Legolas, walking beside Gandalf at the
head of the Fellowship, raised a hand, and the rest dutifully
halted. The Elf needed say nothing, only execute that single
sweep of limb, the move they all knew so well. Too well,
now.
There were Orcs everywhere in this region. They snarled
and flowed, viscous black, over Middle Earth; they polluted her
with their twisted forms, their hideous cries. They insulted her,
mocked her, snuffled over her curves, oblivious. Oblivious to her
loathing for them and the way she shrank, flowers wilting ever so
slightly, breezes darkening, growing colder, in their presence.
They snuffled and scraped at her, and she, repulsed but with no
escape, flinched instinctively, and cursed them under her grassy
breath.
The Fellowship halted, changed course, moved from open
territory into cover. They had clung to the tree line for days,
wary of the open spaces and those roving Orcs; now they took to
the forest despite its darkness and the threats it might also
hold. They hacked through brush thick as flies on a corpse; they
gazed back to where the trees thinned, where the open spaces lay,
and they watched the Orcs pass by, unaware. They found a path,
then, and took it, knowing only that it led deeper into the
wood.
Aragorn advanced to walk just behind Legolas and
Gandalf. "The Orc bands grow more in number with each day,"
he stated. "It is as though we move into their territory,
yet I know not of this region belonging to them. What say
you?"
Gandalf shook his head. "I know not, as you,
Aragorn. It is inexplicable that the foul creatures should clog
this region so. And grow more numerous, as you have said."
He eyed the trees, uneasy. "I believe you are right,
however, in that we move deeper into their lands."
"We
should know why." Legolas had remained silent to this point;
now, he glanced from Wizard to Ranger, tilted his head as he
listened for sounds beyond the range of their hearing. "We
should send a single scout, one who could slip quietly into the
depths of these Orcs' forces and discover what brings so many of
them here. I would be the obvious choice."
"Nay,
Legolas," Aragorn replied, cutting Gandalf's intended reply
short with a raised hand of his own. "There is no reason to
investigate these creatures. And we are certainly not going to
send you into their midst alone."
"Aragorn,
there could be some reason they gather here! Such a mission
might-"
"Might get you killed." Gandalf, it
was, who managed to speak first this time. Aragorn nodded at his
words. "Legolas," the Wizard continued, "this
conversation is over, as of now. There will be no further thought
of such folly. Do you understand?"
Legolas sighed, but
nodded. "Aye. I shan't mention it again." Then he moved
off, just slightly, ears trained into the deepening trees.
Gandalf
nodded in the Elf's direction as Aragorn stepped forward to walk
beside him. "He is reckless with his own life, you
know."
"Aye," Aragorn sighed. "Despite his
skill in battle, he has much to learn about which battles are
indeed worth fighting, and which ones should be left."
"Indeed.
I have lost count how many times he has leaped heedless into
peril, and I have also lost count of the sleepless nights I owe to
him."
Aragorn chuckled. "I understand all too well,
Gandalf. Legolas has caused me more than one restless night, and
will likely cause me more."
So they continued, down
paths that wound, arterial, through the forest, and sought a
clearing - any break in the trees that would allow for camp - as
night welled.
And they found that which they sought, trudged
into what seemed merely a hesitation between trees. The earth was
black, rich below their feet. Damp. The treetops crowded above,
jostling one another as though regretting that space they had
left, resenting any intrusion into it and mindful to hide it from
the sun and the moon and the watching stars. And in it, the
Fellowship settled, laying down heavy packs, laying down cloaks
for use as blankets, building a poor fire that sputtered and
choked and did little to warm bones thin from chill. They ate,
muted; there were no tales, no adventures related by firelight.
They lay down, Boromir pacing out his watch just inside the
resumption of trees. They slept, uneasy but exhausted.
Legolas,
singly, lay awake. His eyes sought the stars but could see none
through towering evergreen limbs. His mind reached out, out into
the trees, questioning. What brought the Orcs so to these lands?
Why did they gather, and why so blatantly? Never had he seen Orcs
in such number, or so willing to traverse open spaces when light
still shone down over them. Orcs were timid, cowardly beasts, and
the boldness of these Orcs disturbed the Elf. He listened for them
even as he knew Boromir listened, even as he heard the Man treading
gentle through the wood about their camp.
This was folly.
Gandalf had deemed his suggestion foolish, but the true meaning
and measure of a fool was in one who did not act, who did not ask
questions and seek answers when confronted with such strangeness.
It was pure folly to continue this journey whilst knowing naught
of the obstacles and dangers before them. And Legolas was no
fool, had never been a fool.
He listened, waiting now, the
decision resting uneasy at first in his limbs, more still in his
loyal heart. His faith was with Aragorn, with Gandalf, with the
rest of the Fellowship, and that faith was not one meant to be
broken. But even as he avowed and affirmed his loyalty not only
to their cause but to their wisdom and the judgements they made,
even as he knew he respected their leadership and would never
betray such, his limbs moved. Boromir was on the other side of
the camp, stepping lightly. This was the time to slip out and be
gone, be off to seek answers before any could raise a hand and
bid him halt. His limbs moved, curled; his body rose.
He
was on his feet, breath measured and light, listening. He was
moving, gone.
~~~~~~~~
Frodo watched the quiet scene
unfold, his own eyes filling. Legolas was silent, stoic
throughout, but Frodo knew he had to be in such pain, so lost in
it, in the humiliation and the grief. He himself knew it well,
knew that Strider would not be lenient, would not stop until the
lesson had been irrefutably learned. But Legolas clung to what
little control he had left, bright eyes closed to this painful
world, lower lip imprisoned between even white teeth in desperate
efforts to hold back rising sobs. His slender frame trembled,
shook beneath the heavy slaps. Frodo watched, and he cursed the
necessity of it, and the fact that Legolas would still want -
still need, in the part of him that needed to do for his fellows,
to keep them safe above all risk to himself - to go. Even after
this endless pain and humiliation and grief, played out in front
of them, he would still want and need to go secure that
information which he felt vital to their continued welfare. He
loved them, and he would.
Sam sat beside him, eyes fixed at a
point near his feet; Merry and Pip sat, hands intertwined, beside
Sam. Tears threatened to claim them all, and they flinched
visibly at each sharp meeting of palm and backside.
But
while they three stared at the same dark earth that now soaked up
silent silver Elf tears, while they willed themselves not to listen,
not to hear, Frodo remained there, present, and allowed himself
to feel all that he would.
It finally ended, and seven
reluctant witnesses surely breathed sighs of relief as the
healing began, the soothing whispers and the rocking of a tired
body, the yet silent tears now shed into a warm embrace. The
kisses and the forgiveness as exhaustion pulled one ever closer
to sleep. Frodo turned then, finally, to his place near the fire,
to his warm waiting bed and its promises of rest. Sam took his
cue and also moved to settle; Merry and Pippin followed Sam.
