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. 

egolas awoke suddenly, as if from a terrible nightmare, but found that the nightmare had followed him into reality. He lay on his side with his wrists bound before him by thick ropes—they bit into his skin and chafed it red-raw. His wounded shoulder ached from his rough treatment, as did nearly his every limb. Worst of all, his captors had not removed the burlap sack from his head, and it was suffocating him. He sat up and quickly began to pull at the cinch, though the knot was tied fast. The Elf’s nimble fingers fortunately made quick work of the cord, and he pulled the sack from his head, breathing in the hot damp air gratefully. His hair was utterly disheveled and the back of his head was sore from the blow that had stolen his senses earlier. He observed his surroundings.

He appeared to have been tossed—as if he were of no more value than a sack of dirt—upon the stone floor of some sort of store room, the only entrance or exit being the heavy wooden door to his left. Large kegs filled with grog and ale lined the walls. Empty barrels sat upright and contained putrid water, rusted tools and blades, or had blood oozing from between their rotted planks. The rank scent they gave off could only mean that they held dead things, half-decaying in lumps of salt. Legolas felt fear rise in his chest when he noticed that the center of the room bore far less clutter than its corners, for a battered wooden table was the only item there. Its surface was rubbed smooth from years of use, and stained black-brown from spilt blood. The Elf gazed at it warily, at the cuffed chains and leather straps dangling from its sides, at the crisscrossing blade-marks on its surface, at the harnesses hanging from the rafters overhead, and knew that he had been brought before a butcher’s table, a place where living creatures suffered long before they were finally slaughtered. Legolas looked away, swallowing his sickness.

Hot fires burned in the three hearths opposite the door, but Legolas found no comfort in their warmth. Sweat ran from his brow and his clothes were damp with it. His captors had taken his belt, his cloak and his quiver, and the green outer layer of his jerkin, leaving the Elf in naught but his pale blue tunic. His bandaged shoulder showed through his open collar.

He drew himself into a kneeling position before slowly rising to his feet. His head swam dizzyingly but he remained standing, though he felt sick to his soul in this repugnant place, a sensation that only grew worse when he realized the gravity of his situation: he was trapped in the fortress of Dol Guldur, lured into capture by the voices of elven prisoners, and Boromir was abandoned—lost and blind—in the darkness of Mirkwood. The Elf cursed himself for his foolishness, though his heart was given over to sorrow instead of anger. Boromir would never find his way though the dangerous wood without an elven guide, and if Legolas were to perish in this awful place, then so would Boromir perish along with him.

I must free myself, Legolas thought determinedly, eyes searching the room for something he could use to cut his bonds. A dull scimitar hung on the opposite wall alongside hooks and iron rods—dull or not, it was better than nothing. Legolas limped slowly over, the healing wound on his thigh sending waves of sharp pain through his leg. He had just reached the wall when there came the sound of approaching footsteps and harsh voices from outside, and the Elf drew in a breath of surprise. He had no time to think of actions before the door was unlocked and thrown open wide.

Four massive Orcs strode into the room, snarling when they saw that their prisoner had awoken. ‘Very good,’ growled the one draped in a bloodstained leather vest. He drew a long, evil-looking knife from his belt. ‘They’s more fun to play wif when they’s awake.’

Terror, icy and savage as lightning, ripped through Legolas’ heart when two of the big Orcs began to approach him menacingly. But the Elf’s fighting instincts took over when fear threatened to take him entirely.

A slender leg shot out and, though it seemed hardly capable of harming such a beast, laid one of the Orcs out on the floor with a startled oof! Blood coursed from his mouth and rotten teeth scattered across the stones. Legolas half-grinned with delight before turning his attention to the upright Orc and kicking him squarely in the gut. When the big brute failed to fall, Legolas lurched forward, grabbed the Orc’s filthy hand with his own bound ones, and gave a quick, effectual twist. The sickening crack of bone sounded and the Orc fell to his knees screeching.

The two remaining Orcs screamed in fury and commenced chasing the Elf about the room. Legolas deftly evaded his bumbling captors—jumping up on the table and delivering swift kicks to ugly faces, alighting upon barrels and sending them crashing down, spilling tools and scattering firewood, all the while trying to get between his enemies and the door. But that chance never came.

