1. Chapter 1 On the edges of Mordor by ziggy
2. Chapter 2 by ziggy
3. Chapter 3 by ziggy
4. Chapter 4 Memories by ziggy
5. Chapter 5 A conversation by ziggy
6. Chapter 6 Alliances by ziggy
7. Chapter 7 Dagorlad by ziggy
8. Chapter 8 The Elendil by ziggy
9. Chapter 9 News from Home by ziggy
10. Chapter 10 Dreams and Discoveries by ziggy
Sons of Thunder II: Where the Shadows Lie.
Chapter 1: On the edges of Mordor
It was in the blessed time after the War had been won. The Fellowship basked in the peace of those blissful days: Aragorn had not yet come to the White City but remained camped on the Field of Cormallen. They met each evening to share supper and to tell their tales and every morning there was a small gift to be found for Sam and Frodo to remind them a living things. Legolas had taken this upon himself for each of the Fellowship had their part to play in the Hobbits’ recovery; this was his.
He threw open the flap of Aragorn’s huge tent: one of Aragorn’s many huge tents, he amended for it was not the tent where Aragorn was at this moment. This was the tent he was looking for though. It was where the King dined and at one end were chests full of gleaming silver cutlery and glass that sparkled in the sunlight. He grabbed a crystal goblet that was so fine, so delicately made it looked like it would shatter if anyone so much as raised it to their lips, and tossed it cheerfully into the air and caught it at the moment one of the stewards turned to look.
‘My lord, that is from the reign of Túrin the Second!’ protested the steward in horror. ‘It is crystal, made by the Dwarves of Erebor before the Dragon!’
Legolas balanced it upon the tip of one finger and flashed his most blinding smile. ‘It is for these,’ he said, opening his hand and showing the steward the slender buds of a few anemones. ‘They need water or they will die.’ He spun the goblet so it flashed and gleamed. ‘For the Hobbits.’
The nervous steward softened immediately and clicked his fingers towards a passing servant who was hurrying past with a basket of fresh loaves in one hand and a dish of fried mushrooms in the other. ‘When you have served second breakfast, please bring the crystal flower flute, the very fine one from Boromir the First’s reign.’ He turned to Legolas and smiled complicitly. ‘It is quite priceless but those flowers will look enchanting in it.’ He paused and then asked anxiously, ‘My lord Legolas, are you not expected at the King’s council?’
‘Oh, I do not suppose he needs my opinion in addition to everyone else’s,’ Legolas replied nonchalantly for he had seen Merry and Pippin had just entered the tent and were waving at him. ‘It is far better that I attend the hobbits for second breakfast.’
‘Good morning Legolas! Are you joining us? It’s just Merry and me otherwise and that is hardly worth all the effort they have made.’ Pippin waved an apple at Legolas and grinned. In one corner of the huge tent was a low table and bench. The table was laden with loaves of bread and honey and butter, cheese and eggs, bacon and mushrooms and jugs of water sparkling. The hobbits perched on a bench at the wide table, feet dangling and scooted up to make room for Legolas though he had to stretch his legs right out in order to fit at the table.
‘Apparently we are late for Aragorn’s council,’ he replied unconcerned, reaching over and snagging a slice of bread which he spread thickly with butter and then honey. ‘I am useless at councils anyway,’ he said and it seemed the hobbits felt the same way. Instead they ate eggs, bacon, mushrooms, cheese, fruit and the small delicious loaves that Legolas liked so much. Much later, he licked his fingers and gestured to the crystal goblet and flowers. ‘I am taking these for Sam,’ he said. ’And then at some point I suppose we had better go and let Aragorn tell us what he has decided.’
‘Do we have to?’ Pippin asked plaintively. ‘Gimli is already at the council and he’ll tell us all the important bits. Surely Aragorn can manage on his own?’
‘Yes, he has Gandalf, and Gimli, and all those advisors and officials and we only have you,’ Merry added grinning, and Legolas grinned back, widely.
‘To be honest, I already know what he is going to ask me and as you are not involved, I am sure you can stay and do more important things.’
‘What is he going to ask you then, Legolas?’ asked Pippin, reaching for a fourth rasher of bacon to go with his third piece of toast. He put it carefully alongside the third egg, hesitated and then took another egg and another sausage. Then added a large spoonful of mushrooms.
‘Well,’ Legolas began, his mouth full of bread and butter and honey. ‘Gandalf says we must ensure that the Nazgûl have left nothing in Minas Morgul that might later be used against us. We are going there to have a look around.’ Legolas said this as if it were no more than a stroll in the Shire with a picnic lunch.
‘You are going into Minas Morgul?’ Merry asked horrified. ‘Surely Sauron is defeated? Gone? There is nothing left.’
‘It sounds dangerous to me,’ Pippin said looking up at Legolas anxiously. ‘Legolas,’ he said a little hesitantly, ‘are you sure it should be you going? You know the Nazgûl seemed to have a special interest in hurting you.’
Legolas patted Pippin on the shoulder tenderly in the way that Pippin had frequently done to him during the quest. It was a kind gesture and he focused on that rather than remember the terrible night on the Mindolluin when the Nazgûl had attacked him. ‘Thank you Pip.’ He laughed lightly, shoving away that dark memory and deciding that sometimes it was better to leave things there and not bring them out into the light. ‘But I assure you they hated my father and both my brothers even more.’
‘Oh! You have brothers?’ Pip breathed. ‘I didn’t know.’ He looked crestfallen that he could have travelled for so long with Legolas and yet know so little about him.
‘I will tell you of them some day if you like, Pippin. They are both far more suited to almost anything than I am. They are very brave and very clever. But I am a better archer and much better looking. Also my middle brother is a lackwit.’ He grinned so Pippin would know that was not true for Thalos was more than a match for any, and suddenly Legolas felt a pang of loneliness; he remembered the news that had reached them a few nights ago, that Celeborn and Thranduil had fought a terrible battle under the trees and met only days before. He knew his father was alive but there had been no news of his brothers, or Galion. Or any of his friends.
Although some of his friends had already fallen.
Legolas’ hands stilled and he looked down, remembering Anglach; he squeezed his eyes shut trying to block out the last time he had seen his closest friend, the light hearted and playful Anglach, whose eyes had been gouged out and ears cut off by orcs when Smeagol was freed, done whilst he still lived and before they cut his throat. And there was too, the vision that Saruman had given him when they were in Orthanc- of a body hitched upon a lance, golden hair fluttering. Saruman had suggested it was Thranduil and while the Battle under the Trees had been won, that did not mean his father was safe, or that orcs had been entirely driven from the Wood. And Thranduil was not the only elf with golden hair; there was Laersul too.
Slowly he became aware of a warmth on his arm and looked down to see that Pippin was looking up at him with concern on one side and Merry on the other.
‘Is it the sea-longing?’ Merry asked and Legolas frowned.
‘No! No,’ he said more gently. ‘No indeed, that is…that is a joy to my heart although still a bewilderment… No. I was just a little homesick.’ He smiled slightly.
‘I get that too, don’t I, Merry?’ Pippin turned to Merry who nodded. ‘I miss the Shire. I miss Longbottom Leaf and ale and beer. I miss the white bread and butter and cheese and pickles and ham and eggs and bacon and tomatoes and …’
Grateful for such distraction, Legolas laughed and spread his hand out towards the considerable feast before them.
‘I know,’ said Pippin and he helped himself plentifully to the slices of ham and bread and cheese and pickles and butter. ‘But it just doesn’t taste the same,’ he said with his mouthful.
Suddenly a man dashed through the tent door, looking about in consternation. The hobbits and elf looked at him and when he saw them, he looked intensely relieved and sketched a hasty bow. ‘My lord,’ he said to Legolas, who almost twitched as if he wanted to shrug off the title that he did not care for. ‘Please will you come with me. His gracious majesty has asked that you attend him.’
Legolas sighed and rose to his feet. ‘So soon? Farewell then my friends. Think of me when the hour is long past noon and I am still listening to Aragorn’s many advisors and lords telling us again how glorious is the King, how he has single-handedly vanquished the forces of all darkness and evil, how the land is more fertile and the animals gone silly with breeding, how flowers blossom where his feet touch the grass.’ He laughed merrily and tossed the crystal goblet in his hand ignoring the smothered cries of the servants. ‘Tell the King I am coming. But I have something else to do first.’
Sam and Frodo were still asleep when he left the delicate flowers in the crystal goblet on the table beside them. Carefully placed so it would be the first thing Sam saw when he opened his eyes. And only then did he go to the council of the King Returned.
When he arrived at Aragorn’s council tent, the wing-helmed guards snapped to attention and stood aside to let him pass.
Aragorn was standing amongst his gathered lords, half bent over a map and his hair was in his eyes.
‘…we must search in Minas Morgul,’ he was saying as Legolas entered. ‘We need to be sure there are no secret enemy forces.’ The captains and the great men of Gondor were seated or standing around the long oak table upon which were spread huge maps of Gondor. All had the weary expressions of those who had been long in debate and discussion. Aragorn glanced up irritably at Legolas’ entrance and then softened when he saw it was his friend.
Gandalf raised an eyebrow and Gimli turned and hurrumped emphatically. Legolas flashed him a smile but his attention was all on Elrohir who sat at Aragorn’s side, a cane resting against one thigh, his beautiful face impassive but his eyes were smokey with lust the moment Legolas walked in. Legolas inclined his head to the gathered lords, grateful that Eomer was not there. Imrahil smiled warmly.
Legolas walked behind the gathered lords and captains and although they made as if to part for him so he could stand at the front of the long table and opposite Aragorn, he waved his hand carelessly in dismissal and indicated he would stand further back. In truth he wanted to gaze at Elrohir, to look his fill and to distract him if he could.
‘If indeed the forces of Sauron have been vanquished, there will be nothing there anyway.’ One of Gondor’s great lords spoke. He was a tall man with grey hair and leaned upon a cane much as Elrohir. But this was not through injury but through infirmity; Legolas remembered that Bard had done the same as he grew old. ‘Surely you do not wish to risk our remaining men to satisfy mere curiosity?’ the old man declared. There was a slight stirring amongst the gathering, one Legolas recognised from his father’s court; some would be anxious at the implied slight to the new King, others would agree.
‘Curiosity now may well mean greater security in the future,’ said Aragorn calmly. ‘We may catch any stragglers, any strays who might later attack our settlements. Or there may be some greater danger of which we do not yet know.’
‘We have already said much on this,’ Gandalf said impatiently. ‘Minas Morgul was the den of the Nazgûl. It must be searched and then razed.’
Legolas stifled a sigh and was already bored; he knew they would go to Minas Morgul as Gandalf desired and search the ruined city to make sure the Nazgûl had truly departed with Sauron. He wondered why they even bothered discussing it.
He watched the sun catch in raven-black hair instead of listening, stared in fascinated lust at the rounded tip of Elrohir’s ear and thought about running his finger along the edge. His sigh was louder this time and several men glanced his way although none said anything. Gimli nudged him and shot him a look.
‘Here is the road from Osgiliath,’ Aragorn stabbed his finger down onto the map. ‘And here,’ he ran his finger along the thick black line that marked the road, ‘is Minas Morgul. Can you not see, it is the most strategic point on the river, our mainstay….’
Legolas stopped listening again and drifted around the back of the gathered lords as if he were going to peer over Aragorn’s shoulder at the map, to get a better view.
It took him directly behind Elrohir’s chair, and when he leaned forwards slightly as if to look at the map, he let his breath drift over the back of Elrohir’s head, it lifted one or two strands of his long black-silk hair and Elrohir turned his head ever so slightly towards Legolas, standing close, too close, behind him. Elrohir’s lips turned upwards slightly and then he turned back to face all the generals and lords.
‘I wager we will be leaving at dawn,’ Legolas whispered so quietly against Elrohir’s ear, deliberately letting his breath caress it and was pleased at the shiver it brought. ‘Will you miss me?’
Elrohir shifted uncomfortably and Legolas smiled and let his hand surreptitiously trace the straight spine of his beloved who was trying so hard to concentrate.
‘...the bands that escaped the assault on the Morannon will have taken to the hills here...’ Aragorn was pointing to an outstretched map in the middle of the table. ‘And here too, in the Morgul Vale.’
‘I will be glad of some rest,’ Elrohir murmured below the hearing of Men, he turned his face slightly towards Legolas and smiled. ‘I find myself quite worn out’
Legolas raised an eyebrow. ‘Then I will find you well rested on my return,’ he whispered back. Aragorn glared at them for a moment, and Legolas flashed him a brilliant smile.
‘The Morgul Vale is where the Nazgûl dwelt,’ Aragorn repeated Gandalf’s earlier point. ‘It is an evil place and I need to know if it is quite vacated or if there is some evil lingering. Are all their winged beasts dead or do they have more kept in there?’
‘I will take a troop of riders to search the old city, my lord, if you wish?’ Imrahil said smoothly, as if he and Aragorn had not prearranged precisely this conversation to persuade the lords and captains of the necessity. ‘Twenty will suffice will it not, if it is merely to search the ruins and others search the hills, the Vale itself? Perhaps my lords Elladan and Elrohir will come. And perhaps you too, my lords?’ He bowed slightly to Gimli and then Legolas who grinned excitedly at Aragorn. ‘We will be sufficient.’
‘I am delighted to be of service, my lord,’ he said to Aragorn as Aragorn had intended him to. ‘And the dwarf will be very grumpy if he does not ride at my back….But my lord Elrohir should not go. He is not recovered.’
Elrohir began to protest but Aragorn spoke over him. ‘Certainly not. He cannot even stand for a council, let alone ride to Minas Morgul. No, he will stay here.’
‘I am more than capable…’ Elrohir tried to say but Legolas cut across him.
‘Good. That is settled. Gimli and I will go with Elladan and my lord, Imrahil. Will we not be enough, Gimli, to check out a few wee beasties?’ He laughed brightly and flashed another smile at Aragorn.
Elrohir began to rise to his feet, protesting, but Legolas was always stronger than he and firmly pushed him back into his chair.
‘Stay,’ he said lightly, humorously. ‘You will slow us down.’ But the smile he gave was soft with love although Elrohir did not return it. Nor did he meet his gaze.
Elrohir seethed. Legolas had dismissed him as easily as Aragorn, he thought, cursing under his breath. How dare they talk over him, deciding for him if he were strong enough to ride, to fight, to go with the company to Minas Morgul!
He leaned heavily on the ebony cane and limped over to the heavy wooden table that someone had thought it necessary to bring all this way and put into a tent for his comfort. One handed, he pulled the stopper from a cut glass decanter, equally unnecessary, and poured himself red wine into a crystal goblet. He looked around himself in contempt, feeling the familiar surge of fury swirl around him.
Not gone. No. The fury and self-contempt was still there.
Just because Angmar and Sauron have gone does not mean I am whole, he ground out at himself, hating himself. Hating his weakness.
A bright shadow fell across the doorway of the tent and suddenly Legolas was there, catching him by the elbow, steering him to the carved chair near the tent doorway.
‘You should not be on your feet! Here, let me.’
Elrohir shook him off and turned glaring at him. ‘I am not an invalid. Nor a fool!’
Legolas took a step back. His eyes were wide with astonishment. ‘I know. I just…’
‘You just treat me like one! You and Aragorn talking over me like I am some whining whelp still wet from its mother’s milk! How dare you speak for me!’
But Legolas was not easily intimidated either and he bristled right on back. ‘Then stop whining like one. You are injured.’
‘In my leg not in my head!’
‘And you cannot ride!’
‘You treat me like I cannot think for myself, cannot do anything myself.’
Legolas bit his lip and sighed, as if he had suddenly remembered what it was like himself, for he too was recently recovered and perhaps not entirely himself either.
‘I know.’ He held out a hand, soothingly, placatingly. ‘I am sorry. I only want to help, to look after you. Sit down please and let me do this for you.’
But Elrohir was too angry, and his leg hurt, throbbed wildly. ‘For the last time, stop treating me like I am an invalid.’
‘You are an invalid,’ Legolas pointed out reasonably. ‘But that does not make you a fool.’ He stood for a moment and then said, ‘I am sorry I talked over you.’
‘I am mildly wounded.’ Elrohir stumped heavily over to the chair, but no matter that he tried and was careful, he spilled wine over his hand and sleeve. ’Fuck! Manwë’s shit!’ He collapsed into the chair and threw the cane down so he could clasp his leg with his free hand.
Legolas stood over him, hands on his hips and his mouth a thin line of frustration. ‘You nearly died. You can hardly stand.’
‘And you are suffocating me.’ It burst out of Elrohir from the pain and anger.
Legolas breathed in suddenly, almost a gasp and Elrohir felt like clapping his hand over his mouth as if he might take back those words; he would drive Legolas away.
‘Then forgive me my concern.’ Legolas stepped away, hands spread and Elrohir’s heart dropped away as if he were falling from a great height. Of course. Legolas would leave now and with time and distance, he would wonder why in all of Arda he had taken up with one so soiled and corrupted as Elrohir.
The Wood-elf turned away, stepping back towards the tent entrance and stood for a moment looking out at the sunshine, the brightness of the sky, perhaps wishing he had never come in here in the first place, thought Elrohir. His own mouth was tight with pain for his injury jangled and pulled. He pressed his hand over the nerves higher up to try to subdue it.
Then Legolas sighed. ‘If I am suffocating you, do you wish me to leave you?’ He did not say if he would simply leave the tent now and come back later or if he meant forever. But Elrohir swallowed; he could not bear either and he knew he would have to swallow his pride as he had before. He would have to submit to Legolas. As he had promised….But it was hard.
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I just…I have been my own man for centuries, ridden the mountains and glens and fought. I have been hurt more times than I can remember…I…I find it hard to be nursemaided. Elladan does not do it and I do not want it from you. It diminishes me.’
Legolas turned back to Elrohir then and a smile was on his face. ‘I understand,’ he said and knelt before Elrohir, his lovely face turned up to him in wonder. ‘It’s just I have never felt this way before about anyone.’
Elrohir refused to think perhaps that this was a well-worn phrase for Legolas; he knew Legolas had had many lovers before Elrohir, and Elrohir had not. And he had never, ever told anyone he loved them, but he thought perhaps Legolas had.
‘Let us make an agreement then,’ Legolas said and smiled. He rested his hand upon Elrohir’s thigh. ‘If either of us is doing something hazardous,’ and here he flashed a quick glance up into Elrohir’s face as if to gauge his reaction, ‘our measure will be Gimli. If we would seek to prevent Gimli from doing whatever it is that one of us intends, then the other can remonstrate. But if we would not try to prevent Gimli, then we must be silent and endure.’ His smile became a grin then and Elrohir smiled back.
‘I can live with that; if Gimli said he was going to climb to the topmost branch of that oak, I would be able to stop him because as a dwarf, he would not be safe.’ Elrohir met his gaze now, the green-gold that stroked him, looked over him like a caress.
Legolas laughed softly. ‘And if Gimli said he was going to swim that mighty river or cross the Hithaeglir in Winter, I would stop him because he is too short and would be lost in a snow drift.’ His hand on Elrohir’s thigh pressed a little more, slid upwards. Their eyes met. ‘It will take us time, beloved.’
Elrohir reached out and stroked a finger over Legolas’s cheek, just because he could. He gazed at the Woodelf, a slight smile on his lips, disbelieving.
‘What?’ Legolas asked lightly, seeing the intensity of scrutiny in Elrohir’s gaze. ‘Do I have something on my face? In my hair? In my teeth?’
Elrohir dropped his hand. He looked away for a moment and then back to his beloved’s face. ‘No. I just cannot believe you could love me.’
Legolas made a sound that was part sad and part irritated. ‘How can you doubt it? You are Ravéyön.’ And though Elrohir cringed at the epesse, Legolas tightened his hold on Elrohir’s thigh slightly, but to reassure not to caress. ‘You saved me three times, from the Nazgûl no less. You defeated the Brethren gathered to take you into shadow. You are the Son of Thunder. How could I not fall helplessly at your feet?’ he said extravagantly and looked adoringly into Elrohir’s face. He leaned towards him, close and then pressed his mouth against Elrohir’s, kissed him deeply. When at last he pulled away, he murmured, ‘Never forget, Elrohir, my beloved, I am utterly yours. Every bit of me is yours. My heart and soul and body.’
Elrohir lifted his hand then to Legolas’ cheek and cupped it so Legolas turned his lovely face into his palm and kissed it. ‘I do not deserve you.
‘Was I won too lightly then?’ Legolas said laughing and pulled away.
Elrohir shook his head but in his heart, a little quaver of doubt seeded itself. Was Legolas too lightly won? Not by Elrohir for he had fought hard and the battle between them both had been long and at times, bitter. But Eomer had won him first. And that had, by all accounts, been a swift and brief courtship. Too lightly won? Perhaps. He did not speak of his concern though, but held it within.
‘I do not deserve you,’ he repeated instead, and he meant it with all his heart.
Later Legolas found Gimli with the hobbits. Frodo still was very pale but Sam was leaning against the trunk of an old alder and staring up into its leaves with an expression of wonder.
‘Mornin’ Legolas,’ he called as he saw the elf approach. He wore some of the wildflowers in his buttonhole and Legolas saw that Frodo wore some too. ‘Look, someone keeps leaving us wildflowers. The scent reminds me of home,’ Sam said with delight.
‘That’s lovely,’ Legolas interrupted Pippin and pressed a hand against the littlest hobbit’s shoulder. Pippin looked up at Legolas and shook his head slightly in exasperation.
‘Gimli and I are departing in an hour,’ Legolas said and threw himself down upon the grass beside them.
‘What? You can’t be!’ Frodo exclaimed and the other hobbits joined their voices to his. But Legolas held up his hand.
‘Peace friends. Not to home, but on a task for Aragorn. We are to join Elladan and Imrahil for a short ride. Only to Minas Morgul. To check it is uninhabited.’
‘Minas Morgul?’ Frodo said with a shudder. ‘That is an evil place. I would not wish to go back there for anything.’ Sam looked at him in concern and then staggered to his feet to tuck the blanket around Frodo’ knees more tightly. But Frodo seized his hand for a moment and stopped him and they shared a look that Legolas found struck him to the core.
‘Forgive me, my friends,’ Legolas said softly, penitently. ‘I am a clumsy fool.’
‘Please don’t go there, Legolas,’ Sam said quietly. ‘It is as Mister Frodo says, an awful place. There are guardians and they watch…their eyes follow you. It is where the Nazgûl are.’ His voice trembled ever so slightly and Legolas winced. He caught Gimli looking at him with his deep brown eyes and the dwarf shook his head ever so slightly.
‘And they don’t like you very much,’ Pippin could not help saying to Legolas as he had that morning. ‘I don’t think you or Gimli should go. We’ve only just got back together after all!’
Legolas looked chagrined. He had not thought that the hobbits would be upset and he would not do that for the world.
‘Aragorn has asked us,’ Gimli said, coming to his rescue.
‘And Gandalf is going,’ Legolas added reassuringly. But Pippin just looked cross at that although he did not say why.
‘The Nazgûl have gone, Pippin,’ Merry added. He shook Pippin’s arm slightly as if to get Pippin’s attention for the hobbit was still looking concerned and fixed upon Legolas.
‘That’s true enough.’ Gimli took his pipe out of his mouth and glared at it as if it were the pipe’s fault. ‘They were vanquished with Sauron’s downfall.’ He jabbed the end towards Legolas. ‘If that were not the case, d’you think I would be letting this one skip off to Minas Morgul like it was a picnic?’
Legolas would once have bristled at that, now he smiled.
‘They were servants of the Ring,’ Legolas said gently. He twirled a blade of grass between his fingers, looking at the leaf blade and wondering at it as he spoke. ‘They were bound to it. I am sure Gandalf will know if that is not the case.’
‘I am not so sure.’ Frodo’s voice was uncertain and he had still spoken so rarely since they were reunited that they all turned to listen. ‘They were able to exist before …. before he came back into the world.’ Frodo tried to swallow but it was as if his throat was dry though the day was mellow and balmy. But for a moment, Legolas knew Frodo did not see the grass or hear the river; he knew what Frodo saw for he had seen it himself. He too had been hunted by the Nazgûl, in the Wood near Dol Guldur and on the mountainside of the Mindolluin. Yet how much worse it must have been for Frodo.
Legolas hummed lightly under his breath. A Song of small streams babbling over stones and pooling in shady dells, of fields of barley ripening in the warm sun, of green woodlands full of birdsong…He listened for the hobbits’ song, and heard Pippin, Merry…Sam gently coming back. But Frodo’s song was not there. He was still locked in memory of the Ring, of Mordor and Legolas’ song almost faltered. But he hummed Pippin’s song instead and found Pippin humming along with him, his light and merry heart lifted Legolas too. Frodo’ face relaxed a little and though he did not smile, the lines at his mouth eased.
Gimli tutted and sucked again on his pipe, trying to light it.
‘Here,’ Sam said and took the pipe from Gimli. He lit it easily and puffed a few smoke rings. ‘Gandalf has been teaching me,’ he said a little bashfully. ‘When I’ve been sitting with Frodo.’
Legolas felt suddenly, inexplicably overwhelmed. Anything he might have endured paled beside what Sam and Frodo had been through; it humbled him completely. He bowed his head and twirled the blade of grass between his fingers so he had time to control the emotion that wanted to burst from his chest.
