Disclaimer: Not mine. I resent that, terribly. No money made. Money desperately needed, but none made. Yay. WARNING: This chapter and next - angst. Heavy angst. Some dark stuff, so please be warned.



Denegare

in_parallax_lie@yahoo.ca




"Legolas, HOLD!"

"Aragorn?"

"You will not do this."

"But - "

"Heed me! We go as one, or we do not go."

The four benign words echoed in Aragorn's mind as Legolas sighed and resumed his crouch behind the scrubby undergrowth. ~I will distract them.~ Four words, four words. He would distract them, indeed. The Ranger felt his heart, constricted like the fists he clenched, begin to relax. The ache would remain, but for this moment his breathing slowed, his lungs ceased fluttering. For this moment the Fellowship was whole, and the formless dread that had risen like bitter bile in his throat was slipping away, slipping ever away.

But only for this moment. The Orcs grew inexorably closer, snuffling the air, their foul scent wafting on a light breeze. Too many of them, too many, and the Fellowship small and motionless in scrubby brush. The Ringbearer silent as a newborn fawn, its dam hovering while the lynx creeps near. And then rushing out, she, exploding from the brush, bursting with the primal protective instincts of a parent, of one entrusted with a small and defenceless life, of a warrior Elf sworn to shield one small Hobbit from all the threats in Middle Earth. And Aragorn could not even cry out that name, that damn stubborn brave Elf's name as Legolas exploded from the brush, running, throwing himself headlong into the sight of those hideous creations. Running like the deer, flaxen mane soaring behind, and the Orcs following.

Following.

Nay, none of the remaining eight would have been able to maintain such pace as that Elf, none could risk breaking cover and attracting the Orcs back toward the Ringbearer. Back toward the Ring while lessened in number, while their archer ran headlong like a deer away from them, leading that threat from their midst. The fawn safe, silent in the scrubby undergrowth, clutching its Ring and staring with fearful eyes out, out to the receding horde and the prize it chased.

They could not follow, so Aragorn turned instead to the course they had maintained, the course they had halted when (too many, too many) Orcs drew near. Seven faces watched, saw their fear and growing dread mirrored in his eyes, his stance, the helpless clench of his fists. And knew it would be pointless to argue, impossible to rush headlong after their lost when dark loomed so. They followed Aragorn when he began to move, heading for the not-too-distant hills, the safety those hills would afford until morning.

And Legolas would know where had they gone, and why, and he would turn to follow as sure as seven followed the Ranger. By night`s full fall, doubling back, eluding those Orcs, he would be with them again.

So it was that the Fellowship, not whole by the absence of one, not whole as dusk wheeled vulture-dark in the skies, moved on from its scrubby cover and the place where it had last seen its friend.

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They set up the camp wordlessly, tears choking them. It had been long (too long, too long), and those Orcs were gone but that Elf had not returned. Grief hung, tangible, thick.

~I will distract them.~ Damn him! Damn him damn him damn him. Where was he? Aragorn looked to Gandalf, to Boromir and Gimli. The night settled around them. All they could do was start a search, and they ached to do it nigh. But there were too many Orcs all through this territory, too many Orcs, and the Orcs roved at night, comfortable in the oily vulture-dark that nature must reserve for such creatures. Nay, it would have to be morning, would have to be light before they could set forth and seek the one lost, for the Ringbearer could not be left when danger flowed about them in foul waves.

~I will distract them.~

~Nay, Legolas - HOLD!~ Why had he not moved to the Elf's position, crouched at his side in the scrubby cover they maintained? Why had he not been there to notice the tensing muscles that heralded coming flight? Why?

~Heed me! Why did you not heed me, damn you?~

Boromir stood at the camp's edge, dark eyes roving over inches, miles. The horizon gave him nothing.

Gimli sat sharpening his axe, sharpening and re-sharpening the blade, testing it. Deciding it was sharp enough, sharp enough (to fight those Orcs, those Orcs that still must pursue the Elf). Deciding it was not sharp enough, and beginning anew.

