Post by Móreadhiel on Jun 13, 2006 15:49:25 GMT -5
The weather was dismal. Rain poured down in blinding sheets, lit up occasionally by flashes of lightning and accented by mutters of thunder. This was not the kind of day most people favored for scouting or hunting trips. This was the kind of day when most folk drink hot liquids and gather in one of two central spots: the Hall of Fire, where songs were sung and tales told, or Elrond’s library, where cozy alcoves beckoned information seekers.
Only two people distanced themselves from the general public...and from each other.
Aragorn sat alone in his dark room staring out the window, his mood as gloomy as the day outside his comfortable room. And it was all Legolas’ fault.
‘Why does he always have to be so hard-headed?’ Aragorn groused mentally, moving over to the window seat and bracing his forehead against the cold glass. ‘He could give, just a little.’
Perhaps a bit of background would be helpful here. So let us pull away from this gloomy time and look earlier in the day, a few hours before noon...
As a direct contrast to the weather that evening, the morning had been sunny with only a hint of the rain to come. Aragorn and Legolas had been outside by a large pool, throwing rocks into it and challenging each other to rock-skipping contests.
“Ha! Ten!” Legolas crowed, falling back onto his elbows with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Beat that!”
“Easily done,” boasted Aragorn as he fingered his next flat stone. Rising onto his knees, the ranger fired his stone with all of his strength. The stone hit the surface and skipped...and skipped...and skipped...again and again.
“Eleven!” Aragorn whooped. “Beat that, my elven friend!”
Legolas scowled at his stone, gathering his strength. Straightening, the elven prince unleashed his stone, putting all his strength and weight behind it. Skip...skip...skip...
“Twelve,” grinned the blond elf.
“No,” Aragorn argued. “That was only eleven.”
“Your mortal eyes must be deceiving you, Estel,” Legolas smirked, very much the picture of the superior elf. “I distinctly saw it skip twelve times.”
“And your elven pride can’t take being tied with a human,” Aragorn snapped back. “I saw it skip eleven times. Are you trying to cheat?”
Legolas sat straight up, his blue eyes flashing. “Are you calling me both a liar and a cheater?” he demanded, his ire up.
“If the boots fit!” Aragorn retorted, also sitting up.
Legolas went very still, his eyes cold. “I am not cheat, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” he said, his tone as frosty as his eyes. “If any is a cheat, you are. It is in human nature to stab the back of those who trust them. Do not forget what Isildur, your forbearer, did.”
Bull’s-eye. Aragorn went very red as he jumped to his feet. “I never can forget, Legolas!” he yelled. “Every moment of every day, I am plagued with the fear of becoming what he was. But at least I can look at my father with pride! Your father is a jewel-obsessed elf, more concerned with riches than kindness! Perhaps the apple has not fallen far from the tree!”
Legolas rose swiftly and gracefully, anger written on every line of his fair face. “At least my father is yet living!” he shouted back. “Your father was highly inept, typical of a human, and got himself killed before you really knew him! From what I see, he passed that ineptitude on to you!”
“I’d rather have my honorable adoptive father over yours any day!” Aragorn hollered, getting right in Legolas’ face. “I cannot think of a more worthy elf in all of Middle-earth!”
“You are unworthy of him!” Legolas hissed into the human’s face. “Look at you! You wear the ring of Barahir, yet you dodge your heritage. You are a coward, afraid of the distant past!”
Aragorn was too angry to speak by this point. Legolas continued, “You hide in the wilderness under the name I gave you, afraid of what ‘Aragorn’ means. Narsíl remains un-forged because you are unworthy to wield it. Even Isildur was more honorable than you!”
That was the proverbial last straw. Aragorn got right in Legolas’ face and hissed, “Get out of my sight, Legolas Greenleaf. I never want to see you again!”
“No need to worry,” Legolas shot back in the same tone. “I am going back to Mirkwood.” A boom of thunder accented his words and the threatened rain began to fall.
Aragorn turned on his heel and strode into the house, leaving Legolas by the pool.
Neither Legolas nor Aragorn appeared at lunch or dinner. Elrond, the ever-observant elf lord, saw and wondered silently.
The rain fell harder and harder until travel was well nigh impossible. Legolas had to postpone his trip until the rain stopped. So he did, but the common sense that had driven everyone else indoors seemed to desert the blond elf: he remained outside in the blinding rain.
Moving to a soaked bench, the elven prince sat down, ignoring the wet that seeped through his already-soaked clothing. ‘I wish Aragorn had listened better,’ he thought. ‘He did not need to be so bullheaded. But what is done is done.’ He remained on that bench through the night, unmoving save to breathe and blink.
At last, morning dawned and the rain stopped. Aragorn woke to the sun rising outside his window. He stretched like a cat, wondering for a moment where Legolas was. Remembering he was still angry at the elf, the human scowled and headed for the dining hall, his stomach growling at him every step.
In the garden, Legolas stirred for the first time all night. He stood and stretched, wincing at cramped muscles screaming at him. Noticing that he was hungry, the prince headed inside, following his nose. Before heading to the dining hall, however, he stopped by his room for two purposes. One, to ensure that his belongings were packed and ready to go, and two, to change out of his wet clothes and straighten himself up before going to breakfast. He was an elf prince, after all, with an image to maintain.
