OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES
by Soledad Cartwright
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
Rating: PG – 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.
Author’s notes:
Now, this chapter is but a short afterthought, intended to close the story properly. Thank for all the suggestions concerning the dead Wargs – I’ve listened to you, guys, and decided to follow the Great Maker’s path and leave the question unsolved. Legolas wasn’t happy with my decision, but since he couldn’t offer anything either… <g>
And since I was in such a generous mood, I granted poor Boromir his wish to be loved once more – though he might have had a different idea of how it should have happened.
Chapter Ten: The Morrow After
I watched my King tending to the Elf’s wounds which, according to Legolas’ face, must have been more painful than they looked. After that, there was a small quarrel between the two of them, considering who should keep the watch til full sunrise. Legolas won it with the argument that the pain would not let him find any sleep, so he could as well watch our dreams.
The Halflings collapsed into one entangled heap of limbs and blankets, and even Mithrandir lay down at the end, admitting his bone-deep weariness. Gimli was already snoring loudly, yet it did not seem to bother any one, not even Aragorn, though he lay next to the Dwarf.
Yet Legolas was not the only one who had trouble to find sleep. Though I retreated so far from the snoring Dwarf as I could without leaving our resting place altogether, my eyes kept popping open on their own. The weariness of the fight, the looming evil that came even from the dead Wargs laying not too far away, robbed me from my much-needed rest.
As I turned to my other side for what seemed the hundredth time, I felt a hand touching my shoulder lightly, and I looked up into the pale, tired face of Legolas.
’’’Tis no good’’, the Elf said in a low voice; ’’Why do you not try to find solace? You have the means to do so – use it!’’
I knew he referred to the Stone, but I wished not to disturb Elladan in his sleep. Elf or not, even he needed his rest, now more so than at other times, or so my troubled dreams about Imladris had let me guess.
’’He needs you more than he needs rest’’, Legolas murmured, ’’take not this comfort from him… or from yourself. I wish I had the means to find comfort this way.’’
’’You have not?’’, I asked in surprise, after all his… relationship with the Lord of Imladris had lasted near five hundred years by now.
He shook his head.
’’We are not bound – and shall never be’’, he said, raising, ’’for ’tis only allowed once in an Elf’s life, no matter how long it lasts. Be no fool, son of Gondor. Take the gift that is offered to you. ’Tis rare and should be cheerished.’’
With that, he left me and returned to his watchpost.
I struggled for a short while with my overwhelming need to rest in the presence of my beloved again – then I realized the wisdom of Legolas’ words and gave in. The Elf was right, after all. I would be a fool to reject a gift like this. A gift that pleasured the giver as much as it pleasured the one whom it was given.
My fingers tasted after the Stone. It was warm as always, slightly warmer than my own skin. I stroked its smooth surface with my thumb and felt the warmth sicker through my skin, spreading through my whole body, luring me into that enchanted state where I could feel the weightless touch of my lover upon my heart… my soul… my very being.
First it seemed to me as if I heard his voice, one of the songs he used to sing to me when I had trouble sleeping, even in our shared bed. He told me once that he was not considered a good singer, not among Elves anyway, but I always found his voice beautiful… enchanting… utterly sensuous. As I now listened to him through our bond and that strange magic that worked in the Stone, it was as if he came closer and closer, til I finally could feel him touching me.
Not that ethereal touch of souls I had already known from our earlier encounters through the bond – it was a real touch, though so feather-light as a gente breeze… almost too light to be felt at all.
But it was there. First touching my lips, then my face, then enveloping my whole body like a soft, silken blanket, whisper-light and yet comfortingly warm.
And then we merged. Body and soul.
We became one being in a way I could never imagine before.
I can only guess this is how Elves mate with their souls as well as with their bodies, once they have found their soul-mates. And once they have found each other, it bonds them for eternity.
I never thought it would be possible between us. I am a mere Man, after all, no Elf.
And my beloved is not even here.
Not bodily, at least.
Yet he was.
He filled me more completely than any union of bodies could have done.
He was me and I was him.
And then I saw the Light.