Frodo hunched, huddled like the fawn whose dam had run from him. His eyes were impossibly wide, deer-soft. Sam tried to have him eat, and failed. Nay, a fawn would not eat, would not bend its head to soft grass in lieu of mother's milk, but would lie in silent repose, curled in on itself, and wait.

Gandalf sat, a grey silent pillar, on a fallen log (a dead tree - not a hero, nay, a hero does not fall like that) and watched, waited. From his pipe the smoke curled, lazy curls like the first smoke from a campfire. A pyre.

So they gathered their cloaks about them as dusk gathered, as the Orcs had gathered, as danger had gathered and sent one of them exploding, bursting from cover, running like that dam. They cried, some. They stared at the stars and wondered if those stars knew where their lost one was now. They did not speak as the night swelled, its curved black beak yawning.

There with them, not with them, was the Elf. Eternally the Elf, filling the spaces between them, the spaces between their rational thought and the primitive parts of them that wanted to scream and explode forth, seeking. The camp hung heavy with him, Gandalf's smoke wafting like loose strands of blonde hair, the fire muttering, Orc-like. And they looked not to the camp, not to the uneven comfort of each other, but outward, ever outward, to the places where hope stretched thin but still lived. The places where they might see a familiar shape, loose hair wafting. A familiar laugh. ~They could not catch me! I am an Elf!~ They hovered in that space's worry and fear, and grasped at hope in the bleed of blackness.

Morning came too slowly, an eternity of terror and worry and dark imaginings, of grief's deepening pull. Legolas captured by those Orcs, torn and bleeding out into the dark earth he loved so well. Legolas taken alive, taken to some foul camp, some foul dark lair, used in hideous ways. Helpless and wounded. Dying.

Dead. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead..

Aragorn nodded to Boromir, Gimli hefting his axe. They would leave the Hobbits with Gandalf and search. Merry and Pippin protested loudly, drew their blades and proclaimed themselves fit to search as well, but that was impossible. That was to leave Frodo with far too little protection, when he was arguably the one who needed it most. The two brave young souls nodded, their eyes shining with tears that even then, even in the forcible sustaining of hope (we will find him we will find him), threatened to fall. Threatened to leave the cover of dark eyes and explode, burst outward and run, deer-quick, down flushed cheeks. They were brave, those two. Brave like the dam, like the damn Elf. And then Boromir turned, gazing out, out of the small sad camp of eight, his eyes wide. Aragorn cast his eyes along that same line.

There. There, so distant, but nearing. Nay, could it be? Could it be? Behind him, Gimli sucked in a breath, muttered something Dwarvish that could be naught but prayer. The Hobbits crowded close. ~Is it he? Is it?~

Aye.the Elf approached, flaxen mane lifting in deference to the breeze, looking somewhat dirt-smudged and unravelled, tired from flight, from fight, from what else they knew not. Legolas smiled at them and started to run, toward them now. Toward them, with a smile of wondrous intensity and relief and joy.

"Legolas!" Aragorn broke through his shock first, willing feet to unroot themselves, move. He reached the Elf only paces from the place where he had stood and first seen him. Worlds from the grief of that place, and he grabbed him and pulled him close, strained him close against his breast, his heart threatening to break once more under sheer overwhelming relief. He held him thus only a moment, thrusting the Elf then back to arm's length and running eyes over him, over the smudges and the scrapes, the unravelling braids and torn clothes. "Are you alright? Are you injured?" The rest clamoured about them. ~He's alright, aren't you, Legolas? You're alright? Those are just scrapes - nothing to worry about there. Did the Orcs catch you? Did you have to fight them?~

"Nay, everyone," Legolas laughed. "I left the Orcs far behind, as I knew I eventually would. They never had a chance to capture me."

