King's Courtesan - Chapter 7 (1 of 2)
Dec. 15th, 2006 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aubreymRating: NC-17 this chapter
Pairing: Legolas/Boromir, Legolas/Gandalf
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
Chapter 7: Shadows
Though the group of travelers had been called “Fellowship” upon their outset, the naming was not yet true even as the first sennight of their journey came to a close. The hobbits drew together, seeming to be concerned with little more than their next mean or a good pinch of pipeweed to be smoked at day's end. Even Frodo, of the bluest eyes, seemed not to be bowed by the weight of that which he carried. Pippin's light-hearted humor was a perfect counterpoint to the weighty discussions and deep silences that rose and fell between Gandalf and Aragorn. Gimli walked most often with Boromir; the two warriors had bonded over tales of battles fought and enemies defeated. And yet, betimes Legolas would feel eyes upon him and look up, only to discover Boromir's gaze sliding away. It gave him a queer sensation, a heated flush followed by a chill in the center of his belly. What exactly it portended he knew not. But it concerned him less than when it was the ringbearer who so entranced the man. Though he spoke of it to no one, Legolas could almost feel the tension that grew in that tall frame whenever Frodo passed him in an unguarded moment. On nights after such instances Boromir would drink deep of a flask he carried in his pack, laugh loudly at Gimli's tall tales but offer few of his own and his eyes would be hot on Legolas as he went about whatever task had been appointed him.
It was a most discomfiting sensation and one he had not experienced in many long years. Not since Tathar had departed for Lothlorien had he felt his solitude so keenly. Though Thraomar and Tarias still called Mirkwood home, they wanted no part of a younger brother. Especially not one who was being trained as Legolas was. Even as they sat near him at mealtimes, Thraomar looked as though he smelled something foul and Tarias, ever taking his cue from his elder brother, barely deigned to glance his way. At first their dismissal had stung, but in time that faded and left an emptiness in its place. One Legolas had not noticed until his return to Imladris. During the time he spent with Elladan and Elrohir, to be precise. He had felt hints of it, the renewal of the ache during various moments when they were all together – in the practice yard, at mealtimes in various taverns, but especially in the days after they returned from the hunt and Elladan healed from his wounds.
At first Legolas had worried that things might be awkward between Elrohir and himself after the night they spent together, but he was quickly put at ease. When Legolas woke, Elrohir was already awake and had retrieved his packs. He had gone to check on his brother and discovered that Elladan had woken feeling much rejuvenated and they were able to return to Imladris. The worry and grief that had hung over the younger twin like a pall, dimming the light of his eyes, lifted with this news. Despite their late night and the earliness of the hour, Elrohir was grinning and he fairly glowed with pleasure. Through the curtains Legolas could see the sun had just crested the horizon.
“Elladan itches to report our success to Adar,” Elrohir had said.
“Your healing seems to have done its work,” Legolas replied, rising and tugging his clothes into some semblance of order.
Elrohir shrugged. “A night with Lindir, I am certain, contributed far more than what I was able to do. Elladan gains much strength from his bond-mate.”
“Now who is unwilling to accept heartfelt compliments?” Legolas could not resist jesting with him slightly. He was rewarded with the music of Elrohir's laughter.
“I suggest a pact.” Elrohir said. “I will not push aside your compliments if you agree to take mine to heart as well.”
“It is agreed,” Legolas nodded and shouldered his pack. They returned to the common room together. Elladan and Lindir were in the midst of a group of townsfolk and the Bard was spinning the tale of the prior day's battle. Somehow his voice made those who listened feel as they they stood in the midst of the action – they heard the cries of orc, the clash of blades, they smelled the stench of blood and sweat, their hearts pounded with fear and adrenaline. Lindir had many talents, but this was the one which brought him a measure of success. Elrohir did not interrupt the telling, he merely moved to stand behind Elladan, draping an arm around his neck and leaning casually against him.
Elladan gave a small smile, leaning back into his brother's hold, though his eyes were still fixed upon Lindir's form as he gestured gracefully, his voice dipping and soaring with the tale. Legolas lingered at the edge of the crowd, unwilling to disturb the twins in their moment together. They held his gaze in a way even Lindir did not and he found himself wishing for the warmth of Elrohir's body against his own, for a taste of that easy camaraderie.
