Absence of Grace 

Author: HJ Bender (hjbender@bent-halo.net)

Rating: M

Pairing: Boromir/Legolas

Summary: Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn’t until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.

Disclaimer: I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.
Absence of proof is not proof of absence. 

hey traveled briskly the first day, jogging through forest and bush with the Elf leading the way. Boromir found that the time passed quickly when he kept his eyes upon Legolas, who ran before him so lightly that he seemed almost weightless. He still carried a slight limp in his right leg, though if Boromir had not known it was injured he would never have noticed the change in Legolas’ movements. His leaps were hypnotic to watch, like a leaf dancing on the breeze, or a graceful deer bounding silently on a blanket of snow. Boromir found that he traveled almost effortlessly when his gaze was fixed upon Legolas, though in reality his body was working far harder than he imagined.

Soon the forest began to thin and they came at last upon a broad land of gentle hills and brown grass, studded with stony outcrops and scrubby tangles of dead hedge. Legolas sprang upon the crest of a jutting rock and narrowed his eyes against the east wind. ‘I see the edge of Mirkwood,’ he told Boromir, who stood upon the grass and took a gulp from his water-skin. ‘If we hasten we shall reach its borders by dusk.’

‘That would put us close to Dol Guldur in the dark, when Orcs are likely to be out and about,’ Boromir murmured, fastening the pouch and adjusting the small rucksack that had replaced his shield. ‘Should we not wait for the sun to favor us before making the pass?’

‘We cannot delay,’ said the Elf, springing down from the rock to stand beside Boromir. ‘If what Lord Celeborn said is accurate, our people have very little time before Sauron makes his move.’

Something stirred in Boromir’s heart when he heard Legolas say ‘our people’, though he knew Legolas spoke of Elves and Men as separate races. As brief as that stirring was, it renewed the man’s energy and filled his spirit with strength and daring. ‘Very well. Are we to enter the forest tonight, then?’

‘Yes; Orcs and other foul creatures patrol the borders near Dol Guldur, yet seldom do they stray beyond the walls of their fortress. They fear the wood which they themselves have corrupted, and none know the way back through the dark trees.’

Boromir raised his eyebrows in wonder. ‘How then are we to manage?’

Legolas turned his head and gave the man a playful smile, warm and mischievous and completely elven. ‘You have a guide in me, Captain. I shall lead if you shall follow.’

Boromir grinned and laughed, and deep in his heart he knew that he cherished the Elf more than any comrade he had had before, more than any ring of power. ‘Then I am in good hands. Lead on, my Prince!’

The smile faded from Legolas’ face when he heard his noble title. ‘Who told you?’ he asked, a tone of fear apparent in his voice.

‘Haldir,’ replied Boromir, ‘but please do not begrudge him for that, Legolas, nor me. I would have discovered you were Thranduil’s son before long.’

‘I see.’ The Elf turned away, looking toward his far-off home. ‘And I suppose my heritage had nothing to do with your eloquent words of gratitude in Lórien?’

Boromir was taken aback, his face growing hot with indignation. ‘I am insulted you would think so poorly of my character. Do you still distrust me? What more must I do to convince you of my sincerity? It was no lie when I said that I owe my life to your heroic deeds, however foolish and reckless they were. I stand here now because of you, and I care not if you are peasant or prince!’ His voice softened and he drew close to Legolas, laying a hand upon his shoulder. ‘Though it would have broken my heart to tell King Thranduil that his son died to save a mortal man’s life. Had I known sooner…I would have told you to leave me behind.’

‘You did,’ Legolas murmured, meeting Boromir’s eyes. ‘You begged for death, and I denied you it. I risked my life, being that I was responsible for your fall.’

‘You were responsible for nothing!’

‘Then why does my heart ache for you!’

Legolas’ words caught them both by surprise. The Elf turned his eyes askance, his face coloring. ‘Forgive me,’ he said gently. ‘I have difficulty accepting that a man could possess more nobility than even an elven prince.’

Boromir’s eyes softened as he gazed at the fair Elf, who was somehow wounded more deeply than he had imagined. What had passed to make him so melancholy? What could Boromir do to repair the unknown thing which had broken inside his friend, his mellon?

