Fan Fiction ❯ The Breaking ❯ Chapter 4

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

It had been but a few short hours since the group had taken leave from the Golden Hall. Upon their arrival to Meduseld, Gandalf had carefully freed Théoden from the mist that had overthrown his mind beneath the Shadow and veiled his eyes to the truth. The king had seemed to wake from a long dream, and it was not long before the citizens of Rohan were rejoicing, the happy din rising from the streets below and filtering into the court. With more than a little haste they had submerged themselves in talks of the war that seethed on the edge of everyone's vision: of the probable moves of Mordor and Isengard, and of the Orcs now rampaging through the hills of the Riddermark. At length Théoden had sent for the collection of Edoras's forces with orders that every Rohirrim should be called to the ready with all speed.

Gandalf unveiled the servant Grima as the snake he had become, uncoiling words over the king's mind and taking hold of it, pushing it into the murky water and holding it beneath the surface in hopes of allowing the Shadow to more easily engulf and besiege the kingdom. Théoden barely held his wrath at the revelations of leechcraft he had suffered at the hands of his once trusted servant. However, after some deliberation, Wormtongue's life had been spared, and he had been granted a horse despite the reservations of many. He was also given a choice: to run and never look back, or to stand and fight alongside his ruler and his people. But the king's former advisor had chosen to flee, and in leaving spat violently at his lord's feet.

Preparations were in their final stages. The women and children would be readying for the protection of Dunharrow, and the men were already collecting to ride to Helm's Deep in the very north of the White Mountains. A small feast had been conjured expeditiously to celebrate the recovery of Rohan's leader, and Aragorn and his friends had been offered places in the king's guest hall to take what respite they may find following their mighty journey. It would do little good to have them suffering under the yolk of exhaustion in the shadow of the trying days ahead.

Théoden called for them each to be taken to chambers within the guest halls, though Gandalf declined, wishing instead to keep counsel with the king. The elf, dwarf and ranger gladly removed themselves from the court and made their way outside the walls to the Hall's stone steps, and from there they headed down the dusty path that led to their offered accommodations. They walked in silence, save for the sound of their boots connecting with stone and the soft creak of the well worn leather of their gear. Gimli had been, as he so often was when faced with the opportunity, quite glad for a chance to get some rest, and he eagerly took the first room the court's attendant led them past. As they parted, Legolas was almost certain he already heard a steady rumbling filtering through the thick wood of the door. With a chuckle, the elf disappeared into his chosen chamber, as he had deemed the chance to at least was and change desirable.

The ranger, too, thought it wise to make the best use of this time to acquire some uninterrupted sleep after so many nights going without, even if it was to be found only in a short span of hours. Aragorn laid his things on a narrow table without haste. His hands lingered over the leather of his belt as he traced the smooth surface to where it intersected the scabbard. He pulled his hands away, but not his eyes, which remained pinioned upon his weapon with heavy lids. The flicker of candle light bouncing shadows off the uneven stone caught his attention, and he blinked slowly before backing up and turning toward the bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a grimace, and rubbed lightly at the inner corners of his eyes. With a heavy sigh he fell onto the mattress, not even bothering to remove his boots. But he discovered his slumber was fitful, for the brief moments it came at all, and he felt more than trapped by the high walls around him and the dark, empty corners of the room. It was not long before he accepted defeat, and gathered his things to him, intent upon returning to Meduseld and the anticipation of war that was surely so palpable it seemed ready to set the timber alight.

Aragorn's hand pulled closed the door to the room so graciously lent him, fingertips tracing over the cool metal of the latch before he drew himself up to his full height and turned to face the stone walls of the corridor. Dark tapestries rich in colour and texture decorated the passageway, each depicting the horses for which Rohan was renown; some appeared in battle and some within the strong but delicate imagery of the shields of the Lords. Directly across the hall towered another door of solid oak and dark brass, a mirror of the closed archway that led to his own chambers. Both had one torch burning boldly on each side, the four fires challenging the moonlight that filtered in through the unshuttered window. The ranger emitted a soft sigh through his nose as he stepped lightly over the flagstone and turned towards the night. Beyond the open stone he caught a glimpse of the moon hanging solitary in the pale sky, tendrils of cloud caressing it as if they whispered secrets only the night could know. The stars had not yet shown themselves, but the heavens above the hills of the city already wore a dark cloak which spun ever deeper as he drew his weapon from its sheath and held it still before him.

