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Leaves of Gold	By : ladyelina Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1377 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Rating for this
chapter: R.

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Chapter 3: Beside the Walls

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How can I keep my
soul in me, so that

it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise

it high enough, past you, to other things?

I would like to shelter it, among remote

lost objects, in some dark and silent place

that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Love Song

Translated by Stephen Mitchell
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Helm's Deep, March 3019 of the Third Age

I have known a world
without him, and I will know it again.

As sharp morning
light cuts the night open and shadows in the Deep take on a dark red colour, he
is living and breathing by my side. I should not sing of us, of this moment.
The mortal and immortal kind have been separated at
the beginning of all time, and that separation is to last beyond the end of
days. But what else would I sing of in a world where the ground beneath us and
time around us have been torn apart, where the stars in the sky are quivering
and no new summer growth will follow the fading?

I have seen death
before. I have seen it take warriors and hunters ferociously and without
warning, I have seen it slowly wrap its cloak around those whose heart sorrow
has gripped too tightly. But never before have I seen it pour heavily upon
earth and flood in swallowing whirls that capture all living things in their
maelstrom. And never before have I known how to feel fear for the inevitable,
the finite. Death is a stranger among my people, it walks beside us and
sometimes brings sorrow by taking someone away; but for us death is no unknown
step into the dark, and not the last of steps. We have been granted a way back
to life from the Halls of Mandos, and our eternity is
as long as all times of Arda.

For Men death is
different.

When the battle
swarmed around us black, slick and glistening with rain, my eyes followed
Aragorn among its ever-moving avalanches. The glow of thunder framed him
against the dark sky. Tall and fearless he stood upon the wall, even as the
enemy rushed in gusts towards him from all directions. And as flashes of
lightning broke the landscape into a thousand sharp splinters, white light
blazed around him, the sword struck and cut. His raw, bloodstained fingers
squeezed the hilt, and even there, in the core of madness, I suddenly felt in
myself the marks they had left. They had trailed my body insatiably and writhed
on my skin oblivious of everything else.

I was not the same as
before, and neither was he.

Every time I lost
sight of Aragorn, my heart was strange and new in my chest. As I was guarding
the gate of Hornburg on the stairs with no other
weapon left than a single arrow, as I prompted him to run for safety, saw him
turn towards me and stumble under the eyes of the enemy � I knew for the first
time the urgency, the unrestrained, frantic haste of Il�vatar's
younger children as they rush through their lives. I could see death surging
towards us, dark and foreign as night, terrible as day that reveals all: things
done and undone and sadness born of them.

The corrupted and the
cursed reached out for him. I had one chance to kill, and I killed so he would
live. But it was not enough, one arrow against a thousand Orcs.
I was but an insect caught in a web, beating its wings in vain. I had no power
over his life and death before mightier forces. Only a boulder cast upon the
enemy from the high wall saved him. Aragorn grasped my hand and I dragged him
up the last steps, inside the stronghold. We cast ourselves at the door and it
closed with a clang. We were breathing heavily and his chest was rising against
mine. Our bodies were pressed together. Our eyes were locked together. Our
hands were clasped together.

We were both alive,
yet in the face of this battle we were both mortal.

At dawn the rescue
finally came. The deadly forest of spears, swords, arrows and flashing flames
withered away slowly, and another one sprang up to replace it. It stood ominous
and silent before our eyes, emanating soundless menace and dark intentions long
grown in cold shadows. This strange forest evoked restlessness in me. Just as I
had been flung upon an unknown shore by the unpredictable winds of the world,
so had this forest furtively grown its boles in a place they did not belong. The stems and branches only resembled those of my
home from afar and on the surface, and the whispering of the leaves in the wind
did not invite, but rejected and blamed. I wanted to ride into the bewildering
halls of the trees and shout my defence at ears that refused to listen, to
plead for understanding of ancieneatueatures whose hearts had in the course of
time lost all but a fading trace of the sheen of the sun, the vastness of the
skies and the echo of words spoken in secret.

I felt an invisible
toil tighten around me and tried to shrug it away, but it lingered upon me
relentlessly, gentle, yet unbreakable. I had knowingly walked into it in the
golden twilight of Lothl�rien, and there was no longer
a way out. The Lady spins her webs out of light and wisdom, and therefore they
hold stronger than any entrapments of the enemy. She weaves into them the
strings of the heart that cannot be severed. Carefully she sets her words, not
counselling one way or the other, and therefore they guide more clearly than
any map.

