Chapter Text
Aragorn rushed down the streets of Minas Tirith, the hood pulled low over his face providing the disguise he needed. This was his city, but he did not want them to recognise him yet, these people he had come to save and protect.
Earlier that day, Gandalf had called him to the Houses of Healing. There lay Éowyn, Merry and Faramir, touched by the Black Breath. They had lain in the clutches of Evil, and silently they had called – screamed – for him, for they needed his skill and his care. Their lives had hung on a thread and Aragorn had been their only hope to escape death in darkness. He had given his all in those moments of utmost need and anxiety, as he had called them forth from the Shadow.
Éowyn, the fierce, young lady who had wished to follow him and whom he had denied…. She had done so nevertheless. Had taken Merry with her. The courageous little hobbit. Aragorn's heart had constricted with guilt. He couldn't bear the grief of her brother Éomer on his knees, the eyes of the new King of Rohan begging him to save his dear sister.
Faramir, who had defended Gondor for all his life while he had been away, as many a Steward had done, while the heirs of Isildur had roamed for generations of exile in the North. Faramir, the last one alive in a line of brave men, keeping his city from an ever-looming fall, dedicated and faithful against all odds.
Aragorn had swallowed the food offered to him after his labour. He had been hungry, and he knew he needed to keep his strength, but he had not taken the time to taste it. It had been no enjoyment, solely an intake of sustenance for the purpose of remaining functional. His mind was troubled and he knew he could not rest. Not yet; not before a long time.
The people in the Houses of Healing had recognised their King. They had called him by his name, foretold at his birth: Elfstone. A moment deep with meaning and hope. The King had returned! At the gates, they had followed him, praying he would heal their wounded kinsmen whose lives were in peril. Every pleading voice and every begging look had penetrated Aragorn's heart, making it ache. But the Elessar, the jewel he had pinned upon his breast radiated warmth, and Aragorn thought it must glow.
"I will return and give all I can," he had said, then had lowered his eyes, feeling the weight of the bright green stone on his chest,"But I need to return to the battlefield first. There, the wounded are lying on bare earth." And had prayed silently that Legolas and Gimli were not amongst them. "I will return, I promise! I will return with help, with my brothers who are great healers, and the sons of Elrond of Rivendell himself." Aragorn had hoped they would forgive him. That they would believe he was not abandoning them, and let him go do what he must.
He pulled his hood even lower, so that no-one would know who he was on his way; so that no one would stop him, as he descended the streets of the city. From the gates of the Houses of Healing, the calls of those who had not heard the words he had spoken still reached him. Aragorn wished they would hear his promise from their kinsmen, and that they might understand.
On this quest, he had always been torn between duty and friendship, between responsibility and love, between people around him who were close to his heart and others depending on him; people whom he did not know, but who held his care. Aragorn had always felt like he needed to be everywhere at once. But he was just one man, and to shoulder all the world around him was way too much. Of course, he had not shown it. He had remained strong, as was asked of the heir of Gondor.
His gaze straight and determined, his lips pressed together to the point they hurt, he moved along with long strides, past the debris of walls cracked or fallen, past the people wandering, lost, in the streets. There was so much damage to restore. But for now, Aragorn refused to grasp the full weight of it. He would return, and do whatever was within his strength to rebuild his city, to heal the people who had fought for it. It had not been an idle promise. He would return with his brothers, and save as many lives together as they could.
Prince Imrahil would rule the city until the King's time came. And Aragorn would be ever grateful to the Lord of Dol Amroth for his support.
For now, however, his mind and his heart were suffused with worry for the ones he most loved.
A sudden interruption burst into his musings.
"Elessar!...Aragorn!...or whatever your name is, now…" Gimli was racing up the street of the lowest level of the White City with considerable speed, propelling himself on his short legs. Aragorn's heart simultaneously gave a joyful thump at the sight of his friend, and clenched with urgency. The dwarf's rumbling voice was breathless, almost choking on the next words. "I cannot…find…Legolas!" he stopped only an inch before he bumped into his friend, panting to catch his breath. "I have searched between the living and the dead. I helped carry the wounded to the tents. He is nowhere to be found!"
Gimli's warm brown eyes glanced up at him, as if pleading to bring the three of them together again. Aragorn's heart warmed at such trust, which only added to his guilt and regret. How he wished he could do just that!
But he did not openly display these emotions. "I am glad to see you unscathed, master Dwarf!" Aragorn said, keeping his voice in check, his emotions well-guarded under his grim mien, for the tasks to fulfill on this night and in the days to come were tedious and many, and control remained a necessity.