‘And Gandalf going with you,’ Merry added reassuringly.
‘Yes. I am.’
All faces turned up towards the blaze of white that gentled and spread a warmth amongst them.
‘Well,’ Frodo spoke but his voice was still unhappy. ‘That should be all right then.’ But Pippin looked away and would not quite meet Gandalf’s eyes.
Note: Reminder that in Through a Glass Darkly, Legolas and his companion, Rhawion are attacked by a Nazgûl and Rhawion is killed.
Nana means mum/ mother but you all know that already!
Beta: The very wonderful Anarithilen.
Thank you all for the deluge of reviews and comments, kudos, favourites, follows etc. I admit I was a bit overwhelmed and encouraged and flattered. Please do keep those reviews coming- I get very despondent if I think no one is interested.
Chapter 2: Into the Morgul Vale
They left for Minas Morgul soon after and though he tried not to show it for Elrohir’s sake, Legolas was in high spirits and wanting to do something, to move, to get out of the stifling inaction of the huge camp on Cormallen Field. Whilst it was good to sit amongst the Fellowship, hear their stories and to simply enjoy their companionship, his nerves were still strung from his own injury and his fingers twitched for action; it was too hard to sit for long and not do anything. He wondered indeed how they would all cope with peace. Gimli too was restless, even if this excursion was, as the dwarf had said, a picnic compared with their recent adventures. But he found that riding Arod with Gimli tucked safely at his back and Gandalf on one side, Elladan on the other, with Imrahil close by, he was looking forward to it.
It helped that Eomer was not there, for he knew the Man watched him still with yearning and hurt.
‘Where are you in your head that merits such a heavy sigh?’ a gruff voice broke in on his thoughts. ‘Too much in the past?’ Gimli continued.
Legolas felt the dwarf’s strong fingers seek his own and squeeze slightly. He canted his head back towards the dwarf, feeling a surge of affection for his steadfast friend. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
‘Perhaps this adventure is too much for you?’ Gimli worried. ‘I knew you were not ready. I should have insisted that Aragorn send someone else.’ Legolas felt the dwarf move his hands back and worry at the ends of his beard.
‘I am perfectly able to ride a horse and keep an eye on one recalcitrant dwarf,’ Legolas said quickly with a smile and reached behind him to catch Gimli’s hand before he stuck the ends of his beard into his mouth. ‘Thank you Nana Gimli. And I have cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair, and I have washed my face, hands and feet this morning.’
Beside him, Imrahil leaned over slightly to Elladan and said quietly, ‘Is Nana a title of affection, like Elvellon?’
Elladan opened his mouth to explain but Gimli said quickly and rather loudly, ‘Many times have I had to explain, Prince Imrahil. It means Great Dwarf-lord who is fearsome and pinches little elves if they do not behave.’
Legolas laughed aloud and there was a dig in his ribs and he stifled a yelp for he was still sore and his ribs had not quite recovered from the battle.
‘I know where you hurt,’ the dwarf murmured at his back. ‘Think on it before you speak again or I shall make you yelp so hard that even Gandalf will think you should go back.’
Elladan smiled indulgently and glanced at Prince Imrahil, who returned Elladan’s smile. Legolas watched them both obliquely, thinking how close those two had become in the aftermath of battle. He wondered where that would end: Elladan was quite obviously smitten. But then he had not yet made his Choice, nor had Elrohir.
Legolas was silent. If Elladan chose the Way of Men, how would that affect Elrohir? Would it pull Elrohir towards that fate?
‘This is a grim place,’ Gimli muttered behind him.
It was indeed and Legolas pulled his attention back to the landscape before him. Ash from the eruption of Mount Doom floated like light snow in the air around them but it felt grimy and gritty on their skin and caught in the back of their throats. A thin layer covered the black rocks like dull grey frost.
Minas Morgul lay ahead, a broken, jagged city in the shadow of the mountains. Elrohir had told Legolas that it had once been a fair and radiant city that seemed filled with silver light, that bells rang with every hour and the valley had chimed and echoed with music and the long pennants streamed in the wind. But Legolas could not believe this dull and drear place had ever rung with anything other than the sound of war: of Orcs, the clank of machines of destruction and the hoarse cawing of the Nazgûls’ winged lizards. He shuddered in horror at the memory of reptilian skin, slick and silver in the rain.
But the Nazgûl are gone, he told himself firmly, knowing that he was not quite recovered from the Black Web that had sunk into his veins. His own Song lapped through him like the lake on its shores, or the Sea, knitting his bones, smoothing the knotted nerves and fragile senses. And Elrohir’s love cradled him like cupped hands.
At the entrance to the city, were two stone statues; gargoyles, winged and open mouthed and now limned with white ash, and as they approached the sentinels, Legolas had a sinister sense of being watched. Arod shied a little and pulled back.
Suddenly, a green light shot through the city, shimmering like a poisonous haze over it. Legolas could not help the gasp that escaped him; corpse light, like the ghosts of the Dead Marshes, washed over the walls of the abandoned city and shot into the air. Green spears of light pierced the dark and washed over the sky, dissipated into the grey ash.’ What is that?’ he cried, horror prickled his fingertips and down his spine.
‘What is what?’ Gimli demanded. ‘Did I catch you? I am sorry, Legolas. I did not mean…’
‘No! Did you not see it? That mist? It just…’
‘What?’ Elladan pulled up beside him.
‘Did you not see?’ Legolas turned in distress towards Gandalf. ‘That light, like the Summer Lights, but …poisonous.’ He stared at Gandalf who urged Shadowfax towards him, his blue eyes narrowed and looked ahead where Legolas pointed. ‘Gandalf, did you see…?’
‘There is nothing, Legolas,’ Elladan said soothingly. He pulled his black horse, Baraghur, up beside Arod. ‘Perhaps it is just the light and the atmosphere of this place.’ He looked up at the tall keep that rose from the centre of the city. ‘It feels full of malice and cruelty.’
Legolas stared up at the walls of the silent city. It felt watchful, but there was nothing and he thought perhaps the venom that remained a slick in his veins made him see things that were not, or that had been but were no more perhaps?
They clattered into the city; the men shuddered as they passed between the gargoyles, and every horse shied and surged quickly past as though the ugly stone statues were somehow sentient and might yet reach out to grab them as they passed and tear them in their gaping jaws and fangs.
Imrahil had been given the leadership of the troop by Aragorn. Now he turned his grey horse in a tight circle and gave his orders in a low voice, for the silent city felt like it merely waited for the Nazgûls’ return and the Men could not help but keep their voices hushed. ‘Elladan, will you take the North road and see what is down there? Make sure you flush out any orcs or enemies. Be on your guard.’
Elladan turned to beckon Legolas over but Gandalf stayed him. ‘I need Legolas with me, but you may have Gimli,’ he told Elladan. ‘I will take five Men with me to explore the Keep,’ he added, looking at Imrahil as if for permission but in truth, it was no such thing.
Legolas reached behind and clasped Gimli’s hand to ease him down. ‘Take good care of my dwarf-friend,’ he told Elladan, only half-mocking. ‘He is very pig-headed and wont to run straight into danger. You will have to restrain him as I do.’ Legolas smiled at Elladan as he spoke for the elf-lord was so like Elrohir that it gladdened Legolas’ heart. Elrohir. The very thought made his heart thump in his chest and his cock surge with delighted lust. He may have gripped Gimli too hard because he was sure he heard the dwarf squeak a little.
‘And I am glad for once that you are taking the easy road with Gandalf, guarding the horses no doubt!’ Gimli landed firmly on his own two feet and stamped, encouraging the blood to flow back into his numb feet for it was very cold in the city. ‘A suitable task for one of your strength and talent, Legolas.’ He grumbled under his breath about horses, fished about in his pocket and gave Arod an apple core he had been saving.
Arod crunched the apple as Legolas sild from his back while around them, the other Men were dismounting too and looking about the empty, silent city. Arod’s warm brown eyes watching the dwarf with interest and when there were no more apples, he dropped his nose to the ground and snuffled through the white ash to seek the weeds that grew through the broken and cracked paving. But there was no grass and the weeds were poisonous and stained yellow with sulphur.
‘Laindir, bring your troop and come with me and Avorn, set a guard for the horses. Saelion, take some men and spread out and check this immediate area for orcs and goblins. Kill anything you find unless it be a Man.’ Imrahil’s men began to split up as he directed, some gathering the horses and others looking towards the Men Imrahil named. Legolas looked towards Gandalf who stood looking up at the Keep.
‘Come, Legolas. I need your eyes and ears.’ The Wizard shucked up his white robes over one arm and rapped his staff on the ground as if testing how solid the earth was. ‘I want to know what is here, if anything.’ He was very still for a moment, his head turned towards the tall Keep that towered over them as if he were listening for something that no one else could hear.
Along the sides of the road that led into the Keep there were all sorts of detritus, broken wagons and several discarded battering rams. A siege engine lay on its side, the wood splintered and beneath it lay some grisly oxen type creature that had been pulling the siege engine when it toppled. Legolas tried not to look too closely for flies clustered over its eyes and mouth and crawled over its muzzle.
Gandalf did not pause and looked neither right nor left but strode purposefully into the keep. Legolas followed, his bow loosely strung and in his hand. The five Men directed to go with them strung out a little behind them as they entered the Keep.
The entrance was a huge archway that had been carelessly and clumsily enlarged it seemed; the stone had been hacked out but Legolas could just make out the outline in places of a stylised tree and above the entrance were the remains of seven delicately carved stars. Orcs had defaced them; he could see where they had hacked off the points leaving gouges from chisels in the centres.
Within, there was a rank stench of old blood and rotting meat. One of the Men gagged. Legolas could not blame him for the sickly, slightly sweet stink of carrion coated the back of his throat, like oil, and he covered his nose and mouth with his arm. Flies rose up in an angry buzz at their entrance, fiercely, thickly crowding them as they passed into the darkened keep.
‘This is an evil place,’ muttered one Man. ‘I would rather not go any further in if I had a choice.’
‘It seems we do not,’ another replied a little more brightly and he flashed a smile at Legolas as they passed into the gloom side by side.
The voices of Imrahil’s troop faded behind them and Legolas could no longer hear Gimli’s deep rumble. He suddenly felt unearthed, adrift for a moment like he was no longer corporeal and he threw out a hand to catch at the wall as they passed into the high hall. Above, a vaulted roof arced vertiginously above them into the darkness and before them was a deep, gaping pit. A stone causeway ran across the pit and into the darkened hall. He could not see where it led until
Gandalf lifted his staff and a soft glow illuminated the way that reminded Legolas of Moria.
Huge iron chains had been driven into the thick stone walls, too heavy for any Man or Elf to lift. Attached to the chains were iron collars. This was where the Nazgûl had kept their winged beasts. Heaped in piles in the pit was offal and carrion that seemed to move and shift but Legolas saw it was black flies that crawled thickly over the bloody gore. The air stank of old blood.
‘I cannot go on,’ said the Man who had already muttered his fear. His eyes were wide and panicked and Legolas could not blame him.
But the second Man gripped his arm and turned to look at him. ‘You have seen worse than this, Arduin. And survived. Come now. This is nothing but a stink and can survive that too.’
The Man called Arduin stared at his friend for a moment and then nodded. ‘Where you go, I go,’ he said softly and Legolas looked away, a slight smile curving his lips.
Gandalf’s footsteps rang on the stone causeway, echoed loudly in the cavernous halls. The glow from Gandalf’s staff was faint and Legolas was glad; he did not want to see what else was in this tower of old bones and bloody meat, for the smell was enough. He did not want to know what the fell beasts had been fed. He hoped, prayed that there would be no sound from the pits. He did not think he could bear that, and found that he had strung his bow without thinking and an arrow notched. It reminded him horribly of Phellanthir, that old abandoned city in Eregion where the Nazgûl had attacked Legolas and where Rhawion had lost his life.
Ahead, the stones seemed to glow dimly green and he was reminded of the green light he alone had seen as they approached Minas Morgul. But this was nothing more sinister than phosphorescence it seemed. At the end of the causeway was an arch and a flight of shallow stone steps led in a wide sweep upwards. Limestone, Legolas recognised as he set foot upon the steps. There was a sudden dislocated lurch in his mind for Thranduil’s stronghold was delved in limestone, and he could not help but imagine the caverns of his home devastated by Orcs and goblins; the green tree-light of the Wood twisted into this sickly phosphorescence that coated the walls of the ancient keep like the blood and offal coated the floor. Yellow smoke billowing through the Woods, a body impaled, hanging heavily from a lance…The world tilted and he threw out a hand to catch himself on the limestone wall. It was damp under his hand, like sweating skin.
He blinked and shook himself. That was the second time in as many minutes. Gandalf had paused on the stairs above and was looking back at him with concern. ‘What do you feel?’
‘I…’He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just a fancy, nothing more. I thought…I was thinking of home.’
Gandalf nodded once, and his blue eyes gleamed eerily in the light of his staff. Then he turned and climbed upwards once more and the five Men and one Elf followed behind.
The stair case led upwards and suddenly opened onto a wide landing, and tall windows looked out across the valley. A wasteland stretched before them and what he had first thought were small hillocks were slag heaps and the ground was pitted with deep holes, pocked carelessly with open cast mines. The second Man who had comforted Arduin came and stood beside Legolas, looking down onto the abandoned machines, wooden scaffolding and chains, iron buckets, great spikes and drills littered about with no thought.
‘What do you think they did, those machines?’ he asked but Legolas did not know.
‘Gimli would know,’ he said. ‘And if he did not, he would work out their functions.’ Neither mentioned the cages that swung creaking from long poles or the bundled rags within. Far below he could see the horses and guards left by Imrahil. Arod was standing desolately amongst the ruins.
‘Two of you take this floor,’ Gandalf told them. ‘There is enough daylight that you can see if there is anything worth recovering. Anything that looks like it might be useful,’ he said cryptically. ‘Just tell me when I come back down. I will check if it is worth recovering.’
He beckoned to the three remaining Men. ‘You will take the next floor and Legolas and I will explore the upper floors,’ he said practically and the Men nodded and set off across the pale, worn stone.
Arches opened one after another, leading to different chambers on each floor and the wide stone staircase wound upwards, growing colder, and even more silent.
On the third floor, Gandalf sighed and looked out of the tall window before them. ‘There were docks over to the South and ships brought spices and silks from the East, wine and wheat from the West. All kings sent their embassies here and paid tribute to Isildur. It was the capital of Gondor in truth, Tower of the Moon and fairest. Its courts and garden seemed filled with moonlight. Minas Tirith was Minas Arnor, Tower of the Sun. That is all that remains of the curtain wall.’ He pointed to a crumbling line of stones. ‘There was great treasure here too. A palantir.’ he turned his bright blue eyes upon Legolas. ‘We need to see if it is still here, Legolas. It belongs to Aragorn and I would not have it fall into another’s hands.’
Cold brushed over Legolas’ scalp, his neck and his fingertips jangled.
He turned suddenly, peering into the darkness and shadows. Did the darkness ripple? Tremble slightly? There, a slither of scales over stone?
He felt a shudder of revulsion crawl down his spine and all the hairs on his neck spiked.
If it is the Nazgûl, it is only fear, he told himself. But Rhawion’s death still haunted him, still nibbled on the edges of his consciousness and he could not shake off the thought that there was a more horrible fate than death and the Dark God of Mandos.
Gandalf had disappeared into the gloom, the soft glow of his staff swallowed up in the darkness and for a moment, Legolas was on his own.
He stared into the darkness that gaped ahead of him, the arches that opened one after another suddenly seemed yawning mouths, filled with shadows that slid and coalesced in the weak light from Gandalf’s staff bobbing in and out of the archways as the Wizard drew further away. Legolas watched the light for a moment and then looked again into the darkness that softly crept back.
No, he told himself. It is merely dark. There is no tremor, no pricking of his thumbs.
A slide of something on the cold stone. A flutter in the freezing wind that fingered his cheek, stroked down his neck.
He stared wide-eyed into the dark. ‘Gandalf?’ he whispered.
But there was no sound. Not even a soft footfall. The light from Gandalf’s staff seemed very far away.
He found his knuckles clenched white on his bow and the arrow already drawn. His mouth was slightly open and he breathed quickly, feeling his muscles tensed, bunch under him.
A ripple across the darkness, it trembled like a thin black robe, fluttered like a bird’s wing…Legolas found his breath coming in short, quick gasps and the cold stole down his neck, his spine, fingered his nipples so they pebbled hard. He stepped back and found the edge of the stone window against the backs of his thighs.
‘Gandalf!’ he whispered, more urgently. ‘Gandalf!’
And suddenly there was the sound of footsteps, impatient, clipped, and first the light from his staff and then the Wizard himself appeared, his eyebrows drawn and his eyes piercing.
‘What is it?’ He blew softly upon his staff and the light burned more brightly, should have chased away the shadows but instead it merely illuminated a smaller hall and upon the walls were grisly tokens, skulls, and iron cages hung from the ceiling. Bones huddled within. And shadows lingered in the corners where the light did not reach.
Gandalf looked more closely at Legolas’ white face and his eyes softened. ‘Come child, I forget that you have not really recovered yet. Perhaps I should not have brought you here,’ he mumbled half to himself. ‘The feel of the Nazgûl lingers, it is true. And they touched you.’ He nodded to himself and looked again at Legolas. Then very slowly he reached out and touched Legolas on the cheek; instantly a warmth spread from the touch and spread through the elf’s veins and nerves and he felt the Song.
‘Fear was ever their greatest weapon,’ Gandalf said gently and then his face grew more serious. ‘But it was not their only weapon. I need to make sure that all they had has gone into the Dark with them.’
‘Forgive me,’ Legolas said, feeling foolish. ‘I let the sense of this place overwhelm me.’
Gandalf did not speak but nodded sagely and turned towards the sweep of the staircase, that curled slowly upwards like the coils of a serpent and as cold.
Legolas followed him up the next flight of wide stone steps and there, a high and graceful arch led into the dim-lit hall. Here the stone had once been carved and elegantly ornate but orcish hands had brutalised any loveliness that might once have been. The faces had been knocked off or chiselled in parodies of themselves, made ugly by gashes instead of mouth and the eyes had been clumsily hacked away. Yet the proportions of the chambers were elegant and one opened up one after another and another.
‘The top floor used to rotate,’ Gandalf said almost to himself as he looked around the empty and silent chambers.
From the walls, thin tattered banners still hung like the skeletal leaves of winter and long windows of shattered glass pitted the walls at equal distance, seven in total. Legolas could see that each opened onto a narrow iron balustrade that circled the whole tower. If he had dared step onto it, he could have walked the entire circle of the tower but in places the iron balustrade had pulled away from the stone walls and hung precariously. It could not have borne even an elf for long without tearing away from the wall and plunging far below.
There is no way out, he thought, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. He put his hand on the stone to steady himself as he leaned out of the window to see the city below but now they were very high and looking up he saw that they had reached the top floor. Far, far below he could see Elladan’s troop. They clambered over fallen masonry and rocks, scurried about - too far away to hear if he cried out to them. Too far away to help.
He looked back towards the doorway in panic, and saw the reassuring glow from Gandalf’s staff. It seemed to glow more brightly as he looked and he felt that same warmth and soothing hope as before. His heartbeat slowed and his breathing settled.
There is nothing here, he told himself sternly. They are all gone into the Dark.
Between the arches, the stone and marble still finely sculpted and undamaged by orcs, Legolas could see a tall plinth in the centre of a room beyond. Something rested on the plinth, covered by a dark veil. Then Gandalf moved in front of the plinth and Legolas’ view was obscured so he turned and walked carefully between the dusty and cobwebbed arches, looking into the shadows and through the doorways in the dim half light that seemed more twilight than midday.
A light seemed to flash dimly from another chamber and he turned his head to look.
In a far-off corner, there was a faded and dim mirror. It was taller than Legolas himself, and wide. Its surface seemed tarnished but as he drew close, he saw that the surface was coated in something. Copper perhaps? A slightly greenish light reflected from it and the frame, he saw, was old bronze, etched in the stylised manner of Imladris. It was some elvish artefact then, he thought. He leaned towards it, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a moment.
There was a flash as the light glanced over the surface of the mirror. For a moment, it seemed a ghoulish face appeared briefly and then vanished, as if something had peered briefly through the mirror from the other side.
Legolas stumbled back with a cry. But when he stared again at the mirror, there was only his own face, the strange half-light made his skin pallid and ghostly. Like a ghoul. Like a wraith.
He stared into his own pale face that trembled in the mirror. Behind him, the shadows drew close and he turned suddenly. But there was nothing behind him.
He turned back. His face looked different; drawn and thin, his eyes bigger and his hair was flat against his skull…
I look ill, he thought. It is because I am still recovering…
Distant sparks flared in the depths of the mirror and again, he turned, startled and fear crept into his heart. But there was nothing there- behind him, the empty chambers were still and silent. Twilight lay heavily across the stone floors and he was suddenly aware that the light was going. He did not want to be here in the dark.
Nervously, he stepped away from the mirror and hurried back to where Gandalf was lifting a dark orb from the plinth. It was a Palantir. Legolas glanced at Gandalf as he stuffed it unceremoniously into a satchel slung at his side and tapped his staff on the stone floor.
‘Good! We have what we came for,’ Gandalf said briskly. ‘Now, let us leave this forsaken place.’
‘Did you know there is a mirror?’ Legolas asked, glancing over his shoulder as they walked back through the arches and came to the wide steps. ‘I do not know if it is important but I cannot think why a ghoul would keep such a thing when all else has been destroyed.’
Gandalf froze. He turned so slowly and with such an expression on his face that Legolas was afraid.
Legolas stopped. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘It was through there…’ He pointed away through the crumbled arches and old stone. ‘It is very ancient, but just a mirror.’ But even as he spoke, he remembered the way a ghoulish face had seemed to peer at him from the other side. ‘
Gandalf pulled back on Legolas’ arm as he made to show Gandalf. ‘No, just tell me.’
‘Through there,’ Legolas said, suddenly nervous. He watched Gandalf breathe deeply and his grip on his staff tightened. ‘Gandalf?’
‘Come,’ said Gandalf, suddenly brisk. ‘Let us leave this forsaken place.’ He pushed Legolas in front of him and went swiftly down the steps. ‘I’d like to be out of here before nightfall and so, I should imagine, do you.’
Legolas quickened his pace, trepidation crept over him until he was almost running down the steps as if they were pursued, and though Gandalf hurried, he did not run as Legolas did. Soon Legolas was a little way ahead of Gandalf and forced himself to pause to wait for the Wizard.
As soon as he stopped, a cold wind blew from behind, caught up in Legolas’ hair and he imagined it was like skeletal hands grasping at him. Suddenly he was back in that place, on the cold mountainside in the rain, with the Nazgûl pursuing him, running through the rain and thunder, the gleam of lightning on their swords as they surrounded him and pressed the cold, cold blades into his flesh.
His heart pounded as he dared not wait but almost burst onto the landing below and cast a quick glance behind him, past Gandalf, up the long wide stairs.
There was nothing.
The dim sunlight shone through the dust that hung in the air. Undisturbed. Still.
Gandalf descended the stair quickly but not hurried and looked at Legolas warily.
Not a sound came from above where the mirror stood in an empty chamber. No scrape of steel or whisper of a thin black shroud. There was only the wind and there was nothing more sinister than it was cold.
Legolas stared back up the staircase as it wound and coiled away into dim twilight and darkness.
‘Come, Thranduillion,’ Gandalf said briskly. ‘Legolas.’
Legolas turned back to Gandalf. He blinked slowly. ‘There is nothing there,’ he said with utmost relief. ‘Nothing.’
Gandalf paused for a moment, looking intently at Legolas. Then he smiled very gently. ‘Not now. They have gone into the Dark,’ the Wizard said quietly. He patted Legolas’ shoulder quite kindly. ‘There is nothing to fear now. But their presence fills this place still and it is no wonder you feel it.’
Legolas looked up into the Wizard’s face; a white light streamed from his brilliant raiment, long silver-white hair flowed around him and down his back, straight, very long, smooth, his face was not quite human, beyond beautiful, too ethereal. Not Gandalf. Ólorin. He had seen Gandalf as Ólorin before, but only in dreams or through the miasma of poison. Now he gazed up in wonder and felt like he had stepped out of time, out of place and light enveloped him. Legolas smiled and Ólorin smiled back; his eyes though were piercing blue and were utterly Gandalf. The apparition faded and there was Gandalf again.
Legolas felt the light recede and stood blinking and feeling foolish and loved and overwhelmed all at the same time.
‘The Nazgûl are no more,’ Gandalf said. ‘They have gone.’ He smiled. ‘Now. Let us leave this place.’
Next chapter almost done.
Chapter 3: The Artefact
Gimli had his small travelling hammer and chisel in his hand and was carving a piece of granite he had picked up whilst scrambling around the rocks after Elladan. Slowly the smooth shape emerged beneath his hand from the rough grit of the rock. Every now and again he glanced up towards the Keep, for Gandalf and Legolas’ small group were still within and the other Men had returned about an hour ago.
Ah, there they were. Gimli nodded to himself; two Men emerged, one clasping the other by the arm as if he leaned upon the other’s strength. Gimli let the hammer and chisel still and fixed his gaze upon the entrance of the Keep. The other three Men emerged then, struggling to carry something between them, a white cloak was cast over whatever it was. But no Wizard. And certainly no elf.
