By: Maranwe
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Picks up a week after the conclusion of False Reality. Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir are back in Rivendell safe and sound. Or are they? The poison has been neutralized and all appears well. But things are not always as they seem. Darkness has many forms and shadows creep with the wavering of light. When Aragorn has a dream of doom and travels to Mirkwood to prevent catastrophe, will he find the danger he feared or is it something different? Will he be able to face it? Or will the darkness prove too much?
Spoilers: Ooh, I have some. False Reality. It's a directly related fic, after all. Melon Chronicles, also, since I can't seem to get away from them and write a completely mine story.
Series: It's the second in what I plan as a trilogy. If it has a name, it's lost in the recesses of my mind. Or maybe it was in Aragorn's mind and shall now never be recovered.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from other people's work is not mine. I just borrowed them (I think with permission) and promise to give them back. I don't make any money from them and never will. References and allusions to others from many various Mellon Chronicles stories are the property of Cassia and Sio. Raniean and Trelan are theirs, and someone in relation to Tolkien holds all the copyrights, or so I believe.
A/N: While this seems shockingly similar to certain events in Dark Visions, that is merely coincidence. They divulge along different paths quickly. Or failrly quickly. Of course, it may just be me, but it wasn't intentional if I'm not dilusional and it's there.
I don't think one needs to read False Reality to understand this fic, but, alas, I can not tell. I wrote both and so know everything, but I think I have explained everything that needs explaining to understand well enough in this first chapter that reading the other story is not necessary. Of course, I would suggest you read it anyway. *g* If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I will answer whether you like the answer or not.
What else? Oh yes. I will be posting ever two days. Meaning two days will pass before the next chapter is posted. I would post every other day, but I know I will be unable to keep up come October, so I will not upset the schedule and do it this way. This story is 20 chapters. And while, technically, this is not supposed to be posted until tomorrow, I suspect those waiting for it will not mind getting it early.
All mistakes are mine. No one has beta'd this, though my brother read over it when I first wrote it. On that note, I have to say that this fic is NOT slash. No matter what your twisted minds come up with on the basis of this first chapter, it is NOT SLASH. If you would not have considered anything of the sort without this warning, I apologize, as I saw nothing wrong with it, but . . . Oh well.
I'd like to thank all my wonderful, wonderful reviewers. Any aditional responses to the last chapter of False Reality are at the bottom of the chapter.
Now, onto the story.
Chapter 1
Darkness Creeps
The night was dark; no moon hung in the sky to add it's light to that of the stars.
In this realm of semi-darkness, Aragorn sat quietly, staring out the window that offered so little light. The stars offered the only illumination and the human's eyes sought out the light of Earendil. The bright star was a symbol of hope, but it gave him none. Not now.
A week ago Aragorn had returned to Rivendell after his trip to the Misty Mountains. He had achieved his goal, uncovering who was behind the attacks, and the culprits were now gone, though he knew they were not vanquished. While there, he had met a girl and been poisoned with a drug called Ungwale which preyed upon a person's insecurities and tortured their minds with dreadful images.
It was because of the later that he could not sleep.
The days were getting shorter, every one bringing darkness to the lands a little earlier to stay a little longer. It was the way of things, the way of life, but the darkness brought Aragorn no ease, no peace. Never before had the shadows bothered him so much that he could not even imagine going to sleep, not even in the House of Elrond where he had always felt safest. Now, however, he desperately awaited the coming of the Sun to remove the need to sleep; nothing good came of sleep.
Indeed, images plagued his mind day and night, but never were they worse or more difficult to control than at night, when he was alone with his thoughts and could be dragged into dreams that would not listen to his heart nor his mind.
Sometimes he saw things from the past, shadows from the death of his father that was likely more imagination than reality for he could not remember his father, only terror. Sometimes it was his elven family he saw. Sometimes he was a boy again, unsure of his place in a land where he was different, afraid of his new family's rejection. But he knew better now, or thought he did.
Two weeks ago, he had had no problem sleeping. Just two weeks ago, everything had been normal and the darkness was no more threatening than the day. Then, he had met Kalya and unwittingly pulled himself into the middle of a mess far larger than he could have imagined such simple action could wrought.
