The Vigil:
Part Twenty
Please see chapter one for synopsis.
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas
Rated: PG13
Disclaimer: I borrow these characters from J.R.R. Tolkien with love and respect.
Thank you, Jean.
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“Well, Faramir,” Aragorn said, as he came into the courtyard. “It seems you are a more than adequate deputy for your sire.” As Faramir bowed, Aragorn looked around at those the young Man had assembled. “My friends, I hope you do not mind meeting out of doors. The Council Chamber seems too large without Gondor’s Steward.”
“I thank you for choosing this location,” Arwen, daughter of Elrond spoke out. “Far better to speak in the light of Anor while breathing free air.”
“For as long as it remains free,” Boromir muttered.
“Heir of Isildur,” Haldir said, as he stepped forward, clad in chiming mail. “I too thank you for your hospitality.”
“It is you and your brethren that deserve my thanks,” Aragorn said. “Your arrows have thinned the ranks of our besiegers. I know you have not had opportunity to speak with Prince Legolas privately, but I give my word that you shall have it when this council is ended. And now to the most pressing matter: Denethor is not to be found within the walls or grounds of the palace, nor anywhere he is wont to dwell. The search continues, but I fear that some plan of the enemy must account for his disappearance. However, we cannot stand still with Umbar at our gates. May I have your thoughts on this?”
Legolas stood proudly behind the young ruler who did not issue orders to his councilors, but appealed to them for their advice. And such a council few kings had stood before. This was no gathering of graybeards, though older, wiser heads were represented. Nor was it a roomful of generals, each bent on battle and sure his strategy was best. Aragorn’s council was a disparate collection of Elves and Men that saw the situation from widely diverging perspectives. Together, the Heir hoped that they could build an accurate enough view of this war to find an end to it. Each member was given a say, and each opinion carried equal weight, whether the speaker was a captain, a princess, or a philosopher. At times, the debate was interrupted by the sound of a sorcerous explosion from the riverbanks, but Mirkwood archers on the walls taught the black-robed Umbarans to respect their range. When the meeting was over, leaders strode away to implement new strategies, leaving a small group around the Heir.
“You are our King in all but name,” Faramir said. “Though you wear no crown, you are my liege, and I await your command.”
“As do I,” Boromir moved to stand at his brother’s side.
“And I with him,” Arwen saluted Aragorn with the upraised fist of a warrior.
Silently, Elladan and Elrohir flanked Faramir, as Haldir came forward also. At Aragorn’s shoulder stood the Vigil and behind him were six of the Guards of the White Tree, their mithril helmets glittering in the sunlight. The pennants snapped overhead in the wind that always blew on these heights, streaming out like the long hair of the Elves, and Aragorn thought what a fine, brave show they made, like something out of the ancient sagas he used to spend hours reading. And now that he came to think of it, the heroes and heroines in those tales had no doubt stood as he did now, uncertain of the outcome, but willing to fight for what they loved. It was at once a disillusioning and a bracing thought. Perhaps one day another young Man would face an enemy and remember how Aragorn of Gondor acquitted himself. If so, it would be better if Aragorn did not fail.
“Why do you smile, my liege?” Faramir asked.
“He just realized some truth about life,” was Boromir’s opinion. “You do not remember that look, little brother?”
“It has been some little while since we were carefree scholars,” Faramir answered.
“And never carefree,” Aragorn said. “I go now to my lady mother for her blessing. Those who wish may come with me. Legolas,” the Heir lowered his voice. “If you wish to tarry and speak with Haldir…”
“There will be time for fond messages when we have driven the enemy into the river,” the Vigil said.
“My message is not urgent to the war, Prince,” Haldir inclined his head. “Merely of a personal nature. If you wish to wait, I am at your service.”
Aragorn’s instincts engendered a vague uneasiness, but he led the way to the royal wing of the Houses of Healing. Faramir and the Peredhil left to assemble a company of knights, but Arwen wished to see the Queen and Boromir would not leave her. Legolas and Haldir stood just inside the door of Gilraen’s chamber as the others crossed to the bed. The Umbaran boy stood as they approached, his scarf obscuring the lower half of his down-turned face.
“I do not suppose there is any change?” Aragorn asked softly.
