CHAPTER 22: THE UNEXPECTED

There were few times in Legolas’ life that he had been so frozen with fear that he could not move. This moment on the cruel face of a mountain in the Black Land – just after he had seen someone he loved slip from his grasping fingers to fall through nothingness – was one of them.

“Esteeeel!” The cry of pained anguish had been ripped from his elven throat, joined by other frantic exclamations from above him.

Saved from a long fall himself only by the slightest of holds on some hardly noticeable protrusion of rock, he had watched helplessly as Aragorn plummeted downwards, and the only thing that had prevented him from letting go and leaping after his friend was a realization that hit him moments later: that Aragorn’s fall to certain death below had – by some act of mercy by the Valar – been abruptly broken by a small catch in the hard rock face halfway down.

Barely discernable from above, the narrow fold jutted upward like a pouting lip, and Aragorn, after two more failed efforts at halting his descent and slamming against rough rock in the process, had fortunately slowed his downward journey enough to land in the loose wedge of the crag, which now cradled him like a newborn. The elves – the only two members of the Company that had a clear view of what had happened, for the fold was some distance from the Stairs – gasped in incredulous relief. But their fear resurfaced when they saw that Aragorn was still and unmoving: his legs hanging limply over one edge of the fold, and his head bent forward on his chest.

Snapping out of their shocked stupor, the elves moved swiftly. Elrohir shouted instructions to Sam and the men to remain where they were, certain that they would not be able to handle the dangerous slopes, before joining Legolas in an urgent near-slide along the rock surface to reach Aragorn.

Yards away from their target, they saw – again to their immense relief – that Aragorn had suddenly begun to stir. But just as quickly, horror set upon them.

“Estel, stay still!” Legolas called out, afraid that the man’s movements would dislodge him from the tenuous safety of the crag. “Do not move; we are coming to you!”

Even from where they were, the elves saw Aragorn attempt to lift his head, and they heard his moan of pain, but then, either out of incapacity or awareness of his danger, he halted his movements.

Moving dangerously fast and ignoring Elrohir’s warnings, Legolas completed the descent and reached Aragorn first. The man was half on his back, one arm trapped between his body and the rock, and the other lying weakly along the exposed side, the sleeves of his shirt torn in places. Cuts and bruises scored his palms and fingers, and the Ring of Barahir on his forefinger had almost come off in his earlier struggle to retain a hold on the cliff face. But what alarmed Legolas most was the pallor of Aragorn’s face, markedly ashen beneath the bloody abrasions. The man was conscious but breathing heavily and moaning softly in pain.

Fighting off a rising fear, the elf set one slender foot gingerly onto the sharp edge of the fold, inches from where Aragorn lay, and set the other down in the narrow space between Aragorn’s thigh and the rock wall. He released his hold on the rock and lowered himself carefully on to his knees so that he straddled Aragorn’s supine form, avoiding toppling off the ledge himself with the fine balance and grace only an elf could possess. Anxiously, he began to scan the silent form before him.

Framed by dark hair fanning out in disarray, Aragorn’s pale face was bruised and chafed, with cuts above one eyebrow and on his nose. Some skin had been scraped off both cheeks, and his upper lip was also beginning to swell. His eyes were open but staring almost vacantly, sending a stab of fear through the elf.

“Estel?” Legolas called gently, his voice trembling like the hand he placed on his friend’s chest. The man did not answer.

The elf prince could hear the Gondorian guards and Sam shouting to him, trying to learn of Aragorn’s condition, but he could not speak for the lump in his throat. He vaguely heard Elrohir responding for him, telling them that Aragorn was alive, and to wait.

After a few moments, Legolas could hear the other elf above and behind him, and knew that the latter was hanging onto the rock face. The prince began to rise so that Elrohir could examine his brother, but the dark-haired elf stayed him.

“There is not enough space for us to move freely,” he told Legolas. “Remain where you are, and feel behind his head; is he bleeding?”

Following Elrohir’s instructions, Legolas calmed his hands and felt gently all over Aragorn’s head and neck and as much of his back as he could, then checked his arms and badly chafed hands. Aragorn’s eyes became fixed on the elf at some point, and blinked at him, but said nothing.

“I feel a small bump at the back of his head, but no blood seeps there or elsewhere,” said Legolas, still worried despite the relief he sensed from Elrohir.

“It hurts,” Aragorn said suddenly, trying to reach up to feel his head.