On a moutain, standing with a girl over-looking the vast wilderness of the Wilds, he had caught sight of a figure, aiming an arrow at Kalya's back. He had reacted without thought, his instincts to protect the innocent no matter the cost to himself taking over. The arrow had pierced his own chest. Then he found out it was poisoned and Kalya was not as innocent in the matter as she seemed, though he could not regret meeting her.
And now. . . . Now he suffered from nightly visions and images he had thought to be free of once the Ungwale had be neutralized. He was never free of the darkness, the doubts. They plagued his mind threatening to drive him crazy. All he wanted to do was run, and keep running until the images were gone, left far behind so he no longer had to deal with them. But he could not.
The attempt would simply alert his family that something was wrong, and then they would inquire into his strange behavior. Then they would learn of his weakness and would see that he was no better than Isildur, who had allowed darkness to continue. They would disown him, and he would be left alone to face the shadows in his mind; alone with no hope of escape.
Hope. Estel. What he was named for was slipping from his grasp. Indeed, it was growing more and more difficult to hide his trouble the greater the time that passed. It was a mark of his lassitude that not even the irony of his name could draw a response from him.
Dark cirlces gave away that he did not sleep, and his lighter weight gave away that he did not eat. So far, Elrond and his brothers seemed to think nothing of it, or if they did had decided to wait and see if he pulled out of it or would seek them out for help. Then there was the fatigue, pulling at him constantly, slowing his movements, clouding his mind. He was not sure how much longer he could function, how much longer he could pretend everything was all right, without sleep. He wondered how much longer it would be before he could no longer avoid revealing his weakness.
Finally, he blinked. Then, slowly, shakily, he crawled to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over the side, then stood. His vision blacked out along the edges and the world seemed to spin, protesting his change from sitting to standing. He frowned, a hand coming up as if to grab hold of something, but the feeling passed and he was left staring across his room.
Shaking off the dark thought that flooded through his mind, Aragorn turned back and grabbed the small candle that sat lit on the table beside his bed, then attempted to cross the floor to the washroom.
Had anyone been around to see him, they might have concluded he was drunk. His steps were unsteady and he wove slightly with every advance so that by the time he reached the door he had traveled nearly as far sideways as he had forward.
Trembling hands grabbed ontot the doorframe tightly once it was finally within reach. The young man pulled himself against it and used the sturdy wood as a brace to keep him upright. A light sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow; he wiped irritably at it then moved into the room, firmly closing the door behind him.
Briefly, he leaned against the door and closed his eyes. For a moment he wished he was simply another man, without the weight of heritage that rested upon his shoulders, weighing him down with dreaded responsibility, free to live a simple life and never know anything more adventurous than the weekly or monthly trips to town a farmer made for supplies or to sell his goods at market.
Sometimes he desperately wished he was as ignorant of the shadows that crept across Middle-earth as those he fought to defend. Sometimes he wished he was one of them. He could even picture it: a simple life, a farm, a wife, kids, happiness, no earh-shattering problems to pull him away from peace and quiet. . . .
Aragorn shook his head sharply as if to clear it. Then, with a last deep breath, he moved forward again, gingerly stepping across the smooth pearl-colored stone floor. Such a truly simple life, he knew, would never hold him no matter how much he might wish it to be so. In fact, it would probably drive him mad with boredom. He would be off looking for some adventure within a few months--looking, or wishing he could.
He knelt on the steps that led up to the washtub and turned the spigot that allowed hot water to flow into the comparatively large basin. It was a marvel accomplished by the elven engineers who harnessed the waterfall, though he did not understand how. Still, it was an amenity he was more than grateful to take advantage of.
He tested the water flowing in, his eyes locked on the cascading fluid, entranced, though not so entranced that the sparkling rush could still his thoughts nor send them flowing down an alternative path.
Indeed, even if he could be happy in such a simple life, he knew he would not change it, no matter if he could. He treasured his time living in Rivendell. He loved Elrond and Elladan and Elrohir; they were the only family he had ever known, and he could not imagine giving them up, not for anything.
With a sigh, he moved away to begin lighting the candles--half a dozen fat things that were not given to arbitrarily tipping and setting various objects on fire--placed around the room, then over to the pair of torches on opposite sides of the room. Light now filling the room, he set down the candle he held and put it out, then began to undress.
If he had not grown up in Lord Elrond's house, would he have met Legolas? Likely he would not be a ranger and would have had no reason to be crossing the wastelands that day. He would have known nothing of elves, and probably would have been afraid of the fair being. Legolas might even have left him or something else, but it was doubtful they would have become friends.