He had been mired in this mood until Aileth joined them, interrupting Lindir mid-sentence, demanding that they return to Elrond immediately so they could report on the outcome of their hunt. Her face was pinched and slightly tinged with green as though she suffered the effects of overindulgence in spirits.
Lindir simply raised a brow at his sister. “Aye, Captain,” he said, his voice thick with unvoiced laughter. “Though 'tis not necessary to vent your pain upon the rest of us.”
Aileth scowled and stormed from the room in the direction of the stables as the crowd around them swelled with laughter.
Their return had been uneventful. Both Elrond and Glorfindel were most pleased with their success, though there was a slight frost to Elrond's tone when he spoke to Elladan that promised a harsher comment later. Indeed, as he was on his way to the archery range, Legolas overheard the elder twin complaining about it to Elrohir as they sat together in one of the gardens.
“... acts as though I have never before faced orc in battle. He went on for nearly a candle-mark, disparaging me for taking undue risk. And he offered no word of praise for all that we accomplished,” Elladan's voice was peevish, but underneath lurked a note of dismay.
“He worries about you, muindor. Not because he doubts your ability, but because he knows all too well the dangers you faced. As we all do, 'Dan.” Elrohir's tone softened, edged with grief narrowly averted. “We lost naneth. I could not bear to lose you as well.”
“You will not, Ro. You will not.”
The gentleness with which Elladan spoke twisted Legolas' stomach. He only caught a slight glimpse of them before he passed – the older twin holding the younger close – but the longing he felt did not fade for days. How many years had passed since one of his own brothers held him thus? Years beyond count – in all likelihood... not since Tathar left on the night of his majority.
While he had not avoided Elrohir in the days remaining before the fellowship departed, neither did he seek him out. They dined together, as they had before. They passed time over games of Strategy and Chance. But that was all. Long conversations with mugs of ale and goblets of wine as evening drifted into night and night to dawn fell by the wayside. Legolas retired to his rooms after the evening meal, which he took in the dining hall, and he no longer frequented the Hall of Fire. He no longer even watched the revelry. He had gone too far as it was. Elrohir refused his services and so he should turn his attentions elsewhere, or so he told himself.
And then the final night had come – their last eve in the hidden valley before venturing out on their journey. In the center of the largest garden a great feast was laid out upon banquet tables that fair bowed under its weight. Lights were strung through the trees and minstrels wandered, playing tunes bright and lively. Guests ate and danced, reveling in a last moment of pleasure before a trying time. Legolas hovered at the edges of the festivities, watching and listening. Those who surrounded him were dressed in bright jewel tones, ruby and sapphire and emerald and amber. They whirled in a kaleidescope of color, infinitely pleasing to the eye, but no matter how long he waited, Elrond's twin sons were not among them. There were those with ebon hair and eyes, blond hair and blue eyes, russet hair and green eyes, but none with the peculiar chestnut hair and argent eyes of Elrohir and his brother.
At last he caught sight of Erestor, winding his way through the crowd. As he passed, Legolas asked about the young lords. Erestor raised a brow, looking much like Elrond. “Did you not know? They embarked upon an errand for their father this morning.”
Legolas nodded, as though he had merely forgotten. “I had thought they might return in time for the feast.”
Erestor shook his head. “Nay. They were planning on being away for at least a fortnight. I am sorry you missed their departure.” Yet his voice did not sound the least sorry.
Legolas shrugged. “'Tis no matter. I merely would have wished them well. Thank you for informing me.” He moved away then, unwilling to continue the discussion. There was a suspicion in Erestor's eyes, one he would not like to confront.
It was strange that Elrohir had gone with no farewell. Perhaps the night they spent together had changed things between them more than he thought. Perhaps Elrohir had spoken words he did not mean. Whatever the cause, Legolas would not be able to discover it himself and so he attempted to put it aside. Should he be fortunate enough to meet him once more, perhaps he would ask then. Despite his best intentions, however, he found himself thinking of the younger son of Lord Elrond far more frequently than he would wish as he followed Gandalf, Aragorn and Frodo on the long path toward the Redhorn Pass through the Misty Mountains.