"That was awful," Pippin said, sniffling. He had
given in to his own tears some time back, heart aching for their
friend.
"I've never seen Strider go so hard on him
before," Merry added, and Sam and Pip both nodded agreement.
Frodo turned onto his side, facing them, head propped up on
his hand. "Legolas could have been killed, trying to go
after the Orcs like that."
"I know," Sam
murmured. He pondered a moment, frowning. "You know he'll
try again, don't you?"
"Yes. I think that's part of
the reason Strider was so harsh. This was already his second try.
I heard Boromir tell Strider that he gave Legolas a few swats
before bringing him back to camp the first time, and Legolas must
have immediately tried again. So I think Strider wanted to wear
him down, exhaust him so that he'll sleep through tonight."
"But that would only keep Legolas here for tonight,"
Merry observed, "and Gandalf says we travel this wood for
several more days. Do you think Legolas will try to leave
tomorrow?"
Reluctant but knowing denial would change
nothing, Frodo nodded. "It's in him. He feels a
responsibility to us, to do whatever need be done for our safety.
And if he is willing to risk being captured by Orcs for us, then
he's surely willing to risk another spanking."
"He
shouldn't have to."
"I know, Merry. But that is
Legolas' way. He takes on all the responsibility because he feels
like he isn't doing his duty otherwise."
"No,
Frodo - I mean he shouldn't have to do THIS. He shouldn't have to
go after those Orcs just because Gandalf and Strider aren't
willing."
Frodo shook his head, puzzled. "Are
you angry with them, Merry?" He was mildly surprised to see
an answering nod, faint but definite.
"I think I am.
Legolas is so desperate to find out what those Orcs are all about
that he's gotten himself punished by Boromir AND Strider now, and
it looks like he'll just wait for another chance to do it again.
All because they won't take his suggestion seriously."
"I
think they took it seriously," Sam countered. "I think they
took it plenty serious, and decided it wouldn't work. You know
how Orcs are - they can sense Elves. They might have caught
Legolas, and then that might have been the end of him."
Merry shook his head, stubborn lines etching themselves
around his set lips. "He would have been careful - he knows
about Orcs. And if he's so anxious to find out what they're doing
around here, then I'd say there's good reason to listen. Legolas
is thousands of years old, you know. He's been fighting Orcs
longer than Strider's been alive. And just because Strider won't
let him go, that doesn't mean it's right."
"So
what are saying, Merry?" Frodo asked, quietly. He had sensed
his cousin's shift from anger and indignation to an increasing
resolve, and unease welled. Merry, when he made up his mind,
could be as stubborn as any proud Elf or Ranger.
"Maybe
I'm saying we should help Legolas this time." Merry nodded -
once the words were out, given voice, they sounded even more
sensible and right than they had sounded in his thoughts. He
squared his shoulders. "I think we should go ourselves, and
find out everything Legolas needs to know. That way, he won't
have to risk getting spanked again, and we'll still have all the
information we need."
The gape Sam fixed on Merry
might have been comical if not for the substance of Merry's
words. "I don't believe you've suggested that!" he
exclaimed, and the other three moved in unison to hush him before
Strider noticed their increasingly intense conversation. None
wished the Ranger's anger directed upon them. Sam clamped his mouth
shut for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I can't believe
it," he continued, voice hovering just above a whisper but
no less emphatic. His eyes pinned Merry in a glare that could
have melted ice, could have spurred their small damp-wood fire to
a greatness theretofore unknown. "And what if WE get
captured by Orcs? Have you thought of that?"
Merry
just shrugged. His back was up, and sensible words would not reach
him so easily. "We won't," he asserted simply. "First
of all, they can't sense Hobbits like they can Elves. Second,
we're small enough to hide in shadows that Legolas just can't get
into. Third, we're all dark - well, generally speaking. Legolas
is so bright he practically shines wherever he goes. Fourth,
Hobbits are known for the ability to move with great quiet, and
we're experienced travelling in woods. So we CAN get close to the
Orcs without them knowing, and we CAN get the information we
need, and bring it back here." His argument neat and laid
out, he folded his arms in satisfaction. At his side, Pippin was
gazing at him with what appeared to be a newfound respect, his
own face reflecting agreement.
Sam was only marginally
swayed. "Alright," he conceded. "That all sounds
very logical, and I do understand about us being better off if we
knew what the Orcs are doing, and I also don't want to see Legolas
run away again, but have you thought of what Strider would do to
us? Because I'm definitely thinking of it!"
"Indeed
I have." Merry had the look of one who had considered every
possibility, covered every angle and now stood immune to the
chance of failure. "Strider was angry at Legolas, but
Legolas never made it that far before he was caught, both times."
He shrugged. "I know Elves are supposed to be so good at
sneaking around, but Legolas obviously didn't think he'd be
caught by Boromir and let his guard down. "We won't.
"We
won't, oh?"
Ignoring Sam's tone, Merry pressed on.
"We'll find the Orcs and find out what they're doing, and
then we'll bring back the information right quick. If we move
fast enough, we could be back in camp in the morning when
everyone gets up, and then we just tell Strider and everyone that
we did it and it worked. They'll be so happy for the information
that they won't even think of punishing us." He glanced at
Pip. "Nobody punishes you when you win," he said, and
the younger Hobbit nodded in solemn agreement.
********************
"What were they thinking?"
Gandalf paced the camp, his voice booming under sleepless trees.
One end to the other. Back. His staff was a drumbeat, striking
the earth at each step, echoing his worry and his anger. In his
hand, smug, uncaring of a new owner, lay the Ring.
Aragorn
could not answer, and so he set his lips in a thin, grim line.
His own fury rose but would not reach - would never quite reach -
his high sustained tension, the near panic that had gripped him
from that singular unforgettable moment when Boromir had wakened
them all with the news.
The Hobbits were gone.
"I
might have an idea." The rest turned toward Gimli, who wore a
mask of his own worry and fear. He held his axe ready as though
Orcs were even then rushing in on them; he wrung the smooth wood
handle and cleared his throat before continuing. "I heard
them," he admitted. "I heard the Hobbits talking. They
were upset because of..." - his gaze flicked briefly to
Legolas before returning to Gandalf once more - "...because
they thought Legolas would hare off again, and they didn't want
to see him in more trouble because of it. I heard nothing in
particular to tell me they would leave, but now I realize what
they must have decided to do."
"They went after the
Orcs themselves..." Legolas breathed, tremors settling in
his voice. "They went to learn what the Orcs are doing, so I
would not have to...." His eyes, wide and still reddened from
tears, sought the forest's unbreakable shadows. They were out
there, somewhere, because of him. Nay....
