Disclaimer:  The following is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

A/N:  This story will contain portions of rated R content (due to violence).    

That being said, this is an AU, Post-RotK fic.  It centers primarily on Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, with a few other old favorites thrown in for good measure.  I warn you ahead of time: my updates are slow!  Angst is a genre somewhat out of my league, and I find it very challenging (and draining) to write.  Honestly, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing—I’m just learning as I go along.  *grin*  (And now let’s all hope I don’t hurt myself in the process.)    Please bear with me!  ;) 

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 ~ Chapter One: A Gift From the Sea ~

The Sea does not return what she takes. 

She cradles and rocks the dead in her never-ending embrace.  She swallows treasures with delight.  Untold secrets are safely blanketed by her rolling, velvet waves. 

Yet sometimes, when the treasure is too powerful or the secret too great, even the mighty Sea cannot conceal all.

She tried to—and had succeeded—for countless years on end.  She had taken the Elf who so willingly gave himself to her.  It had been harder to coax the treasure clutched in his frozen hands, but in the end she had succeeded in doing that as well.  Though the Elf’s cold body had left her waters long ago, his treasure still remained.  It was a jewel that shone of starlight, more beautiful than all the wonders of the sea combined.  And it was hers.

Yet starlight was not made to dwell within the ocean’s watery tomb.  The two other stones were kept content by the light around them: the stars in the sky and the burning, molten lava deep within the earth.  However, the third stone found no such happiness in the darkened currents of the Sea.  Its unhappiness grew, and the Sea found it harder and harder to contain her beloved treasure.  The stone became a constant ache, which grew more painful as the years crawled by.  Then one day, the Sea realized she could conceal her most prized possession no more.

She would return what she had taken.

*      *     *

For six days and nights the storm raged, the likes of which have never been seen on Middle-earth.  Even those who had been at the collapse of Mt. Doom ten years earlier were unnerved by its ferocity.  The land shook and rattled as thunder cracked and boomed across a steel-grey sky.  Lightening danced haphazardly between earth and cloud, and the seas rose to heights unheard of.  Rain drove down in sheets, and the wind howled and screamed in agony.

On the dawn of the seventh day, the exhausted Sea finally ended her tirade.  And there, nestled innocently in the sands along her beach, lay the stone.  Her lapping waves caressed it as a loving mother gently brushes her fingers along the skin of a newborn.  Proud and tired, the waters sighed in contentment while the gulls wheeled and cried above.

*     *     *

“Muriel!  Muriel!” 

The girl-child straightened at the sound of her name.  “I’m over here, Mama!”   She turned with a laugh and continued running down the beach.  Now that the storm was over, she could run and play along the sands as she pleased.  Papa would be able to fish again, which meant more trips to the market.  And that, she reasoned, meant more chances to buy things.  For her. 

Muriel lifted her face to the sun and smiled.  The wind whipped the hair around her tiny little head, tangling it into hopeless knots.  If Papa caught a lot of fish, he might even buy her the beautiful red ribbon she coveted!

“What do you think, Éowyn Doll?”  The girl held up a faded rag doll she carried at her side.  The tattered doll merely moved a foot as the sea wind blustered by, and remained silent.

“Why thank you!  I think the red ribbon would make me look just like a princess, too.  Maybe even as beautiful as the real Éowyn.”  The girl paused and glanced at the well-loved toy.  “Of course, not that you aren’t real.  If Papa buys two ribbons, I’ll give one to you.  Fair enough?  Good.”

Satisfied at her compromise, Muriel skipped down the beach.  She stopped abruptly when she noticed an object glinting in the sunlight.

“What’s this?”  Immediately squatting down, the child peered into the wet sand at her feet.  She did not notice the Sea’s angry foaming and frothing around her ankles as she bent to pick the object up.  Muriel gasped, and with trembling fingers, the girl carefully brushed the wet sand from it.

“Éowyn Doll,” she whispered in awe, “look what we found.”

Muriel was a young child, and had no knowledge of money or wealth.  She understood that there were many things she desired and could not have, and that her mother and father worked very hard so that they could eat, but that was all.  Therefore, visions of either did not cross her mind as she watched the stone twinkling in the midday sun.  Instead, the girl was captured by the gem’s divine radiance.

“Pretty,” she murmured, unable to tear her eyes away.  “So pretty.”

“Muriel!”  Her mother’s voice called again.  Dazed, the child walked back up the beach to the small shack, her eyes never leaving the stone.      

*     *     *

Tegiron had spent the better part of the week searching Belfalas for a new fishing boat.  Unfortunately, boats were in short supply as almost all had been lost in the storm.  To make matters worse, Tegiron had not the money to purchase a new one.  It had been out of pure luck that he had managed to find one he could afford.  The old man he bought it from claimed it floated well enough, and as far as Tegiron was concerned, that was all it needed to do.

He whistled happily as he drove the rickety cart down the cobbled lane.  It was a miracle the family’s old horse, Hirlon, had survived the storm, Tegiron mused.  Maybe there really was some Rohan stock in his blood, after all.  The man laughed out loud.  Standing a slight 12 hands, grey from head to tail, and with a back as swayed as a bow, Hirlon looked anything but a proud steed of Rohan. 

“Bitaliel!  Muriel!”  The man gave a jubilant shout as his house came into view.  “Come see our new boat!”

He smiled as his wife came tumbling out of the house to meet him.  The smile quickly vanished when he noticed her tear-streaked face.  “What is wrong?” he asked, voice tinged with alarm.  “Bitaliel, where is Muriel?”

Bitaliel flung herself into her husband’s arms and began sobbing.  “She will not move!” the woman sobbed.  “She stares!  Wasting away… I cannot…I have tried…”

“Bitaliel, look at me,” her husband commanded.

Bitaliel allowed him to tilt her chin upward with his hand.  “Inside,” the woman choked, tears pouring down her cheeks, and wretched her face away from his grasp.

Tegiron entered the house with a pounding heart.  He knew something terrible had happened to his daughter.   Yet he was still unprepared for the sight that greeted his eyes.

He found the child sitting in a corner with her back to him, staring at something in her hands.  “Muriel?”  He cautiously approached the girl.  She did not respond.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, and still the girl did not move.  He was surprised he could feel the sharpness of her shoulder blade so keenly.  It was then he noticed what she held in her hands.  He breathed in sharply and reached down to pick it up, everything else completely forgotten. 

His hands jerked away involuntarily when small, sharp teeth punctured his skin.  Tegiron cried out in astonishment.  Had his daughter just bitten him?

“She will not move, she will not eat.”  Bitaliel stood behind him and wrung her hands in despair.  “If you try and take the stone away, she begins screaming like a wounded animal.  Look at her, she is wasting away!”

Tegiron carefully looked over his daughter.  Bitaliel’s words rang true.  The child’s skin had an ugly grey pallor, and her hair hung in limp tangles.  Sickly blue circles surrounded her sunken eyes.  Her small form, once wiry and energetic, was now spindly and shrunken.  “Valar,” he swore, “she looks like Death.” 

*     *     *

Two weeks passed, and the couple fought to keep their daughter alive by forcing water down the girl’s throat.  It was a losing battle.  The moment Muriel’s eyes were averted from her precious stone, she would begin screaming and kicking.  Occasionally, the fits would become full-blown seizures. 

Tegiron could put off his trip to the market no longer, and was finally forced to leave his wife and daughter.  Standing by the child’s bedside (she had collapsed several days ago, and lay screaming on the floor until they positioned her in the bed so that she could hold the stone on her chest and stare at it), he watched Muriel’s labored breathing.  The child—his once-beautiful daughter—was nothing more than a tiny skeleton still encased in a paper-thin sheet of flesh.  It tore at him and disgusted him.  Unable to bear the sight any longer, he turned on his heel and left.

Bitaliel stroked her daughter’s forehead as the child gasped for air.  “Muriel,” she begged, “please eat something.”  Muriel did not respond, and continued to stare glassy-eyed at the jewel.  Heartbroken, Bitaliel climbed into the bed wrapped her arms around the dying child.  “Foolish girl,” she whispered softly, the lump in her throat growing more painful.

To her surprise, the child opened her pale, cracked lips and murmured something.  Bitaliel released a frantic cry.   “Muriel?  What did you say?  Speak to me, child!”

The child’s eyes slowly moved away from the stone and rested upon her mother’s face.  Bitaliel’s heart soared.  The spell had been broken.  Muriel had done it.

Tears of happiness leaked down her face as Bitaliel leaned her ear towards the child’s mouth. 

Muriel smiled.  “So…pretty.”

And breathed no more.

*     *     *

Tegiron returned home to discover his wife weeping and rocking their daughter back and forth.  He had to pry the dead child from Bitaliel’s arms. 

“No Tegiron, no!”  Bitaliel screamed and attempted to beat him off with her fists.  “She is not dead!  She looked at me!  She spoke to me!  We must feed her!”

Tegiron watched in horror as his wife swept the dead girl into her lap.  “Come, my little dove,” she crooned, “it is time for your dinner.  Open your mouth like a good girl.”

“Stop it, Bitaliel!”  He roughly grabbed the woman by her shoulders, his voice growing more hysterical by the moment.  “For love of the Valar, stop it!  She is dead!  She is dead!  She is DEAD!”

Slumping forward, Bitaliel let the stiff form of what was once Muriel drop back onto the bed.  Husband and wife collapsed in each other’s arms, clinging to one other in the hopes that they could somehow stave off the all-consuming grief ripping at their insides.

*     *     *

The child was buried in the morning, on a hill overlooking the sea she so loved.

Bitaliel placed the cursed stone within an exquisite wooden box her father had carved for Muriel when the child was born. 

Tegiron stood atop the barren hill, clenching several wilted flowers.  Whether the salt on his lips came from tears or sea spray, he could not tell.  Looking up, he called out to his wife as she pulled on a tattered cloak and bridled Hirlon.  “Where are you going?”

“This stone is evil,” came the bitter reply.   “I will not have it stay here or fall into the wrong hands.  I shall ride to Gondor.  If King Elessar is truly as great as the people claim, then he will know what to do with this wicked thing.”

Tegiron dully watched Bitaliel’s retreating form until she was completely lost to his eyes.  Clenching the lifeless flowers even tighter, he turned his gaze back upon the crashing sea. 

The salt-laden tears flowed unchecked.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

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~ Chapter 2: Whispers On the Night Wind ~

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To Gondor!  To Gondor!  To Gondor!

The words pounded inside her head to the rhythmic cadence of her horse’s hooves.  How long had she been riding?  Bitaliel had ceased to measure time long ago.  The minutes had blurred into hours, hours into days, days… into weeks.  And yet, she rode onward.

To Gondor!  To Gondor!  To Gondor!

Her legs cramped and ached, unused to gripping the barreled stomach of her steed for such a long period of time.  The wind chapped her face as she flew ever to the northeast, and her hands were chafed and rubbed raw by the crude rope bridle.  Bitaliel gripped the reins tighter and felt blood running down her hands as the abused palms cracked open.

Physical pain was good.  She relished it.  It held a sort of magical release—all the anguish and bitterness gnawing at her insides could simply be bled out.  She watched it well up in her clenched fists and spill over, staining the reins and speckling her leggings.  ‘These are my tears,’ she thought cynically, ‘for my eyes have no more to give.’

To Gondor!  To… Gondor!  To…

She should have noticed the warning signs.  Hirlon was no longer a young horse.  She should have noticed.

The faithful beast’s steps began to falter and he stumbled more often as the minutes galloped by.  He foamed at the mouth, gagging on the bit.  Finally, unable to endure any more, Hirlon pitched forward and collapsed. 

Bitaliel was thrown from the saddle and landed hard upon the ground.  Body screaming in protest, she dragged herself over to the fallen horse.  The woman staggered to her feet and attempted to pull the animal up as well.

“Up, good Hirlon,” she cried, “Up!”  Bitaliel yanked on the reins and then flung her entire body weight into a great pull.  The horse’s eyes rolled back into his head and his tongue lolled out.  He breathed in whistling gasps.  Blood flecked his foaming mouth. 

Hirlon was finished.  She would have to travel the rest of the journey by foot.

*                                                              *                                                                *

Legolas leaned comfortably against the ancient Ithilien pine and watched the pale moon hang lazily in the night sky.  Crickets chirped noisily from the shadows, creating a thousand different songs that somehow managed to blend into one giant symphony.  A pleasant breeze ruffled through his hair and starlight sparkled in the Elf’s eyes. 

Despite appearing the picture of perfect contentment, the Elf lord was troubled.  The trees whispered of many things tonight, but they spoke most often of a stone. 

‘It is a stone of beauty,’ murmured the birches.

‘It is a stone of great power,’ whispered the elms.

‘It is the stone of the Sea,’ breathed the wise and ancient pine.  'A Silmaril.'

Unfortunately, Legolas’ was not the only ear the whispers reached.

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Disclaimer:  this story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

**Very Important Author’s Note:

It is understood that the Silmarils, unlike the Rings, cannot exert power over those around them.  They were not created for such a purpose.  However, it can be argued that the Silmarils cause the most base of emotions (pride, lust and geed) to surface in even the greatest of souls. 

When Fëanor wrought the three, he did so out of his own pride.  He did not have to make them, but he did anyways because he could.  All lusted after them and wished to own them, leading to bloodshed and hatred (Thingol at the hands of the Dwarves, the Noldor oath that cost many a life, to name a few).  Perhaps the most telling of all was how Morgoth/Melkor (i.e. The Valar God Who Went All Satanic On Everybody) coveted them.  Morgoth is the epitome of evil, and it only makes sense that he of all the Valar would fall victim to the Silmarils’ charm.

Imagine, then, what the price would be if they were to fall into the hands of Man—Man who is the greatest victim of pride, greed and lust.

“But what of Beren!” you cry.  “Why was he not overpowered by those emotions when he was sent to retrieve a stolen Silmaril?”  And here is my answer to that:  Beren desired Luthien above all else.  His only concern was to win the hand of the one he loved; he wanted nothing more than that.  Therefore, the jewel did not affect him.  His intentions were pure.

It would seem fairly easy for Aragorn to overcome such obstacles due to his love for Arwen.  However, Aragorn already has Arwen’s heart and has no reason to fight for it.**

Right.  Kudos to you if you just read that whole ramble.  Now, onto the story!   

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~ Chapter 3: A Fish Out of Water ~

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It had been a practice instituted shortly after their marriage: once a week the King and Queen would open their doors to the citizens of Gondor and listen to the various complaints, suggestions, and problems of the people.  Though he knew the routine served to endear he and Arwen to the people, Aragorn could not help but view the task as somewhat tedious.

“It does not sit well to greet the morn with such a sour look upon one’s face.”  Arwen smoothly ran a brush through her long hair and watched her husband’s face in the mirror.

“Yes,” he replied, fiddling with a button on his tunic,  “but I fear what I may do if I am forced to listen to another stolen cow story.”  Incidents of last week’s fiasco flashed before his eyes: two peasant farmers had nearly come to blows when each refused to let the other present his version of “his” cow’s lineage.  A shouting match ensued, and ultimately the palace guards were forced to physically restrain the two. 

“Peace, my King.  Peace.”  Arwen laughed lightly as she began pinning up her hair.  “We should be thankful that stolen cows sit atop the list of Gondor tragedies.  I can think of far worse disasters—stolen pigs, for instance.”

Aragorn shook his head at his wife’s rather pitiful joke and smiled in spite of himself.  “For Middle-earth’s sake, I sincerely hope that remark would be found amusing among Elvish circles.”

Arwen merely smiled again, and Aragorn felt his spirits lift a bit.  As if on cue, a shaft of sunlight broke through the morning clouds and streamed through the chamber window, bathing the Queen in soft golden light.  Dust motes sparkled and swirled hypnotically around her as they were hit by the sun’s warm rays.  ‘It is amazing,’ thought Aragorn as he watched the scene unfold before him in awe, ‘that we spend all our life straining to reach greater and loftier things, when the true happiness we seek is nothing more than fleeting moments of purity such as this.’  

Overwhelmed by the sudden and simple beauty of the moment, Aragorn sighed and moved to stand behind her.  “I do not know where I would be without you,” he declared, planting a quick kiss on her cheek.

“Hmm, alone and wandering about the wilderness with that dreadful group of Rangers, I suppose.”

“Perhaps,” came the reply, “but at least I would not be plagued with stolen cows.”

The couple’s light banter was interrupted by a knock at the chamber door.  “Please enter, Bergil,” called the Queen as she fastened a final pin into her hair.

Bergil, still sporting a black eye from the tussle between the two peasant farmers, opened the door at his Queen’s command.  The young palace guard had ceased to be surprised by Arwen’s uncanny awareness years ago, and now simply accepted the fact that the Queen would know it was he at the door.  Walking into the room, the dark-haired young man bowed respectfully and delivered his message.  “My Lord and My Lady,” he began quickly, “a messenger has arrived from Dol Amroth.  His Lordship Prince Imrahil reports that a great fleet of Corsairs is beached upon the sands of Belfalas by last month’s storm.  The Prince has seen to it that they are under constant surveillance, but he wishes to inform King Elessar of the matter.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed as he rubbed his chin and frowned.  “Corsairs?  They are from the South, I presume…”  The cruel men of the sea had not been heard from since their terrified flight at Pelargir almost eleven years earlier, when fear of the Shadow Host had driven them from their prized ships.  Their sudden resurgence did not bode well for Gondor.

Bergil’s clear grey eyes glowed with barely contained excitement.  “Yes, real pirates,” the young guard blurted out, “Corsairs of Umbar!  What a battle this will be!”

Aragorn turned a severe eye on the enthusiastic youngster.  “Bergil,” he lectured, “do not be so rash to draw your sword.  It is a very foolish and a very dead man who charges straight into battle at the slightest hint of trouble.”

Bergil fidgeted uncomfortably and blushed.  “Forgive me, My Lord,” he mumbled.

“Have they shown any signs of aggression?” interjected Arwen, wanting to spare the guard further embarrassment.

“Nay, My Lady,” Bergil gratefully replied.  “They have confined themselves to several small fishing villages along the coast.  But Lord Imrahil reports that their significant numbers are somewhat alarming.”

“Yes, I am inclined to agree with him on that thought.”

Aragorn frowned.  “What exactly does Imrahil believe to be a ‘significant number’?”

“I cannot answer, My Lord,” said the young man with a shrug.

Aragorn shook his head, attempting to clear it.  Something felt amiss.  “One must wonder how Umbar was able to regain her power and strength so quickly—and quietly.  Imrahil is right to be suspicious of the Corsairs.  Still, we cannot be certain of their motives.”  The King folded his arms across his chest and sighed deeply.  “Bergil, inform the messenger that I wish Imrahil to keep me updated on the situation.  I, in turn, will pass this information on to Eomer and Faramir.”

“Yes, My Lord.”  Bergil bowed again and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Bergil,” called Aragorn, “as punishment for your undisciplined outburst—“  He watched the young guard’s face fall.  “—I sentence you to act as messenger of Gondor.  Ride to Ithilien and relay Dol Amroth’s news to Faramir and, if you can find him, Legolas.”

Aragorn stifled a chuckle as Bergil’s face lit up in pleasure.  He was quite fond of the son of Beregond, who at the tender age of ten, had informed him that he intended to be one of Aragorn’s personal guards when he grew up.  Though Bergil had the propensity to be somewhat rash on occasion (after all, he was a high-spirited young man), he had proved himself to be loyal, quick thinking, and skilled in the art of swordplay.  The King was often struck by how similar Bergil was in appearance to his father, even more so as the boy had grown to adulthood.  ‘I expect great things from you, my young friend,’ mused Aragorn as he watched Bergil exit the room, his chest puffed out in pride and his head held high.

“Think you these are the tidings foreseen by Legolas?” Arwen asked when Bergil had left.  The previous week, Gimli had paid the King and Queen a visit while on a return trip from Ithilien, and the Dwarf had mentioned Legolas’s foreboding moodiness. 

~*~*~*~

“The Elf is moody, and not in his usual arrogant way,” Gimli stated, stroking his beard and trying unsuccessfully to sound as though he cared not.  “He says the trees speak of ill omens.  When I asked him what he meant by this, he would not answer.  It was not a passing dark mood, either.  He was constantly reclusive and distant.  I could do naught to break through.”

The Dwarf snorted angrily.  “I have no desire to accompany a self-indulgent, haughty Elf who enjoys wallowing in his own misery.  Good riddance, I say to that.”

~*~*~*~

  Both Aragorn and Arwen had been at a loss to explain the Elf’s behavior (though Aragorn had originally attributed it to Legolas’s sea longing).  Noticing the concern and hurt in the Dwarf’s eyes, Arwen assured him that he would be the first to know if they learned what troubled the Elven Lord of Ithilien so.

*          *            *

Mortsdil roughly set down his beer mug and wiped the foam from his lips with the back of a tan and weathered hand.  Shoving aside the rather thin wench attempting to charm him with her liquor-enhanced flirtations, he growled angrily as he looked about the rowdy tavern.  ‘Had that accursed storm not destroyed my fleet, we would have set sail days ago,’ he thought furiously.  Unfortunately, the storm had caught the Corsair unaware as his ships sailed back to Umbar, and now he and his massive crew were hopelessly stranded.  As one who lived on the rolling waters, Mortsdil prided himself on his almost intimate knowledge of the Sea.  It embarrassed him to know he had been caught so off-guard.  To make matters worse, they had ended up on the coast of Belfalas—dangerously close to Dol Amroth.  The Master would not be pleased. 

After the battle of Pelargir, the Corsairs had been left to stew and lick their wounds—that was, if they first managed to survive the wrath of Sauron.  Gondor was avoided like the plague; to even speak its name was akin to treason.  Well did Mortsdil remember the events at Pelargir so many years earlier, for he had been there.  Luckily, he had been but a sailor of lower ranking at the time, and therefore did not suffer the same fate as those of higher positions.  Nonetheless, the humiliation of the defeat stung worse than the hardest of lashings—and Mortsdil had taken a few of the latter as his punishment.  ‘It couldn’t even be called a defeat,’ he thought bitterly, ‘for we didn’t bother to fight.  We simply fled to the shore and ran, as rats swarm the deck of a sinking vessel.’ 

No less than fifty of Umbar’s large ships had been seized during the confrontation, not to mention the innumerable flotilla of smaller boats.  It had taken years to rebuild the lost fleet, yet the sea had destroyed all in a matter of hours.  Ten years of plans so painstakingly carried out: the labor of constructing new ships, the recruitment of new sailors, all done with the greatest secrecy…   

The tall, brawny pirate glanced at the small band of Dol Amroth soldiers, which had become a permanent fixture ever since word of the Corsairs’ arrival spread.  ‘So much for secrecy,’ he thought dryly. ‘The whole realm probably knows of our presence by now.’    That Prince Imrahil was a smart one, no doubt.  Mortsdil would have to be careful.  Smiling sarcastically, he lifted his mug to the soldiers and offered a mock toast.

A slight commotion from the tavern corner caught his attention.  A few of his crew had begun having a bit of fun with one of the drunken locals, and the situation was dangerously close to becoming out of hand.  Watching the soldiers at the door stiffen and reach hesitantly for their swords, Mortsdil let fly an impressive array of oaths and rose from his stool.

“Stop that, you salt-brained imbeciles!” he bellowed as he strode over to the hapless victim, who was blubbering pathetically on the floor.  The group, encircling the drunken man as though they were a pack of sharks about to engage in a feeding frenzy, backed off reluctantly.

“Aw, we were just having a wee bit o’ fun with the little fishy.”  The ragged group leader grinned maliciously as he licked the blade of his dagger.    

‘Nagihcim,’ thought Mortsdil as he sized up the muscular, wiry mariner, ‘I should’ve known.  He’s becoming far too much trouble.’  Nagihcim reminded him of a snake, and not just because of his slippery tongue.

“I’ll give you a ‘wee bit o’ fun.’”  The pirate captain growled dangerously.  “See those soldiers over there?  They’re just waiting for us to slip up.  One stupid move is all they need.”  He glared at Nagihcim.

“Captain Mor—“ Mortsdil cuffed the short, portly pirate who tried to intervene.

“How many times must I tell you,” hissed the Corsair, “do not call me captain or by my name!  I have no desire for our enemy to know of my rank or identity.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the man, rubbing the ear Mortsdil had hit.

“Go back to your drinks, you filthy idiots,” ordered Mortsdil, not missing the sullen flash of disobedience that danced across Nagihcim’s face.  ‘I’ll deal with him later.’

The Corsair captain cast a disgusted glance at the whimpering drunk by his feet.  Grabbing the man by the collar of his tunic, Mortsdil hauled him to the nearest barstool.

 “You’re quite a mess,” he said.  “Don’t hold your liquor too well.  What’s your name?”  ‘Drunken sop,’ he added mentally. 

The drunk pushed back the un-kempt hair from his face, sniffled loudly and regarded Mortsdil through red, bleary eyes.  “Tegiron,” he slurred.

“Tegiron, eh?” Mortsdil caught the man as he swayed backwards.  “Ho!  Ho!  Careful there, matey.  Tell me, Tegiron, what’re you doing in a place like this?”

His tongue loosened by ale, Tegiron began his sad tale.  He told Mortsdil of the storm that destroyed his boat, of his wife and beautiful daughter, and of the stone his beloved Muriel found on the beach and how it killed her.

Mortsdil leaned in a little closer and companionably placed an arm around the man’s shoulders.  “Tell me, Tegiron, what do you know of this… stone?” 

Had he been in a normal state of mind, Tegiron would have noticed the greedy glint in the Corsair’s sea-colored eyes.  As it was, he was far too drunk to notice—or care.

*          *            *

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A good old-fashioned character list (I did not create characters with * by their names):

Muriel: the child who found the stone on the beach.  Daughter of Tegiron and Bitaliel.

Bitaliel:  Carrying the stone to Gondor to Aragorn.  Mother of Muriel, wife of Tegiron.

Tegiron: A fisherman and the drunken man at the tavern.  Father of Muriel, husband of Bitaliel.

Mortsdil:  Leader of the Corsairs of Umbar.

Nagihcim: A lesser pirate, under Mortsdil’s command.  Has superiority issues.

*Bergil: One of Aragorn’s guards.  During the War of the Ring, he was the ten-year old boy who keeps Merry company during the siege of Gondor.  Son of Beregond, who was the Guard of the Citadel who would not let Denethor burn Faramir (well, he tried).  Aragorn later “exiled” Beregond to the White Company of Faramir in Ithilien for his refusal to follow Denethor’s orders.

*And shame on you if you don’t know whom Aragorn, Arwen, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, Eomer, and Faramir are!

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.   All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

My apologies for the delays!  I'm not particularly fond of this tale and was having a few "good grief, I can't believe I wrote that," moments.  Thanks for the prodding, Miriel.  ;)

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~ Chapter 4:  Ancient Memories ~

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~*~*~*~

Deep within the musty confines of the Mordor prison, a shackled young sailor lay trembling in a heap on the dungeon floor.  Lash marks crisscrossed his back, some old, some new; all bleeding.  The flaking iron cuffs bit into his broken wrists and ankles, and he could barely open his swollen eyelids. 

They were coming for him.  Again.

Rusty hinges grated roughly as the cell door was flung open. Torchlight illuminated the dank room and a dark shadow loomed in the doorway.  The terror-stricken sailor scrambled to the far corner and frantically began clawing at the stone wall.  “Please, no, don’t!” he moaned as the hulking orc captain grinned maliciously and slowly stalked towards him.

“What’s the matter, boy?” sneered the dark figure.  “Still trying to run away?  Too bad I’m no wraith.”  The orc yanked the sandy-haired youth to his feet, laughing uproariously as the sailor’s broken ankles refused to support his weight.  The young man began sobbing and writhed in agony on the floor.  “Please,” he begged, knowing his pleas fell upon deaf ears.  “Please, no more.”

“You know the punishment for mutiny,” growled the orc.  “Now let’s go.  We have a date with the Master.”  Snickering, the orc threw the sailor over his shoulder and began walking jauntily down the long corridor.

The young man went limp in defeat, knowing any attempt to stall the inevitable would only lead to more pain.

*

He arched his spine and screamed as the whip tore deeper into what was once his back.  “Shut up!” ordered a voice, and the sailor vaguely felt something hard slam into his jaw.  A sickening crunch reverberated around the stony cavern.

‘My jaw is broken,’ he detachedly thought.  ‘Strange, I can’t feel it that much.’  A great weight was slowly pressing down on his chest, and his throat was oddly constricted.  It required concentration to breathe.  Though the chamber was well lit by countless torches, it appeared to be growing dimmer and dimmer. 

‘Am I dying?’ he wondered.  The rain of blows had not stopped, yet he could no longer feel them.  Nor could he feel the slick rivers of blood coursing from his back, or the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.     

*

The air was suddenly filled with cries of warning:  “Gondor attacks!  Isildur’s heir has returned!  To the battlements!”  Mass chaos broke out as soldiers poured out of every nook and cranny, desperately trying to locate their weapons and fighting units. 

His tormentors immediately turned their attention from him.  The young sailor unexpectedly found himself forgotten and alone.  ‘Are we under attack?’  His muddled brain could not comprehend what was taking place.

‘I can escape!’  The man dragged himself across the floor, choking and gasping as he pulled himself forward with his chained and broken wrists.  It was almost impossible to slither in any direction because the floor was so wet.  No, not wet.  Bloody.  His blood.

After much work, he somehow managed to reach an indiscreet stairwell at the far side of the room.  ‘How far down does it go?’ his foggy mind wondered.  With only a moment’s hesitation, he began to push himself over the first step. 

Though his lunge did not contain much strength, the momentum of it nonetheless caused him to go tumbling downward.  Barely conscious, the young sailor found himself in a dusky and neglected chamber.   He feebly reached forward and his groping hands came to rest on a strange pillar.  ‘No,’ his hazy mind corrected, ‘it is some sort of altar.’  His swollen palms ran over the many undistinguishable runes carved deep into the smooth stone.  Perhaps the altar’s dish still contained some drinkable water.

 The young man gripped the outer rim of the dish and strove to lift himself.  Unable to withstand his weight, the altar unexpectedly gave away.  The sailor pitched forward and collapsed as the altar dish toppled, drenching him in stagnant water.   A choking cough escaped his lips and then only the steady drip! drip! drip! of water could be heard as it slowly leaked to even lower depths of the earth.

*

Bright light flashed and he felt as though he were being sucked forward.  Then he suddenly came to an abrupt halt.  He was surrounded by darkness, and would have described himself as “floating” except he did not seem to be going anywhere.  The sailor vainly attempted to reach solid ground, but discovered no such thing existed. 

“Who are you?” commanded a threatening voice.

“No one important,” stammered the terrified young man.  “Where am I?”

The voice laughed mirthlessly.  “Nowhere and everywhere.  We are in Nothingness.”

The sailor felt his stomach begin to twist itself into knots.  The darkness was suffocating.  “How did I get here?” he asked timidly.

“That,” boomed the voice, “is precisely what I would like to know.  Long have I been exiled to this Void, chained here like a dog for eons.  I have not had any contact with the outside for centuries.”  The voice grew in bitterness as it continued.  “I cannot escape, and cannot be forgiven.”

“Wh-who are you?”

The voice laughed again, its anger slicing through the silence of the Void like shards of broken glass.  “Surely you must know by now?  Or has my name been forever lost to the Mortal Races?  I do not think the Eldar have forgotten me.  Nor have the Valar.”   The voice paused.  “I am called Morgoth by some and Melkor by even fewer.”

The young sailor gasped.

“Now tell me, Secondborn,” ordered Morgoth, “what exactly was the last thing you remember before landing in my ‘fair’ realm?”

The trembling sailor thought for a few moments.  “I fell into a dark room,” he slowly replied.  “I tried to pull myself up using an altar of sorts.  It fell over on me.  Then I felt myself being pulled.”

Morgoth laughed.  “Then you are quite the accidental sacrifice,” he rumbled.  “Though I suppose you will do.” 

“Sacrifice?”

“Yes.  The only way I may contact those outside this cursed realm is through the spilled blood of one of the race of Middle Earth.  Even then, my followers are required to come to me—as you have done.  I cannot enter or look upon the land.” 

Morgoth appeared to lose himself in thought before finally returning his attention to the sailor.

“Tell me,” the fallen Vala said sharply, “do you wish to return to Middle-earth?  I can grant you this, but only under one condition.”

The sailor nodded respectfully.  “Yes, My Lord.  I do wish to return.”

“Very well.  You shall be spared and your body healed.  However, I demand you forfeit your free will to a life of servitude.  You will do as I bid and serve me.”

“I understand."  The sailor swallowed thickly.  "Thank you, My Lord.”

“Make haste, young Mortsdil.  There is much I would have you do before your time on Middle-earth expires.”

*

He had been found by a small force of Gondorian soldiers and was mistaken for a slave.  The great Elf lords Elrohir and Elladan had taken pity upon him and personally treated his injuries.  Though the scars on his back would never fade, the Elvish medicine did wonders for his many broken bones.  Only a month after his “rescue,” Mortsdil was back to his old form.  While the land of Gondor celebrated the coronation of King Elessar, Mortsdil quietly returned to Umbar.  Through the council of Morgoth, the pirate grew in stature and strength.  The leaders of Harad learned to fear and respect the Corsair who conversed with Morgoth himself and who was rumored to have many strange and terrible powers.  Those once aligned with Sauron now offered their services to Mortsdil. 

All the while, Gondor basked in the glow of its beloved King and Queen, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the southeast.

~*~*~*~

*     *     *

Under a brilliant white sun, Minas Tirith shimmered and blazed in the noontide heat.  Insects buzzed lazily from the delightfully colored flowers growing on every corner.  The plants’ intoxicating fragrances mingled with fresh straw, warming stone and other scents of the marketplace.  Sweet birdsong hung over the castle ramparts, while below, the city’s bustling inhabitants merrily chattered or shouted amongst each other as they went about their daily business.  It was a wonderful day to be alive, and an even better one to live in Gondor.

Aragorn stifled a yawn and allowed his gaze to slide past the droning townswoman standing before he and Arwen.  Dusty travelers packed the throne room, patiently awaiting their turn to speak to King and Queen.  From his position on the throne, which sat atop a gentle platform, the line appeared endless.

The throne room of Minas Tirith was more akin to a cathedral hall, with its high-arching ceilings and many windows.  Aragorn was immensely grateful for this feature: it was a dreadfully hot day and he did not think he would be able to cope with being shut in a stuffy chamber.  The room’s many windows had been flung open, and a breeze flowed pleasantly through the hall, causing hanging tapestries and banners to ripple and flap as it passed by.

Aragorn turned his attention back to the troubled woman.  “…I specifically told him not to eat the pie while it was still hot, but the fool ignored me and burnt his tongue.  It is not my fault he hasn’t been able to eat—the glutton!”  To his right, Arwen made pretense of clearing her throat as a bout of helpless laughter rose to her lips.

Aragorn nodded and laced his fingers thoughtfully.  “Hmmm… If those are the events as you tell them,” he stated imperiously, “then I shall pass judgment.  I beseech you, woman of Gondor, to give the man a cold drink.  Though you are not at fault for his pain, there is always room for compassion.”