Romen shook his head, speaking as little as possible around the Vigil. These Elves had eyes and ears and even noses sharper than any Mordor-spawned demon. The Umbaran sovereign had hoped to slip into Minas Tirith, take out some key players, and leave a mystery behind. Alas, it seemed it would not be so for doubtless he would not have a better opportunity than this. He wished the Elves were farther away, but it was Boromir’s proximity that mattered. Putting this plan into motion meant revealing himself, but it could not be helped. Romen gave Aragorn room to kneel beside the bed, brushing against Boromir as he stepped back. Enduring the Captain’s black look, the Umbaran moved a discreet distance away. As Aragorn took the Queen’s hand between his, and Arwen leaned closer to the sleeper, the sorcerer-king tried to activate the deep-seated controls he had planted in Boromir’s mind. As he had noted before, some Elvish healer had released the Man’s spirit from its dark bindings, but that Elf had been over-confident. Down in the deepest red-black depths where the most primal emotions held sway, Romen found what he sought.
‘It should be you,’ the sorcerer said silently. ‘You are more fit to rule Gondor than a weak scholar. It should be you. Take the throne. Kill him now.’
Boromir shook his shaggy head irritably, as though plagued by some buzzing insect. His gaze slid sideways and down until it rested on the Heir. The captain noted how close was Aragorn to she whom Boromir loved with all his being. The deeply buried resentments that would normally shame the big man came boiling up, tinting the scene with a red mist, and sending his hand seeking the hilt of his sword. As Boromir’s scarred fingers closed around the well-worn leather wrapping, Aragorn bent his head and a tear fell to darken the Queen’s coverlet. ‘Unfit,’ murmured the cool, reasonable voice. ‘The Heir is not the King that Gondor needs. You are strong and untroubled by sentiment. For the good of the realm, kill him. Strike now, while he is unsuspecting.’ Boromir trembled as the part of him that Arwen had reclaimed resisted the compulsion to slay his friend.
Haldir glanced at Legolas and raised one eyebrow. “I feel a chill that has nothing to do with all this stone.”
The Vigil nodded curtly, scanning the room for signs of danger. “There is a darkness in my mind that is not my own. It comes from outside.”
The Marchwarden’s serene gaze skimmed the tableau at the bedside and settled on the most interesting mortal in the room. The slender silk-swathed figure was evidently a nurse of sorts, but it surprised the Elf to find an Umbaran so close to the royal family. The lad must have the Heir’s implicit trust, though Haldir could sense no long term connection, or great regard, between them. Here was a puzzle, and Haldir delighted in such. He was on the verge of asking Prince Legolas a question, when the other Elf lunged across the room.
Arwen looked over her shoulder as the shadow of Boromir’s sword fell over the linen. Her shouted warning came a split-second after the Vigil’s, as she drew her dagger and shoved Aragorn to the side. The Heir let go of his mother’s hand and reached for Anduril, shielding her body with his. Legolas knew that for all his speed he would never reach Boromir in time. He must trust to the Lady Arwen, or find another way to stop Gondor’s great champion. Changing course in mid-stride, the Vigil launched himself at the Umbaran boy. Silently begging the lad’s forgiveness, Legolas threw him at Boromir. Boromir staggered, his stroke going awry, but the seasoned warrior pivoted, shifting his weight and bringing his blade around in a low arc. The broadsword sheared easily through the costly fabric of Romen’s robes and continued on to open a horrid wound across his belly. The sorcerer-king’s control over the man was broken, and Boromir sagged as Arwen’s arm snaked around his neck and her knife pricked his throat. The point of Haldir’s sword dimpled the skin on the other side of the captain’s neck. Boromir went still as stone, not even breathing until Aragorn spoke.
“Hold!” the Heir shouted, as Romen crumpled to the floor at the Vigil’s feet. “No one is to kill anyone yet.”
“I fear it is too late for Castamir,” Legolas said as he knelt.
Romen laughed, spraying his chin and the Elf’s arm with bright red. “Fools.”
“Do not try to speak,” Legolas told him. “Lady Arwen! Will you help?”
Arwen looked to Aragorn and at his nod, she sheathed her dagger and left her beloved under Haldir’s guard. As she sank to the floor beside the injured Umbaran, he used the last of his strength to grab at her hand. Arwen flinched, her eyes widening as Romen’s skin grazed hers. Flinging herself backward, she stared in shock. “That is not Castamir.”