He did so even now, as he stood an outcropping of rock, looking out at the red sides of the mountain that stretched up before them. Behind him the excited voices of the hobbits and the deeper tone of Boromir mingled as he worked to teach them the rudiments of swordplay. At his right Gandalf, Gimli and Aragorn discussed their path to Mordor. Legolas listened with only half of his attention. It mattered not to him whether they went over Caradhras or through Moria. Suddenly he noticed a darkness floating toward them high above the hills. At first he thought it might be merely a wisp of cloud, but then he realized – it moved against the flow of the wind. “Crebain, from Dunland!” He called the warning over his shoulder.
“Find cover,” Gandalf said. “They are likely spies of Saruman.”
The hobbits cast fearful glances toward the sky before scrambling for cover beneath scrub trees and rocky overhangs. As Legolas dropped to the earth beneath a fallen tree, he realized Boromir had also sought safety there. His blue eyes were narrowed as he studied the sky, his hand clenched and released at his side. The flock burst overhead with a thunder of wings and chorus of cawing. Legolas could feel the Man's desire to bring down some of the spies in the tightness of his own muscles.
As the last bird disappeared in the East and they slipped from their hiding places, Boromir turned to Legolas. “Were it my decision, we would not hide like hunted creatures, like prey. We would pass through the Gap of Rohan and travel down to Gondor where we might make a true difference in this war.”
“I have no voice among those who choose our way,” Legolas replied. “But I, too, long for battle rather than this lengthy march. I admit my hands ached for my bow as those fell creatures passed over.”
Boromir nodded. “Rare it is that a son of Gondor retreats from conflict.”
“It is so for a son of the Woodland Realm as well.”
For the first time Boromir offered a smile that went all the way to his eyes. “For an elf, you seem to have the heart of a warrior. I was beginning to believe that all of you were nothing more than scholars and thinkers. Not one among you who is willing to take action.”
Legolas allowed himself an answering smile. “I hope the time will come soonest wherein I will prove to you that my heart is stout and my blades deadly.”
And yet it was not battle with a sword, or at least not fully, wherein Legolas would demonstrate his prowess to the Edan. They had passed the foothills of the mountain and continued to climb. Though the sky was the brightest blue, the shone shone cold above and the ground lay under a heavy cover of fresh snow. Legolas did not suffer the cold, but he could see the halflings shiver as they walked and even the men hunched deep into their cloaks and did not speak. Only Gimli seemed similarly unaffected and Legolas had no doubt that was because of his ample hair and beard that covered him. Dwarves were of hardy stock, he had to admit in their favor.
Weariness hung over the travelers like a pall. The day's walk felt long and as they climbed higher became more like a shuffle than a march. Betimes Legolas would sing an elvish lay in an attempt to raise their spirits. Though he lacked Lindir superior talent, his voice was clear and strong and it seemed as though the halflings moved a bit more lightly as it echoed from the rocks around them. Eventually he simply made up wordless melodies as he walked, tunes he would later write down and play again upon his pipes – were he to remember later... and were there to be a later.
He had just finished one such tune and was considering how to begin the next when there came a cry from behind. He turned just in time to see Aragorn reach down and help Frodo to his feet. It seemed as though Frodo had stumbled and fallen. An expression of dismay clouded his eyes as he reached for the necklace which always hung under his cloak and shirt. Legolas' gaze was caught by the glitter of gold in the snow a few feet away. He stepped forward, but before he could call out, Boromir had stooped and lifted the necklace.
The chain twined about the man's fingers and the Ring dangled from his hand, flashing and winking in the sunlight. For a long moment it was as though they all had been frozen where they stood as a dark whisper brushed their minds. Legolas could hear laughter, dark with glee, and the sound reflected in Boromir's eyes.
“All this over such a small thing,” he murmured in a voice so soft that Legoals doubted anyone heard beside himself. “And yet... and yet it calls to me.” He studied the Ring as it turned. “With this Gondor could once again be strong, King or no.”