The woman nodded vigorously and beamed.  “Truly, you are the wisest of Men, King Elessar!”

Aragorn dipped his head to the woman and waved her off in royal dismissal.  Turning to Arwen, he spoke quietly so as to not be overheard.  “I stand corrected.  There are worse things than stolen cows.”

“The people merely wish to stand before their king and queen,” scolded Arwen, though her tone held no malice.  “Let us entertain their fancies.” 

Just as Aragorn motioned for the next man to come forth, a ragged and unkempt woman pushed her way through the line and staggered towards the front of the room.  Her tattered and mud-splattered clothes hung limply from her malnourished form.  Dried blood caked her hands and feet—her shoes having worn away long ago.

“A gift, a gift, a gift,” she raved in a singsong and wheezing voice. “We must see the King!"   Reaching into a worn leather pouch strapped to her waist, the crazed woman pulled out a dirty rag doll and began addressing the toy.  “Yes, Éowyn Doll, we must see the king.  We are close.  We are almost there.  A gift, a gift, a gift.”

Shocked by her initial appearance, the palace guards recovered themselves quickly.  As the woman made for the king and queen, they roughly grabbed her from behind.  The disheveled woman twisted and screamed as the rag doll was wretched from her hands.

“No!  Muriel!  Come back!  I’m sorry!  Your mother’s sorry!  Forgive me!”  Her screams grew more and more frantic as she called to the doll resting on the smooth floor.

Arwen’s face grew pinched and white as she watched the struggling woman.  Finally the queen could take no more.  “Stop!” she cried, and rushed down to the detained woman.

“Your highness, she’s mad,” warned the captain of the guards. 

The woman had collapsed and lay sobbing on the floor.  “Muriel, oh Muriel,” she moaned, reaching with futile desperation in the direction of the doll.

“Captain Haier, that is enough.”  Aragorn rose from his chair and slowly approached the prisoner.  The guards relinquished their hold, albeit reluctantly.

Gently scooping up the fallen doll, Arwen offered the toy back to the woman.  She snatched the doll and held it protectively against her breast.  “There, my dove,” she crooned.  “I promise I shall never let you go again.  They cannot take you away from me, not this time.”  Tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving wet trails on her filthy face.  She began to rock the doll back and forth.

Aragorn crouched before the woman.  She continued rocking the doll in her arms, crying and singing in misery.  “What is your name?” he asked gently. 

Startled, the woman lifted her head and regarded him with wild, haunting eyes.  “Deep in the waves we keep our dead,” she resumed singing in a childish voice, “Save me a tomb in the seaweed bed.  And when I come to join you soon, we’ll dance in the surf  ‘neath the pale full moon…”

Despite the warmth of the summer day, Aragorn shivered.

________________________________________________________________________

Thank you!

Miriel-  Wohoo, I'm the updating fiend!  Er, okay, maybe not...  Still have visions of Sauron and his Hobbit Maiar while editing this chapter.  *lol*  You know, the thought of men fighting over trees (no matter how big and shiny they might be) is an amusing picture as well.  Yes, it's pirates and silmarils and madwomen (oh my!). :)  I prefer the format here as well.  I dearly love Bergil--he's kind of a less arrogant Halbarad.  *lol*  Thank you for the outstanding reviews!!!  :)

Karen-  Sheesh, your comments leave me blushing every time!  Thank you so much!  I'm humbled and somewhat baffled--half the time I think this story manages to come off horribly cheesy (rather disgustingly so).  It's a constant battle.  Again, thank you for the amazing review!  

 Sivan-  Thank you!  I'm glad you like what you've read so far.  Things do get pretty nasty later on though.  Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli have quite a challenge ahead.  Thank you for the review! 

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

________________________________

~ Chapter 5: Renewed Acquaintances ~

________________________________

“I may not be able to hear the trees as you do, but that does not mean I will not understand their message!”

Gimli’s words echoed through Legolas’ mind as he sat slumped in his chair.  The Elf stared uninterested at the glass of wine before him, wishing he could somehow erase the past few weeks and start anew.  He sighed in frustration and rubbed his temples—a very un-Elvish trait he had picked up from Aragorn.

‘What would I tell him?’ the Elf thought, ‘That the trees sing of a strange gift?  Or perhaps that the calling of the Sea—which I feel so strongly in these summer days—is somehow...  off.’

Legolas could just picture Gimli’s reaction if he were to tell him “the Sea sounds amiss and heartsick.”

‘First, he would emit that grunting snort,’ mused the Elf, ‘then would promptly remind me that I cannot hear the Sea from this distance.  After that, he would warn me of the ‘dangers’ of too much time spent wandering among the trees and suggest I have my head examined. ’  A small smile danced upon the Elf lord’s lips at the picture, then quickly faded. 

“Ai, Gimli,” he spoke aloud, “Forgive me, but I fear I cannot fully explain such things to a mortal.  You would not understand, though I do not doubt you would try your best.”

The sound of heavy footsteps snapped Legolas from his revere.  ‘I am expecting no visitors from either Gondor or Ithilien,’ he thought, and curiously made his way to the door.

“My Lord.”  The grey-eyed young man bowed respectfully before offering Legolas a wide grin.

Legolas blinked and quickly sized the man up.  He looked distressingly familiar, though from where Legolas could not immediately place.  The tall youth was outfitted in the traveling clothes of a Minas Tirith palace guard and could be no older than twenty-one years of age.  He began to fidget under the Elf’s sharp gaze.  Legolas recognized the nervous habit at once.

“Bergil?”

The guard grinned even wider and blushed.

Legolas smiled genuinely.  “It has been at least five years since I saw you last.  Though such time is short by my kindred’s measurement, it has certainly left its mark upon you.  How you have grown!”

Bergil had long held the Elf lord on a similar level of worship as that of Aragorn, though Legolas’ pedestal was wrought with the mysticism and awe commonly bestowed on the Elves by the Secondborn.  The young guard found himself staring at the Elf in wonderment.  Legolas was exactly as he remembered and had not aged a day.  The only indication of his many years were his bright elven eyes: endless pools of wisdom which spoke of countless battles and an unbreakable spirit. 

“How old are you?”  The words blurted from his mouth before he could stop them.

Legolas cocked his head and raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “Far older than you, child,” he laughed merrily. 

Bergil felt a rush of color rise again to his cheeks.  “Forgive me, Lord Prince.  I am currently working on curbing my impudent tongue.”  He winced.  “It is an on-going battle.”

The musical laughter of Legolas filled the room a second time.  “Nay, think nothing of it Bergil.  It is most refreshing to hear one who speaks his mind.”

“Yes, but it often lands me in the most unpleasant situations.”

Legolas grinned in agreement and Bergil found himself remembering why he liked the Elf lord so much.  There was a certain youthfulness about him, despite all the great and terrible things he had seen.  ‘It must be a special Elven ability,’ thought Bergil, ‘to remain so young when you are so old.’

“How fares your father?” asked the fair Elf, his back facing the guard as he poured a second glass of wine.  He offered the goblet to Bergil, who took it gratefully.  Several years ago, Legolas had been requested to train the soldiers of Gondor in the art of archery, and Beregond had been one of his more gifted students.

“He does well.  Two years ago Lord Faramir appointed him captain of the White Company, and he has recently taken to breeding horses.  I suspect he will further his interest in the horses once he retires, but that is a ways off.”  Bergil took an experimental sip from the glass in his hand.  The wine was intensely sweet and dry, and though he had not drunk a great deal of wine in his short life, Bergil suspected it was highly potent.

Legolas watched amusedly as the young guard swiftly brought the goblet away from his lips and attempted to choke back a cough.  ‘I must remember that others are not used to the heightened tastes of Eryn Lasgalen*.’ 

“I doubt your visit is not without purpose, Bergil.  What news bring you of the White City?” he asked, his face growing somber.

Bergil set the glass down on a beautifully crafted wooden table.  “Corsairs, my Lord.  A great fleet rests idle on the shores of Belfalas.  King Elessar thought it best to warn the surrounding lands of their presence.”

“Corsairs?”

Bergil jumped, startled by the sharpness in the Elf’s voice.  “Yes,” he said slowly, wondering what caused the Elf to react in such a manner.  “The Corsairs of Umbar.  But they have yet to show any signs of aggression or mischief.”

Legolas frowned.  The news struck the same chord of discontent he felt when the trees shared their nightly gossip about the strange sea stone.  ‘Once again, I am at a loss to explain my intuitions, but I shall heed them nonetheless.’

“When do you return to Gondor?” 

Bergil fidgeted and wondered if he had accidentally offended the Elf.  Was Legolas asking him to leave?  “I was given no restrictions on time, My Lord.  I have only just arrived.”

“Will you be ready to depart by this evening?”  Legolas did not miss the look of surprise that sprang to Bergil’s face but chose to ignore it.  Some things were completely lost on mortals and he had not the patience to even attempt an explanation.  “We must reach Minas Tirith as quickly as possible.”

“We?”

“Yes,” answered the Elf briskly.  “You and I.  We shall depart ere the sun sets this evening.  Aragorn must be warned.”

Bergil was utterly confounded.  “But he already knows of the corsairs.  He sent me to tell you of their presence.”

Legolas sighed.  Any Elf could sense the underlying threat looming over Gondor in light of the corsairs’ sudden appearance, how was it possible that others remained so blind? 

*     *     *

“The woman rests fitfully,” Arwen announced to her husband as she gracefully walked into their chambers.

Aragorn pursed his lips and turned his attention back to the locked wooden box the crazed peasant had thrust into his hands.  Tiny fish and curling waves had been intricately carved into its sides.  It was quite stunning. 

“What do you suppose—“

“She instructed us not to open it.”

Aragorn tested the weight of the box in his hands.  “She is also mad.  Arwen,” he continued before his wife could object, “how am I supposed to go about destroying this...  mystery evil...   if I do not know what it is?”

The queen sighed in defeat.  “To that I have no answer.”  She sat down on the bed next to her husband and allowed her shoulder to rest against his.  “She claimed it brought death to her daughter.”

“Perhaps it is a dagger of some sort?”

Arwen reached over Aragorn’s arm and began tracing the pattern of curling waves with her delicate fingers.  He watched as her face clouded and she quickly withdrew her hand. 

“Aragorn,” she spoke softly but with great urgency.  “Whatever rests within this box has a strange feel about it.  I do not sense evil…”  She trailed off, furrowing her flawless brow and biting her lower lip.  “But, it has a most peculiar longing.”

“Longing?”

 “Yes,” she replied almost dreamily, “as one longs to see the stars... or travel beyond the sea to the Undying Lands.”

Aragorn felt a pang of guilt stab through him.  Arwen would never live to travel beyond the sea.  She had forsaken that rite of passage long ago—for him. 

He stood up abruptly.  Striding over to the dresser table, he set the box down and pulled out a small dagger he kept hidden in his boot.  With one upward stroke, the lock that held the wooden box shut skittered across the dresser top and bounced unceremoniously to the floor.  Intuition warned Arwen to turn her back, for she dared not face whatever secret the box held.  Aragorn cracked his knuckles and inhaled deeply.  Placing his hands on either side of the box with the utmost care, he cautiously lifted the lid. 

Swirling blues and greens dazzled his eyes as he stared at the sparkling jewel before him.  It shone with an inner light that danced and flickered upon his face.  Rendered completely speechless, he reached out and scooped the stone up as though it would fall and shatter into a thousand pieces.

Unbeknownst to the king of Gondor, he would never live to regret such an act more.

*     *     *

________________________________________________________________________

A/N: * “heightened tastes of Eryn Lasgalen” –Legolas grew up on those famous Mirkwood (actually, it was Dorwinian, wasn’t it?) vintages.  Just because he moved to Ithilien doesn’t mean he’s switched brands (or so I claim).

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

_____________________________

~ Chapter 6: A Precursory Storm ~

______________________________

Two fleeting figures thundered through tree and over hill beneath the glittering moon.  One appeared a blackened shadow in the night, while the other shimmered with a glow as faint as some far-reaching star.  The sweet, dewy scent of grass and earth hung heavily in the nighttime air as the travelers pressed onward.  Startled fireflies and moths fluttered from beneath the pounding hooves of their mounts, but the two riders remained oblivious of their disturbance of Middle-earth’s quiet slumber.  

“Legolas, please explain this to me,” panted Bergil, the sweetened wind stealing his breath away.  “Why are we going to warn the King?”

“My heart warns me of dark things,” responded the fair Elf.  His slender hand strayed to the flask of miruvor strapped at his side.  He was in no need of rest, but Bergil would undoubtedly require some form of replenishment if they were to continue on into the day.

“Intuition?”  Bergil shot his companion a doubtful glance.  Legolas was forcing them to ride to Gondor in all haste because the Elf had a funny feeling? 

“Nay, Bergil.  It is more than intuition.”  Legolas caught the look of skepticism within the young man’s eyes.  “More of an... absolute knowing of things to come.”  Legolas sighed.  “Forgive me, it is difficult to explain.”  He furrowed his brow in thought.  “Bergil, it is like the onset of a storm:  the air feels unnaturally heavy yet calm, and the earth becomes very silent and still.  Know you of what I speak?”

Bergil nodded.  “Yes,” he replied slowly.  Storms tended to make him jumpy and on edge.  Now that he thought about it, Legolas did seem as such.  That is, as much as any Elf could be considered edgy.  

“You cannot see the darkened clouds or hear the rumble of thunder,” continued the Elf over the galloping hooves of their horses, “but the scent of water and the charge of lightening hang in the air.”

Bergil’s eyes grew wide.  “Can you... can you tell the future?”

Despite the severity of the situation, the mischievous side of Legolas was hard-pressed to be curbed.  He had always been greatly amused by some of the outlandish attributes mortals credited to his kind.  “Yes,” responded the Elf solemnly.  Bergil’s mouth hung open in shock.  “I predict that if you do not duck very soon, you shall be unhorsed.”

“Wha—“  Bergil turned his head just in time to meet the low-hanging branch face-first.  Legolas grimaced as the young guard fell to the ground with a painful thud.  It had not been his intention for the man to actually hit the tree’s limb.  He had forgotten that the reflexes of men were much slower than his own.

‘Perhaps I should have warned him sooner,’ thought the Elf.  He softly whispered into the ear of his steed and the dapple-grey stallion brought himself to a halt.  Legolas sprang lightly from the horse’s back and hurried to aid Bergil to his feet.

“My thanks,” grumbled the guard, beating dirt from his tunic and rubbing his sore face and backside. 

“I am sorry,” said Legolas.  “That was rather cruel of me.  I misjudged the swiftness of your reflexes.”  His voice grew in concern as he noticed the young man was examining his hand.  “Have you injured yourself, Bergil?” A touch of regret flashed through him.  Mortals were not as hardy as their Elven counterparts, and the young man had taken a fairly rough spill.

Bergil smiled sheepishly and dropped his hand.  “Er, no.  I was just wondering, ah—“  The Elf cocked his head and regarded the man intently.  “—um, well, you seem to have a strange glow about you, and I wondered if it might have... rubbed off on me somehow.”  Try as he might, Bergil could not read the Elf’s deadpan visage.  “But it hasn’t, so, I guess all is well and you must, ah, glow from the inside... I think..."  He trailed off in embarrassment and looked at his feet.

No longer able to keep his smile at bay, Legolas shook his head and chuckled lightly.    “Master Bergil,” he said, the amusement evident in his clear voice, “You are by far the best entertainment I have had in weeks.  Do not fear, Child of Gondor.  Elves are not fireflies:  we possess no illuminating powders.   I could give you my inner light no more than I could my eyes or ears.”   

“I suppose I should have paid your kindred more attention while I still lived in Ithilien,” replied Bergil.  He smiled cheekily.  “I must remember that Elves are not as mythical or great as I deemed them.”

Legolas snorted.  “Of course we are.  In fact,” the lithe, glowing archer leaned in closer to Bergil as though he were about to impart a great secret to him, “we are even more so than you believed.”

Bergil shook his head in disbelief and winced as he remounted his horse.  “If you say so, Lord Prince.”  

*     *     *

Moonlight dappled the sleepy halls of the White City as Aragorn quietly trod the palace corridors.  Sleep was long forgotten.  Questions concerning the jewel plagued his thoughts and weighed heavily upon him, and try as he might the King of Gondor could not push them aside.  His footfalls echoed softly along the walls.  He gripped the wooden box tightly within his hands.  Perhaps it was only a trick of mind, for in the midnight hours imagination is known to frolic un-tethered, but it seemed to Aragorn that even the wind and shadows reached for his treasure.

At length he came to the heavy door of the mad peasant woman.  Once she had been bathed and fed, and her wounds tended to, she had been reported as behaving almost civilized.  Pausing only momentarily to give a courtesy knock, he quickly opened the door and stepped into the room.  For reasons unknown, Aragorn knew he was not the only one within the castle walls nighttime slumber chose to allude.    The door swung shut behind him with a barely audible click.

The woman lay curled upon her side, opposite the door and facing a tall arching window.  “What do you want?” she whispered, sensing rather than hearing the presence of the King.  She pulled the woolen covers closer around herself and clutched the rag doll tighter to her chest.

Aragorn silently regarded her back for several minutes.  He toyed with the box in his hands, feeling the jewel slide from side to side within.  “I wish to know how you came across this most precious jewel.”

The woman shuddered.  “You have opened the box,” came her dull reply. 

Aragorn began tracing the box’s carved waves with his finger as Arwen had done.  “Yes,” he replied.  “It was necessary.  Please, tell me how you came across such a wondrous treasure.” 

“I have already told you,” she exclaimed bitterly, refusing to turn and face him.  “It came from the sea.  It killed my daughter.  It is a most cursed stone!”

Aragorn sighed.  “I do not understand.  In what way was this jewel responsible for the death of your daughter?” 

Bitaliel sat up abruptly and turned to face him.  “She became captivated by it.  She would not eat; she would not drink.  She weighed little more than a bird’s feather at the time of her death.”  She swallowed as a lump arose to her throat and squeezed the rag doll until her fist turned white.  “The stone is a thing of great beauty and perfection, O King of Gondor.”  Bright sparks of moonlight shone in her darkened eyes and she turned to glare at Aragorn.  Her voice became little more than a whispered hiss.  “Such things were not meant to rest in Arda.  Mayhaps they were many years ago, when the land was new and the Eldar still rejoiced in its glory.  But those times have long passed.”

Aragorn met her gaze unflinchingly.  “Spoken with the wisdom of an ancient one, lady.  You are more than you appear.”  He was impressed, in spite of himself.  Perhaps she was not as mad as previously believed.

The woman laughed coldly.  “Wisdom is gained through pain and suffering, King.  Age is of no consequence.”

“Please, call me Elessar.”

The woman began smoothing back the frayed yarn hair of the rag doll.  She glanced up and gave Aragorn a slight nod before indicating to herself.  “Bitaliel,” she stated simply.  “I am Bitaliel.”

“Bitaliel,” Aragorn mused.  “Well met.  Well met indeed.”  He gestured towards a woven reed chair resting in a dark corner of the room.  “May I?”

Bitaliel turned her face back to the window and squinted as a moonbeam fell across her face.  “If you must.”

Aragorn picked up the chair and moved it to the side of the woman’s bed.  He carefully placed the box upon his lap as he sat down.  Bitaliel curled her lip in disdain as she eyed the wooden box.  “There is an old saying, among fishermen of the coast,” she began.  “‘Catch only fish, for the water’s secrets are far too heavy and will tear your nets.’”

Aragorn placed both hands over the box’s lid and allowed himself a small smile.  The woman was downright sharp—completely different from the ranting peasant who had stumbled into the throne room.  “Ah, you forget, Bitaliel:  I was not the one who hooked this secret.”

Bitaliel remained silent.  Aragorn watched as shadows thrown from a tree’s leaves outside the window darted back and forth across her blanket.  He could not say what possessed him to do so, but he was suddenly gripped by the urge to look at the jewel, one more time.  It was a pity the woman’s child had become fascinated by it until she was led to her death, but children are simple-minded and easily entranced by the smallest things.  The jewel was certainly captivating, and it was only understandable that a child would fall prey to its charms.

Aragorn slowly began to lift the wooden lid.  He had ordered several of his advisors to sift through the ancient books and scrolls gathering dust within the library shelves, in the hopes he might learn more of the mysterious stone.  He knew it to be of Elvish craft, and the longer he held it within his possession, the more his mind began to whisper tales of Fëanor and his precious jewels. 

Aragorn was again rendered breathless as its inner light shimmered within the darkened confines of the room.  He had once witnessed a great battle ship sink beneath the waves, and before the water had reached all parts of the boat and distinguished its lanterns, the ship’s light had shone from beneath the water’s surface.  The rippling light produced by the sea-colored stone reminded him this experience.  He reached down to pick it up.

“What are you doing!” cried Bitaliel in alarm.  She buried her face in her arms and held the tattered rag doll in front of her, as though the doll were a charm capable of warning off evil.  “Do not touch it, lest you become entranced by it as well!  It is a thing of evil, I tell you, great evil!” 

Aragorn looked at her incredulously.  The stone felt smooth and heavy within his hand, almost as though it belonged there.  “Bitaliel, no evil rests within this jewel.  My own wife has claimed as much.  It can cause you no harm.”

Bitaliel shrank away from the stone.  “I will not look at it,” she cried, her voice muffled as she continued to hide her face within her arms.  “You must destroy it!”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I would not know how.  And what purpose would there be in destroying something so beautiful?  It was obviously crafted with great care.  To destroy such a thing would be a crime in itself.”

“No!” shrieked the woman, rocking herself back and forth.  “So it has entranced you as well?  No matter, it will never have me.  NEVER!”

Aragorn watched with growing alarm as Bitaliel began slipping back into the crazed babble she had spoken in during the morning.  “Éowyn Doll, it is but you and I.  You and I.  I warned the king.  He did not listen—it has claimed him as well.  It will not have us, not us, not us...”  She viciously tore the chipped button eyes off of the rag doll and threw them at Aragorn.

“Bitaliel,” exclaimed Aragorn as the buttons bounced to the ground.  “I have put the jewel away.  Look, the box has been closed.  Bitaliel!”  He quickly rose from his chair and set the shut box upon the seat.  The quickness in which she reverted back to her previous state had caught him off-guard.  Bitaliel continued her raving. 

“The box is closed, but I can still see it,” she cried to the doll.  “You cannot see it, but I can.”

“The box has been shut, Bitaliel.  You cannot see it, I assure you.”  Bitaliel began raking her fingers across her eyes, gouging deep ribbons down her face with her nails.  “Cease this at once!” commanded Aragorn.  The woman only increased her frantic mutilation.  Blood welled up and spilled over as she tore deeper and deeper at her eyes.

“STOP!”  he roared, and lunged at her.  Bitaliel screamed furiously as her hands were forcefully wretched from her bloodied face.  Aragorn held tightly onto her wrists despite the mad woman’s attempt to head-butt him.  For all her frail and wasted appearance, Bitaliel was amazingly strong.  She twisted and shrieked as he pinned her blood-slicked arms to her side.

“I wish to cause you no harm,” Aragorn yelled in frustration.  Why was she doing this to herself?  He fought the urge to recoil in horror as the woman’s now-eyeless sockets sought him out. 

“I should have thrown it back to the Sea,” her cracked voice raved.  “But even the Sea would not hold it.  So I gave it to the Elf-Stone.”  She threw her head back and began screaming at the top of her lungs:  “A Stone for the Elf-Stone!  A Stone for the Elf-Stone!”

“Stop!” shouted Aragorn to no avail.  “By the Valar, woman!  Stop!”  The duo’s cries blended as one and carried through the night: a song of fury and insanity, alarm and disbelief .

*                                                            

The darkened room was suddenly flooded with torchlight as the broad-shouldered figure of Captain Haier burst in.  He stopped abruptly at the scene before him, causing the several guards at his back to meet in a crushing tangle.  “Call the healer,” Aragorn yelled frantically. 

Bitaliel had ceased fighting his grasp and now lie laughing in crazed hysterics.  “You cannot make me see!” she cried gleefully, turning her face towards Haier. 

The brave captain dropped his torch and cried out in shock when he saw the woman had gouged out her own eyes.  “Call the healer!” Aragorn cried again.  Bitaliel threw back her head and screamed in rage.

*     *     *

Arwen bolted upright, the animalistic screams tearing at her very soul.  She instinctively reached for her husband, only to find cool sheets where there should have been a warm body.  He was gone.

The tormented wails rang through the halls again, and the queen quickly threw her covers aside and sprang to the floor.  Still pulling the night robe over her bedclothes, she exited the room with all swiftness and ran towards the sounds of agony.

Of the castle’s inhabitants roused by the terrifying screams, those brave enough to peek through their doors witnessed the beloved Queen of Gondor sweeping through the dark corridors of Minas Tirith.  She was truly a sight to behold: her hair, dark and unbound, flowing behind her as did her pale robes.  She ran barefoot, and glowed with the inner light of the Elves.  Those who witnessed the sight from afar cowed in fear and quickly bolted their doors, mistaking her for an awakened wraith.

The screams grew louder and more perverse as she drew near the room of the crazed peasant woman.  Moonlight cast sickly blue shadows along the stone corridors, making them appear more enclosed than they actually were.  Arwen pushed aside her rising claustrophobic panic and concentrated instead on the wailing shrieks that echoed through the grounds.

Turning a corner with such speed that her bare feet nearly slid on the cool stone floor, Arwen was greeted by the sudden appearance of flickering torchlight and guards mulling within the hallway.  Captain Haier, ashen-faced, was standing outside the door with several others. 

“What goes on here?” Arwen demanded.  Behind the heavy wooden door, muffled voices and the sounds of struggle could be heard.

Haier grabbed a torch and held it up to get a better look at the newest arrival.  “My Lady!”  He gasped as the yellow-orange flame illuminated the Queen.  “You should not be here!”

Arwen turned her piercing grey eyes upon the pale captain.  “Terrible screams awaken the entire city from its slumber—screams originating from my halls—and you would tell me it is none of my concern?”  She stepped into the ring of light and walked towards Haier.  The broad-shouldered captain lowered his eyes in shame and swallowed.

“Please, My Lady..."

“Captain, I repeat: what goes on here?”

The guards exchanged furtive glances amongst one another, but none were willing to meet the eyes of their queen.  “The woman is attended to by the healer, My Lady,” began Haier. 

“The healer?  Why is she in need of a healer?”  Without bothering to wait for an answer, Arwen swiftly darted around the Captain’s figure and pushed open the door.  Haier made no effort to stop her.  Instead, he focused his attention on the torchlight’s shadows, which appeared to make the stones in the wall jump, and grimly awaited Arwen’s reaction. 

A low gasp was heard, followed by the flowing smoothness of the Elven tongue.  The captain of the Palace Guard set the torch on a metal wall fastening and rubbed his eyes wearily.  Outside, the seemingly endless night crawled onward:  unnaturally heavy and still. 

______________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

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~ Chapter 7: Adrift ~

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The great city of Gondor never failed to leave Bergil breathless.  Though he had beheld it many a time, and even lived within its solid walls, Minas Tirith always stirred fierce love and pride within his heart.  It was a profound experience—one that told Bergil the White City was his home and forever would be.

The gleaming white tower stretched proudly to the heavens, beckoning the two travelers as they hastened over the green fields.  Legolas noted that the land was still recovering from the siege ten years earlier.  Healthy saplings dotted the hills and the Orkish trenches, which had so deeply marred the land, were now softened to no more than rolling, grassy hummocks.  Still, the scars remained, and would for some time.  It did not take Legolas much effort to recall how severely wounded the land had been during those bleak days.  The Elf suppressed a shudder at the thought and mentally chided himself for allowing his mind to wander such unpleasant paths.

Rhosharrow, the bay Rohan stallion of Bergil, pricked forth his ears and increased his gait as they reached the dusty winding road stretching to the city’s gate.  To the eyes of Legolas, Bergil reacted in a similar manner: his eyes grew wider and he leaned in closer to the neck of his steed.  ‘At least one of us is pleased to enter the Gate,’ the Elf thought wryly.  Legolas could appreciate Minas Tirith for its strength and ingenuity, but there his love of the White City ended.  The archer found little comfort in the mammoth outer wall of the city, and even less comfort within the city itself.  “You reign over a fine prison,” he had informed Aragorn during one of his cheekier moments.  “A black wall, which encompasses yet another six cells, ensuring you remain locked within that ridiculous White Pillar.  It is small wonder you chose exile for so long.”

Fine billows of dust floated lazily behind the duo as they trod down the worn path, and grasshoppers buzzed and snapped beneath the hooves of their mounts.  The smell of sun-baked grass and earth perfumed the air; heat waves shimmered and rippled in the distance.  Bergil shaded his eyes from the bright sun and beamed at the vast city before him.  “A wondrous fair day is this!” he happily proclaimed.  The young guard’s grey eyes danced underneath the shadow of his hand.

“Or so it would seem,” Legolas murmured at his side, the wind gently teasing the Elf’s long hair.  Bergil shot the Elf lord a quick glance of curiosity, but declined to comment.  If there was one thing he had learned during the previous days’ travels, it was that attempting to decipher an Elf’s cryptic comments was nigh impossible.  One could either ponder them and become more confused, or ignore them all together.  Bergil chose the latter.

They reached the impressive iron-wrought Gate with no fanfare or welcoming troupe.  Legolas smiled to himself; the work of Gimli and his fellow Dwarves did not disappoint.  Gimli...   He must seek out the Dwarf and set things right as soon as he could.  Perhaps he would stop by the Glittering Caves before he returned to Ithilien.  There was still much work to be done in his realm, but he was willing to lay it aside at the moment for the sake of friendship. 

“Halt!” commanded a voice from atop the smooth black wall.  “What business have you in the White City?”

Bergil reined in Rhosharrow and Legolas spoke quiet words into the ear of his steed Findalen.  The sturdy bay and long-limbed dapple-grey pawed at the earth impatiently as both riders looked up.  Minor blemishes and discolorations could be seen in the coal-colored wall, testament to its weathering of war and era.  Bergil squinted his eyes as he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted in reply.  “Vargon!” he called to the wall.  “Vargon is that you?”

A head, ruddy-cheeked with a curly mop of chestnut hair, popped over the ramparts.  “Eh?  Who goes there?”

Bergil heaved an exasperated sigh.  “Vargon!  It is Bergil!  For pity’s sake man, open the Gate!”

“Bergil!” came the joyous reply.  “How was your journey?  Who is that with you?  What news do you bring from Rohan and Ithilien?  Why—“

“Talkative fellow, is he not?” mused Legolas.  Bergil grimaced and nodded.

“Vargon,” the young guard shouted, “let us finish this conversation within the city walls!  The Lord Prince of Ithilien and I have no great desire to spend the remainder of the summer waiting for you to open the Gate!”

There came a muffled reply, which was swept away in the breeze and lost even to the keen ears of Legolas, followed by the sound of a body scrambling down stone steps.  There was a short pause, and then the great gate began to slowly open.  The two travelers drew back their horses as the gate’s wide doors swung outward--throwing its arms forth in welcoming embrace.

Bergil gave Rhosharrow a gentle nudge with his heels, and the horse nickered as he eagerly walked through the archway.  Findalen was not nearly so enthusiastic about entering the city.  The Elvish stallion preferred the open air, green fields and forests, as did his rider.  He dubiously stared at the massive stone structure before him with his large brown eyes and flicked his ears nervously.    “Do not fear, my friend,” coaxed Legolas.  “It is not quite as bad as it looks.  I shall let no harm come to you.”  The stallion snorted and skittishly pranced through the archway. 

Legolas was pleasantly surprised as he looked about him.  The city did not appear nearly as foreboding from inside the outer wall—which reminded him far too much of Orthanc.   Sunlight shone down upon the white stones, illuminating the broad, bustling street and well-kept shops.  Flowers spilled from gardens onto the walkways, and there was an abundance of grass and small trees considering the close quarters.  ‘Arwen,’ thought Legolas fondly.  Trust the Elven Queen of Gondor to put his gifts to proper use.*   The gentle pattering of a fountain could be heard from somewhere up ahead, and birds twittered betwixt tree and rooftop.

Bergil dismounted Rhosharrow and held the bay’s halter as he greeted Vargon.  “You are in need of a new post, my friend,” laughed the young guard.  “One that requires more interaction with others.”

Vargon, who stood a head shorter than Bergil, had turned his attention to Bergil’s companion and did not reply.  For once, the curly-haired man was at a loss for words.  His mouth hung agape as he stared at the regal Elf.  Bergil gave him a light tap on the cheek.  “It is rude to stare.”

Vargon blinked.  “That’s an Elf!”

Bergil nodded and the two watched as Legolas sprang from the back of Findalen and alertly followed the birds’ flight with his eyes.  The Elf’s actions reminded Bergil of a cat’s fascination with jerking pieces of string.  “He’s tall,” murmured Vargon.  Bergil raised a brow.  Everything was tall compared to Vargon. 

Legolas cocked his head to one side as his attention turned to the sound of the fountain.  He wondered if it were similar to any of those in his own realm.  He gracefully pivoted and began to walk in the direction of the sound, cape billowing softly behind him.  He was beginning to notice the large number of stares turned in his direction.  The Elf lord paused to smile at a giggling toddler boy who drooled and clapped his hands in delight.

Vargon and Bergil craned their necks as they watched the slender Elf, followed by his silvery horse, move gracefully down the street.  Elves were fascinating to watch, even if it was the simple act of walking.  Legolas almost appeared to float.

“Should you have let him do that?” asked Vargon, when the Elf prince was almost out of sight.

“Hmm?”  A large number of small children had immediately flocked after Legolas, and Bergil found it quite amusing.

“Should you have let him walk off like that?”  Vargon absentmindedly stroked Rhosharrow’s neck when the horse shook his head impatiently.  “What if we lose him?”

Bergil swore and quickly ran down the stone street, leaving Vargon and Rhosharrow at the Gate.  The last thing he needed was to explain to King Elessar how he had managed to lose an Elf lord.

*                          *                          *

Captain Haier took a moment to gather his courage before knocking on the chamber doors.  The King and Queen had been arguing with one another for several days now.  The tension built between the two had almost solidified.  Even now, he could hear the unnaturally sharp phrases of Elvish as they snapped back and forth.  Haier knew their quarrel stemmed from the crazed peasant Bitaliel and her gemstone, but there his knowledge ended.  He had not attempted to pursue the matter: the broad-shouldered captain’s job was to protect the Citadel and its King and Queen; the domestic affairs of his liege and lady were none of his business.  

“Enter.”  The command sounded wearied and strained.  Haier took a deep breath and opened the door.  He thought it best if he stayed within the safety of the doorframe. 

Arwen and Aragorn turned to the captain expectantly.  The King had two hands placed upon the back of an upholstered chair and his shoulders were slightly hunched.  Haier could not help but notice the lines around his eyes and brow.  Arwen appeared no better: the Queen stood stiffly by the window, gripping the deep green curtain within her hand.  She, too, looked tired and worn.  ‘This is no simple lover’s quarrel,’ Haier thought to himself, somewhat alarmed.  That the great King and Queen be fighting for a prolonged period of time struck a nerve of discord within him.  It was not right.