Aragorn glanced up from his breakfast as he heard someone enter the dining hall. His gaze turned frosty and he deliberately looked away from the newest entrant, Legolas.
Legolas filled his plate with food and looked around. Unbelievably, every seat in the place was full...except a seat between Aragorn and Lord Elrond, where Legolas usually sat when he was on good terms with Aragorn. With a reluctant sigh, the prince went to that seat and sat down, sitting closer to Lord Elrond than Aragorn.
Lord Elrond smiled a greeting to the blond elf. “Good morning, Legolas,” he greeted pleasantly.
“Good morning, Lord Elrond,” Legolas replied politely, ignoring Aragorn’s cold glare. He picked up his fork and began eating.
Lord Elrond’s eyebrows knit together. Normally he couldn’t keep Legolas and Aragorn from talking, even with their mouths full. Now the tension between them was almost tangible. It was so thick that Elrond wondered if he could cut it with a knife. Clearing his throat, the elf lord addressed both beings. “I did not see either of you at lunch or dinner yesterday. Where were you?”
Legolas swallowed his mouthful before replying, “I had...other business. As soon as I am finished eating, I plan to return to Mirkwood.”
“And are you accompanying him, Estel?” Elrond asked, thinking he understood.
“No,” Aragorn grated around a mouthful.
Silence reigned for a few moments as the two ex-friends ate and Elrond watched them silently. At last, the elf lord stood and tapped his knife against his glass. Silence rippled from the high table as everyone turned to look at Elrond. Bracing his hands on the table, Elrond said, his calm voice echoing through the hall, “Because of the excessive rain yesterday, there is the danger of flooding along the river. I will assign pairs of scouts to examine different sections of the river in this valley. Glorfindel, Mithel, the southernmost part. Aragorn, Legolas, the northernmost point.”
Elrond continued talking, assigning the other scouts to other sections, but neither Legolas nor Aragorn heard him through their horror. They had to scout together?! When Elrond sat back down, Legolas said carefully, “Lord Elrond, I really do need to get home. Can you not pick someone else for Aragorn’s partner?”
“No, I do not think so, Legolas,” Elrond replied, his composure perfectly in place. “No one else can be spared from his or her other duties. And surely the other business in Mirkwood can go on without you for a week or so?”
Legolas swallowed hard, knowing Elrond had him boxed in beautifully. The part of him not flabbergasted had to admire the elf lord. “I...suppose so,” he replied reluctantly, knowing when he was beaten.
When the meal was over, the scouts gathered their weapons and supplies. Legolas, Aragorn, Glorfindel and Mithel took the most supplies, as they were going the farthest and would be gone the longest. With some fanfare, the scouts set off, scattering in their separate directions immediately. Within moments, Aragorn and Legolas were by themselves, heading north along the river.
They avoided saying anything to each other for the whole first day, doing their different duties with cold efficiency. No longer were they working to help each other, only to get a job done.
Though this was the Rivendell valley, protected by Elrond, Legolas found his hand continually straying to either his bow or his knife. Something felt wrong; he couldn’t explain it better than that.
Aragorn noticed Legolas’ jumpiness toward nightfall and couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the matter, princeling? Have ants in your pants?”
Legolas just ignored him, tuning his hearing to their surroundings.
Aragorn scowled. Being mad at Legolas was always made more fun by being able to needle him; Legolas ignoring the human did not sit well with him. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” he asked, his voice louder.
Legolas winced and hastily retracted his hearing. When his hearing was spread far and wide, Aragorn’s voice rang like a tin cymbal and literally hurt his sensitive ears. Glaring at Aragorn as he rubbed his ears, he replied, “Something feels wrong that has nothing to do with a certain filthy human.”
Aragorn bristled. “Are you insinuating that I feel ‘wrong’,” he made quoting signs in the air, “elf boy?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Legolas retorted.
And they were off again, arguing as they continued to walk. They were so caught up in their petty squabble that they didn’t notice the encroaching darkness and the sudden stillness that fell on the world around them.
They were quickly brought back to reality when a dark arrow zipped through the air to land, quivering, in a tree close to Legolas’ head. A string of multi-lingual curses flew from both beings as Legolas straightened from his automatic crouch and notched his bow, Aragorn drawing his sword. They both took up defensive positions—as far from each other as possible—and waited.
They did not have to wait long. A stream of foul orcs flowed toward them in waves. Legolas’ yew bow sang, and an orc in the front dropped to the ground, a white-feathered arrow in its throat. Three more orcs fell to the prince’s arrows before the foul beings were on the two beings, giving Aragorn some work with his sword.
Ordinarily, before they allowed their squabble to separate them, the elf and the man would have worked together, Legolas picking off reinforcements and Aragorn taking care of the closer opponents. Now, however, there were large holes in their defenses. The orcs may have been foolish sometimes, but even they could not fail to see such gaps and take advantage of them.
An orc sniper behind Legolas raised his bow and fired just as the prince was turning, knives flashing in either fist. Really, it was his turn that saved him; the arrow was aimed for his lung. Instead, it embedded itself in the elf’s left shoulder, tearing a cry of pain from his throat. He dropped the knife that had been in his left hand and fell to his knees, his hand covering the bleeding wound.