Gimli rose to his feet. He noticed Elladan had come to stand beside him as the five Men walked over the causeway that led from the Keep. The white-cloaked object they carried between them was at least the size of a tall man, Gimli noted, but there was no way of telling what it was.
And then Legolas emerged, and Gandalf.
Gimli breathed and settled back down on the crumbling wall, took out his hammer and chisel and went back to crafting the stone into what was hidden within. He kept one eye on the causeway and watched the five Men handle whatever it was with delicacy and concern. They carried it into the camp where they carefully set it upright and leaned it gently against the crumbling stone wall. Here they paused and talked together, one of them glancing over to Gandalf every now and again as if waiting for a sign, while the first two Men scrambled over the stone wall, although not in haste or fear. One stood upright on the top of the wall, looking beyond. Then he cupped his hand called to his companion, pointing at something.
Gandalf stood at a distance and watched as the two disappeared over the ruined wall to some place that could not be seen from the dwarf’s vantage point. Gimli saw that Legolas came to stand beside the Wizard, but even from here, Gimli could see the stiffness of Legolas’ stance, arms crossed over his chest and his bow clasped to his chest. Legolas bent his head towards Gandalf and murmured something and the Wizard nodded once and glanced towards the white-covered object.
Beside Gimli, Elladan took a step forward and was staring after the Men who stood in a small group around their burden, now resting against the wall. Elladan muttered something that Gimli could not hear. The dwarf did not ask either, for at that moment, Legolas turned his head and catching sight of Gimli, lifted his hand in greeting. Gimli nodded seriously in return and then bent his head to his carving. Now that he had seen his friend’s return, he was no longer concerned, in spite of Elladan’s presence, coiled and tense beside him.
Suddenly Elladan muttered something that sounded like a curse, and then quite abruptly, left Gimli’s side to stride down the broken road towards Gandalf, except he did not keep to the road but leapt swift and sure-footed over crumbled walls and piles of stones at the side of the road in his haste to reach Gandalf it seemed. As Elladan drew closer, Legolas turned towards him but Elladan barely glanced at Legolas, all his intent upon Gandalf. At first, Legolas merely watched but even where he was, Gimli heard Elladan hail Gandalf and his tone was accusing and hostile. At that, Legolas moved very slightly so that Elladan came to stand beside Legolas rather than Gandalf and the two had to speak across Legolas in low hurried voices. Legolas listened, his head tilted slightly to one side.
Gimli raised his head, the stone and tools lay still in his hands. He watched attentively now as Gandalf lay a cautioning hand on Elladan’s arm and spoke quietly. Elladan listened for a moment but after a moment, Legolas stepped back, eyes fixed upon the Wizard. But that was nothing compared with Elladan’s reaction. He pulled away from Gandalf in horror, like he’d been bitten, and from here, Gimli could see him remonstrating with the Wizard with increasing agitation and Gandalf responding in the short, clipped tones that meant he was very angry. At one point he even rapped his staff upon the stone road impatiently. Elladan threw a furious look at Gandalf and then stalked away. Leaping quickly from the causeway to the road and over the crumbling walls, he passed Gimli without a word. The dwarf looked back down at his carving appraisingly. And waited for Legolas.
He did not have to wait for long.
He was aware of the elf settling beside him, peering over his shoulder at the carving. ‘What is it that you carve?’ Legolas asked and Gimli shrugged for it was not clear yet what shape intended to emerge. ’
What was all that about?’ he asked nonchalantly in turn.
‘Elladan is angry with Gandalf for bringing an artefact out of the tower,’ Legolas said matter-of-factly. But there was something in his voice that only Gimli would detect; the slightest breathiness, a tremble in the firmness of his voice?
Gimli blew on the carving. Dust clouded in the wake of his breath. ‘That seems a little hasty.’
‘It is a mirror.’
Gimli frowned. ‘A mirror? So yon ghouls were a little vain you think?’ he wondered aloud.
But Legolas did not laugh. He was watching Elladan, who stood a little distance away, standing high up on a crumbled wall, looking back towards Gandalf.
‘There was a Palantir as well. Gandalf has that. He said he was taking it for Aragorn but he did not say the same of the mirror…He says that we must not leave artefacts lying around for anyone to find.’
‘Hmm.’ Gimli grunted. ‘That seems sensible.’
‘Elladan does not agree,’ Legolas said slowly. ’He asked Gandalf if the mirror was akin to the one in Phellanthir.’ There was a pause. ‘I did not see a mirror in Phellanthir.’
Gimli paused in his carving and looked up. ‘Phellanthir?’ The name itself conjured dreadful images; the Tower crashing down upon them, stones hurled after them as they fled, and the river surging and washing over the marshland in a tidal wave after the seizures of the earth at the tower’s fall. And Glorfindel emerging from the dust, half carrying Legolas, and Rhawion’s lifeless body in his arms. ‘I did not go into the Tower as you know,’ Gimli said. ‘And I am glad I did not. And I am glad too that I did not have to go in there either.’ He nodded his head towards the Keep. ‘And even gladder that you are out of there and here where I can keep an eye on you.’
Legolas smiled slightly. ‘Elladan seems to think this mirror is dangerous.’
‘A dangerous mirror?’ Gimli said practically. ‘Perhaps it is very unflattering, makes you look like a ghoul.’
Legolas looked at him sharply. He said nothing but his mouth was a thin line and Gimli found that unexpectedly disturbing.
‘I will groom Arod,’ Legolas said abruptly and Gimli frowned at the sudden change from confidential to practical, but he knew Legolas well enough now to not question him and let him go to the horse, which looked up in delight and blew in Legolas’ hair. Gimli glanced back down to the stone in his hand, thinking how Legolas had done the same after the fight with Elrohir all that time ago on the quay at Lindir. He flicked a quick glance up to where Legolas had begun brushing Arod in long, hard strokes that the silly beast loved and leaned into, his eyes half closed and lower lip slack. Legolas’ face was intent, closed.
Gimli sighed and weighed the chisel in his hand. It was too light really for stone. But only a travel tool and it had served him well. He thought about what Legolas had said; it seemed then that Elladan had seen a mirror in Phellanthir. But that did not mean anything really. He squinted along the line of the granite, gauging where to cut next, and carefully chipped away one flake of stone. He wondered why the Nazgûl had a looking glass in the first place and imagined the Nazgûl standing in front of it in the way folk did and wondering - is my shroud hanging right? Is black a good colour for me?
He amused himself in this way for a little while as he carved. Much more worrying however, Gimli thought as he gently teased out a sliver of stone to be the beginning of an eye, was the Palantir. Aragorn already had one of those and it had caused nothing but trouble. But they could not leave it lying around for anyone to find and it was better that Aragorn had it.
Now Imrahil’s Men were harnessing two horses to a cart they had salvaged and the mirror was being loaded into it. Legolas had ceased grooming Arod and straightened to watch them.
The dwarf blew on the stone and held it up to the light so he could see where to line his chisel next. He glanced over to where Elladan stood watching, his spine ramrod straight and bristling with unspent energy, thought Gimli.
Carefully, Gimli stowed his small hammer and chisel away in the loose heel of his boot where he kept such useful items and clipped the heel back into place. He folded the small piece of stone in a soft cloth and shoved it into a deep pocket. Then he brushed his hands off and stood beside Legolas, watching as the mirror was loaded onto the cart. One of the Men stood, holding the horses’ reins and two were carefully securing the mirror with leather straps and ropes.
‘Gandalf says that Elladan, Gandalf and I must ride on ahead and warn Aragorn of what we have found,’ Legolas said suddenly, He made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘He is hiding something.’ Legolas looked over towards the Wizard as he spoke, his eyes distant. ‘Why does he cover the mirror with his cloak? And why must we ride on ahead? Not you, Gimli. Just Gandalf, Elladan and me. He has that Palantir but takes no such care with that.’
Gimli humphed and crossed his arms over his broad chest. ‘And what is Elladan’s problem with it? What about the other mirror in Phellanthir?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes and watching the son of Elrond.
Legolas’s mouth twisted a little and he cast his gaze downwards. ‘He accuses Gandalf of being reckless.’ Legolas shook his head. ‘I felt something up there, Gimli. I thought it was just the lingering sense of the Nazgûl…but now…hearing Elladan, I wonder if there is more.’
They stood side by side as the last ropes and straps tying the mirror onto the wagon were secured. Elladan stood beyond the edges of the troop of Men, watching. But his hand gripped the hilt of his sword and the other was jammed into his belt as if he needed to restrain himself. He fixed his gaze upon the Keep and did not look at the wagon where the mirror was.
Gimli pursed his lips and contemplated the sky. ‘I think I will trust Gandalf in this,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘He has been right about most things so far. Not all,’ he countered himself, ‘but most. I think I will ask him about what this mirror is and why he believes he cannot leave it or break it.’
‘He will not tell you,’ Legolas said slowly. Gimli glanced up at him.
Arod snuffed lightly in Gimli’s hair. Almost automatically, the dwarf searched his pockets. His blunt, clever fingers found a small piece of forgotten carrot in amongst the dust and cotton gathering in his deepest pocket. Absently he gave it to the horse who crunched contentedly.
Gimli stared ahead; clearly Legolas had already asked and met silence from the Wizard.
Phellanthir. The very name was unwelcome. Gimli remembered how distraught the elf had been over Rhawion’s death. None of them wanted a repeat of that and Gimli resolved to keep watch upon his friend.
Legolas shifted slightly beside him. ‘All Gandalf would say is that if the Nazgûl deemed it important enough to keep,’ he said quietly, ‘then it has some value to them and should not be left here for anyone else to find.’
‘Very well. But don’t look into it, Legolas,’ Gimli cautioned. ‘You never know. And I cannot imagine that all it does is make you look a bit ghoulish.’
At that, Legolas seemed to jerk slightly as if startled and he stepped away. ‘I am going to talk to Elladan,’ he said and Gimli roused himself.
‘Well I’m coming with you!’ he said.
Aragorn sighed and pulled a beautifully drawn map towards himself, pristine and crisp; it was newly delivered from one of the many lords of Gondor whose name he could not remember. Aragorn sat on an ornately carved chair at a desk that was heavy and decorative enough for a banqueting hall rather than a tent in the middle of the Field of Cormallen.
He had let the flap of the tent fall closed to give himself a little privacy because he found people kept looking in to see the King Returned and he had finally grown tired of it and felt a little over-exposed. But he supposed that this was what it was going to be like from now on.
‘The King does not wish to be disturbed my lord.’ His guards muted voices came from outside. Something else he was going to have to get used to; having guards.
‘He will wish to see me.’ Low and insistent. Irritated. Aragorn smiled; Elrohir of course.
‘I am sorry my lord. He has said no one.’ The guard’s voice was anxious and Aragorn wondered how long the Man could keep up his resistance in the face of Aragorn’s brother.
‘He will see me.’ The voice repeated, more loudly. More insistent. Definitely more irritated.
Aragorn smiled as the tent door flapped aside and Elrohir limped slowly in, still leaning on the cane that someone had quickly made for him, but he was not the only one who had needed such. The veins stood out on his hands where he clutched the cane so Aragorn, ever the healer, knew he was still in pain.
‘Here, let me…’ He hurried over to pull out a chair for Elrohir but the scowl and slight shake of his head stopped Aragorn. The King Returned sighed, exasperated that he was surrounded by stoical warriors who would not let him help.
‘Is there any news?’ Elrohir asked shortly.
Silently and only to himself, Aragorn admitted that he would not be allowed the assist his injured brother, and sat down. He watched while Elrohir stubbornly struggled one handed with the heavy chair that got caught on the thick and opulent rugs that had been spread lavishly over the grass so the King Returned had something warm to meet his toes first thing in the morning. Elrohir let out an expletive that, had Gimli been in the room, would have shocked the dwarf, not only that Elrohir was so fluent in Khuzdul but that his language was so colourful.
‘I asked for news,’ Elrohir barked, tugging irritably at the chair until it suddenly moved and he could collapse into it.
‘News?’ Aragorn quirked an eyebrow. ‘There is always news. What sort of news?’
‘You know what news,’ Elrohir snapped. He dropped the cane then and it fell with a thud onto the thick rugs. This time, instead of cursing, he exhaled quietly and let his head drop.
Aragorn was instantly at his side. ‘I wish you would let me help,’ he said softly, setting the cane near Elrohir’s trembling hand.
Elrohir sighed. ‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘I have good days and bad days…The bad days are very bad.’
‘This is one,’ Aragorn said, less of a question than a statement.
Elrohir nodded. ‘It would help if I knew where they were, how they are,’ he said and Aragorn knew he meant Elladan of course, but also Legolas. Aragorn still marvelled that the two seemed to have found such deep and tender closeness; he was not yet ready to call it love because it was so new and Legolas was… well, he had not exactly been celibate during the quest for Aragorn knew of at least three lovers Legolas had had since he had turned up in imladris that rainy afternoon.
Aragorn poured water into a glass goblet for Elrohir and mused that in fact, Legolas had been quite happy to take every opportunity to be anything but celibate. And so Elrohir might be just one more notch on the Wood elf’s knife. Aragorn was unhappy about that. Elrohir was so vulnerable, wounded. If he was merely some plaything of Legolas’ to while away the time, it would hurt Elrohir beyond his capacity to heal. He sighed heavily and then looked up to find his brother’s grey eyes fixed upon him, a wry smile upon his full lips as if he heard every word of those thoughts.
‘I know what you think, Estel, but that is not how it is. I am neither so fragile nor is Legolas so fickle.’ He smiled and Aragorn, so used to the suppressed violence in Elrohir, marvelled at the softness in his eyes…and then he was afraid again, for he did not think Legolas so easily won, though he loved his mercurial friend and owed him his life many times over.
“Tell me any news,’ Elrohir said, more gently. His tall frame looked odd bent into a mannish chair, for Elrohir was over a head taller than any lord of Gondor. He looked cramped and uncomfortable and Aragorn made a note to commission a carpenter to make new chairs, higher tables, to accommodate his family. Friends too, he added mentally, thinking of Legolas, as tall as Elrohir but more wiry. And Gimli and the hobbits, for he would not give them chairs for a child. He mused to himself, unaware of Elrohir’s eyes upon him, and the slight smile on his lips as if he knew where Aragorn’s thoughts took him.
Upon the lavish inlaid and decorated table were a number of scrolls. One was uncurled and Aragorn reached out to it. It was neatly scribed in Gimli’s careful hand and meticulously detailed.
‘They have scoured Minas Morgul,’ Aragorn said. ‘Most of the Orcs and goblins have already abandoned it but there were some Men who resisted them. Gimli says they have taken the city though and it is now ours, though he complains I have not given them enough men to leave there or to hold it for long.’ He sighed. ‘I am loathe to send men out to Mordor when we have only just returned. It is a grim post and will wear upon their hearts.’
Elrohir grunted and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Send those who did not go to Mordor then. They are desperate to win acclaim and redeem their honour in the eyes of the city. It is a task not beyond them. Find a good commander though, one who will keep them strong.’ His hand clenched the arm of the chair and Aragorn saw how he gritted his teeth. ‘Even better, raze it to the ground so that no evil can return there.’
“I have a message too from Gandalf that asks for a smooth running wagon and some skilled men.’ He frowned, perplexed. ‘There may be some things that he has found that he would not leave there, or some treasures perhaps, plundered from Gondor.’
‘Of course,’ Elrohir said, leaning heavily upon the arms of the chair and shifting uncomfortably. ‘Minas Ithil was a beautiful city. Its spires reminded me of tales of Gondolin, and the bells used to ring through that valley, echo from the mountains. When the moon shone upon the walls, it was indeed white and silver. And there was great wealth too.’
His grey eyes were unfocused for a moment and Aragorn knew that he was remembering with elven clarity, every detail, every sound, the faces of those he met and knew well.
‘It is a place of great evil now,’ Elrohir said slowly. His face grew troubled then. ‘I wish Legolas had not gone, nor Elladan.’ He looked away. ‘They are not in danger, but I feel it is there nonetheless.’
I really should say as well that although he does not appear in these first chapters, Tindómion is Spiced Wine’s invention and I thank her for letting me use him.
* The memory of Phellanthir is from Through a Glass Darkly and this is as much a sequel to that fic as it is Sons of Thunder. In Glass, Glorfindel and Erestor find a mirror made by Celebrimbor. It is a Door to the Eternal Dark and when Glorfindel reaches it, a Balrog comes. Elladan is wounded by a morgul blade and he and Elrohir are trapped by the Nazgûl. In trying to bargain with Angmar for Elladan’s life, Elrohir allows Angmar to plunder his thoughts and memories- including those of finding his mother- and which Angmar corrupts, he also exacerbates Elrohir’s unacknowledged lust/desire for Legolas and gives him those violent images that plague him all through Sons of Thunder.
Warnings for this chapter: slash. Explicit.
Chapter 4: Memories
Elrohir dropped swabs and bandages on the bed, a bowl of hot water was on the floor. He let himself half sit half fall on to the edge of the bed and took a breath. His leg throbbed in pain. Carefully he unwound the soiled bandages and peered at the wound. It was healing. The skin was pink at the edges and shiny where it had grown anew. He sat on the edge of the bed, face contorted in pain, clutching at his wound and swabbing hot water over it. Clenching his teeth, he held the cloth over the wound, letting the water wash through, the heat burn away any bacteria.
He thought determinedly of Legolas while he scrubbed at the wound, punishing himself for his evil, purging himself of his wickedness. Four days since Legolas and Elladan had ridden out. Four days of unease and premonition. Of the deep sense of danger. He was ready to saddle Barakhir and ride to Minas Morgul himself to meet them in spite of the frequent messengers and Gimli’s cheerfully practical letters to Aragorn. There were none from Legolas.
Suddenly his longing for Legolas was so intense he almost heard the light dance of green-gold notes drift on the breeze and he looked up almost expecting that beloved voice full of softened consonants and long lilting vowels, singing irreverently, the gleam of lust and long green eyes that slid a gaze towards him full of suggestion and desire, generous mouth promising seduction…
There was a light scuff of boots outside his tent and suddenly the tent flap opened. Sunlight poured through and around a dim shape but he would know that tall, lean figure even in the Eternal Dark.
‘Are you really here? Not just conjured by my fevered imagination?” He lurched to his feet and then clutched the edge of the bed in agony. He could not stifle the cry that tore from his lips and instantly Legolas was at his side, kneeling beside him and carefully lowering him to the bed.
‘Please, Elrohir. Let Elladan or Aragorn attend you. Look at the pain you are in!’
‘I do not want you to see me like this,’ Elrohir ground between his teeth but he could not conceal it and blew out, raising his eyes upwards as he leaned back onto the bed and allowed Legolas to fuss. ‘And before you say it, I have let Aragorn attend me, as you say. I am not a fool to let a wound fester. It is just taking longer and needs more time…And I do not want to give it. I want to be healed!’ he said in exasperation.
Legolas smiled. ‘I know. I too have endured and even now, I am not fully recovered,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘I feel the…taint of the Black Web still and it lingers in my dreams.’ He looked up at Elrohir with an earnest eyes. ‘Neither of us are yet whole.’
Elrohir’s pain was forgotten and he looked at Legolas with anxious concern. ‘You still feel this?’ he asked. His voice was soft and he gazed at Legolas, looked his fill, his heart filled with adoration. ‘I would give you all my strength to make you whole!’ he said earnestly.’
Legolas shook his head and laughed softly. ‘Foolish Noldor,’ he said fondly and caressed Elrohir, stroked his hand over his long, night-silk hair, cupped his cheek and drew him close. Elrohir felt the crackle of his desire, his absolute love fill him, swell in his heart and chest until he thought he might burst.
He leaned towards Legolas and pressed his lips against Legolas’ mouth. The kiss was like a long drink of water in a desert, torrential rain in a parched land. Elrohir pulled Legolas towards him but his beloved did not fall onto the bed with him; instead he pulled back and looked at Elrohir sternly.
‘Those bandages, that wound first,’ he said firmly. ‘We will get you sorted first and then…’ He let his hand drift over Elrohir’s straining crotch with a wicked smile. ‘Then we will attend to other matters.’
Smiling, Elrohir conceded and leaned back on his elbows to watch. Legolas was looking at the wound with a critical eye and a faint grimace that made Elrohir want to cover it and hide from Legolas’ disgust. His hand twitched in reaction, going to cover it but Legolas tutted and pushed him away.
‘You think this is the worst I have seen? Is it painful? It should have thought it more healed by now but you keep overdoing it.’ He glanced up at Elrohir’s pensive face and grinned. ‘I will have to be gentle with you.’
Elrohir closed his eyes and sighed for he did not want gentleness. No. He wanted fire and passion and for Legolas to pound him. He felt himself stiffen even more and heard Legolas laugh a little. But then the dressing was against his wound and it stung. He leaned back on his elbows and watched Legolas’ quick hands that did not stop even when he could not help but gasp in pain. Legolas was swift and wound the bandage about him, frequently brushing his fingers over Elrohir’s straining, bursting cock as if by accident and a small smile played about his lips as he did so. He tied it off and then kneeling before Elrohir, rested his hands upon Elrohir’s thighs.
Elrohir’s erection strained, felt like it would burst if Legolas did not touch him. He was still leaning back on his elbows and his eyes met Legolas’, amorous.
‘You are being coy, my beloved,’ Legolas said playfully, and bit his lip as he stroked Elrohir’s bulging cock. Elrohir thought he would faint with desire. ‘Let me see if I can still seduce you,’ he said mischievously and reached up, his fingers stroking Elrohir’s ear so he fell helpless and swooning against the pillow.
Legolas crawled carefully upon the bed beside him, avoiding Elrohir’s leg. He pressed his long, lean body against Elrohir’s. ‘You are wearing entirely too many clothes,’ he said and with his teeth pulled loose the laces tying Elrohir’s tunic. Impatiently he tugged them apart and pulled the tunic over Elrohir’s head with a flourish. ‘Give yourself to me,’ he said, nuzzling Elrohir’s neck and with his hand, pulling loose the ties of his breeches.
Elrohir reached out and pulled Legolas towards him.
‘I have missed you. I love you,’ he declared earnestly and Legolas laughed lightly and flicked his cock so his nerves shocked like a lightning strike. ‘I love you, I love you,’ Elrohir cupped Legolas’ sweet and beautiful face and showered kisses upon him. Legolas laughed under them and dived beneath his arms, grasping his cock and balls with one strong, warm hand so that Elrohir arched and cried out.
‘I have missed this,’ Legolas grinned and knelt up, looking at Elrohir sprawled beneath him and completely undone. ‘I love to see you like this.’
Their love-making was quick and hard and burst upon Elrohir like a wave and when it was done, he was sweating and hot. His hair stuck to his face and chest and his skin marked by Legolas’ passion, and Legolas the same.
‘That’s better.’ Legolas rose to his feet, naked and glorious enough to make Elrohir’s heart burst and his cock surge again with appreciative lust. He watched Legolas pad to a travelling chest upon which stood a jug of wine and two empty glasses. He filled the glasses and turned back to Elrohir, lifted one glass to his lips and drank deeply, unappreciatively of the fineness of the red wine. ‘And now…’ He raised an eyebrow suggestively and ran his fingers over his own belly and already half-full cock, batted it cheerfully so it bobbed.
‘Beautiful, insatiable melethron,’ Elrohir murmured.
Legolas handed him a goblet but Elrohir put it in the small table beside the bed for he did not want wine to muddle his thoughts. He marvelled at how close they had become in so short a time and after such conflict between them, and then he thought about what Legolas had said but also what he had not said; I have missed this, he had said, and I love to see you like this.
He had not said he missed Elrohir. He had not said that he loved Elrohir. Though Elrohir had declared it, and cried it as he came.
But Elrohir would not ask like some needy maiden; he had already decided he had no call upon Legolas. In fact he was so deeply in his debt that should Legolas never return his heart and simply use him until he was bored and throw him away, Elrohir was determined he would not feel betrayed or used or misled, for he owed Legolas more than he could ever repay.
Outside the light had dimmed and twilight was upon them. A blackbird sang heartily somewhere outside, near the river perhaps
Legolas threw himself back onto the bed and leaned against the pillows, one elbow propping him up. His long, lean body was relaxed, his cock thickened and slack against his thigh where the ancient ink and wild colour wound and the dragon peered over his shoulder. Long winter-grass hair gleamed in the firelight, and Legolas’ eyes were dipped towards the goblet which he held against his lips now though he did not drink, lost in thought.
Elrohir watched him, watched the firelight stroke the long silk of his pale gold hair and decided he did not care if Legolas had not said he loved him; he showed it in other ways and called him beloved. That would have to be enough.
Legolas did not move, so deep in thought was he and they lay together in silence until Elrohir asked, ‘Did you find anything in Minas Morgul?’
Legolas sighed and glanced up, a strangely anxious expression in his eyes. Or was it accusing?
Elrohir blinked. ‘I am glad you are back safe,’ he said uncertainly, wondering what had changed Legolas’ mood so suddenly and what he was thinking that had plunged him into such silence. It made him more hesitant. ’Was the city empty?’
