Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

___________________________

~ Chapter 7: Adrift ~

___________________________

The great city of Gondor never failed to leave Bergil breathless.  Though he had beheld it many a time, and even lived within its solid walls, Minas Tirith always stirred fierce love and pride within his heart.  It was a profound experience—one that told Bergil the White City was his home and forever would be.

The gleaming white tower stretched proudly to the heavens, beckoning the two travelers as they hastened over the green fields.  Legolas noted that the land was still recovering from the siege ten years earlier.  Healthy saplings dotted the hills and the Orkish trenches, which had so deeply marred the land, were now softened to no more than rolling, grassy hummocks.  Still, the scars remained, and would for some time.  It did not take Legolas much effort to recall how severely wounded the land had been during those bleak days.  The Elf suppressed a shudder at the thought and mentally chided himself for allowing his mind to wander such unpleasant paths.

Rhosharrow, the bay Rohan stallion of Bergil, pricked forth his ears and increased his gait as they reached the dusty winding road stretching to the city’s gate.  To the eyes of Legolas, Bergil reacted in a similar manner: his eyes grew wider and he leaned in closer to the neck of his steed.  ‘At least one of us is pleased to enter the Gate,’ the Elf thought wryly.  Legolas could appreciate Minas Tirith for its strength and ingenuity, but there his love of the White City ended.  The archer found little comfort in the mammoth outer wall of the city, and even less comfort within the city itself.  “You reign over a fine prison,” he had informed Aragorn during one of his cheekier moments.  “A black wall, which encompasses yet another six cells, ensuring you remain locked within that ridiculous White Pillar.  It is small wonder you chose exile for so long.”

Fine billows of dust floated lazily behind the duo as they trod down the worn path, and grasshoppers buzzed and snapped beneath the hooves of their mounts.  The smell of sun-baked grass and earth perfumed the air; heat waves shimmered and rippled in the distance.  Bergil shaded his eyes from the bright sun and beamed at the vast city before him.  “A wondrous fair day is this!” he happily proclaimed.  The young guard’s grey eyes danced underneath the shadow of his hand.

“Or so it would seem,” Legolas murmured at his side, the wind gently teasing the Elf’s long hair.  Bergil shot the Elf lord a quick glance of curiosity, but declined to comment.  If there was one thing he had learned during the previous days’ travels, it was that attempting to decipher an Elf’s cryptic comments was nigh impossible.  One could either ponder them and become more confused, or ignore them all together.  Bergil chose the latter.

They reached the impressive iron-wrought Gate with no fanfare or welcoming troupe.  Legolas smiled to himself; the work of Gimli and his fellow Dwarves did not disappoint.  Gimli...   He must seek out the Dwarf and set things right as soon as he could.  Perhaps he would stop by the Glittering Caves before he returned to Ithilien.  There was still much work to be done in his realm, but he was willing to lay it aside at the moment for the sake of friendship. 

“Halt!” commanded a voice from atop the smooth black wall.  “What business have you in the White City?”

Bergil reined in Rhosharrow and Legolas spoke quiet words into the ear of his steed Findalen.  The sturdy bay and long-limbed dapple-grey pawed at the earth impatiently as both riders looked up.  Minor blemishes and discolorations could be seen in the coal-colored wall, testament to its weathering of war and era.  Bergil squinted his eyes as he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted in reply.  “Vargon!” he called to the wall.  “Vargon is that you?”

A head, ruddy-cheeked with a curly mop of chestnut hair, popped over the ramparts.  “Eh?  Who goes there?”

Bergil heaved an exasperated sigh.  “Vargon!  It is Bergil!  For pity’s sake man, open the Gate!”

“Bergil!” came the joyous reply.  “How was your journey?  Who is that with you?  What news do you bring from Rohan and Ithilien?  Why—“

“Talkative fellow, is he not?” mused Legolas.  Bergil grimaced and nodded.

“Vargon,” the young guard shouted, “let us finish this conversation within the city walls!  The Lord Prince of Ithilien and I have no great desire to spend the remainder of the summer waiting for you to open the Gate!”

There came a muffled reply, which was swept away in the breeze and lost even to the keen ears of Legolas, followed by the sound of a body scrambling down stone steps.  There was a short pause, and then the great gate began to slowly open.  The two travelers drew back their horses as the gate’s wide doors swung outward--throwing its arms forth in welcoming embrace.

