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beansideI'm not sure which startled me more about this one, that I wrote FPS, or that it's PG-13, maximum. Go figure.
Title: Waning Time
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is fiction, and is in no way intended to infringe upon the characters used herein. I don't own them, the estate of J.R. Tolkien does. I'm just borrowing the characterization set forth by Peter Jackson's amazing film Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Oh, and as long as I'm on the subject, I don't claim to be a scholar of the books, mistakes made herein are entirely due to my ignorance.
I cannot do this. Not without him. I look around me and I see a handful of warriors. Not nearly enough. The rest are women and children. Of the two, the children are what give me sleepless nights.
I feel for the children most of all. None who are so young should have to bear such shadows.
They know.
Even if their King will not accept it, the children know. I can see their mortality reflected in their wide eyes whenever they look at me. They know that I am immortal, older than the oldest among them, yet my face is untouched by time.
Yet despite my years, the King of Rohan refuses to accept my council. He will not make a pact with Gondor, he says. Rohan will fight its own battle. He says that my grief over Aragorn makes me foolish, hasty. I say that his pride makes him the fool.
I think he suspects the nature of my feelings for Aragorn. I know Gimli does. He has been my shadow these last days. He lightens my mood immeasurably.
I wonder, at times, if he holds tender feelings for me. Normally, he is much like your average dwarf-brusque and gruff of manner, but as of late, he seems almost fond.
I suppose it should repulse me, yet it doesn't. He is a true and loyal companion, and a noble friend. I can think of many worse with whom I have shared my sleeping pallet.
Right now, the grief is too fresh, like a sharpened blade twisting within my chest. Elves have oft been called cold, aloof, but rest assured that we do feel deeply-mayhap more so than many races. It is the reason that Elf-kind rarely associates with other races. It is shattering to go into the world, to observe it, to watch all that you have come to know crumble slowly to succumb to entropy and time.
Elrond holds the humans in contempt. I do not blame him for his shortsightedness in this one topic. He, after all, was most deeply cut by Isildur's betrayal. He feels that they are weak and petty, squandering their short lives on infighting and meaningless destruction.
Not all of them though. Not our lost brothers. Not Boromir. He, for all his failings, triumphed in the end. And he met his end valiantly, protecting Merry and Pippin as any of us would have. I am proud to have drawn steel with him.
And not Aragorn.
Surely, a truer champion has never walked Middle Earth. Elrond sees this, I know. It makes him hold his tongue, even as he fears for his daughter's heart.
Arwen.
I wish that I could begrudge her Aragorn's affection, but I cannot. A stronger, more skilled Elvish female has never lived, save possibly Galadriel herself. Arwen has always been kind to me, disregarding those who whispered about my parentage. If I live out the battle, I will give the Evenstar back to her myself, give her word of the fall of the true King.
For as deeply as I do love him, I would not stand between them. It would be to eclipse the sun from the earth, such is their love. It is nearly a palpable thing.
I blink, suddenly realizing that the sun has risen high in the sky. It has been four days since Gandalf left. Four days to wonder. Three days since Aragorn fell. Three days.
I move suddenly, coming to my feet as I see a movement off in the hills, dust rising. A human's eyes would not perceive it, but I can see it clearly. Just as I am about to call an alarm, a horse crests the hilltop, and my voice freezes in my throat.
Aragorn.
My legs carry me down the stairs quickly, to find Gimli. He should be the first to know of our companion's return.
He's in the armory, looking for armor that might fit him. I will not tell him that it is a lost cause. I believe he already knows this, but if it aids him in passing the hours, so be it.
He looks up as I hurry in, eyes sharpening. "Is it time then, laddie?"
"No. On the mountain, coming this way," I blurt.
"Who?"
"Aragorn has come!"
I must give our short friend credit. He told the truth about dwarven sprinting.
I take my time, finding my normal composure. I decide to meet him before the doors of the throne room, leaving Gimli to greet him as he dismounts.
And greet him, he does, dropping the normal dwarven bluster to give Aragorn a genuine hug. Even from here, I see the genuine smile that softens the hard planes of the true King's face.
Then, he turns, coming up the stairs in that ground-eating lope of his. His attention is on getting to Theoden's side, not on his path, and he nearly rums me down. Then, he stops, eyes sliding up to my face.
"Telwa toi," I murmur, eyes hungrily searching his face. "You look terrible," I add, noting his tattered and bloodied clothes.
He smiles warmly, and I return it, lifting the hand that holds the Evenstar. I hope the smile isn't too forced looking. "I think this belongs to you."
He takes it and clasps my shoulder, holding on for a heartbeat. Then, his eyes meet mine, and he smiles. "Thank you, my friend." He pulls me closer for a moment, his arms sliding around me, and I fight not to sink into his touch.
