Timeline: 3rd Age (a few years before the Fellowship is formed)
Authors' Notes: Thanks to Lyn for beta reading!
False Trails
(September 2003)
by
Mackie and Hephaistos
.
"Behold!" Elrohir whispered with every intention of being overheard, "how the great hunter stalks his prey."
"Indeed," Elladan answered in kind. "I am in awe of such cunning and prowess."
Aragorn sighed and sent a brief glance of annoyance in their direction. Elladan leaned lazily against his bow while Elrohir sat cross-legged on a small boulder idly playing with the fletch of an arrow. Twin grins of amusement returned his look undaunted; they were enjoying his lack of success far too much. Aragorn rose from his crouched position beside a whispering creek and brushed the dust from his hands.
"And what of you, my Mirkwood friend?" he asked with exaggerated politeness. "Please, feel free to add your testimony."
Legolas reclined effortlessly on the lowest branch of a sturdy, ancient oak. His eyes were closed and his hands clasped comfortably across his chest. "I have lived several centuries now, Aragorn. I care not if it takes you one day or thrice again as many to track down these elusive blueberries of yours."
"Ah, but Legolas, there is the catch," said Elrohir. "Does this magical blueberry patch even exist? You may find your age has doubled 'ere we feast on such a treat."
"No feasting for us in any event." Elladan's smile grew brighter and his eyes never wavered from Aragorn's glare. "We would be forbidden more than a handful apiece, I daresay. The blueberries are intended for one more graceful and soft-spoken than we."
Elrohir hopped off the boulder and moved to stand near his brother. "That does explain much. Only true love could detour a great warrior from hunting orc to seeking berry patches."
Aragorn felt the heat creeping up his face and envied the elves their inability to blush. He knew his embarrassment wouldn't escape the notice of his companions. "There are many at Imladris who are fond of blueberries," he countered stubbornly. "I seek to please everyone."
"Many are also fond of plums and strawberries and mushrooms and—"
"Corn," murmured the oak branch.
"And corn," agreed Elrohir. "Not once have I witnessed Estel seeking these treasures."
"Yet our stalwart warrior descries a blueberry patch in some distant glen and all else is forsaken."
Aragorn's blush grew deeper. He turned away; there would be no end to the Great Blueberry Hunt, an event of no consequence yet destined to be related through elvish lore for centuries to come.
Unfortunately, Elrohir was right: what Aragorn had seen from a distance was proving elusive to find. Describing Imladris as a house in a canyon was about as accurate as describing Gandalf as an old man with an attitude. The realm encompassed many interconnecting canyons both large and small, which in turn led upward to sheltered valleys and sweeping meadows. Amidst all were shaded niches and sheltered glens, any one of which could be the one Aragorn had sighted from afar.
The orc hunt, of course, had been just an excuse to set out that morning. They had no real expectations of finding any within the protected realm, although in the past a few hunting parties had ventured unwisely so far from their normal territory.
The day was beautiful and crisp, perfect for wandering through forest and field. Far below them lay pastures where the snow-white horses of Rivendell looked like cotton tufts upon the greensward. Stock barns, built of native rock, blended so well with the cliffs as to be nearly invisible. Dense woodland sheltered much of the main canyon floor, while its opposite rim climbed in tiers of sheer cliffs that softened into forested mountains. The tall peaks bore the first snows of the approaching winter. Of the sprawling palace that was the House of Elrond there was no sign; it was hidden too deeply in the canyon.
Admiring the view wasn't getting them any closer to the blueberries Aragorn was certain he had spotted. He knew he was close, but there were many nestled vales still to explore. His hope of finding the tracks of animals to lead him to the berries had proved fruitless, as it were. At the moment, he would have welcomed even the trail of a bear if it would help him reach his goal. He'd willingly contest ownership of the bounty with the beast if he had to.
Legolas sat up in one sudden graceful movement, his expression alert and his eyes seeking a point in the distant reaches of the narrow canyon. Elladan and Elrohir followed his line of sight.
Aragorn rested his hand at the ready near his sword, muscles tense in anticipation. "Legolas?" he asked softly.
Legolas didn't answer at first. "Smoke," he said finally, sliding smoothly off the branch. Grasping and donning his bow and quiver in one practiced motion, he headed away from the meandering stream and into the fractured maze of the high country canyons.
The fire Legolas sought was but a few minutes' walk. By the time they reached a large clearing in a u-shaped glen, the smoke had grown from a twitch in Legolas's nose to a billowing plume polluting the air. He let Elrohir and Elladan pass him, and the twins rushed immediately to the hungry little blaze and stamped it out until only a few stubborn embers remained. The smoke thickened, and Aragorn moved quickly upwind of it, his eyes on the surrounding hills, his hand still on the hilt of his sword.
Elrohir grinned at Legolas. "Thank you, Legolas, for permitting us to do all the work."
Under other circumstances, Legolas would have been embarrassed trying to explain his reluctance to approach the flames, but it was a subject best left to another time. "Alas," he admitted with a rueful smile, "I fear I have led you into a trap."
"Of course you have." Elladan laughed delightedly as if the matter concerned him little. "The only questions are how many and how ignorant our attackers prove to be."
Elrohir managed to look startled, embarrassed, and affronted all at the same time, no mean feat. "We have journeyed beyond the borders of our protected realm."
It was an unnecessary statement; Legolas could feel the lack of elven peace and serenity that graced the land of Rivendell. They stood in a loose circle facing outward, the dense smoke of the dying fire wandering in lazy tendrils amid the brush and rock of the slopes.
The very earth surrounding them suddenly exploded and seven men lurched into view. It was an inventive ambush, and Legolas took a moment to admire the cunning before reaching for his knives. The twins drew their swords and prepared to meet the onslaught.
On the other side of the fire, upwind and clear of the annoying smoke, Aragorn started back to join the fray, then stopped. "Legolas, the hills!"
Legolas let his knives drop back into their scabbards and reached instead for his bow. More men, ten or twelve at quick count, rose from behind the cover of large boulders dotting the slopes to either side. Pine boughs fell away from their bodies as if they'd been using them to camouflage their smell. Perhaps they had been uncertain if the smoke alone would hide their presence, but the boughs had been an unnecessary precaution. Elves possessed incredibly keen eyesight and hearing, but their noses were no more sensitive than those of the average Dúnadan. Then again, none of these men were Dúnedain, so what could they possibly hope to know about elves?
Waving an assortment of swords and screaming with the lust for blood, the men charged. Trusting the twins to shield him from the close action, Legolas grinned as he put his archery training to good use.
Within seconds, three men had fallen beneath his confident, unwavering skill with bow and arrow. Another, then another, then another fell until eight sprawled dead across the slopes. And still the attackers came on, undaunted by the fierce fighting superiority of their chosen victims.
Legolas took a quick moment to assess the rest of the action. Elrohir and Elladan were skillfully combating the nearest swordsmen. No one had yet come within a sword length of him, which left Legolas free to loose more arrows at the advancing targets. Wondering where Aragorn had gone, he looked upwind through the smoke and saw his third companion striding forward to confront a group of at least a half dozen more men who had leapt from cover on that side of the glen.
They were a determined lot; Legolas had to grant them that. Sunlight glinted brightly off the blade of Aragorn's sword as he leisurely swung it in an apparent effort to loosen his muscles for the fight. Legolas smiled when he saw the attackers actually waver in their assault even before they'd reached their target, and he knew Aragorn would persevere.
He returned his attention to the main brunt of the attack and brought down two more assailants. Four men lay dead or dying near the twins, while more crossed blades in a futile effort to get past them to bring down the archer whose arrows continued to whittle their numbers even before they reached the fight. He was proud to be the source of their dismay as he brought down another man who'd yet to come close enough to use his sword.
From the corner of his eye, Legolas saw the man at the furthest edge of his group break away and charge toward Aragorn, whose back offered a choice target. Although certain Aragorn would sense the threat in time, Legolas still felt it was an unscrupulous tactic. He nocked an arrow and aimed upwind through the smoke.
Even as he released tension on the bowstring, he sensed he was in danger and ducked as a sword whispered through the air where his head had been just a moment before. He jabbed backward with his bow, and his attacker grunted in sudden pain. Legolas rapidly switched from bow to knives in a move he could not quite get Aragorn to master, and joined in the hand to hand.
The fighting spirit of their assailants crumbled with a suddenness that was almost shocking. The survivors, no more than a handful, broke off their attack and scattered.
"Four against four and twenty," Elladan said, his expression unreadable as he toed one of the bodies at his feet. There was nothing about their clothing or weapons to distinguish their origins. "A sizeable force. I wonder from whence they came?"
Elrohir was using the shirt of one of the dead men to clean his sword. "Perhaps they are renegade Dunlendings who wandered north to rob and pillage."
Elladan chuffed in disagreement. "Then they were well lost, for there's no village or farm within leagues of this place. I think they had a more sinister purpose: they sought Imladris."
"Perhaps." Elrohir was unconcerned. "Whether they died here or on our borders, the result would have been the same." He grinned. "At least we have a more interesting tale to tell than a futile hunt for blueberries."
At the mention of blueberries, Legolas stopped retrieving his arrows from the bodies of his opponents. "Aragorn..."
The three looked immediately toward the woods where Aragorn last had been seen, but there was no sign of him.
"Aragorn?" Legolas called, a sense of dread trickling up his spine.
"Estel?" Elrohir shouted.
As one, they entered the woods and spread out. The wind had changed direction, and now the last lingering tendrils of smoke followed their footsteps and played around the slender trunks of the young trees. After a moment, Elrohir suddenly dropped to his knees. "Elladan, come quickly!" he called out, his voice desperate.
The dread turned to horror and Legolas rushed forward, a whispered prayer to Elbereth for his friend's wellbeing on his lips. Automatically, his eyes took in the bodies sprawled ungainly in death, and they lingered one heart-stopping moment on Aragorn's sword, its blade impaling the belly of one of the dead and glistening with the blood of his opponents.
And then he forced his reluctant eyes to focus on Aragorn, who lay slightly canted on his left hip, his torso twisted so that his shoulders were flat against the ground. The angle of his body made the arrow piercing the right side of his belly stand vertical in sharp relief.
Elladan, skilled healer of the group, immediately dropped to the ground next to his twin and stripped off his cloak. A moan escaped his lips. "No...not Aragorn, too."
"Ai," Legolas cried out softly. "It cannot be."
With strong but gentle hands, Elladan broke the arrow shaft, yet when he held the fletch end toward Legolas his face was infused with a fury frightening to behold. "Then hold the evidence for yourself and tell me again how it cannot be."
Legolas stepped back, too stunned to register the harshness of the words but unable to tear his stricken eyes away from the familiar fletch, which seemed to mock him with its skilful artistry. "Please, I beg you, tell me he is alive!"
Elladan threw the shaft aside and with trembling hands felt for a pulse. "He lives," he whispered. He drew in a deep breath, then began to examine the wound. "The arrow head is buried deep. I dare not remove it." He began to tear his cloak into strips that would make useful bandages.
Aragorn groaned and his eyelids fluttered. Heedless of the glowers from his companions, Legolas dropped to his knees and took the injured man's hand in his own. "Aragorn, can you hear me?"
The wavering gaze gradually settled on him and focused. A soft breath, ending in, "—las," was all Aragorn managed to say.
The weakness in that voice nearly moved Legolas to tears. "Please forgive me," he whispered.
Aragorn's eyes closed for a moment, and when he opened them again he seemed less able to focus. "No," he murmured, drawing a shallow breath with effort. He frowned anxiously as he struggled to concentrate. "No...forgive." And then he passed out.
Legolas closed his own eyes tightly in denial of what he'd heard, but Elrohir's voice penetrated the haze of his grief.
"What did you expect, Legolas? You are too experienced to deserve forgiveness for such reckless behavior."
Legolas managed to look into the angry face of his accuser. "I was attacked—"
Elrohir's expression suddenly mimicked his brother's previous fury. "So now it is our fault Estel was injured? We did not protect you from the swordsmen well enough while you used your bow?"