Bergil gave Rhosharrow a gentle nudge with his heels, and the horse nickered as he eagerly walked through the archway.  Findalen was not nearly so enthusiastic about entering the city.  The Elvish stallion preferred the open air, green fields and forests, as did his rider.  He dubiously stared at the massive stone structure before him with his large brown eyes and flicked his ears nervously.    “Do not fear, my friend,” coaxed Legolas.  “It is not quite as bad as it looks.  I shall let no harm come to you.”  The stallion snorted and skittishly pranced through the archway. 

Legolas was pleasantly surprised as he looked about him.  The city did not appear nearly as foreboding from inside the outer wall—which reminded him far too much of Orthanc.   Sunlight shone down upon the white stones, illuminating the broad, bustling street and well-kept shops.  Flowers spilled from gardens onto the walkways, and there was an abundance of grass and small trees considering the close quarters.  ‘Arwen,’ thought Legolas fondly.  Trust the Elven Queen of Gondor to put his gifts to proper use.*   The gentle pattering of a fountain could be heard from somewhere up ahead, and birds twittered betwixt tree and rooftop.

Bergil dismounted Rhosharrow and held the bay’s halter as he greeted Vargon.  “You are in need of a new post, my friend,” laughed the young guard.  “One that requires more interaction with others.”

Vargon, who stood a head shorter than Bergil, had turned his attention to Bergil’s companion and did not reply.  For once, the curly-haired man was at a loss for words.  His mouth hung agape as he stared at the regal Elf.  Bergil gave him a light tap on the cheek.  “It is rude to stare.”

Vargon blinked.  “That’s an Elf!”

Bergil nodded and the two watched as Legolas sprang from the back of Findalen and alertly followed the birds’ flight with his eyes.  The Elf’s actions reminded Bergil of a cat’s fascination with jerking pieces of string.  “He’s tall,” murmured Vargon.  Bergil raised a brow.  Everything was tall compared to Vargon. 

Legolas cocked his head to one side as his attention turned to the sound of the fountain.  He wondered if it were similar to any of those in his own realm.  He gracefully pivoted and began to walk in the direction of the sound, cape billowing softly behind him.  He was beginning to notice the large number of stares turned in his direction.  The Elf lord paused to smile at a giggling toddler boy who drooled and clapped his hands in delight.

Vargon and Bergil craned their necks as they watched the slender Elf, followed by his silvery horse, move gracefully down the street.  Elves were fascinating to watch, even if it was the simple act of walking.  Legolas almost appeared to float.

“Should you have let him do that?” asked Vargon, when the Elf prince was almost out of sight.

“Hmm?”  A large number of small children had immediately flocked after Legolas, and Bergil found it quite amusing.

“Should you have let him walk off like that?”  Vargon absentmindedly stroked Rhosharrow’s neck when the horse shook his head impatiently.  “What if we lose him?”

Bergil swore and quickly ran down the stone street, leaving Vargon and Rhosharrow at the Gate.  The last thing he needed was to explain to King Elessar how he had managed to lose an Elf lord.

*                          *                          *

Captain Haier took a moment to gather his courage before knocking on the chamber doors.  The King and Queen had been arguing with one another for several days now.  The tension built between the two had almost solidified.  Even now, he could hear the unnaturally sharp phrases of Elvish as they snapped back and forth.  Haier knew their quarrel stemmed from the crazed peasant Bitaliel and her gemstone, but there his knowledge ended.  He had not attempted to pursue the matter: the broad-shouldered captain’s job was to protect the Citadel and its King and Queen; the domestic affairs of his liege and lady were none of his business.  

“Enter.”  The command sounded wearied and strained.  Haier took a deep breath and opened the door.  He thought it best if he stayed within the safety of the doorframe. 

Arwen and Aragorn turned to the captain expectantly.  The King had two hands placed upon the back of an upholstered chair and his shoulders were slightly hunched.  Haier could not help but notice the lines around his eyes and brow.  Arwen appeared no better: the Queen stood stiffly by the window, gripping the deep green curtain within her hand.  She, too, looked tired and worn.  ‘This is no simple lover’s quarrel,’ Haier thought to himself, somewhat alarmed.  That the great King and Queen be fighting for a prolonged period of time struck a nerve of discord within him.  It was not right.