The toothless Orc had pulled himself upright during the chase and grabbed the obnoxious little pest by the ankles when he landed on the table. ‘Gotcher!’ he grunted, and before Legolas could kick himself free, his feet were wrenched out from under him and he crashed onto the table. The four Orcs fell upon him with cruel delight, undaunted by the Elf’s violent struggles; he was outnumbered, injured, and soon overpowered.

Legolas lay on the table, bruised and bleeding, wounds singing with pain, with his bound hands pinned painfully above his head, and his ankles secured in the merciless hold of two Orcs. The head of the group leaned over him with a smile that did nothing to alleviate his hideousness. ‘Ye shouldn’t av done that, Elf. We was gonna make this quick an’ easy, but since ye decided to be sassy, we’s gonna do it the hard way.’

Legolas leaned upward and spat onto the Orc’s face. Silence fell for a moment. The creature did not bother to wipe the spittle away, but grasped the Elf’s face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks painfully. ‘Mind yer tongue, brat,’ he growled, raising his knife, ‘or I’ll mind it for ye.’

Legolas scowled, an expression dark and terrible, and his blue eyes flashed with unmistakable hatred. The other Orcs laughed. ‘Watch out, Gorlok!’ they jeered. ‘I think he likes yer!’

Gorlok cackled and released his grip. ‘We’ll cure ‘im of that. Nuzgut! Make ready the Iron Flame.’

The Orc named Nuzgut growled obediently and went to the wall decorated with implements of torture. Legolas watched with dawning terror as the brute took down a sharpened iron rod and thrust it into the fire. Soon the metal began to grow red-hot.

Gorlok leaned closed to Legolas’ face. ‘A word of advice, my pretty dove,’ he grunted, his foul breath causing the Elf to recoil, ‘strugglin’ only makes it hurt more.’ Yellow eyes roved Legolas’ body, coming to rest at his shoulder. ‘Well now. Looks like this’d be a nice place ter start.’

Grasping the collar of Legolas’ tunic, Gorlok wrenched it open with a tearing sound, baring the Elf’s chest and bandaged arrow-wound. Legolas shouted wordlessly and lurched up, fighting against the Orcs who held him down. They merely laughed at his futile efforts and tightened their hold. Gorlok grasped a clawful of gauze and ripped it away, exposing the scabbed red puncture on the Elf’s shoulder. He grinned as he called Nuzgut from the fire.

Legolas’ eyes widened with horror as the glowing metal rod was held above his vulnerable flesh. Gorlok cackled. ‘Let’s see how loud this dove can sing, lads!’ Laughter echoed all around.

Legolas shut his eyes tightly and held his lower lip between his teeth. The flaming sharp iron pierced his wound slowly. He could hear his flesh hissing and smell the burning odor, but the pain was soon all he could think about. In all his hundreds of centuries of life, never had he encountered pain as consuming as this. Tears, clear and pure, squeezed out from his shut eyes. He sucked in a sob, and that was the only sound to escape him. Fire and wrath seared into his body, agony of all agonies, torture so acute it was blinding, a brand of suffering so merciless and cruelty so uncalled for that its thought alone was too terrible to bear. His whole body felt as if it were laid within a bonfire, his heated blood coursing through his veins like lava and setting him ablaze from the inside out. In a shadowy part of his mind Legolas knew that he was capable of escaping from this hell, but an image stood between him and his own suicide: it was Boromir, smiling at Legolas the way he had in Lothlórien, laughing, embracing him, calling him mellon. For when Boromir had been in the boat, dying with agonizing slowness, the Elf had kept paddling. And when Legolas was twice shot by Orcs on the bank of the Anduin, was weak and outnumbered, still he had stood his ground. And as Boromir had lain upon the cot, having just awoken from his death-slumber while Legolas sat, bereft of his immortality, the Elf had kept hoping.

And now Boromir was sitting in the dark of Mirkwood, with nothing but evil and death to keep him company. Legolas knew that he could not give in now, however terrible his pain—he cared for Boromir too greatly to come this far only to surrender. Now, as he lay upon a table, being violently tortured by Orcs, he realized what his heart had known all along. He knew how he had come to surrender his grace, and knew that it was no accident. Because a sacrifice made for love, Legolas thought, never happens by accident.

In the midst of all the blood and pain, a smile came to the Elf’s lips, and tears ran from his eyes. ‘How I love you,’ he gasped. ‘Ai, how I love you!’

