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

A/N:  At last, we're all caught up!  I've finally gotten the remaining chapters re-edited, so the story is now up-to-date.  (Yaaaay!)  :)  Thank you, Jay and Karen, for the fantastic reviews!  I've been smiling all week. 

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~ Chapter 14: Ask Nothing In Return ~

There was silence in the Void.  No hissing shadows tore at Mortsdil upon his entrance; no rumble of unholy rage shook him to the core.

Soul bobbing mutely in the inky blackness, Mortsdil strained his senses to the utmost.  He could not feel the presence of Morgoth.  He was alone—completely and utterly alone.

‘Nothing.  There is nothing!’

The corsair could not hear the pounding of his own heart.  Nor could he feel it.  He flailed wildly.  But, as always, there was no solid ground to reach.  Silence pulled and pressed down so heavily he was positive he would be simultaneously squashed and ripped apart. 

What was most disconcerting was the lack of space.  Mortsdil had always sensed the Void’s great expanse before.  Granted, it was a great expanse of nothingness, but it had depth nonetheless.  Now, even depth was gone.  Sheer terror rendered Mortsdil frantic.  He was being enclosed by the muted nothingness; he was being pulled further than he was capable of stretching—and yet, he was not.  For when he lashed out, his desperate throes struck nothing and were not hindered in any way.  When he curled into a ball of despair, the nothingness swelled and boxed him within its wall-less dungeon.

Morgoth’s cold laughter reverberated through the Void like rattling chains in an empty cell.  The invisible shadows whirled and tore; the darkness regained its space.

Mortsdil sobbed.  There was pain, but he was no longer alone.

“Did you not find that pleasant, Secondborn?”  Morgoth’s words slid over him like grease and cut like knives.  Mortsdil’s soul could only quiver in reply.  “That,” the Vala emphatically stated, “is the Void.  This: the shades, the boundaries, the darkness—all of which you now experience, was created by mine own hand.  I could banish you to the nether regions of my ‘Realm’ with a mere flick of the wrist.”  His voice grew more jagged and menacing.  Mortsdil choked as shadows swarmed around his neck.  “When I beckon, you shall come.”

The shadows hissed and drew back.  Mortsdil gagged.  “Yes, my lord.  I apologize.  But time and circumstances—“

Something brushed against him, its consistency of silk webbing and stone all in one.  The pain was exquisite.  His soul grew so cold it burned.  Morgoth’s deep voice echoed in both ears, as though it had originated within Mortsdil’s own head.

“When I beckon, you shall come.”

Mortsdil went numb.  “When you beckon,” he whispered in enthralled reply, “I shall come.”

Shadows purred and rubbed against him.  Despite his numbness, Mortsdil could still feel their frozen bite.

“Tell me, Secondborn:  What news have you?”

“An Elf lord has taken the jewel.”

“An Elf lord?”  Morgoth sneered.  “Miserable creatures—always interfering.  Where is this. . . Elf lord now?”

“I seek him still, Master.  He heads towards the sea.”

Morgoth rumbled in displeasure.  The Void quaked.  “Find him.  I will not have my plans ruined by a Firstborn whelp.”

Mortsdil bowed.  “And when I find him, my lord?”

Morgoth paused, wicked glee mixing in sickening fervor with the anger and fury of the Void.  “Long has it been since mine eyes witnessed the spill of Elven blood.”  The fallen Vala hissed at some long-forgotten memory.  “When it comes time to shatter the Silmaril, I wish to use the Firstborn as the bridge.  The Light of Valinor shall be brought into the Void—“ Morgoth laughed, centuries of bitter rage welling and spilling into the darkness, “—and it shall be brought over a dripping carcass of Manwë’s precious Firstborn!” 

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One does not go unscathed when brushed by the hands of a god.

Mortsdil awoke, sweating and shivering, on his cabin floor.  Hot wood, brine, and blood assaulted his senses.  The heat was suffocating, yet still the corsair was chilled.  Mortsdil lurched to his feet, grabbing the corner of his desk for support.  The disobedient sailor he had used for Morgoth’s sacrifice was beginning to bloat from the heat.  Tiny flies buzzed in and around the expanding cadaver.