He cleared his throat and delivered his message.  “My Lord, my Lady,” he bowed slightly.  “Young Bergil has returned.  The Lord Prince of Ithilien has also arrived with him.”

“Legolas?” asked Aragorn, slight surprise registering across his face. 

“Yes, My Lord.”

Arwen twisted the satin curtain in her hands and rested her forehead against the glass pane of the window.  Legolas!  She had hoped he would come—almost expected him to.  Perhaps he would be able to talk some sense into her husband.  She released the curtain and drew herself up.  “Thank you Captain.  Please direct Legolas up to the room and inform Bergil my husband will speak with him in the morning.”

Haier glanced uncomfortably at Aragorn, hoping his King would not refute Arwen’s orders.  Aragorn’s eyes flashed in momentary annoyance, but he quickly smothered any objections and gave Haier a curt nod.

*                                   *                                    *

Haier’s boots echoed along the silent corridor as he and Legolas made their way to the King and Queen’s study.  Legolas watched as the tight-lipped captain strode forward.  ‘He is tense,’ thought the Elf, noticing the Citadel guard’s unnaturally stiff posture and somewhat moody disposition.  Legolas’s own dread began to grow and nibble on the edges of his mind. 

‘Mayhap it is that I am enclosed within these walls,’ he reasoned, ‘and so my misgivings are enhanced to even greater proportions than is warranted.’  Ever since his return from the Glittering Caves with Gimli, Legolas had developed a fear of enclosed spaces almost to the point of phobia.  He knew it was ridiculous—the Glittering Caves were beautiful and in no way threatening.  Nonetheless, he had found himself unable to enter such places without visions of Balrogs and Mithrandir’s shouts assailing his mind.

  He had been forced to confide his shameful secret to Gimli, and the Dwarf informed him he was most likely suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress.  “Such a thing occurs constantly in those who are trapped in mine collapses,” the Dwarf had assured him.  “They cannot return to the mines without falling victim to panic attacks and thoughts of being trapped all over again.  And strangely enough, their fears usually surface within a year after the incident has befallen.”  Legolas, though not pleased with his friend’s assumption, knew it to be a valid one.  Still, he hated the fact that he, an Elf and lord, would be “victim” to such an embarrassing weakness. 

 He pushed aside his thoughts with some effort as panic began to rise and forced his mind to envision endless forests and open fields instead.  ‘You are NOT trapped,’ he informed himself viciously.  ‘Cease this at once.’ 

The broad-shouldered captain came to an abrupt halt at two wide double doors and rapped lightly upon the paneling.  “My Lord and Lady,” he called.  “The Lord Prince Legolas of Ithilien has arrived.”

“Please send him in, Captain,” came the reply.  A barely perceptible frown graced the lips of Legolas as Haier reached for the door handle.  Aragorn sounded tired and strained... old.  He glanced questioningly at Haier, but the captain merely avoided his eyes.  ‘No matter,’ thought the Elf.  ‘I feel I shall soon find what so plagues the palace myself.’    

With a murmur of thanks, Legolas bobbed his head to Haier and stepped into the room.  His eyes quickly darted from Aragorn and Arwen, immediately sensing the stormy atmosphere.  He raised a thinly arched brow.  “Do you wish to finish this quarrel or shall I play mediator?”

Aragorn smiled wanly and shook his head, thankful no formalities were required when dealing with Legolas.  “Nay, my friend.  It is but a passing matter.”  Legolas noted the dark flash in Arwen’s eyes.  Apparently, she believed otherwise.  “Why have you come to the White City, Legolas?  I did not think you would allow your wanderlust to override your duties in Ithilien.”  Aragorn’s tired grey eyes twinkled slightly.

“The opportunity to travel was but an added pleasure to my visit.”  A smile flitted across the Elven lord’s face then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.  “Nay,” he continued, his tone growing grave and solemn, “I fear darker matters push me to Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn lifted his head in alarm.  “Darker matters?  You feel Ithilien threatened?”

The Elf furrowed his brow and shook his head in something akin to frustration.  “I...do not know,” he stated slowly and carefully.  “The wind brings strange tidings to our ears and the trees whisper of things lost forever to Middle-earth save in lore and legend.”  

Arwen drew in a sharp breath.  “Tell him, Aragorn.”  Her musical voice had a sharp ring Legolas was unaccustomed to. “Tell him of the stone.”

