Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Some angst, some fluff, some shameless mucking about with
canon
A/N: I have followed the lead of my respected writers in using the
term `solstice,' at least for one of the observances
Catching
by Bubbles
1 - Before
"Legolas, come."
Aragorn's voice was soft, belying a hardness that Legolas could read in the Man's eyes, the set of his broad shoulders and the rigid line of his back as he walked away. Legolas watched him go - another step, another, but no glance back over one of those set shoulders to see if the quiet command were being obeyed. Then he rose, knowing there would be no more words until they were, at least, out of earshot of the rest, and he followed.
The Ranger neither hastened nor wandered his course, striding with that deliberate silent manner, and Legolas had to sigh as it occurred to him just how effective a deterrent, intentional or no, the manner was. Already his mind wheeled about clumsy apologies, hovered over words that would change nothing. He kept pace discreetly behind the Man, but hastened not himself, either, and strove in what time he had left to gather, to organize his relevant thoughts. Aragorn would want to hear an explanation, would want to hear it right when the gathering of thoughts would be a dim priority, a seemingly impossible task next to the focus exerted in simply remaining still, not crying out as to alert the entire forest. Aragorn would want something that vaguely approximated reason, and he would want it wrung out of the depths of sorrow and pain. Legolas sighed again. How typical - the explanations would not come.
Just ahead, the wood paused a moment to consider its choices, to make new ones in the near twilight, the trees surrounding that which lay like treasure amongst them. A glade, sheltered and verdant. Along its edge, just inside those towering sentries, surfaced an underground stream which flashed sapphire-quick in the cold open air before diving again for cover. Such beauty, so closely guarded by the watching trees.
Legolas stepped onto yielding velvet verdure and drew up there, his eyes running up ramrod trunks to a distant cerulean slip, a window into the realm of stars now slumbering and awaiting that moment nigh when they would open their gazes to Middle Earth once more. Down pine-needled boughs then, sliding over knotted bark, over strong branches, to the ground. Curled moss, intricate tendrils drawing their life from the nearby water, nestled jade lacework in the sharper brighter emerald of the grass. The forest stood hushed and wintry about him, reverent; even the whispering breeze held its tongue in such a place, and Legolas breathed the sights in, drank the smells of earth and air as a tonic for his weary woodland soul. He felt himself renewed, turned to where Aragorn sat a fallen tree in patient observance, and knew with a swell of gratitude that those few moments of absolute peace had been granted him despite current circumstance. He nodded to Aragorn and walked then to the Man's side. "Thank you," he murmured.
"You are welcome, always. Now you know what to do."
Steeling himself with a deep breath, Legolas drew down his leggings and draped himself over the flat shelf of Aragorn's lap.
It lasted an eternity, not the few quick swats in which it so often came. Aragorn was steady and ever-patient, knowing of an Elf's motives, knowing of his noble intentions and carrying on still, speaking a language deeper and more effective than words alone, saying much. Saying little. He asked the usual questions to gauge comprehension of wrong, his palm heavy and methodical, and Legolas struggled to answer the questions, to speak his own logic in turn. He spilled not only that elusive reasoning but the deepest reaches of his intent, his fear for the others, his encompassing need to risk all in their names. He spilled silver tears that were cradled briefly, drunk in by the jade moss; his mind wandered erratically as time wore on. His throat grew raw from salt and strain and he surrendered as he did, as he inevitably eternally always did, to Aragorn's continued quiet reason and the force with which it was delivered. He felt himself nodding in answer, unable to speak, but could recall not the question. Only that it needed a yes, an affirmation. Perhaps a promise. He promised.
In the sliding immeasurable scale of afterward, his hoarse wrenching sobs fading to hitched whimpers, he knew little other than Aragorn. The Man was solid against him, solid and steady as the ancient trees. The Man was a warm well of soothing Elvish nonsense, a fountain of kisses, a healer of body and spirit, and he relaxed into the bliss of strong arms. Sleep loomed, and for one fleeting conscious instant he fought it, thinking of the trip yet to be made back to camp. But Aragorn was whispering a lullaby, bidding him leave his worries. He felt himself being carried, and he slept.
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2 - The Eve
They travelled over ice-slick ground, feet crunching frosted spears of grass. The sky was a low grey scudded with lead. It weighed on them with a promise of weather, a promise of nature's force soon to be unleashed, and they eyed it balefully and hugged the tree line, keeping shelter close. The air bit at exposed skin, the wind in eternal seeking. And night was early, none of the mauve-and-magenta caresses of a summer dusk, none of the high cold blue shivers of autumn. Nay - it was a heavy thing, the close of a winter day, and it drifted in ponderous, pressing out the uncertain light.
They camped at forest edge, Sam building a fire that sputtered weakly before finding its own rhythm, realizing the wood was dry and it could flame in earnest. They leaned as one toward it, fingers bone-thin and cold, minds and bodies weary. Sam alone continued to tinker, feeling through his pack for what he would need, what little he could do on this night. He pulled it all out, carefully wrapped and near frozen, and set to work, humming a quiet Shire tune.
Legolas gazed to the low sky, the crowding dark, and knew even without the stars that it was time. He reached among his things, reached in gently for that which he had held in secret keeping, had planned and laboured over through many a brighter evening than this. He could feel his smile growing, unbidden, as he turned back to the fire, to the rest. "Joyous Entulesse*," he said, and caught the surprise, the realizing smiles that grew around him.
"So Elves mark this night as well," Boromir grinned. He reached into his pack with both hands, triumphantly pulled out three bottles. "I am glad to know we may all have some cheer this cold eve, especially since I have carried these all the way from Lothlorien!"
Sam laughed, joined in by Frodo, Merry, Pippin. "Hobbits have a celebration tonight as well! The moon is at her height - no other night lasts as long, all throughout the year. So we need to fill such a long night with plenty of warm fire, and good food and drink! And of course good friends."
"But the food and drink is really important," Merry chimed in, raising fresh waves of laughter.
"We Dwarves know a thing or two about celebration," Gimli smiled. "And although we do not spend much of our time above the ground, we do honour this night also. Songs, tales, and much of the `really important' food and drink!" He winked at Merry, who ducked his head, grinning.
"Well," Gandalf chuckled. "It appears that we are now bound by the traditions of several venerable races, and must act accordingly."
So they, beneath the low bank of sky, raised their voices against the pressing night, stirred and fed the small fire until it blazed. A small rock-ringed sun it was, and they its darker orbiting worlds.
Opening leaf wrappings, Sam set the fowl down before himself, and quirked his lips at the gasps of amazement from his fellows.
"Sam!" Aragorn exclaimed. "Where did you secure pheasant?"
The Hobbit grinned winsomely. "Well, I think Boromir wasn't the only one of us planning ahead when we departed the Golden Wood. I had a private chat with a few Elves there, and they understood that this Quest is to be long and bleak. They wanted to help raise our spirits any way they could. And since the weather's been so cold, even back at Lorien, the meat froze in my pack. I've checked it each day, and it's lasted excellently." His smile widened as he looked around the bright circle of faces. "I do trust that pheasant'll do for the meal? And - oh -" he reached back among his things, grabbing a small woven sack and tumbling its contents out beside the pile of birds. "Potatoes. The Elves were extremely helpful."
