TITLE: Straight On 'Til Morning
AUTHOR: Luna
ARCHIVE: Soundfic, certainly.
CATEGORY: LOTR:TTT, implied Legolas/Aragorn. PG for one
naughty word.
NOTES: Not mine and I don't want them, but here I am
anyway. Big love to Kyra Cullinan for quick beta.
SUMMARY: He made his pledge; he made his choice.
There is a joy in running at night, Legolas knows, no
matter how long the road or how unlikely the return. Elves
never do anything without a certain joy in its rhythm.
Hill country is a raucous, rustling sea of dry grass that
harbors a bellowing wind. Far above, the few stars sing in
voices sure as arrows piercing the sky's black hide. Far
ahead, the clanking of orc armor, the hiss of stinking
Uruk-hai breath.
They are three sets of footsteps. Running at night.
The muscles in Legolas' thighs are straining, complaining,
though it's nothing that a quarter hour's rest wouldn't
mend. His heart is a war drum. Another elf would hear him
coming a dozen miles away. But not an orc, or a dwarf, or
an ordinary man.
He scouts ahead of his fellows, vaulting over the boulders,
landing as soft and sure-footed as the hard earth allows.
On a high swell he stops, eyes narrowed against the
whistling wind, and watches their enemies making for the
east. An ugly pack leaving an ugly, trampled trail. They
jostle each other, perhaps laughing, perhaps snarling, in
their guttural language that is fit only for foulness.
Beyond them--for they are no longer so distant that Legolas
cannot see beyond them--the horizon looks like ripped
flesh. There is no sunrise in that sky, only a crackle of
lightning.
Aragorn comes to his side; his breathing is loud, but
steady as untroubled sleep. He gazes out as far as he can
see. "How far ahead?"
"Little more than a day," Legolas says, squinting again,
"if we don't lose their trail."
"We won't." He slips naturally into Elvish speech.
"They've kept the hobbits alive this long, but they'll grow
restless and reckless between battles."
A grim current underlies the words. Between battles.
Legolas does not possess all the gifts of his elders; his
sight only goes so far. Yet it rushes toward and around
him now, individual sounds multiplied and amplified into a
roar. Rain striking iron. Torches sizzling out in
steaming mud. The thick wet sound of a blade cleaving
flesh. Screams of war, screams of pain.
Now Aragorn claps a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"
Nothing but wind in his ears. He shakes his head. "We
don't have time to lose."
A gentle pressure of his hand, and Aragorn springs forward,
taking the lead.
Hill country, horse country; the soil has been churned and
flattened by hundreds of hooves. Each footfall echoes.
Aragorn leads them along a valley path: less of a vantage
point, more cover. Though everything here is so bare, so
bleak, so empty except for the boundless howling of the
wind. Oh! for a forest, for the forest of Lorien, each
tender leaf whispering to its brother and the Lady
Galadriel's hair lilting in the breeze. Her voice like a
hand reaching into his heart, strumming a perfect chord.
Lorien: every step, every snapping twig a song. The
longing deepens within Legolas like that music.
Fifteen paces behind him, tramping up a green incline, the
dwarf is beginning to pant for breath. Legolas allows his
pace to lapse so they are matched. "You look exhausted,"
he says. "Though I am sure you rested well enough in
Lothlorien."
Gimli grunts. "I will allow that we received better
hospitality there than in the halls of my cousins." They
each wince, remembering the horror of Moria, of the crack
of the Balrog's blazing whip. Frodo's scream, Gandalf's
fall. "Nevertheless," Gimli says, "you elves are much too
convinced of your own superiority."
"I could give you ten leagues' head start and still outrun
you."
"Yet you weigh less than my ax." At this they both
chuckle.
"What would you do?" Legolas asks, listening to Gimli's
heavy treading and his own light steps. The incline has
become a steep slope, and Aragorn has vanished over its
horizon. "Tunnel beneath the whole of Middle-earth and
surprise the orcs on the other side?"
"By your neck, I would." Gimli sighs, like a bellows
fanning a dying fire. "Give me ten of my stout kinsmen and
something to feed them apart from these shitting crackers."
As they climb, Legolas braces himself with a hand in a
clump of grass. "You'll learn to be glad of lembas-bread
before--"
Rain striking iron. A roar of flame, a roar of water
released in a flood. An orcish growl turning into an
enraged shriek as an arrow enters its throat.
Gimli is peering at him strangely. "Before the end,"
Legolas finishes, and pulls himself higher, fills his lungs
with air and sprints up the hill.
