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Twilight Tales - An Ounce of Kindness	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 26421 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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.

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Chapter XLIII

Nínui T.A. 3019

The murmurs of the trees were sweet and soothing though odd was their speech even to Legolas, Elf of Mirkwood. As he paused amidst the great mellyrn of the Golden Wood, he listened to their songs in fascination and pondered their meanings. Their melodies were not wholly foreign to him; he was a Wood-elf after all and had been in communion with the forest in which he lived since birth. But the trees of Lothlórien were not to be found elsewhere in Middle-earth and their tongue while still comprehensible to the archer seemed to him both beautiful and strange.

It was the second morning of the sadly diminished Fellowship's sojourn in Lothlórien. Just two days earlier, they had come to the northern fences of this secret land, fleeing the terror that was the dark of Moria and struggling with the grief of unimaginable loss.

Mithrandir was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the Black Pit that had once housed the mansions of the Dwarves of the Dwarrowdelf. Taken to the depths by the Balrog that had been Durin's Bane. Even now, Legolas quailed at the memory of his first sighting of that fell beast. Few things inspired dread in the Elf-prince for he had seen and endured much that only a handful of Elves of his father's kingdom knew. But his fear of the Balrog was a primal one, born of the collective memory of his kindred that went back to the Elder Days.

How Glorfindel had mustered the courage to meet one in mortal combat was a thing he now found beyond belief. Fëanor, Fingon and Ecthelion of the Fountain had also battled Balrogs in the ancient days of the world and none had lived to tell the tale. Even those who slew their foes were themselves slain in turn. Likewise with Mithrandir. Was it any wonder that these Maiar turned fire-demons were feared as much as they were hated even by the greatest of Elven warriors?

He shook his head as if to clear it of his last recollection of Mithrandir ordering them to flee. Before the Wizard was pulled down into the yawning chasm beneath the wrecked span of the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. Plunging to his doom with the creature he had bested but scant moments earlier. The headlong flight from Moria and the mad dash to the borders of Lothlórien he did not care to recall.

As Aragorn had promised, the evil did not follow them into Lothlórien. The Golden Wood's Elf-wardens swiftly dispatched their pursuers and now ensured that no creature out of Moria would trespass on their land. Yea, even kind Haldir, the guard who had guided them to the Galadhrim's city of Caras Galadhon had taken leave of them to return to the northern marches to keep watch with his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin.

Thus far, Lothlórien had proved a safe haven and a restful respite for them all but especially for the intrepid Hobbits who despite their diminutive sizes and sheltered lives had amazed the archer with their pluck and wit. Even Frodo's young kinsman Pippin Took whose knowledge of lore was far less than that of his cousin Merry Brandybuck had shown himself capable of learning quickly though regrettably, for the most part, only after his high spirits and youthful impulsiveness landed him and the others in trouble first. Legolas had to smile. Somehow, the Hobbits had managed to lighten the days of the Quest with their unbidden pronouncements, unorthodox behavior and unwitting antics, in particular Sam Gamgee whose homegrown expressions were oft a source of amusement. Aye, a funny folk they were to the Elf but worthy of his esteem and even affection nonetheless.

The archer's thoughts turned to the other surviving companions. His relationship with the Dwarf had started predictably enough on a note of wariness and expectations of each other's errors. Unexpectedly however, a cautious camaraderie had slowly been forged as the Fellowship vainly battled to cross the blizzard-swept Redhorn Pass on Caradhras and journeyed in the cavernous belly of Hithaeglir. By the time of the Company's advent in the Golden Wood, they had established an easy comradeship that belied the minor fracas that had occurred when Gimli refused to be singled out and blindfolded for the passage to Caras Galadhon. Pride had played its part then and for a moment it seemed that what had been gained would be undone. But the moment passed, both proved themselves good hearts and there was ease between them once more.