Legolas stared into the wine for a moment and then spoke, slowly. ‘It was empty in that it was abandoned. But…it did not feel empty.’ He suddenly put the wine down and pushed himself to his feet. ‘It is a haunted and evil place as you said. I wish never to go back there.’ Restlessly he paced to the tent door and then turned and strode back towards Elrohir, his eyes resolute. ‘But it is not Minas Morgul that bothers me,’ he said sombrely, looking down at Elrohir. ‘It is Phellanthir.’
Elrohir jerked back involuntarily. Phellanthir? The name itself sent a cold dread down his spine. He began to struggle to his feet but Legolas leaned down and grasped Elrohir by the arm.
‘Tell me,’ he insisted. ‘What happened in Phellanthir? I know you were there with Glorfindel.’
Elrohir bit his lip, remembering the moonlight shining on the mudflats that surrounded Phellanthir, Elladan’s rasping breath beside him and the horror that crept over him as he knelt on the wet mud before the Witchking, before Angmar.
Legolas was watching him, a knowing look in his long green eyes.
Elrohir steeled himself for it seemed he must bare his soul once more to Legolas to earn forgiveness. ‘Very well,’ he said heavily. ‘In Phellanthir, I did offer myself to Angmar, in return for Elladan. He was wounded by a morgul blade and I could not save him.’
‘You have a habit of sacrificing yourself.’ Legolas’ voice was dry. Amused even. ‘For you did that for me too, at least twice….’
Elrohir bowed his head for it was here that Angmar had plundered his thoughts, stoked the wicked and unholy lust Elrohir had for Legolas, the desire for his pain and anguish. He confessed, ’Angmar promised you to me if I gave him the Ring.’
Legolas waved his hand impatiently and tutted. ‘I know that,’ he said dismissively. ‘You told me. Several times in fact and each time it becomes more abject and more detailed. As if you wish to shock me at your vile and bloody fantasy…I know you have dreamed of me,’ Legolas said, almost irritated. ’And it has been of violence.’
His voice lowered and his gaze dipped to where his fingers pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of his tunic. ‘But I too have done things I would rather not tell you; I have thought things that I cannot confess…’ A sigh escaped his lips. ‘I was in the company of the Ring for months and it whispered incessantly of things I should do, could do…’ He batted his hand like he would drive away unwanted thoughts. ‘I know how the Nazgûl work, Elrohir. I know what they would have shown you, tormented you with.’ He raised his head and looked Elrohir in his eyes, held his gaze with such tenderness and compassion, understanding. ‘You must release yourself from their clasp now. You must allow yourself to breathe again and stop this torment, this constant need for contrition.’ He cupped Elrohir’s face gently. ‘You have atoned. Over and over and now I want you free.’ He pressed a kiss to Elrohir’s mouth and pulled him close.
But Elrohir pulled away in shame and slid to the floor in misery only to feel Legolas on his knees beside him, his arms cradling him and murmurs of comfort and concern.
‘I am sorry, I am sorry. I did not mean to distress you, my beloved beloved Elrohir. Please do not be distressed…It..it is not Angmar, it is not what you dreamed of that torments me. I just need to know what happened to Rhawion.’ Legolas bent his head and rested it against Elrohir’s.
‘Rhawion? Rhawion?’ Elrohir turned his face towards Legolas, astonished. ‘What has happened to make you ask this now?’ Elrohir said, shaking his head. ‘Rhawion is dead. I know you feel somehow to blame but you are not. How could you have done more?’
Legolas rubbed one eye as if suddenly tired, and turned so he was no longer on his knees but sat on the ground with his back against the edge of the bed. ‘Glorfindel and Erestor went back to Phellanthir,’ he said. ‘They went back because they believed me when I said he…his feä was still there, trapped somehow in Phellanthir. You were there when they returned. I know that Elladan was wounded with a morgul blade…But there is more. I know there is.’
Elrohir sighed. This would do no one any good, he knew. Rhawion’s death, his absolute death, devoured by the Nazgûl, might be more that Legolas could bear and though he guessed that sometime he would have to tell Legolas all, he did not think he had the strength to do it now.
But Legolas had not finished. ‘It was something I overheard,’ he confessed. ‘In Minas Morgul we found a palantir… and an old mirror.’
Elrohir went cold. A mirror? He was very still and listened intently, but all the time, he was remembering more and more vividly the blast of heat, the roaring that deafened him, reverberating from the ruined hall, and Erestor, wild-eyed and half mad, seeing things in there that could not be true. Glorfindel, afraid.
Legolas continued, unaware. ’Gandalf had the mirror brought out of the tower by the Men who came with us, and he brought the Palantir himself,’ he said. ‘But when Elladan saw the mirror he was…disturbed, even angry perhaps. He shouted at Gandalf, asked him what he thought he was doing bringing that.’
Yes, thought Elrohir in cold horror. He would, for Elladan too had seen the Glass in Phellanthir bubbling red and fiery, and the surface moving, undulating.
Legolas paused for a moment as if thinking. ‘Gandalf said he could not leave it there for who knows what might find it and Elladan said that he was putting everyone at risk. That no one knows what the mirror might bring with it. He asked Gandalf if it was the same as the one in Phellanthir.’
Elrohir could not speak. The memory of it suddenly overwhelmed him:
…a crushing heat growing in the Hall. A sense of immense danger rang in his blood.
‘Get out!’ Erestor had shouted to Elladan, ‘Glorfindel! Get them out of here!’ but it was overwhelmed by the deafening roar from the Glass.
A huge bellow of rage thundered through the hall and it was from the Glass. Glorfindel was white-faced, his bright sword held before him. Erestor cried out in fear for the Nazgûl were close and there were shapes moving in the Glass, a furnace that raged and lit them all fiery red. The roar of the flames thundered through the hall and the surface of the mirror bulged like a bubble and stretched into a bowl of flame.
Splinters seemed to burn off the Glass and exploded into the air, the roaring bellow filled the hall and the heat was unbearable, a furnace. Erestor seized Glorfindel’s other arm and they dragged him away from the Glass.
Elrohir slammed against the huge doors and glanced alongside at Glorfindel, back against the doors too and breathing hard. Through the heavy bronze he could feel the searing heat, almost too much to bear. A terrible boom echoed within and a shudder ran through the doors. He could not see what Erestor or Elladan were doing but he heard them pulling something from the rubble.
‘What in all the Hells is that?’ Elrohir muttered.
‘That is a Balrog,’ Glorfindel answered grimly. ‘It has come for me.’
Again, there was a tremendous thunder and the doors were pushed hard, a crack of fiery red appeared between the doors.
‘Hold the doors!’ shouted Erestor. Elrohir turned and leaned his arms against the burning metal doors. Beside him Elladan and Glorfindel braced themselves and pushed back hard but though they strained and pushed with all their might, they could not close the crack. Something, some great pressure was forcing them open. Elrohir groaned with the effort. He felt his skin seared with heat but he did not dare pull away. The huge bronze doors creaked open a fraction more.
A hand gripped his arm and he looked up into Glorfindel’s noble face that was pale but resolved.
‘I cannot leave,’ Glorfindel was lit with the fiery glow that even now seeped beneath the doors, between the cracks in the roof and walls. ‘Go, all of you! You must leave now. This is my battle, not yours. Go.’’*
‘A mirror you say?’ Elrohir’s voice seemed to come from somewhere beyond himself, far away.
‘It was taller than me, and the width of three men perhaps. It was strange,’ Legolas mused. ‘It seemed to be coated in something, like a film of copper perhaps and the frame was very strange…’ His eyes were distant. ‘Yes- copper filmed the surface and…when I looked into it, I thought a ghoul looked out at me…but it must have been my own face.’ He frowned as if puzzled, a little distressed. ‘Tell me. Rhawion died in Phellanthir. Was it something to do with this Mirror that you say is also in Phellanthir?’
‘No.’ Elrohir shook his head and Legolas seemed to sag with relief. ‘This is nothing to do with Rhawion, Legolas. This is about Celebrimbor and his knowledge. He made the mirror and I think he made the one you found as well.’
He did not say that a Balrog had been contained in the Glass, by the Glass. He did not say that it had come for Glorfindel. He did not say that he feared what might by in the Glass from Minas Morgul.
Sorry everyone. :( You'll know what I mean when you get there.
The yellow smoke refers to a vision shown Legolas in Deeper than Breathing (or Songs of Rohan on some sites) where Saruman shows Legolas a vision of Mirkwood overrun by orcs and goblins, and an elf with golden hair hoisted upon a lance by the orcs- in the way that Celebrimbor was.
Guhnâlzirâmuzbad - Celebrimbor, Lord of the Glass Doors
Narvi: The greatest of the dwarf smiths of Moria. He made the doors of Moria with Celebrimbor. The two were great friends.
Chapter 5: A conversation
Legolas leaned on one elbow and watched Elrohir sleep. His beautiful face looked younger relaxed, all the cares and guilt and pain rubbed from his face. He looked more like Elladan, Legolas thought and then quashed the thought as disloyal, for Elrohir had his heart as completely as he had his body.
He wondered what would happen when he turned for home, for he needed to. He needed to be amongst the heart of the Wood, to hear the Song of the Wood, to feel the strong embrace of his father and Laersul, Thalos. To see Galion and …and to feel the absence of Anglach. To mourn his childhood friend, his chosen brother.
What would you think of me now, Anglach? he wondered. And where are you? He wondered if Anglach and Rhawion were in the same place? If he too would go there should he be slain? And all those of the Wood who lost their lives in the battle beneath the trees of his home.
He could not help but drift back to the dreadful images shown him by Saruman, in the shadow of Orthanc.
You should see Mirkwood… Ruined and burned.' The wizard's face had transformed into something ugly and inhuman, eyes narrowed and cruel, mouth curled in a sneer.
Legolas' heart squeezed. He blinked, as if trying to clear the stinging tears from his eyes and put his hand over his mouth as if yellow smoke filled his lungs, even now in the luxurious tent. A roaring was in his ears that was the sound of fire raging, of trees crashing...
….The air was yellow and sulphurous, and from the dense smoke, he could see figures running, a glint of steel flash, and his foot touched something warm. He looked down. An elven warrior stared up, eyes open and mouth gasping. His dark hair was braided and his grey eyes were wide with shock and pain. Ceredir!
Legolas fell to his knees but his hands drew through nothing but air…The yellow smoke billowed and flowed about him and Ceredir's blood bubbled in his throat, seeped from his mouth….though he could not touch him.
Through the yellow smoke, orcs poured through the trees, black silhouettes against the infernal backdrop of the burning forest. Their grotesque shapes leapt over flames and suddenly a group of screaming children appeared, running for their lives. One child saw Legolas and pointed. He knew them, they were the foresters' children. They ran towards him desperately. One orc leapt forwards, grasped a child, and without pause cut its throat with horrible efficiency.
Then the smoke walls parted and a tall powerful warrior charged into the clearing, he raised his gleaming sword and struck down the orcs who ran from his fury. Legolas saw his hair was golden. It could have been Thranduil. It could have been Laersul. Legolas could not tell for the yellow smoke obscured his view.
There was a hiss and whine of arrows. The warrior, magnificent and deadly, wielded his sword and the light glanced off the blade, arrows falling away as he did so. He turned fiercely to face his foes but one stray arrow hissed past Legolas and pierced flesh, finding its mark. The warrior stumbled and slowly, unbelieving, looked down. His sword fell heavily to the ground and he sank to his knees, raising his hands to his chest. A slow red stain seeped where the arrow had struck.
The smoke shifted and swirled and Legolas' gaze was pulled back to the burning forest and the dying warrior. A spear flashed briefly and then, amongst the crowing, jeering orcs, it plunged down, a horrid sound of tearing flesh. There was a hoarse cry, and then another was ripped unwillingly from the throat of the warrior. The spear was hoisted up high and the weight made the orc bearing it stagger a little at first until others came around and steadied it.
Saruman's voice twisted around him, conjuring those terrible scenes. 'Your brothers are slain or taken. And you know what fate awaits those taken in Mirkwood by Dol Guldur.' Orcs gibbered and mocked, shrieking around the bloody banner with its horrid trophy.
'Mirkwood… bereft of its sons, bereft of its king…its standard broken, trodden into the mud. Oh, you should see what they have done in Mirkwood. You have abandoned her and now orcs rape the children of your dead warriors.'
…..Legolas twitched suddenly awake. His heart pounded in his chest as if he had been running and there was sweat upon his brow. Laersul? Was that Laersul he had seen? Or Thranduil?
He blinked. Beneath him, thick carpets lay over rushes that were cast upon the grass of the Field of Cormallen. He was here, in Ithilien. And beside him, Elrohir, Ráveyön, his beloved, slept.
Suddenly he wanted to be gone, running back into the trees, to the Wood. Home. Home and to see his father, walk into the hardness of his embrace, the boundless love. Tease Thalos, and hug Laersul for all his stalwart, kindly generosity.
He was on his feet and moving when Elrohir turned and murmured in his sleep.
He faltered, and turned his head towards the sleeping elf he loved. Firelight cast a warm glow and gleamed in Elrohir's hair. One hand cupped his own cheek and his eyelashes fluttered slightly as he dreamed.
Legolas paused. How could he leave now? Elrohir was vulnerable, he knew. He had felt the tremor of self-doubt in Elrohir's declaration of love, as if he did not believe that Legolas loved him. That he was so unloveable that he could not be forgiven.
Legolas sighed and went back to Elrohir, lay against him and smoothed a hand over his hair as his father did when Legolas was troubled. He closed his eyes and let his heart ache with homesickness, with the need to go home, to see that all was well. 'Home,' he whispered to Elrohir too softly to wake him, too softly for him to hear. 'I have to go home. I need to …Soon.' For he knew in truth he could not abandon Aragorn just yet. And there were the Hobbits too. And Gimli…whose path home ran with his and to whom he had made promises.
And there was Elrohir, who doubted himself so much and doubted anyone could love him even more.
But he could not shake off the images of the yellow smoke coiling about the trees of his home, or the terrible curdling moans of the elf hoisted upon a lance, and it reminded him bitterly of the Orc he had spared all those long months ago when he first had ridden out with Elrohir Ravéyön, Son of Thunder, and brought his attention, his wrath, his desire upon him.
Still restless he rose after a little while and ducked under the tent door and into the airy cold of the night. Above, the night sky wheeled slowly overhead and around him were the hushed voices of Men on watch. One Man, a little drunk, staggered past and slurred something at Legolas, raising an empty tankard to him as if in a toast. Legolas nodded at him and wove his way between the fires, making his way towards the river.
At the edge of the camp, a small group of sentries ringed one tent he had not noticed before. As he passed, looking curiously, one of the Men greeted Legolas by name and he nodded affably though he did not remember the Man. Oddly, the Man fell in step beside him though Legolas did not wish for company.
'Right glad I am to be back here instead of the Morgul Vale,' the Man said unaware of Legolas' wish to be rid of him.
Legolas turned and looked at him more closely. It was one of the two Men who had clung to each other as they entered the grim and ruined Keep of Minas Morgul. He searched his memory briefly. 'Arduin,' he said suddenly.
The Man smiled with surprised gladness.'You remember me?' he exclaimed. He seemed to feel this gave him permission to walk on with Legolas and Legolas turned his feet towards Aragorn's tent instead, thinking the Man would fall away once he realised where Legolas was headed.
'I have heard tell the Elves remember everything,' Arduin said, a little awed, but pleased nonetheless. He walked silently beside Legolas for a while and then he said, quite suddenly, 'I wish we had not brought back that looking glass. It is a strange and haunted thing.'
Legolas stopped. 'You have brought it with you?' he asked, feeling the same strange lingering sensation that he had felt when he found the glass; cold, dread.
'We have, my lord. Lord Mithrandir commanded it be brought to camp and shut away. Hidden from view. And…we have been told we must not speak of it to anyone. But since it is you, I thought…' He faltered, perhaps considering that Legolas might think he had broken a command.
Hidden from view?
'Where is it?' he asked, almost in contradiction. He wanted to know. And found himself slightly veering alongside the edge of Aragorn's tent, towards the river once more…to keep the Man with him.
Arduin shot him a quick, relieved glance. 'It is in the tent where you found me. We have to guard it day and night.' He shuffled his feet nervously and looked at his feet. 'I wish I did not have to.'
'It is the lingering sense of the Nazgûl,' Legolas said and he felt as if he were standing a long way back and watching himself from afar. 'Fear was their greatest weapon and it is no surprise that something so ancient and so long in their possession should have some …lingering sense of them.' He smiled gently and patted the young Man on the shoulder. 'I was afraid when first I came upon it. But I no longer feel so.' He walked on again, drawing Arduin with him. 'If you feel fear, in the dead of night when you are alone with it, call for me and I will come and stand you company.'
'You will?' The young Man's face was lit by such delight that Legolas hesitated; he hoped Arduin had not mistaken what he suggested. 'Yes. Of course. And I will bring my troublesome friend with me for the fug of pipeweed will drive away any ghouls or ghosties, as he would say.'
'Thank you my lord.' Arduin clasped his hands and giving a small bow, he took his leave of Legolas, returning back to the camp. He looked back over his shoulder a couple of times, and nodded each time that he met Legolas' gaze.
Legolas turned and looked at the long, sinuous darkness of the river. It slipped silently over the grey stones, stretched out a wide expanse of water. It led to the sea. He found himself staring into the blankness and dark, and his face reflected pale and watery…. He was reminded briefly of his own appearance in the glass; the strange half-light had made his skin pallid and ghostly. Like a ghoul. Like a wraith. As if something had peered briefly through the mirror from the other side.
Suddenly Legolas found that he needed Gimli, the earth-deep song, the rumble of his voice and the square, clever hands that could smooth steel like it was silk. He took a breath and realised he had been breathing only shallowly, as if to take a deeper breath might open up the bones of his ribs and expose his heart…
He stumbled back, and shook himself slightly as if to rid himself of a cobweb of dreams, sticky and clinging to his thoughts.
What he needed was company. A drunk dwarf and the smell of pipe-weed, the warmth of friendship. He almost ran from the river, its still darkness like the deep dark within the mirror.
He walked swiftly between the campfires, barely acknowledged the quiet guards as he passed and nodded briefly at the sentries outside Aragorn's tent and ducked his head, emerging into a warm cosy intimacy with a fire burning merrily, the smoke curled upward through a hole in the luxurious tent. Thick carpets were laid over sweet smelling rushes and heavy tapestries hung from the tent frame.
Aragorn sat in a low, comfortable chair pulled up before the fire, with an old, battered field-desk on his knees. Half a glass of wine was on a small table at his elbow and the Man had managed to pull the neck of his fine robe askew and shucked it up over his knees. His boots were muddy. '…so it is abandoned?' he was saying. He stopped and looked up when he saw Legolas.
Gimli sat opposite him in the other low, comfortable chair, boots off, square feet towards the fire.
'I knew you would find us eventually. When you got bored.' Gimli showed his teeth and wiggled his toes. His socks were well darned. The stitches were tiny and neat and barely seen; the same neat stitches darned Legolas' own socks. And found himself smiling. Suddenly he felt normal again, like he had been submerged and now was breathing the air.
Aragorn's face softened and warmed, and Legolas settled himself on the rich, thick rug, stretched his long legs out, remembering his father's study with its own two chairs settled before the fire and a large table nearby, covered in maps held down by anything Thranduil had to hand, glasses, candlesticks, plates of cold uneaten food. And how Galion would tut and fish about in the delicate porcelain bowl for the silver and mithril clips that Galion had had made especially…
He realised that Gimli was watching him with narrowed eye. 'I am tired,' he confessed. 'I keep drifting off. It's all right,' he added quickly seeing Aragorn's concern. 'It is not the Sea-Longing. Just reverie.'
'You need to sleep more,' Gimli observed wryly. Legolas stretched his long legs out and leaned back on his elbows, slid him a smile and quirked an eyebrow cheekily.
Aragorn put the field desk onto the floor beside him. 'I also am weary,' he agreed. 'Almost to the bone. After so long it seems strange to sleep in soft beds and have clean sheets.' He fished about in the pockets of his robes and shook his head in frustration.
Legolas grinned and reached up onto a small table beside him where a long pipe had been left. He handed it to Aragorn with a smile. 'Have they not made these fine robes to your particulars yet? You must tell them what you require, majesty,' he said with a gleam in his eye that was not in the least serious. 'My father has his tailor make pockets in several places in the lining- mainly for knives. But he has also been known to collect small stones of different colours, and leaves. And once, a toad.'
Aragorn gaped and Legolas grinned. 'Perhaps he turned someone into it,' Aragorn blurted out, clearly without thinking.
Legolas laughed. 'No indeed! It was long ago. Anglach put it there when he was small. He thought Adar had said something about a pet toad he had lost and Anglach wanted to comfort him….' He laughed softly; Anglach had adored Thranduil with an uncritical devotion unsurpassed. 'It turned out that he said something entirely different, but for a while it caused an uproar in the Council until Adar gave the toad to Thalos who just quietly took it away.'
Legolas stared into the flames.
'I cannot imagine Thranduil needing comfort from anyone…' Gimli's voice seemed almost disembodied. Which was not true, thought Legolas. His father would need comfort now if…if those visions wrought by Saruman were true…
A soft snort of laughter. Aragorn.
When Thranduil was told of Anglach's death, he had been devastated. He had been silent at first. Then he had slowly risen from his throne and without speaking, cut a swathe through all protests and grief and ridden out, a stream of warriors following behind him for none could catch him up, and smashed his way through the attacking orcs, leaving a bloody mess in his wake.
He was magnificent in his fury. Crushed in his grief.
He tore his gaze from the fire and looked up. 'Forgive me my friends, I am in the past…only in the past,' he reassured them softly.
'We were speaking of that which you found in Minas Morgul,' Gimli said gruffly, as he did when he was trying to cover his emotions. 'A looking glass. Elladan is upset with Gandalf.' He sucked on his pipe and blew out slowly, pleasurably. 'Did you find out any more from his brother?'
Legolas shook his head. 'Not much. Only that he thought this mirror is similar to one in Phellanthir…' He slowed. 'It is much to do with Celebrimbor. Elrohir thought he had made them both.'
'Celebrimbor!' Gimli leaned forwards with interest. 'Now that is interesting indeed. So that old looking glass is made by the master smith himself…I wonder why he wasted time on vanity…'
'And why the Nazgûl would think it worth saving,' Aragorn added.
'I do not think this Glass has any worth,' Legolas found himself saying, again, as if he were standing a long way away from himself and watching his mouth move, words form. 'It is old and faded. There is nothing special about it.'
The firelight flickered in Gimli's eyes and he seemed to scrutinise Legolas shrewdly. 'Nothing special you say? Celebrimbor's mark alone is of incomparable worth. I would like to have a look at it. See the workmanship, even it is only a vanity glass…' He glanced at Aragorn. 'I'd quite like a look at that Palantir as well whilst I'm about it. Now that Sauron is gone.'
Aragorn shifted uncomfortably and Gimli quirked an eyebrow. 'I'm guessing that's a no then.' The dwarf grinned affably but Aragorn looked away and Legolas picked at at his fingernail for someone had mended the sleeves to his tunic and the loose threads were tightly sewn.
It was only a moment of tension between them for they had been through too much to hold their peace. Both gave way and Legolas inclined his head.
'Aragorn, you are the King here and must command. Speak.'
Aragorn laughed gently at the irony of being commanded to speak first; his eyes were soft as he looked at both his friends. 'Gimli, if you wish to look at the Palantir, then you must. For Sauron is vanquished and has no hold upon it. But let me speak first to Gandalf so he can agree. If Gandalf says you may, then do so with my blessing. As for the looking glass, if nothing else, it is a work of great antiquity and the last work of Celebrimbor, except for the Three, and those will vanish soon, into the West.'
Gimli laughed and rubbed his hands. 'I will be the envy of Erebor and all the Kindred, masters and smiths,' he chuckled. 'To be the one to unlock the secrets of Guhnâlzirâmuzbad!'
Too late he pressed his lips together but Legolas had seized upon it. 'That is the name you give Celebrimbor?' he questioned amused. 'What does it mean?'
But when Gimli did not speak Legolas cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. 'I can work this out,' he said cheekily. 'Ziram is silver. No! Glass,' he cried in triumph. 'Yes. I remember. You spoke of the Dwimmerdale as …Keled-ziram.'
'Kheled-zâram,' Gimli corrected fussily. 'Very well, it means Lord of the Glass Doors.'
'Ah,' Aragorn said wisely. 'Of course. The Glass Doors. Now we have seen the doors of Moria, I can see why…'
'Khazad-dûm,'Gimli corrected prickly. He pulled his bushy eyebrows together and frowned at Aragorn. 'Glass,' he said, jabbing his pipe towards Aragorn a little crossly. 'Glass,' he said again, a little more gently for Aragorn was staring at him, confused. 'Do you think the Doors of Moria are made of glass?' he asked kindly now. Aragorn still looked bewildered.
'Those were made of stone, Aragorn,' Legolas reminded him. 'And mithril was used to draw the runes and welcome,' he added slowly as if Aragorn were a little stupid.
'I know that,' Aragorn responded crossly. He pressed his lips together. 'I am not completely stupid.' But Gimli simply looked kindly at the King Returned and Legolas snorted. Aragorn tutted at both of them.
'Really Aragorn. You are going to have to work harder if our people aren't going to completely take advantage of you! Those wily old lords have been dealing with Denethor for decades. You are going to have to sharpen up.'