Mortsdil watched them without interest, noting the corpse’s blood was beginning darken and coagulate.  The corsair frowned.  He felt… dulled… and the flies reminded him of something, though what it was he could not say.  He drew his shoulders together and shivered, unable to ward off the cold originating from his insides.  There seemed to be an insurmountable distance between his mind and his body.  It was like trying to run underwater. 

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Mortsdil gathered himself together.  There was work to be done; soon his ship would be within range of shore.  He cast a glance at the gutted body sprawled on the cabin floor.  He would dispose of it later—not that it was going anywhere.  Perhaps he would nail it to a mast or spar as warning to remaining crewmen.

Opening the cabin door, Mortsdil blinked in the blinding yellow sunlight.  Sea breezes kissed his sweat-soaked forehead, the driver’s steady one-two one-two drummed up from the galleys below.  Setting his face into a scowl, Mortsdil stepped back into sunnier realms and shut the cabin door behind him.

Oblivious to all but Nature’s demand, the black flies buzzed and crawled over the bloated corpse.  Tiny winged shades, biting and feeding upon Morgoth’s latest victim.

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Legolas and Gimli set camp in a ring of outcropping boulders.  Many years ago, Gimli had managed to convince the Elf of the benefits such places held.  Though the Elf would forever prefer the shelter of bough and leaf blade, he had to admit the boulders provided protection in their own right.  They effectively blocked the wind, retained the sun’s heat on cold nights, and, as Gimli made certain to point out, could not be hewn down by the enemy. 

Gimli watched his friend from the corner of his eye while bustling around their makeshift camp.  As they drew near the sea, Legolas withdrew further and further into himself.  Gimli had come to recognize the signs well enough: the glassy and distant gaze, head cocked slightly to the side.  Sometimes the Elf’s lips would move, as though he were attempting to give words to the voiceless song only his ears could hear. 

Gimli was nearly at wit’s end.  The Dwarf was quickly running out of ways to command the Elf’s attention—short of slapping him.  ‘And I do not think even that would yield effective results.’

Sitting with his back to a boulder, Gimli lit his pipe and sighed.  Legolas sat motionless opposite the fire, staring unseeing to the stars with the glassy-eyed expression of wonder Gimli had come to loath.  ‘Durin’s beard!  How did he expect to make this journey alone?’

Releasing a thick cloud of smoke, Gimli frowned at the dwindling campfire.  He had purposely sat upwind from Legolas, in the hopes his pipe smoke would draw the Elf’s notice and halt his wandering mind.  The Dwarf lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at the evening sky, as if by sheer willpower he could somehow find the song and stop it. 

The fire burned lower.  Gimli puffed furiously.  He hated seeing the Elf this way—it cut him to the quick.  At times he felt as though he were leading a small child.  It was not fair—Legolas should not be so vulnerable.  This was the famed Elf of the Fellowship: the chosen representative of the Elder; the fierce warrior at Helm’s Deep, Pelennor, Barad-dûr; one who had fearlessly trod the Paths of the Dead.  He deserved better.

Legolas coughed in the billows of smoke surrounding their campsite.  Shaking his head several times, the Elf blinked, eyes momentarily flashing with ire.  His anger over the pipeweed quickly faded to disorientation.  “Gimli?”  He again shook his head, fair brow furrowing in distress.  “I am sorry.  I meant to help you with the fire…”

Having at last caught the Elf’s attention, Gimli gratefully lowered the pipe from his lips.  If he puffed any harder, he was in danger of making himself ill.  “Think nothing of it,” he said, attempting to brush aside the Elf’s embarrassment, “I am well acquainted with the art of starting campfires.”  He cast a glance at the dwindling orange flames.  “Though speaking of it, I think I shall forage for more fuel.”

Legolas swiftly rose to his feet.  “I shall assist you.”

“NO.”  Gimli winced at the sharpness of his tone.  Legolas’ eyes flashed with embarrassment and anger.  “No,” Gimli repeated in softer tones.  “That is not necessary.”

An uncomfortable silence hung tensely in the evening air.  Gimli might as well have said “I do not want you wandering off unsupervised” out loud.

Legolas’ fists clenched and unclenched as he stared down the Dwarf.  Gimli found he could not bear to look at the other.  “I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own welfare, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli threw his axe over one shoulder with a grunt.  “Good.  Then see to the welfare of our camp as well.  I will not be long.”  He turned without a backwards glance and trundled off into the shadows.  Legolas’ furious eyes bore into his back all the while.