He cleared his throat and delivered his message.  “My Lord, my Lady,” he bowed slightly.  “Young Bergil has returned.  The Lord Prince of Ithilien has also arrived with him.”

“Legolas?” asked Aragorn, slight surprise registering across his face. 

“Yes, My Lord.”

Arwen twisted the satin curtain in her hands and rested her forehead against the glass pane of the window.  Legolas!  She had hoped he would come—almost expected him to.  Perhaps he would be able to talk some sense into her husband.  She released the curtain and drew herself up.  “Thank you Captain.  Please direct Legolas up to the room and inform Bergil my husband will speak with him in the morning.”

Haier glanced uncomfortably at Aragorn, hoping his King would not refute Arwen’s orders.  Aragorn’s eyes flashed in momentary annoyance, but he quickly smothered any objections and gave Haier a curt nod.

*                                   *                                    *

Haier’s boots echoed along the silent corridor as he and Legolas made their way to the King and Queen’s study.  Legolas watched as the tight-lipped captain strode forward.  ‘He is tense,’ thought the Elf, noticing the Citadel guard’s unnaturally stiff posture and somewhat moody disposition.  Legolas’s own dread began to grow and nibble on the edges of his mind. 

‘Mayhap it is that I am enclosed within these walls,’ he reasoned, ‘and so my misgivings are enhanced to even greater proportions than is warranted.’  Ever since his return from the Glittering Caves with Gimli, Legolas had developed a fear of enclosed spaces almost to the point of phobia.  He knew it was ridiculous—the Glittering Caves were beautiful and in no way threatening.  Nonetheless, he had found himself unable to enter such places without visions of Balrogs and Mithrandir’s shouts assailing his mind.

  He had been forced to confide his shameful secret to Gimli, and the Dwarf informed him he was most likely suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress.  “Such a thing occurs constantly in those who are trapped in mine collapses,” the Dwarf had assured him.  “They cannot return to the mines without falling victim to panic attacks and thoughts of being trapped all over again.  And strangely enough, their fears usually surface within a year after the incident has befallen.”  Legolas, though not pleased with his friend’s assumption, knew it to be a valid one.  Still, he hated the fact that he, an Elf and lord, would be “victim” to such an embarrassing weakness. 

 He pushed aside his thoughts with some effort as panic began to rise and forced his mind to envision endless forests and open fields instead.  ‘You are NOT trapped,’ he informed himself viciously.  ‘Cease this at once.’ 

The broad-shouldered captain came to an abrupt halt at two wide double doors and rapped lightly upon the paneling.  “My Lord and Lady,” he called.  “The Lord Prince Legolas of Ithilien has arrived.”

“Please send him in, Captain,” came the reply.  A barely perceptible frown graced the lips of Legolas as Haier reached for the door handle.  Aragorn sounded tired and strained... old.  He glanced questioningly at Haier, but the captain merely avoided his eyes.  ‘No matter,’ thought the Elf.  ‘I feel I shall soon find what so plagues the palace myself.’    

With a murmur of thanks, Legolas bobbed his head to Haier and stepped into the room.  His eyes quickly darted from Aragorn and Arwen, immediately sensing the stormy atmosphere.  He raised a thinly arched brow.  “Do you wish to finish this quarrel or shall I play mediator?”

Aragorn smiled wanly and shook his head, thankful no formalities were required when dealing with Legolas.  “Nay, my friend.  It is but a passing matter.”  Legolas noted the dark flash in Arwen’s eyes.  Apparently, she believed otherwise.  “Why have you come to the White City, Legolas?  I did not think you would allow your wanderlust to override your duties in Ithilien.”  Aragorn’s tired grey eyes twinkled slightly.

“The opportunity to travel was but an added pleasure to my visit.”  A smile flitted across the Elven lord’s face then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.  “Nay,” he continued, his tone growing grave and solemn, “I fear darker matters push me to Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn lifted his head in alarm.  “Darker matters?  You feel Ithilien threatened?”

The Elf furrowed his brow and shook his head in something akin to frustration.  “I...do not know,” he stated slowly and carefully.  “The wind brings strange tidings to our ears and the trees whisper of things lost forever to Middle-earth save in lore and legend.”  

Arwen drew in a sharp breath.  “Tell him, Aragorn.”  Her musical voice had a sharp ring Legolas was unaccustomed to. “Tell him of the stone.”

The king of Gondor turned reluctantly and fetched the wooden box, which was never far from his reach.  Legolas craned his neck in curiosity as the dark-haired man carefully lifted the lid.  He opened his mouth to speak, and then spied the perfect stone nestled within the box’s lining.  The question forming on his lips melted away to a gasp of wonder.  The Elf wordlessly stared at the rugged king, then back to the jewel.  When he finally did regain his speech, the words bubbled forth unchecked.  “Aragorn!  From whence did you get this?  How?  Does anyone know of it?  You cannot—“

“Peace Legolas,” laughed the man, holding up a hand.  “I shall tell you.  But I warn you, it is a long and strange tale indeed.”

The Elf promptly settled himself on one of the study’s many window seats and looked to Aragorn expectantly.  “Then you had best start while the day is still new!"

*                             *                           *     

“So you see,” Aragorn concluded, many an hour later, “those are the events as they have unfolded.”

Legolas nodded and picked up his goblet of wine, swishing it expertly before taking a delicate sip.  Knowing their friend’s fondness for the stuff, Arwen had fetched the drink an hour earlier before retiring to her chambers.  The Elf swallowed and lifted his head to meet Aragorn’s eyes.  “Then I shall tell you this, though I know you do not wish to hear it: I, too, side with Arwen on the matter.”

Aragorn heaved a sigh of frustration and leaned back in his chair.  “Legolas,” he stated, “I know the jewel should not reside here, but it does.  We cannot change that.  It is also simply impossible to ‘destroy’ it.”  He went on before Legolas could voice his protest.  “Nay, my friend.  Listen to me!  How would I destroy it?  It was wrought by an ancient craft lost and therefore cannot be chiseled down or chipped away.  And even if we somehow could shatter it, what would become of its inner contents?  The light of Valinor would not simply dissipate into thin air!  The results would be disastrous.”

 “Return it to the Sea from whence it came,” cried the Elf.  “It is in her charge!”

Aragorn rubbed his temples and gripped the plush arm of the chair.  He had already gone over this exact thread of conversation with Arwen to no avail.  “But the Sea could not hold it,” he said.  “Why return it when it would only be thrust back to us?  I have no desire to play such a dangerous game of throw and catch.”

“But the Sea is the jewel’s rightful home, Aragorn.”

“Legolas,” cried the king in exasperation, “The jewel does not wish to reside in its ‘rightful home.’ It will not be content to stay there!”

“Nay,” replied the Elf quietly, turning his head to the window and squinting into the western horizon.  “Many leave the shores of their homeland in pursuit of that which they cannot have, and only come to realize their folly when they are no longer able to return.”  He crossed his arms and leaned straight-backed against the window—a trademark posture of stubbornness Aragorn knew all too well.

Aragorn shook his head in frustration.  “Then let us say we do choose to return it to the Sea—though I still decree it folly—how would we carry out such a plan?  Corsairs line the coast of Belfalas, and Southern Gondor is far too unstable to risk travel down the Anduin.  The longer we would travel with it in our keeping, the less of a secret it would become and all the more dangerous to us.  Only a fool would attempt such rash action!”

“Aragorn,” hissed the Elf, finally losing his temper, “it does not belong here.  The Simarils were not made to rest within the hands of man!”

“And I suppose an Elf would be better suited to handle such a thing?”  Legolas narrowed his eyes and Aragorn immediately regretted his slip of tongue.  He inhaled deeply and held up a hand.  “Nay, forgive me.  I did not mean that.” 

“It no longer belongs to any of the races, Aragorn.”  The Elf’s jaw tightened.  “Middle-earth is amiss.  Can you not feel it?  The Silmarils keep the balance between the elements: one of Earth, one of Sky, and one of Sea.  It has been disrupted!  There cannot be two in one place.”

“And yet there are.”  Aragorn stood abruptly and began slowly pacing back and forth.  “Legolas, we have already discussed this!  This conversation does naught but dance in circles; I grow weary of it.”

“Then what, pray tell, are your plans for the stone?”  The Elf’s tone was more than a little cold and condescending—true Elvish arrogance at its finest.  However, the intended effect of intimidation was lost on Aragorn, who was raised by the fair folk and knew their mannerisms intimately.

“It shall remain in Gondor, locked safely within the palace vaults.  Perhaps it would be presented in the odd ceremony or celebration, but otherwise it would remain untouched.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow and shook his head in disgust.  “You would use it as a symbol of your leadership?”

“I did not say—“ Aragorn began.

 “But you did,” persisted the Elf.  “You would use it as a symbol of your leadership.  Why?  You already possess the Elf-stone.”  Legolas shook his head again.  “Nay, my friend—you would unwittingly use it as a symbol of power.  You would use the Silmaril to represent the great power of Gondor, and it would become so: the Elessar and the White Tree would soon become lost in the shadows as you basked in the glow of this jewel.  And then what would occur, my friend?  I shall tell you.  Your enemies will grow to hate you, to loathe and fear you, all the more.  They will covet the stone just as Morgoth did, with a greedy lust more souring than the blackest of plagues.  In the end it will be your undoing!  Strife will break out across the land, and all will seek to claim the Silmaril for his own, knowing that if he were able to succeed he would become the greatest power.”

“Do you not think that is a bit extreme?” Aragorn responded wryly.

“The Silmarils were wrought out of pride, Aragorn.  My people have suffered greatly for it.”

“By the Valar, Legolas!”  Aragorn whirled around and threw up his hands.  “You think I do not know this?  I was raised by Lord Elrond, the master of Elvish lore himself!  I was lulled to sleep as a child by songs concerning the House of Fëanor and the fate of the Noldor.  Do not lecture me!  I do not desire any power this jewel could bring.  I only desire what is best for Gondor, for Middle-earth.  My intentions are pure.”

“Of course you believe your intentions in good heart!”  Legolas sprang from the window seat.  “No being thinks his intentions bad, lest he truly be a wicked Fëa.  But tell me this, Aragorn--“ he pointed a slender finger at the former Ranger “—do you stare at your precious treasure often?  Are you compelled to make sure it is safely within YOUR keeping, far from the reach of prying eyes and hands?”

Aragorn stopped his pacing and turned to the Elf prince in disbelief.  “You would accuse me of falling victim to this jewel, Legolas?  It posses no power of the sort!  Have you so little faith in me?”

Legolas stared intently at the man before him.  “Then answer me this,” he said in a low voice, “would you allow others to hold it within their safekeeping?”

Aragorn was stung and insulted.  He turned his back to the Elf and did not reply.  That Legolas, his most trusted friend and ally, would accuse him of greed and desiring corrupt power left a bitter taste in his mouth.  He felt strangely betrayed.  Anger coursed through his veins and flamed upon his face; he unconsciously balled his fists.  Thankfully, he had sense enough to realize an outburst would only complicate matters further.  ‘I am in too ill humor to continue this conversation,’ he thought, seething all the while. 

Legolas silently cursed himself for the harshness of his words when he realized Aragorn had not been ready to hear them.  He dropped his shoulders and sighed deeply.  “Aragorn,” he began in a softer tone.

“Leave.”  Aragorn fought to keep his temper in check.  He wanted desperately to lash out at the Elf.  ‘Hold your tongue,’ he demanded of himself, praying the Elf would heed his words.   

Legolas flinched at the biting tone of the man’s voice.  He swallowed somewhat painfully, knowing it was useless to speak to unwilling ears.  “Very well.” 

Aragorn refused to look at him as he exited the room.

*                             *                             *   

Legolas walked down the hall, feeling strangely disjoined.  He and Aragorn had had their share of differences over the years, but this... this was strange.  Never before had their friendship been placed in such an awkward position.  It was akin to running headfirst into a wall he had never noticed, and Legolas was unsure of how to surmount it.

The son of Thranduil leaned his back against a heavy tapestry hanging on the wall and shut his eyes.  His emotions swirled dizzyingly, threatening to engulf and drown him. 

“Legolas?”

He started and opened his eyes to the concerned face of Arwen.  Her dark and inquiring gaze bore into him, and he was forced to look away.  The ethereal beauty inhaled a shaky breath and gently laid a hand upon his forearm.  “Come,” she stated in quiet calmness.  “Our concerns are one and the same.  I fear we must take matters into our own hands.”

She beckoned him to follow her as she turned to leave.  Seeing no reason to object, Legolas did unto her bidding.

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 * “Trust the Elven Queen of Gondor to put his gifts to their proper use.” – assuming Legolas bestowed gifts of birds and plants unto Aragorn.      

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

CHARACTER LIST:

Mortsdil-  leader of the Corsairs of Umbar

Nagihcim-  A lower sailor, has superiority issues

Jesseral-  Mortsdil’s first mate

Tegiron-  drunken fisherman and husband to Bitaliel the madwoman

Imrahil- the Prince of Dol Amroth (and greater Belfalas area)

Thranduil, Legolas, Aragorn, and Arwen

*                 *                      *

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~ Chapter 8: The Pain of Duty ~

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Blinding light from a shaft of morning sunlight fell across Mortsdil’s face, warming him uncomfortably.  The brawny corsair groaned and placed a calloused hand over his eyes while attempting to kick the smothering bed sheets from his body.  His head pounded mercilessly.  He gritted his teeth in agony and felt trickles of wetness crawling through his inner ears.  He did not have to look to know it was blood.  Headaches were one of the more unpleasant side effects from his association with Morgoth; they served to remind him of his duties. 

The tanned man kept his eyes shut while he rubbed his throbbing temples and wiped away the small stream of blood running from his ears.  He took several deep breaths to calm his churning stomach.  He had not made contact with Morgoth in months and doubted not the Vala was more than a little displeased.  The headaches had increased in severity the past few days and were now impossible to ignore.  “Cursed eel,” swore the pirate as he fumbled for the strips of willow bark* resting in a tin on the nightstand.  He grabbed three pieces and shoved them into his mouth, chewing furiously.

He needed to think.  It would be extremely difficult to procure a body when Lord Imrahil had Mortsdil firmly placed within his sights.  However, Morgoth would soon lose his patience and had the ability to end Mortsdil’s life whenever he wished.  “Your life is in my hands, Mortsdil,” the exiled god had stated.  “I may take it away as easily as I gave it back to you.  You would be wise to remember this.”

Mortsdil sat up as the pain abated slightly and reached for his shirt.  “Nagihcim would make a fine sacrifice,” he thought darkly.

A muffled, hung-over groan caught his attention and he turned his head to the slumbering figure next to him.  He had forgotten about her.  A streak of repulsion and loathing flashed through him and the pirate’s foul mood suddenly found a target.  “Get up,” he snarled, grabbing a mass of tangled auburn hair and sharply twisting his wrist.  “Get up, you wench.”

The woman emitted a cry and yelped in protest as she was rudely shoved to the floor, taking the majority of blankets with her.  Her crudely painted face had long since run and smeared; the morning light did nothing to improve her looks.  The cheap scent she had worn the night before, mixed with that of stale liquor, lingered on the sheets and only added to Mortsdil’s nausea.  He curled his lip in disgust.  “Get out.”

The curvy woman gathered the covers about her and scowled, disheveled hair falling over her shoulders.  As most women in her profession, she was more than a little used to being handled roughly.  “I don’t care what sort of captain you are,” she snapped in a hoarse and smoky voice, making Mortsdil immediately regret his previous night’s boasting. “You still owe the same as the rest.”

Had he been in any other mood, the pirate might have found the woman’s sullen manner quite amusing.  As it was, he felt anything but amused, and his black temper was quick to lash out.  Mortsdil vaulted over the bed, headache and all, and dragged the woman to her feet by her fiery hair.  A resounding slap echoed through the room and she whimpered as he snapped her neck back and held it fast.  He brought his lips to her ear and spoke, his words deathly soft and malicious.  “When I tell you to leave, you will leave.”  He relished the feel of her trembling body.  It would be so easy to kill her.  The power he felt was exhilarating.  “You will get your pathetic fee.  You need not remind me.”  An angry red welt was beginning to form on her cheek and crimson drops dribbled from the corner of her smeared mouth.

Mortsdil pulled her neck back further.  Tears swam in her eyes and she began to choke, unable to draw a full breath from such an angle.  The pirate’s face contorted into a smirk.  “Now be a good girl and don’t make me angry.  Do you understand?”  She again whimpered pathetically.

Mortsdil began walking towards the door, still holding her by the hair.  She stumbled and gagged as she tried to keep up with him, while at the same time holding the sheets around her body.  Mortsdil unlocked the door and threw her into the hallway.  Before turning to leave, he fished a few golden coins from his pocket and threw them at her.  “You overestimate your worth,” he sneered as she scrambled to gather them.  Turning, he swiftly shut the door behind him.

After a scanty breakfast, for he felt unable to stomach much, Mortsdil walked to the village port in the hopes of summoning his First Mate Jesseral.  Salt and fish hung heavily in the air, and white gulls wheeled and cried overhead.  The surf hissed and crashed against the sand as the tides changed; the sun beat down from a cloudless sky as it simmered and baked the surrounding land.  

‘The ships are coming along nicely,’ he noted.  Two had already been completed and sat still and foreboding upon the sand like the stranded shells of two gigantic black water bugs.  Their many oars stuck out haphazardly from all angles, as though the boats had thrashed wildly in the sand before simply giving up mid-throe.  Three other ships were under construction; one almost completed while the other two were but wooden frames, more closely resembling charred whalebones than sea-worthy vessels.

Several massive black canvases were stretched across the sand as they were sewn and mended by the rugged hands of Umbar’s finest.  Mortsdil sighed and rubbed his temples.  He shaded his eyes from the bright sun and scoured the beach.  Where the devil was Jesseral?  He cursed quietly as he noticed Imrahil’s small company of soldiers watching from the shade of the blacksmith’s stable.  “They are as leeches,” he muttered.  “I cannot seem to rid myself of them.”  When they took note of his presence, he plastered a sarcastic smile upon his face and waved, as he always did.  They ignored the gesture, as they always did.

He had just made up his mind to stroll over to the soldiers and strike up a conversation—knowing nothing would make them more uncomfortable—when he caught sight of the portly Jesseral panting up the beach.

“Captain!  Captain.”  Jesseral pulled off the red bandana he had tied around his balding head and wiped away the sweat beading on his glistening brow.  His gold earrings glinted in the sunlight.  “We’ve just finished winding the last rope.  Blacksmith,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of Imrahil’s soldiers, “says he’ll have the chains for the first two ships done by tomorrow.  Already has one anchor finished.”  Displeasure glinted in the short man’s brown eyes.  “It be not quite what we’re used to, but the man says he’s used to making ‘em for smaller boats.”

Mortsdil nodded.  “Good, good,” he murmured.  Great Seas, his head hurt. 

Jesseral paused and squinted up at the tall pirate.  “Captain, sir?  You be having a pale look about you.”  His brow furrowed.  “And your ear’s bleeding.”

Mortsdil hastily wiped away blood for the second time that day.  “I’m fine,” he growled.  Jesseral knew better than to argue.  “Where’s Nagihcim?”

The First Mate thought for a few moments.  “Ah, methinks I saw him go round there—“ he pointed down the beach to a rocky outcrop, which protruded into the sea, “--with his usual lackeys and that drunken fellow.  Tegger or Tegrion...whatever he be called.”

“Tegiron,” corrected Mortsdil, narrowing his eyes.  The fisherman had been drunk through the entire month.  It was rather impressive he was still breathing, or at least, had been the last time Mortsdil saw him.

Mortsdil turned his attention back to Jesseral and noticed the flask attached to the portly mate’s side.  “Is that water?”

“Eh?”  Jesseral jumped.  He, too, had been looking down the beach.

“In you flask,” snapped Mortsdil.  “Is that water in your flask?”

Jesseral nodded, puzzled, but did not voice his confusion.

“Give it to me.”  Jesseral obliged.  Mortsdil snatched the flask and began walking purposely towards the rocky outcrop.  Jesseral grimaced, knowing he had most likely seen Nagihcim for the last time.  The old pirate had followed Mortsdil from the very beginning, and could predict his master’s mood as he could the sea.  With an offhanded shrug, and wishing Nagihcim a fairly painless death, Jesseral turned and walked back down to the ships.  Mortsdil would probably want him and a few others to deal with the remaining members of Nagihcim’s crew.

Mortsdil carefully climbed over the boulders.  Sharp laughter assailed his ears, causing him to wince as the noise assaulted his already pounding head.  He should have rid himself of Nagihcim months ago.  Why he hadn’t, only the Valar knew. 

He came to the top of the rocks and looked down.  A deep growl rose to his throat as he viewed the scene below him.  Nagihcim and his small school of sharks had gagged Tegiron and then disemboweled and beheaded the drunk.  Nagihcim had shoved the dead man’s head onto a cutlass and was proceeding to hold a very one-sided conversation with the fellow, much to the delight of his cronies.

Mortsdil was not bothered by the gruesome nature of the scene—he himself was known to do far worse.  What did infuriate him, however, was the fact that he had specifically ordered his men to leave the drunk alone.  There was no telling what else the fisherman might know about the wondrous jewel, and Mortsdil wanted to learn all he could.  It was impossible to learn secrets from the cold, stiff lips of a dead man.        

Wasting no time, Mortsdil quickly unsheathed the dagger hidden in his boot and threw it with all his might.  Life on the high seas required much in the arts of trickery, deception, and backstabbing; one must possess a keen eye, sharp tongue, quick reflexes, and a fast blade.  Mortsdil possessed all four.  Nagihcim was dead before he hit the sand, dagger protruding from his throat.  It was not the most “honorable” method to kill an opponent, but Mortsdil was cunning, not honorable.  Why waste breath and risk possible injury to oneself when the fight could be ended before it began? 

Nagihcim’s comrades looked up in shock, and then took off running down the beach.  Mortsdil let them go.  Jesseral was a good man and had probably already gathered some of the crew to detain them.  The group would be dead within the hour.

He carefully picked his way down to the shoreline.  Nagihcim lie on his back in the sand, mouth contorted in shocked grimace and eyes bulging almost comically as they stared unblinking into the blinding sun.  The cutlass had fallen to his side.  Mortsdil glanced at Tegiron’s head as he removed his dagger from Nagihcim’s neck and wiped the blade on the dead man’s tunic.  He gave the head an affectionate pat.  “Poor mate,” he stated nonchalantly.  “I hope you were too drunk to feel much.”   

He looped his arms under Nagihcim and dragged the wiry body to the rocks.  A small trail of red followed him, turning a rusty brown as it mixed with the sand. 

There were many hollows within the rocks, providing the pirate with a wide variety of bowl-shaped impressions to choose from.  When one lacks an altar, he reasoned, one must improvise accordingly.  When he found one to his liking, he poured the water from Jesseral’s flask into it.  He then draped Nagihcim’s still-warm body over the makeshift altar and slashed the dead man’s wrists, thighs, chest, and abdomen.  Directly over the heart, he carved the Tengwar* initials of Melkor.

Blood from the cooling body spilled down in watery rivulets and flowed into the altar.  Mortsdil closed his eyes and began chanting, a strange and foreign tongue comprised of cracked, guttural chips and whining pitches.  Blood began to pound in his ears in time with the surf; the earth began to spin.  He dipped his hands underneath the body and into the altar, scooping up a handful of its contents.  Still chanting, he raised it to his lips and drank, throwing his hands to his face when he had finished and trailing them down to his neck.  The bright sunlight of the day flickered and dimmed.  Raising his dagger to his palm, he again carved Morgoth’s symbol and then collapsed into darkness as the convulsions took control.

“Where have you been, Secondborn?”  Shadows within the blackness swirled angrily about him, clawing and snapping at him.  Mortsdil shuddered and his spirit bowed before the thundering voice.  “I should end this now!”

“No!  Wait!” Mortsdil cried out, terrified, almost pleading.  “Wait...  Much has happened, and I have news that would greatly interest you.”  The dark shadows backed off slightly, but continued to sting and torment him.  “Something—a stone—from the sea...  There was a great storm...  A stone from the sea has been found!”

The pain suddenly came to a halt, and Mortsdil was left suspended in Nothingness for several heartbeats.  “A stone?”  Morgoth’s question hissed around him like a foul wind and chilled him to the core. 

“Yes.  It came from the sea and is said to glow with an inner light like no other.  It has been taken to Gondor.”  Mortsdil was painfully aware he had obtained the description from a drunken fisherman, and found himself praying to the other Valar, of all beings, that Tegiron’s tale had even the slightest bit of truth to it.

The atmosphere of the Void suddenly grew tense and excited.  Mortsdil cringed, feeling his soul shrivel and grow cold.  Then Morgoth began to laugh—a frigid, shattering sound.  “Can it be?” the Vala exclaimed.  “One of those which is the cause of my exile?”

Mortsdil felt Morgoth smile, a cruel and oily thing.  “The light of Valinor would chase away the shadows of this black void...  And even if we do not succeed,” he mused, “I would still have my revenge.”  Silence reigned for several moments while the exiled one pondered his course of action. 

“You have done well, Mortsdil.  This pleases me greatly.  Follow my instructions, Secondborn, and you shall be rewarded for your loyalty.”

*                             *                                *

“No,” Legolas stated with an emphatic shake of his head.  “I cannot do that.  Arwen, you cannot ask it of me!”

Hues of dusk blushed across the sky as the sun quietly slipped onto the west.  Arwen looked up and spied Eärendil preparing to embark upon his nightly navigation through the inky tides of cloud and star.  “And yet,” her voice mingled softly with the growing harmonies of evening, “we have little choice.”  Her grey eyes shone in the deepening shadows as she turned them upon the male Elf.  “I wish to do this no more than you, Little Brother.  But you yourself have witnessed Aragorn’s refusal.  He will not be persuaded.”

Legolas looked moodily about the queen’s private garden.  Thick, glossy hedges, their leaves appearing almost black in the fading light, formed a secure wall around the small Elvish recluse.  Ivy vines and morning glory crawled up delicately carved wooden trellises, and a small pond dressed in lily pads rippled gently under the caress of a warm breeze.  The spot seemed to have somehow evaded the thick, humid air that permeated the rest of the land.  Legolas sat on the stone border of the pond and trailed his fingertips across the top of the water, watching as tiny waves disrupted the pond’s rhythmic undulating.  “Perhaps if we waited a while longer, he will begin to see—“

Arwen gracefully sat down next to him and placed a hand upon the archer’s shoulder.  She cupped his chin in the palm of her slender hand and turned his face to hers.  “You were so troubled by your feelings that you rode here immediately,” she gently chided.  “Unrest grows with each passing day—I feel it as you do, though I fear these city walls and my own mortality hinder much.”  Legolas caught a flash of sadness in her grey eyes, though it was fleeting and held no regret.  “With all my heart I wish not to ask such a dangerous thing of you, but you are among my most trusted friends and Fate, it seems, has sent you here.”  She dropped her hand and turned to stare at the water.  “I would carry out the task myself, Legolas.”  Her voice dropped to a soft whisper.  “But I must remain within these walls.  I am needed here and I do not think he would be able to forgive me.  Nay, I would not be able to forgive myself.”

Legolas sighed miserably.  “Already the storm threatens to snap our friendship.  I risk much.”

“And you risked much when you joined the Fellowship; knowing our kindred would suffer loss whatever the outcome was to be.”   Arwen leaned forward and gave her friend a kiss on the forehead before rising.  “Even the strongest tree may be felled by the storm, Greenleaf.  But its roots will hold fast if they have been planted deep enough.”

Legolas lifted his fair face to the sky and listened as the light steps of Arwen slowly retreated.  As his friend had done, he too sought out the comforting light of the Mariner.  The star twinkled reassuringly from the heavens, giving the Elf a much-needed sense of tranquility.  The words of his father suddenly came to him, and so clear they were that Legolas actually started and glanced to his side, half-expecting Thranduil’s stern and wise face to be staring back at him.  “One of the most difficult duties of a leader, my son, is knowing whether to follow one’s heart or one’s head.”

Legolas closed his eyes.  He had been very young at the time—only twenty-five or so*.  Aurigal and Calenbeth were to go forest climbing, and he desperately wanted to go with them.  He had been most delighted to discover that as a prince of Mirkwood, albeit the youngest one, he could simply refuse to practice his archery, and instead skip off into the trees to play.  The resident bowmaster could do nothing—for Legolas was royalty and one cannot order about a prince.

Of course, Thranduil had been none-too-pleased by his son’s manipulation of this rule, and promptly summoned the child to his throne for an official, royal consultation.  Legolas had been terrified, for it was Thranduil King of Mirkwood he faced, not Thranduil Ada of Legolas. 

Legolas almost smiled at the memory: he had approached his father, who sat imperiously upon his throne as he stared down at his son.  Legolas had never been so intimidated in his life, and came before the stately Elven king with visibly quaking knees.  Thranduil had taken out a slim paper scroll, and began to read from it.  Legolas was charged with “disregarding his royal duty to the House of Oropher, displaying improper and unmannerly conduct towards others,” and several other terrible-sounding crimes he now knew Thranduil had pulled from thin air.  His father only managed to read halfway through the list before the young Elf’s bottom lip began to quiver and tears welled up in his large bright eyes.

The sight of his smallest child attempting to choke back sobs, tiny body trembling with the effort, while at the same time managing to look Thranduil full in the face with his little chin held high, immediately broke any resolve for harsher punishment.  The King set down the scroll, stood up, and promptly gathered the youngster in an encompassing embrace.  Legolas had thrown his slender arms around his father’s neck and outright sobbed until he could do no more than sniffle and hiccup. 

Thranduil sat down on his throne and gently rocked the child back and forth as he patted his son’s tiny back.  “One of the most difficult duties of a leader, my son, is knowing whether to follow one’s heart or one’s head.”

Legolas sniffled and tightly grasped one of Thranduil’s golden braids in his small fist.  “But how, Ada?” he hiccupped.  “How will I know which one to follow?”

Thranduil smiled down at his son and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind the child’s delicate ear.  “Deciding which is right, Little One, is the most difficult duty of all.  It is not always the one that we desire most, or the one that will cause the least pain.”

Legolas sighed and looked back up to Eärendil.  A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.  “Forgive me, Aragorn,” he murmured quietly.  “Forgive me for what I must do.” 

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* Willow bark-  I’m pretty sure most of you are familiar with its properties, but if you’re not: it’s commonly used for treating headaches.  Think aspirin.

*Regarding the Tengwar:  It’s the most ancient form of writing I could find, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure some form of it was used on the One Ring.

*Legolas and Thranduil:  We’ll say the Queen of Mirkwood died when Legolas was between the ages of 15 and 20.  Hence, Thranduil’s very tender nature towards his son (aww, what a good father!).

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

A/N:  Some very basic Silmarillion knowledge is required here-- otherwise you may find yourself a bit confused. 

 Yes, I took a few liberties with Aragorn (Tolkien forgive me).  I know I’ve said this before, but don’t worry: I promise he will come around eventually.  In the mean time, even he must have his share of faults.

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~ Chapter 9:  Visions and Betrayal ~

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The night air pressed down onto Legolas like a wet cloak as he slipped silently through the halls of Minas Tirith.  The heavy atmosphere was almost maddening.  He could barely prevent himself from physically brushing away the invisible shadows that seemed to cling to his body like a shroud.  He desperately wanted to sing, or make some measure of noise if only to break the tomb-like silence of the suffocating corridors around him.  Yet he could not, for if anyone was to discover why he wandered about the halls at such a gods-forsaken hour...

Legolas froze, lithe frame taut as his own bowstring, as a flash of blue lightening bounced off the walls.  His skin tingled uncomfortably at the electrical charge dancing around him.  Shadows jumped unnervingly from every darkened crevice.  The Elf strained his senses to the utmost, feeling only the muted silence that seemed to have swallowed up existence itself.

He let out the breath of air he did not know he held and blinked his eyes several times to readjust them to the dark.  ‘Perhaps this is what it must be to live as a rabbit,’ he thought wryly.  ‘Jumping at the mere sight of one’s shadow and terrified of imaginary predators stalking about.’  Predators.  He made a face at the thought.  It was odd to view Men as predators and left him with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Thranduil had once called them “parasites” in half-jest, claiming, “They descend upon an area and delve the land of her resources: felling trees, tainting the water, killing all game, and devouring nutrients from the soil.  When there is nothing left but a barren wasteland, they move on to another, and so the cycle continues.”  Mayhap they were both?  ‘Nay,’ Legolas decided sharply, ‘Aragorn is neither predator nor parasite, and he is of Men.’

He tensed again as thunder rolled gutturally in the distance.  ‘If Aragorn is neither predator nor parasite,’ he thought, ‘then why do you slip through the corridors as such?  You do so because you do not wish to be caught.  Caught—ensnared, captured... only prey is merited this right.’  He grimaced, feeling the true weight and severity of his situation. 

Another flash of lightening illuminated the stone corridor.  Its brilliance rendering him momentarily blind.  Outside, the trees stood tall and silent, for even the wind dared not brave the impending storm.  Legolas set his face into stony countenance, squared his shoulders, and moved forward.  Very rarely was he bothered by lack of an Elvish companion or two, for his journeys had taken him far and wide.   Yet now he discovered himself feeling strangely foreign and insecure.  It was a feeling he did not like.    

He continued his journey, traversing the corridors and stairwells with all Elven tact and stealth in the direction Arwen had instructed.  At length he came to the darkened doors of Aragorn’s study.  He mentally repeated her instructions:  “The doors shall most likely be locked.”  Ducking into the doorframe, he gave the knob an experimental turn, all the while on the alert for any approaching guards.  As Arwen had predicted, the doors held fast.  “There is a window at the far end of the hall.  It is heavy, but should open without much difficulty.”  He cautiously stuck his head out from underneath the stoop and spotted the window.  His longs legs reached it in a matter of seconds.

Again, Arwen’s words proved true: the window opened outward with a gentle push.  Legolas nimbly climbed onto the windowsill, watching the lightening as it whipped across the pitch-black sky and reflected eerily in the pond and fountains several stories below.  Thunder was soon to follow, cracking so loudly it caused the windowpanes to rattle.  Legolas gritted his teeth and sought out crevices to grasp, lest he fall and was dashed to pieces on the battlements.

Unfortunately, shutting the window from the outside was a much more difficult task.  Balancing precariously on footholds in the ancient tower wall, the Elf grasped the cumbersome window with both hands and strained to pull it shut.           

*            *            *

Captain Haier and his Second-in-Command, a grizzled man by the name of Urol, patrolled the palace corridors with the pace and ease of those who could walk their appointed paths even in sleep.  “‘Tis a strange and fell night,” commented Urol in a barely audible whisper.  “One that does not bode well.  I feel it in my bones.”  Like most veteran soldiers, Urol was a highly superstitious man.

“Nay,” responded Haier quietly, “It is the rain you feel in your bones.  Nothing more.”

Urol’s chuckle was almost lost amidst a booming peal of thunder.  “Come now, friend,” he said.  “Surely you cannot deny that something is amiss.”  He held his arm up to Haier’s face in the murky darkness.  “Look, the hair on my arms is standing on end and I am not even chilled!”

