Chapter Text
They came flying through the gate, silent, like gusts of wind, two tall figures in a flurry of flowing blue. Then, in a breath, the gasps of dying men, neatly speared by flashing swords, resounded in the air, a display of lethal grace for the eye that could follow their deathly trail.
Legolas felt the lecherous hands fall away from him. As though time itself had slowed, he registered the chaos of violence erupting around him. He drew a deep breath; oxygen and adrenaline surged into his lungs, pulsed through his veins, and he welcomed the raw power it delivered. Torchlight quivered and flickered. The blue-veiled figures swept through the chamber like a storm incarnate, striking with silent precision, but the tide did not recede. More enemies poured in, drawn by the commotion.
The initial surge of energy began to ebb, and Legolas became acutely aware of his vulnerable state. Through the frenzy of desperate men and whirling veils, he caught sight of Aragorn, cutting a path toward him. The joy — fierce and sudden — of seeing him alive, charging to his rescue, filled Legolas with profound relief. Aragorn lunged forward, severing the first rope binding his wrist. The dagger was swift, its edge clean. Yet Legolas felt every shift, every motion, drinking in the sensation of freedom returning to his limbs.
Their eyes met — Aragorn's gaze a storm of urgency, despair, and fierce relief. His fist pressed firmly to Legolas' chest. Instinct, or the silent language forged between comrades, guided Legolas' hand as it rose and closed around the dagger Aragorn offered. His friend's fingers loosened, surrendering the blade without a word.
"Hannon-le," Legolas murmured, the Elvish words soaked in gratitude and relief.
Then, weapons drawn, they turned, back to back, ready to face the oncoming combat.
All the rage and energy Legolas had built up within him burst forth in a violent surge. Hot blood coursed through his veins, and he turned wild with it. He lashed at the men who had leered at him with nothing but the dagger and his bare hand. He longed for his knives, remembering the sound they had made at the impact with the ground, but he quickly banished the devastating feeling that had emerged with it, focusing his attention on the fight.
At the periphery of his sight, a veiled female figure struggled to free the kids from their chains. And while he punched and kicked and stabbed, spinning around in savage aggression, Legolas caught sight of Aragorn, working at the prisoners' chains alongside the veiled woman.
The events had somersaulted in quick succession. They were deep inside the mountain, a stone fortress swarming with foes. But Legolas was ready, now free, thrilled by the rush of battle, and the unexpected alliance with those unknown beings intrigued him. But the moment's distraction came at a cost—an attacker lunged at him from the side. He jolted around just in time, lashing out with a kick that sent the man sprawling backward. His gaze snapped back, searching for the children.
Where they had stood, Aragorn's sword now swept in gleaming arcs, torchlight flashing along the blade as he shielded their retreat. The slim, veiled frame of the woman was pressed against the heavy stone door, the children clustered at her side. A fleeting thought crossed Legolas' mind — she would never move that weight alone, not with only the frail strength of those weakened bodies for help.
Without hesitation, he began fighting his way across the room to reach them.
By the time he arrived, the heavy door stood wide open, and there, on the threshold, lay his knives. The elven blades gleamed in the lantern light like jewels to his eyes. Legolas stared, momentarily stunned, then reached down and closed his fingers around the finely carved hilts, savoring the perfect balance and familiar weight in his palms.
His gaze lifted toward the retreating figure in blue, just as she vanished into the shadows, guiding the children ahead.
"Hannon-le," he murmured.
A feral thirst for vengeance seized him. Legolas plunged back into the fray, his blades an extension of his very being, fluid, lethal, instinctive. Across the chaos, his eyes locked with Aragorn's. The man's silver gaze flared, sharp as steel striking stone. He gave a single nod — they were ready to take control — and then raised his voice to the blue-veiled warriors.
"Go! Get them out of here!"
The veiled men hesitated. But after a brief exchange of glances, silent and certain, one turned and dashed through the open portal, disappearing down the path the others had taken.
A surge of fierce satisfaction coursed through Legolas at the sickening sound of his blades slashing into flesh, propelling him to strike with even greater force. He cast aside the thought that these were men, born untouched by evil before it sank its claws into them. Vengeance drove him now.
Then he saw him, the one who had dared to lay hands on him, stumbling through the gate, fleeing.
