Insane

Title; Insane.
Author; Lilvior
Rating; R – just ‘cos there’s death, and I think little people might be forever emotionally scarred if they read this.
Feedback; Well duh…
Warning; character death, slight insinuations of maybe a little thingy going on between Aragorn and Legolas, but hopefully not enough to offend anyone. And please don’t talk to me about the timing, use your imagination. And if anything is completely wrong or impossible, then it was elf-magic. Yeah, that’s it, elf-magic. I made up the Amdras roots thing, unlike some people, I can’t be arsed to look up real ‘magic herbs’ and stuff.
What else? I dunno, just read the damn thing. Oh yeah, takes place between leaving the mines and entering Lothlorien, of course, after this I doubt they actually go to Lothlorien, but… OH DAMNIT JUST READ!!!!!!

“No no no no no…” He shook his head vigorously and began to hyperventilate.

Aragorn dropped the limp arm of the dead halfling and looked around the fellowship.

“Boromir, comfort the little ones,” He barked, “Legolas, Gimli, come.” The man led them a little away from the others. He cleared his throat, then stared down at his feet.

“How did Pippin die?” Legolas asked, his eyes looked somewhat unfocussed; as if his elf-mind couldn’t quite comprehend how anymore tragedy could have befallen them.

Minutes earlier they had been enjoying the feel of warm sun rays shining through generous gaps in the foliage, the only sounds being that of the bubbling stream and the birds in the trees. For the first time since Gandalf’s fall, the fellowship was relatively content. Aragorn had been awoken by Merry’s frantic cries that Pippin wouldn’t wake up. He had scrambled from his bedroll and raced to where all four hobbits had been snuggled in a mess of blankets. Frodo and Sam were only just rubbing the sleep from their eyes and Merry was shaking Pippin’s shoulder.

Pip’s eyelids and lips had gone an awful shade of blue, and bruising was starting to show one his nose and around his eyes. Aragorn gently pushed Merry to one side and felt in vain for a pulse.

The whole fellowship was now gathered in the clearing, expressions of confusion and concern on their faces.

Now the elf and the dwarf both looked at him with identical questions in their eyes.

“Who would-” They both started at once, then Gimli lowered his head and Legolas turned away.

“Someone was on watch at all times last n-night.” Legolas stated, still not facing the other two, Aragorn had the suspicion that the elf was crying, but too proud to let a dwarf see such a display of emotion. He direly wanted to comfort the elf, maybe a little more, it seemed unfair that the halflings could all sleep in the comfort of each other’s arms, would it be so wrong for Aragorn to comfort Legolas in that way? He shook the thoughts from his head. Now was not the time.

“Indeed.” Aragorn replied, he had toyed with the notion that maybe sleeping in such an unconventional way maybe the youngest of the four hobbits had somehow rolled onto his face and then become trapped somehow, but the bruising on his pale delicate features indicated force – deliberate force. If and enemy had been able to enter the camp without anyone noticing, how would they have been able to suffocate little Pip without waking the other hobbits? And why?

“I think,” He began, “maybe someone-” then he stopped. If his theory was correct, then he shouldn’t be telling even these two, whom he trusted dearly.

His theory was this; someone was after the ring, and considering the circumstances, Aragorn guessed that that someone was probably one of them. One of the fellowship. Pippin had been awoken as the murderer reached for the ring, and Pippin was killed because he was a witness. Aragorn realised the elf and the dwarf were still looking at him, waiting to hear the theory. “I have to make sure Frodo still has the ring.” He left them there and made his way back to the camp. Feeling ashamed for not trusting them, Aragorn looked back over his shoulder and briefly caught Legolas’ eye. Something grew warm in his heart and the man told himself he would investigate it later.

Boromir was holding Merry, trying desperately to calm the poor thing down, it was an almost impossible job considering the hobbit was screaming and struggling to breath.

“Please, you must stop crying.” Boromir held Merry’s head against his chest and rubbed his back soothingly, “You are going to make yourself ill.”

And, as if on cue, Merry retched. The man moved him until most of the vomit was landing on the grass as opposed on Boromir’s clothes. Merry continued being sick until he was bringing up blood and stomach lining, and eventually he passed out. When Boromir looked up he saw Aragorn looking down at him, a curious expression played on his face.

“Merry is understandably upset.” Boromir said, stroking the curls on the head of the unconscious halfling.

“Understandably.” Aragorn took a deep breath, and then set about explaining what had happened to the little one.

“But surely, it was an accident?” his voice gave away that he did not believe for one moment that this was an accident.

“Then someone must have fallen asleep on their watch.” Boromir lowered his eyes as if he were telling Merry rather than Aragorn. “An enemy must have managed to enter our camp in the night.”

Aragorn did not like the way Boromir was avoiding his eyes, but he left it for the moment, and looked around for Frodo. His heart nearly missed a beat when he realised the ring-bearer was not in the clearing, but relief settled in when he heard crying from a little way away.

When it had become clear that his cousin was most definitely dead, Frodo had almost fainted clean away, but Sam had caught him – as always. When Aragorn led the others away, Sam had picked Frodo up and taken them as far from the body as was safe.