The undying Light, raining golden and silvery like sunrays bathing in a fresh spring rain, soaking our merged being through and through.
And then we became the Light, dancing in the gold and silver rain, becoming one with it, as it washed away all the pain and the sorrows of our lives.
And so we finally have come to rest.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
’’What happened to him?’’, Pippin asked worriedly, glaring at Boromir’s face that was peaceful, motionless… and seemed to glow slightly from the inside. ’’Is he… dying?’’
’’In a way… but he shall com back, shortly’’, Legolas replied, surpressing the jealousy and longing in his heart over this exalted state of body and soul that he had never been granted. He was not bound, after all.
’’But why is he glowing like that?’’, Pippin nagged stubbornly. ’’Does it come from that weird stone he wears? I have seen it glowing earlier the same way.’’
’’Nay, ’tis not the Stone’’, Legolas shook his head tiredly, ’’the Stone is but a tool. A magic tool, if you want, but still just a tool. This comes from the inside.’’
’’From the inside of what?’’, Pippin looked at the Man of Gondor suspiciously as if expecting the outbreak of some mysterious illness.
’’Of his heart’’, Legolas explained, ’’or, to say it more rightly, of his soul. Boromir is experiencing the Joining.’’
’’What is that?’’, Pippin frowned. ’’Is it dangerous?’’
’’’Tis a merging of souls, that happens to Elves when they are bound to each other’’, Legolas answered, ’’and yes, it can be dangerous for a mere mortal, but I believe Boromir is strong enough to bear it, or else Elladan would never risk such thing.’’
Pippin glared at him with eyes as big and round as dinner plates.
’’Elladan? The son of Elrond?’’
Legolas sighed.
’’I thought you knew. The two of you are friends, after all.’’
Pippin shook his head mutely. Boromir never spoke much of himself, and when he did, it always was related to Minas Tirith somehow: to the beauty of the White City, the great perils her people had to endure, their valiant fight against the Enemy…
Legolas sighed again.
’’My dear hobbit, ’tis something you have to keep to yourself. I know not the customs of your people, but unlike Elves, the Men of Gondor look not kindly at such unions. Speaking of it could cause Boromir great trouble among his own people.’’
’’I shall tell no-one’’, Pippin promised, finally finding his voice, though it sounded almost… quieky, ’’not even Merry. I swear.’’
’’That is a wise decision’’, Legolas smiled; ’’one that, I am certain, Boromir will very much appreciate.’’
Their talking, no matter how quiet, awoke Aragorn from his disturbed sleep. The Heir of Isildur walked over to them – and glared down at Boromir, almost frozen with shock.
’’Legolas’’, he choked, ’’is this what I believe it is…?’’
The Elf nodded.
’’The Joining? Yes, it is.’’
’’But… is that not possible among Elves only?’’, Aragorn asked.
’’Obviously not’’, said Legolas with a shrug, ’’though it most likely would not happen without the help of the Stone. I know not how these things work when mortals are involved. Such a thing is most… unusual.’’
’’Legolas’’, Pippin tugged the Elf’s sleeve nervously, ’’he is not coming back! Cannot you do something? What if he dies?’’
’’Nay, he dies not’’, Legolas sat down next to Boromir, ’’but I shall try to call him back nevertheless, for we have to set off, soon. Wake the others! ’Tis almost daytime already.’’
Aragorn and Pippin obeyed and heard the Elf singing softly to the still motionless Man while the sky became more and more clear with every passing moment. When every one of the Company was awake, finally Boromir, too, came back to full consciousness, the inner glowing diminished as if the Sun would have taken cover behind thick clouds. He was fully awake now, though he seemed drained – and reborn at the same time.
’’’Tis dangerous for mortal Men to participate the Joining’’, Legolas commented softly, ’’though I envy you for this gift to no end.’’
Boromir looked at him and saw the sadness in his eyes and his heart bled for the valiant Elf, understanding that Legolas could never Join with his long-time lover, no matter how dearly they loved each other, for they were not meant for each other – not longer than the end of this quest, which also would mean the end of Elrond’s days in Middle-earth.