Frodo giggled. "Sam, you think of everything!" He darted in to plant a quick kiss on Sam's cheek and tousle his blonde locks.
"I most definitely agree," Master Baggins," Gandalf intoned. The creases on his face crinkled, deepened with his smile.
Pippin moved closer to the fire, rubbing his chilled fingers. "That was a terribly good idea, Sam! Especially for tonight!" He of a sudden cast his eyes upward, caught through the cloud one silvered edge of moon, watching. What was it they said, again? What.... Oh, yes. "Do you remember," he chirped over one shoulder at Merry, "that poem? About the Solstice?"
"Yes!" Merry laughed. "I think I do! It's called "Moon," and it goes...it goes..."
******************************************************
3 - The Hobbits
"Oh smile from above, sweet and true," Frodo murmured.
"Smile over the hills and the valleys below," chimed Sam.
Merry nodded - it was coming back to him: "Longer this night, and deeper black too And covering us all, your sweet silver glow." He hesitated. The second part always eluded him....
Sam continued, hands nimble as they prepared the pheasant: "Do you rise higher now, in pride uplifted? And smile from a distance we can never climb?"
Frodo joined in again: "Oh surely you stay, with your smile we are gifted...."
"And surely you'll linger with us for all time," Merry finished, catching his young cousin's approving nod.
Yes. That was it. "I've always loved that poem," Pippin grinned. "I just never remember any of it!"
"That's not the only thing you love," Merry replied, giggling. "Remember that Solstice? Your first snow?"
Frodo beamed. "I remember that! It was quite a day for young Pip!"
"Oh come now," Pippin chided, a blush already creeping over his face. " `tis hardly worth the thought, let alone the telling!"
"Now that -" interjected Aragorn, "sounds promising."
"Aye," nodded Merry solemnly. "Pippin had a `sinking feeling' that day, shall we say!" His grin resurfaced as Frodo collapsed into knowing giggles, coming to lean against Sam. "You see, Hobbits celebrate not only the Solstice, but also the first snow of the season. We take it as sort of a gift from the skies. It blankets the land and even though it's so cold, it keeps the planted bulbs warm. So it does a great good service to us all, and we see its results come Thaw, when everything comes back alive. And there isn`t a Hobbit who's able who doesn't go out to tromp about in the snow and pay it the respect it's due."
"Indeed," agreed Sam, working a potato onto a stick. "And to have snow fights."
Merry arranged his pack behind him and leaned back against it, shifting to get comfortable. "And so it was that one Solstice happened to run up against the first snow of that year, and happened also, coincidentally enough, to be young Pippin's very first experience with snow."
"I'd seen it before!"
"Yes, but you'd never been out in, had you?" Merry waited while Pippin rolled his eyes and flopped with a dramatic sigh against his own things. "And so," Merry continued, "Pip found `imself out with Frodo and Sam and myself, in this strange cold///stuff. The snow was piled so high next to the doors of the houses, because everyone came and shoved it all aside to pass. So it came to be taller than we were, especially young Pip. You should have seen `im!"
"As I recall," Frodo corrected, "none of us could see him."
Merry had paused to take a swallow from the rapidly emptying bottle; now he nearly choked as giggles claimed him once more. Sam reached over and helpfully pounded him on the back. "I'm alright," Merry sputtered, wiping tears from his eyes and passing the bottle to Sam. "And Frodo's right - we couldn't see Pip at all! But we could sure HEAR `im!" His hands wove grand patterns in the cold air, tracing out the object of their laughter. "You see, Pippin had been okay while he was with us, walking the paths. But then he went back inside the house for something."
"I was hungry. I wanted another biscuit."
"Oh - right. So he went in the house and while he was in there, he looked out the window and saw that the snow was all the way up to the bottom of it. So what did he do? He opened up the window to get a nice close look. And then...."
"I fell in."
"He fell in!!!" Merry clapped his hands against his thighs. "He fell off the sill, right into the snowbank, and he disappeared! So Sam and Frodo and myself were out there nearby, on the road, and we heard muffled screaming that sounded amazingly like my cousin! We raced back to the house, but...."
"I was buried and they couldn't find me."
"He was buried! We couldn't find `im!"
Pippin rolled his eyes again.
"It took us - it must've taken an hour after we finally figured out where he was, because then we had to dig `im out of there." Merry shook his head. "I'm amazed to this day he wasn't frozen solid."
"Oh, your tales are getting taller than you, Merry!" Pippin exclaimed. "I don't even believe you anymore, and I was there!"
"Well, Pip?" Frodo prompted. "Why do you not tell of it, then? You haven't spoken yet."
"I apologize," Aragorn interjected, "but...`spoken?'"
Frodo nodded. "It is tradition. Legend has it that, many years ago, we Hobbits spent the Solstice wrapped snug in our beds, sleeping the darkness away without a thought. But the sun failed to rise when morning should have been upon us. Darkness remained, and it did not lift until every Hobbit had ventured outside of his home and spoken of it, asking for the return of light. Since then, every Solstice has been spent much this way: every Hobbit in the Shire gathers outside to watch the stars and praise the moon its due. We all tell a tale like this one, or sing a song, or recite a poem - even a line or two will do. And when we are through, the dawn breaks once more. We call it `speaking to the night,' but Pip has not spoken yet."
"Well then, Young Hobbit," Gandalf intoned, the stern fold of his arms contradicted by the twinkle in his eye, "I would say that you need to speak for yourself now."
Pippin sighed expansively. "I never remember that poem," he groused, "but that's alright - I have something better, anyway!" He winked at Merry. "I'll speak of the traveler."
"Pip, come on!" Merry rolled his eyes. "I didn't believe that story the first time you told it, and I don't think I'll be believing it now, thank you!"
"What traveler?" Aragorn lit his pipe, expectance lightening his dark glance.
"I met a traveler that Solstice," Pippin replied, casting his three fellow Hobbits a warning look. "Frodo, Sam and Merry don't believe me - never have. But it surely happened, or my name isn't Peregrin Took!" He leaned forward, addressing the rest of the Fellowship exclusively, pleased to see them so obviously engaged. Strider's eyes glittered with curiosity; Gandalf seemed eternally patient and eager at the same time; Gimli, Boromir and Legolas all wore expectant smiles. "I was out in the snow for the first time in my life," he confirmed. "Like Merry said. And it was strange - `tis true. I couldn't understand it. But that didn't stop me from exploring, though, even after I ended up in the snowbank! I wanted to see more and more of it, so I wandered through the Shire. And everywhere I went, I met friends and neighbours. I was just a young thing, you know, but it didn't matter that I was out alone. That's the way it is in the Shire. Everybody knows everybody else, so the smallest Hobbit child is safe wherever he goes. And so I found it quite a bit unusual when I met a stranger, out near the edge of the woods."
"He was travelling through?" Boromir asked.