My path had been
drawn at my feet, and the way of it was to find, then lose.

When I saw birdsove ove the forest grown out of nowhere, I recognised the Lady's warnings in the
beats of their wings and expected to hear cries that would bestir sea-longing
in me. For if a forest could move from its roots and come to a place that had
been a home but for green grass, could not the sea climb along the earth far
from its old shores and lure me to go with it, even if my task was not yet
fulfilled? But the birds were black and grey and brown, and their voices told
of nothing but wind and creatures crawling the earth
below. Of water and light beyond the sea they did not sing, not of havens of no
return, where the only open route was towards the sea.

I avoided the gof
of
Aragorn, who was riding beside me only a few arm-lengths away, but my heart was
relieved.
:p>
This morning the
halls of the stronghold are burial chambers and sick rooms, where the fume of
death lingers. Aragorn walks among the wounded, pale with exhaustion but his
hands and eyes still steady, cleansing and tending injuries with herbs and
bandages. He is coming from the kitchen quarters, carrying a cauldron of
steaming water and a bundle of clean clothes. I see him lay the cauldron on the
floor and sit on a long wooden bench beside the wall of the large room. He
fumbles for something in the folds of his cloak and takes out his pipe. His
fingers are slow and rigid as he begins to fill it. The pipe slips out of his
hand and breaks in two on the stone floor.

Aragorn closes his
eyes, sighs deeply and bends down to pick up the pieces of the pipe. He places
them carefully in a leather sachet, which he hangs from his belt. When he
raises his eyes, I am standing before him. I place my hand on his shoulder. He
looks at me, his face stone-grey and serious, eyes still bright and alert. The
lines on his skin seem deeper than the day before; they are light and
discernible furrows under the dark dirt of tattlattle. Dribbled blood from a
long, reddish scrape has dried in a brown stripe on his neck. I let one of my
hands brush his face quickly and his gaze wanders restlessly in the room,
marking if anyone has seen my gesture. The wounded are sleeping or wailing, the
healthy are walking among them, bringing water, tending the wounds or talking
in a soothing manner. No one pays attention to us, and Aragorn relaxes.

"Would you not
grant yourself some rest?" I ask quietly.

"There is so
much to do." He leans his arms onto his knees, resting his head in his
hands and rubbing his temples. "I wish I had the gift of the Elf-kindred
to sleep in waking."

"That gift is
not needed now. By Gandalf's advice and the order of Th�oden King I am here to
take you to the chamber that has been prepared for the Three Hunters." I
lower myself down, bringing my face to the level of his. "Your only task
today is to take rest until afternoon comes and it is time to ride on once
more."

A smile spills on
Aragorn's face bri brightens it for a moment through the weariness.

"I will always
heed the advice of an old friend," he replies, "and I will bow to the
King's orders inside the borders of his realm."

I pick up the
cauldron and smell a faint savour of healing herbs arising from it. Aragorn
follows me through corridors and stairways into a humble chamber of stone.
Daylight is wedging onto the floor through the small window-hole veiled with
thin fabric. There are three narrow alcoves in the stone walls where beds have
been prepared. They are covered by thick, untouched bedding. Aragorn frowns.

"Is master Gimli not here? I thought I had sent him to sleep his wound
better."

"He said he
would rather rest in the sick room near the kitchen, where wine and bread are
closer at hand."

Neither one of us
says out loud what we are both thinking. Since we left the Golden Wood, we have
been careful not to show the world anything but the bond of friendship that has
long been evident between us. But while the words of the Dwarves in matters of
the heart are few, spare and graceless as unpolished rock in the pits of the
mountains, their eyes are keen for the truth. Even he lhe lurid dusk of their
mines they can tell a precious metal from another, less worthy one. How faint
light refracts from the surfaces of different crystals discloses to them all
they need to understand of the quality of the stone. Who knows what revealed us
to Gimli � perhaps one word or look sufficed, a hand
that lingered on a shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. But he has seen
what binds us together, and wants to step aside to give us this short moment
hidden from others.

Friendship is not
measured in words, but deeds.