The Vigil pulled the winding scarf from the dying Umbaran’s face and studied the fine features closely. “He looks like Castamir, and yet… Who are you?” the Elf demanded to know, as he clutched a fistful of the ruined robe.
Romen laughed again, a wet chuckle that roughened the skin like a sudden chill. “Fools, and you are the biggest fool of all, Sindar slave,” he whispered.
“He is one of the enemy sorcerers,” Haldir said confidently.
“He practices the Black Arts, that is plain enough,” Arwen said.
“What was your purpose here?” the Vigil shook Romen when the Umbaran’s eyelids slid down.
“Where is the Steward?” Aragorn asked, looming over those on the floor.
Romen’s velvet dark eyes met the gaze of Isildur’s Heir and saw steel. “It seems that all I have accomplished… is to give you new resolve. How… ironic,” he coughed. A warm torrent of crimson soaked into black silk and ran over the Elf’s white knuckles. “I lost my… gamble, but… you… will lose… your Queen. I take the… secret… of her malady… with me.”
Aragorn dropped to his knees next the Vigil and clutched at the Umbaran’s shoulders. “Tell me,” he demanded. “How do I wake her?” Romen favored them with a red grin and went limp. “No!” the Heir shouted, shaking the dead man. “Tell me! Tell me!”
“Your Highness?” Haldir said inquiringly, and three sets of eyes focused on him. “This warrior needs tending.”
Boromir swayed on his feet and would have gone down had Arwen not been there. Drawing his arm around her shoulders, she beckoned the Marchwarden with her eyes and Haldir helped convey the Man to a bench. Legolas put his hands over Aragorn’s and pried the Heir’s fingers from the bloody cloth of Romen’s robes. Aragorn looked up into the Vigil’s inky blue eyes and abruptly flung away from him. “Leave me,” Aragorn said through clenched teeth.
“You know I cannot.”
“And I say you will. All of you. Get out. Now!” Such was Aragorn’s power of command in that moment that all but the Vigil began moving toward the door.
“Let me help you,” Legolas said.
“You have done enough. I believed you had feelings just like anyone else. I would not listen when the Steward told me that you had none, that you were a heartless killer, an assassin sent to guard me because of an ancient pact and a binding spell. I let you worm your way into my confidence and now you have destroyed my hope.”
“I wished only to save your life.”
“Yes, that is your over-riding imperative, is it not? And you would do anything to keep me from harm. You would even bed me to get closer so you might ward me more efficiently. I understand now. How could you care for me when you have no heart?”
“I have a heart.”
Aragorn shook his head. “You tossed that boy onto Boromir’s blade without a second thought, as if you and he had never shared joy, as if he was a piece of furniture. How can you tell me you have a heart?”
“I do not understand all that has passed here, but that is not Castamir’s body. Arwen will tell you. Call her back.”
“Leave me,” Aragorn repeated. “I wish to be alone with my mother.”
“I will be at the door.” The Vigil crossed the chamber and stood out of Aragorn’s line of sight while he yearned with his whole being to be at the Heir’s side. It was an actual physical sensation like a bowstring drawn back too far, his every muscle taut, resisting a pull as inexorable as the sway the moon held over the sea. It could not be overcome, residing as it did in the Vigil’s blood and bone; he was iron, and Aragorn was the lodestone.
Aragorn’s shoulders sagged and his chin dropped to his chest as he gazed down on his mother in her unnatural slumber. She might never wake, unless he could find a cure, but he didn’t even know yet what afflicted her. He was not a worthy son; how could he hope to serve all Gondor, if he could not even fulfill his filial duties? All his hard-won self-confidence eroded under the pelting of doubt and guilt. Even if he should win this war and save Minas Tirith, he would count it a hollow victory and of little worth unless the Queen should look upon his triumph and smile with pride. What was a lover’s praise beside the approval of the one that had given him life? A small sob rose in his throat and was muffled as he put his head down against the coverlet and wept.
Legolas had taken three steps toward Aragorn before he was aware he’d moved. The Man’s sorrow was a spear thrust through the Elf’s heart. His longing to comfort his charge was equal to the hatred he had once felt for Aragorn’s Race and it burned like the touch of freezing metal. Being this far from the Heir’s presence was like standing sentry naked on a deep winter’s night. He would never be warm again if Aragorn did not look kindly on him.