Aragorn moved
then, saw Legolas edging toward hyperventilation and moved to
calm him before it could escalate. The Elf's nerves had been
strained beyond all reason, beyond his limits by the ever-
present
Orcs, by his own inability to defend his Fellowship against them,
by the grief he had suffered at Aragorn`s hand. And he was
exhausted, much more than the rest. Slipping to his side, the
Ranger restrained him gently as shudders took his slight frame,
tried to lead him back to his spot near the fire, back to
desperately needed sleep.
Legolas twisted away. "Nay!
I will not lie down now, not while the Hobbits are alone out
there! We need to begin a search." He reached for his bow
and quiver, but Aragorn moved with reflexes not fatigue-dull, and
seized them first.
"Nay, Legolas!" he barked. "You
will not be going anywhere. Hear me on this!"
Gandalf
left off his pacing then and strode to the centre of camp, a silver
flow of hair and robe that dared any to defy his command. A gentle
but meaning-filled look stilled Legolas' increasingly frantic
struggles, moved Aragorn's focus away from the Elf. Boromir and
Gimli stepped forward, expectant. A plan had to be made, a calm
path beaten through the fear and looming panic. "We will not
await morning," the Wizard decreed, "for dawn would
likely shed light on our worst imaginings - our friends lost to
us forever. The search begins presently. Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli
and I shall move as the four winds from this point. Legolas, you
will remain here and -"
"Mithrandir! I can better
serve -"
"Nay." Gandalf spoke with a quiet that
brooked no debate, shaking his head. "You are fatigued, and
this search may prove long and testing. And we do need someone
here in case the Hobbits should return." He studied the
lines marring Legolas' normally smooth features, the shadows
lurking in normally bright eyes, and the desire. The Elf wanted -
needed - to be of use, to reclaim those gone in misguided service
to him. "I know you want to help, my friend," he
murmured, moving to clasp Legolas' tense shoulders. "But we
need you here. Will you do this for us?"
Legolas sought
words to sway Gandalf, to convince Aragorn that he could still be
trusted, but the words were as his composure, tenuous and
ephemeral, and he could no more gather a coherent argument than
could he banish exhaustion's tremors from his limbs. "Aye,"
he sighed. "I will remain here." Tears threatened
again, testament to the shame of one who could now only be left
behind, but he clenched his will into a fist as solid as flesh
and bone, punched that pathetic sorrow down inside himself. His
heart did not flinch from the blow, beat instead within the pain
of a bruise, and he secretly cherished such pain. His eyes were
dry - he held no right to shed tears over that for which he alone
was to
blame.
*****************************************************************
Around
them the forest loomed, night running inky and deep, and they felt
as trespassers in a world ruled by other gods, other laws. So they
cloaked themselves in a quiet not so deep as that of the wood, not
so deep but deep still, and imagined themselves but shadows.
Nothing
in Middle Earth could catch a shadow.
Frodo halted, hovered.
One hand reached unbidden to his chest, as if to cover the
accursed Ring, a gesture useless against evil's keen eye. It
could see the Ring despite, could
seehearsmelltastefeelinitsblackbones the power of the Ring, and
for that reason Frodo had done the unthinkable, the
unimaginable.
He had left the Ring behind.
There was no
threat in leaving it with Gandalf for a short time, though. No
danger from the Wizard, and the Orcs would thus not sense it on
him, and perhaps - perhaps - Merry's scheme might work. Perhaps.
But his hand found its rest there, there where his heart beat out
its warnings and counted down the seconds until dawn, where a
spot lay bare and waiting. Duty, abandoned.
Had his ears
deceived, there in the ink-black? He held his breath, willed even
his rushing blood not to whisper so. Sam was a rock beside him,
listening as well; Merry and Pip stood behind them,
silent.
"Ahead." Sam mouthed the word,
half-turning to take in his three fellows, motioning forth
through the thick brush. Those guttural scraping near-words could
come from no hideous night creatures but Orcs. They were not
far.
Pippin glanced to Merry, searching for some sign of the
doubts he felt himself, some mirrored confirmation that this was
an enormous mistake, but his cousin's face was set with a steady
determination, his muscles tense and ready. It seemed nothing
short of mad to go in the night's waxing to investigate Orc
bands, but if he had his own fears, Merry certainly hid them
well. Pippin measured the strength of that forward-swept gaze,
the calm resolve in those eyes, and decided it worthy of his
faith. He nodded inwardly, a confirmation of his own resolve.
They had come in assistance to their friend, in loyalty to one
who had never shown them anything but loyalty, and they could not
fail.
Silent again, even brief traitorous thoughts muted,
washed over, the four Hobbits slipped forth as one, through the
thick brush that yet separated them from the Orcs they
pursued.
******************************************************************
~What
are they doing?~ The query was a silent furrow of Sam's brow, a
purse of his lips, directed to Frodo by only the slightest tilt of
his head.
~I don't know.~ No words, again. A curt shake of
Frodo's head, tightening of his own brow.
~Should we go?~
Sam quirked one eyebrow, inclined his head toward the now empty
clearing.
~No. Not yet.~ Another terse abbreviated shake, then
a lifting of the chin: ~Look.~
Ahead, Orcs moved again out
of the cave into which they had flowed, crawled over the
resisting ground. Sam watched them, and his stomach lurched with
sudden memory. A nearly-dead fox, stumbled upon near the Shire.
Its red fur dulled, its dark eyes clouding. Maggots had crawled,
squirming, from its panting open mouth, and Sam had turned away
and run, had left contents of his stomach in a nearby bush. The
horror of it had remained, sharper than the image itself in his
mind. The cold unfeeling purpose, the destruction of one creature
to feed another, the mindless crawling horde devouring its
not-yet corpse. That was it; that was them. A mindless crawling
horde of maggots. A mindless crawling horde of Orcs, slithering
over Middle Earth's dying body, devouring her.
Frodo studied
the movements, the seemingly random chaos that belonged to those
Orcs, and began to note patterns, set within the vile graceless
scrabble of them. A large group, five or six individuals, would
emerge from the cave's black and disappear into the forest. Some
time later, two or three would return dragging sections of tree
trunk. Most of the wood thus brought seemed moss-laden, as though
not from a recently felled tree but rather one fallen some time
before, recovered by the Orcs. They would drag these sections
into the cave, small laboring troops of them returning in their
twos and threes. Then more groups of five or six would depart,
more surveyors out to hunt tree.
"Why are they doing
that?" Merry's whisper was near-inaudible; the sounds of
shuffling and grunting and that horrible guttural tongue easily
covering it. Merry edged himself closer, peering between Frodo
and Sam, who both shook their heads for lack of answer. Whatever
the Orcs were doing, they were at it with a single-minded
determination.