With a frown, he let the sword of Elendil, and all it entailed, slice the invading moonlight, the clean metal inflaming it into a fierce battle with the burnished gold that cascaded over his shoulders from the sconces at his back. As the man's eyes swept over the blade's edge, the clink of a door hinge came to his ear. It was but a brief moment his muscles tensed as he strained to hear the anticipated flutter of footsteps. None came. He dared not wait another instant and turned quickly, lifting his sword as his shoulders twisted; he was only partly surprised to hear the collision of metal on metal echo back down the hall with sharp precision before it faded into the stone.

Andúril had come to rest against the blade of a white elven knife, and as the rest of Aragorn's body caught up with his sword only an second later, he came face to face with Legolas. Neither moved to drop their weapon, rather stood and listened to the dying sound of clashing steel and carefully locking gazes. The corners of the elf's mouth were subtly upturned in a strange smile, and his expression quickly earned him narrowed eyes and a creased brow from the man standing opposite him. "You seem easily troubled tonight, mellon nîn," Legolas said quietly, his eyes squinting ever so slightly as the words slipped past his lips, seeming as if they sought to look beyond the shadows that partially shielded his friend's face.

Without making any motion to draw back, Aragorn slowly allowed himself a deep breath. "I would do better not forget you can move as a ghost when you wish," he replied, his excuse deliberate in its deficiency, and the elf thought there lay beneath the statement a hint of accusation. The man tilted his head to the side as he spoke, one edge of his mouth lifting upward as a distant light flickered faintly in the depths of his eyes; whether it was something the remained unspoken, or merely a retelling of the torchlight, Legolas found it suddenly difficult to discern. With an abrupt motion the ranger moved his sword in a tight circle, dislodging it from the long knife, and brought his second hand alongside the first on its handle. He was not entirely taken aback when the elf did not retreat but instead recovered and brought his weapon down again, forcing Aragorn to parry with a sideways twist of his sword. There was a brief pause during which the man would have sworn on the Valar the elf smiled, and then blades were flying: blistering combinations of blocks, parries and thrusts, neither willing to give, or take, quarter.

Certainly the clatter would soon draw someone's attention, Aragorn thought, though his focus did not drift or wane. Instead, he clenched his teeth and grunted as he put a new force behind his attack. This time he was surprised to find the elf respond in kind, and he growled faintly as the unexpected contest of skill began to edge across the line of a friendly sparring match. Sweat did more than bead on his brow, falling now in small rivulets over the angles of his face and matting his hair in dark curls around his ears and the base of his neck. Legolas was not subject to quite the same evidence of effort and was sweating only lightly, but the ranger could tell the elf was straining as much as he. Steel flashed sharply in the light, and the torches seemed to flare more brightly as the edges of the tapestries shifted in the wind of conflict. Finally, Legolas brought his knife straight down from above his head and Aragorn caught it on the cross guard of his sword. There the din calmed, and the sound dimmed and faded, but in their ears remained a steady ringing. The man's shoulders were angled at the elf's chest, their arms nearly touching and their eyes shining brightly.

With a movement that was certain to do justice to his elvish upbringing, Aragorn lashed out with a leg, hooking it behind one of Legolas's and pulling it back swiftly. The elf was clearly caught off guard by this and lost his balance. Before he allowed himself the luxury of contemplating this move, as Legolas fell he was able to swing his other leg out with enough force to knock the ranger's supporting limb out from under him. The elf hit the ground first, his back crashing into the stone nearly hard enough to knock the wind from his body as his head cracked smartly against the smooth slate of the floor. A moment later he felt a weight collide with him from above, hard enough to finish the job of robbing his lungs of air, and he fought a gasp. Legolas blinked hard, trying to chase from his vision the stars that must have rushed in from the night, and when he opened his eyes, Aragorn was staring down at him, inches above his face, tendrils of dark hair hanging down to brush his cheeks with no more force than a whisper of air. He could feel the man's breath coming rapidly over his lips, and he swallowed thickly as he tried to calm a gasping that rose up in his breast. The elf's stomach twinged, causing his eyes to widen, but he caught in his throat the sound that tried to escape him and his gaze sharpened. Without warning Legolas collected himself and twisted his legs just enough to lock around the other's, mustering enough force from his prone position to flip Aragorn over. His hands fell to either side of the man's head as he reversed their positions, and he couldn't help but smirk at the shock apparent on the face so close to his.

