Whumptober Day 6: Dragged Away
Oct. 6th, 2019 08:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
More sad fic including major character death and OCs.
Eleniel knows as soon as she opens the door that Gimli is gone.
It is not only the stillness of the body on the bed, but the . . . emptiness. There is no life in this room, no spirit. Nothing.
Her heart collides with the gasp that spikes into her throat. Nothing.
“Legolas?”
He sits huddled on the floor beside the bed, black hair pooling around him on the floor, one of Gimli’s lifeless hands clasped in one of his. He does not move.
“Legolas?”
Not even a flinch at the sound of her voice. Eleniel’s chest contracts in an icy fist. To lose such a dear friend as Gimli is wound enough; she could not bear it if – if –
“Legolas!” She claps a hand onto his shoulder and pulls with enough force to draw a longbow, as though she might draw his spirit back to her, even if it has already fled – but no. He does not react to her touch, but his body is rigid under her hand – and when she tugs at him, he does not move.
He is still here. One sob escapes her at that, one choked sound she cannot hold back, and she falls to her knees beside him. “Legolas,” she whispers. “I am so sorry.”
Still he says nothing, but this close, she can feel blood and spirit still pulsing through him. Still here, still here. It is a task beyond her to keep him thus, but she may be the only one who can manage it – and she will keep spirit in his body if it takes the last breath of her own.
…
Outside, songs of lament begin, but Legolas does not move or speak, or give any sign of joining in. So Eleniel stays with him.
Time fades to a blur around them; she knows not if minutes or hours or days have passed before at last the door opens and Mithrandir – Olorin – stands in the doorway.
He gives her the slightest of understanding nods, but speaks only to her friend. “Legolas.”
Legolas does not react.
“Legolas,” Olorin says again: still gentle, but firmer now, uncompromising. “We must prepare the body.”
No reaction – not even to the word body, which made Eleniel flinch despite herself. Olorin takes a deep breath, lets it out in a heavy sigh, and clamps a hand on Legolas’s shoulder.
He pulls with more strength than Eleniel let herself use, after the first shock – and at last, Legolas moves. First he flinches against the wizard’s touch; then, when it does not release him, he wrenches his whole body forward in an attempt to escape. It is horrible to watch – he bursts into a frenzy of motion, like some trapped beast: yanking and writhing, twisting this way and that, jerking his whole body as if to throw off the body of an attacker rather than the grip of a single hand. But the eeriness of it all is the silence with which he moves: not word nor grunt nor cry of rage escapes his throat – only tight, hissing breaths.
Eleniel rises tentatively, as though to catch his flailing arm – but she does not need to. In that moment, Legolas jerks his body too hard, and Gimli’s limp hand slides out of his own and drops back onto the bed with a soft and final thud.
Legolas freezes, rigid and solid, and stares at it. The room falls dead silent, but for the sharp rasp of his quickening breath.
And then he dissolves.
Eleniel catches him when he crumples, pulls his head against her shoulder and wraps her arms around his waist to keep him from sliding to the floor. His sobs are loud in the quiet room, loud and harsh and abandoned; his body quakes with them, and Eleniel blinks uselessly against floods of her own tears and holds him up.
Olorin catches her eye, over his head. Through the blur of tears, she can see him jerking his head to the side – towards the door. Take him out of here.
This time, when she guides him away, Legolas does not resist.
Eleniel knows as soon as she opens the door that Gimli is gone.
It is not only the stillness of the body on the bed, but the . . . emptiness. There is no life in this room, no spirit. Nothing.
Her heart collides with the gasp that spikes into her throat. Nothing.
“Legolas?”
He sits huddled on the floor beside the bed, black hair pooling around him on the floor, one of Gimli’s lifeless hands clasped in one of his. He does not move.
“Legolas?”
Not even a flinch at the sound of her voice. Eleniel’s chest contracts in an icy fist. To lose such a dear friend as Gimli is wound enough; she could not bear it if – if –
“Legolas!” She claps a hand onto his shoulder and pulls with enough force to draw a longbow, as though she might draw his spirit back to her, even if it has already fled – but no. He does not react to her touch, but his body is rigid under her hand – and when she tugs at him, he does not move.
He is still here. One sob escapes her at that, one choked sound she cannot hold back, and she falls to her knees beside him. “Legolas,” she whispers. “I am so sorry.”
Still he says nothing, but this close, she can feel blood and spirit still pulsing through him. Still here, still here. It is a task beyond her to keep him thus, but she may be the only one who can manage it – and she will keep spirit in his body if it takes the last breath of her own.
…
Outside, songs of lament begin, but Legolas does not move or speak, or give any sign of joining in. So Eleniel stays with him.
Time fades to a blur around them; she knows not if minutes or hours or days have passed before at last the door opens and Mithrandir – Olorin – stands in the doorway.
He gives her the slightest of understanding nods, but speaks only to her friend. “Legolas.”
Legolas does not react.
“Legolas,” Olorin says again: still gentle, but firmer now, uncompromising. “We must prepare the body.”
No reaction – not even to the word body, which made Eleniel flinch despite herself. Olorin takes a deep breath, lets it out in a heavy sigh, and clamps a hand on Legolas’s shoulder.
He pulls with more strength than Eleniel let herself use, after the first shock – and at last, Legolas moves. First he flinches against the wizard’s touch; then, when it does not release him, he wrenches his whole body forward in an attempt to escape. It is horrible to watch – he bursts into a frenzy of motion, like some trapped beast: yanking and writhing, twisting this way and that, jerking his whole body as if to throw off the body of an attacker rather than the grip of a single hand. But the eeriness of it all is the silence with which he moves: not word nor grunt nor cry of rage escapes his throat – only tight, hissing breaths.
Eleniel rises tentatively, as though to catch his flailing arm – but she does not need to. In that moment, Legolas jerks his body too hard, and Gimli’s limp hand slides out of his own and drops back onto the bed with a soft and final thud.
Legolas freezes, rigid and solid, and stares at it. The room falls dead silent, but for the sharp rasp of his quickening breath.
And then he dissolves.
Eleniel catches him when he crumples, pulls his head against her shoulder and wraps her arms around his waist to keep him from sliding to the floor. His sobs are loud in the quiet room, loud and harsh and abandoned; his body quakes with them, and Eleniel blinks uselessly against floods of her own tears and holds him up.
Olorin catches her eye, over his head. Through the blur of tears, she can see him jerking his head to the side – towards the door. Take him out of here.
This time, when she guides him away, Legolas does not resist.