After a long moment, I step back, noting the frown on the face of the female, Eowyn. I think she fancies Aragorn. I feel for her, loving in vain. Aragorn will ever be true to Arwen. If she sails with her people, he will love her all his life, and at his death, the last words that pass his lips will be her name. It is the way of things.
Gimli catches up to Aragorn and I, and we follow him into the throne room to hear his words to Theoden, King of Rohan.
His words are a fell thing, telling of impending invasion, of an Uruk-hai army larger than any force ever created.
Theoden begins organizing his troops at once, pulling old men and young boys from the commoners to fill in his army. I stand in the armory, watch disbelieving as boys who have seen ten winters pull on chain mail and take up shield and sword.
I shake my head, looking at Aragorn. "Look at them, they're terrified."
He doesn't answer, just watches me walk around restless, running a fingertip over a sword blade.
I switch to Qenya. "And they should be. They're all going to die," I say angrily. I don't know whom I'm angry with. Myself, for caring? Saruman, for his treachery? Theoden, for his stubborn nature? Maybe a bit of all of them.
Aragorn's face darkens. "Then I shall die as one of them," he snarls, stalking away.
I move to follow, only to feel Gimli's hand on my stomach, stopping me. "Give him a little time, lad."
I nod, understanding, and wander in the other direction.
Helm's Deep is a lovely stronghold, though with none of the warmth of Edoras. It was built for war, with none of the niceties that you find in most human dwellings. The flourishes are all impressive, made from hard stone, built to intimidate.
After long minutes pass, I head back to the rooms where I know Aragorn will be getting ready for the battle.
He looks up as I enter, meeting my gaze. "You have not led us wrongly before," I say awkwardly. "I was wrong to despair."
He smiles then, a genuine smile, sweet and warm. "There is nothing to forgive."
He clasps my shoulder again, and I return the smile. A glance down shows me that he is still wearing Boromir's bracers, which draws another smile.
A clattering makes me glance behind us, to where Gimli is trying to struggle into his chain mail. It falls with a clatter to the floor, a silver puddle at his feet.
I open my mouth to comment, when a strident horn blast forestalls me. "That is no Orc horn," I say, dashing from the room.
The sight when I crest the stairs, to look out onto the main courtyard of the keep nearly brings tears to my eyes.
Legion upon legion of warriors, elven helms gleaming in the moonlight, march through the gate. And at their head, a most unexpected face. Haldir.
He faces the King of Rohan gracefully. "Long ago, the race of men and elves were united in the face of a great evil. We come today to honor that treaty."
The humans move with redoubled purpose, readying for the siege. It seems that the arrival of such a force has given them new hope. They will fight bravely.
We all will.
"Legolas," Aragorn says softly. "Come with me for a moment."
I follow, curiously, bow in my hand. He leads me through a doorway, back into the room where he changed.
His hands clasp my shoulders tightly, pressing me against the wall. Only my trust in him keeps me from tensing, pulling away. I cannot still the word that slips from my mouth, tremulous, questioning. "Aragorn?"
"I waited," he whispers. "I felt your eyes on me, but I knew you were still grieving over Boromir, just as I grieve over Arwen."
My eyes widen in surprise. I had no idea that he knew of Boromir and I.
"I am your Captian, Legolas. It was my duty to know."
I let my eyes slide down to the bracers that encase his wrists, running a finger over the leather. "I grieve still," I admit. "But long have my eyes strayed to you."
"I do not wish to wait any longer, my friend. I know not how long we have until Saruman's forces arrive, but I would spend it with you." His eyes meet mine, and I can feel the tension in him.
I nod slightly and sigh as his fingers curl around my neck, drawing me near. His lips brush mine lightly, then harder, tongue brushing along my lower lip. I have dreamed of this, wanted this for so very long.
Then, he's pressing me against the wall harder, his body taut against mine. "Want you, Legolas," he whispers.
I open my mouth to answer when we hear it. The shrill bark-like cry of the Uruk-Hai.
Time is up, apparently.
We head for the battlements, me taking up a place beside Gimli, Aragorn striding between the ranks of archers. He pauses next to us, and I smile faintly over my shoulder. "Your friends are with you, Aragorn."
He nods, touching my shoulder, and walks back down to Haldir.
The enemy is sweeping into the valley, a terrifying black wave of evil to quail even the stoutest heart. We may well die here tonight.
Gimli, bless him, is trying in vain to see over the battlement. "You could have picked a better spot."
I smile down at him. "Shall I describe it to you, or just get you a box to stand on?"
He blusters for a minute, and I look back out at the Uruk-hai. Yes, this is right. If this is to be our end, it will be met bravely, among friends. And if it is not the end, then maybe it will be the beginning.