He paused in mid-motion, his vision of what his life would be like without Legolas' friendship consuming him, then he moved again, his motions continued with agitated quickness.
Never could he imagine anything coming between himself and the elf. The fey being's friendship was too important to him to lose for anything as trivial as discontent over a couple of dreams. He would face anything to protect his friend: orcs, wargs, demons, whatever happened to come, even dreams, if need be. Granted, they could both stand to do without quite so many close calls, and their fathers would probably be pleased if they could somehow manage to avoid even a few of the many various mishaps that seemed to just wait for the two of them to get together before releasing their fury, but he could regret none of it.
Never had he heard that a human could die from a droken heart, but if anything happened to Legolas--especially because of him--Aragorn was sure he would find out. If not, he would surely go mad with grief. Life without his friend could never be the same; it was too terrible to imagine.
Aragorn's movements stilled, his back straightening as he finished undressing and his hands hung limply at his side. His breathing deepened as he struggled to remain in control of his emotions, not because anyone would see, but because it was a weakness his pride could not afford; he was already a failure, he did not need to confirm it with yet another weak action.
Trembling again, this time with suppressed emotion, the ranger levered himself up and slid into the hot water that now filled most of the tub, his weight displacing it, raising its level. Satisfied, he leaned forward and turned the spigot the other way, cutting off its rushing flow.
The Dúnadan sat back, slipping further into the water until his head rested against the edge, his legs drawn up to accomodate his long form. Then he simply stared while he allowed the hot water to ease away the tension in his limbs, across his shoulder blades.
All their mis-adventures, all their close calls, all problems Legolas had ever had were his fault. He had known it then, and he knew it now. Why Legolas could not see it was beyond him. The elf had even said it--albiet, in jest--("I had a perfectly normal life until your brother inflicted himself upon me! Just look what has happened since!"*) but he had still said it.
Everything bad that had happened to the elf was his fault. Everything bad that was likely to happen to the elf would also be his fault. A frown marred his still youthful features. He should stay away from Legolas; he could die following Aragorn around. But if the man was not around to follow, nothing bad could happen. Simple.
Or not.
That, Legolas would never stand for, Aragorn knew. If he was never around and never came by for a visit, sooner or later his friend would seek him out, a fact he knew because if the tables were turned, he would do the same. That the mere thought of such an action hurt--a sharp ache deep in his heart--more than he would have thought possible without a physical injury, was another detriment. Add in Elladan and Elrohir, who would want to know what was wrong that he was avoiding the elven prince, and such a thought became impossible. He could not hide forever. . . .
A sad smile pulled at his lips as he thought back to his discussion with Kalya just over a week before. His destiny was what it had been about, whether he was strong enough or no. She, for some reason, had pressed him to accept his destiny, and he had told her he could not. It gave him no satisfaction that he had been right: he was too weak to be king.
This just proved it. What they all thought they could see that would make them think otherwise, he could not fathom, but he knew it was not there. Everyone would be incredibly disappointed when they found what they thought they saw was not there. He frowned and glanced down, then began idly tracing patterns across the surface of the water, his gaze following the ripples even as his thoughts sank further into his self-destructive thoughts.
It never occurred to him that it could be his perception that was off, that there truly was greater strength inside him than he knew. It never crossed his mind that so many elves, men, and dwarves were his friends because of some strength of character that denied all his doubts. It never occurred to him the shadows that whispered doubts in his mind were anything other than truthful, never occurred to him that the damage done by the poison was not gone. It never occurred to him that the antidote which had neutralized the poison had only released him from the Shadow's grasp, not dispelled the shadow itself.
It never occurred to him, and Kalya had never had a chance to tell him.
Sequestered by chioce in his room, hauted by perceived failure, with no challenge to his dark thoughts, the shadows in his mind grew stronger. . . .
~*~
His head came up as his eyes snapped open in surprise. Sounds, where once there had been silence, filtered through the air, coming to his mind slowly, faintly, as if over a great distance or through some other medium than air.
Darkness filled his vision.
The ranger looked around slowly, scanning back and forth, every sense on alert, every muscle tense for action, the alarm that had flooded his system slow to release its hold. Yet nothing happened. Other than the sounds, nothing touched his senses. He could feel nothing around.
Eventually, he stopped trying to feel, the panic receding slowly as nothing dangerous presented itself, and focused on the sounds that seemed to far away.