‘Legolas,’ he said, taking up the Prince’s slender hand, ‘there will come a time when we understand each other’s hearts, but it is not yet. If you can bear to stand by me through this war, to see it to its end with me, then I swear to you, upon the souls of my fathers, I shall stand by you until I die. You are my friend, Legolas, and I love you.’

Something hot and sharp went into Legolas’ heart, and it took his breath away—it was a realization. And it frightened him more than a hundred Balrogs, a thousand deaths, or a life without one.

‘Come,’ he said unsteadily, stepping away. ‘We must hurry if we are to reach Mirkwood by nightfall.’

he sky was darkening to deep lavender and the stars were beginning to smile by the time they came to the edge of Mirkwood. Even on the forest’s skirt the ancient trees were large and gnarled, their roots twisting into knots and tangles as they delved into the mossy, leaf-covered ground. Their heavy limbs were draped in ivy, the leaves of which were as withered by winter as those of the trees. It looked as black as midnight within that ominous wood, and Boromir was loathe to enter it.

The chill of night was beginning to creep across the land, and Legolas attempted to hide his shivering. He had not the layers which kept Boromir warm, for his clothes had been fashioned with the assumption that its elven wearer would not forsake his immortality and become a victim of coldness. So Legolas drew his Lórien cloak about himself and hoped that the man would not notice his pallor in the dim light of dusk. He recalled that fair autumn day when he had left Mirkwood with a few of his companions, laughing and singing despite the grim news they bore, traveling west to Rivendell and the Council of Elrond. Legolas had been immortal then, his grace untarnished and his conscience light as a cloud. Now, in this dark hour, he was returning to his home as a shadow of his former self, weak and frail and ridden with guilt, ashamed and remorseful.

But he had Boromir to think about now, Boromir who seemed content with his mortality.

It was different for one who had never possessed the gift of the undying, Legolas knew, but that only made him admire the man’s bravery the more, for he was mortal. And the Elf suddenly found himself drawing hope and courage from those he once judged so pitiably unfortunate.

Legolas pulled his thoughts from his own misery and gave them a more useful purpose, for now he was faced with the task of leading Boromir safely through the treacherous forest. ‘Dol Guldur is a mile or two within, high upon the hill we once called Amon Lanc,’ he said, turning to Boromir with a serious expression. ‘Do not stray from my sight, and keep me always in yours. Should we become separated, do not call for me. Stay where you are and I shall come for you. Light no torch, and make as little noise as possible. We do not wish to draw attention to ourselves.’

Boromir nodded, though every bone in his body urged him to stay out of that terrible wood. ‘How far will we travel?’

‘As far as we can,’ Legolas answered, and turned his back to the man. ‘I recommend that you take hold of my cloak. Even my eyes see little in this place at night.’

Boromir grasped the fringe of Legolas’ Lórien cloak. ‘I fear no darkness. Lead us on, Legolas.’ And together they took their first steps into Mirkwood, disappearing entirely into its shadows. They walked for some time, as slowly and quietly as they could. The wood was as grave as a tomb, and just as silent. All around them pressed the heavy blackness, threatening in the way a predator stalks its blind quarry. Every now and again the gleam of yellow or green or red eyes peered out at them, then vanished. Boromir thought he would surely be lost without his friend’s guidance, though after some time his eyes began to adjust to the unnatural dark. He began to see shapes, outlines of trees and branches, and the vague form of Legolas walking before him. He seemed less radiant now, Boromir thought, as if his elven glow has become tired and faded from their journey. The only object which caught any light at all was the míthril ring upon Boromir’s finger, though its sparkle was outweighed by the shadows all around them.

After a while Boromir was unable to bear the silence, and asked, ‘Has this forest always been so dreadful?

‘Nay,’ the Elf said softly. ‘Once it was green and full of light, a place where birds sang and butterflies danced by day, and where the night-owl hooted and the fireflies played. The moon would shine down through the branches and cast her glow upon the flowers that grow beneath the trees, and the river would murmur as it rushed over rock and root, clear and green before it went foul. We used to sing to the night, to find joy in the rising of the silver moon and her host of stars.’ His voice grew sorrowful. ‘But now there is no joy in Greenwood. Its beauty has been stained and its peace stolen, its form perverted and poisoned into the abomination that is now Mirkwood.’