The Orcs paused in their torture, bewildered by the apparent joy on their prisoner’s face. Gorlok grunted, ‘What’s the meanin’ of-’ when he was suddenly cut off by the deep bellow of a horn. It was faint, coming from somewhere outside, but its timber could not be mistaken.

Legolas choked with laughter. It was the horn of Gondor.

oromir drew another breath and sounded the call once more. From within the shadows of the forest’s eaves he watched the sentries scatter excitedly, screaming for archers to combat this unseen menace. Torches were brought and guards ran to the battlements while a troop of foot soldiers began to assemble at the fortress gate. Boromir lowered his horn. ‘Well, that certainly lit a fire under their tails,’ he smirked grimly. He raised the hood of his Lórien cloak over his head. He could hear the spiders clamoring behind him in their agitation. Though a terrible force themselves, they did not enjoy dealing with a small army of blood-hungry Orcs.

Hoping beyond hope that what was spoken of the elven cloaks was true, Boromir turned and ran as fast as he could manage, just within the edge of the forest, keeping the ominous spectacle of Dol Guldur always to his left. He went for some time until the moon shone on left of the main tower instead of its right, and he was now facing the back of the fortress. As he had expected, any additional guards at the gate were summoned away to meet the threat that had made itself known at their front door. Boromir trembled with anticipation before he darted out into the clear, keeping his head low and his body hunched, expecting at any time to hear the whistle of arrows or the shout of sentries. Miraculously, he heard nothing.

The empty area betwixt forest and fortress rose steadily as Boromir darted cautiously forward. A deep, empty moat awaited him as he drew closer, and with careful deliberation he eased himself into it, taking care to avoid freeing loose rocks. He was halfway down when he lost his footing and tumbled the rest of the way, grunting in pain as he landed at the bottom. Two Orcs at the fortress gate turned at the sudden noise, yet they saw nothing but shadow and rock wherever they gazed. Boromir held his breath until the guards returned to their posts, then quietly exhaled. He was shaken from his fall but amazingly uninjured; the Lórien bow he carried over his back was also intact. He pressed on and soon pulled himself from the moat.

He came to the base of the fortress and paused to catch his breath, orienting himself as he did. The foot of Dol Guldur was surrounded by a hill of loose boulders, piled high up the wall to prevent against easy seizure. A stone bridge went from the gate over the moat and ended in a broad staircase leading to the wood; certainly the formal way in. Yet Boromir would have to climb this rocky bank in order to come over the side of the bridge and reach the gate. From thence, he thought grimly, stealth will not matter.

Making certain that he was shielded by his cloak, the Captain of Gondor began to ascend the stony hill.

he door burst open and a small battalion of Orcs stood in the threshold. ‘Leave the prisoner!’ the lieutenant snarled. ‘Get yer mangy hides up to yer stations!’

‘Why?’ Gorlok snapped. ‘We under attack?’

‘We will be, unless that ain’t a whole bleedin’ army right outside our gate!’ the soldier roared. ‘Now get movin’!’

Legolas opened his mouth in a wordless scream as the smoldering iron was wrenched from his bleeding shoulder. He gasped for breath, sweat running in rivulets from his brow. Nuzgut and the two other Orcs began to run about frantically while Gorlok grasped a dangling hook and chain from the rafters and brought it down to the table. He slid the hook tightly between the ropes securing Legolas’ wrists and moved to a crank on the opposite wall. Turning the handle, the Elf was hoisted up like a flag until his feet dangled several inches from the table’s surface. ‘Stay right there,’ Gorlok growled to him as he locked down the crank. ‘We’ll finish playin’ when I get back.’

A few moments later the door slammed shut. Legolas heard the sound of it being locked and bolted, and then a calm silence fell about the room, an unsettling contrast to the violence that had just taken place within its walls. The Elf let out a long sigh and groaned involuntarily in pain. Blood was oozing from his shoulder and staining his tunic dark red. He prayed he was not too badly injured. The pain was still excruciating, especially now as he hung from the rafters like a carcass, but at least he was no longer being perforated by a hot iron rod. But perhaps best of all, Boromir was still alive and he had managed to find his way to Dol Guldur.

He has come to save me, Legolas thought. How could he have known, unless our hearts are so united that we share one another’s thoughts?