Aragorn sighed, ragged, salt lingering in his mouth, in the raw funnel of his throat. He felt a swell of something else in his breast, felt it crowd out the joy. Anger. "Do you have ANY IDEA what we have gone through this last night? Do you?"

The Elf's smile disappeared, his eyes darkening. "I am so sorry, Aragorn.everyone. I am." As though catching for the first time that scent of his near death, he swallowed. Tears welled, echoed the hard-shed tears of his comrades. "I did not mean to worry you," he continued, his voice small then, small and sad. "I just wanted to lead the threat away from you." His last words, his last look, were to Frodo, who smiled gently in reply but shook his head.

"I know, Legolas. But you frightened us so. We thought you were dead."

Aragorn studied the scrapes and the smudges, that ragged unravelling braid, the tear-filling eyes. He looked to Gandalf's grim face, seeing his own fear, his own growing rage. So too in Boromir's dark eyes, and Gimli's, and indeed the Hobbits'. "This cannot be left such," he said, and felt more than heard the ripples of understanding, of agreement, from the rest.

Legolas bowed his head, tears falling now, tears running slower than the deer from cover of gentle eyes, running not fast enough to outdistance Orcs or Uruk-Hai or Black Riders, or indeed the anger of worried friends, of terrified grief-worn friends who had spent one eternal night thinking him dead. So easily, easily might he be dead, and vultures already upon him. So easily might the horde have caught him and done what it would. His tears ran, silver in the new light, and Aragorn wanted only to wipe them away as he closed his hand about the Elf's slender arm.

Gandalf motioned to a fallen log, the log where he had sat smoking his pipe through the eternal night, and Aragorn nodded, turning, leading Legolas. Gimli moved, quickly as if to intercept them, but then merely slipped the archer's quiver from his back and retreated with it, watching. "I am sorry, Legolas," the Ranger said, wishing his voice trembled not with the bones of so much worry, wishing his eyes did not still shine with his own tears, the exhaustion of one driven from terror to grief to ecstasy in a span of short hours. In an eternal night, a brief morning.

He seated himself and pulled the Elf, limp and silent, bowed under the weight of their fear, their grief, over his lap. Lifted the dirt-smudged tunic out of the way, lowered the leggings to expose pale skin. ~I'm sorry, my friend.~ His hand came down, lifted and came down again, and Legolas sobbed, surely not from the growing pain as much as from shame, from the shame and the burden of their worry, their terror. He had caused them such pain, such pain as to pale even that which was now being visited upon him. Aragorn trusted not the firmness of his voice, felt his own tears start to run again at the sounds of his friend's sorrow, but he forced himself to start speaking, to start relating that which was too important not to relate, not to make understood. "We were terrified," he breathed, then repeated, louder: "We were terrified. We could not follow you when you ran." His palm came down again, harder, punctuation to each statement. "We could do naught but continue, camp at the first safe place we found." Legolas cried harder, limp over his thighs. His palm stung as he brought it down once more, harder still against reddening skin. "We could only set up camp, not even launch a search while night still waxed." Again his hand met the Elf's bottom. Again and again, falling and rising and falling. He was crying openly now, himself, and it did not matter. "So we spent this last night aching for morning, our minds running to the most horrifying possibilities." Again, and Legolas sobbed so hard he shook, his tears streaming. Again. Again. "Do you understand this, Legolas?" Aragorn expected no answer wrung from those sobs, from that understanding grief. Legolas knew, and he was certain of it. Again. His arm was tiring, but he forced himself on, voice shaking with his own sobs. "We imagined you captured -" Again. "We imagined you wounded, bleeding -" Again, and again. "We imagined you dead at their hands." Again, so hard Aragorn had to bite his lip against his own cry as pain shot through his tortured palm. Again. Again. Legolas was shaking, his sobs rising to screams.