Boromir waited briefly before gently asking, ‘Why then do your people not abandon this curséd place?’

‘Because,’ the Elf whispered, ‘it is our home, and we have no other place to go.’

The man remained silent for a time, knowing for himself how difficult it is to see one’s home slowly taken over and destroyed before one’s own eyes. How much more difficult it is when you are the prince of your realm, or the son of its steward. If Legolas were anything like Boromir, they would both die before they saw their realms fall to Sauron’s evil. The thought was at the same time comforting and terrible.

The night drew on, growing deep. Boromir felt his exertions from that day catching up to him, and his pace slowed. ‘I am afraid weariness is overtaking me,’ he murmured.

‘It is not safe to rest here,’ Legolas answered.

‘I do not know how much longer I can continue,’ Boromir said, wincing as dull pain throbbed in his healing wounds. ‘An hour more at the greatest, but I shall have to rest.’

Legolas paused and stood still a moment, then he turned to Boromir. ‘I fear I am driving you too hard. Forgive me. We shall rest here.’

Camp with no fire is a miserable thing, especially on a cold night as this. They found shelter beneath the low branches of a beech and ate a little lembas before wordlessly retiring. Legolas agreed to first watch, though it was not long before fatigue was causing his eyes to fall closed while he shuddered in the cold.

From his position sitting against the tree, Boromir, with sleepy concern, watched the Elf trembling. He recalled the unaffected caprice he had witnessed upon Caradhras, the playful dismissal of the snow while the rest of the Fellowship cursed it, and wondered why Legolas was now so afflicted. Maybe it was not cold, but terror which was causing him to shiver. Yet when Boromir reached out and grasped Legolas’ hand, he was startled by its lack of warmth. ‘You are like ice!’ he whispered, and the Elf shot him a worried glance that Boromir could not see. ‘Why are you so cold, Legolas?’

He did not answer, but looked the other way, his heart sick with sorrow. He heard Boromir shuffling beside him, and then felt something soft placed into his hand.

‘Take my gloves,’ the man admonished. ‘They are likely too large, but your hands will be warmer than without them.’

Legolas closed his hand around the offering. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, and put them on. Boromir was right—they were too large for him, yet the worn leather felt pleasant against his chilled skin. ‘You are very kind, Boromir.’

The man mumbled his self-conscious welcomes, and tucked his bare hands beneath his arms. ‘You look after me; I shall look after you. We shall look after each other and be better because of it. My father once told me: the whole of an army is greater than the sum of its parts; that together more can be accomplished than anything an individual by himself is capable of achieving…’ Boromir trailed off, his words suddenly becoming more intimate than he has intended, and he wondered—very briefly, a fleeting thought—if Legolas were wed, what kind of an Elf she was, if she was a good match for him, if she loved him…if she would die for him as readily as Boromir.

Thinking had suddenly become dangerous, and the Captain of Gondor banished these fantasies from his mind. He was tired and wished to sleep, and sleep soon found him. The night passed slowly. Legolas sat with his bow at his side and his hands clasped in his lap. They had become warm again. He thought often of Boromir and his words: stronger than the sum of their parts. Capable of more together than alone. Perhaps this was they, a Man and an Elf, who could unite their strengths and diminish their weaknesses, as one. Now, at this point in time, Legolas desired strength more than ever. He was ashamed to admit that he yearned for protection, for power, for comfort, for reassurance that mortality meant more than simply weakness and death. Legolas came very close to rousing Boromir and telling him of his loss, though his elven sensibility stayed his voice. He swallowed his words and let them ferment in his body like decaying fruit. Sooner or later, he knew, they would be purged, that whether by his will or not, the truth would inevitably come out.