Gimli nodded. "So am I, to see you whole, Dúnadan!" but the worry for the missing elf left no room for his usually open expression of affection. There was a low rumble in his voice: "I reached him, when he brought down the Mûmak, the reckless sprite! Had to make sure he would stick to the rules of fair play, and keep the count right." His face scrunched up and his eyes narrowed. "I do not like to say that, but the madness in his eyes, as the orcs came upon us...I have not seen anything like it before. He lunged at the bulking masses like a wild thing out of its mind. I tried to keep up, but they pushed more and more in between us, until he was out of my sight."
A cold dread settled into the pit of Aragorn's stomach. Every moment where he had almost lost his friend played out vividly in his mind, and he reached out, gripping Gimli by the shoulders. "Show me where you last saw him, Gimli!" he commanded.
He must have startled the dwarf, because his short friend's eyes almost doubled in size, and he dashed off as if in shock.
Too late it dawned on Legolas that it had been a calculated action. They had aimed at just that; to isolate one of the few elves on the battlefield.
There was a vicious gleam of anticipation in the eyes of the beasts all around him. And Legolas knew all too well what they hankered for. How slow and cruel a death they could inflict upon an elf. He had seen with his own eyes what had happened to some of his comrades after they got captured. Death could be slow and agonizing. And even more so, if they knew who he was – which Legolas suspected they did, since between the noise of their howls and screeches he had heard the word they used for his father in their black tongue.
They shrieked and screamed with malign lust, their sneers grotesquely gleeful. A mad fear swamped him then, draining all rational thoughts. The sheer terror transformed his body into a blazing weapon. He heard his own violent cries, felt the pull in his muscle fibres with every stretch and contraction as he stabbed, cut, and spun, leaping and dancing to a cruel melody of pure, destructive aggression.
Long shadows reached over the Pelennor, like long fingers claiming the dead who lay upon the earth. The affected silence between the man and the dwarf was nearly unbearable as they searched the ground where Gimli thought Legolas had last fought the orcs on his own.
All of a sudden, a deep, guttural sob chilled Aragorn to the bone. His gaze flicked back to where Gimli sunk to his knees. His heart seemed to stop beating. He did not breathe as he raced over to where the dwarf bent over a heap of corpses.
Fair hair the colour of wheat lay spread out on the ground in a bright halo. It was surprisingly unsoiled. Gimli's fingers reached out to touch it. The body was covered from sight by two decapitated orc corpses, the face turned away towards the sinking sun. Aragorn took a step so the sunset was at his back and his long shade slid over the golden strands.
In an instant, he would break!
Cold dread shuddered through him, and stiffly he sunk down on one knee. His shirt, wet with sweat, stuck to his skin and he shivered...
...As the gentle rays before dusk lit a pale, still face. Young and delicate in features, it looked strikingly out of place. The slightly parted lips were crusted with blood at the corners and a dark line marked the fine jaw where blood had run to pool on the ground with the last contractions of a now still heart. Pale eyes stared into the sinking sun, unblinking and glazed. Aragorn gasped, and then, finally, the air left his lungs in a noisy rush. He rubbed his hands over his face. His throat was still tight, and he swallowed painfully to release the knot that had formed within. Beside him, Gimli heaved breaths of relief.
"Peace to the soul of this poor lad," the dwarf uttered almost tonelessly, and rather untypically for his usually reverberant voice.
Aragorn closed the eyes of the young soldier, trying hard to steady his fingers from trembling.
"I have a feeling that our elf cleared the field. Look at this savagery!" Gimli groaned with renewed confidence.
He pointed at the two decapitated orc corpses. "This is nothing else than proficient elf-work. A terrible outburst of it! All neat, perfect kills. " And Gimli turned slowly on himself, one hand on his hip the other scratching his bearded chin. He scrutinized the area with an expert eye, nodding slowly and looking rather satisfied. But then he turned abruptly to Aragorn, narrowing his eyes. "Beware! Do not tell him I said that!" he hissed. "For this time, my count may be highly outdone. A good number he made for me to pick up on!" Gimli muttered running a hand over his brow. "But do not tell him that, either!" he admonished, squinting over at Aragorn.
Aragorn stood for a while unmoving, taking in the measure of the massacre in turn. A nervous laugh of disbelief at what the elf seemed to have accomplished bubbled up in him. He was ridiculously relieved, and at the same time his heart pained at the intensity of the panic that must have driven Legolas to pull off such a delirious feat.
"And to think I worried he could have given up on his bloodlust after he killed that beast." Gimli shook his head, laughter bursting from his throat. There was no mirth in it, only freed relief.
Aragorn frowned at that. "What do you mean, Gimli? What made you think this?"
"I caught up with that rascal after the Mûmak almost crushed us. As I said, I pointed out the counting rules of our game, for the sake of fair play, allowing no exceptions for size. But he did not follow me up on it. No challenging banter was thrown back at me. There was a dullness in his eyes, and a shadow."