Now pale hair rained down from above to fall on darker skinned cheeks, and Legolas glared down at his friend, his lingering gaze smouldering cobalt. Just as the elf was about to push himself up, Aragorn's closed fist struck him squarely in the ribs. With a jolted expression of shock for being caught off guard twice in such a short span of time, Legolas made to stand with one hand cradling his side, and the ranger struggled to his feet once he was unhindered by the other's weight. As soon as they were both upright once again, the elf pulled back one arm, and when it came forward again it drove his knuckles right into Aragorn's eye. With that, he bent to pick up his knife and returned the blade to its place on his belt before stalking off down the hall, leaving the man staring after him.

When the elf reached the juncture of corridors, one arm still held tenderly around his injured ribs, he nearly ran straight into Gimli. "I thought you saw everything coming!" the dwarf said gruffly and not with a little frustration as he was forced to recover with a quick backward step. He eyed Legolas with exasperation, preparing for whatever remark the elf might throw his way, but none came. His expression reformed slowly, and looked to his friend now from beneath an arched brow, seeing the elf's condition for the first time.

Legolas had narrowly avoided trampling the dwarf in his hasty escape, stopping short just before he bowled into him, but he did not remain where he was for long. At the dwarf's comment, he narrowed his eyes and resumed walking with giant strides, disappearing quickly around the corner with steps that echoed behind him long after he had gone. Gimli expressed his astonishment with round eyes for a moment as he watched the elf exit the hall, but his face quickly melted into an annoyed frown as he shot a dark look down the corridor in Aragorn's direction. The man was still standing where he had been when Legolas had punched him in the face, his fingers palpating the tender flesh above his cheekbone and below his eyebrow. Removing his fingers from his head, he glanced down to see a small amount of blood on the tips of them, which he rubbed slowly between thumb and forefingers. With a quiet curse he used his sleeve to wipe what he could away, as it was already beginning to dry. Certainly that would never go unnoticed.

"Oh, that's it!" came a roar from the dwarf's end of the hall. Indeed, Gimli was stalking down the walkway toward the ranger, axe in hand and not carried lightly. Aragorn would have sworn he saw the torches shrink beneath the sound, flames retreating into the sconces the light dimmed momentarily. "I don't claim ta know what's goin' on b'tween tha two o' you, but if anyone's goin' ta be beatin' the life outta anyone else, it's going ta be /me/ beating it outta you both!" As if to emphasise his point, he hoisted the axe in one hand and glared with eyes reminiscent of hard coals. "Now what was that lit'l display all about?" Aragorn blinked a few times and looked down at the dwarf before bending to pick up his sword. He sheathed his weapon, but kept his hand on the pommel as he stood straight again.

With an exasperated breath the man said shortly, "Take it up with him, he started it," before stepping around the dwarf and beating a trail along the same path Legolas had taken on his way out. He did not stop to consider that his statement was not, perhaps, entirely true but was also incredibly puerile, and instead forced his mind to jump ahead to their imminent departure. There were things that needed doing before they left, and he was not about to let them fall to the back of his mind. In only a few long strides he had reached the meeting of corridors and turned down the one that led out of the guest hall.

"He -- Oh, that's rich!" came the thundering reply, but there was nothing else Gimli could say once Aragorn had vanished, gone the same way as the elf, and he placed the butt of his axe handle on the ground thoughtfully. This was just what they needed, to have the man and elf fighting like spoiled children on the eve of a great war. Never had he seen a row last so long between the two. In fact, he was sure that aside from a few short disagreements, his friends had never found themselves at such odds before. He, however, was not one to dwell on such things without reason, and while he fully intended to follow through with his threat of a thorough pummeling should this continue much longer, for now he was interested only in the food and drink that awaited him in the Golden Hall. With a greatly heaved sigh, he shook his head to no one and set his feet to follow after his friends.

The four companions reunited in their seats at the king's board. The food was already awaiting them and they quickly joined in, eating and drinking what they were able stomach well enough before they were to ride out once more. Aragorn and Legolas both faced the meal with little conversation, though the elf seemed more willing to partake in banter with the surrounding crowd than the man. Gandalf laid upon Aragorn a sharp eye at one point, but he said nothing and the ranger offered no words of his own. The wizard had noticed his new injury, and Aragorn absently lifted a hand to touch the split flesh before he returned to his meal. He did little more than stir the food on his plate into something less recognisable, the taut feeling that plagued his midsection was unyielding, and it ruined his appetite. He glanced over in Legolas's direction, but it appeared the elf was not having the same ill fortune as he in partaking of the meal catered them. He grumbled in frustration, or envy, he did not know, and returned his eyes to the plate before him as he resumed stabbing at the food, quite a bit more heavily than before.