Legolas was almost nodding when a new sound slowly faded into existence, not of the wind in the trees or the rustling of leaves, but voices, many fair voices, singing. They were elven, very faint, but still audible to elven ears. Legolas crawled to his feet and cocked his head, listening. The voices were distant, sad, the song’s words unintelligible. They seemed to be coming from the west, and Legolas pointed himself in that direction, wandering slowly. He knew he should not leave Boromir alone, but the man was sleeping so soundly that Legolas was certain he would have time to investigate and return before he woke.

He walked soundlessly through the leaves, ears straining to discern words. Slowly they began to come to him as he drew nearer:

Long it has been

Since we have seen

The light of sun and moon…

Long we have cried

As our kin died—

Our death is coming soon…

Legolas did not know this song, and its macabre lyrics chilled him to his core. Elves singing of death and despair—it was not right. There were no Elf-homes this far south in Mirkwood. What could Elves be doing in this dangerous part of the forest?

We sing our grief

Yet no relief

Comes to set us free…

We shall not stir

In Dol Guldur

When Death answers our plea…

Legolas stopped in his tracks. The trees had thinned, turning into hacked stumps and dead ivy, and above him loomed a black silhouette with flickering yellow eyes, standing upon a stony hill bereft of vegetation. This was the source of the singing—this was the fortress of Dol Guldur. There were Elves, Legolas realized, his kin, his people, in that wicked place, singing of death and suffering.

‘O Elbereth!’ Legolas cried softly in horror. ‘It cannot be!’ A fiery rage coursed through his blood, igniting his heart with righteous indignation. He listened to those fair voices continue their dirge, and knew that there was no way he would be able to leave this place without attempting to free them. He cursed himself for leaving his bow behind, yet his better senses assured him that he had not enough arrows to storm that dark fortress by himself. Perhaps if Boromir helped him, it could be done. It was madness, he knew, but he must do something!

Legolas was in the act of turning around to fetch his companion when his world went black. A rough bag was shoved over his head and its cinch tightened round his neck. His arms shot out and struck metal armor, and then something heavy felled him from behind. The last thing he was aware of was the laughter of Orcs as they began to bind his hands.

oromir opened his eyes. It was dark and silent, and he knew before he saw anything that he was alone. Some part of him was aware Legolas’ absence. He felt it deep in his chest, a cold, worrisome hollowness. He sat up and stared blindly into the darkness, and though he knew he would not receive an answer, he called softly to Legolas. Some part of him strained to hear the Elf’s approach, an apologetic voice for his temporary absence, but Boromir knew better. Something was terribly wrong. How he knew this he could not explain, but his heart was pounding with fear.

Where had he gone? What could have pulled him from his watch with such haste that the Elf forgot his Lórien bow? Boromir picked it up, running his hands along the intricately carved wood. Legolas treasured this bow. He would part from it as unreadily as Boromir would part with his sword. No, something had taken Legolas. The Prince was in danger. And then, in that moment, Boromir saw in his mind the fortress of Dol Guldur, and knew in every fiber of his body that he would find Legolas in that awful place.

Boromir stood and slipped the pack of supplies onto his back, along with Legolas’ bow, but hesitated when it came time to take his first step. He knew not his bearings, nor which direction to take to reach Dol Guldur. He was utterly lost without Legolas, doomed and alone in the depths of Mirkwood.

Boromir drew a slow breath and opened his heart, for his mind was no longer capable of leading him to his vanished friend. He began to make his way forward, eyes closed for their uselessness, arms stretched out before him to prevent his collision with trees. He was frightened, though it came without shame; any other man in his position would have been screaming with terror, fleeing into trees and running circles, howling and weeping so loudly that all of the evil lurking in the shadows would have found him. Boromir controlled his fear and used it to keep him alert. He regularly bumped into trees and was tangled in dead ivy, but still he pressed on. ‘Legolas,’ he whispered, hoping that his fears were in vain, that the Elf would suddenly appear and laugh at his friend’s worry. ‘Legolas, it is Boromir. I cannot see you. Legolas…?’

He wandered blindly for what seemed to be hours, and no sign of light or Legolas appeared. However, a growing feeling of apprehension had begun to settle itself in his belly, and Boromir became aware that he was being watched by something. Or some things. He could hear them in the branches above his head—a sudden faint scuttling, the sound of falling pieces of bark, dead leaves rustling. And before long he thought he heard them speaking to one another in quiet, rasping hisses.