Haier shook his head.  “You know I take no stock in such fancies of the mind.  They do nothing but serve to distract one from his duty.”

Urol rubbed the pommel of his sword with his palm; an act, he believed, which ensured good luck and security.  “They say the dead roam these halls during nights as this.”

Haier’s snort was swallowed up by the muting darkness.  “Do not laugh,” Urol continued as they rounded the corner.  “‘Tis true.  Old Thaker used to see his brother Tellen.  Held full conversations with the fellow and—“

The two guards came to an abrupt halt.  “By the Valar,” breathed Urol, viciously rubbing his sword pommel. 

Haier scowled.  “It is just an open window, Urol.”  He strode towards it, cursing as he jumped when thunder clapped unexpectedly.  He reached the window, and leaning out over the ledge, yanked it shut.

*                *                  *

Legolas nearly cried out in shock and lost his footing when the guard suddenly appeared in the window.  He swiftly grasped the intricate stone carvings above and stood, body splayed and frozen, as Haier’s face came within inches of his shin. Had he not been wearing the dusky Lothlórien cloak, or had there been the slightest puff of wind, he would have surely been seen.  Thankfully, Fate was merciful, and Captain Haier caught but a glimpse of shimmering grey--which he attributed to the clouds and lightening, and promptly dismissed.

Bracing his back against the tower wall, Legolas willed his pounding heart to calm.  That had been close, a little too close for his liking.  He looked warily to the inky sky.  The lightening and thunder had compromised his sight and hearing capabilities.

A tiny ledge, no wider than the heel of his foot, jutted out and traveled around the tower wall.  Legolas began the painstaking task of inching his way towards the Study window.  The feat would have been impossible for any man to accomplish, and proved somewhat difficult for even an Elf.  The sudden flashes of lightening and accompanying blasts of thunder made matters worse.  Legolas closed his eyes and plastered himself against the wall as the ancient tower shook under the rolling thunder.  ‘I pray Gimli’s belief in stone holds true,’ he thought wanly.  ‘For at the moment I find little comfort in their quakes.’

It seemed an eternity passed before he reached the study window.  Swinging himself around to face it, his nimble fingers quickly sought out the tiny opening betwixt glass and frame.  Arwen had left a tiny object between the window and its frame, effectively propping it open.

  The scent of rain was beginning to taint the air, though the clouds stubbornly refused to release their burden as of yet.  Legolas felt as though he were trying to breathe through oil, and very nearly choked.  He muttered a quiet oath as his knuckles scraped the chalky tower wall.  He shook his stinging hand angrily, then returned to the task at hand with renewed fury.  ‘I have not come this far to turn back!’

Ignoring the uncomfortable pinch of the heavy glass pane, he worked his hand underneath it and began to pull outward.  At last his efforts were rewarded and the window slowly opened.  He jammed half of his body into the opening and pushed.  It gave way and he ducked into the study, crouching gracefully upon the windowsill.  Lightening reflected off the object Arwen had used to prop open the window.  Legolas almost smiled.  He tenderly picked up the leaf broach of Lórien, gift of Galadriel, and deposited it into his pocket.  Pausing to make sure the window had shut properly, he leapt down and landed silently upon the floor.

Despite the murky darkness and blinding flashes of lightening, his Elven sight proved useful.  He sought out Aragorn’s tattered upholstered chair and quickly found it.  “Under the chair, beneath the stone,” he muttered quietly, shaking his head.  Of all the possible hiding places in Minas Tirith, Aragorn had chosen a rock.  Legolas made a mental note to reprimand the man for this, when they were on speaking terms again.  That was, if they ever were on speaking terms again.  He dropped to all fours and began running his hand over the floor beneath the chair.  “Ah, and here we are!”

The ill-fitting stone came away with little effort, and Legolas suddenly found himself staring at the exquisite wooden box.  He wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked back on his heels, exhaling slowly.  ‘Courage, do not fail me now,’ he silently begged.  In one fluid motion, he grabbed the box and stood up.  All he must do now was flee.

And yet he could not.  His legs refused to move, rooted to the ground as though trees, and his heart had taken up the cry of “Traitor!”  He could not do such a thing to Aragorn.  His heart simply would not allow it.  He had followed Aragorn to the very pit of Evil itself, and would have gladly sacrificed his life for the man.  They had laughed together, cried together, and bled for one another.  Aragorn’s joys and tragedies were his, and his were Aragorn’s. 

Legolas gripped the box until he felt the wood begin to give way.  Perhaps Aragorn was right.  Perhaps the jewel could stay in Gondor for a while longer... ‘Stop,’ he ordered.  ‘Nay, there is no other way and well do you know this!  Well does Arwen know this; she has gone to great lengths to ensure success.'  He stared at the box.  The Silmaril no longer belonged to the races of Middle-earth, he had stated so himself. 

“It is but a stone,” he softly said aloud.  “A stone that has no owner, save the Light of Valinor.”  It was a jewel of legend, and belonged in the past.  Terrible, burning curiosity suddenly overcame the youngest son of Thranduil, a curiosity that had no business rearing its troublesome head.  Before he knew it, Legolas had opened the box and was staring in rapture at the star-like jewel nestled within the box’s soft lining.

Legolas’ breath caught in his throat as he held the smooth gemstone in his hand, its weight heavy and warm.  He closed his eyes as an involuntary shudder surged through his frame.  Images he had only heard of in song or story sprang to life before his very eyes:  there was Fëanor, great and formidable, holding the Silmarils up to the light as he examined his craft amid glowing embers and metals of the forge.  Fierce pride coursed through Legolas as though he had wrought them himself.  The vision rippled and blurred, and then he stood watching as a figure enshrouded in a blackened cloak of hatred and greed sprang from the shadows.  A dark-haired Elf lie still upon the floor; skin as white as marble and bathed in a pool of crimson blood...  Great ships manned by grim-faced lords, standing tall and imposing despite the pitch and roll of the decks beneath them...  An Elven maiden, more enchanting than twilight itself, danced among the trees.  Arwen?  Nay, it could only be Lúthien...  And finally, an Elf lord once tall and proud, now wretched and tainted, stumbling blindly over the land as he sobbed in agony.  The stone—ai! how it burned and scorched his hands!

A ragged sob escaped unknowingly from Legolas as he clutched the Silmaril.  Tears ran down the archer’s face as he watched the tormented lord draw nearer to the edge of a sharp cliff.  The Sea sang out seductively, her waves crashing against the rocks as she rolled her liquid hips, sending crystalline drops of spray playfully into the air.  And then, it was Legolas, not the Noldo lord, who stood over the precipice.  It was Legolas who looked down from the dizzying heights.  How brightly the sun shone upon the land!  He felt as though his heart would shatter to pieces; he loved life—wanted to live—so much so that it ached.  But the jewel burned so excruciatingly, and the call of the Sea was so soothing.  It pulled at him from every point, and he felt as though he had somehow become a part of the ocean tides and currents.  The Sea promised to embrace him, she promised to hold him and cradle him as the mother he barely remembered had done. 

Burning... his hands were burning as though he held raw flame within them.  The Silmaril flickered and shimmered, taunting him.  Legolas’s face contorted in despair as his body and soul screamed in agony.  He sucked in a final, ragged breath of salty air, knowing it would be his last.  His feet left the earth, the emerald greens and the deep browns, and then there was only the water beneath him: grey and flat and hard as steel.  The briny wind buffeted him momentarily, and then he plummeted downward.

“What are you doing?”

Legolas, his senses reeling, cried out in shock.  His eyes flew open and the vision before him was dashed--distorted as though someone had thrown a pitcher of water onto a canvas brushed with watercolor paints.  The Elf’s slender frame shook violently as he desperately sought to grasp hold of reality.  He was jarred back to the present when his knees met the cold stone of the floor with a painful crack.

Aragorn made no move to help the Elf to his feet.  The King of Gondor watched, too confused to act, as Legolas rested shuddering on all fours, hair quaking and jerking around his shoulders as he tried to slow his ragged breaths.  Aragorn’s Silmaril was clenched tightly within his hand. 

“Would you care to explain yourself, son of Thranduil?”  His quiet words amplified tenfold in the pressing silence.  Though not unkind, the slightest hint of suspicion bordered his query.  Aragorn had not only caught the Elf unawares, but vulnerable as well.  It was unlike Legolas to leave himself so exposed.  Aragorn was completely at a loss as to what he should think or how he should react.

Legolas took several deep breaths and sat upright, knees folded underneath him.  The serene gracefulness of his kind instinctually took over, a gift the Elf was immediately grateful for.  “Aragorn,” he murmured.  “You startled me.”  He was glad the man was at his back and could not see his face, which told far too much.

“So it would appear.”  Aragorn’s nagging suspicion grew, though he fervently prayed the Elf had a plausible explanation for the situation.  “You still have not answered my question.” 

Legolas remained silent, searching for the words which usually flowed so smoothly from his lips.  The proud Elf had never been one to lie, and knew Aragorn would not be fooled if he began to do so now.  His silence, floating heavily in the thick air, said what his mouth could not, his unspoken words too loud for Aragorn to ignore.

Aragorn felt as though he had been slapped.  “By the Valar, son of Thranduil!  Please tell me you have not taken to stealing as would a common thief!”  He suddenly wished Legolas would lie to him.  He didn’t care.  He was willing to believe whatever the Elf said, if only to avoid the pain of truth.  Legolas must have been curious and decided to see the jewel for himself.  Legolas would never attempt to steal his—Gondor’s—most valuable possession.

Aragorn inhaled sharply and watched as the Elf’s back and shoulders tightened slightly.  The movement itself was barely perceptible, but did not go unnoticed by the dark-haired king.  “Stand up and face me,” he ordered.  Anger began to mount and was quickly replacing his shock. 

Legolas rose to his feet and turned to face the man without protest.  His eyes were masked and unreadable, and he rested them unwavering upon Aragorn.  “Perhaps you will heed my words now, Elessar.” 

Aragorn’s jaw tightened at the Elf’s tone.  Legolas had not spoken to him as such since their first meeting countless years ago.  Under any other circumstance Aragorn would have laughed at the prince’s uncanny resemblance to his father.

“Heed your words?” cried Aragorn incredulously.  Legolas stiffened.  “You who would go foolishly capering off into the night with what is the greatest treasure of Middle-earth and the pride of Valinor?  You, who would steal this treasure, no less?”

“It must be returned to the Sea!”

“Heed MY words, you arrogant fool!” Aragorn roared, allowing the anger to take control.  Legolas, as he had been trained to do when threatened, unconsciously shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to flee--or attack--if necessary.  “Think you I cannot see this for myself?  The coast is overrun with corsairs and reports from South Harad come as a flurry of dire warnings.  To journey to the sea is to ride straight into the cold hands of Death itself!”

“If the Silmaril is not removed from Gondor, Umbar will flock here as flies to a carcass.”

Aragorn threw up his hands.  “They do not know of the jewel!”

“You cannot be sure of this.”

Aragorn glowered while Legolas remained infuriatingly cool and collected.  “No,” spat the king.  “I cannot.  But of this I am certain—you, Legolas Greenleaf, of all souls, should not journey anywhere near the vicinity of the sea.  How would you return the Silmaril when you yourself can barely control the Sea’s power over you?”

“You know naught of what you speak!”  Legolas’ eyes flashed dangerously.  Aragorn met the cutting Elven gaze with one of his own.

“I do not?  No, of course I cannot experience it as you do.  But I see what it does to you; I have seen what it has done to others.  I know you suffer and that they suffered.  And therein lies my pain, for I can do nothing to ease it.  If you will not believe my words, ask Gimli.  He is pained as I am, perhaps even more so.”  Legolas’ glare wavered slightly and Aragorn almost thought he saw the Elf flinch.    

Legolas clenched the stone even tighter within his hand, feeling its polished edges embed into his palm.  “I brought it upon myself, Aragorn.  I knew of the Lady’s words, yet did not heed them.  Do not feel sorry for me.  I am not helpless and I do not ask for pity!”

“I do not seek to give you pity, Legolas.  And I do not think you weak.”  He held out his hand.  “But you would not be able to overcome the Sea’s calling.  We both know this.  Please, return the jewel to me.”  Aragorn could see the Elf’s eyes flickering as he warred within himself.  “Please.”  Thunder rumbled loudly in the distance.

Legolas closed his eyes and shook his head.  Thranduil’s words again echoed through his mind.  He opened his eyes; head cleared and resolve strengthened.  Aragorn still held out his hand.  Legolas stared at it, then looked down at his own hand, which was clutching the jewel as a drowning man clings to his capsized vessel. 

“No.”

Aragorn started.  “What?”

“No.”  Legolas drew his mouth into a thin line and his bright eyes grew sharp.  “If I return this stone to you, Aragorn, it will only remain here.  You cannot take it to the Sea—you are far too attached to it.  Do not deny it.”  Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and did not.  “Arwen cannot take it.  She is needed here.”  He made no mention of her involvement in the matter, sensing no good would come of it.  “We cannot ask any of the Elf lords to take it, for by the time they reached Gondor news of the jewel will have already spread across the land.  The corsairs, if they do not know of the Silmaril already, will certainly know by then.”  He sighed and spoke with a quiet, steely resolve.  “Therefore, the task falls unto me.”

 “I cannot let you.  I will not let you.”  Aragorn’s hand wrapped instinctively over the hilt of his sword. 

“You cannot protect me, Aragorn,” hissed Legolas, fire burning in his eyes.  “We have no other choice!”

 “I will not let you go foolishly to your death, Legolas.”  Aragorn shook his head and slowly unsheathed Andúril.  A sickening metallic shiver wavered in the night air, receding into the shadows.  “I will do all in my power to prevent you from leaving this room.”  The sword tip pointed unmoving at the Elf’s throat. 

Legolas stood tall and straight, though Aragorn sensed his body had tensed.  “Drop your sword, Elessar.”  His tone was soft and deadly.  Aragorn suppressed a shiver.  “I do not wish to hurt you.”

“You already have.” Lightening glinted white off the sword of Elendil.  Aragorn’s tone grew harsh.  “To be betrayed by one of those closest to you inflicts far greater damage than any blade could ever do, Legolas.” 

“So speaks the one who holds his sword against the throat of his companion.”

Two pairs of eyes, one cold and bright, one grey and determined, locked and held fast.  Outside, the clouds began to gather in the thick air and lightening raced across the sky in blue and white veins.  Thunder rumbled ominously, seeming to erupt from the very bowels of the earth.  The King of Gondor and Elven lord of Ithilien remained oblivious to all except each other. 

*              *                  *

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

A/N:  My sincerest gratitude to you reviewers!   :)   I decided to test out the Author Reply button on this site, so we'll see how that works...  :) 

* A little note:  Because credit is due where it is deserved.  In ‘The Hunting Trip’ by Ithilien (I could go on and on from here, and then mention several other positively incredible authors, but that would completely take us away from the point of this), Ithilien makes mention of Gimli being viewed as a bit of an oddity among his own kind.  I found myself very intrigued by such an idea, as I’ve always thought Gimli could be the Bilbo Baggins of the Dwarves.  To give the poor guy some angst of his own, I’ve gone with a slight “He’s A War Hero But Off His Rocker” twist.  Plus it serves as a nice background for a light-hearted scene in later chapters concerning a female Dwarf, Rìs.

*          *               *

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~ Chapter 10:  The Night Unleashed  ~

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It came; the split second before the floodgates burst, when thunder ceased to crack and lightening no longer split the storm-bruised sky.  Air was greedily sucked up by the shadows.  Even the pounding hearts of the Man and Elf could not be heard.  Time no longer existed and all came to a standstill.

The storm quelled against itself: winds, lightening, thunder, and rain slowly building, pressing, against the heavy clouds and inky sky.  The pressure grew until the night could no longer contain it.

And then the storm broke.

Legolas rolled back, dropping the stone to the floor.  He sprang forth as thunder shook the land to its very core, shuddering through foundation and tree trunk.  Lightening ripped the sky in two, releasing a furious rain and wind as Aragorn spun forward and tried to catch the Elf with the flat edge of his blade.  Legolas ducked and grabbed the man’s sword arm in one motion, using Aragorn’s momentum to his advantage.  Aragorn was unable to counter such a quick response and suddenly discovered his back to the Elf, sword hand useless in Legolas’ vice-like grip.  He never saw Legolas reach for the glittering Elven knife.  Lightening flashed as its pommel met the base of his skull; then all went black.

A sickening crack echoed throughout the room and Narsil clattered to the floor.  Legolas caught the former Ranger as he sagged and collapsed.  The Elf could do naught but stare at the limp form in his arms.  The man’s head lolled to the side and rested trustingly against his shoulder; Legolas could feel the steady drumming of Aragorn’s heart and the gentle rise and fall of the man’s chest as he breathed.  He seemed frail and innocent as a sleeping child.  Tiny rivulets of blood spilled down the man’s neck and stained the shoulder of Legolas’ tunic-- blood from a wound by his hand.  Legolas continued to stare in mute horror.  What had he done?  Thunder growled and lightening flashed white across the sky.  “Forgive me...  Forgive me...” the Elf repeated over and over again, his voice hoarse and pleading.

Legolas did not know he had slid to the floor, still cradling Aragorn within in his arms, until gentle hands on either side of his face and a soft voice pulled him from his numbed shock.

“Legolas!  Hurry, Little Brother, you must flee!”  Arwen’s grey eyes captured his as she held his face within her hands.  He could see the fear in her eyes, though she did her best to mask it.

“Arwen, I...  he...”  He searched her face desperately, seeking some form of reassurance. 

Arwen gave his forearm a gentle squeeze and gathered her fallen husband into her arms.  She tenderly brushed away the dark hair from the former Ranger’s neck and began examining his wound.  “Fly, Legolas,” she whispered, eyes still bent on the prone form of Aragorn.  “You must fly to Gimli.”

“Gimli?”  Legolas asked numbly, unable to tear his gaze away from the unconscious king.

“It is the most obvious course of action for you to take.  It will show him you do not wish to flee —that you have nothing to hide.”

Lightening caused the jewel to spark as Legolas bent to retrieve it from the floor.  Its weight seemed to have increased by tenfold as he placed it into the pouch about his waist.  The burden was now his to carry alone.  He fervently prayed he had the strength to do so. 

He cast a final glance over his shoulder ere he fled for the stables.  Arwen remained bowed over the prone form of Aragorn, their two bodies appearing sharp and angular in the white flashes of lightening.

*           *           *

Findalen nickered warmly and nuzzled the Elf’s shoulder.  “We must depart, swift one,” Legolas whispered shakily.  He entwined his slender fingers into the horse’s mane and leapt upon Findalen’s sleek back.  Sensing great agitation within his rider, the horse galloped into the pounding night without protest.  

From the moment he struck Aragorn, Legolas felt as though operating under an inner control he did not know he possessed.  His mind had yet to register what occurred within Aragorn’s study, but he welcomed the numbness for it meant he did not have to face the emotional consequence of his actions.

*        *           *

The wind howled and bellowed ceaselessly.  Sometimes there was a driving rain; sometimes hail.  Occasionally his path would be nothing more than a quagmire of mud and grime, but always the storm came to block the sun or moon with its bruised clouds, blinding lightening, and earth-shattering thunder.  Legolas rode frantically onward in a stupefied haze, oblivious to everything save the notion he must reach Gimli, and soon.

*        *           *

Several loud knocks at the chamber door startled Gimli from his slumber.  He groaned as he picked his head up off the desk—it was the third time in as many days he had fallen asleep while at work.  Grimacing, he called to whomever it was at his door while attempted to massage the giant kink out of his neck.

A copper-haired Dwarf only five years younger than himself, bearing an old mining lunch pail and lantern, came bustling in.  “You nodded off again.  I thought as much.”  The Dwarf shook her head and muttered something about sleep deprivation and Elves.  “Here, I brought you your supper.  The others have long since retired and I’ll not have you wasting away.”  She turned and shot Gimli a scrutinizing look as she set the pail on the floor next to him.  “Not that there is any danger of that.”

One of Gimli’s bushy eyebrows shot up.  “I thank you for your concern, Rìs, though in the future please refrain from calling me fat.”

“Of course, my Lord,” the maiden responded off-hand.  She busied herself at the room’s large fireplace-- stoking the fire, which had long since died away.  “If you freeze to death, Gimli, it will not matter whether the blueprints are finished on time.”

Gimli grunted as he took a swig of ale.  “Éomer expects them by next month, and he shall have them by next month.  Aaah, I see you have brought some of Lór’s soup.”  He rubbed his hands together in delight before reaching into the pail and grabbing the thermos of soup.   

Pouring some of the hot liquid into the thermos lid, he blew on it before bringing the steaming cup to his lips.  Rìs finished poking at the fire and came to lean against the side of his desk.  She reached for one of the blueprints and frowned while examining it.

“They appear in order to me,” stated the Dwarf maiden.  “Mithril and steel composition.  I see you are using Thror’s framework.  He always did have a flare for the intricate metal weavings.  Some claimed he was too elaborate, but I always found them pleasing to look at.”

“Yes,” muttered Gimli, stroking his beard.  “It is the weavings that give me the most trouble.  I cannot seem to think of a suitable design for the section above the transverse rod here.”  The Dwarf pointed to a spot on the parchment, which appeared to have been erased several times over.

Rìs squinted at the spot.  “Why not use the same one as that on the gate you made for King Elessar of Gondor?”

Gimli shook his head.  “I cannot put it on both gates.”

“It would save you much time,” protested Rìs. “And neither King will be the wiser for it.”

“But I would.  And besides, Rohan does not use the symbol of the Tree.” 

Rìs snorted.  “It is just a tree!  I think perhaps you have spent far too much time than is healthy in the company of your strange Elf.  Last week you tried to convince me your dreams were a forewarning of some evil, and now you claim there is significance in a tree.”  The copper-haired Dwarf shook her head sympathetically.  “You are an odd one, Gimli.  They say--”  She broke off and merely shook her head again.

Gimli sighed.  He knew what ‘they’ said.  It was whispered that his travels had left him tainted, that a powerful Elven witch had cast a spell upon him.  And then there was his friendship with Legolas, which even he could not fully explain the nuances of.  He knew the Elves viewed it as a charming curiosity, for Legolas was still young and could not be faulted for the impulsive, childish fancies of his heart.  Gimli sometimes got the impression, especially from the fair folk of Eryn Lasgalen, that he was seen as Legolas’ exotic pet. 

At least the Elves accepted him, for the most part.  That was more than he could say of his own kin. 

They revered him for the great war hero he was, though it was with sympathetic respect.  He knew they pitied him for what he had become, and Gimli hated it.  He hated the way they spoke of him—as though his sanity had somehow been lost upon the battlefield.  He had lost his prejudices on the battlefield, not his mind, and in return gained a wisdom seldom reached amongst his kind. 

Perhaps, had circumstances been different, he would have one day married Rìs.  She was fairly pretty, as far as Dwarven standards went, and came from a wealthy family.  They would have made a good match, and Gimli knew his father Glóin would have been pleased to be a grandfather.  Yet Gimli realized his experiences had made him far older than his years; at times he felt downright ancient.  He could no longer view the world in simple terms of black and white, right and wrong, as was the Dwarves’ wont.  In this aspect, Rìs was but a child.  She, as all female Dwarves, would never travel above ground and see Middle-earth for the complex shades of grey and semi-rights or slightly-wrongs it was. 

It saddened Gimli to realize he would never again have the privilege of a mate or close friend among his own kind.  Each of the Fellowship had sacrificed something along the way, some more than others.  Gimli had given up his place amongst the Dwarves.

The two Dwarves debated over various different designs for the gate, and would have continued well into dawn, had not a second knock at Gimli’s door interrupted them.

“Come in,” called Gimli, his voice tempered with annoyance.  Rìs had just sarcastically remarked he ought to rework Éomer’s gate with flower stems and blades of grass.

A black-bearded Dwarf, wearing a tough leather jerkin underneath a heavy coat of mail, and the thick cape of an outer tunnel guard, stuck his rain-swept face through the door.  “Lord Gimli?” he asked again, shaking the rainwater from his eyes.

“Yes?” answered Gimli, pulling the blueprint in question from Rìs’ hands before she could make another mocking suggestion as to the gate’s design.

The Dwarf sniffed.  “You, ah, have a guest, my Lord.”

“At this hour of the night?” Rìs picked up the empty thermos and screwed the cap back on.  “Who in his right mind would be about in such weather?  And at this time of night, no less!”

The Dwarven guard made a face.  Gimli recognized it immediately: it was the look he always received when Legolas arrived.

He quickly strode to the door.  ‘So, he finally comes to apologize for his ridiculous behavior,’ mused the Dwarf. ‘Though he could have waited until morning.  Then again, this is Legolas I speak of, and he is prone to impulsiveness more so than any I know.’

“I suspect Legolas is waiting at the Caves’ entrance?” asked Gimli as he, Rìs, and the guard walked down the cavern tunnel.

The black-bearded guard shook his head.  “No.  The Elf is in the Main Cavern.”  There was slight disdain in his words.  Rìs pulled a face.

Gimli blinked and nearly stopped walking.  “What?”  To the best of his knowledge, Legolas had yet to overcome his claustrophobia.  “He is in the Main Cavern?  He came freely?”

“Yes,” responded the guard somewhat sourly.  “We did not beat him and drag him down here as you might think.”  He gulped and quickly offered an apology in response to the look Gimli leveled upon him.

Gimli dismissed the two at the main cavern doors, ignoring the whispering voices, which bounced off the walls and reached his ears as Rìs and the guard walked down the hallway.

“Well strike the hot iron,” he exclaimed as he strode into the spacious cavern.  “If it isn’t the arrogant, flighty, tree-hopping Elf come to—“  The Dwarf stopped abruptly when he noticed the appearance of his friend.

Elves were immaculate by nature, and Legolas was no exception.  Yet there sat the son of Thranduil: rain-slicked and plastered with mud, hair hanging in wet knots while his slender frame shook uncontrollably.  Gimli could feel the cavern’s cheery atmosphere wither and curl like burning leaves as the Elf’s mood touched all.   “Legolas?” inquired the Dwarf, his voice colored by concern.  “My friend, what ails you?” 

He inhaled sharply as the haggard Elf lifted his head and pinned his gaze upon the Dwarf.  Try as he might, Gimli could not long endure the anguish they held.  ‘Mahal,’ he thought in alarm, ‘I have not seen such a look since Gandalf’s fall at Khazad-dûm.’  He approached the shaking Elf and placed a calloused, albeit gentle, hand upon his friend’s shoulder.  “Let us first clean you up, Master Elf, and then you shall tell me what so troubles you.”  He took hold of Legolas’ arm and pulled the Elf to his feet. 

‘Perhaps there has been a death,’ thought Gimli as he marched through the winding tunnels of the Glittering Caves.  His stomach clenched at the thought.  He had seen enough bloodshed and destruction to last his lifetime and beyond.  He paused to glance over his shoulder.  Legolas followed him, head bowed in listless defeat, allowing Gimli to lead him forth by the hand.  Gimli cleared his throat.  “Master Elf, we shall soon reach the bathing pools.  I trust I need not watch over you while you rinse?”

He watched the trembling Elf expectantly, hoping Legolas would lift his head and reply in turn with a jibe of his own.  He did not. 

Gimli tried again.  “I would be most concerned were you to accidentally drown.  I fear you may mistake the blueness of the water for that of the sky and attempt to breathe it while you...” he trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.  “Legolas.  Legolas, look at me.”

The haggard Elf at last lifted his head and regarded Gimli in woeful silence.  In the soft light of the lanterns lining the cave walls, he appeared even more tattered and beaten.  “I know not what has occurred,” spoke the Dwarf in gruff, soft tones, “but no harm shall come to you while I stand at your side.  On my life do I promise you this.”  There was a tiny flicker in Legolas’ eyes, though what it was Gimli could not say.  He cleared his throat and turned to the small stone archway in front of them, embarrassed at showing such heartfelt emotions.

“The bathing pools are just down this corridor.”  He removed a lantern from the wall and held it forth to illuminate the passage.  It was wide enough for two Dwarves to squeeze by one another, if one pressed against the wall.  Its height left much to be desired: a taller Dwarf might find himself ducking as he walked along.  Smudges of black dust were smeared along the walls, traces of hard-days’ work in the mines.  The corridor contained all the beauty of a hastily constructed tunnel; Dwarves viewed bathing as a necessary task and nothing more.  They found no need to decorate or add “useless pomp and frills” to the undertaking.

One glance back at Legolas, elven eyes wide in unmasked terror, caused Gimli to wonder whatever had made him think the Elf would willingly enter such a place.  ‘It is enough that he managed to enter the Caves in such a state,’ the Dwarf silently berated himself, ‘and now I attempt to shove him down this old coal chute!’  It dawned on him that Legolas’ shivering was borne out of emotional strain and not of cold.  “Let us instead go directly to my quarters,” he hastily suggested.  “I will set up a more comfortable arrangement.”

Placing the lantern back in its place on the wall, he again took the Elf’s hand and the two turned back to the main cavern.

Gimli bade Rìs help him, and the two Dwarves borrowed a newly forged cauldron from Flàin the Ironworker, hoping Flàin would not notice its disappearance.  They carried the heavy iron pot to Gimli’s quarters and filled it with hot water.  As it was intended for mixing various alloys, which in turn were poured into molds for the crafting of support beams, the great cauldron was large enough for a single Elf prince to bathe in.

Rìs bustled and fussed over the listless Elf, even going so far as attempting to wash and brush his tangled hair.  However, the hot water seemed to return some of Legolas’ lost faculties, and he promptly waived her off—though in a manner rather unbecoming of an Elf lord.

“Thank you, Rìs,” called Gimli as the slighted Dwarf left the room in a huff.  He turned to his friend, who sat huddled in the center of the room wrapped in several towels.  “I thought I detected a few choice words of the Rohirrim in that last sentence.  Éomer would be most impressed, though you always did have a gift with languages.”

Legolas stared at the crackling flames dancing in the fireplace and said nothing.  “Confound you, Elf,” cried Gimli in exasperation.  “You will not continue to mope around!  I have tolerated your behavior thus far, and now it is only fair you offer me some form of explanation!”

Wordlessly springing to his feet, Legolas retrieved the pouch he had carried with him from Gondor.  Undoing the drawstring, he turned it upside down and allowed the contents to spill to the floor.  Gimli’s jaw dropped as Galadriel’s leaf broach and the Silmaril hit the floor and bounced to his feet. 

The Dwarf picked up the jewel and stared at it in disbelief.  It had been cut and polished to utter perfection; he had never before seen such an exquisite piece and doubted he ever would again.  “Legolas,” he gasped.  “Where on Arda did you find such a specimen?  The craftsmanship is flawless.  See how the light hits it from every angle?  It almost appears as though it is glowing.”  He shook his head in ecstatic disbelief and held the stone closer to his eyes, squinting.  “In fact,” he muttered, “I almost believe it is glowing.”

“It is a Silmaril,” Legolas replied hoarsely.  “I did not ‘find’ it...  I... I took it from Aragorn.”  Gimli’s head came up sharply.  Legolas’ face contorted in painful effort as he continued to speak.  “He refused to relinquish it, and so I, I had to...  He drew his blade and so I was forced to...”

Speaking of the incident suddenly made it real.  Legolas felt his mouth grow dry and the bottom of his stomach drop out as his words caused the numbness to vanish. 

Gimli held his washbasin in front of the son of Thranduil as the quaking Elf heaved and wretched.    

*            *                 *

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

A/N:  A slight warning to the squeamish in this chapter!  (It’s not too bad.)

I’m also assuming that others don’t know about Legolas’ sea longing.  It’s a sensitive issue and I don’t think he would speak about it to everyone he meets.

Happy Reading!

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~ Chapter 11:  Foresight ~

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Bergil dashed through the hallway, hastily shoving an arm into the black Citadel Guard tunic as he ran.  It took exactly twelve minutes for him to reach the Citadel post from his quarters.  Twelve minutes, which meant if he woke up half an hour before his watch, he could afford to drift off for another thirteen minutes of slumber.  This, in turn, left him with exactly five minutes to throw on his garments, splash a bit of water onto his face, and run.

The plan left Bergil with a sense that he had somehow “cheated” and grabbed a few extra minutes of sleep.  It worked marvelously--except on the rare occasions when he fell back into deep slumber.  Today was one such occasion.

‘Captain Haier shall have my head!’  Bergil groaned inwardly.  Why must his quarters be situated outside the inner ring of the city?  Would it have been that much more difficult for the city’s maker to build an extra room or two right next to the Citadel? 

The resounding clang of sword upon shield floated up from the courtyard below; the novices had already begun practice.  The fresh scent of morning was quickly giving way to the dusty heat of day.  Bergil moaned and ran faster.

“Move your feet, Etunim!”   “Good!  And one! two! three! thrust!”  “Back! two! three! block!”  “Sall!  Do not lock your elbow unless you wish to break your arm!”

The son of Beregond leapt down the stairwell, taking the stairs three at a time.  Two patrolling foot soldiers, Rendur and Caben, barely managed to press themselves against the wall as he flew by.  “Morning, Bergil,” Caben called lazily. 

Bergil hastily grunted in reply as he reached the bottom of the stairs.  He threw his shoulder into the door, and was startled to discover it refused to budge.  He tried again.  The door stayed.  “What is the meaning of this?  Who ordered these doors to be locked?”  The young guard cried out in frustration and pushed against the door with all his might.  Rendur and Caben exchanged amused glances and paused to watch.  “Open!” cried Bergil as he strained against the door’s unyielding weight. 

Rendur cleared his throat.  “Ah, Bergil?”

Bergil kicked the door and turned to glare at the two soldiers.  He was already working up a sweat and the day had barely dawned.  “If you two would stop standing there and help me unlock this door,” he panted angrily and continued pushing.

“Bergil.”

“WHAT?”

Rendur and Caben again exchanged an amused glance.  “Pull.”

Bergil blinked. 

“The door,” Caben instructed.  “Pull, don’t push.”

Bergil reached down and gave the handle an experimental tug.  The door opened smoothly. 

He tried to ignore the stifled laughter as he charged into the bright morning sunlight.

'I am late, I am late, I am late...'  The words pounded over and over again in his head with each step he took.  What was Captain Haier going to do to him when he realized Bergil’s absence?  A double shift?  Demotion?  ‘That is highly unlikely as I already hold the lowest rank.’  Bergil was unsure if the thought brought him comfort or not.

He swiftly turned the corner and ran straight into a smaller body.  The young guard reeled backwards and managed to grab onto a heavy wall hanging before he completely fell over.  The poor lady he hit was not nearly so lucky.  With a cry of distress, she landed on the stone floor in a heap, her fine green dress wrinkled and dusty beneath her. 

“Sorry!  I am so sorry!”  An extremely flustered Bergil hastily offered a hand to the woman he had just flattened.  “Please forgive me, my Lady.”

A worn, rugged hand--that of one accustom to hard manual labor no well-bred Lady of Gondor would dare partake in--quickly latched on to his.  Bergil looked to the woman’s face in surprise as she pulled herself up from the ground and pushed back her disheveled hair.

