In Darkness and In Doubt

Decided to do more on this one…hope you enjoy!!

*

There were two blue eyes upon him. They seemed to watch always, though the Halfling spoke very little. He could suppose any one of a dozen explanations as to why Frodo had such a inatination with him, but none of them ever changed the fact that it bothered him to the core. Kneeling by the side of a stream, chilled water slipping through his fingers back to where it had come from, Legolas tried to ig the the eyes on him. He took a shallow breath and splashed his face, bringing the pleasant moisture up into his hair. When he stood it trailed down his naked back, but he scarcely felt the cold of it. Maningsings these days seemed to escape his ability to recall. And it mattered less and less.

It was morning now, early enough that the shadows had not quite yet left their path. It was a peaceful time, quiet and pleasant. One of the few moments that he could sometimes catch alone without the fiery tongue of Haldir, or the resentful glare of Boromir. The Marchwarden was scouting, no doubt, for he was nowhere around the campsite. Boromir, still slept, he assumed, until his peace was intruded upon by theosinosing figure.

The Captain of Lórien came from the fading fire, walking towards the stream with purpose. He tossed down his chain mail and rolled up shirt, then proceeded to refresh himself, dunking his head into the water and bringing it up, shaking his head. Legolas stood above him, watching with a temptation in his heart. Boromir had not touched Saralonde since this trip had begun, had not spoken of it or tried to coerce her into a willing encounter, but the story was always told within eyeseyes. Whenever he looked at her the desire could not be smothered. It was grudging, almost hateful at times, but it was still lust. Legolas tightened his fist.

“Hungry, Elf?” His voice both drove Legolas to act and yet preventing him from doing anything but exhaling. The mortal looked up, recognized his intent and grunted. “Do it, Elf. Come and take my life. I know you want to.”

The Prince of Mirkwood glared balefully at him, then turned away, kicking dust into the stream. “Someday I will.”

Boromir laughed at that, smoothing back his saturated, auburn hair. “Maybe one day you will even believe that if you keep saying it.” He lingered there, on his knees, looking up as the sunrise completed. “So, what stops you from having your little revenge, anyway? You had perfect opportunity to do it without my being able to stop you while I slept. Or if you are concerned with honor, I am more than willing to face you in a fair fight.”

Proudly Legolas drew his chin up, crossing his arms over his chest. “That is not very wise.”

The human shrugged and stood up, dusting his hands on his pants. “Perhaps not, but it is true all the same. So, will you avoid my question?” When the Elf looked away without reply, he grunted as if he already knew the reasons he was seeking. “If you are so afraid of yourself, perhaps you should not be here.”

That awakened a fire within Legolas that tempted him to challenge this bothersome mortal once and for all. With hard eyes he hissed, “I am not afraid of myself, you presumptuous fool.”

Boromir nodded, but his expression was dubious. Bending over, he collected his things, then straightened, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. “You sound nothing like the Elf that you were even a few weeks ago.”

“What do you expect?” the Mirkwood Elf replied hotly. He could feel his already thin patience wearing away. “My life has been ripped away from me.”

“I do not believe that is the reason you are so on edge.” The human seemed to have an assumption coupled with that statement and without asking, Legolas knew what it was. He knew because not only did Frodo watch him, but the others as well. Boromir continued heartlessly. “Whine if you must about things you cannot change, but that will not alter the truth of what is happening to you.”

Legolas looked up, once more wearing his desire to end this contention with blood ly oly on his face. The Captain of Lothlórien watched him keenly as if waiting to see if his petulance would win out. It did not, of course. The darkness was spreading within him like a poison, but he was not so far gone that he could not stop himself. Boromir was goading him and he would not fall for it. He looked away, trying to hold back the tide of sorrow that threatened to sweep over him. They had come a good ways from Lórien and evetep tep seemed to increase his rushing sense of doom.

“It is true, you know,” Boromir said, this time in a quiet, serious tone that Legolas would not have dreamed the mortal knew how to use.

He turned, but did not look up. “What is true?”

Boromir exhaled and started drawing his shirt on. “The reason you allow me to live.”

Knitting his brow, Legolas breathed quietly, “Do not continue to speak in riddles, Boromir. Tell me what it is you wish me to know.”

The Captain nodded at that. “Fair enough. You let me live because of her.” When Legolas looked up angrily, Boromir held up a forestalling hand. “If you fall to darkness you will be a danger to her. You know this, therefore you allow me to live, because if you fall you know you must be put to death for the sake of this Eru forsaken quest. If Haldir were left alone with her, you know what would happen just as I. Shadow Elves are used to getting what they want, when they want it. You think if it comes to that, I will protect her from such a fate.” He slipped the mail shirt over his head, then straightened it. “You are right.”

