Author’s Comments: I continued reading Tolkien’s story and kept on thinking about what I wanted to do with this fic. Then, I latched onto a future event and that started the dialogue rolling again, followed by everything else. Eventually, my muse sang again at 11:40 PM on a Monday night (1/8/02). I am ready to proceed and to finish Chapter 8 by continuing it on Chapter 9. Also, with some of the reviewers asking me to get Legolas’ hair growing back, I will, but I am in no rush to inprove on his marred fairness. I think his inner fairness is what needs to be developed on, not his fine tresses. ^^ And I’m so glad he doesn’t ‘wimpy’ or ‘weak’ to you guys/gals. I used to have a bad history of making formerly strong warriors into whimpering idiots – begone, those times! *laughs*

BTW…now this seems to be my longest chapter. I also used an ancient word for wood (faggot) in my story, like that of Tolkien. I meant no offense – pardon me if it does, but I believe the dictionary should back me up.

Now then…shall we proceed?


"Shadows Amongst the Leaves"
by Rinoa Destiny

Chapter Nine: Healing, But the Wounds Remain


 


        Fate worked against him at Emyn Muil, betraying him into foul hands and unbearable torture. He clung tightly to Aragorn, smelling the sweet fragrance of morning dew on the man’s tunic. Green stains left behind by sleeping on the lush hills of Rohan stood out and Legolas remembered for a moment the trees of Mirkwood. His home was so distant from him; being northwards of Rohan and beyond the Misty Mountains, close to the town near the lake Esgaroth. Before he left for the council, before he became a member of their now broken Fellowship, Legolas already missed his father’s realm. He loved the trees and the sunlight, for he reveled in their natural beauty. Often he sang songs to the forest, and the birds and beasts welcomed him with delight.
        Being the youngest in his family, he was often excused and being an Elf, there was none needed. Although his eldest brother found strife with him over such small tidings, Legolas listened not to his sibling’s rebuke, for he saw no harm in the trees. His father, being preoccupied with his jewels and wine, cared not about the trouble between them; that was for them to decide. Legolas knew where he wanted to be, and his nobility did not harness his wandering heart. For young and gentle he was and the forest mourned his leaving, for there was never one that loved them as much as he loved himself.
        Silence lay heavily upon the circle of Riders and upon the three companions gathered in its center. Legolas listened to their breathing, as one who had ceased to breathe himself – perhaps out of contemplation? With a slight shake, Aragorn roused him from his thoughts and the Elf raised his face to look his friend in the eye. “I desire no pity, Aragorn, even if I am hurt beyond your help. Alas, these wounds are more than Man or Elf could heal!”
        “I know what you mean, and I am saddened by that,” the Ranger said, his voice soft. “You seek no pity, but I cannot hold my sympathies back. What you endured and survived is something that no one should encounter. I have heard of another like yours, and that too ended in grief.”
        “I do not know where my suffering will take me. My own path is dimly lit and my feet are lost, forever kept in the shade by this fell darkness. If I look hard enough, perhaps I will find my way out.” Legolas lowered his head; he felt exhaustion drawing strength from his limbs and the prince gave himself into Aragorn’s concerned embrace. “I am weary. Let me rest, for only there will I find peace.”
        “You wish to sleep?”