Aragorn stared at each one in turn, lost for words.
'Lord of the Glass Doors?' Legolas prompted. Then he sighed showily as if Aragorn was supposed to know whatever the secret was about the glass doors. 'Really Aragorn! Obviously there is a mirror like this one in Phellanthir.'
'Obviously!' Aragorn bit back sarcastically. 'Of course.' He didn't want to admit it- but how was he supposed to have made the leap from finding Celebrimbor's mirror in Minas Morgul, to assuming there was one in Phellanthir? Oh. 'There had to be a reason why the Nazgûl were guarding Phellanthir,' he realised
'Yes,' Legolas smiled encouragingly. 'And this one must have been salvaged from when Sauron destroyed the cities of Eregion. But Narvi was a great smith of M…Khazad-dûm and great friends with Celebrimbor. They must have talked all the time about what they were doing, hence the name. It wouldn't surprise me if Narvi wasn't up to his hairy little neck in it!' he said.
Gimli looked pleased. 'So some of my teaching has rubbed off on you after all!' he declared. 'It just goes to show you never can tell what's going in one pointy little ear and out the other and what sticks!' He beamed at Legolas proudly. 'It's the Mirrors, Aragorn ,' he explained slowly and carefully as if Aragorn had trouble keeping up. 'Narvi knew what your man, Celebrimbor was making.'
'Obviously!' Aragorn rolled his eyes. 'They were great friends. So they made them in Khazad-dûm as well?'
'Yes!' Gimli looked absurdly pleased with both of them. 'There are tales of a Hall of Glass, where the seer could walk upon and through light. The spectrum was like a tangible thing, Narvi's writing tells of this. And Azaghâl writes of the many mirrors that lined the hall and the light stretched. He wrote as well of the copper used to construct the hall and that mithril was smelted down to make an ore so pure it changed the very nature of the observed. …It makes fascinating reading. I must lend to to you sometime.'
Aragorn leaned forwards, intrigued. 'Do you think the halls survived the Balrog? It would be a wonder to see,' he said suddenly interested. 'Or do you think the Balrog's heat would have melted the glass?'
'Oh I am sure the Balrog never came there,' said Gimli cheerfully and, Aragorn thought, unreasonably optimistic. 'It would be worth exploring and seeing what remains'
But Legolas was silent. He suddenly felt like he was standing on the very edge of darkness and staring beyond into the chasm of Night.
Note: For those of you anxious that Legolas has had no messages from home, there is one on its way but won’t arrive until the next chapter. He did receive news of home at the very end of Sons II. Celeborn had met with Thranduil under the eaves of Mirkwood so he knew at least his father was safe.
Also I have posted another chapter of Black Arrow - if you have been reading that, you’ll be getting some strong hints about the way things are panning out in Mirkwood - or they will be. Next couple of weeks are intense but I have the next chapter of Black Arrow almost done.
If you want to read about the chess game and how it led to a kiss, I have posted the short fic, Imrahil on Ao3 and ffnet as I realised I hadn’t. It’s been on Faerie for ages.
Also, apologies for the delay- just work.
Thank you as always to the very wonderful Anarithilen.
Also to the very many encouraging reviewers. Thank you.
Chapter 6: Alliances
Aragorn spread his hands over the map, which some valet or page or another had carefully unrolled and fixed on his desk with ornate and beautiful paperweights. He glanced at them, noting the craftsmanship and skimming his finger over the plotted marks that showed where was still fighting with the remnants of the Easterlings and Southrons: even now Aragorn’s army was engaged in skirmishes in the northern parts of Mordor. Indeed he had dispatched Legolas and Gimli to pursue a steady stream of Orc troops that were fleeing north, and Eomer led the skirmishes to the east into Mordor. All the Orcs were killed, but Men they took prisoner and these had been sent back with the wounded and were housed in smaller tents dotted around the camp.
Aragorn cast about for the scribbled notes he had made after each meeting with the captive leaders. He had greeted each of the chieftains with courtesy and having found a number of interpreters, been able to converse and parley with many of them. The sheaf of notes was piled on the corner of the desk and he shuffled through them, skimming the notes rapidly. He thought something had been said that niggled away in the back of his mind but he could not remember and could not find them now. There was a neater pile of scrolls, carefully arranged and tied with a red ribbon and sealed with his own mark that were neatly stacked on another table. These were the treaties he had made with the Easterling and Southron chieftains.
But not with all of them. One of the chiefs of the Easterlings, a Man called Kustîg, had refused to speak to Aragorn and had spat at his feet when he was brought before the new King. The interpreter had eventually been persuaded to translate that Kustîg believed that Aragorn should be killed for his crimes against the Dark God-King, Sauron, the Bringer of Gifts, Lord of Life. ‘Kustîg the Red says that the King will curse the day he set his hand against the Dark God,’ the translator had said, head bowed and trembling before Aragorn as if he expected to be struck down for speaking such words. Kustîg had gone on to say a lot more before he had been dragged out by Aragorn’s outraged guards. But he was not the only one who spoke such threats. Aragorn sighed and bowed his head. He did not know what to do with these intransigent Men.
‘You must keep trying,’ Gandalf had said kindly, patiently. ‘Do not give up. Peace is hard to build and war an easy stroke of a sword. You must hope for understanding. Hope for peace.’
And there were those amongst his newly formed Council who advised him that if Kustîg would not sue for peace, he could easily be displaced by another of the Men who would be more inclined to bow his head to Aragorn’s liege. They did not say how Aragorn should ‘displace’ Kustîg, and Aragorn did not want to think about that right now. It was one thing to kill a Man in battle. Another thing entirely to assassinate a political enemy in cold blood. And as his prisoner.
No. He could not do it. He would not. There must be another way, he decided.
Outside the air was warm and Spring was here; it felt like the earth was turning slowly to awaken and birds were singing in the trees near the river. Longingly, Aragorn looked through the open curtains that were doors to his tent, deep brocade and ornate. They were tied back with heavily embroidered silk rope. There was movement near the door and he saw the guards had changed. From his desk, he nodded courteously to the guard who had just come to stand at his door.
‘Good morning, Arvon,’ he said.
The Man nodded back. ‘Good morning, your majesty.’
Aragorn could not quite get used to that. He was uncomfortable too with the politicking and constant need for diplomacy, although he knew too that he was good at that. But he wished Gimli were here, and Legolas, to keep his feet on the ground. Even better, he wished he were with them, riding together, fighting the Orcs that had been sighted fleeing across the Dead Marshes.
With his finger, he traced the route that Gimli reported the Orcs were taking and which he had plotted on the map. On their way North, Aragorn thought. Perhaps making their way to the Misty Mountains? There had been a rather larger number than he had expected after Sauron’s defeat at the Morannon, but if they escaped now, they would have to pass through or near Mirkwood.
To his left were a pile of letters and messages on his desk. Amongst them were letters from Celeborn. A second messenger had arrived from the Lord of Lothlorien with more detailed news of the war elsewhere. In his letter to Aragorn he told how he had met with Thranduil’s forces under the eaves of Mirkwood and together they had ploughed their strength anew against Dol Guldur and driven back Sauron’s forces there so they fled into the forest. Thranduil had departed then in pursuit and Celeborn had returned to Lothlorien.
There were three other unopened letters; two from Celeborn for Elrohir and Elladan, and one from Thranduil for Legolas. There were also formal greetings of course, a hastily written note from the field of battle from Thranduil but he had not said much other than to congratulate Aragorn on his victory and hope that he would accept Legolas as representative at his coronation for Thranduil was still engaged in skirmishes, he said, but not full-scale battle by any means, in the north of the forest.
There are still skirmishes in Mirkwood, Aragorn thought carefully. And there were Orcs fleeing the Morannon to go North. He wondered if they were deliberately joining the battle in Mirkwood…But surely not? Surely there was no great design or mind behind the orcs now? Sauron was vanquished, gone and the Orcs were rootless and simply fleeing to wherever they might find refuge. There were skirmishes everywhere, he knew. For he had marked all reports on the map in front of him and they were scattered all over Middle Earth from the edges of Mordor to Imladris.
He tapped his finger on the dark green shading that denoted Mirkwood on the map and shook his head. No. This must be coincidence, he thought. The Orcs could be going to Gundabad, or to the Misty Mountains. Or even further.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the piles of letters and messages. The messages for Gimli and Legolas lay to one side but he did not think they would return until the evening or even the following day.
A blackbird sang loudly in the tree outside his tent and the grass crushed beneath the carpets and rugs smelled sweet and fresh. He pushed back his heavy carved chair suddenly and stood up. Arvon glanced in but said nothing and Aragorn grabbed his pipe and went out into the morning sun to find the Hobbits.
The Hobbits always sat outside Frodo’s tent to smoke a Between-Breakfast pipe, as Pippin called it. It was the last of the Longbottom Leaf that Sam was generously sharing with the rest of them. But whilst the other hobbits sprawled on the grass, Frodo sat in a deeply upholstered armchair that had been brought out for him. Even though it was not Man-size, he still looked swamped in, lost and diminished. But Merry refused to think of that and instead concentrated on the joy of having Frodo back at all. And Sam seemed somehow taller, nobler than Merry had ever realized; his gentle care of Frodo had become something else and Merry almost looked away for the sudden pang in his heart of what had happened to them.
‘Gimli will be sorry to have missed this,’ Pippin observed, unaware of Merry’s thoughts. He was wiggling his feet admiringly. Pippin was always a trifle vain about his feet, having been told from a young age that his feet were particularly fine. His toes he thought rather elegant and he had brushed the hair so it shone. Merry smirked at him knowingly and was about to make a comment when Pippin suddenly leapt to his feet and gave an exaggerated and sweeping bow. Frodo laughed.
‘Good morning, your majesty!’ Frodo cried and it was a joy to hear the pleasure in his voice.
It was Aragorn and all of them were delighted to see him for he had been stuck away with the Great and the Good, as Gimli called them. Merry scooted up and made room for Aragorn and the King settled on the grass between them happily, drawing out his pipe. He accepted Sam’s Longbottom Leaf with a pleased smile and filled his pipe.
Merry watched him as he lit it and leaned back with a contented smile, blowing a long stream of smoke between his lips but Merry noted the lines under his eyes and the tiredness in his face.
‘Look! Strider’s back!’ Pippin said and Aragorn smiled.
‘He has never been away,’ Merry said kindly because he thought Aragorn looked like he needed this.
‘Have Legolas and Gimli returned yet?’ Pippin asked.
Merry glanced at him quickly for Pippin was always anxious when any of the Fellowship were away and he had been especially protective of Legolas since that dreadful time on the Mindolluin, when the Nazgûl had pursued the elf and he had returned broken and empty. Although Pippin had had to tell Merry about the ordeal, for Merry himself had been a victim of the Black Breath and been almost unaware of what was happening. Merry watched Pippin carefully, for he worried about Pippin and Pippin and Gimli worried about Legolas, and Legolas watched Aragorn and Sam, and they all worried about Frodo.
‘They are on their way back,’ Aragorn said as he stretched out his ridiculously long legs and crossed his feet. He drew on his pipe and let a steady stream of thin smoke spiral upwards soothingly.
‘Good,’ Pippin said. ‘I don’t like it when any of us are away. We should have some time together before…Well. Before we go home I suppose.’ But though they all missed the Shire, Merry knew that none of them were in a rush now. Except for Sam perhaps, who was convinced that Rosie Cotton was in the arms of some young farmer from Bywater.
‘When will you return to the city?’ Frodo asked Aragorn quietly. The deep and comfortable armchair made him look smaller even though the colour was slowly returning to his cheeks and he was getting a slight roundness that hobbits should all have. But he was still too thin and his appetite woefully poor. ‘I wouldn’t mind a hot bath and a proper roof over my head.’ Frodo laughed softly. ‘It is no time at all since I thought just a taste of water would be enough to satisfy me forever but it seems I have quickly begun to take things for granted that only weeks ago I thought I would never see again.’
In the quiet moment that followed, Pippin reached out and patted Frodo’s hand and Merry puffed rather energetically on his pipe. But Frodo met Sam’s eyes and a smile of such tenderness passed between them that Merry felt overwhelmed and humbled and Aragorn looked away.
‘We were wondering how long we are going to stay here, Strider,’ said Sam after a moment.
‘Yes. Hot baths and proper beds all around, I’d say,’ Merry added more brightly, wanting this sadness to evaporate and get some cheer back in their hearts. He missed Eowyn in truth and was keen to see how she was getting on with Faramir.
‘Soon,’ Aragorn replied. ‘Imrahil has been writing to Faramir so the preparations are made. We will take the ships and sail down the Anduin to Osgiliath. Then ride back to Minas Tirith where I hope Faramir will come and meet me.’
‘Is there any doubt?’ Merry asked quickly, feeling a little surge of irritation at the suggestion that Faramir might refuse. He could not imagine the quiet, serious young Man he had left in the houses of Healing being anything but good and honourable…like Boromir had been at the end, he thought but did not speak.
‘I hope not,’ Aragorn replied. ‘But he is the Steward and Denethor’s son.’
Merry frowned and began to speak but Pippin interjected helpfully, ‘And Boromir’s brother.’
‘He is very different from Boromir,’ Merry said quickly. ‘And anyway, Boromir was affected by the Ring for such a long time. But he became himself again in the end.’ He remembered that terrible day when they had been assailed and Boromir lost his life defending him and Pippin, and they were carried off by the horrible Orcs and goblins.
‘Yes, he did,’ Pippin said rather loudly and then looked away because Frodo glanced at him quickly.
Merry pursed his lips anxiously, seeing the way the conversation had become difficult and uncomfortable but they had just wanted to enjoy Aragorn’s company. There was so much more to be said even now, he thought. So much to work out and untangle between all of them.
‘Faramir will be happy to have you as King, I am sure,’ he said reassuringly. ‘After all, you healed him from the Black Breath.’
‘That is true,’ Aragorn agreed. ‘But Denethor would never have accepted anyone else… and from the start, Boromir merely expressed what many of Gondor will be thinking: I have been raised by elves, lived amongst the Men of the North and though some may have heard of Thorongil, Denethor’s jealousy made sure my name did not linger for long in the minds of Gondor.’ He tapped down his pipe and relit it for it had gone out. ‘If Boromir had lived,’ he continued, ‘It would have been far easier. These great lords have only ever known a Steward, and would have followed Boromir’s lead. I do not know what hold Faramir has. I do not know what they think of a King that has lived all these long years amongst the elves, and his father and grandfather before that. To them, I am a foreigner. An interloper.’
‘But you have just led them to victory! You have defeated Sauron.’ Merry could not help himself from bursting out like Pippin would have done.
‘Frodo and Sam defeated Sauron,’ Aragorn declared proudly, looking at the two hobbits. ‘And I would take nothing from them. In truth had they failed, I would have led the army to certain destruction.’ He spread his hands wide and his grey eyes were serious. ‘The city would have been left open to Sauron’s forces…’ He held Merry’s gaze and then said more quietly, ‘There are some who say it every day around the camp if you choose to listen.’
Aragorn said it practically, and Merry knew it was true. Quietly behind their hands or closed doors, only a few but the quiet and discrete hobbits heard much that they were not intended to. And Merry knew that if Aragorn did not govern well and strongly, those few dissenters would become more. And he was still unknown to these Men who had followed Denethor and Boromir for all the years against Sauron.
‘In their minds,’ Aragorn continued reasonably, ‘I did not come to their aid until the very end when hope had come unlooked for and timely, from Rohan. There will be those who judged my arrival as too timely- they ask why I did not fight with them before, why did I leave it until the very end to join my people.’ He shrugged for he understood. ‘They have not heard of Strider, or Thorongil. They do not know that I have been at their side albeit under a different name. I need Faramir to accept me so that they will too…If they see Faramir as a worthy successor to Denethor, to Boromir.’ He glanced around at the serious, concerned faces of the hobbits. ‘It is what they say, and I cannot blame them.’
‘Then I choose not to listen,’ declared Sam stoutly. ‘We would never have even got to Rivendell if we hadn’t met you, Strider. The Ring would be Sauron’s by now if it weren’t for you and I for one will stand up and tell them that!’
And while Merry agreed with him, he agreed with Aragorn too that he and Faramir needed an alliance, that Aragorn had indeed called Faramir back from the Black Breath. But Merry had also seen how Faramir looked upon Eowyn. But Eowyn looked upon Aragorn with the same breathless hope. And Aragorn was to be wed to Arwen.
It didn’t look very easy at all to Merry.
Indeed at supper, Aragorn sat and listened, for the same conversation was being rehearsed again with the lords of Gondor. He was tired of worrying about it, thinking about it and just wanted it to be over. He toyed with a piece of meat, wiping it around his plate with his fork.
‘… the people must know, my lord, that you are among them and taking your rightful place.’ Lord Angbor had journeyed with him from the battle in Lebennin where Aragorn had appeared out of nowhere with the forgotten army of the Dead, and Angbor had bowed his head and pledged fealty to Aragorn. Loyal, honest, completely trustworthy. Aragorn had been pleased to include him in his new Council. Others, he was less pleased with but knew he had no choice if he was to rule. Lord Herion sat opposite, thin mouth and wary, mistrustful eyes. It was he who had spoken against going to Minas Morgul. He was one Aragorn had yet to convince. And there were others. He glanced down the long table where his lords were sitting, waited upon, eating from silver platters, wiping their mouths, drinking wine. He caught Elrohir’s gaze upon him, concerned, understanding and raised an eyebrow very slightly, knowing his brother would notice. Elrohir’s mouth curled, amused, and he lifted his glass. He noticed that Elladan sat lower down the table, next to Imrahil. It was surprising that Imrahil had been seated so far from the King and Aragorn wondered who had been able to manipulate the seating to ensure some were closer to him than others and so had his ear.
Suddenly Aragorn wanted nothing more than a camp fire and his brothers’ company. Or the Fellowship. Halbarad. Ah, Halbarad – if only he could have seen Aragorn now. But he only nodded at Angbor’s point and continued to wipe the meat around his plate.
‘But what of Faramir? He must be made to acknowledge the King first, humble himself…’ Forlong’s son, Aragorn could not remember his name, who had yet to be declared as his fallen father’s successor, was young and fervent. And ardently supportive of the King. Too headstrong, rash, he needed to be refined and moulded and then he would be a great ally, thought Aragorn, wondering if he was married yet and if not, could he be found a suitable wife…Then stopped himself. This was exactly what was going through the minds of every great House here; find the King a suitable wife, forge an alliance with the new King, have influence. The sooner Arwen arrived and put a stop to that the better.
‘Faramir will not humble himself!’ a voice further down the table raised in protest. He could not remember the name of this lord; dark hair, grey eyes. Typical Gondor stock.
‘Indeed not! Why should he? He is the son of the Steward and raised to govern. True, Denethor was completely mad by the end, but it was not always so.’
Aragorn stirred himself and looked about his council. He really did not know many of them and trusted fewer. It was old lord Herion who spoke last.
‘Remember it was Faramir who held Ithilien for all those years. He fought the Enemy far from the shelter of the city.’ Herion rapped his stick against the table leg grumpily. He had been one of Denethor’s right hand men. He was powerful, owned much of the land that had been despoiled by Sauron’s army but was fertile agricultural land that would be needed to feed the city. Aragorn knew he had to make an ally of Herion. He was of an old family with strong allegiances to other old families…All of whom would be hoping for an allegiance to the new King. A wedding to an elf would not make this any easier.
‘Lord Faramir will certainly not humble himself before me,’ Aragorn spoke with quiet authority. ‘And I will not require it. He has acquitted himself with very great honour and I intend to have him at my side to help me rule. He knows this city, this land. He loves it as I do. It is in his blood, as it is in mine. We share kindred.’ Aragorn looked challengingly around the table. Gandalf was seated quietly at the far end but his blue eyes were approving. ‘I will request that Faramir visit me before we go into the city and he will ride at my right hand. Indeed it is at his invitation that I will enter, and only then.’
There was a murmur of approval.
‘And how will Faramir be known once you are King?’ Herion challenged. His pale blue eyes were rheumy but there was no doubt in them now. He clutched the silver top of his cane. The veins of his hands were thick and blue, his skin translucent with age. But his hands still wielded a sword well and power even more accurately, heavily. Aragorn met the Man’s eyes but he did not smile; he must appear stronger than any other, fill them with confidence that here was their leader. Here was their King.
Aragorn paused. He had not considered Faramir’s title; it was an important point, he realized now it had been said. But his face betrayed nothing. ‘I think that is something for my steward and I to discuss, Lord Herion. Do you not think? But the title of Steward has long been an honourable one and I see no reason that it should not continue.’
The satisfaction on Herion’s face was reward enough and Aragorn glanced around to see that Elrohir had the slightest of smiles on his face but it was full of pride. He raised his glass and nodded at Aragorn.
‘Let us raise a toast to Faramir, guardian of Ithilien and Steward to the King!’
The words were echoed and Elrohir smiled appreciatively, catching Aragorn’s eye: Steward to the King- the emphasis firmly on the King’s authority.
Elladan had positioned himself discretely. He leaned nonchalantly against a tent post, one knee bent, resting his foot against the pole, arms folded over his chest.
‘You look like a heraldic device; elf sable upon an argent field,’ a voice murmured by his ear.
‘Hear anything useful?’ Imrahil shifted to stand in front of him now, so he had to slightly look up for the Man was almost as tall as he when Elladan stood upright. Imrahil held two glasses of wine, and held one out to Elladan. Their fingers touched briefly and Elladan felt a frisson of erotic desire fizzle through his fingers, his hands. He almost looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but there were similar little knots of men gathered about, talking, their eyes cut this way and that to observe, to note, to judge. Who was talking to whom? Who was making a deal, and alliance? Who was closest to the new King?
‘Aragorn’s refusal to humiliate Faramir has been well received,’ said Imrahil in his smooth urbane voice, his attention all on Elladan. It brought the small hairs on his neck up, shivered pleasurably
‘Faramir is clearly well thought of, if weaker than his brother, the ill-fated Boromir.’ Elladan pulled a sour face for he had heard of the Man’s fall from grace, his attempt to wrest the Ring from Frodo and whilst the Fellowship were forgiving and defended him, Elladan could not.
‘Be wary of how you speak of my late nephew.’
Elladan glanced up to see a flash of anger in Imrahil’s sharp blue eyes. He looked away sheepishly and inclined his head, acknowledging the slight. ‘Forgive me. I suppose I only saw him when the Ring was pulling him. I did not know him at his best.’
Imrahil’s lips parted in a breath. He looked at Elladan more softly. ‘That is true and it grieves me more than I can speak that at the end of his life he was so corrupted. But you know, he was a great leader.’ He sighed and bent his head. The lamplight gleamed on his dark hair. ‘Had Aragorn arrived with Boromir, there would be none who questioned his right to rule. If Boromir had bent his knee to Aragorn, all would follow … Faramir is loved. But he is not Boromir.’ He swirled his wine in the glass and looked into its depths. ‘Faramir is gentler, better for peace, for conciliation. He would be a good choice for Steward in this new Age.’
Elladan felt unsophisticated, gauche for his unthinking remark. He stepped closer so his arm pressed against Imrahil’s, and he leaned towards the Man. Impulsively, he said, ‘May I come to you tonight?’
Imrahil inclined his head with a slight smile and to any onlooker, it was merely two great lords close to the King conferring, agreeing. Indeed there were many others who were; Herion stood nearby talking to one of his sons and Angbor laughed loudly at something Aragorn had said.
It was the first time Elladan had asked Imrahil for any more than a game of chess. And the only time they had shared anything more than a handshake was at Legolas’ contrivance. Elladan felt a tremor of lust and anxiety at the eager anticipation in Imrahil’s eyes and looked away quickly. He licked his lips suddenly gone dry at the thought of the Man, his strong, wiry body, older, not an Elf. The crinkles at the side of his eyes, the lines near his mouth that showed where he laughed.
‘I have maps of that area in my tent,’ Imrahil said a little more loudly so Herion and his son turned their heads slightly. ‘Let me show you, my lord. I think you will find what you are looking for amongst them.’ He drained his glass quickly, too quickly and threw a bright, mischievous glance at Elladan and then walked out. Elladan stood for a moment, astonished, alarmed and then followed him.
Imrahil had arrived before Elladan so that when Elladan stepped through the doorway of the pavilion, Imrahil had his back to Elladan and pouring wine. He had already thrown off his formal robes, cast them carelessly upon a wooden trunk, and stood in a thin shirt, breeches that were tight over his thighs, his buttocks, and long boots that were very fine. His black hair was cut shoulder-length and he had pulled it back now and tied it with a leather string as if for business. When Elladan stood in the doorway, Imrahil turned towards him, two goblets in his hands and his piercing blue eyes were bright.
‘I did not mistake your intention?’ he asked. But his eyes were calm, anticipating. And Elladan was nervous. He had never really desired another man until Legolas had kissed him aboard the Sea Song, never even thought about it…
No. That was not true.
He had had a crush on Erestor for years. Until Erestor had kindly, carefully rebuffed him, so gently that he never even realized, until he stopped dreaming of the older man’s strange amber eyes, his subtle gaze, his straight-backed stride…Erestor had always been his guardian. Always watched for him. When he was pushed away by his mother in that careless, kindly way, it was Erestor who was there…
He decided that there was something about Imrahil that reminded him of Erestor. Perhaps that was why he found the Man so attractive? He must be his ‘type’ he thought, and took the proffered wine, threw it down his throat quickly so it curled in his belly like warmth, like Erestor’s kindly arm thrown about his shoulder. But Elladan didn’t want kindness; a thrilling excitement fluttered in his belly, in his loins.