For Aragorn, time seemed to slow to a crawl when he heard Legolas’ cry. He spun, seemingly in slow motion, and saw Legolas on the ground holding his shoulder. A black-feathered arrow sprouted from between his bloodstained fingers. In that instant, the ranger forgot about the argument, forgot his anger, forgot everything except two simple facts: Legolas was hurt, and they both were vulnerable.
A roar of fury yanked itself from the feral part of Aragorn’s mind as he sprang toward Legolas, sword cleaving every orc in reach. Though the orcs were also scrambling for the wounded elf, Aragorn beat them there and stood guard over Legolas, his sword raised. “Now,” he said, his grey eyes icy cold, “you die.”
The orcs hesitated, cowed by the dangerous light in the human’s eyes. Glancing at each other, they saw that they outnumbered Aragorn 18-to-1. With the odds so firmly in their favor, they hurled themselves at Aragorn. They did not see Legolas rise, graceful even through the pain that turned his naturally pale face pasty white. Deadly resolve burning in his eyes, he firmed his grip on the dagger in his right hand. The orcs also did not see Aragorn shift to a better defensive position, sword before him; they were too busy making sure they weren’t alone in the attack.
Legolas held his left arm awkwardly before him, feeling clumsy and more than a little nauseous as he stood by Aragorn’s side. His right hand, however, did not seem to feel the other parts’ pain as it came up to impale the first orc in reach. Spinning and yanking his knife out, the prince proceeded to make mincemeat of every orc in reach. Turning slightly to hack at a dark throat, his sharp eye caught the orc who had shot him preparing another arrow.
“Oh no you do not,” the elf growled deep in his throat. He dove for his bow and brought it up in a blindingly fast motion, notching it as he brought it to the right angle. The bow of Mirkwood sang and the orc sniper dropped dead, Legolas’ arrow sprouting from its right lung. Legolas whimpered in pain that he could not contain as the arrow in his shoulder dug deeper.
Aragorn was right there, defending the prince until the elf could get his pain back under control and continue fighting. Luckily for Legolas, the fight didn’t last much longer after that. A few moments passed, filled with the cry of dying orcs, then all was silent. Not one orc had escaped; Aragorn had seen to that.
Then, and only then, did Legolas succumb to the pain. His hand released his weapon and flew back to his shoulder as he dropped to his knees. Hunched over himself, the elf struggled not to give voice to his cries of agony.
“Easy, mellon-nín,” Aragorn panted as he quickly sheathed his sword and wiped his hands on his shirtfront. He knelt beside the unnaturally pale elf and carefully peeled Legolas’ hand away from the wound, making him straighten. Experimentally, the ranger tugged on the black shaft of the arrow and was rewarded with a long hiss of pain and a glare.
“Do that again and you will not have your head attached to your shoulders any longer,” Legolas gritted out.
Aragorn smiled as he carefully prodded around the wound. “Back to your old contrary self, I see,” he murmured. Changing the subject quickly, the human said in a more serious tone, “I need to see that wound better, which means the tunic needs to come off.”
“There is no way I will move my arm,” Legolas replied, leaning against the bole of a handy tree. “Go ahead and cut the tunic off.”
Aragorn took the elf at his word and unsheathed his boot knife. He carefully cut the bloody fabric away from the oozing wound then cut a straight line down the front of the tunic. Legolas’ eyes followed the blade with eerie fascination and wariness—he had been a warrior too long to really trust anyone with a blade too close to his body. After a bit of what Aragorn privately termed ‘creative cutting’, he was able to remove the tunic, carefully pulling Legolas forward to do so. Sitting back on his heels, the ranger examined the elf’s chest visually and tactically, confirming what he had guessed earlier.
“The arrow is barbed, Legolas,” Aragorn said softly, wincing in sympathetic pain. He knew exactly what that meant, and he didn’t like it.
If it were possible, Legolas turned even paler. Barbed arrows were trickier—and far more painful—to remove than normal arrows. Barbed arrows had to be shoved through the wound until the head broke the skin, allowing the head to be cut off and the shaft to be removed. If an inexperienced person tried to remove the arrow by pulling on the shaft, they ran a high risk of the arrowhead either breaking free from the shaft and remaining in the wound or of creating a larger exit wound, risking infection. Chewing his lower lip, the elf maneuvered until he was lying on his right side, hands entangled in his ruined shirt and his forehead braced against the roots of the tree. “Go ahead,” he said, closing his eyes.
Aragorn reached into the bag he always carried on his belt and removed a small handful of athelas leaves. Crushing them, he mingled the herbs with some water from his water skin. The sweet smell filled the air, clearing Aragorn’s head and relaxing Legolas’ tense shoulders. Aragorn spread the sweet-smelling mixture around the wound and the area where the arrowhead would exit. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn gripped the shaft and asked, “Are you ready?”
He wasn’t, really, but Legolas nodded anyway, not trusting his voice to remain steady.
Aragorn caught his lip between his teeth as he applied pressure. Legolas stiffened, but made no noise. Quickly, Aragorn shoved, putting all of his weight behind the motion.