Legolas could not say the same for the Captain of Gondor. Boromir was brave and strong and a seasoned soldier. He could also be kind as evinced by his concern for the Hobbits. But he was as insular as they, perhaps even more so. He looked upon his Elf and Dwarf companions with caution and little curiosity. Oh, he acknowledged their skill, valor and loyalty well enough but one could tell he was ill at ease with those not of his kindred. Even with the Galadhrim he mingled only sparingly, forever aware of how different they were. The Hobbits perhaps seemed but smaller versions of Men and thus he could treat them with amiability but neither Elves nor Dwarves could be remotely mistaken for the Secondborn.

Aragorn for his part was weathering the change in the Company's fortunes as well as he could. Legolas could guess that the Ranger was less than happy with the prospect of leading them now that Mithrandir was gone. His incertitude could be gleaned from his reluctance to speak of the future or to form a concrete plan for the days when they left the safety of Lothlórien. He was for the moment content to rest and heal and the others had followed suit. Yet this did not explain Legolas' vague disquiet whenever he was with the Ranger.

It started during their trek in the bowels of the Misty Mountains, during that last rest before Pippin inadvertently alerted the Moria Orcs to their presence. He had felt Aragorn's gaze on him more than once though whenever he sought to meet it, the Ranger averted his eyes. Legolas initially put it down to concern for him. He was an Elf of the forest, unused to the deep dark places of the world. His father's cave palace was wholesome and airy and filled with light; nothing at all like the shadowed, silent dankness of Moria. And he was Aragorn's kin-by-marriage. It stood to reason that the Ranger would be concerned for the well being of his foster-brother's mate.

But now, Legolas was not so certain of the Ranger's thoughts or feelings. He wondered if it was the Man's anxieties about the course he would have to choose for them that bled through to him and affected him so. Elves were sensitive to such things even when they might not know the cause. Still and all, rather than bear the discomfort, Legolas had taken to avoiding it instead.

He stayed in the pavilion prepared for the Company only the first night. The previous day was spent amongst the Lórien Elves, ostensibly to learn the ways of these long estranged cousins of his. And last night, upon their invitation, he slept in Celeborn and Galadriel's house for the Lord of the Wood counted him close kin.

The archer continued his solitary stroll through the wood. He was in a more remote, less populated section of Caras Galadhon. Only a few scattered treetop dwellings were to be found here. The trees were also more densely packed though not as close as in Mirkwood. But for an Elf who yearned for home, even this feeble resemblance would do. As for his other yearning, well, there was no helping it now.

Legolas exhaled dolefully. If there was one thing he wholeheartedly regretted, it was his distance from Elrohir. Elbereth, he missed his mate so much! His face, his voice, his touch, his very scent. Memory of his Elf-knight's beauty and loving had kept him going through all the Fellowship's travails. Had sustained him and helped him stay the course even in the face of almost certain death. But, here, now, in the quiet and serenity of Lothlórien, memory was a bane. It assailed and taunted him, keeping him ever sharply aware of what he could not have. And the consciousness of this lack was far more acute than any he had known before. Even the many times they had parted for years in the past had not evoked this painfully fierce, almost excruciating desire for Elrohir's presence.

Legolas paused and leaned against a mallorn, closing his eyes to dam the tears that threatened to spill. It was his fault they were apart. He was to blame for his present straits. If only he had heeded Elrohir's pleas. He had argued then that he could not gainsay his destiny but now he questioned the validity of his contention. Was the fulfillment of one's fate worth the price he perforce had to pay? The price he had forced upon his beloved spouse as well?

He heard a sound. A weary sigh. He opened his eyes and peered around the tree to see who else had sought to be alone with his thoughts.

It was Aragorn. The Ranger sat on the shallow bank of a rippling brook, tossing pebbles now and then into its clear depths. For all that he had declared that he would forget his grief and rest his tired body and soul, he did not look either comforted or refreshed. There was a restlessness to him that was apparent in the jerky motion of his arm as he cast the pebbles into the brook. In the way he looked up unseeingly at the trees. His was an attitude of one steeped in sorrow, worry and frustration. It seemed the weight of leadership rested heavily on his shoulders. He hid his burden well, Legolas thought with a surge of pity.

Setting aside his earlier unease, he strode to the Man and sat beside him. Aragorn looked at him in surprise.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“Likely the same reason as yours,” Legolas replied. “There are some things that require solitude.”

