To Resist both Wind and Tide | By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4390 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do nto own Lord of the Rings and no money is made from this story, just fro fun.Characters and settings created by JRR Tolkien. |
Chapter Twelve: In the Shadow of Many Towers
"How many, Legolas?" Aragorn whispered grimly. The trio was hunkered low amid the rushes, knee-deep in stagnant water so rank it had to be contaminated with offal from the Black Tower. They peered through a screen of reeds at the deceptively unremarkable landscape across the river. It was eerily serene; there were water fowl sedately paddling about just upstream and an egret poised in the shallows on its stilted legs. A fish jumped where the channel was deeper. They might have been on the banks of the Brandywine gazing upon the Old Forest but for the stink. When Aragorn rose to take over the watch, he found Legolas in reverie, that elvish state of removed but alert consciousness he always found so intriguing, even more so this night. The Wood Elf was standing motionless on one leg, the other bent at the knee, its foot propped atop its counterpart's calf, stork fashion, his bow planted before him, both hands wrapped round it, head bent in a listening pose. The man smiled to see this stance, wondering if this was typical for sylvans, and he took his place beside his mate, hearing the nightingales singing. He did not want to disturb the elf's rest and did not need to, for he knew Legolas was aware of his presence. In truth, Aragorn was glad to know Legolas could enter this normal phase of subdued awareness. He had worried the archer would see only memories of his torment if he subsided into dreams.
Aragorn inhaled a deep breath of contentment, for though no words passed between them he felt the distinctive warmth of his beloved's faerlim surround him, joy and amusement infused in the invisible radiance. He wished he could share this dream that gave his mate such happiness, and immediately felt Legolas' hand grip his. Just then, far away in the distance, Aragorn caught the sound of childish laughter drifting amid the notes of the night singer's song.
Dense fog clung just above the ground, sticking to the scraggly grass and weeds like ephemeral moss, thick, white, and cottony; Legolas had to wonder how it was that clouds, usually confined to the highest reaches of Súlimo's realm, could be brought low like this and made to serve so base a master. He had seen mist in the morning many times, but never like this. Even his piercing blue eyes could not penetrate the strangely opaque and motionless air, the haze insubstantial to touch, though cold and damp, and murky enough to obscure his sight less than an arm's reach away.
Blobby shapes in ashen shades loomed and then retreated: a herd of deer moving through the meadow. Rolling balls of shimmery fluff parted to expose an unexpected bush. Swirling white curtains writhed away in a ragged, clapping cloud: a covey of quail bursting out of the grass at their very feet.
The valley was both gloomy and bright at the same time as though Anor was high in the sky but too many clouds had fallen between her face and the earth to permit her glory to shine through. It was not the same as being under the canopy of the trees, even, for there nothing filled the space between the bolls and it was only a matter of adapting to lower levels of illumination. Here, though the way was open before them for leagues ahead, Legolas trod carefully, delicately, and strained to see the way.
If there were to be an attack by day, this would be the day.
It was not a comforting thought and he gripped the bow tighter, hearing the sound of his skin drawing taut against the leather wrapping. Everything was louder and yet each noise receded from him, muffled and hollow, bouncing on the unusually thick atmosphere so that it was difficult to tell from what direction it originated, or what had caused it. A dull thud and abrupt, urgent shuffling preceded a hissed expletive and Legolas smiled, reaching out automatically to steady Aragorn trudging through the mist beside him. At least there was no mistaking that sound or the man's whereabouts, though Mithrandir, true to his name, had virtually vanished in his grey robes with his grey beard, his grey hat, and his pale, pearl-coloured horse.
Rohan was far behind while Lorien's borders had slipped into obscurity and Dol Guldur was four days back, though he still felt its presence like a lingering blight upon his heart. Four days with only a brief sighting of Orcs, one small band tramping hastily away through a starlit morning dusk. To what havens they were hurrying he could not guess for there were few trees in the valley to shield them come dawn. For the first time in his life, Legolas decided to shy from trees. They were nearly to the Gladden crossing, still so far from his father's halls, a journey of long leagues under the lengthening Shadow.