“Boromir.” Aragorn's voice rang over the landscape, cold and hard as the ice beneath their feet. A command was threaded through the name, an iron tone that Legolas had never before heard him use – the sound of a king.
Boromir blinked, then looked away from the ring to Aragorn. The shadow that had hovered over him seemed to recede before Aragorn's light and Boromir held the necklace out to Frodo.
The halfling stepped forward, away from Aragorn's protective stance and met Boromir half way. As he reached out to retrieve the Ring, Legolas noticed the slightest of tremors in his fingers. Mistrust was writ large in his expression, but underneath was a strength, unlooked for and all the more potent for that. His blue eyes flashed, as though daring the man to do his worst – Frodo would not turn from his duty nor his burden. No words were traded between them. Boromir bowed his head slightly and Frodo slipped the chain over his own head. The Ring slithered under his cloak, under his shirt, away from view and suddenly the tableau was broken.
As they continued their slow progress into the mountains, Legolas realized he would have to make a move that night. He would turn those burning blue eyes upon himself, drawing the warrior like a moth to flame. He would bind Boromir to this place, to this plane, replace one obsession with another. A shiver trickled down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. Boromir glanced at him at just that moment. He caught the shudder and a hunger gleamed bright in the depths of his eyes. Legolas allowed himself to blink slowly, a tiny smile to touch his lips. A promise was shared between them. Later.
The later came more speedily than he would have imagined. It was only a few hours past midday when Gandalf called a halt. Darkness had already closed over them as clouds enveloped the mountain, hanging low and heavy with the promise of snow. A cutting wind whipped from the icy peak and howled around them. The fellowship gathered close to hear his words.
“We will stop here for the day and rest before attempting to cross the pass.”
“'Tis still early,” Boromir protested. “Would it not be prudent to cross the pass now and camp on the other side? That way we would not waste near a full day of travel.”
“Do you not feel the snow on the air? Were we to follow you, it is quite likely we would be caught in the middle with no shelter.” Aragorn's tone was even, his voice reasonable but still Boromir scowled.
“As though we have found shelter here,” he muttered under his breath.
But the hobbits seemed quite glad for a moment of respite. They sat huddled close together in the shelter of a overhang. The pony Sam had brought to carry their packs stood before them, swishing his tail slowly. They all looked exhausted from the climb and chilled through. Pippin, the youngest of the four, leaned against Merry, his eyelids drooping. Sam had one arm around Frodo, offering what warmth he could. Aragorn and Gandalf fell into deep discussion over their next course of action. Gimli seated himself upon a large stone and was puffing upon his pipe, clearly deep in thought. It was time.
Boromir knelt before a pile of wood he had gathered from somewhere nearby. There was a soft scratching sound as he struck knife to flint then sparks flew, greedily devouring the tinder he had laid underneath. It did not take long before a small fire was crackling, urging the hobbits to gather close. Frodo watched Boromir with wary eyes as he moved closer and Boromir, as though expecting his discomfort, backed away to put a distance between them. It did not take long before Sam produced a cooking pan and had meat sizzling over the fire. Even Pippin had perked up expectantly.
Legolas drew close to Boromir and placed a hand upon his arm. “That was kind of you,” he said softly.
Boromir tensed under his hand. His eyes, when he met Legolas' gaze, held wariness and none of the teasing warmth found in previous meetings. “I do not wish to scare the little one,” he said softly. “Contrary to popular opinion, I wish him no harm. He bears a heavy burden needlessly.” A darkness shadowed his face. “I admit I am surprised such a weapon is being entrusted to one no bigger than a child.”
He paused, but Legolas held his tongue offering neither argument nor censure. Instead he moved marginally closer. Their thighs brushed. The Man did not draw back.
“But you have heard my arguments before,” Boromir continued and it seemed as though the darkness slipped away. “I merely desire to defend my home and my people for we are hard pressed. But you – why have you joined this most unlikely of quests? Mirkwood is distant from Mordor and your King no friend to Men.”
Legolas neither confirmed nor denied the implied accusation. He merely turned his gaze to the dance of the flames, pausing for a long moment to consider his answer. The bare truth would not do – he knew he must not speak of his purpose – but there was a deeper truth, one which he was only just beginning to sense and he knew it was one Boromir would understand. It was this he struggled to put into words.