Pippin nodded. "On his way to…he never told me where he was going, actually. Didn't give me his name, either! Just a traveler, burdened down with what looked to be a heavy pack, leaning over his walking stick. A Man, I believe he was, but not a young Man. His hair was iron-grey and coarse and wild, and his beard too. His clothes were worn near through. And his eyes...his eyes were so sharp and black, they were hardly like a Man's eyes. More like a raven's gaze, he had. But what I remember most about him is his voice. It kicked over itself like gravel under a pony's hooves. It grated and scratched out every word he spoke, and he spoke quite a few words - let me tell you."
Gandalf drank from the bottle, passed it to Legolas. "What did he say?" he asked.
"Well," Pippin continued, "he told me a tale of his own...."
~Past: In the Shire~
"You aren't going to tell me your name?" Pippin squeaked. This stranger was a strange one indeed, all ruffled and tangled. His hair was a right mess, even to a Hobbit who prided himself on getting dustier and dirtier than any other in the Shire! And - oh, but his eyes were dark. Pippin looked into them and imagined himself swimming in black water, sinking into it, losing the light forever. He shook his head, coming back to the moment. The stranger was speaking.
"- to tell. Not in so long now, I be afraid."
He understood not, but Pippin nodded anyway. "Oh," he said solemnly. "So where are you going?"
"Far away," the stranger replied. "Farther than you imagine, little one, on mission of terrible import."
"I see." He did not. "What about?"
"I be putting right a wrong. A wrong that been committed very long time ago."
"What kind of wrong?" Pippin found himself tiring of the conversation, tiring of the enigmatic responses he had thus far pulled from the stranger's lips, but something kept him pressing forth with questions. Something in him railed against the possibility that he might walk away without knowing...that. What? He could not even point to what he wished to learn. He could not even say what mattered so about it. "Was it something you did wrong?" he asked instead.
The traveller nodded, strands of the grey nest of hair yielding before a breeze. "Me, I played a big part in it," he said, leaning heavily on his stick. He looked into the Hobbit's wide eyes, pointed a skeletal finger at him. "And I alone can put things to right."
"What things, though?" Pippin moved over to a flat rock just off the road, brushing the snow from it. He stood back and allowed the stranger to shuffle there, to bend stilted legs and sit, hands tensed still about the walking stick, as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
Once the stranger was settled, he cast a glance skyward. Weather was coming. Fierce, low, urgent weather. `twould sweep in the next day, if not that one. "There be time still," he murmured, turning back to the young Hobbit. "I tell you," he said.
<The Stranger's Tale:>
"I were not of many years, then. Young, strong, proud. And, like the young, impetuous. A most impetuous youth, fairly driven ahead in life. There were no cause great enough to slow me, no maiden fair enough to catch me, no truth important enough to steer me from a path once I'd chosen it. I were stubborn, Lad. Most stubborn.
But also were I burdened with responsibility, and `ad been for some time. I ran an inn - small, but did good business. The tavern were full most nights, and the rooms rarely empty long. I thought this made me wise and powerful, and I listened to none's counsel.
Ah, my old friend. `is name were Lannir. `e were stout of `eart and mind, strong of spirit, and a most kind soul. Never did I `ear `im utter foul word nor raise a hand to one weaker than `e.
Lannir, `e had a lassie. She were luv'ly, that. A true beauty, from good blood. She shined like the moon. And she luv'd Lannir with all `er `eart. But came the day they parted. She `ad to go `ome to break the `appy news of `er luv to `er folk. She vowed to be back by the rising moon, to see `er luv again and spend the rest o' their days together. She promised on `er `eart she'd be returned, and Lannir believed `er and waited.
I didn't believe, though. `twere not o' me to believe in luv then, not to believe in anything I couldn't `old in my `ands. So the moon came, she rose full into the sky, and Lannir were waiting for `is luv, and she weren't coming. `e waited outside my inn, out in the cold, and I went out to `im and told `im she weren't never going to come. She weren't - that were that. Oh, `e didn't believe me at first, but I kept telling `im and telling `im, as the moon rose up and the night got so cold. `She won't come,' I said. `Lannir, you be a fool,' I said. And `e didn't believe me.
But then `e did, finally, and I thought `twere such a goodthing, because I were quick and clever and always right. Lannir came into the tavern, `is head nigh dragging on the floor, and `e said she weren't coming back. `er folk `ad prob'ly filled `er `ead with talk about `ow she could do better than a lad from the farm, like Lannir were. `er folk `ad prob'ly talked `er into some marriage to some landowner's kin, and she'd be off with `im right then.
Lannir, `e were broken by that. I told `im to go, to get `imself on `is `orse and go, and not look back. `e said there be nothing for `im in our little town then, so I told `im go out, find `is `appiness out there. And `e did what I said. `e got on that mare and rode off into the night, with that moon watching `im.
Well, lad, you be guessing what `appened? That lassie came back.
Not by the moon - nay. She were back with the sun, the rising sun, and she were as luv'ly as ever she be. She were ready to go with Lannir, to spend forever with `er luv. And I told `er she were too late. `e'd gone, the night before.
She were `eartbroken, as broken as Lannir. She wanted to ride after `im, but where? Where to go? `er folk `ad told `er nay they'd not be blessing any such marriage, but she were of a mind and `eart to be with Lannir, and so that were `er choice. She `ad nothing left then, nowhere to go. She went back to `er small room and laid down on the bed and just went to sleep. She were passed on to the next life not long `ence.
Well I met Lannir again, years gone by. `e settled in another town, new people, but `e never found a new luv. Not like `er. `e lived alone and lonely. And when `e saw me and we got to catching up on old times, `e talked about that night and `ow `e'd left, and were that right to do? And I said nothing. Nothing about the lassie.
So now I go back there, Lad. I be an old man, not long left of me. I don't know if Lannir still breathes, but `e'd be as old as me now, and I `ave to see `im. I `ave to tell `im about the rest of that long winter night, about the lassie riding in just as the moon left and the sun came, and about `er sad end. I not be going to meet my creator without doing that."
<End of the Stranger's Tale>
"So, do you think he'll understand? Lannir, I mean?" Pippin moved to sit next to the traveler.
"I don't know, Lad. `e might, or `e might not. `e might not live still. But I `ave to try, because she did come back, and `twere only my own impatience that rent them apart forever." He stood, leaning heavily on the stick. "I be moving again," he said. "You be running `ome, right?"
"Right," Pippin agreed, watching the resumption of shuffling steps, the fluttering of that threadbare cape in winter's chill wind. He turned back to the Shire.
~Present: On the Quest~
"And that's that," Pippin pulled out his pipe. "That was the last I saw of him."
"So you know not if he ever made it to see his friend?" Aragorn wore the faintest of frowns, pondering such fate. Never to know that one's beloved was true, left with a lifetime of empty memories....
"No," Pippin replied. "I never knew anything from that day."
"It is a good tale," Gimli offered. "It speaks of faith, of the strength - or weakness - of a heart, of forbearance. I like it."
He half-bowed appreciatively toward Pippin. "You spoke well, Master Hobbit."