Legolas sprang after him like a shadow loosed from rage. He had promised this kill, and he would see it done.
Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, his wounds throbbed, a dull, dragging ache that threatened to slow him. But Flambrol's shrill screams rang out ahead, echoing through the clangorous corridors. Legolas could not allow him to rouse the entire stronghold.
He pushed harder, forcing his speed. The gap between them shrank, and as he reached, he aimed and kicked the man hard between the shoulder blades, slamming him into the wall.
"Be silent, coward!" he hissed.
The impact landed hard, and the man grunted, gasping for breath. There was a bleeding gash on his brow and his eyes widened with dread as he turned to face Legolas, who stood tall and unyielding before him. The man wavered, unable to hold Legolas' cold, hard stare. His gaze flickered down Legolas' body, where his shirt was torn at the front.
The cruel glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by raw fear. Legolas savored the weight of his own taut, twitching muscles and the steady rhythm of his heavy, threatening breaths. He wanted his tormentor to see that what had once seemed delicate, what he had sought to break, was now powerful and menacing. He wanted him to know that grace can kill.
In a desperate attempt to keep him away, the man lashed out with frantic, uncontrolled swings of his sword. Legolas effortlessly ducked the blindly aggressive blows, his movements fluid and precise, he dealt out one clean stab. A look of shock and disbelief froze on the man's face as he stumbled back, striking the wall before sliding down to the ground, wide-open eyes glazing over.
Legolas wiped his blade clean on the fallen man's tunic, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as the adrenaline wore off. The pain he had outrun now returned in force, sharp, unrelenting. His strength faltered, and he sank to his knees, one hand clutching at the wound in his side. Beneath his collarbone, the agony oscillated in an obstinate rhythm while blood flowed down his chest in a warm stream.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Legolas sprang to his feet, twisting sharply, poised to strike. But he slumped with relief as Aragorn emerged, the blue-veiled man close behind.
Suppressing the tremble in his limbs, he gave a quick shake of his head, trying to clear the haze. There was no room for weakness now.
Aragorn stepped forward and held out his bow and quiver. Legolas took them with a brief, shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a moment as relief and gratitude flooded through him. He strapped the belt across his chest, the familiar weight grounding him. His fingers curled around the smooth wood of the bow, and something steady returned to his pulse.
They exchanged no words. Legolas drew a long, steadying breath as Aragorn's hand gripped his arm, pulling him close to assess the extent of his injuries. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and strained.
"You look terrible. These wounds need treatment."
They both knew he was right. But Legolas pulled away.
"There is no time," he snapped.
He was an Elf; his body would endure. Or so he told himself. He had survived worse.
Ignoring the protest, Aragorn swiftly cut strips from Legolas' already torn shirt, binding the worst of the wounds to staunch the bleeding. Legolas did not resist this time, standing still as the makeshift bandages were tied with practiced urgency.
The moment Aragorn finished the last knot, the blue-veiled man hissed, "Follow me!" his voice low and urgent as he beckoned them forward.
Aragorn did not argue. Though the healer in him was clearly reluctant to ignore wounds so severe, there was no time to linger. They hurried after their guide as he led them swiftly through the stone corridors.
Legolas endured, forcing himself forward, each step a test of will. From time to time, Aragorn's gaze flicked toward him, laced with unspoken concern.
At last, the fleeing group came into view, their pace slowed by the youths who needed help to keep moving.
They arrived not a moment too soon. From the darkness ahead, a band of orcs burst into sight, scuttling toward the fugitives, cutting off their path. Just in time, the group ahead veered sharply into a side tunnel. One by one, the fugitives slipped into the passage, vanishing from the orcs' line of sight as the enemy surged forward.
Legolas felt oddly detached from his body as he loosed arrow after arrow into the snarling mass. The pain no longer seemed his own. His movements came mechanically, following long-trained patterns, precise and efficient. Orc after orc fell beneath his aim, the bodies piling so quickly that those behind stumbled over the fallen, slowing their charge.
They were closing in fast.
"Go! We will manage!" Aragorn shouted, cutting down an onrushing foe with a powerful sweep of his sword.
Beside him, the blue-veiled man carved through another orc, his blade a blur of motion.
Enraged, the Orcs shrieked and groaned, closing in relentlessly. Soon, Legolas knew, he would have to draw his knives for close combat. He hesitated, nocked another arrow, aimed, and struck true.