“Stay still, Estel,” Elrohir said firmly, and Legolas grasped the man’s hands gently to keep him from moving too much.

“You’re spinning…” the man said weakly to Legolas before he closed his eyes, panting.

“Remain still,” said Elrohir. “Breathe slowly, Estel.”

Knowing how anxious Sam and the men must be, not being able to see what was going on, Elrohir called out – with an assurance he did not truly yet feel – that Aragorn was recovering from the shock of his fall. Then the whole group waited in great anxiety.

Wordlessly, Legolas continued to hold his friend’s hands, and gently swept aside the hair sticking to the bloody welts and cuts. He could not stop recalling everything Elrohir had told him about how Men could forget everything they had known after a blow to their heads, and he could not stop thinking about his nightmare and about Aragorn being lost. Pleading silently with the Valar, the elf watched the grimace of pain leave Aragorn’s face as his breathing grew steadier.

“He must not sleep, gwador,” Elrohir said softly in warning to Legolas. “Is he – ?”

Before the elf could finish, Aragorn opened his eyes again.

“Aragorn?” Legolas said quietly, holding his breath.

The man’s swollen lips parted. “Stopped spinning,” he croaked. Then he fixed unblinking eyes on Legolas for what seemed to be an endless moment, till an unnerving thought crept into the elf’s mind. Legolas narrowed his brows and swallowed.

“Who?” he asked anxiously. “Who has stopped spinning?”

The silence from Aragorn screamed like a harsh, cruel answer to the waiting elf. “Who –” he began again.

“You,” said the man hoarsely at last. He lifted his grey eyes to look beyond the golden elf straddling him, to the tall elf behind, and the rock and sky above. “Everyone,” he whispered. “Everything.”

Legolas was not appeased. “Who… am I?” he asked with quivering lips, hardly daring to breathe. “Who am I, Estel?”

The man looked at him, knitting his brows a little, perplexed at the question. Then a glimmer of understanding seemed to enter his eyes. He smiled weakly and answered: “Legolas.”

Audible sighs of relief escaped two pairs of elven lips, and Legolas’ grip on the man’s hands relaxed. 

“Move your fingers, Estel, and your legs,” said Elrohir. Aragorn’s face registered pain and great discomfort, and his movements were slow, but to the elf’s great satisfaction, he complied. “I know that caused you pain, but at least your limbs do not seem to be broken,” Elrohir said consolingly. “Where else does it hurt?”

“My back feels like it has been pummeled on, and I have a headache,” Aragorn replied. “But nowhere else.”

The elves’ eyes traveled over the torn elbows of the man’s sleeves, to the bruises they knew were hidden beneath his leather leggings, and finally to the cuts on his face. And they exchanged a quick glance that said: He will soon feel them.

“Rest there awhile, Estel,” said Elrohir. “I will fetch water and herbs for the cuts. Stay with him, Legolas.”

The elf left, climbing up the rock to meet with some men and a hobbit who would undoubtedly be relieved beyond measure. Legolas could hear him calling out instructions to Sam about using the hithlain, and to Tobëas about the rope he had brought. The elf prince hoped that the men’s efforts would not cost them their already shaky grip on the steps.

Then he turned his attention back to the grey eyes beneath, pinning Aragorn with an expression that spoke volumes. “Frighten me again like that, Adan, and I will be sorely tempted to push you off this mountain myself,” he said teasingly, masking his deep concern. “Wait till Gimli hears of this; he will nag at you – at us – no end.”

Aragorn chuckled despite his pain. “Fortune was on my side,” he said quietly after a while.

Legolas smiled grimly. “Aye, mellon nin, it was,” he said softly. “That it was.”

Aragorn’s eyes showed his agreement. “But I – I did think… that it would be the end,” he added thoughtfully.

“Not by a long fall, mellon nin,” Legolas countered, trying to lighten the conversation.

“I thought about what would happen if I… if I had gone,” Aragorn continued. “The task would be unfinished, Eldarion would have to…”

Legolas raised his eyebrows. “You thought of all that while you were falling?” he asked incredulously.  

Aragorn remained somber as he responded. “You cannot believe how quickly things flash across our minds, Legolas, when we think the end is here,” he said forlornly, closing his eyes.

“But it is you who are still here, Estel, not the end,” Legolas said firmly. “Not the end… thank the Valar for that.”