"What do your people speak of, Gimli?" Merry asked, his eyes fire- sparkled. "Tell us, pray!"
All eyes looked to the Dwarf. "Yes, pray tell us a Dwarven tale," Gandalf nodded.
Boromir uncorked one of the bottles, passed it first to the Dwarf. "Master Gimli, perhaps a drop or two shall loosen your tongue?" he teased.
Gimli took the proffered bottle, examined it briefly. His gaze turned inward and a touch of distance unfocussed his sharp eyes. "Aye," he said. "A Dwarven tale it is."
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4 - The Dwarves
"Alright." Gimli took a swig and passed the bottle to Aragorn, seated next. "Let us see…. My people tell of the first Great Snowfall, many ages past. We were but a young race then, my ancestors having found their way to the treasures beneath Middle Earth. A great fall of snow set to them a challenge, and the stake was their very future."
"What happened?" Pippin squeaked.
"The snow fell without pause, it is said, for 30 days and nights.
It drowned forests, froze beasts in their lairs, concealed the mountains themselves from view. It fell and fell until not a single flake more could be found in the skies, and then the clouds departed and left a land white, the valleys great reservoirs of snow, the mountains mere peaks thrusting from it. And they, my forbears, found themselves under such a weight of it that surely they could not escape! It froze over the caves, over the entrances to the cavernous city. It threatened to leave them caught beneath it for all eternity, and to end the Dwarven line there. I was not yet born, but those that were told the tale of it."
"Could they not dig out?" Sam had briefly forgotten the cooking; he leaned forward, forearms resting on his sturdy knees.
Gimli shook his head. "Whenever they tried, the snow above simply fell in on them! There were miles of it over their heads, and all waiting to collapse. Snow obeys not the laws of rock, you know. It is a fickle and fragile thing, and takes any chance to smother the unwary. They lost many in the battle against it." His eyes darkened for a moment, but brightened again as he resumed the tale. "But Groidin the Great, we call him...he was of a mind to defeat that chill enemy. He was respected for his skill and strength in the mines. He could read the rocks as you might read words in a book. He could find a fault line or a hidden vein of ore like none other. And he looked to their frozen caves and blocked entryways and said it was of no use battling the snow, for the snow obeyed no laws." Pausing, Gimli eyed the eager faces around him, reading a swell of impatience. He cleared his throat, accepted the bottle as it came his way again and downed a generous swallow.
This suspense was too much. "So what did he do???" Legolas demanded, ignoring the surprised giggles of his companions.
Gimli grinned. "He said, `We do not fight our treacherous enemy the snow. We ally ourselves with that which has always been our friend: the rock.' And he tunnelled upward - straight upward - through the very mountain itself! Many long days and longer nights still they toiled, and it was on this day, ages ago, that they realized their goal. They reached the peak, and sure enough there was open air, and the snow laid like a diamond sea out in every direction." He paused again, waiting. He never had to wait long.
Sam spoke up. "But how did that help? They still could not leave the city, could they? They would sink through the snow and be worse off than when they started."
Gimli nodded. "You would think so, young Hobbit," he chuckled. "But Groidin the Great had not stopped thinking when he found the solution to their first problem. The rest - they all let their minds wander as they tunnelled out through the massive mountain's heart. But Groidin was pondering. Considering, the entire long way. And when they intrepid miners finally gained the peak, he had already found an answer." Leaning forward in his own eagerness, he gestured with his blocky hands, fingers miming, echoing long-familiar lore handed down from his father, from his father's father. Back through the ages those movements resonated, pulling legend forth. "Groidin tested the surface of that sea," he canted, hearing in his mind Gloin`s deep voice. "And he found it near solid - solid enough for certain of the few beasts still alive to walk upon it. So he went back down, down into the mountain, down into the deep city, and he structured a tool made from wood that he wet and bent himself, from tough sinews of the animals which fed them. He fashioned himself a kind of boot with a large flat bottom to it, spread out so that it would balance his weight. And then he took those boots back up through the tunnel, back to the peak...and he donned them and walked out over the snow. Easy as you please, it was."
"So what happened then?" Boromir asked, taking a drink.
"Then they all followed Groidin the Great's lead, as they all would from then forward. They fashioned themselves similar implements - although it is said that none were as skilfully crafted as his first pair - and they set out with him across the snow. They trekked for days, leaving the city far behind, leaving the mates and mothers and sisters and younglings behind, until they left the snows behind as well! And there they found a land rich with roots and vegetables, and beasts to be hunted. They remained many days, then returned the way they had come, back across the snows to their home. And with that bounty of food, and Dwarven fortitude, of course, they saw themselves through the season's breadth. The thaw came; the snows melted into great rivers that flooded the land, flowing even into the underground city. So many creatures of all races died, both in the snow and in the rising water. But my people survived, and indeed flourished in that time." He clapped his hands on his knees and studied his companions. Aye - that tale always gripped its listeners. Dwarven strength and determination were the stuff of which legends were born!
"A most excellent tale, Master Dwarf!" Gandalf praised. "A true adventure!"
`Aye,' the others agreed, murmuring and nodding their appreciation.
Gimli grunted acknowledgement, settling back and reaching for his pipe. "Now it is another's turn. Gandalf, tell us of a true Wizard's adventure!"
The Wizard looked over his companions, across the flickering sun- fire, and his mind levered itself back, back over his own ages.... "Well," he began, tapping his pipe ash out against a rock, "I do have my own tale of adversity to tell...."
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5 - The Wizard
~Past: Near Rohan~
Gandalf strode, youthful and vibrant, into a growing depth of night. His steps unerring over the erratic terrain, he focussed not so much on his immediate surroundings as on his journey's end. A chuckle rose in his mind, his own voice startling him - as it were wont to do - with its growing strength. Of course...of course. The journey was never over, and so there could be no journey's end for him this night. He chuckled again, this time aloud. Wisdom. How was it that he, still young, still learning with each moment's passage, could recognize the current of wisdom as it filled him? 'twere like filling a mug with ale, perhaps?
Ah, that would be a good thing. A pause, a respite once reached Rohan. Some good conversation - that would do. And his errand was of no great secrecy, of not even great import, if truth be told. There would lie plenty of moments before him, and he could choose their utility as he would, and spend them well.
Much cloud impaired what little glow might have remained of the sun, hid the moon entirely. Shadows gleamed black, knew themselves victorious, and stretched further over the land. And it was that Gandalf knew himself to be not alone in such a night, not alone but accompanied - trailed, most definitely - by something as dark as shadow itself. He halted his steps and listened, sifting through the sigh of wind in near-frozen grass, the cry of a distant wild thing seeking its mate or its meal, the deep measured cadence of his own breathing. Beyond that soft sound there was more, growing closer.
Orcs. They were about: he had known that much from the outset. They ranged through the woods he had left, and moved frequently to the plains in search of food. But they were, unless ravenous, typically too shy to approach a Wizard, even a young one. Gandalf turned in place, feeling the weight of his robes, the solidity of his staff, and waited.