Aragorn nodded. “That is so,” he agreed. “You were thinking of home? Of him?”

“Aye. And you?”

“That and more.” Aragorn heaved a pensive breath. “I would that Mithrandir were still with us. I do not know if I can choose as wisely as he.”

“But even Mithrandir erred in his choices,” Legolas said. “His last cost him his life. You cannot guarantee that your decisions will always be right, Aragorn. You can only believe them sound and therefore worth risking.”

Aragorn snorted. “I wonder about that. All my life I have readied myself for this. Not the manner of it but the time when I would take up my sword and win back my forefathers' crown at last. Yet now has come the time and I wonder if it is worth the risk and the chance of losing her forever.” He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “If we prevail, I will have Arwen in this life and the next. If we fail, we shall be parted for all the ages until the world is broken once more and the One gathers us together. Or so you Elves say.”

Legolas shook his head. “Arwen bears the greater loss,” he gently pointed out. “Win or lose, she will be parted either from you or from her kin and kindred. Yet she chose to pay the price.”

Aragorn chuckled a tad bitterly. “She loves me,” he said. “Me, a mere Man with little more than the promise of a throne to his name and the glory of a kingship to recommend him.”

“Do not belittle yourself,” Legolas chided him. “You will be a worthy husband to her and a great king of Men.”

“Will I? Yet I cannot even come to a simple decision here and now!”

Aragorn groaned and covered his face with visibly trembling fingers. Legolas watched him compassionately. So had he seen his father many a time when confronted with paths he did not care to tread and forced to select that which he deemed the less evil.

“How can I help, meldiren?”-my friend-he murmured.

Aragorn lifted his head and looked at him, a crooked smile softening the stern line of his mouth. “There is not much you can do lest it were to take my role upon yourself. I thank you nonetheless.” He paused then grinned lopsidedly, making him look endearingly boyish. “Still, I could do with a little coddling,” he wryly remarked. “A shoulder to lean on mayhap?”

Legolas chuckled softly. “Then lean on mine,” he offered.

Gratefully, the Ranger settled his dark head against the archer's shoulder. For a long while, they sat thusly, each occupied with his thoughts.

At length, the direction of the slight breeze changed, causing strands of Legolas' hair to waft across the Man's face. Aragorn grinned as he brushed one golden tendril from his eyes, caught another with his fingers as it tickled his nose. He stopped to study the silken strand.

“My mother told me that I once played with your hair long ago when I was a mere babe,” he said reminiscently. “She said I was just a little too enthusiastic and that it took some doing to pry your hair out of my hand.”

Legolas laughed. “It did. Even then your grasp was strong. Galvreth was wiser than I for he pulled back when you would have gone after his hair as well.”

Aragorn chortled. “You two must have been quite a sight. The only gilded heads amongst the dark. No wonder you made an impression on me though I cannot recall the event itself.” He glanced up at Legolas. “I long held a penchant for fair-haired Elves because of that. Remember Glorfindel?”

“And Gildor and Silivien and also Lindir. Aye, I remember all too well.”

“You do not name yourself,” Aragorn commented.

“Do you truly wish to recall the dire consequences of that infatuation?” the Elf challenged.

“Nay, but the wonder of those days I hold dear,” Aragorn said. “I thought you the most splendid creature ever to walk Arda.”

“And in the end 'twas a dark-haired beauty who won your heart,” Legolas rejoined.

“You are no less beautiful, Legolas.”

The sudden compliment startled the archer. He stared down at Aragorn. The Ranger was intently staring at him, his eyes tracing his features with an appreciation that went beyond aesthetic.

A qualm passed through the archer. He thought to end the conversation and get himself back to the midst of the Galadhrim. But ere he could speak and even as he warily regarded Aragorn, a change seemed to come over the Man. Of a sudden, Legolas saw him as he could be. Or would be if fate was on their side.

Powerful, majestic and as handsome as only a king of the line of the Kings of Men could be. More elven than mortal. Indeed, almost a Peredhel in beauty and strength.

Thoughts of another Peredhel invaded his mind, stoking the embers of his suppressed longing into a full-blown bonfire of want and need. Something of it showed in his face. His eyes misted, his lips quivered and a gentle rose suffused his cheeks.

