LotR fic, zomg
Aug. 5th, 2011 05:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elabyThis has been living on my hard drive for a couple of years now, and whenever I feel like writing angsty fanfic I take it out and poke at it. I'm generally far too embarrassed to post LotR fic. Not only is the source material ridiculously dear to me, it also means that - if I'm going to follow my usual habit and try to write fic in the style of the original - things could get quite wordy and the narrative mode isn't for everyone. Emotion in LotR is treated with remarkable frankness, though, and that lends itself to angstfic like none of my other fandoms do. I knew someday I would get over my reticence to post this and accept it as something that I had a damn fun time writing, even if it's not up to my usual self-imposed standards of subtlety.
Also, we've been watching Gone with the Wind over the last couple of days, so you can blame my motivation for posting this now on Clark Gable's valiant attempt to emote. Or maybe, more accurately, on Olivia de Havilland's encouragement ("You will cry in this scene, you will, and you will be wonderfulor I will kick you in the shin").
Title: Downhill
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (bookverse, with one teeny movie reference. See if you can spot it.)
Genre: Angstariffic, hurt/comfort
Words: 1,625
Characters: Aragorn, Legolas (slashy if you like, epic Fellowship-love regardless)
Notes: This takes place in The Two Towers, while Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are tracking Merry and Pippin. Reading the books as an adult, I was surprised how I never noticed how much crap Aragorn has to deal with.
Nights were cold on the Riddermark, where the wind sped unbroken over seas of grass and Fangorn loomed like a cloud on the world's horizon. Three days of nonstop running was beginning to tell on them all: Gimli lagged and his pounding steps became heavier with each mile, Legolas had lapsed into anxious, abstracted silence, and Aragorn had never before felt his heart so rent by the absence of hope.
In spite of Legolas's now-familiar objections, when the dim pale smudge of the Moon behind its curtain of cloud had climbed high, they halted to rest in a grassy hollow. Sleep overtook Aragorn almost before he hit the ground, but he did not sleep well. Some time later - it seemed only minutes to him, though the Moon showed it an hour or more - he awoke and found that sleep had fled. He sat up, and ground the heels of both hands into his eyes.
Gimli lay on the far side of the dell, facing out into the darkness. He was wrapped up in his cloak and sleeping like a stone. Even if Aragorn had felt rested enough now to continue, he had not the heart to wake Gimli after so short a time. Legolas was nowhere to be seen. He was likely walking out in the grass beneath the stars, Aragorn guessed, in that waking dream Elves found more sustaining than Men did even sleep. Aragorn envied them.
Their days spent in Lothlorien seemed so far away now, blurred. It was as though they had been taken for a time out of the bleak cruelty of the world, and the moment they stepped out from under that golden canopy, the spell had been broken. Reality descended upon them like an army of spears. With urgency at their heels, peril on either side, and the choice that would seal their fates before him, Aragorn had thought of nothing but simply bringing them through each hour alive. In even that he had failed.
The Fellowship was sundered: Boromir dead, Merry and Pippin taken, Frodo and Sam gone into Mordor alone. In only days under his leadership, everything they had worked toward was undone.
He felt like he had been running too fast down a too-steep hill since the moment they set foot outside Moria. One false step would cause disaster. In delaying to choose their course he had made that false step: without Gandalf, the decision was laid on him, and he wavered in uncertainty too long.
The impact on his friends was undeniable. After Gandalf's strong leadership, after the great loss they had suffered and after their painful departure from the solace of Lothlorien, they needed more than ever a decisive course. But even so he hesitated, unable to make up his mind, as all the while the enemy crept closer and the Ring's fearful influence ate away at their core.
And as if every misfortune were waiting for this opportunity to spring, Boromir crumbled under the weight of the Ring's promise, and Frodo fled, and Orcs attacked. Now at last he had a sure course, for all the good that did them: chasing after two hobbits they had little hope of finding alive, leaving the other two to walk defenseless into the enemy's back yard.