So many towers, he thought, a prodigious line of them stretching from here to Mordor: Dol Guldur, Orthanc, Minas Morgul, Cirith Ungol, Barad Dur. All of them menacing, ominous, evil; all of them somehow combining their heights, stretching their shadowy reach, extending the limits of their scope until it seemed the Dark Lord glowered down directly on Anduin and Greenwood. If one on either end could be toppled, then his home would have peace, but the Wood Elves had failed to deter the Necromancer, and though he was gone, his lieutenants remained to carry on his reign of terror. Now, the sylvans could not even chase off a trio of Shadow slaves.
They had tried to budge the Lord of Barad Dur and failed at that, too, even with all the free peoples to aid them in the task. A bold stroke, a stroke of luck by a broken sword in the hand of a desperate man, that had defeated Sauron and even so his towers remained, all of them, filled with wickedness and cruelty. From them an insidious infection spread through Arda, corrupting and perverting everything it encountered, a diseased lust for power creeping into the minds and marrow of men and lesser beings. What hope could there be to ever know peace while these towers stood?
The Wood Elves have dwindled and diminished like all the First Born. It is this Shadow! It poisons everything it touches. Soon, there will not be enough light to sustain us and we must leave our forest forever.
These were not his words, but he could not deny their truth anymore than he could recall who had told him this. Mithrandir, perhaps. He felt helpless and vulnerable and it rankled. He was both eager for battle and dreaded it, needing to prove himself after the incident at the Tower but fearing what would happen once confronted by those black, empty cloaks so full with hatred. Legolas forced his thoughts to reject this doubt, but the idea was already there, pricking at his brain like a sliver of wood pushed under the skin. Was he forever marked by the evil that had possessed him and used him so totally? Would the darkness grow in him anew and devour his soul?
No! I killed servants of Mordor; I saved the life of a mighty captain among men. Creatures of Shadow do not do these things.
They were Aragorn's words and he clung to them tenaciously. The man believed in him, trusted him, kept him at his side even knowing the worst of his crimes. Legolas inhaled a slow, steadying breath, exhaling a silent prayer of thanks for whatever had placed him in the path of the Ranger, be it Vairë's fate, Manwë's grace, or Mithrandir's scheming. With Aragorn at his side, he could face anything and not fail. Again he wished for an end to the suspense. He had no wish for Aragorn to be endangered, nor the wizard either, but since they must fight he would rather it be on his terms, when he had the advantage.
Three Wraiths against three heroes and one of those a wizard. Perhaps we can do it.
Yet, he had already been tested against the Nazgûl and knew the truth: his only advantage lay in a superior gift for sneaking and hiding. That was what had got them this far. He took another woebegone breath; the waiting was unbearable. He was moved to sing and ease his conflicted mind, but repressed the need. Mithrandir had cautioned him against it, saying the sound of an elvish voice here in the open meadows could spell their doom. He wanted to ask if there was any way to make this fog clear, but while the wizard was unseen, his presence was strongly felt as a bristly impatience just ahead and the archer was reluctant to disturb him.
Perhaps it is just the mist dulling my senses that prompts this foreboding.
High above, Arien crept along her daily trek but the cloying vapour remained. A muted splash told Legolas the distance to the river and he wondered if the others heard it, too. Another league passed beneath their feet as the silent march went on, each isolated in his own thoughts, and with every step tension built within his heart. Abruptly Legolas halted, snatching Aragorn's arm to stop him and calling out to the wizard.
"What is it?" the man asked anxiously. "Did you hear something?"
"Nothing specific, but I'm going to run ahead for a time. Stop here until my return," he said and jogged off, vanishing before he'd gone two strides.
"Wait!" hissed Aragorn, making a grab for the headstrong Wood Elf that was several seconds too slow. It was the wizard who replied.
"I am sorely tempted to disperse this murky cloud of…"
Mithrandir's comment ended abruptly when they heard Legolas give a surprised cry, the distinct sound of his bow following as he fired into the fog again and again. There was no time to ask what was happening nor any need; the wizard set loose his horse and drew sword. Beside him, the man did the same and the chargers bolted beyond range. Now, they could but pray Legolas' skill would aid them and in seconds they could not even do that as the lumbering forms of Orcs appeared leering out of the mist, popping up like marmots from their burrows.
They battled in a blurry sea of grey and white shadow, of frantic cries and the clash of sword against sabre. Aragorn sought for his mate but there were too many foes and he could not afford to accommodate his fears. He and Gandalf fought back to back, desperate to keep from being overwhelmed. He tried to count their assailants; got a rough estimate of more than ten then gave up as he hewed through the bony breastplate of a tall, misshapen creature. It toppled and another took its place. Aragorn roared as its blade crossed his and locked. He feinted back and left, under the fused weapons, felt the beast falter, shoved it away in a screech of metal and cut it down, a deep laceration through the back that severed the spine.