*****************************************************************
Gandalf,
Gimli, Boromir and Aragorn set forth, indeed as the four winds,
the small camp and their archer a center to that universe. Would
that the Hobbits have fought their way through thick clinging brush,
through bushes and vines, and leave their presence clear...but a
clear trail was not forthcoming in the wood. Paths, long beaten
through the trees and tramped down by wild creatures, by whoever
- whatever - else passed there, gave them little to work with.
This forest was not pristine, was not inviolate and easily read.
This forest bore her scars, nursed her wounds, did what little
she could to wrap herself about the injuries that she not hemorrhage
pine-sap blood unto her death. So they sought what lay among the
evidence of others,
determined.
******************************************************************
The
clearing was empty once more, had been empty several minutes, and
Frodo suspected that the hunt was, at least for the moment, over.
What appeared to be at least three full-sized trunks had been
brought, dragged unceremoniously into the cave, and no further
groups had emerged to enter the wood.
Looking to Sam, he
received an answering nod. The blonde Hobbit was intent on the
cave mouth, frowning, seemingly measuring distances. Frodo
listened and could hear only the murmurs of night, the groggy choke
of toads in a brackish pond, the susurrant sigh of breezes on their
journeys. He glanced back; Merry and Pippin were watching him,
awaiting his sign.
His leadership, even now without the
Ring.
Another terse nod, this time to Sam, who rose on his
haunches and moved forward with a stealth belying his stocky
frame. And they moved then as one, four joined in agreement, in
determined conspiracy against the forces of evil, against all
that would keep them from their answers. They moved across the
clearing, reached the cave and took their first hesitant look
inside.
**********
The Hobbits had left to spare him.
Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pip. Four innocents far from their homes
and simple lives, out there in night's unrelenting yawn, alone.
They had gone to spare him, their kind empathetic natures driving
them forth in aid of a friend. They had gone because of him.
He
eyed the trees. If any could locate the Halflings in that dark gape,
an Elf traveling by treetop could. Aye…he could. Gandalf,
Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli would search, and search well; Aragorn
had his Ranger's skills to guide him, and they would guide him
well. Yet those four would still search in a hard clinging black,
their eyes good but not Elven, their senses trained but not
passed natural and undiluted down through millennia. They would
try; they would move with determination and haste.
They
would as likely fail as succeed.
But an Elf in the high
branches, slipping as an unseen wild thing from pine to cedar to
fir, eyes and ears ever trained on the world below - an Elf
moving thus would far more likely succeed than fail. Far more
likely.
They would be so angry. So angry. His heart
constricted; a sob rose traitorous in his throat at the thought
of their anger, the disappointment they would feel once more, and
he the cause of it all. The cause indeed of it all. But he pushed
the sob down, willed it down and focussed on what had to matter
most. The Hobbits needed him, exhausted and sore and still ragged
from weeping as he might be. The Hobbits needed him, and never
had he failed them until the moment in which they had felt it
necessary to risk their lives for him. In that moment, he had
ceased to be the warrior fighting for their safety, had become
the burden they sought to shield. He had failed them, then.
But
he would find them
now.
****************************************************************
The
cave lay empty, and therein was contained a duller deeper black than
lurked even in the darkest spaces of the forest. The cave dark was
not simple shadow, not simple night, but present and aggressive as
a culmination of Evil's layered efforts, a sticky unnatural smear of
dark. It pushed against the outside, a beast barely caged; it
hungered at the walls and waited.
Frodo felt Sam at his
shoulder, pressing forth, and knew the other Hobbit would want to
go first, would insist on such. That was his Sam, a loyalty and
courage and faith unmatched by any he had ever met. Valiant, he
was, and that had led him out into the wilds of Middle Earth more
than once. First on an epic Quest that would likely as not see
their lives end. Again, on a smaller scale, a Hobbit-sized quest
for not Evil's demise but a few simple answers wrung from the
night. His hero's heart, his simple gardener's soul, and he was
pressing forward, insisting.
Sam eased past Frodo to enter the
cave. The dark was cloying, tangible as a morning mist that could
be felt upon skin, that left its wet kiss on fence posts, on
window panes. It felt thick and…
unreal, somehow. Like
magic - and maybe it was. Before the Quest, before the Black
Riders and the Orcs and the sweet sibilant promises of the Ring,
one Samwise Gamgee would have scoffed at the very idea that any
cave - stone and earth and damp air - could harbour in itself a
malice. Could retain echoes of evil that moved therein. It no
longer occurred to him that he should doubt such a thing.
Merry
moved ahead of Pippin, edging also past Frodo. This cave was a
mystery, a potential trap, but the Orcs had moved through it as a
conduit of sorts, carrying out their foul schemes. They had been
determined enough to labor in unison, none of the squabbling and
infighting for which they were known. They had been determined,
which meant that their task must be of import, and thus was a
question in need of an answer. They had taken those trunks
somewhere, and Merry strained his eyes toward the
black-upon-black of the cave's depths and knew there had to be a
tunnel therein. Well, so be it - and he stepped forth ahead of
Sam, easing along one ragged wall, through the clinging
dark.
His cousin was brave, so brave. So unlike he himself,
lingering at the toothless stone mouth, afraid to follow the
others in. Afraid, also, to remain outside alone. The security of
numbers won out, and Pippin stepped into the cave, feeling as
though he left one unsafe yet sane and tolerable world for one
steeped in madness. The cave was alive - he was certain. It was a
mindful thing, a cold and dank space wherein horrible ideas were
thought up, horrible plans contemplated. He could feel it
touching him, all around him and on his skin and in his hair, and
in his mind like he had heard the Ring in his mind once, or
thought he had. But he would not run from it, because he was
helping Merry, and Frodo and Sam. And he was helping Legolas. He
thought of the Elf's flaxen hair and kind smile, the Elf's bright
gentle eyes filled with tears, and he moved then, bolder, into
the dark.
***************
About them it breathed, a living body
curled in on itself as any wounded creature will curl in on
grievous wounds and shield them from sight, curse in mindless
instinct the weakness they herald. Middle Earth was assailed by
Orcs, and when they used her natural caves, her underground
passages and caverns for their foul intents, she shuddered and
knew it to be a plague upon her.
Frodo felt that reflexive
drawing-in of limbs, that desperate attempt to ward off coming
death, and he shivered in empathy. The earth was a living
presence not only to Elves, but - if in terms more elemental,
more basic - also to his own kind, and when he looked at Sam, at
Merry and Pippin, he could read their agreement. Oh, to rid her
body of the Orcs, to clean out the velvet darkness of her caves,
to spare her grassland tresses any further contact with their
scraping claws and the foul scent they laid down. Oh, to bathe
her and make her once more a place where Elves would not fade, where
Nazgul would not ride and Rings would be but simple mindless bands
of gold, given at weddings, tying souls together in the purity of
the world.
Sam, again. Dear sweet Sam edged forward, reached
and passed Frodo. The Ringbearer might have been leader - might
be still leader - in every sense of the word, yet Sam was to that
leader a shield, going ahead. Frodo allowed it, for there was not
much he could do against love, and not much he would have done
anyway.
