Series: Whispers in the Dark – Part 5
Author: Nessa Tulcakelume
E-mail: nessa_tulcakelume@yahoo.co.uk
Website: http://www.nimnastian.net/nessa 
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas 
Rating: PG 
Warning: AU 
Summary: The Elf awakens…
Notes: The Elvish words used in this part (and many parts to come) are by 
no means accurate. But the point I’m trying to put across is the obvious 
lack in the ability of the Men and Elf to communicate, hence the lack of 
translation of the Elvish language.
 
The Awakening
        
       *The Elf had awakened* 
        
       A sense of terrible dread and apprehension coursed through their 
veins, burning like the very fire itself as the Men warily got to their feet, 
every inch of their bodies screaming with tension. Blue eyes watched them 
advance, its dazed expression swiftly clearing before shock and then white 
hot fury took over.  
        
       And so the Elf began to struggle. 
        
       He twisted and writhed against his bonds, seemingly oblivious to the 
ropes that cruelly cut into his fair flesh, chafing his skin raw. Aragorn 
approached the Elf slowly before coming to kneel before him, murmuring 
soft words of comfort as if he were calming a frightened horse. But the 
creature gave a howl of rage and attempted to kick him away with his feet.  
        
       “Uum tyaar amin! A’est cel!” he cried, struggling even harder, body 
arching and then snapping back like a tightly drawn bow and now trying 
to distance himself away from the Men as he crawled away futilely upon 
his belly.  
        
       “Lle a’est cel! Kel’amin!” the Elf cried again, anger making his voice 
sharp and eyes wild as he regarded with growing panic upon the strange 
faces that loomed before him. The Men tried various ways to soothe the 
clearly distressed Elf – Aragorn continued to speak in soft tones while 
Faramir hovered over the King’s shoulder, looking on uneasily, 
bewilderment marring his face as he contemplated upon the bizarre 
situation that confronted them.  
        
       Finally, with patience wearing thin, Boromir gave an oath before he 
swiftly approached the Elf, grabbing him firmly by his shoulders. 
        
       “Cease!” he snapped, giving the Elf a firm shake, eyes flashing in 
anger as he noted the quick dart of the Elf’s eyes towards the sword that 
Boromir wore by his side. The Elf renewed his efforts at escaping and 
fought hard, his body trashing about in an attempt to release himself from 
Boromir’s grasp as he kept crying out in his strange language.  
        
       Over and over the Men tried to hold the creature down, but to no 
avail. Desperation had lent strength to the Elf’s struggle and the Men 
quickly began to tire. 
        
       “This is no good, my lord. We cannot have him drawing attention to 
our camp!” Faramir said, panting hard as he strove to pin the Elf’s legs 
down while the latter thrashed about violently. 
        
       “By the Gods! I have half a mind to use your sheathe again, my lord, 
and knock him down,” Boromir grunted as the Elf’s feet connected with 
his jaw, drawing blood. 
        
       Quickly, the King scanned their campsite in search of something that 
might aid them in their attempts at subduing the Elf. And then he found it 
– a little bottle that had gently tumbled out onto the ground from Faramir’s 
possession during the struggle. 
        
       “The vial… the one containing the laudanum. Take it, Faramir! Put a 
few drops of it into the water skin!” the King cried over the din that the Elf 
was making.  
        
       Faramir did as he was told, anxiety making his fingers clumsy as he 
picked up the vial, undid the stopper with his teeth and then with shaking 
hands, attempted to pour some of the potion into one of their water bottles. 
One drop. Two drops. Three. And the potent liquid was swirled in the 
water, mixing thoroughly and with that, he handed it over to the King. 
        
       “Now Boromir, hold him! Do not let go! Faramir, take hold of his 
head,” Aragorn said, stress making his voice harsh and brows furrow 
while he tried to dodge the blows that the Elf directed at him. 
        
       The Men followed their King’s instruction as well as they could while 
the heat of the mid-morning sun seemed to dull their reflexes. Many a time 
the Elf could have successfully escaped their grasp, but it was thwarted by 
the ropes that had securely bound him, effectively diminishing any 
chances of fleeing. 
        
       “Gently now… gently,” the King murmured as he lifted the mouth of 
the water skin to the Elf’s lips. 
        
       Their captive’s eyes widened, comprehension and dread manifesting 
itself upon his fair face and he tried to turn his head away. But the Elf was 
exhausted – its fierce resistance against the Men had finally taken its toll 
upon him and with relative ease, Aragorn was able to pour the liquid into 
the Elf’s mouth. 
        
       “Pinch his nose, Faramir. Make sure he swallows it,” the King said, 
his voice hushed as he cast a look of pity at the helpless Elf beneath them.  
        