“Though Sauron's reach has not yet extended as far as Mirkwood, we have felt the distant touch of his powers through the Necromancer of Dol Guldur. The time will come when his gaze turns to elvendom as it has to Men. I would to all in my power to keep that day from dawning. I would protect my people.” The words surprised him even as they passed his lips. Though he was the king's son, and so a prince, yet he was the youngest of four – there was little chance he would ever take his father's place as ruler. But somehow he still believed it was his place to offer protection where he could.
“There is nothing more important,” Boromir agreed.
“But there is more,” Legolas said. “Though my King may hold no amity toward Men, I believe that what happens to one of Arda's peoples happens to all. I could not stand aside while stalwart warriors such as yourself were overrun by the hordes. Rather, I would stand at your side and offer what strength is mine.”
Boromir smiled and for the first time since Legolas joined him he caught the hunger burning there once again. There was something about the Man in this light – his skin was burnished by the fire's glow. His hair gleamed gold. The smile, a genuine expression of pleasure completely lacking in artifice, brought a warmth to him. Boromir cut a fine figure, lean but not as lithe as elves, he was broad across the shoulders and chest, his arms well muscled. A warrior, and it showed. Legolas wondered fleetingly what it would be like to have the Man astride him... A swift wave of desire washed through him and he allowed the heat to color his cheeks.
Boromir's expression shifted to one both cunning and mischievous. “I am not certain that your strength would be worth all that,” he said slowly, eyes glinting. “And you would muss your beautiful hair, muddy that fair skin...” He ran the back of one finger over Legolas' cheek.
Legolas shuddered, grasping after a similar light tone. He managed to raise a brow. “That sounds perilously close to a challenge, edan.”
“Does it? Well and so,” Boromir replied, leaning back slightly. His gaze never wavered from Legolas' own. Legolas read the challenge there and knew where it would lead. Surprisingly easy to spark the man. It pleased him.
“Aye,” Legolas said, rising gracefully to his feet.
A feral grin broke across the Man's lips and his teeth flashed white in the darkness. He stood as well and stepped away from the fire. “Come, then. Let us find a more suitable space. We would not want Gandalf to attempt your rescue in the midst of battle.”
“Afraid of an old man, are you?” Legolas taunted, but he willingly followed Boromir as he stepped away from the fellowship. Engrossed in their various conversations, Legolas did not believe anyone saw them depart. And that was well enough for him.
They walked only a short distance away, for there were fell beasts attracted to travelers alone in the dark. The fire could still be seen through the trees. And should somewhat attack the Ringbearer, it would not do for either of them to be missing in his defense. Though the fire no longer lit the night, the moon was near full and Legolas could see without effort and he knew Boromir would not be at much of a disadvantage. The Man stopped abruptly and turned to face him.
“Well then, if you are not afraid, let us spar.” With that, Boromir drew his sword, the metal ringing as it came free of the scabbard.
“I fear little and you not at all,” Legolas replied and pulled his knives free. Even as the words left him a small tingle touched the back of his neck raising the hairs there. Had he lied then, all unknowing? He did not have a moment to ponder the matter for Boromir noted his hesitation and stepped forward, feigning an attack.
Legolas turned the blow aside easily, following with a stroke of his own. Boromir shifted to the side and evaded. They circled each other warily and then came together in a sudden clash of blades. Boromir's eyes widened slightly at the strength of Legolas' blows and Legolas grinned. Steel rang against steel, the silver glimmered in the moonlight. Thrust and parry, strike and counterstrike. Their feet moved soundlessly over the light cover of snow. Their breaths, coming in short pants, puffed white clouds around them.
Legolas struck the first blow that connected. The flat of his blade came down on the Man's knuckles. Boromir gave an oath and dropped his sword. A smile crossed Legolas' face quickly and he stepped forward to claim his victory. Before he could, Boromir lunged at him, grabbing him around the waist and tackling him. The move took Legolas by surprise and Boromir managed to knock him to the ground. Unwilling to accidentally harm the Man with his knives, Legolas allowed them to fall to the side.