Aragorn fixed Gimli with narrowing eyes as realization hit him. "Come, Gimli! You may have provided the track to follow." He did not look back as he went with long, hopeful strides, following the direction Gimli had unconsciously suggested. He heard the dwarf stalking hastily behind him, muttering about the sudden and unexplained reactions elves and rangers were prone to.
Legolas glanced around him as the last orc dropped to his feet, alert for any further skirmish. But the sound of fighting had lessened, and in the close area, it had ceased completely. The rain had stopped and the air reeked of blood and torn flesh.
His sharp sight made out three men on horses, far away, riding towards the gate of the city. They stopped and turned briefly, looking upon the Pelennor where they had fought with the skill and might of their arms. Their bearing was straight and kingly, though their movements were heavy and laden with weariness. The utter relief had Legolas trembling, almost letting him crumble into the mud; they were Aragorn and Éomer, and another dark-haired, tall man. He wanted to run, to enclose his dear friend into his arms and clasp Éomer's shoulder, overjoyed to see them unscathed. But he had not the strength. They were too far and did not see him. Already they turned and rode through the broken gate, for despite their weariness, they were in a hurry.
Dark water pooled in the tracks gouged deep into the earth by the carts and war engines. Legolas stumbled along, slowly, heavily, staring ahead at the huge carcass of the Mûmak he had killed. It had been an insane stunt, a foolhardy enterprise, but he had accomplished it, sparing many a soldier from getting crushed under the enormous trunks, or felled by a hunting battalion shooting its prey safely from the height of the war-tower upon its back.
Legolas crashed to his knees before the dead beast. The mud made a squelching sound at the impact. He felt sick, did not dare to look down, did not want to see the colour of the churned ground.
All his long life, ever since he had learnt how to shoot and wield a blade, he had fought with cold, hard efficiency. Blood soaring and pumping within him in the thrilling rush of battle, unleashing savage lust. He knew battle! The darkness in his forest had grown for as long as he could remember. He had honed his skill to kill to a wild, fey perfection over the years, decades, centuries of training and warfare. But he would never get used to it, nor would he ever want to. He was tired, so very tired... The fields of Pelennor stretched out like huge fields of death, the carnage immeasurable. Halbarad was gone and with him, so many of the valiant Dúnedain. He had seen Aragorn weep on the battlefield, if only briefly, before he had reassumed his leader position, put back on the mask of determination.
Legolas closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sky. In the aftermath of battle, the grief, the despair, and the awakened sea-longing, raged within him in sinking and rising waves. The foam rushed and glittered on their crests, the breeze caught in his hair, caressed his skin, and the gulls crooned and beckoned, a lament and a sweet promise of a faraway land….
In his home, the trees had never been far. No matter how close the Shadow, he always had found a green sprout of relief. But now he could no more hear their song.
He opened his eyes. Above him, the sky was filled with a great burning, so that the hills and the mountains were dyed as with blood; fire glowed in the river, and the grass of the Pelennor lay red in the nightfall.*
Flames and ash, and death everywhere.
Now that it was done, Legolas felt forlorn, homesick.
Would the woods still be there, if he ever returned? Would he ever see his father again?
His hand clawed at the plaques of boiled leather shielding his heart, pulling desperately. He could not breathe. The air carrying the scent of smoke and death choked him. He looked down at the muddy earth. All around him were corpses of men, orcs and horses. Even the mighty Mûmakil lay reduced to huge, lifeless heaps. The eyes of the dead stared at him, unseeing. Their bodies were broken, some impossibly contorted, or mashed beyond recognition.
Legolas had killed unnumbered orcs throughout his life. Never had he enjoyed the killing. It was in his blood out of sheer necessity. But on this day, he had killed men, so many that it drove him mad.
Long ago, he had suffered deep pain and despair at the hands of men, of an intensity that had nearly broken him. He had killed then, in hate and revenge, and for freedom. But his hands now were soaked with the blood of human warriors, Easterlings and Haradrim, whose faces he could not forget. The worst had been the close fight, the fear he had seen in their eyes as they died by the merciless sharpness of his knives. Legolas had tried to kill neatly and swiftly. Mercifully. But he could not forget what he had seen in their eyes mere instants before death cast its veil over them.
He longed for his home, for his forest. But he feared–
Would it still be there? Would it welcome him under its sheltering boughs? Would it soothe him?
He had seen the forest burn, in the nights when sleep did not come, or when he woke soaked in sweat from tormenting visions. There were no gulls in the red-bathed sky, but their calls rang through to him from afar where he could not see, held him suspended. Longing and pain soared and soared and crashed over him, and then rushed down like a flood wanting to drown him.