The Elf tried desperately to withhold his tears, for they were not borne of happiness. Boromir was one man, one sword, set against all of the Orcs in Dol Guldur and all of their evil weapons. He was bound to perish against such odds. It was as unfair a match as Gandalf and the Balrog, the beast that had stolen one of their most beloved friends from their Fellowship. How could Boromir ever hope to evade the heinous Orcs or match them in combat? It was impossible—it was madness!

And then the fretful Legolas became still, for the words of Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien, came to his mind: ‘You must care deeply for Boromir to endure so much misery on his behalf.’

‘He would have done the same for me,’ Legolas whispered, recalling his own reply, ‘as a true soldier of Gondor. I would gladly lay my life on his loyalty.’ He raised his head, staring at an unseen point high above the misery and suffering of Dol Guldur. ‘Find me, Boromir,’ the prince murmured. ‘Hope has saved our lives once before, in dark hours where it seemed the light of dawn would never find us. If we are lost, we are lost together, and whether it is madness that drives us onward…or perhaps a love so great that we cannot yet see it for its power, let it bring you now to me.’

Legolas closed his eyes, and regretted nothing.

oromir pressed his back to the fortress wall. His ascent had gone undetected, and now he was but a short distance from the gate. Yet there was no way he could launch an attack from this position; it would be folly to expect the two armed guards to await his arrival over the rocks until he could mount the bridge and fight them properly. And then there were the archers on the turrets above. It was a bad position, Boromir knew. But he was not yet out of ideas.

The Captain peered from the shadows and studied his opponents. He was very close now, and the slightest movement or sound could be detected. Very slowly Boromir lowered himself to his haunches and gathered a few goodly-sized cobbles. If there was one thing he had learned from hobbits, it was that rocks were as suitable a weapon as any sword, provided you knew how to use them. Merry and Pippin, Boromir thought reverently, this is for you.

He drew back his arm and let fly a rock. It sailed unseen over the bridge and clattered onto the stones on the other side, creating a small slide. The two sentries immediately turned their backs to investigate the disturbance, and Boromir launched his attack. The second rock savagely struck one Orc directly on his helm, sending him reeling over the side of the bridge. The other guard spun about and a stone flew past his head.

‘Who’s the maggot tossin’ those-’ He was abruptly cut off by an elven dagger embedding into his throat. He toppled over with a bloody gurgle.

Boromir stumbled over the rocks hastily until he was able to leap over the bridge. Hurriedly he wrenched his dagger from the dead Orc and shook the blood from its blade. He sheathed the dagger and drew his sword, and turned to the gate. The heavy doors were closed and impassable, but every fortress had a side-door for the guards to come and go at every shift. Boromir’s old combat instructor had told him that early on in the boy’s life, very basic knowledge to him by now. He found the door not far from the gate, tucked away in a dark corner. Two mighty kicks at the lock splintered the wood enough that Boromir was able to shoulder his way through.

A narrow corridor awaited him. What lay at its end he knew not, and once he passed through there would be no turning back—Orcs would surely follow him from behind. It was a trap, and no seasoned soldier in his right mind would dare enter such a place. Yet Boromir was not entirely in his right mind at the moment, thus he plunged forth with reckless abandon, allowing the unbridled vehemence of battle to take his blood. He imagined Legolas a prisoner in this wicked place, a white rose trapped in a garden of fire and smoke and twisted metal, subjected to the tortures of his grotesque captors, and a rage unlike that he had ever felt filled Boromir’s heart and turned his vision to red.

He came to a winding staircase at the end of the corridor and took them two steps at a time. Scarcely did he note his cutting down of the first Orc he came across, or the second, or the fifth and sixth. A trail of dying bodies followed in his wake, the fury of the Captain of Gondor unleashed upon Dol Guldur. He knew not where he was going or where the next passage would lead him—it did not matter. He would raise this fortress himself if he must, and leave none alive.

Boromir became aware of shouts and roars from adjoining halls, and knew that his presence had been discovered. Though his anger lent him a desire to tear down the walls of Dol Guldur, his level-headedness told him that enduring the embarrassment of skulking about in the shadows would help him to more easily find Legolas. Boromir’s warrior-pride was difficult to subdue, but in the end he ducked into a darkened corridor and shut the door behind him as a crowd of Orcs surged past.

