Fan Fiction ❯ The Breaking ❯ Chapter 5

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

Onward they rode, the sun circling all too quickly overhead. A rider from the scattered Westfold's forces had come out to meet them with news of the remaining warriors. It was near this same time that Gandalf had taken leave for, in his words, a swift errand, though the Rohirrim held little store that he would return to their aid. Shadowfax carried the white wizard like pale silver on the wind out of sight and into the darkness, and the party rode ever deeper into the claws of the northernmost White Mountains without him. As the wavering veil of night began to draw across them from the east, their path turned abruptly southward. In the last misty blue shimmering of the evening, the great bulk of the Thrihyrne towered above them, its silhouette as dark its bottomless promise of safety beyond. Helm's Deep was within their reach, and they went now to the aid of whatever people awaited them within its walls.

News had come of wolf riders loose in the surrounding valleys, but their need drove them onward. Of Orcs, too, they heard, but any bands they came across swiftly scattered and departed, leaving the members of the company chasing shadows. Up and up the trail finally carried them, and though the air was still warm it did not hold the same vague oppression of the valley wind; the riders seemed to exhale a long held breath at once. Behind them in the canyons and slopes they had not long left, they could see torches, small flames flickering in the distance that melted into larger, leaping fires that tore through the darkness. The enemy was behind them, and they were burning and despoiling everything in their path as they marched determinedly on in the wake of the men of Rohan.

At last they reached the Hornburg, dismounting and sending their horses far into the heights of the Deep before beginning to ready what forces were available. They had perhaps a thousand men ready to fight, but many of these had seen too many years, or were young sons in the company of their fathers. Éomer did not hold much confidence in the timely arrival of Erkenbrand and the Westfold's remaining Rohirrim, at least those that were not the women and children already present in the safety of the caves. In time they drew all their men inside the Deep. Most were given orders to ready themselves upon the Deeping Wall, while the king and the men of his household took shelter in the Hornburg. The steady groaning of the mountain grew beneath the constant paces of the enemy, a small roaring that became ever more insistent as the seconds passed. They had little time before the stronghold would find itself under siege, and the men already prepared watched the distant red orange fires with the same anticipation a moth showed a flame.

Their company once again down by one, the three hunters loosed their horses with the guard that had been spared to keep them safe, and their mounts disappeared into the heights of the stronghold to join the others. While they were already arrayed well enough with weaponry and mail, it was with a desire to take stock of the situation that they descended into the Hornburg's armoury. Upon arriving, Gimli apparently decided it was best to let Aragorn do whatever it was he wished to accomplish on his own, and he found a tall wooden chair in which he was happy to prop himself. Here he rested whilst the ranger and elf eyed the available stock of weapons and armour, watching it disappear steadily into the throng of men that came to claim what they could.

It was when they realised how small their numbers stood compared to the sea of flame and steel that steadily approached the Deep that Legolas expressed his concern. The elf was sure it would be naught but a slaughter, and he pointed out the fear dancing in every man's eyes and as well that the able bodied were not all, in fact, entirely able. Aragorn responded with ferocity, taking a few steps in Legolas's direction and meeting his eye with a gaze carved with dagger; if death was their fate, he would fall by their sides, as one of them. Gimli was forced to hold the elf back as the ranger turned on his heel, leaving his belongings behind in his eagerness to remove himself from any company. He wanted solitude, yet at the same time he found himself desiring not to have to think. Certainly the forces they had mustered here at the Hornburg were not enough to defeat the hordes that had emptied from Isengard and stood upon their doorstep. But this was not worth considering. They must fight, and fight they would, with hope at least of holding off the enemy and inflicting as much damage upon their masses as possible. There may be no glory ahead, but he was determined also that there would be no regret.

Aragorn stepped swiftly down a set of steps that branched off the hall, not too far from the rooms from when he'd come. His steps echoed harshly in his ears as he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs. finding himself in a small corridor lined with windows. The pitch of night hung heavily outside, so coarse it lent no light to the hallway and left the torch fires uncontested and burning slowly. The ranger stepped up toward the stone sill of one archway and placed his palms flat on its cool surface, letting his weight shift forward to lean on his hands. He stared into the deep sky in hopes of catching a glimpse of some twinkling star or facet of moon, no matter how faint. But the heavens remained hidden from the word behind a sea of black bellied cloud. A sharp sigh escaped through his nose and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward while he breathed slowly. He wished to calm his nerves. The night air was thick and warm and did little to clear his head. It began to feel as though the more he breathed it in, the heavier his chest became. With a small, frustrated growl he pulled back from the window and, without turning, took a few backward steps.