"No, that is not what I meant—"
Elladan's stern voice overrode them both. "Enough!"
They fell silent, but Elrohir's accusation still hung heavy in the air between them.
"I need cloths to stanch the bleeding and to bind the bandage."
Legolas immediately stood up and shed his quiver and scabbards. Quickly, he took off his tunic and removed his soft undershirt. He offered it almost hesitantly, certain it would be rejected, but Elladan accepted it and folded it into a bandage.
Elrohir contributed his own shirt. "What else shall we do?"
"I think I heard horses when we entered the woods," Elladan said as he carefully padded the bandages around the jutting shaft of the arrow. "See if our assailants left any behind." He looked at Legolas. "And we need a litter."
No further instructions were necessary.
With almost mindless savagery he would later regret, Legolas took his knives and began to cut down the saplings he would need to make the litter. Bark split, and the living flesh of the trees sundered beneath his blades. Branches quivered, and the leaves rustled as if begging for mercy.
But Legolas was not feeling merciful as he turned his self-loathing into furious activity. The young trees fell quickly, and he stripped branches and laid the narrow trunks on the ground to form the frame of the litter. His spare bowstring and the leather straps of his gear held everything firmly together. With expert woodcraft, he used strong but thinner limbs to weave a bed inside the frame, and this he secured with the narrowest, most supple branches.
Elrohir returned leading two saddled chestnuts by their bridles. Behind them ambled several other harnessed horses that apparently had not scattered when their surviving masters had fled. They clustered in a nervous group several yards away and watched all the activity as if they were an audience at some entertainment.
Without speaking to one another, Elrohir and Legolas secured the litter between the horses Elrohir had chosen. The beasts shifted nervously at the unfamiliar contraption, but Elrohir soothed them with soft elvish words that made their ears twitch attentively.
"Will they serve?" Elladan asked.
Elrohir shrugged. "They are not elvish horses, but these two have intelligence beyond that of the others. It will be difficult, but I believe they will learn quickly."
"We can ask for no more."
Legolas hurriedly pulled on his tunic and helped Elladan pick up the limp body of Aragorn. Taking as much care as they could not to jostle their burden, they carried him to the litter and gently lowered him. Elrohir never took his eyes or his hands from the two horses, and his voice continued to whisper reassurance.
Legolas secured Aragorn in place as well as he could, while Elladan hastily gathered up all their gear and added it to the litter. He wiped the blade of Aragorn's sword and snugged it firmly against the side of its master, then sighed and spoke a soft prayer for their quick and safe passage back to Imladris.
They were ready to depart. Still, no words were necessary. Legolas picked up the end of the litter, which seemed to weigh almost nothing. The bulk of the burden was shared between the horses; Legolas had only to ensure the litter did not tip or rock unnecessarily.
Elladan led the way to scout the easiest path, while Elrohir walked between the heads of the horses, his hands gently cupping their muzzles and his voice offering constant encouragement.
Legolas walked in the rear, supporting his end of the litter, and he was grateful he did not have to meet the condemning faces of his companions.
Behind them, the extra horses wandered along, apparently content to follow the little procession.
It was difficult at first. The horses, unused to working in tandem, didn't like the feel of the litter, a rinnaro in elvish, pulling at them. Elrohir coaxed them with all his skill as a horsemaster, however, and soon they were matching strides so that the litter no longer jostled awkwardly between them.
They made better progress after that, walking swiftly down the gentle incline out of the canyon. The drop into the next valley was rocky and steep, but Elladan was able to find a safe path for almost half the distance. Then they were forced to hand carry the litter down while Elrohir found the horses a passage they could navigate single file. The remaining horses followed in an obedient line, obeying their herd instinct.
Still, despite the delays caused by these steep, stair-like drops between elevations, they made excellent progress. Finally, the upper pastures of Imladris spread out before them. The beautiful valley looked as tranquil as it had when they'd last seen it, and the intervening hours took on an almost dreamlike quality, as if perhaps the deadly skirmish in the high country had never transpired.
Except, of course, the still, pale figure on the rinnaro was proof that it had.
They were still some distance from the greensward when two riders galloped out to meet them.
Elladan didn't pause in his stride or waste time with unnecessary explanations. "Tell my father to prepare for our arrival. Estel is badly injured."
One rider wheeled away to carry the news. The second rider gave the rig a quick once-over. "Do you require my help?"
"No, we can manage," Elladan assured him. "See to the other horses."
The elf slipped from his mount and went toward the loose horses, which seemed pleased to get attention. Left to their own devices, harnessed horses all too easily could become ensnared in their bridles and injure themselves severely. The herder would remove their rigs and let them join the elvish band until other arrangements could be made.
On the smooth grass of the pasture, Elrohir risked urging the chestnuts to a quicker pace. As if they'd spent their lives working in tandem, the two horses broke into a smooth, long-legged trot in perfect unison, and Legolas increased his gait to match them.
The grass sped by beneath them, and soon they passed the stock barns and reached the broad, paved avenue that would take them down into the canyon where Imladris lay. It passed through the upper courtyard, where the metal forge and glass furnace workshops were located. To the right of the courtyard, staggered terraces climbed a low hill. These paved verandas were alive with ever-changing color as weavers worked their looms. All stopped to watch the group go by, and their cries of concern followed after them.
Soon, as a defense against assault, the way grew too narrow for the horses to move side by side. A dozen or more elves met them at the head of the path to help transport the rinnaro. Fresh hands quickly lifted and hastened it toward its destination.
Legolas stood still for a moment flexing his hands which had cramped from holding the poles of the litter for so long.
Elrohir looked exhausted. He slumped against a nearby boulder and hung his head. More than the physical activity, his burden had been to maintain contact with the horses to ease their fear and instruct them in their duty. Now freed from his touch, the horses moved close and nuzzled him affectionately.
He stroked their broad foreheads. "You did well today, my friends. I think tonight you will find a bit of sweet grain in your mangers."
Although their need for haste had been removed, the group now continued on its way as it had begun: Elladan in front, Elrohir leading the first horse while the other followed, and Legolas in the rear.
They had brought Aragorn alive to this point; now, all that remained to be seen was if he survived the last few miles into Elrond's skilled care, and whether or not the wound was beyond even the help of the best healer in elvendom.
As the sun dipped toward the westward rim of the canyon, Legolas stood at the wall of an exquisitely tiled patio and gazed out across the vastness of Imladris. His posture was straight and proud, but anyone seeing his face would know the pose was forced. Clutching his fists tightly, his knuckles shone like translucent alabaster against the normal paleness of his skin. And in his eyes was a pain focused so deeply within, it was unlikely he saw anything of the beauty before him.
Behind him, Elrohir, his explosive temper spent for the moment, said softly, "Legolas, it was not your fault."
His brother hissed a warning, and Elrohir amended his statement awkwardly. "I mean, it was an accident, and accidents sometimes cannot be avoided—" His voice trailed away uncertainly, since clearly this was an accident that could and should have been avoided.
Elladan's derisive grunt was angrily dismissive.
Legolas refused to turn around until he sensed Elrond's arrival. Forcing his hands to unclench, he schooled his face into calm assurance and turned to face the master of Imladris.
Elrond's expression was grave. "I have removed the arrow and stopped the bleeding."
Legolas tried to speak, but his throat was dry. He tried again. "How is he?"
"The wound was grave, certainly fatal to one who did not have the blood of Númenor in his veins."
"Then he will be all right."
"I cannot say."
Such grim uncertainty from one as powerful and skilled as Elrond stabbed like an icy blade into Legolas's chest.
"The wound has been poisoned by something I cannot identify."
Legolas started. "Poison? But how can that be—?"
Elrond held up a cautionary hand. "I know. I examined your arrow carefully, Legolas, and I know you do not use poison. No elf would. Something else has entered the wound, and I fear it is deadly enough to kill him unless I can determine exactly what it is."
The cold chill seemed to creep outward from his heart, and Legolas wanted nothing more than to turn away again to hide his fear, but he continued to face Elrond squarely. "It was my fault."
Elrond nodded kindly. "Yes. It was an accident. I know this. We all know this. However, it is an accident that need not have happened if you would learn to control your impulsiveness and rash independence."
Legolas clenched his jaws until they hurt, then grimaced to relieve the tension. "I was felling an enemy."
Elrond's tone became sharp with annoyance. "You were shooting toward an ally who was unaware of your intent. Had Aragorn known what you were planning, he would not have stepped into the path of your arrow. Have you forgotten all your training?"
Legolas answered almost in a whisper. "No, I have not." He fought back his anguish and covered it with anger. "When can I see him?"
Elrond waved a hand almost dismissively. "I do not know. He is sleeping at the moment, and I prefer to let him do so." Then his brows lowered. "Legolas, I do not like to rebuke you, especially at this time, but you know I speak the truth. This—accident—could have been prevented."
Legolas could not trust himself to speak this time, so he settled for a grim nod and turned away to gaze over the wall again. He heard the brothers asking questions of their own, and Elrond's vague answers. Nothing was certain. Aragorn's condition was serious. Finally, Elrond dispatched his sons with a request for some fresh herbs and came to stand beside him.
The silence stretched for a long time, neither looking at the other nor willing to be the first to speak.
Finally, Elrond sighed. "Legolas—"
"No." Legolas spoke with despair. "He cannot die. He cannot." He turned abruptly and strode away when it seemed as if Elrond might offer a sympathetic hand. Anger suddenly festered hotly inside him; he did not deserve sympathy, or kindness, or understanding. He desired none of these things.
Aragorn thought he could feel sun uncomfortably warm against his face, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that the late afternoon sunlight cut a swath across the foot of his bed and reached no higher. It took him several frustrating moments to put his perceptions in order: he lay in his own bed in his quarters in Imladris, and he felt a deep ache in his side that told him he had been injured.
Ah, yes, the arrow.
With memory came a sleepy acceptance. He had fought and lost, but he was alive and would learn from his mistakes. Admittedly, his mistakes were few, but occasionally something unexpected reared up and put a dent in his confidence. He thought that was probably a good thing: over-confidence had killed many a man before his time. As had mercy, he reflected bitterly.
Still feeling warm, he pushed the covers down to his waist and touched the large, white bandage binding his wound. Beneath his fingers, the injury felt tender and hot. For that matter, he was feeling a bit tender and hot all over, especially his head. His throat felt parched and raw.
Almost on top of this thought, the door opened. Elrond entered, and behind him was Arwen bearing a large tray containing a pitcher, goblet, bowl, and cloths.
Aragorn quickly pulled the covers back over his chest.
Arwen smiled at him and placed the tray on a bedside table without speaking a word. Then she sat down on a chair beside the bed and poured him a glass of water.
Elrond walked to the other side of the bed and sat on its edge. "It is good to see you awake. You caused me great concern. I was beginning to doubt my own skills as a healer."
Aragorn managed a slight smile in return. "Is everyone else all right?" His voice sounded weak and raspy.
"They are fine," Elrond answered gently, gesturing to Arwen.
Aragorn accepted the goblet from her and was surprised at how weakly his fingers clutched it. He would have dropped it if Arwen had not maintained her hold. She helped him lift his head to take a welcome drink.
After his thirst had abated, he lay back against the pillow. The simple effort had tired him, and his vision swam alarmingly.
"How are you feeling?" Elrond asked.
"Like someone very lucky to be alive." He managed to focus again. "But why do I feel so weak and wretched?"
"You lost a great deal of blood." Elrond hesitated for a long moment as if debating with himself. Finally, he added, "The wound has become poisoned."
A rush of fear caused Aragorn to start up from the bed, but his own weakness and Elrond's gentle hand pressing him back prevented him from moving.
"It is not what you are thinking." Elrond smiled reassuringly at him and pushed back a few sweat-dampened strands of hair that had fallen across Aragorn's forehead. "It is not the battle rot that consumes the flesh."