The light footsteps of an Elf that wished his presence known made Legolas turn. Haldir had returned alone. “Prince of the great woodland realm,” the Marchwarden said, bowing his head. “Will you hear my message now?”
The Vigil’s eyes had already returned to the young Man kneeling in the chamber. “If you wish,” he said.
“Your sire bade me speak these words to you, and he did not care if others should hear.”
“Nor do I. Speak.”
Haldir tilted his head to one side. “You are different and yet the same as at our first meeting,” he observed. “Cold you are and yet, beneath your ice, I sense such heat as would melt all the snow in the North. Is this a consequence of the binding you labor under?”
“Are you here to ask questions, or deliver a message?”
“You are without doubt the rudest of Galadrim, but I remind myself that you have been among the humans for some time now.”
“I was rude before ever I met my first Man,” Legolas answered. “Surely my sire has filled your pretty ears with tales of my madness and ingratitude. He could never forgive that my royal blood meant so little to me.”
“It means much to King Thranduil that you are of his blood, and that you are all he has left of his beloved consort.” Haldir paused, as the Vigil’s eyes went hard and bright as enamel. “The King shared many memories with me, Prince. I think he would like to share them with you, if you would but allow it.”
“No forgiveness, no honor, no love. He will have nothing of me but the duty I owe him as my sovereign, and not even that, now that my life belongs to Gondor’s Heir.”
“You trouble me.”
“Then I ask your forgiveness, Haldir the Splendid, and that of your Lady for marring your perfection with so much as a frown. If you have finished your meddling in the affairs of my family, I believe there was some message you were anxious to deliver.”
Haldir was silent for a long moment, his silvery gaze neutral. “You sadden me,” he said at last. “Long have I heard the tales of the wild prince of Mirkwood that dared go where others did not and slew fell beasts in the darkness of the world’s evil places. I admired you in secret and wished many times to give up my responsibilities and seek you out, to join you and the Peredhil in your adventures. I knew that it could never be, of course; my path lay along a different road, but still you were to me as Gil-Galad.”
Legolas watched Aragorn pull the coverlet up to Queen Gilraen’s neck as he answered. “I cannot imagine your disappointment in me. Was there aught else? I will be needed soon.”
“You have always been needed,” Haldir replied. “But I will not take up more of your time. King Thranduil bids me wish you good fortune in battle, and wishes that you will return one day soon that he might make certain explanations. He says further that if you do not return to Mirkwood, he will come to Minas Tirith to speak with you.”
Legolas let none of his shock show on his face. “I will not call you a liar and add to my reputation for rudeness, but it is well-known that the ruler of Mirkwood the Mighty does not leave the green fortress of his kingdom for anyone. Even the Lord and Lady of Lorien came to him when they wished a meeting.”
“You will not hear what you do not wish to,” Haldir said softly to the back of Legolas’s head, as the Vigil walked away from him.
“What is your will?” Legolas asked the Heir.
Aragorn’s focus returned to the here and now. “Let in the Guards that they may carry the Umbaran’s body hence for study. Perhaps there may yet be some clue…”
“Command me,” the Vigil prompted, when the Man’s words trailed off.
“Have I ever commanded you?” Aragorn wondered. “It seems to me that you have always done as you willed. I think we must have a test of obedience.”
“You have but to make your will known.”
“Then I charge you with the finding of the Steward, or at the least, some hint of where he has gone. Do not return without some news.”
The black ice at Legolas’s core that had thawed under the sun of Gondor’s best hope reformed, colder and bitterer. He swallowed the burning words that rose in his throat like bile, choking on the need to scream that he would die if banished from Aragorn’s presence. The Elf knew he would not die; he would only wish to, but in the Heir’s face he could see no softness that would yield to such argument as he could make. Minas Tirith finally had what she needed: a King that would not let his emotions cloud his judgment.
Feeling the leaden weight of despair begin to settle over his spirit, the Vigil bowed his head. Aragorn’s gaze lingered on the battle braids gleaming with pewter softness in the early morning light. It was not without a great inner struggle that the Heir kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to stroke the pale hair, to kiss the sweet lips that were so out of place on the countenance of such a fierce warrior. “You may go,” he said.
tbc
Please see chapter one for synopsis.