        “No. I am tired and sick at heart. What you call rest will be but a short pause in this journey.”
        Gimli came to stand next to the two, his gaze upon the two companions. “Rest then, Legolas. It would do us no good if you are too weary to help us search for the hobbits!”
        Legolas laughed then; it was like a ray of moonlight piercing through a grey cloud in a dark sky. “Bless you for your stout heart, friend! Elves should befriend Dwarves more, for they know not what they miss.”
        “And so should Dwarves, Master Elf!”
        The merriment of the moment was not lost on the Riders of Rohan. As the companions talked, spears and bows were lowered and Éomer smiled in spite of himself. Legolas caught the many meaningful glances and whispers amongst the battle-hardened soldiers as Aragorn led him towards the foot of the hill and settled him there. As gentle as the Ranger’s hands were, he touched bruises and the Elf winced. His healing was slow and he had no doubt in mind that some malicious will of Isengard and Mordor doubly cursed him.
        As the Orcs’ hatreds for Elves were venomous in nature…
        “Legolas, did Merry and Pippin say anything to you before their departure?”
        Painful memories awakened in his mind, and the Elf restrained his emotions. “They said nothing to me. When I awoke, they had left me with a cloak, a packet of lembas, and their kind hearts in cutting me free of my bonds. Other than that, I cannot tell you much.”
        “Were they in danger at any time?”
        Legolas closed his eyes, shielding whatever expression from the insistent Ranger. “Less than I was in, Aragorn son of Arathorn. May I rest, my friend?”
        “My apologies.” Aragorn soon left, along with his fading steps that gradually stopped all together. A low murmur of voices and introductions started; had the man decided to talk to the men of Rohan?
        Left alone, Legolas resumed his thoughts that Aragorn unintentionally interrupted. For his healing to be this slow, there had to be some ill intent at work. It was not just the incessant battering and clouting that made his body so sore and unable to mend – did Saruman cast some sorcery over him? Images of the Istari towering over him in total dominance and power shook his body and wrung loose sweat; he had not forgotten. The wizard had lost his full advantage when Legolas dared to challenge his meddling – the promise of exacting vengeance had been done. What else did Saruman do to him in his wrath?
        Words began to speak through his mind, and the Elven prince shuddered. How could he have forgotten? Something about Orcs; a spell sent to demoralize his heart and to vanquish his soul. Looking like an Orc when his own willpower and strength were weak. Could that be the sole reason? Terror and despair filled him. To look like the creatures that he used to slay in vengeance for the loss of his mother – it was enough to make his darkest nights become the blackest ones, all barren without stars to light the shadows.
        Legolas did not know what to do to break this cruel curse. When Mithrandir was still alive, the Istari might have been able to help him. But that was a while ago, and the wizard had plunged to the depths of Moria along with the Balrog. There was no hope for his curse to be broken, at least not by his own hands. Nor anyone else’s, even if they wished to free him of this oppressing burden – he had to hold his own ground for some time.
        For how long, he despaired of knowing.
        As his thoughts quieted down and exhaustion flowed through his blood, the young prince rested, dreaming of days before he even knew about lord Elrond’s council.