Aragorn managed to relax. His head was pounding worse than ever. "Poison," he echoed dully. He had suffered many injuries over the years: scrapes, bruises, broken bones, and cuts from blades too numerous to mention, but he had always healed quickly. "The arrow was not poisoned."
"I know this." Elrond looked frustrated. "I have some general remedies I will try, but without understanding the full nature of the poison, I cannot determine a more specific cure."
Aragorn looked from him to Arwen and back again. Fever. At least now he understood why he was feeling so hot: he had a fever. The realization was somewhat bemusing, because he couldn't recall ever having had a fever before, although he'd treated many a person who had. "I am going to get worse before I get better."
Elrond stood up. "Do not dwell on it. Rest. Arwen will stay with you."
Somehow, Legolas knew his aimless wandering along the paths of Imladris would eventually bring him to Aragorn's quarters, yet he still felt startled when at last he passed under a narrow archway and entered the small patio in front of the door. Aragorn's rooms sat back almost against the cliffs of the canyon. Much of the garden had gone wild. Vines that graced trellises and arbors throughout the courtyards here ran rampant up the rocks to form a wall of riotous color.
Legolas paused in the deep shadows cast by a large birch in the center of the patio. The sun was low in the western sky, but the warmth of day clung stubbornly to the softening dusk. The door to Aragorn's rooms stood open, as did the many windows. Legolas could see little of the sitting room beyond the door, but he knew its sparse layout well. Near the hearth sat two beautifully crafted and comfortable chairs. A third, matched in design but suffering the defects of the small, unskilled hands that had wrought it, stood against a small table that served as both desk and eating table. The chairs brought back memories of a time when Elladan and Elrohir had taught Aragorn to sculpt with wood. Innocent times, those were, before the Shadow in the East had made its presence felt, before the mortal child had rushed into adulthood and become burdened by the weight of his destiny.
The window to the left of the door looked into the bedroom. Through it, Legolas could see the bed. Although Aragorn's face was not in view, he could see the covers shifting from his uneasy rest. He could hear the short, strained gasps of his rapid breathing. Arwen sat beside the bed, her delicate hands wiping Aragorn's face and neck with a cloth she'd taken from a bedside basin.
Legolas frowned with indecision. He wanted to go inside and speak with Aragorn, to seek forgiveness for the tragedy his recklessness had caused, but he did not wish to disturb Arwen. The gathering dusk cast shadows upon her face, accentuating her worry in sharp lines of light and dark. Legolas could not look upon that face without adding to the remorse already lying heavily on his heart.
He knew he should slip away unseen, and yet guilt held him rooted to the spot. He needed to absorb the pain he had caused for so many people, to add their anguish to his own.
"Arwen."
He heard Aragorn's voice, a weak whisper in the growing dark of the room. Arwen had not yet lit the lamps, for evening still cast its gentle glow through the rooms.
"Hush," she said, wiping his brow again. "You must rest."
"I need to say..." His voice faltered as he sought another breath. "If I—"
She interrupted him. "Do not speak of it," she implored softly.
This time, Aragorn obeyed. His words came as a sigh. "I love you."
Arwen leaned close to him. "And you hold my heart. Do not think I will let you abandon it so easily."
The wordless rasp from the bed might have been a chuckle. "Not so long as I still draw breath."
He was silent after that, slipping back into the uneasy depths of his illness.
Still Legolas could not move. He knew he should have felt embarrassed at witnessing such an intimate moment between lovers who thought they were alone, and yet this, too, was part of his punishment, to witness the misery he had wrought. The icy fingers were back, clutching at his belly, and he felt his own breath becoming short.
Inside the room, Arwen took Aragorn's hand in her own and pressed it against the bright jewel she wore around her neck. In the gloom, his hand looked as pale as her own. A single tear fell from her eyes and traced a path down the fever-slick forearm.
Legolas fled.
Lamps were being lit throughout Imladris when Arwen went in search of her brothers. She found them in one of the smaller halls. A cheery fire flickered in the fireplace, but the atmosphere of the room lacked any warmth. Elrohir paced the length of the room and back again, his face grim and anxious. Elladan sat at the small table in the center, motionless as a statue. His expression, as usual, was unreadable.
Arwen was usually amused by her brothers, who were opposites in so many ways they sometimes seemed like halves of the same person. This evening, however, she felt deeply troubled. "Have either of you seen Legolas?"
Elrohir stopped abruptly and stared at her, his expression wavering between anger and guilt. "No." Then, somewhat sadly, he added, "I do not think he would seek us out."
Arwen stopped at the head of the table and looked at her brothers. "Why not? Is he not in need of comfort for the tragedy of this day?"
Elladan's head came up. "Should you not be at Aragorn's bedside rather than in search of the one who put him there?"
She took the rebuke without flinching. "Do not hide behind your cold aloofness with me, Elladan. I know you fear for Aragorn." Her tone softened. "We all fear for him."
Their gazes held, but it was Elladan who first looked away. "He lost so much blood," he whispered. "I was afraid he would not reach Imladris alive."
Elrohir walked over to stand behind his brother. It was an unconscious act; the twins stood united, even when they disagreed. "Why do you search for Legolas?"
"I thought I sensed him earlier." Arwen's bright cerulean eyes reflected her worry. "I am almost certain he came to see Aragorn, only he did not enter the room. I have been searching for him, but no one I have spoken with has seen him since this afternoon."
"You think he has left Imladris?"
Elladan glanced up at his brother, then looked at his sister. "Perhaps he prefers to be alone. He has much to resolve." He didn't sound convinced.
"Your voice betrays you, brother," Arwen replied quietly. "Legolas is as much a part of this family as if he had been born into it. Do not let your anger cause you to withhold compassion. It is not in your nature to condemn another for his mistakes."
"I suppose you have forgiven him?" Elladan's tone held a faint challenge.
She met his eyes. "Yes. I love Legolas as if he were my own kin. I forgive him as I would forgive either of you, without reservation or hesitation."
The lively crackle of the fire was the only sound to break the silence for a time. Finally, Elladan nodded. "We will find him."
"And if he has left Imladris?"
Elladan didn't have to look at Elrohir to know his thoughts. "Then we will go after him."
Arwen breathed out a gentle sigh of relief. "Then I return to Aragorn with a clearer heart. Thank you."
When she had left, Elladan stood up beside his brother. "Mayhap it is time to do a little clearing of our own hearts."
Nice...
Aragorn concentrated, following the pattern of the cool, damp cloth wiping across his fevered brow, around his neck, and down his chest, over and over. Even his heat-hazy mind realized these were not the ministrations of Arwen, slow and caressing, nor of Elrond, comforting and efficient. Elladan, then... deliberate and thoughtful. Elrohir's beside manner was better reserved for horses, though his intentions always matched his twin in compassion and concern.
Aragorn allowed himself to float under the soothing motion, neither awake nor asleep. A door opened to soft footsteps; the steady strokes hesitated, then continued. The cloth seemed heavier, now, the wiping motion more urgent.
Elrohir's voice drifted lazily in the air. "I have gathered all the supplies we will need, and items I pray will be unnecessary. Gelirion will have the horses saddled and ready to go first light."
Silence.
"Come, Elladan. We should rest. Legolas is difficult enough to track when he wishes to be found. Arwen will be in to tend Estel shortly."
Aragorn's thoughts shifted to his friend... something dark shadowed his mind. Legolas.
Elladan's voice broke through. "I will seek rest when I am finished here."
A brief sigh. "As you wish." Aragorn's hand was squeezed in a show of affection, but he could not bring his own hand to respond in kind. The door snicked softly shut, the slight sound echoing through the silent room.
The cloth disappeared for a moment, then returned, freshly cool and damp. Aragorn followed the familiar stroke across his brow, around his neck, down his chest and into a restless slumber.
Darkness was complete and a single lamp shone dim but cozy when Elrond returned to Aragorn's quarters. He brought a fresh pitcher of water and more clean cloths. After helping Arwen replace the old cloths with new ones, he walked around the bed and stood over the sleeping figure.
"The last tincture did not help." It was a quiet statement, not a question. He could see for himself that Aragorn's condition was worsening.
Arwen shook her head sadly, and her voice was a deep whisper filled with anguish. "Nothing has helped."
"Have you given him water?"
"He manages a little each time he is awake."
"Good." Elrond sighed deeply. "He has lost much blood. Time and rest will see to that, but this other illness has me troubled."
"There is yet more you can do for him, is there not?" Arwen's eyes were wide with pleading.
"Since the last remedy was ineffective, I must resort to stronger measures." He shook his head. "Some, if applied incorrectly, are just as dangerous as whatever ails him."
Aragorn muttered something in his restless slumber, and Elrond bent closer in an effort to hear him. "Do you know what he said?"
"No. He mumbles incoherently every now and again." Arwen smiled wanly. "I think he asks for Legolas."
At the sound of the name, Aragorn's eyes shot open and he stared wildly around the room. "Legolas?"
Elrond put a gentle hand on his forehead. "No, Aragorn. It is I, Elrond." He saw the sudden question reflected in Aragorn's eyes and knew something in his voice had betrayed more than he meant to reveal.
He poured some water into a glass and helped Aragorn raise his head to drink. When Aragorn had swallowed a small amount, Elrond eased him back down onto the soft pillows.
"Tell me."
Elrond sighed. "You need to rest."
"Tell me."
If Elrond knew anything about the man he had raised as a son, he knew there would be no rest until all of Aragorn's questions had been answered to his satisfaction. Lying never came easily to an elf. The only words that could pass his lips were the truth. "Legolas has gone away."
Aragorn's brow creased in confusion. "Away? Where? Why?"
Once again, Elrond felt moved to loose a sigh. He seemed to sigh a lot when dealing with men. "He suffers great guilt because of what happened to you."
"Why?" Aragorn's eyes continued to search the room, as if Legolas were hiding in the shadows.
Elrond hid his impatience. "He feels responsible for your injury. It was an accident, of course."
Aragorn shook his head weakly as he seemed desperately to try to hold onto awareness. He mumbled something neither elf could understand. Then, with effort, he managed to gasp, "Legolas does not have 'accidents.'"
Just for a moment, Elrond was shocked by what he thought he'd heard. But Aragorn was slipping back into delirium and muttering insensibly. Elrond sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to pierce the veil of fear, confusion, and desperation that filled Aragorn's fevered mind. He needed to know what Aragorn remembered.
His fractured dreams always carried him back to the ambush, the last place he wanted to be.
A group of a half-dozen men rushed down from farther up the slope, and Aragorn strode to meet them. His blade flashed in the sunlight as he swung it in a complex exercise designed to loosen his sword arm. It was also an intimidating display of prowess, and some of the attackers appeared to lose heart even before they were near enough to engage in combat.
But they came on despite their uncertainty, and Aragorn met them in a tiny glade of widely spaced trees whose leaves of pale green shimmered like silver coins in the gentle breeze.
They came at him with roaring battle cries, their faces fierce. Aragorn raised his sword in a salute, and then stood resolute and indomitable.
His assailants broke upon his sword like rain upon the mountaintop. One by one, they fell beneath his strength and skill, while he remained unscathed by their wild stabbing and slashing.
He sensed movement behind him, but even as he started to turn to face this new attack, he heard the deadly hum of an arrow slicing the air. It thudded solidly into flesh, and he knew the danger behind him was no more.
His next opponent seemed hardly more than a boy, whose eyes were wide with terror despite the determined set of his mouth. With ease, Aragorn struck the blade from the unskilled hands, then knocked the lad senseless with a hard blow from the haft of his sword.
Now only two opponents remained, but they lurched aside after a half-hearted feint and fled in terror.
Smiling grimly in triumph, Aragorn turned to see how his companions were faring. A lance of fire stabbed deep into his belly and brought him to an abrupt halt. Startled, he looked down as the brightness and sounds of the world shrank in around him. An arrow jutted from his right side. So little of the shaft remained visible, he knew it had ripped a deep path into the core of his body. He looked at it dumbly for a moment, the irony not lost on him even as he watched his life bleeding away.