The air was no different, but he inhaled deeply again, eyes unfocusing to some point outside beneath the cover of night. He had not been standing there long when he felt a hand on his shoulder and a subdued voice reached his ears.

"Aragorn."

His anger not yet spent, indeed now flashing like an oil fire, the man spun without hesitation. He knew to whom the voice belonged, but it was as if the single word spoken by the elf gave cause to further incense him. He struck out as the figure behind him in a move that was not intended to harm, but that forced Legolas back up against the wall next to the steps. Aragorn held his forearm across his friend's chest, his elbow digging into the soft flesh at the inside of the elf's left arm and his hand grasping the opposite shoulder tightly to hold that arm in place. His eyes were raging clouds, and they unleashed such a fury in their gaze as to nearly cause Legolas to forget just who was there, pinning him to the wall. The elf offered no struggle, only held up his left hand placatingly and lifted his head back just far enough that he could feel his hair brush against the rough granite behind him. This did not leave much room between himself and the furour of the man only inches away. Legolas nearly closed his eyes at the familiarity of the warm breath he now felt against his cheek, but he forced them to remain open and in even contact with the silver blue pair looming so closely. He felt his throat hitch as he tried to swallow, but he was able to say one word in a clear, soft voice. "Estel."

At this, the ranger's lashes fluttered over his eyes when he blinked rapidly, as if he were unexpectedly returning from somewhere not at all similar to where he now found himself. His eyes became taut and a distant wind seemed to blow the raging storm away, leaving behind only a cool, uncertain ocean that now searched Legolas's face. He did not ease the pressure with which he held his friend against the wall, but he did drop his eyes in an effort to take in the situation. His brow furrowed as if he were surprised to find himself standing as he was, bearing much of his weight on the arm laid across the elf's chest. With a ragged breath, he tilted his head upward, expression becoming drawn as he did so. When at last he met Legolas's gaze once more, the calm ocean in his eyes had once again become tumultuous; they no longer held anger, but a strange comprehension and the beginnings of a tide of anguish that threatened to overthrow them. Slowly, his fingers relaxed their grip and he transferred some of his weight off his arm. Though instead of easily leaning back, he stepped in closer to Legolas to allow his legs to bear the burden of his weight.

The elf shifted only a fraction, acutely aware of his proximity to Aragorn but wanting to quiet the aches the rock pressed into his shoulders. He made no other move just yet, every sense attuned to the soft rush of air between them, the coalescing of fabrics that clung to their bodies and the heat he could feel coming off the ranger's skin. As he returned the man's searching look, his mouth pulled into a soft grimace. His friend's head fell forward slightly, and quietly, Legolas allowed his own head to drop until his forehead met Aragorn's. The man did not flinch, and he could not help but smile to himself. They stood like this for some time before the man allowed his eyes to slip closed. Legolas watched him with an expression worn with confusion and concern, but he waited, unmoving, and let his friend collect himself. It was all the elf could do to keep his breathing at some level of normalcy, or to lift a hand to the troubled cheek before him. The knot in his stomach felt suddenly as a beast that threatened to claw its way up and out through his throat, trapped there as be was between the wall and Aragorn's body, but he set his jaw harshly to quell the feeling.

At length, grey blue eyes slipped open, this time tinted with a grave determination, and Aragorn let his arm fall away from his friend. It ceased its journey halfway to his side, then, and his hand came up once more. Reaching with a battle weathered hand toward the pale skin of the elf's face, the ranger swallowed thickly and inclined his chin. Their mingled breath traced warm shapes over lips with barely a trace left of the night air between them.

"Aragorn..."

One lip brushed faintly against another. "Legolas, I must--" the man said as he heard his name fade into the shadows surrounding them. But before his fingers could connect with anything, a hand grasped him around the wrist. Aragorn's brow quirked downward, but the firm grip was released and there came to rest a finger pressed against his lips.

"Forgive me," was all the elf said, pulling away enough so that he might now raise the arm that was now freed and holding Aragorn's belt and sheathed sword. He dropped his other hand from the man's face and lifted a collection of leather and metal with both hands in offering, his mouth upturning in a smile.

Aragorn inhaled a sharper breath than he'd intended as he felt the slight pressure against his lips disappear. He tore his eyes away to look down at what Legolas held for him. He was not entirely certain of the subject of Legolas's apology -- though perhaps it was more than one thing. He felt as if he needed a long drink to sooth the parched ache that sprang up so suddenly within his throat, but he nodded in thanks and reached out to take what was offered him. Not immediately trusting himself to speak, Aragorn let his fingers run over the scabbard and then grasped the sword and belt both. With a sudden, but slowly executed step backward, the man finally locked eyes once again with the elf prince.