The king of Gondor turned reluctantly and fetched the wooden box, which was never far from his reach.  Legolas craned his neck in curiosity as the dark-haired man carefully lifted the lid.  He opened his mouth to speak, and then spied the perfect stone nestled within the box’s lining.  The question forming on his lips melted away to a gasp of wonder.  The Elf wordlessly stared at the rugged king, then back to the jewel.  When he finally did regain his speech, the words bubbled forth unchecked.  “Aragorn!  From whence did you get this?  How?  Does anyone know of it?  You cannot—“

“Peace Legolas,” laughed the man, holding up a hand.  “I shall tell you.  But I warn you, it is a long and strange tale indeed.”

The Elf promptly settled himself on one of the study’s many window seats and looked to Aragorn expectantly.  “Then you had best start while the day is still new!"

*                             *                           *     

“So you see,” Aragorn concluded, many an hour later, “those are the events as they have unfolded.”

Legolas nodded and picked up his goblet of wine, swishing it expertly before taking a delicate sip.  Knowing their friend’s fondness for the stuff, Arwen had fetched the drink an hour earlier before retiring to her chambers.  The Elf swallowed and lifted his head to meet Aragorn’s eyes.  “Then I shall tell you this, though I know you do not wish to hear it: I, too, side with Arwen on the matter.”

Aragorn heaved a sigh of frustration and leaned back in his chair.  “Legolas,” he stated, “I know the jewel should not reside here, but it does.  We cannot change that.  It is also simply impossible to ‘destroy’ it.”  He went on before Legolas could voice his protest.  “Nay, my friend.  Listen to me!  How would I destroy it?  It was wrought by an ancient craft lost and therefore cannot be chiseled down or chipped away.  And even if we somehow could shatter it, what would become of its inner contents?  The light of Valinor would not simply dissipate into thin air!  The results would be disastrous.”

 “Return it to the Sea from whence it came,” cried the Elf.  “It is in her charge!”

Aragorn rubbed his temples and gripped the plush arm of the chair.  He had already gone over this exact thread of conversation with Arwen to no avail.  “But the Sea could not hold it,” he said.  “Why return it when it would only be thrust back to us?  I have no desire to play such a dangerous game of throw and catch.”

“But the Sea is the jewel’s rightful home, Aragorn.”

“Legolas,” cried the king in exasperation, “The jewel does not wish to reside in its ‘rightful home.’ It will not be content to stay there!”

“Nay,” replied the Elf quietly, turning his head to the window and squinting into the western horizon.  “Many leave the shores of their homeland in pursuit of that which they cannot have, and only come to realize their folly when they are no longer able to return.”  He crossed his arms and leaned straight-backed against the window—a trademark posture of stubbornness Aragorn knew all too well.

Aragorn shook his head in frustration.  “Then let us say we do choose to return it to the Sea—though I still decree it folly—how would we carry out such a plan?  Corsairs line the coast of Belfalas, and Southern Gondor is far too unstable to risk travel down the Anduin.  The longer we would travel with it in our keeping, the less of a secret it would become and all the more dangerous to us.  Only a fool would attempt such rash action!”

“Aragorn,” hissed the Elf, finally losing his temper, “it does not belong here.  The Simarils were not made to rest within the hands of man!”

“And I suppose an Elf would be better suited to handle such a thing?”  Legolas narrowed his eyes and Aragorn immediately regretted his slip of tongue.  He inhaled deeply and held up a hand.  “Nay, forgive me.  I did not mean that.” 

“It no longer belongs to any of the races, Aragorn.”  The Elf’s jaw tightened.  “Middle-earth is amiss.  Can you not feel it?  The Silmarils keep the balance between the elements: one of Earth, one of Sky, and one of Sea.  It has been disrupted!  There cannot be two in one place.”

“And yet there are.”  Aragorn stood abruptly and began slowly pacing back and forth.  “Legolas, we have already discussed this!  This conversation does naught but dance in circles; I grow weary of it.”

“Then what, pray tell, are your plans for the stone?”  The Elf’s tone was more than a little cold and condescending—true Elvish arrogance at its finest.  However, the intended effect of intimidation was lost on Aragorn, who was raised by the fair folk and knew their mannerisms intimately.

“It shall remain in Gondor, locked safely within the palace vaults.  Perhaps it would be presented in the odd ceremony or celebration, but otherwise it would remain untouched.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow and shook his head in disgust.  “You would use it as a symbol of your leadership?”