They were all Orcs, no Uruks, no wargs, and this was about the only good he could conjure. He heard the wizard call out in pain and hiss an ugly curse. He wished Legolas would curse so he would know where the elf was, but the sylvan fought in silence. It had to be that; had to be. The only other reason for the absence of his voice was not a thing Aragorn could entertain. Two blades came at the man at once and he had to choose, unable to duck low without exposing Mithrandir to injury.
He parried the one on the left with his dagger, danced a side-stepping bluff, and gained enough advantage to hack off the second one's sword arm midway between wrist and elbow. The creature's lurching body crashed against him and he nearly went down, managed to stab it through the neck and shove it back. A black sabre whistled by his nose close enough for him to catch a whiff of ichor on it; he jerked his head back and slashed at the face dominating his field of view, removed most of its right eye. Because he was merciful, the man jabbed his dirk through the other eye, deep into the brain, already focused on the next black shape coming at him. In mid-stride it staggered, bellowing, and collapsed in groaning agony. Another leaped over it and charged, eyes wild and filled with hate, but a subtle flash of silvery light attacked it. The beast was felled before it could get within striking range, the expression on its face one of shock, a fountain of black blood spurting from its neck.
Legolas!
Joy burst through the man's heart and poured strength into his arms. The assault was thinning and now as he fought Aragorn saw numerous quick, bright bursts winking in the boiling vapour. It had to be Legolas, but he did not dare call out lest he distract the archer. Another Orc charged and he engaged it, catching it on his blade where a deep nick was gouged into its sabre. With a twisting thrust he pulled the sword out of the clawed hands and then spun, severing the head from the torso as he came round. He heard the wizard's sword bite through leather armour into flesh, heard the grunt of effort as the Maia shoved the corpse off his blade. Aragorn duelled briefly with a last opponent and dispatched it, then stood panting, sword ready, watching the silver streaks darting through the thick air like a needle darning cloth, stab-stab-stabbing through the mist. There was rough scuffling of booted feet, a garbled cruse in Black Speech fraught with terror, and he realised the enemy was retreating.
"Are you hurt, Aragorn?" Mithrandir asked between wheezing breaths, forgetting in his anguish that he had forbidden the use of the man's true name until they were safe in Thranduil's halls.
"Nay, but you are," answered the man. He turned to tend the Maia's wound but before he could start a sudden gust of air sent the white vapour dancing. For an instant Legolas appeared out of the fog, running, but he was racing away over the plains. "Legolas! Wait!"
"I must catch the last two before they spread news of our whereabouts and bring reinforcements," the elf cried, his words dwindling as he sped off. Then there was another vibrant glitter of lightening through the haze, a harsh expletive in an Orcish voice, and only one foe left.
"Nay, stubborn sylvan, come back! We need to stay together!" Aragorn called after him in vain.
"Leave him to it," commanded Mithrandir testily. "I've greater need just now than he."
"I cannot let him run off alone. What if he stumbles on another trap like this?" The man whistled for Azrûbel.
"Then hurry and we'll follow," snapped the wizard.
Aragorn nodded, uneasy for his mate, as he examined the injury. There was a chunk of muscle sliced off the wizard's forearm and it had bled profusely, but was not life-threatening. As he worked to bandage the Maia, he berated himself silently, deciding he should have taken a firmer hand with the headstrong archer from the beginning. All this over-blown sylvan pride. He resolved to mentor Legolas with more consistent authority henceforth.
Legolas wanted to prove himself, needed to do so, and the man realised why. His desire for revenge was understandable, but the archer was reckless, driven by rage and perhaps even madness. If someone did not teach him restraint, he would be killed in battle before he reached his hundredth summer. That thought made Aragorn speed through the treatment and he verily shoved Mithrandir up into the saddle before mounting Azrûbel.
"He should have returned by now," the man worried. "Can you ride?"
"Strange thing to ask me now that I'm already seated," complained the wizard. "Go! I am right behind you." He watched Aragorn kick his horse into a gallop and smiled. The bond was strong and growing stronger daily. A formidable pair, indeed. He urged his horse into a casual canter.