And then it was over, and the Elf lay over the Ranger's lap, lay shivering along hysteria's lean ragged edge, screams diminishing to hoarse sobs once more. Tears running as he had run from the Orcs, leaving his terrified friends to worry and imagine and wait through one eternal night. Aragorn wept as he pulled the leggings up over crimson flesh, as he gathered his shaking friend into his arms and rocked him and kissed his flushed brow and whispered words of love that would not yet - but would, eventually would - filter through the grief, the sorrow. The Orcs did not have this one, this precious one. The Orcs would not have him, if one Ranger had his way. Legolas was not dead, was not dead not dead not dead. Not dead, but alive and crying and safe in Aragorn's arms, alive and safesafesafe and trembling as his sorrow eased in the embrace, as he cried himself into exhaustion like the exhaustion of eight who had waited through an eternity to see him again.

Then Aragorn was not alone with Legolas, not alone to hold and cry with his friend, for Gandalf was beside them, one hand trembling so slightly on Aragorn's shoulder and the other stroking the Elf's flaxen mane, sad grey head bowing to place a kiss on blonde one. Boromir was there, rubbing the Elf's back, shedding his own tears, whispering his own words of comfort. Gimli was there, his eyes damp as well, wiping away the Elf's tears with a touch too gentle tohave come from such knotted hands. The Hobbits were there, sniffling, folding themselves up against that trembling body, surrounding Legolas and Aragorn both, holding them both. The nine, the Fellowship whole once more, there in the camp that had seen so many tears, so much sorrow and fear and grief and joy. So much love.

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He was walking, through a field. Grasses blew. The Fellowship was ahead, scattered, eyes downcast. Following.something. Seeking. Above, the skies were crystal-blue, clear and open. There was nothing wrong. There was something wrong. The Elf was not there. Legolas was..

Running? Running ahead, ever eternally ahead of the pursuing Orcs? Had he reached the Undying Lands by this time? Aragorn looked to the ground and saw nothing but the whispering grass corpses, ground into bone-dust beneath his feet.

One of the rest called out, and they all stopped, turned. Aragorn turned as well, although he did not know why. What were they seeking in that grass? What had they found? He moved forward, moved forward without realizing he did so. Floated silent above the dead grass. Gimli was there, one of a circle of them (circle of seven, only seven only seven). He held it in his hand, stared at it in sorrow.Aragorn strained to see..

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"It was a most unusual scene, Legolas. I have never had such a strange dream, that I can recall." Aragorn sat by the fire, Legolas at his side. Behind them, scattered through the small camp, the rest stirred, went about their quiet business.

Legolas frowned. "How was it unusual?"

"I do not believe I can say," Aragorn replied with a shrug. "Perhaps only for the feelings it moved in me."

"Such as?"

"Fear. Dread. Intense sadness.it coursed through me like a dull fire, burning and chilling at once. I felt.empty. Lifeless, although I lived. And you were not there."

"Perhaps that is your answer, Estel." Legolas turned his wise countenance on the Ranger. "Our dreams have meaning. We must learn to listen, and seek that which they tell us."

"Aye. I know what this dream was saying. It was saying I have been terrified of late."

"Indeed."

"Terrified for you."

Legolas sighed. A sad smile played about his lips. "I know, dear friend. And I am sorry for frightening you. My intent was never to cause you grief."

"Yet you caused it."

"Aye."

"But it will fade now. Now that you are returned safe, it will fade."

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Vague shouts reached him, but from a distance. Someone was yelling. Nay, many were yelling, and there was carried over the voices a hollow metallic cacophony. Echoes of swordplay.echoes of battle.

Aragorn reached for his sword and found it not. Its sheath hung skeletal at his side. He gazed slowly about him, slowly about, seeing battle. The Fellowship was there, and it was in battle, and he needed to go to it, to run into battle with it, but he had no sword and his feet were rooted to the dark ground. He looked at the whirling shapes (too fast, too fast), tried to follow the lines of combat.

Seven. There were only seven fighting. Where was the Elf?