He had not to wait more than a heartbeat, and they were leaping forth, black-on-black, eyes dull yet glinting. Their smell was about him, nigh choking him with its rot. Oh, there were so many! He fought even as he knew it to be in vain. There was not even time to raise his staff against them, for they were filling the air, on him from all sides. They were chaos unleashed, and he the object of their fury.
Unbidden, a section of cloud yielded to the wind. The skies had roiled for weeks, shifting scope and allegiance, careening at times from banked grey to frost-breath blue, from near white to the dullest iron, and they did so again as Gandalf spun to defend himself. A break in that cloud revealed the rising moon, brilliant, and the land as if on cue lifted itself from smooth blackness into a sharp spectral silver. The light swelled until Day seemed upon them, spiting those shadows.
The Orcs cringed, left off their assault to throw their arms up before themselves. Night was their friend, aye, but they enjoyed it for its dark cloak. This day-night to them was anathema, useless for craven attack, for the concealment of twisted features and deathly withered hide. So they cowered and backed away, and Gandalf watched them shift, surely as had shifted the sky and the land. No longer could they be called bold, nor aggressive. Cloaked in their fear and their self-loathing, cloaked in the shame of unnatural heritage and dark intent, they scrabbled for cover. The woods were not long distant, and there they aimed themselves, running. The Wizard stood, staff solid in his grip, robes still heavy and certain.
His journey continued, as ever it would. The moon guided him now, hanging it seemed with a special bulbous silver quality against the black skies. It was the night - the night that had no certain name in no certain language and infinitely many names in infinitely many tongues, dead and alive. It was the night that signalled the awakening of the life deities, the Elven concept of a return, the shift from darkness to light. And it wrote itself across the moon's broad face and shone for Middle Earth and beyond to see. Gandalf eyed that radiant body, pondering what it might have seen, what intent it might have held when it first came upon one lonely plain, one beset young being. He nodded to it, lifted his staff as he walked.
~Present: On the Quest~
"And that," Gandalf finished, "signalled the beginning of my true appreciation for the power that this world - and all others - holds."
Frodo gazed at the Wizard, rapt. "The moon knew you needed help, and saved you," he breathed.
"Perhaps it did, Young Hobbit." Gandalf shrugged. "Perhaps it was only the wind." He re-lit his pipe, winked at his charges as he settled back to smoke.
"So, Sam," Merry prompted. "When's the food set to be ready?" He eyed the laden sticks, propped over the fire; he reached a few tentative fingers toward the nearest of them.
Sam slapped his hand away, then cuffed him upside the head for good measure. "Don't be reaching in there!" he cried. "It's hot, don't you know?" He watched Merry settle back, obviously impatient, and turned to the rest of the Fellowship. "I think we need someone else to offer a tale or something, just to keep certain Hobbits' minds - and fingers - off the food!"
"I agree," Gandalf chuckled. He turned to his left, eyed the one there. "Well, Prince Legolas? You made first mention of this night. Do you have aught to say of it?"
Legolas reflected a moment. "There is a poem Elves recite for Entulesse."
"Then," Gandalf replied, "this is the time to hear it."
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6 - The Elves
It was passed from mother to daughter, from father to son, eternal. Its words flowed as the rhythms of friendship, remembered in absence, rejoiced upon in presence, and providing of their wisdom with each new year. Those words were so familiar, so comforting against uncertainty, and they echoed joyous through his thoughts. Legolas smiled. "The verse is called `Companion,'" he said, speaking in the accessible Westron tongue:
"By Valar's hope and breath and life You rise with us, shine sleek silver Shine brighter this night than any Sailing a sea we shall one day follow To our waiting West, our eternity And you are our herald You are our hope Our pride Brave soul, noble keeper of the night Among stars ancient as your dreams Shall you join us when we set sail? Guide our final journey as you will As you have guided all our days? Shall you be among us And not among us For all time?"
"That's nice," Pippin sighed. "It's about the moon again, isn't it?"
Legolas nodded. "Aye. It is also of hope for our future, and trust in the wisdom of forces greater than ourselves." He remembered, then, and reached back into his things. "I have been so enjoying the conversation this night, I nearly forgot another Elven tradition."
Pippin raised his head, trying to see into the Elf's darkened pack. "What other tradition?"
Gathering them all, Legolas brought them carefully forth, cradled in his palms. He laid them neatly out before him and began sorting, fingers moving automatically. The choices had long been made; now was only time for the doing of them. He felt eight pairs of eyes upon him but made no haste, humming quietly to himself.
"Alright then, Elf," Gimli protested, "I should say you've held us captive to our curiosity long enough! What are those little things?"
Legolas lifted one. Wooden, as were its mates. Carved carefully, intricately. Lovingly. Laboured meticulously over through many nights - countless nights. The wood gathered along their travels, chosen with care, packed away for later use. He could remember each turn of his blade upon it, each cutting away of the unneeded wood, each careful detail as it came into being. He could remember finishing each, polishing it until it gleamed darkly in the firelight, wrapping it carefully and storing it away again. Nine, he had made, to catch nine souls. His own was so simple, created only for tradition's sake, for there was no other Elf to ensure that all in the Fellowship would be thus endowed. And all had to join, each a part of the circle, united in their destiny. The charms had waited for their time, their subtle power restrained by the walls of his pack. Until now.
"Gifts," he said, and although he spoke to none in particular, his fingers wrapped delicately around one small figurine and held it out, held it out for only one to grasp. "Each is a symbol of strength," he explained, looking only briefly into Gimli's eyes as the Dwarf studied the carving, turned it gently in his great square hands. "Each is intended to bring its bearer good fortune, and to turn his paths light." He picked the charms up in turn, remembering to whom each one would go, and distributed them to his fellows.
"This is...very nice." Aragorn's voice had turned unexpectedly deep; the Ranger ran his fingers over each fluid curve of the wood, over each turn of surface. He recalled those nights, Legolas a pale glow back from the fire, head bent to some task. He had never asked what it was the Elf did through those quiet hours. His own weariness had invariably overcome his curiosity, and duty had ever loomed. The small things were the first to fail, always. The greetings and the polite inquiries after one's health. The curiosity, the `what are you doing there, friends?' All those nights their archer had worked, hands slender and skilled, for this. The wind turned, blew smoke briefly into his eyes, and Aragorn blinked away tears.
"Who shall go next?" Frodo's voice was quiet, low. He sat gazing at the carved wood in his small hand, smiling gently at it, stroking it with one finger. And he had caught the rising emotions of his fellows, the tears that threatened to spill over into embarrassment, warriors unaccustomed to weeping for anything. No, it was no shame, but Legolas might feel discomfort at it, might feel himself there in that void over a cliff edge, certain that he had gone too far. And he had not.
"Boromir?" Sam turned toward the Man, sitting shadowed to Frodo's right. "You haven't told us anything yet," he urged, then turned back to the fire. The warrior had been as all the rest, suddenly heavy with emotion. His gaze had remained fixed on the ground before him.
"Aye," Boromir replied, and found his voice steady. He stared at the grass before him for a moment more, fingers rubbing the smooth planes of his carving. A great cat, he believed it to be. A creature of power and agility. His throat started to tighten once more, and he forced his thoughts irrevocably from the gift in his hand, and from all the meaning it held.