He cried out in shock and involuntarily attempted to yank his hand away.  Deeply scabbed gouges ran down the woman’s face in long ribbons.  Her eyelids were swollen shut; so tightly plastered to her face it looked as though the bruised and scabbed lids had been fused together.  There was a wetness to them, though, and a continuous flow of fluid leaked from them.

The hideous face smiled at him, causing the corners of the eyelids to crack and produce more fluid.  Bergil’s stomach flopped like a wet piece of leather.  He was suddenly glad he hadn’t had time to eat breakfast. 

“Please excuse me.”  The face sneered.  “I do not look my best in the morning and I have yet to ‘paint my face.’”  Its tone was so sarcastic and bitter Bergil was unsure of how to respond.  The young guard swallowed wanly and wished it would let go of his hand.

The hideous face seemed to grow annoyed by his horrified silence.  “Take me to the king,” it demanded.

Bergil nearly choked.  “To--what?”  His mind was reeling and his stomach still gave the odd sickening flop.  His experience of gruesome wounds lay in only the accidents that had occurred during his training, and they had been limited to minor cuts and bruises.  Perhaps the occasional broken bone was a sight, but nothing as monstrous as the thing standing before him.  What was this?  How did it get into the castle?

The ribboned face growled.  “Take.  Me.  To.  The.  King.”  It stressed the words and squeezed his hand even tighter.

Bergil winced and bared his teeth.  “No!”  He suddenly found his head eye-level and uncomfortably close to the hideous face.  It grabbed his hair between its two capable hands and pulled him near.  Bergil shuddered and tensed.  It was disgusting.  If it didn’t let go of him, he would force it to.

“I have important business with the king, Boy.  Unless, of course, you wish him to hunt down the Elf and reclaim the stone.”  The face released him and Bergil jerked back like a loosened spring.

He rubbed his head and warily eyed the hideous beast.  It had called him “Boy,” which grated him the wrong way.  A closer inspection revealed it could be no older than thirty-five years of age--by no means a child, but definitely unqualified to refer to HIM as a boy.  “How do you know of this?”  He narrowed his eyes and glared at it suspiciously.

“I still have use of my ears,” the deformed woman snapped.  “And these walls have mouths wider than the plains of Rohan.  All know an Elf took the stone from your imbecile king, and that the man intends to go after him!  It is the worst-kept secret in all of Gondor.”

“My Lord has made no plans to hunt down Lord Legolas,” Bergil protested hotly.  Being called “Boy” was bad enough, but insulting his liege was where Bergil drew the line.

The woman sneered, the scarred gouges in her face and purple, wet eyelids only adding more menace to her appearance.  Bergil, however, was too angered to be affected.  “I speak the truth!” he snapped, feeling his outrage at the woman’s audacity grow.  “He only wishes to stop Lord Legolas from journeying to the sea!”

“And why does he do this, Boy?”  Her voice dripped acidic with sarcasm.

Bergil’s face flushed with anger.  “Because, Lord Legolas risks capture and death at the hands of the Corsairs of Umbar if he travels to the sea.”

The ugly woman placed her hands on her hips and snorted contemptuously.  “And an Elf would be foolish enough to wander straight into the arms of the Corsairs?  Forgive me, but tales of the Elder I recall speak of them as highly intelligent, superior beings.”

Bergil remained silent.  As much as he was loath admit it, the woman did have a point.  ‘Nay,’ he told himself, ‘King Elessar is a wise and just king.  He always does what is best.’  Then again, Prince Legolas was certainly capable of handling himself.  Bergil suddenly had an awful, nagging suspicion that one of them was terribly wrong.  But who?  The Lord Prince Legolas could not be wrong, yet neither could the King of Gondor.  They were both not capable of such a thing.

Were they?

It was a concept foreign and altogether unfathomable to Bergil.  Desperately seeking to find a way around the idea, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mouth:  “You are mad.”

The woman threw up her hands and cackled.  “Very good, my dear boy!  Very good!  Yes, I am the crazy woman who talks to her dead child’s doll.”  She blindly tottered towards Bergil.  He took a step back.  “Yet here is where the most interesting question arises:  Why is it that I, Bitaliel the Madwoman, am blind as a bat yet can still see the foolishness of your king, whereas you, Boy, are intent on making yourself blind to his errs?”

“I am late for duty,” Bergil stated flatly.  He turned sharply on his heel.

“Many will suffer if the King follows the Elf.”  Bitaliel’s soft words tapped him on the shoulder, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.  He froze and cast a glance back.  She stood, forlorn and hunched in the hallway; her hands clasped earnestly in front of her.  Morning sunlight bathed her as it streamed in through the windows.  The woman appeared disturbingly sane.

The young guard sighed in resignation and silently berated himself for his soft heart.  “Very well.”  He walked over to her and gently grasped her arm.  “I suppose it matters not.  I am late enough as it is.  Come, let us bandage your eyes and then I shall lead you to the King’s quarters.”

*             *             * 

Aragorn rummaged through the drawer until he found the shirt he was searching for.  He tossed it over his shoulder, where it landed on the bed next to his travel sack.  Arwen stood silently at the window, watching him with reproachful eyes.

He did his best to ignore her.

He pulled out another shirt and two pairs of leggings.  Walking over to the bed, he began angrily stuffing his clothes into the sack.  At last Arwen’s gaze became too much.  “You know I cannot stand it when you look at me that way.”

Arwen blinked serenely.  “I know.”

He slipped on a pair of black leather wrist guards and laced them up.  He could still feel her eyes on his back.  “Then please cease doing so.”  The laces squeaked against the leather as he gave them an ill-tempered tug.

The Queen of Gondor sighed softly and turned her face towards the window.  Much to Aragorn’s chagrin, she began humming a low and mournful tune.

“Are you trying to torture me?  I assure you Arwen, you are succeeding marvelously.”

Arwen opened her mouth to reply, but instead allowed her attention to slip towards the chamber door.  “Come in, Bergil.”

The doors were cautiously pushed open and Bergil entered.  The hunched form of Bitaliel clung to the young man’s arm as he reluctantly moved forward.

“And to what pleasure do we owe this visit?”  Arwen smiled disarmingly at the guard.  He wanly smiled back.

“I come to stop your husband from hunting down the Elf,” Bitaliel said.  Bergil glanced apologetically towards Aragorn.  The King’s face darkened.

“Then you have joined our discussion at precisely the right moment,” Arwen smoothly replied.

“I am not charging after him with the entire force of Gondor by my side,” Aragorn growled.  “I go to stop that foolish Elf from destroying himself!”

“Gimli shall see that he is not harmed.”  Arwen lanced him with a scrutinizing stare.  “And what of the jewel?  What would you do if it fell within your grasp again?”

Aragorn tactfully evaded the question.  “Why is it that you so readily side with Legolas?  Might I remind you of his actions last week?  He stole from Gondor, Arwen.  And he had no qualms against striking me down to accomplish his goal.”

Arwen was silent for several moments as she carefully chose her words.  Bergil and Bitaliel stood in quiet expectation at the doorway.  “You know you speak out of hurt, Estel.”  She watched him lower his grey eyes.  “The Silmaril does not belong to Gondor.”

Bitaliel suddenly spoke from her place by the door.  “This Elf friend of yours, King Elessar--he must deeply care for you.”  She tugged on Bergil’s arm and indicated she wished to move forward. 

“So I had believed,” Aragorn softly replied, his eyes growing distant as faded memories of past battles, Legolas at his side, paraded through his mind.

“And so you should still.”  Bitaliel’s tone brooked no argument.  “Your friend cared enough that he was willing to jeopardize your friendship, so that you and your realm might know peace and safety.  That accursed stone would have been your undoing!”  She pursed her lips and tilted her bandaged face to Aragorn.  He fancied she glared at him.  “Shame on you, King of Gondor!  Shame on you!”

Aragorn stared at the peasant woman in the rumpled green gown.  He had not been reprimanded so since...  Since his own mother was still alive.  He felt less like the King of Gondor and more like a misbehaving child. 

Aragorn caught the slight quirk of Arwen’s lips from the corner of his eye.  Bergil’s eyes were nearly the size of saucers.  The young guard was struck dumb that Bitaliel dared to berate the King in such a manner.  He fidgeted nervously, as was his habit when he found himself in an uncomfortable situation.  The poor lad was undoubtedly regretting his decision to bring the madwoman before the king.

An awkward silence hung over the chambers as fragments of Bitaliel’s last “Shame on you!” dissipated.  Aragorn stared mutely at the disheveled peasant woman, who, sensing his shock, defiantly crossed her arms over her chest and stuck up her chin.  Bergil’s face drained of all color, and he looked to Aragorn as though expecting the man to violently explode at any minute. 

Arwen raised a finely sculpted eyebrow and cocked her head to Aragorn.  Catching his eyes, she gently placed a hand upon her husband’s shoulder.  Her grey eyes held a bemused twinkle as her voice floated clear and musical in the deathly silent room:

“Shame on you.”   

Aragorn shot her a look of exasperation, to which she promptly grinned back.  He shook his head and muttered in irritation, smiling despite his best efforts.  “Can you not allow me to stay properly mad at you, if only for a day?”

Bergil felt the mood of the room shift drastically, though he could not quite grasp how Bitaliel and Arwen managed to do so.  Aragorn still looked angry, but he did not appear on the verge of erupting as he had before.  “Does this mean you shall not ride after Prince Legolas, my Lord?”   

Aragorn tossed his travel sack over one shoulder.  “Nay.  It is still my intention to follow him.”

Bitaliel exhaled loudly and shook her bandaged head in disgust.  “Fool,” she muttered under her breath.

“You disappoint me, Estel.”  Arwen’s lips drew into a thin line of disapproval.  Aragorn was suddenly reminded of Elrond.

“Legolas courts disaster should he travel to the sea.  The addition of Gimli will do naught but endanger the Dwarf as well.  I cannot, in good conscience, let them go.”  Aragorn’s voice held a note of finality Bergil knew could not be swayed.  “I will cast the jewel into the sea if need be.”

Bitaliel snorted in disbelief.  Arwen shot her husband a penetrating elven gaze, effectively stabbed him to the core.  “Bergil shall journey with me,” Aragorn stated, meeting Arwen’s accusing eyes.  “He will ensure I do not take the jewel for Gond--for my own purposes.”

Arwen’s look did not waver.  Aragorn sighed and took her slender hand within his calloused ones.  “I fully intend to have words with Legolas when we meet, Arwen.  And yes, I believe I shall continue to be angry with him for some time.  But I promise you, by my sword, I shall not allow the jewel to dominate my thoughts and actions.”

The Queen of Gondor closed her eyes and gently kissed her husband.  “May your journey be safe and uneventful, Love, though I fear otherwise.”

Aragorn squeezed her hand reassuringly within his own.  “I shall return to you.”  He grimaced slightly.  “Though do not be surprised if a certain Elf is sent back to Ithilien sporting several well-deserved bruises.”

“Come,” cried Bitaliel, pulling Bergil’s arm in the direction she believed to be the door, “Let us be off!”

“My Lady, I do not think--“ 

Bitaliel dismissed Aragorn with a wild fling of her hand.  Bergil barely managed to avoid being hit.  “Bah,” she said.  “Someone is needed to keep the two of you from trouble.”

“But you are blind as a bat,” protested Bergil.  “You said so yourself!”

“Bergil,” Aragorn warned.  “It is impolite to--“

Much to his annoyance, Bitaliel cut him off a second time.  “The boy merely states the obvious.  It is a fine quality to have.  Yes, I am blind as a bat.”  She poked Bergil sharply in the shoulder, causing the young guard to yelp.  “But bats can see in the dark, and there shall be much darkness where we are headed.”

‘What a strange day has dawned thus far,’ Bergil mused with a shake of his head.  ‘And I cannot help but sense many shall follow.’

*                   *                  *

Galathe stood on his palace balcony and scowled at the sight before him.  His sharp brown eyes looked down his hawk nose, roving past the burnt umber sand onto the glimmering silver that was the bay.  Four black ships rested peacefully, tugging only minutely at their anchors while the waters rolled and surged against them.

Four ships out of the twenty sent to plunder.

Galathe closed his eyes and growled in disgust.  A hot, dry breeze combed through his raven hair and the man inhaled deeply.  The wind smelled of sand and salt.

A seagull wheeled and cried above him.  Galathe opened his eyes and stared angrily at the yellowed parchment in his hands.  He unrolled it for the thousandth time and reread it yet again, holding it tightly as the paper flapped in the scorched Umbar wind.

‘Most Venerable Galathe,

I regret to inform His Majesty of Umbar that our fleet suffered a most grievous loss when a great storm caught us unawares.  All ships were destroyed, as well as most plunder from previous raids.  That which remained was used for the materials and construction of four new ships.  Such measures were necessary as the Lord Prince Imrahil of Belfalas proved to be a most watchful eye.

I believe Gondor now has some idea of our strength and force.    

I do not view our recent misfortune as completely unsalvageable.  A great chance has presented itself, and I am informed the time is right to act upon our previously discussed plans.  Prepare the remaining fleet to set sail.  Jesseral will carry out my instructions from there.  I also suggest you send word to our allies, so that they may meet us at the designated point.

Umbar shall triumph.

Your Loyal Admiral,

Mortsdil’

Galathe crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it over the white marble railings.  ‘Loyal Admiral, indeed,’ he snorted.  Galathe was nothing more than Mortsdil’s puppet, and all of Harad knew this. 

Following the fall of Sauron, Mordor and the surrounding lands--Umbar, Harad, Khand and Rhûn--had been flung into chaos.  Their allegiance shattered, former kings and tribal leaders scrambled to regain control.  Civil wars and border skirmishes were commonplace; coup d’etats occurred by the hour.  In the end, it was the wealthiest that ultimately triumphed, for men are easily bought.  Those whose hearts could not be swayed by promises of riches were promptly slaughtered.

The Havens of Umbar held the greatest wealth of all the warring factions.  Its location proved a most valuable commodity--the Corsairs’ city was an open port nestled safely within the small inland Bay of Umbar.  The Corsairs were free to come and go as they pleased, and vast riches were attained through coastal raids, pirating, and the occasional trade stop to foreign lands.  Though it was said that “precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with,”* one could argue the ocean waves broke silver and gold upon Umbar’s bountiful shores.  

Galathe came from a long line of affluent sea merchants.  One of his forefathers, Malacob Pazrog, had built the white marble palace to signify the family’s greatness.  Many a traveler was astounded as he came upon the City of the Corsairs; often mistaking the formidable white palace as a temple of sorts. 

Other merchants had followed suit, constructing their own family heirlooms, yet none could boast the impressiveness of the Palace of Umbar. 

Every room and corridor within the great white building was wide and high-ceilinged.  Windows and balconies opened in all directions, granting sunlight and the constant warm breeze passage throughout the palace.  Silk curtains, intricately woven tapestries, and delicate vases lined each corridor.  The marble ensured the dwelling never became too hot during the day, and great fireplaces protected it from cold desert nights.

Some said the Palace of Umbar was kept from sinking into the sand by magic.  Galathe knew this to be untrue, as it was built on one level and extended outward, its great surface area supporting the marble’s weight.  The same principle could be used to describe the oliphaunt’s ability to walk over sand without sinking: the animal’s giant feet served to disperse its weight.  Nonetheless, Galathe did nothing to dispel these rumors.  If the people thought him in possession of some sort of mystical power, it only enhanced his reputation as a force.

To walk the gardens of the Palace was to be transported to another realm.  Galathe had never been to Elvish lands, and was not altogether sure Elves even existed, but he liked to think the gardens were reminiscent of such places.  The lush, exotic plots were filled with imported plants and birds of every size, shape and color.  Sculpted fountains rained crystalline water into tiled ponds teeming with iridescent fish.  Swans, their slender necks perfectly arched, floated serenely amidst the lily pads.  Palm leaves and dark, waxen Khavna rustled quietly.  Strange and beautiful flowers proudly displayed their petals and perfumed the air with a thousand and one different scents.  Peacocks strutted unhindered on the emerald lawns.

Galathe was especially fond of the peacocks, and tended to use the bird as his own personal insignia. 

It was this prosperity that made Galathe the most hated man in all circles of Sauron’s broken alliance.  The fact that he had managed to retain most of it, despite Mordor’s fall, caused him to be looked upon with even greater loathing.  He, too, had suffered his losses--almost the entire lost fleet at Pelargir had been under his ownership.  Yet he had hoarded his money wisely, and those who survived the punishment of their mutiny found themselves indebted to Galathe for abandoning his ships.  They had little choice but to work for him, under his demands, in order to resume life at sea.  Galathe single-handedly rebuilt Umbar, and the City of the Corsairs became an undisputed force once again.

And then Mortsdil arrived.

It was rumored the sandy-haired sailor with the sea-colored eyes was product of a Gondorian deserter and a whore.  How he came to sail with the Corsairs was oft debated.  Some claimed he had worked his way up from an oar slave, others argued he signed on with a crew as a cabin boy and climbed the ranks from there.  Galathe, and rightly so, suspected the latter was true.  Another debatable matter was of Mortsdil’s sudden disappearance and resurgence.  He was taken to Mordor, as were the rest of them, but had come back completely unscathed.  Mortsdil would say naught on the subject, and no man could offer a reasonable explanation. 

Regardless of his mysterious return, it soon became apparent that the strange light-featured sailor had a knack for knowing things he shouldn’t.  Things he couldn’t possibly be aware of.  Galathe had first dismissed it as intuition.  However, after several instances of Mortsdil warning him of land attack on the Havens by some disgruntled leader, complete with an exact location and time the skirmish was to occur, Galathe was forced to rethink matters.  There was also a strange hollowness to the pirate’s sea-colored eyes, one that sent Galathe’s skin crawling whenever Mortsdil looked at him.  Galathe was positive the man dabbled in darker powers of some sort.

Galathe came to rely on Mortsdil’s protection.  He had been wary of Mortsdil at first, expecting the man to make a grab for power.  When Mortsdil had not done so, Galathe’s suspicions gradually waned.   Only too late did he realize the true strength of the Corsair’s hold, and by that time he was powerless to reject it.  It infuriated him the way Mortsdil had played on his pride.   Galathe was the head figure of Umbar: it was he who offered funds and gathered support of surrounding lands--albeit through use of Mortsdil’s words.  Mortsdil used him as a shield of sorts.  When things went wrong, the blame fell solely upon Umbar’s leader--Galathe.

Mortsdil, in turn, kept Galathe alive.  Without the Corsair’s protection, for all of Umbar was fiercely loyal to the man, Galathe was weak as a newborn babe.  He was as good as dead were it not for Mortsdil, and both of them knew this.

Thus, when Mortsdil beckoned, Galathe the Puppet obeyed.

*            *               *

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* “precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with”--  ‘Lord of the Rings; Appendix A; (iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion.’  Okay, actually this was said of Gondor during Atanatar Alcarin son of Hyarmendacil’s reign (say THAT 5 times fast).  This was approximately, um, we’ll just say “back in the day” when the rulers of Gondor were insanely powerful and seemed to be slightly obsessed with capturing Umbar.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

CHARACTER LIST 

Bitaliel-  the blind madwoman

Bergil-  one of Aragorn’s guards, son of Beregond

Galathe-  Head figure of Umbar

Mortsdil- leader of the Corsairs of Umbar

Aragorn

Gimli

Legolas

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~ Chapter 12:  So Flows the Current ~

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Middle-earth had not witnessed a gathering of such size since the height of Sauron.  They came from the deserts of Southern Gondor; from the camps dotting the banks of the River Harnen; from the easterly sands of Near Harad.  From Khand they came.  From Far Harad and even the dead lands of Nurn.  There were kings, chieftains, counselors, and warlords.  Galathe had sent for them all.  

And they had all come.

A great round table, large enough to seat the fifty-odd leaders, had been set up in the Grand Ball Room of Galathe’s white palace.  While the sun beat mercilessly upon the brittle sand, those inside the room were sheltered by cool marble and richly dyed curtains.  Servants, jingling with the weight of brass jewelry, waved large fans of woven palm fronds or silently scuttled across the room bearing pitchers of sweetened water.

Galathe soon discovered even the impenetrable walls of his palace could not protect him from the heat of debate within.

“Only a fool would attack Gondor!”  Zarûf of the Yemnali pounded a meaty fist upon the table, sending a shiver across the tabletop that rattled their water goblets.  “We have not the force to attempt such a thing.  And even if we did, I would not dare declare war on those who defeated Sauron himself!”  His thick black eyebrows drew together and his round face flushed as he spoke.  “No, I say.  You shall not have the support of the Yemnali, Galathe.  We are content to remain in the realm of the living.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.  Galathe angrily set his jaw.  “We only need launch a surprise attack on Minas Tirith, not all of Gondor.”  He narrowed his eyes at Zarûf as the man folded his arms across his chest.  “The rest will fall easily enough once we sack the White City.  And as for ‘remaining in the realm of the living,’ my most esteemed Zarûf,” his face contorted with scorn, pinning the Yemnali chieftain as a hawk snatches the unsuspecting rabbit, “I hardly call your current conditions ‘living.’”  He watched in cool satisfaction as Zarûf’s face grew more flushed.   “Surely there is more to life than aimlessly wandering the deserts, slaughtering those who bumble into your lands because you have no other means of acquiring goods.”

Zarûf was restrained by his advisor before he had the chance to leap to his feet.  Trembling with rage, he sent Galathe a look of pure hatred.  Galathe, however, remained indifferent.

“What reasons have we to take such action?”  An aging, stately man, white beard fairly glowing against his weathered olive skin, clasped his hands and rested them upon the table.

‘Gabnij of the Abhir,’ Galathe reminded himself.  The Abhirrans inhabited the Oasis of Radara, an unexpected gem hidden in the sands of Near Harad.  A scholarly bunch, preferring scrolls to the sword, this did not mean the Abhir were pacifist.  On the contrary, they tended to believe it their noble duty to bear arms and slay those who would oppose them. 

“It was Gondor,” said Galathe, his voice laced with vehemence, “who so destroyed us.  Gondor left us leaderless and vulnerable!  And now it is Gondor who grows ever bloated with riches while we wallow in chaos and filth, fighting each other as vultures for maggoty spoils of a rotting carcass.  Shall we allow Gondor to so fatten and swell?  Tell me, my brethren, shall we allow it?”

Several heads nodded and angry exclamations against the prosperity of Gondor punctuated the air.  Galathe restrained a smug smile.  They were almost his for the taking.

Gabnij held up a gnarled hand and beckoned for silence.  Out of respect for the elder, the murmuring quickly died down to an angry hum.  “Then you suggest we attack out of vengeance and jealousy, Galathe son of Ulzaan?  Do you not think the time has long passed for revenge?”

Galathe coolly eyed the chancellor of Radara.  He would not allow them to slip through his grasp so easily.  “I am suggesting, Learned One, we merely take back what is ours.”

Gabnij pursed his lips in disapproval, but did not reply.  His advisor leaned over and whispered into the elder’s ear, the man’s jerky hand motions his indicating anger.  Gabnij merely shook his head and calmly waived him off. ‘A wise move, old man,’ thought Galathe.  ‘Show me too much resistance and your bones may return to Arda sooner than was expected.’

“You speak of suffering and hardship,” called Ahmed of the Khalwaith, “yet what do you know of this?”  The Khalwaith lived on the inhospitable dunes of the Great Desert.  It was a wonder they managed to survive at all.  Ahmed gestured to the high-ceilinged ballroom.  “I am most anxious to hear of your suffering, Lord Galathe.  Cleverly have you seated us at this rounded table, but still we are aware of who sits at the head of power.”

Galathe’s lips curled as a low growl formed deep within his throat.  Before he could reply, Hadeem of the Bh’dul spoke.

“Where is your pirate-king, Lord Galathe?”  The tall, lean man laced slender brown fingers together and looked at Galathe with a masked expression.  “I have no doubt he stands to gain most from this strange plot of yours... or shall I say, ‘his?’” 

Heads immediately snapped back to Galathe, awaiting his reaction with greedy anticipation.  Galathe silently cursed his luck.  He should have had Hadeem killed on the journey to Umbar.  The man was far too sharp for his own good.

Hadeem pretended to ignore Galathe’s icy glare as he addressed the rest of the leaders.  “The soldiers of Gondor fight under sworn oaths of loyalty to King Elessar.  They require no bribing or threats to perform their duty, and would willing sacrifice themselves for love of their liege.  How would we, an impoverished force of mercenaries who seek only to gain riches, fare in such a fight?”  He paused, allowing the gathering to mull over his words.  He could feel Galathe’s wrath growing all the while.

“And tell me this, comrades:  Has Gondor raised a hand against us since the fall of Sauron?”  Hadeem lifted his palms and earnestly regarded each face present.  “Have they even threatened such a thing?” 

Heads, both turbaned and bared, shook in affirmation.  Several murmurs of “No” hung in the room.

 “In fact,” said Hadeem, “has not Gondor even put forth the effort to work with us?  To help us resolve our crisis?”

Galathe snarled, slapping his hand upon the table.  “Gondor seeks only to increase its wealth!”

“But is this not what we all wish?”  The elder Gabnij pointed an accusing finger towards Galathe.

“I, for one,” said Hadeem, his voice ringing across the table before Galathe had the chance to bend his wrath upon Gabnij, “am most intrigued by this King Éomer’s invitation to inspect the horses of Rohan.”  Hadeem’s people were horse breeders themselves, well-known for fleet-footed steeds that flew over the sands.  The King of the Bh’dul wished to see how the dished faces, delicate legs, and wide nostrils of his mounts compared to the stock of Rohan.  “Nay Galathe, you shall not have the sabers of the Bh’dul.”

“Nor will the Khalwaith follow you to death,” said Zarûf.

Gabnij took a sip from his water goblet before serenely wiping his mouth with a silken cloth.  “Neither do the Abhir wish to join the doomed.”

One by one, the leaders withdrew their support.  Even those Galathe thought sure to join him quailed when they saw their neighbors back down.

“Then our council has come to an end.”  Galathe stood, his cold brown eyes sweeping across the faces of all present.  “Mortsdil will not be pleased.”

At mention of the name, the room seemed to drop in temperature.  Few were successful in suppressing a shudder.  There was something unnatural about Mortsdil.  Something... missing.  None could quite place what it was the Corsair lacked, sufficed to say one only came across similar instances among the freshly killed.

“What will it matter if he is dead?”  Hadeem spoke quietly, though his words carried far in the heavy silence.  His fine-boned features melted into a frown.  “That is to say, more so than he is already.”

Galathe blinked.  Of course... let that hellion Corsair attack Gondor all by himself.  If the stories were true, even Mortsdil’s magic would not protect him from the power of King Elessar.  At least, Galathe hoped the stories were true.  His life depended on it.

He bowed in cold politeness to each leader as one by one, they rose to leave.  His hawked gaze slid to Hadeem.  So, the man wished to see the horses of Rohan, did he? 

Deciding the results of his call to arms marked him as good as dead; Galathe saw no harm in grasping at whatever straws remained.

*               *              *   

Firelight licked at the dusky sky, casting a haunting orange glow over the faces of Aragorn and Bitaliel.  Bergil restlessly poked at the flames, eyes darting to and fro between the two.  The King of Gondor rested his elbows upon his knees as he smoked his pipe, staring unseeing into the fire.  Bitaliel tugged at the new bandage swathing her face before clutching the rag doll to her chest and muttering softly.

Bergil fidgeted.  It was too quiet.  Well over a thousand questions raced across his mind:  Why were they still pursuing Lord Legolas?  More so, why had King Elessar chosen he, Bergil, of all people?  Why did Queen Arwen allow her husband to go so freely?  Why was Bitaliel traveling with them?  Who was she?  What would happen when they found Lord Legolas...?

The questions screamed and jostled against one another, each vying for his attention.  Bergil glanced at Bitaliel and frowned, wondering if this was the sort of thing that went on in her head.  Would he be reduced to a jabbering sop by the time their journey was over?

He fidgeted even more, silently begging one of them to break the silence.  “What ails you, Boy?”  Bitaliel turned towards him, bandaged head swaying like a snake as she tried to pinpoint his exact location.  “Are you in need of relieving yourself?”

Bergil flushed and swatted an insect attracted to the firelight.  “No,” he crossly replied.  “And I am called Bergil, not ‘Boy.’”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, a slight look of amusement flickering across his face.

Bitaliel shrugged and absentmindedly pulled at the doll’s ragged yellow hair.  “It is all the same to me.”

Bergil scowled at the blind woman.  “Bergil.  I am Bergil.  I do not refer to you as..."  He faltered, pondering which name would most insult her.

“Batty?”  Bitaliel suggested, in valiant effort to aide him.  “Deranged?  ‘Round the bend?”

Bergil folded his arms across his chest.  “Blinky.”  He managed to stop just short of sticking out his tongue.

Aragorn dissolved into a fit of coughing as he inhaled too quickly and began choking.  He furiously fanned his hands to dispel the smoke.  “Bergil,” he said when he had regained his voice, “I expect my soldiers to conduct themselves in a manner--“

“Oh, bah,” said the young man in disgust.  “It is not as though she has any manners.”  It suddenly dawned on him that he had just spoken back to His Royal Highness King Elessar of Gondor.  He hastily sought to amend his mistake, dropping to his knees and bowing profusely.  Words of apology rushed forth.  “Forgive me, my lord!  I did not mean to--that is--I--“  

Aragorn’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as he pressed his forehead into his hands.  “Arise, Bergil.  Off your knees.”  His grey eyes twinkled.  “I remind you yet again:  you would do well to control your wagging tongue.  It seems to have taken on a life of its own.”  He shook his head in affectionate exasperation as the young man meekly toyed with a loose string on his tunic.  “Were we in less hospitable lands, son of Beregond, I would have grounds for cutting out your tongue.”

Bergil’s eyes widened in alarm. 

“However,” Aragorn continued, somewhat amused by other’s look of dismay, “we are still in Gondor, and such methods are deemed barbarian.  Therefore, you are in charge of tomorrow’s breakfast.  I suffice that will be reprimand enough at the moment.” 

He thoughtfully tapped the smoldering pipe against his bottom lip.  “You are far more cheeky than I was, yet I cannot help catch a glimpse of my younger self in you.  Perhaps that is why I chose you to accompany me.”  He shrugged with a slight chuckle.

“I thought I was chosen because I happened to be at your side when Lady Arwen forced you to name an escort.”  Bergil clapped a hand over his mouth and winced.  Mayhap he ought to sew his mouth shut.

Aragorn pursed his lips.  “You are in charge of our evening meal, as well, Bergil.” 

Bitaliel roared with laughter.

Bergil sighed in resignation.  At this rate, King Elessar might name him in charge of all meals before the evening was out. 

“I shall retire before my watch.”  He gathered his things and went to find a suitable spot for his bedroll.  ‘As best I know,’ he thought, ‘I have yet to talk in my sleep.’

Bitaliel smiled cheekily and waved as he threw himself upon his blankets.  “’Night, Boy!” 

“Goodnight, Blinky,” he called, pulling the covers over his head.  Before drifting to peaceful slumber, he was last conscious of Bitaliel’s cackling laughter as the blind woman asked Aragorn which watch she had drawn.

*            *            *

Gimli awoke with a start.  ‘This is becoming far too commonplace.’  He pushed himself upright and scowled at his quilt, which someone had thoughtfully tucked around him.  Elder Dwarves were in the habit of nodding off.  ‘And you,’ he reminded himself, ‘are by no means elderly.’

He sighed and allowed himself to sink back into the pillows.  Sleep had become somewhat of a luxury within the past months, and he supposed it was bound to catch up with him sooner or later.  First, there had been the scurry to finish Eomer’s gate.  Then Legolas had arrived...  The Dwarf rubbed a hand over his face in attempt to dispel his weariness.  He had scarce left Legolas’ side since the Elf came stumbling into his realm several nights prior.  Keeping Legolas occupied during the day was easy enough--there were always plenty of distractions within the bustling Dwarven community.  Nights, however, were a completely different matter. 

When all activity ceased and darkness soothed and lullabyed the Caves, it was then that Gimli found his presence was most needed.  If left to his own devices, Legolas would allow his thoughts to wander dangerous trails; gently prodding and reopening the wound with sadistic curiosity, as though to make sure it remained and still burned with the same intensity.  Gimli had seen the Elf’s face contort in painful grimace as flashes of what he had done lanced across his mind.  The Dwarf’s nights became devoted to the welfare of his companion.  Sleep was but a small price to pay if it meant he could spare Legolas further agony.

Gimli felt a rush of concern, almost to the point of panic, wash over him.  Where was Legolas?  Had the Elf taken to wandering the darkened tunnels by himself?  In his grief-stricken state, he was in no condition to-- 

The Dwarf shook his head and grunted.  ‘The Elf is not as frail or weak-minded as he appears, though I daresay he may look it.’  He sat up again and threw aside the covers, embarrassed by his overreaction.  ‘Rocks and blocks,’ swore the Dwarf, ‘he shall have turned you into a fine nursemaid by the time this ordeal has passed.’

It was the Elf’s nature, Gimli decided, which mutated those around him into henpecking nurturers.  ‘One cannot help but feel the need to protect that feather-brained, tree-hugging, arrogant, hopelessly naïve fool of an Elf.  It is a marvel he has managed to survive this long.  Dumb luck, I suppose.’

He laced up his boots and gave his beard a few tugs until he looked presentable.  Judging by the temperature of the earthen walls in his chamber, evening was fast approaching. ‘I wonder how long I slept.’  He entered the corridor and shut the chamber door behind him.  ‘And where is Legolas?’

The Elf had no mind to wander the Glittering Caves, and Gimli knew he would go no further than his own chambers.  ‘Which leaves the Main Cavern or the outer tunnels,’ the Dwarf mused.  He furrowed his brow in thought.  He and Legolas had been sitting in the Main Cavern when he began to nod off.

How, then, had he ended up in his own bed? 

Gimli paused for a moment, pondering this strange mystery.  He did not recall walking to his room, and someone had tucked him in...

Before his mind put two and two together, Gimli convinced himself he had indeed walked back to his chambers.

*             *             *

The great opening of Aglarond yawned before him; its tunnel lit by the waning glow of evening.  The absence of torchlight allowed a comfortable gloom to settle within the entrance.  On evenings when the moon rode high and the stars shone freely, their pale lights would reflect and illuminate the many metals and stones embedded in the cave.  It was a breathtaking sight:  sparkling veins of silver with crimson iron ore, flashes of gold from the pyrite.  There was the haunting glow of opaque and rose quartz, and the obsidian, whose inky depths seemed to devour the pale evening light, then cast it back over the stones’ polished surface with a blinding gleam.  This was the pure, earth-bound beauty the Dwarves prized so highly.

It was on such a night, so many years past, that Gimli had presented the Caves to Legolas.  The Elf had remained silent for a time, his usually impassive face alight with wonderment.  “Let the Elves tend to all that which lives and dies upon the land,” he finally spoke, voice softer than a whisper, “and let the Men shape Middle-earth to their fancy.  But let the Dwarves tend to stone and metal.  For though such substances hold no life, they were borne of earth and hold not death.”