“I did not say—“ Aragorn began.

 “But you did,” persisted the Elf.  “You would use it as a symbol of your leadership.  Why?  You already possess the Elf-stone.”  Legolas shook his head again.  “Nay, my friend—you would unwittingly use it as a symbol of power.  You would use the Silmaril to represent the great power of Gondor, and it would become so: the Elessar and the White Tree would soon become lost in the shadows as you basked in the glow of this jewel.  And then what would occur, my friend?  I shall tell you.  Your enemies will grow to hate you, to loathe and fear you, all the more.  They will covet the stone just as Morgoth did, with a greedy lust more souring than the blackest of plagues.  In the end it will be your undoing!  Strife will break out across the land, and all will seek to claim the Silmaril for his own, knowing that if he were able to succeed he would become the greatest power.”

“Do you not think that is a bit extreme?” Aragorn responded wryly.

“The Silmarils were wrought out of pride, Aragorn.  My people have suffered greatly for it.”

“By the Valar, Legolas!”  Aragorn whirled around and threw up his hands.  “You think I do not know this?  I was raised by Lord Elrond, the master of Elvish lore himself!  I was lulled to sleep as a child by songs concerning the House of Fëanor and the fate of the Noldor.  Do not lecture me!  I do not desire any power this jewel could bring.  I only desire what is best for Gondor, for Middle-earth.  My intentions are pure.”

“Of course you believe your intentions in good heart!”  Legolas sprang from the window seat.  “No being thinks his intentions bad, lest he truly be a wicked Fëa.  But tell me this, Aragorn--“ he pointed a slender finger at the former Ranger “—do you stare at your precious treasure often?  Are you compelled to make sure it is safely within YOUR keeping, far from the reach of prying eyes and hands?”

Aragorn stopped his pacing and turned to the Elf prince in disbelief.  “You would accuse me of falling victim to this jewel, Legolas?  It posses no power of the sort!  Have you so little faith in me?”

Legolas stared intently at the man before him.  “Then answer me this,” he said in a low voice, “would you allow others to hold it within their safekeeping?”

Aragorn was stung and insulted.  He turned his back to the Elf and did not reply.  That Legolas, his most trusted friend and ally, would accuse him of greed and desiring corrupt power left a bitter taste in his mouth.  He felt strangely betrayed.  Anger coursed through his veins and flamed upon his face; he unconsciously balled his fists.  Thankfully, he had sense enough to realize an outburst would only complicate matters further.  ‘I am in too ill humor to continue this conversation,’ he thought, seething all the while. 

Legolas silently cursed himself for the harshness of his words when he realized Aragorn had not been ready to hear them.  He dropped his shoulders and sighed deeply.  “Aragorn,” he began in a softer tone.

“Leave.”  Aragorn fought to keep his temper in check.  He wanted desperately to lash out at the Elf.  ‘Hold your tongue,’ he demanded of himself, praying the Elf would heed his words.   

Legolas flinched at the biting tone of the man’s voice.  He swallowed somewhat painfully, knowing it was useless to speak to unwilling ears.  “Very well.” 

Aragorn refused to look at him as he exited the room.

*                             *                             *   

Legolas walked down the hall, feeling strangely disjoined.  He and Aragorn had had their share of differences over the years, but this... this was strange.  Never before had their friendship been placed in such an awkward position.  It was akin to running headfirst into a wall he had never noticed, and Legolas was unsure of how to surmount it.

The son of Thranduil leaned his back against a heavy tapestry hanging on the wall and shut his eyes.  His emotions swirled dizzyingly, threatening to engulf and drown him. 

“Legolas?”

He started and opened his eyes to the concerned face of Arwen.  Her dark and inquiring gaze bore into him, and he was forced to look away.  The ethereal beauty inhaled a shaky breath and gently laid a hand upon his forearm.  “Come,” she stated in quiet calmness.  “Our concerns are one and the same.  I fear we must take matters into our own hands.”

She beckoned him to follow her as she turned to leave.  Seeing no reason to object, Legolas did unto her bidding.

________________________________________________________________________

 * “Trust the Elven Queen of Gondor to put his gifts to their proper use.” – assuming Legolas bestowed gifts of birds and plants unto Aragorn.      

__________________________________________________________________________