If Aragorn had been holding himself back until then, it became for naught upon sight of that glowing comeliness. He reached up and snaked a hand behind the Elf's nape and drew him down until their lips met.

Legolas went still for an instant, shocked by the contact. Instinct soon drove him to pull away. But Aragorn followed his motion and next the archer knew, he was on his back, the Ranger partly atop him. He started to protest but caught his breath instead when Aragorn pressed his face against the side of his neck, nuzzling and nibbling at the smooth and tender flesh.

A thrill raced through his veins. Not the thrill of physical sensation itself but rather the thrill of a new experience. Like an adventure long wondered about but never embarked upon, the unbidden encounter wrought an excitement the likes of which he had not known in so very long a time.

He gasped when Aragorn snaked his hand between his legs and pressed his palm against the bulge that strained against the fabric of his breeches. Sharp pleasure shot up his spine in spikes and he instinctively bucked into the caress. He dimly heard Aragorn's groan of elation, vaguely registered the undoing of his collar to bare his throat and the loosening of his breech laces.

His senses were assaulted by the feeling of earthy strength bearing down upon him, the caress of fingers as they slipped beneath the now lax waistband of his breeches and the sound of Aragorn's rough breathing as he pressed hungry kisses to his neck. Before he realized it, he was likewise reaching down to touch the Ranger in return. Aragorn moaned and pressed into his stroking hand. His senses now swimming, Legolas nonetheless became acutely aware of the heady scent he had come to associate with the race of Men.

The Peredhil bore traces of this particular aroma which, when combined with the more elusive bouquet of their immortal kindred, made for a singularly potent fragrance. With Aragorn, it was much sharper and only the faintest whiff of his ancient elven heritage permeated it. It recalled Elrohir's scent but it was not the same.

The realization struck a discordant note. As did the renewed seal of lips upon his and the scratch of beard against his skin. Hissing in dismay, Legolas shoved Aragorn off him and rolled away. He scrambled to his feet, jerkily tightening and retying his breech laces as he did. Aragorn likewise rose, his face betraying confusion and frustration. He reached out a hand but Legolas evaded it, his eyes blazing with myriad emotions, not least anger and guardedness. Aragorn stared at him searchingly.

“Legolas, what is it?”

The archer savagely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to rid himself of the Ranger's taste then glared at him. “You will not touch me thusly again, Dúnadan!” he spat out.

Aragorn was shocked by the tenor of his declaration. “Why do you speak to me as if I were your foe?” he countered. “I did not force myself on you, did I?”

“Nay, but you sought to seduce me and that is a thing I did not think you capable of!” Legolas retorted. “I am bound, Aragorn, and you are promised to Arwen. How could you think to do this?”

The Ranger flushed. But his hurt pride goaded him into retaliatory speech. “And why did you permit me such liberties with you?” he challenged. “Methinks I am not the only one capable of treachery.”

Legolas' eyes widened in such horror and anguish, Aragorn immediately regretted his words. As water douses fire, so did the archer's distress stamp out his lust and raise in its place disgust at his actions.

“Forgive me!” Aragorn cried. “That was uncalled for. Ah, what madness overcame me to wrong you and my brother?”

But the Wood-elf was reeling from his charge. He turned away, incipient tears dimming his vision. He shut his eyes tightly to keep them from spilling over.

“You are right,” he tightly whispered with a shudder. “'Tis unjust of me to assail you when I have proved no better.” A desolate moan escaped him at the thought of having let his beloved mate down. “How can I show my face to Elrohir now?” he plaintively asked.

Aragorn was aghast. “'Twas an evil impulse that spurred us, naught more!” he insisted. “Elrohir will understand that we were not ourselves!”

“Will he?” the Elf said in a low voice. “You desired me because you never had me. But what reason have I to excuse my actions? I have proved myself a false-heart, base and unworthy of his love and regard.”

“Legolas, you did no wrong,” Aragorn desperately told him. “I am to blame, not you.” He grabbed the prince by the arm. “And if Elrohir should come to know of this I will tell him so. Please, gwador, do not fault yourself for what happened.”