The land rose as a series of rolling hillocks pimpled the deep valley, a cluster of softly rounded humps that stretched from the bottom lands to the interior, becoming steeper as Hithaeglir neared, but here the hummocky land was only high enough to create a natural boundary that contained the loosely defined delta of the Gladden river. It was also the limit of the fog and as his horse climbed higher the mist thinned and then abruptly vanished. Mithrandir paused at the top of the hill and looked down over a field of carnage that made him catch his breath, and there on the far fringe of it, Legolas and Tuilelindô chasing down the last of the foes.
He could see Azrûbel racing toward the mare, weaving and leaping over the dark slumped bodies strewn over the earth. He heard Aragorn's shout, muted, unintelligible, and urgent. The Wood Elf had indeed run afoul of another ambush, but it was the Orcs who had been taken by surprise. As the wizard watched, the elf leaned out with his long knife and beheaded one of the fleeing Orcs, a crisp, blinding stab of light preceding the stroke, like a stolen beam of sunlight. Mithrandir's brows rose, the cutting brilliance was the very antithesis to the black lance of darkness with which Legolas' had been touched just days gone by.
The last Orc turned and made a stand and Legolas leaped from the mare, fought it blade to blade, and such was his speed and the strength of his anger that the creature was dead before Aragorn could reach them. Legolas raised his knife above his head and gave a shout, a long echoing cry of both triumph and challenge. He leaped aboard Tuilelindô and guided her back to his companions. Mithrandir hastened to join them, arriving at Aragorn's side even as Legolas came trotting up. The Wood Elf was all fire and fury and victorious glory, fell and fey, spattered everywhere with black blood, eyes shining and head high. He smiled at them as he drew rein beside Aragorn.
"Got them all. Hiding in pits," he snorted. "I was able to shoot most of them before they could get out. Stupid things! I killed their archers first, then took the arrows and felled the rest with their own bolts."
"You are not hurt?" asked Aragorn, reluctant to say too much. He had never actually seen Legolas in battle before now and it was stunning. He'd come over the rise to find the elf sweeping back and forth round the pits, firing off arrows quicker than he would have believed possible. This explained how he'd been saved in Baran Dalf. The man counted twenty Orcs between here and the fog-bound fields behind them, killed literally as fast as the elf could arm his bow.
"Nay, nor is Tuilelindô. They are so slow in daylight. I think it blinds them or burns them, or both perhaps. But for those Wraiths, we could clear these misshapen monsters from our woods for good."
"I do not doubt you," nodded Mithrandir, and he didn't.
"Nor I," averred Aragorn. "Is this how all Wood Elves fight?"
Modesty prevented Legolas from admitting it and he just shrugged, grinning. "Did you see how I caught the last one before it could raise the alarm?"
"I did," said the man, smiling faintly, and shared a look with the wizard, glad to see he was not the only one being enlightened this day. Mithrandir could no longer question Legolas' ability to overcome the limitations of an inferior bow with speed, accuracy, and sheer, tenacious hatred for the accursed Orcs. "I already feel guilty for taking you away from Greenwood."
A soft golden glow filled Legolas' aura even as a rosy flush stained his cheeks, and if anything he sat even taller, trying hard to behave with insouciance as he carefully wiped the gore from the elegant knife and sheathed it. "I thank you," he murmured softly. "I felt honour bound to clear our path after my carelessness earlier."
"What carelessness?" asked Aragorn, no idea what the elf was talking about.
"In the fog." The elated gleam left Legolas' eyes. "I am sorry, Kalrô; I should have detected the trap sooner. I will not fail again."
"Nonsense, you could not know any more than we," objected Mithrandir. "Even I have not heard of Orcs using such a tactic before."
"Nay, Mithrandir," the elf said seriously. "I was careless."
"That isn't so," Aragorn disagreed. "I did not think they would plan out so elaborate a scheme, either. Your skill spared us and only Mithrandir took injury, a flesh wound, nothing more." Yet now that the initial amazement had passed, Aragorn recalled his earlier concerns. What Legolas had done was impressive, but still reckless. Had the force hidden been greater, had there been Uruks or warg riders, then the ellon would have been overwhelmed and either killed or captured. He renewed his resolve to temper his young mate's zeal, but wisely decided this was not the time to begin.