Imrahil took the empty goblet from him and their fingers brushed against each other. He smiled and then took Elladan’s hand in his, drew him into the pavilion and with his other hand, loosed the rope that held the tent flap open so it fell back and shut out the sun, shut out all sound. With one hand he quickly looped the rope over a hook in the frame so anyone trying to enter would have to struggle with the heaviness of the curtain, and a second curtain fell around them so they were enveloped in heavy silk and embroidered tapestries, the world shut out, sounds muffled.
‘Come here,’ said Imrahil and he led Elladan to the bed, covered in cushions and down-filled quilts. The Man smiled and sank down amongst the cushions. He toed his boots off and kicked them away, pulling his shirt loose from the waistband of his breeches. Reclining back amongst the silk cushions and pillows he held out his hand and Elladan took it, sank down with the Prince of Dol Amroth.
When Imrahil kissed him, he tasted the wine on his lips, smelt it on his breath, licked it from his mouth. It was different from kissing a woman, he thought. He liked a woman’s lips moist but found he liked the dryness of Imrahil.
When he pulled the leather tie from Imrahil’s hair, Imrahil’s hand were thrust into his own hair and his head pulled back. Imrahil looked deeply into his eyes, the blue of his own irises the colour, Elladan thought, of the sea on a clear day, a day when the sun shines upon it and it is smooth like blue silk. Imrahil smiled as if he read his thoughts and kissed him hard, pushing his tongue into Elladan’s mouth and plucking at the ties of his tunic, his shirt, tugging his own from his body and pressing hard against him.
Imrahil’s hard hands were already upon Elladan’s own flesh, kneading and stroking alternately, and his licking and sucking and biting and kissing merged into one rolling sensation after another and Elladan did not know where he ended and Imrahil started for their flesh, their skin, hair, lips, thighs pressed and rubbed against each other in a delicious ecstasy. He felt his cock bulging so hard he thought he might burst before it was time and quickly pinched the end to suppress the climactic ecstasy that threatened to tip him over.
‘Lie down,’ Imrahil murmured into his hair.
Elladan hesitated and then lay himself down on the bed, stretched out naked and looked up at Imrahil.
Imrahil tossed back the last of his wine while he looked admiringly, appreciatively at Elladan. ’You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.’
Elladan didn’t quite know what to say; he was not used to thinking of himself like that. Healer, warrior, lore-master. But not beautiful. He lifted his hand and stroked back Imrahil’s hair wondering what he should say in return but he did not need to for Imrahil bore down upon him then and pressed his mouth against Elladan’s, pushed his tongue in so he thought he would faint and let his hands catch at Elladan’s balls, his cock, squeeze and twist and pump until he arched and lifted himself from the bed in anguished desire.
He knew words broke from his lips but did not know what they were for he was overcome and felt the churning in his balls. He cried out once but immediately Imrahil flipped him over and Elladan’s face was in the pillows, smelling of Imrahil, his faint perfume of spice and musk. Imrahil’s hands were slick with oil and he firmly kneaded Elladan’s flesh, slid his hands over his shoulders, his back, his thighs and then slid between the crease of his flesh, pressed at him.
‘You are tense, my beautiful warrior.’ Imrahil stilled his hand and leaned over Elladan’s back, breathed over his neck so a shiver went down his spine. His hands were gentler now, he pushed Elladan’s legs apart with his knee and stroked his balls from behind. A lovely thrill of desire shot through Elladan. ‘I will be gentle, I promise…but next time I will devour you.’
There was a slow push of oiled fingers first that Elladan baulked at and then gagged the cry that pushed from his mouth as a hot, blunt hardness pushing against his clenched muscles. He felt Imrahil pause and consider.
‘Do you wish me to stop?’ Imrahil leaned over him, gently brushed his hair back from his face so he could see how Elladan had pressed his face into the pillow like some virgin.
Elladan slowed his breathing and slowly let himself relax. He shook his head and Imrahil covered his fists, bunched and clenched into the silk sheets. He took Elladan’s fingers and slowly uncurled them, kissed them and stroked his hair, his shoulders, pushed between them and stroked a fingernail over his own cock. Sudden desire flooded him then and he twisted about to press his mouth against Imrahil’s, wound his arms about the Man’s neck and pulled him close. Imrahil gasped and pushed Elladan back down and then the blunt, hot hardness pressed further and his tender skin tore and stretched and burned. He cried out at the slow pain that suddenly changed into liquid pooling of desire. Oh but now his cry was astonished and wondrous and he pushed back, wanting the touch, the friction over that place. There it was again, and again, and he found himself shoving back as hard as Imrahil, grasping, clutching, panting so that all thoughts and words were driven from him. He pushed up onto his hands and knees to push himself back, impale himself on the column of hard muscle inside him. There was Imrahil’s hand clutching him around his waist and with an impatient cry, Elladan grabbed it and clamped it around his own full, hard cock, so hot, so needy, and pumped it with Imrahil’s hand, once, twice and he exploded in liquid, sticky climax.
He felt Imrahil jerk against him and then still, but his head was ringing and he blinked sweat from his eyes. A hand stroked down his flanks and he felt Imrahil slowly, very carefully withdraw. But even so, it hurt and he wished it did not.
Imrahil collapsed on the bed, laughing softly.
‘Well my warrior, that I have waited for ever since I first met you.’
Elladan rolled onto his back and turned his head to look at Imrahil. He had leaned over and swiped up a cloth from beside the bed and was wiping his hands, then his own thighs. He handed a clean one to Elladan and smiled, his teeth flashed in the twilight that was inside the tent.
When Elladan did not reply, Imrahil’s face became concerned, serious. ‘Do not regret this, Elladan. I know what this is.’
But Elladan was not thinking that. He was thinking instead that his heart was full and he loved this Man.
He reached out and cupped Imrahil’s cheek and leaned over for a slow, deep kiss. ‘I have no regret,’ he said.
Aragorn had noticed Imrahil and Elladan’s departure and glanced at Elrohir.
If Elrohir had not looked so concerned, he would not have felt anything other than pleased that his most important ally and his brother were getting on well. Lord Herion was still speaking and he could not just make an excuse and wander casually over to Elrohir to ask wherefore he was so concerned.
‘So the need is more pressing than we thought,’ Gandalf was saying and Aragorn tore his attention back to the discussion. ‘It is time, I think, to return to Minas Tirith. Send messengers to Faramir, Aragorn, telling him what you intend and asking him to make ready and then come and meet you.’
Aragorn nodded. ‘Very well. We will start to decamp in the morning. And besides,’ he added softly, ‘the hobbits wish for a hot bath and roof over their head. I will see it done.’
There was a murmur of agreement infused with wonder, for the Men of Gondor were not only getting used to their new King, but the idea that Halflings had made the journey into Mordor and it was they who had, in truth, defeated the Dark Lord.
‘The ships are already moored in the Anduin, your majesty,’ Angbor said. ‘We will start to embark in the morning.’
There was a murmur of agreement and Aragorn thought that at least they agreed on something. When he glanced over at Elrohir though, his brother was staring into nothing and his lips were parted, his grey eyes full of fear.
Happy Birthday Spiced Wine and Alpha- sorry this is late. And Happy Valentine to everyone else.
Thank you to everyone who pointed out that my spell check had automatically changed ERESTOR to erector in the last chapter. How embarrassing!! It was very intrusive.
Chapter 7: Dagorlad
Ahead of them black shapes scuttled against the yellow-brown grass, dried and scorched and drowned all at once, for this was Dagorlad and ahead were the Dead Marshes. The orcs, strung out like lines of marching ants, hoped to reach the marshes where the horses could not go and they could pick off the pursuing Men more easily than turn and fight a pitched battle. Legolas had hoped not to go there but he would not back away from pursuit of the shuffling orcs as they fled north. He felt Gimli hands stuck in his belt, clinging tightly and Arod’s muscles bunched and stretched as he charged amongst the Dunedain and Rohirrim.
Beside him Eomer’s chestnut stallion, Firefoot, galloped, his long tail lifted high and floating behind him. His master’s plume pulled at the same angle and the weak sunlight glinted on Eomer’s drawn sword. For the Orcs that Eomer had been hunting in the East of Mordor had turned north and fled through the gaping ruin of the Morannon and into Dagorlad where Legolas and Gimli hunted with the remains of Aragorn’s Dunedain.
Now Legolas was trapped under Eomer’s hurt and accusing gaze every time they paused or the orcs turned for a final desperate stand. But for now, they were fighting and that suited both of them.
‘Forth Eorlingas!’ Eomer’s cry and Arod, horse of Rohan lifted his tail and sped after Firefoot. Legolas reached behind him for arrows and shot over Eomer’s head towards the orcs. Black shapes fell ahead of them and then swiftly, they were among the orcs.
Legolas pulled Arod up momentarily for Gimli to slide down and then was off again, galloping in a wide circle with other archers around the orcs. Legolas leaned down and fired one arrow after another. Arrows whizzed into the pack of orcs and their panicked faces turned briefly towards the archers of Rohan before they returned fire. A horse stumbled ahead of Legolas and he felt a moment of fear for it was a bright chestnut and he thought it might have been Eomer’s Firefoot but at that same moment, Eomer’s voice carried over the noise away to the left. Legolas emptied his quiver sooner than the other archers and leapt from Arod into the fray, knives drawn and heart pounding with excitement. He saw the glint of Gimli’s axe in a sweep upwards, spattered in blood and strung with black gore.
A ululating cry broke from his own lips and he cast himself into the horde, whipping his knives over throats and faces so they split in a horrible grin that showed teeth and bone. Thick blood gushed and spattered over everything. He turned to smash the pommel of his knife into a face, ground it like jelly and with a cry of anguish, the orc fell onto its knees. He whirled about and kicked it hard in the gut so it fell and as it did, he slowed and drew his long white knife across its throat so its clumsy hands clutched at the red line that burbled from its throat.
Legolas reached down and shoved his fingers into the gap that had opened and groped for the long tubes and strings. He found them, and twisted. He tilted his head slightly as the orc’s eyes widened, its mouth opened and gasped, and fell at his feet.
He turned to catch Gimli’s eyes upon him.
Legolas strode past him, knives gleaming wet and still hungry. ‘For Anglach,’ he said briefly as he passed. Gimli watched him with no understanding but Legolas did not care. It was Anglach he saw before him; laughing, sweetly smiling as he delivered some barb that was only ever meant in affection.
Ahead of him an orc ran and he nodded to himself. This one would pay as well. Every orc he killed now was for Anglach. And Naurion whom he could not save from the Nazgûl when orcs attacked Smeagol’s guards and released the evil creature. He leapt in front of the orc; it was already wounded but its fierce, ugly face snarled when it saw Legolas and turned to face him. In one hand a crude iron sabre, in the other a round iron buckler spiked and sharp-edged.
He hefted his knives in each hand and then sprang at the orc. It met both knives with the iron sabre it clutched and then swung the buckler into Legolas’ shoulder. He leapt away but too late for the buckler caught his shoulder and hurled him off balance and Legolas thumped down onto the hard ground with the orc snarling and teeth bared above him. A mighty punch in his gut from the orc’s knee as it crunched down upon him, bellowing rage. Legolas swung with his knife but the Orc bashed his hand back and ground it against a stone. The small bones in Legolas’ hand cracked and he cried out in pain, the nerves froze and the knife flew from his hand.
‘You think you have won,’ it sneered. ‘But you should see Mirkwood. We have slain your brother and raped his woman.’
A flash of an image before him…yellow smoke, a body hoisted high, twitched and gave a low groan...
Cold fury flooded him. He bunched his muscles and gave a huge buck, unseating the Orc so it crashed sideways. Instantly he was on his feet and kicked the Orc in the chin so it flew backwards. Violence possessed him. Rage that he had never known. It was as if something inside him had unfrozen and kindled and now ran like fire in his veins, some revenge for the savagery done to Anglach, for the terrible threat and fear for Laersul.
He knocked the orc to the ground and jabbed his fingers in its eyes. Twisted and dug so it screamed and tore at his face. He crushed its arm with his knee and with one had digging into its eye sockets, with his free hand, he grasped its throat and squeezed with all his might. Red flooded his vision and he saw the Orc’s mouth open gasping. The jelly of its eyeballs slid beneath his fingers and he gouged it out, squeezed and the roar of blood in his ears drowned out the screaming of the orc, the shouting. He lifted his hand from the orc’s throat, his fingers still grasped about its windpipe and ripped, so that the tubes and strings of its throat came away in his hand and the burbling rattle of the orc finally stilled.
When he shoved himself to his feet, looking around wildly for the next orc, he saw only the shocked faces of the Rohirrim. Slowly, his breathing calmed and the roar of blood in his ears stopped pounding. He felt a heavy, square hand on his shoulder and turned his face, blinking and stunned, towards Gimli. The dwarf’s face was sober and kindly.
‘Stop now, Legolas. You have done enough.’
He looked down to see black fluid stained his fingernails and bits of jelly and skin flecked his tunic, his hands. There was a taste of iron on his lips.
‘They have killed Laersul,’ he said dully. ‘They have killed my brother.’ And Theliel…It was all true. Saruman had not lied.
Gimli wrote in his careful, neat hand. Pen scratched on the parchment. He was meticulous in his reports to Aragorn and detailed the route taken by the Orcs, how many had been killed and a brief description of any common features, such as the Eye or other insignia. These had a strange emblem on their coarse bucklers, a sign that resembled the Khazad cuneiform letter K, but it was strange and he had never seen it before.
I am also worried about Legolas, he added as a postscript. It seems an orc goaded him with more lies about Mirkwood, the Wood. It told Legolas his brother had been killed and Legolas has taken it to mean that those lies Saruman sent him all that time ago in Orthanc are true and that he saw what had been done to his brother. I beg you, Aragorn, send urgent messages to Thranduil that will belie these falsehoods and give him peace. The long war and the effect perhaps of his injury, the sea longing and other events have begun to take their toll upon him.
Gimli chewed the end of his pen and frowned. He was not the only one to witness Legolas’ violence against the orc; it was reminiscent of Elohim’s cruelty to the orc all those months ago when they searched the banks of the Bruinen and Elrohir had impaled the beast still alive, its cries of agony disturbing every one of them with the cruelty and inhumanity of the deed. And Legolas had ended it.
The same Legolas who had gouged the eyes of an orc and ripped out its throat, who looked about to reach into its chest and eat its heart for the wild savagery in the elf’s face, a savagery that Gimli had never seen before in the elf. Only in Orcs. And in Elrohir.
He sighed and looked down at the message but how could he put into words what he flet, what he had seen and now he dreaded? Perhaps now, with the Quest over and Sauron destroyed, Legolas thought to be revenged for his childhood friend that Gimli knew had been savagely slaughtered in order that Smeagol escaped? Perhaps the elf had just seen too much? Perhaps he was just war-weary. Gimli felt it himself, the Ring had worn them thin, their kindness even with each other by the end, exhausted, their tolerance and sense of justice long gone maybe in the depths of war. These are only orcs, Gimli told himself. These are not Men. As if that justified the savagery. There was the severed head of an orc stuck on a lance a way off. It had been put there by one of the Rohirrim.
Even so, Gimli was not the only one who was disturbed by Legolas’ violence. Eomer was here and kept glancing over towards Legolas, the concern and yearning clear. The firelight flickered over his face now and he flung a stick onto the fire and looked away.
Gimli harrumphed into his beard and chewed the end of pen again. It had frayed slightly and he shook the bitter taste from his mouth.
Apart from that, this particular band of orcs is scattered and headed north. But many have been killed or are lost in the marshes. Eomer has ordered us back, he wrote but he did not say that Legolas had looked at Eomer when he gave the order to decease pursuit as though he might kill the Rohan King. He did not say that Legolas had thrown down his knives in disgust at the Rohan King’s feet and all but spat at him, turning away in disgust to watch those orcs that escaped across the Dead Marshes. He had shouted something after them in his own language but Gimli could not recognize any of the words. But he was sure it was a curse.
Gimli however, was not the only one relieved to turn back and not brave the Marshes. Gimli glanced away towards the northern edge of the camp. He could see the elf’s outline lit dimly by stars, his face turned away towards the edge of the great forest that was just out of distance, out of reach. And he understood. For his own home lay that way and how easy would it be to call to Legolas and the pair of them mount Arod and just ride away, on and on until they came to the brown lands of Rhovanion and its rolling hills and grasslands. From there they would trek along the edge of the Great Wood and far north until they came to Sigin- zâram, the Long Lake…and there….
Gimli paused for a moment.
There they would part company.
Aye. There’s the rub, he thought. He was not quite ready for that. He was not quite ready to part company with the Hobbits, and Aragorn and Gandalf and the son of Thranduil. He smiled to himself. Indeed, he was not. And that meant putting this nonsense out of Legolas’ head and getting some dwarvish good sense in there instead.
He humphed, and scribbled another line, then blew on the ink and folded the parchment. He did not bother with wax or even string for he had written in Khuzdul, knowing that Aragon had quite a good understanding of runes, shocked though he was to begin with that a Man could read the secrets of the Khazad, but Gandalf could help with anything he did not know. And there was always Elrohir, whose knowledge of khuzdul and the khazadmêk, was both a comfort to him that there was someone else who understood, and a terror to Gimli that someone outside Erebor knew so much.
He pushed himself to his feet with grunt, for he was stiff as an elf’s neck and had a slight injury besides.
‘Do not stray too far, Master Gimli,’ Eomer looked up as he spoke. The firelight gilded his skin and hair so he looked made of copper and bronze. But his words were not really for Gimli, they both knew. For Legolas stood at the very edge of the firelight, straining forwards as if he might take flight and soar into the night sky and head unerringly for home.
Gimli nodded at Eomer. ‘My thanks for your concern. But I have my own and I know how to keep my head.’
Eomer shrugged and stared morosely into the fire. He had become quieter and more miserable the longer he was in Legolas’ company, Gimli thought as he picked his way between the other small fires that marked their camp. Arod snorted softly to him as he passed, and he fished about in his pocket, brought out the stump of a carrot and gave it to the horse, which took it gently. Its soft thick lips nibbled at his fingers delicately and he rubbed its forehead. ‘Great thick beast,’ he said fondly. He turned towards Legolas then and approached the elf slowly.
‘It is quiet now,’ he said by way of conversation. Legolas slid a look towards him but did not speak.
They stood together but Gimli did not feel it was companionable; it was like the beginning of the quest once more when he found the elf cold and aloof. It was as if he did not know him at all.
‘That orc…’ he began.
‘I know what you would say,’ Legolas interrupted immediately. ‘Do not.’
‘…lies,’ Gimli finished nonetheless. ‘As did Saruman. We found him out in Orthanc. He lied about everything.’ He remembered well standing at the foot of the tower of Orthanc, and Saruman coming to the narrow balcony to speak to the assembled Men. Like Gandalf he had seemed at first and yet unlike, but he met them courteously and as one aggrieved.
They had stood before Orthanc like vagabonds and thieves, for that is how they felt, every last man of them. Gimli though was stalwart and on his guard against the tall stately man stood, leaning slightly on his staff, for he was old and perhaps frail. His face was gentle and his eyes mild, like a gentler Gandalf.
‘Remember how Saruman told us that he was glad to see Gandalf hale? That he regretted the way they parted?' His voice had been resonant, mellow and compelling, Gimli remembered; the words he spoke had sunk into each of their consciousness, so they believed what he said, wanted to trust him. ‘He said to Theoden that he was bewitched by you, by the Lady. That the Shadow of the Wood might well be at Rohan’s door next,’ Gimli reminded Legolas. ‘Remember how he seemed? How reasonable he was, how he made it seem that we were the aggressors?’
‘If this is lies, how is it an Orc from Mordor says the same as an Orc in Rohan or a wizard in Orthanc?’ Legolas demanded. ‘If it is lies, why do they all say this?’
‘I said then and I say now,’ Gimli growled and he stamped first one foot, then the other in the iglishmêk, sign for unmoving though there were none who would recognize it for what it truly was. ‘The words of Saruman stand on their heads. Deceiver and Liar!’
Legolas’ eyes were fixed upon him, urgent and demanding but desperate for Legolas looked to him for his steadfastness
Gimli breathed in deeply.. ‘I do not believe any of them. Your father met with Lord Celeborn under the trees. You have a letter written in your father’s hand. He told you that he was well. He is alive.’
Legolas bowed his head and the deepest sigh came from his lips, as though misery was in his very soul. ‘It is not only my father for whom I fear…My brother, Laersul…He is very like…And they hate him as much as they hate my father. He leads our men…’
Gimli could say nothing. He shook his head slowly and merely caught Legolas’ hand in his own square, capable hands and squeezed. ‘It faces us all but that is no comfort.’ He wavered himself then for he had not been immune to the lies told either, for there was truth within the fabric of sorcery conjured by Saruman; the Mountain was beset. His people were under attack. Some would die.
He looked north and stood with Legolas under the cold bright stars that were in unfamiliar places but still shone on his own Mountain.
‘Shall we mount Arod and just head North, Legolas?’ he murmured. ‘For my people suffer too. And likely my own kin have died. Shall we abandon Aragorn and the Hobbits and head home?’
Legolas did not speak but his head was high and his shoulders tight and tense. He shifted forwards on the balls of his feet and for a moment seemed like he would just stretch out his arms and leapt into the air as if the wind could take him north. He was poised like this for a moment and then slowly, he took a breath, and lowered his head and the wired tension that had strung him left, his shoulders slumped, head bowed.
‘We will stay. You are right. Lies and more lies from the Deceiver.’ He turned to Gimli and his eyes were bright. ‘My rock, my steadfast friend.’ His hand was warm on Gimli’s shoulder. ‘Saruman wove those visions to unsettle us and revenge himself upon me. I have let him beguile me. But no longer. I will listen to you for your words and I will stay true to Aragorn as I have for all the journey. This I swear to you, Elvellon. Whatever, we will stay true to Aragorn.’ He did not smile and his words wound tightly about Gimli’s heart so he had to press his lips together to stop him from bursting with love. For he did love Legolas, his comrade and brother. He patted Legolas’ arm.
‘Then come back to camp. They are anxious for you, my dear friend.’
This time he returned and threw himself beside the campfire. Eomer glanced up briefly, he could not help himself. Gimli saw how his gaze flickered over Legolas and then tore away back to the fire. But Legolas sat directly opposite him and Eomer frowned, trying to keep his gaze fixed on the fire.
Legolas flicked a twig into the fire and flames sputtered and hissed into the darkness. His long eyes were green and clear. Gimli shook his head and rubbed a hand over his own eyes.
‘I am tired,’ he confessed. ‘Keeping your pointy-eared head on its shoulders is hard work.’
Legolas lifting his eyes to Gimli, found Eomer’s instead and paused there, meeting the young Man’s hurt and vulnerable gaze. The elf smiled tentatively and this time, despite himself, Eomer smiled back.
‘My axe took the heads of more orcs that you were even aware of!’ Gimli boasted loudly, knowing it was wanted, expected and seeing the thaw, took advantage and declared loudly, ‘My count was twenty-three to your thirteen.’
True to form, Legolas was completely distracted by the outrageous boast. ‘Thirteen?’ he exclaimed. ‘I have never heard it said of a dwarf that he had lost his ability to count! That many alone I took before ever even getting down from Arod!’
‘Exactly. So they count as Arod’s score and not yours. You cannot have those.’ Gimli made sure he looked properly affronted.
Before long, they were in full scale bicker and Gimli was delighted that Eomer was joining in and laughing.
By the time the fire had dwindled and only cinders glowed in amongst the ash, Eomer was relaxed and Legolas had shuffled closer to him. The two were talking quietly, but companionably and that dreadful hurt tension between them had eased, for now at least.
Tomorrow they returned to Cormallen, thought Gimli. They would be there by midday if they rose with the sun. He pulled his blanket and cloak over his shoulder and with a faint grin to himself, he lay his head on his pack as a hard pillow and immediately fell asleep.
Eomer smiled at Legolas, hearing the dwarf immediately begin to snore softly. He felt the heat from Legolas’ body close to him, the familiar flare of lust in his belly, the heat pooling in his groin. This was his last chance, he knew. By the afternoon they would be back with the King, and Legolas would have returned to Elrohir.
But Legolas seemed unaware, leaning back on one elbow and his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle. Firelight gleamed on his long, long hair like wintergrass on the plains and Eomer thought of those nights where he had stretched out similarly but his skin bare and gleaming in firelight, the wild colour over his shoulder and torso and curling about his lean hips, his strong thigh…Eomer closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his mouth closed to stop the words escaping.
‘Remember Helm’s Deep?’ he said helplessly.
Legolas lifted his long green eyes to Eomer, his full lips moved slightly, parted and for a moment he seemed about to speak but then he looked away again, his gaze slipping back to the fire. But his long fingers twitched.
‘How could I not?’ Legolas said at last.
Eomer held his breath; did he hear rightly? Legolas could not forget either? Hope broke in his chest and he leaned forwards remembering the breathless affirmation of life after that battle where hope seemed so lost and all believed they would die. The small dusty room, Legolas stretched out like he was now, firelight flickering over him.