*****

        “We need to find the rest of our companions,” Aragorn said, looking at Éomer. “We came in search of three and we have found one.” Legolas now slept at the hill’s foot – a successful and blessed find, for Aragorn feared him dead or aloof beyond hope. While the matter of the Elf was done, there still remained Merry and Pippin. Legolas’ words reassured him, along with the elven cloak, but until the hobbits were found, Aragorn considered his responsibilities unfinished.
        “We do not allow strangers, even friends of the Elf, to wander the plains of Rohan,” Éomer stated sternly. “The King of the Mark is cautious and thinks queer things of strange folk. It would not do to arouse his anger for a small thing unrelated to us.”
        “I ask of you, kindly and with grace, to allow us to proceed.”
        “You are a stubborn man, Heir of Elendil. And yet, you speak graciously and with patience. These are hard times and for a man to speak fairly is rare. Who is it that you seek?”
        Éothain spoke aloud, as if in disregard of Aragorn and Éomer’s counsel. “My lord, you will not let him! There are laws that you cannot break, even less for men searching for friends. They have found the Elf – is that not enough? Must they wander the plains like intruders? We slew Orcs for the same reason!”
        “Peace, Éothain! I see not an Orc before me. Rather, the Heir of Elendil stands before us, speaking with a courteous tongue. Although our laws do hold true and strong, we must make allowances for occasions like this. You have lost companions to the Orc hordes before – do you begrudge them their grief and weariness?”
        The Rider gave a black look at Strider. “You err and that is uncommon, my lord.”
        “Even if I err, can I hold back men who willingly face death and questioning? Many men do not seek trouble, yet these men do, for the sake of their friends.”
        “We seek it willingly, even if you must lay down your law.” Aragorn tightened his grip over Andúril’s hilt. “If you seek to judge us and to take your forces against us, fewer of you will return.” Beside him, Gimli stood ready with his axe, having already threatened Éomer for his words against the Lady Galadriel; it had been a close one that Aragorn quickly intervened in, seeing how the Rider and the Dwarf were almost coming to blows. Not for a few words was Isildur’s heir about to forfeit his life. And yet, now having said his part, Aragorn stood, gazing at the Rider with the respect and attention common to leaders.
        Éomer gazed back, unfazed. “Leave us alone, men! Let me talk to the strangers for a while!”
        Most of the Riders rode away, without mutterings and complaints. Éothain gave Aragorn another dark look, and then rode away with the rest of his companions. Once left alone, Éomer spoke. “You speak with conviction and with heart, and I cannot deny men like that without justification. As you can see, my men are cautious and suspicious, yet they wish to leave this place.”
        “They do so with common nature, and that is faultless.”
        “And you still seek your companions. Who are they?”
        “They are hobbits or Halflings. We seek them with urgency.” Gimli said with a frown.
        Éomer looked hard at them, and Aragorn saw doubt in his eyes. “Halflings. We speak of them as legend, as myth. But if it is the truth – and I trust your words – then it is my duty to aid you. Therefore, I will grant you your freedom to search for them and I will lend you horses. However, you must promise to me one thing: after your search, should it go for good or for ill, bring the steeds back over the Entwade to Mesuseld. That is where Théoden resides, in the high house of Edoras. This will be your proof of your trustworthiness and my pledge to you. For in doing this, I am placing my life and myself at his mercy. Do not fail, for I have already erred.”
        “I will not fail,” Aragorn said, solemn.

*****

        His wounds bled and Legolas stood in his dream, shedding all pain. Whatever stiffness he had acquired in his flesh, it left and the Elf wandered the dreary lands, seeing nothing but agony and darkness. The wind buffeted at his body and sang words of a foul and coarse language. What it was the Elf did not want to know; he had no wish to find Black Speech in his nightmares.
        Behind him, ever steady and trustworthy, walked his father.
        Legolas could sense the Elf’s presence and it soothed his heart. Twice, during his trials, his father saved him from forsaking himself over to darkness and death. It was his last touch, his last embrace that delivered him out of utter contempt and self-pity for his suffering. Shame still lingered over him but his father’s strength fought against the delusion of weakness and lack of pride – rather, it was the other way around. After surviving the Orcs’ black desires and torment, Legolas was still surprised to find his noble blood running strong.
        Thranduil had imparted more than just life and hope, it seemed.
        “Legolas, will you wander forever?” His father asked, his voice breaking through the oppressive silence. “Are you free of your captors?”
        The Elf halted in his steps and stood still. “I am free of their hands, father. As for wandering, I will walk until I find the road I am supposed to be on; for during my struggles, I lost my footing and the darkness seized me.”
        The king strode towards his son, holding out his hand. “Follow me for some time, Legolas. Even if this road is yours to find, I will try to help you find some light in this severe night. Do you remember times before you left for this quest? Do you still see trees in flower, in bloom, coming from a harsh winter? Mirkwood used to be your delight, for you loved the trees.”
        “I still do, father.”
        “Then follow me. This will not be lasting, but make it so and keep it as your strength. Come, take my hand, for I will not have you lost on this path.”
        This time, Legolas did not hesitate. Taking a hold of his father, he followed his steps, until it became clear where he was going. After such trials, the Elven prince began to see some joy, some gaiety and merriment that had all but been lost to him.
        He was going to Mirkwood.