Then Aragorn's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and frantic.
"Legolas, go! Do not get closer!"
Fearful that lingering would distract his friend, Legolas obeyed. He broke away, putting distance between himself and the clash, but abruptly halted. How could he flee while Aragorn and the blue-veiled man still fought?
From his vantage point, he could still pick off a few orcs without risking too much. Arrows hissed, swords clashed, and screeches pierced the air—until suddenly, all fell silent.
It was over.
Legolas held his breath, waiting, until Aragorn and the fluttering figure of their companion appeared at the tunnel's mouth, hurrying toward him. Aragorn's gaze was hard, unforgiving.
"Do not push further! Stay away from close combat!" he barked.
Legolas met his gaze with a curt nod, lowering his eyes and pressing his lips into a tight line. He regretted nothing.
Together they ran to catch up with the others.
Legolas felt his head growing light, a dizzy fog creeping in at the edges of his vision. His legs still carried him along, but he stumbled often. The blue-veiled man must have noticed, for he slowed their pace and produced a slim waterskin from beneath his robes. His hand settled firmly on Legolas' shoulder, bringing him to a halt as he offered the bottle.
Legolas pressed it to his lips. His hand trembled as he swallowed between ragged, gasping breaths. The need for water surged like fire within him, but his throat was so dry it was a torment to swallow.
"More," the man insisted, standing steady and refusing to let Legolas stop too soon.
They resumed a brisk pace. Legolas drifted in a haze, his body running on muscle memory, trained and hardened beyond thought.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted as a group of men clad in the long, flowing grey robes of the Haradric guards burst from a nearby passage. Legolas' heart sank, and his legs wavered. He doubted he could stand another fight in his weakened state. His companions seemed to share the same thought, stepping forward with swords drawn, forming a protective barrier around him.
But Legolas was trained to push beyond his limits; he would not fall without a fight. His hands shot up, gripping the hilts of his knives.
Then, a puzzling twist unfolded. Some of the guards turned on their own comrades, swiftly felling them with precise sword strikes, taking full advantage of the element of surprise. The unexpected allies, dressed in the guards' robes, exchanged urgent words with the blue-veiled man. It was clear they knew each other.
Without pause, they were running again — together — following the trail of the youngsters and the blue-veiled people who soon came into view. The new arrivals hissed commands in a foreign tongue, urging the group onward. Their eyes darted about, sharp and wary, as if danger could emerge from any shadowed passageway.
Their fears were confirmed as another group of orcs and men emerged from a dark side passage.
One of the new men fumbled beneath his grey robe. His hand reappeared clutching a jangling bunch of keys, which he hurled toward the blue-veiled man, hissing urgent commands. While the others charged into battle, the key-bearer sped after the fugitives, determined to catch up with them.
Legolas barely registered how his body moved. He felt the familiar brush of arrow fletchings against his fingers, the thrilling twang of the bowstring releasing. His body moved with it, in a deeply engraved memory gained over centuries.
Shouts and shrieks blended with the clash of steel, a terrible cacophony filling the tunnel. Amid the chaos, one word rang out clear and sharp:
"Traitors!"
As the noise surged around him, grating, loud, and painful in his ears, he realized his hands no longer gripped his bow. Instead, cool hilts pressed into his palms, warming slowly with his touch. Faces rushed past in a chaotic blur: snarling orcs and men twisted with hate. They spun around him like a violent storm. His knives clashed, absorbing blows that vibrated through his body. They hissed and impacted upon flesh, cutting and piercing.
Once or twice, he caught glimpses of Aragorn, or his wild, tangled dark hair whipping as the man swung his sword. The men at their sides fought skillfully, unleashing coiled energy with deadly precision. Slowly, the rush of battle began to recede as the enemies thinned.
Pain flared sharply in Legolas' wounds. The stone now seemed to shift and blur with the forms around him. Then, the face of a young man appeared, skin the rich color of amber, eyes dark and filled with worry, fixed on Legolas.
At the edge of his vision, a sudden movement cut through the haze. Legolas knew instinctively that he had to meet it, had to act fast, but his body was sluggish and heavy, slipping beyond his control.