       The Elf put up one last terrific fight, refusing to swallow the potion as 
he tried to spit out the water that was slowly poured into his mouth. But 
even an immortal must breathe and so the Elf had no choice but to 
swallow the potion in huge choking gulps, his eyes clenching shut as if in 
denial of the inevitable. 
        
       With a huge sigh of relief, the Men quickly let the Elf go and retreated 
to a safe distance as the Elf retched into the grass, trying but failing to 
dispel the potion from his system. 
        
       “It shouldn’t be long now,” Faramir whispered to himself, his grey 
eyes fixing intently upon the Elf. The creature was still murmuring in its 
own tongue; blue eyes tearing with the coughing fit that he was recovering 
from. Desperately he tried once again to escape, worming his way upon 
his belly to put as much distance as he could between him and his 
captives. 
        
       “Forgive me. I did not wish to hurt you,” Aragorn murmured, 
reaching out to place a comforting hand upon the Elf’s brow but stopped 
when the creature recoiled sharply from the King’s touch. 
        
       Seconds bled into minutes and before long the Elf began to succumb 
to the drugging effect of the potion, his eyelids made heavy with drug-
induced sleep. He yawned, putting up one last fight to keep his eyes open 
before they fell shut and the Elf slumped to the ground, motionless.  
        
       He was fast asleep.  
        
       Harmless once more… at least for the moment. 
        
       Relief flooded through the Men and they welcomed the glow as the 
earth would welcome the rain after long months of drought. Exhaustion 
seeped into their bones and the Men were forced to rest, Boromir leaning 
against his brother’s back and the King leaning against a tree, wearing a 
troubled look upon his face. 
        
       There was a long, expected silence as the Men tried to catch their 
breath. 
        
       “I do no know, my lord. I do not know how we will be able to contain 
the Elf if we are to carry him all the way to Minas Tirith,” Faramir 
murmured tiredly, running a hand over his face. 
        
       “The potion does well to keep him asleep, I think. If we are vigilant 
and give him enough of the drug, he will not be awake long enough to 
offer much resistance. Do you not agree, sire?” Boromir said, cracking 
open an eye to look in the direction of their King. 
        
       The King was silent for a moment, pausing to give a wry smile at the 
familiar manner at which the brothers always contradict each other before 
speaking his mind. 
        
       “Yes… yes. The Elf must be taken back to Minas Tirith. Gandalf 
must then speak to him. Hopefully, we will have answers to the many 
questions that we have,” he murmured half to himself before he closed his 
eyes and allowed exhaustion to take him into a light sleep. 
        
       There were no other movements in the forest safe for the gentle 
stirring of the Men and Elf’s as they lay in sleep and the occasional flutter 
of wings as the birds looked down from their branches curiously, seeming 
to be in anticipation of the events that will come about when they awoke 
in the next hour… 
        
       to be continued… 
 
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn 
Rating: PG 
Warning: AU 
Summary: The King returns to Minas Tirith…
Author’s Notes: Any major problems with the story, please forward it to 
my e-mail at nessa_tulcakelume @yahoo.co.uk. Thanks!
 
The White City
        
       It did not take long before the sun started to blaze overhead, marking 
the end of the morning and the start of a scorching afternoon. The Men 
had been well rested and it was fortunate that when they awoke, the Elf 
was still under the influence of the laudanum and was lying fast asleep 
under the shady tree where they had left him.  
        
       They began to get to work, hurriedly packing their possessions – 
Boromir getting their horses ready, Faramir stuffing their camping gear 
into their back packs and the King overseeing the two brothers, lending a 
helping hand where ever it was needed. Aragorn paused for a moment 
before the sleeping Elf; head cocked as he contemplated upon how the Elf 
was to be concealed from common view before he undid his black cloak 
and wrapped it securely around the Elf’s shoulders, using the hood to 
carefully cover their captive’s face and hair. 
        
        And then he swung up his horse, his back straight as a steel rod and 
his hair fluttering in the breeze, gesturing for the brothers to help the Elf 
up his horse. Without a word, they lifted the Elf upon Aragorn’s mount, 
making sure that their captive rested comfortably in the crook of his arms 
while King’s chin rested lightly on top of that blond head. 
        
       And then it was time to go home – to return to the White City of 
Minas Tirith. With a rousing call, the King dug his heels into the flanks of 
his mount and they were off at full speed with the wind whistling in their 
ears and the thundering of hooves echoing in the silence of the forest. 
        
       On and on they went, crossing rivers and plains, never stopping, never 
pausing, the need for haste driving them forward relentlessly. Once, the 
Elf stirred and murmured softly, but it was only in sleep and he quickly 
settled back to sleep with his cheek pressing against the warmth of 
Aragorn’s chest. The Men gave each other looks of utmost relief but still 
they did not stop. 
        
       Over the fields they went, through the lush meadows until finally… 
finally they were within sight of the walls of their home, the setting sun 
basking the white walls of their city in the glorious colour of gold.  
        