The flames reflected in his eyes and he looked otherworldly, strange. As he had when Eomer first met the elf.
‘I told you,’ Legolas said quietly, but so factually. ‘I will never forget. You will live on in my memory long after and in all my days, I will keep that memory precious as it is to me.’
Eomer heart thumped in his chest. ‘Then…what does that mean?’ he asked with wild hope fluttering in his chest.
Opposite him, Legolas raised his head and met Eomer’s hopeful gaze. But his face was serious and his eyes were too kind to bear. ‘Ah, Eomer. You are the King. You must find yourself a wife, from a suitable House, have children. Heirs. Neither of us can give the other what he needs.’
‘And what do you need?’ Eomer could not help the bitterness in his voice.
Legolas’ face softened and he looked back into the fire. ‘I am cold,’ he said. ‘Elrohir is fire. He warms me.’
Eomer felt the bitterness in his heart then, and jealousy of Elrohir that he thought he had conquered. But it was still there; even though he knew what he had with Legolas was fleeting. The Elf had been honest with him, he knew and when he had said to Legolas on the edges of Rohan before they parted at the Paths of the Dead, It is what it is, that he understood, he had meant it. He had meant it then, but now, he wondered if his heart would ever recover.
Eomer struggled to his feet and moved away from the warmth of the fire, feeling the cold wind around his legs. He stumbled away from the fire and pulling his thick cloak about him, went over to his sentry who turned as if he had no idea what had passed.
‘Go and sleep,’ he told him. ‘I cannot and the one of us at least may rest.’
The Man nodded thankfully, stifling a yawn and stumbled off to join the huddled groups of Men and Eomer turned towards the East, wishing for dawn as he had at Helm’s Deep.
He turned his head briefly and saw the silhouette of Legolas against the fire. He was very still, head slightly bent and long legs still stretched out, leaning on one elbow. He was still there when the sun cracked a long line of daylight over the horizon.
Chapter 8: On board the Elendil
Back in Cormallen, plans were afoot for the King to return and claim the White City. Messengers had been travelling along the old road to Osgiliath and along the banks of the Anduin into Ithilen to the fields of Cormallen where Aragorn had settled to ensure Mordor was well and truly routed and Sauron's armies gone. Warm words had been exchanged between Faramir and Aragorn, reaffirming the trust that had been established when Aragorn had healed the young Man. Merry was particularly pleased and felt he had actually made an important contribution with his own carefully worded letter to Faramir extolling Aragorn’s virtues and his keenness to acknowledge Faramir and his importance to Gondor. Merry also sent a note to Eowyn, for he felt she had been overlooked in this and he wanted to make sure she was recovering. Her note, when it arrived however, was happy to hear that he was well but her words seemed tired to him, and a little forlorn so when the King decided that Gandalf and Imrahil should go ahead and prepare the city for Aragorn’s return, Merry begged passage with them and it was granted.
The King decreed that those still wounded would also go so they could be better cared for in the Houses of Healing; although there were healers in the camp, no field hospital could ever replace the resources and facilities of the city. Deemed one of that number, Elrohir had been told by Aragorn in no uncertain terms and in front of the King’s Council that he was to go also, and though he chafed at the direction he would not gainsay Aragorn in his new role or do anything that might undermine him.
So the first ship was readied. It was a large carak named The Elendil, with three masts and both fore and aft-castles. It was an impressive sight as she hoved alongside the pier at Cormallen which had been restored in these peaceful weeks. Great ropes were slung over the bollards and the ship was moored slowly against the pier. For a full day, first light until well past sunset, carts trundled up to the wide gangplank and the crew loaded the ship with as much cargo as she could carry, emptying the great pavilions of the heavy furniture, silver, glass and china. And then the pavilions themselves were taken down and loaded onto the ships. This took a full day before the passengers even embarked.
But at last The Elendil was ready. It was a bright April morning that saw the passengers embark. The hobbits stood on the quay to wave Merry off and nearby Aragorn stood with Gandalf and Elrohir. All was bustle and noise around them with sailors calling to one another, loading the last few bits of luggage and the final stores were carried on. There were crowds of Men clustered on the quay, either waiting to board or seeing their friends and comrades off. It had a festive air and was full of hope and excitement, for those who were left behind now expected to return home soon. Already other ships were being readied and the horses were being sent off on their way home by road with a few Men to guard and herd them back along the road to Osgiliath. It was expected that within the week, the field of Cormallen would be emptied and all returned to the city.
Elrohir leaned on his cane thinking how the ship seemed to strain at its ropes and the sails shiver like it was eager to be off. The passengers were boarding now; the wounded first. About twenty or more Men limped or were carried on. The gulls cried and mewled on the wind that shivered over the water.
‘There is Baelderon, ‘Aragorn said, nodding towards the Dúnadan. He was limping heavily and leaned upon a crutch, but that was not his true injury. Aragorn sighed and squinted against the sun. ’He is still lost in grief. The loss of Cordobad and Halbarad are heavy upon him.’
He turned his head to see that Elladan came walking towards them through the gathered crowd. Men parted for him as he approached for he was tall and his handsome face and ready smile had already won over the hearts of the Men of Gondor. He carried his sable cloak slung over his arm for the air was mild and the sun warmed them. At his hip was his white sword in its jeweled scabbard.
Elrohir frowned a little at the sight of the sword at Elladan’s hip for here in the well-guarded camp, they had felt safe enough to forbear arms; the orcs were dispersing and Sauron’s armies defeated.
‘Will you give him healing while you are aboard?’
It took a moment for Elrohir to realise that Aragorn still spoke of Baelderon and he nodded. ‘Of course.’ He looked at his foster brother’s anxious face, the lines around his grey eyes. ‘But you also grieve their loss,’ he said gently and rested his hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder. ‘You need some healing too. Will you not speak with Elladan whilst I am away?’
Elladan shifted his cloak on his arm. ‘I would but I am going with you,’ he said.
It should not have mattered. It should have delighted him, not wrenched his heart as it did. But Elrohir stared at him for a moment but Elladan had already turned his head towards the ship and there was Imrahil already aboard. The wind blew his brown hair back from his face and the sun was in his eyes. He shaded his eyes with his hand and his strong face broke into a smile at the sight of Elladan.
‘Are you to travel with us, my lord?’ he called to Elladan over the excited noise of the passengers boarding and the cries of the sailors and gulls. He came down the gangplank and clasped Elladan’s arm as he came aboard. Elrohir’s heart clenched at the joy in his brother’s eyes that was met with a smile from Imrahil that blazed across his handsome face.
At last the ship slid away from its moorings to catch the tide, it turned slightly and then lurched as it caught the waves and then surged ahead, slicing through the deep dark water of the Anduin as it flowed to the Sea.
Elrohir breathed in the cold air that was heavy with salt and spray, tasted it on his lips and felt it sting his skin. The wind was pounding up from the sea and fought against them. Though this was a river, the waves rolled and the ship swayed as the wind buffeted them, blew through the rigging and sails, bowling them along the water, whistling through the ratlines. Above him the white gulls skittered across a sky heavy with cloud. Elrohir stood on the deck, watching the crew as they scurried about the ship, clinging to the rigging or pulling on the stays to drop the sails, hauling the great canvas down to slow the ship before the storm caught them.
‘It is a bracing wind,’ a voice spoke beside him. Imrahil stood casually, for all the world as if it were a sunny day in a garden. His feet were slightly apart and he rocked easily with the plunge and rise of the ship, the wind tearing his brown shoulder length hair back from his lean, handsome face. He was obviously used to the sea, thought Elrohir. A sailor.
He did not reply but turned his face towards the south, hearing the great sough of the wind, the plunging waves.
‘I will be careful with you brother’s heart,’ Imrahil said suddenly, unexpectedly and Elrohir clenched his fists, not through anger but in pain and misery. ‘I understand what it means.’
‘You have no idea what it means!’ Elrohir glared at the Man, breathing hard, knuckles clenched over the top of the cane to stop himself from violence.
‘I begin to,’ Imrahil said with great gentleness and compassion. ‘I care deeply for Elladan. I do not wish to cause him pain.’
‘And yet you will,’ Elrohir said tightly. ‘He will not thank me for speaking my mind. I will remove myself so I do not offend any longer.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘I bid you goodnight.’
He turned and drove himself back below decks, wanting to escape before he spoke too much and broke the ever-thinning bond between himself and Elladan.
He paused before the door to the cabin he shared with Elladan, and hearing his brother within, the quiet sounds of his moving about, he stepped away. He could not bear to face Elladan right now, he would say things he would regret, push him away further and further.
He stumped his way deeper into the belly of the ship, found himself in the hold, thrust between the chests and wrapped possessions of those aboard and found a space where he could sit upon a wooden chest and drown in his own misery, his self-pity he told himself in anger and disgust. Selfishly begrudging his brother the same chance at happiness that he had, he told himself. Selfish. Mean-spirited. He should rejoice. But his heart ached with the misery; for in finding Legolas and knowing his own Choice, he had lost Elladan in his. They would be parted until the ending if the world. And suddenly he felt the greatest pity for his father, for he had also lost his twin, his foster-fathers both more loved than his own father ever was, his wife, his daughter. His son. His most beloved son for Elrond had always preferred Elladan, he told himself.
He sighed and drew his finger in the dust on the lid of the chest upon which he sat, faintly surprised at how dry and dusty it was. He supposed this was where cargo was stored and valuable as it was, the captain would ensure it was protected from the damp. It smelled of tar and salt. His cane rested against his thigh and around him were strange dim shapes. There was a heavy oak table and a number of wooden chairs that he recognised had been used in one of the King’s pavilions. Rolls of carpets and rugs leaned against the side of the hold and any number of wooden chests were stacked carefully together. And in the farthest end of the hold, pushed back and carefully swathed in sackcloth was a tall rectangular object. Taller than he and wider but thin. A glimpse of white peeked out where the sackcloth had come undone.
Elrohir became very still.
It was the Mirror, swathed by Gandalf’s white cloak, suffused with magic and suppressing the Mirror’s own power. And covered then with sackcloth to disguise it.
The Mirror from Minas Morgul was here. On this ship with him.
Gandalf must have brought it in secret, he thought in horror and he visualised the terrible scenes in Phellanthir; the glass bowled and stretched and filled with fire. The Balrog’s trumpeting bellow of rage, how it had moved and battered the thin film of the Mirror, and its thin surface bulged and undulated like the skin of water. Within, a great shape struggled and fought. Flames roared and blazed along its skin, and its great horns were blackened, wings of fire spread and filled the Glass. Its colossal fists were clenched and battered the Glass that bent and flexed like a skin and did not break.
He stared. Unable to move.
There was no fiery glow or red light seeping from the sackcloth. All was utterly silent and still. Yet the darkness pressed against him, and around the Mirror it was deeper. Not just the darkness of the hold but almost an absence of light and a deepening of the shadows. Did he see a trembling in the dark, like the ripple of wind over water?
He thought of the horror of Angmar as he challenged him on the flat, moonlit marshes of Phellanthir…
Angmar is gone, he reminded himself. They are all gone, into the Void where none can reach them. But he felt as if he were in soft, deep sand, slowed and heavy. His hand clutched the edge of the wooden chest as if it might stop him from drowning and his other arm hung heavily by his side.
Yes, more like deep water than sand, he thought dully. I feel like I am drowning and cannot lift my arms to save myself.
The air was ice-cold and the darkness seemed to intensify. His hand reached heavily for his sword but he had left Aícanaro in his cabin, carefully wrapped in oilskin to prevent the blade from rusting the salt air. Instead he gripped the ebony cane that he had rested against the chest when he sat down and froze, so he could hear a breath, the scuff of feet on wood…or the trail of thin black shrouds in the dust…
He barely breathed, barely moved.
And then suddenly the rattle of claws scratching over the wooden chests. He moved his head slightly. A rat scuttling through the hold. Nothing more.
The thin light from above cast long shadows that seemed to reach for him and Elrohir was reminded of the flat grey marshes of Phellanthir, how the cold, thin presence of the Wraiths had emerged slowly from the pouring rain. And the Witch King of Angmar had stood taller than any Man, utterly still, his iron crown spiked in the grey dusk.
Angmar had raised his mailed fist and opened it up, palm outwards towards Elrohir, inviting him to approach. The empty hood beneath the iron crown had tilted slightly to one side in a gesture that Elrohir found unbearable and he knew now it was a parody of Legolas.
You acquiesce, Angmar had sneered.
I do, Elrohir had replied desperately, for his brother’s life, for Elladan.
You acquiesce still.
Dread grew in the pit of his belly; his blood slowed and grew cold.
Did the darkness tremble around the edges of the Mirror? He thought something coiled around his ankle, felt the slide of something beneath his feet and forced himself to his feet in horror, shuddering but it felt like he was bound in heavy chains, or asleep and in a nightmare from which he could not awaken. He stumbled backwards away from the Mirror, crashing heavily into the carved oak table, the wooden chests piled up one upon another. He reached out to steady himself and his hands caught something bony, cold. He turned in terror and fear but it was just the back of one of the chairs. Stumbling and fearful he crashed his way out of the hold and slipped on the wet rungs of the ladder into the hold. Rain soaked his face, his hands and the slippery wood. He threw himself upwards, dreading a bony hand around his ankle, an iron blade in his ribs. He fled.
At last he clambered back onto deck where the rain poured and made everything soaked and slippery. A sailor bumped into him, blind in the rain and wind and Elrohir wanted to hug him so glad he was to be above in the clean, cold air. He leaned over the side of the ship, gasping in the salt, cold wind, the blinding rain.
The Mirror was below, wrapped and shrouded in magic and enchantment. Gandalf was aboard and had the keeping of it, he told himself. It was just his imagination and foolish self-pity that had lent the Mirror a power if did not have. After all, no Balrog had strained against the glass, no bellow or roar. There was nothing sinister about this Mirror. Nothing had happened, when Legolas had found it, or when Gandalf had brought it out of the tower. Nothing had happened in Cormallen so why would anything happen now?
No. He had imagined everything. Here in the cold air and wind and rain, standing amongst Men, he could shake his head at his own foolishness. It was the lingering of the Black Web still in his veins, he told himself.
At last he determined to join Elladan, apologise and seek to understand his brother. But Elladan’s narrow cot was empty and cold and Elrohir guessed where he had gone. So he lay himself down to sleep.
Above deck he could hear the shouts of the sailors and the plough of the ship through water, rising and falling. The ship’s boards creaked and metal clanked somewhere above. The ship was on its way, sliding through the deep water, dark under the sky and white gulls flew and scurried on the wind around the sails and mast. He fell asleep to the murmur of the waves and the rise and fall of the ship, like breathing.
Chapter 9: News from home.
Gimli clung tightly to Eomer as they cantered through the trees and over green meadows of Ithilien. It was green, Gimli thought grumpily, because it rained so much. Grey clouds bowled over the hills and rain poured over the Men and horses so their hides were sleek and the Men’s cloaks dripped and soaked through. Gimli was grateful at least that he was protected from the worst of it by huddling behind Eomer.
He glanced through the rain over to the edges of the company where Legolas rode, no cloak, face lifted up to the rain as if it were sunshine; but he did not sing as he would have done before, if only to irritate Gimli. No, his face was set and hard for he was angry that Eomer had chosen to return rather than pursue the remaining orcs into the Dead Marshes. Legolas was not the only one to drag his feet and cry out for longer pursuit; there were plenty of Rohirrim who had lost those they loved or seen things too dreadful to speak of on the little farmsteads and villages of Rohan. But Eomer was right of course, Gimli nodded to himself. They risked too much by pursuing the orcs and they could not do so on horseback. Added to that, Gimli did not think it would have done Legolas any good whatsoever in his fey state of mind, for the stories told of the dead men and elves in the pools of the marshes only alarmed the dwarf and he thought Legolas might well follow some will o’ the wisp and be lost. Especially after he had turned so savage and cold in the last skirmish.
In truth, Gimli had been a little frightened by the cold wrath and savagery he saw in Legolas. Not for himself but for his friend. If it had been Elrohir, no one would have thought anything of it. But it had been Legolas who had put the orc out of its misery all those months ago in Eriador when they had tracked the Nazgûl before the Fellowship had even been chosen. Gimli worried at the end of his beard.
No, he told himself. Best off going home, seeing Aragorn and letting Elrohir calm Legolas and get him back in the land of the living.
They plodded through the rain over a rise in the road and suddenly there below them was the camp of Cormallen.
Eomer pulled up and Gimli peered from behind a little irritably because it was harder to look round Eomer than Legolas; the Man was just bulkier and had more stuff on than Legolas ever wore; why he had to have armour and a cloak which dripped onto Gimli, AND a quiver, sword, shield, Gimli grumbled mentally and wondered why he hadn’t just stuck with Legolas.
He was shocked for a moment for the colourful pavilions were gone, and only a small collection of tents remained, and a few Men milled about between the tents. Where the herd of horses had been, there was nothing and the once lush grass had been churned into mud in the rain.
Legolas shaded his eyes with his long hand, his skin wet. ‘There are Pippin, and Sam…. They do not seem distressed.’
A cart seemed to have got stuck in the mud down there and several Men gathered round to help push it. They could hear them shouting to each other. And then it seemed the news of their arrival must have reached the camp for faces turned towards them and in spite of the weather, sudden excitement rippled through what was left of the camp.
‘There are many ships sailing downriver,’ Legolas told them and they turned their eyes to see a fleet of ships in the near distance as if they had not long left. They were making their way to Osgiliath, Gimli realised.
‘They are moving the camp,’ he said, mentally kicking himself for not working that out.
‘Then Aragorn must be returning to the city,’ Eomer said and urged Firefoot forwards.
The troop followed, their horses’ ears pricked and their heads up now they were home.
Most of the remaining Men gathered to greet the returning Éored and Dúnedain. Gimli waved to Pippin and Sam who were waiting excitedly.
Gimli slid from Firefoot’s back, Eomer lending him a hand and found himself ankle deep in mud but he cared not for it was uncomfortable riding behind the saddle bumping along like so much baggage. He squelched through the mud, happy nonetheless to be on his two feet on the earth and the good rock and stone beneath, and greeted the hobbits.
Pippin was sliding towards them and waving in excitement. ‘Gimli! Legolas!’ The rain had plastered his hair round his face.
Legolas slid from Arod’s back and patted him while the hobbits edged their way through the column of Rohirrim. Arod followed the last horse gloomily, head low and plodding, leaving Legolas and Gimli to greet Sam and Pippin.
‘Welcome back,’ cried Sam and Gimli was delighted to see how much better the little gardener looked. He had his Lorien cloak pulled close over his head and round his shoulders.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ Pippin asked immediately. ‘We are just on our way to elevenses.’ He ran a finger round his teeth. ‘We had some very nice bacon this morning. With eggs and mushrooms and tomatoes. They had those little loaves you like, Legolas.’
Gimli laughed. ‘Well now, master hobbits, I have certainly had First breakfast but not second, although I need to get out of these wet clothes and find Aragorn first and then will join you I think. What say you, Legolas?’
Legolas was looking away towards the river as if distracted.
Pippin gave the elf a worried look then and touched Legolas’ arm. ‘Legolas, before you go looking, Elrohir has gone with Merry back to Minas Tirith. He was sent with Gandalf and Merry to greet Faramir and make sure everything was ready for Aragorn’s return.’ He looked up anxiously at Legolas, who glanced down briefly and then silently turned his face west again.
Gimli gave him a quick look and said nothing but he grabbed at the ends of his beard and worried at them.
‘I knew he was no longer here,’ Legolas said and his voice was distant. ‘I could not hear him.’ But he did not say what he meant by that and Gimli decided that it meant that Legolas was perfectly well without Elrohir…Except it would have helped to have Elrohir adding his voice to Gimli’s that all Saruman dealt in was lies.
Rain ran off the sides of the pavilions and into the narrow paths between, making the mud slippery and deep in places. Gimli found himself clinging to Legolas as he slipped and slid after the hobbits. It was the not the first time that Gimli thought hobbits’ feet gave them an advantage over his sturdy boots but he would not admit that Legolas seemed to tread upon the mud and leave barely a mark and his boots had only a light scuff where Gimli’s were covered in soft, wet mud. It was not the first time either, that he had remarked that Legolas’ tunic seemed to repel the weather like nothing he had ever seen. It irritated him unreasonably.
‘Aragorn has had messages from the North,’ Sam said over his shoulder and Gimli grunted that he had heard. ‘There was news that the Shire has been unscathed, but that Rivendell was attacked.’
‘Rivendell?’ exclaimed Legolas in surprise as if he had awakened from a dream. ‘That is news indeed. I did not think Sauron would dare try his strength against Elrond unless he had the Ring itself.’
‘I suppose there was war everywhere,’ said Pippin sadly. ‘There were no dwarves among the messengers, I’m afraid, Gimli, or elves. But perhaps they brought letters from the Lonely Mountain and the Wood.’
Gimli’s heart raced at the news there were messengers from the North. No dwarves did not mean there were no messages. Legolas had straightened too and exchanged a glance with Gimli.
‘Any crumb of news will be welcome,’ Legolas said hopefully. ‘I hope that there are messages from my father and brothers.’ He looked a little forlorn then and Gimli crossed his fingers in an ancient prayer and hoped with all his heart that there was, and that it was good news for all of them.
‘Then we will go straight to Aragorn and wait to get dry and fed. My heart aches to hear from my kin,’ Gimli said.
But when they arrived at Aragorn’s tent, much smaller and less imposing than the great pavilion of before for that too had been packed up and sent to Minas Tirith, he was in council and would not be finished until a little later. But the equerry who spoke to them assured them that the King would finish early in order to greet them.
‘You may as well come to Second Breakfast then,’ Sam invited them and Pippin gave them a wide grin.
‘I am going to get dry first,’ said Gimli determinedly. He thought briefly about intruding upon Aragorn and demanding their letters but Aragorn was so new to his role and there would be those who pounced on every sign of weakness.
So, in a smaller tent than he had had before and was now back to sharing with Legolas, Gimli peeled off his sopping wet clothes, right down to his small clothes and dried himself in front of the small fire in the centre of the tent and watched the raindrops that came through the vent in the roof for smoke, sizzle on the logs. He shook his head. Really, Men did not seem able to make a fire that did not smoke, he thought. Sam and Pippin were to wait for them in the new dining tent. ‘Not as big as the old one but there’s more food and fewer people to feed,’ Pippin had announced happily.
Gimli pulled on a blessedly warm and dry undergarments and shirt, breeches and wondered if he should try bare feet like the hobbits.
‘Feet dry more quickly than boots.’ Legolas quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head towards Gimli’s own boots, thick with wet sludge as if he had read Gimli’s own thoughts. Gimli hummed but was pleased that Legolas seemed himself again. And he too felt more comfortable and at ease, and the dining tent was very close by. In fact, the advantage of a much smaller camp, thought Gimli, was that everything was close by.
‘What is that tent there?’ he asked Legolas as they dashed from theirs to the dining tent. It was very small and two sentries stood miserably in the soaking rain.
Legolas shook his head. ‘I am not sure. Perhaps there are still prisoners?’ He was quiet for a moment and then he said, almost with relief, ‘That Mirror is no longer here. I cannot feel it.’
Gimli glanced at him, a gnaw of fear in his bones. ‘You cannot feel it?’
Legolas shook his head. ‘No. It has gone.’
But before Gimli could ask if it felt like the Ring, they were at the entrance of the dining tent and Legolas ducked his head to go inside. But Gimli paused for a moment before he followed, pulling off his boots before he walked on the rushes and thick rugs.
Legolas was already sitting between the hobbits, his long legs stretched out and Pippin perched beside him, swinging his feet and talking excitedly. But though he seemed relaxed, Gimli thought Legolas looked pale and too still. He longs for news as do I, he thought.
‘You were going to tell me about your brothers, Legolas. We talked about them before the Battle.’ Pippin loaded a plate with bacon and eggs and mushrooms and fried potatoes for Gimli first and then Legolas.
‘I have two brothers,’ Legolas said with a small smile. ‘Laersul- who is taller than anyone here, and very strong. He is the leader of our troops. Our people love him.’ He paused. ‘As do I. When Laersul is with you, you feel that you can never come to harm.’
“That’s just how I feel about you, Legolas!’ exclaimed Pippin.
Legolas looked surprised and pleased and almost ducked his head as if faintly embarrassed. Gimli’s heart gave a fond squeeze of affection.
‘He has just found his beloved.’ Legolas smiled very slightly to himself at some memory. ‘He kept her waiting for so long before he realized what everyone else had known for…years.’ His voice caught them and Pippin looked up quickly. But Legolas swallowed and then continued with a forced brightness, ‘And Thalos is my other brother. He can spin silk from a spider with his words.’ He laughed softly. ‘He is the captain of the East Bite. I served under him when I first went to the South with Anglach… Thalos would always let us have our leave at the same time.’ Legolas looked down at his plate and after a moment, put his fork down. Then he asked brightly, too brightly thought Gimli, ‘Do you have brothers, Pippin? Or sisters?’
‘I do. I have three older sisters. Pearl, Pimpernel and Pervinca.’ Pippin chattered on.
‘Are they famous beauties?’ Gimli asked gallantly as always.
Sam looked uncomfortable and Pippin twitched a little.