Legolas screamed, a keening sound that tore at Aragorn’s heart, as his slender body writhed with pain. Aragorn moved to straddle the elf as he continued to push; Legolas would only make it worse if he moved too much. Deep down, the ranger was quietly grateful that Legolas didn’t get up and decapitate him; he knew how much this hurt. The arrowhead appeared after a few breathless seconds and Legolas’ scream raised a note. Aragorn quickly cut the arrowhead off and withdrew the shaft, throwing it to one side.
Legolas went limp, shaking with in-held shrieks of pain. Aragorn pushed wadded bandaging carefully against the freely bleeding wound before gingerly picking up the arrowhead and setting it aside for later inspection. It took a few moments for the bleeding to stop, but under Aragorn’s experienced hand, it did at last. Legolas focused on breathing steadily; sitting up as Aragorn ran the arrowhead through a poison-testing kit he had with him. Moments later, the sound of soft swearing broke the silence as Aragorn saw the results.
Legolas let out a long sigh. “It is poisoned, then?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His body knew what poison felt like by now; association with Aragorn had ensured that.
“It is,” Aragorn replied absently, mingling herbs quickly. Pouring water into the mixing bowl, the human hesitated an instant. “Legolas, this will really hurt,” he warned the elf softly.
Legolas nodded and closed his eyes. “Do what you must,” he said.
Aragorn bit his lip as he dipped the cloth into the liquid and gently pressed it against the gapping wound in the otherwise flawless skin.
Legolas stifled a scream. The healer had not been exaggerating about the effects the herbs had on the open wound. The elf jerked away from Aragorn, falling forward to rest on his hands, his body simply trying to escape the pain.
Aragorn bit his lip against the anguish in his heart and patiently followed the elf, dousing the wound again and quickly running the cloth along the torn and inflamed flesh. “I’m sorry, Legolas, I’m sorry...”
Legolas reacted poorly, jerking away sharply and retreating as muffled screams took him over again. “I-I cannot...Estel, please do not...”
Aragorn stopped and remained very still, his hands shaking slightly from the distress he was causing in the elf. Tears stung his eyes as his heart broke painfully within him. “Legolas, please, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you; I know you’re already in enough pain. But it will only get worse if I don’t do this...if there was some other way; you know I would take it. Please, mellon-nín, I’m sorry...” Aragorn felt worse than horrible. He knew this was largely his fault, and that compounded with the hurt of having to inflict more pain on the elf.
“Do I know that?” Legolas gritted through his teeth as he retreated farther from the human and the cloth that bore pain. Aragorn may have forgotten or put aside the fight, but Legolas hadn’t forgotten. He remembered how easily Aragorn darted for his emotional jugular; could he trust him not to hurt him unnecessarily?
Aragorn closed his eyes, letting his tears flood down his face. That hurt worse than anything else thus far. Legolas had always trusted him; to lose that now meant he’d lost everything because of his own stupidity. “Please...” he whispered through his tears, “trust me once again.”
Legolas forced down his natural reactions—primarily, strangling the human who only seemed to be forcing more hurt into his already aching body. “All right,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he gripped his knees tightly enough to leave bruises. “Continue.”
Aragorn worked as quickly and carefully as he could. The elf shook with pain and his soft cries were more than enough to break the human’s heart, but Legolas remained in one place, more or less. At last, the burn of poison lessened and the elf inhaled raggedly, trying not to shake too hard. Aragorn murmured soothing words in Elvish as he bound up the open wound gently.
Turning away for a moment, he let Legolas regain what was left of his composure as the healer took a last herb from his bag and mingled it with water in a clay mug. Turning on his boot heels, the human handed the mug to Legolas, who was more-or-less upright and breathing almost normally. “Drink this, mellon-nín,” he murmured, moving to help support the elf.
Legolas took the mug and sniffed it warily. He made a face at the strong smell and looked at Aragorn with a rueful smile. “You grow more like your adar every day, young one,” he murmured wearily. Lifting the mug to his lips, he drank deeply. Silent moments passed as he drank. At last, he set the mug aside and carefully lay down, supporting his head with his right arm. His eyelids drooped and his eyes went out of focus, proclaiming that he was asleep.
“Of course I do,” Aragorn smiled tenderly as he pulled a blanket over the elf’s slender bare shoulders. “Whom else would I be like?”
As the prince slept, Aragorn set up camp around him, dragging the dead orc bodies out before lighting a small fire and setting his own bedroll beside Legolas’ prone form. As he worked, he thought; always a dangerous endeavor when you have a guilty conscience. He thought about the first time he had met Legolas, all those years ago, and how the elf hadn’t trusted him farther than he could throw him for some time. His heart throbbed in his chest as he realized that they were back to that point again. And it was Aragorn’s own fault, he knew. He had started the whole stupid fight by accusing Legolas of cheating and riling that elvish pride.
Sitting down on his bedroll, Aragorn watched Legolas sleep through watery eyes. He desperately missed Legolas’ friendship after only two days without it. He wanted things as they had been before that stupid day by the lake. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me someday, Legolas,” he whispered, gently touching the prince’s unwounded shoulder.
Hours passed silently, the fire burning down to embers as the ranger sat silently, motionless, beside the sleeping elf. Dawn broke slowly over the mountains, filling the area with warm light.