He waited until Legolas responded with a barely discernable nod of his head. Aragorn silently cursed himself. He knew he had done little to salve the archer's guilt. Legolas believed that he had shown himself weak and undeserving of Elrohir. Until someone managed to convince him of the needlessness of his self-reproach, his shame would fester and burden his spirit.

“You are not to blame,” he softly repeated.

When Legolas only briefly cast pained eyes at him ere turning them unseeingly elsewhere, Aragorn sighed and let go of his arm. Taking leave of the prince, he strode off. Healing would not come from he who had dealt the wound in the first place. He had marred what had otherwise been a most enviable friendship and lost Legolas' hard-won trust. The Ranger could only hope that his amity with the Elf had not been irrevocably spoiled by his egregious imprudence and that he would regain the latter's esteem and faith in him once more.

Legolas did not watch him go. The archer turned his face to the northwest, eyes gleaming as his heart burned ever hotter for the solace of his mate's love. He dropped his gaze disconsolately. He would not have that solace nor did he deserve it.

He thought he heard a soft rustling amongst the branches in the tree nigh to his right. He glanced at it just as an Elf lightly leapt down from the cover of its golden foliage. He stared in surprise as the newcomer approached him.

“Haldir! I thought you returned to the borders,” he said when the guard came to him.

Haldir shook his head. “I was about to leave but my Lord Celeborn bid me stay and shadow you for he marked the odd manner of the Lord Aragorn with you since your advent in our fair woods. He sought to prevent the unseemly from occurring.” Frowning, he cast a quick glance at the path Aragorn had just lately taken. “It seems his concern was not unfounded though you dealt well enough with the Dúnadan.”

Legolas felt his throat tighten at the thought of what the guard might have witnessed.

“You - you watched us?”

“I came upon you belatedly but I saw enough to alarm me.”

Legolas would have gladly faced a ravening pack of Orcs that very minute. “Would that you had intervened ere I stumbled,” he blurted out, his voice tinged with reproach.

Haldir stared at him. “You thought you stumbled?” he said with disbelief, which quickly evolved into angered comprehension. “That could never happen, my prince, so strong is your yearning for your lord-spouse that every one of us has marked the fire of it in your eyes.”

“Yet fall I did, Haldir. You saw how I-” Legolas could not proceed but bit his lip and turned his gaze away, his face burning with shame. He felt a soothing hand on his shoulder and looked askance at the Galadhel.

“Nay, 'twas the work of that accursed thing the Halfling bears that tempted you into seeking some respite from your sorrow as well as led Lord Aragorn astray,” Haldir insisted. “And now it makes you doubt your strength and will. 'Tis utterly malignant and already we feel its wickedness at work amongst us.”

“But I have felt nothing but quiet in your woods.”

“Only because you are a guest and have not known the full measure of our peace. There is disquiet amongst the people wrought by that thing. Only the Lady's power keeps it from wholly infecting us. Take not the blame upon yourself for something you did not do willingly.”

Sage counsel Haldir offered him but Legolas could not accept this alleviation of his shame and guilt however reasonable. It simply did not sit right with him that he should have been so easily overpowered by the iniquitous bauble Frodo bore. Surely his millennia-spanning devotion to Elrohir, his centuries-proven fidelity to his Peredhel mate, were the stronger.

But he did not reveal his remorse to Haldir and only smiled wanly at him in gratitude for his kindness and succor. The guard did not press him either though he perceived that the Mirkwood Elf was not wholly appeased. Instead he expressed his concern for what lay before the archer.

“My prince, I fear for you when you must leave Lothlórien and my lord and lady's protection,” he urgently said. “Without Mithrandir's tempering presence, Lord Aragorn may succumb once more to his baser desires. That would only do injury to the Company.”

Legolas' smile turned grim and he shook his head. “Even did he make another attempt, he would not best me. Now that I am aware of whence comes this malice I am doubly guarded. But you are right that it would hurt our cause. Should we come to blows, it would tear the Fellowship apart. That must not be. I think I shall take one of them into my confidence. Best to retreat behind the shelter of a friend rather than risk dissension because of misplaced pride.”