‘Well…Folk come from miles around to visit...And if Pimpernel does have rather smaller feet than Pearl is, she is the kindest soul that ever lived.’ He glared at Sam as if daring him to speak.
‘That is true, Pip,’ Sam nodded. ‘And she can cook. She can bake the lightest cakes, iced with chocolate icing and walnuts, and her pastry melts in the mouth.’ Sam looked dreamily.
‘My lords?’ A Man greeted them courteously, a little awed, and bowed low. ‘The King asks that you join him. He has messages. From the North.’
Gimli looked up at Legolas. ‘At last! We will have news of our kin!’ He drained his tankard of ale and smacked his lips. ‘I have only news that my father is still hale and well, but I long for news of my kin and friends. They will have fought before the gates of the Mountain.’
Legolas was quiet though and Gimli knew that he saw the yellow smoke curling through the burning trees, screaming, the gurgling growl of Orcs and goblins.
They were escorted by the Man to a tent that was not as grand as before, but Legolas noted the two Gondorian soldiers standing to attention outside. It was a custom, he had observed, to stand guards outside the King’s tent even though he was surrounded by an army.
Aragorn immediately came to greet them, clasping their arms and asking after the hunt.
‘Well I have to credit Legolas with twelve,’ Gimli said loudly, standing with his feet apart before the stove that had replaced the cheerful fire. It was cold, unlit on this April morning but still Legolas knew how mortals seemed to feel the cold even on such as day as this.
‘Twelve!’ Legolas exclaimed but his heart was not in it. He simply wanted the letters. To put his heart at rest, he told himself. To hear that his father, Galion, both his brothers were safe.
Aragorn seemed to understand for he said, ‘I have had letters from both Dain and Thranduil.’
Legolas felt a little sigh escape. From his father. A letter in his own hand. It meant that he at least was safe. But Laersul?
‘Both realms have survived with losses on both parts I fear,’ Aragorn went on. He stood beside his desk where a small pile of letters was perched on the corner. ‘I do not know how heavy the losses I fear but Erebor is clear of Sauron’s armies. They fell when Sauron did- it seems the goblins did not have enough will to fight on once he was gone…In the Wood there skirmishes rather than battle. The Wood is burned, your father says.’ He looked at Legolas. ‘But he says it will recover.’
Aragorn picked up the small bundle of papers in his hand and he fidgeted with them awkwardly. Then held them out towards Legolas. ‘There are messages here. For you and Gimli…. Personal ones.’ He paused and then said, ‘With news of home.’
Legolas stared at him and then at the letters. Almost trembling, he reached out and took them. Two had the hard runes of the Khazâd which he gave straight to Gimli and one was fastened with a thin red ribbon and the seal of the Wood. He could hardly wait and unravelled the ribbon and pulled the fine white parchment open.
The writing was in father’s fine hand and even though Aragorn had told him his father was alive, seeing his writing made Legolas gasp in relief and he clutched the letter hard.
‘Legolas? What news?’ Aragorn leaned forward anxiously.
Legolas shook his head, tears blinded him and he glanced up at Aragorn in relief. ‘My father writes,’ he said. ‘I haven’t even read it yet! It means he lives.’
He wiped his eyes unashamed and looked down at the script.
‘My dearest Legolas,
I hope with all my heart this finds you well and that means that you will soon be coming home; I wish to hasten your return of course, but you will represent me at Aragorn’s coronation and I am proud that you will stand for the Wood in this new world. I know you will have acquit yourself well and that you have shown all the Peoples of the World your quality and the quality of the folk of the Wood.
Battle yet lingers here, skirmishes in the main for with Sauron gone, the Orcs seem to have lost their will. Even so, I will again lead our warriors out here in the north of the forest. Galion is here beside me and telling me what to write, so I am ignoring him.’
Legolas smiled, imagining the two of them, heads bent over this paper, Galion wittering in Thranduil’s ear until he became irritated and snapped at Galion. But Galion would ignore him and carry on and surely…he turned over the letter and there was Galion’s spidery script scribbled at the bottom.
He turned it back- he would read that later.
‘But I know you will want news of your brothers, my heart. ‘
Here, there was a small blot like Thranduil had rested his pen on the paper as if thinking how to write. Legolas’ heart speeded a little. Sudden doubt crept into him.
Yellow smoke…. a body hoisted high…
He breathed in sharply, belly churned with anxiety.
‘Thalos is safe, or at least he leads the last skirmishes in the South and I have heard no different.’
Thalos? If Thalos was leading then where was Laersul?
That yellow smoke…. golden hair like a pennant…Not Thranduil then…Not Thranduil…No.
Legolas stilled. His heart gave a dreadful jump.
‘…was injured in the assault upon Dol Guldur and had to be returned home. He has awoken now but has no memory of the attack. Galion says he has not been so grumpy since he was a small child and lost his mumakîl. But Laersul has never been grumpy.’
Legolas found himself weeping as he had not since a small child and Thranduil had shut himself away in his own grief and it was Laersul, strong, kind Laersul who had lifted Legolas and held him against his chest, murmuring softly and stroking his hair, singing to him until the beat of that indomitable heart had enveloped him, and the Song curled around him and held him safe in those strong arms.
Gimli was on his feet in consternation and Aragorn took two strides over to Legolas and gripped him by the arms. ‘Tell me!’ he insisted. ‘What news can bring you such desolation? Legolas! Speak to me!’
Legolas looked up at him through tear-filled smiles. ‘Saruman lied. They are all alive. They all live. It was a lie, Gimli. You told me that. How did you know? All this time I have lived with it….’ And suddenly he realised the immense pressure that had been building up inside him and it broke. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back so his hair streamed behind him and closed his eyes, glorying in the relief, his love for his home, his family. Elrohir. He could go to Elrohir now.
Later he read the whole letter once more. It was a long letter full of news. The Wood was still burning but the fires were under control and the Men of Dale and Esgaroth as well as some Dwarves from Erebor were helping get it under control. Thranduil wrote admiringly of the inventiveness of the dwarves who had constructed a device of iron and steel to pump water from the underground lakes to quench the flames nearest the stronghold. There was sad news too: amongst the dead was Lossar who had stood before a group of children and women to slow down the orcs and allow the group to escape. He was cut down before their eyes. And every child and every woman butchered. Miriel was amongst them.
Legolas could not read anymore for a moment. Lossar, with his slow, sensual smile and long dark hair. His quick wit. Miriel's softness and kindness; she and Lossar had used to listen for each other’s song, even when both of them twined about Legolas and the three of them had loved long and deeply. He knew that Lossar and Miriel would not be the only one he lost and about whom he cared.
Galion had added, Write to us soon, little one. We are desperate to know you are safe and your father is a bear with not knowing. Sadly, Alagos did not perish and is taking this message to Lothlorien where someone more suitable will bring the message on but come back to us. Ignore what your father says about staying any longer and come home. We miss you. I will make enough rabbit pie to keep you happy for months. And let us know soon that the rumours about you taking a dwarf to your bed are not true. That is too much even for you, Legolas. I hope so anyway. Anyone else I would scoff at but with you I never really know. Laersul says to stay safe; he had some sort of premonition but we hear you are well and so it was a lie.
Legolas kept the letter close and read it over and over. He wept for Miriel, sweet girl that she was, and for her always beloved Lossar. But Laersul was alive. And Thalos and his father and dear Galion. They were all safe.
Especially for Naledi, Cheekybeak and all those who pleaded for Laersul. Hope you are happy now so please review and tell me:)
Note: Reminder that in Through a Glass Darkly, Elladan had been wounded by a morgul blade and Elrohir offered himself to Angmar believing that he can bargain his own life and soul for Elladan’s. Angmar sows a spell into Elrohir’s soul that twists and distorts his sexuality, his memory of finding Celebrian in the dens of the orcs, and so he believed for centuries the lie that he had raped, or been about to rape his own mother, that he had ejaculated upon finding her. Legolas exposed the lie at the end of Sons of Thunder- but beliefs are not so easily unfixed and the mirror is aboard the ship.
Also, in Sons of Thunder, when Legolas was taken onto the Mindolluin by Elrohir to lure the Nazgul into believing that Merry is the hobbit with the Ring, Khamûl was defeated and his ring left on the mountainside. Elladan picked it up at first, and then cast it away.
Beta: the very wonderful Anarithilien.
Chapter 10: Dreams and Discoveries
It was a cloudy day on the Mindolluin. Bearas strode along the narrow goat track towards his snares, swinging the brace of conies he had already caught. Spring was late in the mountains and the air was still cold, a layer of snow gleamed in the sunlight on the mountain peak.
Ahead of him, the old goat track suddenly widened and Bearas stepped onto the old road that was no longer used by any but shepherds and goatherds, or hunters like himself. At his waist swung a brace of conies and from his hand dangled a partridge, although it had broken his snare in trying to escape and he carried the snare with him to repair. He did not linger for the sun was low in the sky and he did not wish to be caught out in the night on this cold, bare mountain.
Bending down to his last snare, he quickly pulled the noose from the rabbits’ neck, it flopped gently and his hands caressed the silky fur. He thought he would make a pair of gloves for his daughter now the cold was coming. But the rabbits were smaller and skinnier than he had hoped, enough for the pot though. And there was just enough of them to make a pair of gloves for his small daughter.
He wondered who else had been using the path for there were old tracks of horses, several and travelling at speed, hunting perhaps in these woods upon the knees of the mountains. Higher up, he had come across an old fire, the stones blackened and burned and not just from the campfire; it looked as though lightning had struck several places in the clearing and one of the trees must have caught fire for the ground was scorched in strange lines, almost forming the shape of a eye. But he had not tarried long in that place for the air smelt metallic and the hair on the back of his neck had prickled like some unseen danger lurked in the shadows.
These were strange times, thought Bearas, as he strode down the narrow goat track homewards. The news that the war was over had even reached his little cottage in the mountains although the city, Guthbrand had said, was in turmoil. Guthbrand had been returning to his mother’s old farm in the mountains and told them how he had fought in the war, and that the old steward, Denethor, was dead. Burned alive, Guthbrand said, while the Nazgûl attacked the city, an orc army with Easterlings and mumâkils at the gates. Even stranger, a Man claiming to be Isildur’s Heir had arrived at the head of Rohan’s army and with an army of ghosts in his wake to drive off Mordor’s forces. Bearas shook his head in amazement for the truth was that none in Gondor had thought to live out the winter and here they were in Spring with Mordor defeated.
So it was said.
He hopped over a fallen tree and his snare caught in the branches. He turned to untangle the trap and as he did, something flashed in the mud, caught in the fading sun. Leaving the snare still tangled in the twigs, Bearas leaned down, his fingers scrabbled in the dirt and touched cold metal. A ring.
Old gold, worn thin. A red gem, dull with mud dried over its smooth surface. He rubbed his thumb over the stone, it glowed. Like an eye.
He looked at the ring. It must have been dropped by a lord long ago, for it looked very very old. Very worn. The gold was thin. Bearas was poor. He had never seen real gold. Perhaps the gem was a ruby? Perhaps he could sell the ring?
He dropped it into his pocket and turned back along the goat path that led down to the old road. It seemed suddenly darker, twilight had fallen.
A grey shadow slunk between the grey trees. A wolf?
He hurried down the old road with its broken stones and moss covered statues long forgotten. Ahead, between the tall pines, were the distant white towers and spires of the city. The moon had risen early and gleamed upon the white stone so it shimmered eerily.
The wolf, if those shadows that had collected beneath the trees had been a wolf, had gone…But it seemed darker and the shadows reached like fingers groping.
Bearas felt afraid suddenly, his scalp tingled as the hair stiffened. He quickened his steps ad as he hurried through the silent forest, a perfect round shape pressed against his breast and he remembered the ring he had picked up out here in the wilds. Old gold set with a dull red jewel. He wondered about the old Gondorian lord who must have dropped it out here hunting. But in his mind, there was an image conjured...an iron fortress hidden amongst the black mountain in the cold north, strong, and old…‘Two of the brethren are with the Zigûrun...’ he said softly, though he did not know what he meant or where the words came from, and his hand crept over his breast. The iron fortress again in his mind, hidden amongst the black mountain in the cold north, strong, and old…
Bearas shook himself and trotted quickly along the road, suddenly wanting company, wanting the warmth of a fire and his little girl’s hand in his, his wife’s smile.
When he got home, his little Gerda was waiting, swinging on the gate. She stroked the rabbit fur and looked up at her father trustingly, adoringly. And later, when she slipped the old gold ring over her little finger, he laughed when it fell off.
Far away on the great Anduin, Elrohir awoke as if something had stirred him from disturbing dreams. The ship’s bell had just sounded for midnight and all was quiet.
He lay for a moment, listening. There was no gentle breathing next to him; he was alone in the cabin as he had expected and wondered if Elladan was above deck or with Imrahil. It did not matter much either way; Elladan had sought better company and Elrohir did not blame him. I am a bear, he told himself, grumpy and out of sorts. No wonder he shuns me. No wonder Legolas has fled and hunts instead with the Dunédain.
Eomer hunts too, a nasty little voice in his head spoke. He shook it off. Legolas would not do anything to encourage Eomer. Legolas would do nothing to hurt him, or hurt Eomer either, he reminded himself and leaned back on his narrow bed that was not long enough for someone as tall as he. He thought of Legolas in these quiet moments, reminded himself of his easy elegance and grace, his indulgence, his delight and unapologetic lust that had liberated Elrohir from his own repressed horror. He loved Legolas so much it almost hurt.
From his perfect elven memory he took out an image of Legolas like a rare jewel and contemplated it; Legolas asleep, his eyes closed and his face slightly flushed, lips parted. Hair like the pale bleached grass that grew amongst the dunes of Belfalas spread over the pillow. Pale gold in the oil lamp. His lips were sensuous and full, and his strong face sculpted, but not like marble- that was too cold, too hard. Elrohir’s chest felt like it would burst for love of him, and he found a smile upon his lips and a softness in his heart that had been so long absent in the long years of revenge and hate that he barely knew what to do with it.
Elrohir imagined, remembered brushing a finger lightly along the edge of Legolas’ collar-bone and stroking the palm of his hand over the lean muscled chest; an archer's shoulders, arms, chest, nothing soft or weak. There were the symbols of his house. Elrohir recalled tracing them with his finger. And there was his name in runes, Laeglas, and the elegant patterns of oak and ash and beech. In green and gold, the runes on his arms melted into the swirl of colour that was his warrior's history… there the sign of the battles he had fought at Dol Guldur, and there, the dragon to show that Legolas was one of the Danedh-Amlung for he had told Elrohir of the dragon and how he had braved the darkness of Erebor. Elrohir’s thoughts lingered on how the dragon swirled onto the shoulder and seemed to slither, to curl about Legolas’ strong, lean torso, his lean hips and thigh.
It made Elrohir ache with need, swell with desire and his blood was hot with lust.
He remembered again Legolas’ parted lips and the warm skin when he had touched the dragon, how he traced the swirl to his nipple and tightened his grip so Legolas whimpered and arched slightly. Legolas liked that, Elrohir thought. He liked the hard pinch of Elrohir’s fingers on his nipple.
Elrohir’s hand stroked himself, squeezed his fist around his own flesh. No quiet caress with Legolas or gentle touch but instead something wild, passionate, full of fire and aggression. He let himself slowly sink back onto the pillows and cushions piled up behind him and closed his eyes. His hands ghosted over himself and he thrummed at his own touch, panting he remembered again the sight his beloved Legolas spread below him…his own hand moved up and down, stroking his own bulging length.
He imagined leaning in and feeling Legolas' breath warm on his own lips, a trace of a kiss, a light stroke of his tongue against his warm, eager mouth…Elrohir licked his own lips, wanting to feel that warmth now. The first time he had ever felt Legolas’ mouth had been aboard the Sea Song and Legolas asleep under Elrohir’s lustful gaze. And when he felt the muted, drowsy response from the sleeping Woodelf, Elrohir had pressed his tongue against those parted lips…
Elrohir’s hand paused on his own flesh. That time he had shamed himself. He had taken advantage of Legolas’ unconsciousness. He had behaved abominably…Elrohir shook his head as if he could rid himself of the heat, the shame of it. He pushed deep into the pillows as if he were trying to escape and unwanted touch himself, as if something held him down hard and forced him to relive that moment when he had pushed his own hard, demanding sex against Legolas’ warm skin…when his fingers had pinched and teased the peaked nipples, palms flat against the lean chest and belly, moved lower until he had cupped Legolas in his own hand and squeezed through the suede breeches.
Then as Legolas' sex began to bulge, he had squeezed harder, painfully and although Legolas's length filled quickly, he had whimpered … Elrohir’s hand closed on himself and pumped, the pressure and churning in his balls a delectable, sinful secret.
He remembered how hungrily he had stared at the Elf spread before him, flushed cheeks, lips parted, eyelashes dark against his skin, long pale hair mussed and tangled, and the long, lean body …that dark desire that had raised its predatory head earlier now seized Elrohir as completely as it had before on that dreadful night on the Sea Song. Panting, pumping he remembered how he had suddenly dragged Legolas' hair into his fist and pulled his head back so his throat was exposed and Elrohir had pressed his hot mouth against the other Elf's throat, pushed open his lips to wrestle with his tongue.
Suddenly his hips thrust forwards and he exploded in sticky streams of white.
He stilled, listening to the sound of his own breath, hard and panting. There was a stickiness on his hand and the smell of his own semen. He blinked.
What had happened?
He had been fantasising about Legolas and somehow, at some point, it had turned to violence, when he had ripped the fabric of Legolas’ clothes whilst he slept, and what he did could not be called a kiss, more rapacious, more assault…
Horrified at himself, Elrohir pushed himself up and stared at the semen spent in his hand, felt the familiar acid of bile in his throat at the smell. Ever since he had smelt the orc’s semen on his own mother’s thighs.
He leaned forward and retched, felt bile fill his throat as it always had.
On a narrow shelf was a basin and jug of water for washing. He shook his head and leaned over the basin and filled it with cold water and splashed it on his face. His own reflection trembled and slowly stilled in the surface of the water and he stayed leaning over and staring at himself. Staring into his own eyes and hating himself. Hating the wickedness and darkness in his own heart that he enjoyed remembering a time when he had almost raped his own beloved Legolas. He was a loathsome disgrace. Unworthy. Unworthy!
He pushed himself from the small narrow cot and hurled the door open. The ship lurched as if it felt his disgust but it was just the wind and sea that plunged them from stern to bow and the ship rose and fell and the wind thrashed the water into stormy waves.
But it was not the sea, he reminded himself. It should not be so rough. It seemed almost that the elements themselves sought to rid Arda of him, that Air and Water had joined to throw the ship from the river.
He paused in front of the door of his cabin but he could not face the smell of his own self, the stink of his own semen spilled as he thought how he had almost raped Legolas. Almost raped his own mother, no matter what Legolas said. He was wrong. I am an evil, a blight upon the world, he told himself, hating himself. Hating the darkness in him.
And now, the cruel spell that had insidiously slunk into his heart, returned. Away from the green-gold love of Legolas, Angmar’s malice reasserted itself and Elrohir turned away, brooding on the beast he believed himself to be.
Legolas turned over in his sleep, restless and hot. He threw off the coverlet that had been cast over his bed and kicked it off his legs onto the floor. Something had awoken him but he could not say what. It had disturbed him whatever it was; something in the Song, like someone had strummed a finger over the strings of a harp.
He lay on his back staring up at the canvas roof, listening to the dwarf’s snores. It was more of a snuffle and he wondered if it was that which had awoken him. But Gimli’s presence was calming, never bothered him. Even in the early days of the Fellowship, even when they sniped and bickered, he had known at some deeper level of Song, that Gimli was earth and rock and good stone. It was the Ring that had made them fight each other, they both knew that now for as soon as they had entered Lothlorien, the Ring had muted, turned elsewhere and they had been able to find again the camaraderie they had had in Phellanthir and along the banks of the Bruinen.
So it was not Gimli that disturbed him, Legolas thought again.
He could see the stars through the open door of the tent, he had deliberately left it open to let the air in, the wind and stars. Moonlight pooled on the grass beyond, silvered the thin branches of the trees. There was barely a sound.
And yet his senses thrummed and he wanted to move. Something felt…not right. Like the notes in the Song had been pulled, distorted. It reminded him uncomfortably of when he had travelled with the Ring and it whispered and taunted, endlessly. Wearing him down with its insidious seduction.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and his feet touched the rushes on the floor, dug into them to find the grass beneath, the earth and soil. He listened.
There was the sound of Gimli, the deep sonorous Song like a bronze bell over water, in the deep heart of the mountain. It was the song of Erebor, he remembered. And there too he could discern his friends, the hobbits with the lightness of a melody dancing over the fields and brooks and little gardens and hills. Frodo. Changed. A darkness sat within him that spoiled him, an empty patch in his song like scorched rock and dry earth where nothing could grow…Legolas dwelled upon Frodo for a little while, running over his presence with his own awareness, pressing his own green-gold lightness into the cold dark places of Frodo’s heart. And when he felt the little hobbit’s breathing deepen and slow, he turned back to feeling his way through the night.
The Rohirrim were there too, the wind over the high plains…Eomer’s distinct notes, proud and windswept like the high steppe of his home.
No. It was none of these.
It was something unfamiliar. He stirred and rose to his feet, ducking beneath the tent flap to emerge outside in the cold night air. The stars were bright for the endless rain had washed away the last traces of ash and dust from the eruption of Mount Doom and the air was clear.
He leaned in and listened to the metallic chime of stars and the whisper of Spring across the land as small plants awoke and animals scurried about to feed their young.
It was none of these things…whatever it was was far away.
He wondered if Elrohir was awake and if he had yet landed at Osgiliath or was still aboard. A terrible loneliness surged through him then and he thought that this is what it would be like if Elrohir died…
Anglach had died.
He sank down onto the deep grass on the riverbank and drew his knees up, rested his chin on them.
He had not given himself space to grieve since the last night he had slept with Miriel, and Lossar; the three had started out together, leaving the feast that he could not enjoy, with Miriel leading them on. It was Legolas who had captured her, leaving Lossar somewhere in the glades beside the forest river, with the fires and music and dancing. It was by Miriel’s design to be alone with Legolas it seemed to him later for usually all three of them ended curled about each other, his legs twined with both Miriel and Lossar. But perhaps Miriel had sensed Legolas’ grief that night, and perhaps Lossar had decided to give them both time alone.
That night was their last before he had left for Imladris.
Now he knew that night had been his last ever with Miriel. For she was dead.
He remembered he had awoken, and slid away from Miriel’s soft, warm body as she slept and began to dress, his absence waking her. She had slid her hand in his and smiled. She had a lovely smile, he remembered now as he sat upon the riverbank in Ithilien.
The moment they had returned to the glade, Miriel had been greeted by a dozen young relatives. Smaller hands had taken hers and pulled her towards one of the bonfires that was now low enough for the older elflings to jump. Those must be the children she was trying to take to safety when she was killed, he thought. His fingers twisted in the long grass and he felt a sob struggling from somewhere deep inside him.
She had been whisked away on children’s laughter, and Legolas had slipped away also, back to the old oaks, to his own unadorned flet. During the feast he had made merry for his family, his father’s sake, but took no comfort in it, at least not while sober.
Now without the numbness of wine or the warmth of another body to comfort him and help him forget, he had slumped to the floor and bent his head as he did now, raked his fingers through his hair, and for the thousandth time, relived the moment of finding Anglach. The bloody mess where his eyes should be, the tattered rags of his ears.
His sobs had been silent and racking and his tears bitter. And now the sob burst from him, a single wrangled cry and though he did not weep, he pressed his face into his knee.
That night in the Wood, after he had left Miriel, and retreated to his own flet, he had grieved, longing for Anglach’s laughing, teasing, calling him goblin-prince until he had become conscious of an embrace, a familiar scent, a whisper. His cheek had pressed against a shoulder, the softness of long dark hair. At first he thought his brother, Thalos, had come. He had rubbed his sore eyes, opening them instead to Lossar who banished the darkness close around, and had regarded him with a depth of compassion that completely undid him then and undid him now.
He remembered how kind Lossar had been. “If only there were no last times, only firsts and forever.” Lossar had sighed and drew his friend close again, stroking his long hair, a glow of silver, down the length of his back until Legolas had wept against his shoulder.
Now Legolas knew his face was wet again and he pressed his face into his knee, hard against the bone. Miriel was dead. And Lossar with his slow, easy smile. His lovers. His friends. Both dead. Like Anglach.
A low cry wrung from him that seemed to come from deep within, from his belly. From the absolute grief that now, at last, he gave into. He sat alone of the banks of the Anduin in far Ithilien and wept for them all.
He did not know for how long he sat there, but a warm hand descended upon his shoulder. Heavy, square, skilled. Short blunt fingers found his and clasped his hand in so intimate a gesture he thought it should be Lossar. But it was not.
‘Aye, lad. You cry for your losses. Grieve for your old friend, Anglach was it? Tell me.’
So Gimli sat beside Legolas and listened to him tell of Anglach, of his teasing and silliness, of the time and time again that he had saved Legolas’ life and Legolas had saved his. How Lossar and Miriel had comforted him the days after Anglach's death and how he grieved for them all. In return, Gimli told him of his own folk and his own losses. And Legolas thought then that he had lost friends, and found friends. That he would live.