He has no doubt that it is the future he's catching wind
of, or one future. It may be a future of Men, one that
will not touch upon the Ringbearer or upon Elfkind. No:
the elves will make for the Western sea and sail to
Valinor. Perhaps they are making their way west now.
All of them, perhaps, except Arwen, clear-eyed Arwen whose
star glimmers over Aragorn's heart. Legolas does not need
second sight to see her lying on a bed, half asleep and
humming a song from her childhood. Her voice and her
prayers are with them. She will not take herself to the
Undying Lands while Aragorn draws breath.
And neither will Legolas.
Not for him the ocean, with its squalling clouds and
wailing sea-birds. This hits him with the force of a fist,
the impact ringing in his ears. He made his pledge; he
made his choice. His people will go and he will remain, in
this service.
Rain striking iron. Screaming. A clash of many swords. A
thunder of many riders.
Silence.
Only the night wind. And Aragorn's footsteps in time with
his own.
Almost unconsciously, Legolas fingers the clasp that
fastens his cloak. The green-and-gold leaf seems to chime
at his touch. As if he heard it too, Aragorn cocks his
head and looks back. His profile is clear even in the
dark. And he is smiling.
He is a born king, and there is no call to wonder why he
inspires such love. The very grasses quiet and part
themselves in his path.
After all, thinks Legolas, there are worse futures. He has
heard the twang of his own bowstring in battle, and the
whirring of an arrow shot as true as a shaft of sunlight.
He has heard the Lady's voice in blessing. Now he hears it
again, the syllables breaking through fear and weariness.
There are still a few pure stars singing in the sky.
He runs faster, faster, until he has come to Aragorn's
right hand. Their strides, their muscles, their pulses
perfectly even.
"Little more than a day," Aragorn says. He is not even
short of breath. "Then we'll be upon them. And they'll
wish they never heard of hobbits."
"More than that. They'll wish they never heard of you."
They share a smile for a moment. Then Legolas ducks his
head. Fair hair streaming behind him, he takes the lead.
Hill country rolls out before him, regular as the breast of
the ocean. Perhaps he will die here; if he dies, he will
do it with grace. But Legolas knows nothing of the future
now. Only running at night. The rhythm his companions'
steps make with his own. The sweet strain in his muscles,
and in his heart a battle cry.
In his heart, the stirring of gladness that is what he
knows best of being alive.
AUTHOR: Luna
ARCHIVE: Soundfic, certainly.
CATEGORY: LOTR:TTT, implied Legolas/Aragorn. PG for one
naughty word.
NOTES: Not mine and I don't want them, but here I am
anyway. Big love to Kyra Cullinan for quick beta.
SUMMARY: He made his pledge; he made his choice.
There is a joy in running at night, Legolas knows, no
matter how long the road or how unlikely the return. Elves
never do anything without a certain joy in its rhythm.
Hill country is a raucous, rustling sea of dry grass that
harbors a bellowing wind. Far above, the few stars sing in
voices sure as arrows piercing the sky's black hide. Far
ahead, the clanking of orc armor, the hiss of stinking
Uruk-hai breath.
They are three sets of footsteps. Running at night.
The muscles in Legolas' thighs are straining, complaining,
though it's nothing that a quarter hour's rest wouldn't
mend. His heart is a war drum. Another elf would hear him
coming a dozen miles away. But not an orc, or a dwarf, or
an ordinary man.
He scouts ahead of his fellows, vaulting over the boulders,
landing as soft and sure-footed as the hard earth allows.
On a high swell he stops, eyes narrowed against the
whistling wind, and watches their enemies making for the
east. An ugly pack leaving an ugly, trampled trail. They
jostle each other, perhaps laughing, perhaps snarling, in
their guttural language that is fit only for foulness.
Beyond them--for they are no longer so distant that Legolas
cannot see beyond them--the horizon looks like ripped
flesh. There is no sunrise in that sky, only a crackle of
lightning.
Aragorn comes to his side; his breathing is loud, but
steady as untroubled sleep. He gazes out as far as he can
see. "How far ahead?"
"Little more than a day," Legolas says, squinting again,
"if we don't lose their trail."
"We won't." He slips naturally into Elvish speech.
"They've kept the hobbits alive this long, but they'll grow
restless and reckless between battles."
A grim current underlies the words. Between battles.
Legolas does not possess all the gifts of his elders; his
sight only goes so far. Yet it rushes toward and around
him now, individual sounds multiplied and amplified into a
roar. Rain striking iron. Torches sizzling out in
steaming mud. The thick wet sound of a blade cleaving
flesh. Screams of war, screams of pain.