“Gimli.  Gimli.”

Gimli’s legs stilled of their own accord at the Elf’s commanding tone.  He turned reluctantly, and was greeted to the sight of Legolas purposefully striding towards him.  Graceful as he was imposing, the Elf presented the perfect image of slighted Elven royalty.  Gimli sighed heavily and steeled himself for the oncoming storm.

“You are not my caretaker, Master Dwarf.  You would do well to remember this.”  Legolas’ eyes narrowed, cold and hard as ice chips.  His voice became dangerously soft and clipped.  “Should you ever—ever—presume to think otherwise, I shall personally see to it that you never again make such a mistake.”

Gimli silently held his ground.  Legolas was humiliated; humiliated by his weakness and the unavoidable truth Gimli’s fears were not without merit.  His outburst, Gimli knew, was out of sheer desperation to keep some semblance of dignity intact.  ‘Would I not do the same were our situations reversed?’ 

The Elf’s tirade came to a cold and bitter end.  Gimli glanced at the seething Elf before turning away.  “I will not be long, Legolas.”  He felt, rather than heard, the Elf storm back to the campsite.

Legolas, face pinched in anger, stalked back and forth within the ring of boulders.  He whirled to face the dwindling flames before snapping his head up to the starry skies.  ‘Why?’ he demanded, anger finding new target in the voiceless and distant Valar.  ‘Why must you do this to me?  Why must you torment me so?  Have I not sacrificed enough?  Have I not given you all I possibly could, asking nothing in return?  Already have you taken my innocence and joy of Arda, and now you demand my strength and mind as well!’ 

“Allow me to retain but a piece of my former self,” he spoke aloud.  “But a small piece of my sanity!”

The stars winked overhead and the waning fire popped in its final throes.  The Valar did not answer.  Legolas slumped against a boulder, finding a perverse and bitter comfort in the rock’s protrusions as they dug into his back and shoulder blades.  “Please,” he whispered.  “Please.”  Evening breeze tugged gently at his hair, but the only voices to be heard were that of crickets and bats.  The Elf released a shaky sigh, attempting to regain some semblance of control. 

‘Gimli is right,’ he thought bleakly, campsite slowly fading as the Sea’s call grew stronger and more demanding, ‘I cannot even look to my own welfare.  I am naught but a helpless wraith.’

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Gimli purposely took his time.  ‘Let the Elf regain his composure,’ he thought, piling as many pieces of dried wood and grass into his arms as he could.  ‘It will be better for the both of us.’

He carefully trundled back to the campsite, peering around his burden to ensure he would take no misstep. 

“Legolas?” 

His call sounded unnaturally loud in the serene darkness of evening.  Nagging alarm grew when he received no reply.

The fire had completely died, leaving only thin tendrils of blue smoke curling into the night.  Gimli hastily dropped the wood, heedless of where it landed.  “Legolas?  Master Elf, if this is some form of game—I am not amused.” 

The Dwarf encircled the ring of boulders, stout frame moving with surprising agility for one so compact.  “Legolas?  Legolas, I give up.  Come out now.  Please, my friend, answer me!”  Gimli did not care his voice was laced with open concern.  ‘He will appear before me any minute,’ the Dwarf told himself as he encircled the campsite yet again.  ‘I will run straight into him and he will mock me for my worries.’

He tried to ignore the obvious lack of Elven presence; that fragile, merry power Elves exerted over their surroundings.  A third frantic search of the campsite left the Dwarf face-to-face with the unavoidable truth.  Heart seizing up, Gimli gripped his axe and attempted to calm himself. 

Legolas was gone.

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Thank you!  :)

Jay of Lasgalen-  Thank you so much for dropping a note!  :)  I'm currently working on Chapter 17, so an update will be in order within the next week or two (finally... sheesh).  ;)  Are you no longer posting on ff.net?  (I'm feeling oddly torn--on one hand, it's where it all began, and on the other, one can only take so many Legomances...)  Again, thank you so much! 

Karen-  Bergil is quite a character, isn't he?  I've grown very fond of him over the course of the tale.  I'm thrilled you find everything flows well.  It's been a painful struggle on my part to keep things moving (and I've realized I have an odd habit of veering off into little side-stories... maybe it has something to do with my attention span, I don't know...).  I'm relieved to see the efforts weren't in vain!  :)  Thank you for the wonderful review!!!