formidable might and dark knowledge, brooded over his disgrace. His gruff, guttural voice, tinged with the rasping harshness characteristic of orcish speech, echoed in the hollows of the mountain as he cursed his fate. "Uglukûsh akât sharaîm gru'um" (Stay here and wither, that's their command,) the leader growled, his words dripping with venomous disdain.
Rumors carried on the bitter winds and spoke of a burgeoning darkness in Mordor, a gathering of the vile and powerful - orcs, goblins, and even corrupt humans - a force of unmatched ferocity. But to Dular, these whispers were a mocking reminder of his fall from favor; only the mightiest were summoned, and he, due to a recent failure, was condemned to remain.
Dular's legacy in Gundabad was one of fear and respect. Not just an ordinary orc, he bore the knowledge of witchcraft, a sinister gift from his deceased mother, granting him a lifespan that stretched across centuries. Gundabad, with its foreboding tunnels and treacherous paths, was his dominion, a realm he knew as intimately as the scars that marred his rough, battle-worn skin. Yet, amidst its stony depths lay memories he wished he could erase, secrets that haunted the very air.
His cunning and sorcerous talents had once made him the obvious choice to lead his kin on a crucial mission to Mordor, a mission that would have seen them escorting slaves to bolster their dark ranks. This endeavor was to be one of the grandest in their foul history. But fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. A human, a mere woman, had appeared - captured and brought into his camp, only to become the architect of his downfall.
This human had not only liberated the slaves, diminishing Dular's standing among his own kind, but she had also inadvertently awakened something far more ancient and dreadful. Night after night, as the cold moon cast its pallid light over Gundabad, Dular heard it - not words, but a song, a lullaby that stirred the air with a chilling melody. It was as if the human had disturbed something deeply personal, something that belonged to her, the mysterious entity from Dular's past, now roused from its slumber.
In the twisted corridors of Mount Gundabad, under the oppressive weight of his failure and the eerie serenade of the lullaby, Dular plotted. His mind, sharpened by years of survival and dark arts, began to weave new schemes. Whatever the future held, Dular, the wrath of Gundabad, would not be forgotten. The shadows of the mountain were deep, and in them, his vengeance slowly took shape.
The dank air of Gundabad, thick with the stench of decay and malice, trembled with the coarse voices of the orcs. Among them, a particularly vile specimen sneered, his voice a grotesque echo of contempt. "Ashlûk dûmak-bûr-ishi bûrk, akha nâbût akha gashlûm kazh-khazkazkûm-ishi gazat." (Why bother with this? There's naught but decay and death in those depths.)
"Ish-ishi kurûz... kurûz-ishi abûshamshkazum zâzum," (The bones... those bones unsettle me,) grunted the orc boss, his beady eyes fixed on the shadowy entrance to the caverns, where discarded arms and armor lay in neglect. "Deep in the caverns, she stirs from her slumber."
"Ashlûkak kazh kâgûm nûrzakab, akha gârûm-ishi akha zâz-ishi, mazkahâzash," (Seems like some forsaken shrine, a temple of old, maybe,) another orc chimed in, his voice laced with a blend of curiosity and disdain. "Azgakhûzab azka kazh-ishi ambâr-ishi nargût, akha bûrzak-ishi âga krâk, gûmsh-ishi abla-ishi..." (We stumbled upon it in pursuit of the human. But it's all collapsed now, nothing left but...")
Dular cut him off sharply, his voice a sinister hiss. "Kurûz-ishi!" (But bones!)
"Agzakhmûl kazh," (Maybe so,) retorted the last orc, a mocking edge to his words. "Amshâra, Dular, akhûkab akha mâgazk-ishi kurûzab?" (But surely, Dular, you aren't scared of some old bones?")
Dular's response was a venomous hiss, the haunting melody of the lullaby now winding its way through his thoughts, ever more insistent. "Gâkhûm! Ish-ishi kazh abla-ishi kurûzab; ish-ishi akha nâk-lâkh, azgharâk-ishi. Akha amba-ishi, nâka'zha-ishi mazkaûzak-ishi aghûr." (Fools! Those aren't mere bones; they're the remains of an elf, accursed. And that human, she's roused her.)
In the flickering torchlight, the unease was palpable. The orcs, creatures of brute force and primal fear, shifted uneasily. The mention of an elf, especially a cursed one, stirred ancient terrors even in their hardened hearts. The human's inadvertent awakening of such a being suggested an eerie, unseen threat lurking within the mountain's depths. Dular, with his knowledge of dark arts and long-forgotten lore, understood the gravity of this revelation more than any of them.
The air in Gundabad grew colder, the shadows deeper. The orcs, gathered around Dular, felt a chill that was not entirely due to the mountain's draft. The lullaby, an ethereal whisper in the dark, promised a tale of ancient grudges and hidden powers, a tale in which they were now unwittingly entwined.
Outskirt of Rhovanion - Mirkwood, 2041 TA, June 15
In the deep, shadowed embrace of the Mirkwood cave, a night like many others unfolded. Legolas, typically a sentinel of wakefulness, had succumbed to an exhausted slumber near the fire. The flickering flames cast a warm, dancing light over his features, softened in sleep. However, the tranquility was deceptive; within his mind, the familiar tendrils of a recurring nightmare began to weave their dark tapestry.