“Oh Sam! Pippin was so young, what a terrible terrible accident!” Then he’d buried his face in Sam’s shoulder and cried until his face was numb, all the time Sam gently reassured him,

“It’s okay, Pip’s in a better place now, I’m sure, shh.” Inadvertently Sam let out a small whimper, he wanted to wipe the tears from his face, but he wouldn’t let go of Frodo, never, Frodo needed him, he had to be there and he had to be strong.

Aragorn barely took in the moving display of affection, Sam gently rocking Frodo back and forth protectively. The first thing he noticed though when Sam noticed him was the look of fear in the hobbit’s eyes. Sam feared him? No. Sam was smarter than Aragorn had given him credit for; the gardener most likely shared Aragorn’s theory that the killer was one of the fellowship, and here he was – unarmed and unable to protect his master from hidden threats.

Aragorn raised his empty hands to show he was not attacking, but this lack of trust set him off balance.

“I just need to see if Frodo still has the ring.” Aragorn whispered, keeping a few feet between them so as not to illicit any active defence from Sam.

Frodo instinctively reached for the ring around his neck, and finding it there he let out a sigh of relief.

When Aragorn returned to the clearing, he found only Merry – sleeping, and the dead body of Pippin.

“I shall have to do something with that.” He thought aloud to himself. He was about to ask Boromir to help him cover the corpse when he noticed the man had disappeared. It then occurred to him that neither Legolas nor Gimli had returned yet.

Shaking it off, he removed his cloak and set about wrapping Pippin’s body up. Feeling it was necessary, he said a few words in elvish, just a brief sermon for Valar to cherish this young soul that had been so cruelly snatched. Then he checked on Merry, just to make sure the other hobbit had not forgone the same fate as his cousin. It bothered him that he could neither see nor hear Sam and Frodo now, he got up to make sure they were both still okay when he was distracted by a crash from somewhere to his left, and that icy hand took a firm hold on his heart.

Drawing his sword, Aragorn ran through the trees back to where he had spoken to Gimli and Legolas. He followed a barely visible path for maybe half a mile, fairly certain that it had been trodden recently, and by maybe more then one person.

Eventually he sheathed his sword muttering in relief when he saw Gimli sitting by a tree, most likely the death of little Pippin had upset him more than he cared to let on and he had had to find peace alone to mourn.

This became steadily less and less likely as Aragorn approached, calling the dwarf’s name as he did so – Gimli did not move. A change in view angle made it clear why.

A finely crafted Elven arrow grew out of the dwarf’s skull, right between his eyes.

He shook his head and knelt down by the body, just to make sure it was real, this was all so surreal! For a brief, somewhat stupid moment, Aragorn thought to himself that the archer responsible for this was incredibly talented.

Aragorn chided himself for ever even thinking that the elf could be responsible. Although his race were renowned for disliking dwarves…

Right now Aragorn had to get back to the camp, get them all together and keep an eye on every single one of them until this mess was sorted.

Damnit three of them were dead now! A whole third of the fellowship that had set out from Rivendell were now gone.

Once he was almost back at the camp, Aragorn heard sounds coming from two directions simultaneously. An unalarming rustle of leaves to his left, and a heart-rending yelp to the right. Aragorn raced towards the cry, all the time knowing he was too late; yet again, he was too damn late!

When Aragorn had finished his unenlightening speech, Legolas had sunk to his knees and let his tears flow. Foolishly, Aragorn had thought the elf was hiding his tears from Gimli, but in reality Legolas had not wanted to fall apart in front of Aragorn. His feelings for the man went far beyond his well-deserved respect and admiration.

Gimli had walked over to the elf and tried his best to comfort him, but to no avail. Gimli at first thought this might just be another annoying elf-trait, but he realised the pain that haunted Legolas’ mind soon enough,

“I am the one who f-fell asleep!” the elf wept, red with humiliation and self-loathing at the same time, “The halfling’s pallor suggests th-that he was killed not that long ago, and my w-watch w-was the last.”

“I thought elves didn’t get tired enough to fall asleep on watch?” He wondered aloud.

“I have not slept for many days now,” Legolas explained, “I foolishly had little faith in anyone else, I thought they might tire on watch duty and so I always made sure I was awake to take over if that happened. B-b-but it never d-did, and I w-was the one who f-fell asleep!”

So the elf had thought himself better than the others and had in fact proved himself worse! If the circumstances weren’t so tragic, Gimli might have gained some pleasure from this, but as it was, Legolas was still awfully tired.

“I fear I shall never sleep again with the burden of guilt haunting me whenever I close my eyes.”

“Then, Master Elf, I shall fetch you some herbs or roots that will chase that guilt from your mind.” Gimli smiled, whenever his father had spoken of elves he had forgotten to mention how much they blamed themselves for everything. When they first emerged from the mines of Moria, Legolas had quietly commented how he hadn’t shot a single arrow at the Balrog. He knew he wasn’t solely responsible for Gandalf’s death – in Gimli’s mind, he wasn’t at all responsible – but he had needed to shoulder some blame as part of his own mourning process, now he had managed to convince himself that the halfling’s death was also his fault.