"Ú-moe edaved, Legolas." The elf's past words were deliberately returned to him, and his ears rang with their distant echo. Aragorn did not look away, and he lifted his hand to grip his friend warmly on the shoulder. Flexing his hand softly for a moment, he reached up to brush the elf's cheek with his fingertips. "Too often of late have we been seeking to render some apology between us."

Before Legolas had the chance to respond, the sound of horns slicing though the walls of the keep reached their ears, reverberating off rock and stone and gliding down hall and stair to shatter the stillness. It was the final call to gather the Rohirrim. Battle was nigh, and it was but a final, lingering glance the two gave each other before taking off up the steps. Once they reached Gimli, Aragorn set off to join Éomer, leaving the elf and dwarf together to attend the forces gathered on the Deeping Wall. As they parted in the crowd, Legolas felt a hand on his arm for the briefest of moments, and then the ranger was gone.

"Well, come on, laddie, yer not goin' soft on me now, are yeh?" Gimli growled as he jabbed Legolas lightly in the side. The elf started, turning with a drawn brow toward the dwarf, but he nodded and wasted no more time. He and Gimli took to the hall, setting out to fill their places and await the forces of Isengard.

...

The battle was hard fought. Time after time the men had nearly lost the wall to the never ending flood of Orcs and Uruk-hai and the men of Dunland, such was Isengard's endless well of dark soldiers. At length, much of the wall had been destroyed in a blast of granite that decimated an entire portion; the Hornburg had been flooded with a black river of deformed creatures of battle seeping in through every hole in rock and stone. It was with a final rally of hope that the king and his men rode out with Aragorn in such a charge that nothing withstood their wrath. It was the coming of dawn that brought with it the return of Gandalf and a host of men at his heels. The wizard had sought out Erkenbrand and his remaining men, and they now came in a lasting charge that tore gaping holes in the legions of the enemy, sundering them into a madness that fled in terror toward the trees. It was from beneath these trees that they would never emerge alive.

Théoden put forth his intent to join Gandalf on his passage to Isengard, and chose a host of men that would attend alongside him. But they had need of sleep and time to recover their strength, so they returned at once to the Hornburg in search of this respite. Gimli, who had at one heart wrenching moment in the battle seemed lost to them, had taken a wound to the head. The dwarf refused to allow it to slow him down, or prevent him from joining the journey ahead. His helm was nearly split, taking the worst of the blow, but he was in need of aid if the injury were to heal properly. Aragorn said he would tend it while the dwarf rested, and despite the short argument, Gimli finally acquiesced.

Aragorn clapped a hand on Gimli's shoulder, careful not to jar him, and they turned their backs on the fields of dead. The fallen would be tended to and buried by those who were not under swift need for other duties. A small messenger party rode with happy haste past Legolas and his companions, and at once, in their wake of victory, it became easier to remember there would be a time for mourning, but it was not now. With lighter steps helped aloft by happy, if tired, hearts, the three made their way back to the Hornburg, carefully scaling or sidestepping the rubble that remained of the Deeping Wall.

The ranger led Gimli to the bed in a small room and convinced him to lie down. The dwarf's cap was removed but not tossed aside, rather placed carefully onto the table against the wall. Within moments of being relieved of this pressure, the ranger's short friend was sleeping. With water and cloth and gentle strokes, Aragorn cleaned the wound on Gimli's head, humming softly to himself as he worked with care. Once the mud and blood had been washed away, the ranger rung out the cloth one last time before setting it side on the floor. He had already removed his belt and its myriad decorations when they arrived, and he stepped now to the table. He pulled the thin leather strings of one pouch, reaching inside to remove a clump of greyish green. Tugging some leaves from the plant in his hands, he chewed them slowly as he replaced the remainder back into the pouch. Turning back to Gimli, Aragorn removed the pulp of leaves from his mouth and placed them onto the wound. The dwarf stirred, but did not wake, and at last the man wrapped a second cloth over the mashed leaves to keep them in place, and to prevent them drying out. His friend should be in fine shape once he woke.

Legolas had remained in the hall when they'd arrived at this room and set himself to pacing quietly and unhurriedly outside the open door. After some time, the sound of snoring reached him, and he paused, bow still in one hand, and stepped to the threshold. "How is he?" the elf asked, looking to the bed where Gimli's broad chest rose and fell seemingly without worry.