He reeled dizzily. Trying to catch himself with his sword, he felt it sink solidly onto already dead flesh at his feet. But he could not maintain his grip and sagged to his knees beside the body of one of his attackers.
The last thing he saw as he toppled sideways was the bloodied blade of his sword glinting like rubies in the soft dapples of sunlight....
Legolas pushed hard into the night. A full moon lit his path as bright as day, but even without its guidance, he would have continued, blindly if need be. Even on foot, he had covered much ground since leaving Imladris. He had only a vague notion of where he was going, but he had the sense to know it was not a place to bring a horse. Guilt and anger sat on his shoulders, driving him on with despair and derision. No matter how far or how fast he ran, they would remain with him, and he held no hope of losing them.
As his strides carried him silently forward, his thoughts refused to stray far from the angry words he'd exchanged with two of his closest friends.
Yes, Elrohir and Elladan loved Aragorn like a little brother, or as well as they could love a mortal who would die within a short span of their lives. But he was also just one of the many chieftains of the Dúnedain who had been raised in the House of Elrond over many centuries: Arathorn, Arador, and all the way back to Arahael, son of Aranath, first of the Dúnedain chieftains.
They did not see him as the singular individual he was. Legolas had watched him grow from boy to man, watched him learn to accept his limitations as one of the race of men and perfect his strengths. He was the finest tracker and swordsman Legolas had ever seen, and in the realm of the elves, that was saying much.
He'd seen Aragorn take a small band of rangers and turn it into a force to be reckoned with throughout the northern lands. Although Aragorn could not see it, his rangers looked at him as more than their chieftain—he was their king, and their hope for reuniting the realms of men into an army mighty enough to challenge the power of Mordor.
Despite his pessimism, Aragorn inspired hope in others through his compassion, his courage, and his sometimes seemingly miraculous triumph over odds that would have felled a lesser man.
Legolas saw in him a King of Men.
And I nearly killed him.
As always, the unbidden thought caused him to jerk as if jolted by sudden pain. A hundred times he had replayed the moment in his mind. The only way—the only way—he might have hit Aragorn was if he'd aimed at the attacking man without accounting for Aragorn's own defensive move. Threatened from both fore and rear, Aragorn would have stepped in front of his adversary and thrust backward with his blade.
It was the only scenario that made any sort of sense, and Legolas reviewed it over and over in his until it became fact in his mind.
Elrond had been right, as usual. His over-confidence had caused him to release an arrow toward an ally who did not expect it, and Aragorn had very nearly paid the dearest price for that mistake.
Night shrouded his view through the windows, but the fragrance of some night-blooming flower wafted through on a gentle breeze. The lamps had been turned low, but their warm glow was enough to hold the darkness at bay.
Aragorn felt brittle, like old, dried wood. He knew if he moved his bones would rattle inside his skin as if he were no more than a sack filled with sticks. He was so tired....
"Arwen?" He turned his head slowly to where she'd last been sitting.
"I commanded her to get some rest."
He turned his head just as slowly toward the other side of the bed, and he saw the dim figure of Elrond outlined in the light. "Am I dying?"
Elrond actually smiled. "I am certain you feel as if you should be dying, but examine your condition a little more closely."
Aragorn took a mental inventory. He ached in every muscle and joint, and knew he was too weak to sit up, much less stand. His thoughts were sluggish, as if someone had wrapped his brain with wool batting, and his stomach gurgled unhappily as if he'd swallowed some particularly vile brew.
In fact, he had a vague recollection of just such an event. "What did you make me drink?"
"Before you complain about the taste of the tonic, tell me how you feel."
"I feel—" He paused again, frowning. "The fever has passed."
"Yes, the poison has been defeated." Elrond looked pleased with himself. "Your blood loss was great, and that is why you are so weak. The potion was strong, and that made you even weaker. However, with time and rest you will heal."
Aragorn took a deep breath and realized his side no longer burned with pain. "Where is Legolas?"
"Elrohir and Elladan have already gone after him. They will bring him back safely."
"I hope so." He felt frustrated by his weakness. With a little more strength, he would be able to join in the search; his skills as a tracker would help them find Legolas. But there was no use resisting the pull of sleep; he lacked the strength even to keep his eyes open.
Legolas slowed his pace and moved off the natural path. He was in the foothills of the Misty Mountains now; ahead of him, the tall, rugged peaks stood sharply etched against a brilliant dawn sky. Snow already crowned the highest summits. The foothills possessed their own rugged beauty; vast, coniferous forests and broad, grassy meadows marched rank upon rank up the slopes until held at bay by the towering, indomitable peaks. Frequently, their conformity was disrupted by great upthrusts of rock, grey and stark against the soft multitude of green. Wind and water had patiently etched their artistry into these lands as well, and they were not to be challenged by the faint of heart.
Orcs were colonizing the mountains again after a long period of peace following the Battle of Five Armies. The High Pass was still open, courtesy of the orc-hating Beornings, and a cautious traveler could still proceed in relative safety across the range.
But the evil things were multiplying. Whispers of darkness growing in the east came to the elves on the wind, and leering shadows spoke of a coming blackness that would cover the world with eternal night.
Legolas was not concerned with these portents. He was hunting orc, and he guessed he would find hunting parties deep in the foothills near the base of the mountains. The approaching winter brought migrating herds of deer and elk down from the high pastures, and the orc would need to lay in a good supply of meat to see them through the barren coldness of the coming winter.
The excited chatter of birds woke Aragorn. Beyond his windows, the early afternoon sun brightened the leaves of the birch tree in the courtyard and a soft breeze ruffled the wild tangle of flowering vines that had rather impudently found purchase on the sill.
He had been awake four times that day. Three of those times he'd had company. First, Arwen had helped him eat a few bites of invigorating food that made him realize just how long he'd gone without a proper meal. He'd actually looked forward to his afternoon repast and was not disappointed when Arwen returned with more hearty fare. The meal had been both filling and delicious, and it offered a sense of confidence that he was finally on the mend.
The second visitor had been Elrond, bearing another cup of foul brew that both looked and smelled unpleasantly like the bubbling black tar forced up through fissures at the foot of the Ash Mountains on the north border of Mordor. He'd gagged it down obediently, and except for an uncomfortable flutter in his belly, the tonic made him feel even stronger.
This time, however, he awoke alone. The clear, warm air beckoned. Idling away in bed was no way to spend what remained of the day.
Tentatively, he rolled onto one elbow and pushed himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed. The room tilted alarmingly at first, then settled again. Heartened, he stood up, only to find himself suddenly flat on his back across the mattress, his gaze gradually focusing on the intricate wood beams of the ceiling.
Obviously, things were not progressing as well as he'd hoped. Then again, except for some minor aches and pains, and perhaps the light-headedness and occasional dizziness, he was doing surprisingly well. At least, that's what he told himself. He was no longer sick; only the weakness caused by the blood loss of his injury hindered his efforts. Therefore, he reasoned, he probably wouldn't cause himself further injury if he persevered. If his strength failed, the worst he was likely to do was knock himself out by taking a header onto the floor...
Grimly, he struggled up again. The room spun less alarmingly this time, and he climbed gingerly to his feet.
Success. Trying to ignore the odd sensation that the floor was tilting this way and that beneath him, he made it to the cupboard. Dressing himself proved almost more than he could handle, and the effort of pulling on his boots left him curled limp and sweating atop his bed.
After a few minutes, he managed to rise once more. His coat was gone, presumably being cleaned and repaired. But his sword had been tended and placed in its scabbard. He strapped it on.
Somewhat tentatively, he stepped through the door of his quarters into the courtyard. The angled rays of the sun felt warm upon his face, and the afternoon breeze was refreshing. Taking these as further signs he was on the mend, he took the short path down to the stables. His steps were slow, and mild dizziness made him faintly nauseous, but he reached his goal without major difficulty.
The stables were cool. A multitude of white and grey faces peered at him over the tops of the stalls. Ascar, Legolas's horse, whickered at him softly in recognition. Aragorn's reasoning was simple: if Legolas had left his horse behind, then he was heading east, where much of the country was too rugged for riding.
But Aragorn had to ride, at least part of the way, if he were going to have any hope of catching up to Elrohir and Elladan whose horses were gone from the stable. He grabbed a bridle and went to the stall of the lone bay. The effort of harnessing his mount was almost more than he could handle, and he did it with eyes half closed against the weakness and dizziness that sought to upset him. The horse didn't cooperate, either, sidling away as he tightened the saddle girth.
Finished at last, he looked dumbly at the beast, which looked back at him with disdain. Something wasn't right. After a moment, he realized what it was—another brown face was looking at him from a stall further down the line.
He sighed. Why was it, when he could barely focus his thoughts, fate had seen fit to install a second bay in a stable where always there had been just the one?
His own horse gazed back at him curiously, clearly wondering the exact same thing.
Aragorn looked at the horse he had saddled. It looked at him balefully, evidently not happy to be called into service by a blundering stranger.
"Sorry, my friend," he murmured to the horse. "I do not have the strength to do this a second time." Grimacing with effort, he heaved himself into the saddle and managed not to fall off again as the horse skittered uneasily sideways.
Bringing the reluctant mount under control, he sat still for a long minute with his eyes closed to force back the dizziness. Finally, with determination, he urged the horse forward to find the trail that would lead him to Legolas.
Legolas found a hunting camp in the late afternoon and crouched down just inside the tree line to study it.
The camp was quiet in the daylight. The orc had chosen a good location. It was in a wide, shallow canyon carved out by the spring floods of high-country snow melt. Now, in the fall, only a shallow stream burbled merrily down the center course. The canyon at this point made a sharp curve, and the outer edge of this curve had been undercut by water to a depth of several yards. This had created a large overhang to shelter the orc from the sun. It also provided a good defensible position. The camp could not be approached from behind; the cliffs were too high and fractured. In either direction, the canyon had good visibility for almost a mile. Only where Legolas crouched, at what was essentially the open end of the U-shaped curve, could the camp be observed. Below him a brush-covered slope provided good cover to the riverbed. After that, however, stood a wide swath of rocks and sandy soil laid down when the river was at its most tumultuous. There was very little cover, and it was many yards to reach the encampment on the other side.
Presumably, the hunting party was hiding deep under the overhang to await sunset. The sandy area around the camp was deserted save for a dense swarm of flies that Legolas could hear even from his distant observation point. Several deer hides lay staked to the ground to cure in the sunlight. Great slabs of meat hung from racks, and various other useful animal parts lay piled nearby. The stench was appalling.
Amid the drying hides hung one of dense, black fur: a bear attracted to the stench of death had apparently met his own end while contesting the orcs for a share of the spoils. The head of the great beast stood atop a sturdy lance skewered into the earth in the center of the clearing. It would make a grand trophy for the hunters to carry home.
To Legolas's keen eye, the camp looked unassailable except by a small army. Fortunately, he had no intention of attacking the camp directly. At nightfall, the hunting party would come forth with their clubs and spears to begin stalking the herds coming out of the forest to feed.
There would be time enough then to do some stalking of his own.
With a scowl of grim determination, Legolas drew back into the trees to search out his own sheltered campsite.
As evening crept into the mountains, Legolas stood just outside a line of trees and looked down the slope at the approaching party of orcs. There were eight males, fully armed, and they traversed a narrow gully at the base of the slope.
His earlier assumption had been correct. They were out early to slay deer coming to feed on the grasses of the meadowlands. The sun had just slipped behind the mountain at his back, and dusk softened the shadows of the rugged landscape.
He knew if he stood still, the orcs would pass by without noticing him. Just for a moment, he considered it. Then, almost nonchalantly, he kicked a convenient rock down the hillside. It bounced and clattered alarmingly for such a small stone, and Legolas took it as a sign that he was doing the right thing.