The Wood Elf met the wizard's eyes, which were smiling but showed the discomfort he was suffering. "Nín gohenach, Mithrandir?" (You forgive me?)
"What a question. Alnad gohenach, pen neth." (Nothing for me to forgive, young one.) He reached out and patted the archer's arm. "You did well."
"Aye, this was an incredible feat of daring and courage," said the man. "Yet we need to move on. If we were ever hidden, our presence is known now."
"Agreed. We are near the meres now; once we cross I can try to signal my people for aid," announced Legolas.
"Among the messages I sent, news flew to Greenwood that we would be returning, but I did not know how long it might take," added Mithrandir. "I gave no directive as to when to begin watching for us; a good thing, too, since I was not expecting you two to end up in Rohan. Valar willing, Thranduil has troops positioned along the woodland borders by now."
They turned from the pitted battle ground and set the horses trotting toward the Gladden, continuing the discussion as they rode.
"There will be war at Gladden; I see no way to avoid it," opined the wizard. "The Wraiths will know we'll try to cross there. That being so, I must ask that should we have to fight between now and then, you do not expend any light, pen neth."
"What do you mean? I burn light just breathing, Mithrandir," laughed the elf.
"Not that kind of use. I am talking about infusing every thrust and parry with faerlim."
"Aye, he's right, Melethen. You must hold back, the same way you dim your aura at night, reduce the strength you give to every blow," nodded Aragorn.
"I don't know what you two are talking about," said Legolas bemused.
Man and Maia looked at one another in consternation, then at the elf in wonder.
"Explain," insisted Legolas.
"If you cannot, how can we?" laughed Aragorn, shaking his head.
"Never mind, no time to investigate now," grumbled Mithrandir. "Perhaps it is some residual of the Song with which I cleansed you. Now come, we've leagues to cover yet."
It was true and both man and elf experienced a sudden, sinking dismay to hear it, feeling they had been struggling so hard for so long. Rohan seemed an Age ago; the battle at Baran Dalf ancient history. The fire of the fight cooled and the elation of victory gave way to morose melancholy. At the end of this harrowing journey more tribulation awaited them and they did not need to speak to know each dreaded the encounter with the Woodland King. With heavy hearts they turned the horses north.
TBC
NOTE: These last chapters have had the benefit of careful and thoughtful beta-reading by Aralas. With her help, there should be far fewer errors and things are hopefully clearer and for this I am grateful beyond words. It has been such a gift to have someone to listen to me think and give me a response that tells me whether I am coherent or not lol! Because of Aralas' remarks, things I had glossed over are now fleshed out and things I had omitted entirely have been brought forth. Not only that, but she offered encouragement and bolstered my confidence when I was quite ready to toss the whole thing out. Thus, if you liked this stuff, thank her, for I was going to cut nearly all of it, and some of it would never have been written. Anything still incorrect, or anything you just can't stand, well, that's all on me, folks.
I want to thank everyone who stuck with me even when this became so dark. Special thanks to An and Ch (not their real names) who have sent me positive feedback off-site, even on the dark chapters, and encouraged me to finish the story so everyone could have closure. Extra Extra Special Thanks to Ch for recommending the story to friends :D Hope the ending meets everyone's expectations. No, this is not the end, there is more to come, but some things will deliberately NOT be explained because a sequel is pending :)
While AFF and its agents attempt to remove all illegal works from the site as quickly and thoroughly as possible, there is always the possibility that some submissions may be overlooked or dismissed in error. The AFF system includes a rigorous and complex abuse control system in order to prevent improper use of the AFF service, and we hope that its deployment indicates a good-faith effort to eliminate any illegal material on the site in a fair and unbiased manner. This abuse control system is run in accordance with the strict guidelines specified above.
All works displayed here, whether pictorial or literary, are the property of their owners and not Adult-FanFiction.org. Opinions stated in profiles of users may not reflect the opinions or views of Adult-FanFiction.org or any of its owners, agents, or related entities.
Website Domain ©2002-2017 by Apollo. PHP scripting, CSS style sheets, Database layout & Original artwork ©2005-2017 C. Kennington. Restructured Database & Forum skins ©2007-2017 J. Salva. Images, coding, and any other potentially liftable content may not be used without express written permission from their respective creator(s). Thank you for visiting!
Powered by Fiction Portal 2.0
Modifications © Manta2g, DemonGoddess
Site Owner - Apollo