Boromir sank against the wall and tried to still his pounding heart. It was quiet in this corridor, cold and damp. It smelled of moss and decay. Holding his sword poised, Boromir strode quietly down the way, passing by heavily barred doors. The prisons, he realized. A bright glimmer of hope fluttered in his chest. Here would he surely find Legolas! Perhaps his heart knew the way to the Elf better than his own head.

‘Legolas!’ he called softly. ‘Legolas, I am here! Do not fear. I have come to free you!’

He heard a shuffling behind the doors, and then came the words, spoken by a soft and unfamiliar voice, that stopped him in his tracks: ‘Iston le?’

Boromir turned. ‘Is someone there?’ he whispered.

‘Man carel le?’ the voice answered.

‘I do not understand you. Are you Elvish?’ He fumbled for words. ‘Edhel…edhelen?’

Quiet voices seemed to come from all around him. Faint footfalls could be heard at the doors, behind whose barred windows came pale but beautiful faces. Boromir lowered his sword in awe. ‘You are the sirens,’ he murmured, gazing about the many doors.

‘We are Elves,’ pleaded a fair voice, and Boromir moved to the door behind which it had come. Through the bars he saw a gaunt face staring back at him, large green eyes filled with torment and suffering. The once beautiful locks of golden hair had been raggedly shorn by Orc knives, and an old scar ran from chin to crown, over cheek and brow. He looked young, yet Boromir knew that the Elf was of great age. ‘You are a Man,’ said the Elf with astonishment, eyes falling to the Lórien broach of Boromir’s cloak. ‘Yet you wear the raiment of the Golden Wood!’

‘Have no fear; I am an Elf-friend,’ said Boromir.

‘How did you ever come to this place?’

‘My companion has been captured,’ said Boromir earnestly. ‘I have come here to retrieve him.’

‘Ai, may the Valar forgive us!’ cried a voice from behind. ‘We do not want to sing! The yrch force us!’

Said another voice, ‘It is they who lay traps to capture brethren that come to free us.’

‘I may not be your brethren,’ vowed Boromir, ‘but I shall try to free you all the same. Quickly, where might I find new prisoners?’

‘All those captured are sent to the Table of Blood,’ said the Elf with the scar. ‘There they are broken or tortured to death.’

Boromir felt suddenly faint, and grasped the bars on the door to steady himself. ‘Where is this Table?’

‘I know not, but it is somewhere on the floor above our cells.’ The Elf gazed upward, a hollow expression of loss exaggerating his already dismal features. ‘So that the prisoners may hear the screams.’

The Captain of Gondor grit his teeth in subdued rage and took a deep breath, gathering his senses for a moment. What manner of beast could torture these fair folk so horribly and find pleasure in it? What devil could murder the innocent, mutilating and bleeding a race so gentle as the First Born? There was no conscience in these monsters, no regret or shame for their wicked deeds. They simply did it because they could, because it was what they were bred to do: destroy the beautiful, poison the pure, lay ruin to whatever goodness could be found. The reason was simple—the servants of Sauron, and every thing connected to him, was irrevocably and undeniably evil. The Ring, the Riders, the Orcs, this tower of iniquity within which he now stood, all created by evil to serve the purpose of evil.

Outrage, hatred, and a molten fire of righteousness flared within the forges of Boromir’s heart as he raised his head. ‘What is your name, friend?’ he asked the scarred Elf.

‘Galron of Greenwood,’ the Elf replied. ‘And how are you called?’

‘I am Boromir son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor.’

‘Gondor! You are far from home, Captain Boromir. Why have you journeyed to such dark lands as these?’

‘I have a duty to fulfill,’ Boromir muttered, turning away. ‘But first I must find my lost friend.’

‘Wait!’ Galron cried, thrusting his hands through the bars. ‘Please do not leave us, I beg you!’

Boromir turned and grasped the Elf’s hands. They were dirty and covered with dried blood, yet warm with immortal life. He gazed into green eyes and swore fervently, ‘On my honor, I shall not abandon you and your folk, Galron of Greenwood, even if I must crawl here to die before your door. I will return.’

Tears of joy flooded the Elf’s eyes and he nodded resolutely. Boromir gave his hand a squeeze and then released him, and slipped out of the corridor as silently as he had come.