Upon finishing, Théoden wished to impart to each of them a gift, in thanks for their presence and their aid. Gandalf spoke of his growing bond with the great stallion Shadowfax, and the king gladly granted the wizard the greatest horse in his kingdom. For the rest of them he offered the choice of anything that lay within the armoury. They finally came arrayed in the raiment of the Rohirrim, though Gimli had no need for mail, as none could match what already covered him, made in the depths of the mountains by his own people. At the gate, the dwarf made reparations with the king's sister-son Éomer before the host of a thousand strong men set off into the distance, leaving Éowyn, sister-daughter of Théoden standing alone in sparkling armour and in charge of a still, empty hall.

The sun began to fail as they rode deeper into the plain, falling slowly behind the hill and setting ablaze the gold fields that lay before them. Night crept closer, chasing the burnished pinks and blues finally from the sky and carrying on its tail a host of stars that sparkled lightly above them. The men could oft hear Legolas singing as he travelled along with the head of the company, and they rode for long hours before finally making camp in the wake of deepening darkness. They were not but halfway to their destination, and the wind was too warm for the time of year, a foreboding of what force rode strongly behind them, somewhere they could not yet see. They lit no fires in their uncertainty, and kept a strong watch.

It was not long after the ranks broke and many of the Rohan riders had set up simple white tents in tidy rows that Legolas found himself faced with the rather unsightly wrath of the dwarf. Gimli had come to him with a sour expression and an attempt at intimidating stature just as the last light was finally slipping away behind the swarm of distant mountains. "A fine hit," the dwarf said, his voice low but rumbling nonetheless. "Now, laddie, the point of concern is, what do you intend to do about it?"

Though behind his friend's apparent anger he could see a driving force of great concern, Legolas was faintly surprised at the softness of the dwarf's words given Gimli's contradictory appearance. His brow creased lightly as he observed his short friend, but he did not offer explanation: whether or not it was needed, he was not sure.

"Nay, I know not what happened," Gimli said preemptively, answering the question that was brimming in the elf's eyes and made clear by his silent voice. "But," he added with a strange gleam in his expression, "I know quite enough. An' if you two don't settle it, this row o' yourn, I'm going to hav' ta do it for ya." He offered a smile, at the same time both impish and sad, as he clapped Legolas heavily on the arm. Without another word to Legolas, he turns on his heel and walked away, muttering something about youngsters and idiocy.

The elf did not watch him leave, but crossed his arms where he stood and looked up to the sky. He absently rubbed a hand over the lower ribs on his left side. Aragorn might have walked away before it began, but then, so might he have done the same. The hand touching his ribs moved over his stomach and flattened there; it was almost as if he could feel the knot within his gut as a physical thing and it quivered at the memory of his injury's circumstances. His eyes shot daggers into the darkness, as if there he could find the cause of all this and slay it once and for all. It must lay out there, somewhere, the same thing that heated the wind and drove their enemies forth. It was the same will that preoccupied his mind and altered his senses. Yet at the same time he wished to destroy it, he dared not consider giving up this feeling though he might try to disconnect himself from it. The warm breeze wandered over his face and he flushed at the remembrance of Aragorn's hair tracing the contours of his cheeks. Valar deliver him, he thought as he closed his eyes -- these were strange fates, and he dared not allow them to become any stranger.

Aragorn had been purposeful in his choice of place to settle for the night. He sat on the edge of the encampment, not separate but none to close, either, to the rows of tents behind him that were now the only things to stand out past a few feet. His gaze was directed westward along the peaks of the White Mountains that now were invisible to him, his arms draped loosely around bent knees. They should reach their destination sometime late on the morrow, and he expected they would have little leeway between their arrival and the coming of what forces drew closer from the darkness to the northwest, or the storm laden sky that growled silently in the east. Grinding his teeth lightly, the man cast his gaze downward and pressed one thumb heavily into the palm of the opposite hand. The night felt as a heavy blanket over the eyes despite the stars that broke though the black shield stretching overhead. He was glad for it, whatever else he thought, as he wanted to be alone, and it would make him more difficult to find among the small army behind him. Certainly, save by pure chance, Gimli would never come across him; though the dwarf might boast the sight of a hawk, in truth his short friend often mistook shapes in broad daylight, and missed some things altogether. It was probably something to so with the idea of dwelling beneath the ground, but Aragorn could not say for sure.