Aragorn sits down on
the edge of an alcove and takes off his boots. His movements are stiff, painful.
He had ridded himself of the leather armour and heavy mail shirt forthwith
after the battle, but even without them his back seems tender and sore. I
suspect he has taken worse blows than he is willing to admit.

"Let me cleanse
your wounds."

"They are but
scratches," he replies. "Nothing that water and
rest will not heal."

"Yet you have
been avoiding the pitcher and the bed since the sunrise almost as skilfully as
the arrows of the Orcs last night."

He glances at me,
surprised. I smile and raise my eyebrow. The fine lines in the corners of his
eyes fold into clusters and a low laughter visits his lips.

"After all these
years Elves still amaze me. In a moment like this, should you not be singing
sorrowful hymns of the souls that left the circles of the world last night,
instead of jesting with me?"

I feel my smile
diminish under his look.

"There is too
much sorrow in the world these days. Joy should be found where it may, even in
unexpected moments."

I lay the cauldron
down, sit next to him and take one of the clothes he has brought. I dip it in
the hot water and wring it. The cloth is made of a light-coloured, tight-woven
fabric of Men I have not seen before. It feels coarse and strange in my
fingers.

Aragorn takes off his
leather cuffs and opens the laces of his tunic. I wait patiently as he pulls
the garment over his shoulders, but I note he shudders as the fabric scratches
his back. The pungent tang of sweat, sald bld blood pours on my face from his
bare upper body, so strong I can all but taste it. Behind their mixture I can
feel his own scent surrounding me like a familiar
landscape.

He turns his back on
me and an uncomfortable knot tightens inside me as I see an enormous purple
bruise that reaches from the edge of his left shoulder blade over the muscles
far towards the right side. It looks like a strike of sword, only stopped from
sinking into his fragile mortal body by the worn metal rings of the mail shirt,
a mere thin layer of leather and fabric. Had the blade struck further up, his
unprotected neck, he would not be here, but among the dead that were being
carried away from the battlefield in the bone-pale morning light. Only one well-aimed stab, and blood would have escaped his veins,
his emptying heart would have slowed down and finally given up beating.
No one would touch him again, but to carry the body aside from the way of the
living; he would be laid to a rest from which no ing ing could wake him. His
body would crumble into earth, his spirit would travel
far to unnamed lands, known to but One in place and purpose.

I remember his words
in Mirkwood, the colour of his eyes in the
translucent twilight of the dying night, the inevitable in his voice.

On some paths you
cannot follow.

I do not let my hands
tremble as I press the damp cloth carefully on his skin and begin to wipe away
the traces of the battle. I let the cloth travel along his broad back, I touch his wounds, fresh blood-red cuts and puckered
scars of old. I feel their embossments and engravings under my fingertips,
writings that tell the story of his life. Aragorn quivers, when I brush the
bruise. I dip the cloth in the water again and foment the dark spot, where the
web of broken veins reaches out under the skin. His breathing sounds heavy and
ragged. He changes his posture, turns towards me and closes his eyes.

I follow the lines on
his brow and in the corners of his mouth as I cleanse the dark dirt off his
face and neck. Slowly I let my hands wander downwards, over his bare chest,
back to the shoulders and along his arms. Aragorn sighs, his fingers stir on
the bed nearly unnoticeably. The glow in my groin thickens and radiates into my
limbs. We have walked many long days and nights without privacy, without as
much as a chance for quick, secret touches, the constraint of moving on having
fenced our road. Every thought and wish has been left to prowl between us,
ferocious and heavy. I lift his hand and place his fingers on my lips.

Aragorn opens his
eyes, withdraws from me restlessly and looks at me.

"I latched the
door behind me," I say quietly.

"Should somebody
try to come in, they will wonder," he replies in a low voice.

I brush a stray lock
of hair off his face. "They will think we wish to sleep off our weariness
undisturbed."

We look at each other
as we did in Lothl�rien, and as we have since only
looked when all other eyes are turned away.

The air stirs between
us and then we are merging into one another, kissing fiercely, breathlessly.
Desire sparkles in us and the flames of his hands are dancing on my skin,
catching my hair, their white fire blazing all over my body, until I writhe and
shrivel in their ring like a burning tree. I crush him to me tightly and he
winces, whimpering painfully into my mouth. I realise I have pressed hard his
wounds and bruises, the tender and sore spots of his body, broken from the
battle.