As Legolas slept, he wandered in his memories. He remembered the adventures he and the ranger had been through together, remembered the many inside jokes and threats the two shared, remembered the laughter and the pain and the tears. Deep inside, the prince knew he didn’t want that to end. He wanted to trust again. His eyes cleared as that thought, resounding through his mind, brought him to the world of waking again.
By: Vanalosswen on www.councilofelrond.com
Only two people distanced themselves from the general public...and from each other.
Aragorn sat alone in his dark room staring out the window, his mood as gloomy as the day outside his comfortable room. And it was all Legolas’ fault.
‘Why does he always have to be so hard-headed?’ Aragorn groused mentally, moving over to the window seat and bracing his forehead against the cold glass. ‘He could give, just a little.’
Perhaps a bit of background would be helpful here. So let us pull away from this gloomy time and look earlier in the day, a few hours before noon...
As a direct contrast to the weather that evening, the morning had been sunny with only a hint of the rain to come. Aragorn and Legolas had been outside by a large pool, throwing rocks into it and challenging each other to rock-skipping contests.
“Ha! Ten!” Legolas crowed, falling back onto his elbows with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Beat that!”
“Easily done,” boasted Aragorn as he fingered his next flat stone. Rising onto his knees, the ranger fired his stone with all of his strength. The stone hit the surface and skipped...and skipped...and skipped...again and again.
“Eleven!” Aragorn whooped. “Beat that, my elven friend!”
Legolas scowled at his stone, gathering his strength. Straightening, the elven prince unleashed his stone, putting all his strength and weight behind it. Skip...skip...skip...
“Twelve,” grinned the blond elf.
“No,” Aragorn argued. “That was only eleven.”
“Your mortal eyes must be deceiving you, Estel,” Legolas smirked, very much the picture of the superior elf. “I distinctly saw it skip twelve times.”
“And your elven pride can’t take being tied with a human,” Aragorn snapped back. “I saw it skip eleven times. Are you trying to cheat?”
Legolas sat straight up, his blue eyes flashing. “Are you calling me both a liar and a cheater?” he demanded, his ire up.
“If the boots fit!” Aragorn retorted, also sitting up.
Legolas went very still, his eyes cold. “I am not cheat, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” he said, his tone as frosty as his eyes. “If any is a cheat, you are. It is in human nature to stab the back of those who trust them. Do not forget what Isildur, your forbearer, did.”
Bull’s-eye. Aragorn went very red as he jumped to his feet. “I never can forget, Legolas!” he yelled. “Every moment of every day, I am plagued with the fear of becoming what he was. But at least I can look at my father with pride! Your father is a jewel-obsessed elf, more concerned with riches than kindness! Perhaps the apple has not fallen far from the tree!”
Legolas rose swiftly and gracefully, anger written on every line of his fair face. “At least my father is yet living!” he shouted back. “Your father was highly inept, typical of a human, and got himself killed before you really knew him! From what I see, he passed that ineptitude on to you!”
“I’d rather have my honorable adoptive father over yours any day!” Aragorn hollered, getting right in Legolas’ face. “I cannot think of a more worthy elf in all of Middle-earth!”
“You are unworthy of him!” Legolas hissed into the human’s face. “Look at you! You wear the ring of Barahir, yet you dodge your heritage. You are a coward, afraid of the distant past!”
Aragorn was too angry to speak by this point. Legolas continued, “You hide in the wilderness under the name I gave you, afraid of what ‘Aragorn’ means. Narsíl remains un-forged because you are unworthy to wield it. Even Isildur was more honorable than you!”
That was the proverbial last straw. Aragorn got right in Legolas’ face and hissed, “Get out of my sight, Legolas Greenleaf. I never want to see you again!”
“No need to worry,” Legolas shot back in the same tone. “I am going back to Mirkwood.” A boom of thunder accented his words and the threatened rain began to fall.
Aragorn turned on his heel and strode into the house, leaving Legolas by the pool.
Neither Legolas nor Aragorn appeared at lunch or dinner. Elrond, the ever-observant elf lord, saw and wondered silently.
The rain fell harder and harder until travel was well nigh impossible. Legolas had to postpone his trip until the rain stopped. So he did, but the common sense that had driven everyone else indoors seemed to desert the blond elf: he remained outside in the blinding rain.
Moving to a soaked bench, the elven prince sat down, ignoring the wet that seeped through his already-soaked clothing. ‘I wish Aragorn had listened better,’ he thought. ‘He did not need to be so bullheaded. But what is done is done.’ He remained on that bench through the night, unmoving save to breathe and blink.
At last, morning dawned and the rain stopped. Aragorn woke to the sun rising outside his window. He stretched like a cat, wondering for a moment where Legolas was. Remembering he was still angry at the elf, the human scowled and headed for the dining hall, his stomach growling at him every step.
In the garden, Legolas stirred for the first time all night. He stood and stretched, wincing at cramped muscles screaming at him. Noticing that he was hungry, the prince headed inside, following his nose. Before heading to the dining hall, however, he stopped by his room for two purposes. One, to ensure that his belongings were packed and ready to go, and two, to change out of his wet clothes and straighten himself up before going to breakfast. He was an elf prince, after all, with an image to maintain.
Aragorn glanced up from his breakfast as he heard someone enter the dining hall. His gaze turned frosty and he deliberately looked away from the newest entrant, Legolas.