The great battle of the field of Gondor was over. It was victory, that day, but the taste of it was bitter.
Legolas lifted his hand, laid it against the huge neck of the Mûmak, as he knelt before it. He had brought down a mountain of an animal, but he found no pride in his deed. He had killed a marvellous creature who otherwise should have lived. He had had the privilege to get to know them, those strong yet peaceful and gentle beings. Back in the times when he had travelled with Estel….
His time in Harad– he remembered every minute of it, every second. Back in the times…. How long had it been in an elven life…? To Legolas, it could have been yesterday. Harad, with the people he had gotten to know and respect; their uplifting songs of joy and hope, their dance and laughter in the midst of hardship. And then they had travelled North, where lay the desert…
His breath trembled, as ever when he recalled…there in that land of extremes and wonders…
...An appearance so sudden and unexpected, intense, foreign...and yet a strange familiarity had tied an invisible bond...
A burning filled his chest.
...Her eyes prying intimate touches…his hammering heart sending flutters to his throat, robbing him of his breath...heat building...
Legolas gasped and then, just as suddenly, he shivered.
Beneath his hand was the cold skin of the Mûmak, taking him back to the Pelennor fields. It was thick – the skin of a giant – but it was soft also under his palm, vulnerable, abused by the scheming of Evil – a cruelly senseless expense of a life.
A sob tore through him. How could he bear the sadness drenching him?
...Her arms around him and her voice, like the wind in the leaves, radiating the warmth of sunrays breaking through a dark green canopy. Her song simmering within him, soothing and thrilling...
There was such need for her, on this day of slaughter, such need for a healer with her skill! But she was not there.
Legolas let his head hang. Time passed, but where he floated it did not reach him. The sun had sunk behind the Mindolluin and the red sky was slowly dimming. The Mûmak was now a dark wall before him. He closed his eyes…
...A horse was running over shimmering vastness, its black coat gleaming, the cloak of its rider spread out in the wind of its speed like glittering wings carrying them further and further away, towards a misty blue horizon, to slowly fade…his heart ached...he breathed into the pain, sensed the air as it filled and left his lungs, recalled a soft raucous voice as the movements of his chest slowed and calmed, evened...
He listened to his own breathing…listened for the song of the wind…
…And then, it was carried to him…
…A light breeze came with the setting dusk. It stroked his skin and trailed through his hair. Legolas heard the sighs of the waves on the shore behind him, and the calls of the white seabirds sailing in the sky before night settled. They called sweet wishes to him for the journey. His breathing melted into the sough of the sails, and his heart filled with sweet joy.
Such a relief!
He was kneeling at the prow of a small, grey vessel, that rocked gently as it raced across the water. This was the sea….
The sea!
The stars glittered like myriads of diamonds. Beneath, the black water shimmered in silver ripples, sprayed his face from where the skiff cut through it. The wind pulled at his hair, and behind him was Gimli. Legolas heard the dwarf's voice grunting something in a teasing tone, and then laughing at his own joke, like gravels moved by the water. His own laughter rang back to the dwarf. There was light all about him, and a quiet peace filled him.
And Aragorn…Estel…he was in his heart...
...there, so deep with the peace.
Legolas' breath hitched as a soft pain stirred within him. His face was wet with salt water, not from the spray of the waves, but from his tears.
"Legolas–" It was Gimli's voice.
The suddenly concerned tone surprised Legolas.
"Legolas!"
It was a loud groan now, full of relief, as if the dwarf had let a heavy rock fall to rest at his feet. The impact of it shook the ground under him. And Legolas tore his eyes away from the glistening water, turning to the noise behind him. There were hastened footsteps nearing, and two dark shapes running towards him. One tall, lean and broad-shouldered racing ahead, the other short and squat and shuffling to keep up.
His knees no longer rested on the wooden planks of a gently rocking vessel, but were buried in cold mud. The scent of sea salt in the breeze was quickly chased away by the acrid stench of smoke and death that lay above the fields of Gondor.
Two bodies bumped into him. Arms looped around him. Hands rubbed his back, reached to touch his face, and smeared the tears and the dirt upon his cheeks, clumsily trying to dry them.
Aragorn's voice, familiar and beloved, sounded close against his ear. "So many things I wanted to say about your daring actions, and about what you make me endure. But how could I scold you for still being here with me? I feel only gratitude!"
And Legolas let himself fall, shielded, welcomed and cradled by warmth.
"He is much too soft, this supposed-to-be-grim Ranger-King!" Gimli's grumble sounded from behind him. "I will take over the scolding part! As sure as I am a dwarf and hold my axe firm in my hand! You will not get away so easily!" and while those threatening words vibrated against the fabric at his back, stout hands patted his arms and then clasped Legolas firmly, giving a strong, fond shake.