Before them the cave funneled to a point, entered a
passage through which distant dim light flickered. Sam stepped
in, boldly. He had held firm to his doubts, the idea that this
was folly, but once agreed to action's course he had risen. Of
course he had risen, for Frodo was convinced and Frodo's
sentiment was, as often as not, his. They would do their best,
their best to aid a friend stricken with nothing more than
curiosity, and they would take back to their Fellowship something
of
value.
******************************************************************
Legolas
felt the reluctance in his own movements, the sluggish drag of
his limbs, and he railed against it. Exhaustion claimed its right
to him; pain was ever-present, would be for days yet. He was ragged
and unworthy and still the best hope four Hobbits might be granted.
This wood was a dark soul, fading. She could not assist him in
his quest, and he understood that she would have but for the wounds
already draining her. Each tree was a new hurt in his body, a new
hurt in her soul, and so they kindred spirits each wept inside for
the other but focussed solely on their own aims, their own chance
at validity, valor.
They four would direct themselves along a
line he had followed, it was likely. They would defer to his
instinct and follow a direction chosen first by him. And so he
leapt between towering pines and scanned the shadowed earth for
what little might alert him to them, what little among scarred
tangling brush, among trails that had lain silent under too much
abuse. The Orcs had nigh destroyed the wood already, and even an
Elf could lose the thread of a single track
therein.
******************************************************************
When
the tunnel ended, they would know. Pippin knew that much, was
certain of that much, and he clung to it uneasy, wondering how
much better knowing might be compared with the blind peace of
ignorance. Would they learn that which they sought and turn from
it in dismay, wishing they had never come? He could only pray
they would find merit in whatever lay before them, and that it
would help Legolas find peace. The flickering orange glow
intensified - they were getting close.
The dark was
pressing, heavy. Merry looked to the uncertain light ahead as
freedom from such dark, and his legs moved faster, unbidden. The
answers they had sought surely lay ahead, revelations of light.
Drawing abreast of Sam, he edged forth to the tunnel's end
silent, cautious as any Elf. He moved with Sam, as one with Sam,
to the dark's final stand, and he looked upon that which he - to
the marrow of his bones - had not
expected.
******************************************************************
He
was unsure what drew him to such a dark place. Caves were loathsome
to his Elven soul, catching as they did all the shadow, all the
chill damp unalive black of a world. They were conduits through
which must pass the basest of creations, the lowest of motives.
Legolas looked upon the cave with anxiety, distaste.
`Twas
unfair, to be sure. Gimli was of the caves, of the Dwarves who
labored in such persistent unnatural night, and Gimli was not a base
creation. Gimli's motives, one Elf was learning, were far from base.
For a moment, Legolas wished the Dwarf were with him, could enter
that black abyss first and guide him through it.
How he knew
the Hobbits were inside that cave was a mystery to
him.
******************************************************************
The sand-rock floor fell away,
steeply; the walls in silent grimace spread themselves wide. Four
Hobbits found themselves awash in that orange flutter they had
followed, staring down a sloped path that wound its way to the
bottom of Middle Earth's secret. Middle Earth's secret shame, for
this cavern was beauty aborted, beauty despoiled. Ceiling hung
with stalagmites, massive spears created by millennia of slow
dripping water, walls lined with veins through which coursed the
ground's mineral blood, sparkling by torchlight. It would have
been a beauty, had not the Orcs scuttled like black death over it
all, casting their obscene shadows on those walls, making damp
air reek with them.
And all this registered to they four small
ones in the space between heartbeats, that hesitant yet certain
break which, in times of high terror, can stretch itself beyond
reason, can stretch itself to accommodate fright-slowed hearing,
vision's paths struggling to shunt inconceivable sights from eyes
to sluggish brain. That space between one thudded affirmation of
life and the next, spreading itself wide - wider - until one
could almost imagine that it would last for eternity, and that
life was ceasing there. All the cavern's ruined glory came to
them in the fleeting silent instant before their eyes and their
ears registered that Orcs were rushing them, rushing up that
steep slope, snarling, their weapons drawn.
Frodo stepped
back, unthinking, bumped into Pippin. Beside him, Merry and Sam
crouched, gaping. They were rooted to that tunnel's end, caught
in the torchlight as moths in a spider's web.
And then they
were not. Merry recovered his mind, his voice. "Run!"
he screamed, silence unimportant now next to the need to simply
move. He turned, pushed Sam and Frodo ahead of him, drove them
back into the tunnel's dark. They needed not a second command before
their legs responded, and then they were all running headlong
through the tunnel, the blackness thick about them but holding no
more fear. The cave lay ahead. Beyond that, the forest, where
they could sprint for the camp, lose themselves in shadows, lose
the Orcs for good.
Their feet hit the cave's sand a scant
moment before Orcs poured out of the tunnel as well, fetid and
grasping. Sam drew his blade and spun wildly to face them,
knowing it was hopeless and yet unwilling to simply let nature
run her course. He fought as one possessed, lashing out at the
foul shapes as they tried to close on him. One of the Orcs raised
its own blade high, steel flashing in the almost-
darkness. It
moved not for Sam but for Frodo, alongside Merry. Both of them
wielded their knives, lunging, feinting; neither had been
wounded...yet. The Orc moved for him, and Sam's legs bunched,
conscious thought yielding before instinct. He was throwing
himself forward, throwing himself toward the Orc's path, when it
staggered back although seemingly untouched, knife falling from
its raised claw. Sam stared at it. From its chest, slim straight
promises of safety, ran the lines of two Elven
arrows.
******************************************************************
Legolas
crossed the clearing not circumspect, not cautious, for he spied
on the roughened ground tracks that could only be Hobbit, and they
led into the cave. As he rounded the rock face at its edge,
straining his eyes into unfamiliar black, he heard the
unmistakable sounds of pursuit.
The Hobbits literally
flew from what looked to be a passageway at the cave's rear. But
for all their desperate speed, they were not swift enough to
outdistance the band of Orcs behind them, and as Legolas ran into
the cave he saw them spin `round, ready to fight. They were
outnumbered, outclassed, but ever valiant and refusing to accept
defeat. He drew two arrows from his quiver, let them fly into the
breast of the first monster as it made a move for Frodo. It
lurched backward, falling against the stone wall, and he was already
felling the next, arrows sailing over his small brave
friends.
"Back away!" he commanded them,
notching another arrow. As many Orcs as he slew were beginning to
pour from the shadowed passage, snarling at the Elf. Legolas
stood his ground, firing into them as the Hobbits ran two along
each side, slipped past him and out into the night. "Run for
the camp!" he yelled over his shoulder. "I will join
you!" He needed only hold the Orcs off, only long enough to
give his friends the start they required, and then he would flee
himself, take to the trees and leave those foul beasts
behind.