Legolas filled his plate with food and looked around. Unbelievably, every seat in the place was full...except a seat between Aragorn and Lord Elrond, where Legolas usually sat when he was on good terms with Aragorn. With a reluctant sigh, the prince went to that seat and sat down, sitting closer to Lord Elrond than Aragorn.
Lord Elrond smiled a greeting to the blond elf. “Good morning, Legolas,” he greeted pleasantly.
“Good morning, Lord Elrond,” Legolas replied politely, ignoring Aragorn’s cold glare. He picked up his fork and began eating.
Lord Elrond’s eyebrows knit together. Normally he couldn’t keep Legolas and Aragorn from talking, even with their mouths full. Now the tension between them was almost tangible. It was so thick that Elrond wondered if he could cut it with a knife. Clearing his throat, the elf lord addressed both beings. “I did not see either of you at lunch or dinner yesterday. Where were you?”
Legolas swallowed his mouthful before replying, “I had...other business. As soon as I am finished eating, I plan to return to Mirkwood.”
“And are you accompanying him, Estel?” Elrond asked, thinking he understood.
“No,” Aragorn grated around a mouthful.
Silence reigned for a few moments as the two ex-friends ate and Elrond watched them silently. At last, the elf lord stood and tapped his knife against his glass. Silence rippled from the high table as everyone turned to look at Elrond. Bracing his hands on the table, Elrond said, his calm voice echoing through the hall, “Because of the excessive rain yesterday, there is the danger of flooding along the river. I will assign pairs of scouts to examine different sections of the river in this valley. Glorfindel, Mithel, the southernmost part. Aragorn, Legolas, the northernmost point.”
Elrond continued talking, assigning the other scouts to other sections, but neither Legolas nor Aragorn heard him through their horror. They had to scout together?! When Elrond sat back down, Legolas said carefully, “Lord Elrond, I really do need to get home. Can you not pick someone else for Aragorn’s partner?”
“No, I do not think so, Legolas,” Elrond replied, his composure perfectly in place. “No one else can be spared from his or her other duties. And surely the other business in Mirkwood can go on without you for a week or so?”
Legolas swallowed hard, knowing Elrond had him boxed in beautifully. The part of him not flabbergasted had to admire the elf lord. “I...suppose so,” he replied reluctantly, knowing when he was beaten.
When the meal was over, the scouts gathered their weapons and supplies. Legolas, Aragorn, Glorfindel and Mithel took the most supplies, as they were going the farthest and would be gone the longest. With some fanfare, the scouts set off, scattering in their separate directions immediately. Within moments, Aragorn and Legolas were by themselves, heading north along the river.
They avoided saying anything to each other for the whole first day, doing their different duties with cold efficiency. No longer were they working to help each other, only to get a job done.
Though this was the Rivendell valley, protected by Elrond, Legolas found his hand continually straying to either his bow or his knife. Something felt wrong; he couldn’t explain it better than that.
Aragorn noticed Legolas’ jumpiness toward nightfall and couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the matter, princeling? Have ants in your pants?”
Legolas just ignored him, tuning his hearing to their surroundings.
Aragorn scowled. Being mad at Legolas was always made more fun by being able to needle him; Legolas ignoring the human did not sit well with him. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” he asked, his voice louder.
Legolas winced and hastily retracted his hearing. When his hearing was spread far and wide, Aragorn’s voice rang like a tin cymbal and literally hurt his sensitive ears. Glaring at Aragorn as he rubbed his ears, he replied, “Something feels wrong that has nothing to do with a certain filthy human.”
Aragorn bristled. “Are you insinuating that I feel ‘wrong’,” he made quoting signs in the air, “elf boy?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Legolas retorted.
And they were off again, arguing as they continued to walk. They were so caught up in their petty squabble that they didn’t notice the encroaching darkness and the sudden stillness that fell on the world around them.
They were quickly brought back to reality when a dark arrow zipped through the air to land, quivering, in a tree close to Legolas’ head. A string of multi-lingual curses flew from both beings as Legolas straightened from his automatic crouch and notched his bow, Aragorn drawing his sword. They both took up defensive positions—as far from each other as possible—and waited.
They did not have to wait long. A stream of foul orcs flowed toward them in waves. Legolas’ yew bow sang, and an orc in the front dropped to the ground, a white-feathered arrow in its throat. Three more orcs fell to the prince’s arrows before the foul beings were on the two beings, giving Aragorn some work with his sword.
Ordinarily, before they allowed their squabble to separate them, the elf and the man would have worked together, Legolas picking off reinforcements and Aragorn taking care of the closer opponents. Now, however, there were large holes in their defenses. The orcs may have been foolish sometimes, but even they could not fail to see such gaps and take advantage of them.
An orc sniper behind Legolas raised his bow and fired just as the prince was turning, knives flashing in either fist. Really, it was his turn that saved him; the arrow was aimed for his lung. Instead, it embedded itself in the elf’s left shoulder, tearing a cry of pain from his throat. He dropped the knife that had been in his left hand and fell to his knees, his hand covering the bleeding wound.
For Aragorn, time seemed to slow to a crawl when he heard Legolas’ cry. He spun, seemingly in slow motion, and saw Legolas on the ground holding his shoulder. A black-feathered arrow sprouted from between his bloodstained fingers. In that instant, the ranger forgot about the argument, forgot his anger, forgot everything except two simple facts: Legolas was hurt, and they both were vulnerable.