Frowning, Legolas again kicked the dust beneath his feet, watching the sunlight catch it as it peeked from between two trees. “Some comfort. It is not as if you would not touch her.”

“You are right again. I would touch her and take great pleasure in having her returned to me. But I would no tho the things to her that Haldir would.” He exhaled and moved towards the camp where Saralonde remained alone. “I suggest you take rest, Elf. You look ragged and it is a long way through Rohan.”

It was then that the mortal left him finally alone with just the quiet of nature. He could not call it peace, no, for that would imply the weight upon his shoulder was of no concern. Legolas ran his hands through his hair, trying to maintain his composure, though every fiber of his being called out for several things at once, from the revenge he so desired to the sweet, seductive Ring that was ever a part of his thoughts. No, there was no peace.

He could still remember the feel of the metal upon his hand, warm and soft. He had attacked Aragorn on a whim, arguing for the freedom of his people. The High King had threatened to kill the Sindar captives, strip them and hang them in the trees of Mirkwood for his people to find. After the extensive abuse he had suffered he simply had lost it and attacked. King Aragorn had not been prepared for it, had fallen so easily Legolas wondered if somehow it had not been predestined. When he faced the guards he had expected certain death, but the Lady of Shadow had commanded he be spared that he do this task for all Elven kind. Or at least that was what she had said.

He supposed differently. After touching that mind so nakedly he could not in good sense believe that she truly did this with the complete welfare of Middle-Earth in mind. In her there was greatness; the forgotten potential of being a kind, wise woman, but he remembered also that this was a woman who had left Valinor long ago, harboring the secret ambition of ruling this world as she saw fit. The dark thread had won out in the end and he knew that somehow she still sought to make her vision of glory come to life. He did not know if the catalyst would be Haldir, if he would do something to change the course of this quest, or if someone else would take a hand in it, but he could not just simply put any faith in the possibility of making it to Mordor unmolested, free to dispose of the Ring.

But of course he had gone over these things in his mind again and again, searching for the barest d ofd of a clue only to come back empty. Legolas growled in frustration, then looked to the brush where Frodo was. The Hobbit had apparently dozed off, for no longer were those clear, innocent eyes fixed on him. How easy it would be. How easy to go to the sleeping, unsuspecting Halfling and remove the chain from around his neck.

To do what? he asked himself angrily, no longer comfortable in his own skin. He had the best intentions, which was why he did not trust himself, for he had been catching himself thinking of how precious such a rare Ring would be, how helpful its power would be. He could single-handedly save his people from the domination of Men. Legolas looked again at Frodo, then discarded the idea in disgust. I will not fall to this! I will not!

But despite his insistence on this issue, he did not have the faith he would have liked. Some moments he could be strong, but more and more he found his strength waning. Some moments weormeorment.

*

By the time night blanketed the earth they had reached the plains of Rohan. It was a vast country, clear as a spring day when the sun still dwelled with them, but frightfully barren at night. The moon was but a sliver in the sky, sparing scant light for them to see by outside their little circle around a rudely constructed fire that was not very bright. Saralonde sat apart of the other three in her company, looking across the way to a hill where Legolas sat alone. His back was to the camp, but she knew he had a pensive expression upon his face. She had no idea what was going on inside him, but more and more she started to fear for him.

Boromir took note of where she was looking, grunting as he sliced an apple with his dagger and ate one of the pieces. “He’s fading, you realize,” he summed her thoughts.

Annoyed, Saralonde pretended she had not heard, moving her eyes to the dirt beneath her feet. From across the fire Haldir was seated with his hands supporting him from behind. He laughed at her ignoring of the mortal. “Tiri na i athrad he ube man thenid.” The Marchwarden watched her from across the flames. “You see the evidence before you, yet you continue to believe he is fine. Tell me, since when does he trust us that he would leave you in our care?”

Saralonde glared at him, feeling the sting of truth in his words. “He is not so far that he could not stop you from hurting me,” she retorted hotly.

Haldir nodded in concession, but added, “Yes, that is so, but he is not so close that he could prevent me from killing you. Of what use are you to this quest, except to whore yourself to your Sindar lover? If that is your function I say say I believe I am not receiving my share.”

Opening her mouth to give him a harsh reply, Saralonde was startled and a bit annoyed when Boromir cut in, “Enough, Haldir.”

“And who are you to tell me what is enough, mortal dog?” the Marchwarden spat back, turning his restless ire to the Captain of Lórien now. “It will be enough when this foolish mission is at an end. It may be that you are needed to take us through Gondor, but I am needed to get you through the Black Gates.”