The look on Aragorn’s face softened as he attempted a nod. “Not the end,” he echoed. “And your dream – it did not come to pass… it was nothing, just a dream… for I still remember.” He opened his eyes and gazed at his elven friend. “I still know you.”

Legolas placed his hand lightly on Aragorn’s. “Yes, you do, Estel, you do; hannon le,” he said, smiling. “And what is more, you still have all your features on your face as well.”

As soon as the words had been spoken, Aragorn began to raise his hand to his cheek, but was stopped by the elf. Though Legolas’ heart ached over the battering his friend’s face had received from the rough rock, he hid his distress beneath a light tone.

“It’s somewhat improved by the removal of some dead, unsightly skin,” he quipped, receiving a grim smile in response. “And would you know, the Host is as relieved as we are, Aragorn.”  

Even in agony, the man’s surprise came through in his voice. “You can see that?”

“I sense it,” the elf answered. “They would have not wanted to lose the one person who can release them, not when they are so close to their target.”

Aragorn nodded slightly and grew thoughtful again at the reminder of his task. Legolas encouraged him to lie quietly till Elrohir returned.

After what seemed an eternity, Aragorn’s cuts and bruises had been cleaned with water and treated with herbal pastes Arwen had wisely sent along, while soothing ointment was applied to the parts that had had skin scraped off.

“That will have to do for now,” Elrohir said.

Next came the torturous task of helping Aragorn finish the interrupted journey. Sam and the Gondorian guards had completed the climb to the top of the Stairs, where Sam had tied both ropes securely to a huge stone. When Aragorn felt able to bear some of his own weight, Legolas and Elrohir gently freed him and looped the ropes around him. Then, with the ropes and the elves supporting him, he made his slow, agonizing way back along the cliff wall to the Stairs to resume the climb. It was a long, strenuous effort, but after numerous stops, they all completed the remainder of the journey to the top, where the King was greeted with much relief by his anxious guards and one nervous hobbit.

“I just ’bout forgot how to breathe back there, Strider, the fright was so bad!” Sam lamented, his round eyes telling the story as expressively as his tongue. “Nothin’ good came of this horrid mountain when Mr. Frodo and I last dragged our poor selves here, and you near lost it all too this time. I’ll cheer no end when the job’s done and we can leave this ghastly place! Here, Strider, you set yourself down and snooze for a bit. That old big-bellied beast isn’t goin’ anywhere.”

Wearily, and fighting the pain in his head and back, Aragorn allowed himself to be led to a fairly open space with a level surface, beyond which lay a large, dark opening in the rock face.

“The tunnel,” he murmured in awe as he gaped at it. “Is this the tunnel?”

“That’s it,” Sam confirmed quietly. “That’s the front door to Her Creepiness’ palace, and if she’s still here, she’ll be cooling off in some dank sticky hole deep inside – probably dozing and a-waiting her next meal.”

Tobëas and his friends swallowed nervously at Sam’s words, but Aragorn’s face showed no expression. 

“It’ll be some job getting her to show her hairy face,” Sam remarked. “That’s one bug you can’t poke at with a stick!”

Still the King said nothing, but Legolas could read the question in his mind, and assured him that the Shadow Host was already waiting there, silent and expectant and tense.

Satisfied, and too tired to worry about them for the moment, Aragorn let Elrohir and Legolas help him change out of his torn clothes and feed him water, then lay down while they tended to him and his men fashioned some shade for him from the glare of the noonday sun. Feeling exhausted from the recent ordeal, he studied with dismay the injuries to his hands and fingers, and thought about how the pain in other parts of his body would slow his movements. Wordlessly, he lamented that it had taken place so soon before the meeting with Shelob.

“Worry not, Aragorn,” Legolas said reassuringly, sensing his distress. “There are many of us to manage her, and you need but deal the final stroke.”

The King nodded gratefully, and despite his fatigue, his spirits were buoyed by the thought of completing the hateful task. It had taken too long, and he was keen to have it ended. Indeed, this would have to be a brief respite, he told himself, for they did not have the luxury of time. Shelob would have to be confronted while daylight hours were still plentiful, as Sam had warned.

Yes, the brightness of day would be best for the encounter with the Beast, he sighed as he closed his eyes. And best, too, he thought, for the release of the Living Dead.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

In the cool dimness of Orthanc, blissfully unaware of what had befallen his friends, Gimli began to drowse after having quietened his rumbling stomach with something paltry that the two younger and resourceful dwarves had scrounged up. Their meager rations were depleting rapidly, barely enough to satisfy what he considered an already undemanding appetite, and so he heartily hoped that Lord Celeborn would decide to return to Gondor by the morrow, whether or not he found what he sought.

