FoxPuppy's Attention Deficit Discotheque

The forest sang with peace, though it felt borrowed—like a moment of stillness before thunder. For the first time in many days, they rode through what felt like a momentary reprieve from the encroaching darkness. Rain fell in relentless sheets, washing away neither their sins nor their sorrows. When Strider halted his mount, Legolas would mirror the gesture, closing his eyes against the weight of what he sensed lurking beyond perception. The forest spoke in hushed warnings, the rivers murmured of distant screams, and beneath it all, something malevolent prowled at the edges of his awareness. If the darkness wasn't here yet, it would be soon.

"The oppressive weight has lifted here," Strider said, his voice barely audible above the rain's funeral drumbeat. His horse shifted uneasily beside Legolas's mount. "Yet I fear it is merely the calm before greater storms."

"Lifted, perhaps—or we have simply outrun the shadow's reach for now," Legolas replied, though his words carried little conviction. The lightness felt unnatural, as if the very air conspired to lull them into a false sense of security while death stalked their trail.

"We must stop," Gimli's voice cut through their grim contemplations. "Rest, eat, tend our wounds. We've ridden through hell itself these past days."

Legolas opened his mouth to argue for haste—every moment's delay brought the enemy closer—but Strider's weary agreement silenced him. "Only briefly. Death does not rest, and neither can we for long." The Ranger's hollow gaze swept their surroundings. "There—that outcropping might shield us from both rain and prying eyes."

Legolas followed the point of the Ranger's finger. He pulled his horse around, moving off the trail into the woods in the direction Strider had indicated. The rocks were scattered around the earth, but in the middle, a large stone rose from the ground and arched over like the rib of some great, sleeping beast—a shelter in the middle of the trees, tall enough to walk under, deep enough that they, and their horses, would be dry.

"A defensible position," Strider observed as they approached, though his tone suggested he found little comfort in temporary sanctuary.

Legolas turned to allow Gimli a clearer view, knowing the dwarf's expertise in such matters might reveal hidden dangers. "What secrets does the stone hold, Gimli?"

"Soft slate," the dwarf muttered, running his fingers along the rock face. "Good for shelter, aye, but..." His voice trailed off as he peered more closely at the stone. "There are veins here—gold, perhaps, or something else that glitters. In firelight, it might shine like watching eyes."

Strider chuckled as they moved toward it, the sound smaller in the encompassing quiet. The horses could rest under the natural rock ledge as easily as they could.

Night descended like a shroud, swift and absolute. Gimli, exhausted beyond endurance, had barely swallowed his meager portion before sleep claimed him. The rain continued its monotonous dirge, each drop a reminder of time bleeding away.

Legolas took a small bite of stale bread before tucking it away, his appetite withered by foreboding. "You should eat more," Strider insisted, gesturing toward the thin gruel that passed for stew. "Strength abandoned will not return when we need it most."

"What little meat we have serves you better," He said, turning away to adjust his cloak around him. As he faced forward once more, there was a bowl before him held in Strider's hand. "Strider—" He tried to protest.

"Aragorn." It wasn't exactly a scolding. A bowl appeared in Legolas's hands, pressed there by fingers that trembled almost imperceptibly. "Eat."

Legolas took up the small two-pronged fork in his hands and ate. Aragorn settled beside him, close enough that Legolas could feel the man's exhaustion radiating like heat from a dying fire. "You need sleep as well. I'll stand watch—something feels wrong about this place."

"Would the argument that sleep eludes my kind fall on deaf ears if I bring it up?" Legolas asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Not deaf, no," Aragorn's voice carried the weight of unspoken fears. "But I was raised among elves long enough to recognize when one approaches the breaking point." He was right—Legolas had taken every watch, and the accumulated toll threatened to shatter even his considerable endurance.

"Very well," Legolas conceded, finishing the tasteless meal. "But wake me before dawn. These woods hold too many shadows for one man to face alone."

Aragorn's nod held grim acknowledgment. Legolas arranged his weapons within easy reach and spread his cloak on the ground, which felt unnaturally cold. Sleep took him not gently, but like a predator seizing wounded prey.