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7 - The Men
"I was barely out of my youth," he began. "Hunting the forest. I was sure of myself, of my ability, but that certainty was cast away when I met up with a Warg. The beast came upon me so suddenly that I had barely the time to slay it, and its claws caught me badly on my right side." His hand strayed there, the old scars clear in his mind's eye. The bleeding had been terrific and alarming, wringing his strength from him, bringing darkness over his thoughts. His fingers moved over the charm again.
"I found myself alone and bleeding badly," he continued. I had no companion, few supplies as I had intended only to be out for the day, and my horse had quit me after the attack. The last I had seen of it was its tail, running doubtless back to Gondor and the safety of its stall! Night was approaching - this night, actually - and the weather was cold. I shivered more with each hour that passed, making little progress." He shrugged. " I knew that death was upon me."
"But obviously not," Merry countered. "Or you wouldn't be here telling us about it."
Boromir laughed. "True enough, Little One. My fortune did turn that day, as the sun began its descent and my hope all but left. I was sitting propped against a tree, simply trying to staunch the blood and feeling quite thirsty and more than a bit ill, when I spied a buck. A magnificent, regal creature it was, its antlers a crown upon its head, and its eyes so sharp and sensitive upon me that I would have sworn it to be aware."
"He surely was," Legolas murmured.
"Perhaps. Perhaps you are right, my friend. Earlier that day, I would have aimed for it with killing on my mind, but then I was forced through my own helplessness to sit and watch it, study it, and so I did. And it studied me with a solemn…wisdom, a sense of knowing that reached into my very core. It seemed truly to understand me, and I to understand it. We were both warriors, it of the forest, fighting to find a mate and to keep its territory, I fighting nameless skirmishes and great wars alike.
As I watched, it turned away from me. I expected the spell it seemed to have cast to break then, for it to bound off and leave me once more alone, but it did not. That buck paced off a few slow steps, then halted there, head flung up, rack catching on the branches over its head. It waited there, and something in me was compelled to move toward it. So I got to my feet - with no little effort - and there I lurched, and made a few steps toward the buck. And do you know what it did?"
"What?" Pippin asked.
"It took a few more steps, then halted again, head still flung up. And so I kept my feet and followed it, and it never looked back at me. Not once. But it held fixed that mere distance between us, never moving too far ahead, stopping whenever I stumbled and waiting for me to follow again. We must have gone like that for hours, as the sun slowly set and the moon rose, and the air turned so cold I could hardly feel my fingers. I was in dreadful shape by then, hardly able to make three steps before falling. The blood had all but stopped flowing, but I thought that was only because I had so little left in me!"
"That's terrible!" Merry exclaimed. "But you kept going?"
Boromir nodded. "Indeed. The buck expected no less, and I felt then the strangest need to do its bidding. I rose again after each fall, each time finding it more difficult but doing it anyway. And the buck led me on - I knew not where.
Finally, night had closed in on us, and I was certain I could make it no farther. I had also left a blood trail all the way back to the site of the attack, so any Orc or other beast that wished to track me would have an easy time of it! And then, when the last of my determination and strength were fleeting, I heard them. Voices - Men." He accepted the bottle as it came his way again, took a swallow and felt the liquid course its fire into his belly, warming him against chills present and past.
"The buck led you to safety," Legolas observed.
"Indeed it did, friend," Boromir replied, passing the bottle to the Elf. "It led me to a small encampment of Men, and there I found warmth, shelter, and food. They bandaged my wound and tended me until morning, and then they took me back to Gondor. It is funny. I thanked them repeatedly for my life, but I never had a chance to thank that buck. It led me there, then fled, silent. The next morning, when I was alert enough to tell the Men of how I had arrived to their camp, a few of them went forth in seeking of the deer's track. They were experienced hunters, but they found nothing to indicate it had ever been there."
"That's incredible," Sam said, shaking his head. "It sounds difficult to believe."
"Well, I believe it," Pippin countered. "I know you saw the buck, Boromir." He shot Merry another pointed look. "Just like I saw that traveler."
Boromir grinned. His fingers ran still over the wood carving, but he no longer felt burning behind his eyes, and the pain had ebbed from his breast. It was a fine carving. Most fine. "Well," he said, "that was my offering. Who has not spoken?" Gazing directly across the fire, he caught the Ranger's gaze. "Aragorn?"
Aragorn sighed, remembering. "Men also have a verse for the Solstice night," he said. "I learned it as a youth, but it has been many years since I have uttered the lines."
"Can you remember it?" Legolas asked.
"Aye - I believe I can. It is called...`Insurgence:'
Night reign, long depth and breadth and height In surety, the victor's darkling dance And bold refrain - restraining of the light Unto a keeping cold, a bitter strain Of ebony that flows `neath mounted moon Down huddled hills, wild woodland in straight stance And bolder grows - in exaltation's flight Unbound by earth-ed sentiment it goes Release! The Heralds sing a coming dawn Vain victory shall fade to fated chance And cease the tow'ring tenets of this night As looming light shall swell, and darkness ease."Hmm," Legolas smiled. "A strong verse. Most stirring."
"Indeed," nodded Gandalf.
The others murmured their appreciation, each infusing his memory of the poem's cadence with his own perspective, each reviewing it through the lens of his own experience, and finding it relevant and meaningful and good.
Sam edged forward, peering into the fire. "Food's ready," he commented.
*****************************************************
8 - Together
They ate not in silence, not in and of the silence that had reigned over so many scant meals on so many dark nights. This dark night, their words were light and leaped across the fire, dancing along the unbroken circlet of them. Their laughter rose defiant and carried on the wind.
They passed the second bottle 'round, draining it to the telling of more tales, the trading of accomplishments, the recounting of the hilarious and the tragic. The sky lingered low to hear them, to sniff of the smoke and the smell of food, but if any enemy lurked nearby there was no sign of it, and Legolas unfolded his long legs often to move off a few feet, listening. Always he would return that they be unbroken once more, the fire-sun a contained explosion at their centre, setting the shadows about them to its own dance.
All had spoken; all had shared...something. The tiny, the vast. But none inconsequential there, none less or more vital to the whole. The words rang out still, pealed like bells upon the gloom, filling their ears as surely as the warm food and wine filled their bellies. And the night stretched ahead, close and thick and long, and they were bright in it.
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9 - Immaterial Gifts
Their meal finished, they paced together through trees dark and welcoming. Legolas sifted the night's sounds and smells and touches, all the surrounding life, through his senses as flour through a fine sieve. The leaves whispered to him and he listened, and breathed with them of the sharp clean night. The very ground beneath his feet pulsed; the wild creatures sang their own tributes to an enduring moon.