       They had reached Minas Tirith at last. 
        
       In the distance there were excited calls as eager heads peeked out of 
their windows; the women waving their scarves in welcome and the men, 
their hats. The air was filled with cries of delight and the laughter of 
children as they enthusiastically hailed the return of their King. 
        
       “The Lord has returned!” cried the people and like wildfire spreading 
uncontrollably in the heat of a dry summer, the cry swept through the 
village, reaching the ears of those that lived in the castle. 
        
       “The Lord has returned!” cried Grisworth, guard of the citadel, and 
the servants clapped their hands with joy while they hurried about trying 
to make the hall as welcoming and pleasing to their King as possible. And 
like a sudden onset of a wind, the excited calls once more rushed through 
the great stony halls of the palace, up the stairs and through the barrier of 
doors… and the Queen looked up from her sewing, her eyes shining with 
eagerness. 
        
       Swiftly she rose from her chair and rushed to the window, her eyes 
scanning over the horizon in an attempt to see the return of her love. And 
there in the distance with the sun shining upon his face, he rode furiously 
towards the gates of the city, his hair glinting gold in the fading sunlight 
putting even the sun to shame with its glorious colour. 
        
       A tremulous smile of gladness stole over her lips as she dashed out of 
her room, her dress billowing behind her as she raced down the steps to 
the great hall, threw open the door, ran through the courtyard of stone and 
stood before the entrance, her chest heaving agitatedly as she regarded the 
three tall figures on their horses that were allowed into the city. 
        
       And it was thus she waited, her heart beating a quick, congenial 
rhythm in her breast as her eyes eagerly focused upon the one man as he 
rode confidently towards the entrance of the city walls… 
        
       ********** 
        
       The King had returned. The cries of joy rang in their ears as the King 
waved merrily at the sea of faces that welcomed him. Many eyes scuttled 
towards the limp figure in the King’s arms, but they did not think much on 
it for the thought crossed their minds that it was merely a traveller that was 
found wounded along the way and that the King had carried him back to 
get medicine as he usually did. 
        
       Love coursed through their hearts as they looked upon their Lord and 
King. Aragorn had led them fearlessly through the dark times when the 
Orcs and Goblins had roamed freely in their lands. Many of their livestock 
and even their children had been slain by the foul creatures and it was only 
because of their King that they were able to find peace in their sleep at 
night. It was only because of their King that the kingdom had prospered 
and the people lived in comfort. Only because of their King. 
        
       And so Aragorn rode on with a soft smile playing upon his lips before 
he slowed his horse down to a trot upon reaching the entrance of the 
courtyard. The two brothers rode by his side, drawing admiring glances 
from the people as they approached the lone figure that greeted them at the 
foyer.  
        
       “My Lord, welcome home,” she was saying, her voice husky with 
emotion as she bowed before the King. Her eyes darted curiously to the 
bundle in Aragorn’s arms but she remained silent, her fair hair shielding 
her face from the Men’s view so that they could not read her expression. 
        
       At a command from the King, Grisworth hurried forth to render aid. 
Carefully, Aragorn slid the Elf into the clumsy arms of his guard, 
watching the confusion that played upon that broad, honest face before he 
slid to the ground to greet his wife properly. 
        
       “Hail to thee, Eowyn,” he murmured as he clasped his wife in a light 
hold and pressed his lips against her fair brow. Eowyn returned her 
husband’s embrace, her fair head resting upon those broad shoulders. 
Against her will, her eyes slid towards the man standing behind the King 
and gazed upon his face, her own regret and sorrow reflecting themselves 
so clearly in her green eyes that the man flinched but did not look away.  
        
       And then just like that, their connection broke as the King gently 
pulled her out of his embrace. 
        
       “Come now. We will return to the palace and we will eat. You will 
join us, will you not?” he said, looking pointedly at his two friends. The 
brothers nodded their heads, their eyes shadowed although they kept the 
smile upon their faces. The King returned their smile although unlike the 
brothers’, it was a smile that was warm and open and was devoid of 
secrets.  
        
       “We will freshen up, my lord, and will return to your halls to be in 
time for dinner,” Boromir murmured, bowing low in deep respect. The 
King nodded his assent.  
        
       “Until dinner then, my friends,” he said. With a parting smile directed 
towards the brothers and a gentle command to have Grisworth follow him 
back into the palace, he took his wife’s hands and led her back towards the 
halls, making small talk as he went along. 
        
       Eowyn followed her King, her heart heavy and yet gladdened at the 
same time. She turned her face back towards where the bothers stood and 
once more their eyes locked. A look of hope. Of a desire so intense that it 
hurt. And then she looked away again and disappeared behind the doors of 
the palace. 
        
       And late in the night when he chanced to lay down to sleep, Faramir 
would dwell upon that look and think of a love that he felt but could never 
have. 
        
       to be continued…