        “Legolas, awake!”
        The Elf opened his eyes, never leaving his dreams far behind. “What is it, Gimli? Can you not see I am resting?”
        The Dwarf smiled, his rough features almost kind in a strangely bemusing way. “For once, you slept with your eyes closed! And I thought all Elves slept with their eyes open, Master Elf! You have yourself before, if I recall my memory right. Startled me at first, how you could sleep and dream while looking like as if you were awake!”
        Exhaustion left him and Legolas smiled. “Alas, I am tired and in search of more than sleep! Never did I close my eyes, for the weariness had not been so tiresome before! But you see me better than most, Gimli. You have ever since our stay at Lothlórien and for that, I am glad. Were it that I lived my life alone – now that is a troubling thought.”
        “I would not allow you to,” Gimli said. “You prove better than most Dwarves at being friends.”
        “And does that surprise you?”
        “You were impetuous at first, Master Legolas.”
        Legolas gazed at the Dwarf who challenged him thus. “In what ways, Gimli son of Gloin?”
        “Hmph! An Elf frolicking on snow while the company freezes. Did not Gandalf speak of your ways?”
        “I went to see the Sun.”
        “And did you find it, my good Elf?”
        “I did, but she refused my plea. On coming back, I found our Strong Men toiling. If the Sun had agreed with my words, perhaps we could have surmounted Caradhras.”
        Gimli shook his head. “If your feet were less swift, we might have pushed you off the cliff.”
        “Would you, Master Dwarf? Your days would be more lonely without my words.” The light-hearted bantering between the two warmed Legolas’ heart, for it reminded him of days of camaraderie and joy. Before the Dwarf and he were accustomed to each other, jibes and jests were a constant. Gandalf wearied of it at the Gates of Moria, when both denied fault for the downfall of the friendship between Dwarves and Elves. They had fought over their rights at the borders of Lothlórien, each indignant at being blindfolded – Gimli for the injustice; Legolas for being a kinsmen. That was the start of a life-long friendship.
        “The words of an arrogant Elf would be less comforting. Do not forget my axe.”
        “I did not think it in you to use it on me.”
        The Dwarf scowled. “As much as I used to trust in that bow of yours. I swore an arrow was meant for me.”
        The Elf smiled, shaking his head. So much depth in the minds of Dwarves! “That would be my loss then. Come now, Gimli. Companions parted do not just talk, like the way birds sing. Come and embrace me, friend, for I have been away for too long.”
        Legolas’ words were not needed; Gimli dropped his axe and rushed the Elf, almost throwing himself into the prince’s arms. Ever since his father comforted him on that evil night, Legolas found himself seeking the huddling of bodies and the closeness of friends. It was like that on Caradhras and in Moria, when being so close to others banished fears and dark shadows. It made the future distant, holding it back with bonds of love and trust.
        It mattered to the Elf.
        “So you have missed me, Gimli.”
        “It is dull without your company, Legolas. Aragorn does the tracking and he rarely talks. If he talks at all, it is about tokens and footsteps in the dirt or grass.”
        A sharp pain stabbed through Legolas’ consciousness and the prince grimaced. “Wait, Gimli. My breath is short.” As the Dwarf released his hold, the Elf drew in another breath and found it agonizing. What did Gimli’s grasp do? With his trained fingers, Legolas prodded along his ribs, only to find that a broken bone was the cause. Memories of a savage beating and the eventual pummeling by a circle of Orcs surfaced into his mind. One of the creatures had kicked him, driving the bone into inner flesh.
        That was the cause of this sudden pain, this dark turn of events.
        “Gimli! Legolas! Éomer has granted us his leave to search for Merry and Pippin. Hurry, for we have to look while it is still light!”
        Gimli stood and walked over to Aragorn. “You may need to carry Legolas.”
        “It will be needed. For this old injury is enough to hamper my breathing and I cannot walk or ride.”
        “Ride we must, Legolas son of Thranduil. The Riders of Rohan have given us horses – we cannot walk, lest we tarry and fail our friends.” The Ranger knelt down, his eyes full of concern. Legolas could feel compassion emanating from the man. “If you cannot ride, we will find ways to take you with us. We will not leave you behind.”
        “Two horses,” Gimli said in chagrin. “Do you expect me to ride as well – a Dwarf upon those beasts?”
        “Friend Gimli, if you decide to ride with me, will it ease your mind?”
        “But I thought you said you cannot ride!”
        Legolas struggled to stand, but fell at the sudden fire burning through his breast. “That makes two of us, then! Aragorn, if you could find a way so that I could sit sidesaddle and have Gimli behind me, I will be grateful. The Dwarf should not suffer for my sake.” After so many words, the Elf felt his breath stifled and the Ranger laid him back down upon the hill’s slope.
        “Stay silent, Legolas. I will try what I may and should fate be for us, we will go forth with all speed.”
        Where were they headed? Did Aragorn know where to search? “Aragorn, do you know where Merry and Pippin went? The last I saw of them was near Fangorn’s woods.”
        “If that is so, that is where we will look.”