The orcs stopped abruptly and looked up at him. He remained unmoving, his bow relaxed at his side, his posture unthreatening. But orcs were predictable most of the time, and this group was already on the hunt. The enmity between elves and orcs delved deep through the ages, and there existed now almost an inborn instinct for one to kill the other. The hunters spread out in a ragged line and plunged up the hillside, their war cries echoing on the twilight air.
Had any one of them seen the cold fury raging in the elf's eyes, the orcs might have chosen a different course. Then again, maybe they'd do exactly what they'd done—go for the kill.
Legolas waited for several heartbeats. The orcs were quick and agile; the rocky slope did not hinder their attack.
Satisfied that he'd given them every advantage, Legolas swiftly drew his first arrow and loosed it into the leading orc. It was a long shot, for Legolas, even in the midst of his guilt and anger, was not suicidal. He doubted that he dealt a fatal wound, but it was enough to bring down the first target.
More arrows followed swiftly with astounding precision, nocked and loosed within moments of each other, and each finding a target. As the orc numbers began to dwindle, the remainder spread out even further, forcing him to pivot his body to line up his shot.
The eighth and final orc dropped no more than five feet away, the blade in its outstretched hand settling less than an inch from one of Legolas's soft leather boots.
Legolas did not move. For a long minute he stood there while the battle sounds died away. After the last pebble had come to rest and silence returned once more to the hillside, he walked among the carnage to retrieve his arrows. He approached the last body cautiously, for it was the first orc he had shot, and the distance had been great. But as he drew near, he knew the orc was dead. He recovered his arrow and walked calmly back up the slope to disappear among the trees.
He'd made a cold camp under a sheltering outcrop of rock. Returning to it unerringly in the dark, he sat down on his blanket and began to wipe his arrows, checking each one for damage before returning it to his quiver. He stared for a long time at the keen point of the last arrowhead.
It was common practice to retrieve arrows after a battle, and Legolas knew his arrows had been used many times. He crafted them of strong wood and hard metal, and the fletchings were skillfully attached. A good arrow was more than a thing of beauty; it was a weapon necessary to the survival of every bowman who stepped out of his door. An archer's bow and arrows received the same careful attention as a well-honed warsword or hunting knife.
Poison. Was it possible that some tiny particle, so small as to be unseen even to elvish eyes, could remain on the arrowhead after it was cleaned? Normally, the thought would not have troubled him. After all, arrows were meant for the enemy; their cleanliness was a factor in accuracy and for keeping the flies away, nothing more.
But this time, his arrow had gone astray. If Aragorn had been anything other than Dúnadan, the injury would have proved fatal. Even now, he struggled for his life against a hidden enemy, some poison carried by the arrow that had entered his body.
Legolas shook his head. Such thoughts were beyond his warrior knowledge and best left to scholars such as Elrond. He put the arrow into his quiver and rested his elbows comfortably on his knees.
He would not hunt again tonight. In daylight, he would scout the countryside and find more of their trails. Tomorrow night would be soon enough to test his skills again.
"I do not miss," he whispered to the darkness, unaware that he had spoken aloud until a small bird fluttered nervously in its nest nearby.
He stared into the darkness and thought about the night's events. The orcs had outnumbered him, and they had brought the battle to him. He had given them every chance to avoid the confrontation.
Well, not every chance, he reminded himself. After all, he'd been the one to dislodge the stone and announce his presence. Still, the odds had been more than fair in the orcs' favor.
Why, then, did he feel unsatisfied with his victory? The voice of conscience answered him: when looking for a fight, one had to be prepared to suffer the consequences.
Aragorn opened his eyes, unaware until that moment that he had been sleeping. Straightening abruptly in the saddle, he looked around in alarm. The country was unfamiliar, and the sun was in the wrong place, or it would have been in the wrong place if only it would stop whirling around in the sky. And it shouldn't have been the sun at all, but rather the moon; unless, of course, he'd slept the night through.
Its rider's sudden movement startled the horse, which had been plodding lazily along a path of its own choosing. It hitched sideways with a lunge, and Aragorn realized with dismay that he'd been sleeping tense; his arms and legs had grown numb. He slid from the saddle as gracelessly as a loose sack of grain and landed face first in the dirt.
The sharp pain that shot through his belly brought him to full awareness, and he pushed himself slowly onto his side. The horse looked at him with mild interest, as if bemused by this strange ending to their trek. Then, with a soft snort of dismissal, it turned and began to amble back down the trail.
Aragorn tried to get up, but the exquisite agony of returning sensation to his limbs defeated him. He sat glumly and watched the horse's retreating hindquarters; the swishing black tail seemed to be mocking him.
Hanging his head for a moment, he tried to gather his thoughts. He'd ridden through the night, obviously. His horse, apparently seeking the path of least resistance, had followed a dry, rocky streambed. He gazed around, but there was no sign that any other living thing had passed this way for a long time.
Cautiously, he hitched around in the dirt and managed to sit up facing the other direction. The low banks of the riverbed rose on either side, but beyond them he could see trees and steeply climbing hillsides. Ahead, beyond where the river curved, he could see more hills, marching in great ranks until they all but obscured the snow-covered peaks etched against the eastern horizon. The sun had just cleared the peaks, and its sudden warmth cut through the chill morning air.
Aragorn was grateful for its touch. What little he remembered of his ride involved much cold and a few unwelcome bouts of hot flushness. But it was the cold he remembered mostly. He'd thought about his coat then, wondering where it was, but now he recalled clearly his hasty departure from Imladris and the lack of common sense that had preceded it.
He was in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Unhorsed, weak, and without food or water, his situation looked grim. Many predators stalked these hills. Some were four-footed, but the most dangerous of all walked on two legs. Aragorn knew he didn't have the strength to fight a single orc, much less a group of them, and by group was their preferred method of hunting.
Resolutely, he crawled to the edge of the riverbed and tucked himself under a narrow cleft eroded by some long-ago storm. It wasn't much shelter, but it would hide him from casual eyes. Unfortunately, orcs had keen noses, but about that he could do nothing.
As Elrond had said, time and rest would return his strength. It had seemed precautionary advice back in the comfort of his bed in Imladris; here in the wild, time and rest were essential if he were going to survive.
He slept.
When Aragorn woke this time, he managed to stay that way. He knew he'd drifted in and out of awareness throughout the day. The call of a wheeling hawk, the busy chatter of squirrels, and the strong musk scent of elk had brought him awake enough to check his surroundings for signs of danger. Other times, his growing hunger and thirst had bid him to get up and get moving, but exhaustion had overridden the sense of urgency.
This time, however, he felt he had to try. He didn't need Elrond to tell him that recuperation from a serious wound did not involve a growling belly and parched throat. He needed to find water to survive and food if he were going to regain strength enough to travel. If he lingered much longer in his niche by the riverbed, he would lose whatever sense he still possessed, and then he would be dead.
The sun was low in the western sky behind him, but the air was still warm. Unlike the higher elevations, where the temperature changed dramatically with the rising and setting of the sun, the foothills retained some of the day's warmth and released it gradually throughout the night.
He gained his feet slowly, and was panting and sweating by the time he was standing. Leaning awkwardly against the steep edge of the riverbank, he peered over its edge and examined the flat ground beyond. Most of the tracks he saw were old, which told him animals did not come this way in search of water except in spring, when the river would be running.
Vaguely, he remembered smelling the elk, so he checked the direction of the breeze and clumsily climbed the riverbank. Moving slowly yet steadily, he found the trail of the small herd winding through the trees near the edge of the clearing. He could still detect a faint trace of them in the air. Hoping they were heading for water, he began to follow their hoofprints.
Dusk lingered only a short while in this hill country, and he was in danger of losing the tracks in the growing dimness. Then he heard the soft gurgling of water and staggered forward eagerly.
A tiny brook spilled down between a steep slope of rocks and formed a small pool at its base. During the spring run-off, it probably swelled in might and raced to join the river that was now only a dry concourse far behind him. But it was water, and it was fresh, and it was more than enough to revive him.
After drinking his fill, he sat back on his haunches and contemplated his next move. He needed food, but he was without bow or arrow. Unless some muddled creature wandered within range of his knife, he would need to make a snare and hope a thirsty rabbit came to the water.
The water had refreshed him enough so that the complaining of his stomach could no longer be ignored. It was time to get to work and catch something to eat.
Distracted by these plans, he wasn't aware of the orcs until they stepped out of the sheltering trees and came towards him. There were four of them, and they seemed as surprised to see Aragorn as he was to see them. Several interminable seconds passed as they gazed at one another, and then Aragorn rose quickly to his feet, his hand drawing his sword in one smooth motion.
Or at least, that was how he pictured it. Instead, the rapid change of position brought on a wave of dizziness, and his sword wavered heavily in his hands.
As he fell forward onto his face again, he reflected dimly that things had not been going well for him lately.
And then he passed out.
Legolas heard the excited cries of the orcs. Silently leaving the shelter of the overhang, he moved like a wraith through the moon-dappled forest. Without ever making a sound, he slipped into the bushes of his chosen cover to observe the orc hunting camp in the ravine below.
There was something different about this band, and he didn't have to study them long to realize what it was—some of these orcs wore battle armor and carried swords. Clearly, they were new arrivals not interested in hunting wild game to stock their winter larder. They were here to hunt him. He made a mental note not to stalk his enemy so early in the evening, when enough night remained to summon help from the main orchold.
There were ten of these well-armed orcs in the camp in addition to an equal number of hunters. All of them faced downstream, a few dashing forward and back again in their eagerness. They were chattering excitedly, and finally Legolas saw the source of their agitation.
An orc party of four strode into camp. Two of them held the legs of a limp figure dragging behind them through the rocky riverbed. His arms were unbound and trailed slackly behind his head, but the orcs had taken time to remove his weapons.
It was Aragorn.
For a moment, Legolas felt as if his heart had dropped into his boots. His breath shortened, time slowed, and his vision blurred. Uncomfortable sensations of hot and cold seemed to assail him simultaneously, and he closed his eyes tightly against the sudden threat of nausea. These physical responses to shock passed quickly, but his mind continued to deny what his eyes had witnessed until he confirmed it again.
There was no dizziness this time to dissuade him, no odd teetering of the world to make him doubt a second time what he'd seen: Aragorn. Somehow, a gravely wounded Aragorn had risen from his deathbed and tracked him into the wilderness. That this seemed an impossibility was irrelevant in the face of the proof before him.
The bitter irony made him smile grimly. He wasn't certain what had driven him into the wild in search of orcs: perhaps guilt, or self-pity, perhaps a desire for absolution or restitution, or just plain anger. Running away had proved fruitless, of course, because whatever had driven him was inside, inescapable.
There was only one thing of which he was certain: he had not come here to die. Now, it seemed this was the only likely outcome of the whole wretched misadventure.
He had few choices. If Aragorn were dead, the orcs would hew and maim his body, possibly eat him. Legolas had little knowledge of what fate awaited the mortal remains of men. He knew kings of old had built lavish temples to house their bodies when they died, and methods had been developed to preserve the physical form from decay. Why men believed this to be advantageous in whatever afterlife awaited them, Legolas could not fathom.
But if the mortal body was important to the dead, then Legolas had to make every attempt to prevent the desecration of Aragorn's. He thought he had a chance of doing this. There were fourteen orcs, ten of them in armor. Four were bowmen. If he took out the bowmen first, he had a chance of bringing down several others before they could reach him with their swords, and then his knife skills would be put to the test.
However...what if Aragorn were alive? Then the situation changed dramatically. He could, of course, put a fatal arrow into Aragorn's body and finish deliberately what he had begun accidentally days ago. That would be the only difference to the battle plan he would use if Aragorn were dead.
Except it was a course of action he was incapable of taking. Instead, he would have to go in among them and reach Aragorn's unconscious body before the orcs could use him as a pawn to force Legolas to surrender. He had to be among them quickly, his blades ready, in order to reach Aragorn's side and protect him for as long as either still drew breath.
That span of time depended solely upon how long the orcs would toy with him before going for the kill.
He saw one of the orcs pull Aragorn upright by his hair and shake him vigorously.