Gimli ran his gaze over the Elf beside him, and smiled. Legolas' ties to such a place as this were almost tangible, well nigh visible and solid enough to be touched. They wove their lacy tendrils between the Elf and the trees, between the Elf and the wild grass and the ivy that crept implacably among other life, crowding it. He - Dwarf - felt more kindred with the scattered boulders by which they passed. He felt more kindred with the rocky rising hills their fellowship would gain by next night. He felt more kindred with what lay beneath the soil than with what sprouted from it. But looking at the Elf, reading that simple unabashed joy, he could not fail to know, somewhere deep beyond the usual stretches of his heart, that there existed a great purpose and that they all - his young companion, the Hobbits, the Men, the Wizard, and he the Dwarf - were part of its doing.
"What?" Legolas caught and returned Gimli's smile. "I cannot recall a time you have appeared so serene, Master Dwarf. Is it this night?"
"Aye. And this company."
Legolas laughed, the sound a silver tinkle, like stars in a metal pail. "I did not believe myself to have such effect on you!" he lilted.
"Aye," Gimli said again. "This night, it would seem." He drew up, turned to the Elf. "You are of great beauty, my friend. And of great importance to your fellows." He reached up, laid a calloused hand gentle on Legolas' cheek, and turned away, striding silently back toward the camp.
For a moment, Legolas stood in an equal silence, watching the square form and stocky movements. "I love you too, Gimli," he called then, soft enough that a Dwarf could choose whether or not to hear. He gazed at the plane of shoulders, thought they might have straightened a touch more. He could not be sure.
~~~
Boromir sensed movement behind him before he heard it. The gentle rustle of robes signalled Gandalf's approach, and he smiled and set about lighting his pipe.
"An excellent idea, my friend," the Wizard chuckled approvingly. "May I join you?"
"Please do."
Gandalf settled and fetched his own pipe. "You sit alone for a reason, Boromir?"
Right to the point, as usual. Boromir smiled. "I do not know, Gandalf. `tis not my intent to be unsociable, especially on this glorious night." He spread his arms, taking in the vast sky, the plains that stretched out to an indistinct smear of dark horizon. "I suppose I just...wanted some time." He settled his hands back in his lap, realizing he still held Legolas' gift. "A great panther, I believe," he said, showing Gandalf.
The Wizard nodded. "Mine is an owl. Eternally wise, that one."
"The owl?"
"Nay. I was talking about the Elf."
Boromir grinned. "I remember Faramir used to distribute gifts like this for Solstice. Small things, but precious. Things he had made with his own hands. Trinkets, they would have been, had be simply laid out a few coins for them. But that labour and care made them dear." He stroked the cat's head, ran his thumb down its smooth strong back to the tip of its tail. "I had no gift to give in return," he murmured. "To Faramir. He always tried so hard, always turned his thoughts to others...."
"And your thoughts turn to him now, and to the distance between you."
"Aye."
Gandalf looked out over the sweep of land. He pulled on his pipe, sent a smoke ring wafting into the dark. "You give Faramir a great gift, friend, by being here. You give him the gift of hope for a future, for Men and for Middle Earth."
Boromir closed his eyes, his brother's fair countenance filling his mind. "He will have a future," he whispered, and like the smoke that carried them, the words lifted heavenward. But for the Wizard at his side, none would hear them short of the gods themselves. "He will have a future," he repeated, and knew it this time to be a prayer and a vow. "Even if I have none." He relaxed against the fallen log at his back, blew his own unsteady smoke rings into the night, and was glad for the one at his side.
~~~
Gimli gained camp, his eyes dry. The circle about the fire had dissolved of its own will, scattered into forest and out to the very edges of the light. He could see Boromir and Gandalf, their pipes twin extensions of their hands, sitting side by side against a felled tree. Aragorn was nowhere, likely in the woods himself.
He knew not where the Elf would go, either, and realized that he still had so little awareness of that fair soul. His fingers moved over the charm he had been given. It was a bear, great and grizzled, stout of body and heart. Aye - it would be a great good fortune to him if it imbued him with only a shade of its strength and courage.
Nearby, the Hobbits clustered, Merry and Pippin smoking. Sam lay back against the bulk of his pack; Frodo had lain his dark head on Sam's chest and was listening, smiling as though amused, as Merry told some undoubtedly exaggerated tale. As he watched, Pippin glanced over at him.
"Gimli!" he exclaimed. "Come, pray. Join us."
"Alright," the Dwarf grunted. "I don't mind if I do." He moved to sit beside Merry, quickly picking up the threads of the story. Something about a Shire lassie, a lost pony, and great trouble! Hobbits. Even in the darkness of such a night, they fairly glowed. He studied them in turn, their winsome quick smiles and the way they elaborated words with rapid gestures of hand, animated shifts of expression. They spoke with the whole of themselves, body and mind and soul, laughing through it, and Gimli tried to measure the worth of sheer innocent joy on such a bleak journey but could not. There was no measure great enough, it seemed.
Crossing his stocky legs and retrieving his own pipe from his vest, Gimli settled. The fire was warm at his side; the laughter of the Hobbits rang forth. This night was hardly so cold, after all.
~~~
He heard the Ranger's approach and turned with a smile that died just as swiftly as it had been born, fading as the day would fade. As all their days would fade, in time. Aragorn wore no smile; his gaze was shadowed. He stepped as lightly as ever he would, training and heritage granting him quiet even when his heart was obviously in turmoil. "What is wrong, Estel?" he asked, foregoing even a greeting.
Aragorn halted, studying the Elf. Legolas stood fair and natural amid the trees, so utterly at peace there that he might have been another wild and unattainable thing, racing heedless through forest, shying away from all that a Man would represent. Swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat at mere sight of his friend, Aragorn extended his arm, uncurled his long fingers from about the diminutive wolf. "I have no gift to give you in return," he whispered, and felt the first tear slip forth from hiding.
Legolas stood stunned, trying to compose his scattered thoughts into clear words. His own eyes threatened to fill as he shook his head. "Nay...Estel.... How can you believe that? You...you have already given me a gift greater than any I could ever give you." He watched Aragorn's gaze dart up to meet his, and nodded. "Aye," he breathed. "Aye."
"But how?" Aragorn searched the Elf's face for any sign of doubt but could find only the clearest depths of certainty. "How have I given you any gift, Mellon nin?"
"There," Legolas replied. "`Mellon nin.' Young friend. Estel, you have given me a friendship greater than any I have ever shared. And you have given me more than that."
Aragorn shook his head. "I cannot understand of what you speak, Legolas. Aye, we are the greatest of friends, but that is as much gift to me as it is to you, and I would say more so to me."
Legolas smiled. "You are eternally wise, Estel, but you are sometimes so blind that I wonder how you can find your way to the breakfast table, let alone anywhere else." His smile widened at the Ranger's half-confused, half-indignant expression. "Estel, you keep me safe. I do not mean in battle, although I am eternally assured of your support there. And I do not mean that you shelter me, either. But you do keep me safe from my own foolish choices, more often than I can even count."
"Mellon nin...you are grateful to me for punishing you?"
"Aye. I think I am. I know that I am."
Aragorn blinked. "I do not know what to say. I am not certain I have ever seen gratitude in you when you were over my knee."