        Hours later, the three companions set out. Legolas, now sitting sidesaddle, with Gimli clinging tightly to him, urged Arod forward. As if sensing his master’s will, the horse galloped swiftly, lingering closely behind Aragorn. At times, Aragorn dismounted and read the ground for signs. As the sun drew itself closer to the west, the sky darkened behind grey clouds and the company grew weary.
        Legolas noticed the many fallen Orcs in their path. Grey-feathered arrows protruded out of their corpses like reminders of what evil deserved, and the Elf lowered his gaze. Too often Saruman’s words came back out of gloom and shadow to haunt him, throwing a veil of dread over him. They were once Elves, twisted into these hideous shapes. Once Elves, like he was. Once fair, tall, and proud – now fallen and full of hate. Could he still slay them, if his life depended on it? Would he be able to overcome his fears?
        He hated them; slaying them was his desire.
        But now, could he still hold true to that, knowing what they once were?
        Fangorn loomed near and Legolas could not help, but feel his senses shrinking back in terror. Much had happened here – a curse bound, perversion and depravity spawned, and a life forever changed. Smoke rose to the sky, billowing and black; Orcs were burned here. He had seen it. Weapons, cruel craftsmanship of Saruman’s creatures, lay cluttered near the ashes. A goblin head leered from a stake in its center; the Elf felt ill at the sight. Gimli held tightly to him and Legolas strove to overcome his discomfort. It would not do to pass his feelings onto the Dwarf.
        Aragorn rode out ahead, circling the wide expanse and Legolas did the same from the opposite side, all the while holding in his fright. He did not like this place, not when he knew how he had suffered here. What Aragorn did not know was how his suffering had taken form or shape; mere words could not describe that black night. Legolas willed the images to leave but they lingered, taunting him for his weakness. Shaking his head in distress, the prince rode on, until the sun abandoned the sky and darkness fell. Stars, small and pale, shone in the distance and the world felt full of tranquility.
        There was none in the heart of the Elf, though.
        “We have found no sign of them,” Aragorn finally exclaimed, reining his horse closer to Legolas and Gimli. “We will search when the sun returns.”
        Gimli alone looked mournful. “We have tried and we have failed to find them. If the Riders had done their work too thoroughly, that is a heavy blow. For hobbits and Orcs to be mistaken as one! Even a Dwarf could tell the difference! What do we tell Frodo, should we all return to Rivendell after this quest? Even Elrond did not wish for them to come, young innocents!”
        “Gandalf insisted on it,” Legolas said, his voice calm.
        “In doing so, he lost his life. Out of us all, he fell first and that was the beginning of this unraveling of our Fellowship.”
        “I know your grief, Gimli but we must seek for light when there seems to be none. Gandalf chose to go willingly, not even pausing to save his own life. He knew safety was not his concern; rather, it was the Ringbearer that was our sole purpose for heading out. Sometimes, we must stride forward to confront darkness, for that is the only way. We will not stir from this place until I am content with my finds. Come, let us make camp.” So saying, Aragorn rode away.
        Legolas, still fighting for inner tranquility, followed him away from the field. Away from uncertainty, away from nagging thoughts and voices screaming guilt and shame in his mind. Away from images too scarring to explain aloud and away from a ground drenched with blood.
        Most of all, away from that goblin head.