The young man beside him sank to his knees, clutching his chest in pain. Only then did Legolas fell the beast that had charged them. Only then did Legolas feel the jerk to his hand as his long knife impacted with the throat of an orc, ending the beast in a spurt of black blood.
Too late! — The voiceless scream echoed dully through his mind.
Too late! — A jolt of grief and guilt crashed into him.
The men rushed past, desperate to aid their injured companion. Concern and despair shadowed their faces as they carried him on their desperate flight.
Legolas shivered violently, a chill creeping through his limbs.
Too late… — the only thought he could hold as he stumbled forward, driven by guilt and the desperate will to help.
They reached the entrance of a narrow shaft set into the wall. The men entrusted their wounded companion into Legolas' and Aragorn's arms.
"Take him with you! Our cover must not be blown," they urged. "Bring him out, it is bad with him," they pressed them on, committing their injured companion into their arms.
Steeling his trembling limbs with every ounce of strength, Legolas did his best to support the man between them. Aragorn shot him a worried glance, silently gauging whether he could still stand, but said nothing. Legolas caught a warm light in Aragorn's gaze — comfort and understanding — and felt the depth of their unspoken bond.
Together, they slipped into the narrow aisle, holding the injured youth carefully between them. Behind them, the small wooden door slammed shut with a final thud, followed by the sharp click of the lock.
The pitch-black passage seemed to swallow them whole. Their footsteps and labored breaths echoed sharply in the suffocating void. Legolas' free hand groped blindly along the rough stone wall, struggling to keep himself steady in the stifling darkness. The air felt thin, and the narrow walls pressed in like a tightening grip. The wounded man's breathing was shallow and ragged, mirroring Legolas' own, but there was no room for self-pity. They bore the weight of a young life he had failed to protect.
At last, after harrowing, complete darkness, a faint shimmer of daylight teased the far end of the tunnel. Emerging from the suffocating shadows, they stumbled into the blinding glare of the desert morning. Under the harsh, unforgiving light, Legolas took in the young man's condition, his once amber-toned face now ashen and pale. Cold sweat clung to his skin, matting his hair to his forehead. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Dark hollows had formed under his eyes, and around his stomach, the blood had stained a large, dark cloud upon the garment.
It hit Legolas with a wave of regret and self-reproach. He should have prevented this. He should have done more.
He cursed his own weakness, crushed beneath the weight of his injuries. His head spun dizzily, and when he glanced at Aragorn, he saw the growing concern etched deeply in his friend's eyes. Gritting his teeth, Legolas pressed forward. How he kept moving, he did not know, only that he could not afford to collapse now. He was an elf. He could push beyond any limit.
The veiled woman ahead, supporting a limping boy, cast a sorrowful glance back over her shoulder. Her dark eyes held quiet grief, but she did not falter. They moved swiftly; there was no time to waste. The distant rocks beyond the stronghold promised shelter, and they pressed on relentlessly until they reached them.
The young man's body became heavier with each step as it slackened between them. At last, they eased him down into the shelter of the rocks' shadow.
The woman had left the limping boy with her companions and rushed to their aid. She knelt beside Aragorn, and together they worked hand in hand. Aragorn carefully cut the stained tunic, while she gently peeled it back from the wound. Between them passed wordless glances and subtle, almost imperceptible gestures—a quiet understanding forged in urgency. Then Aragorn stepped back, allowing her to take over, and moved toward Legolas.
The woman's eyes were strangely blurred and vacant as she examined the wound, her other hand resting gently on the young man's brow. At last, she lifted her gaze to the anxious faces gathered around, staring at them with a quiet, unblinking intensity. Then, without a word, she closed her eyes and bowed her head, a silent admission that there was nothing left to be done. The depth of her sorrow struck Legolas like a blow, shattering his heart. Around them, the men's eyes glistened, heavy with tears held just beneath the surface
A raw ache twisted in the pit of Legolas' stomach, stealing his breath away. He watched through a haze, the woman's lean hand resting calmly on the young man's brow, strangely steady and soothing. Her other hand reached for the boy's trembling fingers, lifting them gently to rest over his heart. She held them there, applying soft, insistent pressure, and simply waited, kneeling quietly beside him as his body quivered with the torment of injury and fading life.
Legolas took in her wide, glistening eyes, heavy with unspoken pain as she shared in the boy's suffering. He caught her low whispers — soft, soothing words spoken in a language foreign to him. They seemed to carry the ancient song of earth and wind, a fragile melody woven through the storm.