Title: Waning Time
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is fiction, and is in no way intended to infringe upon the characters used herein. I don't own them, the estate of J.R. Tolkien does. I'm just borrowing the characterization set forth by Peter Jackson's amazing film Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Oh, and as long as I'm on the subject, I don't claim to be a scholar of the books, mistakes made herein are entirely due to my ignorance.
I cannot do this. Not without him. I look around me and I see a handful of warriors. Not nearly enough. The rest are women and children. Of the two, the children are what give me sleepless nights.
I feel for the children most of all. None who are so young should have to bear such shadows.
They know.
Even if their King will not accept it, the children know. I can see their mortality reflected in their wide eyes whenever they look at me. They know that I am immortal, older than the oldest among them, yet my face is untouched by time.
Yet despite my years, the King of Rohan refuses to accept my council. He will not make a pact with Gondor, he says. Rohan will fight its own battle. He says that my grief over Aragorn makes me foolish, hasty. I say that his pride makes him the fool.
I think he suspects the nature of my feelings for Aragorn. I know Gimli does. He has been my shadow these last days. He lightens my mood immeasurably.
I wonder, at times, if he holds tender feelings for me. Normally, he is much like your average dwarf-brusque and gruff of manner, but as of late, he seems almost fond.
I suppose it should repulse me, yet it doesn't. He is a true and loyal companion, and a noble friend. I can think of many worse with whom I have shared my sleeping pallet.
Right now, the grief is too fresh, like a sharpened blade twisting within my chest. Elves have oft been called cold, aloof, but rest assured that we do feel deeply-mayhap more so than many races. It is the reason that Elf-kind rarely associates with other races. It is shattering to go into the world, to observe it, to watch all that you have come to know crumble slowly to succumb to entropy and time.
Elrond holds the humans in contempt. I do not blame him for his shortsightedness in this one topic. He, after all, was most deeply cut by Isildur's betrayal. He feels that they are weak and petty, squandering their short lives on infighting and meaningless destruction.
Not all of them though. Not our lost brothers. Not Boromir. He, for all his failings, triumphed in the end. And he met his end valiantly, protecting Merry and Pippin as any of us would have. I am proud to have drawn steel with him.
And not Aragorn.
Surely, a truer champion has never walked Middle Earth. Elrond sees this, I know. It makes him hold his tongue, even as he fears for his daughter's heart.
Arwen.
I wish that I could begrudge her Aragorn's affection, but I cannot. A stronger, more skilled Elvish female has never lived, save possibly Galadriel herself. Arwen has always been kind to me, disregarding those who whispered about my parentage. If I live out the battle, I will give the Evenstar back to her myself, give her word of the fall of the true King.
For as deeply as I do love him, I would not stand between them. It would be to eclipse the sun from the earth, such is their love. It is nearly a palpable thing.
I blink, suddenly realizing that the sun has risen high in the sky. It has been four days since Gandalf left. Four days to wonder. Three days since Aragorn fell. Three days.
I move suddenly, coming to my feet as I see a movement off in the hills, dust rising. A human's eyes would not perceive it, but I can see it clearly. Just as I am about to call an alarm, a horse crests the hilltop, and my voice freezes in my throat.
Aragorn.
My legs carry me down the stairs quickly, to find Gimli. He should be the first to know of our companion's return.
He's in the armory, looking for armor that might fit him. I will not tell him that it is a lost cause. I believe he already knows this, but if it aids him in passing the hours, so be it.
He looks up as I hurry in, eyes sharpening. "Is it time then, laddie?"
"No. On the mountain, coming this way," I blurt.
"Who?"
"Aragorn has come!"
I must give our short friend credit. He told the truth about dwarven sprinting.
I take my time, finding my normal composure. I decide to meet him before the doors of the throne room, leaving Gimli to greet him as he dismounts.
And greet him, he does, dropping the normal dwarven bluster to give Aragorn a genuine hug. Even from here, I see the genuine smile that softens the hard planes of the true King's face.
Then, he turns, coming up the stairs in that ground-eating lope of his. His attention is on getting to Theoden's side, not on his path, and he nearly rums me down. Then, he stops, eyes sliding up to my face.
"Telwa toi," I murmur, eyes hungrily searching his face. "You look terrible," I add, noting his tattered and bloodied clothes.
He smiles warmly, and I return it, lifting the hand that holds the Evenstar. I hope the smile isn't too forced looking. "I think this belongs to you."
He takes it and clasps my shoulder, holding on for a heartbeat. Then, his eyes meet mine, and he smiles. "Thank you, my friend." He pulls me closer for a moment, his arms sliding around me, and I fight not to sink into his touch.