******************************************************************
Gimli
heard the distant noise of battle, heard what sounded like Legolas'
voice, yelling, and he sprinted for it, heart a painful throb
against his ribs. His axe yearned for its due, its destiny fulfilled
in sprays of Orc blood - he yearned to give it that due, and
moved with a speed belying his stocky frame. He reached the clearing
and exploded forth. The Halflings were there, milling about in
what seemed confusion, blades drawn. But the Elf was beyond
sight. "What is happening?" he demanded.
"Legolas
is in the cave!" Sam pointed to a black maw half-hidden behind
stunted brush and Gimli hesitated no further, pounding in with a
Dwarven battle cry that would drive fear into any enemy's evil
heart.
The Elf was within, a flaxen flash of hair, a gem held
in darkness, and he was firing determinedly into a slavering Orc
mob. Gimli rushed past the brave archer, axe
swinging.
******************************************************************
Boromir
and Aragorn came at the clearing from opposite paths, Gandalf
immediately after, from a third direction, and they entered to
the sound only of quick frightened breathing, nervous shifting of
small bodies. Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin huddled together in
the centre of that bare space, blades held defensively in front
of them, staring as one into a partly concealed cave.
Aragorn
rushed to them and knelt, grabbed Frodo first and ran his eyes
over him in quick examination. No injuries. Dirt, dust, worried
lines etched in a small face, fear in dark eyes, but no blood. No
broken bones. He turned to Sam as Gandalf and Boromir checked
Merry and Pip in similar fashion. "Are you alright?" he
asked urgently.
Sam blinked at him a few times. "We
- we're fine, Strider. But Legolas and Gimli went into the cave
to fight Orcs. Legolas...saved our lives. They would have gotten
us for sure, but he was there to keep them away." He turned
his eyes back to the cave and drew a shuddering breath.
Aragorn
rose and drew his blade once more. He made one step toward the
cave mouth, noting the silence flowing in dark waves from it, noting
the unease that silence instilled in him. A second step, however,
was not to come, for in that moment archer Elf and axe-
wielding
Dwarf both stepped from the darkness, covered in black blood,
holding their weapons loosely. They wore the spray and the
contentment of battle about their warrior selves, walked with the
pride of the
victorious.
******************************************************************
The
camp seemed smaller, somehow. It lay generally as they had left it,
the fire's embers dim and straining, much of their gear scattered
about, yet something about it had seemingly shrunk. Merry eyed
the place as he moved to sit down on a fallen log next to his
things, remembered there a hushed earlier conversation amongst
four Hobbits, and sensed that the smallness was only in his
perception, only a reaction of his mind to the enormous world he
and the others had just experienced, separated from their warrior
companions. They had seen so much - they had tracked Orcs and
entered a foul dark passage into Middle Earth, pursuing the
truth. They had found a cavern crawling with the beasts, all
engaged in activities four Shire Hobbits had been unable to
identify.
Legolas had listened to their accounts during the
walk back and speculated that it had been an Orc weapons factory.
Strider and Gandalf had agreed.
Strider. Merry groaned
inwardly as his mind focussed on the Ranger, now speaking in
hushed tones with Gandalf across the camp. He and Pip, Frodo and
Sam had gained the answers they needed, had gained valuable
information for the Fellowship, but Strider still seemed mad.
More than `seemed,' actually. His anger was clear, flashing in
his measured gaze, resonating along the deep lines of his voice. He
was furious with them.
"Merry," Pippin whispered,
moving to his side. "Do you think we're in really big
trouble?"
Merry nodded regretfully at his younger cousin.
"I'm sorry I talked you into this, Pip," he sighed. "I
really believed we were doing the right thing, but now you're
probably just as deep in it as I am." His eyes strayed to
Frodo and Sam, sitting together a some feet away. Frodo met his
gaze with a slight answering smile.
"I'm sorry, Frodo,"
Merry called. "And to you too, Sam." He sighed
again.
Pippin frowned. "You know, Merry, I made the
choice to come with you because I believed in you, but I also
believed in what you said about helping Legolas and the
Fellowship. And I still do. So don't apologize to me."
"Thanks
Pip. But it looks like Legolas is probably STILL going to be in
trouble. I heard Boromir saying something on the way back about
them telling him to stay put here while they went off to look for
us, and he didn't." Merry shook his head and pondered for a
long moment. "Why does he keep taking off?" he asked
finally, directing the question to none in particular.
"Why
do we?" Frodo came over, shadowed by Sam, and sat facing his
friends. "I think we'd better worry right now about what
Strider is going to do to us."
"I shouldn't have
pushed you all to come."
"Oh come on, Merry. Pip
said it - we chose to come. I chose to come; Sam here chose to
come -"
"Well...." Sam sniffed, throwing Frodo
a sideways glance.
Frodo grinned and elbowed him. "You
chose to come, and you know it. You did it because you're loyal
and faithful and a true friend. But you did make the choice, as
did I."
"But I was the one who started it all,"
Merry insisted. "And maybe, if I tell Strider that, he won't
be mad at any of you."
Sam shook his head this time. "Mr.
Frodo's right. We could have said no if we'd wanted to, but we
said yes. Didn't we?"
Merry sighed. "I just wanted
to keep Legolas out of trouble."
"I know, Merry,"
Frodo replied. "We all did. And maybe that's our
problem."
"What do you mean?"
"I
mean, we took it on ourselves to be Legolas' keepers, and that's not
our place. We can't decide anything for him, just like you couldn't
decide anything for us. Everyone makes their own choices."
Frodo shrugged, a wry smile quirking the corners of his mouth.
"And no one can keep another person out of trouble if that
person is determined to get into it."
"Very
wise, Frodo." Aragorn towered over them, arms folded. He
crossed to sit next to Merry. "A little late to come to the
realization, however."
"It was my fault,
Strider," Merry mumbled, studying the ground between his
feet. "I came up with the idea to go."
Aragorn
reached out, caught Merry's chin with one finger and gently lifted
the Hobbit's face so he could meet his eyes. "Did you not hear
what Frodo said a moment ago? Each of you made a decision. Each
of you could have said no to leaving the camp, to running off on
a foolish and dangerous mission. You had the idea, yes, and it was
a singularly poor one, Merry. I don't believe I've heard a worse
idea in many years now. But you forced no one."
"I'm
sorry anyway."
"I know. But that changes nothing."
Aragorn let his eyes wander over his small charges, marvelling at
how such utter heroism and unrepentant folly could mingle within
four individual souls. They took reckless behaviour to new and
glorious heights, these Hobbits. That they had been found
unharmed, barely a scratch on them, was nothing short of a
miracle.
"Alright, let's get on with this. Frodo,"
he
beckoned.
