Chapter Twenty-Nine: Tales and a Decision
Plates
were set before the four who had just arrived at Isengard, and they were
piled high with hearty food: sausages, vegetables, and cheese. Merry poured
wine, which Nimoë sipped slowly, savoring the crisp tartness of it.
Food in her stomach was a sensation which she relished, having almost forgotten
what it felt like. Still it could not fully ease the empty ache which had
lodged itself in her belly, born of concern for Legolas.
Once
they had all eaten, they went out to the front of the gatehouse where they
had consumed their feast. Pippin found that he had in his pocket a spare
pipe, which he had brought with him all the way from the Shire, and he
gave it to Gimli. The Hobbits and the Dwarf puffed away at the excellent
pipe-weed, which had come all the way from the Southfarthing. Aragorn reclined
against a wall and bade the Hobbits tell them the tale of what had happened
since their capture.
It
was a long and amazing tale. Merry and Pippin related that they had managed
to save themselves from the orcs during the fight between the servants
of Saruman and the riders of Rohan. From there they had entered Fangorn
forest, where they had made the acquaintance of Treebeard, the old Ent.
“They do not eat, Ents. Only do they drink, and only the water of the Entwash.
Strangely satisfying it was, and it seems that it aids in growth, for as
you have noticed, we are taller than when we entered the forest,” piped
up Pippin.
The
Ents had gathered together in council and after a great debate, they were
roused to take action against Saruman. “Roused Ents are a frightful thing
indeed. There was a great Hoom-ing and Hom-ing, and they moved with deadly
intent upon Isengard. All the damage that you have seen done here was wrought
by the Ents. Their fingers are as strong as roots, and they worked their
way into the cracks of the walls, destroying them as easily as time and
weather melt away stone,” spoke Merry.
Pippin
interrupted him and continued the narrative, “Then, they managed to reroute
the Isen! All of Isengard was flooded, and very nearly were we swept away
ourselves. Only by climbing to the top of the highest building left standing
did we save ourselves from the maelstrom. They wanted to wash away all
signs of orcs from this place, and I surely believe that they have done
it.”
Gimli
grunted, “That explains why the banks of the Isen were so long empty. A
good use for a river, I say!” Then he sucked deeply upon his pipe.
Merry
spoke again, “So as you see, Saruman has had his hands full. He cannot
leave the tower, and all that he has is one man with him, a skulking type
of man, who goes by the name of Grima Wormtongue.”
Legolas
leapt up from his seat. “Wormtongue is here?!? Take me where I can find
him, for he and I have unfinished business.”
Nimoë
felt her heart stop on hearing the name spoken. Memories of him screaming,
“Bind her mouth!” flooded over her, accompanied by an overwhelming sensation
of walls closing in around her. Blackness crept in around her vision, and
she swayed slightly, clutching at her spinning head with one hand, while
the other clenched the ground spasmodically.
The
sounds of voices around her were strangely muffled, and she felt as if
they were not a part of her world, only the buzzing of blood in her ears.
“Legolas, you cannot reach him within the tower... It is impregnable, even
to the Ents, or believe me that it would also be lying in ruins… I will
find a way. He has much to answer for…”
Dank
smells filled Nimoë’s nostrils, and she began to shake as the dungeon
formed about her, as patently real to her hallucinating mind as if she
were back in that chamber of horror. She clutched her hands about herself
and rolled over onto the ground, trying to bury herself away from the crushing
darkness. A pitiful sob was wrenched from her throat.
The
sob filtered past the rage that filled Legolas and he glanced over at Nimoë.
She was curled in upon herself, her face pressed into the earth, grasping
her arms tightly to her body as if trying to hold herself to this world.
Before he had time to think he was on his knees beside her, with his hand
laid upon her back, asking, “Nimoë, what is wrong?”
Her
stormy grey eyes looked up, but they did not see him. They were plainly
observing some other, more frightening reality. “The darkness is coming
closer… I cannot breathe… The darkness!”
Legolas
pulled her up off the ground, holding her trembling body tightly. “Nimoë,
you are with friends. Whatever you are seeing, it is not real. Wormtongue
cannot reach you. I will never let him harm you again.”
Seeing
that there was no response to his cajoling words, he stopped speaking and
brought his lips down onto hers. All of his soul he poured into the caress,
and all of the strength of his heart. If anything would break past the
delirium which beset his dearest, it would be the power of his love, and
he allowed every part of his spirit to flow into the kiss, offering all
that he had to give.
Slowly
the blinding darkness began to fade, and in its place was a brilliant light,
suffused with every color of the rainbow, although the warm yellow of sunlight
was the most prevalent. Nimoë reached out with all of her being to
embrace the light, to absorb it into her body, chasing away the chill dread
which had lain upon her heart.
Awareness
of her body began to creep back, and she found that she was trembling,
but not with fear. With joy! Her hands were wrapped into the folds of a
soft tunic, which was warm with the heat of the body within it. The smell
of cedar and spices wafted up to her, and her eyes flew open.
On
seeing her open her eyes, and sensing the return of her conscious mind,
Legolas broke off his kiss. His hand sought her cheek and he stroked it
softly. “Are you back with us?” he whispered.
Nimoë
nodded slowly, not wanting to speak, for fear that if she did he would
leave her alone again. To be back in his embrace was like returning home
and she did not want to chance driving him away. His eyes, so close to
hers, were pools of liquid blue, as clear as a cloudless sky. So beautiful,
she thought. So amazingly pure.
His
voice was kind and comforting as he spoke, “It was Wormtongue, was it not?
Hearing his name spoken brought you back to the dungeon and the torment
you faced there. Do not fear, for once I have him within my sights he shall
not live long enough to breathe, let alone hurt you again, dear heart.
If he dares to show his face, my arrow shall pierce him through.”
Murmurs
swirled about them, and Nimoë caught a few words of it, “What is happening?
Are they lovers?”
It
was Pippin who had spoken, and Merry shushed him briskly, “Do not ask such
questions. It is unseemly.”
Pippin
refused to be dissuaded. “But look at them!”
Reluctantly,
Nimoë pushed herself away from the Elf Prince. “Look at us, indeed.
I am so very sorry. Such weakness is an embarrassment to me. That hearing
a name spoken can send me to another place… It is humiliating. Please,
try to forget what you saw. I prefer to keep my weaknesses private, if
possible.”
Pippin
raised his hands in front of him. “I saw nothing. Did you Merry? Aragorn?
Gimli?”
They
all shook their heads, and they looked so comical in their feigned nonchalance
that Nimoë could not help but laugh. Once begun, the chuckles could
not be stopped, and soon she was laughing so hard that she was clutching
her stomach, unable to fully breathe. She knew that if Legolas was not
by her side, that the hysterical laughter could well have turned into tears,
but she took comfort in his presence and was finally able to control herself.
Legolas
stood and offered his hand to assist her in rising. She took it gratefully
and they turned to face the others. “Is it not time to be joining Gandalf?”
he asked.
Aragorn
nodded. “Of course. Merry, Pippin, lead us onward.”
Legolas
kept Nimoë’s hand clasped firmly in his own. It shook him to realize
how much seeing her suffering hurt him as well. He knew that he could not
have stopped himself from going to her aid if he had wanted to. Some primitive
instinct deep inside of him drove him to protect her at any cost.
Aragorn’s
earlier words of counsel seemed to ring in his ears, “If you are forced
to chose between Nimoë and the quest, you must chose the quest. It
is your duty.” He knew now that if the choice came of saving Nimoë
or completing the quest, he could not help but try to save his love. That
left him with only one choice. He had to leave her behind.
And
in doing so, he risked losing her forever.