After a long moment, I step back, noting the frown on the face of the female, Eowyn. I think she fancies Aragorn. I feel for her, loving in vain. Aragorn will ever be true to Arwen. If she sails with her people, he will love her all his life, and at his death, the last words that pass his lips will be her name. It is the way of things.
Gimli catches up to Aragorn and I, and we follow him into the throne room to hear his words to Theoden, King of Rohan.
His words are a fell thing, telling of impending invasion, of an Uruk-hai army larger than any force ever created.
Theoden begins organizing his troops at once, pulling old men and young boys from the commoners to fill in his army. I stand in the armory, watch disbelieving as boys who have seen ten winters pull on chain mail and take up shield and sword.
I shake my head, looking at Aragorn. "Look at them, they're terrified."
He doesn't answer, just watches me walk around restless, running a fingertip over a sword blade.
I switch to Qenya. "And they should be. They're all going to die," I say angrily. I don't know whom I'm angry with. Myself, for caring? Saruman, for his treachery? Theoden, for his stubborn nature? Maybe a bit of all of them.
Aragorn's face darkens. "Then I shall die as one of them," he snarls, stalking away.
I move to follow, only to feel Gimli's hand on my stomach, stopping me. "Give him a little time, lad."
I nod, understanding, and wander in the other direction.
Helm's Deep is a lovely stronghold, though with none of the warmth of Edoras. It was built for war, with none of the niceties that you find in most human dwellings. The flourishes are all impressive, made from hard stone, built to intimidate.
After long minutes pass, I head back to the rooms where I know Aragorn will be getting ready for the battle.
He looks up as I enter, meeting my gaze. "You have not led us wrongly before," I say awkwardly. "I was wrong to despair."
He smiles then, a genuine smile, sweet and warm. "There is nothing to forgive."
He clasps my shoulder again, and I return the smile. A glance down shows me that he is still wearing Boromir's bracers, which draws another smile.
A clattering makes me glance behind us, to where Gimli is trying to struggle into his chain mail. It falls with a clatter to the floor, a silver puddle at his feet.
I open my mouth to comment, when a strident horn blast forestalls me. "That is no Orc horn," I say, dashing from the room.
The sight when I crest the stairs, to look out onto the main courtyard of the keep nearly brings tears to my eyes.
Legion upon legion of warriors, elven helms gleaming in the moonlight, march through the gate. And at their head, a most unexpected face. Haldir.
He faces the King of Rohan gracefully. "Long ago, the race of men and elves were united in the face of a great evil. We come today to honor that treaty."
The humans move with redoubled purpose, readying for the siege. It seems that the arrival of such a force has given them new hope. They will fight bravely.
We all will.
"Legolas," Aragorn says softly. "Come with me for a moment."
I follow, curiously, bow in my hand. He leads me through a doorway, back into the room where he changed.
His hands clasp my shoulders tightly, pressing me against the wall. Only my trust in him keeps me from tensing, pulling away. I cannot still the word that slips from my mouth, tremulous, questioning. "Aragorn?"
"I waited," he whispers. "I felt your eyes on me, but I knew you were still grieving over Boromir, just as I grieve over Arwen."
My eyes widen in surprise. I had no idea that he knew of Boromir and I.
"I am your Captian, Legolas. It was my duty to know."
I let my eyes slide down to the bracers that encase his wrists, running a finger over the leather. "I grieve still," I admit. "But long have my eyes strayed to you."
"I do not wish to wait any longer, my friend. I know not how long we have until Saruman's forces arrive, but I would spend it with you." His eyes meet mine, and I can feel the tension in him.
I nod slightly and sigh as his fingers curl around my neck, drawing me near. His lips brush mine lightly, then harder, tongue brushing along my lower lip. I have dreamed of this, wanted this for so very long.
Then, he's pressing me against the wall harder, his body taut against mine. "Want you, Legolas," he whispers.
I open my mouth to answer when we hear it. The shrill bark-like cry of the Uruk-Hai.
Time is up, apparently.
We head for the battlements, me taking up a place beside Gimli, Aragorn striding between the ranks of archers. He pauses next to us, and I smile faintly over my shoulder. "Your friends are with you, Aragorn."
He nods, touching my shoulder, and walks back down to Haldir.
The enemy is sweeping into the valley, a terrifying black wave of evil to quail even the stoutest heart. We may well die here tonight.
Gimli, bless him, is trying in vain to see over the battlement. "You could have picked a better spot."
I smile down at him. "Shall I describe it to you, or just get you a box to stand on?"
He blusters for a minute, and I look back out at the Uruk-hai. Yes, this is right. If this is to be our end, it will be met bravely, among friends. And if it is not the end, then maybe it will be the beginning.
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no subject
It's just lovely and right.
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Date: 2002-12-26 07:41 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it.