The wind had grown stronger and came often in short bursts that tore at clothing and felt harsh against the skin. It was one of these gusts that Aragorn felt against his face that reminded him of his encounter with Legolas earlier that day. The air brushed over the cut on his cheek, and he lifted a hand to bring his fingers to the near fresh wound, his eyes thoughtful behind closed lids. When he made contact with warm skin that was not his, the man's eyes flashed open again and he froze. He felt fingers beneath his -- what he had felt was not the wind after all but someone's hand tracing the small gash below his eye. He moved his head back to break the contact as his eyes sought the source of the fingers that lightly closed around his.

"Your words come back to haunt you," came a soft voice, melodic even in its subdued tones, and Aragorn quickly focused on Legolas. It seemed the elf had purposely approached him without a sound, like a ghost, and Aragorn could not help but exhale small breath of a laugh before his throat tightened and he furrowed his brow, his expression becoming strained. Legolas lowered the ranger's hand and released it, placing it on the man's knee before letting his own arm rest on his leg where he stooped next to his friend. "I am sorry for the injury," the elf said quietly, his eyes intently searching the ranger's face for a long moment, lingering at last on the cut before slipping back up to the stormy grey eyes.

Aragorn swallowed, and managed a simple "Hmph." The corners of his mouth twitched shallowly in the direction of a grimace, but a moment later his face was once again masked. "I concede I did aught to earn it," he added slowly, a long time later, and not without letting his eyes rove to the elf's side. "And here I believe I might offer the same words of apology, but to your ribs instead." He lifted his chin along the same path as his eyes.

The elf laughed softly, though where it should be a musical sound it seemed strained, and shook his head. "My side pains me no longer, whatever damage was done is healed, or nearly so," he countered. His expression was pensive, but retained the traces of that distant smile.

"I might offer more, but you should not forget you began it," Aragorn added with a gesture of his hand, giving Legolas a sidelong glance from beneath unruly hair and then looking back out into the night uneasily. He allowed the heel of one boot to dig into the soft earth.

"Are you claiming I fight dirty?" The elf asked ineloquently, attempting a sound of mock offence as he watched the earth gather in a small, semi-circular pile around the ranger's foot.

Aragorn did naught but shake his head before letting the silence stretch itself near to the breaking point, even the sounds of the wild seeming to pause. "You fight well," came his clumsy reply at last, but he did nothing to elaborate and there was no answer from the other in the dark. For a long time, in fact, there was nothing, and the sounds of the night slowly began to return. Aragorn did not allow himself to look up, thinking at last his friend must have left him in the same silence with which he had arrived. He heard not even the breath that had just been falling so closely he could feel it against his cheek if he tried hard enough. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, but as he drew a ragged breath he felt the tips of two fingers trace again over the ruined trail of dried blood on his cheekbone, before the sound of footsteps retreated into the night.

Tangling both hands into his hair, Aragorn stared at the ground beneath him for a long time, not truly seeing it in the dark, but knowing it was there, nonetheless. Knowing he would not suddenly disappear into some void below or find himself unable to stand. It was constant, and in this way somehow comforting. No matter the outcome, it would still be here in some form or another, and while this aided not the rifts that were ever shifting in his soul, it served to calm him in light of the uncertainties, of the things on which he could not depend nor set his heart. Friendship, love -- it made him sick to his stomach to think of losing those dearest to him. And as the first face that entered his mind was that of the elf that had just left his side, he squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his fingers around large tresses of hair, but the small pains did nothing to clear his mind. Others he saw, too, amongst them being Gandalf, Gimli, the hobbits, and of course Arwen.

Arwen. Surely it was this tainted land that did not bring her to the forefront of his mind, and instead sought to stir within him the unknown, delving into his most hidden places and drawing out whatever fear lay within them and feeding readily on each one. It was this that caused his mind to wander and his eyes as well. It must be this. His breath hitched, and it was a long time before he looked up. When he at last lifted his gaze, the dawn had begun to paint the landscape with an angry hand, seeming to engulf the peaks of the mountains in the distance in red flame. His eyes immediately followed the path Legolas had taken upon leaving him last night, but he did not see anyone but the few alert Rohirrim. He did not know, either, what he expected to see, but he did not have time to dwell upon it, for the horns sounded and the camp came to life. Within an hour they were again on the move, riding on through the fiery dawn towards Helm's Deep.