’’Have hope’’, he murmured, ’’your time shall come, too.’’
’’Not like this, it shall not’’, Legolas replied; ’’but let us not talk of this now, pray you. We have to leave this place, shortly.’’
Finally, the full light of the morning came, and while Sam hurriedly prepared some breakfast, the Big People scouted out their closest surroundings. No signs of the Wargs were to be found, to their relief, but, strangely, they also looked in vain for the bodies of the dead. No trace of their previous fight remained but the charred trees and the arrows of Legolas lying on the hilltop. All were undamaged save one of which only the point was left.
’’It is as I feared’’, said Gandalf. ’’These were not ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness.’’
’’Of course they were not!’’, Legolas replied, slightly irritated, while collecting his undamaged arrows. ’’They were Wargs – which still explains not where their corpses have gone.’’
’’Does this happen with dead Wargs all the time?’’, Boromir asked the Elf.
’’Not with the ones I have killed, it does not’’, Legolas answered grimly, ’’nor have I heard of such thing happening in Mirkwood ever since I have been hunting them. I told you this place was evil. Let us eat quickly and go!’’
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That day the weather changed again, becoming more pleasant, almost as if it was at the command of some power that had no longer use for snow, since they had retreated from the pass anyway, and Boromir kept wondering just what kind of evil Legolas was feeling here.
The damaged watchpost surely looked like any of the hundreds that had crowned hundreds of hilltops all over the once-proud North-kingdom and still crowned many ones in Gondor. But mayhap a vicious battle had been fought here, a long time ago, and the shadows of evil things slain back then had been trapped somehow, filled with hatred for all things still alive?
Nevertheless, the same power that nearly drowned them in snow less than a day ago, now obviously wished to have a clear light in which things that moved in the Wild could be seen from far away – to the dismay of both Aragorn and Boromir. For battle-hardened as they were, they knew all too well that such a clear weather helped more the spies of the Enemy than themselves.
After all, they had their own Wood-Elf in the Company, whose eyes were keen enough to find a way even under darkened skies.
The wind had been turning through north to north-west during the night, and now it failed. The clouds vanished southwards and the sky was opened now, high and blue, to the delight of the hobbits who had had enough of snow and cold winds and enjoyed the warmth greatly.
As they stood upon the hill-side, ready to depart, a pale sunlight gleamed over the mountain-top like a signal-fire.
’’We must reach the doors of Moria before sunset’’, said Gandalf, ’’or I fear we shall not reach them at all.’’
’’Why not?’’, Merry asked, his usually high spirits uncostumary low after the near-dearth in the snow and the brutal fight against the Wargs, neither of which the hobbits would have survived without the help of the Big People. ’’Is it not a too far a journey for a single day? Twenty miles as the wolf runs, you have said.’’
’’’Tis not far’’, the wizard answered, ’’even though we all are weary. But our path may be winding, for here Aragorn cannot guide us.’’
’’I seldom walked in this country’’, the Ranger added, feeling the need to explain himself, for Boromir shot him a half arrogant, half accusing look, clearly delighted that he finally had proved unfit to lead them. ’’I entered Moria through the Dimril Gate, on the other side of the Hithaeglir.’’
’’The Misty Mountains’’, Legolas explained, seeing the blank look of the younger hobbits; Frodo alone was familiar with the Elven name of the mountains along their way. ’’That was the Gate I have crossed once, too’’, he shuddered. ’’Never have I thought that I would return there voluntarily.’’
’’No-one goes there, unless they have no other choice’’, Gandalf sighed. ’’Only once have I been under the west wall of Moria, and that was long ago.’’
’’Not so long that you would not remember your ways, I hope’’, Aragorn said grimly.
The wizard shook his head.
’’There it lies’’, he said, pointing away south-eastwards to where the mountain’s sides fell sheer into the shadows at their feet.
In the distance, a line of bare cliffs could be dimly seeen, and in their midst, taller than the rest, one great grey wall. It looked like the bullwark of some ancient fortress: huge, forbidding and invictible.