A roar of fury yanked itself from the feral part of Aragorn’s mind as he sprang toward Legolas, sword cleaving every orc in reach. Though the orcs were also scrambling for the wounded elf, Aragorn beat them there and stood guard over Legolas, his sword raised. “Now,” he said, his grey eyes icy cold, “you die.”
The orcs hesitated, cowed by the dangerous light in the human’s eyes. Glancing at each other, they saw that they outnumbered Aragorn 18-to-1. With the odds so firmly in their favor, they hurled themselves at Aragorn. They did not see Legolas rise, graceful even through the pain that turned his naturally pale face pasty white. Deadly resolve burning in his eyes, he firmed his grip on the dagger in his right hand. The orcs also did not see Aragorn shift to a better defensive position, sword before him; they were too busy making sure they weren’t alone in the attack.
Legolas held his left arm awkwardly before him, feeling clumsy and more than a little nauseous as he stood by Aragorn’s side. His right hand, however, did not seem to feel the other parts’ pain as it came up to impale the first orc in reach. Spinning and yanking his knife out, the prince proceeded to make mincemeat of every orc in reach. Turning slightly to hack at a dark throat, his sharp eye caught the orc who had shot him preparing another arrow.
“Oh no you do not,” the elf growled deep in his throat. He dove for his bow and brought it up in a blindingly fast motion, notching it as he brought it to the right angle. The bow of Mirkwood sang and the orc sniper dropped dead, Legolas’ arrow sprouting from its right lung. Legolas whimpered in pain that he could not contain as the arrow in his shoulder dug deeper.
Aragorn was right there, defending the prince until the elf could get his pain back under control and continue fighting. Luckily for Legolas, the fight didn’t last much longer after that. A few moments passed, filled with the cry of dying orcs, then all was silent. Not one orc had escaped; Aragorn had seen to that.
Then, and only then, did Legolas succumb to the pain. His hand released his weapon and flew back to his shoulder as he dropped to his knees. Hunched over himself, the elf struggled not to give voice to his cries of agony.
“Easy, mellon-nín,” Aragorn panted as he quickly sheathed his sword and wiped his hands on his shirtfront. He knelt beside the unnaturally pale elf and carefully peeled Legolas’ hand away from the wound, making him straighten. Experimentally, the ranger tugged on the black shaft of the arrow and was rewarded with a long hiss of pain and a glare.
“Do that again and you will not have your head attached to your shoulders any longer,” Legolas gritted out.
Aragorn smiled as he carefully prodded around the wound. “Back to your old contrary self, I see,” he murmured. Changing the subject quickly, the human said in a more serious tone, “I need to see that wound better, which means the tunic needs to come off.”
“There is no way I will move my arm,” Legolas replied, leaning against the bole of a handy tree. “Go ahead and cut the tunic off.”
Aragorn took the elf at his word and unsheathed his boot knife. He carefully cut the bloody fabric away from the oozing wound then cut a straight line down the front of the tunic. Legolas’ eyes followed the blade with eerie fascination and wariness—he had been a warrior too long to really trust anyone with a blade too close to his body. After a bit of what Aragorn privately termed ‘creative cutting’, he was able to remove the tunic, carefully pulling Legolas forward to do so. Sitting back on his heels, the ranger examined the elf’s chest visually and tactically, confirming what he had guessed earlier.
“The arrow is barbed, Legolas,” Aragorn said softly, wincing in sympathetic pain. He knew exactly what that meant, and he didn’t like it.
If it were possible, Legolas turned even paler. Barbed arrows were trickier—and far more painful—to remove than normal arrows. Barbed arrows had to be shoved through the wound until the head broke the skin, allowing the head to be cut off and the shaft to be removed. If an inexperienced person tried to remove the arrow by pulling on the shaft, they ran a high risk of the arrowhead either breaking free from the shaft and remaining in the wound or of creating a larger exit wound, risking infection. Chewing his lower lip, the elf maneuvered until he was lying on his right side, hands entangled in his ruined shirt and his forehead braced against the roots of the tree. “Go ahead,” he said, closing his eyes.
Aragorn reached into the bag he always carried on his belt and removed a small handful of athelas leaves. Crushing them, he mingled the herbs with some water from his water skin. The sweet smell filled the air, clearing Aragorn’s head and relaxing Legolas’ tense shoulders. Aragorn spread the sweet-smelling mixture around the wound and the area where the arrowhead would exit. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn gripped the shaft and asked, “Are you ready?”
He wasn’t, really, but Legolas nodded anyway, not trusting his voice to remain steady.
Aragorn caught his lip between his teeth as he applied pressure. Legolas stiffened, but made no noise. Quickly, Aragorn shoved, putting all of his weight behind the motion.
Legolas screamed, a keening sound that tore at Aragorn’s heart, as his slender body writhed with pain. Aragorn moved to straddle the elf as he continued to push; Legolas would only make it worse if he moved too much. Deep down, the ranger was quietly grateful that Legolas didn’t get up and decapitate him; he knew how much this hurt. The arrowhead appeared after a few breathless seconds and Legolas’ scream raised a note. Aragorn quickly cut the arrowhead off and withdrew the shaft, throwing it to one side.