A clash, like the ringing of metal, sharp, echoing. A scuffle of feet moving quickly, rocks clattering briefly. Harsh breath, fast. Another scuffling, slithering sound, then ringing metal. A grunt of satisfaction or . . . pain?
The sounds came to him, each indentifiable, but he could not seem to place them together to see what they meant. A collection of random sounds had no meaning, yet he felt these should.
Yet another clash, harsh and unyielding. Firm impact against stone, a thud. Scattering, slithering, leaves, breath, clash, clang, the sounds came faster, repeating at odd intervals, occassionally joined by a new sound or two, but then it was gone. Still he knew not what it was, and still the feeling of familiarity grew, speaking of somehting he was long familiar with but could not place.
His eyes narrowed as his mind struggled for realization, grasping futilely at a notion that hung just out of reach, taunted with the prospect of attaining the unattainable which nevertheless seemed to be close enough if one could reach just a hair further. . . .
Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, forming a solid knot that seemed to grow heavier and heavier, pulling him down. Something bad was about to happen, something he had known was inevitable but which his mind, flighty as it was of late, refused to focus on. The fact that his own mind refused to cooperate did not deter the ranger, though, and he continued his attempts to grasp that elusive knowledge which danced just out of reach and yet, for all that, still seemed to desire to be caught. . . .
Then the world spun. Or seemed to, a singularly perturbing feeling as there was no world to spin, yet it did. Aragorn caught his breath as he felt he was falling, stiffening reflexively though he knew there was nowhere to fall to just as there was nowhere to fall from.
When everything seemed returned to normal (or at least what he thought was normal), the ranger tried to look around; a completely worthless exercise in a pitch black void, admittedly, but a habit he had long since grown accustomed to, just the same, and not one he was anxious to break simply because he found himself currently in limbo.
His surprise, then, was palpable, when he looked around him and saw someone else also occupying this abyss. In the distance, too far for him to make out, were two figures, both tall, though one was light while the other was dark. One was lithe while the other was stocky. They seemed to be moving in their own world, unaware of their surroundings. Not that there was much to be aware of, but the notion was so fully ingrained into the Dúnadan's responses that he noted it without thought of the blackness of the surroundings they shared.
The two figures drew him, tempting him closer. He tried to move closer, found he could not, then noticed that both figures nonetheless grew largers, their movements bringing them closer, apparently. Now he could make out their movements, a complicated dance that held deadly intent.
As they moved closer, the sounds started to click into place. One-by-one he indentified what he had heard earlier against their movements. the clash of swords as one swung for the other and was blocked. Feet moving across the ground as the combatants moved around each other, breath harsh from their exertions whistling out. A veritable cacophany of sounds, steady, constant, except when it was interrupted by a grunt of pain or a thud or some other sound which as of yet did not belong in the tapestry of movements being woven before him.
Mesmerized, he stared, able and wanting to do nothing but watch, absorbed. It was a good thing there was nothing else around him to vie for his attention for he would not have noticed even a band of orcs if they had suddenly marched up and trampled him, save to object if they obscured his view of the two fighters.
Slowly, the light figure became clearer, even as the dark figure grew more obscured. Golden hair flowed behind as the lithe figure moved and turned, blocking and evading blows. The clothes this being wore also gained resolution: a moss-green overtunic covered the long sleeved light grey tunic he wore underneath, dark grey leggings ending in soft, supple, dark brown boots. He came closer--or the the figures did--and he saw the belt secured around the being's waist, the quiver strapped to his back, the knives in his hands, the gauntlets secured around his wrists.
In his heart he knew what his mind had yet to register, and apprehension curled up his spin, forcing him to shift in an attempt to relieve the feeling, the disire to move, to act nearly overwhelming him.
He noted the triple braids holding back the fair being's hair, the intricate elvish designs on quiver and knives, the graceful, pointed ears of the Eldar as each was presented to his sight by the elf's motions.
Abandoning his spine, the fear crept over to his heart and lungs, squeezing so as to deny his the air they desperately sought as his breathing sped up.
The combatants shifted, and Aragorn caught his first glimpse of the fair being's face. Blue eyes burned into his own for a fraction of a second, an eternity, and then they were obscured again.