He was so very young — barely more than a child.
Legolas' vision fogged further, weighed down by relentless, tormenting thoughts.
He should have prevented this.
After what felt like an unending time of agony, the body beneath her touch went limp. Her eyes closed softly, her head bowing forward as if surrendering to both relief and defeat.
Then, as if rising from the very depths of the sand, she let out a cry, sharp and raw with anguish. A desolate wail of pure agony that soared into the sky, filling the air and piercing deep into Legolas' heart.
Aragorn's hand came to rest on Legolas' shoulder, warm and insistent.
"This is not your fault. No one blames you. Do not carry this burden," he whispered.
His gaze was steady and calm, his eyes like a clear silver pond reflecting sorrow.
But Legolas' grief was untamable.
They did not blame him, but he blamed himself.
The tragic scene replayed in his mind, looping endlessly. Colors and shapes blurred and fused, swirling around him in a disorienting spiral. He was consumed by a deep, bone-chilling cold, the numbness creeping through his limbs, flooding his stomach, overwhelming every part of him—until he felt nomore.
"Praise the Valar, you have returned to us!" A voice drifted gently over him, like the echo of a dream.
Light assailed his eyes as he cracked them open, sharp and sudden. He squeezed them shut again, then tried to blink away the sting. Slowly, Aragorn's beloved, familiar features wavered into view.
A sudden surge of pain swept through his side and shoulder, crashing in like a breaking wave. He flinched. Aragorn's brow furrowed, concern etched deep into his face as he paused his careful ministrations.
Soft voices murmured in the distance, threading into his awareness. He turned his head slowly, eyes searching. The children they had rescued were huddled near the rocks, exhausted, bruised and hollow-eyed.
Legolas' gaze caught on the veiled figure kneeling beside them, her presence calm and steady. She moved among them with quiet grace, offering water, bread, and what looked like strips of dried meat. With gentle hands, she dabbed salve onto their wounds, where rope had bitten, where metal had bruised, and with softer words still, she soothed the hurts that lay buried far deeper than skin.
Legolas watched her and the devotion she gave to the young ones as if through a haze. Her gentle touches, her eyes, patient, calm and comforting... Her presence captivated him, and he lost himself in it, drawn into the graceful rhythm of her movements.
Then his eyes drifted to the sky that stretched wide and clear over the land. Deep blue, like the color of her long, flowing garment, only shining brighter in the sun.
He shifted his gaze from the mingling blues of the sky and her veil to the silver gleam of Aragorn's eyes. His friend hovered over him, steady and strong, watchful, tending to him with quiet care. The soothing trees of his homeland were distant, beyond reach; they could not offer their healing embrace. Here, in this land of endless sand, the presence of his dearest friend grounded him, shielding him from the shadows of a nightmare he had come far too close to reliving. Aragorn was his steadfast tree.
Legolas exhaled softly, his eyes lingering on the grey depths of concern, and when they met his own, a gentle smile touched his lips, as peace washed over him.
And yet, strange questions drifted through his mind, both unsettling and strangely comforting.
Had the veiled woman placed his knives at the threshold? What had she seen? What did she know? Had she beheld his torment?
As if sensing his thoughts, her gaze slid toward him, uncertain, only to dart away the moment their eyes met.
Secretive she was, hiding behind the veil and the darkness in her eyes, while Legolas lay wounded on the ground, unshielded, exposed to her sight.
And yet, it did not frighten him. It was oddly soothing and quietly exhilarating.
She rose at last and stepped forward, her movements fluid and deliberate.
Legolas tensed, but she betrayed no reaction, her expression remained composed, inscrutable beneath her veil, as her eyes settled not on him, but on Aragorn.
Aragorn gave a soft nod as if in answer to an unspoken question.
"No vital organs have been compromised," he confirmed quietly. "If the wounds remain clean, free of infection, his strength will return in a matter of days."
Legolas held his breath as she turned her attention to him. Without a word, she lowered a slender hand to his brow, answering with a silent nod of her own.
Her touch was warm, dry and soft, resting against his skin with startling gentleness. But she withdrew too quickly, as though any longer contact would breach some unseen boundary. Her eyes flickered downward, veiling their depths, as if she dared not allow them to linger on him.
