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The Last Act of Love
by Azarad
"Gimli," Aragorn said as calmly as he could. "One of the scouts saw our
friend with the retreating horde."
"Then, he is alive," Gimli muttered, fingers pressed to his heavy brow,
his right hand squeezing the haft of his axe.
The dwarf's voice reminded Aragorn of a shallow stream rushing over
gravel. It was a forlorn sound. Aragorn looked at the western sky. The sun
was sinking into a bed of deep purple clouds. They were all tired and they
wanted nothing more than their own blankets.
"Yes, taken alive," Aragorn said, biting his lip and thinking it better if
he'd been killed outright on the field of battle. The fate of captive
Elves was cruel.
Aragorn squeezed the Dwarf's shoulder. Anything to seem reassuring. He did
not tell the dwarf all that Feldyn had told him. The band of orcs that
captured Legolas were traveling toward Isengard. The scout had spied the
Elf on his feet, dragged along at a good pace. He had taken no grievous
hurt yet, but when they camped he would be tormented. Finally, at Orthanc
Tower, Saruman would extract what he wanted before tossing Legolas back to
the war chiefs for their sport. There was no hope for Legolas. Bitter, his
last days would be.
"So, when do we follow them, Aragorn?" Gimli asked.
"At this hour we travel by horse. Are you with us?"
"Arod must not deny me. I go to save our friend."
"I'm sure he'll remain constant. I myself will give you a leg up onto his
broad back."
Aragorn patted the eager, restive creature. Gimli's stubby fingers dug
into the thick mane and his short legs soon straddled the wide dappled
back. The man stroked the horse's cheek and whispered into a sharply
pricked ear. The animal calmed and waited patiently for the others. In a
twinkling of the evening stars, the troop was ready to follow the orc
trail. Eomer led them with Aragorn at his side.
"Off we go then," Gimli said to his mount.
The good beast pawed the earth and sprang away with the others.
In a low rumbling chant, Gimli sang in his native tongue, "After the foul
creatures we fly, carried on the fleet hooves of hope."
Long, the Riders of Rohan galloped over moor and plain, leaping down banks
and galloping up slopes. At midnight they splashed through one of Isen's
shallow streams and up a forested hillside. On they went as the sun's last
rays became a dim memory. They galloped steadily until the moon's harsh
light glittered on the vale of Isengard, turning to obsidian the blackened
land surrounding Orthanc.
"Glad I am that you are with me," Gimli whispered to his faithful Arod as
he stroked his neck. "I know you are his friend. It is only right that you
and I bring him back."
They waited, giving both horses and men a chance to breathe, on the ridge
overlooking the great orc encampment. Then Aragorn raised his long arm. He
pointed far to the right at a little knot of orcs asleep on the ground
surrounding a chief's shelter. There, chained to a blasted tree, was a
captive. He was a slim figure with bright hair.
At that moment, Gimli's expression changed from desperate hope to awe. He
stared at the tall man, a warrior who would soon rule over the lands of
Gondor. Here was the captain who would lead men into battle and bring them
out again into a world of peace and contentment.
Eomer walked up along side Aragorn. Gimli caught the whispered words.
"My best man can make the shot," Eomer said.
Aragorn answered, "Better death than torment, though it grieves me."
Then, Aragorn turned to Gimli. "What say you?" the man asked.
"You mean to take him from the orcs. Is that not so?"
"Yes, Gimli," Aragorn said softly, kindly, his eyes glittering with unshed
tears. "Release him into death."
Slowly, Gimli understood. He stared around at grim men, jaws clenched and
hands white on their weapons. He looked again into the vale choked with
crawling orcs. There had to be a way to get down there.
Aragorn knelt. He grabbed Gimli by the hands. He hissed, "We are sorely
outnumbered. Yet, we cannot surrender him alive to our foe. What we do now
will be our last act of love."