"Exhausted," Aragorn said, slowly wiping his hands on another towel and letting that drop onto the table, his eyes on Legolas the entire time. "But with rest he will heal quickly, enough even to be quite himself once he wakes later. His stubbornness is no surprise to me," the ranger added, taking a few steps in the elf's direction.

"I am glad." With a slight smile, Legolas looked from the prone figure of the dwarf and toward the man in front of him as he lifted his bow and stored it over his shoulder. He surveyed Aragorn with cool eyes, but the corners of his mouth remained slightly upturned. When the ranger made no move, the elf took a step back, leaving enough room for someone to pass by him. Aragorn's eye was caught by a motion of the elf's arm as Legolas gestured with a hand outside the room. The message received, Aragorn lifted his chin in acknowledgement and brushed past his friend, pulling the door closed behind him. His throat felt tight, and he lifted a hand to the fabric around his neck to give it a frustrated tug. Legolas was already striding ahead of him, and the man followed. His friend did not go far, as the elf merely wished to allow some breathing room should Gimli wake.

They both came to a halt after they had passed only a few empty rooms, and Aragorn was surprised to find hands on either sides of his shoulders pushing him back against the wall without warning. The action was not rough, despite the pressure he felt from Legolas's hands, and thought this a taste of his own medicine, to which it would be foolish to object. The only thing the ranger offered the eyes now staring intently into his was a clouded look, one withered with exhaustion yet with something still glinting underneath. The skin at the corners of his own eyes crinkled faintly.

Legolas leaned in close, the trace of any smile now completely wiped from his expression as he carefully searched Aragorn's face. The silence weighed over them as real as heavy winter cloaks, and it was almost to the point the ranger could no longer stand it when finally the elf spoke. "You take foolish risks, Estel." There was a hardness behind the penetrating blue stare that Aragorn could not place, but he could not deny the words rubbed him the wrong way.

"I did naught but what was necessary to defend--" the ranger began heatedly, his head moving tersely with his words, but he was cut off by the force of his shoulders being pressed flat into the layered stone behind him.

"No," came the short reply as Legolas moved in even closer, his knee brushing against the man's, though he made no move to displace it. "I speak not of risking body and life in war or battle," the elf continued with a heavy breath, and Aragorn's muscles tensed involuntarily. Legolas's eyes tightened somewhat, and he corrected himself without explanation. His gaze softened. "Nay, not entirely." His grip relaxed enough to allow the ranger's shoulders to sink forward from their harsh position against the stone.

Aragorn's throat tightened and relaxed as he swallowed roughly, his jaw twitching as if he meant to speak, but no words came. A moment passed, and he lifted one hand to run it through his hair in a display of frustration. His action unseated Legolas's hand from his shoulder, but the elf did not withdraw it. Instead, he let it drop lower and come to rest flat against the centre of Aragorn's chest. The ranger ceased all movement for a second before allowing his arms to drop loosely to his sides. "Legolas..." he said cautiously, eyes flicking back and forth in their focus on the elf's face as he sought understanding. He could feel sweat beginning to bead upon his brow, and he blinked slowly as for a second, the world seemed to sway. He pressed his palms back, flat against the wall to steady himself.

"The air is hot, can you not feel it?" his friend said at length, the sound of his voice distant, mirroring a look that flashed briefly through the elf's eyes as he broke the man's gaze to give a suspicious glance around them. Legolas blinked slowly as if clearing himself from the fog of some uncertain thought and again met Aragorn's gaze. "It seeks to seep into all of us with some invisible malice, to twist beyond recognition whatever it might find within its grasp." There was hardly any room left between them, but he stepped closer, and the fingers that lay against Aragorn's chest curled just enough to pull some fabric into their hold, and then stilled.

Aragorn's figure slumped slightly, his head falling forward as he sighed. His hands were still at his sides against the stone, for he feared moving them just yet. "I can," the man said at last; the atmosphere was thick with something none of them had yet been able to discern, and it had not dissipated with the defeat of Saruman's forces. His mind was reeling and his eyes tilted downward to the slender fingers caught up int he cloth of his shirt: just above his heart. Aragorn took a deep breath, lifting his gaze back to the elf's face, watching the shifting paths of gold trimmed shadows the firelight cast over his soft features. "Legolas--" he began again, but before more words could tumble past his lips, he felt the remaining weight recede from his shoulder and the strikingly familiar feel of fingers against his mouth.