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas
Rated: PG13
Disclaimer: I borrow these characters from J.R.R. Tolkien with love and respect.
Thank you, Jean.
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“Well, Faramir,” Aragorn said, as he came into the courtyard. “It seems you are a more than adequate deputy for your sire.” As Faramir bowed, Aragorn looked around at those the young Man had assembled. “My friends, I hope you do not mind meeting out of doors. The Council Chamber seems too large without Gondor’s Steward.”
“I thank you for choosing this location,” Arwen, daughter of Elrond spoke out. “Far better to speak in the light of Anor while breathing free air.”
“For as long as it remains free,” Boromir muttered.
“Heir of Isildur,” Haldir said, as he stepped forward, clad in chiming mail. “I too thank you for your hospitality.”
“It is you and your brethren that deserve my thanks,” Aragorn said. “Your arrows have thinned the ranks of our besiegers. I know you have not had opportunity to speak with Prince Legolas privately, but I give my word that you shall have it when this council is ended. And now to the most pressing matter: Denethor is not to be found within the walls or grounds of the palace, nor anywhere he is wont to dwell. The search continues, but I fear that some plan of the enemy must account for his disappearance. However, we cannot stand still with Umbar at our gates. May I have your thoughts on this?”
Legolas stood proudly behind the young ruler who did not issue orders to his councilors, but appealed to them for their advice. And such a council few kings had stood before. This was no gathering of graybeards, though older, wiser heads were represented. Nor was it a roomful of generals, each bent on battle and sure his strategy was best. Aragorn’s council was a disparate collection of Elves and Men that saw the situation from widely diverging perspectives. Together, the Heir hoped that they could build an accurate enough view of this war to find an end to it. Each member was given a say, and each opinion carried equal weight, whether the speaker was a captain, a princess, or a philosopher. At times, the debate was interrupted by the sound of a sorcerous explosion from the riverbanks, but Mirkwood archers on the walls taught the black-robed Umbarans to respect their range. When the meeting was over, leaders strode away to implement new strategies, leaving a small group around the Heir.
“You are our King in all but name,” Faramir said. “Though you wear no crown, you are my liege, and I await your command.”
“As do I,” Boromir moved to stand at his brother’s side.
“And I with him,” Arwen saluted Aragorn with the upraised fist of a warrior.
Silently, Elladan and Elrohir flanked Faramir, as Haldir came forward also. At Aragorn’s shoulder stood the Vigil and behind him were six of the Guards of the White Tree, their mithril helmets glittering in the sunlight. The pennants snapped overhead in the wind that always blew on these heights, streaming out like the long hair of the Elves, and Aragorn thought what a fine, brave show they made, like something out of the ancient sagas he used to spend hours reading. And now that he came to think of it, the heroes and heroines in those tales had no doubt stood as he did now, uncertain of the outcome, but willing to fight for what they loved. It was at once a disillusioning and a bracing thought. Perhaps one day another young Man would face an enemy and remember how Aragorn of Gondor acquitted himself. If so, it would be better if Aragorn did not fail.
“Why do you smile, my liege?” Faramir asked.
“He just realized some truth about life,” was Boromir’s opinion. “You do not remember that look, little brother?”
“It has been some little while since we were carefree scholars,” Faramir answered.
“And never carefree,” Aragorn said. “I go now to my lady mother for her blessing. Those who wish may come with me. Legolas,” the Heir lowered his voice. “If you wish to tarry and speak with Haldir…”
“There will be time for fond messages when we have driven the enemy into the river,” the Vigil said.
“My message is not urgent to the war, Prince,” Haldir inclined his head. “Merely of a personal nature. If you wish to wait, I am at your service.”
Aragorn’s instincts engendered a vague uneasiness, but he led the way to the royal wing of the Houses of Healing. Faramir and the Peredhil left to assemble a company of knights, but Arwen wished to see the Queen and Boromir would not leave her. Legolas and Haldir stood just inside the door of Gilraen’s chamber as the others crossed to the bed. The Umbaran boy stood as they approached, his scarf obscuring the lower half of his down-turned face.
“I do not suppose there is any change?” Aragorn asked softly.