When consciousness returned, the sky had deepened to the color of stone on the horizon, and dawn approached. Legolas lay motionless, studying the stars that could still be seen through gaps in the canopy—those eternal watchers that had seen too much death, too much darkness. They seemed dimmer now, as if the shadow had reached even to heaven's vault.

A touch against his arm made him tense. Turning his head slightly, he found Aragorn slumbering beside him, the Ranger's hand fallen from his chest in sleep's abandon. In the firelight's dying glow, Legolas studied the man's face—a map of suffering etched in premature lines.

Dark stubble could not fully conceal the mottled bruise along Aragorn's jaw, and Legolas wondered what other wounds the man bore beneath his weathered clothing. The drive that pushed this heir of a king forward seemed less admirable now and more like a death wish—a desire to spend his life's coin in battle rather than claim his birthright, and perhaps he wanted both—perhaps both were true.

Their quest had become a catalog of horrors: Orcs with their crude malice, wargs with their hunger for living flesh, and the long march that had claimed so many. Even Gandalf's return as the White had brought more burden than relief. Every step forward led them deeper into the shadow, but they had all agreed to this. This fellowship, even if it were broken for now.

Aragorn stirred, his sleep troubled by dreams of flame and ruin. "Hodo," Legolas whispered, placing a gentle hand on the man's chest. "Heru, hodo." Peace. My lord, peace.

But peace fled like smoke when Aragorn's eyes opened, filled with the weight of unwanted destiny. His hand closed around Legolas's wrist—not gently, but with desperate strength.

"Legolas," the man's voice was rough as winter wind. "I am no lord—not anymore, perhaps not ever."

"You renounce what you were born to be?" Legolas asked softly, making no move to free his captured wrist.

Aragorn sat up slowly, his grip tightening. "I am Isildur's heir," he said, and the words sounded like a curse. "But his blood carries more shadow than light."

"Yet you fear to claim what is yours?"

Aragorn's eyes met his, and in their depths Legolas saw a darkness that had nothing to do with the failing firelight. "Fear?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "I fear I am exactly what I was born to be—another king who will lead his people to ruin." He released Legolas's wrist suddenly, as if the touch burned him. "Forgive me."

The Ranger stood and began breaking camp with mechanical efficiency, each movement sharp with self-recrimination.

Legolas turned to wake Gimli with a touch that carried urgency. "Rouse yourself, friend. We ride toward whatever doom awaits."

The dwarf's grunt held no enthusiasm. "About time," he muttered, rising with the stiffness of a warrior who had seen too many battles.

Legolas stood and gathered his cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders and clasping it, before picking up his small bag, his bow, and his quiver. He turned toward the horses. "Arod," he said softly, coming to the side of the white stallion. "Fair morning." He stroked the horse's withers, noting the way the animal's ears swiveled toward sounds that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Are you ready to ride today?" The horse seemed content, rested, as did his companion Brego, though both animals carried a tension that hadn't been there the night before. "Good." He continued petting the horse and began to stow his small bag in Brego's saddlebag.

Gimli strode up. "What passes between you and Aragorn?"

"I said nothing to disturb him that I'm aware of," Legolas replied, checking his weapons one final time.

"His step carries the weight of the grave," the dwarf observed. "Even the horse will feel it—Brego will bear not just his body, but the burden of his despair." Gimli touched the horse's side. "And you?"

Legolas nodded grimly. "I am fine."

"I don't believe that." Gimli nodded and climbed onto a rock to better reach Brego's saddle. "We'd best keep watch over him, then." He secured his few items in the saddlebag with practiced efficiency.

"Agreed," Legolas said, though he wondered if any of them were truly capable of watching over the others, or if they were all simply carrying each other forward into whatever waited in the gathering shadows of their uncertain path.

"And when you're ready to bloody talk, I'm ready to bloody listen," Gimli said, turning to Aron. "Now help me up on this horse." Legolas did help him, as Aragorn arrived ready to leave.