Gimli wished the moon would glow brightly on this night, though he knew such hopes were in vain.   The midnight sun was waning, and amounted to barely a sliver.  The Dwarf squinted, discovering he could just make out tiny stars as they peeked through the sky’s weary cloak.  A sweet breeze brushed past his beard, carrying with it the scent of evening flowers and delicate strains of an Elven song.

As he drew nearer, Gimli caught sight of the tunnel guards.  One he recognized as the black-bearded fellow who informed him of Legolas’ arrival several nights before.  What the Dwarf’s name was, he could not remember, though perhaps he never had been told.  Of the three remaining guards, only one looked vaguely familiar.  Gimli supposed he had passed the fellow--an older Dwarf with a handsome scar across his right cheek--on his way out of the Caves during one of his evening walks.  It was a habit he had picked up after his travels with Legolas.  The Elf had a special fondness for dawn and dusk, and though Gimli was hard-pressed to greet the day, he had found the rising moon and stars brought with them peace and rejuvenation.

He had stopped the evening walks four years ago.  Such behavior was not looked favorably upon by his kindred.  “We are trying to establish a colony,” his chief advisor Bwal, had hissed.  “How are we to do so when you insist upon wandering beneath the stars, addle-brained and moon-struck as though you were an...”  The stately Dwarf cut himself short and narrowed his eyes.  “Gimli, you must cease this madness!”           

Gimli glanced towards the guards.  They leaned against pike or axe, faces turned to the Cave entrance in a bewildered, trance-like state.  The haunting Elvish melody pushed aside all other thoughts, gently provoking emotions foreign or long-forgotten. 

Gimli shivered.  Legolas sometimes forgot the power held within what he might consider a harmless tune.  The one he now sang was moving by even elven standards. 

His boots against the packed earth snapped the guards to attention.  They drew back, almost fearfully, into the comforting shadows as Gimli brushed by.  He did not bother to cast a glance over his shoulder as he headed out of the cave and towards Legolas’ voice.  Their wary eyes bore into his back.  ‘I suppose this will make for interesting gossip,’ he thought wryly.

He craned his neck and strained his eyes until he caught sight of the lithe archer.  Legolas sat cross-legged in the lowest branch of an ancient beech tree, back resting against the trunk while slender hands lay unmoving upon his knees.  Gimli trundled over and sat at the base of the tree.

He tilted his head and watched the singing Elf, knowing Legolas would not speak until he wished to do so.  The Elf’s hair shivered slightly in the breeze, reflecting light from an unknown source.  There was a soft, ethereal glow about him; it made his skin appear silvery and allowed his features to stand out sharply against the deepening sky.  His eyes were painfully bright, focused intently on the flickering stars overhead.

Gimli was content to watch his friend, for in moments such as this the Elf appeared more strange and distant than the Dwarf thought possible.  This was not Legolas Gimli beheld, but an Elf in the purest sense.  The Dwarf was not altogether sure he liked viewing his friend as thus, for it gave rise to bittersweet emotions.  It made him realize the Elf no longer belonged in Middle-earth.

The last strains of Legolas’ song faded into the night.  Gimli suddenly found a pair of bright eyes staring down at him. 

“You scared my guards, Elf.”

“Do all your people treat you as thus?”  The eyes continued to stare. 

 Gimli started, caught off guard by Legolas’ question.  He had, of course, expected the Elf to first avoid speaking of the stone: it was a peculiar Elvish trait that ensured every topic other than the one of most importance would be fully discussed.  When the conversation had at last drifted completely away from its original purpose, the Elf would somehow strike the main topic, thus rendering any listeners (or arguers) completely dumbfounded.  Legolas’ use of the tactic became most evident during their frequent banters.  Had Aragorn not supplied him with a few helpful tips, Gimli would have been driven to madness long ago. 

“Have the stars brought you some measure of peace, my friend?”  Gimli sought to evade the subject with a question of his own.  Pride would not allow him to discuss such private matters.  His social standing was of his own doing. 

A look of disapproval flickered across Legolas’ face.  “It would appear I am not the only one whom comfort eludes within the confines of Aglarond.”

Gimli sighed, knowing his friend would not be dissuaded.  “There is little you or I may do to change their minds, Legolas.”  He shook his head as the Elf opened his mouth in protest.  “They are far too set in their ways.  And I believe they would be even less inclined to hear the word of an indignant Elf.”

Legolas folded his arms across his chest and allowed his legs dangle from the branch.  “It is Prince Elf to them, Master Dwarf.”  He peered down at the stout figure below, scrutinizing Gimli as though he had never before seen the Dwarf.

“Legolas, you are making my skin crawl.  Please come down.”

Quiet laughter floated from above, causing the beech leaves to rustle in response.  “Has anyone ever told you, Master Dwarf, that you are quite strange?”

Gimli snorted and attempted to make out the figure of the Elf.  “Speak for yourself, Master Elf.”

“You have become most insightful since I first made your acquaintance.”  Legolas’ mouth quirked in amusement as Gimli, not expecting the Elf to suddenly materialize directly behind him, gave an involuntary jump.  “I had begun to give up hope for any growth in your intellect.  I find myself pleasantly surprised.”

The Dwarf responded with a low chuckle.  “You always were easily amused.”  His heart fairly soared in relief; this was the Legolas he knew.  “Little did you know Master Elf, I was forced to lower my wits to the addled levels of your comprehension.  It was a difficult task indeed.”

Legolas seated himself next to the Dwarf with careless grace.  “Then I commend your brilliant feign of mindlessness, for you had me utterly fooled.”  He bowed his head to Gimli and grinned.

“Arrogant fool,” muttered the Dwarf.

“Thick-headed boulder,” responded the Elf, his grin growing wider.

“Tree coddler.”

“Pebble snuggler.”  

The two leaned companionably against one another, shoulder-to-shoulder, and grinned into the thick summer night.  ‘But we are a strange duo,’ Gimli could not help thinking.  He cast a sidelong glance at Legolas.  The Elf rested his head against the smooth bark of the tree, absentmindedly trailing his fingers over its strong roots.  Gimli gave the earth a solid pat with his hand.  It was good soil: rich and loamy.  He picked up a handful and crumbled it, feeling the soft grit beneath his fingers.  His hands felt strong and powerful.

The beech leaves stirred and whispered above them.  The sweet evening breeze toyed with Dwarven beard and Elven braids, carrying with it the scent of mist and dew.  Crickets droned from beneath rock and tall grass, their chirrups distant and muted.  A night bird called, and was answered by its mate.  Gimli allowed his eyelids to droop shut.  “What do you hear, Legolas?” 

The Elf remained silent for a time.  Gimli knew his eyes were shut as well.  “I hear..  I hear the opening of evening flowers.  Their petals brush against one another as rustling silk.”  His voice seemed to blend in with the night.  “I hear the murmurs of this tree.  It is content...  I hear the flight of the nightingale.  The humming of the stones.”  Gimli smiled.  “I hear the blades of grass as they bend under the weight of the dew, and the wings of the moths--they flutter as a child’s heartbeat...”

“And the sea,” Gimli whispered.  He felt the Elf’s body heave as Legolas sighed.

“Yes, Gimli.  And I hear the Sea.”

The breeze brushed past Gimli’s ear.  He opened his eyes.  “We must go to the sea, mustn’t we?”  A tiny flash of lightening flared in the distance. 

Legolas did not reply. 

“Do you think we will meet Aragorn?”

 “Yes, Gimli.  I believe we will.”

Gimli reluctantly pushed himself to his feet.  “I think I shall return to the Caves.”  He grunted as he drew himself to his full height.  Legolas nodded mutely and continued to stare at the winking stars above. 

Gimli looked to him in concern.  He would not have the Elf slipping back into melancholy.  Legolas seemed to have a special talent for doing so.

“I shall stay here for a while longer, elvellon.  Do not worry.”

Gimli squinted to the west.  “Come in if it starts to rain.  I’ll not have you dripping all over my chambers.”  He took one last appreciative breath of night air and began walking back to Aglarond’s entrance.

“Gimli?”

The Dwarf turned, wondering if perhaps the Elf needed anything.

“Thank you.” 

Legolas spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving Gimli’s.  He swallowed with difficulty.  “I do not think...  I would not be able to do this on my own.  Thank you, my friend.”

For once, Gimli found himself at a loss for words.  The Dwarf was glad the darkness concealed his embarrassment.  He felt himself fairly glowing red. 

Rarely did the two speak of their friendship’s true nature, having reached an unspoken understanding it was not a thing they need discuss.  It just...  was.  The bond they shared was as deep as it was hale:  a tree wrought of steel with roots that extended beyond infinity itself.  During the moments it was revealed--if even but the briefest of glimpses--its power overwhelmed both heart and soul. 

Gimli bent his eyes towards the fine coat of dust on his boots and roughly cleared his throat.  The night breeze, tartened with the subtle hint of rain, gently kissed his forehead and laughed as it pushed by him.  The beech tree sighed happily.  Shadows hugged him warmly while a moth waltzed by, dancing to the rasping symphony of crickets.  The Elf’s eyes flickered like stars.

  Gimli’s barreled chest expanded as he inhaled deeply and gave his shoulders a dismissive shrug.  “Think nothing of it, Legolas.  You would have done the same for me.” 

Far to the west, a thread of lightening extended to earth and then branched across the blackened sky.  Gimli frowned at the muted glow.  “Are you sure you wish to remain here for a while longer?”

Legolas gently scooped a handful of dark earth and allowed the dirt to sift through his fingers.  “Yes, my friend.”  He smiled at the stout figure before him.  “I wish to tarry longer in the company of this fine rock and soil.”

Gimli shook his head with a slight chuckle.  “Then perhaps there is hope for you yet, Master Elf.”

The guards pulled back and eyed the Dwarf with suspicion as he returned to the Caves.  Far too absorbed in his own musings, Gimli paid them no heed. 

'Daft Elf,' he thought with fierce affection.  'I would follow you to the very ends of Middle-earth and beyond--whether you thanked me or not.'

  *                    *                      *

________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for entertainment purposes only.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. 

A/N:  Okay, I had the Dwarf thing planned waaaaay before ‘The Two Towers’ movie came out.  There was just a slight delay between my imagination and getting it into print.  I suppose if I were crazy I could accuse Peter Jackson of stealing my thoughts, but alas, enough sanity is present to realize the impossibility of such claims.  And I have no desire to make myself paranoid.

This is probably the last light-hearted chapter before things get decidedly twisted.  As always, Happy Reading! :)

Character List

Bitaliel- the blind madwoman accompanying Aragorn and Bergil

Bergil- son of former Citadel Guard Beregond.  The boy Pippin befriended while in Gondor during the War of the Ring, now one of Aragorn’s guards.

Mortsdil-  Leader of the Corsairs of Umbar

Galathe-  Head figure of Umbar, is actually controlled by Mortsdil

Rìs-  female Dwarf and longtime acquaintance of Gimli

Halbarad-  Everyone’s favorite Other Ranger.  Longtime friend and lieutenant of Aragorn, slain at the Battle of Pelennor Fields during the War of the Ring.

Éomer

Aragorn

Legolas

Gimli

*              *                  *

_________________________________

~ Chapter 13:  Chasing Past to Present ~

_________________________________

A solitary grey horse swept over the hills, hoofs softly thumping the fertile grass as it journeyed westward.  The stallion bore a most curious burden: not one, but two riders, and a mismatched pair at that.  The tall, lithe figure nearest the steed’s head moved fluidly with the gait of his mount.  His hair streamed behind him like a banner and he was prone to cast curious glances over his shoulder, laughing merrily at his companion.  The second, of compact build and much shorter stature, lurched and teetered with every stride of the grey mount. 

Both, however, appeared very much at ease with their predicament, and if the Dwarf’s lack of equestrian talent upset the horse, the animal did not show it.

For Legolas and Gimli, it was reminiscent of times long since passed; of days when their purpose lay before them sharp and bright as the sun above.

It was easy to fall back into the old habits.  Indeed, it almost seemed as though they had never ceased following Aragorn over the Plains of Rohan.  Memories of Théoden and his Riders clung like wistful ghosts, the summer breeze bearing their proud cries and the distant thunder of Rohirrim steeds in passing sigh. 

And both Elf and Dwarf were more than content to pretend it was so. 

Gimli pitched forward, receiving a face full of quiver despite his best effort.  “Legolas,” the Dwarf bellowed, “would it not be possible for you to remove your quiver?”

“And where, Master Dwarf, would you have me put it?”  The Elf cast a glance over his shoulder and grinned at his harried companion.  Both were well aware the quiver would not be removed.  Such an act would be akin to Gimli ridding himself of the belt that secured his axe.

Gimli scowled as several locks of wind-blown elven hair whipped across his face.  “I have every intention of giving you a haircut once we stop for the evening.”  

Legolas laughed, eliciting several answering chirrups from diving meadowlarks above.  “Only if you are willing to rid yourself of that unsightly bush growing about your face, my friend.”

“I will have you know, Elf, this ‘bush’ as you so termed it is famous amongst even my kindred.  Such well-grown specimens are a rare find.  Be thankful you are able to reside in the presence of such an endowed Dwarf as myself.”  Gimli released one hand from the back of Legolas’ tunic to give his pride and joy a resolute tug.  He unbalanced himself in the process and was forced to hastily latch back on.  Pitching forward, his face again met the hard leather quiver.

Legolas stared at Findalen’s mane and somehow managed to curb his laughter.  Gimli’s muffled threats did not fail to reach his ears. 

“I am sure the maidens find you irresistible,” the Elf drawled.  He felt Gimli straighten with indignation.

“Far more tempting than Elves with hair longer than their own.”

Legolas dipped his head.  “I concede, Master Dwarf.  I do recall it was most difficult to wretch you from the claws of those clambering maidens within your Glittering Caves.”

“You mock me now,” answered the Dwarf, “but it is I and not you who could be married if I so wished.”  Gimli felt the Elf tighten and sit up a bit straighter, a sure sign his curiosity had been piqued.

 Legolas cast another glance over his shoulder; clear eyes alight with intrigue.  “Enlighten me, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli wondered how he had been duped into speaking of Rìs.  “Rìs and I,” he began, noting how Legolas’ jaw went decidedly slack.  The look was wholly out-of-place on the fair face.  Gimli was thoroughly amused; it was difficult to shock an Elf.  “I suppose we could have been married at one time.  We have known each other since childhood, and have always been fond of one another.”

“Rìs?”  Legolas fairly choked.  “The Dwarf who kept you company most during my stay?”

Gimli nodded in faint bemusement, wondering what was so shocking about the fact.  “Yes.  Now, however…”  He trailed off with a resigned sigh.  Again speaking of his status as social pariah was not his wont.  However, Legolas’ stare of disbelief prompted him to continue.  “Rìs’ family would not approve of such a thing, nor would… nor would the rest of my kind.”

 “That is understandable.”  The Elf’s voice was laced with sympathy, causing Gimli to bristle slightly.  “From what you have told me,” Legolas continued, “the Dwarves do not look kindly upon such…  relationships.  But marriage, Gimli?  Even my kind does not engage in the sort.”  He shook his head in amazement.  “You surprise me, Master Dwarf.  I had oft taken you to abhor such affairs.”

Gimli was rendered momentarily speechless.  Years of friendship with Legolas gave him a profound understanding of the other, yet Gimli had the strange feeling they were speaking of completely different matters.  What on Arda was the Elf talking about?

“Legolas, Elves marry all the time!  And why would you have qualms against my marriage to Rìs?”  His face darkened as he drew his thick brows together.  “She is a fine and virtuous maiden, I assure you.”

Legolas’ eyes widened in shock.  ‘That is the second time in as many minutes,’ the Dwarf observed.

“She?”  The Elf’s musical voice sounded unnaturally shrill.  “Oh.”

Gimli narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  “Yes, what else would Rìs be?”

Legolas stiffened noticeably and quickly turned to face forward. 

“Legolas,” Gimli demanded.

“But Rìs had a beard,” the Elf replied, somewhat helplessly.     

“All Dwarven women have beards.  What is your point?”

 Legolas remained silent.  Gimli swore the Elf squirmed.

“Legolas!”  Gimli nearly fell off the horse in indignation.  “You--you--how could--you did not think Rìs was a--“

“But Rìs had a beard.”

“And all Elves have longish hair, yet I do not confuse Elf with Elf-maiden!”

*     *     *

Days passed, warm and lazy as only summer can be.  Purposely skirting villages and other small settlements that sprang from the green plains, the duo kept the violet peaks of Ered Nimrais always to their left.

“We head for the cliffs of Ras Morthil,” said Legolas.  The Elf at first wished to journey eastward, towards the forsaken lands of Utumno.  Gimli, however, concluded that the Western Sea was of the same waters as the East, not to mention within far shorter distance. 

“I have no qualms against journeying cross-country with you,” the Dwarf said.  “But our burden will grow no lighter, and I wish to rid ourselves of it as soon as possible.”  He was not sure of the Elf’s preoccupation with throwing the stone off a cliff, but Legolas seemed fairly set on the idea.

“It was first given to the Sea in such a manner,” said the Elf. “It ought to be returned as thus.”

Legolas adamantly refused to simply wade into the waters and toss the stone back—Gimli had even offered to do so himself.  ‘Then again,’ the Dwarf reasoned, ‘Elves always did have the need for pretentious flair.’  They turned even the simplest of tasks into elaborate rituals (Gimli had seen the way Legolas fashioned his arrows, not to mention the Elf’s borderline-obsessive grooming and packing habits).

The discovery of a budding flower was cause for full-blown festivals, as far as Elves were concerned.  It was only natural Legolas would find some way to make the task more difficult; it was the nature of his kind.

“And what happened to the Elf who threw the Silmaril into the sea?” Gimli asked, wishing to turn his attention from his sore and aching body.  It had been too long since he last sat atop a horse, let alone ridden one for prolonged distance.

Legolas’ shoulders rolled in graceful shrug.  “He departed.”

“He just turned around and left the cliffs?  Where did he go?”

“Astray,” the Elf replied with a vague sweep of his arm. 

“How so?”  Sooner or later, Gimli reasoned, the Elf would run out of ambiguous phrases.

“He wandered.”

“Did he die?”

Legolas paused.  “He ceased to live long before the stone was cast into the Sea.  His spirit was much grieved.”

“O for the love of—“  Gimli sighed in irritation.  “That is not what I asked.”

“Death comes in many guises,” came the Elf’s glib response. 

“Legolas, there is no variation of Death.  Death is Death.  You are either dead, or you are not.  It is simple as that.”

“Nay my small-minded friend, there are many variations of Death.  Death of soul, Death of body, Death of heart, Death of mind.”

Gimli snorted.  ‘…Death of Elf,’ he mentally added.  ‘Death of Elf by Axe...’

*     *     *

Supple waves heaved and withdrew against the hull of the great ship Umbra.  Amidst the painfully blue sky and sun-capped waters, the black vessel appeared sorely out of place.  A flat and hollow beat echoed from deep within the ship’s bowels.  Its lengthy oars arose dripping with water, surged forward, dipped down, and then sculled back to the steady one-two one-two of the driver’s pacing drum. 

Seagulls wheeled and keened, hovering just above the masts on invisible currents.  Crewmen went about their business below, oblivious to the rock and pitch of the ship as they tended rigging, sail, and deck.  Subtle wisps of grey could be seen to the east, the sands of Belfalas appearing nothing more than low-lying clouds to those not familiar with the Sea’s illusions.  The slave-ships of Umbar were not built for the rough, open waters of Belegaer—the Great Sea—as were the crafts of the departing Elves.  Only by accident would the Corsairs wander beyond Middle-earth’s hospitable waterways. 

Mortsdil, feared Admiral of the City of Corsairs, retreated aft-deck to his personal cabin.  He locked the door and closed all shutters, isolating himself inside the stuffy room.  In the heat and darkness, the scent of dry wood and brine was almost suffocating.  Lighting several tallow candles, the corsair set about gathering various materials from surrounding chests and drawers.  

Scrying was a woman’s art, or so the men who dabbled in magicks claimed.  “Let the women play with their water-mirrors,” they laughed in disdain, “and we shall summon the more worthwhile powers.”

Mortsdil knew better.  True, scrying was simple enough; all one required was a basin, a few choice herbs, and a basic knowledge of spell casting.  But simplicity, as Mortsdil was well aware, did not imply uselessness.

Squinting in the flickering candlelight, the corsair peered at the images swirling about the shallow stone dish atop his desk. 

A lithe figure swathed in loose beige robes galloped down the Harad Road, flying over the heat-shimmering slopes of South Ithilien.  Sunlight glinted blue off the rider’s coal colored steed.  Red and gold tassels adorned the animal’s mane and bridle, flapping gaily in the summer wind. 

Mortsdil narrowed his eyes.  Who was this person whom did not belong in Gondor?  The man’s turban concealed his features, though Mortsdil could just make out the high cheekbones and deep brown eyes.

The corsair bent his concentration on the man until the watery image gave way to a second scene.  Galathe—‘Loyal Galathe,’ Mortsdil silently sneered—was speaking to the man within his private chambers.  Without the turban tails concealing his face, Mortsdil immediately recognized Hadeem of the Bh’dul. 

‘Well, well.  It seems my little puppet is pulling his own strings.’  The sandy-haired corsair drummed his fingers on the desktop and frowned.  He wished he could hear what the two men spoke of, but scrying did not allow such insight.

No matter, he had plenty of spies. 

Mortsdil did not pay others to be his ears.  If a man was willing to sell information to him, there was no telling whom else the man might inform for the right price.  Employed spies were not to be trusted.  Mortsdil’s spies were the hardworking peasants, the poor merchants, and the low-ranking servants and soldiers.  Simply threaten the death or enslavement of loved ones, send a “thank you” every few months or so—perhaps a loaf of white bread or glass beads—and they were his for life.  Every so often he would randomly slay a family member or two, or send the pathetic souls to the galleys.  Just as a reminder to his spies they served him, and him alone.

The spies reported dutifully, every week.  Their findings were presented to an appointed officer, who recorded the news and sent it to Mortsdil via falcon.  The sentimental fools were loyal to their families up to a fault, and Mortsdil preyed upon it.  They would not betray him; they were too fearful of the consequences.

Muttering words in the Black Tongue, Mortsdil waved his hand over the dish.  The water rippled and cleared.  The corsair closed his eyes in concentration, ignoring the blood pounding in his ears.  Morgoth had become far too demanding in past weeks. 

‘One moment!’  Mortsdil snarled, wiping the thin trickle of blood from his ear in irritation.  Eternity had done nothing for the fallen Vala’s patience.

Taking a deep breath, he again focused his concentration on the dish.  He was looking for an Elf. 

A mysterious treasure had been stolen from King Elessar by his own Elf-friend, and the King had set forth to retrieve it.  Mortsdil’s spies had told him as much, though the whispered rumors flying rampant over the land spoke the same.  There were many speculations as to what this treasure was: gold, silver, gems, perhaps mithril armor or an enchanted sword. 

High-ranking officials of Gondor quelled such stories, claiming the king departed on a diplomatic mission to foreign lands.  Still, the rumors could not be entirely quashed.  They were far too fantastic and intriguing to ignore.

Disregarding the blood dripping from his nose, Mortsdil sought the Elf. 

The Elf would have the jewel.

*     *     *

Grasshoppers rasped cheerfully under the bright morning sun.  Bergil smiled as he secured his bedroll; it was going to be a beautiful day.  Warm golden sunlight sent heavy prickles of warmth down his arms and back.  The emerald Plains of Rohan were still dew-laden, and the scent of moist soil and grasses was intoxicating. 

Hoisting the bedroll over his shoulder, Bergil fought the urge to sing at the top of his lungs.  Fevered blood rushed through his veins like fire.  He wanted to jump, to dance, to laugh until his gut ached.  He wanted to leap into the saddle and gallop over the Plains, riding so fast and furious he was out of breath and his body numbed by the wind.  Perhaps, if he wished hard enough, he would even be able to fly—soaring into the vast blue sky to even greater adventures.  Anything was possible.

Aragorn watched the son of Beregond out of the corner of his eye, not missing the guard’s jaunty stride that nearly bordered a skip, or the blissful grin on the young man’s open face.  The former Ranger gave his steed an affectionate slap on the neck and smiled to himself.  How many mornings had he woken up just as youthfully jubilant in his younger days?  Though he would not relinquish a single morning of Arwen’s warm body and gentle kisses, memories of old Ranger camps stirred a special fondness in his soul. 

It was truly an experience to sleep beneath the skies of Arda and awaken in her fresh and dewy summer mornings.  Such dawns were full of hope and promise.  For a few short hours, even the oldest man or beast was allowed to once again view the world with the innocent, wondering eyes of youth.

~*~*~*~

“What are you doing?”

Aragorn spun around and flushed, embarrassed at having been caught dancing.  He was supposed to be adjusting Foliar’s tack; the Rangers’ journey would be a long one this day.  But the morning sun had been so pleasant and the birdsong so sweet. . .  What started as humming the simple tune Elladan taught him grew into full-blown choreography.

Shamefaced, Aragorn went back to tightening the saddle strap.  “It was nothing,” he quietly replied, glancing at the tousle-haired Ranger before him.  Noting the other’s cocky stance and youthful face, which lacked the dark glower and tense lines of veteran Rangers, Aragorn decided they were of similar ages.

The young man nonchalantly pushed aside his steed’s head as the horse nudged him.  “Did the Elves teach you that?”

Aragorn nodded stiffly.  He was still unused to residing solely in the company of Men.  Men lacked the elegance and soft-spoken ways of the Elder.  Their voices were harsher, their movements less controlled, and their emotions more jagged and raw.  Loud, scruffy, and brutish they seemed. 

Aragorn wondered if his kin—Nay, he corrected himself, the Elves—saw him in a similar manner.

“Did they teach you to stare like that as well?”

Aragorn blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“If your gaze turns any more severe, I fear you shall burn holes into my head.”

Aragorn placed one hand over his heart and bowed.  “I apologize, Master Ranger.  It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

The young man’s lips curled into an amused smirk.  “And polite, too!”  He absently ran a hand through his dark and tousled hair.  “If I had but half the manners you possess, my mother would be reduced to tears.”

Aragorn frowned.  “You would rather I be rude?”

The other peered over the shoulder of his mount and blinked.  “I did not say that.”

“But you implied such a wish.”

“Did I?”

Aragorn nodded.

“That was not my intention,” replied the young Ranger.  “And that is well, for I do not think you would be any good at it.”  He shook his head in exasperation.  “You have an odd way of manipulating the words of others.”

Aragorn stiffened.  “I do not seek to manipulate others.”

“See!  You are doing it again.”

“You are mistaken.  If I truly sought to—“

The young Ranger crossed his arms over his chest and snorted.  “Poor soul.  You argue like an Elf.  What did they do to you?”

Aragorn paused, wondering if he ought to take offense to the remark.  Men were sometimes so blunt it was painful—this Man in particular.  And how did this one know of his association with Elves?  “You speak of the Elves,” Aragorn began, approaching the topic of his upbringing with caution.

“Indeed I do.”  The Ranger moved to help Aragorn tie his bedroll to the back Foliar’s saddle.  He craned his neck over the horse’s back, a mischievous light in his grey eyes.  Aragorn was vaguely alarmed.  Such looks never played out to his favor when Elladan and Elrohir were involved.

“I know who you are,” the Ranger whispered furtively.  “Aragorn son of Arathorn—Heir of Isildur!”

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath and snapped upright to glare at the man.  His hand instinctively went to his sword.  “How do you know of my name?  I have told no one but the chief of our order.”  Was this Ranger a spy?

The tousle-haired Ranger took several steps backward, somewhat alarmed by Aragorn’s reaction.  He held out his hands in submission.  “Calm yourself!  I spoke of it to no one, nor is it my intention to do so.”  The self-assured smirk Aragorn had begun to associate with the man again flickered over his face.  “I passed by old Guttarion’s tent the night you and the Elves arrived.”  He winked cheekily.  “And I happen to have very good ears, you know.”

“Do you?”  Aragorn shook his head in exasperation, smiling in spite of himself.  He was not sure which left him more amusingly perplexed:  the fact the young man referred to the Dúnedain chief Guttarion as “old Guttarion,” or that he openly admitted to eavesdropping.  Aragorn could very well grow to like him. 

The Ranger grinned and stuck out his hand.  “Halbarad.”

Aragorn, upon remembering the customary warriors’ greeting among Men, grasped the other’s forearm.  “Well met, Halbarad.”

Halbarad clapped him on the back in delight.  “Come, I smell the breakfast sausage.”  He sniffed the morning air appreciatively.  “If I am not mistaken, Malthus will be calling us to eat in a moment or two.”

As if on cue, a gruff shout to join the morning meal echoed throughout the glen.  Halbarad turned to Aragorn, mouth quirking as though to say, “See, I told you so.”

Trained to obey commands the moment they were received, Aragorn immediately turned towards the Dúnedain camp.

“O for love of the Valar!”

Aragorn stopped abruptly and glanced over his shoulder at Halbarad’s oath.

“Aragorn, you must not walk in that manner.”

The Heir of Isildur turned, brow furrowing in confusion.  “What is wrong with the way I walk?  I have always walked as thus.”

Halbarad washed a hand over his face and groaned.  “You shall need some work.”  He shook his head and pulled a face.  “Elves may be able to walk in that manner, but Rangers, my friend, do not prance.”

“I do not prance.”

Halbarad snorted.  “If you say so.  Come along, Strider.  I do not wish to miss breakfast.”

“I do NOT prance!”

~*~*~*~

Aragorn chuckled.  When they returned, he would have to tell Halbard of Bergil’s antics.  His old friend would—

Aragorn grimaced.  Over ten years had passed, yet still he occasionally forgot Halbarad no longer resided in the realm of the living.  Every once in a while, when amidst large groups, he would see the Ranger’s face in the crowd.  ‘Ah, there he is,’ Aragorn would think, and make a mental note to ask Halbarad about some minor affair of the day.  This was quickly followed by the jolting realization Halbarad was dead.  Though now reduced to gentle sorrow—like pressing a faded bruise—the Ranger’s passing still seemed strange and out of place.

“Awaken, my fairest Blinky!  The day has dawned anew and still you lie buried beneath your blankets.”

Bergil’s joyous greeting elicited only a grumpy whine from Bitaliel. 

“Awake!  Awake!  The sun has arisen, the flowers are blooming!  The birds are a-chirping and—“

“—and if you do not cease your croaking,” Bitaliel snarled, “you will never again witness another morning.   What do I care of rising suns or blooming flowers?  I can see neither.”

Bergil yanked away her covers with a flourish.  Bitaliel’s grumpy mood would not affect him this glorious day.  “Ah, but you may feel the sun’s warmth, smell the flower’s perfume, and hear the chirping birds.  And that is cause enough to smile.”

“My guard speaks truth,” said Aragorn with a chuckle.  Perhaps he saw some of Halbarad, too, in young Bergil.  ‘Though,’ the Ranger thought wryly, ‘Halbarad was never quite so cheerful in the morning.’

Bitaliel sat up and scowled.  “You folk of the morning sicken me.”

Bergil grinned as he rolled up her blankets.  “My lord Elessar, I do believe this is her most cheerful morning yet.”

For the first time in many days, Aragorn laughed heartily.

Following a quick meal, the trio set out over the Plains of Rohan at a generous clip.  They had visited the Glittering Caves the previous week, only to find Gimli had departed with Legolas several days prior.

“Should we not turn back?” Bergil asked. 

“Yes,” Bitaliel had said.

Aragorn shook his head.  “Nay.  We press on.”

It was then Bergil posed a most perplexing question:  “My Lord… Why?”

Aragorn answered it was out of concern for the safety of the Elf and Dwarf.  Bitaliel had snorted in disbelief, and even Bergil appeared uncomfortable believing the king’s claim.  However, the young guard was too loyal to say otherwise.

In truth, Aragorn did not quite believe himself. 

Bergil, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled from the wind, came charging headlong over the loping hill. 

The irrepressible guard had pestered Bitaliel with questions all morning, until he mistakenly asked of the woman’s husband. 

Screaming, “He is dead!” Bitaliel actually threw herself from the saddle and had nearly been trampled to death.  It took several minutes to calm the horses, and even longer to calm Bitaliel.  After a full-blown tantrum, the woman reverted to her gibbering nonsense.  Not even Aragorn was able to draw her from the protective shell of insanity.

Spirits immensely dampened, Bergil had slipped into silent agitation.  At last his miserable, incessant fidgeting became too much for Aragorn, and so the king suggested he scout ahead.  Bergil’s mood immediately improved.

“My lord!”  Breathless and panting, Bergil reined in his steed. 

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and regarded the other patiently.  “Your report, soldier?”

Flushed and excited, the young man threw back his shoulders and saluted as he had been taught.  “Riders, my liege!  Twenty or so.  They approach from the East, bearing the standard of the Riddermark.”  His grey eyes glowed.  “The famed Riders of Rohan!  I could see their long spears, and the precision of their formation was like none I have ever witnessed.”

Aragorn rode to the hillcrest as Bergil continued his animated babble.  Helms and spear blades flashing white in the bright sunlight, twenty-odd Rohirrim pounded over the hillside.  Their emerald banners streamed behind in proud, rippling waves.

Aragorn squinted at the lead rider.  “Bergil?”

Bergil stopped mid-sentence.  “My lord?”

“Ride to Bitaliel and see that she does not become overly excited.  I would not have her unintentionally cause harm, be it to herself or others.”

Bergil sighed and cast a wistful glance at the swiftly approaching riders.  “As my lord commands.”  He saluted and turned to ride warily toward the madwoman, who was serene and calm by all outward appearances.

Aragorn lifted an arm to hail the Riders.  The lead Rider responded in similar greeting.

“Hail, Aragorn Elessar!”  Pulling up to an impressive halt, the Rider removed his horse-tailed helm.  “I heard rumor you had gone off adventuring without me.  Did my liege truly believe he could leave me sit idle?”

Aragorn smiled at the tall, broad-shouldered man.  “Well met, Éomer, my friend.  Well met indeed.” 

*     *     *

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The Paths Our Heroes Must Walk:  Okay guys, pull out your maps!  We begin with Legolas in Ithilien, then travel on over to Minas Tirith.  From there, we head west to Gimli’s Glittering Caves.  Then westward still and slightly to the south as we head towards the sea.  Legolas and Gimli have opted to travel on the western side of the Ered Nimrais mountain chain, which hooks southwest and out to the peninsula Andrast (or Ras Morthil).  Ras Morthil is the north-most tip of the Bay of Belfalas.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

A/N:  At last, we're all caught up!  I've finally gotten the remaining chapters re-edited, so the story is now up-to-date.  (Yaaaay!)  :)  Thank you, Jay and Karen, for the fantastic reviews!  I've been smiling all week. 

*          *            *

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~ Chapter 14: Ask Nothing In Return ~

There was silence in the Void.  No hissing shadows tore at Mortsdil upon his entrance; no rumble of unholy rage shook him to the core.

Soul bobbing mutely in the inky blackness, Mortsdil strained his senses to the utmost.  He could not feel the presence of Morgoth.  He was alone—completely and utterly alone.

‘Nothing.  There is nothing!’