Boromir calmly lowered himself into a crouch and began to run his hands over the ground, searching. Finding what he needed, he lifted the dead branch and drew a match from his pocket, lighting it with a scratch of his thumbnail. A small light flared, intensely bright, and Boromir set it to the branch. The dry wood caught fire and light bloomed across the man’s surroundings. The scrabbling and scratching heightened, and unearthly hisses rose with the noise of many irritated insects.

Boromir held the burning brand aloft and dozens of multi-faceted eyes recoiled, climbing higher into the trees around him. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could see the shapes which belonged to the eyes: eight-legged, large-bodied, fang-bearing. ‘So I have met the spiders of Mirkwood,’ Boromir muttered. At his voice the huge arachnids began to clamor excitedly, saliva dripping from their mandibles. ‘I wonder,’ he continued, ‘if you are not the cowardly, stupid beasts who hide their repulsiveness from the world?’

A chorus of angry hisses and seething followed his words. Boromir began to get an idea of what he was dealing with, and his soldier’s mind started to formulate a plan. ‘So you are then sensible creatures? That is good. I have much to discuss with you.’

From high in the trees one of the larger spiders drifted slowly down on a thick string of web, pausing as it was just out of reach of the burning branch. ‘No…talk,’ it rasped in a thin, wicked voice. ‘You...die.’

Boromir concealed his shock, for he had not expected these vile monsters to possess the ability to speak. Now he knew their intentions, and his plan could be better implemented. ‘Die?’ he asked, feigning astonishment. ‘What have I done to deserve death?’

‘All…trespassers…die,’ said the hanging spider, glaring at Boromir with its many beady eyes. ‘Man-blood…rare.’ This brought another round of excited noise from the hungry arachnids.

Boromir’s skin crawled. ‘I suppose man-blood is rare,’ he agreed, ‘yet I am a soldier, tough and old. My blood is bitter from war and my skin thick as leather. I would be no fine meal.’

The spider above him hissed lowly, considering the words. For a moment Boromir removed himself from the situation and tried to imagine what he looked like: a man trapped in the dark with a burning stick, trying to negotiate with a lot of ravenous arachnids. The thought stuck him as tremendously amusing, even in such a precarious position, and he had to suppress his urge to laugh. ‘My fine spiders,’ he said, ‘you deserve a better feast than that! What if I could promise you richer blood? Perhaps Elf-blood?’

This seemed to excite the spiders into near-frenzy, though the hanging leader remained unaffected. ‘What…deal…have you?’ it rasped.

‘Lead me to Dol Guldur. I shall fetch your feast for you.’

‘You…free…sirens?’

Boromir frowned. ‘Sirens?’

‘Elf-slaves…’ The spider waved its legs. ‘Sing…lure…prisoners.’

Boromir’s heart sank. Legolas. It could not be. Yet there could be no other explanation: Legolas had heard the singing of Elves and followed them to his capture. The Valar only knew what became of him, and if he were still alive. Or if he were alive, was he being tortured? Boromir swallowed his fear and anguish. ‘It was not my intention to free any slaves,’ he said, ‘yet if I were to be led to Dol Guldur as swiftly as possible, I would return this favor.’

The spiders talked among themselves in their own insidious tongue while Boromir stood anxiously below, awaiting their verdict. If they disagreed he would be forced to draw his sword and challenge them all—and he was no match against these numbers—yet if they agreed…

‘We…decided,’ said the chief spider, returning to dangle above Boromir. ‘Your…word.’

‘You have it,’ Boromir said hastily, though a stab of betrayal went through his heart. He had never gone back on his word, not even a word given to his enemies. Yet he knew that he could not give Legolas to these beasts, nor any Elf-slaves that they spoke of. This was a matter of life and death, and Boromir realized that he would bear no guilt for breaking his word if it meant saving Legolas’ life. I shall at last repay my debt to him, he thought as he followed the spiders in the trees above. Take heart, Legolas! I will find you!