Romen shook his head, speaking as little as possible around the Vigil. These Elves had eyes and ears and even noses sharper than any Mordor-spawned demon. The Umbaran sovereign had hoped to slip into Minas Tirith, take out some key players, and leave a mystery behind. Alas, it seemed it would not be so for doubtless he would not have a better opportunity than this. He wished the Elves were farther away, but it was Boromir’s proximity that mattered. Putting this plan into motion meant revealing himself, but it could not be helped. Romen gave Aragorn room to kneel beside the bed, brushing against Boromir as he stepped back. Enduring the Captain’s black look, the Umbaran moved a discreet distance away. As Aragorn took the Queen’s hand between his, and Arwen leaned closer to the sleeper, the sorcerer-king tried to activate the deep-seated controls he had planted in Boromir’s mind. As he had noted before, some Elvish healer had released the Man’s spirit from its dark bindings, but that Elf had been over-confident. Down in the deepest red-black depths where the most primal emotions held sway, Romen found what he sought.
‘It should be you,’ the sorcerer said silently. ‘You are more fit to rule Gondor than a weak scholar. It should be you. Take the throne. Kill him now.’
Boromir shook his shaggy head irritably, as though plagued by some buzzing insect. His gaze slid sideways and down until it rested on the Heir. The captain noted how close was Aragorn to she whom Boromir loved with all his being. The deeply buried resentments that would normally shame the big man came boiling up, tinting the scene with a red mist, and sending his hand seeking the hilt of his sword. As Boromir’s scarred fingers closed around the well-worn leather wrapping, Aragorn bent his head and a tear fell to darken the Queen’s coverlet. ‘Unfit,’ murmured the cool, reasonable voice. ‘The Heir is not the King that Gondor needs. You are strong and untroubled by sentiment. For the good of the realm, kill him. Strike now, while he is unsuspecting.’ Boromir trembled as the part of him that Arwen had reclaimed resisted the compulsion to slay his friend.
Haldir glanced at Legolas and raised one eyebrow. “I feel a chill that has nothing to do with all this stone.”
The Vigil nodded curtly, scanning the room for signs of danger. “There is a darkness in my mind that is not my own. It comes from outside.”
The Marchwarden’s serene gaze skimmed the tableau at the bedside and settled on the most interesting mortal in the room. The slender silk-swathed figure was evidently a nurse of sorts, but it surprised the Elf to find an Umbaran so close to the royal family. The lad must have the Heir’s implicit trust, though Haldir could sense no long term connection, or great regard, between them. Here was a puzzle, and Haldir delighted in such. He was on the verge of asking Prince Legolas a question, when the other Elf lunged across the room.
Arwen looked over her shoulder as the shadow of Boromir’s sword fell over the linen. Her shouted warning came a split-second after the Vigil’s, as she drew her dagger and shoved Aragorn to the side. The Heir let go of his mother’s hand and reached for Anduril, shielding her body with his. Legolas knew that for all his speed he would never reach Boromir in time. He must trust to the Lady Arwen, or find another way to stop Gondor’s great champion. Changing course in mid-stride, the Vigil launched himself at the Umbaran boy. Silently begging the lad’s forgiveness, Legolas threw him at Boromir. Boromir staggered, his stroke going awry, but the seasoned warrior pivoted, shifting his weight and bringing his blade around in a low arc. The broadsword sheared easily through the costly fabric of Romen’s robes and continued on to open a horrid wound across his belly. The sorcerer-king’s control over the man was broken, and Boromir sagged as Arwen’s arm snaked around his neck and her knife pricked his throat. The point of Haldir’s sword dimpled the skin on the other side of the captain’s neck. Boromir went still as stone, not even breathing until Aragorn spoke.
“Hold!” the Heir shouted, as Romen crumpled to the floor at the Vigil’s feet. “No one is to kill anyone yet.”
“I fear it is too late for Castamir,” Legolas said as he knelt.
Romen laughed, spraying his chin and the Elf’s arm with bright red. “Fools.”
“Do not try to speak,” Legolas told him. “Lady Arwen! Will you help?”
Arwen looked to Aragorn and at his nod, she sheathed her dagger and left her beloved under Haldir’s guard. As she sank to the floor beside the injured Umbaran, he used the last of his strength to grab at her hand. Arwen flinched, her eyes widening as Romen’s skin grazed hers. Flinging herself backward, she stared in shock. “That is not Castamir.”