This time, the nightmare seemed more intense, more vivid. The haunting strains of a lullaby, both melancholic and eerily beautiful, filled his dreams. It resonated with a power that seemed to draw him deeper into the recesses of his troubled subconscious.
Xena, still confined to her makeshift bed, awoke to find the elf lost in his dream world. It was the first time she had seen him in such a vulnerable state, his usual poised and guarded demeanor replaced by an unsettling restlessness. She watched him from her place, noting the slight furrows of his brow and the uneasy shift of his body.
Initially, Xena contemplated leaving Legolas to his private battle. Their recent interactions had been strained, marked by a silent understanding that communication was best avoided for now. Their exchanges had been reduced to the necessary – food, water, wound care – a routine that allowed them to coexist without the need for words.
But something about witnessing Legolas in the grip of his nightmare stirred a reluctant empathy within her. The sight of the proud elf warrior tormented in his sleep, reminded her that even the seemingly unshakable had their demons. With a sigh, she carefully sat up, mindful of her healing wound. The stitches had become a constant reminder of her vulnerability and her reliance on the elf, a situation that chafed against her independent nature.
Determined not to rip her stitches yet again, Xena's resolve hardened. She needed to heal, regain her strength, and leave this place before the tension between her and the 'tree-hopper' reached a breaking point. But for now, as she watched Legolas wrestle with his unseen tormentor, she felt a reluctant duty to intervene.
Pushing aside their recent disagreements, Xena cautiously approached him, her movements slow and deliberate. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out to gently shake his shoulder. "Legolas," she whispered her voice a soft intrusion into the silence of the cave. "Wake up, you're having a nightmare."
In the stillness of the cave, Legolas remained deeply ensconced in his sleep, oblivious to Xena's presence. His posture, a blend of sitting and leaning against the cave's wooden wall, bore the tension of his troubled dreams. His crossed arms and furrowed brow betrayed the turmoil churning beneath his closed eyelids. It was a rare glimpse into the vulnerability of the elf, his usually composed features now etched with worry.
Xena, despite their recent strained interactions, found herself drawn to his side. Her curiosity was piqued; this was the first opportunity she had to closely observe Legolas without his usual guarded awareness. Quietly, with careful movements to avoid aggravating her wound, she seated herself beside him.
The fire, a constant companion in the cave, crackled softly, its warmth a welcome contrast to the coolness of the night. Xena stoked the fire, adding some wood to keep its flames alive. As she settled next to Legolas, the familiar scent that had been eluding her finally clicked – it was his scent. The blend of summer rain and mint was distinctly his, an earthly, comforting aroma that seemed at odds with his ethereal elven nature.
As she sat there, observing him in the firelight, Xena pondered the enigmatic figure beside her. The warrior within her respected his prowess and skill, yet the human in her was intrigued by the glimpses of depth and complexity she saw in him. It was a moment of quiet reflection, a pause in their journey of mutual dependence and silent understanding.
She wondered what dreams haunted him, what memories or fears were etched deep in his elven soul. For a brief moment, their roles were reversed – the mortal watching over the elf, a silent guardian in the stillness of the night. In this shared space, away from the battles and the challenges of their respective worlds, they were just two beings, each bearing their own scars and stories, united by the circumstances fate had woven around them.
Legolas's hair, usually confined in an elven braid, now cascaded freely down his back, some strands gently veiling his face. The perfection of it struck Xena, contrasting sharply with her own experience of life in the wild. It seemed almost unreal, too flawless for someone who, like her, was no stranger to the harshness of nature.
As her gaze lingered on his face, she noted its ageless quality. His skin, smooth and unmarred, belied the weight of experiences he carried. Despite his youthful appearance, there was a sense of profound depth to him, a gravitas that spoke of centuries lived. At this moment, with the usual guard of his expression lowered in sleep, he appeared unusually vulnerable. The burdens he bore, often hidden behind a facade of elven stoicism, were momentarily visible.
Xena found herself unexpectedly unsettled by this sight. She was more accustomed to, and perhaps more comfortable with, his usual demeanor of aloofness and pride. This unguarded version of Legolas, so openly bearing his inner turmoil, was disconcerting to her.
Despite her efforts to rouse him – calling his name and even shaking him gently – Legolas remained deeply asleep, unresponsive to her attempts. Reluctantly, Xena ceased her efforts, accepting that the elf was lost in a sleep too profound to be easily broken.
With a sense of resigned care, she reached for a blanket nearby. She draped it over Legolas, ensuring he was covered and protected from the chill of the night. Then, pulling the blanket around herself, she settled beside him. In that quiet hour, in the heart of the Mirkwood forest, a warrior and an elf lay side by side, each lost in their own thoughts, yet united by the shared sanctuary of the cave and the fire's fading glow.
In the deep, ethereal embrace of the night, Legolas stirred from his slumber. The remnants of his nightmare clung to him like a heavy mist, images and emotions swirling chaotically in his half-awake state. For a moment, he was lost between worlds, the haunting echoes of the dream lullaby lingering in his ears. The darkness of the cave seemed to press in around him, a stark contrast to the vivid, unsettling realms of his sleep.