        Beneath a chestnut tree, the three laid themselves down to rest and to ponder the day’s events. Legolas, sore from riding and breathless from his injury, lay farther away from Aragorn and Gimli. Prodding at the rib, he winced. Would it that a deity could heal him of this wound, lest it slow his pace even more than it had already! The Man and Dwarf spoke – Gimli grumbling about the chill wind and the lack of blankets to drive the cold away; Aragorn about the dangers of Fangorn and of being near Isengard. Gimli grunted then, complaining about the Riders gathering wood from Fangorn’s trees.
        “I would take great care about your axe,” Aragorn warned. “Cut no wood from Fangorn. It is perilous to do so when rumours surround a wood such as this.”
        “Not that I would!” Gimli protested. “You think me a fool for wanting an early death?”
        “I said not, Gimli.”
        “Very well, then! I will go and collect some faggots, before this wind freezes my bones.” Tramping off, his axe secure in his belt, the Dwarf trudged off in search for firewood.
        It was very silent and Legolas cared not for the cold. Aragorn’s eyes flickered over to him, and the Elf regarded the Ranger quietly. “Do you fear my lack of words, Aragorn?” Legolas wanted nothing more than to be alone in his thoughts for a while.
        “Your silence is disturbing, Legolas. It is not the normal silence for an Elf.”
        “I have endured much. Perhaps that brings about this wall that none of us could surpass.”
        “Do not pity yourself, son of Thranduil!”
        Legolas looked hard at Aragorn, anger flaring in his heart. “If I do not need your pity, then why should I indulge in mine? Choose your words well next time, for when you speak, it can either bring sorrow or joy to someone already grieving!”
        The Ranger glanced down, as if chastised, only to meet Legolas’ sight again. “I speak on your behalf, Legolas.”
        “And I do for yours. Leave me in peace, Aragorn. Look, for Gimli returns.” With that, Legolas withdrew into his own shelter, watching as the Dwarf, laden with branches started a fire. The warm light drove away the shadows, radiating a purity that even the Elf could feel. Yet, as with other times, Legolas saw again Lothlórien in disgrace and he turned his eyes away from the dancing flames of crimson and gold. This was one image, one mark from his nightmares that was forever going to haunt him.
        “The heat is needed, Gimli. Thanks for your hard work.”
        “No need for profuseness,” the Dwarf replied back stoutly. “My own hands are frozen.”
        As Legolas continued keeping watch, he noticed the chestnut branches reaching down towards the flames. The trees liked the warmth and comfort of the fire? The Elf stared in wonder as the withered boughs leaned forward, their upper branches receiving the light well. The leaves on the ends, brown and dry, seemed to be stroking each other, like how Aragorn and Gimli rubbed their hands together to thwart the cold. Seeing such a sight, the prince could not help but think about Mirkwood.
        He loved the trees there; he often sang to them in the past.
        But that was all over.
        Just then, a presence drew near to him, and Legolas glanced skywards in surprise. The tree was responding to him? But why? The gnarled branches reached down and stroked his astonished face, like that of a mother to a frightened child. Dry leaves raked past his cheeks, like hands cherishing a work of craftsmanship. Aragorn and Gimli were watching, just as astonished, but Legolas no longer saw them. Reaching for the branches, he felt them sliding past his hand, receiving his thanks.
        The tree loved him; it still saw him for who he was. A single tear slipped down his face, and Legolas felt it.
        “Thank you,” he whispered.