And then it was later, perhaps much later. Aragorn was walking, Gandalf beside him. He looked to the Wizard. ~Why have I not my sword?~

But Gandalf spoke riddles, nonsense he could not follow. Something about not needing it, not needing it right then, and they had to be careful. Boromir was hurt, and they had to be careful.

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Aragorn listened to the vague snores of his sleeping fellows, but did not sleep. He watched the fire, watched the Elf standing nearby, on guard.

"You should rest, Estel."

"Nay. I fear another dream like the last."

"Was it so monstrous?"

"It was.strange. Strange like its predecessor. We were in battle - at least all the Fellowship but you and I were in battle. You were absent again, Gods know where, and although I was there, I was unable to participate."

Legolas crossed to sit next to him. "Why?" he asked, concern weighted in his gaze.

"I had no sword! I could do naught but watch, helpless."

"You have felt helpless a great deal lately, have you not?"

"Aye. Helpless to guard our small group, helpless against the dangers we face."

"Where was your sword?"

"I do not know. I asked Gandalf.."

"In the middle of battle?"

"Nay, later. He spoke such that I did not understand. Told me that Boromir was hurt, that we had to be careful and that I needed not the sword."

"Hmm."

"Indeed."

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They were walking again, ever walking, flanked by rolling hills. Aragorn gazed slowly about the land, recognizing it not, but kept walking. Gimli was nearby, his eyes ahead.

~Gimli.~

~Aye?~ A look, shadowed, in his direction, but no slowing of the pace.

~Why do I not have my sword?~

A pause. Consideration. ~You don't need it now, Aragorn.~

~Why not?~

~You simply don't.~

~Where is it?~

~With Gandalf.~

~May I have it? We might encounter Orcs (there were Orcs near, too many Orcs).~

~Nay, Aragorn. Boromir is hurt.~

~Why?~

~Because you hurt him.~

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Aragon pondered the stick he was holding, divested of the meat it had held. He thrust its tip into the sputtering fire. "That dream was more strange than the others," he said. Legolas was behind him, unseen.

The Elf approached, sat. "You saw more."

"Aye."

"Tell me."

"I asked Gimli if I could have my sword back in case we encountered Orcs, but he said nay, then told me I had hurt Boromir."

Legolas leaned toward him. "You hurt him with your sword?"

"Perhaps." Aragorn shrugged, that casual gesture belying his lingering unease. "Perhaps that is why they took the sword from me. What do you think it means?"

"I would not be able to answer that as well as you, Estel."

Aragorn laughed, noting Legolas' smile. It was good to see his friend's smile again. "And I thank you for avoiding the question," he chuckled.

"That is what I am here for, friend." Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder and rose, then turned back. "Estel, was I there?"

"Nay, I do not recall seeing you. The details are understandably vague, but I have the sense that you were not there."

"Hm." Legolas moved off, leaving the Ranger with his questions.

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It was darkening again, dark. Around him the trees leaned in, menacing, reeking in their foul intent. The sky was low and scudded with slate. The ground was black. Vulture-black.

Gandalf led them, walking. As Aragorn watched, the Wizard halted, looked down. The others gathered; someone moaned and began to weep. Aragorn wanted to move forth, move forward to them, but he was rooted like the menacing trees, rooted to the vulture-black ground. ~What is it?~

Boromir turned toward him. The Man's arm was bandaged, held in place by a makeshift sling. His lips moved, but the sound seemed slower to reach Aragorn's ears. ~Do not worry yourself, Aragorn.~

But Aragorn worried, felt dread rising like bile in his throat. Why could he not move? Where was his sword, to fight? There were Orcs nearby, too many Orcs. He seemed to remain in that spot, yet also began to move forward, move forward toward the spot where the Fellowship (only seven.where was the Elf?) stood. He floated toward them, unknowing of how he did it. But he did not reach them, could not reach them, for Gimli moved from the group and stood before him, barring his way.