****************************************************************
Frodo knew exactly how he had come
to be where he was, staring at a patch of muddy ground, breeches
pooled around his knees and Strider's hand coming down…hard.
He had come to it late, a revelation past its time, and it had
been useless other than for the fact that it allowed him a
certain clarity of thought, a resignation to his fate.
Merry's
idea had appeared on its face so valid, so justifiable via the
laws of loyalty and honour. Legolas was their friend. Their dear
friend, and he was hurting within and without over that which he
had been told to leave alone but could not. Would not. In the high
buzz and trill of that Elf's unreadable - unreadable to a Hobbit,
perhaps - mind, there seemed to flourish the notion that faith
was necessarily a path unto self-destruction. There seemed to
flourish some persistent tying of honour to death, the tie
eternal and encompassing. Legolas seemed to believe, deep in a
place that Strider sought vainly to reach with reason, that the
only way to truly be of service to this Fellowship was to risk
his life in one glorious fashion after another. And for one
unreasonable night, four Hobbits had been touched by that
singularly fatalistic valour, and had sought their own gloried
self-destruction in a shadow-soaked wood.
Oh, but he
really had been privy to a wealth of options that did NOT involve
slinking out of camp in the night, creeping through dark and
dangerous forest, and confronting the foulest creations of Middle
Earth in a vain attempt to `get answers.' Oh, there had been
choices, and he had chosen the worst possible of them. His mind
wandered over the possibilities, the events of one long surreal
night that was not yet over. The smell of the cave, fetid and
unnatural in his nose. The grasping fear and the running and the
waiting afterward for some sign that Legolas and Gimli both had
not fallen within that cave. The long trek back to a settlement
that appeared smaller, somehow, diminished and poor when viewed
through eyes that had seen Orc. The disappointment, stark and
honest, in Strider's gaze.
Burying his face in his hands,
he allowed himself to weep as Strider's palm sent a new flash of
pain through him. He was not an Elf, not required by any strange
unspoken code to remain stoic, and he felt not only incessant
physical pain but also an aching futile remorse. Not an Elf, and
he had to remember that for not only its blessings but its
failings, its smaller temporal reality, clambering the earth
instead of sailing over it. He had made such bad decisions, such
dangerous decisions, and now he was right back in a place soaked
through with tears and desperation and a sense of…
inability.
Inability to move, to expand beyond the decisions and deeds of
his past. He carried the Ring, the symbol and substance of all
evil in Middle Earth. He was on a journey that would take him and
others - others who had pledged themselves to his support - into the
very keep of the Dark Lord, a journey that would in all likelihood
see some of them dead. He was supposed to be moving in body and
mind, expanding his knowledge, growing wiser with each day so
that he might one day become worthy of his task.
But here he
was again, at the end of yet another poor choice, and further
than ever from such wisdom as would he need. He could taste the
smooth brine of his regret and knew that what he regretted most was
not Strider's disappointment, but his
own.
******************************************************************
Aragorn
sighed inwardly as his hand met Frodo's crimson backside for the
last time, and he closed his eyes to conceal his own sadness while
gathering the shaking Hobbit into his arms. He would have rocked
Frodo through the night, seen him safely into slumber, had he not
been faced with so much more unpleasant necessity. Instead he held
him only until sobs diminished to sniffles, until shuddering breaths
quieted, and then he carried him to his place by the fire, laid
him down gently and turned back to his seat. His mind still reeled
with impossible questions, impossibly difficult questions for which
there were no good answers.
These four souls were too open, he
decided, and immediately cursed himself for such a thought. The
mere suggestion that any free and forthright spirit should
curtail itself, should shrink before evil and destiny as light
shrinks before dark, was blatantly wrong. Such was their Quest,
he knew: they sought first and last to protect all the free and
forthright spirits of Middle Earth from evil's cancerous rule;
they surely did not seek to cow them. And yet he heard now that
quiet reasonable voice in his head, and it told him that four
Hobbits should not be so free. Could he look upon them, see them
bound in jaded cloaks of reality? Could he look upon the darkening
of their eyes, the darkening of their souls, and still believe in
anything good himself?
Nay - he could not, and he knew it.
Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin were, in all the simplicity of
truth, just what they needed to be. They were Middle Earth's
hope. Not her only hope, to be certain, but a strong and
resilient one, their people linked to the earth's breast,
clambering over her gardens and marvelling at her. These four
would need to be strong to face what lay ahead, but they were
already strong. They would need to be brave, and bravery coursed
their veins, a part of their very blood. They would need to
demonstrate the deepest stretches of loyalty and honour, and
those qualities beat a pulse within them, infused their thought,
their word, their deed. There was nothing about them that needed
changing, and Aragorn felt his heart ease. His task was not to
stifle them, not to alter them or turn their vision to his own;
he needed only watch them, teach them what little he could, and
trust in them as they trusted in him.
Seating himself on
the log once more, he beckoned to
Sam.
******************************************************************
Legolas
could feel the sting of coming tears, and he viewed the world now
through their mist. But he neither looked away nor closed his
eyes to that world. The Hobbits - the sweet innocent brave souls
who had risked their very lives in aid of him - deserved at least
his presence while they faced the consequences of their noble
intent.
Still, he flinched instinctively as Aragorn
punished first Frodo, then Sam, then Pippin, and finally Merry.
To a one, they four wore countenances of defeat, dismay, and
varying shades of fear. Frodo, of course, was stoic even in his
tears, and Legolas idly envied such graceful honesty. The little
one knew, had considered and evaluated and learned all that he
should even before Aragorn had pulled him over his lap. Such
vision he had, such clarity that would allow him to see eternally
before the rest, while Sam and Pip and Merry were still lingering
in their dread. Merry seemed beset with more, with some
additional burden of guilt over it all, though Aragorn had been
quick to reassure him that he had not brought such suffering on
anyone save himself. That guilt only shone darker and more urgent
in his eyes as he watched his friends being chastised, and for a
time it outshone even his fear.
Legolas knew such emotion
well. He was surely to blame for this, for the pain his four
young friends were experiencing. For the dangers they had faced,
alone as they should never have been. For failing himself, the
great warrior Elf unable even to slip unnoticed from camp and
find a few Orcs. Aye. Had he not failed, had he not been caught
and punished in front of the others, had he at least then
disguised his tears so sympathetic Hobbit hearts could not be
drenched in them, had he gone to the little ones and
said...something - anything - before they had taken such a
risk...if only he had.... "If only I had...."
"If
only you had what, Mellon nin?"
Legolas jumped - he had
not heard Aragorn approach. Had not, in truth, even realized that
it was over and the Hobbits were lying curled together near the
fire, sniffling as sleep overtook them. "I.... Estel,"
he breathed, staring at the Ranger, losing that thread of thought
he had so carefully woven.