She turned away, her steps light over the sand, and returned moments later carrying a small earthen pot. Without ceremony, she extended it toward Aragorn.
From a distance, where she lingered near the children, her gaze would occasionally drift toward Legolas, fleeting, like a ghost of thought. He watched her from the corners of his eyes, bashful each time he was caught in the act of staring.
He had witnessed her searing cry of anguish, borne from the very roots of the earth, as though, in that moment, she had let her veil slip and revealed a part of her soul. He could still not push away the remorse of having failed, the young man, his people, and her. And yet, she did not look at him with blame. Her eyes held no contempt, only quiet concern.
A pulse of pain pulled him back from his reverie, anchoring him to the present. His injury throbbed. Yet Aragorn's hands were steady, working with care; each touch, though painful, was followed by the soothing balm of the cooling salve. Aragorn truly bore the hands of a healer, strong, sure, and impossibly gentle.
The fog dulled his senses, and through the drifting mist, Legolas cast his gaze toward the rocks, where she was with the children, catching her eyes — restless and watchful — as she observed Aragorn tending to him. And he found himself yearning for her touch, the feel of her hands upon his skin. Startled by the thought, he pushed it aside. Perhaps it was only a folly, a fleeting sensation conjured by the fevered haze of his injuries and blood loss.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out — the tormented children, the lifeless youth, the crushing guilt, her graceful form cloaked in a flowing veil, those strange and fathomless eyes, her very presence… But even behind closed lids, the pain persisted, as did the chaos, the sorrow, and the unsettling pull she exerted on him.
That same day, beneath the searing blaze of the desert noon, Aragorn and the men dug a deep grave into the sand and laid the body to rest, shrouded in white linen. They did so in solemn silence.
No one cast blame upon Legolas for what had occurred. Yet could he ever forgive himself? Or would this young man become another sorrow etched forever into his fëa?
"Once again, one of our own has been torn from us. Our brave young men lay down their lives for the most sacred of causes: freedom. So long as breath fills our lungs, we shall stand defiant against evil! We have allies hidden within the enemy's strongholds, scattered across our lands. We know how to vanish into the lands of our ancestors. We will keep hope alive, as long as we exist! With every fallen warrior, we renew our vow: we will not forget who we are. We will never surrender. We will keep our free spirits burning. The moon will look upon him while he returns to the Creator."
As the veiled man spoke in Westron — for the sake of Legolas and Aragorn — his people placed their right hands over their hearts. The sorrow in their eyes smoldered into fierce resolve, lighting the expressions of the men's hidden faces, covered by their veils.
Legolas guessed the men to be in their late twenties or early thirties, judging by their upright bearing and the fire of purpose in their eyes, glinting beneath the desert sun. The woman, her head draped in a loose blue veil that covered her mouth and nose, appeared younger, perhaps only a few years older than the youths they had rescued. Her smooth, amber-kissed skin around her long-lidded eyes, the slender bridge of her nose, and her delicate, graceful fingers — visible despite the folds of her veil — betrayed a youthful grace.
Yet her eyes, as she pressed her hand to her heart, were shadowed with a sorrow and weariness far beyond her years.
They spent the day resting in the shade of the rocks. The veiled man had assured them there would be no pursuit. The identities of their allies within the stronghold remained undiscovered, and those in hiding would divert any search efforts elsewhere. Moreover, with the death of their leader, the enemy would first need to regroup—another factor that tipped the balance in their favor and ensured a safe escape.
It was late in the afternoon when the man who had guided Legolas and Aragorn at last introduced himself.
"I am Amar," he said, his voice low and husky.
"We are Taruen — free people of the desert."
Legolas raised a hand to his heart in a gesture of respect, even as he lay reclined on the ground. The motion sent a sharp jolt of pain through his injured shoulder, and he winced. He was grateful when Aragorn spoke on their behalf.
"My name is Estel, and this is my friend Legolas. We come from the North."
Amar nodded, asking no more.
"Rest as much as you can," Amar said. "We will move on before dawn."
Since Amar had always been the one to speak with them, Legolas wondered if the others perhaps did not speak Westron. Yet by their expressions, he sensed they understood. There was something welcoming in their eyes — a quiet, open warmth — despite their silence. They spoke little, even among themselves, and Legolas found himself struck by how still those people were for humans, unusually quiet.