As clarity gradually seeped back into his consciousness, Legolas became acutely aware of an unexpected warmth beneath him. To his surprise, he found himself partially leaning across Xena's lap, an unintentional proximity that would have been unthinkable under normal circumstances. The realization jolted him fully awake, a rush of embarrassment mingling with the disorientation left by the dream.
Carefully, Legolas adjusted his position, taking great care not to disturb Xena. He was acutely aware of the cave walls looming close, a potential hazard if he moved too hastily. His movements were fluid and silent, born of centuries of elven grace and finesse. He maneuvered himself away from Xena's lap with the precision of a shadow slipping through the night.
Once free, he gently lifted Xena, cradling her with a tenderness that belied his usual stoic demeanor. He carried her back to her bed, his steps soundless against the cave floor. As he laid her down, ensuring she was comfortably settled, a sense of protectiveness washed over him. It was a feeling that Legolas rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, a stirring of something deeper within the typically reserved elf.
As Legolas prepared to withdraw, Xena, lost in her own deep slumber, instinctively reached out and grasped his wrist. The sudden contact took him by surprise, a rare moment of unguarded reaction from the elf. For a brief second, he stood frozen, Xena's grip firm yet unconscious. The connection, though unintended, seemed to bridge the gap between their worlds, a silent testament.
Legolas looked down at her sleeping form, a mix of emotions playing across his features. With a gentle touch, he carefully extricated his wrist from her grasp and stepped back, watching over her in the dim light of the cave. In that quiet hour, the boundaries between elf and human, warrior and guardian, seemed to blur, leaving behind a profound sense in the shadows of Mirkwood.
As the first light of dawn filtered through the cave, Xena stirred awake. She found herself back on the rocky bed, her surroundings quietly illuminated by the soft morning light. To her surprise, there was a modest morning meal laid out beside her, accompanied by a warm drink. The fire had been extinguished, and the cave was peaceful, with no sign of Legolas.
She sat up carefully, mindful of her healing wound, and looked around. The elf was nowhere to be seen, likely having slipped away to attend to his duties or his own solitary reflections. Xena pondered the events of the previous night, the memory of finding Legolas in the throes of a nightmare, and her subsequent, unexpected proximity to him.
Despite her persistent annoyance with his often cold and aloof manner, Xena found herself increasingly intrigued by Legolas. There was a complexity to him that went beyond the typical elven demeanor she had encountered in the past. His actions, though reserved, hinted at depths of character and experience that she was curious to understand.
As she slowly ate the meal he had left for her, Xena's thoughts wandered. The proud, distant elf had shown moments of vulnerability and care that belied his usual facade. It was these glimpses of something more beneath the surface that piqued her interest and softened her initial frustration with him.
Her time in the cave, under Legolas's care, had been a blend of irritation and grudging respect. Now, as she contemplated her situation, a new determination settled within her. She resolved to not only heal and regain her strength but also to unravel the enigma that was Legolas. There was more to the elven warrior than met the eye, and Xena, ever the warrior with a keen sense for understanding her allies and adversaries, was keen to discover what lay beneath his elven exterior.
As Xena sat contemplating, her thoughts inadvertently drifted to Legolas's impeccably kept hair. The elf's consistent cleanliness and styled hair stood in stark contrast to her current state. It was only when she absentmindedly dropped her wooden spoon and instinctively reached up to touch her own hair that she fully realized her disheveled condition. Her hair was not just untidy; it was a dirt-laden mess.
She reflected on how Legolas had been meticulous in keeping her wounds and body clean during his careful dressing changes. Yet, it dawned on her that her hair had been largely neglected in these ministrations. The thought that she needed to wash not only her hair but also her body fully hit her. She gave herself a tentative sniff and immediately recoiled, making a face of disgust.
"By the gods," she muttered under her breath, "I smell worse than Swiftwind on her worst day." She quickly finished her meal, determined to sit up and find a way to clean herself thoroughly. However, just as she was gathering her resolve to stand, her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a voice that seemed to dash her hopes.
"It must wait," Legolas declared as he entered the cave. His appearance was markedly improved from the previous night; his usual air of elven pride and aloofness was fully restored, much to Xena's chagrin. "You are in no condition to tend to your hair or take a bath."
"I smell," Xena bluntly retorted, not bothering to mince her words. "I need a bath. I can't stand reeking like this."
"It's worse than you think," Legolas replied, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Rest now. You can endure a few more days without a bath."
Xena fixed him with a frustrated glare as he busied himself collecting the empty bowl and cups. She muttered a string of curses under her breath, directed at his insufferable demeanor. However, as she watched him move about the cave, something gave her pause. Turning to look at him, she realized that Legolas's arrogance might, in fact, be a front for a more playful attempt at humor. There was a hint of a smile, almost imperceptible, on his lips. It was a fleeting glimpse of a different side to the elf, one that Xena hadn't expected but now found herself begrudgingly amused by.
((Upcoming Chapter Twenty-Nine))
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