’’When we left the pass I led you southwards, and not back to our starting point, as some of you may have noticed’’, the wizard added.
’’I have noticed it’’, said Legolas with a shrug, ’’and ’tis well that you did so, for now we have several miles less to cross. Still, I believe that this path is the worst mistake we could have made, and I strongly advice you to reconsider.’’
’’Would you rather fight the Wargs again?’’, Gandalf asked.
The Elf nodded, without a moment of hesitation.
’’I would fight ten times against a pack of Wargs alone, ere I cross the Gates of Moria again. What ever might have happened with their bodies, at least they can be killed.’’
’’For how long?’’, the wizard asked.
Legolas shrugged again.
’’No Warg I have killed during the last three thousand years had been raised from the death again to bother me.’’
’’Until now’’, said Gandalf.
The Elf shook his head.
’’I believe not that is what happened.’’
’’What do you believe then?’’ Gandalf asked pointedly.
’’I know not’’, Legolas said, ’’and I cannot care less. They are gone, so ’tis not my concern what – or who – has got them. Yet our way is free now, and not to one direction only.’’
’’That is where you are wrong’’, Gandalf replied. ’’We have but one way, and haste is needed. Let us go!’’
Pippin stole closer to his big friend and tugged on the seam of his tunic lightly, looking up to him with wide, questioning eyes. Boromir shrugged; he had no help, nor advice to offer, being even more unaccustomed to this country than the others.
’’I know not which to hope’’, he said grimly; ’’That Mithrandir will find what he seeks, or that coming to the cliff we shall find the gates lost for ever.’’
’’Why should you wish for such thing?’’, Pippin asked, clearly bewildered.
’’For it would, at least, save us from the horrors of Moria’’, said Boromir. ’’I know naught but black tales about that place; yet Legolas knows it and seems hesitant to go in there. I have come to trust his judgement.’’
’’And we have learnt to trust Gandalf’s wisdom’’, Pippin countered.
Boromir sighed and tousled the curly hair of the young hobbit.
’’I think not that wisdom shall help us, Master Peregrin. All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likiest chance.’’
’’So you, too, believe the Wargs would return?’’, Pippin insisted.
’’I know not, little one’’, Boromir sighed. ’’I only know that blood-thirsty beasts seldom leave their prey unharmed behind.’’
’’Unless it was their errand to chase us towards Moria in the first place’’, Aragorn added glumly.
Boromir glared at him in surprise for a moment – it happened rarely that they would agree – then turned back to the wizard.
’’If we are to go, then let us go, Mithrandir. Lead on!’’
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Many long leagues southwards, Saruman the White stood alone, high up on the pinancle of Orthanc, where he was accustomed to watch the stars, looking down upon the valley of Isengard far below. His plans considering Elrond’s fortress were shattered, but there still remained ways for him to reach his goal – some of which mayhap even Mordor was unaware of. He watched his Wargs and Orcs regroup, deep in the mines that had once been the flower garden of the valley, and a thin, cruel smile appearad on his face.
’’So, you tried to lead them over Caradhras’’, he murmured to the empty air that surrounded him, ’’and it failed. Where will you go? Now that the mountain has defeated you, will you risk the more dangerous road?’’
He shook his head, long, snow-white hair whirling around his face, and all of a sudden there was sadness in those deep, impenetrably dark eyes.
’’Have you truly believed that a hobbit could contend with the will of Sauron?’’, he asked softly. ’’There are none who can. Against the power of Mordor there can be no victory. I have offered you the choice of aiding me willingly, my old friend. To join the side of power and strength. To belong to the ones who would rule when the world takes a change again. Alas, that you have chosen death.’’
He sighed, then turned on his heel and began to descend the narrow stair of many thousand steps – the only way that led from the pinnacle to the inside of the tower.
’’Moria’’, he murmured on his way down. ’’Right you are to fear to go into those mines. The Dwarves delved too greedily and too deep again. You know not what they awoke in the darkness of Khazad-Dúm… yet I know. Shadow and flame. A flame in which you shall perish.’’
Here endeth this tale