The corsair could not hear the pounding of his own heart.  Nor could he feel it.  He flailed wildly.  But, as always, there was no solid ground to reach.  Silence pulled and pressed down so heavily he was positive he would be simultaneously squashed and ripped apart. 

What was most disconcerting was the lack of space.  Mortsdil had always sensed the Void’s great expanse before.  Granted, it was a great expanse of nothingness, but it had depth nonetheless.  Now, even depth was gone.  Sheer terror rendered Mortsdil frantic.  He was being enclosed by the muted nothingness; he was being pulled further than he was capable of stretching—and yet, he was not.  For when he lashed out, his desperate throes struck nothing and were not hindered in any way.  When he curled into a ball of despair, the nothingness swelled and boxed him within its wall-less dungeon.

Morgoth’s cold laughter reverberated through the Void like rattling chains in an empty cell.  The invisible shadows whirled and tore; the darkness regained its space.

Mortsdil sobbed.  There was pain, but he was no longer alone.

“Did you not find that pleasant, Secondborn?”  Morgoth’s words slid over him like grease and cut like knives.  Mortsdil’s soul could only quiver in reply.  “That,” the Vala emphatically stated, “is the Void.  This: the shades, the boundaries, the darkness—all of which you now experience, was created by mine own hand.  I could banish you to the nether regions of my ‘Realm’ with a mere flick of the wrist.”  His voice grew more jagged and menacing.  Mortsdil choked as shadows swarmed around his neck.  “When I beckon, you shall come.”

The shadows hissed and drew back.  Mortsdil gagged.  “Yes, my lord.  I apologize.  But time and circumstances—“

Something brushed against him, its consistency of silk webbing and stone all in one.  The pain was exquisite.  His soul grew so cold it burned.  Morgoth’s deep voice echoed in both ears, as though it had originated within Mortsdil’s own head.

“When I beckon, you shall come.”

Mortsdil went numb.  “When you beckon,” he whispered in enthralled reply, “I shall come.”

Shadows purred and rubbed against him.  Despite his numbness, Mortsdil could still feel their frozen bite.

“Tell me, Secondborn:  What news have you?”

“An Elf lord has taken the jewel.”

“An Elf lord?”  Morgoth sneered.  “Miserable creatures—always interfering.  Where is this. . . Elf lord now?”

“I seek him still, Master.  He heads towards the sea.”

Morgoth rumbled in displeasure.  The Void quaked.  “Find him.  I will not have my plans ruined by a Firstborn whelp.”

Mortsdil bowed.  “And when I find him, my lord?”

Morgoth paused, wicked glee mixing in sickening fervor with the anger and fury of the Void.  “Long has it been since mine eyes witnessed the spill of Elven blood.”  The fallen Vala hissed at some long-forgotten memory.  “When it comes time to shatter the Silmaril, I wish to use the Firstborn as the bridge.  The Light of Valinor shall be brought into the Void—“ Morgoth laughed, centuries of bitter rage welling and spilling into the darkness, “—and it shall be brought over a dripping carcass of Manwë’s precious Firstborn!” 

*          *            *

One does not go unscathed when brushed by the hands of a god.

Mortsdil awoke, sweating and shivering, on his cabin floor.  Hot wood, brine, and blood assaulted his senses.  The heat was suffocating, yet still the corsair was chilled.  Mortsdil lurched to his feet, grabbing the corner of his desk for support.  The disobedient sailor he had used for Morgoth’s sacrifice was beginning to bloat from the heat.  Tiny flies buzzed in and around the expanding cadaver.

Mortsdil watched them without interest, noting the corpse’s blood was beginning darken and coagulate.  The corsair frowned.  He felt… dulled… and the flies reminded him of something, though what it was he could not say.  He drew his shoulders together and shivered, unable to ward off the cold originating from his insides.  There seemed to be an insurmountable distance between his mind and his body.  It was like trying to run underwater. 

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Mortsdil gathered himself together.  There was work to be done; soon his ship would be within range of shore.  He cast a glance at the gutted body sprawled on the cabin floor.  He would dispose of it later—not that it was going anywhere.  Perhaps he would nail it to a mast or spar as warning to remaining crewmen.

Opening the cabin door, Mortsdil blinked in the blinding yellow sunlight.  Sea breezes kissed his sweat-soaked forehead, the driver’s steady one-two one-two drummed up from the galleys below.  Setting his face into a scowl, Mortsdil stepped back into sunnier realms and shut the cabin door behind him.

Oblivious to all but Nature’s demand, the black flies buzzed and crawled over the bloated corpse.  Tiny winged shades, biting and feeding upon Morgoth’s latest victim.

*          *            * 

Legolas and Gimli set camp in a ring of outcropping boulders.  Many years ago, Gimli had managed to convince the Elf of the benefits such places held.  Though the Elf would forever prefer the shelter of bough and leaf blade, he had to admit the boulders provided protection in their own right.  They effectively blocked the wind, retained the sun’s heat on cold nights, and, as Gimli made certain to point out, could not be hewn down by the enemy. 

Gimli watched his friend from the corner of his eye while bustling around their makeshift camp.  As they drew near the sea, Legolas withdrew further and further into himself.  Gimli had come to recognize the signs well enough: the glassy and distant gaze, head cocked slightly to the side.  Sometimes the Elf’s lips would move, as though he were attempting to give words to the voiceless song only his ears could hear. 

Gimli was nearly at wit’s end.  The Dwarf was quickly running out of ways to command the Elf’s attention—short of slapping him.  ‘And I do not think even that would yield effective results.’

Sitting with his back to a boulder, Gimli lit his pipe and sighed.  Legolas sat motionless opposite the fire, staring unseeing to the stars with the glassy-eyed expression of wonder Gimli had come to loath.  ‘Durin’s beard!  How did he expect to make this journey alone?’

Releasing a thick cloud of smoke, Gimli frowned at the dwindling campfire.  He had purposely sat upwind from Legolas, in the hopes his pipe smoke would draw the Elf’s notice and halt his wandering mind.  The Dwarf lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at the evening sky, as if by sheer willpower he could somehow find the song and stop it. 

The fire burned lower.  Gimli puffed furiously.  He hated seeing the Elf this way—it cut him to the quick.  At times he felt as though he were leading a small child.  It was not fair—Legolas should not be so vulnerable.  This was the famed Elf of the Fellowship: the chosen representative of the Elder; the fierce warrior at Helm’s Deep, Pelennor, Barad-dûr; one who had fearlessly trod the Paths of the Dead.  He deserved better.

Legolas coughed in the billows of smoke surrounding their campsite.  Shaking his head several times, the Elf blinked, eyes momentarily flashing with ire.  His anger over the pipeweed quickly faded to disorientation.  “Gimli?”  He again shook his head, fair brow furrowing in distress.  “I am sorry.  I meant to help you with the fire…”

Having at last caught the Elf’s attention, Gimli gratefully lowered the pipe from his lips.  If he puffed any harder, he was in danger of making himself ill.  “Think nothing of it,” he said, attempting to brush aside the Elf’s embarrassment, “I am well acquainted with the art of starting campfires.”  He cast a glance at the dwindling orange flames.  “Though speaking of it, I think I shall forage for more fuel.”

Legolas swiftly rose to his feet.  “I shall assist you.”

“NO.”  Gimli winced at the sharpness of his tone.  Legolas’ eyes flashed with embarrassment and anger.  “No,” Gimli repeated in softer tones.  “That is not necessary.”

An uncomfortable silence hung tensely in the evening air.  Gimli might as well have said “I do not want you wandering off unsupervised” out loud.

Legolas’ fists clenched and unclenched as he stared down the Dwarf.  Gimli found he could not bear to look at the other.  “I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own welfare, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli threw his axe over one shoulder with a grunt.  “Good.  Then see to the welfare of our camp as well.  I will not be long.”  He turned without a backwards glance and trundled off into the shadows.  Legolas’ furious eyes bore into his back all the while.

“Gimli.  Gimli.”

Gimli’s legs stilled of their own accord at the Elf’s commanding tone.  He turned reluctantly, and was greeted to the sight of Legolas purposefully striding towards him.  Graceful as he was imposing, the Elf presented the perfect image of slighted Elven royalty.  Gimli sighed heavily and steeled himself for the oncoming storm.

“You are not my caretaker, Master Dwarf.  You would do well to remember this.”  Legolas’ eyes narrowed, cold and hard as ice chips.  His voice became dangerously soft and clipped.  “Should you ever—ever—presume to think otherwise, I shall personally see to it that you never again make such a mistake.”

Gimli silently held his ground.  Legolas was humiliated; humiliated by his weakness and the unavoidable truth Gimli’s fears were not without merit.  His outburst, Gimli knew, was out of sheer desperation to keep some semblance of dignity intact.  ‘Would I not do the same were our situations reversed?’ 

The Elf’s tirade came to a cold and bitter end.  Gimli glanced at the seething Elf before turning away.  “I will not be long, Legolas.”  He felt, rather than heard, the Elf storm back to the campsite.

Legolas, face pinched in anger, stalked back and forth within the ring of boulders.  He whirled to face the dwindling flames before snapping his head up to the starry skies.  ‘Why?’ he demanded, anger finding new target in the voiceless and distant Valar.  ‘Why must you do this to me?  Why must you torment me so?  Have I not sacrificed enough?  Have I not given you all I possibly could, asking nothing in return?  Already have you taken my innocence and joy of Arda, and now you demand my strength and mind as well!’ 

“Allow me to retain but a piece of my former self,” he spoke aloud.  “But a small piece of my sanity!”

The stars winked overhead and the waning fire popped in its final throes.  The Valar did not answer.  Legolas slumped against a boulder, finding a perverse and bitter comfort in the rock’s protrusions as they dug into his back and shoulder blades.  “Please,” he whispered.  “Please.”  Evening breeze tugged gently at his hair, but the only voices to be heard were that of crickets and bats.  The Elf released a shaky sigh, attempting to regain some semblance of control. 

‘Gimli is right,’ he thought bleakly, campsite slowly fading as the Sea’s call grew stronger and more demanding, ‘I cannot even look to my own welfare.  I am naught but a helpless wraith.’

*          *            *

Gimli purposely took his time.  ‘Let the Elf regain his composure,’ he thought, piling as many pieces of dried wood and grass into his arms as he could.  ‘It will be better for the both of us.’

He carefully trundled back to the campsite, peering around his burden to ensure he would take no misstep. 

“Legolas?” 

His call sounded unnaturally loud in the serene darkness of evening.  Nagging alarm grew when he received no reply.

The fire had completely died, leaving only thin tendrils of blue smoke curling into the night.  Gimli hastily dropped the wood, heedless of where it landed.  “Legolas?  Master Elf, if this is some form of game—I am not amused.” 

The Dwarf encircled the ring of boulders, stout frame moving with surprising agility for one so compact.  “Legolas?  Legolas, I give up.  Come out now.  Please, my friend, answer me!”  Gimli did not care his voice was laced with open concern.  ‘He will appear before me any minute,’ the Dwarf told himself as he encircled the campsite yet again.  ‘I will run straight into him and he will mock me for my worries.’

He tried to ignore the obvious lack of Elven presence; that fragile, merry power Elves exerted over their surroundings.  A third frantic search of the campsite left the Dwarf face-to-face with the unavoidable truth.  Heart seizing up, Gimli gripped his axe and attempted to calm himself. 

Legolas was gone.

*          *            *

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Thank you!  :)

Jay of Lasgalen-  Thank you so much for dropping a note!  :)  I'm currently working on Chapter 17, so an update will be in order within the next week or two (finally... sheesh).  ;)  Are you no longer posting on ff.net?  (I'm feeling oddly torn--on one hand, it's where it all began, and on the other, one can only take so many Legomances...)  Again, thank you so much! 

Karen-  Bergil is quite a character, isn't he?  I've grown very fond of him over the course of the tale.  I'm thrilled you find everything flows well.  It's been a painful struggle on my part to keep things moving (and I've realized I have an odd habit of veering off into little side-stories... maybe it has something to do with my attention span, I don't know...).  I'm relieved to see the efforts weren't in vain!  :)  Thank you for the wonderful review!!! 

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

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~ Chapter 15: Two If By Sea ~

It was on rare occasion, following the battle of Helm’s Deep, that Éomer of Rohan was absent from Aragorn Elessar’s side.  Aragorn had won the Horsemaster’s respect at a time when Éomer thought the world offered only hopelessness and the bitter taste of defeat.  Yet Aragorn had proved him wrong, and it was a feat Éomer never failed to remember.  He was fiercely devoted to the King—a man he considered Friend, Brother, Teacher, and Liege.  Perhaps there were those within Rohan who quietly mocked him as “Elessar’s Shadow,” but Éomer took no notice.  There would always be those who were complainers by nature, and as it was, there was little to complain about in the realm.  Éomer’s loyalties were ardent, his intentions and beliefs straightforward and never wavering.   If a simpering few wished to mock him, the Horsemaster reasoned, then so be it.   

Thus, when Aragorn bade him return to Edoras, Éomer did so.

The King of the Rohirrim did not, however, depart without protest.  When Aragorn claimed a large entourage would draw too much attention, Éomer offered to replace the young guard Bergil and go in the other’s stead.  When Aragorn spoke of Rohan’s vulnerability without her king, Éomer merely snorted and pointed out that aside from a Mearas invasion, Rohan faced little threat. 

But Aragorn was adamant in his decision—Éomer was not to join this quest.  And Éomer, going against his better judgment, had watched as Aragorn and his mismatched company parted over the emerald plains. 

Lothíriel was surprised to find her husband returned, seeming to have brought back a foul mood with him.  “Éomer?”  She stopped short upon entering the Golden Hall, the couple’s young son Elfwine toddling gleefully at her skirts.  “Why have you not gone with King Elessar?”

Éomer’s brow furrowed in displeasure, a slight flush of anger coloring his face.  He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingertips upon the armrest.  “He requested I not join him, though I know not why.  And I respected his wishes.”  Éomer balled his hand into a fist and frowned.  “I should have accompanied him nonetheless,” he flatly declared.  “I have half a mind to follow him yet.”

Scooping the babbling child into her arms, Lothíriel approached her husband with a gentle smile.  She was fine-boned and raven-haired, after her father Imrahil.  At first glance, many would think her large eyes and slender, pale frame a sure indication of frailty.  Compared to the robust build of the Rohirrim, she was even more delicate.  However, despite all outward appearances, Lothíriel daughter of Imrahil and Queen of Rohan possessed an infinite well of strength.  She was the calm and soothing steel behind Éomer’s fire and fury. 

“I do not think Elessar meant to cause hurt,” she said, knowing her husband to be stung by Aragorn’s dismissal.  “And I know I speak for Elfwine as well as myself when I say there are those who are happy to see you home.”                 

Elfwine, babbling cheerfully and thoroughly immersed within his own world, reached for his father’s golden hair.  Éomer absently toyed with the boy’s chubby fist.  “You and the little one never stray from my thoughts when I am abroad.”

“I know.”  Lothíriel smiled down at her husband, idly running slim fingers through his flaxen hair.  The golden locks had always held a fascination for her.  Along with his blue eyes, it had been Éomer’s blonde hair that immediately captivated her.  Perhaps it was because she found the coloration so unusual, having never traveled beyond her father’s realm—she was not certain. 

Éomer closed his eyes and sighed in contentment.  Lothíriel knew he found the gesture soothing.  “Your sister’s husband sends a letter,” she said, drawing back her hand and bouncing Elfwine on one hip as the child began to squirm.

Éomer, head resting comfortably against the chair back, cracked one eye open.  “It was sent by Faramir and not Éowyn?  Are you certain?”

Lothíriel nodded, then bent down to release Elfwine as the child’s squirming became coupled with loud protests.  “Yes, I am positive.  It seems a man from foreign lands has been detained—though I cannot tell you more, as I did not have time to read the letter in its entirety.”  She reached to her waist and pulled a travel-stained letter from her sash.  Smoothing it, she handed the parchment to Éomer.

Éomer glanced at the paper before casting his wife a look of slight bemusement.  “I was not aware you had taken an interest to politics.”

Lothíriel absently redirected Elfwine away from the table leg he was about to veer into.  “Éowyn readily participates in the affairs of Ithilien,” she replied.  “Surely you have no objections.”

Éomer snorted.  “Éowyn is a different matter all together.  I believe I shall ban you from spending further time with my sister.  Her influence worries me.”

Lothíriel threw back her head and laughed: a deep musical sound her delicate build seemed incapable of. 

Éomer grinned.  “Do not doubt me, my lady.  I shall restrict your political aspirations to Lady of the Sewing Circle should it even cross your mind to pick up a sword.”

“Alas,” Lothíriel replied, curtseying low before her husband, “I am but a feeble woman; I fear the weight of knitting needles far too heavy for my delicate wrists.  Nonetheless, it is as my lord commands.  I shall perform my newly appointed duty with the utmost—“

“Ah, be gone woman!”  Éomer swatted at her with a hearty laugh.   

Serene smile gracing her lips, Lothíriel bent down to retrieve Elfwine from under the table.  “Then I take my leave of you, my lord.”

Éomer cheerfully waived her and Elfwine off.

“I shall dine with you this evening,” Lothíriel called over her shoulder, kissing Elfwine on the head as he clumsily waved goodbye to his father.  “Helfa has begun planning this year’s harvest festival and requested my aid.  I expect we shall be done well before the evening meal, though.”

“Mmm.”  Éomer nodded absently, concentration bent on the letter in his hand.  “Until then, my lady.”

When dusk blanketed the green fields of Rohan, and the last rays of sun turned the Hall a bronzed gold, Lothíriel dined alone. 

Pushing her plate aside with a disinterested sigh, she arose and took to wandering the halls.  Elfwine was fast asleep when she quietly slipped into his room.  She smiled fondly at the child, brushing a few strands of dark hair from his forehead.  He possessed her hair coloration and pale skin, though had received his father’s blue eyes.  Lothíriel suspected Elfwine would be of the same build as his father—to which she was secretly grateful.  Her raven hair and slender frame bore the telltale marks of Elvish blood; the people of Rohan would forever be suspicious.  Elfwine’s dark locks set him apart, but he would still bear the sturdy form of the Rohirrim. 

Standing by the window, Lothíriel wrapped her arms around herself and gazed out across the darkened plains.  Éomer was galloping over those exact plains, charging off to the green forests of Ithilien.  Lothiriel was loath to see him go.  Without his presence, the rustic nature of Rohan was almost too much to bear.

‘But,’ she could not help thinking, a small shiver traveling down her spine, ‘I am very glad he rides to Lord Faramir, rather than King Elessar.’

*          *            *        

“Greetings, fellow traveler.” 

Gimli started and looked up from the fire he was attempting to coax forth.  A rugged band of seven Men stood just outside the boulder ring.  The Man whom had spoken, a tall and tanned figure with sandy-colored hair, approached with an assertive caution.  Gimli’s eyes traveled to his axe, which rested against the fuel pile.  Silently cursing his carelessness, the Dwarf wondered how the group managed to come upon him unnoticed.

“It’s a fair wind this evening, is it not?” the stranger spoke again. 

Satisfied by the fire’s height, Gimli tossed a few pieces of dried grass and wood to the flames.  The fire licked and crackled greedily.  Brushing off his hands, Gimli warily moved to his feet. 

The Man made pretense of warming his hands before the flames.  The rest of his company slowly filed into the campsite.  Gimli inched towards his axe, feeling inclined to humor the warnings of his gut.  And, as Ris had pointed out, it was growing to be a particularly large gut.

“Tell me,” said the Man, “why does a Dwarf travel alone in these parts?”

“You assume I journey companionless,” Gimli replied.  “Now tell me:  Why do Corsairs wander the land?  I believe your legs are better suited for waves and ship decks.”

The corsair laughed at the Dwarf’s bluntness.  It was a hollow sound Gimli found unnerving.  And there was something… wrong… about the Man’s sea-colored eyes.  Something repulsive and unnatural.  “We are but two days’ distance from the Sea.  Perhaps,” the corsair said, emitting another short bark of laughter, “we go to visit our mothers.”  His men snickered. 

Gimli snorted in disgust.  “I was not aware your kind had mothers.”

The corsair smiled crookedly before settling himself against a boulder.  “There is more truth to that than you know, friend Dwarf.”  He peered above and around the boulders, sea-colored eyes searching intently.  “Where are these companions of yours?  Unless my eyes deceive me, it still appears you travel alone.”

Gimli seated himself so each corsair was within his line of vision.  “Elves are visible to mortal eyes only when they wish to be.”

Mortsdil started, feigning surprise.  He already knew the Elf and Dwarf were traveling together.  He had seen them in his water-mirror weeks ago.  “You travel with Elves?” 

“I travel with one Elf,” Gimli replied in irritation.          

“Ahh.”  Mortsdil nodded sagely before again scanning the encampment.  “These are strange times indeed, that an Elf and Dwarf are traveling companions.  I am curious: where is this one Elf?”

Gimli bristled.  If he knew where Legolas was, he would not have stayed put for three days, nor would he currently be residing in the company of Corsairs.  “He comes and goes as he pleases.  I expect he will return in a day or so.”

The corsair furrowed his brow but offered no reply.  A wary silence settled over the camp.

“He has employed you as a guide, then?”

Gimli’s eyes snapped from the campfire and rested upon the corsair’s face at the unexpected question.  “Yes,” the Dwarf replied, deciding his answer not altogether untrue.

After a moment’s hesitation, Mortsdil reached into his vest and brought out a leather pouch.  He carelessly tossed it at Gimli.  The bag of coins emitted a raspy chink as it came to rest near the Dwarf’s boot. 

Gimli narrowed his eyes and regarded the man suspiciously.  “Are you in the habit of flinging coins at the feet of all new acquaintances?”

Mortsdil gave a dry chuckle at the Dwarf’s abrasiveness.  It was not a pleasant sound.  “If they have what I want.” 

Gimli’s skin crawled.  He had the oddest feeling he should have left the moment the Corsairs arrived.  “And what could you possibly want from me, Master Corsair?”

Mortsdil leaned back against the boulder and folded his hands behind his head.  He took his time studying the Dwarf, mentally sizing the other up.  The fact that the Dwarf boldly met his gaze was intriguing.  There was a certain spark in the earth-brown eyes—a wizened attentiveness—that Mortsdil had never before encountered amongst the Dwarf-kind.  He pursed his lips.  “Whatever he’s paying, I’ll double it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

A second purse was lobbed at Gimli’s feet.  “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it,” Mortsdil repeated.  “Or rather—you may name the price if you wish.  The Elf is carrying something very dear to me.  I’ll spare no expense to get it back.”

Gimli rose stiffly, fists clenched in anger.  He had never been so insulted in his life.  That the corsair would even think Legolas had bought his friendship…  By Mahal, if only his axe were at hand!  He could see the firelight reflecting cheerfully from its blade.  It literally begged to be picked up.

“Well?  What say you?”  Mortsdil looked to the Dwarf in lazy anticipation.  “Do we have a deal?”

Had his temper not flared, Gimli would have most likely played along and catered to the pirate’s fancy.  As it was, he was far too incensed by the suggestion of betraying his best friend.  A low growl erupted from deep within his barreled chest.  “How dare you,” he spat, voice trembling with rage.  “How dare you!  Not for all the riches of Middle-earth would I abandon my friend to the likes of you.  A curse upon you and all your minions!”

In his shock, Mortsdil’s anger was forgotten.  He stared at the Dwarf in utter disbelief.  “Friend?  You call this Elf by the name of ‘friend?’”

“And I would not have it any other way,” the Dwarf hotly declared.  “Just as I am honored to carry the title ‘Elvellon.’”

Mortsdil fell silent as the seething Dwarf stomped off to gather his things.  This was a most unexpected twist.  The Dwarf and Elf were friends?  The idea in itself was completely dumbfounding.  ‘And yet...’  Mortsdil allowed himself a slight smile as the plan began to take shape.  Perhaps this would work out far better than originally hoped.

Gimli fumed as he gathered his remaining supplies.  He was leaving—going west towards the Sea in search of Legolas.  Never mind the moonless night, or that he had no trail to follow.  Anything was better than remaining in the company of those who would attempt to buy his loyalty.  He felt tainted.

He brushed past the corsairs as he went to retrieve his axe, making pretense of ignorance while purposely shoving them aside with his stout frame.  The salty, flea-bitten beggars would probably sell their own grandmothers if given the chance.

“Tell me, Dwarf: have you ever been aboard a ship?”

Gimli straightened abruptly, tightening his grip on the axe.  The gleam in the corsair’s sea-colored eyes was not from the firelight, of this Gimli was certain.  “Nay, and I have no desire to.”

‘Especially with the likes of you,’ he added mentally.

Mortsdil smiled disarmingly.  Gimli growled and was instantly on his guard. 

“I did not ask you if you wished to go.”

The ragged band encircled the Dwarf, gold earrings and eyes dancing maliciously.  Gimli brandished his axe.  “I have never gutted a pirate before.  Tell me; is it anything like a fish?”

Several curved blades and gruesome looking hooks appeared within the corsairs’ hands.  Gimli tensed.  He was going to cleave them all to bits.

Mortsdil’s cold smile widened.  “When we capture the Elf, he’ll take the punishment for any of my men you hurt tonight.”  He watched the Dwarf falter ever so slightly.  “Come now, be a good Dwarf.  You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the death of your…friend… now would you?  …Elvellon?”

One half of Gimli wanted to rip Mortsdil’s throat out, while the other side immediately sought to protect Legolas.  ‘Mayhap I can do both?’

It was worth a try. 

*          *            *

Legolas blinked.  Cold droplets, a mixture of rain and seawater, fell lightly upon his face.  Dashing rainwater from his eyes, the Elf took stock of his surroundings.  'Where am I?'

The wet sand was soft and yielding beneath his boots.  And the Sea…  The Sea!  It stretched out before him further than his eyes could follow: a rolling, supple mass of blue and green.  Sunlight glinted silver off wave crests.  The surf crashed gently upon the shore, foaming and frothing as it danced up the sand and withdrew in breathy hiss.  Salty wind blustered recklessly across the beach.  Gulls, glimmering white in the sun and keening wistfully on the briny air, called to him from above. 

Legolas sank to his knees in euphoric bliss, heedless of the wet sand and nipping waves.  ‘Ai the Sea!  Ever shall I be content to simply rest amidst the sand and waves.’  How long he remained kneeling before the waters he could not say—it might have been an hour, perhaps an eternity. 

A sharp nudge from behind nearly sent him sprawling.  The Elf twisted in irritation, angered at being so disrupted.  The stallion Findalen gave him a second nudge. 

“Cease your prodding and leave me be.” 

The horse flared his nostrils before giving Legolas a look akin to that of disgust.  Legolas did not care.  He did not even remember riding the horse towards the Sea.  Turning his gaze back to the endless waves, the Elf allowed the Sea’s glorious call to engulf him.  ‘I shall build a ship, and journey with those who wish to follow across the waves to Elvenhome.’

Water splashed against his chest.  He shivered in delight.  The Sea was pulling him; he could feel it.  It begged him to journey further into the waters, promising to reveal secrets and wonders no other soul knew of.  Legolas smiled at the incessant tugging.  Perhaps he could float all the way to Valinor…  float all the way to the depths of the Sea.

'To the depths of the Sea?  I do not wish to--'  An icy wave crashed over Legolas' head.  Choking on saltwater and suddenly extremely aware of the unfamiliar weight in the pouch about his waist, the Elf attempted to stand upright.  A second wave engulfed him.  How had he managed to wander so far out into the waters?

The unfamiliar weight grew heavier.  The Sea grew more insistent and vicious.  Legolas struggled wildly, horrified to discover his feet no longer struck sandy bottom.

Memories returned in jumbled fragments.  ‘The stone!  Ai, Gimli!’  Where was the Dwarf?

“GIMLI!”  The Elf roared, battling against the undertow with every ounce of strength.  Unless some ill had befallen the Dwarf, he would not have left Legolas’ side.  He must find Gimli.  Gimli was in trouble.

A wall of blue and green reared and swelled behind him.  Legolas paddled furiously towards the swiftly disappearing shore.  The Sea heaved, sucking him into her watery clutches.  Down came the wall in an icy fist of salt and turquoise.  Legolas was borne tumbling into the depths after it.

*     *     * 

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~ The End. ~

No, wait!  I’m kidding!    KIDDING.  But boy, you should have seen the look on your face…  *is promptly smacked by own conscience and several random viewers*  Geez, at least I didn’t say, “And they all lived happily ever after.”  Can’t hit me this time, I’m already headed towards the hills.  *swept up by Nazgûl #5 and carried off into the sunset—which looks suspiciously like the burning fires of Mordor*   

Nazgûl #5, he’s so dreeeeeamy…  *snicker* 

Man am I going to get some serious karmic backlash for this one.      

*          *            *          

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

A/N:  Éowyn has always been one of my top three favorite LOTR characters.  I worry I didn’t do her justice, but I tried my best.  :)

Happy Reading! 

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~ Chapter 16:  The Messenger ~

Bergil cast a sidelong glance at Aragorn, wondering what thoughts ran through his liege’s head.  The King had said little since their departure of Rohan five days ago.  Whatever his thoughts were, he kept them to himself, and Bergil could discern very little.  Even Bitaliel had fallen to contemplative silence, broken on occasion by her bouts of odd song.  Finding her words far too eerie and unsettling, Bergil preferred to ignore the madwoman. 

He fidgeted half-heartedly with Rhosharrow’s reins, narrowing his eyes against the setting sun and suppressing a sigh.  The hills were bathed in crimson and to the east, the stately Ered Nimrais mountains took on dusky violet hues.  Scanning the rolling hills, Bergil could not help but wonder how the sea would appear.  He had never before seen the open waters with his own eyes.  ‘Will it resemble these hills, I wonder?  Or mayhap it is akin to an endless plain—smooth and flat as glass.’

A small spark of adventure and wanderlust flared within the depths of his heart.  He was but two days from the sea.  Two days from a world he had heard only in tales, where even the air tasted of salt and the water stretched beyond both mortal and immortal eyes.

“Let us make camp in the boulder ring ahead.”  Aragorn’s voice broke over the evening lull, just as Bergil had convinced himself the rolling gait of his steed was actually that of the sea’s waters. 

Following the other’s outstretched arm, Bergil squinted and offered curt nod of affirmation.  “As my lord wills it.”

Bitaliel’s brow constricted, eyebrows drawing together and mouth becoming pinched and taut.  Bergil grimaced and prepared himself for the oncoming fit.  He did not notice Aragorn do the same.

“No,” Bitaliel said loudly, beginning to knead the front of her skirts.  “No, no, no, NO!  Let it lie with the stone, let the moss and dirt cover it, that none may ever see!”

“Oh come off it,” Bergil muttered with a scowl.  Though Aragorn did not catch the words, he nonetheless caught their tone and sent Bergil a sharp look.  The young guard swiftly lowered his head. 

Aragorn studied the madwoman intently.  “Speak plainly, my lady, for I shall not waste time deciphering your riddles.”

Bitaliel only grew more agitated.  “Already taken.  Claimed by the Sea!  Taken by the Sea’s spawn!  Taken!  Taken!”  Bitaliel’s shrieks rent the air.  Her mount sidestepped nervously.

Bergil’s scowl deepened.  The woman was perfectly sane until she wanted to get her own way.  Why were the words of the mad always treated more cautiously than those of the sane?  ‘I do not suppose Captain Haier would be near as understanding were I to throw tantrums over shifts not to my liking.’

Aragorn’s cool grey eyes flickered in warning as Bitaliel took to screaming unintelligible oaths.  “That is enough, my lady.”  His command was soft but stern.  “Your outburst does naught to avail us.  Rather, you draw unwanted attention.”

Bitaliel merely spat at him. 

Kicking her mount with her heels, she forced the gelding to sit back on his haunches and bolt across the hillside.  Aragorn and Bergil watched her retreating form with similar expressions of aggravation.  “Mayhap she will gallop over a cliff,” Bergil said, voice pitching a little too hopefully.

Expecting sharp reprimand, he was somewhat surprised by Aragorn’s dry response.  “Nay—the horse is too smart.”

Bergil blinked, feeling he had just caught a glimpse of Aragorn rather than King Elessar.  The moment was fleeting though, and the king returned in the next instant.  “I will set up camp within the boulders,” said Gondor’s liege.  “Fetch her before she has ridden too far.”

Bergil brought a hand to his chest in crisp salute, then wheeled his steed and charged after the blind madwoman.  Maybe a good sound gallop would pound some sanity back into the old bat.

With a wry shake of the head, Aragorn turned and made his way towards the boulders.  He reined in his mount as he drew near and frowned.  Something was not right.  He could feel it intuitively, in the slight tightening between his shoulder blades and the prickle along his spine and arms.  

He dismounted and drew his sword.  The blade shivered in anticipation as it was withdrawn from the sheath.  The boulders waited in shadowed grey silence, the final rays of evening glinting orange off various divots in the rock.  Wispy tufts of grass growing within the boulders’ shadow rustled hesitantly.  Aragorn approached cautiously, his steps light and quick.  Sword aloft, he swiftly eased between the boulders. 

The ring was empty, save the ashy white remnants of an abandoned campfire.  Aragorn’s eyes narrowed.  The ground was raked and torn—there had undoubtedly been a scuffle of some sort.  Running his hand over a darkly stained rock, Aragorn’s jaw tightened in distaste.  Yes, blood had been spilled.  Perhaps Bitaliel was right; they would most likely have to seek out another site to rest this night.

He stilled suddenly, blood running cold as his eyes fell upon an object carelessly discarded amidst a strewn pile of wood.  The weapon was as familiar to him as the one who oft wielded it. 

Aragorn stared at the soiled axe, fingers tightening reflexively over sword pommel.  If Gimli’s axe was here…

‘Then where is Gimli?’

*          *            *

Hadeem, renowned leader of the Bh’dul and messenger to Galathe of Umbar, stared at the woman in front of him in open curiosity. 

She boldly stared back.

He blinked solemnly, yet did not lower his gaze.  The corners of his lips threatened to tug upwards in smile, so struck was he by the absolute absurdity of the situation.

The border guards of Ithilien had detained him the moment he crossed into the realm.  He went willingly, carrying himself with such poise even the cankerous veteran soldiers had been won over in the end.  They escorted him to Lord Faramir, where Hadeem was granted audience and delivered Galathe’s message to the Ithilien king as he had promised to do.  He was then ushered to a lavish guest room (though the armed guards at his door and window were not lost on the Bh’ dul leader), while his purpose and Galathe’s words were debated amongst Lord Faramir and his advisors.

“The Lady Éowyn,” Hadeem’s translator stumbled along in his thick accent, “wishes to know if arrangements are suitable.”

“The Lady Éowyn?”  Hadeem studied the woman.  Her name was not unfamiliar to him—he had heard the stories and songs, as had everyone else.  She stood tall and straight, golden hair wound atop her head and face as pale and expressionless as stone.  Her blue eyes burned with a fire Hadeem found cold, fierce, defiant, and merry all at once.  He was nearly taken back by its intensity. 