Aragorn opened his eyes, blinking into the chill of night. The sky above was a sweep of deep darkness, scattered with stars. The men had already gathered their few belongings. At Amar's quiet commands, they began moving out, slipping silently behind the rocks.
"There is a long ride ahead," Amar said. "We will travel through half the night and all of tomorrow. Can he manage it?"
Aragorn nodded. "His kind heals swiftly and bears pain with stubborn strength. And this one may be the most stubborn of them all. He will manage."
Legolas, who had been resting with his eyes closed, stirred and blinked.
"I thought you were asleep," Aragorn said with a grin, as Legolas glared at him through narrowed eyes, too exhausted to reply.
The faint crinkles at the corners of Amar's eyes were the only hint of a smile behind his veil as he cast a glance their way.
The men returned from behind the rocks, accompanied by two more companions and six camels — those wondrous, tenacious beasts, perfectly suited to the harshness of the desert. Aragorn gazed at them in awe; it was the first time he had seen such desert steeds up close. Their posture was striking — proud and fluid, with a quiet, enduring grace.
But then his mouth fell open in astonishment. Following behind the camels came three horses: one black as midnight, one white and gleaming in the moonlight, and one brown, the color of its coat showing faintly beneath the pale glow of the moonlit sky. The white and the brown horses gave joyful snorts, breaking into a light trot as they left the herd and approached.
Amar's eyes crinkled again with quiet amusement. "They are yours, are they not?"
They were! — Baradhroch, his faithful old brown companion, and Gwedal, Legolas' white mare.
Aragorn stroked his horse's muzzle and patted the strong neck with quiet affection. Gwedal, the white mare, lowered her head and gently nudged her wounded master. He murmured soft, reassuring words, his hand resting tenderly on her muzzle.
Before the first light of dawn, the party set out. Aragorn rode his stallion, carrying Legolas before him, while the white mare followed close behind. The blue-veiled warriors led their camels, each sharing a saddle with one of the rescued youths. The woman rode alone on the black horse, gliding between the camels, always near the children. She caught their eyes as she passed, murmuring strange, earthy words — gentle threads of comfort and strength.
The moonlight bathed them in its silver glow. The night felt dreamlike, as if drawn from another world, suspended in some distant sphere of the universe. Aragorn rode slowly, Legolas cradled in his arms, slipping quietly into a world yet unknown, becoming part of it.
They rode in silence — the way of these people. But it was not an awkward silence. It was serene, steeped in patience and quiet strength, a calm endurance that seemed to emanate from the riders themselves. It was the silence of the desert, accompanied by the whispered song of the night breeze gliding over the dunes, reshaping the sand into delicate, ever-changing waves beneath their mounts' feet.
Then dawn broke, painting the landscape in warm hues. And in the golden sea of the desert, the slender riders appeared like great, majestic birds, their blue veils fluttering like shimmering wings stirred by the wind.
They rode toward something yet unseen, yet unknown, with quiet, unwavering resolve.
The air had grown stifling, and it was becoming harder to keep Legolas conscious. The heat, the blood loss, and the relentless drought were dragging him under. His awareness flickered like a candle in the wind. He leaned heavily against Aragorn's chest, his body unnervingly slack. Aragorn tightened his arms around him, steadying him, his worry deepening with every breath.
"I beg you, stay with me, my friend," Aragorn murmured, his voice strained.
Even the horses had slowed, their steps heavy with fatigue as time stretched endlessly over the burning sand. They were riding horses, not camels! Did these people not grasp the difference? Their last water supply had been nearly depleted before the journey had even begun.
Aragorn thought bitterly that these people must store water in their bodies like their desert beasts — how else could they ride headlong into such blistering heat without so much as a drop?
He feared Legolas' body would not withstand the strain, drained of blood and battered by the elements. From a distance, the woman cast a hesitant glance in their direction, the concern in her eyes barely hidden.
But Aragorn said nothing. He dared not disturb the silence, the sacred quiet that stretched like a veil of reverence between them and the vast, listening desert.
His own awareness began to waver, swimming with thirst and fatigue.
And then he saw it: a shimmer at the base of distant rocks — a lake! At last!
But as they neared, the illusion dissolved. The water vanished, and only sun-scorched stone remained.
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