Aragorn had not wept in Lothlorien. It was too easy there to become lost in happy memories, while the world outside became like a dusty painting, colorless and indistinct. In Lothlorien Frodo at least seemed to work through some of his sorrow, to find some measure of healing. For Aragorn, the days after Gandalf's death were occupied with a single-minded drive to lead his companions to safety, and then with the numbing contentment of that gold and silver wood. The Elves mourned for their Mithrandir all around him, and his companions shared stories, and yet it seemed to Aragorn that no pain could be real in that place, a land set apart from the flow of time beyond its borders. The moment he was released from its embrace, time ran too fast, and every decision he made led to ruin.
And now, sitting in the cloud-frosted moonlight with one knee pulled up and his forehead pressed against Boromir's gauntlet, he struggled to keep himself from choking on the pent-up grief and remorse.
When he heard soft footsteps in the grass behind him, he drew a short shuddering breath and straightened his back. It was no use pretending – Elves were far too perceptive for creatures whose emotions worked so differently from those of Men – but even after all that had happened, the obligation to set an unwavering example of strength lay heavily upon him. Without a word, Legolas sat down beside him in the grass.
Aragorn drew his thumb and forefinger over his eyes and then lifted his head. Any silence between the two of them never felt awkward; it was Legolas's way to go hours without speaking. But now Aragorn felt raw and breakable and laid bare, as he hadn't felt in many long years, and he wished for not the first time that he understood the workings of the heart as well as Elves seemed naturally to understand their own.
"It isn't as though we have not had occasion for tears," Legolas said after a time. Aragorn said nothing, but bit back a fresh rise of emotion in his throat. Overhead, the blanket of cloud had resolved itself into ragged scraps, and the Moon broke through every so often to throw silvery light on Legolas's upturned face. After another span of silence, he said softly, "Don't give up hope for Merry and Pippin. They're brave and resourceful, and they're together. We may find them yet."
Aragorn was not quite able to stop himself before he laughed, and it sounded just as pathetic as he expected. How lost must he appear, to have Legolas offer this sort of comfort? Legolas, who so resisted their stopping to rest, and who had been so sure that any chance of finding the hobbits had slipped away. The Elf glanced at him for the first time, and asked gently, "Am I wrong in my guess?" As wide as his experience had been, comforting mortals had not made up much of it.
"No," Aragorn said. He was chagrined to find his voice no less wet and unsteady than his laugh. He tried to clear his throat. "Or if you are, only in part." Legolas continued to watch him with an expression that held no expectation, only attentiveness. Aragorn rested his chin against Boromir's gauntlet and briefly closed his eyes. He did not speak again for some time. "My entire life - and that of my father, and his father - has been spent in preparation for this moment," he began. "And I have cherished my birthright just as I have dreaded it. I have ever thought myself ready. But even so, from the moment Gandalf placed his trust in me, every move I have made has been in error. He charged me with your protection, and you have seen the results: a valiant man dead, the Ring and its bearer unprotected, two innocents taken and very likely succumbed to a fate I dare not contemplate... and the three of us, pushing ourselves to exhaustion toward an end from whence hope has already fled. This is how I repay his faith." The tears welled over again, and this time he did not even bother fighting them. "I chose to delay us once more, and I cannot even rest. I can only weep."
Legolas was silent, and the moonlight dimmed and brightened as clouds scudded cross it. Finally he said, "Hard would I find it to follow a king who never wept."
"That is easy for an Elf to say. Men see only weakness."
"Men are yet children." There was no judgment in his tone, only fact. Something in that steadiness leant more comfort than the words themselves. Aragorn wiped at his eyes impatiently.
"Even were this failure the final blow to my hope," he said, "It cannot dissuade me from my obligation to my people. That I know. But I cannot quell the thought: at what cost? It would be bitter indeed to rule a united Gondor bereft of those dear to me... and doubly so if it were owing to my own ill choices."
He heard Legolas shift beside him, a subtle lifting of the shoulders, and he realized with a distant satisfaction that he had said something to surprise his friend. The Elf's face was filled for a moment with a still intent poise, a fascination, and when he spoke his voice was husky.
"Men will follow you," he said. Aragorn felt a chill at the alienness in his prophetic tone. "And Elves and Dwarves," he went on with a smile, the old irrepressible-unfathomable Legolas again, familiar at least in his usual Elvish otherworldliness, "and Hobbits too, I'll warrant. And when they do it will not be because you are Isildur's heir. It will be because of this compassion you fear is weakness. They will not see it that way. You have iron in you, Aragorn, but it is not for the iron alone that we love you."