They hit together, Boromir on top, the snow cold at Legolas' back – then rolled, both grappling for position. Muscles strained, limbs tangled together, Legolas' hair was in his eyes, obscuring his vision. After offering what he deemed struggle enough, Legolas allowed Boromir to gain the upper hand. Boromir wrenched Legolas' arms above his head, holding his wrists together. He straddled Legolas' torso, keeping Legolas immobilized. Legolas could feel the slightest trembling in Boromir's muscles, whether with exhaustion or desire he could not tell. He suspected the latter. Perspiration trickled down the Man's face and Boromir shook his head to keep it form his eyes.
“You are stronger than I expected,” Boromir said, magnanimous in victory.
“As are you,” Legolas agreed. “You bested me fairly. What do you claim as your spoils?” He smiled, teasing.
Boromir laughed. “I claim a taste,” he said, then bent down, swift as a striking hawk and their lips came together in a heated clash.
The Man was as skilled in this art as he was in that of battle, Legolas quickly realized. He did not merely pillage his mouth, he drank deep as though Legolas were water and he parched. He nipped at Legolas' lips until they felt bruised and swollen and desire began to rise, hot and dark. He could feel Boromir's own desire beginning to stir against him. Legolas sighed, the barest sound of a moan released into Boromir's mouth and the Man echoed it.
“You taste of the forest,” Boromir murmured against his lips. “Sharp and green and underneath something dark and rich and growing.” His lips moved down Legolas' neck, tasting and nibbling. Legolas arched his back in pleasure. “You like that,” Boromir whispered in his ear.
Legolas knew it was not a question. Prickles of want danced across his skin and he struggled slightly in Boromir's grasp. “Please,” he groaned. “Please...”
Boromir raised a brow. “Please,” he asked, an edge of mocking in his voice. “Please what?”
“I want,” Legolas managed.
“Do you.” Boromir trailed one hand down his chest and lower. He cupped the root of Legolas' desire, then squeezed firmly once and released him. “I see that you do. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
Legolas twisted, managing to free himself from Boromir's grasp. He tumbled the Man over backward. Snow dripped from his shirt, but Legolas barely noticed the cold for the fire that was burning in his blood. It was his turn to straddle Boromir, and as he moved over him, Legolas was rewarded by the flush that rose in Boromir's cheeks. His eyes dilated until they were almost all pupil with just a rim of blue. “I do this,” Legolas said and his fingers moved to deftly unlace Boromir's breeches. He sprang forth and Legolas smiled to see him.
Boromir's breaths came sharp and fast, but he did not offer any resistance as Legolas dipped his head to taste him. He swallowed greedily, humming with pleasure as Boromir gasped and bucked beneath him. Legolas released his wrists and Boromir tightened his fists in Legolas' hair, tugging rhythmically. Legolas licked and sucked, and though Boromir groaned, he did not plead.
Legolas could feel it as Boromir's climax approached. His muscles tightened beneath him, gathering. He thrust deep into Legolas' mouth and Legolas swallowed, swallowed as the Man flew like an arrow loosed from a bow. Then silence descended as Boromir's breathing calmed. Legolas tucked him away, carefully lacing his breeches once again.
Boromir reached up, cupping his cheek in one hand. “Pretty as a woman, but you fight like a true warrior,” he said.
“Perhaps we might spar again one day soon. Give me another chance at victory,” Legolas suggested, offering him a hand up.
Boromir laughed and took the offered assistance. “Indeed, Sir Elf. Indeed. But first I must recover from this bout. I am not certain who came out the victor.” He brushed melted snow from his hair and shivered. “For now I have need of my fire. And with any luck there is some roast fowl ready.”
“So long as the hobbits did not eat it all.”
“True. For such small creatures they certainly have prodigious appetites.”
Thus, laughing together, they made their way back to camp. Boromir's good mood lingered through the meal and into the night. He passed his flask around. Then, when Merry and Pippin began a drinking song, not only did he join in the singing, but he added several rather bawdy verses, causing Sam to blush, Frodo to grin and Gimli to laugh out right. Legolas smiled to see them all coming together. The binding had begun to work as he hoped.