‘Ice Maiden, indeed,’ he thought, thin lips lifting into smile and brown eyes sparkling with gentle amusement.  “Tell the lady I am satisfied beyond measure, though I wish to know of the whereabouts my stallion Ma’di.”  Glancing respectfully to Éowyn, he pressed his hands together and bowed as was customary amongst his people.

The translator, a bent and aging man whose bleary eyes betrayed his habit of reading by candlelight, turned and spoke quickly to Éowyn.  The lady tilted her proud head while she listened, fiery blue eyes traveling over Hadeem’s face in calculation.  Something flickered across her face at mention of the stallion; she pressed her lips together and offered a sharp nod before replying to the translator.

Hadeem studied her carefully.  He was an astute observer by nature, yet the lady seemed well practiced in the art of concealing emotions.  ‘Fragile as the Dove, yet possessing claws of the Lion.   She is truly a fascinating creature.  It is a wonder the Lord Faramir still remains in one piece after all these years.’

“The Lady Éowyn,” spoke the translator in his unwieldy accent, forcing Hadeem to bend much of his concentration on deciphering the other’s words, “says your cow is well.”

Hadeem straightened indignantly.  “Cow?”

Éowyn watched as something akin to insult flashed across the Haradrim’s face.  “Deesha?” he cried, fine-boned features darkening in outrage.

The translator blinked owlishly, then flushed and blurted forth several more words unfamiliar to Éowyn’s ear.  Whatever it was the flustered old man said seemed to mollify the Bh’ dul leader, though Éowyn caught the slightly exasperated glances Hadeem continued to cast him.  She made a mental note to find a new translator.

The Lady of Ithilien was not a woman easily impressed, yet she found herself intrigued by the Bh’dul leader.  There was kindness and wisdom in the man’s soft brown eyes, and a gentleness and grace in his movements.  Éowyn wished language did not pose such a barrier between them, for she doubted not that Hadeem would be a fascinating mind to engage.

It was rumored upon his arrival that the border guards had captured a strange, dark-skinned Elf of sorts.  Now that she had seen him with her own eyes, Éowyn knew Hadeem to be not of the Elf-kind.  Still, his tall lithe frame and fine-boned features were quite striking, and he did have a certain lightness in his step not found in many Men.

‘He is older than he appears,’ the Shieldmaiden decided.  ‘His eyes bespeak years untold upon his face, much like the Prince Imrahil.  Mayhap he does have some Elvish blood in him, though I have never heard of Elves inhabiting the desert lands.’

As Hadeem wished to visit his steed, Éowyn led him and the bumbling translator down to the stables.  The great black horse nickered fondly at his master’s arrival, and Hadeem smiled and spoke softly to the animal in turn.  Éowyn’s breath caught in her throat; the horse was a magnificent creature.  The stallion’s dished face and long legs were perfectly sculpted; his coat so sleek and dark it fairly shone blue.

It was then the Shieldmaiden recalled there were no black horses in Rohan.  She mentally distanced herself and suppressed a frown.  Sauron’s minions had stolen every black horse and bent the animals to the Dark Lord’s service.  Even the very steeds of the Nazgûl had once belonged to the Rohirrim, bred to thunder freely across the emerald Plains.  Dark-colored offspring were no longer produced by Rohan’s horses.  Only the Enemy rode such beasts.

Éowyn’s jaw tightened as she watched the Haradrim converse with his ebony horse.  ‘The Enemy.’

The man from Harad had spoken to Faramir of fleets sailing up the River Anduin, manned by a fell pirate under guidance of Morgoth himself.  A combined Haradrim and Easterling force was to launch simultaneous land assault against Minas Tirith.  However, as leaders of these realms did not wish to engage their men, the army would only march if all other options were exhausted.  “The Lord Galathe,” Hadeem said, “sends you these tidings as show of good will.  Yet know this:  We fear the leader of the Corsairs of Umbar.”  His smooth features had been marred by displeasure as he spoke. “We are bound to him by our own superstitions and follies; our own darkness.  If given no other choice, we will follow him.  We must.”

‘Does he speak truth?’ Éowyn wondered.  ‘Is Gondor truly threatened by the Corsairs of Umbar—by this soulless Captain Mortsdil?’   She, better than most, knew what it was to be bound unwillingly.  Had not Gríma Wormtongue done the same to her uncle’s court?  ‘And yet, there is too much we do not know of him.  He spoke openly of his association with Umbar…  How can one live beneath the enemy’s shadow and not be tainted?’ 

The Lady of Ithilien bit the inside of her lip, maintaining an outward expression of neutrality.  They would reveal Hadeem for what he truly was within good time—be it friend or foe.  Faramir would play the diplomat; she would prowl the Bh’dul leader during his time outside the courts.  It was a double-teaming effort husband and wife played well.      

Lost in her thoughts as she was, Éowyn did not notice Hadeem watching her beneath lowered lashes.  The lithe man of Harad missed nothing.  It would take much to win her trust, but too much lie at stake should he fail.  He gave the stallion’s ear an affectionate tug.  ‘I do not think even she could withstand the burn of Melkor.’    

*          *            *

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Gimli released an involuntary moan.  His eyes fluttered momentarily, as though debating on whether or not to return to consciousness.  Wooden floorboards creaked beneath his feet; the air was so hot and stuffy he could barely draw breath.

The Dwarf again moaned.  His head pounded so mercilessly his eyes throbbed.  His chest and back were on fire, and the incessant rocking nearly set his stomach in his throat.

“Wakey, wakey, Dwarf.”

Eyes snapping open, Gimli lunged forth with a bellow as a bucket of foul-smelling seawater was dumped over him.  It was then he discovered himself manacled.  Spitting out stagnant water, the Dwarf twisted furiously in his bonds.  Salt stung numerous wounds he did not remember receiving.  “Where am I?  What manner of foul play is this?  I demand you release me at once!”

His captor—‘A corsair,’ Gimli realized with sinking gut—chuckled. 

“Welcome to the Umbria, Dwarf.  Umbar’s finest sailing vessel.”  The ragged pirate grinned, revealing a mouth of green-grey teeth.  Gimli was reminded distinctly of a weasel.  “Captain’ll be glad to see you up and about.”

The tiny cabin pitched forward.  Gimli’s stomach pitched with it.  He fairly felt himself turn green.

“’Course, he’ll not be back fer a few days.”  The corsair leered, oblivious to the Dwarf’s discomfort.  “Which means we get to have a bit o’ fun with ya in the meantime.”

*          *            *

____________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  Chapter title is direct text from J.R.R. Tolkien.

A/N:  Wow, I continue to be blown away by the tremendous outpouring!  I cannot begin to thank you all enough…  I have no idea where to begin!  Thank you all so much, from the very bottom of my heart!  As usual, I apologize profusely for the delays.  I’ve been extremely ill the past month or so, and for a time worried I might have to permanently cease writing. The incredible reviews and MPA nomination (eeeee!  EXCITING!!!  Hahah!  Take THAT Certain Website Who Told Me This Was A Poorly Written Tale Not Following The Works Of Tolkien!) were more uplifting than any medication.  (The latter of which, incidentally, turned me into a lethargic zombie who didn’t know what day it was, much less how to be creative…)

I’m still scrambling to catch up on the many tales I’ve fallen behind—there are so many reviews to send!!!—and attempting a slow but steady recovery (alas, patience is a virtue I have yet to find the time for). 

Again, thank you a thousand-fold!  :)

Happy Reading!  (Er, sort of.  This chapter is rather depressing.)

-Character List-

*The Strange Voice In the Sea- Ulmo, Vala Lord of the Ocean.

Bergil- Son of Beregond.  Befriended Pippin during the War as a boy.  Now Citadel guard.  (creation of Tolkien)

Bitaliel- The blind madwoman who traveled to Gondor and gave Aragorn the Sea Stone

Mortsdil- Head of the Corsairs of Umbar. 

Aragorn

Legolas

Gimli

*          *            *

_________________________________________

~ Chapter 17:  And I Must Follow, if I Can ~ 

“I’ve never heard a Dwarf scream.”  The weasel-faced corsair pulled out a curved dagger from his tunic and deftly twirled it.  “Tell me: what does a Dwarf sound like when he screams?  A seagull?”  The pirate’s eye twitched.  “A little girl?”

Gimli gritted his teeth and growled, attempting to ignore his revolving stomach.  A twisted sneer settled across the corsair’s face and the man began taking mock stabs at the Dwarf. 

“The only screams in this room will be yours,” Gimli spat with a low rumble.

The corsair merely laughed.  Eyes never leaving Gimli, he slunk closer.  The knife blade gleamed dull yellow, the cabin’s lone oil lamp casting a murky light within the small compartment.  Wooden planks creaked wearily as the ship pitched and rolled. 

Gimli tensed, clenching his fists and straining instinctively against his manacles.  They rattled and groaned in protest.  The Dwarf blinked. 

Realization struck him like a bolt of lightening.  ‘These chains were meant to hold Men.’    Eyes racing along the length of chain, Gimli traced it back to the iron ringbolts in the cabin wall.  ‘These chains were fashioned to hold Men,’ he silently repeated, blood beginning to surge and pound. 

The son of Glóin allowed himself a grimace of satisfaction.  He was of the Dwarf-kind.  His hands had mined iron from the very bowels of the earth; his fists had wrought steel and mithril. 

Rusted Corsair chains were not meant to hold Arda’s smiths.

“Let’s see what’s under that—“ the corsair began, tossing the blade from one hand to another with practiced ease.  He never finished the phrase.

Gimli threw his entire weight forward with a mighty roar.  His bellow mingled with the sharp splintering of wood and the shriek of loosed metal as the bolts were ripped from the wall.  Still fettered but no longer immobile, the Dwarf swung the bolted end of his manacles at the corsair.  They hummed angrily, snaking through the air with terrible accuracy.

The weasel-faced pirate leapt back in shock, but even the quick reflexes of the Elves would not have saved him from the enraged Dwarf’s blow.  Iron links met his face with a sickening crack, oddly akin to the sound of splintering wood.  The man toppled like a rag doll.  He was dead even before the last breath of air escaped his lips.  He lie in a boneless heap, broken skull stained the wooden floorboards a rusted brown.

Gimli lurched towards the door as quick as his battered form would allow it.  He did not pause to give his foe a second glance.  The corsair was certainly dead, and Gimli was hard-pressed to feel any sympathy for him.  He had more pressing concerns as it was—such as getting off the boat.  And one would have to be deaf not to have heard the damage he wrecked upon the cabin walls.

The boat pitched sideways as Gimli threw his shoulder into the cabin door.  It swung open wildly.  The Dwarf toppled into the blinding sunlight, meeting the ship’s hull with a dull thud.  He would have been flung overboard had his manacles not snagged in the doorframe nor the ship rolled backwards.  He was jerked into the opposite wall, stout frame connecting heavily with the outer cabin planks.  Dazzled by sunlight and convinced even the ship had turned against him, Gimli cursed and attempted to struggle upright.  Flinging himself through the treetops like an Elf would have been easier.

“Aye-yuh!”  A shout of warning carried from the mast and oiled canvas sails above. “Escape on portside!”

Blinking furiously in the blinding sun, Gimli paused to glare in the direction of the voice.  ‘I shall give you a ‘portside,’ he thought vehemently, lurching forward as the ship rose and fell yet again.  However, the Dwarf was given little time to contemplate how to go about doing so, as the decks of the Umbria were soon swarming with Corsairs.

Yanking his chains from the doorframe, Gimli doubled them and wound the links around his wrists.  If he was going to meet his end, he certainly wasn’t going to go alone.  “Khazad aimênu!”  The ancient battle cry rang proud and strong across the waves and over the Corsair shouts. “Baruk Khazad!”

“Get ‘im!”

“Where’s the harpoon—I’ll spear the little digger!”

Gimli threw himself at the oncoming horde with a bellow of rage, managing to wrap his chains around the neck of the first pirate he met.  He snapped the man’s neck with little ceremony.  ‘One down…’  Gimli bared his teeth and snarled; ducking as a dagger aimed for his eye instead clipped his ear. 

They came from behind.  They came from the front.  They even came from the rigging above.  Gimli whirled and struck out blindly.  His heavy fist met a jaw with a satisfying crack.  His boot a shin with equal force.  Daggers nicked his back, cutlasses his arms and legs.  Once, twice a club met him full across the face.

Gimli staggered.  Sweat stung his swollen eyes.  His nose was broken.  Blood ran freely from his mouth, his forehead, and numerous gashes along his stout frame.  ‘I will fight.  I will fight.  I am a son of Mahal!  I will not falter!  I will fight.’  Silently and doggedly did the Dwarf repeat his mantra.  They would not take him alive. 

He doubled over as a blow caught him unawares in the gut.  A knife bit into his calf.  A third blow to the head sent him reeling. 

Gimli’s vision tunneled, yellow flashes exploding before his eyes.  It suddenly occurred to him he was lying prostrate on the deck, and could do nothing about it.  Shadows fell across his face as he was looked down upon and prodded.  He groaned when he was kicked, sharp pain searing up his side.

“Keel-haul ‘im,” a voice hissed.

Despite his half-conscious state, Gimli found himself irked he was unable to lash out.  His attempts to strike his captors were feeble and easily stilled.  ‘What would Legolas say were he to see me now?’

Legolas.

Legolas, whom he had driven away with his harsh and careless words.  Legolas, whom he had failed.  Gimli’s gut twisted.  When the Elf needed him most, he—Gimli son of Glóin—had faltered. 

“Aye,” called a second voice.  “Keel-haul ‘im!”         

The chant was taken up throughout the boat.  Even the seagulls shrieked in agreement.

“Keel-haul!  Keel-haul!”

Dazed, heartsick, and seeming to view a world enshrouded in cotton, Gimli idly wondered what a keel-haul was.  Rough hands grabbed him by each arm.  He was half-carried to the bow of the ship, feet scraping the wooden planks as they dragged behind him. 

A noose was placed around his neck.  Gimli struggled as it was tightened, twisting weakly within the calloused grasp of his captors.  A vicious pummel to the brow quickly stilled him.

“Survive this, Dwarf,” were the last words Gimli heard as he was thrown overboard. 

*          *            *

Down, down, the waters pulled.  It was as if the Sea wanted something Legolas could not give, yet continued to paw greedily at him as though she might somehow find it.  She claimed the air in his lungs, the strength in his limbs, and the warmth of his body.  Legolas felt his very soul strain within the confines of his frail form.  The Sea sought to draw even his inner light.  And yet still she was not satiated

The Elf ceased his struggles.  He was weightless and suspended.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt himself begin to fade.  No longer was he chilled or numbed by the embrace of icy waters.  He was free.  Free…   

It struck Legolas as odd that the last thoughts running through his head were not his own. 

‘Honestly, I have not a clue why Manwë and Varda love the Firstborn so.  You are all too arrogant and mournful for your own good, in my opinion.  Foolish elfling.  And do not think your curses fell upon deaf ears!  You dare to shake your fist at those who created and watch over you?  Hmph.  Were it my choice, I would let you drown.  You are deserving of such a fate.’

The voice rose and ebbed like the tides.  Its rumbling undercurrent reminded Legolas of pounding surf upon distant sands.

‘Moan and gripe, moan and gripe.  Ai, but you can be a pitiful little creature when the mood strikes you.  We shall have a talk, you and I, should you ever pass by the Halls of Mandos.’

Legolas, before losing consciousness a final time, fancied he was slapped half-heartedly by a wave.

*

The Sea frothed furiously, her waters swirling and spraying as she attempted to hold the Elf within her clutches.  She could feel it—the weight of her precious stone. 

‘Not yet, my Cold Mistress.   Not yet.  Put the little fool back on the earth for now.  You shall not have long to wait.  I promise you this, my cruel and wild pet.  The jewel shall be yours once more, but you cannot claim it now.  For if you do, it will torment you as it did before.’

The waters gathered and released a final spray of fury.  But in the end, she chose to obey His words.  She did not always listen to Him, but if it meant reclaiming her most treasured possession, she would do unto his bidding. 

Glittering waves rolled into themselves, curling around the nearly drown Elf, and carelessly spat him back upon the beach.

*

Legolas, to the best of his knowledge, had never before regained consciousness by receiving a blow to the head.  He was cruelly jolted back to the waking world the moment his head met the wet sand.  Sucking in a ragged gasp, the Elf began to cough convulsively.  He rolled onto his stomach, body shuddering as his lungs attempted to rid themselves of every drop of seawater.

After several final dry heaves, the Elf was at last able to draw normal breath.  Exhausted, Legolas allowed himself to collapse in the sand, cheek resting against the salty grains.  He stared at the Sea through hooded lids.  Sunlight danced off wave-crests, and the water appeared more green than blue.  He turned his head opposite the water with effort, not caring his wet hair was matted with sand, or that it stuck to his skin in muddied patches.  The peaks of Ras Morthil rose solemnly in the east, seeming content to merely watch the exhausted Elf and his peculiar struggles. 

The son of Thranduil closed his eyes, but found himself unable to block the surf’s hiss as it crashed upon the beach.  The Sea’s image burned brightly in his mind—rolling and churning in ever-changing shades of blue and green.  His blood pounded in time to the waves. 

Legolas extended his fingers in the sand and then balled his fists, releasing a short and despairing laugh.  ‘Even now do I feel the waters’ call.  I fare no better than a flame-drawn moth.’     

“Cap’n!  Cap’n!  Great Seas, you were right!”

Eyes still closed and sand grating harshly against his skin, Legolas sighed wearily.  Mayhap if he remained still, whoever walked the beach would think him drowned and leave him be.  Company was the last thing he desired at the moment, especially that of awe-struck mortals.  He was in no mood to answer their tiresome questions, or to be stared and ogled at. 

“Oy, do ye think ‘e be dead?”  The briny wind carried a second voice to Legolas’ ears.  “’E ain’t moved a bit.” 

‘Yes,’ the Elf thought sourly, schooling his breath as shallow as he could, ‘I am dead.  You have no further need to look upon me.  My corpse is of no interest.’  He could hear wet sand shifting beneath bare feet as the Men drew near.  His ears distinguished seven different strides.  Some of the Men were panting heavily, and Legolas could almost feel the heat they gave off beneath the smoldering sun.  Strange hitches in their steps suggested they weren’t entirely used to walking upon land.

The footfalls stilled.  Legolas held his breath. 

And then a strange tremor ran over him; he felt it run up the nape of his neck and down into the pit of his stomach.

“No, Jesseral.  He’s not dead.”

Something about the voice, something lying underneath the words, sent Legolas’ skin crawling.  It was repulsive and paper-thin, like brittle fall leaves skipping over a deserted forest path. 

The Elf’s eyes snapped open.  He found himself staring directly into Mortsdil’s sea-colored gaze. The pirate’s eyes were depthless and hollow. 

The Man had no soul.  

Legolas recoiled instinctively, words in his own tongue escaping his lips at a low hiss.  “Be gone, dead one!”

“I ain’t never seen an Elf afore.”  A sallow-faced corsair with one eye leaned forward tentatively, his lone eye greedily taking in Legolas’ appearance.  He and his crewmates nervously fingered their weapons.  “What if ‘e curses us or something?”

Mortsdil smiled lazily.  “He won’t.  He can’t.  In fact,” his smile grew broader and more twisted, “he’ll even wish to help us.”

“I shall do no such thing!”  Legolas leapt to his feet.  The startled Corsairs, all save Mortsdil, drew back.  “I have fought against the likes of you since I was first able to draw a bow.  Never will I ally with such foul company!”  He drew himself to full height.  Mortsdil’s crew muttered warily and retreated further.  The Elven Prince was an imposing sight: head tilted proudly and bright eyes flashing.

Legolas carefully concealed his relief.  Balling his fists, the Elf glowered.  It had been at least four days since his last meal, and the ensuing near drowning had done nothing to help matters.  Legolas was greatly in tune with his body—as were all warriors—and knew his limits.  ‘And,’ he thought darkly, ‘swiftly do I approach them.’

Mortsdil crossed his arms and eyed the Elf with the confidence of a man on the brink of victory.  It was then Legolas realized the corsair knew.  Mortsdil knew him to be on the brink of fatigue, knew him to be at great disadvantage.  Still, pride and stubbornness would not allow the son of Thranduil to admit defeat.  He did not drop his façade, and ignored the increasing anxiety twisting within his gut.

Mortsdil held forth a calloused hand.  “Give it to me.”

Legolas’ jaw tightened.  “There is naught I have to give.”

“Give it to me.”

The Elf stared at Mortsdil’s hand, repressing uncomfortable memory of an eerily similar confrontation only weeks before.  It was during these instances the weight of his burden was keenly felt.  The stone in the pouch at his side felt heavier than a boulder.  His hand unconsciously strayed to it.

Mortsdil’s eyes followed the motion.  “Give it to me,” he repeated yet again. 

“No.”  Legolas took a step back, angling his body so that the pouch was no longer in Mortsdil’s line of view.  The Sea, upon capturing sight of the pouch, seemed to grow louder.  Legolas fought the urge to give the waters his full attention.  The waves only sang more insistently, insulted by his inattentiveness.

Mortsdil’s eyes narrowed.  He stepped forward, ragged crew tentatively behind him.

For one hysterical moment, Legolas thought himself utterly lost.  It vaguely occurred to him he ought to run, but to do so would mean traveling further along the shore.  The water’s call was too strong; he was likely to end up washed out to Sea yet again.

“I’m going to cut off the Dwarf’s head and nail it to the spar,” Mortsdil snarled.  “The rest of him I’ll use as fish bait.”

Legolas froze.

“I’ll bring the Umbria near the beach, so you’ll be able to hear his screams.  Do you think he’ll beg, Elf?  Do you think we can get him to plead for mercy?”

Mortsdil watched the Elf’s agitation quickly turn to fury.  In the ensuing silence, the hiss of ocean surf became thunderous.  The Elf’s eyes leapt and burned with such intensity several of Mortsdil’s crew were forced to still their shaking hands.  Anger radiated from him in palpable waves, heated as the sun’s own rays. 

Mortsdil chuckled as the hair on his arms and neck rose and his skin danced with some unnamed charge.  “Impressive.”  He absently rubbed his arms to dispel the strange tingling.  “I’ll cut off the Dwarf’s beard and give it to you, since the thought of losing him irks you so.”  He sneered.  “That way, you’ll always have a piece of the filthy hole-dweller.” 

A small tremor ran through the Elf.  Legolas lunged with a strangled cry of rage.

The speed at which the Elf reverted from statue to lightening was terrifying.  Despite the weighted rope netting his men threw over the enraged Elf, Mortsdil was still forced to leap backwards.  Unbalanced, the corsair fell into the sand.  Legolas was dragged to the ground, though not before managing to snap one unlucky man’s wrist and delivering a few broken ribs to another. 

Mortsdil picked himself off the beach with a humorless chuckle.  “Almost had me there, eh Elf?  Almost.”  Brushing off his leggings, he kicked sand at the restrained Elf. 

Legolas struggled, whipping his head side-to-side as his face was pushed into the ground.

“Bind and gag him.”  Mortsdil crouched cautiously in front of the snarling Elf.  Legolas spat grit from his mouth and glared furiously at the pirate.

Mortsdil sent him a twisted smile before motioning one of his men to club the Elf.

The spear butt met Legolas’ head with a sharp crack.  He immediately went limp.

“Enough.”  Mortsdil raised a hand to stop the pirate as the man lifted the spear a second time.  “I need him alive.”

He pursed his lips, eyes traveling hungrily to the pouch fastened at the Elf’s waist.  Victory swelled his chest, and the corsair allowed himself a small exclamation of satisfaction.  He hastily untied the pouch’s drawstrings.  His eager hand closed around an object smooth and hard.

Mortsdil slowly removed his hand.  In it he held the Sea.

At last, the jewel was his.     

*          *            *

The Dwarf’s captors had made no effort to conceal their trail; the tracks were visible across the sloping grasslands and sandy dunes to even an untrained eye.   Aragorn rode like a man possessed, never releasing his hold upon Gimli’s axe as he charged towards the sea. 

Bergil fancied the Ranger had appeared as such during his great chase after the captured hobbits so many years before.  It was a sight Bergil would never forget, and he felt honored to ride astride so great a Man.

As for Bitaliel…  Bergil cast a sour glance over his shoulder at the ranting madwoman, her curses oddly punctuated by the steady gallop of her mount.

Bergil was still waiting for that cliff.

The Ras Morthil mountain chain rose and fell beside them, and stretches of hilly dune announced the coming of sanded beaches.  Over the dunes they galloped, horses snorting and Bitaliel moaning.  A strange roar filled the air, and Bergil nearly gagged at the overpowering smell of warm salt.  Gulls cried out angrily as the company flew by.

And then the sea stretched endlessly before them.  It was more water than Bergil had ever seen in his life, and he almost fancied it a living thing.  A large, heaving, beautiful monster.

The tracks of their quarry converged upon the pale sands.  A flattened trail led to water’s edge, suggesting a small boat had been dragged across the beach and into the waters.  Aragorn leapt from his mount and ran into the shallows, heedless of the water as sloshed over his boots and across his leggings. 

The waves told him nothing.  The trail was gone—even the boat’s telltale path was softly washing away in the surf.  Keen were the eyes of Rangers, but even they could not follow invisible trails in the waves.

Clenching his fists, the King of Gondor released a cry of frustration.  Far across the rolling waters, he could just barely make out the shape of a vessel bobbing upon the waves like a blackened cork.

Aragorn’s jaw tightened.  He had failed.  He was too late.

“My lord?”

He blinked several times, startled by Bergil’s voice. 

Bergil frowned and shifted uneasily atop his steed.  “My lord,” he said again, grey eyes narrowing as they focused on a point further down the beach.  “There is a small craft dragged ashore.  We are not alone.”

*

Aragorn took off down the beach at a dead run.

“King Elessar!  King Elessar—wait!”  Bergil leapt from his mount, hastily untying the scabbard strapped to the stallion’s saddle.  Fingers tugging furiously at the straps, he glanced over his shoulder in attempt to keep an eye on the charging king.

How Bitaliel managed to maneuver her horse in front of him he never knew.  The woman’s wiry fingers bit into his arm.  “Do not go,” she hissed, lowering her unseeing face to his own.  “Can you not hear the Sea’s anger?  Can you not feel it?  Listen!  Listen to the waves!  To the wind!  To the gulls!  Do not go!”

Bergil yanked his arm from her grasp.  “And abandon my liege when I have sworn to stand by his side?  Never.”

“Then you are a fool!”  Bitaliel flailed wildly, seeking to grab some piece of the young guard.  Bergil’s horse sidestepped in agitation. 

“I am a soldier of Gondor,” Bergil returned.  “And you are mad!”  Turning his sheathed blade on its flat side, he soundly smacked Bitaliel’s steed across the rump.  The horse squealed and bolted down the wave-smoothed shore.  Bitaliel could do naught but shriek and hold on for dear life. 

Releasing a breath of satisfaction, Bergil tossed aside his scabbard and sprinted after them.

*          *            *

A figure bound and half-ensnared in crude netting struggled against several corsairs, who were attempting to drag him into a weathered rowboat.  Aragorn recognized the captive immediately.

‘Legolas!’

That the Elf was alive—that he was not yet beyond Aragorn’s reach—suddenly seemed more important than whatever injury Legolas had caused.  For all his anger, Aragorn could never hate the Elf, nor would he abandon him.

The steady thrum of hoof-beats gradually overpowered the hiss of wave and wind.  Seagulls screamed angrily as their resting spots along the shore were interrupted, and the single, continuous shriek of Bitaliel seemed only to encourage their calls.

The small group mulling about the Elf was immediately alerted.  Swords and rapiers were drawn.  Two men leapt from the rowboat and into the shallows, leaving only a single corsair to man it.  Legolas, though bound, managed to roll onto his back and swiftly kick the legs out from under one of his captors.  The man struggled to lift himself from the brackish waters with a roar.  He and a second crewman immediately turned upon the Elf, kicking and beating the archer while waves frothed angrily about their ankles.

Aragorn’s blade was instantly aloft in his own hands.

Legolas appeared to struggle against the Men until at last a command from the single corsair in the rowboat halted their beating.  Aragorn found it odd that the Elf, too, ceased fighting at the corsair’s words.

Bitaliel’s horse hurtled past Aragorn, kicking up clods of wet sand in its wake. 

Bergil increased his pace, silently thanking the Valar for his long legs and overslept mornings, and soon found himself alongside Aragorn.  “Death take us all!” 

The young guard’s blade glinted white; he felt the sun’s rays as they seeped through his hair and tunic.  The sword remained cool in his hands and Bergil decided he liked the weight of it. 

The group of corsairs—for Bergil could now clearly identify them—hunched into defensive postures.  Instinctively he knew their wide-legged stances would not benefit them on sandy ground.  He risked a sideways glance at Aragorn.  The ferocity and sheer power emanating from the King was awesome in its strength and intensity.  Had he not known better, Bergil would have sworn he ran alongside an Elven lord from Middle-earth’s younger days. 

The young guard suppressed the strange urge to grin.

The lone corsair in the rowboat, who until then remained with his back to them, slowly turned to face their charge.

Bergil gasped and nearly stumbled to a standstill.  He felt Aragorn’s stride hitch and then suddenly halt at his side.  It vaguely registered that Bitaliel’s mount was cut down by a well-aimed spear, and that the blind woman was thrown viciously to the sand as her horse reared and then collapsed with a final agonized scream.  Bergil only knew that Time itself seemed to pause, holding its breath for an extended moment.

In the corsair’s hands rested a jewel.  But it was unlike any Bergil had ever seen.  It flickered and shone; it was as deeply blue and green as the very waters of the sea.  And it cast a strange light within the corsair’s pale eyes.

“You are too late,” said the corsair, eyes never leaving the glittering jewel in his palms.  The rowboat rocked gently in the waters, but the man appeared unaffected by its motions.

Aragorn’s face tightened and grew cold.  “We shall take our chances.”

Bergil schooled his face to an equally grim expression, feeling a spark of awe at his liege.

Legolas’ muffled cry of rage and distress was quickly silenced by the several blades pressed against his throat. 

The corsair’s glittering eyes lifted and flickered over the two men of Gondor.  A thin sneer slowly spread across his tanned face.  He nonchalantly reached to his belt.  “I’ve never been one to take chances.”

A gull shrieked in warning, wings casting a distorted shadow as it wheeled above.

Mortsdil’s dagger whistled as it flew through the air.

*          *            *

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*releases shaky breath*  Next chapter has been written since before last Christmas.  With all my heart do I wish to change it, but… 

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. 

Once again I thank all you wonderful reviewers!  :)   Your thoughts and comments are absolute gems.

*looks over precipice*  Well, there’s no going back now…

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~ Chapter 18: One Shall Pass ~

Bergil gasped in shock.  He had not expected the corsair to strike so quickly. 

Bitaliel twisted frantically as she was dragged to her feet and bound.  “What has happened?” the woman demanded, her voice pitching slightly in panic. “Tell me!”

Bergil blinked several times, his mind attempting to make sense of what he had just witnessed.  His eyes fell upon Legolas and he was at once alarmed to see the look of horror upon the Elf’s normally calm visage. 

Following the gaze of the Elf lord, Bergil looked down. 

His eyes widened in disbelief.  He was surprised to find himself cradling his abdomen.  And even more surprised to find the knife protruding from it.

His body shuddered.  There were sounds of scuffle upon the sands, and then the sharp threat, “One more move and the Dwarf dies, Elf.”  A pain unlike anything Bergil had ever experienced rushed from the knife and through his body like liquid fire.  The earth began to spin.  He doubled over with a moan, feeling his legs give away. 

Suddenly the grinning face of Mortsdil was before him.  The pirate clasped him by the shoulders and drew him in close, as though intending to embrace the young guard.  His sea-colored eyes glinted with an unholy light.

The corsair plunged the knife deeper and then upward, grinning all the while.  A scream tore itself from Bergil’s lips.  His cry mingled with Aragorn’s roar and the frightened shriek of Bitaliel.

Mortsdil’s grin curved downward into a feral snarl as he withdrew the knife, feeling it scrape against the young guard’s ribcage.  Warm blood coated his hands like paint.

He shoved Bergil backwards and the young man sank to his knees, choking and gasping for breath. 

It was almost funny, the faces people tended to make while amidst their death throes.

“Bergil!”  At Aragorn’s hoarse cry, Mortsdil turned his attention away from the writhing figure at his feet.  The King of Gondor was struggling mightily against the two corsairs who held him at bay.  Standing aside, Mortsdil motioned for the men to release Aragorn.

Aragorn immediately flung himself to Bergil’s side.

“Bergil?  Bergil!  Bergil, can you hear me?”  He placed an arm underneath the young man’s head and drew him upright, urgency causing him to handle Bergil with uncharacteristic roughness.  ‘Hear me, son of Beregond!  Your time is not yet come.  Not yet!’

Bergil coughed.  There was blood in his mouth.  He had always hated its taste; the iron saltiness caused him to gag.  “My… Lord…”  He gasped, unable to draw a full breath of air.  Something was wrong; he could not breathe.  And there was a look in Aragorn’s eyes he had never before seen.  What was it?

It was fear.  Aragorn was frightened.

‘He is afraid!  My Liege is afraid!’  Bergil whimpered as his own panic began to rise.  How badly was he hurt?  He could not die, not yet—no, his king would not let him die. 

The liquid fire increased in heat, causing him to double into himself.  “It hurts…”  He moaned, unable to hold back the tears now coursing down his cheeks.  “It hurts!  Please, My Lord…please…the pain…” 

“Hush Bergil.  Hush.  All is well.”  Aragorn clasped the young man’s hand within his own, ignoring the blood that poured forth in seemingly endless streams.  Bergil’s knuckles turned white, so hard did he clench Aragorn’s hand in reply.

Bitaliel dropped to her knees and scrambled towards the duo.  Aragorn reflexively shielded Bergil as she unintentionally flung sand upon the two in her haste.

“Boy?  Boy, where are you?”  Bitaliel’s bound and trembling hands found the tear-stained face.  She began to repetitively stroke away the hair from his forehead, repeating Aragorn’s words as if by doing so would make them true.  “All is well.  All is well.  All is well…”

Bergil spasmed, clenching Aragorn’s hand so tightly the blood covering them squelched in protest.  He arched his back in desperate attempt to gain air, only to conversely cough and double over as the feat proved too painful.

“Bergil!”  Aragorn’s voice came harsh and unnatural.  Bergil opened his crimson-stained mouth in muted plea of agony and stared back at the King of Gondor.  

Aragorn had knelt beside too many fallen companions to not immediately recognize the unnerving way Bergil stared directly through him.  A choked sob tore itself from the young man’s lips.  “Son of Beregond, do not wander!  Remain, Bergil.  Your King commands it of you!”  

But even a King was not capable of dismissing Death.

Bergil’s body jerked once before going stiff and rigid.  The once-lively grey eyes widened and extinguished; the face that so often bore the easy-going smile froze in final agony.

Bitaliel threw back her head and howled.  Her scream carried long and far down the shore, causing seagulls and sandpipers to take to the air in alarm.            

And thus did Bergil, son of Beregond and loyal guard to King Elessar of Gondor, pass beyond the realm of Middle-earth, never again to see the White Tower of his beloved home.

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