~Gimli, where is my sword?~

~You do not need it right now, Aragorn.~

~What do you see? Orcs?~

~Nay, there are no Orcs here.~

~What do you see? Let me see it. Let me see it!~ But the Dwarf moved to stop him, rooted him forcibly to the ground. Aragorn struggled but could not free himself. Dread swelled, turned to terror - monsters loomed, set upon him. They were hideous - Orcs! Grasping foul Orcs, tearing at him, pushing and pulling, dragging him to the black ground, and he fought until blackness claimed him.

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"Estel?"

Aragorn shivered despite the fire's warmth, and Legolas crouched at his side, concern marring his smooth features, darkening his eyes. "Legolas," the Ranger breathed, feeling the shudders that claimed him, "I have no further wish for sleep. These nightmares plague me so, and they worsen with each passing night."

"You have to let this go, Estel. Your nightmares speak to your fear, but I am safe now. You know that."

"Why did you not heed me?" Aragorn turned to the Elf, anger rising. "You caused us such worry and grief as to drive us half mad, and I still suffer the effects of it."

Legolas did not retreat before the accusation, but closed his eyes for a moment, and nodded. "And there it is, Estel."

"There is what?"

"You are still angry with me." The Elf smiled ruefully. "I thought you might have worked that all out upon my return, but you carry it still."

"How can I not?"

"It is a choice you must make, friend. You must choose to hold it close to you, or to give it release."

Aragorn shook his head. "It is not that easy. All that we have been through-"

"Aye. I know what I put you through." Legolas grabbed the Ranger's shoulders, but gently, gazing steady into his eyes. "I know what I put you through, and I am sorry, but it was necessary. Those Orcs were too many - they would have come upon us, and we would all be dead."

"I do not believe that."

"Believe it, Estel, for it is true."

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Walking, again. Still. The day shone listlessly, the Fellowship trudging listlessly. Aragorn reached for his sword. It was not there. The Elf was not there. ~The trees are watching us. There are Orcs in the trees in the trees in the trees..~

He wanted to go to Gandalf, who led them, and demand his sword. But Boromir was hurt, his arm in a sling, and they had to be careful. Someone was weeping, and they had to be careful.

They had to be careful now.

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"It was necessary, Estel. And you know I speak the truth. You know it."

"I do not want to know such, Legolas. There is no reason, no reason good enough for what you did." The words were so small, so futile.

"You must let this go, Estel. You know in your heart why I disobeyed you, why I ran." Legolas smiled, and he was beautiful. "I did it because I loved you."

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Aragorn opened his eyes, finding their small camp clothed in night's finery. Bathed in silver under the Elvish rays of a silver moon. He looked over the vague sleeping shapes around their dead fire. Hobbits, a Dwarf. Another Man, Boromir, his arm bandaged still. His arm wounded, wounded by Aragorn's sword. He had hurt him, had hurt him while spiralling down, caught in the fractured decaying orbit of his own grief. The details were vague, but they were there. Further, near the trees, a grey pillar - Gandalf, holding his sword in safekeeping for the moment when he would need it again, watching over them all. And he knew, knew this was the waking time. The hazy distorted cloak of his own shock, that which he had called nightmare in order not to believe, fell away. The details around him sharpened, honed themselves like the edge of a sword. The point of an archer's arrow, broken in the grass, found broken in the grass by Gimli, while they eight searched for their lost. He looked out, into the trees that no longer menaced, no longer reeked with foul intent as they had in that place where the bloody cloak, the archer's blood-bathed cloak, had found its final rest on the vulture-black ground and been found by that same sad seeking octet. He looked out to where he could so easily imagine another, one he finally knew he would not see again but for in the sweet embrace of memory, and dream.

~I did it because I loved you.~

A tear traced its way down his cheek. The stars were brighter this night, silver and beautiful like one who had loved them enough to run, deer-swift and brave. A dear sweet noble soul that would sleep eternal in ancient starshine. He was awake. Finally awake. ~I loved you as well, Mellon nin.~

And he smiled.


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