Boromir laughed mockingly at that. “And what do you propose? We simply walk up to the Black Gate and tell them we’re there to tour?”

Unable to handle the bickering, Frodo rolled off of his mat and stalked away. Saralonde watched him, inclined to follow after. These discussions between Boromir and Haldir were never pleasant. All of them were on edge and she took comfort in that, for she could tell herself that was all that was wrong with Legolas. But in the end she always feared that there was something more where he was concerned. He rarely smiled anymore, even when they were alone, speaking of Mirkwood.

Getting up, dusting her hands off on her pants, she instead moved to where Legolas was perched, untroubled by the fight brewing. She moved through the dust and stood above him, watching the night ahead of them just as he did. But he was not seeing the dark plains, she guessed, but something less calm. “How do you feel?” she asked softly.

Legolas looked up with gentle, wanting eyes as he reached up, taking her hand in his. “I feel fine.”

Saralonde grunted and smirked at him. “Is that true?”

“As true as it can be,” he responded smartly with a little smirk all his own. It faded almost as soon as it got there. He sighed, kissing her hand and closing his eyes. “Sit with me.”

She dropped down beside him, looking over his thin, pale features. A strand of his golden hair moved with the constant breeze and she tucked it behind his ear. “What can I do to make this better?” she whispered, knowing there was no real answer.

Legolas turned his head back towards her, the sliver of moonlight shining just bright enough to glint in his eyes. She could see that he wanted to give her an answer, but had none himself. “You need not worry, meleth. Soon this will be but a memory for us both. It is that time that I look to.” He kissed her palm as she fingered his hair. He winced when the Marchwarden’s voice raised an octave as he argued with Boromir. “Truly, what brought you here from such pleasant company?”

Groaning, Saralonde moved her hand from his hair to his cheek, tracing his jaw line softly. An arch look crossed her features. “Perhaps it was love.”

The Prince of Mirkwood looked around conspiringly. “Pray tell me, meleth, whom do you love?”

With an impish little look she leaned close to his ear, breathing, “The Hobbit.” The old Legolas would have probably begun to laugh at such a jest.

Instead he smiled wanly, leaning into her hand. “You mistreat me so.” It was playful, but devoid of true mirth.

“If I have given offence, then I am sorry,” she replied, pressing her lips against his. As he parted them with his tongue, her lashes fluttered. The heat of his kiss drew her away from terrible thoughts and for a moment she could pretend reality was just a nightmare. His tongue caressed along hers in a slow, smoldering touch that ignited a fire within her. A fire that died out when they heard the Marchwarden make a dirty comment about them, having seen their kiss.

Legolas pulled away in anger, looking down with his jaw set. “They will not give us a moment’s peace.”

Saralonde shook her head, bringing his face up again. “I know. Perhaps you should rest.” Though he had every right to be angry, she did not like to see him embrace it.

He picked at the dirt, tracing patterns only to erase them. “Aye, rest would be good,” was his sullen agreement. He glared over his shoulder at the campsite. “Though I care not to lay near them.”

“Then we’ll stay here,” she said simply and rested her hand on his thigh. It seemed to placate him, so she turned it into a soft caress that had him sighing in want a moment later.

Placing his hand over hers, Legolas squeezed softly and nodded. “All right.”

*

Midway through Rohan they ran into their first line of trouble when a body of men stopped them. From beneath his horsehair helm Éomer of Rohan glared at their strange company. One thing was certain. He did not like Boromir at all. “Again, I ask, Boromir, what you are here for?”

Boromir was stubbornly adamant about getting through without having to explain himself. “I am a Captain of Lothlórien, Éomer. Again I say I see no reason to answer to you. Will I have to call down the High King’s wrath for a simple crossing to Gondor from here?”

Éomer grunted in distaste. “It was my understanding that the High King had…fallen ill?” He looked them over one by one with a gaze that suggested he knew more than he was letting on. “Had you not heard?”

Flawlessly Boromir shook his head, appearing totally innocent of the knowledge. “I had not heard. Nothing serious, I trust?”

With a penetrating stare, the Rohirrim considered his words, then grinned. “Rumor says it is nothing more serious than a funeral would take care of.” He tilted his head slightly. “Is it our fortune that none of his Elven whores bore him a child?”

It was Haldir that replied, cold and steady. “He has a son by one of his women to succeed him if what you claim is true. You do not seem to show the proper respect a subject of the High King should.”