A dark feeling, a dread certainty settled over his heart and mind, telling him that nothing good would come of this battle, screaming at him that his friend would die, that he had to stop this before. . . . The end would be upon him soon, one way or another.
Aragorn struggled, desperately attempting to move closer. He tried to scream, distract his friend's opponent. . . . All to no avail. No sound issued from his mouth and his struggles only served to move him further away.
Despair pulled at his thoughts, unbearable pain as he watched Legolas stumble, saw him drop his guard, mesmerized as the dark blade of his the elf's opponent sunk deeply into his flesh, heard the shocked gasp of pain as icy tendrils entered the other's body and grabbed hold in order to lead its soul towards death.
Legolas fell to his knees, his eyes seeking out Aragorn's, and in that gaze, he saw betrayal.
~*~
Aragorn's eyes snapped open, his mouth opened to scream only to get a mouthful of water. Shock caused him to breath in, that impulse promptly aborted as his lungs struggled to expel the foreign fluid. His eyes watered as he floundered, his hands blindly grasping around him, frantically searching. For what, his muddled brain did not know.
Finally, though, his seeking hands closed on the rim of the tub and he hauled himself up, coughing and spluttering before he actually managed to get some air. He did not wait for his breathing to calm before clambering out of the tub, paying no heed to the water he took with him.
He practically fell down the stairs in his haste, and immediately sprawled face down upon the floor once he reached it. He pressed his cheek against the cool marble and took deep breaths as he tried to calm his racing heart and the helpless trembling that raged through his body. His eyes, now a dark and lifeless grey, stared unwaveringly at the wall across from him.
What he had seen in Legolas' eyes in his dream and what he knew of his friend battled fiercely in his mind. That look had said clearly that the elf prince's death was the ranger's fault, that it was because of him that the other's light would never again grace the realm of the living. Yet Legolas had always scolded him for blaming himself.
Desperately, Aragorn grasped at the thought as a drowning man grasps for the surface, frantic to find a reason why his thoughts could not be true. Legolas could not blame him, could not hate him. Could he?
Slowly, far too slowly for the ranger's liking, his heartbeat and breathing returned to normal. Still, he made no motion to move, simply remaining where he was even after the chill of his position should have become unbearable, the stone leeching the body-heat away.
Panic swirled though his gaze. His mind was still clouded from sleep and foggy from the dream, but languidly returned to some semblance of calm as semi-rational thought returned to the Dúnadan.
It was a dream. Dreams are not always true. His family had not rejected him as his other dream said. They were still with him, loving him, teasing him just like always. Maybe this dream lied, too. It had to lie.
But what if it did not?
Aragorn's eyes closed as a pain as real as any physical ache ripped through him. Legolas could not be dead; it could not be his fault.
Finally, his mind closed on something useful. He could go to Mirkwood. Yes, he could pay his friend a visit, and then he would know the shadow lied and they could no longer torment him with their cruel stories.
Decided, and somewhat calm, the ranger finally found the strength to move. Joints stiff from cold protested the change of position and he hissed as he slowly worked his way to his feet. His teeth chattered as the shaking that now made his movements unsteady were now from cold.
Moving as one who is old or imfirm, he pulled on a robe then rubbed his arms briskly in an attempt to warm up. It would take some concinving, he knew, to get Lord Elrond to allow him to journey to Mirkwood, especially after his last adventure, but he would manage, even if he had to leave in the middle of the night without his foster father's consent. He would find out the truth if it killed him.
No longer helpless, a measure of strength returned to Aragorn's figure despite the gauntness of his features and the extra leanness of his frame. For the first time in days, the human truly felt hungry.
Outside, the first light of dawn finally crept over the horizon, its brilliance cutting through the darkness and painting the sky in vibrant colors and caressing the treetops in preparation for the coming day.
Additional responses:
Grumpy: I imagine Strider can go a long time without sleeping. How long he actually goes . . . That is another question entirely.
Bill the Pony: lol. I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and I never mind your spelling. I didn't even notice that one until you pointed it out. On the flip side, I hope you don't mind my spelling. *g* As for the cliffie. . . . Well, that was more . . . A teaser. I could have put it at the beginning of this one as a prologue, but I thought it was more . . . Effective, as an epilogue. Hehe.
Nell Marie: Late is fine. I don't mind, really. *ignores the fact that she had pouted for a few days before the review came* And here's the next story. I hope you enjoy it as much as or more than the other one. That's my goal. Enjoy.