Legolas went limp, shaking with in-held shrieks of pain. Aragorn pushed wadded bandaging carefully against the freely bleeding wound before gingerly picking up the arrowhead and setting it aside for later inspection. It took a few moments for the bleeding to stop, but under Aragorn’s experienced hand, it did at last. Legolas focused on breathing steadily; sitting up as Aragorn ran the arrowhead through a poison-testing kit he had with him. Moments later, the sound of soft swearing broke the silence as Aragorn saw the results.
Legolas let out a long sigh. “It is poisoned, then?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His body knew what poison felt like by now; association with Aragorn had ensured that.
“It is,” Aragorn replied absently, mingling herbs quickly. Pouring water into the mixing bowl, the human hesitated an instant. “Legolas, this will really hurt,” he warned the elf softly.
Legolas nodded and closed his eyes. “Do what you must,” he said.
Aragorn bit his lip as he dipped the cloth into the liquid and gently pressed it against the gapping wound in the otherwise flawless skin.
Legolas stifled a scream. The healer had not been exaggerating about the effects the herbs had on the open wound. The elf jerked away from Aragorn, falling forward to rest on his hands, his body simply trying to escape the pain.
Aragorn bit his lip against the anguish in his heart and patiently followed the elf, dousing the wound again and quickly running the cloth along the torn and inflamed flesh. “I’m sorry, Legolas, I’m sorry...”
Legolas reacted poorly, jerking away sharply and retreating as muffled screams took him over again. “I-I cannot...Estel, please do not...”
Aragorn stopped and remained very still, his hands shaking slightly from the distress he was causing in the elf. Tears stung his eyes as his heart broke painfully within him. “Legolas, please, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you; I know you’re already in enough pain. But it will only get worse if I don’t do this...if there was some other way; you know I would take it. Please, mellon-nín, I’m sorry...” Aragorn felt worse than horrible. He knew this was largely his fault, and that compounded with the hurt of having to inflict more pain on the elf.
“Do I know that?” Legolas gritted through his teeth as he retreated farther from the human and the cloth that bore pain. Aragorn may have forgotten or put aside the fight, but Legolas hadn’t forgotten. He remembered how easily Aragorn darted for his emotional jugular; could he trust him not to hurt him unnecessarily?
Aragorn closed his eyes, letting his tears flood down his face. That hurt worse than anything else thus far. Legolas had always trusted him; to lose that now meant he’d lost everything because of his own stupidity. “Please...” he whispered through his tears, “trust me once again.”
Legolas forced down his natural reactions—primarily, strangling the human who only seemed to be forcing more hurt into his already aching body. “All right,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he gripped his knees tightly enough to leave bruises. “Continue.”
Aragorn worked as quickly and carefully as he could. The elf shook with pain and his soft cries were more than enough to break the human’s heart, but Legolas remained in one place, more or less. At last, the burn of poison lessened and the elf inhaled raggedly, trying not to shake too hard. Aragorn murmured soothing words in Elvish as he bound up the open wound gently.
Turning away for a moment, he let Legolas regain what was left of his composure as the healer took a last herb from his bag and mingled it with water in a clay mug. Turning on his boot heels, the human handed the mug to Legolas, who was more-or-less upright and breathing almost normally. “Drink this, mellon-nín,” he murmured, moving to help support the elf.
Legolas took the mug and sniffed it warily. He made a face at the strong smell and looked at Aragorn with a rueful smile. “You grow more like your adar every day, young one,” he murmured wearily. Lifting the mug to his lips, he drank deeply. Silent moments passed as he drank. At last, he set the mug aside and carefully lay down, supporting his head with his right arm. His eyelids drooped and his eyes went out of focus, proclaiming that he was asleep.
“Of course I do,” Aragorn smiled tenderly as he pulled a blanket over the elf’s slender bare shoulders. “Whom else would I be like?”
As the prince slept, Aragorn set up camp around him, dragging the dead orc bodies out before lighting a small fire and setting his own bedroll beside Legolas’ prone form. As he worked, he thought; always a dangerous endeavor when you have a guilty conscience. He thought about the first time he had met Legolas, all those years ago, and how the elf hadn’t trusted him farther than he could throw him for some time. His heart throbbed in his chest as he realized that they were back to that point again. And it was Aragorn’s own fault, he knew. He had started the whole stupid fight by accusing Legolas of cheating and riling that elvish pride.
Sitting down on his bedroll, Aragorn watched Legolas sleep through watery eyes. He desperately missed Legolas’ friendship after only two days without it. He wanted things as they had been before that stupid day by the lake. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me someday, Legolas,” he whispered, gently touching the prince’s unwounded shoulder.
Hours passed silently, the fire burning down to embers as the ranger sat silently, motionless, beside the sleeping elf. Dawn broke slowly over the mountains, filling the area with warm light.
As Legolas slept, he wandered in his memories. He remembered the adventures he and the ranger had been through together, remembered the many inside jokes and threats the two shared, remembered the laughter and the pain and the tears. Deep inside, the prince knew he didn’t want that to end. He wanted to trust again. His eyes cleared as that thought, resounding through his mind, brought him to the world of waking again.
By: Vanalosswen on www.councilofelrond.com