Moving to sit beside him, Aragorn
studied his friend. The Elf was pale, his eyes puddled beneath
with lavender. Were there fear in those eyes, Aragorn would have
seen it; what lingered therein was a bleak stretch of shame and
guilt that hurt even to look upon. He reached out, slowly, laid a
hand on Legolas' cheek. "You blame yourself for what they
did," he murmured.
Did he expect an answer? Legolas felt
his brow furrow as if in thought. But there was no thought needed
for such a simple query. "Of course I blame myself," he
replied. "I am to blame."
"Why?"
"Because.
Because...the Halflings would not have gone anywhere had they not
felt sorry for me. They would not have felt the need to go had
they not been trying to help me. If I had succeeded in my solitary
efforts -"
"Then you might be dead now."
Legolas
shot Aragorn a sidewise glance. "We are speaking of why Frodo
and the others went, Estel, and how I am to blame for that - we
are not speaking of my welfare."
"Should we not
be?"
"I do not see why. They are the ones who
required rescuing from that cave. They are the ones who
sympathized with me so much that they needed to finish that which
I had started. Is it not their welfare we should be concerned
with now?"
Aragorn ran his gaze over the now sleeping
Hobbits. "I believe we will always have to be concerned for
their welfare," he said, a smile rising unbidden. "But
they are safe for now, and there is not much more I can ask of
this night." He turned back to Legolas. "But you, my
friend, must know that you did not send them anywhere. You did
not make decisions for them - they are quite capable of making
their own."
"My actions -"
"Did not
put them in danger, Legolas. Are you listening to me? You are
sentry and warrior and friend, but you cannot make yourself saviour
or god. It is foolish to think you can."
Legolas
stiffened. "You believe me a fool, Estel?"
"Nay,
and I did not say that I did. You are no fool, but you are young
and you are trying so desperately, valiantly hard to be all that
which you feel we need from you. And you cannot be. You cannot be
the keeper of another."
"Can I not prevent them from
making such choices?"
Aragorn chuckled wryly. "Can I
not prevent YOU from making such choices? Nay, Legolas. I cannot
keep you from your mistakes, any more than you can keep them from
theirs. All that I can do for you is try to shield you from the
worst of the consequences for those mistakes. To think that I
could actually inhabit your mind and alter decisions before you
come to them? That is a folly I will not consider."
"But
they went because of me, Estel."
"Nay. They went
because of themselves, Legolas. They went because they are noble
and brave, and they wanted to help a friend. You did not know
they would go, did you?"
"Of course not."
"You
had not predicted it sometime earlier?"
"Estel...."
"I
make a point, and trust you to see it. You did not know of their
decision until we all did. You did not make the decision for
them, nor could you have anticipated it. Your actions earlier
were mistakes. Do not forget that. But they were mistakes for
which you paid the price, and they could not of themselves propel
four Hobbits into a cave filled with Orcs."
Legolas
pursed his lips and let silence descend on him. He knew in some
rational part of himself that he could not have expected his friends
to undertake such a mission in his name. The guilt hung, though,
restless and unsatisfied, and in it something occurred to him.
"Is this what you feel when I run off, Estel? This sense that
you should have known beforehand and done something?"
"Aye.
I have, in the past, allowed the guilt its sway. I still feel it,
despite the certain truth of my words to you. When we discovered
you gone earlier, I felt as though I had failed, as though you
would pay an enormous and potentially irreversible price for my
inability to stop you. I could not have predicted you would go,
of course. Had I been able to, I would simply have lain awake and
waited for you to prove me right. As you would have for the Hobbits,
if in fact you could have known what they would do."
"Yet
you tell me not to blame myself."
"Well,"
Aragorn laughed, "it is difficult to live by one's own good
advice, at times."
Legolas sighed, nodded. "I
think I understand."
"Nay. You do not, and you
probably will not for a time. But that is the way of learning,
Mellon nin."
Sighing again, Legolas held Aragorn's gaze
for a moment before broaching a subject which had yet remained
untouched. "What of my departure from camp after the Hobbits
left? I was told to stay...."
Aragorn's eyes darkened.
"Aye, you were. And you disregarded that order, once
again."
"I know."
"Do you feel
remorse over it, Legolas?"
"I...I do not know. I
always feel remorse over disobeying your word, or Mithrandir's.
Always. Yet I also feel as though that
particular choice was one
made in better judgement, not born of any
`foolish' desire to
help. I thought about it, about them out there and the chances
that you would find them, and I knew that my skills were needed.
I knew that much, Estel, and acted with it in mind."
Aragorn
nodded. "And I think you were right."
"And I
also wondered at how you could expect me to fall off from my sworn
duties simply because I was tired and upset. We have all been
fatigued, Estel, even you. We have all grieved the absence of our
families, our distance from home and hearth, and we have all
risen despite that, as we all should if this Quest is to
succeed."
"Absolutely."
"So,
ultimately, I disobeyed what I believed to be an unwise order, one
that might cost four of our fellows their lives. You do not seek
to impair my capacity for independent thought, do
you,Estel?"
"Legolas - hold. Did you not hear
me? I said that I think you were right to go."
Legolas
blinked and met Aragorn's gaze. The Man's eyes were bright again,
no lingering shadow of anger. He felt warmth creep into his cheeks,
a sheepish smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "I am...I am
sorry, Estel. I suppose I did not credit you with the ability to
make a mistake yourself, or to realize it."
"I
can understand that, Mellon nin. I so rarely err that you might not
believe it possible." He grinned as Legolas cast an incredulous
gape at him, then willed himself to sober once more. "I said
you were correct, Mellon nin, and I meant it this time. Gandalf
and I discussed this at some length when we returned, and we both
agreed that it was not reasonable to expect such of you. It was
not reasonable and it was not practical either, for as you proved
to us all, your Elven senses and speed were required out there.
You alone found them; the rest of us merely responded after the
fact."
Legolas fought down the urge to chew his lower
lip, to let hands fidget in his lap. "You are saying you
will not punish me for leaving?"
"Aye. There
will be no consequences for this, for this once." The exhausted
relief Aragorn saw flitted across the Elf's face was enough to
rekindle his own smile. "We still need to discuss matters,
Mellon nin, but I have the sense this is not the best time to do
it. Claim your rest. The morrow shall be soon enough." He
watched as Legolas readily stretched out on his cloak, stretched
out tired muscles and a tired heart, allowed tension and
wakefulness to dim as a cooling fire. He rose and turned, saw the
Hobbits deep in slumber, safe for the time being. Legolas was in
reverie when he looked once more before moving to his own place.
He sat, knowing sleep would likely not come for him in what
remained of this night. A last glance, unbidden, instinctive, at
his sleeping charges. There was still so much danger, so many
ways for impetuous bravery to end in death. There was still much
to discuss, when some measure of rest had been gained.
The
morrow would be soon enough.
Finis!