The Vigil pulled the winding scarf from the dying Umbaran’s face and studied the fine features closely. “He looks like Castamir, and yet… Who are you?” the Elf demanded to know, as he clutched a fistful of the ruined robe.
Romen laughed again, a wet chuckle that roughened the skin like a sudden chill. “Fools, and you are the biggest fool of all, Sindar slave,” he whispered.
“He is one of the enemy sorcerers,” Haldir said confidently.
“He practices the Black Arts, that is plain enough,” Arwen said.
“What was your purpose here?” the Vigil shook Romen when the Umbaran’s eyelids slid down.
“Where is the Steward?” Aragorn asked, looming over those on the floor.
Romen’s velvet dark eyes met the gaze of Isildur’s Heir and saw steel. “It seems that all I have accomplished… is to give you new resolve. How… ironic,” he coughed. A warm torrent of crimson soaked into black silk and ran over the Elf’s white knuckles. “I lost my… gamble, but… you… will lose… your Queen. I take the… secret… of her malady… with me.”
Aragorn dropped to his knees next the Vigil and clutched at the Umbaran’s shoulders. “Tell me,” he demanded. “How do I wake her?” Romen favored them with a red grin and went limp. “No!” the Heir shouted, shaking the dead man. “Tell me! Tell me!”
“Your Highness?” Haldir said inquiringly, and three sets of eyes focused on him. “This warrior needs tending.”
Boromir swayed on his feet and would have gone down had Arwen not been there. Drawing his arm around her shoulders, she beckoned the Marchwarden with her eyes and Haldir helped convey the Man to a bench. Legolas put his hands over Aragorn’s and pried the Heir’s fingers from the bloody cloth of Romen’s robes. Aragorn looked up into the Vigil’s inky blue eyes and abruptly flung away from him. “Leave me,” Aragorn said through clenched teeth.
“You know I cannot.”
“And I say you will. All of you. Get out. Now!” Such was Aragorn’s power of command in that moment that all but the Vigil began moving toward the door.
“Let me help you,” Legolas said.
“You have done enough. I believed you had feelings just like anyone else. I would not listen when the Steward told me that you had none, that you were a heartless killer, an assassin sent to guard me because of an ancient pact and a binding spell. I let you worm your way into my confidence and now you have destroyed my hope.”
“I wished only to save your life.”
“Yes, that is your over-riding imperative, is it not? And you would do anything to keep me from harm. You would even bed me to get closer so you might ward me more efficiently. I understand now. How could you care for me when you have no heart?”
“I have a heart.”
Aragorn shook his head. “You tossed that boy onto Boromir’s blade without a second thought, as if you and he had never shared joy, as if he was a piece of furniture. How can you tell me you have a heart?”
“I do not understand all that has passed here, but that is not Castamir’s body. Arwen will tell you. Call her back.”
“Leave me,” Aragorn repeated. “I wish to be alone with my mother.”
“I will be at the door.” The Vigil crossed the chamber and stood out of Aragorn’s line of sight while he yearned with his whole being to be at the Heir’s side. It was an actual physical sensation like a bowstring drawn back too far, his every muscle taut, resisting a pull as inexorable as the sway the moon held over the sea. It could not be overcome, residing as it did in the Vigil’s blood and bone; he was iron, and Aragorn was the lodestone.
Aragorn’s shoulders sagged and his chin dropped to his chest as he gazed down on his mother in her unnatural slumber. She might never wake, unless he could find a cure, but he didn’t even know yet what afflicted her. He was not a worthy son; how could he hope to serve all Gondor, if he could not even fulfill his filial duties? All his hard-won self-confidence eroded under the pelting of doubt and guilt. Even if he should win this war and save Minas Tirith, he would count it a hollow victory and of little worth unless the Queen should look upon his triumph and smile with pride. What was a lover’s praise beside the approval of the one that had given him life? A small sob rose in his throat and was muffled as he put his head down against the coverlet and wept.
Legolas had taken three steps toward Aragorn before he was aware he’d moved. The Man’s sorrow was a spear thrust through the Elf’s heart. His longing to comfort his charge was equal to the hatred he had once felt for Aragorn’s Race and it burned like the touch of freezing metal. Being this far from the Heir’s presence was like standing sentry naked on a deep winter’s night. He would never be warm again if Aragorn did not look kindly on him.