When the fellowship resumed their trek the following morning, Boromir was still more relaxed than they had yet seen him. Aragorn seemed surprised when their path was laid out and for once Boromir did not argue.
“No comment today,” he asked.
Boromir shrugged. “You and Gandalf have your plan and I mine. I am clearly in the minority so I will go along with your decision, at least for the time. Lead on, Lord Aragorn. I follow.”
Even Frodo seemed more at ease with Boromir in this mood. Though he did not walk close beside the Man, neither did he go out of his way to avoid him. The mood of the entire fellowship was somewhat lighter, as though a cloud had lifted.
Unfortunately the shift was not reflected in the weather. As they climbed higher, the clouds gathered thick overhead and the wind blew harsh. The air was heavy with the feel of snow. Mid-morning had not yet been reached when the first fat flakes drifted down. They all tugged their cloaks tighter around themselves. Gimli pulled up his hood and tucked down his beard so only his nose peeked from the fabric. The hobbits drew together, their pace slowing as the snow drifts grew deeper.
Legolas trod lightly across the snow, bothered not at all by the cold or wind. There was somewhat energizing about it. He felt almost as if he could run the rest of the way to the Pass without tiring. Not so the others. Even Gandalf's head bent under his pointed hat.
Slowly Legolas became aware of what it was setting his teeth on edge and his nerves to jangling. There was another sound that mingled with the wind that swirled about them. He cocked his head, concentrating. “A voice,” he said suddenly. “There is a fell voice in the wind.” He called the warning to Gandalf, who halted for a moment, listening.
“Come, we must hurry,” Gandalf said, urging them all forward.
“I am not sure the hobbits can go much faster,” Boromir said, offering caution for the first time. It was true; they were all shivering so hard they could barely walk.
“They will never make it to the Pass,” Gimli cried over the howling of the wind. “We should go through Moria. My cousin would give us a kingly reception.”
Legolas saw the light of hope kindled in Pippin's eyes at the thought of being inside and out of the snow.
“No, we shall not go through the deep dark unless the Pass is uncrossable,” Aragorn said. He lifted Pippin onto his back and Boromir took Merry. Legolas offered the same to Frodo, but he preferred to be on his own two feet. And Sam would not ride when Mr. Frodo walked. And so they continued, even as the voice skirled and the snow closed around them.
Time seemed to lengthen and stretch as they trudged on. Legolas could barely see through the whirl of snow, but from the little he could make out of their surroundings everything looked nearly the same as the last time he'd checked. Their progress, if they made any at all, was minimal. The wind had turned until it blew directly in their faces, stealing their breath and leaving them gasping. Boromir and Aragorn had put Merry and Pippin back down and took the lead from Gandalf, forcing a path through the drifts with their bodies.
Suddenly there was a rumble from above and two huge boulders of ice crashed down, narrowly missing the group where they hesitated on a thin ledge. Legolas glanced up, but could make out nothing but wet flakes of snow. The voice rose strong and almost clear, but did not speak words Legolas could understand.
“Get back,” Gandalf cried. They all pressed their backs to the mountain, heedless of the cold as a sheet of snow, ice and rocks flowed down from above. Though the majority of the debris missed them, the snow piled high around them, closing over the hobbits and Gimli and nearly burying even the taller Men and Elf. The voice quieted and the wind calmed in the aftermath of the avalanche. For a moment, all was still.
Legolas shivered as snow dripped down his collar, chilling him for the first time. He struggled to free himself, then turned to help Gimli, who was closest at hand. Boromir, Aragorn and Gandalf were similarly working to assist the hobbits. As they stood and took stock, the wind rose once again.
“We cannot go on like this,” Boromir said. “It will be the death of the hobbits.”
It only took one glance for Legolas to see the truth of his words. Frodo's pale skin was tinged with blue and Pippin's face was pinched and miserable. Gimli looked chilled as well as he brushed snow from his beard. Even Boromir shivered. Gandalf's eyes swept them all, a deep crease in his forehead growing even deeper. Legolas saw something shift in his gaze – a surrender, though to what Legolas could not begin to guess.
“Very well,” Gandalf said, and in that moment surrender became resolve. The wizard stood straight and strong. Whatever he feared, he would meet face to face. “We go through Moria.”