"Nay," Legolas laughed. "Of course not in the moment. Not then, but later. Afterward, after everything is done. I think back over whatever wrong I have committed, what error, and I do feel gratitude. It rises in me. It swells in me so that I can hardly catch my breath, at times. It is staggering, Estel."
"It is?"
"Aye. You may not realize this, but I do know my own impulsive nature. I am very aware of it, and how it can lead me astray. I know that I take risks, and although I think nothing of them while I am haring off or running into that which I should leave alone, I know their significance later. When I realize what I have done, and what might have happened to me. I...frighten myself sometimes." He glanced upward, through the quiet trees, and spied the curve of a moon, veiled for the most part still behind cloud. Estel stood off, off where he had halted, waiting in that silent thoughtful way. Legolas caught his gaze once more. "When I stop to think about a course of action, it is not usually fear for my life that stops me. It is fear of how you will respond when you find out about it."
Aragorn sighed. "What I really want, Mellon nin, is for you to weigh risks to yourself, and to act in such a way that safeguards your life as much as possible. Not because you are afraid of being punished, but because you value yourself as highly as...I value you."
"I know that," Legolas nodded. "And I am beginning to do it. The one thing I remember most clearly from every time you've disciplined me is the overwhelming sense that...that I matter. That my life and my happiness are important to you, and you are willing to demonstrate how important as often as need be done. Your certainty that I am `valuable' is...convincing me of it, as well. Your responses to my mistakes, my welfare - those are tied together for me, Estel. They are linked in my mind and in my heart. I feel myself restrained because of you. Not confined, not oppressed, but `held.' Held in a net of your concern and your strength. When I cannot trust my own judgement, I can look to yours, and it will guide me well. How could that not be a gift? How could feeling warm and safe and so loved not be a gift? Estel, you...catch me. Always and forever." His eyes sought the ground once more, avoiding the tears filling Estel's eyes. "I cannot," he stumbled on, "...I cannot tell you adequately what that means to me...."
Aragorn was still no longer. The wolf warm in his hand, he swept in on Legolas in three long strides, wrapped his arms around the slender shoulders, reached to run his fingers through silken hair. The Elf was lavender and green grass in his embrace, warm as his own blood against his breast, at once delicate and ever so strong. He squeezed tighter, pulling the blonde head in to rest on his shoulder, turning to plant kisses on the fair brow. "I love you," he murmured. "I love you as companion and friend and family and I cannot find words enough to say it all. It is too big for me to say, how important you are to me...."
Legolas clung to the Ranger then, his arms wrapped around a solid chest, his face buried in warm hair. He felt tears running down his cheek, knew they were and were not his own, and his heart ached with chaste desire. About them the dark was complete and unyielding; about him the Ranger was all. He had never felt more safe than in the unbroken circle of those arms.
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10 - Ending and Beginning
They would seek sleep, and all moved toward the camp. As wandering stars they came - Gandalf and Boromir in from their pipes and quiet discussion, Gimli and the Hobbits turning to the arrangement of their things around the fading sun-fire, Aragorn and Legolas returning from the depths of the forest and of their own hearts.
A wind had kicked itself into being, fluttering through the trees and hastening the clouds in their slow flight, and of a sudden the sky proclaimed herself a virginal ocean, littered with ancient stars. And gracing her depths was the moon - no sliver, no silver edge peering circumspect through grey cover. A sphere, rising. Oh, she was glorious as the clearing black sky, and the Fellowship looked upon her with eyes dark and bright, damp and drying alike, and saw her to be friend.
Legolas felt a cool touch upon his cheek and gazed upward, his eyes catching the grey roil of clouds not yet gone. Down from them, down to the earth, to the forest and the plain and the wild beasts and the nine, the first white flakes fluttered and danced. Snow.
Merry, it was, who realized next. His head whipped up and a grin spread across his young features. He leaped from among his things, threw his arms out, giggling his delight. Pippin was beside him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Sam and Frodo stood each beside the other, profoundly silent, eyes locked on the heavens.
Gimli, too, halted his nightly routine, turned from his pack and his axe to stare at the falling white. Boromir moved to follow the Dwarf's lead, then Gandalf was also up, grey and white mingling.
They fell slowly at first, the flakes, fluttering frozen down from their high places, touching the ground and lying in sudden awkwardness, their flight ended. So they gathered, a spreading white over Middle Earth, purity upon taint. They could not alone quell evil, clean spilled blood from a battlefield, hide the scars of a world. They could not alone heal the sicknesses and the wounds. But they could blanket it all with their example, shine under the moon and show every sad creature what perfection must look like. They could do that much.
And they could feed four Hobbits who were now sticking their tongues out delightedly, catching the thickening fall and commenting on its sweet absence of taste. They could brush a Dwarf's black locks and beard white, caress a Wizard's skin, a Man's, and melt into tears there.
Aragorn turned to Legolas. The Elf stood, eyes filled with wonder, the faintest smile gracing his features, pulling mere beauty up into the realms of the gods. He was beyond stunning, and the snow rushed thicker to feel his hair, his radiant skin. It rushed to rest upon his shoulders, melt against the gentle curve of his neck. Unthinking, Aragorn leaned in to brush his own lips against those beautiful soft ones, a single chaste affirmation of love.
His heart leaped with the kiss, and Legolas could only turn to gaze at Estel, at the flakes gracing dark hair, gathering on strong shoulders. The Ranger's smile was beauteous, an exultation in his own breast. There were no words. He turned his gaze back to the sky, to the broken cloud casting its gift over Middle Earth. Another flake lit upon his cheek, gentle as the kiss of a dear friend.
So they stood, the nine, reverent there on a whitening plain, observing. The Hobbits giggled as Pippin began retelling the tale of the snowbank, and the silver moon watched over them, over also the Wizard and the Dwarf, the Men and the Elf, and heard their laughter.
The End.
Ending A/N: I've included definitions to Quendrian word/s (marked
in story with *) and the complete poems below:
Entulesse (noun) - return; as in `the return'
POEM: Moon (Hobbits) Oh smile from above, sweet and true Smile over the hills and the valleys below Longer this night, and deeper black too And covering us all, your sweet silver glow Do you rise higher now, in pride uplifted? And smile from a distance we can never climb? Oh surely you stay, with your smile we are gifted And surely you'll linger with us for all time
POEM: Companion (Elves) By Valar's hope and breath and life You rise with us, shine sleek silver Shine brighter this night than any Sailing a sea we shall one day follow To our waiting West, our eternity And you are our herald You are our hope Our pride Brave soul, noble keeper of the night Among stars ancient as your dreams Shall you join us when we set sail? Guide our final journey as you will As you have guided all our days? Shall you be among us And not among us For all time? POEM: Insurgence (Men) Night reign, long depth and breadth and height In surety, the victor's darkling dance And bold refrain - restraining of the light Unto a keeping cold, a bitter strain Of ebony that flows `neath mounted moon Down huddled hills, wild woodland in straight stance And bolder grows - in exaltation's flight Unbound by earth-ed sentiment it goes Release! The Heralds sing a coming dawn Vain victory shall fade to fated chance And cease the tow'ring tenets of this night As looming light shall swell, and darkness ease.