The light footsteps of an Elf that wished his presence known made Legolas turn. Haldir had returned alone. “Prince of the great woodland realm,” the Marchwarden said, bowing his head. “Will you hear my message now?”
The Vigil’s eyes had already returned to the young Man kneeling in the chamber. “If you wish,” he said.
“Your sire bade me speak these words to you, and he did not care if others should hear.”
“Nor do I. Speak.”
Haldir tilted his head to one side. “You are different and yet the same as at our first meeting,” he observed. “Cold you are and yet, beneath your ice, I sense such heat as would melt all the snow in the North. Is this a consequence of the binding you labor under?”
“Are you here to ask questions, or deliver a message?”
“You are without doubt the rudest of Galadrim, but I remind myself that you have been among the humans for some time now.”
“I was rude before ever I met my first Man,” Legolas answered. “Surely my sire has filled your pretty ears with tales of my madness and ingratitude. He could never forgive that my royal blood meant so little to me.”
“It means much to King Thranduil that you are of his blood, and that you are all he has left of his beloved consort.” Haldir paused, as the Vigil’s eyes went hard and bright as enamel. “The King shared many memories with me, Prince. I think he would like to share them with you, if you would but allow it.”
“No forgiveness, no honor, no love. He will have nothing of me but the duty I owe him as my sovereign, and not even that, now that my life belongs to Gondor’s Heir.”
“You trouble me.”
“Then I ask your forgiveness, Haldir the Splendid, and that of your Lady for marring your perfection with so much as a frown. If you have finished your meddling in the affairs of my family, I believe there was some message you were anxious to deliver.”
Haldir was silent for a long moment, his silvery gaze neutral. “You sadden me,” he said at last. “Long have I heard the tales of the wild prince of Mirkwood that dared go where others did not and slew fell beasts in the darkness of the world’s evil places. I admired you in secret and wished many times to give up my responsibilities and seek you out, to join you and the Peredhil in your adventures. I knew that it could never be, of course; my path lay along a different road, but still you were to me as Gil-Galad.”
Legolas watched Aragorn pull the coverlet up to Queen Gilraen’s neck as he answered. “I cannot imagine your disappointment in me. Was there aught else? I will be needed soon.”
“You have always been needed,” Haldir replied. “But I will not take up more of your time. King Thranduil bids me wish you good fortune in battle, and wishes that you will return one day soon that he might make certain explanations. He says further that if you do not return to Mirkwood, he will come to Minas Tirith to speak with you.”
Legolas let none of his shock show on his face. “I will not call you a liar and add to my reputation for rudeness, but it is well-known that the ruler of Mirkwood the Mighty does not leave the green fortress of his kingdom for anyone. Even the Lord and Lady of Lorien came to him when they wished a meeting.”
“You will not hear what you do not wish to,” Haldir said softly to the back of Legolas’s head, as the Vigil walked away from him.
“What is your will?” Legolas asked the Heir.
Aragorn’s focus returned to the here and now. “Let in the Guards that they may carry the Umbaran’s body hence for study. Perhaps there may yet be some clue…”
“Command me,” the Vigil prompted, when the Man’s words trailed off.
“Have I ever commanded you?” Aragorn wondered. “It seems to me that you have always done as you willed. I think we must have a test of obedience.”
“You have but to make your will known.”
“Then I charge you with the finding of the Steward, or at the least, some hint of where he has gone. Do not return without some news.”
The black ice at Legolas’s core that had thawed under the sun of Gondor’s best hope reformed, colder and bitterer. He swallowed the burning words that rose in his throat like bile, choking on the need to scream that he would die if banished from Aragorn’s presence. The Elf knew he would not die; he would only wish to, but in the Heir’s face he could see no softness that would yield to such argument as he could make. Minas Tirith finally had what she needed: a King that would not let his emotions cloud his judgment.
Feeling the leaden weight of despair begin to settle over his spirit, the Vigil bowed his head. Aragorn’s gaze lingered on the battle braids gleaming with pewter softness in the early morning light. It was not without a great inner struggle that the Heir kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to stroke the pale hair, to kiss the sweet lips that were so out of place on the countenance of such a fierce warrior. “You may go,” he said.
tbc