How child-like the elf looked, his face shining with tears and his bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. Eventually Legolas took a great shuddering breath and nodded his head.

Once he was on the path alone, Legolas suddenly realised he didn’t have any weapons at all. He scolded himself, telling himself he had his keen senses to alert him to danger, and he had beaten many a foe with only his fists. But keen senses are of little use when you are so tired that all sounds merge together. He kept blinking but the light ahead was becoming too bright. He truly was on the verge of collapse. Maybe he hadn’t been this tired before, but grief had taken much from his last reserves of energy.

How long he slept he was unsure, but it couldn’t possibly have been more than ten minutes. A sudden feeling had hit him, death. At first he put it down to Pippin’s murder, his responsibility. But this was different. Something had just happened, something bad.

He was torn from his thoughts by the figure standing before him. How had he not seen this person before? Still very tired, he told himself, Gimli will bring the roots and I will have good rest, then everything will be fine.

Legolas was so deeply involved I his own thoughts he had yet again failed to notice the person standing in front of him. He scrambled to his feet and looked into the familiar face questioningly.

“Thank you,” He said, placing the roots in his mouth, unminding of the mud that still clung to them, “but what of Master Gimli?”

Legolas smiled at his friend, but his smile soon faded as the unfamiliar taste settled on his tongue.

“These are not the roots of the Amdras plant…” He mused aloud, “They taste… of… death…”

“Oh no, these roots won’t kill you,” he said, “you’re an elf, you’re stronger than that.”

Legolas stumbled backwards until he tripped over an inconveniently located stone.

“But you left you’re pack open.” That smile was insane and that same insane spark was in the eyes of this person he would have at one time placed his trust in, “That was careless, almost as careless as falling asleep one your watch.” Legolas let out a frightened yelp. He knew! Well, of course he knew, this was the one who had taken advantage of the elf’s moment of weakness. “And I found this…” The murderer knelt down next to Legolas’ tensed yet paralysed body, holding out one of his twin daggers.

“Good night.” Then the killer slashed open Legolas’ throat in one swift movement.

With his mind set, Aragorn raced back to the camp, sward drawn ready for the execution.

He swept into the camp, almost startling the life out of poor Frodo, who had lain down next to Merry. Merry was still out cold, and Aragorn was curious as to whether he’d been drugged. At least they were safe.

“Where is Sam?” He asked, trying not to sound to afraid, for all he knew, the other hobbit was just filling water skins or something. He wouldn’t have wandered too far, surely?

Aragorn didn’t have to even ask if the ring was safe, for Frodo was still clutching it in one hand.

“If he returns before I do, tell him to stay here.” Aragorn paused, he didn’t want to frighten the hobbit, but he didn’t want him to die either. Aragorn tossed Sting from the pile of weaponry, to Frodo. “If Boromir returns I want you to do something for me.”

Having washed the last stains from his cloak, Boromir turned to head back to camp. He was slightly surprised to find Legolas’ bow and quiver lying randomly on the path, but he thought he should probably pick them up and take them back to camp. For an elf, Legolas sure was messy. But that wasn’t like him; normally the elf would guard his possessions with vigour, what if something had happened? If someone had deliberately killed Pippin, maybe they were still around and had attacked the elf too.

This was not a comforting thought. Boromir paused, deep in concentration, he didn’t hear Aragorn creep up behind him.

Aragorn hadn’t even entertained the idea that Boromir might have been innocent. He had wondered why all the death, of course he wanted the ring, but was it really necessary to kill everyone? He saw the man hold Legolas’ bow and quiver and had there been any doubt about his guilt, it was washed from Aragorn’s mind. He pounced from behind, instantly knocking the man to the ground and burying his sword in Boromir’s stomach.

Boromir’s next words were almost coated in blood as he choked, the cold steel of Aragorn’s blade still holding a hole in his stomach.

“I would… never hurt the… the little ones…” he suddenly looked very sad, “You

“Then who?” Aragorn was feeling desperate and foolish; he had rushed to a verdict and carried out the sentence on the wrong person.

“I am so sorry.” He said, “I think we have been set up. There are some among us who are smarter than we give them credit.” But his words fell upon dead ears.

Once back at the campsite Aragorn saw Frodo still holding Merry. Oh but something was very wrong with this scene. Frodo looked haunted, one hand still clutching at the ring, the other holding Merry close to his chest. As Aragorn moved round he saw the greenish tinge that Merry’s skin had taken on.

Frodo lifted his face, but didn’t quite meet the man’s eyes. His own were filled with tears. He nodded. Then spoke. His words were not even whispers, the sound only barely registered in Aragorn’s ears.

“Run, Aragorn!” Frodo’s eyes were fixed on movement behind the man. Aragorn

spun on the spot, but his movements had become clumsy and he no longer had his sword.

“It’s alright Mister Frodo, no one’s going to try to take the ring or hurt you now. It’s just you and me, we’ll find our own way to Mordor.”

I am very sorry, that is all I can say. This came out of nowhere; I just decided for a brief moment that I didn’t actually like Sam.