And Aragorn opened his eyes.
Aragorn jerked back to awareness as his heels thudded jarringly into the dirt. He could feel bruises forming across his back and arms where he'd been dragged over the rocky ground, and his head pounded with renewed vigor.
Voices babbled meaninglessly above him, but he realized enough to know they spoke the language of the orc. So, his humiliating capture had not been a hallucination brought about by the return of his fever. Under the circumstances, the thought that he was on the mend brought little comfort. Then again, if feeling light-headed and disoriented were signs he was getting better, he had no desire to experience the effects of getting worse.
One of the foul creatures grabbed him by the hair and hauled him into a sitting position. "Why have you brought us this?" it snarled to its companions. It spoke in the common tongue, and its voice was filled with derision. "This meat is poisoned and of no use to us."
Well, at least there seemed to be one positive aspect to being ill, he thought irrelevantly. It didn't seem he was destined to be an orc's dinner, at least not tonight.
"We did not capture it for meat," another retorted gruffly. "Perhaps it can tell us of our enemy." The orc leaned close and glared into Aragorn's eyes. "Who hunts us?"
Still feeling disconcertingly light-headed, Aragorn answered with the first thing that popped into his head. "Huan."
"Who?" the orc demanded.
"—an," Aragorn finished stupidly.
This earned him a sharp blow across his face that exploded straight into his already pounding skull.
The orc who held him shook him by the hair. "Who is Huan?"
Reason was slipping further away, but he did his best. "Big hound. Big teeth—"
Again, he was slapped.
"No hound hunts us," the second orc growled. "Our enemy is an archer."
Oh. Why hadn't he said so before? He felt pleased to have another answer. "Beleg." Dimly, he realized he was recalling odd facts from his childhood lessons, facts that had slipped out of history and into legend, and which bore little importance or interest for a mortal being.
"Who is Beleg?"
"A great bowman." The fog in Aragorn's mind was clearing again, and he was bemused by his own answer.
"Why does he hunt us?"
That answer was less clear. "Because he is mad with grief for killing his best friend." No, that was wrong. Beleg had been killed by his best friend, not the other way around. Still, it was a good story, however inaccurate. He sought the facts in the depths of his memory: Túrin, a man, had slain Beleg, an elf, who was his dearest friend. It had been a horrible accident....
Accident.
Abruptly, Aragorn remembered the past few days. He understood why his addled mind had conjured this particular lesson.
Legolas had shot him; Elrond had said so.
But Elrond had been mistaken.
He knew now who hunted these orcs. Peering blearily into the misshapen, hellish faces of his captors, he spoke proudly. "He does not miss."
The first orc hissed something unintelligible and shoved him down. "It knows nothing."
A hard kick to the ribs emphasized the creature's displeasure. White-hot pain exploded from his wound, and Aragorn embraced the deep pool of blackness that followed.
Legolas had left the cover of the trees and bushes and now crouched behind the last of the river rocks large enough to provide any cover. His next step would be into the open, where many yards of rocky ground intersected by the narrow stream stood between him and his goal.
The orc camp was ablaze with several large fires. The flames cast flitting shadows across the cliff walls and racks of hanging meat. These shadows would be distracting, and he would have to be quick in determining living shapes from the false caprices of the firelight.
Regret weighed on him briefly. He was not ready to leave Middle-earth and all those he loved. He was not prepared to go to the Halls of Mandos, where his spirit would linger in guilt and despair at the misery his short life had brought upon the world. His best friend would be dead by his hand, and the dark fate of the world sealed by his rashness.
His own fate was bound to Middle-earth, a final chord in an ageless symphony whose last note had not yet rung.
Perhaps then, in some age beyond the reach of his imagination, he would finally know peace.
With that final thought, he nocked his first arrow and rose from behind the rock. He'd fixed the positions of the archers in his mind, and now he let the single-minded purpose of his task control his movements.
One by one they fell to his arrows, the fourth and final one before the rest of the startled orcs had even located his position.
He strode forward, arrow after arrow flying from his bow with smooth precision, his targets varying between the orcs charging toward him and those cunning enough to think they could use Aragorn as a shield.
Soon he was at the stream, and its shallow course did not hinder his progress. By now the orcs were upon him, and none remained close to Aragorn. Legolas dropped his bow and drew out his knives in one smooth motion. The clash of metal upon metal rang loudly in the night air and echoed back from the high cliffs.
Like a living scythe, Legolas cut a path through his enemies, killing some, wounding others, and managing to avoid the deadly stabs and slashes of the sword wielders. They'd expected him to stand and fight; instead, he managed to break through and cross the final few yards to reach Aragorn's side. Only then did he turn and stand at bay, his back to the cliff wall.
The remaining orcs, eleven of them, fell back from his deadly blades and formed a loose half-circle in front of him.
There was no escape now, and both sides knew it. Legolas was surrounded, but he had reached his goal and would finish the battle here. Knowing they had their prey trapped, the orcs were in no hurry to end the conflict too quickly.
Legolas stood there, proud and defiant, his knives upraised and his angry eyes glinting in the firelight. The end was assured, but its manner had not yet been determined. He was resolved to do one final act before his last breath left his body: to plunge his own knife through Aragorn's throat and spare him the indignity and torment awaiting him at the hands of his captors.
Anything else that occurred would be nothing more than sport for the orcs.
The orcs seemed to argue amongst themselves, the hunters clearly wanting Legolas dead while the warriors were more interested in toying with him. After all, they had not come down from their mountain stronghold just to kill an interloper, not if there was entertainment to be found.
One of the warriors stepped forward and addressed him in the common speech, making it sound harsh and guttural. "You are Beleg?"
Legolas had no idea why an orc would speak an elvish word, much less use one to call him "mighty." It wasn't important. "Yes, I am beleg," he answered clearly, taking a threatening step toward them.
All the orcs save the one who had spoken fell back a pace.
"This is good," said the orc. "We would know the name of the enemy who foolishly challenges the power of the orcs. We will brand it into your skull before adding it to our trophies from the hunt." Then, with disdain, the orc turned his back and gestured for his companions to spread out.
None of it made sense to Legolas. They thought his name was Beleg? No matter, he finally knew how the game was going to be played. One of the orcs had gone to the body of a bowman and picked up his bow and an arrow.
Slowly, taking his time, the orc fitted the arrow and raised the bow. Legolas watched him closely, ever mindful of the others who stood around with a motley assortment of knives, swords, and spears at the ready.
The arrow sang quick and true, but Legolas was quicker. He knocked it aside without flinching, then cast a look of utter contempt at those around him. A few of the hunters muttered angrily, but the leader only gestured to another of his warriors.
Now two bows and two arrows would be pitted against him. He risked a quick glance at the unconscious figure at his feet. "Aragorn, now would be a good time to miraculously arise and take up your sword," he murmured, half in jest, half in earnest.
Since he expected no response, he was not disappointed.
The leader gestured toward Aragorn. "We will feast on him in celebration of your death."
"Pray do," answered Legolas. "His body is ill and will poison any who survive my blades."
Just for a moment, the orc looked afraid, and then, angry with his own display of uncertainty, he gestured abruptly to the archers.
They fired simultaneously, adequately aimed arrows which required all of Legolas's ambidextrous skills to divert. Still, his feet didn't move and his expression of hot defiance never wavered.
The orc leader sneered at him. "I think it will require three to test your reflexes, elf spawn."
"And still you will fail," Legolas said.
The orc growled unintelligibly. "Why did you give up the hunt and sacrifice yourself to reach the side of one who will be dead whether you came forward or stayed in the forest?"
Legolas almost smiled. "My hatred for you is something you understand. Loyalty to a friend is something yrch cannot comprehend."
"Then continuing has no purpose."
Three arrows flew at him from different points around the camp. He deflected two, but felt the third stab into his thigh, pushing him backward a step.
Now the orcs had drawn blood—they were ready to end the game. Swords were raised, but the orc leader still did not give the command to charge. Instead, he shouted to the warriors that had taken up the bows. "Kill the one on the ground. Let's see how the mighty Beleg copes with the death of his friend!"
This, then, was to be the end: a merciful death for Aragorn, whether by orc arrow or elven blade, and a violent, bloody death for himself.
Legolas raised his knives high, and gave a piercing war cry.
The bowmen fell down.
So prepared was he for the instant of death, Legolas could only stare in dumb bewilderment as chaos erupted around him. His hands jerked spasmodically, but there was no one to fight. The orcs were scattering, a few warriors rushing toward the new danger that rained down upon them from the tree-covered hillside. Arrows sang, and orcs fell. Finally, the survivors fled in panic down the streambed.
Elladan and Elrohir charged out of the trees and raced toward the camp. Arrows still flew from their bows, although the retreating orcs were soon beyond range.
Elladan stopped beside Legolas, but Elrohir continued on, shouting in fury, his final arrow falling well short of its mark. Such flagrant waste of a good arrow was frowned upon by elven bowmasters.
"Elrohir!"
Once assured his commanding voice had brought his brother to a halt, Elladan knelt beside Aragorn.
Elrohir dashed up to them, his face infused with fury. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?" he raged hotly in Legolas's face, but Legolas was still trying to make sense of the past few moments and could only shake his head stupidly.
Elladan spoke again. "Elrohir!"
His brother turned on him angrily. "What?"
And then Elrohir saw Aragorn, helpless and unconscious at Legolas's feet. His anger melted. "Oh." He looked back at Legolas. "This seems impossible. You will have to explain it later." Then he grinned, and Legolas yelped in sudden pain. Elrohir held up a bloody orc arrow. "Forgot about this, did you?"
Legolas scowled. "Thank you for reminding me."
Elrohir laughed with delight and handed the arrow to Legolas, who was still too shocked to do naught but accept it. "Wait here." With that, he raced among the fallen foe withdrawing arrows and breaking any weapons that looked useful. One knife apparently caught his interest, for he looked at it a long while and finally tucked it into his belt. He grabbed Legolas's bow from the edge of the stream, secured the arrows with a rawhide string, and dashed back leaping and cavorting around the dead like a mad sprite.
Legolas felt faintly ill.
Elladan finished his cursory examination of Aragorn. "He can be moved. We must find temporary shelter to see us through the night and allow us to tend their wounds." He lifted Aragorn without effort and straightened. "Tomorrow we will know if we can head back for Imladris or if we must linger yet another night."
"I know of a place," Legolas said finally, his addled wits now firmly back in place.
Elrohir handed Legolas his bow, then retrieved Aragorn's sword, still in its scabbard. With a final look around to ensure he'd missed nothing, he said, "It is going to be a beautiful sunrise."
With Legolas limping beside the brothers, they disappeared into the blackness beyond the campfires.
Legolas sat quietly in the darkness under the small ledge where he had made his temporary camp. Beyond this meager shelter, all was silent as the night prepared to yield to the sun just lightening the sky beyond the jagged peaks to the east.
Elrohir had bandaged his wound. Legolas thought it odd that he hadn't registered any pain until the moment Elrohir had drawn out the arrow. It was his first experience with true battle lust, and the events of the fight took on a dreamlike unreality in its aftermath.
Elladan and Elrohir had surprised him as well. He'd been orc hunting with them before. Orcs hated elves, and elves hated orcs; their enmity ran deep. They killed each other almost instinctually, and at times for sport. Elves cringed to touch the foul flesh of orcs, and orcs would not touch elvish bodies, clothing, or weapons. The twins had a special hatred of the orcs and hunted them often. To say they enjoyed the hunt was perhaps inaccurate; they seemed almost obsessed with a need to do so.
Although they shared an obsession, they fulfilled it differently. Elrohir was hot passion and anger as he went for the kill. Elladan went cold and calculating, as if he were a deadly weapon bereft of emotion or conscience.
Of the two, Legolas had the most difficulty understanding Elladan's long, brooding silences.
Elrohir, who'd been keeping lookout while Elladan had gone to find a more defensible stronghold, brought him a cup of tea. "I am sorry I spoke to you so rashly."