“No,” Éomer agreed solemnly. “I do not. So, Aragorn has a son. Wonders never cease. With hope someone will stick a knife in him before he’s old enough to wield that Ring.” He grunted, then frowned at Boromir. “But fair talk does not change our problem. My uncle is very angry with your brother, Boromir. He is still very upset about the treatment of Éowyn.” He ran his hand along the hilt of a blade at his hip meaningfully. “I am still very upset about the treatment of Éowyn.”

Crossing his arms, Boromir gave an embittered laugh. “The little bastard is still causing me trouble, leagues away. Whatever Faramir did is not my concern, Éomer. I do not condone his actions, nor am I the one who raised him to have such exotic tastes. You can blame my father for his second son’s disturbed outlook on life.” He nodded down at the dagger Éomer was handling. “If you think killing me will repay Faramir for his treachery, think again.”

The Rohirrim nodded grudgingly. “Fair enough. Still, I must ask again what your business is. You keep strange company. Shadow Elves are not welcome in my country,” he added with a glare at Haldir.

“You’re putting me in ry dry difficult position,” Boromir growled, his eyes hard. “I assure you, our business lies in Gondor. We will be nowhere near Edoras or anywhere else that may cause you to worry over whatever secrets you wish to keep. You have my word.”

The men at Éomer’s back muttered and snorted at that, causing their commander to smile. “Your word means nothing to me, servant of the High King. And you are wrong. You will be going to Edoras to pay respects to my uncle.”

Angered, Haldir took a step, but stopped when a few of them Rohirrim drew their swords. Through clenched teeth he hissed, “We do not have time for this nonsense!”

Éomer’s distaste was plain to be seen. “Then you should not have entered into Rohan. You have but two choices. Follow peaceably or die here.”

For a moment it seemed as if the Marchwarden would cause a stir and follow the second choice, but was stopped by a hand to the shoulder. Boromir shook his head, giving him a firm look, then turned to Éomer with a sarcastic smile. “Very well. Let us go now so that we may be done with it.”

Without further waiting they were hauled onto horses which they had no control over and led through away from their course towards Edoras whdweldwelt Théoden, King of Rohan. Neither Legolas nor Saralonde knew anything about him or his countrymen, but to judge by Éomer’s character left them both uneasy.

When they reached the Golden Hall some hours later only Boromir was taken into audience with the King, while the rest of them were taking to a small sitting room to wait. Haldir seemed agitated to be here and Frodo, while quiet, seemed to worry as well. He stood alone, as always, carefully avoiding eye contact, but Saralonde noticed when he did look at any of them he was usually uneasy. Even now as he noticed her looking he was quick to avert his eyes. She sighed and watched him a moment longer, then looked for Legolas. She was a bit bothered to see him watching Frodo as well. His dark blue eyes glittered in sorrow and something a little less reassuring. She wondered then just how the Ring had affected him; just how Galadriel had affected him.

As it was, Haldir’s ranting interrupted her thoughts. “This is foolish. If King Théoden gets a hold of the Ring it could prove disastrous.”

“I know nothing of him,” Legolas said, looking up at him. “What sort of man is he?”

The Marchwarden growled in disgust. “He is a Man. That is all I need to know. For how long have we lived beneath the domination of Men that held the Ring? We finally have a chance to…” Abruptly, he stopped and glared at them. “I will not submit to the rule of another High King!”

For some reason that seemed to anger Legolas. “But you would have us submit to your High Queen?” he asked acidly. “I know she does not plan on this ending at Mordor with all the races free. I saw enough of her mind to reason that much!”

Haldir smiled dangerously, stopping his pacing and running his eyes along Legolas. “How much do you know?”

The Prince of Mirkwood looked away, his voice dropping a tone. “I know the terrible touch of her mind. I know no one such as she could truly want peace and seclusion with her people.”

His gaze softened as if he understood something that she did not. “But what is worse? Galadriel or Sauron?”

Legolas turned hard eyes on him. “I question the answer to that!” His harsh tone drew the Marchwarden’s wrath, causing him to approach with violent intent. The Prince of Mirkwood poised himself to meet him head on.

Frodo seemed to shrink away from the impending brawl, but not Saralonde. This situation had taken its toll on her nerves and just now she was feeling quite aggravated. Standing up she came between them, hissing, “Enough! We have enough trouble without it brewing among us!”

At her threatening tone Haldir’s ire seemed to melt away beneath his ever-present sarcasm and amusement. “I do love a girl that fights back,” he insinuated, causing Legolas to take another step forward. Saralonde pushed him back and he gave in, seeing to reason. Grug, tg, the Marchwarden backed off as well, retreating to a nearby chair. “Boromir had better have a good plan.”

*

Elvish:
Tiri na i athrad he ube man thenid. – Look at the way she denies what (is) true.