"Did I hurt
you?"

He smiles a nearly
invisible smile.

"At least I know
I am alive."

I let my forehead
lean against his. I place my hand upon his heart and he places his on my chest.
We listen to each other without saying anything: the beat of each other's
hearts against our fingertips, the breathing that lives between us in waves
cradling to and fro, the movements in the darkness of our bodies, the growing
fire within each other.

My fingers tug at his
hair as I thrust deep seeking a rhythm, and he is more than any words I know to
speak, more than the flavour of metal and earth on my tongue, more than the
fire in my loin and the scent I am breathing in. He is the skin around my flesh
and bones, a rune branded into my heart with a white-hot iron that no time in
the world will heal away. When my body has dissolved into dust, when the
letters of my name have been weathered unrecognisable and the places where I
have touched him have been swept off the face of the earth, it will still glow
brightly.

Strength escapes me
and I spend into his mouth. My whole body trembles as I collapse against him,
my eyes closed. I pull him up to straddle my lap and he presses onto me."You cried
out," he whispers into my neck.

I quiver and hold
onto him too tight. Aragorn does not move, he merely
holds me, the only familiar thing in this unfamiliar world of Men.

"Worry
not," he says, and his hand curls up to rest in the hollow of my neck.
"At least I know you are alive."

We lie down on the
narrow bed, our bodies entwined, and I push my hand under the waistband of his
trousers. His breathing ghosts on my face as he arches against me. His lips are
moving on mine and his figure draws a luminous image of desire in the
grave-like bleak dusk of the alcove.

"Legolas," he says, and I feel the word on my skin as
clearly as I hear it. "Legolas."

Afterwards I wipe my
hand with the cloth and settle next to him. We two two leaves shrivelled
together on winter-crusted grass, where wind has thrown us: without shelter.
The man-made walls around us are but a delusion. There are eyes that see
through them, and there are forces that will make them waver and fall.

I keep the Lady's
message hidden inside me, for it is not yet time for it to day daylight. I know
Aragorn is carrying a secret of his own. A day may come when we mend the story
for each other and bring together the halves, making the image complete. Or I
may carry my own part alone through years to come, seeing colour dissolve from
it like green withdraws from autumn leaves and watching it burn to ashes like a
far-away home one has left behind and can never return.

Maybe days will
crumble into the soil of earth everywhere, and there will be no years to come.

Light is climbing the
cold walls of the room. We are lying in each other's arms exhausted and raw
from the battle, inside this unmerciful time that has been torn apart around
us. He is living and breathing by my side, and I should not sing of this
moment. Wherever his path may lead, it winds away from me.

I have known a world
without him, and I will know it again; but it will no longer be the same worl:p>

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Notes:

(...) for us death is no unknown step into the
dark, and not the last of steps. We have been granted a way back to life from
the Halls of Mandos, and our eternity is as long as
all times of Arda.

Elves can die in battle or from grief. This is
based on a passage from The Silmarillion: 'For
the Elves die not till the world dies, unless they are slain or waste in grief
(and to both these seeming deaths they are subject); neither does age subdue
their strength, unless one grow weary of ten thousand centuries; and dying they
are gathered to the halls of Mandos in llE>Valinor, whence they may in time return. But the sons of
Men die indeed, and leave the world...' (The Silmarillion,
ch.1: 'Of the Beginning of Days'.)

This passage also hints at the somewhat vague
concept present in Tolkien's unfinished work that
suggests Elves can be re-born and their spirit (f�a)
may return to the world in a new bodily form after a time spent in the Halls of
Waiting, a place in Valinor where a Vala known as Mandos summons the
dead. The Valar are powerful spirits that helped
shape Middle-earth and reside in the Undying Lands in the West.

For a further explanation on the concepts of Elven death and re-birth see 'Laws and Customs among the Eldar' and 'Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth' (both in Morgoth's Ring, History of Middle-earth vol.
10).

Il�vatar:

The 'Lord of the World', creator
of everything in Tolkien's mythology. Equivalent of 'Gin
in
monotheistic religions. Also referred to as 'Eru' or 'the One'. 'Il�vatar's
younger children' refers to the mortal race of Men, as opposed to the immortal
Elves, who came into the world before them.

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Leaves of Gold