Legolas sipped the tea and grimaced. "Anglas tea?" he sputtered as he swallowed the bitter, stinging brew. It was one of the basic elvish medicinals, used for mild headaches, muscle tension, and the upset stomachs of elflings who had eaten too many unripe apples. No one but Elladan seemed to drink it voluntarily, but there was also no denying its efficacy. He smiled wanly at Elrohir. "You saved my life today and have no need to apologize for words spoken in the heat of battle."
Elrohir shook his head. "When I saw you in the midst of the orc camp, I thought—I thought you wanted to die. It frightened me."
"I was frightened, too," Legolas admitted softly. "Dying was not my purpose when leaving Imladris." He sat without speaking for a moment, making faces as he sipped his tea, then looked up at Elrohir again. "What did Elladan mean?"
Elrohir frowned. "When?"
"When we were ambushed and Aragorn was wounded. He said, 'Not Aragorn, too.' What did he mean?"
"Oh." Elrohir looked around uncomfortably, unwilling to meet Legolas's gaze for a long minute.
"Forgive my question. You need not tell me if this is something best kept secret," Legolas said gently.
"No. It is not that." Elrohir sighed. "Sometimes my brother frightens me."
"I do not understand."
Another long minute passed. "He spoke of Arathorn, father of Aragorn. We were with him when he died, killed by orcs. We could not save him." Elrohir sighed again. "Elladan carries his pain close to his heart, and each new pain seems to make him draw inward a little more. He is my brother, and as much as I love him, I cannot help him carry these burdens. He will not allow it."
Legolas nodded in understanding. "I am sorry for adding to his pain."
Elrohir roused himself from his introspection. "Finishing your tea while I clean the recovered arrows will please him greatly."
Shifting into a more comfortable position for his injured leg, Legolas watched silently as Elrohir went about the familiar task of cleaning and checking arrows. He realized now that he'd been callow in his earlier musings about the twins and their relationship with Aragorn.
Legolas had led a rather sheltered social life, as did many of the elves. Although they revered and delighted in all life, most of them, as superior beings, found it tiresome to deal regularly with other, so-called intelligent, peoples. Therefore, his previous acquaintance with mortal races was limited to the occasional market day in Dale, and he had called no mortal his friend until meeting Aragorn. Even then, his friendship at first had been given with reluctance; mortals lived so short a time, and the pain of grief could cut deep. Why risk so much pain for such a brief reward?
And yet, he saw now that Elladan and Elrohir embraced Aragorn as they would a brother of their blood instead of in their fostering, despite the inevitability of bereavement. Elladan still carried grief for Arathorn, Aragorn's father, and probably much more besides, far back into the line of heirs. Still, they continued to embrace some mortals as their own regardless of the certainty of pain to follow.
Legolas hoped he would have gained his own strength to deal with loss when Aragorn's time finally came. However, unlike the brothers, he had no intention of welcoming more mortals into his circle of friends. One was trouble enough.
Aragorn had never expected to open his eyes again, and as awareness crept back, he almost wished he hadn't. His ached in every part of his being, and felt both cold and hot at the same time. Perhaps the orcs would not eat him until his illness-ridden body had healed.
However, instead of the dark figures he expected to see, the image that swam before his vision was light, silvered by the rays of a dawn sun. He struggled to focus on the figure sitting on the ground beside him and finally succeeded. "Legolas?"
Legolas touched him gently on the shoulder. "Welcome back, Aragorn."
Aragorn peered around the sparse comforts of their campsite. He felt so weak and disoriented, he couldn't even venture a guess at what day it was. With help from Legolas, he managed to sit up enough to drink from the cup held to his lips, and nearly choked on the warm brew. "I see you have been letting Elladan make the tea."
Legolas smiled. "Yes. And you will drink all of it. I had to."
Aragorn knew he didn't have a choice and forced down the bitter-tasting brew. Almost immediately, though, his tremors became less violent and he felt more alert. As he lay back down, he saw the bandage on Legolas's leg. "How bad is your wound?"
"It troubles me little," Legolas assured him, then smiled bitterly. "The arrow was not poisoned."
A tall figure suddenly loomed over him, and he looked up into the smiling face of Elrohir.
"Is he making sense yet, Legolas?"
Legolas nodded distractedly. "He remembers Elladan is the only creature within Middle-earth who actually likes to drink anglas tea."
"A definite improvement then." Elrohir took the empty cup. "I have more."
"No." Aragorn's voice was a croak lacking any hint of authority. He resorted to pleading. "Not just yet, please."
Elrohir appeared to contemplate the request solemnly. "All right. But you will drink more before night falls."
Now, there was something to look forward to. Although no longer woozy, his joints felt brittle and he despaired at what little strength he possessed. But he was comfortably warm inside the blankets...all the blankets, he realized somewhat ruefully.
"What happened?"
Legolas shook his head. "I think that will require a long tale from us both. We should all be together so that we need tell it only once." He crossed his legs and sat silently for a minute. "You were foolish to follow me."
While Aragorn may have had to take that remark lying down, he didn't have to take it silently. "And you were foolish for leaving." Then he, too, fell silent for a while. "But two foolish acts should not have to result in the death of us all."
Legolas turned toward him, wariness in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"The orcs will hunt you relentlessly. Leave me here. You will travel more quickly and safely if unburdened by a sick man."
Elrohir laughed. "You speak nonsense, Aragorn."
Two insults within a minute. Aragorn was beginning to feel peeved. "I speak reason."
Legolas negligently waved aside the remark. "The orcs are scattered. It will be nightfall before more reinforcements can arrive from their stronghold, even if one of the survivors travels by day to summon them."
Aragorn sighed. "You are the most stubborn elf I have ever known."
This time, Legolas smiled at him. "I learned from an expert."
"He is speaking of you, brother, in case you had any doubts," Elrohir offered with a grin. He turned as Elladan joined them.
"I am pleased to see you awake, Aragorn. I have found a more defensible campsite not far from here."
"There is no need for haste," Elrohir said.
Elladan was already gathering up the few items he'd used to make the tea. "Although we have little to fear in daylight, I still prefer a secure defense." The campfire kindled to heat the water was so tiny he was able to smother it with one firm stomp of his foot.
Legolas stood up. "I will carry Aragorn."
"No—"
But Aragorn's protest was lost in the healthier tones of Elladan. "No, Legolas. Elrohir and I will take turns moving him to the camp. If he is well enough by this afternoon, perhaps we can set out for where we left our horses. Otherwise, we must spend one more night in these hills, and we must be prepared to defend ourselves."
Aragorn watched hot anger chisel the youthful smoothness of Legolas's face. He didn't understand what was going on, but clearly something had sundered the easy camaraderie that usually existed between the friends.
Only Elladan's expression was not hard despite the firmness of his authority. "You are more useful as a scout, Legolas, even with your wound. You are the better archer."
Legolas locked eyes with Elladan for a moment, then relented with a slight nod. He and Elrohir helped Aragorn to stand.
"I can walk," he tried to say even as his knees buckled despite the supporting hands.
"Of course you can," Elrohir said, scooping him easily into his arms. "But did you not understand that we must reach our camp today, not days from now?"
The lyrical tones of the elvish language were not suited to expressing vulgarity, so Aragorn muttered something in the common tongue. It was probably just as well he was drifting off again and made absolutely no sense.
The new camp was difficult to reach but everything Elladan had promised. It was defensible against an army, at least so long as their food and arrows lasted, and they had no intention of staying there longer than one more night at the most.
It was an arch-shaped niche high in an otherwise sheer cliff face. In some past age, a great chunk of the cliff simply had fallen away, creating a rocky slope of debris that spilled to the canyon floor. The canyon itself was narrow, but too wide for archers' arrows to reach the other side. The only approach to the niche was up, and that required a steep, difficult climb through the rubble, most of which was too small to provide adequate cover for an attacker.
The climb was difficult, although the nimble elves made it seem like child's play. Aragorn proved too cumbersome a burden to carry, but the twins were able to support most of his weight between them as they climbed together, Aragorn helping where he could. Legolas kept watch on their back trail.
When they were finally settled, Aragorn fast asleep against the most sheltered wall and his body swathed in blankets, they examined their backtrail. There was no sign of pursuit.
The view from their sheltered little aerie was spectacular. The canyon wall opposite was sheer and unbroken, its cliff face a wash of color. Water seeping down from the rim above had deposited streaks of black, white, and even a subtle green to the deep reds and browns of the natural rock. The cliff was crowned with a dense forest of green that stood out in sharp relief against the almost painful brilliance of a cerulean sky.
"The wind is good," Elrohir murmured. "It will carry our scent away from the orcs." He was being polite, of course. Elves gave off very little odor; men, like every other mortal creature in Middle-earth, exuded sweat to one degree or another that could be identified by the keen noses of the hunters.
Elladan nodded in agreement. "I think we will risk a small fire while it is still daylight."
Elrohir laughed softly. "More tea? Aragorn will be pleased."
"And he needs to eat. We must take stock of our provisions."
The fare consisted of fresh fruit in the form of apples, dried summer plums and peaches, and the hearty journey bread of the elves. It was a dense loaf packed with seeds, nuts, and dried berries, both nutritious and filling. Their water skins were half full, and Legolas gathered an armful of slender branches of deadfall from the bushes cleaving a foothold amongst the fallen rocks.
Elrohir accepted the wood and began to tinder a small, smokeless blaze. "Rest your leg, Legolas. We will have adequate warning if orcs approach."
Legolas sat down against the wall close to Aragorn and stretched his wounded leg with a wince. "I do not think they will dare the canyon in daylight, even if they find our trail. Their eyesight will be hindered by the brilliant dazzle of the sun off the rocks."
"I think you are right." Elladan was satisfied with the comfort of his sleeping patient, and then he checked to see how the bandage on Legolas's leg had fared during their hard trek. He smiled. "I believe the wounded half of our party is well on the mend."
"I shall be ready to travel whenever we must leave," Legolas said, looking toward Aragorn. "How is he?"
"Aside from the weakness brought on by his blood loss, he is fine," Elladan assured him. "There is no sign of fever and there was no additional bleeding. Once he has rested and eaten, I think he will be fit to travel."
Legolas leaned back with a sigh of relief. "It is well."
Elladan forced him to meet his eyes. He spoke quietly. "You carry great guilt, Legolas. Do not carry more than your share."
Legolas looked at Aragorn's still figure, then shook his head. "Twice I was nearly responsible for his death."
"No." Elladan sat down beside him on the cool, hard ground of their shelter and crossed his arms over his knees. Elrohir came over and stood beside him. "No single event stands isolated from those which precede and follow it. Our fear for Aragorn caused harsh words to be spoken. These words caused you to leave Imladris. Your leaving caused Aragorn to go after you. Elrohir and I must take our share of the blame for the tragedy that nearly befell."
Legolas refused to be comforted. "I know you mean well, Elladan, but no one can deny it was my recklessness which began this trail of events."
Elrohir's mouth suddenly twitched involuntarily. It was an expression totally unsuited to the conversation. "Legolas, you are young and full of fire. Elladan and I are older, and therefore wiser. Aragorn, on the other hand, is simply a man, slave to his foolishness and made delusional by his fever."
Aragorn did not open his eyes. "You knew I was listening."
Elrohir could not control his growing smile, although he tried. "Oh, are you awake?"
"Yes, I am awake." Aragorn pushed himself up on one elbow and looked at each of them in turn, his own expression smug. "What a trio of incompetent fools I have taken to call my friends: blind as well as half-witted."
He spoke so fondly that none of the trio thus addressed could take offense, although the banter did not ease the tension of Legolas's expression.
"I think you will have to explain yourself," Elladan said coolly. He could not quite master a haughty air.
Aragorn eased into a sitting position so he could see them more clearly. "Your logic followed a false trail." He looked sternly at Legolas. "And you have disappointed me greatly for not taking care to read the signs before you leapt to false conclusions."