Even as the words puffed clouds into the air, the wind dwindled once again. The snow fell still, but softly now. And as they turned, relief evident on Sam's face even through the exhaustion, the voice fell until it was no more than a malevolent whisper in the distance. The journey down Caradhras was much shorter than up. The mountain had ceased its resistance.
The mere thought of being in some form of true shelter, protected from the elements, lightened everyone's mood noticeably. Pippin was chattering away to Merry once again – wondering whether the dwarves would have pipeweed and beer. Sam was hoping for a chance to restock their rather meager supply of food. Gimli was regaling Frodo with a tale of Balin's exploits that had grown to the stuff of legend. Boromir shared his flask with Aragorn and they walked side by side, laughing at some small jest Pippin made.
Only Gandalf was sober and quiet. He dropped back, allowing Aragorn to take the lead. His head was bent, as though he carried a burden. Legolas slowed his pace as well, until the wizard caught up to him. He did not intrude on Gandalf's thoughts, merely matched his steps in silence.
At last Gandalf glanced at him from under the broad brim of his hat. One eyebrow arched. “Was there something you required of me, Legolas?”
Legolas shook his head, then – gauging the distance that grew between them and the rest of the fellowship – said, “You do not relish the prospect of Moria.”
Gandalf studied him intently. Legolas resisted the urge to look away. It felt as though the wizard searched his thoughts as well as his expression, weighing them both. And then he sighed. “I do not, though there is no other choice. I am less certain of our reception than Master Gimli.”
Legolas let that lie for a moment as he studied Gandalf in turn. Though he lacked the wizarding arts, he had talents of his own. Gandalf had a burden. Legolas could lighten his load, if he could encourage Gandalf to open. But it would be tricky, especially since he suspected Gandalf knew what he was. “'Tis not only that,” he said, not asking. “There is somewhat more that causes you concern.”
“There are things that live in the deep dark and it is said that Moria is home to such creatures.”
Legolas considered his words. He knew Gandalf had faced goblin and warg, troll and orc. None had brought this shadow to his eyes. A touch of unease crept into him. If Gandalf feared... but he pushed that thought aside. They all had fear of this quest. If he allowed himself to be caught up in his own anxiety he would be unable to offer Gandalf the assistance he could supply, even if it was but small in the face of what they might encounter. The wizard deserved some comfort – leading such a motley assortment of tempers could not be easy. And Legolas would offer than comfort, should Gandalf accept. “I do not fear what hides in the deep,” Legolas said, raising his chin.
Gandalf's eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should,” he said. “Perhaps you should.” And then he lengthened his stride and Legolas allowed a distance to grow between them. He did not approach Gandalf for the rest of the day, even as the long night of Moria engulfed them.
Instead, Legolas hovered at the edge of the group, watching as Gandalf expended much energy in attempts to open the secret door of the Mines. Watching as Gandalf created what light he could, a soft glow shining from his staff. Watching as Gandalf conjured fire to warm and dry the others, but remained separate himself. Legolas took the first watch of the night and he saw Gandalf's eyes glittering in the darkness and the glow of his pipe long after the soft sounds of sleep emanated from the others, and Gimli's snores echoed from the stones.
At last Merry took his place at watch, blinking sleepily at the embers of the dying fire. And Legolas approached the wizard where he sat, wreathed by smoke from his pipe.
“You must be weary,” Legolas whispered. “You have given much of yourself this night.”
Gandalf said nothing, merely drew on his pipe and then exhaled in a cloud.
“Please, allow me to give something back to you,” Legolas knelt behind him, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. Still Gandalf did not reply, but neither did he pull away. Legolas began to massage his shoulders, easing the tightness from them, then moving down his back. Gandalf set aside his pipe. Legolas could feel the tension beginning to loosen, the energy swirling through Gandalf more freely. He rubbed until his hands grew warm and his thoughts settled.
When they came together, it was not with the hardness of warriors, but a slow build. Replenishing, like a spring rain. A moment light in the darkness. It left a lingering softness in Legolas' limbs as he made his way back to his sleeping roll. He glanced back at Gandalf once more, and this time his eyes were closed. He had found sleep.