Even had he not been in this shaken state, such a declaration of faith would have posed no small threat to his composure. He couldn't speak; instead he found Legolas's arm and gripped it hard, and then put his head back down on his wrist. It did not seem much like gratitude, he feared, but if anyone could read his heart for what it really was, Legolas could. A little while later he felt a hand on his back, and that was confirmation enough.
Also, we've been watching Gone with the Wind over the last couple of days, so you can blame my motivation for posting this now on Clark Gable's valiant attempt to emote. Or maybe, more accurately, on Olivia de Havilland's encouragement ("You will cry in this scene, you will, and you will be wonderful
Title: Downhill
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (bookverse, with one teeny movie reference. See if you can spot it.)
Genre: Angstariffic, hurt/comfort
Words: 1,625
Characters: Aragorn, Legolas (slashy if you like, epic Fellowship-love regardless)
Notes: This takes place in The Two Towers, while Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are tracking Merry and Pippin. Reading the books as an adult, I was surprised how I never noticed how much crap Aragorn has to deal with.
Nights were cold on the Riddermark, where the wind sped unbroken over seas of grass and Fangorn loomed like a cloud on the world's horizon. Three days of nonstop running was beginning to tell on them all: Gimli lagged and his pounding steps became heavier with each mile, Legolas had lapsed into anxious, abstracted silence, and Aragorn had never before felt his heart so rent by the absence of hope.
In spite of Legolas's now-familiar objections, when the dim pale smudge of the Moon behind its curtain of cloud had climbed high, they halted to rest in a grassy hollow. Sleep overtook Aragorn almost before he hit the ground, but he did not sleep well. Some time later - it seemed only minutes to him, though the Moon showed it an hour or more - he awoke and found that sleep had fled. He sat up, and ground the heels of both hands into his eyes.
Gimli lay on the far side of the dell, facing out into the darkness. He was wrapped up in his cloak and sleeping like a stone. Even if Aragorn had felt rested enough now to continue, he had not the heart to wake Gimli after so short a time. Legolas was nowhere to be seen. He was likely walking out in the grass beneath the stars, Aragorn guessed, in that waking dream Elves found more sustaining than Men did even sleep. Aragorn envied them.
Their days spent in Lothlorien seemed so far away now, blurred. It was as though they had been taken for a time out of the bleak cruelty of the world, and the moment they stepped out from under that golden canopy, the spell had been broken. Reality descended upon them like an army of spears. With urgency at their heels, peril on either side, and the choice that would seal their fates before him, Aragorn had thought of nothing but simply bringing them through each hour alive. In even that he had failed.
The Fellowship was sundered: Boromir dead, Merry and Pippin taken, Frodo and Sam gone into Mordor alone. In only days under his leadership, everything they had worked toward was undone.
He felt like he had been running too fast down a too-steep hill since the moment they set foot outside Moria. One false step would cause disaster. In delaying to choose their course he had made that false step: without Gandalf, the decision was laid on him, and he wavered in uncertainty too long.
The impact on his friends was undeniable. After Gandalf's strong leadership, after the great loss they had suffered and after their painful departure from the solace of Lothlorien, they needed more than ever a decisive course. But even so he hesitated, unable to make up his mind, as all the while the enemy crept closer and the Ring's fearful influence ate away at their core.
And as if every misfortune were waiting for this opportunity to spring, Boromir crumbled under the weight of the Ring's promise, and Frodo fled, and Orcs attacked. Now at last he had a sure course, for all the good that did them: chasing after two hobbits they had little hope of finding alive, leaving the other two to walk defenseless into the enemy's back yard.
Aragorn had not wept in Lothlorien. It was too easy there to become lost in happy memories, while the world outside became like a dusty painting, colorless and indistinct. In Lothlorien Frodo at least seemed to work through some of his sorrow, to find some measure of healing. For Aragorn, the days after Gandalf's death were occupied with a single-minded drive to lead his companions to safety, and then with the numbing contentment of that gold and silver wood. The Elves mourned for their Mithrandir all around him, and his companions shared stories, and yet it seemed to Aragorn that no pain could be real in that place, a land set apart from the flow of time beyond its borders. The moment he was released from its embrace, time ran too fast, and every decision he made led to ruin.