Legolas stiffened, anger and pride struggling with his need to embrace the rebuke and thus seek forgiveness. "I am sorry."
Aragorn was relentless. "And well you should be. Had you read the signs, you would have known immediately that you had not struck me with your arrow."
The resulting silence was so complete that a tiny pebble dislodged by a mouse sneaking along the fringes of the overhang intruded like an avalanche, startling them all.
"I do not understand," Legolas admitted at last, his confusion overriding all other emotions. "Your sword was in the man I thought I had killed, and my arrow was in you."
"That may be what you saw, but it is not what happened."
"You are enjoying these riddles too much." Elladan made as if to rise. "I think you need more anglas tea."
Aragorn surrendered with a quiet chuckle. "All right." He looked back at Legolas again, and his tone softened. "Had you read the signs correctly, you would have seen the footprints of a third man. I struck his sword from his hands and hit him hard enough to render him senseless. Foolishly, I dismissed him as a threat and turned my attention back to the fight."
Legolas scowled as he tried to reconstruct events. "I did not see him."
"No. Your attention was on your next adversary. The man I hit fell atop the one you shot, but he was not stunned. Instead, he pulled the arrow from his comrade and used it as a weapon against me. I did not sense the danger until it was too late. As I fell, my sword must have slipped from my grasp and plunged into the man already dead. The man who struck me fled into the woods."
The three elves contemplated this silently for a moment, then Legolas spoke. "You are right. I did not read the signs correctly."
Elrohir pushed away from the wall and walked to the edge of the precipice. He stood there for a long time, hands clenched tightly at his sides. Finally, in a voice so soft an errant breeze would have wafted it away, he said, "I am sorry."
Elladan stood up, his expression concerned. "Elrohir?"
Elrohir turned. Emotion was bright in his eyes and had streaked tears down his cheeks. He made no effort to wipe them away. "I am sorry," he repeated. He looked at Legolas. "Arwen said we hide our fears behind anger, but in my anger I was cruel to one I love. It was unforgivable, yet beg for forgiveness I must."
Legolas scrambled awkwardly to his feet and limped to Elrohir's side. "Please do not beg for forgiveness." He placed a hand on Elrohir's shoulder. "I welcomed your anger. Perhaps in my need to punish myself, I even invited it."
"Still—"
"Still," interrupted Elladan as he came to stand beside them, "we were fools, Legolas. We should have offered comfort, not condemnation. It is a sad testimony to our characters that we covered our fear with malice."
"And yet you rode many miles into danger to save my life," Legolas countered calmly. He looked at Aragorn. "Our lives."
Elrohir chose that moment to break the heavy mood of the moment. "Your life," he amended. "We had no idea Estel had been witless enough to follow you as well."
Aragorn smiled. "Not too witless to realize you have yet to offer sustenance to a sick man."
Elladan returned the smile, then portentously checked the temperature of the water in their little cooking pot. "Almost time for tea." He handed Aragorn an apple and some bread before sitting down against the inner wall of the shelter. "While you eat, you can tell us how you came to be here instead of in your bed in Imladris where you belong."
Legolas sat down on the other side of Aragorn, while Elrohir chose to lean against the wall again beside his brother.
Between bites, Aragorn recounted his journey from Imladris. Embarrassed at first by his own lack of good sense, he soon found humor in the tale and told the story with a flair that quickly had Elrohir sliding to the ground and laughing helplessly.
Even Legolas managed a smile, a sure sign that his previous guilt and tension were draining away.
Elladan was more thoughtful. "Another bay horse in the stable, you say?"
Aragorn nodded, finishing the apple. "Yes. Three stalls toward the door from my own."
Elrohir managed to stop laughing and composed himself. "We do not have any bay horses save your own in the stables of Imladris."
"It was there," Aragorn insisted.
"A bay horse magically appeared in front of you?" Elladan sounded skeptical. "Already saddled?"
"No, it was wearing only a halter." Aragorn looked exasperated. "It was not magic. The horse was there."
Elrohir spoke slowly, as if to make certain Aragorn could understand. "We do not have any bay horses in Imladris."
"None of the ambushers' horses were bay," Legolas added helpfully. "We brought back two chestnuts and a grey."
"The strays that followed us?" Elrohir suggested.
Legolas shook his head. "I recall two sorrels, a black, another chestnut, and a rather unusual blue roan."
Elladan nodded in agreement, as if that settled the matter. "They would not have been put in the barn in any case." He got up and went to brew the tea. "Tell us more about this potion that broke your fever."
"I'd rather not." Aragorn grimaced at the memory, and the scowl did not go away as he watched Elladan dump dried anglas into the pot of hot water. "It was thick and viscous, like tar. And it tasted as you would imagine."
"Yes," Elladan said somberly. "It must have been caelgrist, the 'sickness cleaver,' a powerful blood tonic that can kill if used incorrectly." He brought over a mug of tea wrapped in a cloth and handed it to Aragorn. "If you were injured as you described, then the blood already on the arrow must have poisoned your own. You were gravely weakened by your wound, and thus the poison had a chance to take hold."
Aragorn sipped the tea and made a face. "Whatever it was, it tasted only slightly worse than your anglas tea, Elladan."
Elladan handed him more bread. "Eat more of this while you drink, and then rest. If you have the strength to complain, then we should be able to make for our horses long ere dusk. We shall be well away from orc country by nightfall."
"I will rest while Legolas tells us his part of the tale."
Elves loved a good story. They'd sit for hours listening to a lore master recite the grand tales of elvish history, and talented storytellers were held in high esteem. Even recounting a small adventure was a source of great entertainment. Elves didn't brag about their deeds, and they didn't exaggerate them in the telling. Instead, they possessed a keen insight into what makes a tale both informative and entertaining, and they used these skills to full advantage.
Legolas was reluctant to tell the others of his adventures, and though he wasn't certain why, he could guess. He concentrated on his observations of the orc camp and brought its appearance and stench to full life. Of his encounter with the first hunting party, he said very little, making it sound as if he and the group had stumbled upon one another with the inevitable result. Normally, he would have told proudly of standing his ground and felling the charging orcs one by one, until the last dropped almost literally at his feet. Instead, he skimmed over the details, and the others looked at him oddly, as if they saw through his deception.
"And, of course, the second night they captured Aragorn, so any further hunting expeditions had to be curtailed." He smiled ruefully at Aragorn. "Luck was with us both, because without Elladan and Elrohir's timely arrival, neither of us would be sitting here now."
He thought he had transferred the tale neatly back to the brothers, but Elrohir took another approach.
"You should have seen him, Aragorn! Standing over you, knives upraised, taunting the orcs to dare challenge him. Gil-galad himself could not have been more magnificent."
Legolas suddenly seemed interested in the number of tiny cracks weaving through the rocky floor beneath him.
Elrohir grinned at Legolas's discomfiture. "Lucky for you they played his game, else Elladan and I might not have arrived in time. They challenged him with archers. First one, then two, and finally three. That is how he came to be wounded. By then, I think, the orcs had tired of being bested, but no matter; we arrived to save you both."
He finished the tale by describing how the orcs had scattered like frightened rabbits, and how he had been surprised to see Aragorn in the camp. "I think," he concluded, "that is why our father bandaged you so judiciously: he knows how well you obey a command to rest."
Aragorn smiled ruefully, but his eyes drifted back to Legolas.
Elladan climbed to his feet. "Come, Elrohir, let us explore the canyon and fill the waterskins before the day grows older."
After they had gone, Aragorn let the silence linger until Legolas was forced to look up and meet his gaze. "What is wrong?"
Legolas shook his head briefly. "I am troubled by a great many things."
"Begin with one."
For a long time, it seemed as if the elf wasn't going to answer. His eyes grew distant. Then he said, "I have hunted orcs with Elladan and Elrohir on many occasions."
It wasn't the statement so much as the choice of subject that caused Aragorn to frown. "I know."
"There is always a sense of—" Legolas groped for the right word, "—excitement. After the battle, I mean. Elladan remains calm, almost cold, but you can see the satisfaction in his eyes, in the way his fists clench in victory." He smiled. "Elrohir gets almost giddy with triumph. Sometimes, his energy is unspent by the fight and he cavorts around like an elfling."
Aragorn nodded. "I, too, have seen them hunt. Their hatred runs much deeper than even the natural animosity between elves and orcs. But what has this to do with you?"
Legolas closed his eyes briefly. "I needed to feel that triumph, that sense of victory. I sought to accomplish it the same way."
"When you fought the orc hunting party yesterday," Aragorn said for his own clarification.
"Yes." Legolas looked at him, and his eyes were haunted. "They didn't see me. They would have passed me by and continued with their hunt. But I goaded them into the fight." His voice was bitter. "It was an act of cold-blooded butchery. There was no surge of triumph, no satisfaction, only a cold emptiness that brought no sense of peace." He trembled slightly, perhaps from memory, perhaps from regret. "In my need to rid myself of anger and self-loathing, I became like the very creature I hunted. I was no better than an orc."
Aragorn shifted a bit to find a more comfortable position. "And yet, you say you never felt that way when you hunted with the others."
Legolas shrugged. "I was caught up in their emotions. I hated the orcs—I still hate the orcs—but I have never felt Elladan and Elrohir's driving need to kill them." He paused for a moment, listening, perhaps locating the subjects of discussion to make certain they were beyond earshot. "I understand them better, I think. For them, there will never be enough killing, never enough retribution to quell their hatred." He sighed. "I do not think I shall go hunting orcs with them again. It solves nothing, at least for me. Perhaps for them it brings a short-lived peace, but always they will have go forth to hunt again. It is a hunger than can never be satisfied."
Aragorn spoke gently. "Then perhaps you gained some wisdom, Legolas."
Legolas smiled sadly. "It was gained at great cost, my friend."
They heard the echo of merry voices from the canyon floor, and soon the twins leaped nimbly up the rocky slope to the shelter of the overhang. Each had two full waterskins slung over his shoulders, and Elrohir carried a bundle of something wrapped in a large cloth.
"Look what we have found!" he proclaimed, kneeling gracefully in front of Aragorn and revealing his bounty. "My liege, the treasures of your kingdom."
Aragorn had to laugh in spite of the mental shiver he felt each time he was reminded of his destiny, even in jest. "Blueberries!" There were at least two quarts of plump, ripe berries inside the cloth.
Each elf grabbed a large handful and began to munch voraciously, which is to say they ate a single berry at a time, savoring each morsel, but eating more quickly than was their usual wont.
Aragorn took a smaller handful for himself. "Save some for Arwen," he implored softly.
"Um," Elladan replied noncommittally.
"She loves blueberries," Aragorn countered.
Elrohir burst into laughter, turning his head just in time to avoid spraying blueberry pulp all over his companions. "She does not!"
Aragorn frowned. "She loves it when I bring her blueberries," he insisted.
"She loves you, idiot," Elladan said, not unkindly.
"Oh." Aragorn blushed crimson and suddenly seemed to find the berries in his hand filled with interesting detail that demanded his full attention. "I thought she loved blueberries."
"You love blueberries," Legolas murmured irrelevantly.
Aragorn looked up and smiled wryly. "I knew somebody loved them." The three elves burst into laughter. "You take sport with a sick man," he said defensively, "but there will be retribution."
At his discomfort, the elves laughed even harder.
Helping himself to more berries, Elrohir observed, "If this is to make a truly enduring tale, it must have a purpose beyond the telling."
Elladan pondered for a moment. "Three days ago, we set forth on a great adventure to hunt orc and find blueberries. Since then, we found both under circumstances which none of us would have wished."
Elrohir nodded. "A worthy moral, brother; take care when making a wish lest fate grant it."
With a smile, Aragorn leaned his head back against the rock wall of the overhang and continued to eat the berries. For someone who had been a whisker from death only hours before, he felt surprisingly content. How could he feel otherwise, sitting comfortably in the shade overlooking a spectacular canyon, and sharing a meal with three steadfast friends he cherished?
~ End ~