"It sets the mind to a fever," the elf said, his expression becoming grave and his eyes unmoving as he regarded Aragorn. "And seeks to entangle one's thoughts until it becomes unclear which come from the heart, and which arrive from some place unknown and ignoble." Legolas fell silent for a moment, his eyes becoming hooded. He dropped a hand back to Aragorn's shoulder, leaving the man's mouth unhindered. When again he spoke, his voice was muted and his eyes remained downcast, staring at the fibre he held tightly in his other hand. "It wishes to make us forget ourselves, at times..." Legolas remembered well enough his friend's unanticipated reaction to his initially friendly ambush in the guest halls of Edoras. While the elf had not felt compelled to antagonise the man further, neither had he been willing to allow Aragorn to enforce such an upper hand while he merely walked away.

The ranger licked his lips and let his upper body rest more heavily against the wall. His friend was right; he had been forgetting himself more often of late, and coming to blows with Legolas had so far been the most obvious consequence. And the way he had turned on him just before the battle had begun. His brow furrowed deeply as his eyes ceased flicking back and forth in the only evidence of any internal conflict. "And you mellon nîn, do you find yourself so troubled?" His gaze steadied itself on the face of his fair friend, and one hand left its supportive place on the stone behind him to be placed on the elf's shoulder.

Legolas shook his head, his attention refocusing at the offered contact. "I feel it strongly, around us all, but it is not my heart that causes me worry." At this, his blue eyes locked with the grey across from him, and he lifted his chin.

"Not your heart," Aragorn repeated slowly, his voice strained and low in his throat. His face flushed with a suddenness that caught him well off guard, and he broke eye contact with the elf to turn his head aside. He found himself locking his jaw in an attempt to bite back something to which he was not quite able to give a name but that made him feel as if he'd been hit hard in the gut. Absently, the ranger lifted his other hand off the wall and laid it across his stomach, brushing against the elf's wrist where his friend still clutched his over shirt. The feeling caused his throat to constrict and drew his concentration back to Legolas. "Ú hûn lîn, sennui nîn," Aragorn said, the tone of his voice regaining a warm composure. The firelight flickered mutedly off a background of grey, distant flashes of lightning in a motionless rain storm.

Legolas proffered a subdued smile, and at last let his fingers loose on the fabric as he dropped both hands to his side. Aragorn started faintly at the loss of contact, but allowed himself to do nothing more. "I do not question that you remember who awaits you at journey's end," was all the elf said before he stepped back from the ranger, his boots soundless over the flagstone.

Aragorn could not help but believe the elf could at that moment see straight through him, piercing clothes and flesh and staring sharp eyes at the heart that now pounded so strongly within his breast; it kept tempo with the breaths that came and went so rapidly. Of course he had not forgotten, never lost the knowledge of the sacrifice so freely offered him, nestled quietly away in its own recess within his chest. Even in his brief visitation to this memory of Arwen he knew it could not fade, no matter what influence sought to twist or remove it completely from the depths of his soul. But elsewhere within him, there was a turbulence growing ever less intense in its uncertainty, and ever more ardent in its insistent presence. It was this, too, that Legolas saw, and he was sure now it was one aspect of the elf's concern. He nodded, his shoulders falling with a heavy sigh beneath the weight of his burgeoning mistrust in himself. Yet he knew not why Legolas should be so worried about this; certainly, despite the existence of feelings of which he was growing well enough aware, the acknowledgement of possible causes should remain prominent enough in his mine to prevent any more uncouth reactions. Unless -- Aragorn's eyes lifted with immediacy and he pinned the elf under a steady gaze. What exactly was the elf saying?

"Legolas, is there something --" The ranger's question was cut off as promptly as it had begun, severed, but not before the meaning had sprung deftly to hang in the air like a shield between them. Aragorn could feel the air change as the elf took another step backward and placed a palm on the handle of the knife in his belt.

"The sound of snoring has ceased. I think Gimli must be awake," the elf said, lifting the other hand in a way that brooked no argument as he turned his head in the direction of the dwarf's room. "Someone should go to him before he rouses himself and causes further injury." His pale face still held a smile, but it was not reflected anywhere in the depths of blue above that Aragorn could see. The man half opened his mouth to speak, but the look on the elf's face made him think better of it. He settled for a nod, ignoring the sharp twinge beneath his ribs. Again, he conceded his friend was right; he must be more attentive and careful in discerning what was real and what was not. This was but a figment, some ethereal wandering of emotion whose intent must be impure. It must. A strangled breath escaped his throat, and he strode back to Gimli's room to check on his charge, telling himself he did not hear the sound of footfalls fleeing quickly behind him.

--------------------- ** Ú-moe edaved. -- 'There is nothing to forgive.' ** Ú hûn lîn, sennui nîn -- 'Not your heart, rather mine.'