“Well, if I can’t get something else to eat, I might as enjoy a nap,” he had muttered to Bragor and Dagor while tightening his belt. “One can be as delicious as the other, I suppose.”

He leaned back in the armchair he had chosen for his afternoon constitution and closed his heavy eyelids. He had just begun drifting into that delicate state between waking and sleeping, when a noise began its gentle but persistent intrusion into his rest. Tap tap tap, it went.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Go away, be quiet, he thought in his half-asleep state, rearranging his ample body on the armchair. And for a while, it seemed as if his wish would be granted. But the rhythmic invasion soon resumed.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap…

Gimli snapped awake, feeling grumpier than a moose with a rump full of nettles.

“Confound that racket!” he roared. “Can’t a dwarf get some peace around here?”

The tapping halted instantly, and Dagor – who was seated with his brother on the floor nearby, enjoying his pipe – looked apologetically at the Elder dwarf. Bragor, however, barely concealed the roll of his eyes, which further irked the sleepy dwarf lord.

“It’s bad enough that my stomach is crying out for food,” Gimli grumbled, “without you knocking on that… that…” He furrowed his bushy brows at the two younger dwarves as he sat up. “Just what are you thumping on there?”

A quick movement of Dagor’s hand told Gimli that he had tried to push something out of sight that he had been knocking on with his pipe.

“It’s nothing,” the young dwarf muttered as nonchalantly as he could.

“Nothing of worth,” his brother added, shaking his head.

Gimli was not the least bit convinced, for he had caught a glimpse of a bone-colored object partially hidden by Dagor’s generous waist. “Bring it out here!” he instructed in his most commanding tone, jumping to his feet and striding towards the seated dwarves, who began to look decidedly uncomfortable. Growling, Gimli peered around Dagor’s girth, and his eyes widened. “Is that – is that what I think it is, you brats?” he asked.

Bragor shook his head again. “Whatever you think it is,” he said, “it’s not.”

Gimli exploded. “Bring it out now!”

Red in the face, Dagor slowly drew his hand out from behind his back and yielded the yellowed skull he had been trying to conceal.

“By my beard!” Gimli exclaimed. “Did you take that from the library upstairs?”

“Aye,” Dagor admitted timidly.

The dwarf lord’s beard fairly bristled. “Well, what are you doing with it?” he demanded.

“We were bored out of our skulls!” Dagor declared, then clamped a large hand over his mouth. “Oh… no, I didn’t mean that – ”

“That – that’s somebody’s head, you ninnies!” Gimli spluttered. “It’s not some plaything!”

Bragor shrugged his shoulders. “No disrespect meant,” he said with a hint of an apology before puffing on his pipe. “But this fellow’s been dead for… for who knows how long? And who knows how vile a creature he may have been?”

The hefty older dwarf gaped at the brothers, wondering for a moment how he could be dumbfounded by a pair of youngsters.

“And it’s not like he can feel anything now,” Dagor added eagerly, tapping his own pipe against the skull and spilling a large wad of hot ash on the rounded top. “Oops, ummph, that wasn’t deliberate,” he said, looking up at Gimli sheepishly.

The dwarf lord threw up his hands in defeat.  

“You’re young and sprightly now,” he said. “But when you’re dead and gone, and that’s all that’s left of you – ” he pointed to the skull, “you’ll thank the Living not to fool around with your bony head then!”

Too sleepy and annoyed to carry on the tirade, Gimli turned and headed towards the spiral staircase. It was time to leave this miserable place, he thought, and he would suggest to Lord Celeborn that they do so on the morrow, whether or not they found what they had come to find. But a shout of surprise stayed his step.

“Whoa, whoa, look!” he heard Dagor cried excitedly. “Hammer and tongs, Elder! Look!” 

Alarmed, Gimli turned and returned quickly to the brothers. Then three pairs of dwarven eyes grew wide and round at an unexpected sight.

Note: I’m afraid I cannot write any faster at this point and may have had people jump ship along the way  *eeeep* ...  but thank you to everyone who’s reading and reviewing faithfully.

Chap 23 will be something you probably won’t want to miss, my friends… Hope to see you there.