CHAPTER 2
Aragorn knelt. He grabbed Gimli by the hands. He hissed, "We are sorely
outnumbered. Yet, we cannot surrender him alive to our foe. What we do now
will be our last act of love."
"I must try to save him, Aragorn," Gimli said. "I must."
The tall man gripped the pommel of his great sword. He squeezed his eyes
shut and tossed his dark mane back. He blinked away his tears and nodded.
He waved to Eomer who approached stealthily. They huddled together and
spoke in low voices.
A quarter hour later, as the moon sank low behind the hills, a lone orc
shambled along between the rows of its sleeping fellows. A hundred sharp
eyes followed the footsteps of the small, grotesquely bent creature.
Arrows, fitted to strings, waited restlessly. Aragorn bit his lip. Eomer
at his side laid a warm hand on the man's shoulder.
"A song there will be to remember this night."
Aragorn sighed deeply. "How I wish to hear Legolas sing once again."
Secure in their vale, the orcs set no watch. Gimli crept up to the lone
tree stump and halted. Legolas stared straight ahead. He seemed to be
dreaming in the way of Elves. He wandered the forests of his homeland far
from his suffering at the claws of the orcs. A dark bruise marred his high
cheekbone. His scalp was bloody where they'd torn out a handful of bright
hair.
Gimli spoke a single word, "mellon". Like the gates of Moria, the eyes of
Legolas opened to see Gimli his comrade, dressed as an orc in the midst of
orcs. The look of relief on the Elf's features was Gimli's treasure.
"Long I waited for you, Gimli," whispered the Elf in a voice as dry as
leaves in autumn. "Yet, you are not my only small ally." The perfect bow
shaped lips were bruised and swollen, but the smile upon them was sweet.
"What's this?" Gimli gasped as shredded bonds fell away from the Elf's
wrists. In his hands Gimli held tiny, warm creatures. Then, the black eyed
field mice scurried down his arms, hopping to the ground and hiding once
again in safe burrows.
"Enough of your Elfish ways with good beasts," Gimli hissed. "Now, we must
get back, old friend. Put this on."
A dirty, grey cloak, rolled in mud and horse manure, was flung over the
bright hair and pale limbs of the Elf. A slim arm arched over a set of
strong shoulders. They moved slowly at first away from the shadows of the
orc chieftain's shelter.
"Hunch down, you great sunflower, or we'll be noticed."
"Those orcs are fast asleep. Strong enchantments I wove into my evening
song."
"Glad I am that you had your wits. Now, how fares your strength? Can ye
climb?"
"Were it a mountain of glass, I could, Gimli. You are with me."
They scrambled up the side of a ravine neared the edge of the orc
encampment. Scattered among the sleeping forms were wargs, their great
tails curled over their ugly snouts.
"Quiet now," Gimli warned. "Wargs lie among them."
Taking a deep breath, Legolas uttered a soft, rustling sound, a sighing of
the winter wind in bare branches. Gimli pulled the cloak tighter and
shivered. Orcs and wargs curled tighter too into their bedding of dry
grass, lulled by frosty memories into snug sleep.
When the pair were out of grave peril and climbing the ridge toward their
allies, Gimli said, "You must teach me that song. It would quiet even
Hobbit children."
Like a ripple of water over shining pebbles, the Elf's laughter tripped.
To Gimli's ears it was a welcome sound, like the ringing of hammers in the
forge. Glad too was the sound of men breathing easily and replacing their
long shafts within their quivers. Aragorn returned the great bow of
Lothlorien to Legolas. They clasp hands. No words were needed.
Then Gimli heard a long low whistle and the clop of horses' hooves on
rock. They would be safe away soon. Arod snuffled them both. On his broad
back they climbed, the Dwarf in front, the Elf clinging to his broad belt
this time. Eomer smiled and signaled his men. By dawn's light Gimli would
tend his friend's hurts. With the war to come, it would not be his last
act of love.
-End-
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