And now, sitting in the cloud-frosted moonlight with one knee pulled up and his forehead pressed against Boromir's gauntlet, he struggled to keep himself from choking on the pent-up grief and remorse.
When he heard soft footsteps in the grass behind him, he drew a short shuddering breath and straightened his back. It was no use pretending – Elves were far too perceptive for creatures whose emotions worked so differently from those of Men – but even after all that had happened, the obligation to set an unwavering example of strength lay heavily upon him. Without a word, Legolas sat down beside him in the grass.
Aragorn drew his thumb and forefinger over his eyes and then lifted his head. Any silence between the two of them never felt awkward; it was Legolas's way to go hours without speaking. But now Aragorn felt raw and breakable and laid bare, as he hadn't felt in many long years, and he wished for not the first time that he understood the workings of the heart as well as Elves seemed naturally to understand their own.
"It isn't as though we have not had occasion for tears," Legolas said after a time. Aragorn said nothing, but bit back a fresh rise of emotion in his throat. Overhead, the blanket of cloud had resolved itself into ragged scraps, and the Moon broke through every so often to throw silvery light on Legolas's upturned face. After another span of silence, he said softly, "Don't give up hope for Merry and Pippin. They're brave and resourceful, and they're together. We may find them yet."
Aragorn was not quite able to stop himself before he laughed, and it sounded just as pathetic as he expected. How lost must he appear, to have Legolas offer this sort of comfort? Legolas, who so resisted their stopping to rest, and who had been so sure that any chance of finding the hobbits had slipped away. The Elf glanced at him for the first time, and asked gently, "Am I wrong in my guess?" As wide as his experience had been, comforting mortals had not made up much of it.
"No," Aragorn said. He was chagrined to find his voice no less wet and unsteady than his laugh. He tried to clear his throat. "Or if you are, only in part." Legolas continued to watch him with an expression that held no expectation, only attentiveness. Aragorn rested his chin against Boromir's gauntlet and briefly closed his eyes. He did not speak again for some time. "My entire life - and that of my father, and his father - has been spent in preparation for this moment," he began. "And I have cherished my birthright just as I have dreaded it. I have ever thought myself ready. But even so, from the moment Gandalf placed his trust in me, every move I have made has been in error. He charged me with your protection, and you have seen the results: a valiant man dead, the Ring and its bearer unprotected, two innocents taken and very likely succumbed to a fate I dare not contemplate... and the three of us, pushing ourselves to exhaustion toward an end from whence hope has already fled. This is how I repay his faith." The tears welled over again, and this time he did not even bother fighting them. "I chose to delay us once more, and I cannot even rest. I can only weep."
Legolas was silent, and the moonlight dimmed and brightened as clouds scudded cross it. Finally he said, "Hard would I find it to follow a king who never wept."
"That is easy for an Elf to say. Men see only weakness."
"Men are yet children." There was no judgment in his tone, only fact. Something in that steadiness leant more comfort than the words themselves. Aragorn wiped at his eyes impatiently.
"Even were this failure the final blow to my hope," he said, "It cannot dissuade me from my obligation to my people. That I know. But I cannot quell the thought: at what cost? It would be bitter indeed to rule a united Gondor bereft of those dear to me... and doubly so if it were owing to my own ill choices."
He heard Legolas shift beside him, a subtle lifting of the shoulders, and he realized with a distant satisfaction that he had said something to surprise his friend. The Elf's face was filled for a moment with a still intent poise, a fascination, and when he spoke his voice was husky.
"Men will follow you," he said. Aragorn felt a chill at the alienness in his prophetic tone. "And Elves and Dwarves," he went on with a smile, the old irrepressible-unfathomable Legolas again, familiar at least in his usual Elvish otherworldliness, "and Hobbits too, I'll warrant. And when they do it will not be because you are Isildur's heir. It will be because of this compassion you fear is weakness. They will not see it that way. You have iron in you, Aragorn, but it is not for the iron alone that we love you."
Even had he not been in this shaken state, such a declaration of faith would have posed no small threat to his composure. He couldn't speak; instead he found Legolas's arm and gripped it hard, and then put his head back down on his wrist. It did not seem much like gratitude, he feared, but if anyone could read his heart for what it really was, Legolas could. A little while later he felt a hand on his back, and that was confirmation enough.