“That is a sound solution,” Haldir agreed. “But who will you approach? The Captain from Gondor?”

“Nay, the Dwarf Gimli son of Glóin will make a stout shield should temptation befall Aragorn once more.”

“The Dwarf?” the guard repeated doubtfully. He shook his head in astonishment. “Strange days these are indeed that an Elf should put his trust in a Dwarf. But you know him better than I and the Lady vouches for him as well. If you say he will be a stalwart friend I will not gainsay you.”

With that, Haldir took his leave of the archer and departed for his lieges' halls. But Legolas turned toward the Company's pavilion to seek Gimli. He would not take any chances. He would speak to his friend about his predicament and ask for his aid. He would not permit another incursion on his person or his fidelity.

His heart's burden did not lighten though. The lingering sensations of lips and hands on his skin and the weight of another upon his body that were not Elrohir's haunted him and made him feel sullied. Yet it was not his body's treachery that pained him but rather that he had even considered permitting it. His countenance did not betray his sorrow but within he cringed at his weakness.

Long ago, he had accused Elrohir of a similar deed and punished him for it. It mattered little that the charge against the Elf-knight had proved false. He had believed himself betrayed and acted accordingly. Who was he to have thought it his right to exact retribution when he had now proved himself no better? Indeed, his was the worse deed for he had done what Elrohir had not - wittingly allowed a trespass against their love.

He could not shake the feeling that Elrohir would know. The strength of their bond was such that he was certain the Elf-knight would sense something was amiss with him. As he had once assailed the younger twin and made him suffer for wronging him, would Elrohir now demand a like penance?

Legolas thought he would gladly swallow his mate's anger and condemnation rather than endure his kindness and forgiveness. Not if that acceptance was underlined by his beloved's pain and loss of faith in him. Yet this latter he expected to be his lot. For he knew Elrohir. Knew that his warrior-mate could be brutally implacable when his enmity was roused. But never with Legolas. The archer could gouge his heart with impunity and still Elrohir would take him back should he repent. But there was a price for such forbearance and that was the erosion of trust. Legolas did not dare imagine a love tainted by the poison of doubt.

He walked on, struggling to still the fear that swarmed through him like a pestilence. And as he did, he desperately caressed the gold band on his right forefinger. That potent symbol of his inviolable bond to his heart's one desire.

**********

His companions were quite surprised when, for the remainder of their stay in Lothlórien, Legolas went about with Gimli almost always at his side. They made an odd pair and a strange sight - an Elf and a Dwarf roaming the wood in fast friendship. What they found in common that could surmount their differences and bind them in such close comradeship the others could not fathom. But there it was. The two who had once traded barbs now shared secrets instead.

What secrets they shared they strictly kept to themselves. But it was said that the Lord and Lady of the Wood knew all that went on in their realm. It was unlikely that they did not know of at least one secret. The one the guard Haldir was privy to by way of his succoring of the Mirkwood Elf. The one Aragorn son of Arathorn ruefully guessed was at the root of Gimli's subtle but marked vigilance whenever he came nigh to Legolas. A vigilance that did not wane when the members of the Fellowship at last took their leave of the Golden Wood and rode the currents of Anduin to whatever fates had been ordained for each and every one of them.

***************************

Glossary:

Nínui - Sindarin for February

mellyrn (sing. mallorn) - trees indigenous to Lothlórien, they had golden leaves and silvery trunks

Khazad-dûm - the ancient Dwarven name for Moria before it was abandoned by the Dwarves due to the awakening of a Balrog within their realm

Galadhrim - 'tree-people'; the Elven-folk of Lothlórien

Hithaeglir - 'Misty Mountains'; the great mountain chain that ran through the Northwest of Middle-earth. Caradhras or the Redhorn is one of its mightiest peaks.

gwador - sworn brother

Peredhel (pl. Peredhil) - Half-elven/Half-elf

Galadhel - Tree-elf

Anduin - The Great River that ran for hundreds of miles southwards through Middle-earth, until it reached the sea in the Bay of Belfalas.

To be continued…
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Twilight Tales - An Ounce of Kindness