Now Aragorn claps a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"
Nothing but wind in his ears. He shakes his head. "We
don't have time to lose."
A gentle pressure of his hand, and Aragorn springs forward,
taking the lead.
Hill country, horse country; the soil has been churned and
flattened by hundreds of hooves. Each footfall echoes.
Aragorn leads them along a valley path: less of a vantage
point, more cover. Though everything here is so bare, so
bleak, so empty except for the boundless howling of the
wind. Oh! for a forest, for the forest of Lorien, each
tender leaf whispering to its brother and the Lady
Galadriel's hair lilting in the breeze. Her voice like a
hand reaching into his heart, strumming a perfect chord.
Lorien: every step, every snapping twig a song. The
longing deepens within Legolas like that music.
Fifteen paces behind him, tramping up a green incline, the
dwarf is beginning to pant for breath. Legolas allows his
pace to lapse so they are matched. "You look exhausted,"
he says. "Though I am sure you rested well enough in
Lothlorien."
Gimli grunts. "I will allow that we received better
hospitality there than in the halls of my cousins." They
each wince, remembering the horror of Moria, of the crack
of the Balrog's blazing whip. Frodo's scream, Gandalf's
fall. "Nevertheless," Gimli says, "you elves are much too
convinced of your own superiority."
"I could give you ten leagues' head start and still outrun
you."
"Yet you weigh less than my ax." At this they both
chuckle.
"What would you do?" Legolas asks, listening to Gimli's
heavy treading and his own light steps. The incline has
become a steep slope, and Aragorn has vanished over its
horizon. "Tunnel beneath the whole of Middle-earth and
surprise the orcs on the other side?"
"By your neck, I would." Gimli sighs, like a bellows
fanning a dying fire. "Give me ten of my stout kinsmen and
something to feed them apart from these shitting crackers."
As they climb, Legolas braces himself with a hand in a
clump of grass. "You'll learn to be glad of lembas-bread
before--"
Rain striking iron. A roar of flame, a roar of water
released in a flood. An orcish growl turning into an
enraged shriek as an arrow enters its throat.
Gimli is peering at him strangely. "Before the end,"
Legolas finishes, and pulls himself higher, fills his lungs
with air and sprints up the hill.
He has no doubt that it is the future he's catching wind
of, or one future. It may be a future of Men, one that
will not touch upon the Ringbearer or upon Elfkind. No:
the elves will make for the Western sea and sail to
Valinor. Perhaps they are making their way west now.
All of them, perhaps, except Arwen, clear-eyed Arwen whose
star glimmers over Aragorn's heart. Legolas does not need
second sight to see her lying on a bed, half asleep and
humming a song from her childhood. Her voice and her
prayers are with them. She will not take herself to the
Undying Lands while Aragorn draws breath.
And neither will Legolas.
Not for him the ocean, with its squalling clouds and
wailing sea-birds. This hits him with the force of a fist,
the impact ringing in his ears. He made his pledge; he
made his choice. His people will go and he will remain, in
this service.
Rain striking iron. Screaming. A clash of many swords. A
thunder of many riders.
Silence.
Only the night wind. And Aragorn's footsteps in time with
his own.
Almost unconsciously, Legolas fingers the clasp that
fastens his cloak. The green-and-gold leaf seems to chime
at his touch. As if he heard it too, Aragorn cocks his
head and looks back. His profile is clear even in the
dark. And he is smiling.
He is a born king, and there is no call to wonder why he
inspires such love. The very grasses quiet and part
themselves in his path.
After all, thinks Legolas, there are worse futures. He has
heard the twang of his own bowstring in battle, and the
whirring of an arrow shot as true as a shaft of sunlight.
He has heard the Lady's voice in blessing. Now he hears it
again, the syllables breaking through fear and weariness.
There are still a few pure stars singing in the sky.
He runs faster, faster, until he has come to Aragorn's
right hand. Their strides, their muscles, their pulses
perfectly even.
"Little more than a day," Aragorn says. He is not even
short of breath. "Then we'll be upon them. And they'll
wish they never heard of hobbits."
"More than that. They'll wish they never heard of you."
They share a smile for a moment. Then Legolas ducks his
head. Fair hair streaming behind him, he takes the lead.
Hill country rolls out before him, regular as the breast of
the ocean. Perhaps he will die here; if he dies, he will
do it with grace. But Legolas knows nothing of the future
now. Only running at night. The rhythm his companions'
steps make with his own. The sweet strain in his muscles,
and in his heart a battle cry.
In his heart, the stirring of gladness that is what he
knows best of being alive.